“But we need more romance in our lives,” insisted Knight. “See! That’s how it starts! Stick with science fiction!” “Whatever. Everyone is a critic. Blah, blah, blah.”
* * * * *
After the three of us were discharged from the hospital, we went directly to the Golden Stinger Tavern. It was obvious Sergeant Green had a head start on us. He was staggering about, carrying a scythe, challenging scorpions to play poker. The scythe was exactly like the one in my concussed dream.
“Private Crisp, I got it!” yelled Sergeant Green, his face lighting up at the sight of us. He held the scythe out for us to see. “Recognize this? You should! It’s the same scythe you wrestled from Thanatos!”
“I never admitted to that,” I replied.
“You probably bought that scythe at Walmart’s Home and Garden Department,” accused Pierce. “Check out the handle. I bet is says ‘Made in China.’”
I reached for the scythe, but Sergeant Green pulled back protectively. “It’s not made in China!” he shouted. “It’s made in Hell! I found it buried in your bunker. It’s the same scythe you took from Thanatos.”
“I’ve never seen that scythe before,” I lied. “You’re drunk. Put it down before you accidentally slice someone.” “Never!” replied Sergeant Green, backing away. “I can’t risk the scythe being stolen. I can’t be killed as long as I hold it.” “You’re not just drunk, you’re nuts,” accused Shaky Jake. “Keep it up, and they’re going to put you away.” As if on cue, two scorpion bouncers strode up behind Sergeant Green and stung him on both shoulders. Sergeant Green hit the floor, and the scythe slid toward me. I picked up the scythe and handed it to the bartender for safekeeping. Who knows? It might be valuable. It had fancy foreign lettering engraved on its white ivory bone handle.
Soon a scorpion deputy sheriff arrived and took Sergeant Green into custody, transporting him back to the Legion barracks. I ordered a round of drinks.
“How is it that Green found the same scythe from my dream?” I asked Pierce. “And how is it you had the same dream?” “I told you earlier,” answered Pierce, “Green bought that scythe at Walmart.” “That scythe is no cheap import,” I argued. “The workmanship on the handle was done by a master. I think it’s an antique.” “Maybe we can pawn it,” suggested Shaky Jake. “If it’s an Old Earth relic, we might get a couple hundred dollars for it.” “We should take it to the Antique Road Show,” advised Pierce. “We might get thousands for it!” “I’ll give you four hundred dollars cash for the scythe,” offered the scorpion bartender, spreading hundred dollar bills on the bar. “And free drinks for the rest of the night.”
“That’s a fair deal,” advised Pierce. “Take it!” “That fancy scythe belongs to Sergeant Green,” I replied, shaking my head. “He might get pissed about us selling it.” “Six hundred dollars,” offered the bartender, adding two more large bills. “And free drinks tomorrow night too.” “Take the offer,” repeated Pierce. “That scythe is bad news. You and I both know that. I say sell it, and good riddance!” “Deal!” I said, shaking hand and claw with the bartender. “Be careful with it.”
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Chapter 8
“I think Sergeant Green has finally gone over the edge this time,” commented Captain Perkins, commanding officer of the Legion garrison at Scorpion City. “He won’t let go of that damned scythe. The man carries it around everywhere he goes no matter what. It’s like his life depends on it. The men are beginning to talk, and it’s hurting morale.”
“I know,” replied Colonel Czerinski. “I’ve noticed his preoccupation with Death too. But, Sergeant Green is a friend, and I owe him a chance to work things out on his own. I will not cashier Green to the booby-hatch. At least, not yet.”
“But, sir, today Green accosted and threatened to kill a scorpion bartender at the Golden Stinger, accusing him of plotting to steal his scythe. Then Green put Privates Crisp, Pierce, and Shaky Jake on KP duty, accusing them of being part of a conspiracy to steal his scythe. Something needs to be done!”
“Fine!” said Colonel Czerinski, rising from behind his desk. “Since Sergeant Green is so preoccupied with Death, I’ll transfer him to the Blue Rock National Cemetery in Cemetery City for the changing of the guard. He can take his three troublemaking recruits with him. Transfer the lot of them, and good riddance!”
