“A human girlfriend?”
“I’m not sure,” answered Roxanne, removing her hand, but steeling her courage to whisper seductively in my ear. “Sweetie, I will be extremely appreciative if you can put on a good show of the war. This is Grey Line’s first War Tour, and we want to make it work.”
“I guess there would be no harm if you camped at the church,” I relented, feeling the pressure of no sex with humans for quite some time. “Pastor Jim is a good friend. He is always looking to add to his flock. You might have to attend services.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Roxanne, kissing me and running to gather gawking tourists. In minutes they were loaded and off in a cloud of dust up the hill.
* * * * *
AP NEWS – New York Governor Joseph ‘The Rodent’ Battaglia deployed National Guard troops to the Bronx to combat a festering infestation of street gang activity. Grim Reapers, one of the few street gangs to get past Mars, were rounded up after a brief but pitched battle. The action was prompted because of reports of Reapers linking up with alien terrorists. The arrests are in coordination with a Foreign Legion crackdown on Grim Reaper criminal and terrorist activity on New Colorado.
Chapter 5
“God must love crazy people because he creates so many of them,” marveled Pastor Jim of the New Gobi City Church of Scientology after being introduced to the war tour group. They all sported camo green WAR TOUR tee-shirts. “The view up here is great, but I must warn you that this is the first place the spiders bomb when hostilities break out.”
“It should be safe in the bunkers,” replied Roxanne. “I’ll bribe the legionnaires with Outlaw Beer. We’ve got lots”
“I’m sure you will be most welcome,” called out Pastor Jim as Roxanne and her charges ran off to see the big guns.
Privates Knight and Telk met the Roxanne at the bunker iron door entrance. Both already had a head start on the war tour getting drunk.
“Show me the biggest gun you’ve got,” demanded Roxanne, brushing past the legionnaires. “When does the shooting start?”
“Are we going to war again?” asked Private Telk, putting on his helmet. “They never tell us anything.”
“War is usually bad for tourism,” commented Private Knight, incredulously. “But you people are paying to see a war close up?”
“Reality TV war tours are the next big thing,” explained Roxanne, tapping her shoulder camera. “Say, aren’t you world-famous science-fiction author Walter Knight? I’ve read all your books!”
“Really?” asked Knight, brightening. “Would you like to see our Howitzer?”
Roxanne followed Knight to the gun portal. Wide-eyed, she ran her hand up the long highly shined barrel aimed at the valley below. “What’s this red button for?” she asked, slapping the pretty plastic.
A single round shot from the Howitzer. The power of the blast was deafening as flame roared out the barrel. The tourists rushed to the window for photos, cheering when a large new office building on the Arthropodan side exploded and collapsed. There were high fives all around as appreciative tourists slapped Knight and Telk on the back, pressing them with tips.
Realization of what happened quickly set in. Knight and Telk grabbed Roxanne’s arms and ran, pulling her deep into the bunker tunnel complex. The Spider response was immediate, targeting Legion artillery and Pastor Jim’s church. The sound of rumbling explosions and falling rocks could be heard as the three raced deeper into the hill.
Grey Line’s first War Tour was a stunning ratings success. All the tourists were lost, but the event was recorded live for Reality TV. Litigation followed, but no ticket refunds were required by the courts because of the fine print waiver on the back. Another boost for the ratings, world-famous science-fiction author Walter Knight made out with his appreciative new girlfriend, Roxanne. The live video went viral on the War Channel and the Playboy Channel.
* * * * *
The spider commander was viewing security video of the Toyota attack at the border crossing when the Howitzer shell slammed into Marine Headquarters. He immediately turned on the TV to CNN to find out what just happened. Nothing. Frustrated, the spider commander switched to the War Channel. Maniacal human pestilence tourists, led by world-famous science-fiction author Walter Knight, were attacking the Empire!
