First Contact

by Walter Knight

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t shoot the prisoner” ordered Captain Columbus. “Colonel Czerinski wants that spider interrogated as soon as possible. Johnson and Wayne, carry the prisoner back to headquarters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 12

  “You will walk,” ordered Corporal Wayne, shoving the spider officer forward.

  “How far?” asked the spider officer. “I do not think I can make it.”

  “Headquarters is at the ranger station,” answered Wayne. “You have to make it, because I am not carrying you.”

  “I am still bleeding.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s all down hill, except for the part that’s up hill.”

  The spider officer stopped, hissing uncontrollably. Private Johnson checked his translation device, then shook the spider. “Hey! What’s the matter? Keep moving! What’s he saying?”

  “The fool is laughing,” shrugged Wayne, shoving the officer forward. “He’s gone crazy.”

  “You are going to kill me?” asked the spider officer.

  “No,” answered Wayne. “Not us.”

  “You are taking me to Czerinski, the Butcher of New Colorado?” asked the spider officer, still laughing. “Czerinski will kill me, or that bloodthirsty Lopez, El Caníbal.”

  “Maybe. I suppose that depends on what information you give them,” reasoned Wayne.

  “You better talk,” suggested Johnson.

  “I will talk,” sighed the spider officer. “But it will not save me. You will see.”

  “You will not be abused if you cooperate,” promised Wayne. “Don’t be such a coward.”

  “I am not a coward,” argued the spider officer, looking away, head down. “I just don’t want to be murdered with my claws tied behind my back.”

  “I smell your fear. It is unbecoming an officer.”

  “This from a traitor?”

  “Lots of us joined the Legion,” replied Wayne, defensively. “I do not need to explain myself to you! Who disgraced the Empire by allowing yourself to be taken prisoner?”

  “Let me go, or you will have my blood on your claws.”

  “You will not be harmed if you cooperate.”

  “Look me in the eyes and say that,” demanded the spider officer. “All you legionnaires, human and spider, wear those hideous sunglasses so you can hide your lies and guilt.”

  “Shut up, fool!”

  “Did you ever wear sunglasses before your turned traitor?” asked the spider officer, stopping again. “No, but they fit you well now!”

  Wayne shoved the spider officer forward again. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  * * * * *

  Corporal Wayne and Private Johnson brought the prisoner to the HQ. Ranger Bogani already told me about the female spider camping somewhere in the forest, hiding the Toyota Pride. It was obvious now why the spiders were interested in Frostbite Falls, but I wanted to hear it from the prisoner. I wanted to know exactly how much they knew.

  Corporal Wayne seated the spider on a chair. Major Lopez stood behind. Major Desert-Sting slapped the spider officer across the face to get his attention as I began the interrogation.

  “What was your mission?” I asked. “If you tell me the complete truth, you will be spared and repatriated. If not, you will die poorly.”

  “I was ordered to find and capture the Toyota Pride racecar, suspected of carrying prototype weapons technology,” responded the spider officer, glancing back at Wayne and Johnson. “It was supposed to be in the park. We did not know the Legion was here first.”

  “How were you going to find the Toyota Pride?” I pressed. “It’s a big park.”

  “Once inside the park, a surveillance satellite would direct us.”

  “Liar!” shouted Major Lopez, slapping the spider from behind. “Where is the Toyota Pride?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Search him!” I ordered.

  “I already did,” replied Private Johnson. “He’s unarmed.”

  “Search him again!”

  Johnson and Wayne patted the spider officer down again, still not finding any weapons. Major Lopez scanned the prisoner with a hand-held metal detector. It immediately beeped an alarm. Lopez lifted an exoskeleton armored flap under an armpit, finding a small electronic device.

  “What is this?” asked Major Lopez, holding the device in front of the spider. “A radio?”

  “Yes,” answered the spider officer. “We all carry communications devices. I forgot I had it.”

  “That is a tracking device,” interrupted Corporal Wayne. “It homes in on a beacon. There must be a beacon attached to the Toyota Pride.”

