Embassy War

by Walter Knight

  “Come on in!” shouted Yamashita. “The sensation in marvelous. You will love it!”

  “We are going to give this a try,” I ordered other legionnaires, putting my big toe cautiously into the water. Eels nibbled at it. It tickled a bit. Still doubtful, already having one artificial toe and an artificial hand, and did want to lose more appendages or digits.

  “I can’t swim,” advised Sergeant Green. “Hell will freeze over before you get me in that fish tank.”

  “You are such a wuss,” I taunted, waiting for Corporal Tonelli to jump. Guido decided to take the steps in the shallow end, slowly wading in.

  “It’s not so bad,” advised Guido. “The water is warm.”

  Someone pushed me from behind, and I fell in, fully clothed. I looked up to see a black-clad spider Intelligentsia officer waving down at me. “I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do!” I shouted.

  The eel fish swarmed. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was embarrassingly great, in an erotic sort of way.

  “I guess I’ll go in,” pouted Lulu, observing that both her husband and I seemed to be enjoying ourselves. “I suppose I’m safe, at least from the fish.”

  Lulu jumped in, followed by the spider intelligentsia officer. The spider swam over to me. “What was that you said?” he asked. “Did you threaten me, human pestilence?”

  “Never mind,” I answered, doing a backstroke. The eels were going crazy. They seemed to carry me along. “You have done this before?”

  “Several times,” replied the spider Intelligentsia officer. “I normally do not like to socialize with scorpions, but their swims make socializing with the beasts most tolerable for short periods of time.”

  “Don’t anyone piss in the water,” announced the scorpion ambassador. “It agitates the eel fish. Makes them aggressive.” “What do you mean, aggressive?” asked Private Wayne, abruptly pulling himself out of the pool. “They will attack?” “Quite viciously,” advised the scorpion ambassador. “Tell me you didn’t.” Scorpions scrambled out of the water. Their exoskeletons truly did shine magnificently. No one was viciously attacked, but as I pulled myself out of the water I realized I had a problem. Lulu screamed. Ambassador Yamashita shrugged. I laughed. We were hairless. Everywhere.

  * * * * *

  Drinks preceded a fine turkey meal. It was not quite turkey, and it was a bit gamey, but obviously the scorpions had done their homework and found a deliciously foul bird to baste and roast. The meat was tender and melted in your mouth. The gravy and potato-like vegetables tasted almost like back home on Old Earth. The scorpions meticulously researched our Thanksgiving Day traditions and put on quite a feast. I enthusiastically proposed a toast. “To this fine meal, friends, associates, and even the spider Intelligentsia, let us give thanks and appreciation. My complements to your chef on this fine turkey meal.”

  “It’s Mantidae,” bragged the scorpion Ambassador. “Only the best for our honored guests.”

  Sergeant Green coughed and violently spit out his food in mid-chew, spraying the table with meat chunks and dressing. I slapped Green on the back, fearing something had lodged itself down his windpipe. “Are you okay?” I asked as Green regained his composure.

  “Bob is AWOL!” reported Sergeant Green, upset and animated. “What about Bob?” I asked, not understanding. “Private Robert Rashid is AWOL,” repeated Sergeant Green. “He was last seen making a mail delivery to this embassy!” “So?” I asked, getting irritated. “We can discuss administrative matters when we get back to our embassy. Lighten up, Green. This is a party. Enjoy yourself for a change.” As I forked another bite, Sergeant Green slapped my turkey aside, splattering the spider Intelligentsia officer next to me. “Private Rashid is a Mantid. We are eating Bob!”

  I threw up. Guido, a sympathetic vomiter, threw up, too. Sergeant Williams followed suit.

  “Do you need a doctor?” asked the scorpion ambassador. “I hope this is not another one of your human flu outbreaks. What was it last time, rat or bird flu?”

  “Czerinski, you always make a mess of things,” scolded Ambassador Yamashita. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  “It is certainly bad form to be puking on guests and our host,” added Lulu primly as she dabbed at her cheek with a napkin corner. “He’s such a slob!”

  “We are eating a legionnaire!” I yelled. “We are eating Bob!”