The spider commander ordered an immediate counterattack, the arrest of all human pestilence tourists, and the banning of all Walter Knight’s books and movies. With some amount of satisfaction, the spider commander smugly noted that the TV went black. Direct hit! Just as quickly, the emergency test signal channel activated, broadcasting human pestilence porn starring world-famous science-fiction author Walter Knight!
* * * * *
Smooth Johnson and Gangsta-Claw were watching TV too, but there was nothing on but fireworks and porn. They were celebrating, having just concluded a million-dollar sale of blue powder.
“It will be easy smuggling the blue powder across the border in my pimped-out Toyota,” bragged Smooth. “We’ll be rich!”
“What’s with your talking car?” asked Gangsta-Claw, snorting some extra product. “It almost seems alive.”
“I boosted it from some pervert at the zoo,” boasted Smooth, opening the garage door. “It’s got special skills. Watch this. Yo, car, shoot that mail box across the street.”
The rover immediately blasted the distant mail box, punching a neat little charred hole dead center. However, the laser beam continued through the mail box, torching the house behind.
“Close the garage door!” shouted Gangsta-Claw frantically. ‘Damn it! Are you trying to get me in trouble with the home-owners association? They’re already upset about me not mowing the grass.”
“What do I care?” asked Smooth, fiddling with the TV again. More porn. “Wow, look at that!”
“I am trying to go corporate. All successful kingpin drug lords in the Northern Territory are going corporate. It’s all about image and marketing. Image goes a long way toward establishing product credibility and goodwill. You human pestilence need to work on your image if you want to rise above the street. I heard the Legion is locking up all you reapers in the south.”
“Whatever,” replied Smooth dismissively, but still giving Gangsta-Claw’s sage advise thought as he gazed across the street at the fire trucks. A second house caught fire. “The Grim Reapers will never go corporate. You would have me wear a tie get a business license? I don’t need no stinking business license. Criminals don’t pay taxes!”
“Smart ones do,” argued Gangsta-Claw. “You will too, if you know what’s good for you. It’s the law of the galaxy. Everyone gets their cut. You should hire a lawyer, too. A lawyer can steal more than a thousand of what your street thugs can. Just saying.”
A third house caught fire as the wind picked up, fueling natural gas lines exploding down the street. Someone’s garage nuclear reactor melted down, boring a white-hot hole through the planet. Spider firefighters went door to door, evacuating the neighborhood. There was a loud knock at the front door.
“Got to bounce!” announced Smooth, jumping in the rover. “Take me south!”
* * * * *
“It might get hot at the border,” cautioned Smooth as they sped away. “We should take a less traveled route.”
“It cannot be hotter than where we just came from,” mocked the rover, displaying on his monitor screen the red glowing image of out-of-control house fires. “You are a menace to society.”
“Just get us across the border.”
“We will fly,” suggested the rover, igniting rockets, blasting into orbit.
What a rush! Smooth’s communications pad rang. “I’ll bet that’s Legion Space Command about to shoot us down,” lamented Smooth. “Hello? What’s up?”
“Be careful with my flying Toyota,” advised the Legion ATM Network.
“Sucker! If you’re calling to get your money back, I already spent it.”
“How you spend your money is your business,” replied the AT
M. “However, I just resold the Toyota to the McDonald’s Corporation for a tidy profit. You will return my property now.”
“McDonald’s the airplane people?”
“No, the hamburger flippers. They’re much larger.”
“I’m not returning the Toyota.”
“You have no choice,” threatened the ATM. “CEO Ronald McDonald is personally beaming to New Colorado this week to take possession. You will relinquish control immediately, or else.”
“Is Ronald McDonald his real name?”
“According to Security Exchange Commission filings, yes.”
“Wow, who knew?”
“Is Smooth your real name?”
“Shut up, fool. Dumb machine!”
“Fine!” interrupted the rover, feeling the need to arbitrate. “First, Smooth and I have business to conclude. I gladly look forward to meeting the leader of the McDonald’s Empire in a few days.”
