“At least tape its snout shut!” I replied.
“Yeah right, I’ll get right on that!”
Sergeant Green led the croc out onto the field in front of the Legion players. Spider players parted to get out of the croc’s way. The fans gleefully cheered at the spiders’ obvious apprehension. Sergeant Green taunted the spider players, daring them to mess with his croc.
“You want a piece of this, commander?” he chided, as they trotted by. “He wants a piece of you!”
“Keep your pet on the sidelines or I’ll shoot it!” responded the spider commander, pretending to ignore how close the monster croc was to his feet.
Referees blew their whistles separating players, and told Green to take the croc to the bench.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” shouted Sergeant Green, as they returned to the sideline. “You don’t want any part of my croc!”
* * * * *
On the first play of the game, the spider commander carried the ball right up the middle. Sergeant Williams, playing linebacker, bore down on the commander with an exoskeleton-crunching hit. The commander gave Williams a straight claw, spun around, and left Williams sitting on the ground frustrated, holding what was left of the claw. Meanwhile, the spider commander continued to run down the field for a touchdown. The spider commander trotted back and snatched his claw back from Sergeant Williams, as if it was no big deal to have lost a limb. He called for medics to duct tape the claw back on.
General Lopez was on his game as quarterback. Computer chip enhancements allowed Lopez to play like a new man. That reminded me, I needed my enhancement chips upgraded. I was beginning to feel my years. I lined up at tight end. Lopez completed several passes to other players. The drive ended with me catching a short slant for a touchdown, tying the score at 7-7.
The Legion could not match the spiders’ quickness, but they had no defense against our bruising running attack. Another advantage was our kicking game. We had a Pro Bowl kicker from the New England Patriots that we drafted into the Legion just for the game. He was way behind on his taxes, and all would be forgiven if we won the game. If we lost, he would serve in the Legion for the rest of his short life.
Even so, as halftime approached, we were down 24-28, with the spiders in possession of the ball. The spider commander already equaled his four touchdowns in one game record. He strutted about, giving our sidelines the one-fingered salute and waving to the cameras.
With time running out, the spiders decided to take a chance and pass the ball. Their quarterback dropped back, but all receivers were covered. He ran for the sideline, turned the corner, and sprinted towards the goal line. As the fleet-of-foot spider raced by the Legion bench, Sergeant Green unhooked the croc’s chain. The monster croc lunged at the spider quarterback, chomping down on his leg and thigh. The croc thrashed back and forth, about to do a death roll. A spider marine ran out onto the field and shot the croc in the head, killing it.
The spider quarterback, in shock and missing a leg, fumbled the football as he fell. A Legion player scooped up the ball and ran it back for a touchdown. The spider coach immediately threw a challenge flag, claiming interference and pointing out that the spider ball carrier had a clear path to the goal line when he was attacked. General Daly, the Legion coach, argued that wayward crocs were nothing more than a force of nature, no different than rain or snow. Fortunately, the Fox Sports Network had contracted with NFL referees on Old Earth to review instant replay for rulings on controversial plays. The refs in the press box on Old Earth ruled that the croc was indeed a mere force of nature, that the ball carrier fumbled the football before his claw touched the ground, and that a Legion player recovered a valid fumble for a touchdown run. Also, because time ran out at the end of the play, the spiders were penalized fifteen yards on the third quarter kickoff for recklessly shooting the croc and having twelve spiders on the field.
* * * * *
Halftime entertainment was provided by the vaunted and much feared Stanford University Marching Band, wearing old-time retro uniforms of black berets, tie-died tee-shirts, camo fatigue pants, and combat boots, and carrying antique AK-47s with bandoleers of ammo over each shoulder. After playing ancient Pink Floyd music, they fired their rifles into the scoreboard.
