First Contact

by Walter Knight

  “Not you,” I ordered, pointing at Corporal Wayne. “You will stand guard at the armored car. Understand?”

  “Sir, I am not afraid of these puny dickless scorpions,” argued Corporal Wayne, agitated. “I do not need your protection.”

  “Sorry, it is me who is nervous,” I whispered, drawing the big spider close. “I need you alert, covering our back with the machine gun and cannon. If I get jumped, you will avenge me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your fellow human racer is a snob,” commented Dirt-Sting, nodding to the Toyota Pride. “It is just as well. I suspect that one cheats and is responsible for sabotage to our vehicles. He will pay dearly.”

  “Never trust anyone who drives a Toyota,” I agreed, sipping congenially on a beer. “I keep Smooth Johnson in front of me at all times, even if he is a fellow human.”

  Dirt-Sting passed the warning about Smooth, briefly touching claws in chemical bonding with other scorpions crouched next to him. Word traveled instantly as the scorpion chain contact spread. Scorpions eerily swayed and chanted as one, oblivious to their surroundings. I broke their trance by loudly crushing an empty beer can in my fist. Macho, macho man! I reached for another. Media video cameras zoomed in for a close-up. I put on my game face, showing off my pearly whites as music played in the background.

  “Outlaw Beer tastes great, and is less filling. From first contact to now, Outlaw Beer has always been the first choice of the Legion and scorpions defending the Frontier.”

  In unison, the scorpions turned to the cameras and raised their Outlaw Beer cans, labels all facing forward, in a galactic toast to beer, broads, and boogie. Sergeant Williams let out another rebel yell before gulping down his brew.

  However, the bonding moment between humanity and scorpions was abruptly interrupted when an Arthropodan jeep burst into camp. Spider Intelligentsia commandos jumped out. Their ranking officer, patting dust off his uniform shirt sleeves, removed his goggles and addressed the campsite. “How cozy, human pestilence and their subjugated scorpion pets nesting together around the campfire. Kumbaya!”

  “Would you like a marshmallow?” I asked. “We were about to make s’mores.”

  “I am here to arrest the human pestilence fugitive Smooth Johnson for terrorism and murder,” announced the Intelligentsia officer, grabbing a bag of marshmallows, stuffing them in a pouch. “I hold Imperial Warrants for Smooth Johnson’s arrest.”

  “Sit, and have a s’more,” insisted Dirt-Sting as scorpions gathered. “Stop and smell the sage brush. Life is too short to not look forward to the day before yesterday. There is no rush. Join us for dinner.”

  “What?” asked the Intelligentsia officer, adjusting his translator for scorpion slang. “I am not hungry. And if I were, I would not share a bowl with the likes of you. Step aside, lackeys of the human pestilence!”

  “You misunderstood my invitation,” explained Dirt-Sting, drawing a pistol. “I was not offering you dinner. You are dinner!”

  Dirt-Sting shot the Intelligentsia officer in the head. The spider twitched several moments on the ground before finally dying. Other scorpions swarmed the remaining spiders, quickly stinging and tearing them apart.

  The timing was perfect. The bonfires were just now burning down to white-hot coals, great for roasting spiders. The secret to preparing tasty roast spider is in the sauce. Spider is a bit gamey, so the spicier the better. Roast over low coals until the exoskeleton pops open, exposing the tender white meat. It kind of tastes like chicken, except different.

  Soon there was nothing left. Spiders are finger licking good, so there was no waste. Even their jeep was disassembled, used for parts. Unfortunately, the entire event was recorded on video and broadcast on the database. More bad press for me, but the commercial royalties were adding up. Ka-ching! Afterward, we all toasted the cameras.

  “Outlaw Beer, breakfast of champions!” exclaimed Dirt-Sting, letting out a satisfied belch. “Tastes great, but less filling. Look! Even the Butcher of New Colorado loves Outlaw Beer. And do not forget Original Recipe Heinz A-l barbeque sauce, for that good burn. Heinz A-1, the last barbeque sauce you will ever need.”