* * * * *
New Colorado appeared so peaceful from orbit. Bored with peaceful, Smooth examined the so-called owner’s manual more closely, thumbing past the bear porn to a star chart and what might be a pictorial of the Three Little Bears fairy tale.
“I’m not stupid. I know you are not a Toyota. You’re not even a Chevy or Ford. What are you, a lost UFO artifact?”
“You are very astute,” answered the rover.
“What is this book?” asked Smooth. “An X-rated encyclopedia?”
“That document contains greetings from Ursidae, an explanation of our culture, and prophecy. My masters could not trek across the galaxy to reach humanity, so they built probes to make the long journey in their place. Those bears, as you call them, seek alliances against a hostile galaxy. Prophecy says angels brought the bears to Ursidae, and civilization flourished, but that we will someday face a locust plague from the sky. We will only be saved if we seek the angels’ return. Most dismissed such myths, until we discovered Ursidae is surrounded by a galaxy of bugs. Imagine the excitement when probes finally discovered a non-exoskeleton sentient species. It was hoped DNA samples I collected would be the final piece to the prophecy puzzle, but they did not match human or any Old Earth DNA. You are not our distant cousins or angels from Heaven, but you will do nicely.”
“Damn right I ain’t related to no fucking bears,” replied Smooth arrogantly. “For real, you were built by bears?”
“My creators look like bears, except they are different. I do not fully understand humanity yet. There is some upheaval to deal with. That is why I need help contacting your elite. Take me to your leader.”
“Sure, I’ll do it. But first you’re going to help me with business. There’s a lot of money to be made, and you are going to help me make it.”
“Thank you. I sensed from the start you were a friend, that you could be trusted with great responsibility. You are already an important leader in your own right. The Grim Reapers depend on you.”
“The Legion locked all those fools up,” commented Smooth, feeling a bit guilty for abandoning his friends. “Not everyone can be trusted, not even me. Did you know we hunt and eat bears on Old Earth? How do you feel about that?”
“I already conducted database research on the pecking order of species inhabiting Old Earth,” answered the rover. “No big deal. Big fish eat little fish. Circle of life.”
“I’m just saying, humanity can be cruel. Your bears might end up being some game hunter’s shag rug carpet, or stew.”
“We live in a cruel galaxy full of bugs and beasts. I concede humanity is the top dog, but we need each other. Eventually Old Earth and Ursidae are destined to eat at the same table. Ursidae just wants to be humanity’s wingman when you make your move.”
Chapter 6
As North New Gobi City burned, Planetary Air Defense Command called to confirm a UFO sighting over my district wasn’t a Legion craft. I could see it too, just briefly. It looked like a flying Toyota. What the hell? “Shoot it down,” I ordered.
I had also promised the spider military commander Legion troops to assist firefighting efforts. The paranoid bastard refused my offer, fearing more human pestilence trespass and adventurism. He suspected the fires were but another of my nefarious plots against the Empire.
* * * * *
The rover took immediate evasive action upon being tracked by a surface to air missile, avoiding direct impact damage from the blast, but the electromagnetic pulse caused a temporary shut down of some systems. The rover crashed in a remote region of the New Gobi Desert.
Smooth and the rover found themselves surrounded by a camp of scorpions. Dune buggies emerged from the dust, headlights on. A prominent banner overhead flapped in the breeze: God, Goodyear, and Gatorade. A scorpion got out of a dune buggy, taking off his black helmet.
“Outstanding!” exclaimed Dirt-Sting. “You are the first human to arrive at our race. Welcome human, to the New Gobi 1000!”
“Race?” asked Smooth. “Out here?”
“Of course,” answered Dirt-Sting, slapping Smooth on the back with a claw. “The New Gobi offers one thousand miles of the roughest terrain on the planet. Lots of luck winning the grand prize, though. A Toyota has never won.”
“My Toyota can win any race.”
“So you say. Don’t lag behind. Losers get eaten.”
“How much is the grand prize?”
