The Ark

by Walter Knight

  “Did you know Las Vegas and New Memphis odds-makers are listing the Legion as two-and-a-half-point underdogs?” asked Coen.

  “What do those Mafia idiots know?” I asked. “Do they play football in Sicily? They can’t fix this game. This game is about pride, not payoffs. It can’t be fixed.”

  “There’s no such thing as the Mafia,” commented Coen, exasperated. “I’ll do you a favor by editing out your last remark, so you don’t get whacked.”

  “Whatever. Don’t those wise guys know General Lopez himself will be quarterbacking our team?”

  “Maybe that explains the lack of confidence,” advised Coen. “How old is Lopez getting these days?”

  “I’m not sure. I just talked to Lopez, and he looked rejuvenated. Since his last trip to Old Earth, he looks fit and trim. The general is like a new man.”

  “I noticed that, too,” commented Coen. “Steroids?”

  “Probably,” I agreed. “Or illegal enhancement chips. Can we edit that out, too?”

  “What about the spider players?” asked Coen. “Rumors are their local commander is playing, and he once ran for four touchdowns in one game. How will you stop the spiders’ quick running game?”

  “We will focus on fundamentals, like blocking and tackling. Humanity’s main advantage is our three hundred years of football experience. The spiders don’t know how to play football, I don’t care what those traitorous New Memphis bookies say or how much help Nike gives them. The Legion will win this game for humanity and for America.”

  “A large crowd is expected for the game, especially with all the pilgrims and tourists already in town for the Ark,” commented Coen. “Which reminds me. How is progress on the Ark tunnel going? How close is the Legion to the Ark?”

  “I can’t comment on such rumors,” I answered. “There is no Ark. Military projects at Caldera are top secret.” “What about the spiders?” pressed Coen. “Are they getting close to the Ark?” “No comment,” I repeated. “Ask the spiders.” “The New Memphis Bell Hotel and Casino is putting a big screen TV up on the side of their tower for the overflow crowd to watch. What if there is more shooting from the crowd by disgruntled fans, like what happened after the Super Bowl? Didn’t the spiders shoot up Harrah’s big screen last time?”

  “The Legion will take added precautions this time. The spiders will not dare repeat that sort of reckless and disgraceful unsportsmanlike conduct, or there will be serious consequences. The Air Force is standing by, too.”

  * * * * *

  An emergency beeper on my duty belt sounded. I checked the message. “Breakthrough!” Similar texts went out to the entire battalion. All legionnaires were put on high alert, and the border closed. I immediately put on my ceremonial dress uniform and went down the tunnel with a platoon of highly armed legionnaires. I was greeted by my chief engineer. “We may have a problem,” advised the engineer, standing in front of the exposed metal plating of the Ark.

  “There is no problem,” I replied, excitedly. “We did it! All our hard work will now bear fruit.”

  The engineer frowned, then knocked on the side of the Ark three times. Someone on the other side knocked three times back.

  “Shit!” I said, jumping back, drawing my saber. I rapped on the metal plating three more times. Once again there was a response of three taps. “Open it up with a torch! Now!”

  “Yes, sir!” answered the engineer, beginning immediately. “I want more security down here,” I ordered, turning to Lieutenant Perkins. “The Ark is mine! I won’t share it!” “What if there are monsters in there?” asked Sergeant Williams, uneasily. “Or the Grim Reaper himself?” “He’s got a point,” advised Sergeant Green. “There could be anything on the other side. We need to be cautious.” “Open it up like a tin can!” I shouted, more furious than ever. “Humanity will not be denied our prize!” “That’s right!” added General Lopez, just arriving with Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight and a TV crew. Technicians began setting up lights and cameras.

  “We’re going live across the Galaxy!” said Phil Coen, smiling for the cameras. Phil rapped on the metal plating again. Three knocks answered. “This is Phil Coen of the Black Hole News Network broadcasting live from deep below Caldera City, where brave legionnaires finally broke through to the Ark. There is something alive inside! Sergeant Green speculates it’s monster aliens from the Caverns of Hell. We will all see for ourselves in just minutes, as famed Hero of the Legion Colonel Czerinski has ordered a torch to the thick metal plating.”

