“Not yet!” replied the spider commander, reaching for the radio microphone. “Spray-paint ‘Walmart sucks too’ on that same wall!”
“Yes, sir,” replied the team leader. He also set a small explosive device at the base of the Walmart neon sign. The explosion would wake the human pestilence from a sound sleep and draw attention to the spider graffiti.
“We can tag their buildings, too!” boasted the spider commander. “If the human pestilence want to engage in psychological warfare, bring it on!”
* * * * *
The explosion did not wake me, but a phone call from Lieutenant Perkins did. “Sir, spider terrorists slipped across the border and blew up the Walmart sign,” advised Perkins.
“Is our tunnel still intact?” I asked. “Yes, sir,” advised Lieutenant Perkins. “They only struck Walmart.” “Are you sure it was spiders? It could have been healthcare activists, again. They’re a violent lot.” “Positive,” answered Lieutenant Perkins. “The spiders left their tag on Walmart’s wall.” “Double the guard at our tunnel,” I ordered. “This attack might be a diversionary tactic. They still may strike again. Don’t wake me again unless the terrorists blow up something important.”
“Yes, sir!”
* * * * *
The next night spider commandos struck Kentucky Fried Chicken. This time they cooked as much original recipe chicken as they could before doing their dirty work. Commandos stuffed their backpacks with chicken breasts and legs. They spray-painted ‘Colonel Sanders sucks’ on the front wall. Later, the President of the Caldera City Chamber of Commerce, Johnny The Gut, phoned to demand I do something about the sudden rash of state-sponsored vandalism.
“I demand a retaliatory air strike against the spiders,” insisted Johnny The Gut. “We must send the spiders a strong message that this sort of vandal-adventurism will not be tolerated. Today they hit Walmart and KFC, tomorrow it might be our casinos! I say we whack them!”
“What would you have me do?” I asked. “Nuke the Empire?” “Do you have nukes?” asked The Gut. “No.” “Oh,” responded Johnny, disappointed. “I thought you were connected.” “Not for nukes.” “How about an air strike on their Taco Bell?” he asked. “I heard the spider commander has been frequenting Taco Bell a lot lately. He loves the lava hot sauce.”
“Taco Bell is an American corporation,” I advised. “We cannot bomb Taco Bell, even though they do business on the spider side.”
“But they’re consorting with the enemy!” accused Johnny The Gut. “It’s un-American, and they’re exporting jobs. We should whack Taco Bell, too. We need to send them all a message!”
“Don’t worry. I have a plan to send the spiders a message from the Legion. Just give me a few days.”
“You better. And one more thing. I’ve been hearing rumors about you legionnaires digging up Noah’s Ark. That’s what the mine tunnel is all about?”
“There is no Ark,” I insisted. “It’s just a lost alien starship buried under centuries of sand.” “Spin it any way you want, Joey,” advised Johnny The Gut. “Just don’t blow the Ark up.” “What? I never said I’d blow anything up.” “I heard you will nuke the Ark if the spiders get there first,” explained Johnny. “Don’t do it. That Ark could be a huge tourist draw. People are already flocking here, and we haven’t even reached it yet. We could make a fortune just selling tickets to see the Ark. Jimmy The Neck wants to build an underground tram and escalator directly connecting the Ark to our casino.”
“It’s not an Ark!” I insisted.
“Whatever,” replied Johnny The Gut. “New Memphis Gaming wants to buy the Ark from you.”
“The Ark is not for sale!” I answered. “The Legion intends to strip the Ark of its valuable technology. Maybe afterwards we can talk about selling the Ark.”
“See!” exclaimed Johnny The Gut. “Even you now acknowledge it’s an Ark!” “Nonsense! The alien artifact is top secret and not for sale.” “How much for the Ark?” “I told you it’s not for sale!” “Don’t try to jack the price up on us,” the wise guy warned. “New Memphis Gaming is prepared to make you an offer you can’t refuse, if you know what I mean.”
