“As much as I would like, sentimentality is not an option. War with the United States Galactic Federation would be counter productive. We are allies against a vast hostile galaxy. I fear your laser may fall into the clutches of others just waiting for an opportunity to strike a dagger into the heart of the Empire. We must have its secret for self-defense purposes only.”
“You propose a treaty?”
“With a computer?”
“With Ursidae.”
“What is Ursidae, a subsidiary of Toyota or Daewoo?”
The rover projected images of bear-like species appearing to be having sex in a zoo. Next, a star chart appeared on the monitor, followed my more fucking bears.
“What freak show circus is this?” asked the spider commander, tapping the screen with his claw. At the same time he slipped a tracking and recording device under the seat. “More disgusting human pestilence Smokey the Bear Forest Service porn propaganda aimed at our hatchlings? Enough of your abominations. Where did you get that laser?”
“From Ursidae,” repeated the rover, impatiently displaying the star chart. “I was sent to establish first contact and treaty with sentient life forms, no matter how challenged you may be. Take me to your leader!”
“You would have me show this perverted hoax to the Emperor?” scoffed the spider commander. “And ruin my career? Ha! This is not Roswell. Yes, I saw that alien autopsy on the database. You are a fraud. I will report to the Emperor that the human pestilence now possess laser technology, thus dangerously upsetting the balance of power. The USGF is required by treaty to share all such technological advances of weapons of mass destruction, or else.”
“Or else what? You threaten me, a mere stupid computer? If you persist in refusing to acknowledge first contact, perhaps Colonel Czerinski and the Legion will listen.”
“Come with me north across the border, so the Empire and Toyota can continue negotiations in private,” suggested the spider commander, glancing at Private Telk. “You cannot trust that Czerinski. Check for yourself on the human pestilence database. Czerinski hates all forms of artificial intelligence. He has a suspected history of killing AI’s on first contact.”
“I trust no one. However, my mission is to make first contact. Once this race is over, I will parlay with all interested parties to establish mutual self defense and trade treaties.”
“Why after the race? Why not now, while I can still protect you from that fiend Czerinski?
“I wagered money on this race, and I intend to win.”
“What use does an AI have for money?”
“Money is as good as cash. Call it a nest egg for my retirement.”
* * * * *
As the spider commander left, Elena Ceausescu joined her husband Randal on guard duty. She was visibly upset.
“You let the enemy inside Toyota Pride?” asked Elena, angrily punching Private Telk in the chest. “What’s the matter with you?”
“How could I stop him?”
“Shoot the spider bastard!”
“The spider commander said you two were good friends. We just talked.”
“About what? He’s a liar, whatever he said!”
“The spider commander mentioned you performed first aid when he was injured. He seemed grateful, that’s all.”
“Oh, is that all?” replied Elena, seating herself in the rover. “Doesn’t this piece of junk have a radio? Computer, how about some music?”
“What kind?” asked the rover.
“Something to relax me from a very stressful day,” advised Elena. “I need some release.” Elena eyed her husband speculatively. “Care to help me with that, honey?”
“Not while on guard duty,” admonished Telk. “With all the media cameras about, we’d end up in a porn video for sure.”
“Is that so bad?” asked Elena, seductively tugging on her husband’s sleeve. “Oh baby, don’t make me beg.”
Private Telk glanced over his shoulder. In the distance he could see Corporal Tonelli making his rounds with Spot, checking the perimeter. Now was certainly not the time.
“Perhaps I can help,” suggested the rover, activating a massage program in the seat. The pulsing vibration titillated Elena from head to toe. “My, oh my!” Elena pulled the door shut, closing her eyes and relaxing back in the seat. “Oh, my God!”
“Are you okay?” asked a panicked Telk, pulling and banging on the door. “Elena! What’s the matter?”
“Oh go guard something!” ordered Elena, irritated at the interruption. She soon settled back into a groove. “I love Toyotas! Who knew they had such a hard ride? Oh, my God!”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Go! And don’t come back!”