  General Lopez grabbed Coen’s microphone. “I’m in charge here!” he said, irritated about subordinates stealing the show. “The contents of my Ark are the property of the United States Galactic Federation. We will not be denied, no matter what lurks behind that metal.”

  Coen snatched back his microphone. “Do you believe there may be some danger?” asked Coen, uneasily eying the growing opening. “Might aliens inside be armed, or even deranged?”

  “The Legion is prepared for all possibilities,” answered General Lopez, motioning to the heavily armed legionnaires pointing their weapons at the opening. “If first contact of a new sentient species is made, we hope it will be peaceful.”

  “It’s hard to believe the original spacers could still be alive after being buried for so long,” commented Coen, smiling and staring directly at the camera. “But the galaxy has revealed many surprises, and will reveal many more. Our audience will be the first to see another marvel as we enter the Ark with the Legion.”

  * * * * *

  When the engineer was finished torching the metal plating, I kicked it in. I was immediately confronted by the spider commander, and marine commandos.

  “Ha!” exclaimed the spider commander. “I beat you, Czerinski! We got here first! All you human pestilence are trespassing! Get out now!”

  “We are not trespassing,” I countered, drawing my saber and poking at the spider commander’s breast plate. “It is you who trespasses. You have tunneled over the border!”

  “We have done no such thing,” argued the spider commander, drawing a large jagged combat knife. “Our tunnel is on the Arthropodan side. I have GPS verification. I claim salvage rights, per intergalactic treaty and admiralty salvage law, for His Majesty the Emperor of Arthropoda! Back off!”

  Suddenly a small ugly grasshopper-like alien creature tried to push its way through the spider marines to our side. “Help us!” yelled the hopper. “They aim to steal our ship and kill us all!”

  A spider marine grabbed the hopper and kicked it to the floor. More spiders beat it into submission with their rifle butts. “Shut up, fool!” yelled the spider commander. “The human pestilence won’t help you. They would grind you up for cat food! Someone disconnect its interpreter box.”

  “What the hell is that?” I asked, advancing to get a better look.

  The spider commander waved his large knife at me menacingly. “That’s far enough!”

  I stabbed the spider commander in the shoulder with my saber. Lieutenant Perkins immediately pulled me back before I could finish off the fallen spider. My saber remained embedded in the spider commander as he lay on his back. Gunfire was averted by alert sergeants on both sides shouting orders to remain calm.

  “That human pestilence stabbed me!” accused the spider commander. “Shoot them all. They must not have the Ark! This is war!”

  “Calm down,” advised the spider Military Intelligence officer. “You will be okay when the pain stops.”

  “Why does everyone always tell me I will be okay?” shouted the spider commander. “I will not be okay! Not now, not ever! Didn’t you hear? That human pestilence stabbed me!”

  Private Knight elbowed his way through the gaping onlookers. “Stand back! I’m medically trained! I took a first aid class yesterday.”

  “No!” shouted the spider commander, reaching for his sidearm but finding it had been taken, along with his knife. “Get that human pestilence butcher away from me!”

  Privat
e Knight ignored protests and knelt down beside the spider commander to examine the injury. He tugged on the saber. It was firmly embedded in the commander’s exoskeleton. “Does this hurt?” he asked, giving the saber another pull.

  “Yes, of course it hurts!” replied the spider commander. “Do not let this human pestilence barbarian torture me any more!”

  “He is a highly trained medical specialist,” advised the spider Military Intelligence officer. “You must put your trust in their medical experts until our medics arrive.”

  “No! It is a breach of security to allow their primitive Voodoo medics anywhere near me!”

