“But Private Knight isn’t even that good a legionnaire. I’ve almost had him shot several times. Forget it. News flash, I’m not having sex with a camel!”
“Nonsense. Get Hargundu, the Legion camel you had as a pet. That’s an order.”
“Hargundu is friendly enough, but he’s a male,” I explained reasonably. “I can’t have sex with a male camel. He wouldn’t like it.”
“I see. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. His kick is lethal. Besides, ever get camel poop in your drawers?”
“So Hargundu is totally out of the question?”
“Totally.”
“Can’t you just do it? Take one for the team?”
“Sir, must I remind you, America does not negotiate with terrorists? This would set a bad precedent. Today it’s camels, tomorrow it’s goats and cows. It’s a slippery slope I don’t want to go down. Where will it all end? What if next time the Cartel wants a general to screw a camel to secure my release.”
“I wouldn’t do it, of course, but that’s because I’m the general, and you’re not.”
“But, sir...”
“You’d do anything to get my star, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“I deal with the here and now, not hypotheticals. Do what it takes to get Walter Knight back safe, or else! He’s an American science fiction icon. If you don’t believe it, just ask him!”
* * * * *
I drove to Big Al’s New and Used Camels & Goats One Stop Shopping Center to negotiate buying a nice camel. “I want to buy a young female camel,” I said, offering a Legion credit card. “Money is no object.”
Big Al recognized me from recent TV coverage. The big sales spider was not happy. “Money may be no object, but even camel traders have morals,” he replied testily. “I know why you are here. No way, José, can I in good conscience sell you one of my nubile young female camels, knowing your planned abuse. It would not be right, even at premium prices, which I plan to sell at anyway.”
“Can I just rent a camel?”
“That’s even more disgusting! This is not some Camelot brothel.”
“Fine,” I said, annoyed at Big Al’s moralistic haggling tactics. “I’ll pay double.”
“Not at any price, but how about a comely goat?” asked Big Al, still hoping to salvage goodwill with the Legion. “Angie is sturdy and already broke in.”
“Does she kick or spit?” I asked, eying Angie speculatively.
“No, no, Angie is very docile,” assured Big Al. “And see? She has such pretty blue eyes.”
“I’ll get back with you on Angie. Maybe the terrorists will negotiate on species.”
“May I suggest we disguise Angie as a baby camel?”
“That’s just wrong in so many ways.”
“As a bonus, Angie is guaranteed to be almost sand mite free.”
“Really?” I asked, my resolve weakening. “Okay, we have a deal. I’ll buy Angie.”
* * * * *
I called Aaron Kosminski on the Terrorist Hotline at Teamsters Headquarters to negotiate the camel-goat issue. He seemed amenable. Goats were not a deal breaker.
“You are really going to do it?” laughed Kosminski. “I mean, yes, of course you are. Anything to save world-famous science fiction author and icon, Walter Knight. Right?”
“Stop jerking me around, or you will die slow and painful,” I threatened, losing patience. “What do you really want?”
“Safe passage off New Colorado,” answered Kosminski bluntly.
“The galaxy is too small a place for you to be allowed to live.”
“Exactly, but I have a solution to that. I know you and the spiders guard a time machine for the CIA. I want to travel to 1888 Old Earth London.”
“Why?”
“A fresh start,” explained Kosminski. “Haven’t you ever wanted to just get away? The Polish Cartel was just a front for Blue-Claw, anyway. I have it all planned out. With gold saved from blue powder sales, I’ll live like a king in my retirement.”
“But why Old London?”
“Family and friends. Show me your friends, and I’ll show you your future.”
“You’ll release Knight?”
“Yes, of course. As soon as I arrive safely, I’ll send a text message releasing your legionnaire.”
“No goats or camels?”
“No. I’ll tell you a secret. That camel thing was all Knight’s idea. I don’t think he likes you.”
