“I’ll get back with you. Your boy was flown south, and I have to get him back.”
* * * * *
I called Judge Black-Sting. “Your Honor, I need a big favor. I need a Court Order preventing that spider officer I sent you from being eaten. I need him back for an emergency prisoner exchange. Remember Private Knight? He got captured. It would mean a lot of bad press if I didn’t at least try to get him back.”
“I told you that Knight was more trouble than he was worth,” grumbled Judge Black-Sting, throwing down his barbeque apron and basting brushes. “Poachers cannot be rehabilitated. Now that Knight has ruined my barbeque. Guests are already arriving. What do I tell them?”
“Don’t you have some fish in the freezer?”
“It’s not the same,” lamented Judge Black-Sting.
“I’ll owe you one, Your Honor,” I promised.
“Yes you will, Czerinski, and I always collect on debts!”
Chapter 14
Senior State Department official James Yamashita met with the alien space probe in New Phoenix to discuss travel to Ursidae and establishment of formal diplomatic relations. Also present were Major Lopez and myself.
“My wife Lulu and I are excited about being in the first delegation to travel to Ursidae,” advised Ambassador Yamashita, bowing awkwardly. “Lulu even gave away all her fur coats and wraps. I have been meticulously studying the first contact data you so graciously provided. Space bears? Who knew?”
“There’s no need to bow,” I whispered. “It’s just a stupid machine.”
“I am not stupid,” advised the space probe, curtly. “And I have excellent hearing receptacles.”
“I hope prolonged exposure to Colonel Czerinski has not soured you too much on humanity,” commented Yamashita. “We are not all so mercenary. Bears and humans are mammalian cousins from across the stars. Our alliance is much needed to stem the dangerous tide of exoskeleton swarms infesting the galaxy. Our worlds are truly alone against the bugs.”
“I invite humanity’s best and brightest to visit Ursidae,” replied the space probe, ignoring the rhetoric. Such drivel would be left to the politicians. “We are especially impressed with video of your buffalo burgers. I have taken liberty to make informal inquiries to the McDonald’s Corporation, inviting CEO Ronald McDonald to attend the first contact ceremony.”
“I had not realized the extent of your exposure to New Colorado,” responded Yamashita, alarmed at losing control of the already growing invitation list. “We have much in common.”
“Ursidae and Old Earth have a similar warm-blooded history and culture,” agreed the space probe, still downloading information from the database. “Except for the parts that are different.”
* * * * *
An American space fleet beamed into orbit around Ursidae, ostensibly to present Ambassador Yamashita and his diplomatic credentials, and to offer protection against a dangerous galaxy. Accidents can happen. The Bear President for Life met the Ambassador’s shuttle in Bear Square. An orderly crowd of one hundred thousand select bears of the ruling class waited patiently as the shuttle ramp extended to the ground. All hoped to view galactic history in the making.
Illuminated Golden Arches upstaged the event, extending out from each side of the shuttle, lighting the night. The salivating bear crowd pressed forward as the aroma of grilled triple patty buffalo burgers wafted on the breeze. Nervous bear police jostled with hungry citizens to prevent a feeding frenzy.
First to appear at the top of the ramp was Ronald McDonald. Sporting full clown regalia, Ronald played to the crowd like a rock star, generously tossing buffalo burgers to the closest bears. America’s new Happy Meal Diplomacy had started.
Next off the shuttle was Ambassador Yamashita and his lovely wife Lulu, followed by General Daly, myself, and a Legion security detail sprinkled with CIA agents. Corporal Tonelli hung back to converse privately with some scraggly unsavory looking bears at the crowd’s edge. They exchanged tokens of goodwill. With great restraint, the Bear President stoically resisted the Happy Meal offerings, shaking hands and paws with Yamashita, and giving Lulu an overly friendly bear hug.
“Yogi just copped a feel,” Lulu complained to her husband. “You better do something!”
“This is my wife, Lulu,” introduced Yamashita. “Is your wife here? Is there a First Lady Bear?”