  Private Knight braced his foot on the spider commander’s shoulder and gave the saber another mighty pull. This time the saber suddenly came free, causing Knight to fall backward. It reminded Private Knight of a King Arthur movie, except that the spider commander was screaming in pain. Private Knight produced a large hypodermic needle from his first aid kit, holding it up for all to see. He glanced at the spider Military Intelligence officer, who gave a nod of approval. Finding a soft spot on the commander’s neck, Knight injected a large dose of morphine.

  “Ah!” cried the spider commander. “Did you see that? This human pestilence is still trying to kill me! Don’t think I didn’t notice your secret nod. There is collusion with the enemy going on here! Traitors!”

  “Give him another shot,” ordered the spider Military Intelligence officer. “He is obviously delusional, and the sissy has a low threshold of pain.”

  Private Knight stuck the spider commander in the neck one more time. The commander screamed in agony. “I am not a sissy!” Frustrated, Private Knight looked up at the spider Military Intelligence officer. “I have one more dose.” The Spider Military Intelligence officer nodded approval. “Traitors!” The spider commander lay dazed on the floor, twitching, as Private Knight duct-taped the bleeding shoulder, and wrapped the arm in a sling. Suddenly there was a flash of yellow movement from Private Knight’s pouch. Attracted by the twitching movement, Fuzz attacked the fallen spider, viciously chewing and clawing a mandible.

  “Help!” cried the spider commander, waking up to the small yellow terror. “I am being eaten alive by Old Earth vermin! Someone save me! That’s an order!”

  “It’s just a harmless kitten,” advised Private Knight.

  Private Knight scooped up Fuzz, stuffing him back into the pouch. Knight had promised Ceausescu to babysit Fuzz all day and keep him safe.

  Phil Coen pushed his way through the legionnaires and spider marines to place a microphone up to the spider commander’s face. “Sir, could I have a comment from you about the upcoming game?” asked Coen. “Aren’t you the same commander who once rushed for four touchdowns in one game?”

  “I have human pestilence fans?” asked the spider commander, incredulously. “I guess that stands to reason. Yes, I once ran for four touchdowns back in the day. I still have what it takes. I have mojo!”

  “Will your injury affect the outcome of Sunday’s game?” asked Coen. “I assume you will not be able to play now. This whole matter smacks of more sports bet game fixing by the Legion.”

  “Yes it does!” agreed the spider commander. “Everyone knows that Colonel Czerinski is a cheat, and infamous for his crooked double dealings! But do not worry. I will be ready and fit in time for the game. This time I will break my personal record, and rush for five touchdowns in one game!”

  “Commander, was that college or the pros you rushed for four touchdowns in one game?” asked Coen. The camera zoomed in for a close up.

  “Neither.” “Club ball?” “Nope.” “Junior high?” “Grade school!” announced the spider commander, proudly. “We took the city championship that year.” “I see,” replied Coen, frantically texting Guido to change his wager on the game. “I still have a picture of our team in my wallet,” offered the spider commander. “Want to see it?” “No,” answered Coen. “What was that creature we all saw earlier? Have you captured members of the Ark crew? How can crew still be alive after buried all this time?”

  “That is an Arthropodan matter that you need not concern yourself with,” snapped the spider commander. “Do you realize that with me in the game, our quarterback might not even need to pass the ball? Czerinski is trying to fix this game.”

  “It appears your marines have abused that hopper,” persisted Coen. “The poor thing was pleading for its life. What have you done with the rest of the hopper crew?”

  “None of your business!” replied the spider commander. “What does that have to do with the Rematch Bowl?”

  I motioned to Private Knight, who injected the spider commander with a last dose of morphine. The commander, now sitting upright, keeled over into unconsciousness. I pulled a blanket over his face, and addressed the spider Military Intelligence officer.

  “You’re in charge now. I suppose we will be forced to share the secrets of the Ark. I have received texts from my superiors on the matter. You will release all sentient beings in your custody. The Legion officially offers the entire Ark crew refugee status and American protection from persecution. You are on American soil, and the full effect of American law applies. I am authorized to use immediate military force if necessary to protect our refugees.”