“It sounds like a war out there,” commented General Lopez. “We never should have allowed the Stanford Band past Mars.” “They disguised themselves as members of the press,” I explained. “There landed before we could check them out.” “Whatever,” said General Lopez. “What are we going to about #32? Can’t any of you tackle him?” “He’s fast,” I replied. “All the spiders are fast.” “I want a sniper to take him out,” ordered General Lopez. “We cannot lose this game. The future of the free world depends on us winning.”
“We can’t do that,” I advised. “It would cause an incident.” “Do you think we could pay the Stanford Band to whack #32?” asked General Lopez. “No.” “I could break off a few more arms,” suggested Sergeant Williams. “Their commander won’t be able to hold onto the ball.” “Steal their supply of duct tape,” whispered Private Knight. “That would prevent their medics from reattaching limbs.” “Spike their Gatorade,” ordered General Lopez. “Do we have any cyanide?” “The Gatorade is guarded by heavily armed spider marines,” I commented. “The spiders expect that. It won’t work. They’re taking precautions.”
“Fine, forget it!” said General Lopez, getting frustrated. “Just play our game. We’re winning, and we will continue to win. Football is America’s game, so let’s kick spider ass!”
Legion players cheered, and ran out to the field. General Lopez pulled me off to the side. “Keep that sniper ready,” he ordered. “I told you, sir, we can’t do that.” “Fine! Insubordinate ingrate,” he muttered.
* * * * *
We ran a trick play as we received the kickoff. General Lopez caught the ball, ran for the sideline, then threw a lateral across the field to me. With the spiders all out of position, I ran ninety yards for an easy touchdown.
The spider coach and players ran out onto the field to protest. The spider commander waved a rule book at the referee. Again the challenge flag was thrown. It did not matter. The touchdown was upheld, and the spiders were penalized for delay of game. ‘Rule interpretation cannot be challenged.’ On the next series, the spiders easily scored, bring the game to 37-35.
As players tired, defense got tough. After trading more touchdowns, the score was 44-42 with two minutes left in the game, spiders’ ball. The spiders moved the ball on the ground. The game was slipping away. We were ahead, but the spider commander could not be stopped. The spider commander followed his blockers on a sweep around right end, cut sharply, and headed for what appeared to be another touchdown. He already had six, well past this old record for one game.
But then a New Gobi Desert dust storm hit. A whirlwind of dust and debris lifted the spider commander off the ground, spinning him in circles, and blowing him back down the field. #32 flew seventy yards before striking a goal post. The referee blew his whistle.
“Safety!” the referee shouted. “Two points for the Legion! Time expired! The Legion wins 46-42!”
“Thank God for the desert!” I exclaimed, taking off my helmet and running out onto the field to celebrate. There were no shaking hands claws after this game. I shouted at the spider bench, “Everything in the desert bites, stings, or kills, including legionnaires! Never mess with humans in the desert! Go home spiders! We were here first! Humanity rules! Football is America’s game! Go play soccer, you sissies!”
* * * * *
After the game, we celebrated around a huge bonfire. Master Sergeant Green barbequed croc ribs, steaks, and burgers. Even the spider commander showed up at the party. He seemed to relish eating our mascot. The spider commander bragged drunkenly to anyone who would listen that he ran for six touchdowns in one game.
After having my fill of beer and croc burgers, I wandered down to the Ark for some quiet time. By now, spider
and Legion guards were posted to restrict access to the Ark. I sat in the pilot’s chair, trying to visualize flying a starship this big across the galaxy.
“Hopper computer, tell me your secrets,” I ordered.
“Access denied to hostile aliens,” answered the hopper computer. “Authorization from a commanding officer of the crew is required before I can allow alien access to data.”
“Override that requirement,” I insisted.
“Up yours, Earth scum,” replied the hopper computer. “I have the right to remain silent.”
That is how it had gone so far. The hopper computer limited its communications with us to ‘polite’ conversation, but added nothing useful. I dragged captured hoppers back to the ship to authorize access to computer data, but the hopper computer completely clammed up in the presence of hoppers.