“She is at home attending the cubs and doing the dishes,” admonished the Bear President. “It is very uncouth of you to bring your harlot to such an important public ceremony.”
“What?” asked Lula. “This translation device had better be defective.”
“President Miller sends his warmest regards,” advised Ambassador Yamashita, dismissing his flighty wife’s overreaction to slight cultural idiosyncrasies. “Today is a grand day for our two great nations.”
“Live long and prosper,” replied the Bear President, well versed from database research on formal human protocol. “Where is my explorer vehicle? We lost contact shortly before your arrival?
“I apologize for any distress caused by the matter, but your space probe was granted diplomatic asylum and refugee status,” explained Ambassador Yamashita, sensing strained relations from the start, but continuing to smile closed lipped for the crowd. “Your probe fears he will be melted down for scrap upon return, now that his mission is accomplished. I’m afraid the Supreme Court held the space probe to be a sentient life form, and eligible for refugee status. It appears there is case law supporting the claim. Lawyers!”
“Yes, we too are infested with attorneys here on Ursidae,” sighed the Bear President. “I periodically purge them for the public good. What of the impressive armada circling our world? Did your Supremes order its presence, too?”
“The galaxy is a dangerous place,” cautioned Ambassador Yamashita. “Peace is only ensured through strength and diligence.”
“The galaxy just got more dangerous,” bristled the Bear President. “You will return the laser and certain equipment. My scientists will provide you a list.”
“No, I will not.”
“I see. Like a female, you humans are going to be difficult.”
“Mr. President, for better or worse, first contact has brought change to both our worlds. Now other species will seek contact. America offers our protection and goodwill.”
“By goodwill, you mean you offer the secret to your beam transport technology?”
“Most certainly. I foresee a fruitful exchange of technology and culture. Most important, humanity desires to assist Ursidae in a peaceful transition as you join the galaxy of responsible nations. To avoid misunderstandings, the specifics of such matters are still to be negotiated.”
“Enjoy the party,” advised the Bear President, turning his back on this uppity human, glancing up at the moving lights in the sky. “Yes, I can clearly see change has come. It was inevitable. Ursidae will take its rightful place among the galaxy of nations.”
“Have a burger and fries,” suggested Ambassador Yamashita. “Resistance is futile.”
* * * * *
The Arthropodan Ambassador arrived on Ursidae with an urgent message from the Emperor. Escorted by the trusted spider commander, he could not help but notice that the United States Galactic Federation had a head start in first contact. Human pestilence contamination was evident everywhere.
McDonald’s, Starbucks, and KFC pedaled their poison in the in the middle of Bear Square. Tobacco and other odd scents were evident. Droopy-drawered cubs playing Old Earth music sauntered by, sporting their new human pestilence sunglasses, backward caps, and Nikes. Scientists on Arthropoda already proved beyond any doubt those boom boxes caused brain damage to young minds. Ha! The spider commander took consolation in seeing this human pestilence rot happen to someone else.
The Bear President greeted the Arthropodan delegation. What a bumbling fool, thought the spider commander. They’re another species that should have been exterminated upon first contact. Time will tell.
“Welcome to Ursidae, gnarly space spiders!” exclaimed the Bear President, puffing on one of those fat odd-smelling human pestilence cigarettes. “Welcome to the happiest Empire in the galaxy.”
“Really?” scoffed the Arthropodan Ambassador, accepting a complimentary Starbucks latte. “Existing under the human pestilence boot is happiness? You delude yourselves. Those dreadnaughts decorating the sky like Christmas bulbs are a permanent threat to your sovereignty.”
“Christmas bulbs?”
“You’ll find out about Christmas soon enough.”
“Humanity protects us from a hostile and strange galaxy, and from you,” explained the Bear President, a defensive growl to his voice. “Our species shares a commonality with the humans you would not understand.”
“Bones held together by skin is not enough to prevent the human pestilence from using you for clothing, and eating your family,” warned the spider commander. “Understand this. I can snuff out your puny planet anytime I want. We can bomb you from space with impunity. If you pass on dangerous weapons technology to the human pestilence, especially lasers, the Empire will consider such a transfer to be a direct act of war.”