* * * * *
I sent Aaron Kosminski back to his future, 1888 Whitechapel London. As soon as Kosminski arrived, Private Knight was released. Exhilarated, Kosminski, took a deep breath of the London air, pungent with soot and horse manure. “It’s great to be me!” he exclaimed. However, Kosminski was promptly greeted by Sir Charles Warren of the Metropolitan Police.
“You are under arrest for unspeakable crimes against the galaxy,” announced Detective Warren. “You will be hung and quartered, if I have anything to say about it.”
“To hell, you say,” replied Kosminski, reaching for his concealed razor. A constable bashed him on the head from behind with a bludgeon. Kosminski fell to the muddy street, severely concussed. “Damn. I was going to Hell anyway. I just needed vacation time.”
Kosminski was locked up in an insane asylum, where he died horribly, years later.
Chapter 10
I marched ten thousand crack-spider refugees south from the Battle of the Web. I contemplated marching them continuously to death across the planet, but it turns out spiders can go months without food or water, and never tire. Who knew? I turned the trail of crack-spiders east toward the Scorpion City Autonomous Region, enlisting the aid of Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard. Scorpions hate spiders, but I assured Major Desert-Sting the refugee camp was only temporary until a final solution could be found.
Pitched tents and concertina wire went up quickly. I graciously granted database access to keep the restless refugee spiders busy. Otherwise, they’d start digging tunnels and get all twitchy. However, it was not enough. Crack-spiders crave blue powder. They soon tested the fence, going over the first night.
Eight spiders silently made their way north across the dunes. Scorpion bandits, lying in wait, concealed just under the sand dunes, sprang in ambush on them. Paralyzed by venomous stings, the spiders were robbed and ripped apart in short order. Barbecue fires lit the night sky as choice spider cuts rotated on sticks, seasoned and cooked to perfection. It smelled like delicious chicken adobo from Old Earth. As an added bonus, the hungry bandits got a blue-powder high from eating the still toxic crack-spiders. Young scorpions, old scorpions, feeling right, on a warm New Gobi night. Word quickly spread of the gourmet high times for all guarding the refugee camp.
* * * * *
The first rocks thrown over the wire fence went unchallenged. Emboldened, crack-spiders threw more and began chanting, “Walmart, Walmart, Walmart!” A solitary spider lit a candle for the ‘Eaten Eight’ killed during the escape attempt. Nervous legionnaires took cover behind armored cars. Embedded reporters from the Galactic Database news organizations broadcast events live. Cameras zoomed in on a candle holder, hoping for Pulitzer Prize photos of the anticipated riot and massacre. Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard and I agreed to meet with crack-spider leaders about their grievances to defuse the situation.
“We’re sincerely sorry about the loss of the Eaten Eight,” I started. “The Legion can only offer protection if you work with me, and stay within the confines of the camp.”
“Oh, those fools,” replied Twitch-Claw, self-appointed Mayor of Gulag Blue Powder. “Forget that. We want to go into town. What’s the point of issuing us food stamps and EBT cards if you won’t let us shop at the Walmart in Scorpion City?”
“For your own protection, this rabble will not enter Scorpion City under any circumstances,” bristled Major Desert-Sting. “It would be like a spider buffet.”
“But we are all Sam’s Club mem
bers,” argued Twitchy. “You are violating our Constitutional rights.”
“You’re not citizens yet,” I added. “No rights for you.”
“My lawyer says otherwise.”
“Citizenship to drug-addled spider vermin will never happen,” sneered Major Desert-Sting. “Not on my watch.”
“The mayor might have a point,” advised Major Lopez. “Courts are saying even undocumented immigrants are guaranteed certain Constitutional rights. Just saying.”
“Everyone is a jailhouse lawyer,” I groused. “No one goes to Walmart until more legionnaires arrive. How about if I bring Walmart to you?”