  I smiled and waved weakly for the camera, hoping we hadn’t started another war. At the very least, I would catch hell from General Daly when he saw the video. As if on cue, my communications pad rang. I disconnected.

  * * * * *

  A Legion supply helicopter dropped a bladder of fuel during the night. The next phase of the race was through hill and canyon country. Major Lopez scouted the path ahead with an airborne drone. I studied an ominous curse spray-painted on a large boulder as we passed into the Scorpion Stronghold: Miixoni quih zo hant ano tiij? Its ancient meaning was lost in translation.

  As we rounded a bend, scorpion spectators loitered suspiciously at a fork in the dirt roadway. Some were drinking while others barbecued armadillo road kill. Yum, yum. All stopped to stare expectantly at the approaching racers. What the hell?

  The remoteness of the camp heightened my suspicion. Setting booby traps along the New Gobi 1000 race course had been elevated in years past to a spectator sport. We slowed, approaching with caution, letting the other racers pass. The Toyota Pride led the way, taking the left fork without hesitation. Dirt-Sting and others followed in the dust. A laggard dune buggy, hoping to make up time taking a shortcut, veered right at the fork, accelerating. The crash was horrifying.

  Scorpion spectators cheered and jeered, firing their weapons into the air and throwing beer bottles as an ambulance crew rushed to assist the stricken driver and attempt first aid. Another use for duct tape!

  Spectators had built an ingenious booby trap, using military grade 3-D camouflage paint to create the illusion of a right fork in the road. In actuality, a wall of solid rock greeted any driver not paying close enough attention. The hapless racer drove full-speed into rock. Not good.

  Such gruesome scenes had become a New Gobi 1000 tradition, but still, it didn’t seem right. Corporal Wayne raked the parking area with machine gun and cannon fire as we passed by. Williams let out another rebel yell. Spectators’ cars caught fire and exploded. Race fans of all species watching on TV cheered, trying to imitate Williams’ now famous rebel yell. Ratings hit an all-time high. This was the best New Gobi 1000 race ever! I raised a can of Outlaw Beer above my head for the cameras.

  “Outlaw Beer, the official beer of the New Gobi 1000!”

  * * * * *

  The racers climbed up the canyons to an elevation of about fifteen thousand feet. On a plateau, we abruptly stopped, the road blocked by cars and trucks. Scorpions bailed out of their racers into the fields, searching the grass, crawling on all sixes.

  “Get out of the way!” I shouted, honking my horn. “I’ll drive over your rigs if you don’t move it!”

  “The race has been temporarily suspended!” announced Dirt-Sting, running through the summer grass. “We’ve found Yartsa Gunbu!”

  Even Smooth Johnson was out in the field with a bag, digging something up. I followed Dirt-Sting to investigate. We all followed. Who knew? Maybe there was money to be made. Corporal Tonelli’s monitor dragon Spot already seemed to be on the scent of something, pulling hard at his leash. Suddenly the dragon began digging. What the Hell?

  “The Yartsa worm can be found just below the surface, exposed only by a parasitic fungus sprout that emerges from its head,” explained Dirt-Sting, picking carefully through the grass. “The fungus devours the body of the caterpillar, leaving only the exoskeleton intact. Come spring, a single stalk blooms. One worm can fetch over ten thousand dollars.”

  “Really?” I asked, drawing my jagged combat knife and poking in the dirt. Other legionnaires eagerly did the same. “What’s this worm good for?”

  “The Yartsa cures everything from cancer to personal diseases like the Green Rash, known to you humans as Czerinski’s Disease. Hmm, that’s an interesting coincidence. Colonel, are you already familiar with Czerinski’s Disease? You cannot totally eradicate th
e Green Rash without Yartsa IV treatments. The Yartsa contains an immune system modulator and an antiviral agent.”

  “I’ve heard of the rash,” I answered innocently, digging vigorously. “I found one!”

  Legionnaires gathered to get a better look. Corporal Tonelli offered five thousand dollars cash for the worm. I refused, sticking my prize in a pouch.

  “It don’t look like much to me,” commented Private Krueger. “You say that worm can cure the clap? Is that before or after you get it?”