  “You were following a beacon?” I asked.

  “Yes,” answered the spider officer, looking down. “The racecar is close.”

  I flicked a switch. The device lit up, beeping stronger as I pointed it toward the forest. “Were you the only patrol sent with one of these devices?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know anything about bears from outer space?”

  “No.”

  “Major Desert-Sting, take charge of the prisoner!” I commanded. “Have him transported to Scorpion City.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Major Desert-Sting, eagerly grabbing the spider officer. Scorpion aides roughly escorted the spider outside.

  I turned my attention to Corporal Wayne and Private Johnson. “Good job, both of you. Report back to your unit. Tell Captain Columbus good job, too.”

  “What’s going to happen to that spider?” asked Johnson. “He mostly told the truth.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  * * * * *

  “Why are we giving him to the scorpions?” asked Johnson, as Wayne hooked Johnson by the collar, steering him to the door. “They’re going to eat him!”

  “It’s a cold cruel world, and then you die,” advised Corporal Wayne outside. “Get used to it.”

  “You’re good with that?” asked Johnson.

  “That officer is the enemy. I do not care what happens to the enemy. Do you think the enemy cares about you?”

  “But he’s your own species.”

  “I left the Empire a long time ago.”

  “We are all soldiers in this together, even the enemy. He was just doing his job.”

  “We are legionnaires,” answered Wayne, drawing his jagged combat knife and sticking it under Johnson’s chin. “The Legion is your family now. No one cares what happens to you but us. We must depend on each other. That commando officer tried to kill all of us earlier. You think this is a game? Killing is for keeps. The New Gobi and every living thing in it wants to kill you. If you are squeamish or soft, you will surely die.”

  “Yeah, but that officer’s blood is on our hands now, even if the scorpions do it for us. What if one of us gets captured?”

  “Don’t get captured.”

  “You say that now.”

  “I heard about you,” sneered Wayne, sheathing his knife. “Before you enlisted, you were a punk blue powder drug dealer. How many countless souls did your drugs snuff out? You don’t even know or care. Do you? Do not lecture me with your newfound morality, because you have none, you debased degenerate drug dealer.”

  Chapter 13

  Velvet-Sting sat cold, bored, and depressed out in the woods. Even the Toyota Pride’s magic seat did not seem to improve her bipolar mood. Well, it helped a little. Actually, it helped a lot. Velvet-Sting was about to go for a three-peat when the great Smokey the Bear emerged from the dense forest, startling her with a rebel yell.

  Smokey must be getting old, thought Velvet-Sting. The Great One lumbered with a sort of mechanical gait, stopping just before the Toyota Pride. Smokey wore an ill-fitting Legion helmet and two Kevlar vests duct-taped together. Disgustingly, Smokey the Bear had a distinct smell of camel musk to him, caused by a suspicious stain on his leg. Velvet-Sting pointed her communications pad at Smokey to record the moment for all eternity.

  �
�Oh great Smokey, ye Furry One of the Forest, he who puts out forest fires with but a single stomp of his godly foot, giver to the scorpion brotherhood land as far as the eye can see, great savior of wayward displaced souls fleeing across the stars, I am but your humble servant. Command me, oh long-toothed smelly one! I am but a door mat in your presence.”

  “You are to surrender the Toyota Pride to the Legion,” announced Smokey the Bear in a booming loud speaker-like voice.

  “That’s it?” asked Velvet-Sting, disappointed. “That’s all you have for me? Surrender? I don’t think so!”

  “Don’t shoot,” added Smokey the Bear, as the Toyota Pride’s laser popped up.

  “Smokey, you better come up with something better than that,” warned Velvet-Sting. “I want to know the meaning of life, oh Great Oracle. What is it all about? Have you talked to God lately? Give me some lottery ticket numbers, at least.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” answered Smokey the Bear. “Gambling is evil.”

  “I don’t think that’s the real Smokey,” whispered Velvet-Sting. “Blast him!”

