America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War

by Walter Knight

  “There is no escape from the New Phoenix Hilton.”

  “What about this?” asked Blue-Claw, handing Coles a paper flier announcing a ‘guards against the inmates’ football game. “What do you know of football?”

  “This is for the annual Guards versus Felons game,” answered Coles. “So?”

  “It says that any team that defeats the guards gets pardoned by the sheriff.”

  “It also says that if we lose, we get five more years. No thanks to that. The guards always win.”

  “You’re afraid of five more years?” argued Blue-Claw. “We’re facing the death penalty.”

  “That’s another problem. If you read the fine print, I’m sure we’re not eligible for release. Not according to my public defender.”

  “Oh, well then, it must be true. Public defenders are never wrong. What do you know about football?”

  “How hard can it be? You can teach me.”

  “Back in the day, I could kick field goals,” bragged Coles optimistically. “Bubba Jones Junior is the player coach. There is no practice. We just show up in pads game day, and play.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair, then you die in prison.”

  * * * * *

  Bubba Jones Junior was connected. He ran the jail housing units. Even in custody, he wore gold chains around his neck, a reminder of his dad. Blue-Claw and Coles boldly introduced themselves.

  “Spiders can’t play football,” scoffed Jones. “Everyone knows that. You spiders can’t take a hit.”

  “I once ran for six hundred yards in one game,” boasted Blue-Claw. “I’m a player. I’m bad-ass. I be bad.”

  “Who’d you play for?” asked Jones doubtfully.

  “Capital City Dragons of the AFL – Arthropodan Football League.”

  “Damn, we got ourselves a ringer!” exclaimed Jones. “I’m doing twenty years because I keep losing to the guards. With you, we all get parole!”

  “You really think there’s a chance?” asked Coles. “I’m a kicker. Back in the day, when I was on drugs, no one was better. Score me some blue powder, and I’ll show you.”

  “Keep this our little secret,” whispered Jones conspiratorially.” “We’ll take the guards down by surprise. And even if we lose, I’m busting out of this hole.”

  * * * * *

  I requested battalion volunteers with football experience to play on the sheriff’s office public safety team in their annual guards against the convicts football game. Major Lopez brought me two quality prospects. I already knew Private Higuera. Big kid.

  “You appear to be a man of many talents,” I praised. “Where did you play?”

  “Tucson High,” bragged Private Higuera. “Go Badgers!”

  “Now you play for the New Phoenix Sheriff’s Office. Go Pyro-Pigs!”

  “I’m playing for the cops?”

  “Got a problem with that?” asked Major Lopez, getting in Higuera’s face.

  “No, sir,” answered Higuera. “I love cops. I just want to hug a cop.”

  “It’s a public safety team,” I explained. “The police and the Legion are united in drug interdiction efforts as of late. It’s good press.”

  Higuera had a lot of rough edges, but he had good size, obviously a defensive lineman. I turned my attention to the other prospect, a big clean-cut legionnaire still standing at rigid attention. He wanted to be the best of the best of the best.

  “At ease,” I ordered. “Relax, son. Who are you?”

  “Private Tebow, sir!”

  “Who’d you play for?”

  “God, sir.”

  “Are you on drugs?” I asked, alarmed at how high-strung the new kid appeared. “Who else did you play for?”

  “Just God, sir. I used to be strung out on drugs, but now I’m strung out on the Lord.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s real good,” assured Major Lopez, catching my foul glance. “Really, he is.”

  “What position do you play?”

  “Quarterback.”

  “Have you ever deflated a football prior to a game, for better grip?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  “Outstanding!” I exclaimed, the best news I’d heard all day. “Major Lopez, suspend all urine drug testing for Private Tebow until after the game.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I expect you two to represent the Legion with honor, integrity, ferocity, and skill. Most of all, I expect you to win. Major Lopez and I have money on the game. So does the rest of the battalion. Am I clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir!” they chorused.

  Chapter 13

  The spider commander hung Channel Five World News Tonight investigative reporter Phil Coen from a ceiling hook. A swivel allowed Coen to spin at the spider commander’s whim. The spider commander was easily amused by warm-up torture.