  “Czerinski, have you gone mad?” asked Ambassador Yamashita, taking another bite of Bob. “This is the best turkey I have ever eaten. Did you forget to take your medications again?”

  “Dinner is over,” I announced. “We are leaving. You have not heard the last of this outrage!”

  “You are overreacting,” advised the scorpion ambassador, alarmed at yet another seeming example of irrational human volatility. “Mantid is a traditional Scorpion Empire meal. My apologies. I would have imported Old Earth turkey if I had known it meant so much to you.”

  “We will not forget Bob!” I proclaimed as legionnaires stormed out.

  Private Wayne gulped another bite, washed it down with wine, and joined the exodus. He corked the bottle and slipped it into a pouch.

  “Until I receive further instructions from my chain of command, assume a state of war exists between the United States Galactic Federation and the Scorpion Empire!” I threatened as I headed for the door. “Private Robert Rashid will be avenged!”

  “We are eating Bob?” shrieked Lulu. “Are you sure?”

  “Bob who?” asked Ambassador Yamashita. Lulu whispered in his ear. Yamashita threw up too as he scrambled for the door.

  back to Table of Contents

  Chapter 8

  I painted ‘What About Bob?’ on the turret of my armored car as legionnaires loaded gear, weapons, and ammunition. At the crack of dawn, our convoy of three armored cars left the American Embassy compound en route cross-town to attack the Scorpion Embassy. War had been declared. I declared it. Private Rashid would be avenged today.

  * * * * *

  Ambassador Yamashita called General Lopez. “Colonel Czerinski has lost his mind this time! At this very moment, Czerinski is mobilizing the entire security detail to attack the Scorpion Embassy. It’s madness. He will start a war!”

  “Stop!” interrupted General Lopez, now viewing the video feed of legionnaires in full combat gear. “What is this all about?” “The scorpions invited us over for Thanksgiving dinner,” explained Ambassador Yamashita. “But it wasn’t turkey. It was Bob!” “Bob?” “They fed us Mantidae!” “Not turkey?” “No!” “I don’t understand what the big deal is. Mantidae, turkey, whatever. It all tastes fowl ... you know, like chicken. Beef is better. I always slop on lots of gravy during holiday meals. Tradition has to be maintained.”

  “Aren’t you listening? We ate Private Robert Rashid!” “You ate Bob? Bob is a Mantid?” “Yes! That is what I am trying to tell you! How did you ever make general?” “You ate a legionnaire?” “Now you’ve got it. Czerinski has gone crazy and is going to attack the Scorpion Embassy!” “Without air support?” asked General Lopez. “You are right. Czerinski has gone crazy. Patch me in to Colonel Czerinski’s command car. I’ll put an end to this folly right now!”

  “Thank you, general. Finally, someone with reason. You had better hurry. Czerinski has really slipped a cog this time. They are leaving now!”

  * * * * *

  “Czerinski, you will halt your attack this minute!” ordered General Lopez. “I know what you are up to. Don’t think I haven’t figured out your scheme!”

  “They fed us Bob,” I explained. “One moment Bob is delivering the mail, the next he is Thanksgiving dinner. We cannot let scorpions eat legionnaires during the holiday season. It sets a bad precedent. Today it’s Bob, tomorrow it could be you or me.”

  “Do not lecture me about precedent, you glory hound. You don’t give a damn about precedent, and you have no principles. I know what this is all about! You are purposely trying to provoke an intergalactic incident, and plan to use the publicity t
o enter politics after you retire from the Legion. I’ll bet you might even attempt a run for the Presidency. I’ve heard rumors about your ambitions.”

  “Yeah, you found me out,” I replied, about to cut the video feed. And Lopez thinks I’m crazy? The man is a couple beans short of a full burrito.

  “The Presidency is mine!” exclaimed General Lopez. “No Polack from Texas is going to steal it from me.”

  “Arizona,” I corrected.

  “Same difference! You will not steal this opportunity from me. Stop your attack until my shuttle arrives. I intend to lead the attack myself!”