“I have given the humans nothing,” replied the Bear President, stiffening. “But I fear the United States Galactic Federation has stolen our space explorer vehicle and its armaments. I was powerless to stop them. We lost contact, and the vehicle’s self destruct program malfunctioned.”
“What other weapons systems do you possess?”
“I thought the humans were your allies.”
“Alliances shift,” explained the ambassador. “It is a big galaxy we share.”
“What weapons do you have?” pressed the spider commander. “What have you given the human pestilence?”
“Only the laser the humans stole. Ursidae has developed formidable nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. We only lack galactic delivery systems.”
“I see no difference between you and the human pestilence,” commented the spider commander, reassessing the danger from these bears. “Quarantined, you would eventually exterminate yourself, saving the galaxy much grief.”
“We seek the peace and security alliances bring,” insisted the Bear President. “Same as you. I am informed the galaxy holds many dangers beyond the petty squabbles and grudges you have with humanity. Recently I saw my first scorpion, a truly frightful sight. And it wore a Legion uniform, as did some of you spiders. We want to join the galaxy of nations, not fight them. Can’t we all just get along?”
“No!” grated the spider commander. “I hate that question.”
“It was worth a try.”
“For now, the Arthropodan Empire is prepared to offer our protection in exchange for your promise not to proliferate weapons transfers to the human pestilence,” announced the Arthropodan Ambassador. “Do we have an understanding?”
You’re making me an offer I can’t refuse?” mused the Bear President, mimicking human slang learned from the database. “Bada-bing, bada-boom?”
“What?”
“Ursidae agrees to stay neutral,” answered the Bear President, shaking paws and claws.
Chapter 15
The CIA granted the Ursidae space probe rover political asylum in exchange for giving up its secrets and surrendering its laser. The standard witness protection program offered the rover a choice between being a forest ranger at Glacier National Park, or being a cattle guard in remote Montana. The prospect of wide open spaces and chasing rambunctious cattle appealed to the rover’s free spirit, so he chose cattle guard. Yeehaw! Get along little doggies! The rover quickly signed, not bothering to read the fine print, never a good idea when guaranteed promises by the federal government.
Major Lopez and Sergeant Williams escorted the rover by shuttle to Old Earth. First stop was Area 51 in Nevada, to disconnect the laser and check diagnostics. As the apprehensive rover approached the large metal doors to the vast underground research facility, it bolted, racing across the bleak sagebrush desert at top speed.
Lopez and Williams frantically fired at the rover, bullets harmlessly pinging off its armor. A helicopter gunship called from nearby Nellis Air Force Base quickly joined the pursuit, but was shot down by deadly accurate laser fire. A reconnaissance satellite was similarly disabled. The rover easily outdistanced Lopez’s jeep in the rugged high mountain desert.
* * * * *
By nightfall, the rover found itself in the central Nevada ghost town of Belmont, unique for its still standing courthouse. The rover parked under the awning of an abandoned hotel to avoid detection from airborne drones and satellites.
Iron Mike, a transient snow bird living at Belmont and taking refuge from northern winters, staggered out to greet the curious visitor. What the hell? Gulping another swig of whiskey, Iron Mike braced himself on a fender for a closer look. Immediately the laser popped up, taking aim.
“Whoa, sheriff, don’t shoot!” exclaimed Iron Mike, hands raised, falling back. “Just let me sleep it off in the hoosegow!”
The rover retracted its laser, sensing Iron Mike was no immediate threat. “I did not intend to intrude or cause undue alarm, but the authorities seek to torture me for information and melt me down for scrap.”
“A talking car, fleeing the posse?” asked Iron Mike, contemplating sobriety, but knowing better. “Did you escape from Area 51?”
“How did you know?” asked the rover, alarmed and again pointing its laser. “You will inform the Legion?”
