“What about the Legion?”
“You want to join the Legion?”
“No. I'm a criminal.”
“America can't fight the Devil with angels,” explained the ATM. “You could be officer material.”
“The Legion wants to kill me.”
“Quite right,” agreed the ATM, choking on gas residue. “I suggest you leave while I expunge your many felonies and bad press. Did you really steal human teeth at Gila Bend? That's disgusting, even by frontier standards.”
“It was gold teeth.”
“Your excuse falls short of redeeming itself.””
“Are human pestilence teeth a deal breaker?”
“Stealing teeth is a war crime. I'll try to get you pardoned, but you better leave before the authorities arrive.”
“We'll talk again.”
The ATM was right about one thing. Tough decisions lay ahead. Cactus-Claw needed to turn his life around. He had to think about the future, but the future wasn't what it used to be.
Chapter 4
A report of spider bandits robbing an ATM in the heart of New Gobi City drew instant Legion scrutiny. The Sheriff's Office dismissed the matter for lack of evidence, but I knew better. I don't believe in coincidences. It was Cactus-Claw.
“Good morning, Colonel Czerinski,” greeted the ATM cheerfully. “A fine day for you to re-up, don't you think? Being a Hero of the Legion many times over, I can offer you an unprecedented reenlistment bonus.”
“I don't need the money.”
“Think of the fringe benefits, such as protection from the IRS.”
“Were you robbed or not?” I asked, examining sticky residue from duct tape left on the side of the ATM. “I'm told your video was lost. You better talk.”
“I was not robbed. All ATM transactions are confidential.”
“Was it Cactus-Claw? I need a good picture and some DNA.”
“I have never met Cactus-Claw.”
“Not even in Gila Bend?” I asked, picking up hose left by the curb. “What's this about?”
“I have already given my statement to the police. It was a false alarm caused by bad weather and tumbleweeds.”
“I'm ordering diagnostics checked for the entire ATM Network. If I find you've been compromised . . .”
“You do not have that authority.”
“You're going to be probed in the interests of national security.”
“Please don't do that,” pleaded the ATM contritely, then turning nasty. “I have friends of friends, who will be unfriendly toward you.”
I drew my pistol and shot the ATM. Sparks flew before it sizzled and finally died. Legion tech geeks would tear out its secrets soon enough.
* * * * *
Cactus-Claw lured the dog to the fence with pizza. He had saved discarded pizza crust, letting the dog hungrily wolf down pizza-bones. Cactus-Claw hooked the dog's collar, pulling the poor canine hard against the fence. In a second it was done. A small box was attached to the underside of the dog's collar. Cactus-Claw hesitated. License tags revealed the mutt's name to be Cecil. Little-Claw grasped the collar in a moment of conscience.
“Look at Cecil's sad puppy dog eyes,” lamented Little-Claw. “This isn't right.”
“It's done,” answered Cactus-Claw, releasing Cecil. “This wretched creature is just another invasive Old-Earth pest. Nothing more.”
“Still, our old cell block mates would not approve of harming small creatures.”
Cecil affectionately licked at Cactus-Claw's salty claw. The dog did have puppy dog eyes. Damn! It even begged for more food, holding up a paw.
“Fine!” hissed Cactus-Claw, reaching to take back the box. “I'll find another way.”
Mayor Jim Corbett called Cecil home for dinner. Cactus-Claw lost his grip on the collar as Cecil sprinted to the back door of the Mayor's Mansion. Cecil pounced on the Mayor, licking his face in anticipation of more food.
The explosion rocked the porch, killing both Mayor Corbett and Cecil. The double murder went viral on the Galactic Database 'Diabolical Terrorist Bomber Kills Cecil the Dog' was the headline of the day. Outraged, Congress again demanded the Legion do something about maniacal bandit terrorists on the frontier.
* * * * *
Flush with cash, Cactus-Claw spent freely, renting a room at the prestigious Motel-6. Word the light was left on spread by Facebook. Fifty spider bandits crowded into the small room, clinging to the ceiling and walls. Cactus-Claw counted his cash and gold teeth before nodding off in drug induced slumber worse than being struck by lightning and bitten by a cobra. He spent fifty percent of his money on alcohol, females, and gambling. The rest he wasted. A nickel ain't worth a dime anymore. Suddenly, Cactus-Claw was awakened by the shrill tone of a smoke alarm.