“You can do that?” asked Twitchy. “Bring McDonald’s and Pizza Hut, too. I know my rights. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”
“Let my fallen addicts and righteous crack-hoes go!” interrupted Blue-Claw, using a hand held PA speaker from the crest of a giant dune to the north. Dressed in a flowing white robe and hoodie of the desert, Blue-Claw waved an accusing wooden staff at the legionnaires below. Wind and sand moved with each omniscient swirl of his staff.
Spider refugees pressed the northern wire, trampling it flat, seeking to touch Blue-Claw. A high dune blocked their path, but parted as they approached. It was truly a modern miracle and sight to behold. Mountains of sand blocked out the sun as spider refugees passed between the narrow safe haven of swirling sand. I couldn’t help but stare; I had the best seat.
I hopped atop an armored car turret and fired machine gun rounds at Blue-Claw, followed by a cannon burst. I couldn’t tell if I hit Blue-Claw, but the walls of dust collapsed on the exodus of refugees, burying them all. Shooting Blue-Claw seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, I realize it wasn’t good planning. Blue-Claw escaped anyway.
“What have you done?” shouted Major Lopez, crossing himself, pulling me off the turret. “You just killed Moses!”
“Moses wasn’t a spider.”
“Inquiring minds want to know what you’ve done,” added Channel Five News reporter Phil Coen, holding a mic to my face. “Colonel Czerinski, your reckless conduct is not just bad press. You truly are the monstrous Butcher of New Colorado that your reputation portends. Do you have anything to say to the galaxy about your latest atrocity? Is it Legion policy to shoot crack-spider activists on sight?”
“Arrest Coen and all the other reporters present,” I ordered. “Confiscate their equipment. None of what happened here goes viral.”
“You can’t arrest me!” shouted Coen, struggling with legionnaires. “I’m an American icon. My public has a right to know what happened here!”
“What did happen here?” asked Major Desert-Sting, copying Lopez, crossing himself with numerous claws. “Blue-Claw did look Moses-ish, like in that Old Earth movie Ben Hur.”
“It was a Tornado,” I explained. “Tornadoes happen all the time in the desert.”
“No, they don’t,” argued Major Lopez. “Dust devils happen, but they’re different.”
“Dust devils, tornadoes, whatever. They all swirl.”
“What about me?” asked Coen, struggling in handcuffs. “What’s the charge?”
“No charges yet. I’m detaining you for national security reasons until we find out about that big dust devil.”
“It wasn’t a dust devil.”
“Exactly.”
“This is all a big cover-up. You fired on innocent civilians, burying them alive!”
“Place Coen and the others in isolation at the Scorpion City County Jail. I’ll deal with them later.”
* * * * *
The scorpion judge peered over his bifocals at the human detainees. They were a twitchy lot, never sitting still, never shutting up. We’ll see about that. They say Old Earth started with just two humans, now there’s billions. Someone needs to turn a hose on humanity. The scorpion judge slammed his gavel, bringing the court to order.
“It’s not often I get humans in my courtroom,” observed the scorpion judge. “What’s all this rigmarole about filing a writ of habeas corpus?”
“It’s technical, but Czerinski is attempting another cover-up!” shouted Coen. “He’s responsible for the slaughter of thousands of innocent Arthropodan refugees just outside of town.”
“Spiders in Scorpion City?” asked the scorpion judge, reaching for his pistols. “I won’t stand for such trespass.”
“They’re dead, Your Honor. Czerinski killed them all.”
“That’s what legionnaires are for,” said the scorpion judge, shrugging. “Next case!”
“What about us?” asked Coen. “We’re being held incommunicado for no good reason.”
“Is that so?” asked the scorpion judge, nodding accusingly in my direction. “Czerinski, what say you?”
“National security prevents me from giving details about the incident at the refugee camp,” I answered respectfully. “It’s top secret stuff.”
“Most massacres are top secret,” sniffed the scorpion judge. “What kind of shit did you step into this time, Colonel Czerinski? Start talking, or I’ll find you in contempt.”
“I plead the Fifth.”
The scorpion judge pointed a claw at Major Desert-Sting. “Major, what happened?”