  The spider Military Intelligence officer checked his communications pad for instructions. The entire sequence of events played out on camera, broadcast on the database across the galaxy. The Emperor himself was watching on FNN and ordered full cooperation with their human pestilence allies. The Emperor specifically ordered the release of ‘those poor ugly hopper aliens.’

  “Screw the hoppers,” whispered General Lopez, as legionnaires poured into the Ark. “Steal anything not nailed down. We must have its secrets.”

  I nodded in agreement as spider medics lifted their commander onto a gurney. “Good job, Knight,” I commented. “You’re really getting the hang of this medic thing. I knew you would make a fine medic. Don’t even think about submitting more transfer requests.”

  “Thank you sir,” replied Private Knight. “Actually, I enjoy working under Sergeant Ceausescu. She’s taught me a lot.” “What’s with the yellow kitten?” I asked. “Fuzz is just a stray,” answered Private Knight. “No big deal.” “Fuzz?” I asked. “Not Fuzzy?” “Just Fuzz.” Affectionately remembering another yellow cat, I patted Fuzz on the head and scratched his ears. “Anyone in there?” I asked, studying its eyes. “Oh never mind.”

  “What’s this?” interrupted a spider medic loudly, checking the IV line Knight had attached to the spider commander. “Saline solution,” advised Private Knight. “I did not want your commander to dehydrate, or to go into shock.” “There’s no chance of that!” advised the spider medic. “You lie! Take it out!” “Sorry,” said Private Knight. “I thought it would be good practice for my EMT test next week.” “What drugs did you give him?” asked the spider medic. “The commander has almost no pulse.” “Morphine,” answered Private Knight. “Do you have any left?” asked the spider medic, in a low voice. “Lots,” replied Private Knight. “Back at the med station. I used all that I brought with me.” “How much did you bring with you?” asked the spider medic, clearly disappointed. “Three large needles,” explained Private Knight. “Were you trying to kill him?” asked the spider medic. “What were you thinking, using it all and not sharing? Fool!” “I have to go,” advised Private Knight, abruptly following the column of legionnaires streaming into the Ark.

  * * * * *

  We proceeded cautiously into the Ark. Hoppers hid everywhere. We found them in the vents, machinery, and wiring. What we did not find was any technology that jumped out as particularly useful. Maybe the spiders had already gutted the starship. Scientists and tech geeks were summoned to check computers and investigate deeper. Perhaps they could figure out where the hoppers came from. It appeared the Ark was nothing more than a transport ship for colonists. It should have been called the Mayflower instead of the Ark. We escorted the ugly little guys to the
surface, where they immediately broke for freedom in all directions.

  “Let them go!” I ordered. “I don’t care about hoppers. They’ll be back when they get hungry. Tear the secrets out of their ship, and the prize can still be ours!”

  * * * * *

  The spider commander fully recovered by game day. Suited up in full football gear and pads, #32 appeared fit and able, leading his team in pregame warm up calisthenics. Phil Coen asked the commander for a prediction. “We will win. I guarantee it!” answered the spider commander. “It is our destiny to beat the human pestilence wherever and whenever we meet. Let that be a warning to you.”

  “Your shoulder feels fine?” asked Coen. “You certainly look fit. It’s not stiff?”

  “I have four shoulders,” explained the spider commander. “My superior physique will prevail.”

  Sergeant Green stood along the sidelines with the Legion’s new mascot, watching the interview. It was a giant croc. He held the croc at bay with a sturdy choke chain, but it still pulled forward with powerful lunges. Two more legionnaires prodded the croc with poles to keep it in line.

  “Put a muzzle on that thing,” I ordered, passing by with our team. “That monster is a menace.” “A mascot is supposed to intimidate.” “Muzzle it!” “You want to put a muzzle on it, be my guest,” suggested Sergeant Green. “You can get your mamma to put a muzzle on it if you think I’m going anywhere near those teeth.”