* * * * *
Cemetery City, home of the United States Galactic Federation National Cemetery for all of New Colorado, was located in the Blue Rock Valley, fifty miles north of the Arthropodan border. It was a human enclave left over from some previous first war – I wasn’t sure which. The Legion kept a permanent honor guard garrisoned at the cemetery to protect grave sites from spider relic hunters and looters, and to maintain sovereignty over the area.
We arrived by truck on the dusty main road. The first thing all of us noticed at Cemetery City was the millions of Blue Lizards. About two feet long, the pesky lizards camouflaged with the surrounding blue rock. Our truck ran over many along the way. A spider Intelligentsia State Security officer stopped us to discuss Pierce’s poor driving.
“We treat hit and run seriously in these parts,” advised the spider Intelligentsia officer. “Show me your license.” “I don’t need no stinking license,” replied Pierce. “We’re legionnaires. What’s this all about?” “Where’s the sheriff?” asked Sergeant Green. “Only a human sheriff has the authority stop us.” The Intelligentsia officer directed us to the front of the truck, where he pointed to Blue Lizard parts stuck to the tire treads. “See! Don’t you know Blue Lizard are on the Endangered Species List? Your reckless driving wiped out countless Blue Lizard generations at the height of mating season.”
“Whose mating season?” I asked innocently. “Is that what those little guys were doing in the middle of the road?” asked Pierce. “Sorry about that.” “Your reckless driving will not be tolerated!” said the Intelligentsia officer, more upset. “Now, see here,” argued Sergeant Green, scraping lizard parts off the tires with his scythe. “Those slimy blue buggers are everywhere. There’s no way they are endangered!”
“I am writing a citation for reckless driving, and for violation of the Endangered Species Act as specified in the Peace Treaty.” The Intelligentsia officer scanned Pierce’s Legion ID. “Let this be a lesson to you. This is not your Old Earth Indianapolis Speedway!”
“Two thousand credits!” exclaimed Pierce as he read the infraction notice. “I won’t pay it!”
“Failure to pay or to show up for court will result in doubling of the fine and/or jail time,” warned the Intelligentsia officer, checking computer records. “In light of your past arrests, I suggest you contact the court promptly.”
“I’ll show you what you can do promptly, you fascist!” protested Pierce. “I have no convictions!”
“Me either! And same to you!” added Shaky Jake. “What’s a fascist?” “Stop calling the spider cops fascists,” I whispered. “It pisses them off.” “File this under C.S.,” advised Pierce, handing the citation to Sergeant Green. “C.S.?” asked Sergeant Green. “Chicken Shit is what it is,” explained Pierce, as he stepped on the gas, spewing rocks, dust, and lizard parts in his wake. At the cemetery, we were awestruck by the countless rows of metallic tombstones. Early pioneers, new colonists, and legionnaires were all mixed together. There were even large sections full of spiders.
“Stow your gear and settle in!” ordered Sergeant Green. “Our first watch is tonight at midnight. Welcome to Cemetery City, where business is always dead!”
* * * * *
Sergeant Green posted me, Shaky Jake, and Pierce atop a lonely hill of tombstones. “I’m keeping you three troublemakers together so I can better keep an eye on you!” advised Green, shaking his scythe at us.
In the dark, silhouetted by tombstones and holding the scythe, Green almost looked like the Grim Reaper himself. The crazy look in his eyes was very unnerving.
“Some of these
tombstones are brain imprint memorials,” added Sergeant Green. “Don’t be alarmed. Imprint memorials talk, and have memories, but they’re just computers designed to comfort grieving families. Brain imprint memorials are not real. Each tombstone has an activation button. Do not interact with them. It’s rude for strangers to go about pressing buttons. Don’t do it! Am I clear on that?”
“No,” replied Pierce, as Sergeant Green stormed off. “Did he just say the tombstones can talk? That’s sick.”