  “I am your biggest fan,” said the spider commander, bringing Coen to an abrupt stop. “I love American human pestilence TV. I have followed your investigations of Colonel Czerinski for years with great interest. Nothing seems to stick, and now it appears he has even won the war on blue powder.”

  “Is that what this is about?” cried Coen. “You’re not going to torture and eat me alive? There’s no need for all this. I’d help you get Czerinski for free.”

  “It is true, that is why I rescued you. However, after reviewing your video, I am more interested in the tornado.”

  “I no longer do weather,” advised Coen indignantly. “Those days of chasing storms are long gone. I’m a galactic icon now.”

  “There were two more tornadoes in New Phoenix. I saw them on TV. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Shit happens?”

  “Somehow, Blue-Claw is behind those tornadoes, but he is under arrest at the New Phoenix Sheriff’s Office. I want you to talk to Blue-Claw before Czerinski gets to him. I want to know how he did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Create large funnel clouds speckled with human pestilence trailer park mobile homes.”

  “I see. Okay, let me go, and I’ll get right on that.”

  The spider commander stuck a syringe into Coen’s neck, injecting a small microchip. “A tiny chip floating to your brain will explode whenever I chose to make it happen,” he explained maniacally. “You will find out Blue-Claw’s secret, or – pop – you die of a brain aneurysm.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” protested Coen, still bleeding from the neck. “Secret tornadoes? How am I supposed to find out about secret tornadoes? It’s probably just global warming.”

  “There’s no such thing as global warming!” replied the spider commander, back-claw-slapping Coen across the face. “Global warming is another of your human pestilence CIA plots of galactic domination and higher taxes.”

  “Please, not the face!” grimaced Coen in pain. “That was my dimpled camera side.”

  “You will go to the county jail to interview Blue-Claw about the fate of his Polish Cartel. Promise him anything for his secret. Offer amnesty, escape, bail, power, money – it’s as good as cash – even sex.”

  “I’m not having sex with Blue-Claw.”

  “You will do my bidding, no matter what!”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?”

  “Because I want Czerinski prosecuted for the massacre of the refugees. After I get Blue-Claw’s secret, Czerinski will no longer have the leverage to weasel out this time.”

  “Why not just kill Czerinski? It would be easier.”

  “It’s not so easy. He’s like your Old Earth invasive cockroaches, impossible to kill. Tear the head off a cockroach, it still lives on for weeks before it finally starves to death.”

  “Czerinski won’t live on for weeks.”

  “Killing Czerinski has to be done right, or not at all. Revenge is best served cold, like a crushed Old Earth invasive rodent.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it. But I want an exclusive on Arthropodan Cable TV about the Czerinski
fall.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything you want. You’re a galactic icon. Everyone says so. Even the Emperor watches you on World News Tonight.”

  * * * * *

  It was a slow news day when Phil Coen requested an interview with Sheriff McCoy about the sand mite infestation in New Phoenix. Sheriff McCoy declined to be interviewed. Coen asked about exploding kittens. That piqued the sheriff’s interest. McCoy relented for a short interview.

  “The reason I’m here is waterboarding,” started Coen. “It’s an outrage.”

  “The Sheriff’s Office does not explode or waterboard kittens,” replied Sheriff McCoy indignantly.

  “What about Colonel Czerinski’s ongoing interrogation of Blue-Claw?”

  “Colonel Czerinski has not yet been given access to Blue-Claw. However, because of pressure from above, I expect it to happen soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Today.”

  “And you’re good with that?”

  “Of course not,” advised the sheriff. “Blue-Claw signed up to play charity football. He will be our first spider running back. I expect to get a lot of good press, and don’t need scandal. This is a charity event for Children’s Hospital.”

  “Is Blue-Claw any good?”

  “I hear he has some moves and once ran for six hundred yards in one game, but the guards always win.”

  “I should bet on the guards?”

  “That’s where the smart money is. I’m hoping Blue-Claw brings down the odds.”

  “Who is Czerinski betting on?”

