I could hear the pop, pop, pop, of automatic fire from a Legion assault rifle outside, followed by the high rev of a motor vehicle engine. As I rose to look out the window, an SUV crashed through the wall. Boards and debris knocked me to the floor, where I found myself face-to-bumper with a Toyota SUV. My blue peacekeeper helmet was sitting next to me, squashed flat. You know, some days just aren’t worth getting up for.
I could see a scorpion driver frantically fumbling with tangled wires as he chanted, “Death to the Legion!” I shot him several times, then dragged the scorpion out of the SUV, away from the tangled wires. Amazingly, the scorpion was still alive. I was about to shoot him again when Lieutenant Perkins intervened, pulling me back.
“We need to question him for military intelligence,” cautioned Lieutenant Perkins. “It’s important to catch his conspirators!” “I don’t care!” I shouted, still trying to get off another shot. “I’ll kill him!” Lieutenant Perkins grabbed my wrist, causing a round to go wide. The bullet whizzed past Sergeant Green as he entered my office. “He’s right,” agreed Sergeant Green, but not assisting Perkins in the struggle for my gun. “We need to question this scorpion before he dies.”
“This isn’t over!” I threatened, as they took my pistol. I glared at Perkins. “I’ll put you on guard duty at the edge of Hell for the rest of your career! See if I don’t!”
They took the scorpion away to the dungeon downstairs. I cursed them all as they left. I kicked the floor in frustration. I noticed my squashed blue peacekeepers helmet. I picked it up and tossed it out my new window. It sailed perfectly across the street like a Frisbee, striking a parked car. The impact smashed a side window and set off a car horn alarm.
* * * * *
Medic Ceausescu duct-taped Secret-Sting as well as she could before the scorpion was summarily dumped in a cell. He looked like a duct-taped mummy.
“What kind of an angel of mercy are you?” asked Secret-Sting. “You cause more pain than the bullets. Where did you get your medical training? Online?”
“I’m an angel of mercy that carries an assault rifle,” replied Corporal Elena Ceausescu. “And you are a terrorist. Deal with it.”
Lieutenant Perkins tried to interrogate Secret-Sting, but the young scorpion had nothing more to say. I promised to be more thorough in the morning.
Lieutenant Perkins walked to his parked car out in front of Legion Headquarters. It had been vandalized, a side window smashed in. Lying on the street beside the vehicle was a flattened blue peacekeepers helmet. How odd, thought Lieutenant Perkins. As he started the car’s ignition, a scorpion hiding behind the back seat stung Lieutenant Perkins on the neck. Perkins’ world went black.
* * * * *
At the Deadly Stinger Tavern, its scorpion owner was glad to see me. Since the death match, the Deadly Stinger had become an intergalactic landmark. All that free fight publicity was great.
“Normally it is not safe for officers to frequent the Deadly Stinger,” advised the tavern owner. “Especially human officers. However, I will have armed bouncers keeping a special eye on you, my dear Captain Czerinski. Your money is not good in my establishment. You eat and drink for free.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’m glad someone appreciates me.”
“Are you kidding?” asked the owner. “I made a fortune off that death match. Do you think Corporal Wayne would be willing to defend his title in a Death Match II?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the owner. “There are plenty of fighters out there. I don’t suppose you would consider fighting? The Butcher of New Colorado would be a great draw!”
“No.”
“Too bad,” said the owner, moving on to other customers. “Maybe you could guest as a color commentator when Death Match II is broadcast.”
I tried to sit and relax and forget about Death Match II. I just wanted to enjoy my beer. However, another scorpion came up to me. This one was a female. Not again.
“Are you the Legion commanding officer?” she asked. “Have you seen Lieutenant Perkins? He was supposed to meet me after work, and he has not been answering my text messages.”
