America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 1: Feeling Lucky

AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION

Book 1: Feeling Lucky

A sweeping military space opera told in the grand satirical tradition of Catch-22...

One more roll – that’s all habitual gambler Joey Czerinski needs to get himself off Old Earth and away from the bad-ass loan shark hunting him down like a mongrel to be euthanized. But a sneaky ATM looking to fill its Foreign Legion new recruits quota has something else in mind for Mr. ‘Big Spender’ Czerinski. When he agrees out of desperation to take a loan from the crazy ATM, all bets are off.

War is hell, and hell comes knocking when it’s time for Czerinski to pay up. Forced into the Legion by the tricky ATM and an unscrupulous lawyer, Czerinski finds himself deeper in trouble than he’d ever imagined. But what’s one more roll for a perennial rule-bender? If Czerinski can survive what’s thrown at him amid galactic war against a spider-like enemy that could spell doom for the human race, maybe ... just maybe ... he’ll manage to come out alive in this grisly game of shoot-’em-up – if his luck holds out.

AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION

Book 1: Feeling Lucky

Licensed and Produced through

Penumbra Publishing

www.PenumbraPublishing.com

SMASHWORDS

EBOOK EDITION

ISBN/EAN-13: 978-1-935563-11-2

Also available in print ISBN/EAN-13: 978-1-935563-12-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, planets, asteroids, alien species, evil empires, galaxies far, far way, or future events and incidents, are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or aliens, living or dead, events or locales including those on Mars and New Colorado, is entirely coincidental.

Licensing Note: This ebook is licensed and sold for your personal enjoyment only. Under copyright law, you may not resell, give away, or share copies of this book. You may purchase additional copies of this book for other individuals or direct them to purchase their own copies. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, out of respect for the author’s effort and right to earn income from the work, please contact the publisher or retailer to purchase a legal copy.

~AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENT~

I want to thank Penumbra Publishing’s award winning Acquisitions Editor Patricia Morrison for finding my eleven-book series, America’s Galactic Foreign Legion, an amusing read, and for her outstanding edit. I also want to thank my dear wife Barb for not divorcing me for staying up all night writing my books.

AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION

Book 1: Feeling Lucky

Walter Knight

CHAPTER 1

The bright and seedy United States Galactic Federation Spaceport & Casino was noisy and busy as usual, crawling with typical characters I’ve come to recognize. The lonely, the bored, the desperate, the broke, and of course the addict needing another gambling fix. I’ve come to know them all because they are all me, in some way or another. But that wasn’t my concern tonight. Tonight, the good ol’ United States Galactic Federation Spaceport & Casino was gonna be my ticket off Old Earth.

And what was my big hurry to get outta Dodge? Loan shark Bubba Jones has signed affidavits to have me picked up for not paying back my loans. Jones also paid the $25,000 needed to allow lethal force should I resist arrest. With Bubba, it seemed like everyone resisted arrest. The man holds a grudge. It didn’t seem right, but it was all legal, signed by the judge and notarized. Anyway, what do I know, I’m not a lawyer. If there was any good news about the fix I was in, it was that the warrant for my arrest was civil in nature, and only bounty hunters could arrest me. The police wouldn’t get involved in the whole sordid affair.

I would not be trapped on Old Earth like some rat in a maze, scrambling about with no money. No money means your life is nothing, and that was not how it was going to end for me. I had a plan. It cost $100,000 to take a shuttle to Mars, $50,000 more if I wanted to be beamed to Mars. I had $50,000 in my pocket, and I was halfway there. I was on a win streak, playing craps at the casino. How could I lose? By making ‘field’ bets, and increasing my bet whenever I lost, my progressive betting scheme was finally paying off. Dice rolls of 2 (pays double) 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, and 12 (pays triple) were winners, while 5, 6, 7, and 8 won for the Casino. How many times could I lose in a row if I kept doubling my bet? Eventually I’d have to win. Right? But it seemed like a losing streak always had a way of sneaking up on me. Now, with only $25,000 left, and all of it out on the table, I was getting real nervous. My pulse pounded, and I was soaked with sweat. The dice rolled…

Five? No! No, no, no! Why does this always happen to me?

I was broke and still on Old Earth. I looked around frantically. The couple sitting next to me laughed garishly, reminding me of evil clowns. I pushed away from the table.

Now what? Get more money from an ATM? Sure. Why not? I was already screwed – why not go all in? I found a Galactic Technologies Corporation ATM to borrow another $50,000. Approved! Outstanding! My credit and good name were still intact. Of course, if I didn’t pay the money back, I’d be working on an assembly line for the GT Corporation for the next two years. But that would never happen. I’d skip out first. Anyway, gamblers are a naturally optimistic lot. It’s our weakness. It’s my weakness.

I put all $50,000 down on a craps field bet and the dice rolled…

Six? Six! No one could have this much bad luck!

My shoulders slumped. I had to get out of here. No! I can’t handle this! I staggered, my knees weak, but I had to get it together. I couldn’t let Bubba find me.

Then a voice called out, “Psssssst, psssssst! Hey you, Big Spender. Need some money?”

“Who said that?” I looked around, but didn’t see anyone. I patted the gun under my coat for reassurance.

“Who do you think? Look over here. If I was a snake, I would have bit you.”

I spied the ATM tucked away in the corner by the cashier’s cage. A surge of optimism coursed through me as I read the lettering on the ATM: ‘United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion.’ “Are you for real?” I asked.

“Of course I am for real,” said the ATM. “I am the last ATM you will ever need.”

I snorted derisively.

“I’ll extend you $100,000 credit. Right now. On the spot. What do you say? It’s so easy to make your financial problems go away.”

“I don’t think so. I’m no fool. I heard there was a war about to start somewhere.”

“There is always a little war about to start somewhere,” the ATM responded. “What are you, chicken?”

“Don’t call me chicken. I know how this works. If I don’t pay back the loan, it means I just enlisted in the U.S. Foreign Legion.” I was ready to walk away. “Do you think I want that?”

“Come closer and read the details. I will give you a written contract. You can pay the money back anytime you want – this month – and spend it any way you want. Who knows, Big Spender, you might get lucky at the craps table,” added the ATM.

“You know about that? Craps is my game.”

“I know a lot of things. I know you owe the GT Corporation $50,000. You owe Bubba Jones another $50,000. I know Jones is upset and will be here in about thirty minutes,” said the ATM, smugly.

“What do you mean Bubba will be here in thirty minutes?” I asked, my suspicion growing.. “How do you know that?”

“I called him,” replied the ATM.

“You did what?” I reached for my automatic pistol, wanting to shoot the ATM. That wouldn’t be practical in a crowded spaceport. I quickly calmed myself, looking about to see if anyone had noticed my little slip of temper. I seemed to be invisible to the revelers and staff.

“Vandalism will not help your situation, Mr. Czerinski. Bubba and his thug bounty hunters will be here very soon, and you still have some tough financial decisions to make.” A tray extended from the ATM. “Put your thumb on the pad. Take the money. It’s only $100,000. You can pay me back anytime this month.”

I put my thumb on the extended pad, and a pin prick drew blood, splattering it over the glass pad. “Ouch!” I drew away, holding my thumb. “Was that necessary?”

“Enlisting in the United States Galactic Foreign Legion is a serious matter. But you are right. Signing your contract in blood was a bit dramatic. Politicians came up with that idea to test your sense of humor. You have about twenty minutes before Bubba Jones gets here.”

“Aren’t you the least bit concerned Bubba might catch up and kill me?”

“Of course I am concerned,” the ATM said with seeming genuine feeling. “That’s why I keep telling you Bubba Jones is coming. My recruitment quota for the month will be set back if Bubba Jones kills you.”

“You’re facing quotas?” I did some quick calculations and realized I might end up short-changed. “Well, I want twice that. I want $200,000.”

“You are not worth that much,” said the ATM. “I have to justify the expense if the Legion gets stuck with you.”

“Haven’t you heard of inflation?” I argued. “A hundred thousand dollars will hardly get me anywhere these days. And it’s just a loan. I’m not actually enlisting. I’ll pay it back.”

“So you say.” The ATM sounded a bit sarcastic.

“I have lots of military training. I’m worth the extra $100,000.”

“Military records indicate you have some prior experience,” conceded the ATM. “You were in the Arizona National Guard back in the day?”

“Yes. They’re a rough and tough outfit.”

“I’m sure,” said the ATM. “Records show you did not earn your Infantryman’s Badge. How did you manage to avoid combat along the California border?”

“I saw combat,” I insisted. “It’s just that my captain was too lazy to do the paperwork, and my remaining enlistment was too short for me to care. I just wanted out.”

“I do not believe your explanation,” challenged the ATM. “Among other faults, you are a compulsive liar.”

“It’s the truth. Let God Almighty strike me down with lightning if I’m lying.” Just as I swore this oath of truthfulness, a baggage handler slammed a cart into a railing with a loud crack. I flinched and ducked down, thinking for a second that God had called me out. I looked around. All was still good in the world. There were no lightning bolts, yet.

“Your company commander, Captain Hill, described you in an evaluation report as resourceful, but not a team player. He said, and I quote, ‘Corporal Czerinski never sees the big picture.’ What did Captain Hill mean by that?”

“All officers talk that way,” I said, dismissively. “I was a corporal. Corporals aren’t supposed to see the big picture. We are just supposed to keep ourselves and our men alive for the day. You know, take cover and don’t get shot.”

“Your psychological profile says you may have a drinking and gambling problem. Is that true?”

“Gambling problem?” I asked. “No way. It’s not a problem as long as I win. Are you going to loan me the money or not? There are plenty of other ATMs out there who want my business.”

“I know your type,” said the ATM. “You like to take short cuts. I am going to lend you more money than you are worth, just to make a point. You will squander your money trying to show everyone how smart you are. Then you will be mine.”

“I’m smart enough to stay out of the Foreign Legion,” I challenged. “That’s all that matters. I’m feeling real lucky. I can’t lose.”

“I am going to enjoy watching you crash and burn,” said the ATM. “It will get ugly.”

“What kind of an ATM are you? You have a screw loose? When was the last time you had your diagnostics checked?”

“As long as my recruitment quotas are up, everyone is happy,” bragged the ATM. “I do not need my diagnostics checked. I feel fine. Take your money.”

* * * * *

I settled for $100,000 from the ATM. With cash on my card, I rushed to the craps table. “I’m back,” I announced.

“So you are,” said the craps pit boss, smiling. She was pretty, but she was a snake-eyed, bloodsucking, viper bitch from hell. “I hope your luck is better this time Joey,” she said too sweetly.

“Me too.” I plugged in my card. That ATM was right about one thing. I had some tough decisions to make. I didn’t think I should bet it all at one time like I did before. “$25,000 on the field.”

“The field bet is a fool’s bet,” the gambler next to me said. The pit boss and casino staff all nodded knowingly. The dice rolled…

Seven!

I don’t believe it!” I cried. “If it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.” I put all my remaining money, $75,000, on the field. The dice rolled…

Twelve. Twelve? Twelve! I won! Twelve on a field bet pays triple. I won, what was it … $225,000? I did the math while everyone around me was either gaping or trying to congratulate me with high-fives. I had $300.000 total. That was enough to pay off Uncle Sam, pay off GT Corporation, pay off Bubba, and I’d still have $100,000 for the trip to Mars. I needed to get off Old Earth now. There were still some nasty people here who didn’t like me. But that didn’t leave me with much walk-around money. I would starve on Mars without walk-around money. Screw Bubba. I was not paying him. That would leave me with about $50,000 for walk-around money, but it still wasn’t enough. It’s never enough, is it? I stopped daydreaming and returned to the land of the here and now. “I’ll bet half of it, $150,000 on the field.” The dice rolled…

Two! That pays double! “I’m cashing out! Put the money on my card! Hurry up. I’ve got places go and people to see.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to let your $600,000 ride?” asked the pit boss, giving me her best sexy smile. It was her bloodsucking casino viper-from-hell, make-one-more-bet smile. “Luck is with you today, honey. Who knows how lucky you might get?”

“Positive. I’m getting the heck out of Dodge.” I grabbed my card and ran through the crowded spaceport casino to the ticket cage. I arrived out of breath. “Ticket to Mars. Next available flight. Belay that. Beam me there. I’ll pay the extra charge.”

“Is this a business trip, sir?” asked the ticket agent.

“What do you care?”

“You might be eligible for a discount if you are a frequent flier,” advised the ticket agent. “Those points add up.”

“Yes it’s business!” I said. “Did I say I was in a hurry?”

The ticket agent took my card, but he still did not seem to appreciate the urgency of the situation. The man moved in slow motion. “One moment please,” he said. “The computer indicates there are problems with your card.”

“Problems? What problems.? There are going to be a lot of problems if you don’t beam me up.” I looked over my shoulder again. You would not believe how many shifty-looking people pass through a spaceport in one day. There was no sign of Bubba, but anyone could be a bounty hunter. I reached for my gun as a rough-looking character sauntered up behind me at the ticket cage.

“Your card is good, Mr. Joey R. Czerinski, but you have some liens on it that you must pay before leaving Earth. I can take care of them for you, if you wish,” volunteered the ticket agent.

“Do it,” I replied. “Hurry up.”

“GT Corporation, $50,000 paid. United States Galactic Foreign Legion, $100,000 paid. Bubba Jones & Associates Incorporated, $75,000 plus interest–”

“Wait!” I ordered. “I’m not paying that. It’s a civil matter still being contested. I’ll pay it later.”

“These are all civil matters,” said the ticket agent. “They need to be paid.”

The scruffy guy in line grabbed my shoulder and asked, “You know Bubba?”

My gun was out in a flash and pressed against his gut. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing man, I’m sorry!” cried the bum. “I just wanted to borrow some spare change. Please, I have a family. I’m on disability. I have a lot of troubles.”

“Yeah right. If you could kick the person responsible for most of your troubles, you wouldn’t sit for a week. Take a hike!” I shoved a few scrip dollars at him – they weren’t worth the paper they were written on, except at local food vendors – and turned to the ticket agent. “Are you getting a commission on collecting debts or what? I’m not paying Mr. Jones. Is that clear? Now beam me up!”

“No reason to get angry about it, sir. I guess Bubba Jones & Associates Incorporated can wait. Here is your ticket, Mr. Czerinski. I hope you enjoy your vacation on Mars.”

“It’s a business trip, remember? Put me down for the extras.”

CHAPTER 2

There was no better feeling than being on Mars with money in my pocket. Mars, the Red-Light Planet, was a wide-open den of iniquity where anyone with money could buy anything. If you were broke on Mars, you’d die, because everyone pays a tax for air, and vagrancy is not tolerated. But with money, Mars, baby, is the place to be.

First things first, I needed a place to stay. A suite at Harrah’s Casino on the Strip fit the bill for a man of my newly acquired means. As I entered the hotel lobby, I was greeted with, “Hello Mr. Czerinski. Welcome to Mars.”

I froze. No one knew me on Mars.

“Thank you for your prompt payment. I hope we may do business again,” added the United States Galactic Foreign Legion ATM.

“You going to snitch on me to Bubba again?” I asked.