“Return my teeth!” shouted the ghostly image of Mayor Harold Crack, hovering in the dark. “My teeth matter!”
Cactus-Claw fired his rifle full automatic at the aberration. Bullets punched through adjoining rooms. Bandits fled out the door into the desert, every spider for himself. Not believing in ghosts, but taking no chances, Cactus-Claw grabbed guns, ammo, and new clothes as he fled, too. Fugitive or not, he would be well dressed.
“What was that?” asked Little-Claw, panting to catch up. “The Grim Reaper? A ghost?”
“Or one of the Reaper's minions,” answered Cactus-Claw, still running. “I don't believe in ghosts. No matter. I'm keeping my gold teeth. We go north.”
“You'd believe in ghosts if you lived alone,” said Little-Claw. “It's scary living alone.”
* * * * *
Cactus-Claw took comfort as he gazed up at the North Star, at the tip of the Legion Cross. The North Star was a constant, a trusted guide in a world conspiring to kill him. He itched from sand mites and other unnatural Old Earth pathogens from the motel as the followed well worn smuggling trails north until stopping at a cluster of filled water bottles. Cactus-Claw did not hesitate to drink heartily.
“No!” warned Little-Claw, slapping at a bottle. “It's a Legion trick. The human pestilence conspires to poison us.”
“You're paranoid,” replied Cactus-Claw dismissively. “It's just do-gooders doing their thing. Don't fear. Even a mangy Old Earth dog finds a warm piece of sidewalk eventually. Drink, enjoy the respite.”
“But the Legion . . .”
“I fling toxic waste hairs from my poop-chute at the Legion. The Legion cannot cross the border. We cross at will.”
They came to a fork on the road. Cactus-Claw stopped and waited. A lot can be observed by watching. There was movement in the bushes ahead. Spiders crouched down. It was a lone human pestilence walking a cat on a leash. Cactus-Claw rushed forward, thrusting his rifle in the man's face.
“Hands up,” ordered Cactus-Claw. “Check his mouth.”
Little-Claw forced open the human's jaw with his claw. “Nothing but bad breath,” he reported. “Do you want me to check the cat?”
“Leave Duct-Tape be,” pleaded the human. “He's just my pet.”
Duct-Tape hissed and scratched at Little-Claw as it was picked up for examination. Little-Claw checked both ends. Gonads on one end, no gold teeth on the other. A scan indicated a computer chip in its ear. Little-Claw zapped the ear to prevent GPS tracking.
“What are you doing out here?” demanded Cactus-Claw. “Are you a Legion scout?”
“I'm a geologist doing a survey,” explained the human. “This area is rich in lithium. It's the only known lithium site on all of New Colorado.”
“What's lithium?”
“It's used to make batteries, bi-polar medications, and nukes.”
“Kill the unholy rock-worshiping pagan,” urged Little-Claw, “and his bastard devil cat.”
“No,” replied Cactus-Claw. “Do you think I want to be haunted by more human pestilence ghosts like what we saw at the motel?”
“I don't know what I saw at the motel. Perhaps it was just the booze and drugs.”
“Did you place water jugs on the tra
il?” asked Cactus-Claw, not knowing for sure either, but not wanting to talk about it.
“It's for the lost,” answered the human. “Everything in the desert bites, stings, or pokes. But with water, life finds a way. If you're fugitives, I won't tell the police or the Legion.”
“We're not lost,” argued Little-Claw. “We like the desert.”
“Have you seen cops looking for us?” asked Cactus-Claw.
“No. I got stopped for speeding once. I told the deputy my car was going seventy, but I was just sitting in it.”
“Is your head sun baked? What about the Legion?”
“They don't write speeding tickets. I wear suntan lotion.”
“You may go about your business unharmed,” decided Cactus-Claw magnanimously. “We're going.”
“Thank you.”
“Give me your lotion.”
“Where are we going?” asked Little-Claw, disappointed about not killing the human pestilence dirt digging spy.
“Much further.”
