* * * * *
Lieutenant Perkins arrived at the Deadly Stinger Tavern early. He picked a table with a good view of the front door, hoping to recognize legionnaires as they arrived. He placed his blue helmet on the table. The scorpion owner/bartender greeted him cheerfully.
“Usually officers don’t come in here,” commented the bartender. “I thought the Legion frowned on fraternization with enlisted personnel.”
“Captain Czerinski suggested I immerse myself in the border culture of the Deadly Stinger,” replied Lieutenant Perkins. “I will start with dinner. I’ll order the special, and a beer.”
“Czerinski must not like you much,” said the bartender. “Try not to get drunk. You will need to keep a clear head. I know that sounds odd coming from a bartender who usually just wants to sell drinks, but I could lose my liquor license if you get killed tonight.”
The first legionnaires to arrive were Private Krueger and Corporal Camacho. Krueger, the shortest legionnaire in A-Company, was not shy about introducing himself. “Glad to meet you, sir!” said Private Krueger, drawing a concealed pistol. “I brought this for you. The Deadly Stinger can be a rough place, and I don’t want you to get killed on your first day as XO. Don’t worry, I have several more pistols on me, and a grenade.”
“We’ll be watching your back,” promised Corporal Camacho, as they lined up at the bar for their free drinks.
Master Sergeant Tyrone Green and Corporal Elena Ceausescu introduced themselves next. “Corporal Ceausescu is an experienced combat medic,” advised Sergeant Green. “I brought her along as a precaution, just in case anyone gets hurt.”
“I am glad to meet you sir,” said Corporal Ceausescu. “You are a fine looking officer. I sincerely hope the New Gobi Desert doesn’t kill you, like everyone seems to think it will. These border towns can be a bit hazardous to new legionnaires.”
“Sir, I brought you something,” whispered Sergeant Green, sliding a pistol across the table. “Just in case.”
“That’s alright sergeant,” replied Lieutenant Perkins, opening his vest. “I brought my own.”
“Good man!” exclaimed Sergeant Green, slapping Perkins on the back as he got up to leave. “You might just survive after all, no matter what everyone says.”
Green and Ceausescu sat at a nearby table. Corporals Tonelli and Wayne came in next. “Sir,” said Guido, “I want to let you know it is now illegal for New Memphis bookies to take wagers on how long new Legion officers will survive.” Guido gave Wayne a quick glance and added, “I have been refusing all such bets. Captain Czerinski does not tolerate that sort of thing.”
“You’re a bookie?” asked Lieutenant Perkins, but eying Corporal Wayne. “Corporal, you are only the second spider legionnaire I have met. I hope to meet more of you. I have always supported interspecies recruitment of aliens into the Legion, even scorpions.”
“You are an idiot,” responded Corporal Wayne, walking away. “I hope you get killed early, so no one else gets killed trying to save your sorry ass. Sir.”
“Uh, don’t mind him,” said Guido. “Corporal Wayne is actually quite personable. His apparent gruffness is just a cultural difference between humans and spiders.”
“I said he’s an idiot, and I meant it!” shouted Corporal Wayne, from the bar.
Several scorpion National Guardsmen noisily entered the tavern. A big drunk scorpion immediately focused on Lieutenant Perkins sitting alone at his table. “I heard you would be here,” said the scorpion guardsman. “But I did not believe any human officer could be so stupid, so I came down to see for myself! I heard Czerinski was buying free drinks to celebrate your arrival.” The scorpion tossed Lieutenant Perkins’ blue helmet aside and sat down.
“The free drinks are for legionnaires only,” advised Lieutenant Perkins.
“We are going to have a problem with that,” said the scorpion guardsman. “Refusing me a free drink makes me think you don’t like us scorpions much. That’s not very friendly. Maybe if I throw you out through the front window, it will teach you some manners.”
“Make my day,” said Lieutenant Perkins, as he pointed his pistol at the scorpion. The pistol shook in his hand from nervousness. “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well? Do you?”
“Sir!” said the scorpion guardsman, rising and snapping to attention and saluting. “I was just having a little fun. I meant no disrespect. I’m just a little drunk. It has been a pleasure meeting you, sir!”