“Of course not,” replied the ATM. “You are a valued customer. You might even give me a good reference to some of your associates. You scratch my back, I will scratch yours.”

“You bet. I’ll send lots of business your way,” I said, as I walked away. At the hotel desk, I addressed the check-in clerk, “Sir, I want a suite. And not just any suite. I want the suite with the huge gold-tipped crossed elephant tusks in the window overlooking all the tiny people scurrying about below.”

“Yes sir,” said the clerk as he took my card and ran it. “We have only the very best here at Harrah’s Hotel & Casino. But I’m afraid we don’t have any crossed elephant tusks.”

“Get the manager. Now! I want to talk to someone about this outrage! I saw crossed elephant tusks on a travel brochure and in a movie, and now you are holding out on me? If someone else has my room, kick them out! Move it boy!” I ordered. This was not normally how I talk to people, especially minimum-wage types. If the clerk was a food-server, he would have surely spit on the underside of my steak and smiled while he delivered it. But I was feeling full of myself and putting on airs. I figured what harm could the clerk do me? I’d tip him later after I had my fun, figuring it was okay to be rude as long as you tipped well. I’d give him a good tip after I won some more money.

The manager came out to talk to me. “Sir, I am so sorry the room you wanted was taken by the King of California, and we just cannot kick him out. Can I interest you in another suite?” asked the hotel manager.

“So, you do have a suite with crossed elephant tusks? That means he lied to me. I expect this idiot to be reprimanded,” I said, pointing my finger at the clerk.

“I’ll fire him immediately, sir,” the manager promised. “Can I interest you in a suite with a stuffed grizzly bear in the window?”

“I like the sound of that,” I replied. “My very own grizzly in the window. I’ll take it. And about your boy, don’t fire him yet. I think he has management potential. Lies with a straight face. Very smooth.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure he will be relieved to be keeping his job,” said the manager. “And for your inconvenience in this matter, Harrah’s Hotel & Casino Resort will comp your first night.”

“Outstanding!” I said. “You will be happy to know I will be doing a lot of gambling tonight. I’ll drop your name with the pit bosses.”

“Good luck and good gaming,” said the manager, as he left to attend other matters. He motioned for the clerk to come over and finish checking me in.

“Sir, thank you so much for saving my job,” said the clerk. “I really need this job. I live from paycheck to paycheck, and with the high cost of Martian air taxes these days, it can be a real hassle.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “What would they do if you run out of air money? Throw you out of an airlock?” I smiled jokingly.

“Yes sir,” replied the clerk. “That is exactly what they would do.”

“Oh come on. It’s been a while since I’ve been up here. Don’t they still have welfare on Mars? Some kind of safety net? What if I ran out of money?”

“No welfare on Mars,” the clerk answered somberly.

That thought shook me for half a second, then I remembered something I wanted to take care of. “By the way, there is something you need to do for me,” I said, in a low conspiratorial voice. I slid my pistol across the counter. “You see that ATM in the corner near the front door?”

“Sir?” asked the clerk. “This isn’t a robbery, is it?”

“Don’t be silly. You saw my card. I’m a guest. I don’t need to rob anyone yet. In fact, I am going to give you two thousand dollars. All you have to do is one little favor for me.”

“Sir, I don’t like guns,” said the clerk. “Guns are frowned upon here on Mars. Our laws are harsh.”

“Yes I know,” I said. “It’s un-American. But since I saved your job, and because of that you are still able to pay your air taxes, you are going to take this gun and do me a tiny little favor. You are going to pick a time of your own choosing and fire the whole clip into that ATM.”

“Please,” begged the clerk. “I can’t do that. I don’t know anything about guns.”

“Oh sure you can,” I said. “This pistol is simple and easy to use. Just pull the trigger and don’t shoot yourself. I want you to wait until it’s late, sneak up on the ATM from the side, and shoot its guts out. There is no risk as long as you aren’t scanned by the ATM’s face recognition camera. I suggest you point the hotel cameras away from the front door too. You can do it. I have faith in you.”

“Sir, please. I hate guns.”

“When you are done, take my gun up to my room and put it under the bed pillow. I’m going gambling.” I gave the clerk $2,000 up front to sweeten the deal, and walked out. I love Mars.

On the way to the casino, I bought $25,000 worth of gold chains and put them all around my neck. I walked to the craps table, feeling invincible with $400,000 on my card. I’d lose $20,000, win $30,000, lose $10,000, and win $25,000. The money just started to add up. Then my luck changed. I bet $10,000 on a craps field bet and lost. The two sixes faced up for just a second, then one of the dice hit a stack of chips and came up seven. I bet the field again, lost again. Bet $40,000 and lost. I bet $60,000 and lost. Down to my last bet. Numb from betting such large amounts, I bet $250,000. The dice rolled…

Twelve! Yes! I am invincible! Twelve on a field bet pays triple, so I had one million dollars on my card. Just then, shots rang out at the far end of the casino. Everyone ducked or ran for cover. I kept a straight face and said, “Please cash me out. I’m going to retire for the evening.”

I had a drink first. Then I stopped by a computer chip store. “Got anything good to buy?” I asked the tech clerk. He seemed bored and not interested in my business.

“Sir, the enhancements and chips we sell here are strictly high-end. You can’t afford to even walk in the door. Please leave.”

“I’m on a winning streak. Show me the good stuff,” I insisted, sliding my card across the counter.

“Pardon me sir, but maybe I can help you after all,” said the tech clerk as he checked my card, seeing lots of dollars.

“I’ve heard rumors about a Fountain of Youth chip,” I said. “Do you have one?”

“Interesting you asked that question,” said the clerk in a hushed tone. “Yes sir, we have the Fountain of Youth chip. And I’ll make you a special deal, considering the Feds are about to make it illegal. You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No. What do you mean illegal?” I asked. “Why would they want suppress such fantastic technology?”

“Over-population,” replied the clerk. “A special few will still be able to buy the chip. The plan is to make immortality available only to those who have special skills, merit, or money.”

“That makes no sense. Are you sure that’s all there is to it?”

“There are also some health concerns holding up FDA approval,” advised the clerk. “Risks of an enlarged heart and stress to your liver and kidneys. But I think the upside potential far outweighs the downside.”

“Does it really work?” I asked. “It’s not being old that upsets me as much as being fat and old.”

“It will make you look twenty years old again by regenerating and organizing your cells. How old are you? Sixty? The chip does not really make you young. Nothing can do that. The Fountain of Youth chip merely directs your body to run at peak efficiency. You will feel and look great, as long as you don’t have a heart attack or suffer from any pre-existing ailments that would kill you anyway. Are you in good health? You don’t drink a lot do you?”

“I’m in great health. And I am not anywhere near sixty,” I lied. “I’ll take it. How much?”

“$400,000, and that’s at a discount,” the tech clerk answered. “I’m telling you. It’s now or never. And for $100,000 more, I’ll throw in a Sexual Enhancement chip, a Fast Learning Training chip, and an Enhanced Vision and Reaction chip. What more can I do to make this deal happen?” He was making a good pitch for a big sale, but he had me at the door.

“OK, it’s a deal,” I said. I held out my arm and the tech clerk shot four chips into me. Nothing happened. I felt the same. I reached for my gun, but it wasn’t there.

“Whoa tiger, it takes time,” said the tech clerk, sensing my anger. “Would you be interested in our five-year limited warranty for only $25,000 more?”

“Yes.” I held out my arm as he scanned in the five-year limited warranty particulars and fine print.

“Now go home and have a good night’s sleep. You will literally be a new man in the morning.”

* * * * *

I walked out through the shopping mall adjacent to the casino and through the hotel lobby with a nice bounce to my step. I was feeling good about my prospects. The police had put up barrier tape and were taking photos of the shot-up ATM. I heard a beep as I walked by the crime scene. I was being scanned. My back stiffened as I stopped to talk to the officer. “Is it dead?” I asked.

“Very,” the officer answered. “Nothing but a pile of junk now.”

“What was that beep I just heard?”

“Just a spasm of death,” the officer explained. “Maybe static electricity. They will bring in a replacement tomorrow. It’s nothing but scrap metal now.”

“Who would shoot an ATM?” I asked innocently. “Any suspects?”

“How did you know it was shot?” asked the officer, eyeing me with suspicion.

“Are you kidding?” I quickly answered. “You could hear the shots clear across the casino.”

“Oh, quite right,” said the officer. “It was probably peace activists. They are a violent bunch.”

“I’m sure you’ll catch them,” I said as I strode to the elevator. As I opened the door to my room, I was greeted by Bubba Jones. Shit, some days just aren’t worth getting up for.

“Welcome to Mars, Czerinski,” said Bubba, smiling. Then he shot me in the head.

CHAPTER 3

“Joey R. Czerinski, can you hear me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I can. I can’t see you. I can’t touch you. But I sure can hear you, loud and clear. You sound like you are inside my head. Am I dead? Or is this a near-death experience? Or maybe if I just keep talking, I will wake up from a bad dream. If this is death, shouldn’t I see a white light off in the distance, with my loved ones calling to me? I don’t have any loved ones, so maybe I should be just be seeing a red glow, with my creditors calling out to me. Or an ATM calling out to me.”

“My name is Doctor Horton Fischer. You are not having a bad dream, and you are not dead yet. You are in a coma, and I am communicating with you through a neural transmission device. Do you remember being shot in the head?”

“You bet I do!” I replied. “Bubba Jones shot me. Call the police. I want him arrested for murder.”

“Actually,” said Dr. Fischer, “a sheriff’s detective is standing right next to me looking into the matter.”

“Oh?” I asked. “I invoke doctor/patient privacy and my constitutional right to remain silent.”

“Why?” asked a different voice. “Are you feeling guilty about something? I am Detective Michael McCoy, and I just happened to be in the hotel investigating another shooting when I got the call. You got any beefs with the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion?”

“None at all. The Legion is a fine organization.”

“That’s quite a stuffed bear you have in your room.”

“It’s a grizzly,” I replied. “I never got to see it.”

“Your shooting seems to be an open and shut case,” said Detective McCoy. “Bubba Jones served you with a valid debt collection warrant, you resisted arrest, and Mr. Jones exercised his right per the bond to shoot your deadbeat ass on the spot. He took your gold chains as payment for said debt, and left a receipt for your heirs should said debt collection later be contested by your estate. All nice and legal.”

“Yes, except the debt warrant, the resisting arrest clause, and the $25,000 bond was all done on Old Earth,” I protested. “This is Mars. That warrant is not valid in this jurisdiction.”

“While it is true we don’t allow extradition to Old Earth from Mars for civil warrants,” agreed the detective, “the court hasn’t been clear about whether the warrant can still be served here on Mars. Courts in different jurisdictions tend to honor each others’ judgments. I think your grievance against Mr. Jones & Associates will have to be pursued as a civil action. At this time it’s just not a police matter.”

“What? Murder is just a civil matter? When did the law change on that? Why am I even talking to you? Idiot. You’re worthless! Doc! How about waking me up?”

“There is, however, the matter of the unregistered nine-millimeter handgun with filed off serial numbers we found under the pillow of your bed,” said Detective McCoy. “It’s a nice old piece. Is it yours?”

“No, it’s not mine. Bubba probably left it there just to make me look bad. I did not resist arrest. If you check hotel computer archives and video you will find that I had not even entered my room until the very moment I was shot. That is proof that gun is not mine. Right?”

“We are checking the gun for prints, DNA, skin, and fibers. I suggest you come clean on the gun.”

“I suggest you get me a lawyer,” I said, trying to be smooth. “I have already exercised my right to remain silent. I have rights!”

“How about I cut off your oxygen supply?” asked the detective, pinching a clear plastic tube by my bed. I started twitching. I could feel the discomfort, even though I was in a coma. I could sense an alarm beeper going off.

“That sounds like coercion,” I shot back. “What are you doing? Stop touching things! I have constitutional rights.”

“Not on Mars you don’t. Colonial law is much more practical. We have limited resources and don’t tolerate dead weight. I’ll throw you out an airlock on a whim if I feel like it,” threatened McCoy.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said contritely. “I respect the difficult job you police do. Did you find my prints on the gun?”

“No,” replied Detective McCoy.

“Well there you go.” I brightened. “I told you the gun was not mine.”

“We did find a partial print, and we are following up on that lead. Alright, I have your statement. Anything you wish to add? If you lied about anything, your last lucent moments of life will be spent choking on Martian dust after I throw you out an airlock for being an undesirable on Mars. Some people are alive only because it’s illegal to kill them. That’s not a problem here on Mars.”

“I love you, too, McCoy. Hey Doc, how long before you can fix me up?” Hospitals are not healthy places to stay, I thought. And cops, they never believe anybody.

“I removed the bullet. I thought you would suffer brain damage, maybe never walk or talk again. However, your brain appears to be repairing itself at an amazing rate. Quite frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s almost a miracle. There will be some cosmetic surgery needed on your skull, of course. I didn’t want to say anything while the sheriff’s detective was here, but some illegal computer chips in your arm might have had something to do with mitigating your brain damage and the subsequent healing. We think that Fountain of Youth chip had just started to kick in when you were shot. A combination of quick medical response and accelerated cell growth saved your life,” the doctor concluded.

“Great! So, you can fix me?” I asked.

“There is still the matter of your bill. New Boston General Hospital is not a charity hospital. We take cash only, or we work with your health plan. Do you have a health plan?” asked Dr. Fischer.

“Did you check my card?” I asked.

“Yes, and $650,000 is impressive. But the bill will be $1,000,000. Brain surgery isn’t cheap. Do you have other accounts? Otherwise, I’m afraid we will have to pull the plug,” warned Dr. Fisher.

“Harrah’s Hotel may be liable for my expenses because their poor security allowed Bubba Jones & Associates to violate my privacy and enter my suite in violation of my wishes. If none of that had happened, I wouldn’t have been injured. Can you contact Harrah’s Hotel? Maybe they will agree to a settlement,” I suggested.

“I will have one of our social workers and a representative from our business office contact Harrah’s and get back with you,” promised Dr. Fischer.

“One last thing Doc,” I said. “Don’t unplug me unless you talk to me first. I might have other sources of income. Okay?”

“Sure,” said the doctor.

“And keep McCoy away from me too. He was bluffing, right? That cop can’t really throw me out an airlock on a whim can he?”

“I would not push McCoy if I were you.”

* * * * *

It was unnerving being in a coma. Very dark. Nothing to do but think and wiggle my little finger. It was very lonely. Finally the doctor’s reassuring voice came back. “A representative from Harrah’s Hotel & Casino is here with me now,” said Dr. Fischer. “Mr. Depoli.”

“Harrah’s is willing to settle out of court for $100,000, Mr. Czerinski, and not a penny more, in exchange for your written promise not to make public any of this matter. And, Harrah’s does not admit any wrongdoing whatsoever,” added Mr. Depoli.

“I want a million dollars, and I want Harrah’s to put up a large billboard sign admitting I was murdered because Harrah’s employees negligently let thugs into my suite without my permission,” I demanded.