  “Damn, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Sheriff McCoy. “Waterboarding Blue-Claw threatens the integrity of the game.”

  “For the children, may I attend Blue-Claw’s interrogation?” asked Coen somberly. “If I cannot stop it, I can at least expose the outrage.”

  “Colonel Czerinski will never allow the press at an interrogation.”

  “It’s your jail. You decide what’s allowed.”

  “That’s right! Okay, you can sit in. Be warned, the CIA will be present. Sit in the corner and shut up, or you’ll probably be next in the water.”

  * * * * *

  Sheriff McCoy escorted CIA Agent John Casey and me to the jail infirmary where inmate Blue-Claw was strapped face-up to a stainless steel examination table. Reporter Phil Coen tagged along with Sheriff McCoy. Apparently I had no choice in the matter. The sheriff wanted Coen present to document the interrogation, and Agent Casey didn’t seem to care.

  “You’re going to be waterboarded,” announced Agent Casey, grimly. “You will tell us everything you know about what’s left of the Polish Cartel.”

  “Waterboarded?” asked Blue-Claw. “What’s that? I don’t surf.”

  “Waterboarding is just the old Chinese water torture technique, except different.”

  “I like Chinese food. Noodles are to die for.”

  “That could happen too. The CIA doesn’t pour cola up your nose to explode sinuses like the Mexican Federales do, but it’s effective. The CIA tortures better. If at all possible, we won’t let you die, or leave marks.”

  “I have already told the police everything.”

  “Tell us about the weather control device,” pressed Agent Casey. “How did you create a tornado?”

  Blue-Claw quickly glanced at Sheriff McCoy, but remained silent. Agent Casey secured a wet towel across Blue-Claw’s face, pouring water over the towel. The water seeped through, to no affect. Blue-Claw stayed stoic.

  “It’s not working,” I complained impatiently.

  “I’ve never waterboarded an alien,” conceded Agent Casey. “Maybe he’s holding his breath.”

  I punched Blue-Claw in the gut. He farted, loudly.

  “Gross!” exclaimed Legion medic Elena Ceausescu, standing by in case Blue-Claw needed to be revived. “What is it with males of any species? Must you always pass so much gas?”

  “Females don’t pass gas because they never shut up long enough to build up air pressure,” quipped Blue-Claw.

  “Spiders compartmentalize pain. Let me clip his antennae,” I suggested.

  Medic Ceausescu produced a taser from her pouch and zapped the end of Blue-Claw’s antenna. It shriveled like a salted slug.

  “Ouch!” shouted Blue-Claw. “Keep that human pestilence she-demon away from me!”

  “That was so hot,” lusted Agent Casey, seeing the Legion medic in a new light. “Can I interest you in a date? We can discuss interrogation techniques.”

  “Why, Agent Casey, you make me blush,” replied Ceausescu, clicking her taser seductively. “My place?”

  “Focus,” I ordered.

  Medic Ceausescu checked Blue-Claw with a stethoscope. He still breathed, but remained stoic. I observed a slight bubbling displacement of water under the spider’s head. My palm cupped under Blue-Claw’s skinny neck, blocking a second breathing hole. I taped it shut with duct tape from Ceausescu’s first aid kit. Ha! Another use for duct tape!

  “Tape his butt shut while you’re at it,” added Ceausescu.

  Agent Casey poured more water. This time Blue-Claw coughed and choked. Casey let him recover, then added more water. Finally Blue-Claw went limp. Ceausescu zapped Blue-Claw’s chest, bringing him back to life. Turned onto his side, Blue-Claw vomited water from his breathing holes and mouth.

  “Tell us about the tornado,” demanded Casey. “Where is the alien weapon? Where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know anything about alien weapons or tornadoes!” cried Blue-Claw.

  “This still isn’t working,” I protested, getting squeamish. Autopsies and torture sessions do that to me. I’m also a sympathetic vomiter. “Let me pump him with truth-telling drugs.”

  “Too dangerous,” answered Agent Casey, “and a violation of galactic treaties regarding crimes against the galaxy.”