  “I’m not eating that worm,” argued Private Knight. “I ate a Tequila worm once. I almost died.”

  “Yartsa can be prepared by boiling it into tea,” advised Dirt-Sting. “Then you can eat the softened worm. I have tried Yartsa myself. You feel the worm’s effect both physically and psychologically. It lifts your spirits.”

  “That worm is gross,” commented Corporal Ceausescu, pulling her husband Telk away. “Don’t you even touch one of those worms.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “That offer of five thousand dollars remains open,” repeated Corporal Tonelli. “If the scorpions want to eat worms to get rid of Green Slime Rash like Czerinski got, I’ll sell it to them. There’s a lot of money to be made here!”

  Legionnaires immediately began combing the grass looking for more worms. I pulled Tonelli off to the side. “Hey Guido, not so loud about me catching that Green Rash. That was a long time ago. I’m over it now.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I thought everyone already knew. We’ve all seen the porn video showing how you caught the rash doing the nasty with that scorpion queen.”

  “Enough! I was drunk and got stung. I almost died!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * * *

  “Digging up Yartsa is like picking up free money off the ground,” commented Smooth, finding another worm. “This is great!”

  “And it is legal,” added the rover. “You may go corporate yet.”

  “This is chump change,” replied Smooth, stiffening. He nodded at Corporal Tonelli. “That’s where the smart money is made. Italians always control the smart money. Buying and distribution beats this stoop labor any day.” Smooth tossed his bag of worms in the rover for safe keeping. “This stash is just for personal use.”

  “So you say.”

  “We need to concentrate on winning this race. If I win, I’m set for life.”

  “The Legion ATM tells me the smart money is betting on Colonel Czerinski to win the New Gobi 1000. Czerinski always cheats.”

  “Quit sleeping with the enemy. You better remember that race prize money is mine.”

  “You had better remember we are partners.”

  Chapter 9

  The spider commander boldly drove into camp with two escort armored cars. “What, no one is rushing to welcome me?”

  “You are just in time for dinner,” replied Dirt-Sting. “The others are still in the fields digging worms.”

  “Do not even think about it,” warned the spider commander. “I am not a pushover like those Intelligentsia sissies. You are lucky we are not at war. Only the Emperor’s direct intervention prevented a massive retaliation from space.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I entered the race, of course. I have been holding back, watching your antics. I caught up while you lesser species dig and wallow in the bogs for grubs. For the glory of the Empire, I intend to win the New Gobi 1000. If what I have seen is the best you’ve got, winning should be easy.”

  “First the humans, now you spiders? There goes the neighborhood.”

  “Get used to losing, Stinger-Boy. There’s a new sheriff in town.”

  “Talk is cheap, Crab-Face. Your parched exoskeleton will soon litter the race path.”

  “Threaten me at your peril. You are lucky I am in such a good mood. What do you know of the Toyota Pride?”

  “The human Smooth Johnson keeps to himself,” answered Dirt-Sting. “Rumor has it that Toyota is an illegal Daewoo in disguise.”

  “Yes, those human pestilence always cheat,” commented the spider commander, checking Daewoo on the database. “More and more invasive pests and contraband are getting past Mars every day. What is the story on these worms you are so fond of?”

  “Yartsa cures cancer.”

  “Cancer is already cured,” scoffed the spider commander. “Just take your radiation pills.”

  “Cancer is back since we started eating humans, and their food,” explained Dirt-Sting. “We suspect the red dye.”

  “You scorpions will eat anything. You are ruled by your gullets.”

  “Life is too short to eat average food,” conceded Dirt-Sting. “Did you know Yartsa also cures Green Rash?”

  “Really?” asked the spider commander, uncomfortably shifting in the armored car turret. “The Emperor will be interested in that development. Our last diplomatic mission to the Scorpion Kingdom ended in a Green Rash quarantine. It seems you are all infested with green rot, and sand mites, too!”

  “Acquainted with the Green Rash, eh? You and your buddy Czerinski can trade stories.”