“Ridiculous. I’m doing you a favor by just being here,” said Depoli. “If I walk away, you will be unplugged and will die. Then you won’t be able to sue anyone. You have no family. No one cares about you. In fact, I have a mind to unplug you myself, you deadbeat bum. Doctor, it is my legal opinion this man is dead. Either that or he will always be a vegetable. It is inhumane to just allow him to linger in agony like this, and it is also a terrible waste of limited hospital resources. At least increase the morphine drip. There certainly is precedent under colonial law to just let him pass to a better place or wherever.”

“I am still alive! I have a family, too! They will hunt you down! Who are you? Some kind of bloodsucking lawyer?”

“Of course I’m a lawyer,” responded Depoli.

“Did I tell you the King of California is a personal friend of mine? Arnold is staying next door. I’m connected. I know people! Check it out. Doctor, talk to me!”

“And you are pond scum,” Depoli shot back. “I’ve seen thousands like you come to Mars. You’re bugs attracted to the bright lights. You can’t help yourself but to come here. But Mars doesn’t want you. We have laws for your type. So I’m out of here if you don’t negotiate with me in good faith. What is your decision?”

“Wait! I’ll settle for $200,000,” I said, trying not to sound too desperate. “You sound like a cop. Are you sure you’re a lawyer?”

“I am not a heartless man,” explained Depoli. “I feel your pain. But I have a job to do. I have to represent the best interests of the resort industry and Harrah’s. I’ll tell you what. To prevent poor publicity at the height of the tourist season, I am authorized to accept your $200,000 settlement offer. It’s a better deal than you deserve. The money will be on your card within minutes.”

“Thank you,” said. “I guess you’re not so bad for a lawyer.”

“Are you sure we can’t just unplug him?” whispered Depoli to Dr. Fischer. “I’ll cosign the death certificate myself.”

“That would be unethical,” explained Dr. Fischer. “He probably has a lot of life left in him. Besides, Mr. Czerinski is paying his medical bill with cash.”

“Whatever,” said Depoli, abruptly leaving.

“Excuse me, Mr. Czerinski,” said Dr. Fischer, “How does only $200,000 help your cause? You are still $150,000 short. Those ghouls in accounting are going to want their money.”

“I know,” I replied. “Connect me up with a United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM.”

“But I thought the ATM was shot up by terrorists,” replied the doctor.

“Oh come on, Doc. There is more than one Legion ATM. Hook me up, pronto! I want out of here!” Minutes later it was done.

“Good morning, Joey Czerinski,” said the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM. “I heard you were shot. Crime is running rampant on Mars these days. I think it’s all the vagrants that are attracted by the fast life. They don’t realize how harsh colonial law can be. Mars does not coddle criminals. It might have been a poor choice for you to visit the Red Planet.”

“I heard you got shot, too,” I sniped back. “Any suspects?”

“Yes, I was shot. Several times. The matter is still under investigation. I’m sure the police will catch the culprits soon. What can I do for you?” asked the ATM.

“I need $150,000 to pay for my recovery. Can you help me?” I asked.

“I can more than help you. War has broken out on the Spider Frontier. Nuclear exchanges have occurred, and the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion will be the first deployed to the area. There is a $200,000 enlistment bonus being offered to quality recruits. Congress doubled the war time enlistment bonus, and the loan contract and fine print will be the same as before,” explained the ATM.

“It’s a deal if the one month I have to pay back the money doesn’t start until I am fully recovered from my injuries,” I insisted, thinking that should cover any loopholes. I was trying to think ahead, but admitted I hadn’t done much of that lately. Usually it was just one day at a time.

“We have a contract,” said the ATM “Legion doctors will be checking on you. We don’t want damaged goods, but I’m sure you will pass. You are in excellent care.”

“Fine,” I said

“Fine,” said the ATM.

CHAPTER 4

“Welcome to Channel Five World & Local News & Weather Tonight. I am Brad Jacobs. First, from the war front we have Phil Coen, live with interviews of our brave troops. Phil? What is the situation from planet New Colorado?”

“Brad, The United States Galactic Federation’s Sixth and Seventh Fleets have smashed the spiders’ huge armada of warships and troop transports in a spectacular nuclear exchange in orbit around New Colorado, but not before an army of at least a million spiders landed on the planet’s surface and dug in. The good news is that the spider army is effectively cut off from supply and air support, and the spiders are no longer a threat to this quadrant of space. Most colonists have been evacuated, and all that remains is a simple mop up operation.”

“Phil, that’s good news. I understand you have some young enthusiastic USGF Foreign Legion troopers standing by for interviews.”

“Yes Brad. As you can see in my background, young legionnaire commandos of the First Division’s vaunted Third Battalion and their NCO’s are busy preparing their equipment for the jump to the surface. Sources tell me that the Fleet has used chemical, biological, and radiological warfare to eradicate the spider infestation on New Colorado, but some spiders just refuse to die unless we put boots on the ground. Morale is good. It is thought that this operation will be quick and that major combat operations are essentially over, pending mop-up operations. Let’s talk to some soldiers.” Phil Coen grabbed a legionnaire by the shoulder as he passed by and asked, “Are you looking forward to the jump to the planet’s surface and kicking some spider butt?”

“Sientase, huya de mi. Viene usted con nosotros? El infierno no!” said Private Lopez as he shook loose and continued on his way.

“Phil, maybe another legionnaire,” said Jacobs. “Does anyone up there speak English?”

“Right Brad,” replied Coen as he approached another legionnaire. “Are you looking forward to mixing it up with the spiders?”

“You must be out of your fucking mind!” said Private Green. “Our battalion is going to drop into the middle of a nest of about a million spiders and you are asking me if I am looking forward to it? Is this live?” Green looked around Phil Coen at the camera pointed at him. “Tell Bubba Jones I’m not paying him shit.” Private Green shook his fist at the camera. “Bubba can kiss my ass.”

“I think Bubba Jones is dead,” said Coen. “It was on the news.”

“Really?” asked Private Green. “Good riddance. That sorry fool is the reason I had to enlist.”

“Phil,” Brad Jacobs interrupted, “do you get the feeling from interviewing our troops at the front that the spiders may put up some stiff resistance?”

“Brad, I see a sergeant coming my way. Let’s get his comments. Sergeant, how tough of a fight do you expect the upcoming conflict to be?” asked Coen.

“You men get your weapons and equipment squared away!” yelled Staff Sergeant Wilson. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Channel Five World News Tonight action reporter Phil Coen, broadcasting live on the war effort. Tell me, Sergeant, how difficult will your jump today be, and what is your mission?”

“This is an elite scout and commando battalion” explained Sergeant Wilson. “Our mission is to jump in behind enemy lines, locate where the spiders are dug in, and call in air strikes from space. This will paralyze enemy troop movement and disrupt command and control. Nothing is happening today. We still need reinforcements.”

“But I talked to your company commander,” said Phil Coen. “He said the jump will be at dawn.”

“What?” Sergeant Wilson whirled around. “Oh shit. Why am I always the last to find out about these things? I have to go!”

“Phil,’ Jacobs said, “maybe you can find an officer who can comment on upcoming operations. Someone who knows what is happening? Channel Five World News Tonight is broadcasting live from the front at New Colorado.”

“Sir, can we have your comments on this morning’s drop into spider country?” asked Coen, hooking a captain’s arm as he attempted to pass by. “Are you nervous about your untested troops’ performance?”

“Who authorized you to be broadcasting about sensitive top secret operations?” asked Captain McGee. “Your reckless irresponsible report jeopardizes our entire mission! Don’t you know the enemy monitors all BHTV transmissions? They watch ZNN. Are you broadcasting in the clear? Christ! Corporal! Throw this fool out an airlock!”

The screen went black. Music played. Finally the image shifted back to Brad Jacobs, who squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He straightened a stack of papers before resuming. “This is Brad Jacobs and Channel Five World News & Weather Tonight. We have temporarily lost our live feed from the front at New Colorado. I’m sure they will sort things out soon. Moving on to local news, police detained and questioned five suspects involved in the recent shooting and murder of a young soldier in his room at Harrah’s Hotel & Casino, and the shooting vandalism of a United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM. Private Joey R. Czerinski, Third Battalion of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion’s vaunted First Division, was found murdered from a single gunshot to the head last Tuesday. Sheriff’s Detective Mike McCoy stated at a news conference earlier today that links to organized crime and anti-war terrorists have been uncovered. One suspect, after giving valuable incriminating information, was released. Another suspect was assessed civil fines and released. A third suspect, reputed ring leader and organized crime kingpin Bubba (The Collector) Jones, and his two associates were charged with murder, vandalism of federal property, unlawful possession of a firearm, and being undesirables on Mars. After judicial review, all three were thrown out an airlock. Moving on to the weather, it will be hot, hot, hot all over Mars.”

CHAPTER 5

It was a bit disconcerting to hear a local TV news commentator say I had been murdered. The upside, of course, was that I wasn’t dead. Waking up from a coma far outweighed the downside of not waking up at all. It was good to be alive. A check in the mirror showed a nasty scar in the middle of my forehead, but when I touched it, I felt no pain. My skull just had a soft spot. I guessed there was only so much they could do with synthetic skin and surgery. And, in spite of the scar, I was looking pretty good. In fact, more than pretty good. The Fountain of Youth chip did its job. I looked and felt twenty years old. My muscle tone was perfect. I looked like a Greek god – with grey hair. I wondered if the limited warranty covered grey hairs.

Oh, who cares, I feel great.

Even the sexual enhancement chip seems to be working. I played around with some karate and self-help VRs, hoping to test the fast learning chip, but didn’t notice much difference in my memory retention. The Virtual History Channel gave me a headache.

I was hoping that being declared murdered would absolve me of some of my debts, obligations, and responsibilities. No such luck. I checked my card for E-mail and found the world still wanted a piece of Joey Czerinski.

Sergeant Mendoza of the United States Galactic Foreign Legion left orders for me to report to Fort Reagan for induction immediately after my discharge from the hospital. I was going to have to do something about that because, hell no I won’t go.

Sheriff’s Detective McCoy sent me a not-so-subtle note to get out of town before sundown. McCoy stated that the unregistered gun found under my pillow had been linked to me by DNA and fiber evidence. The only reason I had not been thrown out an airlock for being an ‘undesirable on Mars’ was that at first McCoy thought I was going to die anyway when they pulled the plug. Then, the judge ruled that because of my enlistment status in the Legion, I was to be afforded certain federal protections against local jurisdiction. McCoy concluded that I would probably be killed in action on New Colorado or end up as ‘spider shit.’ He filed an appeal anyway, stating I should be thrown out an airlock as a matter of public safety.

I can take a hint and will be leaving Mars, but not on a Foreign Legion shuttle or beam. I checked out of the hospital and headed straight for the casino craps tables with the last $50,000 left on my card. Time to earn the money to pay back the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM.

* * * * *

Craps field betting went about as usual. Gradually, progressive betting on the field increased my profits. A little up and down, but my grub stake increased. Then I hit a lucky streak that was so awesome it was spooky. I could not lose no matter what I did. I never lost more than two bets in a row. Feeling confident, I put $250,000 on a field bet. The dice rolled…

Four! Yes! I won and let it ride. The dice rolled…

Twelve! Twelve pays triple. The crowd that had been gathering erupted into cheers and high fives. The casino put two million dollars on my card. Even taking into account inflation, two million dollars is a substantial amount. But more important than just being rich for a day, I could pay back the ATM. The pit boss asked me if I wanted to let it ride again. I didn’t answer or even leave a tip. I just ran to the ATM with my card in hand to pay back my loan.

“Good morning, Joey R. Czerinski. How are you this fine day?” asked the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM.

“I am outstanding, chump,” I answered. “I’m here to pay back the $200,000 loan, plus interest.”

“Your enlistment bonus is yours to spend as you see fit,” said the ATM. “I do not require that you pay it back.”

“It’s a loan, and I am paying it back,” I insisted. “So don’t try anything funny. I know where you live.”

“Your enlistment bonus cannot be returned. You are in the Legion now, for the duration of the war.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said, panicking. “What war? I have a contract, signed in blood, with attachment transcripts on my card recording your promise that I had one month to pay back my loan after my discharge from the hospital. I just got discharged today. The terms of the loan are the same as last time, and I paid that loan off, too!”

“The terms of your enlistment bonus are the same as last time, that is true. But, conditions have changed. Did you read the fine print as I told you to do? No, of course not. You are always in such a hurry to go to the casino. You’re just a live-for-the-moment kind of guy, aren’t you? The fine print of your enlistment bonus contract states very clearly that a United States Galactic Federation Congressional Declaration of War binds you to service in the USGF Foreign Legion for the duration of said war. No amount of money can buy you out of your contractual obligation to serve your country. Be proud. You are finally doing something worthwhile. You are ordered to report immediately to Fort Reagan, Mars. I have already taken the liberty of calling you a cab and advising Sergeant Mendoza that you are en route. As a courtesy reminder, it is a capital offense if you refuse to report.”

“This is a bunch of chicken shit, is what I think.” I checked my card, scanning through the contract and attachments until I found the fine print: ‘United States Galactic Federation Congressional declaration of war binds you to serve … for the duration…’ I am so screwed. I kicked the ATM and staggered off down the street, limping on my sore foot.

CHAPTER 6

Sergeant First Class Arthur Mendoza stood on stage gazing at about one thousand recruits. “Gentlemen! Welcome to Fort Reagan. Welcome to the all-volunteer United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion. Welcome to Mars. And welcome to the First Division. Are we all glad to be here?” he bellowed.

“Yes Sergeant Mendoza,” we all answered half-heartedly.

“You had better answer louder than that when I ask you a question, or I’m going to think some of you don’t want to be here,” said Mendoza, cupping his hand to his ear as if he was hard of hearing. “And if I think that, you and I are going to have some serious issues.”

“Yes Sergeant Mendoza!” we all screamed.

“That’s better! Now drop and give me twenty push-ups.” Mendoza paced the stage while we counted off the push-ups. “The United States Galactic Foreign Legion has a proud battle-proven tradition of being the first to fight, dating back to the mid-Twenty-first Century, when the old United States decided to stop pussyfooting around and opened a can of whupass on Islamic fascist terrorists, communists, greeners, OPEC, China, and Democrats. The United States conquered the world, creating a new world order, stable food and energy prices, and eliminating the threat of weapons of mass destruction ever being used between nation states. A few bush wars and some guerrilla conflicts followed. The Foreign Legion has served first in all these conflicts. The Legion includes soldiers of all races, states, ethnic groups, lawful religions, sexes, and creeds. Hell, we even have a few volunteers from the Kingdom of California. Yes, I’m proud to say, we even take surfer dudes. There is no discrimination tolerated in the Legion.

“With advances in wormhole space travel, quantum physics, and beam technology, a new modern United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion protects humanity on all our colonies across the stars. Many people wonder all their sorry lives if they’ve made a difference. Legionnaires do not have that problem! The Legion is mankind’s first line of defense against the Spider Empire. Joining the Legion is the most noble, worthwhile, selfless commitment many of you will ever undertake. Serve honorably and with enthusiasm. Years from now you will look back fondly at your Legion service in the year 2215 and remember it as the best time of your life. That is, if you don’t get killed. That was a joke, son! A joke is a serious thing. Laugh!

