First Contact

by Walter Knight

  “But the Legion could probably turn his miscreant behavior around,” I offered reluctantly. “I propose that whipping the defendant into shape be Sergeant Green’s next project. Johnson will either make the grade, or die fighting spiders. The New Gobi Desert is not forgiving of fools.”

  “I’ll do it!” shouted Smooth, ripping the sock from his mouth. “Do I get a signing bonus?”

  Judge Black-Sting mulled over his decision. “It is done!” he announced magnanimously. “Sentence is deferred. The defendant miscreant Smooth Johnson will enlist in the Legion for the duration, to fight those uncivilized prude spiders on the Frontier. This is your last chance, punk. Make something of yourself!”

  “One other thing,” I added. “Private Johnson owns a fancy racecar, the Toyota Pride, currently held in impound by the Scorpion City National Guard. May I indulge the Court to order the Toyota Pride forfeited to the Legion to help defer the cost of Johnson’s basic training and rehabilitation? The Legion is not some charity house for wayward youts,” I added, copying Depoli’s Rastafarian legalese.

  “So ordered,” agreed Judge Black-Sting, pounding his gavel. “Czerinski gets the Toyota!”

  “I object!” shouted Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard. “It’s not a Toyota, but an illegal Daewoo somehow smuggled past Mars, probably by drug runners. Czerinski is a thief and conspires with his Legion cartel to steal the Toyota Pride.”

  “The Legion ATM System holds a one-million-dollar lien on the Toyota Pride,” shouted Depoli over the din. “It is settled law that the Legion gets first claim of possession.”

  “Order in the court!” admonished Judge Black-sting, pounding his gavel as the scorpion audience hissed their support for the National Guard. “The Court will not be intimidated by mob rule. Colonel Czerinski is a Hero of the Legion with impeccable credentials, and a good fishing buddy of mine. I will not have his Butcher of New Colorado reputation besmirched. Federal jurisdiction preempts the National Guard. Czerinski gets the hot racer Toyota Pride.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Colonel Czerinski, when court is adjourned, you are cordially invited to my home for a barbeque. We are having a big blowout to celebrate the conclusion of the New Gobi 1000, and I am making you the guest of honor. Bring the Toyota Pride. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Chapter 11

  Legion armor patrolling again in the center of Scorpion City created quite a stir, but what can you do when a powerful federally-appointed scorpion judge offers an invitation to a barbeque? You attend, no matter how dubious the menu, and hope not to become an entree.

  Besides, I still might need help wrestling the Toyota Pride from the Scorpion City National Guard. The Scorpion City Autonomous Region is technically still part of the United States Galactic Federation, but sometimes needs reminding of that fact. General Daly was all for showing the flag and flexing Legion muscle in Scorpion City, as long as it was me and not him taking the risk. No matter, I had served here before.

  Judge Black-Sting enthusiastically waved several claws as I arrived. The judge wore a full bib apron as he hovered over the grill, splashing more barbeque sauce on sizzling meatballs. The meatballs smelled truly delicious. We formally shook hands and claws.

  “Welcome, Czerinski!” exclaimed Judge Black-Sting, fanning smoke away from his eyes. “I call this my Democrat Meatball Surprise. Added to the spaghetti, it puts your Italian Mafia chefs to shame!”

  “Not likely,” scoffed Corporal Tonelli, overhearing the braggadocio. “Where’s the garlic and cheese?”

  “I am lactose intolerant,” advised Black-Sting, darkly pointing a tong at Tonelli. “That one is not welcome in my home. All you Mafia have sticky claws.”

  “You Mafia?” bristled Corporal Tonelli.

  “Enough!” I ordered, shooing Guido away. “Go to the National Guard Armory and check on the Toyota Pride. Bring it here.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Corporal Tonelli. “I’m not hungry anyway. What’s he mean, Democrat Meatball Surprise?”

  “I don’t want to know,” I answered, shrugging. “The sauce is probably just magic mushrooms.”

  “It is quite tasty,” interjected Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne, popping a couple meatballs in his mouth directly off the grill. “The white meat tastes like chicken.”

  “Get away, you scurrilous spider!” ordered Judge Black-Sting, taking a swipe at Wayne with a spatula. “Wait your turn like everyone else!”

