America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (3 page)

     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 trail?” 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 Constitution.”

                                                                       * * * * *

     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.” 

     Major Lopez fired a heat seeking missile from his armored car.  I quickly placed an order to short UPS stock.  The missile arced up, then veered sharply to its target.  The explosion rained down pepperoni and sausage from the sky.  Corporal Tonneli's dragon Spot quickly lost interest in tracking bandits, braking his leash to chase falling pizzas.  Cactus-Claw and his bastard band of spiders used the diversion to slip north across the border.

                                                                    Chapter 6