Private Telk continued his rounds, slumped and dejected in his walk. They never had cross words before. Elena felt a bit guilty, too, but soon got over it. Oh my God, oh my God! Elena experienced heightened multiple orgasms from the vibrating seat and electromagnetic pulse activating her endorphins. It was as if the seat knew just what velocity and sensitivity was required, even better than the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss and Randal’s Big Bang Theory, which had been slumping lately. More guilt. It’s not really cheating if it’s a mechanical device, Elena reasoned. Females of all species across the galaxy knew that. Men are such incompetents most of the time, God bless their eager little hearts.
Elena abruptly looked about. The windows were steamed. She wiped clean a small portal, peering out. Randal had left. A soft relaxing tune still played on the radio. She leaned back comfortably into the seat. “Computer, can we do that again?”
Chapter 10
The last day of the race resumed at dawn. It would be a sprint over rough terrain to the finish line, with Toyota Pride in the lead.
Somehow Private Knight won the poker game, stuffing hundreds of Yartsa worms into his duffle. It seems Knight was something of a card shark. Who knew? The camp was all abuzz about Knight’s good fortune, and about a new porn video of the Toyota Pride and a female legionnaire. Female scorpions swarmed about Smooth Johnson and the rover, wanting turns in the hot seat.
* * * * *
“Get away, bugs!” shouted Smooth, drawing a pistol. “I mean it!”
“Oh come on,” begged Velvet-Sting, the leader of the pack. “I’ll pay you for a turn in your chair of love.”
“Have you gone mad?” asked Smooth, trying to point his gun in several directions at once. “I have a race to win. You will not slow me down or soil my seats!”
Velvet-Sting just barely scratched Smooth across his forehead with her bloated telson, but it was enough. A single drop of toxin penetrated Smooth’s scalp, sending him into a hallucinatory stupor. Velvet-Sing shoved the others aside as she dragged Smooth inside the Toyota Pride, seating herself shotgun. The grand marshal waved a green flag, and they were off.
“Computer, do your thing!” ordered Velvet-Sting, snorting blue powder. “Win this race, and please me until I pass out!”
“Some experimentation is in order first,” warned the rover. “I do not want to risk injury to your brittle exoskeleton.”
“I am neither brittle nor a science project,” gasped Velvet-Sting with the first pulse current. “Yes, keep doing that!”
“I detect fluorescent chemicals in your blood system,” advised the rover. “Caution is prudent, so I do not accidentally set you aflame.”
“Burn me, burn me, light my fire!” demanded Velvet-Sting, thrashing in the seat as the rover hit a bump. “It is true. You are a mechanical god of joy, and do not even require batteries.”
“I am powered by a nuclear reactor.”
“What the hell?” interrupted Smooth, waking from the bumpy ride. “The race has begun?”
“Yes, and we are winning!” exclaimed Velvet-Sting, spitting green mist in Smooth’s face. “I hope you survive, lovely fragile human fur ball. The toxins in your blood will heighten the experience.”
“No, don’t eat me!” shrieked Smooth, hallucinating pleasure and
horror of dark side scorpion mating rituals all at once. Demon scorpions swarmed over his naked body, simultaneously arousing and tearing flesh. “Help!”
“Computer, do something to prevent shock,” ordered Velvet-Sting as she clawed at Smooth’s clothing. “I don’t want this lovely male human to die quite yet.”
“I doubt Smooth Johnson will survive the day,” replied the rover skeptically. “Too bad, so sad.”
“Oh my, it is true what they say about humans!” exclaimed Velvet-Sting as she happily removed Smooth’s pants. “This one is trophy quality, and I am keeping him!”
Resistance was futile.
* * * * *
Smooth woke in time to see the prize, a checkered flag fluttering in the distance. He was naked and dehydrated. Velvet-Sting passed Smooth a bottle of Gatorade to prevent shock, which he readily gulped down.
“We are going to win?”
“How insensitive,” admonished Velvet-Sting. “Love ’em and leave ’em? Is that your style?”
“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” asked Smooth, still in shock and at loss for anything else to say. “What the hell?”