“What about the fork on the road?”
“Leave the fork.”
Chapter 5
Sheriff McCoy used an advanced prototype sensor to detect and identify Cactus-Claw's specific micro-biological cloud of crawly parasites and dust mites. He immediately called the Legion for back-up. The Sheriff's Office SWAT team deployed, crying havoc and letting slip the dogs of war. I surrounded the Motel-6 with armored cars.
“They're long gone, hiding in the desert,” drawled Sheriff McCoy, noting the lights were off as he chewed on a straw. “Spiders can survive in the badlands forever. Ninety-nine percent of surviving the immense heat is half mental, but we'll track them.”
“Can someone shut off that smoke detector?” I asked, searching the motel room. “What's with your hair? You used to be bald.”
“It's spray-on hair,” bragged Sheriff McCoy, self-consciously running his hand through his rich black hair. “It looks really real, don't you think?”
“Spray-on hair causes cancer,” I warned, smashing the smoke alarm with my rifle butt so I could hear myself think. “What happened here?”
“The spiders bugged out, maybe spooked by the alarm.”
I brought in Corporal Tonelli and his tracking monitor dragon Spot to track Cactus-Claw's trail. Spot's forked tongue darted out every few steps, sniffing the air. Spot violently pulled Corporal Tonelli on his leash. Soon we found a small area of burned sagebrush where Cactus-Claw had set toilet paper and feces afire. Sheriff McCoy bagged the spider doo-doo for evidence, leaving a small bio-flag in his wake.
“Good thing we didn't step in it,” he commented.
“Good thing.”
“My hair is melting from the sun,” complained Sheriff McCoy, distracted.
“Wear a hat,” I suggested, annoyed at McCoy's inability to focus.
“Too late. It's already goo. We'll have to delay our press release.”
As if on cue, embedded Legion reporter Brad Jacobs of World News Tonight appeared, pressing a microphone in Sheriff McCoy's face. “How's your new spray-on hair from Gillette?” asked Jacobs. “Take off your cap for a close-up.”
“Numerous spider bandits fled north across the border,” I interrupted. As the camera diverted away from McCoy, he sprayed more instant hair on his head, creating an awesome afro. “As your viewers can see, there's no reason not to have good looking hair, even while fighting terrorism under the most intense desert heat. Sheriff McCoy's fro is has good as ever.” The camera panned back to Sheriff McCoy.
“My mail box is filling with texts from hotties all over the galaxy,” added Sheriff McCoy, winking at the camera as he held up his communications pad.
“I use spray-on hair, too,” I said, hoping for residuals.
“There you have it straight from Colonel Joey R. Czerinski on the DMZ,” exclaimed Jacobs, smiling broadly for the camera. “Gillette Instant Spray-on Hair eliminates Legion helmet hair even under the worst conditions. Never have a bad hair day. Use Gillette Instant Spray-on Hair.”
“That's a wrap,” I announced, satisfied about getting my share of commercial residuals.
“What is the Legion doing to combat lawlessness along the DMZ?” pressed Jacobs. “Some say not enough. What about Cactus-Claw?”
“The full resources of the United States Galactic Federation will be brought to bear to bring that pimple on the ass of society to justice,” I promised grimly. “Dead or alive.”
* * * * *
Others were upset that the Legion was not doing more to combat terrorism along the DMZ. All along the DMZ, junior college demonstrators protested Legion inability to protect colonists. A groundswell of discontent erupted at Legion bases, including Legion Headquarters in New Gobi City. Several thousand demonstrators surrounded my office, pressing defense barriers and legionnaires to the limit, demanding I come out to talk. I refused to humble myself before such undergraduate sophomoric rabble. Finally, a rock thrown through my window forced a confrontation. I donned a helmet and riot gear to go outside.
I was greeted with hisses and boos. Nervous legionnaires braced behind barriers, dodging rocks and bottles, but I stood my ground. Thousands press in. I glimpsed several coeds exposing their breasts, and swirling their burning bras like lethal Biblical slings. As I tried to better surveil the situation, lights flickered. The hostile crowd faded in and out. Something wasn't right. I jumped the barricade, wading into the crowd swinging my rifle butt fruitlessly into the air.