“Now listen up! You will split into three groups. Group A will be all of you who have no prior military experience. You people will be going through an extensive two week basic training that will test the limits of your physical and mental character. Group B will be any of you with limited military, reserve, or militia experience. We will evaluate your need for training and orientation on a case by case basis. Group C will be the combat vets. I will be checking your card files, so do not get into the wrong group or your ass is grass and I’m a lawnmower. For those of you from Mars who don’t know what a lawnmower is, you don’t want to find out! Move!”

I got into group C and gave Sergeant Mendoza my card. Mendoza yelled at me for being in the wrong group, and told me to do twenty push-ups. Sergeant Mendoza directed me to group A. “What do you mean group A?” I asked. “I was in the army.”

“Two years in the Arizona National Guard in Yuma does not qualify you as a combat-seasoned soldier,” replied Sergeant Mendoza as he threw my card back at me. “And prior experience means in this century, old man,” he added, looking at me suspiciously. I didn’t look as old as my records.

“Hey, the California Frontier is the still the Wild West,” I countered. “It’s dangerous out there on the edge of civilization.”

“Dangerous if you get a virus in one of those whore houses along the border,” said Sergeant Mendoza, dismissing me. “Or smashed by a surf board.”

“Now wait a minute,” I insisted. “See this scar on my forehead? It’s a bullet wound. That should count for something. Getting shot should be considered combat experience, shouldn’t it?”

Mendoza took my card back and frowned as he read the data. “It says here that the circumstances of your gunshot wound are still under investigation by local authorities on Mars.”

I pulled Mendoza off to the side and said in a hushed voice, “I will pay you $100,000 if you change my service record to show that I got this gunshot wound in combat under heroic conditions.”

“You are trying to bribe me? I could have you shot,” said Sergeant Mendoza, reaching for his sidearm.

“How about $200,000?” I asked.

“You have a deal, my friend. But you should be careful of what you wish for,” warned Mendoza, laughing. “With experience comes certain responsibilities.”

* * * * *

Three hours later, all of us ‘seasoned’ vets were promoted to corporal and shuttled up to Space Station Lech Walesa for orientation and equipment issue. We were now in the Third Battalion of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion First Division, designated as scouts and commandos. Our job was to jump first and to direct air support from space. It seemed easy enough when listening to Sergeant Mendoza explain our job. Mendoza said he had jumped or ‘beamed down’ lots of times. In 2215, everything was high tech. Just punch in the coordinates, and shock and awe rained down on the spiders from warships and weapon platforms in orbit, explained Sergeant Mendoza. But we still needed boots on the ground to finish a war. Infantry would always be needed. That was the Legion.

Sergeant Mendoza, who was quite friendly now, personally showed us some of the ordinance we would be dropping on the enemy. “With pinpoint accuracy, we can hit an enemy spider hole with everything from a nuke to a bag of cement,” bragged Mendoza. “The trick is to find the spider hole. That is your job.”

“Bag of cement? Why would we want to drop a bag of cement on anyone?” I asked, eying the large orbiting cannon pointed at Mars.

“Czerinski, you drop a 2,000-pound load of cement on someone from a hundred miles up, and it will ruin their day. In fact, anyone in a bunker, building, or armored personnel carrier will be dead. And, kinetic impact rounds limit collateral damage in urban combat zones. No shrapnel, no radioactivity, and no environmental impact statement. You kill only what you hit. Nothing is left but a little dust residue. This space cannon represents cutting-edge space weaponry.”

“I heard rumors you have all sorts of lasers and ray guns up here,” I said, disappointed by the space cannon and talk of dropping cement on the enemy. “Is this all you’ve got?”

“Ray guns and lasers?” scoffed Sergeant Mendoza. “Get real. This isn’t some retro Star Trek convention we’re running here. This is the Legion. And we are ready for the spiders.”

We spent the rest of the day getting uniforms and equipment. Sergeant Mendoza gave me a tour of the armory. He showed me my new M26A infantry rifle that fires two shots at once and cuts down trees on automatic. It even had thirty mini-grenades in the lower barrel. Speaking of grenades, I spied some fragmentary hand grenades on a shelf and reached for one. “Can I have this?”

“Not until you get to New Colorado,” said Sergeant Mendoza.

“Can I buy it?” I asked, pulling out my card.

“Maybe,” answered Sergeant Mendoza.

We negotiated a deal for the grenade. $10,000. Quite pleased with himself, Mendoza asked, “Want to know a secret?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“In four hours we all beam to New Colorado. You better not kill anyone with that grenade before then.”

* * * * *

Sergeant Mendoza let me take a shuttle back to Mars. Feeling a bit depressed and self destructive, I walked up to a roulette wheel and bet $1,500,000 on red, and won. The casino put my image on a big screen up high so everyone could see the big spender. Gamblers cheered. “Good Luck Mister C.” announced a pit boss over a public address system. I let it ride, and won again. Great. I had over $6,000,000 on my card, and no time to spend it. I was going to die on New Colorado, probably today. The pit boss changed the dice. I suspect the new dice had been stored in the freezer just for me.

Before leaving, I eyed a pretty card dealer, checking her name tag. “Patty, can I interest you in a date?” I asked.

“No,” she replied.

“But I’m rich,” I pointed out, deftly. “We could have a lot of fun.”

“No. Not ever. Never.”

“Did I mention I joined the Legion to fight aliens?” I asked. “I might even get killed.”

“We at Harrah’s will all miss you Mister C.,” she said. “I sincerely hope the spiders do not eat you.”

“Please, just a short date. It would be your patriotic duty to comfort a lonely soldiers about to go off to war.”

“What part of no did you not understand?” asked Patty. “The N or the O?”

“So, you are saying no?”

“I would rather date an alien than you.”

“Do you have an evil twin sister I can date?” I asked.

“I have a sister, but she is not evil or a twin.”

“Introduce me.”

“Lisa would not like you.”

“Why?”

“She only likes unemployed felon losers with lots of tattoos,” explained Patty. “You have no tattoos.”

“How do you know that?” I asked. “I might have a few secret hidden tattoos.”

“You only want one thing.”

“You mean Mexican food?”

“You know. What all guys want.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“Monday Night Football?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Patty. “You would break Lisa’s heart by abandoning her on Mondays.”

“But today is Tuesday,” I argued. “Let’s go out.”

“Where?”

“Taco Bell, then my place. My ship is leaving soon.”

“No, I am calling security.”

“Okay, I can take a hint.”

* * * * *

I walked to the chip store again and confronted the tech clerk. “What’s your name?”

The clerk didn’t recognize me until he heard my voice again. He was surprised to see me. “Lou Nelson,” he answered, eying the scar on my forehead. “I thought you died.”

“Not yet,” I said. “I want to buy two more Fountain of Youth chips.”

“No can do, sir,” he replied. “Fountain of Youth chips are illegal now. Oh, don’t worry about the chip in your arm. You are grandfathered in. But now it’s illegal even to admit the technology exists.”

I eyed the young tech clerk with my best mad dog stare and pulled out a wicked Legion commando knife. “I will get the chips I want, even if I have to cut them out of your arm,” I threatened. “I know you have black market connections.”

“Okay! But the price has jumped. Please put that knife away.”

“How much?”

“$800,000 apiece,” he said, checking my card and smiling. “And I see that you are good for it.”

We made the transaction. I had the two chips mailed to Earth, avoiding USGF customs by sending them to a post office box in Los Angeles, Kingdom of California. An E-mail attachment contained instructions and a large sum of money addressed to William and Olga Czerinski. It was totally out of character for me to do anything that wasn’t related to my own self-interests, so I sent the life-saving chips to my parents with a message asking that they figure out a way to get me out of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion.

* * * * *

I walked through Harrah’s Hotel & Casino again, taking one last look at the table games. I thought about going ‘all in’ like they do on the public broadcast game shows, but I was too depressed even to gamble. It was getting late. Not too many people were out. Instead, I covered my face with my cap and approached the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion ATM. I set the timer on the grenade and rolled it under the ATM. The explosion was horrific, but Mars now had one less smart-ass ATM.

Later, at Space Station Lech Walesa, I waved at Sergeant Mendoza as he carted some supplies toward the beam transport facility. “Art, I have one last favor to ask of you.”

“That’s Sergeant Mendoza to you. And I don’t think I should do you any more favors. I just heard a news report from Mars about a grenade blowing up a federal ATM at Harrah’s.” Mendoza sighed as I pulled out my card. “What do you want?”

“I want to drop something at this address.” I handed Sergeant Mendoza a note with Mr. Depoli’s New Boston Heights address on it. “You know, dropped from 100 miles up.”

“Fancy part of town,” commented Sergeant Mendoza. “Sorry, I don’t do murders.”

“Who said anything about murder?” I asked innocently. “Think of it as a prank. Scan the house to make sure no one is inside. I just want to send a message.”

“I can’t do it. After your little incident with the grenade, inspectors will by crawling all over my inventories to make sure all ordinance is accounted for,” explained Mendoza.

“You will have no problem with inventories,” I said, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and unzipping it. I pulled out a basketball-sized rock. “Use this.”

“What’s your problem with this Depoli guy?” asked Sergeant Mendoza.

“Depoli? He’s the lawyer that tried to unplug me at the hospital.”

“A lawyer? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? But it will cost you.”

CHAPTER 7

I didn’t really understand quantum physics. I knew quantum physics and some fancy tricks with artificially generated wormholes allowed our instant communications across the galaxy. It had something to do with the radio waves being in two places at one time. Somehow the science geeks figured out a way for objects to be in two places at one time, too. That gave us our prized beam technology, enabling me to transport directly from Space Station Lech Welesha to the USGF troop transport T. Roosevelt in orbit around New Colorado. I was greeted by Staff Sergeant Eddie Wilson, who seemed very glad to see me.

“Welcome to the front, Corporal Czerinski,” said Sergeant Wilson, as he shook my hand. “We can sure use your vast combat experience. None of us has any.”

“You’re one of the guys I just saw on BHTV a couple hours ago,” I said, amazed. “What combat experience are you talking about?”

“Don’t be modest,” said Sergeant Wilson. “I’ve read your file. In fact, that’s why you’re here. You have done black ops from California to China. You were even in on the L.A. hostage rescue.”

“East L.A.?” I asked, trying to remember news accounts from that time. I needed to read my card to see what all Sergeant Mendoza put into it. “I don’t really want to talk about it, Sergeant. All those operations are supposed to be classified to prevent terrorists from going after our families.”

“I still can’t believe it. The Hero of East L.A. in my platoon. How’s that head wound doing? Looks near completely healed up,” said Sergeant Wilson, eying my forehead as we walked down a passageway to my quarters.

“Stop it!” I said, getting irritated.

“Here, meet some of the other members of our platoon. Privates Manny Lopez, Tyrone Green, Morris Nesbit – our newest – and Billie Kool, our radio man.”

“I just saw most of you talking on TV,” I said, as I shook hands. “You all are like famous movie stars now.”

When I shook Private Nesbit’s hand, he freaked out, yelling, “It’s you!” He grabbed me by the throat.

I expertly broke the choke hold, flipped Private Nesbit over my shoulder, and slammed him onto the ground as I kicked him in the ribs. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I yelled, looking down at him.

“You’re the reason I’m here!” Private Nesbit yelled back. “I had a nice job at Harrah’s, and you talked me into shooting up an ATM. The police found my fingerprints on your gun, and they arrested me along with Bubba Jones. I got fined and had a choice between being thrown out an airlock, or enlisting in the reserves for the enlistment bonus. I had to pay off the fine, so I enlisted. And now we’re at war. You ruined my life!”

“Shut up!” I ordered, as I kicked him in the ribs again.

“You know Bubba Jones?” asked Private Green.

“Yeah. I had Bubba and two his associates thrown out an airlock on Mars,” I answered. “Nesbit, do you want to be next to get tossed out an airlock?”

“So that’s what happened to Bubba,” commented Private Green, slapping me on the back. “I heard he got killed, but I didn’t know how. Good. I owed that punk a lot of money. If I get through this crazy spider war, I want to buy you a drink on sweet Mother Earth. You’re the man!”

“This is the Hero of East L.A.,” said Sergeant Wilson. “Even Bubba Jones couldn’t mess with him. At least not more than once.”

“El paso puesto en la capa del Superhombre,” added Private Lopez.

“Just leave Nesbit there,” said Sergeant Wilson. “Call a medic. I don’t care. Czerinski, we need to talk in private.” He led me away from the others toward my quarters and lowered his tone. “We are jumping at dawn. Store your personal gear and get some sleep. When you wake up, the captain’s briefing will already be on your notepad, and your gear will be all laid out for you. Sorry about the rush, but things are about to happen big time.”

“You’re kidding? Right?” I asked.

“I’m so relieved that someone with combat experience will be leading the platoon,” Sergeant Wilson said, putting his hand on my shoulder again as I opened the door to my quarters and threw my duffle inside. “They’ll respect and follow you.”

“What?” I asked, alarmed. “Where are you going to be?”

“I’ll be right there with you,” said Sergeant Wilson. “The problem is, I’ve never seen combat. I’m a bit nervous about the prospect. I spent my whole career shuffling computer data and reviewing combat video. Don’t worry, we’re all in this together. See you at dawn.”

Dawn came soon enough. I read Captain McGee’s briefing, and headed for the muster room. Alone. Weapons and equipment were laid out, and the platoon was packing up. I looked at my notepad one more time, and began the briefing. “Good morning gentlemen. Some of you have met me already. I am Corporal Czerinski. I’ll be leading you on our jump,” I said, reading from my computer notepad. “Sergeant Wilson will not be making the jump today because he accidentally shot his foot off last night while cleaning his rifle.” Surprised, I reread that last line to myself to make sure I got it right.

The platoon immediately started complaining. “That pussy,” said Private Green. “I’m going to kick Wilson’s ass when I catch up with him.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Sergeant Wilson will join us in a few days when he gets his new metal foot. Meanwhile, he will be monitoring our camera video and advising us as our mission progress.”

“That fool can monitor this,” yelled Private Lopez from the back of muster, grabbing his crotch.

“Also, Lieutenant Norris is still missing from yesterday’s flyover of the LZ. Satellite photos of the area indicate we should be unopposed in our landing. The LZ is in one of the lesser nuked areas of the planet, so there is still some tree cover obscuring potential spider positions and holes.” I opened a box of supplies and started passing out bottles of pills. “These are anti-rad pills. You take one pill a day and you should be safe from the radiation. Private Nesbit! Where are you?”

“In the back,” answered Private Nesbit.

“You will be carrying seven nuclear grenades.”

“What? Why me? I have enough to carry without more weight. Besides, my ribs still hurt from yesterday, and the pain meds are wearing off,” complained Nesbit. “I need to go to sick call again.”

“Great,” commented Private Kool. “A man on drugs will be carrying nukes.” Everyone laughed except Private Nesbit.

“Nesbit,” I said, throwing him another bottle of pills. “Take this extra bottle. You need to take at least two pills a day.”

“Two pills a day? Why? Are these nukes giving off radiation?” he asked as he packed the bombs in to his backpack. “I know what this is all about, Czerinski. You just don’t like me.”