The scorpion abruptly did an about face and fled to the bar where his comrades were laughing at him. Lieutenant Perkins gulped down his beer and ordered another to calm his nerves. Krueger and Camacho rushed belatedly to his table. “Sir, I didn’t know you had the cojones to face down scorpions like that,” said Private Krueger. “That was great! Sorry we didn’t get here quicker. It all happened so fast.”
“I learned that move in an old training film,” bragged Lieutenant Perkins. He chugged another beer. “Ever hear of Clint Eastwood?”
“No,” answered Private Krueger. “You don’t need our protection. The scorpions are the ones who need protection.”
“We still have your back,” insisted Corporal Camacho, as they staggered back to the bar. “Just chill, sir. Go with the flow of the Deadly Stinger.”
The tavern was beginning to fill up. Another scorpion approached Lieutenant Perkins and sat down. “May I buy you a drink, Lieutenant?” asked the scorpion. “I was very impressed with how you handled yourself. You were very macho.”
“That’s me,” replied Lieutenant Perkins, now feeling a buzz from the beers. “I am macho, macho man!” The scorpion slid closer to Perkins, caressing his leg with her claw. “Are you a Hero of the Legion?” “Excuse me,” said Lieutenant Perkins, removing the claw. “But you are getting very familiar. Are you a female?” “Yes,” answered the scorpion. A slight green mist filtered out from her mandibles. “Can you not tell?” “Actually, everything is suddenly a bit blurred,” said Lieutenant Perkins, backing away from the green mist. “What is that?” More drinks arrived. The female scorpion raised her stinger, wavering it inches from Perkins’ face. “Squeeze it,” she said. “Pardon me?” asked Lieutenant Perkins. “Do what?” “Do not be afraid,” she said. “Squeeze my telson. It is a scorpion drinking custom.” Lieutenant Perkins gently squeezed the meat of the scorpion’s stinger. She quivered in delight as a single drop of venom fell into his beer. Alarmed, Perkins pushed his glass away.
“Do not worry. It is not poisonous in such a small amount. That drop will enhance your drinking experience in so many ways. Drink up, sweetie.”
Lieutenant Perkins gulped his beer, half expecting to drop dead on the spot. Instead, he was overcome by erotic hallucinations, imagining an orgy of scorpions sweeping him away to another world. The pleasures of Heaven and terrors of Hell all met as the hallucinations increased. Later, Lieutenant Perkins would not remember much of what happened, but his date with a hot female scorpion was recorded for posterity by Deadly Sting Tavern surveillance security cameras, and posted on the database.
* * * * *
General Daly called me on the phone for his monthly update. “I heard Lieutenant Perkins earned his Infantryman’s Badge,” commented General Daly. “Outstanding! Make sure you don’t get him killed. Perkins is the nephew of a congressman.”
“What’s he doing in the Legion?” I asked. “There are safer jobs out there.” “The usual exuberance of youth,” explained General Daly. “He wanted fun, travel, and adventure.” “I’d say he got all that last night,” I commented, viewing Perkins’ database videos. “What do you mean by that?” asked General Daly. “I just got off the line with the congressman. He was excited to hear his nephew was doing so well in the Legion. Then he heard his son had been assigned to your wayward unit out in Scorpion City, and became concerned. The congressman does not want your lack of morals rubbing off on his nephew. I guess he has seen your database exploits.”
“That’s not fair,” I said
. “There has got to be a way to censor those videos. Can’t we raise national security issues?”
“You can’t stop the database,” said General Daly. “It has a life of its own. To the database, national security is just a local ordinance. Now, about Lieutenant Perkins. Keep him out of trouble. You hear me?”
“Too late, sir,” I replied. “The boy is now an intergalactic porn star, just like me. You can view his scorpion escapades free on the database right next to mine.”
There was silence on the line while General Daly accessed the database website for Scorpions Gone Wild. Then more silence. “Is Lieutenant Perkins still alive?”
“Yes, sir. Perkins is still alive.”
“How did he live through that scorpion orgy?”
