The spider started moving its mouth, but what I heard instead of the usual hissing and screeching was a mechanical voice from a speaker box sitting on the table near the spider that said, “Human pestilence, you are a prisoner of war. You will be treated accordingly. Name and Rank?”
“You first,” I said. “Who the hell are you, where am I, where are my men – and how the hell are you talking English?”
With his huge claw appendage, the spider patted the box on the table beside him. “This is a computer interpreter and video recording unit. I am #14 of the Attached Intelligentsia & State Security Unit. Your name and rank?”
“Lieutenant Joey R. Czerinski,” I answered. “I want my people accounted for.”
“The other prisoners are fine,” Spider #14 said. “Unlike you, we abide by rules of conduct regarding the taking and treatment of prisoners. Your men will not be abused.”
“The United States Galactic Federation also has rules safeguarding prisoners of war,” I challenged. This Nazi looking spider dressed in black garb seemed a bit upset about something. Or maybe it was just the tone of the interpreter box on the table.
“You don’t take prisoners,” accused #14. “Is that how you get around your so-called rules ensuring the well being of prisoners of war?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“We found hundreds of identification crystals in your pouch. You took them from dead soldiers, civilian workers, and children?” asked #14.
“Identification crystals?” I stared dumbly at the diamond dangling from a gold chain the spider held in front of me. “So that’s what they are. I didn’t know.”
“Yes. Similar to your animal tags.”
“You mean dog tags,” I corrected, pulling mine out to show the spider officer. “I also have an identification chip imbedded in my ass.”
“Whatever. The interpreter box is still building its human vocabulary,” said #14. “This thing works like a piece of bat shit.” He smacked the interpreter box with his claw. “Fine. Dog tags. You took identification crystals from those you killed?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And of the hundreds you killed, you took not one prisoner? Not even a baby?” asked #14.
“Baby? What baby? I think Sergeant Lopez was bit by a so-called baby.” I didn’t like the direction this was going. “We didn’t kill any babies.”
“You just acknowledged Sergeant Lopez was bit by a baby. And you took no prisoners. So you admit to killing babies,” accused #14.
“I admit to nothing. Are you accusing me of something?” I asked.
“I will ask the questions here. You and the rest of the human pestilence with you had the legs and arms of babies in your back pouches. Explain that,” demanded #14.
“Am I facing charges?” I asked. I started pacing.
“Did you explode nuclear bombs inside a habitat?”
“Where are all my people?” I demanded, looking around in the relative darkness.
“All your soldiers are fine,” answered #14.
It was hard to see very far, but I finally noticed the other cages sitting some distance away. “These cages aren’t big enough. This is inhumane.”
“Did your mission orders say to not take prisoners? I warn you, we are reviewing all your computer downloads, electronic messages, and video camera recordings. The truth will come out. It will go easier on you if you cooperate and tell the truth.”
I squinted, looking closer at the other cages, and saw Corporal Green. Green was bundled up in a web cocoon hanging upside down. I pointed to Corporal Green. “He is not okay! What have you done to him?”
#14 looked back over his shoulder at Corporal Green. “Ah yes, that one. Your Corporal Green refused to cooperate and answer questions. And, he was rude. Perhaps the interpreter box isn’t quite working properly yet, but when I asked Corporal Green questions, his response was to accuse me of having sex with my mother and then to tell me to go have sex with myself. Is your Corporal Green mentally unstable, or just some kind of pervert?”
Corporal Green then yelled out across the cavern, “There’s nothing wrong with your interpreter box you ugly mother-fucking goat-fucking sci-fi-crab-faced bug-eyed piece of shit! Go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on! I’ll rip your head off and shit down your neck!”
“Yes,” I answered. “He’s insane. Probably battle fatigue. He didn’t really mean that part about the goats and the horse.”
“What is the Tenth Fleet?” asked #14. “What are its capacities?”
“I don’t see all of my people here,” I said, scanning the cages again. “One is missing.”