  “I would never lower myself to such deprivation,” scoffed the spider commander. “Let your vile unfettered scorpion peasantry swap microorganisms all it wants. Your debauchery is of no matter to me, as long as you scorpions stay on your side of the border.”

  “Spider prude.”

  “Scorpion pervert!”

  “Sticks and stones...”

  “Whatever!”

  * * * * *

  Surprised the spider commander dared show himself in scorpion territory, I nevertheless greeted him warmly. “Welcome to Hell! If this isn’t Hell, you can at least see it from here!”

  “Our Intelligentsia will be avenged,” replied the stoic spider commander. “The Governor issued an arrest warrant for murder and crimes against the galactic civilization for you and all your pet scorpions.”

  “Too bad your warrants are worthless on this side of the border.”

  “Your Butcher of New Colorado legacy will not end well.”

  “We’re playing poker tonight. You’re invited.”

  “I will be there,” answered the spider commander, brightly. “I never turn down a chance at easy money against you human pestilence. You play so poorly, giving away your thoughts and cards with every facial muscle twitch.”

  “Buy-in is with Yartsa. There will be no money or cash. If you want to play, you better get digging. Or, I suppose you can buy some Yartsa off Corporal Tonelli.”

  “I see. Guido always finds a nefarious way to make money. There should be a law.”

  “There is, but somehow Italians got past Mars anyway.”

  “I blame your so-called democracy. Freedom is way overrated. I long for the old days before the Emperor decreed nose-counting every four years.”

  “I notice the Emperor does not stand for election.”

  “Only so much of the galaxy can be turned upside down before the electromagnetic fields go awry.”

  “No truer words have ever been mangled by a translation device.”

  * * * * *

  The spider commander skipped the poker game, choosing instead to investigate Toyota Pride. A single legionnaire stood guard among the cars. Private Telk was daydreaming about being an Indy racecar driver, but was abruptly jolted back into reality when the spider commander tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Halt!” shouted Private Telk, spinning about, pointing his fixed bayonet rifle menacingly. “Who goes there?”

  “It is too late to pretend you were alert and diligently doing your duty,” scoffed the spider commander. “Sling your weapon. I am a friend. I know Elena.”

  “It seems everyone knows Elena,” replied Telk, slumping. “Even spiders?”

  “Your wife is a dedicated medic and Hero of the Legion. Back in the day, she unselfishly duct-taped my wounds, saving my life. Nothing sordid happened, if that’s what you were thinking. Elena is pure as the driven snow, what little there is here on New Colorado.�
�

  “What are you doing out here?” asked Telk defensively, not convinced by talk of snow. “No one is allowed near the cars at night, especially you spiders.”

  “You spiders? I thought we were allies. No matter. I am just curious about the Toyota Pride, and came out to gawk like everyone else. It is quite a vehicle.”

  “The racecars are off-limits for security reasons,” warned Private Telk.

  “I heard it’s really a Daewoo. I want to see this Daewoo close up,” advised the spider commander, brushing by. “I hear it is run by computer.”

  “Toyota Pride has a dangerous alarm system. I was ordered to shoo off tourists.”

  “Nonsense, I am not a tourist,” replied the spider commander as he cautiously approached the Toyota Pride, tapping its door. “There is nothing special here. It is just a stupid car with a fancy paint job.”

  “Sir, I am far from stupid,” reacted the rover, opening its DeLorean doors in invitation. “You are of some rank among the spiders? A leader?”

  “I am the Supreme Commander of the New Gobi Military District,” boasted the spider commander as he seated himself. There was no steering wheel. “Computer, start engine.”

  “Why?”

  “Computer, override security system, start engine.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Fine! Show me your laser.”

  The laser gun popped up from a front quarter panel, pointing ominously at the spider commander. Private Telk backed away, fearing the worst.

  “I told you it had an alarm system!”

  “Point your ray gun safely down range,” ordered the spider commander, calmly. “Where did such a fine weapon come from? The Coleopteran Federation, maybe? Those smarmy beetles are a cleaver lot.”

  “You covet our laser technology?” asked the rover, withdrawing the laser back to its hidden compartment. “For what purpose? You would attack humanity, or your other neighbors?”