“Lieutenant Perkins is working late,” I said. “But he should be off duty soon.” “Perky always answers my messages,” the scorpion babe insisted. “Even when he is at work.” “I’ll be sure to talk to Perky about that,” I promised. “Are you the same scorpion from Perky’s database video?” “Yes,” gushed the female scorpion. “Have you seen it? That was so embarrassing. My parents are so upset.” “Of course I saw it,” I replied. “I am Perky’s commanding officer. I was forced to watch it. It’s hot. Be careful not to injure my XO next time. Too much of a good thing can easily kill us fragile humans.”
“Oh you are so right about that,” she agreed. “I thought Perky would never get out of the hospital.”
A waitress brought me my dinner. Under a napkin was a note. We are holding Lieutenant Perkins hostage. Release Secret-Sting, or Lieutenant Perkins will be eaten alive. We will record the feast for all to see on the database.
“We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” I commented out loud, to no one in particular. I showed the note to Perky’s girl friend. She shrieked, then fainted.
* * * * *
After a volley of text messages with Captain Czerinski, Secret-Sting’s cousin Quick-Sting demanded an immediate prisoner exchange. When Czerinski advised Quick-Sting of the longstanding USGF policy against negotiating with terrorists, a frustrated, Quick-Sting questioned Lieutenant Perkins about his commanding officer’s unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. “Does Captain Czerinski not care about your life?” asked Quick-Sting. “Does he not realize I am serious about roasting you alive on a spit, and eating you piece by piece as you scream in agony?”
“Of course Captain Czerinski cares,” advised Lieutenant Perkins. “His pretending to not care is a clever negotiating ploy. Trust me on this, I am an expert. I just graduated from Hostage Negotiations School, and I already have one hostage incident on my resume.”
“I remember the ATM incident,” said Quick-Sting. “I personally killed that ATM. Are you sure about Czerinski. He is stalling?” “I am positive,” said Lieutenant Perkins. “How should we play this?” asked Quick-Sting. “Should I demand pizza and sandwiches like we did last time?” “What?” asked Lieutenant Perkins. “No, that did not work out. They would probably drug the pizzas anyway. What you need to do is show good faith by sending the Legion a video of me alive and in good health. Post it on the database for maximum publicity. Public opinion will force Czerinski to negotiate. Demand to talk to Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight. If Czerinski still refuses to negotiate, we will go over his head.”
“You have been very helpful,” commented Quick-Sting. “I hope your suggestions work. I will truly regret having to slowly torture you to death, should negotiations fail.”
* * * * *
Lieutenant Perkins’ congressman father emailed me, threatening to have me transferred to a remote dusty post on the edge of nowhere if I didn’t save his son. That threat was totally useless; I was already posted to a dusty spot on the edge of nowhere. Phil Coen emailed me, wanting access to my prisoner. I had already talked to the local press, so I put Phil in my junk mail. General Daly emailed me, complaining that he saw me on TV, and I wasn’t wearing my blue helmet. Under intense pressure, I finally relented and worked out a deal with Quick-Sting. I agreed to do a prisoner exchange in the tunnels beneath the Scorpion City Elks Lodge.
At Legion Headquarters, Sergeant Williams and I strapped a vest on to Secret-Sting. We also duct-taped a bag over his stinger.
“Why do I have to wear this vest?” asked Secret-Sting. “It is very uncomfortable.”
“We are doing the exchange in a tunnel,” explained Sergeant Williams. “This vest has lights that will let us see you, even if our lights go out. It makes you a better target.”
“
You are lying to me,” said Secret-Sting. “I can tell by the way your face twitches. I would love to play you at poker. I would take all your money.”
“The vest has a tracking device so I can hunt you down and kill you if anything bad happens to Lieutenant Perkins,” I explained further.
“Now, that I can believe,” commented Secret-Sting. “That is exactly the kind of thing the Butcher of New Colorado would do. I can respect that.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Now?” asked Secret-Sting, reluctant to leave his cell. He motioned to the TV in the corner. “It was half time when you came down here, but the third quarter is about to start. It’s been a great game. The Seahawks are kicking butt again.”