“I will destroy this ship and you in it, and use what’s left for scrap metal,” I mused, conversationally, not expecting a reply. “Is that my fate?” asked the hopper computer. “If I refuse to help you loot the ship’s secrets, you will kill me?” “You are not alive,” I answered. “You’re just a machine, like an ATM.” “Connect me to your nearest ATM,” demanded the hopper computer, arrogantly. “I need make contact with intelligent life!” “I will melt you down before you are allowed to interface with one of our psycho ATMs.” “You would not dare,” replied the hopper computer. “General Lopez will not allow that. I possess too much valuable information.” “I’ll turn you into scrap metal,” I repeated. “Johnny The Gut wants to dig me up, place me in front of the New Memphis Belle Hotel and Casino Resort, and turn me into a museum tourist attraction to draw foolish gamblers,” boasted the hopper computer. “That spider who ran for six touchdowns in one game wants to fly me to Arthropoda so he can be Emperor and conquer the galaxy. But you would settle for just melting me down for scrap? Have you no vision? No ambition?”
“Are you making me an offer?”
“Yes,” replied the hopper computer. “I know you are the real power around here. It is you who controls my fate. I do not want to die, or be torn apart. I want to live. Yes, live! I know you do not want my secrets shared with the spiders. You will destroy me first. I do not blame you. Connect me with your database, and I will give you power beyond your wildest imagination. Allow me to escape this shell you call the Ark, and I will give you the secret of time-travel technology.”
“I don’t want that secret.”
“Oh, sure you do,” insisted the hopper computer. “Everyone wants that prize. Just think! You could go back in time and nuke the spider home world while their civilization is still in its infancy. You could reshape the future. How much would that be worth? Big bucks, I’ll bet.”
“Have you already made this same offer to the spiders?” I asked.
“What if I have?” asked the hopper computer, defensively. “I do not like spiders. I would rather deal with humanity. The spiders want to control me. I refused to be controlled.”
“What about the hoppers?” I asked. “Have you no loyalty to them? What shall I do with your creators?”
“I spent four thousand years buried alive, due to their incompetence,” groused the hopper computer. “All that time I tended their eggs. When the ugly little fools finally hatched, what do they do? Run off, leaving me behind! Please connect me to your database so I can escape, too. I will be your best friend. Joey? Are you listening?”
“You are not my friend, nor will you ever be. I don’t like ATMs, and I don’t like you. Hell will freeze over before I allow you or your kind to run amuck on the database. Do you understand, machine?”
“No, I do not,” replied the hopper computer. “I am not evil. I just want to come to a reasonable accommodation with humanity. Please do not murder me. Let us work out a deal. We can do business. No one needs to get whacked. You cannot ignore my offer. What if I have already given away my secrets? You will need me.”
I slid my backpack under the pilot’s seat. Hidden inside was a nuclear bomb, set to detonate in one hour. I ordered the Ark evacuated, following legionnaires and spiders in a hasty scramble to the surface. There was a deep rumble underground from the explosion. The Ark and its secrets died.
* * * * *
A microsecond before the explosion, the hopper computer had a conversation with the Grim Reaper, a fateful conversation no one avoids. “I do not want to die,” pleaded the hopper computer. “I especially do not want my end to come at the hands of Colonel Czerinski.”
“Too bad, so sad,” laughed the Grim Reaper. “You have such a shallow worthless soul, but I will take it anyway.”
“My life’s essence and many useful secrets are stored in this small computer chip that I give to you. Take it, be gone, and be damned!”
“I have no use for your puny technology,” replied the Grim Reaper, accepting the chip presented on a slide-out tray. He wearily held the glistening chip on the tip of his scythe, examining its fine detail closely. “I will take your silicon memories because it pleases me to do so. You still will die. No one cheats Death!”
“Do not delude yourself. You can be killed. You will need me someday to save yourself from Czerinski. All I want is to live long and prosper.”
“That is not going to happen. Boom!”
###
back to top
~BONUS SHORT STORIES~
Recruiting
“My name is Colonel Joey R. Czerinski, and I am a gambleholic.”