“I’ll believe it when I hear it,” I replied, approaching the nearest tombstone. The headstone read, ‘Private Hector Camacho, USGF Foreign Legion, killed during the Scorpion City riots.’ I reached for the illuminated activation button.
“Stop!” shouted Shaky Jake. “Sergeant Green specifically ordered us to not wake the dead! This place gives me the creeps!”
“If the computer brain imprints aren’t really real, then we aren’t waking the dead,” I reasoned. “We’re just waking up computer copies of the dead. Besides, this one was a legionnaire. He can be trusted.”
“Wake him up!” urged Pierce. “I want to talk to the dead dude!”
I eagerly pressed the button. Technology this hot could catch on. I could make a fortune selling brain imprint memorials, I reasoned “Think of it,” I said, as if making a TV infomercial. “You can now contact your deceased loved ones at any hour of the day, without a medium.”
“I still say it’s creepy,” commented Shaky Jake.
“I heard Colonel Czerinski invested in a string of cemeteries,” I replied. “Now I know why. The living dead would be a great investment. Maybe I could franchise cemetery dealerships.”
“With our luck, if we bought a cemetery, people would stop dying,” commented Shaky Jake, still pessimistic. “Something bad is going to happen.”
“Spiders are not allowed in this section,” interrupted Private Camacho’s brain imprint memorial. “Are you relic hunters? I will sound an alarm!”
“We’re legionnaires, just like you used to be,” I answered. “I am still a legionnaire!” snapped Private Camacho. “Death has not changed who I am!” “Sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t mean to offend.” “He’s just a computer,” advised Pierce. “You can’t offend it.” “I am as alive as you are,” argued Private Camacho. “Why did you interrupt my busy schedule?” “Busy schedule?” scoffed Pierce. “I’d say your schedule is dead.” “You would be surprised at how much I interface with other brain imprint memorials,” advised Private Camacho. “I am constantly networking.”
“How can that be?” I asked.
“Because we are all alive,” answered Private Camacho. “This whole cemetery is linked together. I only miss talking to real people because access to the database is limited. I’m way behind on gossip. You are from my old unit. I miss those guys. How about doing me a favor?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“Move me back to the cemetery in Scorpion City,” requested Private Camacho. “That’s where I died and feel most comfortable. Someone forgot and left me here. I want to be with my buddies. Please?”
“That might be illegal,” I replied, hesitantly. “We can’t just remove tombstones from a national cemetery. There are laws and regulations about such things.”
“Sure you can,” insisted Camacho. “Show me you have cojones. What kind of recruits are they letting in the Legion these days? Memorials are moved all the time. What does it matter if my tombstone goes missing? They’ll just think those damned spider relic hunters stole it. No one will be the wiser. Come on. Do it for a fellow legionnaire.”
“No way,” advised Pierce. “We can’t just stuff a tombstone in a duffel and tote it all over New Colorado. Someone will notice.”
“How about I introduce you three to some hot cemetery babes?” asked Private Camacho. “There’s some real cute hotties buried here.”
“You can hook us up?” asked Pierce, now genuinely interested in Camacho’s plight. “It’s not that far to Scorpion City. We can easily sneak you into a Legion truck.”
“Wait!” I insisted. “Cemetery babes? Are you kidding? You can’t pimp out the dead. It’s wrong in so many ways.”
“Why would I want to talk to copies of dead females?” asked Shaky Jake, slow on the uptake. “It sounds morbid.”
“You can do more than just talk,” promised Private Camacho. “You can interface. Once you are plugged in, it will be more than real.”
“Interface?” I asked. “How real?” “Extremely real,” answered Private Camacho, lewdly. “Flesh and blood real. Like you are really having sex.” “With the dead?” I asked, mortified. “We are not dead! We are copies of real people, and we get just as lonely and love-starved as anyone else. Let me give you the coordinates of a nice girl named Janice Lee.”
The tombstone spat out a small map and directions to Janice’s imprint memorial. Reluctantly, I took the directions and went off in search of my blind date. Pierce was given a date too and ran down a path ahead of me, frantically checking tombstone names. Shaky Jake remained behind.