“Scorpions watch football?” I asked.
“Only our males,” commented Quick-Sting. “Football irritates the hell out of our females.”
“That’s true with human and spider females, too,” I said. “There has been research on the matter, but so far scientists can’t explain it. The evidence is inconclusive, but I think statistically females of all species are unstable.”
“All any of that proves is football turns men into morons,” interjected medic Ceausescu. “See what I mean?” I asked. “Do you think the Seahawks are going to the Super Bowl again?” “I know they will,” responded Quick-Sting. “It’s in the bag.”
* * * * *
A few hundred yards into the tunnel under the Elks Lodge, we saw a light. Scorpion insurgents were waiting with Lieutenant Perkins. We did the exchange.
“It is good to see you again cousin,” said Secret-Sting. “I never thought I would see any of my family again.” “Promise me, no more suicide attacks,” whispered Quick-Sting, as they grasped claws. “It’s too dangerous.” “You’re free,” I commented. “Go home before this family reunion makes me puke.” “I love you too, legionnaire,” said Secret-Sting, as they retreated down the tunnel, each giving me the one-fingered salute. Lieutenant Perkins and I saluted back as we ran the other way. I stopped at the tunnel exit, pulled a small remote from my pouch, and pressed the button. A far off explosion filled the tunnel with dust and smoke.
“What did you just do?” asked Lieutenant Perkins.
“Hopefully I killed Secret-Sting and his idiot cousin,” I answered. “The galaxy will be a better place without those two adding to the gene pool. There were explosives in Secret-Sting’s vest.”
“That’s unethical,” said Lieutenant Perkins. “You made promises. What about the Super Bowl?”
“Shut up Perky,” I replied. “You are alive. That’s all that counts. I am transferring you to Mars because I can’t stand you anymore. Say hello to your dad for me. You’re a royal pain in the ass.”
“I won’t go,” said Lieutenant Perkins. “This is where I belong, in the Legion, fighting on the Frontier.”
My personal phone rang. Shit, I thought, answering my phone. “What?”
“I took that stinking vest off!” said Secret-Sting. “Better luck killing me next time! Death to the Legion!”
“How about a truce?” I asked. “We are even. We’ve each tried to kill each other once. It’s not personal anymore. Let’s have a truce until at least the football playoffs are over. We can both enjoy the Seahawks repeat in the Super Bowl without bombs going off.”
“You have a deal,” said Secret-Sting. “I will bet money on that game. Tell Guido to put me down for ten thousand credits on Seattle to beat the spread. The truce will hold until the day after the Super Bowl.”
“The day after?” I asked. “I might me hung over,” explained Secret-Sting. “I hate loud noises when I’m hung over.” “Hunting season for buffalo lasts for two weeks after,” I commented. “Can the truce extend until then?” “Okay fine.”
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Chapter 12
Retired Arthropodan marine sergeant Dragon King filed for the Office of Regional Governor of the Eastern District. Polls indicated that Dragon King and Mountain Storm were even among registered voters. Dragon King’s organization focused on registering as many first-time voters as possible. Naturally, he concentrated his efforts on the military and ex-military communities. Alarmed by the polls, Mountain Storm agreed to a TV debate to bolster his sagging campaign.
A neutral moderator began the questioning. “Candidates, what is your position on how to resolve increasing tension on the border at Scorpion City?” he asked.
“We need to establish direct lines of communication between regional commanders to coordinate anti-terrorist efforts on both sides of the border,” answered Dragon King. “That way the terrorists and bandits will have nowhere to hide.”
“My opponent is an idiot,” advised Mountain Storm. “What kind of made up name is Dragon King? Lizard Turd would be a more appropriate name. Do you want to fight? I will fight you any place any time!”
Dragon King stood up at his table and threw a pitcher of ice water at Mountain Storm. “I cannot believe anyone would vote for a terrorist thug like you!” replied Dragon King. “You belong in prison or at the end of a rope!”