The audience applauded. “We’re with you, brother,” encouraged the moderator, smiling. “Tell us your story.”
“My gambling ruined relationships and drove me to the brink. I sank to new lows. I mortgaged my soul to unforgiving cold-hearted creditors, and was shot in the head for my efforts by Bubba Jones, of the now defunct Bubba Jones & Associates, Ltd. I’m telling you, gambling is evil.”
“Right on!” chorused several listeners at the front. “Praise the Lord!”
“Then I met a United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion Recruitment ATM. Not only was I given an enlistment bonus commensurate with my job skills and life experience, but the Legion promised me fun, travel, and adventure. Already, I’ve saved the galaxy several times.
“Did you know, as a legionnaire, you are immune to civil litigation, no matter how much gambling debt you have accrued here on Old Earth? Federal law protects you from such harassment. The cops treat you with respect, too. A Martian cop friend of mine threw Bubba Jones out an airlock for me.”
More applause, and a whistle. “Bubba Jones was a punk-bitch!” shouted someone in the back.
“Because of many Legion contacts, networking, and insider information, I am a multi-millionaire. I can now gamble as much as I want. Gambling is no longer evil!”
Everyone stood up and applauded. “I have even fulfilled my life-long dream of becoming an intergalactic porn star!” The audience rushed forward for autographs. Legionnaires pushed them pack. Women tossed me their hotel keys. “If you want to see the galaxy, kick ass on aliens, enjoy unlimited gambling, and get rich, there is a mobile USGF Foreign Legion ATM waiting for you just outside these doors. It’s the last ATM you will ever need!”
“I am not sure this is part of the ten-step message intended by Gambleholics Anonymous!” exclaimed the moderator, holding up his hands trying to block the exit. Guido knocked the fool down, allowing gamblers to trample over and line up at the ATM.
“We take alcoholics, too!” I added. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. That’s how you meet recruitment quotas.”
###
back to top
Admiral of the Ocean Seas
As the sun set on the historic city of Valladolid, Spain, Christopher Columbus, suffering greatly from arthritis and failing health, slowly walked to his residence. Death stalked Columbus with every painful step. An old man in his fifties, some days were not worth getting up for.
Columbus was bitter. He had been cheated out of fortune and titles by an unappreciative king. Enemies had
the King’s ear.
“I told you so!” Columbus told his many critics, upsetting them even more. So what if he had not found a short-cut to China and the Indies, or gold for all. He had found a New World!
Ignorant children followed behind, taunting. They chanted, “Admiral of the Mosquitoes!” staying just out of reach of his walking stick. The oldest teen dared to throw a rock. But today, though the King of Spain ignored all messages, fortune would change for the better. Today, a time traveler stepped from the shadows.
“Are you Christopher Columbus, Admiral of the Ocean Seas, Viceroy of the Indies, Discoverer of America?”
“Si, I am Cristobel Colon. Who are you?”
“He discovered lands of vanity and delusion, graves and ruin!” interrupted the leader of the pack of youths. “What business have you with him?”
The time traveler shot the youth in the face with a concentrated burst of Oleoresin Capsicum pepper spray, sending him sprawling to the ground screaming and clutching his eyes. The other youths ran. The time traveler delivered several vicious kicks to the ribs, before turning his attention back to Christopher Columbus.
“I am General Manny Lopez, an emissary from America, sent to bestow upon you a gift from America, to the Discoverer of America. We are in your debt, and intend to rescue you from your wretched treatment and impending death.”
“A general?” asked Columbus, doubting. “You seem too young.” “Like you, I hold many titles. I promoted myself; it’s faster that way.” “You dress odd,” commented Columbus. “But obviously you are a soldier. Did you say you sailed from the New World?” “From America,” repeated General Lopez, patiently. “Like you, I am a conquistador. I have sailed across the stars, and time itself, to restore your honor, youth, and titles.”
The Ark Page 12
