America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (8 page)

     “Good luck with that, you scumbag!” replied the spider judge, sensing this Cactus-Claw was a real trouble maker.  “You don't own that house, so you don't have rights to be secure!”

     “I have squatter's rights!” said Cactus-Claw triumphantly, waving his communications pad.  “Look it up!”

    “Shit,” grumbled the spider judge, pondering legal quaundries.  “My search warrant trumps your squatter's rights.  Surrender, or I'll find you in contempt of court, a capital offense!”

     “My scorpion friends say they're just tourists lost on a hike.  They won't surrender without guarantees for their safety.”

     “Okay, the godless scorpions can go!” I shouted, getting into it.  “But you and your gang will face American justice!”

     “Let the scorpions go?” asked the spider judge, pulling me aside for a judicial conference.  “Trespass is a serious matter in the Empire, especially for scorpions.  It's the law, written somewhere.  Aiding and abetting scorpion trespass is just as bad.  It sets a bad precedent the Court cannot in good conscience allow.”

     “We'll kill as many scorpions as we can catch,” I promised, turning to the bandits.  “Do we have a deal?  Come out now, or there will be no mercy.  I want hostage negotiator Harold Crack returned, too.  We leave no legionnaire behind.”

     “Ask your pet spiders about the ghost-in-a-jar!” replied Crazy-Sting.  “Cactus-Claw sold him to the spider commander!”

     Cable and satellite TV links to helmet cams were immediately cut, citing national security concerns, pending further negotiations.  TV viewers were outraged.  Conspiracy theories abound.  It was a dark moment for prime time.  Hastily broadcast test patterns and syndicated re-runs were unacceptable.  The American public demanded more.

                                                                               * * * * *

     Scorpions can run sixty miles per hour for short distances, but it expends great amounts of energy.  Crazy-Sting needed power snacks for the trail, so he shot two spider bandits for calories.  Scorpion bandits pounced in a feeding frenzy, leaving no scraps behind.

     Cactus-Claw took the loss in stride, knowing it was coming.  After sunset, the scorpions escaped into the darkness.  A few shots rang out, but they were to fast.  Cactus-Claw and six spider bandits surrendered, resigned to their fate and inevitable Legion interrogation.

     “Tell me about the ghost-in-a-jar,” I demanded, taking a direct approach.  “You sold my legionnaire to the Empire?”

     “I'm no cheese-eater, except when I am,” answered Cactus-Claw.  “The spider commander has your ghost.”

     “He's telling the truth,” added Little-Claw, tied to a rickety wooden chair next to Cactus-Claw.  “Please don't probe us, or cut off our testicles.”

     “The Legion no longer probes aliens,” I replied with disdain.  “But if you lie, your testicles will be torn out slowly by their roots.  It's a Legion tradition dating back to antiquity on Old Earth.”

     “No!” cried Little-Claw.  “I swear on my mama's exoskeleton husk the spider commander has your creepy ghost-in-a-jar.  By the way, who does that?  In a jar?  Can he even breathe?”

     “I ask the questions here,” I said, using a pair of pliers to crush exoskeleton on Little-Claw's toes like a stinky crab shell.  “Tell me more.”

     “Ouch!  Crazy-Sting knows why you are digging holes.  He aims to file for mineral rights, using a spider proxy.”

     “Does anyone else know?”

     “Just us, and we're buds,” answered Cactus-Claw, knowing he was the next shell to be cracked.  “Some of my best friends from the joint are you human pestilence.  I love your clever tattoos.  I have lots of friends on the outside, too.  If I am killed, I've arranged for one of them to put your secret on the Galactic Database.”

                                                                      Chapter 12

     The spider commander sat at a casino blackjack table pondering the meaning of life, and other stuff.  Next to his stack of hundred credit chips was a small inconspicuous sealed glass jar containing a solitary polished human pestilence tooth.  It was a good luck charm, he explained to the pit boss, a memento of combat against the human pestilence Legion along the DMZ.