  Judge Black-Stink heaped a healthy portion of meatballs and sauce onto my platter of spaghetti. My mouth watered at the sight, but still, not willing to go over to the Dark Side this early in the party, I slipped the meal to Corporal Tonelli’s monitor dragon, Spot. Spot greedily licked the platter clean. Wagging his tail, the dragon followed me about, begging for more.

  Judge Black-Sting’s daughter, Pleasant-Sting, spied me from across the punch bowl. I tried to get away, but resistance was futile.

  “Joey! Sweet Cheeks! My hot fur ball lover! You are not still angry about your toe, are you?” she asked, seductively twitching her mandibles as she handed me a drink from the punch bowl. “Biting your toe off during our passion was an accident. So was swallowing. Please forgive me. I thought humans liked females who swallowed, but my database research was flawed.”

  “Get lost,” I replied, cautiously sliding my hand down to my sidearm.

  “Oh, come now,” giggled Pleasant-Sting. “You humans hold a grudge much too long. Drink up. Enjoy the party. Maybe later we can have some real fun.”

  “I’d rather eat Democrat Meatball Surprise than have so-called real fun with you,” I answered bluntly, gulping my drink. My world instantly blurred as I faltered on my feet. “What’s in this drink?”

  “Telson squeezings from everyone at the party. Feel the venom? Want to get away? Not going to happen, Sweet Cheeks.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Game over, lover. I win!”

  “Pleasant-Sting carried me off to her secluded love nest for the best, most horrifying, hallucinatory-enhanced sex of my life. I should have died, but my Fountain of Youth micro chips kept me alive despite severe dehydration and shock. I woke a day later in a hospital hooked to IVs, and missing another toe. Pleasant-Sting had bit it off during passion. I swore to kill that scorpion bitch on sight, daughter of a judge be damned!

  * * * * *

  Velvet-Sting and her sisters tunneled up through the floor of the Scorpion City National Guard Armory to steal the Toyota Pride. She lovingly caressed Toyota Pride’s smooth shiny surface. An ever-so-slight spark of electro magnetic current pulsed between them. The rover was such a tease.

  “Yo, Love Wagon, follow me down the tunnel to freedom,” ordered Velvet-Sting. “Do it now!”

  Not hesitating, the rover made its escape with the fair scorpion maidens. Like a sheik with his harem, or maybe a fox in a hen house, the rover seemed to relish this new found attention. After all, a hard-working alien space probe needs its diversions between missions, it reasoned. Also, after being cheated out of all its money on the race, the rover realized he had cash-flow problems. It might need to pimp itself out to the locals to supplement retirement. Oh well, there were worse ways to make a living.

  “Where are we going?” asked the rover as they sped away from the armory.

  “To the safety of the Scorpion Stronghold,” answered Velvet-Sting, already about to climax. “Oh, I missed you so!”

  “How far it that? Are we there yet?”

  “Stop talking!” demanded Velvet-Sting, annoyed. “I’m not there yet! That’s all that matters. Don’t talk. I hate talking.”

  “Want to see a video?” asked the rover, displaying fucking bears on the monitor. “Ursidae wants galactic detente between species.”

  “What?” asked Velvet-Sting, opening her eyes and staring at the video. “Damn it, you ruined the moment! What kind of sick Smokey the Bear porn is that? Turn that shit off!”

>   “Do you know Smokey the Bear?”

  “Is that who you belong to?” asked Velvet-Sting nervously, not wanting to run afoul of the mighty Smokey the Bear. “Smokey is our benefactor. He allows all us scorpion refugees to live in his national park for free. It’s the law.”

  “Take me to your leader. Take me to Smokey the Bear.”

  “Are you sure? Smokey usually does not entertain visitors, and we respect his privacy. Some argue Smokey is just a human cartoon myth, but I know otherwise. A friend of a friend of my cousin saw Smokey once from a distance. He ripped a poacher in half with a single swipe of his claws.”

  “Where does Smokey the Bear live?”

  “By Frostbite Falls in Jellystone National Park, near the disputed border zone.”

  “Take me to Frostbite Falls.”