  “You are flying here?” I asked, alarmed. “Sir, this is not a publicity stunt. I really will kill those scorpions. Are you sure you want to risk your career. This is war.”

  “You heard me,” said General Lopez. “Risk? You’re the gambler, but I am all in too. May we hang together!”

  “And people say I have a gambling problem. Oh well, gambling is only a problem if you lose.”

  * * * * *

  General Lopez’s shuttle landed on the freeway, blocking traffic. A spider TV traffic helicopter hovered overhead, its camera zoomed in for a close-up shot and scoop on what the human pestilence were up to this time.

  “This is not going to end well,” commented Corporal Tonelli, saluting the general as Lopez hopped up into my armored car. “You want to live forever?” replied General Lopez, enthusiastically. “We are seizing the moment. Let’s go hunt scorpion!” General Lopez shook my hand. “Are you up to this?” he asked. “You look stressed. I need your A-game this time.” “Just tired,” I answered, having second thoughts. “How are those embedded chips in your bones doing?” asked General Lopez. “Maybe you need an upgrade. That’s what I did. I feel great!”

  “Perk of being a general?” “You better believe it.” “I think my Fountain of Youth Chip is damaged.” I sighed. “Nothing lasts forever. There is only so much technology can do.” “I’ll get you new chips when we return to Old Earth,” promised General Lopez, slapping me on the back like a long-lost friend. Actually, Lopez was a long-lost friend. “Don’t worry, Old Man. I take care of my friends!”

  “You can give me new chips?” I asked. “What about the legalities?”

  “Give?” scoffed General Lopez. “When we return to Old Earth, we will take what we want, including the latest Fountain of Youth Chip upgrades.”

  “They are going to hang us.”

  “You just stick with me, Czerinski. Returning heroes always get their due. It’s an American tradition.”

  * * * * *

  “This is a special report from Capital City Channel 7 Eye in the Sky Morning Commuter News at the scene of a huge traffic tie-up at the Capital City Interstate Spaghetti Bowl, where human pestilence from the American Embassy appear to be lost, and their indecision has brought the morning commute to a standstill. Three Legion armored cars are blocking the right lane. I see a Legion officer waving a map and apparently asking directions from irate drivers. All are now giving each other one-fingered salutes. I can only speculate what the human pestilence are up to, but you would think they would know better than to have a holiday parade at the height of the morning rush-hour commute.”

  * * * * *

  “I need my coffee,” complained Sergeant Green. “I can’t hear myself think with that damned helicopter buzzing overhead. Want me to shoot it down?”

  “Not yet,” replied General Lopez. “Use the GPS to locate the nearest Starbucks. It’s uncivilized to start a war without a jolt of coffee in the morning.”

  “We missed the exit again,” advised Sergeant Williams. “The Spiders don’t mark their exits properly.” “Just drive over the rail and double back,” I ordered. “We’ll save lots of time that way.” “There is a cop behind us,” advised Guido. “I think he wants us to stop. Are we going to have to pay for that guardrail?” “That’s not going to ever happen,” said General Lopez. “We are tactical. The guard rail is collateral damage.” “Everyone look normal,” announced Sergeant Williams. “Hide the dope,” added Private Wayne. “I’m not stopping until we get to the Starbucks,” advised Sergeant Williams. “What if he asks to see my driver’s license? I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t have a driver’s license?” asked General Lopez. “What kind of outfit are you running, Czerinski?” “We should stop,” advised Guido. “Remember what happened to O. J.?” “Who?” I asked. We did not stop, continuing down a boulevard until we got to the Starbucks drive-up window. A black uniformed spider traffic cop walked up to talk to Sergeant Williams about his driving.

  “We have diplomatic immunity!” shouted Sergeant Williams. “Didn’t you see our Embassy plates?” “Who is in charge of this gaggle of human pestilence?” asked the spider police officer. “I am!” boasted General Lopez. “What’s it to you?” “You damaged Imperial Department of Transportation property when you smashed that guard rail, you refused to stop when signaled, and you are a menace to traffic!” advised the police officer. “Show me a driver’s license and proof of insurance.”