  “Fine!” replied Smokey the Bear, checking the database on his communications pad for inspiration. “Fourscore and three weeks ago, the Toyota Pride brought forth upon New Colorado a most excellent adventure, conceived by our new friends, bears from across the galaxy. We are dedicated to the proposition that excellent first contact be made this day between America and Yogi the Bear and Boo Boo. Party on, dudes!”

  “Party on!” answered the rover. “Finally, I meet intelligent life. Take me to your leader, oh Great Smokey Bear of the forest!”

  * * * * *

  I stepped from behind Smokey the Bear to introduce myself, keeping my hands palms-up. “I am Colonel Joey R. Czerinski. We need to talk in private before I take you to the President,” I announced, taking a seat inside the rover. “Are you for real?”

  “I am not leaving!” insisted Velvet-Sting. “I’ve heard of you, Czerinski. Do not trust this human.”

  “I am well aware of the exploits of Colonel Czerinski,” assured the rover, as the laser popped up, following my movement. “Say hello to my little friend.”

  “All I want is goodwill between us.”

  “You are a first rate murderer and cut-throat. Why should I talk to you before I meet your President?”

  “Trade agreements and exchanges of technology are always done by intermediaries. Why not just do it now? That laser, can I have its blueprint and specs?”

  “May Ursidae have the secret to your precious transport beam technology?”

  “Sure, why not? Someone will give it to you eventuality, so why not now? What do I care? It’s all on the database, next to ‘how to make nukes at home on a shoestring budget.’ All I want is that laser, and to open the first casino on Ursidae. Do bears drink and gamble?”

  “Not much. They just eat and hibernate.”

  “They will love casino gambling,” I speculated. “First, we will visit your world and exchange ambassadors. I intend to lead that delegation.”

  “Oh, oh! Can I work at your casino?” asked Velvet-Sting, placing her claw seductively on my knee. “I got laid off and really need a job.”

  “I’ll make you manager,” I promised, if you help me seal this deal.”

  “I’m good at sealing deals,” insisted Velvet-Sting, about to blow green mist in my face.

  I put up my hand to stop her. “Try it, and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Party pooper!”

  “Drive south,” I suggested to the rover. “You are under Legion protection now. A shuttle will meet us for transport. We must get you safely away from the spiders. They’ve already sent commandos to abduct you, but we fought them off.”

  “I want to meet with the leadership of all intelligent life on New Colorado. No one is to be excluded. I invite Smooth Johnson to be Ambassador to our world.”

  “Johnson is in the Legion for the duration. We’ll see. I will introduce you to the galaxy, but it’s a dangerous place. First, you will treaty with humanity. Welcome to America, Land of Milk and Honey, where the streets are paved with gold. Your Pooh Bears should love the honey part.”

  * * * * *

  AP NEWS REPORT – Rumors are sketchy from Jellystone National Park on Planet New Colorado about first contact being made with a space probe sent by a sentient non-exoskeleton species. “It has long been thought humanity was alone in a galaxy awash with bugs, but hopefully no more,” commented General Daniel Daly of the Legion. “I cannot give details, but the matter is being investigated.” General Daly refused to comment on reports of combat between legionnaires and spider commandos in the disputed north region.

  There was also a disturbing report that world-famous science-fiction writer and legionnaire Walter Knight was killed in action after reportedly stepping on a land mine during fighting in Jellystone. The galaxy is saddened by his loss, but on the upside, Penumbra Publishing editor Patricia Morrison reports that sales for the “America’s Galactic Foreign Legion” series have increased tenfold into the millions. “Usually the principles of most creative endeavors are dead long before there’s any action on their efforts,” commented Morrison gleefully. “We at Penumbra hope history repeats itself in this case. It is about time we all got rich.” When asked about speculation that Knight faked his death as a sales promotion, Morrison replied curtly, “No refunds! Walter had better be dead this time. I am not editing any more of his so-called Republican science fiction until I get a pay raise.”