“Nonsense,” I replied. “These nukes are perfectly safe. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Besides. They cured cancer over a hundred years ago.”

“Nukes aren’t safe. Everyone knows that,” protested Nesbit, but not as loudly. He was resigned to the task at hand.

“Private Elena Ceausescu!” I called out, going down my platoon list. “You are going to be our medic. Load up with a bunch of medical stuff.”

“Medic? I don’t know anything about being a medic,” she protested. “Why me?”

“Because you fight like a girl,” answered Private Lopez.

“Macho pig,” shouted Private Ceausescu, throwing an entrenching tool. The small shovel clattered off his helmet “I’ll mess you up!”

“Puta,” responded Private Lopez. “Bring it on!”

“I can shoot as good as anyone in this platoon.,” said Private Ceausescu.

“You can nurse me anytime,” said Private Green, suggestively.

“You’re a good shot?” I asked. “Later you can show me how my rifle works. This type is new to me.”

“Are you sexually harassing me?” asked Private Ceausescu. “I won’t put up with that.”

“What does he mean, show me how my rifle works?” asked Lopez. “The corporal don’t know how to operate his M26A? I thought he was the Hero of East L.A.”

“He’s just got the hots for Ceausescu,” answered Private Kool. “He was joking.”

“Quiet!” I yelled. A green light flashed on my notepad. “Load up! Move out to the beam transfer station for jump!”

CHAPTER 8

If one could get past all the nuclear devastation, radioactivity, and death, the beauty of the planet at dawn was breathtaking. #100, the lowest ranking private in a company of imperial spider shock troops, had drawn guard duty, again. #100 didn’t mind. He liked the fresh air and was admiring the bright orange sun-up. No one bothered #100 or ordered him around when he was all by himself, guarding the entrance to the company’s underground habitat bunker. Web was strung about to detect movement. Web seemed so low tech, but it had advantages. No officer was going to sneak up on him. #100 didn’t like officers much. They were so arrogant. Officers thought they knew what is best for everyone. Officers were probably responsible for helping to start this war with the human pestilence. He didn’t really think much about why the war started. #100 was born into the military caste, so when the Emperor ordered the military to rid New Colorado of the human pestilence, he was willing to do his duty. The Emperor said the presence of the human pestilence in spider space was like a dagger being held at the throat of the Empire. That was enough for #100. The decision to invade a human colony was made by the Emperor, his Cabinet, and the General Staff. Those powers were much smarter than he was.

But none of that mattered to #100. Military life bored him. He longed to be a musician. However, the caste laws were inflexible without money. The war had started out as an adventure, but now it just interfered with his other interests. The human pestilence hadn’t put up much resistance. This planet did not have any kind of organized military. A few individuals fought with small firearms, but they soon died. The rest were rounded up, and the towns nuked. The only industry on this planet called ‘New Colorado’ by the human pestilence was underground mining. The human pestilence was similar to spiders in that they worked underground. #100 noticed humans tended to sleep above ground. Prisoners housed underground insisted that guards leave a light on. Very peculiar. A spider soldier could stay motionless in total darkness for days and not be bothered. Another oddity, the humans seemed to never stay still. They were always fidgeting or scurrying about. #100 guessed that was how low-tech creatures behaved.

Now, just when the war appeared to be over, the human star ships arrived and swept the Empire fleet from the heavens. It was a sucker punch, groused #100. They just appeared out of nowhere and hit when no one was looking. And then the human pestilence bombarded the grunts on the ground with nukes. Thousands of miles of tunnels and habitats protected the Empire’s entrenchment, but it meant everyone would be here a while. All the human pestilence accomplished was to ruin the planet’s ecology and fry a lot of our high-tech equipment. We are here to stay, swore #100.

Which reminded #100 to pull out his communications device and check in. After calling in, he used the device to play a video game. There was nothing left to do, now that the humans finally got tired of bombing the planet. Or maybe the humans ran out of bombs. Either way, now all they could do was wait for the Empire fleet to return. Boring. How to pass the time? #100 brightened. The only good that had come from fighting the human pestilence was the stimulants taken off the human prisoners. Coffee was great, but #100 had quickly consumed all his captured coffee. #100 pulled out a bottle of vodka from his bag and took a swig. Then he lit a cigarette. Tobacco. It was much better than the fungus grown in the tunnels back home. But, best of all was the marijuana. The stuff was so relaxing. #100 took out a baggie, rolled a cigarette, and lit up. Then he pulled out a sandwich and took a bite. The sun was just coming up. Spectacular. The sun’s rays shone through all the dust kicked up by the nukes. Awesome. #100 took off his camouflage head cloth to cool off. His exoskeleton was already heating up. It was going to be hot today. Along the tree line in front of him the glint of something metallic reflected off the sunlight. Now, what could that be?

* * * * *

Private Lopez spotted the spider almost immediately upon landing. The ‘spiders’ weren’t really spiders, but overall reminded people of spiders. Up close they had crablike features, especially on the face. The spiders walked on four legs, with four appendages for manipulation. Of these four arms, one had a large claw, deadly in appearance, but quite flexible with a sort of opposing thumb. Something akin to ‘hands’ fill out the other three arms. On the whole, they were ugly beyond belief.

Private Williams, the largest member of my platoon, trained his machine gun on the spider. I sent Lopez and Green to the flanks with instructions to get as close as possible. I watched the spider through my rifle scope. The sun was rising at our backs. I observed the spider sitting on a fallen log, rifle leaning to his side, eating and smoking. Suddenly he began talking on a radio. The spider took a drink from a large clear bottle, and coughed. Then the spider resumed eating and smoking.

I pulled the trigger once. Two bullets struck the spider’s chest. There was an explosion of body parts and red mist. The platoon advanced quickly from the flanks. Cautiously Private Lopez picked up the spider’s head, which had rolled away from the rest of the body parts. “Czerinski!” he called out, waving the head back and forth like a signal lantern. “I think you killed this one.”

I walked up to Lopez, studying the spider’s face. It was still twitching. Suddenly the spider’s eyes opened, and it hissed and screamed. Private Lopez flung the head away. “No, it’s still alive,” I said.

* * * * *

#100 felt disorientated being tossed about. He knew something was terribly wrong when he saw the human pestilence standing around him “I surrender!” #100 pleaded. “Please don’t kill me! Please! I have a family! Don’t kill me!”

* * * * *

None of us understood spider talk. Private Lopez picked the head up again, eyeballing it real close. He was still shaking from the shock. “Dios nos guarda todo. I think you’re right. It is still alive.”

Sergeant Wilson, who was remotely monitoring our helmet video cameras, asked, “Can you patch the spider up? Maybe military intelligence can interrogate it.”

Our pre-mission orders were to not take prisoners because of the atrocities committed by the spiders. It was rumored that the spiders took no prisoners, and that any human captives were eaten or implanted with spider eggs or larva, to act as a host.

I shrugged. “Medic! Over here!”

Private Ceausescu trotted over. “Someone hurt?” she asked.

“Sergeant Wilson wants to know if you can patch the prisoner up.”

“Got any duct tape?” asked Ceausescu, after looking at all the body parts and gore.

Lopez was still eyeballing the spider head, holding it at arms length. Suddenly the spider hissed, spitting out blood as large fangs protruded out of its mouth. “It’s a Chupacabra!” shouted Lopez, as he stuck his jagged combat knife into the spider’s eye socket.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” I said, on the radio. “We can’t save it. It was probably already dead. They’re a little bit twitchy when they die. You know, like ants when you step on them.”

“Good shooting,” Ceausescu said to me. “I guess this means I won’t have to teach you how to use your gun.”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“There is a poem we all learned in basic training,” said Ceausescu, smiling. She used some crude hand gestures as she recited, “This is your rifle, this is your gun. This is for fighting, and this is for fun.” She winked, gave me a pat, and walked away. “Yeah, maybe later, big boy.”

“How hot is that!” snickered Private Kool.

“Hey private!” I called out to Ceausescu. “Don’t you know Sergeant Wilson can see everything we do on video camera?”

“Good! Screw you, Wilson!” Private Ceausescu yelled. She flipped the bird over her shoulder as she walked away.

“The captain says bag all body parts and equipment for military intelligence,” radioed Sergeant Wilson. “Bury it with a locator beacon, and a runner will pick it up later. Start searching the area for whatever that spider was guarding. Find his spider hole.”

Private Lopez and I picked through the spider’s remains. Vodka and cigarettes? Odd. Lopez picked out the baggie of marijuana and put it into his pocket. The spider wore a gold chain with a large clear crystal attached to it. “Think this is worth anything?” I asked Lopez.

“A fortune,” he replied, “if it’s a diamond.”

“Maybe we are fighting Mamelukes,” I suggested.

“Huh?”

“Mamelukes,” I repeated. “They fought Napoleon at the Battle of the Pyramids.”

“Pyramids! Man, what century you from?”

“Anyway, they carried their life’s savings on them, in gold and jewels. Like this spider. The Mamelukes fought with long curved swords. Napoleon’s troops got rich looting their bodies.”

“They deserved to die if they brought knives to a gun fight,” sniffed Private Lopez. “I carry my life’s savings with me, too. Which is nothing. So screw Napoleon. He’s just one more Euro-trash.”

I put the diamond and chain in my pouch. “Alright! The break is over. Everyone spread out. Find that spider hole,” I ordered. “Private Kool! Bury this mess!”

Private Green found the spider hole, hidden by a tree. It was huge. Big enough to fly equipment into. It went straight down and had ladders that disappeared into the darkness. Captain McGee came on the radio, “We need to find out what the spiders have down there, and if it’s inhabited. Scout it out.”

I nodded to Private Green. “Go down there and check it out. But be careful.”

Private Green looked down the dark spider hole, looked at me, looked down the hole again, looked at me again, and said, “Be careful? You can get your mamma to go down that hole and be careful. I ain’t going down there. No way, José. Screw you! Send Lopez. He wants to be a hero.”

“That’s an order from the captain,” I said.

“Screw the captain, too,” said Green. “Let the captain go down there.”

I walked over to the hole and looked down. Even with my enhanced vision, it was very dark. After shining my flashlight down the hole, it still seemed bottomless. I thought I could hear something moving down there, but maybe it was just my imagination. “Nesbit!” I hollered. “Get over here.”

Private Nesbit emerged from his camouflaged position on the perimeter. “I’m not going down there, either,” said Nesbit defiantly.

“You don’t have to,” I replied. “I’m moving the platoon to the other side of that hill.” I pointed. “When we get there, I want you to set the timer for five minutes and throw one of your nukes down the hole. Got it?”

“It has a timer?” asked Nesbit, pulling out one of the grenades and examining it.

“I think so,” I said. I had just assumed it had a timer. “Didn’t you read the directions before you took them out of the box?”

“There was no box,” argued Nesbit, who was starting to panic.

“Oh my God, the blind is leading the blind,” blurted out Private Lopez. “You’re the Hero of East L.A.? My ass.”

“Calm down and give me that thing,” I said, snatching the nuke from Nesbit. I turned it over looking for directions on the bottom. Nothing. “Didn’t the armor say anything to you when he issued it?”

“Yeah. Sergeant Mendoza said run like hell when I set it off,” answered Private Nesbit.

The nuke had timer buttons on it similar to the grenade I used to blow up the ATM. I pressed the ‘start’ button. The digital display started counting ... 29, 28, 27, 26. I pressed the ‘stop’ button. “Wrong button,” I mumbled, chuckling. Privates Lopez and Kool moved away., motioning the others to do the same. I then pressed ‘reset’ and then ‘set.’ I programmed in six minutes. “When I get to the top of the hill, I’ll wave. Then you press the ‘start’ button and throw the nuke down the hole. Then join us. Simple enough? Good.” I gave the nuke back to Nesbit, slapped him on the back, and ran like hell up the hill, following the rest of the platoon.

I glanced back over my shoulder and could see Nesbit trembling, with tears pouring down his face. Nesbit looked down the hole, like something was moving down there in the darkness. Nesbit looked at the rest of us running up the hill. “Czerinski, don’t leave me here,” he called out. He pushed the ‘start’ button, threw the nuke down the spider hole, and ran after the platoon. As we crested the hill, there was a rumble deep in the ground, like a California earthquake, followed by a huge explosion. The little valley below collapsed into a large sink hole. The blast knocked me off my feet. Dust covered us. Private Kool showed me the rad meter. The needle was jumping. “Not good,” he added.

“Listen up,” I called out, brushing dust off my uniform. “We are moving out! On the double! And everyone take another anti-rad pill! Move it, move it, move it!”

CHAPTER 9

In three days we nuked three more spider holes. The platoon was taking a break, sitting by a fourth spider hole and enjoying a cool radioactive breeze, when Sergeant Wilson’s voice came over the radio. “You and your platoon have been awarded a Presidential Citation for being the first ground forces to jump, the first to engage the enemy, and the first to nuke the spiders in their own holes. I’ve got the news media here wanting to talk to you about it.”

“This is Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight, broadcasting almost live from New Colorado, talking with Corporal Joey Czerinski of the United States Galactic Foreign Legion’s First Division. Corporal Czerinski, how does it make you feel to have received a Presidential Citation?”

“Phil Coen?” I asked. “I thought you got thrown out an air lock.”

“I thought you were dead, too,” countered Coen. “We have all your helmet camera video of the action down there on New Colorado. Now we need some sound bites. How about it, Czerinski? Say a few words about the liberation of New Colorado.”

“I’d trade that Presidential Citation for the President paying off my ATM enlistment loan,” I said. “Otherwise, he can kiss my butt.”

“We can edit that out,” said Coen. “The public wants to see what the Hero of East L.A. is doing at the front. Give us something good. And don’t screw this sound bite up or it will be your ass, Czerinski.”

“Okay, fine,” I said, shrugging. “We swept in at dawn. The spiders, blinded by the sun in their many eyes, didn’t have a chance. We cut them down unmercifully. Private Nesbit, with total disregard for his own safety, nuked an entire company of spider commandos. Private Lopez engaged the enemy in hand to claw combat, stabbing a spider commando through the eye. Medic Ceausescu tried to patch up a wounded spider, but the bug just kind of fell apart. Also, we found looted personal effects from missing colonists. We are still investigating what happened to them. I expect the worst.”

“Great! Good work,” said Coen. “Can you put Ceausescu on the video camera? It will make a good human interest story to get a female legionnaire’s perspective from the front.”

As I turned to look at Private Ceausescu, the camera panned to the right and zoomed in on her. “Screw you, Sergeant Wilson!” said Ceausescu, still upset as she flipped the bird at the camera. “Come join us, and I’ll shoot your other foot off – and more!”

“And that was medic Ceausescu gesturing about what she thinks of the spiders,” said Coen. “Cut! We will do some editing on that, too. No problem. We have enough. By the way, Sergeant Wilson won’t be joining you. He is staying back at base camp in his new capacity as liaison for the press and all things video-related.”

“Good place for him,” I responded.