“Ah yes,” said #14 as he stood up and leaned towards the bars, baring fangs. If a spider could smile, his would have been ear to ear. “You are asking about the female? We ate her this morning.”
I lunged through the bars, hoping to crush the spider’s skinny neck. He must have anticipated my rage, because the spider quickly stepped back and countered with a swipe of his claw. My hand was severed at the wrist. I collapsed to the ground in screaming pain, falling to the edge of the cage as blood spurted into the dirt.
“I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do,” I ground out, glaring up at the spider officer as I tore off and wrapped part of my sleeve around my injured arm to stop the bleeding.
Sergeant Lopez, who had been quietly watching the interrogation from a cage directly in back of the spider, pulled a knife from his boot and let it fly. “Usted bicho pequeno miserable! We will exterminate all of your kind!”
The knife struck deep into the shoulder of the spider officer. #14 collapsed and fell to the ground, inches away from my cage. I punched with my good hand but missed when the spider officer rolled away from me. #14 then drew a handgun and shot Sergeant Lopez. The commotion drew the attention of the other spiders stationed in the area. They swung my cage door open and kicked me into unconsciousness. I faded in and out. I could hear Corporal Green shouting at the spiders that Sergeant Lopez and I needed medical attention. I could hear spiders arguing about whether my condition was serious. The debate centered on why I was bleeding so much and whether my hand would grow back on its own. A spider doctor marveled at how creatures without segmented limbs had survived long enough to evolve into a sentient species. Spider soldiers insisted their officer get medical aid before any human pestilence. The wounded spider officer yelled orders to have all the human pestilence strip searched for weapons and contraband. And so it went until I woke up, recovering in a clean hospital bed.
CHAPTER 11
I lay in bed several days, recovering. The guards refused to talk to me. They just stood in the room staring at me stoically, almost never moving. I thought maybe the computer translator box by my bed wasn’t working, but then finally a spider officer came to talk to me.
“I am #15 of Intelligentsia State Security, and your keeper until #14 recovers from his wounds,” said the new boss, same as the old boss, pacing back and forth in his black Nazi garb. “I expect more cooperation and civility than #14 got from you.”
“#14 is a bit of an asshole, isn’t he?” I asked.
“What? I’m sorry, I don’t think the interpreter box is operating properly,” replied #15 as he made adjustments on the device. “Please repeat that.”
“#14, he’s a pain in the ass? Jerk? No sense of humor?” I clarified.
“Ah yes,” said #15, now understanding my meaning. “#14 does walk around like he has a claw stuck up his poop chute. Thinks he knows it all, too.”
“Look what he did to my hand,” I complained, waving my bandaged stump at #15.
“Yes, very unfortunate. The doctor tells me you humans can’t grow back lost limbs?” commented #15.
“Hell no,” I said bitterly. “Maybe I’ll end up with a hook or a metal hand, but that’s just not the same.”
“I hope we can put that unfortunate incident behind us, and that you and I can come to an understanding that will prevent future confrontatio
ns while you are in custody. I am prepared to grant you certain freedoms and privileges in exchange for your word of honor that you will not attempt to escape or initiate any act of violence. Can we come to that understanding?” asked #15.
“No. #14 murdered my friends and cut off my hand. I am not the forgiving type. I will kill #14 if given the chance. Also, there is the not so small matter of us still being at war. It is my duty to attempt escape and to cause you inconvenience.”
“You almost did kill #14, and that should be enough for you,” said #15. “Also, the war situation has changed. A truce is in effect, and negotiations are taking place as we speak. All members of your platoon and your hand were safely returned to the Seventh Fleet as a result of a prisoner exchange. And, #14 did not murder anyone. Sergeant Lopez, the last time I saw him, was recovering nicely from his injuries.”
“And Private Ceausescu?” I asked. “You don’t call what happened to her murder?”