  “That’s why I invited Phil Coen,” advised Sheriff McCoy. “I don’t want Coen’s Democrats complaining about our interrogation techniques. Waterboarding is at least humane. As you can see, there are no lasting physical affects.”

  “I am not a Democrat,” protested Coen. “Democrats aren’t allowed past Mars.”

  “Shut up!” warned Sheriff McCoy. “This is your last warning.”

  “I found another breathing hole,” interrupted medic Ceausescu. “This one is in his shoulder.”

  “Spiders breathe through their exoskeleton,” I reasoned. “They have no lungs.”

  “Hell!” said Agent Casey, dumping the rest of the water over Blue-Claw and removing the towel. “Now what?”

  I sliced off Blue-Claw’s other antenna with a sweep of my jagged Legion combat knife. I cut off another piece with my backhand. “It slices, and it dices,” I added glibly. “Where did you get the alien device?”

  “What?” asked Blue-Claw in obvious pain. “I cannot hear so well without my listening receptors. Please do not cut me again.”

  I duct taped the antenna pieces back together for better reception. It was crooked and listed to the side, but reception was better if I held onto it and raised my other hand. “Can you hear me now?”

  “Move a little forward,” insisted Blue-Claw. Ceausescu zapped him around where his testicles should be. “I hear great!”

  “Where is the alien tornado device?” asked Agent Casey, squeezing Ceausescu’s knee affectionately under the table. “Tell me, or I turn Elena loose on you.”

  “Sheriff McCoy has it!”

  We all turned to McCoy. He just shrugged. “It’s in the evidence locker. Hey, no one bothered to ask me about tornado sticks. This is the first I knew of your interest.”

  “I’ll deal with you later, sheriff,” I threatened, turning my attention back to Blue-Claw. “Where did you get the device?”

  “Please, no more!”

  “You’ll be okay when the pain stops. Talk!”

  “At a pawn shop in North New Gobi City. There are more alien artifacts, but the owner won’t sell. He only sold to me because of a debt owed.”

/>   “Strap Coen to the table,” I ordered, satisfied I had gotten all I needed from Blue-Claw. “You will tell me how you escaped the scorpions, and what you know of tornadoes and alien artifacts.”

  Phil Coen confessed to treason, but was released on humanitarian grounds because of the coercive exploding microchip lodged in his brain. I allowed Coen to drive across the border to disseminate misinformation about the alien weather device I seized from Sheriff McCoy. He was instructed that, under no circumstances, was he to mention the pawn shop, or the orbiting space weapons platform T. Roosevelt would rain down bombs on his head.

  * * * * *

  At Arthropodan Marine Headquarters, the spider commander and an Intelligentsia Federal Police Officer listened intently to Coen’s tale of Sheriff McCoy still having the alien artifact that altered weather, stirred up sand mites, and exploded kittens.

  “Very disturbing,” commented the spider Intelligentsia officer. “Exploding kittens ratchets up arms proliferation on the DMZ considerably.”

  “Intelligentsia, my poop-chute,” grumbled the spider commander. “Idiots, all of you. I will personally lead commandos against McCoy to steal the tornado stick.”

  “The biological aspect of the human pestilence escalation is a provocation that cannot be ignored,” agreed the Intelligentsia officer, scratching at the mere thought of sand mites and kitten dander. “Bastards!”

  “You will remove the explosive chip?” pleaded Coen. “I’ve done all you asked.”

  “A deal is a deal,” conceded the spider commander. “Remove the chip. Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”

  Unexpectedly, the Intelligentsia officer clubbed Coen on the noggin with a sap. Dazed, Coen’s head was secured in a vice for removal of the microchip. Expertly wielding a Dremel electric power drill, the Intelligentsia officer bore into Coen’s frontal lobe.

  The sight of blood and smell of burning bone was sickening, even to a seasoned combat veteran such as the spider commander. Something was terribly wrong. The Intelligentsia officer examined the X-ray again, discovering it had been upside down. “Oops, wrong side!” he exclaimed contritely. He poured vodka over the wound and sealed it with duct tape before boring earnestly into the back of Coen’s scalp.