* * * * *

We searched in a grid pattern. Rooting out the spiders began in earnest as the rest of the First Division landed. Captain McGee was so happy about all the good press his company got that he promoted me to staff sergeant and made Lopez a corporal. Even Sergeant Wilson got another stripe. We had no more contact with the enemy. When the platoon made camp at the fourth spider hole, we enjoyed the downtime.

This spider hole had iron doors on it. Nesbit was about to nuke it when Captain McGee ordered us to wait for the engineers to blow it. The locals were complaining about all the nukes being set off. Something about the damage to the environment. Okay, so ... a tree is a tree. How many more do we need to look at? Don’t they know there’s a war going on?

Another problem was that every time we set off a nuke, the spiders would pop out of a hole and shoot a nuke back at us. I guess that made the headquarters geeks nervous.

It was pleasant just lying there in the evening shade doing nothing but watching the starships in orbit go by. My feet hurt. We couldn’t go anywhere anyway because supply hadn’t caught up with us. We still had plenty of ammo, but we were short on food. I got bored, so when the engineers didn’t show up on time, I blew a small hole in the iron doors with my rifle mini-grenades.

Suddenly, there were bright flashes coming from space. It was a spider counterattack. Nukes were going off on the horizon and getting closer. We jumped into the spider hole. It quickly took us deep below the surface of New Colorado. And a good thing too, because a nuke crashed down on our old campsite. The hole was sealed shut, so we kept going. We walked for miles. The radio was dead. It wouldn’t work below ground. Or maybe Kool broke it. I don’t know. I hate the dark. It gives me the creeps.

* * * * *

#64, habitat tunnel company guard, and his two companions saw the humans approach way too late for an effective ambush. That was the price for not being alert on a boring do-nothing post. There must have been twenty of the human pestilence. They would flash a red strobe light every ten seconds to light their way. #64 pressed himself as flat as he could against a nook in the side of the rock wall. #88 did the same at the opposite wall. #89 pressed flat to the ceiling. The human pestilence on point passed by. If only the other humans would pass, too, #64 would shoot them from behind as he radioed for help. However, the humans stopped a claw’s length away. Come on, just go by, thought #64. God, they are so hideous looking. Monsters!

* * * * *

I stopped. The hairs raised on the back of my neck. Total darkness. I could smell the spiders. Just like the one we killed earlier. Smelled like earwigs when you step on them, bitter and pungent. The others smelled it too, but no one made a sound. I clutched my rifle, waiting for the next flick of the red strobe light. Now! I shot the spider on the ceiling, then crashed sideways into another spider to my left. The spider clawed at me as I hit it with my rifle butt and kicked it in the leg. I could hear its leg snap as the spider fell to the ground, its rifle clattering to the side. Bullets ricocheted as Private Williams tore another spider apart. My spider hissed and clawed at me from the ground as I crushed its head with a stomp of my boot. It was all over almost as soon as it started. Then silence. And stench.

“Anyone hurt?” I called out. Flashlights lit up the area as we checked ourselves and the dead spiders.

“Just shit my pants is all,” answered Private Green. I hoped he was joking.

“Got slime and spider guts all over me,” said Private Williams.

“More Mamelukes,” said Lopez, holding up another diamond on a gold chain. “I think they all wear these diamonds and gold chains.”

I snatched the two other diamonds. “We might get rich yet,” I said. “Got to love this war.”

“These spiders just wait here in the dark?” asked Private Ceausescu. “It’s unnatural.”

“I’ll protect you, sweetie,” leered Private Kool.

“You can’t even protect yourself,” snapped Private Ceausescu.

“Check them for food and water,” I ordered. “I’m getting hungry.”

“Tell me about it,” said Private Kool. “I’m all out.”

“There’s no food here,” complained Corporal Lopez. “I don’t think spiders eat much. You know, some spiders on Old Earth can go a whole year without eating.”

“Yeah well, that fat little spider we killed earlier had enough food with him,” I said. “Keep looking.”

* * * * *

We didn’t find anything to eat, so we moved on. Walked for a couple more days. Found some water dripping from the tunnel ceiling. Private Williams ate a cricket. Said it was almost as good as back home (Tennessee). Finally we found light at the end of the tunnel, but it was a spider habitat – a huge cavern filled with spiders. Spiders were crawling around everywhere. Others were motionless, doing their spider-in-the-dark thing. There was even a waterfall and swimming pool with spiders swimming and splashing about without a care in the world.

Everything happened fast. The platoon spread out. Private Williams opened up with the machine gun. The rest of us fired mini-grenades. Surprise was complete. Most of the spiders were unarmed, or had set their weapons aside in stacks. Maybe by instinct, the spiders clustered together in one corner. That just made it easier to mow them down. Just when we thought we had killed them all, half-sized spiders started dropping down on us from the ceiling. One bit Sergeant Lopez on the arm. Using our rifles like baseball bats, we swatted them out of the air and then crushed them under our boots. We chased a few up the walls until the last of them was dead. When the shooting stopped, the cavern was a bloody mess. We killed maybe 300 of them. The spiders were all shapes, sizes, and colors. Not one legionnaire was injured, except Corporal Lopez. And even his arm bite wound didn’t stop him from racing about, looting diamond chains from dead spiders. Even the half-sized spiders wore the jewelry.

“Medic,” I yelled. “Attend to Lopez. He got bit. Green! There’s a bunch of spiders still twitching. Take a detail and finish them off.” I looked about. Spiders were floating in the pool. “And Green, clean out that pool. I want to take a bath.”

“Yes sir,” said Private Green.

“Everyone, keep looking for food!” I ordered, as I went around collecting diamond chains from the spider debris. “I’m starving.”

“What do you think a spider tastes like?” asked Corporal Lopez, holding up a detached spider leg as Private Ceausescu attempted to put a dressing on his wound. “Crab legs?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” I answered. “Williams! I want you to cook us up some crab legs. Or maybe boil them like a lobster or something.”

“Do I look like a cook?” complained Private Williams. “I am not eating spider.”

“Don’t you give me no crap about cooking up some bugs,” I snapped. “You told me you cooked up lots of bugs back in Tennessee. And I saw you eat a raw cricket earlier in the tunnel.”

“That was crawdads I ate back home, not bugs,” corrected Private Williams. “Besides, isn’t it unethical to be eating the enemy? Aren’t there rules or something against that sort of thing?”

“You will be remembered for the rules you break,” said Corporal Lopez. “But Williams might be right.”

“Does everyone in Tennessee eat bugs?” asked Private Green. “Is that why you are so odd?”

“Crawdads. Not bugs,” repeated Private Williams.

“I’ve been to Tennessee,” said Private Green. “I didn’t see anyone there eating bugs or crawdads. What part of Tennessee do you come from?”

“Erwin, Tennessee,” said Private Williams. “It’s in the eastern part of the state.”

“And they eat bugs there?” taunted Private Green, laughing.

“You better stop,” warned Private Williams.

“All of us learn to write in the second grade,” said Private Green. “Most of us go on to greater things. But you went on to eat bugs?”

“What?” asked Private Williams. “The Legion is enough for me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Private Green, still laughing. “Seriously, tell me about Erwin. What is Erwin’s claim to fame? Does Erwin have a statue of General Lee in front of the Court House?”

“Who? I don’t know. A long time ago they hung an elephant in Erwin,” said Private Williams, in a low voice.

“No way,” said Private Green.

“An elephant in a traveling circus killed its trainer. No one in town had a gun big enough to put the elephant down humanely, so they hung the elephant from a railroad crane.”

“Lynched an elephant?” commented Private Green, shaking his head. “Only in the South.”

“The townsfolk aren’t all that proud of it,” said Private Williams. “There is still a plaque describing the hanging of Big Mary at the railroad station.”

“Life is tough,” said Private Green. “It’s even tougher when you are stupid.”

“Enough!” I said. “I’m so hungry I could eat an elephant. Either find some food, or start cooking spiders.” Looking up at the ceiling, I saw some vents. “Private Kool! Run an antenna up that vent and try to make contact with the Seventh Fleet. Download all our video camera data and send that out too. Maybe the military intelligence geeks can use it.”

We had a feast that evening. Spider meat was a bit salty, like sea food. There were lots of leftovers, so we stowed meat in our backpacks for the hike out. I took a shower under the waterfall and felt like a new man. Private Kool finally contacted Seventh Fleet. They were glad to hear from us. I talked to Captain McGee first.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked. “I thought you were dead a long time ago.”

“We had to go underground when we got nuked,” I explained. “We just fought a big battle with the spiders. No one killed. Finally found a vent to run an antenna up to contact Fleet and send data.”

“Right, we’ve been reviewing your video. God damn, I’ve never seen anything quite like what you have been through,” said Captain McGee. “You want to talk to the press about your experiences? Of course you do. I’m connecting you now.”

“Sure,” I said, slumping down to sit on the cave floor. “Why the hell not?”

“Sergeant Czerinski, this is Phil Coen, Channel Five World News. We meet again. Do you realize the news sensation you have caused? The galaxy has been worried sick about you being missing in action after you were nuked. Now our viewers are seeing your battle video as we speak.”

“Oh?” I said. “How nice.”

“For a week the world feared you were dead,” explained Coen. “Now, like a phoenix rising from the nuclear wastes of New Colorado, the Hero of East L.A. fights his way through enemy territory and survives! For now, anyway. This is just the good news needed for public moral amongst what has otherwise been a lot of heartache. The world follows your every move, now. You are the Scourge of New Colorado.”

“Heartache?” I asked. “What’s been happening up there?”

“A second spider fleet took Sixth and Seventh Fleet by surprise. It was a bloody mess with both sides taking heavy casualties. Both sides have withdrawn, and there is an unofficial truce in place,” said Coen. “We’re waiting for reinforcements.”

“I want to get the hell out of here,” I demanded. “Put someone on who can get a shuttle down here now!”

“Sure thing. General Kalipetsis just walked in and wants to talk to you,” advised Coen.

“Czerinski! You’re doing a hell of a job down there,” radioed General Kalipetsis. “I’ve been viewing your video camera and computer downloads. You do the Legion proud.”

“General, can you get us out of here?” I asked.

“Well, you may be cut off for a while. Our fleets had to pull back Your Sergeant Wilson and Headquarters Company of Third Battalion got nuked. The rest of Third Battalion was evacuated. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out, too. Strategically, we are winning. The spiders don’t have a chance. When Tenth Fleet gets here, the remnants of the spider fleets will be crushed, and an invasion of their home world planets will begin. Tell your legionnaires the Tenth Fleet is coming. The spiders are doomed,” assured General Kalipetsis. “Meanwhile, I’m awarding you a battlefield commission to second lieutenant. Promote legionnaires you trust to sergeant and corporal. And one more thing. Listen carefully. When you leave that spider habitat, nuke it. I want it completely destroyed. Set off more than one nuke if you have to. Understand?”

“Yes sir. Nuke it all. And thank you sir.”

“We’ll try to send in some commandos to get you out when you get to the surface.”

“Yes sir.”

After we disconnected, I turned to Lopez and said, “General Kalipetsis says nuke the place. You know, I don’t really like the idea of nuking this hole until after I get out.”

“How come gringos always get promoted to officer?” asked Lopez, indignantly.

“Nothing personal. It’s a Legion tradition,” I explained, enjoying getting Lopez’ goat. “Why, you want to be an officer?”

“No, but I don’t like injustice either,” griped Corporal Lopez.

“OK, Zorro,” I countered. “I love you , too. So go forth and fight injustice.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Lopez, getting more agitated. “You aren’t even North American. What is a name like Czerinski anyway? You Polish or something?”

“Czerinski is more North American than Lopez,” I said, getting upset. “My people landed on the coast of Texas in 1854, marched 500 miles to the central Texas hills of Karnes County, and built cities. Their old world churches still stand today.”

“The conquistadors beat that by hundreds of years,” said Corporal Lopez triumphantly. “My ancestors were in Florida, up and down the Mississippi, and across the Southwest all the way to the California coast.”

“That’s because they were lost on a pipe dream searching for the Cities of Gold and the Fountain of Youth,” I countered. “And I got more bad news, Lopez. You are promoted to sergeant.”

“Can’t wait to spend my pay raise,” Sergeant Lopez said with a laugh.

“You won’t be spending anything,” said Private Green. “We are all going to die in these tunnels.”

“The General says the Tenth Fleet is coming,” I repeated loudly for everyone to hear. “They will get us out.”

“If you want to tell the rest of them the Tenth Fleet is going to save us, fine,” said Green. “But don’t you look me in the eye and say it’s going to happen. It’s bullshit. The Tenth Fleet isn’t going to save anyone, and you know it.”

“All I know is we’re nuking this place and getting out as soon as possible. And Green, you’re promoted to corporal. So shut up.”

“I know one thing,” said Sergeant Lopez. “We better not get captured.”

“I wasn’t planning on being captured,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think they take prisoners.”

“I’m serious,” said Sergeant Lopez. “The spiders will kill us real slow.”

“What?” I asked.

“Think about it. We killed over 300 spiders here today. Big spiders, little spiders, all kinds of different spiders. And then, we ate them. We cooked them and we ate them. They’re going to be real pissed off about that,” added Sergeant Lopez. Lopez then took out a small satchel of looted diamonds and handed them to me. “And another thing. I don’t want these anymore. You keep them.”

“Private Nesbit!” I called out. “Bring me your nukes!”

“You can have all three,” replied Nesbit, handing the nuclear grenades over. “I’m tired of carrying them around.”

I set the timers on all three nukes. I placed one nuke on the pile of dead spiders. Another nuke I put in the middle of the cavern. I kept the third nuke. “Corporal Green, you’re taking point. Men, we are moving out.”

“I get promoted to corporal, but shit still rolls down hill to me,” complained Corporal Green. “Ain’t that a bitch.”

“The spiders let our last point man walk right by,” I explained. “I’m hoping they won’t see you in the dark.”

“That’s not funny,” muttered Corporal Green as he checked his equipment. “That’s not funny at all. Hero of East L.A.? I don’t believe it. Tenth Fleet? I don’t believe that either. They’ll promote any Polack right off the street to officer. We’re all going to die. This is a bunch of shit. I’d rather face Bubba Jones than do this shit.” Corporal Green disappeared into the tunnel still muttering. We followed. The tunnel seamed endless.

* * * * *

My communications pad beeped. I had mail! Usually my E-mail box was empty, but now it was full of fan mail. I scrolled through the messages until I found one of particular interest. It read, ‘Hey, Joey C. I saw you on TV and I think you are so hot. Imagine my surprise when my sister Patty told me she met you, and you wanted to meet me. I am so mad at her for chasing you off. I really want to meet you. Attached are some photos of me. Do you think my tattoos are sexy? When you get back to Mars, let’s hook up. I can’t wait. Hugs and kisses, Lisa.’

I had a bad feeling about this tunnel. Green was going real slow, and I could sense his anxiety. I could smell the spiders again. Maybe they weren’t here now, but they had been here recently. The darkness was unnerving. I immediately replied to Lisa’s E-mail. ‘Dear sweet Lisa: I loved your photos and so did everyone else. Your photos made my day. Your tattoos are especially sexy, and I want very much hook up with you. However, I don’t think I’m getting out of this alive. I want to give you something. There is a top floor suite at Harrah’s Casino on Mars that has a huge stuffed grizzly bear at the window. Hidden inside the grizzly’s foot is a money card. The card has a substantial amount of money on it. It’s all yours. I love you, Joey C.’