“The female? Nothing happened to the female. Initially we separated her from the others to prevent uncontrolled mating. We believed she was in heat. But she was returned to human custody along with the others.”
“I was told she was eaten,” I said. “She is fine?”
“Of course she is fine. Listen, we do not eat prisoners of war,” hissed #15. “So, there is no reason for revenge. All your mates are safe. It’s all water under the ground. So now, do we have an agreement? No escape attempts or acts of violence for as long as you are in custody?”
“And how long will I be in custody? I want out of here, too,” I said.
“You stay,” said #15, abruptly, changing his pleasant tone. “You were the commanding officer of a military unit that committed atrocities. A war crimes investigation is ongoing.”
“I did nothing wrong,” I insisted.
“That may be. But I doubt it. Anyway, the matter will be decided at a level higher than you or me. In the meantime it is important for you and me to come to an agreement about your custody. I ask again, do we have that agreement?”
“I could kill you right now, before the guards outside the door could get back in here to save you,” I threatened, leaning closer to #15. “But I won’t. You seem like a reasonable, intelligent officer, and I like you. At least you are not like that brutal incompetent, #14. You don’t abuse helpless prisoners in your custody. How did #14 ever outrank a superior officer such as yourself?”
“#14 has better family connections,” replied #15 curtly.
“That is unfair. We have the same injustices in the Legion. Before I give my word, I need certain assurances.”
“Have I not been forthcoming enough?” asked #15.
“Understand, since I have been in your custody I had my hand chopped off, was nearly beaten to death, had my second in command shot in the chest, my third in command strung up and left upside down, and was told that a female prisoner of war was eaten. I want certain assurances, and I want them in writing along with a transcript of this conversation attached as a letter of intent and interpretation.”
“Agreed,” said #15. “Of course certain irrelevant comments about #14 will be edited out of the transcripts.”
“I will not be tortured, abused, threatened, starved, denied proper medical care, denied freedom of religion, or given drugs against my will?” I clarified.
“Of course, those conditions are given,” said #15. “Didn’t I already agree to fair treatment?”
“Okay, I agree to be on my best behavior while in your custody at this hospital,” I said. “By the way, where exactly is this hospital?”
“You are in a secret underground base on the innermost moon of the planet you call New Colorado. I believe you call this moon New Denver. The terms of our contract are now binding under penalty of summary execution if you violate any part of said terms.”
“Clever of you to slip that last part in,” I said. “Doesn’t matter. I will be good. How about returning my personal property to me?”
“No. Your backpack is being held as evidence. It had the body parts of infants in it.”
“That reminds me. How about some decent food? This goo in a tube you have been feeding me is getting real old.”
“If field rations are good enough for our imperial troops, they are good enough for you.”
“Oh don’t give me that. You’re beginning to sound just like #14, Old Claw Up the Poop Chute. I thought we were friends. Or, at least that we had an understanding. You just agreed to not starve me. These food tubes aren’t enough for me to live on. I know you have better. I saw one of your troops in the field eating a sandwich. That sandwich was not goo in a tube. So give me a sandwich, too. I’m not asking for more than what you are giving your own soldiers. I’m just asking for you to be reasonable. I know you have captured human food. I’ve seen your soldiers eating and drinking looted supplies. And you had a thousand civilian humans in custody. Don’t tell me all you fed them was food in a tube.”
“I will look in to it,” said #15, shifting uncomfortably. “I am not promising you anything.”
“That’s all I ask,” I said. “That you be reasonable and try to improve my food so I don’t starve. Also, I had more property than what was inside my backpack. I had many personal items inside pockets, in my uniform, and in another tote sack. I even had some religious items that I need.”
“I will look into it. No promises,” said #15.
“Please do look into it. Remember, we have an agreement. I’m living up to my end of it. I should get something in return. I haven’t seen any of the freedoms and privileges you promised yet. And I want my combat knife.”
“Absolutely not,” stated #15. “Your kind has already demonstrated how dangerous you can be with a clawed weapon.”