“Do not threaten me. I’ll call in an air strike on the Belle if you so much as look at me wrong.”
“I know what your unreasonableness is about,” complained Johnny The Gut. “You intend to sell the Ark to Harrah’s. Don’t think I don’t know about how cozy you are with Romo and those other Stanford thugs. New Memphis will not tolerate being shut out on this Ark deal. We are entitled to a cut of the Ark action per our business license agreement. We have an established relationship with you. It’s the law. Look it up!”
“I am not cozy with Harrah’s,” I insisted.
“Sure,” said Johnny The Gut, sarcastically. “And I have beachfront property to sell you in the New Gobi Desert. Don’t cross us, or else.”
* * * * *
It was time to send a message to the spiders. Both Harrah’s Hotel Casino and the New Memphis Belle Casino lit up certain outdoor lights on the façade of their towers facing north to the Empire. Both towers illuminated a giant one-fingered salute directed at the spiders across the lake. The Belle’s one-fingered salute even flashed several colors, giving it a strobe effect.
The spider commander paid no attention to the light displays until Elena pointed out the meaning of the one-fingered salute. He was furious, and ordered armor to the border. Several Arthropodan marine tanks rumbled up to Guido’s guard shack.
“Hey, Guido!” shouted the lead tank driver, killing his engine so he could be heard. “Put me down for five hundred credits on Tennessee!”
“You got it!” replied Guido, recording the wager on his pad. “What’s up with the parade of tanks? Are we going to war again? Don’t you know these wars are hell on my business and the tourist industry?”
“Probably we are going to war,” advised the spider tank driver. “We’re going to hit Harrah’s as soon as the sun sets, if that casino flips us the bird one more time!”
“Enough!” interrupted the spider lieutenant tank commander atop the turret. “Batten down the hatches! Stop consorting with the human pestilence enemy!”
“Guido is my bookie,” protested the tank driver. “We can’t shoot Guido until after the Super Bowl!”
“These human pestilence can’t be trusted,” insisted the tank lieutenant. “Just days ago they used chemical warfare at this very spot against our commander. Be on alert for anything!”
“You better take cover, Guido!” shouted the tank driver, as he closed the armored hatch with a clang. “Go Titans!”
Guido radioed the situation to my command tent. I warned the casinos and ordered them to implement Plan B. At sunset, both casinos illuminated giant smiley faces. Lit underneath was the message, ‘Have a nice day!’ The Arthropodan marine tanks stood down, retiring for the evening. War averted again. Am I good or what? Once more I patted myself on the back for saving humanity. Does anyone appreciate my efforts? No! Being a local Legion commander is a thankless job.
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Chapter 9
George, a prestigious Arthropodan research scientist and academician, flew in special to talk to the spider commander about the rare Caldera Lake Inland Croc.
“We have discovered that these crocs have a phenomenal immune system,” announced George. “I need your assistance in obtaining croc blood samples for important medical research.”
“No problem George,” replied the spider commander, slightly annoyed that this idiot had imposed himself on an otherwise pleasant day. “I’ll detail a marine sniper to shoot as many crocs as you need.”
“No!” protested George. “Crocs are an endangered species because of their dwindling habitat. Under no circumstances can a croc be allowed to be harmed.”
“What do you want from me?” asked the spider commander. “It’s not that easy to catch a croc. They are cunning, vicious serpents of the water that should be exterminated on sight, along with
all the other Old Earth vermin, like skunks and cats.”
“You don’t like cats?” asked George. “How odd. Are you a lizard-lover?” “What’s it to you?” “Cats are almost sentient.” “Whatever.” “Like it or not, we share New Colorado with humanity and the animals they seeded here,” advised George. “Our close contact with humans and their Old Earth creatures necessitates we study their viruses and diseases, just in case microbes make the interspecies leap to us. Our study of croc immune systems has led to unexpected discoveries that may even cure our own indigenous illnesses.”