“He doesn’t remember that much, but he’s experiencing flashbacks. I have him on light duty until he fully recovers. The good news is that A-Company considers Perkins their hero. Sir, the men love him.”
“I think we need to develop more stringent rules of conduct for interspecies first contact,” suggested General Daly, viewing the database download again. “At least for officers.”
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Chapter 8
Mountain Storm hobbled down the narrow corridor of a secret bunker tunnel to the armory. The pain from his injures was constant. Guido gave Mountain Storm morphine. As a precaution, Mountain Storm gave a dose to a one of his freedom fighters. His subordinate promptly died. An analysis of the morphine found a cocktail of lethal substances. Now the events of the last month finally came together and made sense. Guido would pay dearly for his treachery.
At the armory Mountain Storm examined his nuke. He set the timer and pressed the ‘start’ button. Mountain Storm watched in almost hypnotic fascination as the numbers counted down. He pressed ‘stop.’ Then he pressed start, stop, start, stop, start, and finally stop. A plan began to form.
Mountain Storm ordered a trusted tech to rewire the timer on the nuke to disguise its activation. That was the easy part. A tech knew whether to cut the red wire or the blue wire. Mountain Storm set the secret timer, planning to sell the nuke to Guido for a million dollars, and let the nuclear explosion kill both Guido and a big chunk of Scorpion City. It was a perfect plan. What could be better than terrorism that could turn a profit?
* * * * *
“Guido, I have good news,” announced Mountain Storm. “I will sell you my nuke. Let’s make it happen today. I assume you will still pay top dollar? One million bucks?”
“Sure,” agreed Guido. “You sound a lot better. I take it you are recovering fine?” “Just peachy,” said Mountain Storm. “I will bring the nuke to you in an ambulance.” “Did the morphine take the edge off your pain?” asked Guido. “Where are you?” “I did not take your morphine,” said Mountain Storm. “I am up on my hill looking down at you. You look so insignificant way down there.”
“Take the nuke to mile post 15324,” said Guido. “You’ve been there. I’ll have someone waiting.” “I would rather you took personal possession,” insisted Mountain Storm. “I only trust you.” “I don’t think so,” said Guido. “I am going to New Memphis for the weekend. Don’t worry, you can trust whoever I send.” A sniper’s bullet penetrated the bulletproof glass of the guard shack, raining glass fragments down on the desk and floor. Guido hugged the floor as another bullet took out the rest of the window. Alarms sounded. Sniper directional detection technology pointed to a building on the Arthropodan side of the border. Spider marines surrounded the building and stormed an upstairs apartment. The sniper had already fled. Guido’s phone rang again.
“Hey, Guido, my good friend, are you still alive?” asked Mountain Storm. “Yes,” said Guido. “Too bad.” “What was that for?” “Just a little payback,” commented Mountain Storm. “Get used to it.” Guido disconnected. He dialed the T. Roosevelt Space Weapons Platform. The space cannon specialist, Tony, was a good personal friend and business associate. “What can I do for you Guido?” asked Tony.
“Target Mountain Storm,” ordered Guido. “Czerinski issued standing orders to take him out. His last location as of a minute ago was atop his fortified hill. Mountain Storm should be the one with a telescope or binoculars. Drop the nastiest ordinance you can find.”
“I see him,” said Tony, peering down from space through his scanner. “He’s the one with the gimpy leg, right? Mountain Storm is just sitting there on the edge of a cement bunker.”
A minute later a cluster bomb burst above Mountain Storm’s hilltop bunker, carpeting the area with mini exploding bomblets. Guido’s phone immediately rang again.
“You missed, you Mafia cretin,” shouted Mountain Storm. “Ha! That spider sitting on my bunker was a scout. He was already dead from that hot shot of morphine you intended for me!”
“Too bad,” said Guido. “I’ll get you next time. This vendetta just started.”
* * * * *
The spider business agent for the Century 21 Real Estate Corporation drove to the top of the heights overlooking Scorpion City, intent on making contact with the infamous bandit and insurgent leader Mountain Storm. She found a large gray pock-marked concrete bunker. A locked iron door blocked the entrance. The realtor rang the doorbell. A camera mounted above the door swiveled and focused on her long crab-like legs. The operator noted her exoskeleton had a lovely brown tan, kissed by the desert sun.