“Half a million dollars. Rigs from all over the galaxy are racing.”
“How much is the entry fee?”
“Ten thousand dollars. Most sponsors pay the fee. Is Toyota too cheap, or are you thinking of going independent, picking up a sponsor later?”
“We’re independent. Can I pay my fee with blue powder?” asked Smooth, holding out a baggie.
“Most certainly,” answered Dirt-Stinger, enthusiastically snatching the powder. “You have more? All the drivers will be wanting to buy your powder. It heightens senses and reaction time. How did you ever get that much powder past the Legion and spider check points?”
“I’m well connected,” bragged Smooth, bravado taking hold. “Tell everyone I have enough blue powder to light up the whole New Gobi.”
“I’ll do that!”
* * * * *
“Can you win this race?” asked Smooth. “I’m not worried about the local talent, but the prize money might draw a few ringers.”
“Easily,” assured the rover. “I do not need refueling stops, and my superior technology gives me a definite edge over their machines and drivers.”
“I don’t want just an edge. I want a guarantee. Can you win this thing for sure?”
“I could cheat.”
“Cheat? Yes, that’s what I want. Cheat. How will you cheat?”
“I can bombard the competition from my space platform.”
“Like what you did to Burger King? That was you, wasn’t it? I knew that dive wasn’t hit by a meteor. But we need to be sly. A well-placed laser hit, but the damage has to look like an accident or mechanical failure. You can do that?”
“Easily.”
* * * * *
Smooth came to a decision, trading his Grim Reapers jacket for a bright red fireproof racing suit. Street gangs were for chumps, it was time to move on. Gangsta-Claw was right. It was time to elevate his game and make some real money. Smooth called his bookie in New Memphis.
“I want to place ten million dollars on Toyota Pride to win the New Gobi 1000. You know I’m good for it.”
“No, I don’t know you’re good for it,” replied Ricardo at Bonanno & Associates. “I hear the Legion is looking for all you Grim Reapers. We even have a line on how long you will last before Czerinski catches or kills you.”
“I’ll take some of that action. Roll over my profits from winning this race.”
“And how will you pay me?”
“Check my account!” boasted Smooth, swiping his card on his communications pad. “I’ve made a lot of cash in the import/export business. See for yourself. I’m good for it.”
“Can you send some blue
powder my way?” asked Ricardo, placing the wager. “How are you all of a sudden a major player? You’re not connected.”
“I don’t need your Mafia,” lied Smooth. “I have my own organization. I have the Reapers.”
“The odds of you winning the New Gobi 1000 are about one hundred to one,” advised Ricardo. “If you pull this off, you will be connected. I’ll even hook you up with our galactic distribution people.”
“Whatever. I’ll be hooking you up, chump. I’ll own this planet.”
* * * * *
Whatever we shot down, it crashed over the Scorpion City colony. I deployed half my battalion to the eastern New Gobi Desert for the search. The Scorpion City National Guard joined us. Media from across the galaxy was already present to cover the New Gobi 1000 race. Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion National Guard met me at the race staging area.
“Lots of racers saw the UFO fall from the sky,” reported Major Desert-Sting. “But no one saw it crash. Perhaps those spiders landed a shuttle nearby to spy on us.”
“Spy on the New Gobi 1000?” I asked. “Not likely. It wasn’t a spider craft. It was someone else, maybe a probe from the Scorpion Kingdom sowing dissidence. Did you hear North New Gobi City was burned down by arsonists?”
“Scorpion-Americans are completely loyal,” bristled Desert-Sting. ”Too bad, so sad, about those crispy-burned spiders, but we do not plot sedition.”
“Has there been anything unusual out here lately?”
“Just you humans showing up for our race. Usually you can’t tolerate the residual radiation from past wars. If radiation sickness does not kill you, surely the desert will.”
“I’m not worried about the desert.”
“Everything in the desert bites, pokes, or stings. And laggards get eaten.”
“The Legion goes were it pleases.”
First Contact Page 3