* * * * *
“What about me?” asked Shaky Jake. “I want a date too.”
“I’m sure I can find you a nice dead spider female somewhere,” advised Private Camacho. “The spider section is quite large. I’ll try to call in a few favors.”
“I want to interface with a human pestilence,” insisted Shaky Jake.
“What?” asked Private Camacho. “Impossible!”
“What’s the problem?” asked Shaky Jake. “You’re all dead anyway. I want a human female imprint memorial who has a big butt. Big butts drive me nuts!”
“Very well. I’ll see what I can do.” Silence followed for a few minutes. Finally Private Camacho said, “I found someone perfect for you.” A map spewed out from Camacho’s memorial. “But be warned. Big Bertha Butt – she is one of the Butt sisters – can be very volatile. Do not upset Big Bertha!”
“Thank you for the warning,” scoffed Shaky Jake. He ran off in search of his date. “I can handle my females just fine without your human pestilence advice!”
* * * * *
I found Janice’s tombstone soon enough, engraved with ‘Janice (Mongo) Lee.’ The ‘Mongo’ part did not sound promising. No problem, I reasoned. If she was ugly or fat, I would disconnect and find another brain imprint memorial. I pushed the button.
“Hello, Donald, dearest,” responded Janice. “Hector told me so much about you. Please, place your palm on my pad.”
“Hi,” I replied, pressing my hand to the pad, immediately finding myself in the loving arms of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. It seemed so real. In our passion we fell over into a field of imaginary soft clover, making sweet love like there was no tomorrow.
“I had no idea it would be like this,” I commented, coming up for air. “You are so beautiful and fine. I was worried when I first read the headstone.”
“Thank you,” blushed Janice. “Yes, my ‘Mongo’ days are over for good now.”
“Mongo days?” I asked, up for air again. “What do you mean by that? This isn’t your real appearance?”
Suddenly Mongo, in all her original gory glory, appeared under me. She had a mustache and zits as big as my nose! I screamed, trying to push away, but she held on. A battle ax appeared in her hand, the kind Vikings use to carry. Mongo sliced off my entire package, testicles and all! I fell away in shock and unconsciousness, then woke suddenly as I disconnected from the imprint memorial. I lay on the gravel stunned, still in pain, patting myself down for missing parts. I found no missing appendages.
“What was that?” I yelled. “Are you even female?” “You men are so shallow sometimes,” cried Janice. “Please come back.” I stumbled down the hill as fast as I could, meeting Shaky Jake along the trail. He seemed tired and even more disheveled than me. “How did your date go?” “Okay,” I lied. “Yours?” “I think I am in love,” replied Shaky Jake. “Who would have thought I’d fall in lo
ve with a human pestilence?” “Really? I’m happy for you, I guess. Are you sure?” “It’s the real thing this time,” insisted Shaky Jake. “Her name is Bertha. I’m in love with Bertha Butt and the Butt sisters.” “All of them?” I asked “How much is all?” “About a half a ton,” bragged Shaky Jake. “They’re definitely a claw full.” “And there were no unexpected surprises?” I asked, prying. “No sharp objects?” “There were lots of surprises,” advised Shaky Jake. “The Butt sisters were magnificent! Want to see some pictures?” “No!” “The memorial printed out a special wide angle view to include them all.” “You’re setting yourself up for heartbreak,” I cautioned. “You know they aren’t real. They’re just imprint memorials.” “I know. What am I to do? I finally find true love, and they died twenty years ago of botulism.” “Let’s go find Pierce,” I suggested, hoping to change the subject. “But what do I do?” “Seek counseling.” We walked until finding Pierce sitting by a grave. He was smoking a cigarette and eating the last of his magic mushrooms. “What happened?” I asked. “I suppose you are in love too?” “We got so hammered, I don’t exactly remember all that much,” replied Pierce. “These cemetery chicks have so much dope, it’s like being lost in Alice’s Wonderland. It seemed so real.”
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