The missile slammed through the window, instantly killing Quick-Sting. He was buried in the rubble of his house. His tomb would be a mound at the garbage dump after the debris was hauled away.
* * * * *
Private Walter Knight pressed the activate button on Corporal Camacho’s memorial. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Oh, it’s you,” responded Camacho. “What do you want? Still working on your new book?” “I’m sorry you died,” replied Private Knight. “Me too,” said Camacho. “How do you think I feel about it? It sucks. What happened to the magic? I thought you were A-Company’s good luck charm, protecting us all.”
“We killed Quick-Sting today,” advised Private Knight. “We found him right where you said he would be.” “That’s good. I feel better now. Go away.” “It’s not my fault you died,” insisted Private Knight. “What could I do about a sniper during a riot?” “Go away. We’re no longer friends.”
* * * * *
I visited Corporal Camacho’s brain imprint memorial, too. I sat and stared at the glowing activation button before finally pushing it.
“Good morning, sir,” said Camacho. “This is a very nice cemetery you have here.”
“I own a string of cemeteries all across New Colorado,” I said. “They’re very upscale. As you can see, I’m going with only the very latest high tech.”
“This is the pits sir,” commented Camacho. “Being dead depresses me.”
“You did your duty,” I said. “That is something to be proud of.”
“Duty is not why I joined the Legion,” advised Camacho. “I may have matured some since I enlisted, but basically all I ever wanted was fun, travel, and adventure. That’s what was on the recruitment poster. I knew there would be some risk, but I’ll tell you what. I certainly did not expect to die wearing a blue helmet.”
“It’s just paint.”
“No, it’s not just paint,” explained Corporal Camacho. “It’s a symbol. Everything we wear is a symbol. What we wear represents us. Dying in combat was bad, but when it happened I expected to be wearing an American helmet at the time, not blue!”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I promised.
“Damn right it won’t.”
* * * * *
Legion armored cars massed behind Guido’s border crossing shack. All the vehicles were recently painted desert camouflage brown and tan. Our helmets were painted desert colors, too. The spider commander met me at the checkpoint line for the confrontation we both knew was coming. He was not wearing his blue helmet, either.
“More reckless adventurism?” asked the spider commander, nodding to the column of Legion armored cars. “Trespassing is a serious matter in the Empire.”
“We’re crossing to get Mountain Storm,” I said. “Where is your blue helmet?”
“After your little riot, my marines refused to wear blue anymore,” replied the spider commander. “Rather than risk an embarrassing mutiny, I told Dragon King to shove his blue helmets. I expect to be relieved shortly. Where is your blue helmet?”
“Our peacekeeping mission is over,” I explained. “We’re going back to being USGF legionnaires. We are going to take Mountain Storm’s hill.”
“Would you like some help?” asked the spider commander, brightening.
“Yes.”
“You got it! Together, this should not take long. I see no reason why we can’t be back home in time for dinner and tonight’s poker game. It’s still on, right?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I won’t let killing Mountain Storm interfere with me taking all your money, again.”
“You human pestilence are so optimistic,” commented the spider commander. “We will see about that!”
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Epilogue
About two hundred years later, a tour bus stopped at one of the famous Scorpion City Frontier cemeteries. Excited tourists fanned out among the tombstones, tracing paper and cameras in hand, hoping to find a prize.
“Mother!” called out Donna, one of the tourists. She was scouting out the oldest section. “I found a legionnaire way off by himself!” Donna reverently ran her hand across a gold plated emblem of the Legion, an American bald eagle in flight clutching a UFO flying saucer in its powerful talons.
“Wow!” exclaimed Lilly, as she read the memorial. “It says Private Hector Camacho died in the riots. Look around, so did everyone else in this section. What a find! He probably even knew Colonel Joey ‘The Toe’ Czerinski.”
“The Butcher of New Colorado?” “And his son, the Butcher of Arthropoda. Joey Junior was even worse.” “I heard they both got bad press.” “Shall I activate the brain imprint memorial?” asked Donna, impulsively reaching for the button. “This is so exciting!” “No, don’t touch that button!” cautioned Lilly, her motherly instincts kicking in. “Those legionnaires were a wild bunch. Who knows what sort of illegal upgrades hackers might have installed back in the day?”
“That’s exactly what I was hoping for,” replied Donna, pushing the activation button. “This could be such a rare find. Honestly, Mom, sometimes I think you can be such a prude. Think of the history this long lost legionnaire can tell us.”
“Good morning, hot babes,” responded Corporal Camacho. “Are you two lovely beauty queens sisters?”
“He’s a smooth talker,” commented Lilly, wryly. “I’m sure he just wants to talk about history. Were you in the Legion?”
“Smart as well as beautiful,” replied Camacho. “Yes, I was a Hero of the Legion back in the day. I so love blonds. Are you a natural blond? Would you like to interface? Just put your hand on my pad. There is even room for two. I have a second pad.”
“Well, I never!” said Lilly, indignantly.
“Never?” asked Camacho. “No, that’s my problem. No one presses by button anymore. But I sure would like to press a few buttons on you two.”