“What do you want?” asked Mountain Storm, finally answering over the intercom. “I do not want to buy any magazine subscriptions, nor any stinking Girl Scout cookies.”
“My name is Angela. I represent Century 21’s interests here in the Arthropodan sector. Our motto is: ‘We make your home-ownership dreams come true.’”
“Go away!” said Mountain Storm. “I already have a home. My motto is: ‘Kill them all, let the Devil sort them out.’”
“Century 21 has acquired title to this entire hilltop area by the authority of an Imperial land grant,” advised Angela. “However, to prevent an obvious cloud on the title, I was sent here to negotiate your leaving.”
“Guess what, babe?” said Mountain Storm. “There is no cloud on my hill. In fact, it never rains here. Let me make it perfectly clear to your simple mind. I am not leaving.”
“Mr. Storm, please come out so we can talk about this matter face to face,” suggested Angela. “This is ridiculous trying to have a discussion over an intercom.”
“I will not come out,” replied Mountain Storm. “It is too dangerous. Don’t you know the Legion has a spy in the sky? Every time I come out for some rays, Guido or Czerinski drops a bomb on me. You would probably like that! Wouldn’t you?”
“Century 21 is developing this property for condos and townhouses,” advised Angela. “Construction will begin on Ridgeview Estates as soon as you leave.”
“Ridgeview Estates?” asked Mountain Storm. “This hill is hallowed ground. You will never build atop the graves of my freedom fighters!”
“I am authorized to negotiate a respectful memorial monument and park adjacent to the golf course,” offered Angela. “Naturally your input on the memorial is much desired.”
“Golf course?” asked Mountain Storm. “What is a golf course? I told you earlier, my answer is no. There will be no stinking golf course or anything else built on my hill!”
“What are you?” asked Angela, testily. “Some kind of hillbilly? How can you not know about golf courses? You are just impossible!”
“Good. Go away! I like being impossible. That is what I am all about. It is why I am on this hill in the first place!”
“If we cannot negotiate a reasonable settlement to clear the cloud on the title, I will be forced to call the sheriff and serve you with an eviction notice,” threatened Angela as she pounded a for sale sign into the ground next to the bunker. “Century 21 has legal title. I was sent here in good faith because Century 21 wants to be a good neighbor, but obviously you are just an ogre.”
“If the Legion and the Ar
thropodan marines cannot blast me off this hill, what can the sheriff do?” asked Mountain Storm. “Oh, I am so scared. Please do not send the sheriff!”
“Our lawyers will tear your claim apart and leave you with nothing,” promised Angela.
“Let them come,” responded Mountain Storm. “I still have my nuke. It is my ace in the hole. I will slaughter your lawyers in one big glorious fireball. Let freedom ring!”
“You have a nuclear weapon?” asked Angela, incredulously. “What kind of crazed degenerate are you to threaten nuclear devastation?”
“My many arrest warrants proclaim me as a terrorist and mass murderer,” answered Mountain Claw. “But that is all just politics. Actually, I am a nice guy who just happens to have a big nuke.”
“You obviously have phallic bomb issues that need to be addressed by psychiatrists and anger-management counseling,” said Angela. “I do not have time to deal with your many varied mental health issues. Century 21 is prepared to offer you ten percent of sales. Even an ignoramus like you should be able to add up the implications of that. Do the math.”
“What math?” asked Mountain Storm. “You do the math!”
“Each executive town house or condo will sell for about a half million dollars,” explained Angela. “We have a thousand units planned. That adds up to about five hundred million dollars in sales. At ten percent, your share would be fifty million. It could be even more if we cut out your memorial park.”
“I am flexible on the memorial park,” replied Mountain Storm, now interested. “We could maximize profits by downsizing that stupid golf course, too. I will be right out, Angela. For fifty million dollars, I think we can negotiate a deal.”
The iron door opened. Mountain Storm emerged cautiously, blinking his eight eyes to adjust for the bright sunlight. “Welcome to my home,” he said. “These bunker tunnels are quite extensive. Would you like a tour?”
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