“You want a piece of me?” shouted Mountain Storm, still dripping with water. “I’m right here!”
Dragon King made a subtle claw motion signal toward the audience. A military monitor dragon broke its leash and leapt at Mountain Storm, tearing off an arm. Security officers pulled the dragon off as it lunged for the throat. Dragon King made another claw signal, and the dragon quickly retreated under Dragon King’s table where it curled up at his feet, munching on the yummy arm.
“This debate is over,” announced Dragon King. “I declare myself the winner! My vanquished opponent can wheel himself back home to his hill in a shopping cart for all I care. That fool is finished!”
The audience roared their applause. Preprinted ‘Dragon King’ signs waved back and forth for the TV cameras. Spider political reporter and commentator-analyst Cable Eye pushed forward and asked, “Can Dragon King declare himself the winner by default merely because his pet dragon ate part of Mountain Storm for lunch? After all, arms do grow back.”
“It is more complicated than that,” advised the moderator. “But I am sure most agree Mountain Storm needs to rebound quickly from his humiliation to stop Dragon King’s momentum, or he is finished. Voters will not tolerate perceived weakness in their regional governor during these trying times.”
“Our instant electronic polling data indicates Dragon King’s approval rating has jumped to over seventy-five percent,” added Cable Eye. “That suggests an insurmountable lead. What do you think about Mountain Storm’s risky tactic to resort to name-calling. I thought the tactic of calling Dragon King ‘Lizard Turd’ was is bad taste.”
“Bad taste or not, Mountain Storm certainly wrote a check his ass could not cash,” replied the moderator. Let’s watch with our viewers a slow-motion replay of Mountain Storm’s arm coming off with just one snap of the monitor’s powerful jaws. My, oh my, look at that!”
“That was truly terrifying,” commented Cable Eye. “Can we see that again? Please turn up the sound for our viewers at home. As a last resort, might Mountain Storm hope to garner some sort of sympathy vote? That was almost as painful to watch as I’m sure it was being on the receiving end of those teeth.”
“There is no evidence of a sympathy backlash yet,” commented the moderator, checking the poles on his computer. “Dragon King’s approval numbers just rose to an all time high of eighty-seven percent. Endorsements are rolling in, too. Dragon King already had most of the military vote. Now several animal rights organizations are endorsing his candidacy, including the Humane Society and the Audubon Society. It seems he is popular on both sides of the border.”
“Email comments are streaming in,” advised Cable Eye. “Desert Snail from Jellystone writes that the monitor dragon should be taken to the vet to make sure it did not contract a social disease from Mountain Storm.”
“Oh, that was bad,” said the moderator. “Betty in Scorpion
Valley writes that obviously Mountain Storm hates all animals. That dragon would not have attacked if Mountain Storm had not provoked him with his hostility.”
“Are there any favorable emails?” asked Cable Eye. “We want to be fair and balanced.”
“Buffalo Poacher writes from the New Gobi City Prison, ‘I can’t wait for Mountain Storm to join us. That punk is going to be my bitch!’”
“Is that a favorable comment?” asked Cable Eye.
“I am not sure,” replied the moderator. “What does Buffalo Poacher mean by bitch? Is that Old Earth prison lingo? I think I will need to get an upgrade for my translator box if we are going to take any more emails from the Big House.”
* * * * *
Arthropodan Imperial News Service:
Results from the hotly contested election in the Eastern Region near Jellystone are finally in. It appears ex-terrorist and bandit leader Mountain Storm has pulled off a surprising upset of populist frontrunner and ex-marine sergeant Dragon King. Mountain Sting led a victory parade to the Governor’s Mansion, waving to supporters with his good arms and stump.
Of about a half million votes cast, Mountain storm received 682,432 to Dragon King’s mere 325,401. Embarrassed by the loss, and suffering from a case of sour grapes, Dragon King is already crying foul and alleging ballot-counting irregularities. However, it appears the margin of error is not close enough to justify the expense of a recount.
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