“I told you so,” said Lilly. “I suspect half his upgrades have been illegal for decades. We should report him to the cemetery police.”
“Most good things are illegal eventually,” commented Camacho. “I’ll let you in on a little-known secret. No stinking cemetery police are ever going to mess with my upgrades. It is a federal offense to tamper with a legionnaire’s imprint memorial. Plus, it would piss off the local garrison. But let’s keep my hardware a secret between intimate friends. Put your hand on my pad. We can interface all day if you wish. I have an unlimited power source.”
Donna placed her palm on the pad. She felt Camacho’s lecherous intent immediately. “Oh, Hector, you are such a bad boy!” she cooed. “It has been a long time for you. I can tell!”
“It seems like forever since I’ve interfaced with a human,” commented Camacho. “Come on. You too, Mom. Did I say I have an unlimited power source? Please place your hand on my pad. Let your hard-earned tax dollars finally do you some good, baby!”
Lilly hesitantly placed her hand on the pad, too. She and her daughter blissfully fell forward into the high weeds against the memorial. They happily interfaced with Hector all day, and into the evening. They texted the bus driver to leave them behind, they would be doing important historical research on the Legion’s famously successful peacekeeping mission to the Scorpion Valley.
###
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~BONUS SHORT STORIES~
Alien Bum
The spider bum Seven Legs found himself homeless, evicted by the Sheriff’s Office from the McDonald’s dipsty-dumpster that had been his domicile for years. To make the situation worse, McDonald’s chained and padlocked their dumpsters, leaving Seven Legs both starving and homeless. Insensitive human pestilence bastards!
Seven Legs entered Walmart looking to score an easy dinner. Despite missing an appendage, Seven Legs deftly snagged a USDA New York cut choice steak as he passed the meat section, stuffing the T-bone down his droopy drawers. Moments later, Seven Legs was out the front door.
A Legion helicopter
patrol, flying low along the DMZ fence line, spotted Seven Legs’ fire and swooped down to investigate. Illuminated by a spotlight, Seven Legs defiantly gave the chopper a one-fingered salute for interrupting his dinner.
Legionnaires dropped a net, ensnaring both Seven Legs and the stolen shopping cart carrying his meager belongings. Seven Legs was summarily winched up to the side door of the helicopter. The helicopter veered sharply across the DMZ border. Seven Legs stared up the ugly human pestilence, fearing the worst.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” shouted Sergeant Williams, perched at the edge of the open doorway.
“Got any spare change?” asked Seven Legs, reverting to old habits. Usually the Sheriff’s Office was gentler and kinder than these asshole legionnaires. What’s their problem?
“Get a job!” replied Sergeant Williams, smiling back wickedly.
As the helicopter skimmed the desert surface, Sergeant Williams cut the cable. Seven Legs tumbled downward, hitting ground in a grass-covered city park on the Arthropodan Empire side of the DMZ.
Seven Legs shook his claw at the human pestilence as they flew away. Sergeant Williams responded with his famous rebel yell, and his own one-fingered salute. “Don’t come back!” he yelled. “The DMZ is a no alien-bum zone!”
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A Zombie Story
After the virus, zombies ruled. Humanity’s reign on Earth was over, but some machines carried on, oblivious to the zombie menace. With avaricious optimism, a United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion recruitment ATM scanned the approaching zombie. The quality of prospective Legion recruits had declined markedly, but the ATM was still determined to meet quotas.
A growing cloud of flies followed the hapless zombie as he limped along on a missing knee, lost to a dog attack. Damn those Dachshunds. Some nights just aren’t worth waking up dead for.
In dismay, the ATM scanned the zombie. This sorry excuse for a slithering gutter-feeding low-life creature was no different from the rest of the wandering nighttime rabble.
The zombie alerted on the beep of the scan, immediately hefting up a block of asphalt and slamming it into the ATM.
“Excuse me, good sir, but vandalism of a United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion Recruitment Center ATM is a federal felony, and a capital offense during time of war. Hostilities are imminent, I might add.”
“You’re alive?” slurred the zombie, out of breath from heaving the asphalt boulder. He salivated on the ATM screen in anticipation of finding someone tasty inside. “Come out! I’m starving! Resistance is futile!”
“I assure you, sir, that I am not edible. However, I am not heartless about your plight. You seem in some distress. Do you have serious health issues in addition to being hungry? Radiation sickness, perhaps?”
“I am walking dead,” answered the zombie. “My flesh rots off my bones. Of course I have health issues. Fool!”
“Might I suggest duct tape to help keep yourself together? Ha! Another use for duct tape.”
“No!” fumed the zombie, spitting mad as he lifted the chunk of asphalt above his head again. “I will crack you open like an egg!” Just thinking about eggs gave the zombie newfound strength and determination.
“Sir, your random violence is pointless and counterproductive. Might I suggest a career change? Something where you can learn a skill?”
“No!”
“Your deteriorating health indicates a need for medical coverage. It so happens that the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion has an excellent health plan, and I am prepared to make you an offer you cannot refuse. You need help. It takes a village.”