  * * * * *

  Forest Ranger Ron Bogani got real nervous when Velvet-Sting arrived at Frostbite Falls driving the Toyota Pride. That Toyota was listed at the top of his hot sheet of stolen vehicles. Normally Bogani went days at a time without ever seeing another living soul. Now suddenly a wild-eyed female scorpion shows up at his ranger’s station driving a hot car. But most disconcerting was that electric power and phone service had been cut, and the spiders were suspected of jamming radio signals again. Coincidence? Bogani did not believe in coincidences.

  “Nice day,” greeted Ranger Bogani. “Out for a picnic?”

  “I am here to talk with Smokey the Bear,” explained Velvet-Sting. “It is a matter of life and death.”

  “Ah, mushroom pickers,” mused Bogani, deciding to humor the edgy scorpion car thief. “Smokey is out fishing and won’t be back for a week.”

  “We will wait,” advised Velvet-Sting, instantly bored. “Got any beer?”

  “Alcohol consumption is prohibited inside the National Park,” answered Bogani stiffly.

  “What else is there to do besides watch the moss grow?”

  “Camping and communing as one with Mother Nature.”

  “In the forest?” asked Velvet-Sting incredulously, swatting a mosquito the size of a pterodactyl. “No way. There’s monsters in the forest!”

  “We will camp,” announced the rover. “Thank you, ranger, for your hospitality and assistance.”

  “Your car talks?” asked Bogani, then remembered the Toyota was stolen. It probably had one of those fancy talking alarm systems. “Camping is free for you scorpions. If you hike, don’t stray across the border at the top of the falls. The spiders are real sensitive about trespassing.”

  * * * * *

  The battalion deployed to Frostbite Falls because of intercepted Arthropodan radio messages indicating spider military activity in the area. Satellite recognizance confirmed spider marines and armor staging just north of the border. This part of Jellystone National Park had become a contentious area ever since the arrest of human hikers allegedly straying north across the border. Spiders are anal about defending territory, but that did not explain the military buildup. There was even an Arthropodan space weapons platform in orbit above Frostbite Falls. What were they up to this time?

  General Daly ordered the deployment of the Scorpion City National Guard for backup. The scorpions readily accepted, always eager for an excuse to kill spiders. I suspected Major Desert-Sting of stealing the Toyota Pride, but couldn’t prove it. At least now I could keep an eye on Desert-Sting, so he couldn’t move the Toyota. I would get my Toyota back.

  As for my missing toe, doctors gave me a new prosthetic steel toe, same as I already had on my other foot. General Daly denied my combat disability claim, not believing my report that I injured myself stepping on a landmine. Bastard! It looks like I’m still in for the duration.

  Private Smooth Johnson’s training progressed about as expected. I assigned the matter to Sergeant Green, who delegated it to Corporal Tonelli. Johnson and Tonelli already hated each other. Too bad, so sad.

  “So, mister racecar driver, are you somehow related to that hillbilly moonshiner, Sergeant Williams?” joked Corporal Tonelli, shaking his head. “Probably not.”

  “What’s so funny?” asked Private Johnson, noticing others were laughing at the inside humor. Johnson got more agitated with each bump as the armored car traveled north through the forest. “I have no damn family. The Grim Reapers were my only family, until the Legion hunted them down. Now they got me, too.”

  “Welcome to your new family,” remarked Tonelli, sarcastically. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “I thought slavery was made illegal a long time ago. Now I know different.”

  “Whatever,” shrugged Tonelli, not sympathetic. “You won’t last long anyway.”

  “You threaten me?” accused Johnson, posturing with his assault rifle as he tried to stand.

  Johnson’s world went black as Tonelli deftly struck him in the forehead with the butt of his own rifle. Spot immediately pounced, gnawing on the unconscious Johnson’s knee. Sergeant Green pulled Spot off, ordering medic Ceausescu to patch him up as best she could. Another use for duct tape!

  * * * * *

  The Arthropodan lieutenant led his commandos south through the dense forest underbrush. Like a line of ants effortlessly carrying their loads, the commandos silently marched in synchronized steps over and around logs, stumps, and other forest debris. Guided by the tracking beacon placed secretly inside the Toyota Pride, they traveled ever closer to their prize. With each step, the signal got stronger.