     A sexy spider dealer babe dealt the cards, giving herself a ten up, and the spider commander a King and an eight.    The spider commander nonchalantly picked the jar up, touching it to his antenna.  The ghost of Harold Crack discretely advised that the dealer had two tens, and that he should hit for another card.  The spider commander hit, drawing a three.  He won!

     So it went for the rest of the evening, piling up tall stacks of chips.  Oh, hell yes!  Normally the spider thug security guards would have kicked out a winning blackjack player, especially an obvious cheater.  However, the pit boss held back.  After all, this was the Regional Military Commander, a sword of the Emperor.  He could not be accused without evidence.

     Cameras zoomed in from all angles, but security could not figure out the scam.  It had something to do with that stupid tooth-in-a-jar.  The pit boss signaled for security to examine the jar.  As they made their move, the spider commander deftly scooped it up, drawing his sidearm.  A security guard knocked the jar loose from behind.  The jar fell, rolling across the floor. 

     The ghost of Harold Crack lit up the casino with a fiery display of contained ectoplasm before the jar went dark.  It was like shaking fire flies, except different.  The spider commander cashed in his chips, ignoring gawkers. 

     “Nothing to see here!” he announced.  “You can order ghosts in a jar online at Amazon.com soon.”

     The spider commander ordered personal bodyguards to seize all casino camera surveillance video, citing Imperial security concerns.  Using a human pestilence ghost to win big at the casino seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, it was not one of his best career decisions.  Undaunted, he ordered the pit boss arrested, too, for assaulting an imperial officer and impeding an official investigation of casino gaming irregularities.

                                                                  * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw and his gang plea bargained to avoid the death penalty, in exchange for explaining how he captured Harold Crack.  Sentenced to hard labor, Cactus-Claw was assigned to a chain gang along the Human Highway with the rest of the snitches, shoulder to shoulder with spiders and scorpions cutting weeds and sage brush.  Tireless workers, their claws were perfect for cutting weeds and doing landscaping.  Cactus-Claw grumbled about the xenophobic reduction to lawnmower status, just because they had sharp crab-like claws.  But what could he do?  Nothing.

     At high noon legionnaires relieved the Sheriff's Office guard detail.  I explained Cactus-Claw was way too high profile a criminal mastermind to be left to the local cops.  Immediately I tasked prisoners with digging holes during their rest break.

     “What is it with you and digging holes everywhere we deploy?” asked Major Lopez, irritated.  “The countryside looks like craters of the moon after we pass through.”

     “Orders from on high,” I answered cryptically.  “This time make the holes deep.  I want a long trench.”

                                                                            * * * * *

     “Dig fast and deep,” ordered Cactus-Claw, clawing at the dirt.  “Our very lives depend on it.”

     “What?” asked Little-Claw.  “This is bullshit making us dig during our lunch break.  It's an OSHA violation.  I'm filing an inmate grievance.  Where's my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and slimy bologna?  I want my soy milk.  Wait until my lawyer hears about this fascist violation of my civil rights.”

     “Dig faster, you fool,” urged Cactus-Claw, peering out their hole at approaching legionnaires.  “Angle into the side wall.  Quick!”

     Hungry as ever, Little-Claw burrowed feverishly.  Cactus-Claw tore up a large box of MREs, flattening the cardboard to form a fake wall, covering the hollowed indentation they had just dug.  He slopped mud over the cardboard for camouflage just as a Legion armored car positioned itself at the edge of the trench.

     A legionnaire atop the turret opened fire with a machine gun on the prisoners.  Most fell scrambling to get out of the ditch.  Those able to run were quickly cut down by small arms fire, and dragged back to their grave.  The armored car's bumper shovel pushed dirt over the trench.  Legionnaires stomped the dirt with their boots, packing it for good measure.