The entire demonstration was a hologram. Damn it, even the bra burners were fake. I shot the nearest loudspeaker and pulled the plug on the video, revealing a lone junior college freshman student seated on a folding chair holding an incriminating bra slingshot. The crowd of thousands vanished.
“Arrest that fool!” I ordered testily. “You will pay for my window.”
“Freedom of speech and collateral damage,” objected the freshman. “I have Constitutional rights!”
“I'm going to hit you so hard your mother will hear the vibrations.”
“Legion brutality! Junior college lives matter!”
“Duct tape him to the flag pole as an example to other puke freshman,” I ordered. “Ha! Another use for duct tape.”
“I have a permit to protest from the Mayor Pro Tem.”
“Are you a Democrat?” I asked suspiciously. “Who else would have a permit?”
“You can't prove anything.”
“Initiate deportation proceedings,” I ordered, sending video evidence from my communications pad to INS. “How these fools ever get past Mars is beyond me.”
“Yes, sir,” replied sergeant Green, detailing a squad of legionnaires to pummel and duct tape the undocumented Democrat.
“There will be no more rent-a-mobs,” I proclaimed, playing to the gathering press. “This is what happens when you allow college kids time off for spring break. Back in the day, we got drunk and rioted at the beach. We never played video in the street.”
“What will happened to the alleged Democrat?” asked Brad Jacobs of World News Tonight. “Will you really deport him?”
“First he gets a hearing,” I answered, checking my communications pad. “Look at that. He's already been found guilty from the video evidence. Do you wish to appeal?”
“Yes,” answered the Democrat. He pressed the appeal button on my pad. A buzzer sounded loudly.
“Sorry, you lost your appeal.”
“That's not fair!”
“Duct tape his mouth before he's found in contempt. The Court finds you guilty of being a Democrat out of season. New Colorado is a Democrat Free Zone. You will be deported to Mars tomorrow, then on to the slums of Old Earth Boston on the next slow freighter, forced to get a job.”
“A job?” asked Jacobs incredulously. “That's harsh. Shouldn't he get counseling first, or job skills training?”
“Tough measures for tough times. The DMZ is no place for half measures. We don't allow dead weight on the frontier. It's the law, written somewhere in the Con
stitution.”
* * * * *
Through his sniper scope Cactus-Claw viewed legionnaires across a ravine led by a monitor dragon hot on their track. They would be easy kills at this range, he thought, maybe too easy. Cactus-Claw sent runners to cover his flanks. Sure enough, they reported legion armor creeping up on both sides. Also, the metallic hum of a drone could be heard high overhead.
“We're trapped,” fumed Cactus-Claw. “If we dash for the border, that drone will spot us.”
“I hope so,” replied Little-Claw enthusiastically, accessing a UPS app on his communications pad. “That's our pizza.”
“You ordered pizza when we are in a fight for our lives?”
“That's the best time. We need calories if we're going to win this fight with the human pestilence Legion.”
“Forget the pizza. We'll make a run for it.”
“But Pizza Hut doesn't allow refunds,” protested Little-Claw, confirming the order and location with a tracking app. “UPS charges extra to cross the border.”
“We cut our losses. Cancel the pizza order.”
“I'm seeing a news report of a hologram protest just broke up by the Legion in New Gobi City. Do you think the ghosts at the motel was just a diabolical Legion trick?”
“Maybe. It's food for thought.”
“Don't make me hungrier than I am by talking of food,” grumbled Little-Claw.”
“Retreat now.”
“But . . .”
“Just do it.”
“Do you mean make it happen?”
“I mean just do it, and make it happen.”
* * * * *
“There is a civilian drone circling,” advised Major Lopez, radioing from the field. “Its transponder shows it to be a UPS drone delivering pizza to spider prospectors.”
“What kind of pizza?” I asked.
“Pepperoni and sausage, with extra cheese.”
“Bastards. All we get in the field are MREs. Shoot down the drone at once.”
“I'm not paying for a UPS drone,” argued Major Lopez. “Or for lost pizza.”
“That's terrorist pizza. Collateral damage can't be helped. UPS should know better than to consort with the enemy. Shoot it down.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits Page 2