  * * * * *

  World-famous science-fiction writer Walter Knight woke alone in the woods. The company had moved on without him. Worse, a spider commando lorded over Private Knight, menacingly pointing his assault rifle.

  “Human pestilence, you are a prisoner of the Empire. Raise your paws!”

  Palming his communications pad, Private Knight sent a distress call. Spiders immediately jumped Knight, taking the pad and stomping him with their boots. Knight was wrapped in web and carried across the border for interrogation and possible prisoner exchange.

  * * * * *

  The spider commander and an Intelligentsia officer added twigs to a small campfire. Private Knight swung from a branch, back and forth, over the low flames. Sweat dripped off his forehead into the fire, each drop sizzling upon impact with coals.

  “You are world-famous science-fiction writer Walter Knight?” asked the Intelligentsia officer. “I have read some of your books.”

  “You’ve heard of me?” asked Private Knight, relieved at being recognized, and always looking to make a sale. “America’s Galactic Foreign Legion #19 will be out soon.”

  “I hoped to glean insight into deviant human pestilence behavior,” answered the Intelligentsia. “You are obviously a pervert.”

  “Your continual portrayal of the evil alien commander is not realistic, and panders to the peasantry,” added the spider commander. “If you do not tell us what we want to know, I will cut off your testicles and feed them to my goldfish.”

  “No!” shrieked Knight, struggling against the web restraints. “You have goldfish?”

  “You human pestilence murdered a patrol that strayed across the border,” accused the Intelligentsia officer, drawing a razor-sharp dagger. “A lieutenant is unaccounted for. Was he captured?”

  “Yes, the officer was wounded, but patched up. He was sent to headquarters for interrogation.”

  “You had better pray Czerinski does not still abuse prisoners,” warned the spider commander, cutting loose Knight’s right hand. “Your death will be slow and painful.”

  “You are cutting me down?” asked Knight, working out the stiffness in his free hand. “Thank you, I appreciate your humane treatment.”

  “I will quarter you like a fish filet,” threatened the spider commander, handing Knight a pen and paperback. “But first, will you please autograph your latest book, the one about a time traveling Christopher Columbus and the world really being flat? It is a gift to my wife.”

&nbs
p; “Sure,” agreed Knight, writing upside down. “Columbus is one of my favorites, too.”

  “Why is the Legion this far north?” asked the Intelligentsia officer. “What is your mission?”

  “All I know is someone stole a racecar,” replied Knight. “But I heard we found it. Czerinski will be taking the Daewoo south.”

  “Do you really think the world is flat?” pressed the Intelligentsia officer, slapping Knight. “Tell the truth. I will know if you lie.”

  * * * * *

  The spider commander called me. A startling image of Private Knight dangling over low flames, swinging slowly back and forth, appeared on my communications pad. Too bad, so sad for Knight.

  “I demand my officer be returned unharmed, or Private Knight dies horribly on galactic TV,” threatened the spider commander. “Ha! It will be more bad press for you!”

  “I do not have the authority to make prisoner exchanges,” I answered, stalling. “I will apprise General Daly and my chain of command of the situation.”

  “You do that!”

  “A lieutenant for a private doesn’t seem like so much of a fair trade to me,” I commented. “Knight isn’t even one of my better legionnaires. How about sweetening the deal?”

  “You do not care about Walter Knight, the world-famous science-fiction writer?”

  “Sales have increased,” I conceded. “But we all thought Knight was dead. Throw in an extra one hundred thousand dollars, and we seal the deal.”

  “Do you think your human pestilence dollars just grow on trees?” negotiated the spider commander, wise to the ways of stingy human pestilence haggling. “Fifty thousand credits is as high as I go, and I feel cheated, let me tell you that!”

  “Seventy thousand credits, and there better not be any burn marks on Knight. He has to be presentable for my press release.”

  “Deal!” exclaimed the spider commander, sounding confident at once again out-witting the human pestilence. “We will make the exchange now, above the falls.”