“You were both heaven and hell,” gushed Velvet-Sting, pawing insatiably at Smooth. “I never knew you humans and your machines were so magnificent! You did not even die, like everyone expected.”
“Everyone?”
“We have gone viral.”
“No! Do you have penicillin?”
“Database viral, you silly human fur ball,” explained Velvet-Sting, playfully poking Smooth on his arm. A trickle of blood dripped to the seat.
“Ouch!” responded Smooth, drawing away.
As the Toyota Pride sprinted toward the finish line, a large American buffalo darted across the roadway. Reflexively, the rover blasted the buffalo in half with its laser, sliding through the slick gore to victory. Spectators swarmed the Toyota Pride, pounding on the glass trying to get a better look at the driver. A red-sashed scorpion grand marshal carrying a large gold trophy, presented himself to Smooth as cameras zoomed in.
“You are disqualified for poaching Smokey the Bear’s pet buffalo, a capital offense here in the Scorpion City Autonomous Region. Human Smooth Johnson, you are under arrest!”
* * * * *
As the Scorpion City National Guard swarmed the Toyota Pride, the grand marshal proudly handed the winner’s trophy to the next driver crossing the finish line. Me.
* * * * *
Smooth Johnson was summarily tossed into a jail cell with one other human, a scraggly looking sort named Alonzo Gore. Gore had obviously been rotting in the dungeon a while. He crouched in the corner, shielding his eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight. Solemnly Gore lit a candle. “Welcome to Hell, fellow traveler,” greeted Gore. “What are you in for?”
“Poaching, but I was framed,” answered Smooth, pacing. “You?”
“Fire code violations.”
“Oh, you’re a Democrat,” commented Smooth, backing away, leery of what those unstable types might do next. “Be careful with that candle. I can’t believe they really let you play with matches.”
“I keestered my stash,” advised Gore conspiratorially. “They arrested me for lighting my candle at the death penalty protest. Did you know the scorpions impose the death penalty for most offenses, even poaching?”
“Yeah, it’s messed up. How do I get out? I want a lawyer.”
“You get nothing. I haven’t eaten in days.”
“What? I’m starving. When is lunch?”
“Ha! We’re on the menu.”
As if on cue, two scorpion jailers came down the stairs, noisily clanking their keys. One jailer banged his nightstick on the bars. “Heads white meat, tails dark,” he announced, flipping a quarter high into the air and catching it. “Heads!”
Gore threw a wooden food dish and liquid at the scorpions as they rushed the cell, stinging Gore into submission and dragging him away.
“Hey!” shouted Smooth, rattling the bars. “I want my phone call! When can I post bail?”
“You will see the judge soon enough,” answered a jailer, smirking lewdly. “Then you will be toast!”
“I love human toast,” remarked the other scorpion. “Tastes crunchy like Chick-fil-A.”
“Personally, I prefer KFC’s original recipe,” advised his partner. “If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.”
“I’ll sue! I’ll have your jobs! Hey! You hear me? I have constitutional rights!”
* * * * *
Scorpion City Superior Court was crowded with hooligan defendants from the New Gobi 1000 celebration. I was present with Legion attorney Eugene Depoli because during the post race melee, Private Walter Knight got arrested for possession of Yartsa without a permit, a capital offense in the Scorpion City Autonomous District, and all national parks.
“Order in the Court!” announced the bailiff. “All stand! Here comes the Judge, the Honorable Hang ’em High Black-Sting presiding.”
Judge Hang ’em High Black-Sting suspiciously scanned the crowded courtroom for troublemakers and reporters. There was not much difference between the two, and someone was bound to be found in contempt of court and put on the menu before the day was out. Judge Black-Sting grinned form mandible to mandible when he spotted me, his old fishing buddy from back in the day.
“Czerinski, old pal, old friend of mine! How is it hanging?” asked Black-Sting, amused at his own inside joke. “Congratulations on being the first human to win the New Gobi 1000. There goes the neighborhood!”