  “We don’t need no stinking driver’s license or proof of insurance,” replied General Lopez as his latte was delivered. He sucked heartily at his straw. “This is a combat zone. We are attacking the scorpions.”

  “The Scorpion Embassy is the other way, across town. Are you lost?”

  “Exactly.”

  “This I have to see,” commented the police officer. “I will escort you the rest of the way so you do not cause any more damage. Understand?”

  “Thank you, officer,” replied General Lopez. “I’m going to let your supervisor know what a fine job you are doing. Want a donut? I’m buying donuts for everyone on my Legion credit card.”

  “I will have several,” said the police officer, happily snatching a bag of Krispy Kreme glazed. “My partner wants some too.”

  Soon we were off, following the police car. His blue lights and siren cleared traffic nicely.

  * * * * *

  “I have to pee,” complained Private Wayne. “That coffee ran right through me.” “Use a bucket!” advised Sergeant Green. ‘This is the Legion. We don’t stop every time one of you spiders needs to pee.” “It is an emergency,” insisted Wayne. “Please, sergeant.” “Pull over,” ordered Sergeant Green. “Make it quick. We can’t let Czerinski and Lopez get too far ahead of us.” Private Wayne stood by a light pole. Nothing happened. The Eye in the Sky zoomed in for a close-up. “I have shy-bladder syndrome,” advised Wayne. “Look the other way.”

  “Oh, good grief,” fumed Sergeant Green, turning away. “This is no way to run a war!”

  As Private Wayne relieved himself, electricity arced from exposed wires on the light pole. Private Wayne was shocked onto his back, unconscious.

  “Legionnaire down!” advised Sergeant Green on the radio. “Medic!”

  * * * * *

  “What happened?” I radioed back. “I think lightning struck Private Wayne,” Sergeant Green reported. I looked up at the clear sky. “Load Wayne into your armored car and do CPR or something,” I ordered. “No more delays!”

  * * * * *

  Medic Elena Ceausescu immediately inserted an oxygen tube down Wayne’s air passage hole, duct-taping the tube to his mandibles. Another use for duct tape! she mused. She also started an IV. Private Wayne began convulsing, then slipped into a coma.

  “Is he dead?” asked Sergeant Green. “Maybe,” advised Ceausescu. “It’s hard to tell with spiders.” “Prop him up in the corner,” ordered Sergeant Green. “He might come out of it later.” “Gross!” complained Private Skyhook. “I don’t want no dead spider drooling snot next to me. What if he starts to smell?” “Deal with it!” insisted Sergeant Green. “This is the Legion. Buck it up!” “I am not dead,” advised Private Wayne, all eight eyes opening. He ripped the duct tape and IV off. “Are we there yet? Who stole my donuts?”

  * * * * *

  “What are the humans up to now?” asked the scorpion ambassador, watching TV in
bed, drinking coffee. “That Channel 7 Sky Cam reporter said something about a parade?”

  “It is Sunday,” advised an aide. “Most certainly the humans are going to church.”

  “I am not so certain,” replied the scorpion ambassador. “Czerinski promised payback over that stupid Mantid incident.” The ambassador scanned the writing on the side of the lead armored car. “What About BOB?” he read aloud. Immediately he sounded the alarm. “We are being attacked!”

  * * * * *

  “Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard,” advised the GPS in a pleasant female tone. “Turn right on Prairie View Drive. Turn right on Desert Claw Street, go fifty feet to the alley, turn right and proceed to Black-Stinger Boulevard. Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard.”

  “Turn that damn thing off!” ordered Sergeant Green. “Get a drone in the air. I need better intelligence.”

  “Tell Czerinski to slow down,” suggested Ceausescu. “Ask him for directions.”

  “I know where I am,” insisted Sergeant Green. “It is Czerinski who is lost. That’s what happens when you let a Colonel and a General ride together. You get one big officer cluster fuck.”

  From atop the turret, Sergeant Green eyed a spider pedestrian carrying groceries across the street. He smiled and waved, asking, “Which way to the Scorpion Embassy, por favor?”

  “Ugly human pestilence, go home!” replied the little old lady spider, shaking her claw and giving Green the one-fingered salute.