“Why do you have a human pestilence name, George?” asked the spider commander suspiciously. “It’s unbecoming for an egghead of your stature. I assume you teach at the university?”
“I find the human custom of assigning names to be appealing to my nature,” advised George. “Names promote individuality and healthy competitiveness. My full name is George the Third. The name combines human individualism and Arthropodan love of numbers.”
“Well George the Third, I am not risking marines wrangling crocs,” advised the spider commander. “I do not give a flying rip about immune systems, or any other of your half-baked egghead schemes.”
“You will faithfully assist my important research,” ordered George, handing the spider commander a letter of introduction from the Arthropodan Governor of the North Territory. “The Governor assured me full cooperation from his marines and local commanders.”
“Fine!” replied the spider commander, tossing the letter back at George the Third. “But don’t blame me if you get eaten by a croc!”
* * * * *
Per orders from his commander, the spider Military Intelligence officer met Legion Lieutenant Perkins at Guido’s border crossing.
“It is my understanding that Master Sergeant Green and Staff Sergeant Williams are expert croc hunters,” stated the spider Military Intelligence officer. “In the spirit of cooperation and détente, I propose your two sergeants work jointly with our medical research team to catch crocs for blood samples and scientific research.”
“Experts?” asked Lieutenant Perkins. “Those two poachers are more like the blind leading the blind. They almost got killed last time.”
“Yes, but they were successful in capturing a croc,” advised the Military Intelligence officer. “My commander insists experts be called in to assist, and has already contacted Colonel Czerinski about the matter.”
“So I’ve been told,” lamented Lieutenant Perkins. “Czerinski has already approved your using Green, Williams, and Private Knight.”
“Oh?” asked the Military Intelligence officer, accessing the local Legion roster on his pad. “Is Private Knight an expert croc trapper, too?”
“No,” answered Lieutenant Perkins. “Czerinski suggested using Knight as croc bait. You can drag him by rope behind the boat.”
“It is very courageous of Private Knight to volunteer,” replied the Military Intelligence officer, adding a comment to his pad. “Knight must be one of your more valued legionnaires.”
“As a matter of fact, Private Knight is tops on Colonel Czerinski’s shit list,” advised Lieutenant Perkins.
The spider Military Intelligence officer scanned ‘shit list’ on his translation pad. There was no reference, even under Old Earth English slang terms. He shrugged, entered another comment in Private Knight’s growing file, and left to advise his commander and George of the good news.
* * * * *
Through binoculars, George the Third spied a large croc sunning itself along the sandy lake shore. It lay peacefully between two signs proclaiming, ‘no swimming zone’ and ‘don’t feed the crocs.’
“All we have to do is get the croc to chase Private Knight across the net hidden in the sand, then spring our trap!” explained George, excitedly. “He’s a beauty, too! That croc must weigh in at two thousand pounds, at least.”
“Find a smaller croc to pick on,” advised Sergeant Green. “If all you need is a few blood samples, there is no reason to take on the largest bull croc out there.”
“I agree,” added Private Knight. “How fast can crocs run on land? I think you and Czerinski are conspiring to kill me.”
“Nonsense,” replied George. “We need representative samples from both adult and juvenile crocs. Private, I expect you to do your duty!”
Private Knight mumbled something about conspiracies as he crept up to the large croc. The croc was asleep. It even seemed to be snoring. “Hey you!” yelled Private Knight, poking the croc with the end of his rifle. No response. Knight then pulled on the croc’s tail.
The croc whipped about and snapped at Private Knight. Knight fell back in the soft sand, scrambling toward the net. “Why didn’t we just throw a net over him?” shouted Private Knight, as he stumbled to the trap. The croc followed close behind. Knight dodged to the side as the croc set off the trap. The net pulled up, trapping the croc in mid air.
Sergeant Williams thumped the croc with a big ugly stick along its even uglier head. The croc swung back and forth like a pińata at a birthday party. Then the net split open, spilling the croc out onto George. In a moment’s crunch, the spider research scientist was gone, devoured by the enormous Old Earth monster. Stunned, the legionnaires watched helplessly as the croc quickly slithered back to the water, limbs of George the Third still wiggling from its snout.