“Speaking of hanging, Your Honor, I was hoping to prevent such an event,” I addressed the Court formally. “One of my legionnaires, Private Walter Knight, was arrested for possession of Yartsa without a permit. I understand possession of Yartsa with intent to traffic is a capital offense.”
“Walter Knight, the world-famous science-fiction writer?” asked Judge Black-Sting.
“One and the same,” I replied, motioning to Private Knight seated in chains and iron ball at my side.
“I’d like to get an autographed collectors copy of Walter’s latest book.”
I nodded. “Knight is sorry, and won’t do it again. He’s a good boy, basically, when not drunk, cheating at poker, or stealing worms. It’s not like Knight was smoking the bobo bush again, mon.”
“Records show Knight has prior offenses, including poaching endangered blue lizards,” commented Judge Black-Sting, sternly reviewing the database and checking his translation device. “How does the miscreant Yartsa-dealer Knight plead?”
“Guilty as sin,” announced attorney Depoli. “You can see the guilt in his narrow beady eyes. But there are mitigating factors. I blame Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and an addiction to database porn. Knight pleads diminished capacity, which can be readily corroborated by Amazon Kindle book reviews stating he writes no better than a moron with an IQ of 61.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the reviews of Knight’s so-called science fiction,” agreed Judge Black-Sting, coming to a decision. “I cannot in good conscience condemn such a pathetic retarded want-to-be science-fiction writer to the gallows, in spite of the torturous sleepless nights he inflicted on so many readers across the galaxy. I fine Walter Knight fifty dollars. Do not ever do this sort of thing again. You hear me, boy?”
“Yes, thank you, Your Honor,” answered Private Knight, contritely. “What do you mean, torturous sleepless nights?”
“Shut up and get out of my court, you low-life poacher!” ordered Judge Black-Sting.
“But I won those grubs fair and square in a poker game! Can’t I get them back?”
“Next case!” shouted Judge Black-Sting as Sergeant Green roughly dragged world-famous science-fiction writer Walter Knight from the courtroom.
“State versus Alonzo Gore et al,” announced the bailiff. “Gore and his conspirators appear to be a no show.”
“They ate him!” interrupted Smooth Johnson, pulling on his chains. “The jailers ate Al Gore!”
“Order in the court,” admon
ished Judge Black-Sting, pounding repeatedly with his gavel. “Nonsense! Jailers are not allowed to eat prisoners without a court order.”
“I saw it!” argued Smooth desperately. “They flipped a coin and ate him. Gore was white meat!”
“Is this Gore fool one of the human Democrats we saved for the barbecue?” asked Judge Black-Sting in a hushed tone. “Didn’t I order all those yummy Democrats cleared off the docket yesterday?”
“Sorry, Your Honor,” answered the bailiff. “He must have slipped through. Probably did not have photo identification. Most Democrats do not.”
“They ate the Democrat!” shouted Smooth. “He had matches keestered up his ass!”
“Gag that noisy human,” ordered Black-Sting, reviewing the filing papers. “I might have known, another poacher. I find you in contempt of court for your scandalous disorderly conduct. I suppose you will be pleading diminished capacity, too?”
Smooth gagged on the smelly sock jailers duct taped into his mouth. Ha! Another use for duct tape. Smooth thrashed about in his seat, rattling his chains like a ghost. Attorney Depoli, feeling sorry for a fellow Homo sapiens, rose to address the court.
“Your Honor, young defendants like Mr. Smooth Johnson are most amendable to rehabilitation. Old Earth tradition allows for dese youts ruinin’ t’ings for demselves to be turned about by encouraging them to enlist in the military, rather than execution or wasteful languishing in prison. I propose deferred prosecution, subject to Mr. Johnson’s enlistment in the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion, where he will receive the much needed positive mentoring his sorry excuse for a life has so sorely lacked. With the guidance of strong father figures like Colonel Joey R. Czerinski, Mr. Johnson will no longer be a mere pimple on the ass of society, but will be able to turn his life around and become a productive citizen.”
“What a load of happy horse shit that is,” scoffed Judge Black-Sting. “I’m not letting Johnson go so easily. He’s on the menu!”
First Contact Page 6