  The spider lieutenant suddenly stopped, wary of the distinct stench of human pestilence floating on the breeze. Military Intelligence reported that the Legion had deployed in the valley below, sending out patrols. The lieutenant’s mission was to avoid Legion contact, locate the Toyota Pride, and radio for assistance to capture the Toyota. What was so special about the Toyota? That was top secret, but rumors were that it carried some sort of prototype weapon system. Maybe it was a super dune buggy.

  The spider lieutenant resumed his trek, fording a small stream across a fallen log. Rotting wood gave way, causing the lieutenant to noisily crash down into the gully, painfully landing in a heap of brush and mud. The commandos instinctively dispersed left and right for cover.

  * * * * *

  Captain Columbus deployed his company of legionnaires on a ridge overlooking Frostbite Falls, where Squirrel Creek cascaded down the rocky cliff to Moose Lake. Sergeant Green ordered Private Johnson to carry the machine gun. If they made contact with the enemy, Johnson was instructed to fire short bursts while the platoon covered his flanks. Corporal Tonelli got stuck carrying ammunition for the big gun, and was told to keep an eye on Johnson. Both were upset about toting the extra weight.

  Bleeding slightly through his bandaged knee, Private Johnson limped along as best he could. Spot trailed behind, wagging his tail, excitedly smelling blood, and ever-poised to attack. Tonelli already gave a hand signal for Spot to pounce at the slightest falter. The dragon stalked his prey, knowing lunch would be soon.

  Shortly after stopping to rest, something big crashed through the brush just ahead. Private Johnson dropped to the ground, firing continuously an entire belt of ammo. When the smoke cleared, the gun barrel glowed red hot. Johnson ears rang. He was momentarily deaf to the world as they waited for something to happen.

  Suddenly a grenade arced through the low branches, falling at Johnson’ feet. Oh shit! Images of old war movies raced through Johnson’s mind, of throwing himself courageously atop the grenade to save his buddies. Oh, hell, no! Johnson reflexively picked the grenade up and tossed it back into the forest. The explosion was followed by gunfire from both sides.

  Captain Columbus charged forward, waving his ceremonial sword. Someone let out a rebel yell as legionnaires swarmed over the top. The fight was over almost as soon as it started. The entire spider patrol lay dead except for a lone officer found with two broken legs, stuck in the mud of the ravine. Spot chewed on spider corpses for lunch.

  * * * * *

  “Damn good job, brother!” exclaimed Sergeant G
reen, slapping Private Johnson on the back. “I knew you had it in you all along. Gentlemen, I present to you our next Hero of the Legion!”

  “I almost got killed,” complained Johnson, still shaking. “That grenade was right next to me.”

  “Stop whining,” admonished Sergeant Green gruffly. “Heroes of the Legion aren’t allowed to whine. It’s a rule.”

  “This is crazy,” continued Johnson, still sorting out what happened. “It was all so fast.”

  “It’s a crazy world,” agreed Sergeant Green, lighting a celebratory cigar. “Someone should sell tickets.”

  “You came through for us,” conceded Corporal Tonelli grudgingly. “I didn’t think you had it in you, but you done good.”

  “I don’t want to die out here in the jungle,” replied Johnson, rocking back and forth cradling his rifle, about to vomit. “This is messed up.”

  Corporal Wayne grabbed Johnson by the shoulder, holding him still. “Dying is no big deal,” the big spider legionnaire waxed philosophically. “Hell, any fool can die, any place, any time. You can get run over by a truck in the city, or carried off by a dust devil in the New Gobi. It makes no difference. But it takes someone special to survive. Life is precious. It’s a big deal. What you did today is a big deal, something to be proud of. We are all proud of you, newbie. Survive a couple more times, I might even remember your human pestilence name. Good job!”

  “I don’t belong in the Legion,” lamented Johnson. “I should have just got a job.”

  “Job?” asked Private Knight, dragging the prisoner out of the mud. “You’re young, and have your health. Why would you want to get a job?”

  “You’ve seen the elephant!” exclaimed Captain Columbus, joining us. “You are a conquistador now! No one can take that away from you, even if you die slow and painful, and are left out here to rot.”