Sergeant Williams turned to the spider research assistants and shrugged. “I think you spiders need a new research scientist.”
“This is not good,” replied a spider medic. “How will I explain this to my commander? He will hold me responsible. My commander’s temper is such that he might throw me to the crocs, too! He doesn’t like medics anyway.”
“You’re a medic?” asked Private Knight. “The Legion always has openings for good medics. You could defect! If you defect, you can go to work immediately, and we’ll give you an enlistment bonus.”
Before the spider medic could respond, Private Knight removed his own Red Cross arm band and pinned it to the spider. “It looks good on you!” exclaimed Private Knight. “The females will love you! They will line up to hatch your eggs.”
“I will do it!” replied the spider medic. “I’m in the Legion now?” “Knight, there’s no way this stunt will worm you out of medic duties,” interrupted Sergeant Green. “Czerinski will never buy it!” “He will have to,” argued Private Knight, “because I won’t be a medic even one second more!”
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Chapter 10
I descended deep into the Legion mine to inspect progress. Miners seemed upbeat and glad to see me. “Usually the bosses don’t get this deep,” commented a miner. “Are we still getting deer-hunting season off?”
“I like to see things for myself,” I replied, ignoring the irritating hunting question. “Any problems?” “The deeper we get, the more curious we miners get,” advised the miner. “What are we digging for? Buried treasure?” “That’s top secret,” I replied. “There are rumors an alien starship is buried here,” commented the miner. “I believe those rumors.” “Believe what you want. It’s still top secret.” “We’re getting real close,” advised the miner, in a lower voice. “Is there anything that might be dangerous down there? Should we dig more cautious now?”
“Just keep checking your Geiger counters,” I suggested. “How can you tell we’re getting close? Are you receiving seismic readings?”
“Put your ear to the rock wall,” directed the miner. “You can hear the alien craft. It’s still turned on.”
I pressed my ear to the wall. Sure enough, I could hear a constant steady hum. The sound was definitely mechanical in nature. “I can hear it.”
“Your alien starship must be huge to vibrate that much solid rock,” advised the miner. “That hum can even be felt at the upper levels. What are we going to find inside the ship? More bugs?”
“Most likely,” I admitted. “Humanity appears to be alone in a galaxy full of sentient exoskeleton species.”
“Our fellow spider miners think the starship will be an Ark,” commented the miner. “Ha! That’s a good one! Noah’s Ark buried right here on New Colorado!”
“The spiders believe in Noah’s Ark?” I asked, incredulously. “How can that be? Do they go to church with you?”
“The spiders have a similar myth in their culture,” answered the miner. “The whole thing sounds creepy when you listen to the spiders talk about it. They’re especially enthusiastic about digging up the Ark.”
“Try to keep these Ark rumors under control. There is no Ark buried on New Colorado. It’s just an alien artifact. We aim to take its technology.”
* * * * *
Soon word got out about the Ark. Shuttles loaded with tourists and pilgrims began landing regularly on both sides of the border. Pilgrims kept vigil in tent cities by both mines. The more affluent pilgrims kept vigil from atop the hotel casinos. My old friend Phil Coen from Channel Five World News Tonight contacted me for an exclusive. “I want to put helmet cameras on all the miners,” argued Coen. “This will be bigger than Capone’s vault back in the day. Reality TV is back!”
“No!” I replied. “This project is top secret.”
“Hello!” said Coen, tapping lightly on my helmet. “News flash! The secret is out of the bag. The whole galaxy knows, and is watching.”
“My legionnaires already have helmet cameras,” I advised. “I will screen what images you can broadcast. Remember, we are in a race with the Arthropodan Empire to seize any new technology that’s down there. I don’t want to clue the spiders in to our progress or direction.”
The Ark Page 8