“The sand dunes parted when drug lord fugitive Blue-Claw waved his wand, allowing the spider refugees to escape. Colonel Czerinski fired a canon at Blue-Claw, and the wall of sand collapsed, burying them all.”
“I see. Have you been drinking?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“I think I already read this story about parting walls of whatever. Anything else before I start issuing contempt of court citations?”
“The maelstrom defied all logic and rules of physics, but it’s all recorded on Coen’s video,” insisted Major Desert-Sting.
“It was just a tornado, but different,” I explained. “Legion meteorologists and the CIA are looking into the matter.”
The scorpion judge rummaged through the cameras on his bench, playing a video. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, losing composure. “What the Hell is this?”
“The Legion requests Coen, his crew, and all evidence be held indefinitely until certain anomalies can be properly investigated,” I added reasonably. “We think Blue-Claw used a powerful secret weapon.”
“Detaining reporters and stifling news is a violation of First Amendment freedom of the press,” accused Coen. “Do you have any idea who I am? I’m Phil Coen, an American icon, and a personal friend of General Daly and the President!”
“That part about ‘who you are’ carries no weight in my courtroom,” lectured the scorpion judge. “Do you concede that a tornado might be a weapon, and national security is in play?”
“I concede nothing of the sort,” replied Coen defiantly. “Czerinski is up to his Butcher of New Colorado murderous double dealings again. My public has a right to know about yet another massacre at the hands of the Legion.”
“I’ve come to a decision,” announced the scorpion judge, pounding his gavel again. “Coen, whom I deem to be an unstable human, and his posse of like-minded news trash, will be held at the county jail until Sunday, when they all will be filleted, barbecued, and eaten during the upcoming Labor Day picnic. All evidence seized by the Legion will be remanded back to the Legion. This court will not second guess Legion decisions on matters of national security. Court is adjourned.”
“Your Honor, that’s a bit harsh,” I commented, standing to address the court. “I just wanted Coen detained.”
“Do you want to join the prisoners at my barbecue?” threatened the scorpion judge. “I don’t think so. The cheese done slid off Coen’s cracker. He needs to be locked up for the public good. Remember, you are in the Autonomous Region of Scorpion City. What I say here is law. Understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good. Get out of town, before sundown. Ha! I always wanted to say that.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
* * * * *
Blue-Claw called me on my
communications pad, getting my private number from the Foreign Legion Outreach Hot Line. Their motto is, ‘The Legion wants to reach out and touch you.’ I promised to reach out and touch someone in Legion Public Relations if they kept giving out my number.
“I am still alive, Czerinski!” bragged Blue-Claw. “I thought we were buds, but you and the DEA try to bomb me?”
“Nice trick moving sand dunes like God,” I replied conversationally. “How’d you do that?”
“Maybe I got religion.”
“Not likely. That stunt of yours is drawing heat from the CIA.”
“That dust up was just a freak tornado,” explained Blue-Claw dismissively. “I got lucky. Can’t we all just get along, make a deal?”
“Not if you keep lying to me.”
“We’re both in the same boat. I want the feds off my back, you want to avoid prosecution for crimes against the galaxy. Ten thousand Arthropodan refugees perished at your hands. Do you think your massacre will just be forgotten?”
“I was hoping.”
“Not happening.”
“You’re responsible for that,” I accused. “You’ll fall before I do.”
“Maybe, but that’s my point. There’s no reason for anyone to fall. How long do you think your news blackout will last? Not long, when I release my own video. That’s right, I got video, too.”
“What do you propose?”
“Stop trying to kill me!”
“Fine.”
“Allow my blue powder to flow south past Legion checkpoints. I’ll cut you in for a percentage of my profits. You’ll be rich.”
“I’m already rich.”
“There’s no such thing as too much money. It’s as good as cash.”
“I want more.”
“There’s no pleasing you, is there, Czerinski? You want power. Do you think if I give you my weapon of mass destruction, you can avoid prison?”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War Page 5