“I’ll tell you what. You can keep my combat knife as a trophy of war. It’s my gift to you. All I want is the knuckle sized ruby in the handle. It has sentimental value to me,” I explained.
“I’ll look in to it,” said #15. And then he left.
A few hours later, he returned with a couple guards carrying my property. The items were spread out on the floor in front of me. “Together we will sort through what you may or may not have,” #15 said.
There were a few knickknacks: dice, deck of cards, pens, pins, coins, wallet, watch, uniform, and mess kit. #15 let me have these items without discussion. My credit & identification card had been seized pending a computer data investigation of stored electronic communications, and would be returned later. The ruby from my combat knife was given to me. There really wasn’t much left to argue about except the bottle of vodka and a baggie of marijuana.
“What do you mean I can’t have the vodka and the marijuana?” I protested.
“Research indicates the vodka is used to cause intoxication and often produces aggressive behavior in humans. The marijuana is possibly a dangerous narcotic that is just as bad as the vodka. Also, the marijuana is illegal in your world, and will probably soon be made illegal in our world as well. So, your claim to the marijuana is weak. You may not have either,” said #15.
“It is interesting you call the vodka and marijuana dangerous or illegal, because I took both items from one of your soldiers. The vodka is legal in both our worlds, so it should be allowed. The vodka reminds me of home, and it will help me eat the unpalatable goo tube food you are forcing on me. And the marijuana? It helps me to commune with God. Would you interfere with my simple religious rituals? Check the transcripts of our contract. You specifically agreed not to interfere with my simple religious practices.”
“Perhaps the matter requires more research,” conceded #15, taking the vodka and marijuana with him.
* * * * *
The next day, detention unit guard #96 returned the marijuana and vodka. The vodka had been placed into a plastic jug. I guess there was some concern I might break the bottle and fashion a weapon out of it. Yeah right.
It was #96’s job to watch me. He watched me very well. Too well, I might add. #96 stayed in the room
with me for up to twenty-four hours straight, never showing signs of fatigue and never moving. He would not talk to me or even acknowledge that he understood anything I said. I complained to #15 that I thought he had ordered the guards no not talk to me. #15 denied it, saying the guards hated me for being the butcher that I am, and that I was lucky that one of them didn’t decide to slit my throat during the night. That didn’t make me sleep well. It was bad enough having a huge spider lording over me in the dark, not knowing whether the spider might inclined to commit murder, slit my throat, drink my blood, or do whatever else spiders do when they are pissed off. So today I tried a different tack.
“#15 says he ordered you to not talk to me because you are so stupid you would probably get yourself into trouble or give away state secrets. #15 says you will always be a private because of your stupidity and because you come from a long line of stupid, politically unconnected ancestors that should not be allowed to breed or add to the gene pool in any way, shape, or form. Personally, I think you do your job very well, and that #15 is just another arrogant snobbish officer who got promoted because he paid money for his rank to another incompetent corrupt arrogant officer. He puts you down because he feels threatened by soldiers who do their job well, and that is why he marks your evaluations as poor.” I then took a chocolate donut from a package of looted human food and offered it to #96.
“Thank you,” said #96, accepting the donut. “You’re right. #15 is an asshole.”
We got along fine after that. I already knew the spiders loved vodka and marijuana, but I didn’t know they had a sweet tooth, too. And they loved to gamble. Gambling for recreation was ingrained into them. They were all compulsive gamblers. I taught #96 how to play craps, blackjack, and poker. He grasped the games quickly and won almost every game of cards. Spiders cheat at cards every chance they get. At least, this one did. With three hands and a claw, he could whip those cards about in a blur. I was already working with a handicap, having only one hand, but I’d been doing this sort of thing for many years, so I wasn’t as bad off as I let on. I allowed #96 to think he was getting one over on me. Of course, we were just playing for fun, because I had no spider money.
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 1: Feeling Lucky Page 7