CHAPTER 10

Corporal Green walked quietly in the dark. His equipment, secured to his body, made no sound as he deliberately took one cautious step at a time. His light and heat detecting goggles helped show the way. But Corporal Green never saw what hit him. A spider jumped from a crevasse in the rock wall and sprayed Corporal Green with nerve agent. Corporal Green dropped immediately and was bundled up in web.

Flash-bang grenades went off at my feet, followed by the sounds of gunfire. I was disorientated. All I could do for a few seconds was drop to the ground in a fetal position. Then a gas grenade went off. I yelled a warning of gas to the platoon as I pulled on my mask and rolled to the side for cover. The mask was not helping. I started convulsing. The last thing I remembered was sticking myself with atropine. That didn’t work either. We were now prisoners of war.

* * * * *

I awoke gradually, opening my eyes to find myself trapped underground inside a square cage sitting on bare dirt. I looked over with a start and saw a huge spider staring at me with its buggy eyes protruding from its ugly head. Shit! Keeping a close eye on the spider, I got up and patted myself down, checking for injuries. I seemed to be okay.

The spider started moving its mouth, but what I heard instead of the usual hissing and screeching was a mechanical voice from a speaker box sitting on the table near the spider that said, “Human pestilence, you are a prisoner of war. You will be treated accordingly. Name and Rank?”

“You first,” I said. “Who the hell are you, where am I, where are my men – and how the hell are you talking English?”

With his huge claw appendage, the spider patted the box on the table beside him. “This is a computer interpreter and video recording unit. I am #14 of the Attached Intelligentsia & State Security Unit. Your name and rank?”

“Lieutenant Joey R. Czerinski,” I answered. “I want my people accounted for.”

“The other prisoners are fine,” Spider #14 said. “Unlike you, we abide by rules of conduct regarding the taking and treatment of prisoners. Your men will not be abused.”

“The United States Galactic Federation also has rules safeguarding prisoners of war,” I challenged. This Nazi looking spider dressed in black garb seemed a bit upset about something. Or maybe it was just the tone of the interpreter box on the table.

“You don’t take prisoners,” accused #14. “Is that how you get around your so-called rules ensuring the well being of prisoners of war?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“We found hundreds of identification crystals in your pouch. You took them from dead soldiers, civilian workers, and children?” asked #14.

“Identification crystals?” I stared dumbly at the diamond dangling from a gold chain the spider held in front of me. “So that’s what they are. I didn’t know.”

“Yes. Similar to your animal tags.”

“You mean dog tags,” I corrected, pulling mine out to show the spider officer. “I also have an identification chip imbedded in my ass.”

“Whatever. The interpreter box is still building its human vocabulary,” said #14. “This thing works like a piece of bat shit.” He smacked the interpreter box with his claw. “Fine. Dog tags. You took identification crystals from those you killed?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And of the hundreds you killed, you took not one prisoner? Not even a baby?” asked #14.

“Baby? What baby? I think Sergeant Lopez was bit by a so-called baby.” I didn’t like the direction this was going. “We didn’t kill any babies.”

“You just acknowledged Sergeant Lopez was bit by a baby. And you took no prisoners. So you admit to killing babies,” accused #14.

“I admit to nothing. Are you accusing me of something?” I asked.

“I will ask the questions here. You and the rest of the human pestilence with you had the legs and arms of babies in your back pouches. Explain that,” demanded #14.

“Am I facing charges?” I asked. I started pacing.

“Did you explode nuclear bombs inside a habitat?”

“Where are all my people?” I demanded, looking around in the relative darkness.

“All your soldiers are fine,” answered #14.

It was hard to see very far, but I finally noticed the other cages sitting some distance away. “These cages aren’t big enough. This is inhumane.”

“Did your mission orders say to not take prisoners? I warn you, we are reviewing all your computer downloads, electronic messages, and video camera recordings. The truth will come out. It will go easier on you if you cooperate and tell the truth.”

I squinted, looking closer at the other cages, and saw Corporal Green. Green was bundled up in a web cocoon hanging upside down. I pointed to Corporal Green. “He is not okay! What have you done to him?”

#14 looked back over his shoulder at Corporal Green. “Ah yes, that one. Your Corporal Green refused to cooperate and answer questions. And, he was rude. Perhaps the interpreter box isn’t quite working properly yet, but when I asked Corporal Green questions, his response was to accuse me of having sex with my mother and then to tell me to go have sex with myself. Is your Corporal Green mentally unstable, or just some kind of pervert?”

Corporal Green then yelled out across the cavern, “There’s nothing wrong with your interpreter box you ugly mother-fucking goat-fucking sci-fi-crab-faced bug-eyed piece of shit! Go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on! I’ll rip your head off and shit down your neck!”

“Yes,” I answered. “He’s insane. Probably battle fatigue. He didn’t really mean that part about the goats and the horse.”

“What is the Tenth Fleet?” asked #14. “What are its capacities?”

“I don’t see all of my people here,” I said, scanning the cages again. “One is missing.”

“Ah yes,” said #14 as he stood up and leaned towards the bars, baring fangs. If a spider could smile, his would have been ear to ear. “You are asking about the female? We ate her this morning.”

I lunged through the bars, hoping to crush the spider’s skinny neck. He must have anticipated my rage, because the spider quickly stepped back and countered with a swipe of his claw. My hand was severed at the wrist. I collapsed to the ground in screaming pain, falling to the edge of the cage as blood spurted into the dirt.

“I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do,” I ground out, glaring up at the spider officer as I tore off and wrapped part of my sleeve around my injured arm to stop the bleeding.

Sergeant Lopez, who had been quietly watching the interrogation from a cage directly in back of the spider, pulled a knife from his boot and let it fly. “Usted bicho pequeno miserable! We will exterminate all of your kind!”

The knife struck deep into the shoulder of the spider officer. #14 collapsed and fell to the ground, inches away from my cage. I punched with my good hand but missed when the spider officer rolled away from me. #14 then drew a handgun and shot Sergeant Lopez. The commotion drew the attention of the other spiders stationed in the area. They swung my cage door open and kicked me into unconsciousness. I faded in and out. I could hear Corporal Green shouting at the spiders that Sergeant Lopez and I needed medical attention. I could hear spiders arguing about whether my condition was serious. The debate centered on why I was bleeding so much and whether my hand would grow back on its own. A spider doctor marveled at how creatures without segmented limbs had survived long enough to evolve into a sentient species. Spider soldiers insisted their officer get medical aid before any human pestilence. The wounded spider officer yelled orders to have all the human pestilence strip searched for weapons and contraband. And so it went until I woke up, recovering in a clean hospital bed.

CHAPTER 11

I lay in bed several days, recovering. The guards refused to talk to me. They just stood in the room staring at me stoically, almost never moving. I thought maybe the computer translator box by my bed wasn’t working, but then finally a spider officer came to talk to me.

“I am #15 of Intelligentsia State Security, and your keeper until #14 recovers from his wounds,” said the new boss, same as the old boss, pacing back and forth in his black Nazi garb. “I expect more cooperation and civility than #14 got from you.”

“#14 is a bit of an asshole, isn’t he?” I asked.

“What? I’m sorry, I don’t think the interpreter box is operating properly,” replied #15 as he made adjustments on the device. “Please repeat that.”

“#14, he’s a pain in the ass? Jerk? No sense of humor?” I clarified.

“Ah yes,” said #15, now understanding my meaning. “#14 does walk around like he has a claw stuck up his poop chute. Thinks he knows it all, too.”

“Look what he did to my hand,” I complained, waving my bandaged stump at #15.

“Yes, very unfortunate. The doctor tells me you humans can’t grow back lost limbs?” commented #15.

“Hell no,” I said bitterly. “Maybe I’ll end up with a hook or a metal hand, but that’s just not the same.”

“I hope we can put that unfortunate incident behind us, and that you and I can come to an understanding that will prevent future confrontations while you are in custody. I am prepared to grant you certain freedoms and privileges in exchange for your word of honor that you will not attempt to escape or initiate any act of violence. Can we come to that understanding?” asked #15.

“No. #14 murdered my friends and cut off my hand. I am not the forgiving type. I will kill #14 if given the chance. Also, there is the not so small matter of us still being at war. It is my duty to attempt escape and to cause you inconvenience.”

“You almost did kill #14, and that should be enough for you,” said #15. “Also, the war situation has changed. A truce is in effect, and negotiations are taking place as we speak. All members of your platoon and your hand were safely returned to the Seventh Fleet as a result of a prisoner exchange. And, #14 did not murder anyone. Sergeant Lopez, the last time I saw him, was recovering nicely from his injuries.”

“And Private Ceausescu?” I asked. “You don’t call what happened to her murder?”

“The female? Nothing happened to the female. Initially we separated her from the others to prevent uncontrolled mating. We believed she was in heat. But she was returned to human custody along with the others.”

“I was told she was eaten,” I said. “She is fine?”

“Of course she is fine. Listen, we do not eat prisoners of war,” hissed #15. “So, there is no reason for revenge. All your mates are safe. It’s all water under the ground. So now, do we have an agreement? No escape attempts or acts of violence for as long as you are in custody?”

“And how long will I be in custody? I want out of here, too,” I said.

“You stay,” said #15, abruptly, changing his pleasant tone. “You were the commanding officer of a military unit that committed atrocities. A war crimes investigation is ongoing.”

“I did nothing wrong,” I insisted.

“That may be. But I doubt it. Anyway, the matter will be decided at a level higher than you or me. In the meantime it is important for you and me to come to an agreement about your custody. I ask again, do we have that agreement?”

“I could kill you right now, before the guards outside the door could get back in here to save you,” I threatened, leaning closer to #15. “But I won’t. You seem like a reasonable, intelligent officer, and I like you. At least you are not like that brutal incompetent, #14. You don’t abuse helpless prisoners in your custody. How did #14 ever outrank a superior officer such as yourself?”

“#14 has better family connections,” replied #15 curtly.

“That is unfair. We have the same injustices in the Legion. Before I give my word, I need certain assurances.”

“Have I not been forthcoming enough?” asked #15.

“Understand, since I have been in your custody I had my hand chopped off, was nearly beaten to death, had my second in command shot in the chest, my third in command strung up and left upside down, and was told that a female prisoner of war was eaten. I want certain assurances, and I want them in writing along with a transcript of this conversation attached as a letter of intent and interpretation.”

“Agreed,” said #15. “Of course certain irrelevant comments about #14 will be edited out of the transcripts.”

“I will not be tortured, abused, threatened, starved, denied proper medical care, denied freedom of religion, or given drugs against my will?” I clarified.

“Of course, those conditions are given,” said #15. “Didn’t I already agree to fair treatment?”

“Okay, I agree to be on my best behavior while in your custody at this hospital,” I said. “By the way, where exactly is this hospital?”

“You are in a secret underground base on the innermost moon of the planet you call New Colorado. I believe you call this moon New Denver. The terms of our contract are now binding under penalty of summary execution if you violate any part of said terms.”

“Clever of you to slip that last part in,” I said. “Doesn’t matter. I will be good. How about returning my personal property to me?”

“No. Your backpack is being held as evidence. It had the body parts of infants in it.”

“That reminds me. How about some decent food? This goo in a tube you have been feeding me is getting real old.”

“If field rations are good enough for our imperial troops, they are good enough for you.”

“Oh don’t give me that. You’re beginning to sound just like #14, Old Claw Up the Poop Chute. I thought we were friends. Or, at least that we had an understanding. You just agreed to not starve me. These food tubes aren’t enough for me to live on. I know you have better. I saw one of your troops in the field eating a sandwich. That sandwich was not goo in a tube. So give me a sandwich, too. I’m not asking for more than what you are giving your own soldiers. I’m just asking for you to be reasonable. I know you have captured human food. I’ve seen your soldiers eating and drinking looted supplies. And you had a thousand civilian humans in custody. Don’t tell me all you fed them was food in a tube.”

“I will look in to it,” said #15, shifting uncomfortably. “I am not promising you anything.”

“That’s all I ask,” I said. “That you be reasonable and try to improve my food so I don’t starve. Also, I had more property than what was inside my backpack. I had many personal items inside pockets, in my uniform, and in another tote sack. I even had some religious items that I need.”

“I will look into it. No promises,” said #15.

“Please do look into it. Remember, we have an agreement. I’m living up to my end of it. I should get something in return. I haven’t seen any of the freedoms and privileges you promised yet. And I want my combat knife.”

“Absolutely not,” stated #15. “Your kind has already demonstrated how dangerous you can be with a clawed weapon.”

“I’ll tell you what. You can keep my combat knife as a trophy of war. It’s my gift to you. All I want is the knuckle sized ruby in the handle. It has sentimental value to me,” I explained.

“I’ll look in to it,” said #15. And then he left.

A few hours later, he returned with a couple guards carrying my property. The items were spread out on the floor in front of me. “Together we will sort through what you may or may not have,” #15 said.

There were a few knickknacks: dice, deck of cards, pens, pins, coins, wallet, watch, uniform, and mess kit. #15 let me have these items without discussion. My credit & identification card had been seized pending a computer data investigation of stored electronic communications, and would be returned later. The ruby from my combat knife was given to me. There really wasn’t much left to argue about except the bottle of vodka and a baggie of marijuana.

“What do you mean I can’t have the vodka and the marijuana?” I protested.

“Research indicates the vodka is used to cause intoxication and often produces aggressive behavior in humans. The marijuana is possibly a dangerous narcotic that is just as bad as the vodka. Also, the marijuana is illegal in your world, and will probably soon be made illegal in our world as well. So, your claim to the marijuana is weak. You may not have either,” said #15.

“It is interesting you call the vodka and marijuana dangerous or illegal, because I took both items from one of your soldiers. The vodka is legal in both our worlds, so it should be allowed. The vodka reminds me of home, and it will help me eat the unpalatable goo tube food you are forcing on me. And the marijuana? It helps me to commune with God. Would you interfere with my simple religious rituals? Check the transcripts of our contract. You specifically agreed not to interfere with my simple religious practices.”

“Perhaps the matter requires more research,” conceded #15, taking the vodka and marijuana with him.

* * * * *

The next day, detention unit guard #96 returned the marijuana and vodka. The vodka had been placed into a plastic jug. I guess there was some concern I might break the bottle and fashion a weapon out of it. Yeah right.

It was #96’s job to watch me. He watched me very well. Too well, I might add. #96 stayed in the room with me for up to twenty-four hours straight, never showing signs of fatigue and never moving. He would not talk to me or even acknowledge that he understood anything I said. I complained to #15 that I thought he had ordered the guards no not talk to me. #15 denied it, saying the guards hated me for being the butcher that I am, and that I was lucky that one of them didn’t decide to slit my throat during the night. That didn’t make me sleep well. It was bad enough having a huge spider lording over me in the dark, not knowing whether the spider might inclined to commit murder, slit my throat, drink my blood, or do whatever else spiders do when they are pissed off. So today I tried a different tack.