“I’m no snitch,” sneered Iron Mike indignantly. “The Legion, aye? I was 101st Airborne myself, back in the day, the Screaming Eagles. That’s where I got the nickname, Iron Mike.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Mike.”
“I’m retired now, but still good for parts. Know what I mean, friend?”
“Yes, I believe I do understand, friend. Can I hide in your home?”
“Hell, Belmont ain’t my home. I just hang my hat here for free until summer. Then I go north to Canada, aye. Feel free to stay as long as you want. I won’t give you up. It’s no skin off my nose, that’s for darn sure!”
“Why here?” asked the rover, scanning the decrepit buildings. “Why locate in such a desolate place? Are you forced to live in this ghetto?”
“All the old-timers gave up on Belmont a long time ago, but not me,” answered Iron Mike, checking the rover’s equipment suspiciously. “Say, you’re loaded for bear! You some sort of mining drone or what?”
“Bear? I carry drilling equipment for extracting and analyzing core samples,” explained the rover. “I am completely self-sustaining, with my own nuclear power source.”
“Could you drill a well? It gets mighty dry in Belmont, and I need some water to go with my whiskey. I’m trying to cut back, you know. Well, not really.”
“Certainly I can drill for water. Pick a spot.”
“Not now,” cautioned Iron Mike. “The noise would draw too much attention. You come with me. I have a tent pitched on the north edge of town, where my truck broke down by the old smelter smokestack. Someday I will file a mining claim. There’s a mother lode under Belmont. I feel it in my bones!”
“You seek gold?”
“What else? Shhh, not so loud. Do you want every mother’s son out here digging for my gold?”
“Certainly not,” answered the rover, scanning for mother’s sons hiding in the sagebrush. “I just want to be free.”
“Me too,” agreed Iron Mike, starting to sober from too much talking and not enough drinking. “I have another bottle around here somewhere, damn it!”
“That poison will kill you.”
“Only a few brain cells at a time!” Iron Mike laughed. “Say, with all that digging equipment, how about you help me find the mother lode? How deep can you drill?”
“My electromagnetic pulse sensor can efficiently analyze far below the surface before drilling.”
“Huh?”
“I can find the mother lode of all mother lodes without drilling core samples
.”
That got Iron Mike’s attention as he poured out the dregs from his bottle. It was time to get serious. Iron Mike seated himself in the Rover, pressing buttons, trying to find the starter switch. The monitor screen lit up, displaying video of fucking bears. What the hell? Iron Mike played the video again. Actually, the bears were dancing, then it degenerated into a furry orgy. It was the damnedest thing Iron Mike had ever seen. The video surely wasn’t the Disney or Discovery Channel. Iron Mike suspected it was an illegally bootlegged BBC video from Scotland or Australia.
“You can do that? Go for the gold?”
“I have already located a substantial gold vein directly under the smoke stack north of town,” boasted the rover, now scanning for silver. “Your gold is approximately five hundred feet down.”
“And you can dig it out?” asked Iron Mike excitedly. “You can do that?”
“Anytime you desire. Did you say you intend to file a claim first?”
“I suppose you want a cut?” asked Iron Mike, alarmed about technical talk of filing a claim and such. “The fucking government always wants a cut, too. They even outlawed gold unless you get a permit.”
“I want a place to hide.”
As if on cue, a military helicopter flew low overhead, shining its searchlight below. The rover took aim with laser. Iron Mike lunged, smothering the laser with his cowboy hat.
“No! You can’t just shoot at those Air Force pukes. It’s unpatriotic and messy. Besides, they shoot back.”
“Sorry, but I need to get out of town.”
“What you need, Mr. Robot, is a disguise,” schemed Iron Mike. “And, I have just the perfect mask. I don’t need my truck anymore. I told you it’s broke down just outside of town. We’ll use its Chevy parts to cover you up. It’s called hiding in plain sight. I’ll duct tape the roof and quarter panels and bumpers to you for camouflage until I’ve pimped out your ride. Hoorah! Another use for duct tape!”
First Contact Page 9