                                                                                * * * * *

     Spiders can hold their breath for a long time.  They have no lungs, breathing through their exoskeleton.  Cactus-Claw and several scorpions survived.  He pulled Little-Claw up from the grave, shaken but still alive.  They sat in the moonlight on a mound of dirt eating MREs, thanking their stars for being alive.  The MREs tasted good, even the spaghetti & meatball surprise.

     “I think we're officially dead,” mused Little-Claw.  “Want to start a new life?  Maybe even get a job?”

      “Not really,” answered Cactus-Claw.  “I'd rather rob banks.” 

     Several scorpions nodded their agreement.

     “Me too,” agreed Little-Claw, but the galaxy is conspiring to kill us.  We should lay low.  How about white collar crime?  That and politics are where the real money is to be made.  This thug life is wearing me down.”

     “White collar crime sounds promising.  We will rob mail boxes and UPS truck deliveries.  A merry Christmas will be had by all.”

                                                                           Chapter 13

     A naked light bulb illuminating a black mailbox could be seen for miles in the desert night.  Being bugs, Cactus-Claw and his new gang were drawn to the light like moths to fire, except different, being sentient and drawn to a light bulb like a smart moth, not a mindless stupid moth.  Eager to begin his white collar crime spree, Little-Claw opened the mailbox, stealing a Christmas package.  He tore at the wrapping like it was his Christmas, finding a bottle of vodka.  One of the scorpions snatched the bottle ofthe good stuff, chugging it down.  He died instantly from poisoning.

     “It was a Legion trap,” exclaimed Cactus-Claw knowingly.  “Caution and discipline are needed if we are to live long and prosper.”

     “Cactus-Claw knows what he is talking about,” added Little-Claw.  “He's been on cable TV, and is famous for miles in every direction.”

     Two scorpions nodded in sober agreement with their new boss, same as the old boss, except different because he was a spider.  Cactus-Claw stuffed the mailbox with sagebrush, lit it on fire, and poured poisoned vodka on it to stoke the flame.  Explosions caught pistons, driving secret human pestilence technology, transmitting directed gravity summoning a postal jeep.  Huddled around the burning mailbox for warmth, they hissed campfire songs.  It was an intense spiritual moment under the stars, staring at the fire and the jeep.  Maybe they were just hallucinating from eating too many toxic MREs.  In the morning the gang was hungover, and the postal jeep was gone with no tracks.

                                                                  * * * * *

     Buzzards circling a remote highway mailbox attracted a Legion patrol.  Sergeant Williams inspected the scene from his armored car.  A dried scorpion husk had been picked clean by scavengers.  Parts were scattered in the brush.  An empty vodka bottle lay on the ground by the mailbox.

     Sergeant Williams placed a new Christmas package in the mailbox.  Corporal John 'Iwo Jima' Wayne,' a large spider legionnaire, checked for tracks, because only aliens can find other alien's tracks.  He found mixed spider and scorpion tracks, and a trail of toxic MRE litter.  Corporal Wayne shoveled the scorpion remains into a large rodent hole, covering them with dirt.

     “Rest in pis, scorpion,” said Corporal Wayne bitterly over the makeshift grave.  “May all your ilk die slow and painful.”

     “Which way did they go?” asked Sergeant Williams.  “East towards Scorpion City?”

     “South towards New Phoenix” answered Corporal Wayne.  “They're still close.  I can smell their foul scorpion odor, and spiders, too.”

     “That's unusual.  I thought you spiders were mortal enemies.”

     “You spiders?”

     “Sorry.  You know what I mean.  Some of my best friends are you exoskeleton species.  We'll circle to make sure the track doesn't double back east.”

                                                                   * * * * *

     “It is difficult to get recognizance satellite time, but when you do it's a game changer.  Spider and scorpion bandits traveling together got Legion Headquarters' attention fast.  The satellite located scorpions fifty miles south of the mailbox.  The scorpions burrowed underground as the first legion armored cars arrived.