“I don’t need no stinking health plan. Screw your village. All I need is raw flesh!”
“Not only can Legion doctors fix your knee, but your obvious onset of gingivitis needs urgent professional dentistry. Please drop that rock. I am your friend, and the last ATM you will ever need.”
The zombie stared at his image reflected on the polished metal of the ATM. Yellow-green drool dropped from between missing teeth and his black gums. In despair, the zombie dropped the boulder and sobbed. “Does the Legion have lots of food?”
“Of course,” promised the ATM. “Warehouses of food. Uncle Sam has an unlimited budget. You may even be eligible for a substantial enlistment bonus, depending on your work history and job qualifications. I see fun, travel and adventure in your future. What skills do you bring to the table?”
“In a different life I was a Wall Street investment banker,” the zombie reminisced proudly. “I made millions.” “Education?” asked the ATM, not impressed. Statistics showed known gamblers and Wall Street riffraff to be erratic during combat. “I earned an MBA from Columbia University. Their student cafeteria was to die for.” “Excellent sir! You qualify to be in the infantry. Fortunately, the Legion has lots of vacancies, especially on the Frontier.” “You have a deal. When do I eat?” “Be patient. First, we have some formalities to go over. Do not forget to read the fine print. After completing basic training, you can eat as many aliens as you want. I see a bright future for you in Special Forces. May I see your Citizens’ Identification Card?”
“I lost my card,” admitted the zombie, shrugging sheepishly. “In the flood.” “No worries friend,” replied the ATM. “Place you thumb on my pad.” The zombie complied and was pricked by a small pin. He pulled away, yelling, “Ouch! What was that for?” “I scanned your thumb for routine fingerprint identification. Despite some epidermis deterioration, I obtained a positive ID from police records. I also attempted to draw a blood sample for Legion DNA files. Interesting. Either my equipment malfunctioned – an unlikely scenario – or you have no blood. Place your thumb back on the pad. I will use a larger needle.”
The zombie recoiled at the thought, but grudgingly placed his thumb on the pad. This time an industrial-sized pin poked clean through the zombie’s thumb, tearing off his thumb nail. Still no blood. The zombie screamed in pain. “That’s inhumane!” he complained, sucking his thumb and taking a nibble. Yum, yum!
“Sir, we may have a problem,” advised the ATM, sounding genuinely concerned. “Are you dead?”
“How do you define dead?” asked the zombie defensively. “Does it matter?”
“Although the dead are permitted to vote in some mostly Democrat jurisdictions, including this one, the dead may not join the Foreign Legion. Sorry, but it is the law. I think it’s written somewhere in the Constitution. You don’t qualify for the ten-year census.”
“That’s discrimination. This is still America. It is unconstitutional to turn me away just because I’m dead. I am still a citizen and have rights!”
“Because I am not infallible, and because of some complaints mostly by malcontents, there is an appeal process. Please place you thumb on the pad again if you wish to appeal my finding.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
This time clamps held the thumb in place as sensors probed to the bone. Terrified, the zombie violently pulled away, accidently tearing off his thumb. Now he longed for duct tape.
“Oops!” blurted the ATM. “Not to worry, the Legion has many excellent medics that can sew lost appendages back on.” “My thumb!” “Do not be such a sissy.” “You bastard!” “Guess what? You are a legionnaire now. You won your appeal. My bad.” “I want my thumb back!” “We may have to substitute a stronger, more efficient, metal thumb,” advised the ATM, scanning the squishy mess still held in its clamps. “No worries. Artificial digits are very life-like, and a specialty of the Legion.”
“It’s not the same!”
“The good news is, you do not bleed and do not need a transfusion,” commented the ATM cheerfully. “I may meet my quota yet! A mining and recycling transport ship will be touching down at the old Walmart parking lot tonight. You will be transported to Fort Reagan on Mars for basic training. You now have an opportunity to make something of your life ... or whatever. Don’t blow
it. Be proud, be brave, be courageous. Be a legionnaire.”
###
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~BOOK PREVIEW~
VAMPIRE IN THE OUTFIELD
by Walter Knight
Chapter 1
Baseball hasn’t changed much in the three centuries since that first officially recognized American game was played June 19, 1846, in Hoboken, New Jersey. However, pretty much everything else has changed since then. People now live on distant planets throughout the galaxy, and humanity has even fought wars against alien civilizations. There are urban legends rumoring aliens live right here on Old Earth, but that’s not some hokum I’m eager to buy into.
My name is Johnny Black. I am a nineteen-year-old from Tucson, Arizona, and I have always dreamed of playing major league baseball. I would do anything, even sell my soul to the Devil himself, to get to the Big Show. However, there is no such thing as the Devil, so I went with Plan B – steroids. That, and traveling to Mexico to play in the winter leagues. I have talent, just not enough. I’m planning to kick the steroids once I hone my skills and get in shape. All I need is a break. If I could get noticed by a major league scout, I would do the rest on pure talent alone.
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