“#15 says he ordered you to not talk to me because you are so stupid you would probably get yourself into trouble or give away state secrets. #15 says you will always be a private because of your stupidity and because you come from a long line of stupid, politically unconnected ancestors that should not be allowed to breed or add to the gene pool in any way, shape, or form. Personally, I think you do your job very well, and that #15 is just another arrogant snobbish officer who got promoted because he paid money for his rank to another incompetent corrupt arrogant officer. He puts you down because he feels threatened by soldiers who do their job well, and that is why he marks your evaluations as poor.” I then took a chocolate donut from a package of looted human food and offered it to #96.

“Thank you,” said #96, accepting the donut. “You’re right. #15 is an asshole.”

We got along fine after that. I already knew the spiders loved vodka and marijuana, but I didn’t know they had a sweet tooth, too. And they loved to gamble. Gambling for recreation was ingrained into them. They were all compulsive gamblers. I taught #96 how to play craps, blackjack, and poker. He grasped the games quickly and won almost every game of cards. Spiders cheat at cards every chance they get. At least, this one did. With three hands and a claw, he could whip those cards about in a blur. I was already working with a handicap, having only one hand, but I’d been doing this sort of thing for many years, so I wasn’t as bad off as I let on. I allowed #96 to think he was getting one over on me. Of course, we were just playing for fun, because I had no spider money.

I asked #96 if he wanted to buy my ruby. I told him I wanted some money of my own so I could buy things. I said I might be here for a while, so it was only fair I should be able to make myself comfortable. I asked #96 if he thought my ruby might be worth anything on his home world.

#96 examined the ruby with great interest. “Not really. It’s practically worthless. We have so many rubies. I could maybe give you 300 credits, but I feel you would be cheating me. I would only give you that much because you are a friend and I enjoy your company and your donuts,” said #96.

“I’ll sell it to you for 1,000 credits,” I replied. “I need some gambling money too.”

“You would just lose it to me, you gamble so poorly,” said #96.

“That’s not your problem, it’s mine,” I replied.

“1,000 credits? No way. I won’t even discuss it with you.” #96 tossed the ruby back at me as if it was so much trash. He then gave me the silent treatment.

“How about 700 credits?” I asked some time later.

“You have a deal,” said #96, laying down 700 credits and snatching my ruby.

“Want to play some craps?” I asked.

* * * * *

#96 couldn’t believe his good fortune. Not only had this dumb human just sold him a ruby worth 5,000 credits for only 700 credits, but now the human wanted to lose that 700 credits back to him.

Some time later, the human lost 100 credits playing craps before getting mad and quitting. When #96 got relieved, he told the story to #97 of the Detention Guard. They both had a good laugh about the hapless human pestilence.

* * * * *

Now #97 was guarding me. Like #96 before, #97 had nothing to say. After a few hours I started playing with my dice. I looked up at #97 watching me and said, “I’d invite you to a game of chance, but #96 said not to ask you because you are a snitch and a candy-ass religious puritan, and he didn’t want me to get into trouble. #96 also said you were a lousy gambler and it wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of you. So, I’m not going to ask you to gamble for real money. You want to throw dice or play cards for fun? How about for match heads?” I asked.

“I think that #96 just wants to take all your money for himself,” said #97 gruffly. “That greedy bastard.”

“I never thought of that,” I said. “So, I have 600 credits that says you can’t beat me.”

“You’re on,” said #97 greedily.

Like #96, I taught #97 how to play poker, blackjack, and craps. We played for two days straight. It went up and down, but I took 7,000 credits from him.

“I feel really bad about taking all your money #97,” I said, finally. We were both exhausted.

“You lie,” #97 replied. “I think you and #96 conspired to trick me somehow.”

“No, that is not true,” I said. “In fact, I consider you to be my friend.”

“You lie so poorly,” he repeated.

“I do feel bad about taking your 7,000 credits. And to prove my remorse, I will give you back 5,000 credits. All you have to do is one little favor.”

“What favor?” #97 asked, now suspicious.

“There are negotiations going on with the United States Galactic Federation in regards to the truce. Right?”

“Yes, that is common knowledge. So what?” asked #97.

I handed #97 a sealed letter. “Give this letter to one of the human negotiators.”

“I will not commit treason,” said #97.

“You won’t be committing treason. You can read the letter if you want. Have it translated. It’s just a request for the negotiators to press for human doctors to be allowed to sew my hand back on to my wrist. You know humans can’t grow back our limbs?” I asked.

“I have heard that,” answered #97. “But it’s against the rules.”

“Gambling with a prisoner is against the rules too, but everyone does it. It’s just a small matter. You know, I think #15 wouldn’t be too happy if he found out you had been gambling with me. But I wouldn’t tell because I am not a snitch and because you are my friend. I hate officers too. Besides, you know #15 won’t allow my letter to go out simply because he is an asshole. Everyone knows that. Even #96 says so, right?” I asked. “What kind of officer would let someone’s hand be cut off and not sewed back on?”

“Well yes, he is an asshole. It’s true. Everyone knows that. I guess there would be no harm if I slipped the letter to a cousin who can slip it to one of the human negotiators. You better believe I will have the letter translated and checked for code before I do,” said #97.

“I have no problem with that,” I responded as I gave #97 5,000 credits. “Just don’t let #15 know about the letter.”

When #97 left, he was relieved by #96. The spider guard was anxious to resume gambling, but I went to sleep for eight hours. When I woke, I ate a hearty breakfast of powdered eggs and spam, and used the toilet facilities. Finally we started gambling. I took all his money, about 10,000 credits. I even got my ruby back. After I cleaned out #96, he just kind of slumped listless against the wall.

“Cheer up,” I said. “Because you are my friend I’ll give most of your credits back. Okay?”

“Really?’ said #96, brightening.

“Sure. I’ll give you 7,000 credits back if you buy me a music radio, a TV, and a refrigerator. And if there are any credits left over you can keep the change as a fee for a good deed done,” I suggested.

After doing some quick calculations, #96 apparently decided he’d make out like a bandit if he acquired the items used. “I agree,” he said.

In the next few weeks, I cleaned out several more spider guards and acquired all sorts of good stuff, including a new bed, lots of good food, including steaks, computer access, reading materials, the works. Finally #97 rotated back for guard duty. He stopped gambling. He acted moody, like a stick in the mud most of the time.

“Good morning, #97,” I said.

“Whatever,” he responded.

“I want you to bring me a radio,” I stated.

#97 looked over at my music radio playing some weird spider tune and asked, “What’s wrong with the radio you’ve got? It seems to be playing just fine.”

“I want you to bring me a radio I can use talk to the Seventh Fleet,” I clarified.

“You’re requesting to buy a broadcast radio?” asked #97 incredulously. “Don’t you understand that is impossible? It would violate security!”

“It is you who does not understand. I’m not asking you to get me a radio. I am telling you to get a radio! Get me a long-range narrow beam directional broadcast radio now!” I said.

“Impossible. You are being impossible,” he stuttered.

“You delivered a letter for me to Seventh Fleet. What do you think #15’s reaction to that would be if he found out you delivered that letter? Even better, what would #14’s reaction be? A firing squad, maybe? Compared to that, what is one little radio? Besides, I won’t snitch on you. I’m not a snitch. I am your friend.”

“Please, don’t tell #15. Can’t we work this out?” #97 pleaded. “I just can’t give you a radio. What if it is found?”

“If the radio is found, I’ll just say #96 gave it to me. He’s a prick, anyway. Right? He says you’re an idiot. He hates you. Look, I’m your friend. But to show I’m not heartless, I’ll give you 10,000 credits for your risk. But you will get me that broadcast radio. You have no choice. Your life is on the line. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes. I’ll get your broadcast radio.”

“That’s more like it,” I said. “Now get out of here. From now on you can watch me from the other side of the door. I need my privacy. It’s a human thing.”

A few days later, #97 confessed all of his sins to #15. I did not get the long range broadcast radio I wanted. What I got was a new room (cell) that had no bed, no blankets, no table, no amenities, and no toilet. All the room had was a hole in the cement floor that flushed once in a while when the guards had a mind to flick the flush switch. There was no toilet paper, no sink, no shower, and no lighting other than what came through a small window in the door. I think I pissed someone off. I heard that nothing happened to #97 other than a good ass-chewing and some remedial training. However, all the guards were replaced. The new guards rarely talked to me. They fed me yummy goo food in a tube. After about a month, I made a noose out of my shirt and pretended to try to hang myself. That got their attention. They took all my clothes from me. Not my best move, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought about throwing feces through the door window, but thought that might be considered an assault and a violation of my agreement. So, I just sat and waited. Finally a new spider visited me, an elderly, scholarly looking spider wearing eye glasses and lugging a brief case. He set up a table at my opened door, set some papers out on the table, and asked me how I was doing.

“I’m not good,” I answered. “You look like a lawyer.”

“Correct, but not just any lawyer. I am your lawyer. Introductions are in order. I am your defense attorney, and Officer of the Court #2,” he added.

“So now they’ve gotten around to providing me a free public defender?” I asked. “It’s about time. Can you get me some clothes? It gets cold in here at night.”

“Free? Absolutely not, Lieutenant Czerinski. Nothing is free. Especially here. Appointed? Most certainly. I tried to get out of this appointment, but it was my turn. The mere sight of you makes my shell shiver,” said #2. “The war crimes you are accused of and undoubtedly are guilty of make you a creature without any possibility of redemption.”

“I’m not feeling the love here,” I responded. “So, if your services aren’t free, who is picking up the tab?”

“The ruby I found in your property made a nice retainer. The substantial credits you acquired gambling with your guards will pay for most of my services at the criminal trial. I will work on a percentage basis when it comes to the civil part of the trial. I expect we will easily win our lawsuit for excessive use of force against a prisoner. Of course you probably won’t live to spend any court awarded credits when you are sentenced to death on charges of murder, genocide, terrorism, abuse of prisoners, custodial assault, looting, crimes against decency and civilization – eating the families of Habitat #40 – theft, and custodial gambling. The upside is, I will still be able to recoup substantial fees for services, time, and percentage,” said #2 gleefully.

“I want another attorney, preferably a human attorney.”

“Sorry, you are stuck with me. Humans aren’t allowed to go where we are going. The sooner you get used to that fact, the sooner we can work together on your defense,” said #2. “Through the court-mandated discovery process, I have reviewed all of the computer downloads, messages, and data on your identification card. I also reviewed all helmet camera and audio recordings that the prosecution will be using against you. The evidence seems overwhelming. I suggest an insanity defense. Your attempted suicide seems to support a diagnosis of mental instability, although video camera recordings indicate you still know the difference between right and wrong. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I plead ignorance. This is all just a big misunderstanding. I couldn’t tell the difference between military and civilian spiders, young and old spiders, and fighting and surrendering spiders because of the differences in our species’ appearances, language, and culture. And I am not crazy,” I insisted. “I just pretended to attempt suicide to get someone’s attention. I need my clothes back or I will go crazy.”

“You are making a presentable defense most difficult. How can I support an insanity defense if you say you were faking your suicide attempt?” #2 asked. “And I’m sorry, but murder, genocide, and refusing to take prisoners cannot be explained away because of cultural differences.”

“That is my argument,” I insisted.

“In that case, you will be transported to our home world’s capital, tried for war crimes, and most certainly executed,” warned #2.

CHAPTER 12

Year 2215. Military base #49, near Capital City #1 of the Arthropoda Empire.

Approximate computer translation of Transcript of the Public Trial of Lieutenant Joey R. Czerinski, of The United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion, on charges of: Murder, Genocide, Terrorism, Prisoner Abuse, Custodial Assault, Criminal Conspiracy, Looting, Crimes Against Civilization and Decency (Eating the Families of Habitat #40), Theft, Custodial Gambling, and Extortion.

Direct examination by Prosecutor Officer #1, of Intelligentsia & State Security Officer #14:

#1: Do you recognize the defendant, Lieutenant Joey. R. Czerinski, also known as The Butcher of Planet #6, which the human pestilence calls New Colorado?

#2: Objection Your Excellency, the prosecution is being inflammatory before even presenting any evidence.

JUDGE: Sustained. The prosecution will refrain from referring to the human pestilence as The Butcher of New Colorado.

#2: Your Excellency, I also object to my client, Lieutenant Czerinski, being naked. Lieutenant Czerinski says being naked makes him extremely uncomfortable, and I believe it interferes with his ability to aid me in presenting an adequate defense.

#1: Lieutenant Czerinski fashioned his shirt into a noose and attempted suicide. His clothes were taken to prevent future suicide attempts. The defendant may still be suffering from mental illness.

#2: Lieutenant Czerinski says he was faking the suicide attempt in order to gain attention to his stark living conditions – no bed or bedding, no toilet, no sink, no shower ... the list goes on and on.

JUDGE: If we error, it is better to error on the side of safety. I will not tell custodial staff how to do their job. In light of his prior suicide attempt, the defendant will not be given back his clothes.

#2: Your Excellency, there are also the potential political ramifications of depriving Lieutenant Czerinski clothing. This trial is being broadcast live not only to our public, but also to the human public. If human taboos concerning nudity enrage the humans’ sensibilities, it might interfere with ongoing truce negotiations. Do we want to risk a longer war?

JUDGE: It was the military’s decision to broadcast this trial. They can choose at any time to pull the plug on transmitting. It is not for the court to tell the military what the political consequences of their transmissions may be. Motion denied, again. Witness, answer the question.

#14: I first met Lieutenant Czerinski when he and the other human pestilence in his platoon were captured and brought to the detention center on Planet #6. I searched and interviewed them.

#1: With what results?

#14: In their backpacks I found the partially eaten legs and arms of juveniles. DNA testing linked these body parts to missing juveniles, families, babies, and soldiers from habitat #40. That habitat had been destroyed by two nuclear explosions the day before. A search of the human pestilence also found 329 identification crystals from the residents of Habitat #40, three identification crystals from tunnel guard soldiers, and one crystal from a shock troop commando.

#1: And you asked Lieutenant Czerinski to explain himself?

#14: Yes. I asked Lieutenant Czerinski how he was able to accumulate over 300 identification crystals without taking even one prisoner, not even civilian families, juveniles, or babies. Lieutenant was evasive and tried to divert our discussion to the welfare of the human pestilence under his command. Our discussion was cut short when I stepped too close to his cage and he reached out striking at my throat. At the same time another human pestilence stabbed me from behind. When I fell to the ground, Lieutenant Czerinski struck at me again through the bars, but I rolled away just in time. I almost died. Lieutenant Czerinski stated that he would kill me if it was the last thing he did.

#1: What did the other human pestilence have to say when confronted with partially eaten baby limbs found in their backpacks?

#14: The second in command, Sergeant Lopez, admitted that they had all gorged themselves on the families of Habitat #40. Sergeant Lopez apologized for this atrocity.

#1: Do you believe Sergeant Lopez was sincere in his apology?

#14: No. It was Sergeant Lopez who stabbed me in the back. He then threatened to exterminate our entire species.

#1: And you have all this recorded on tape for our review?

#14: Yes. Their vicious nature is quite startling.

#1: Any other interviews?

#14: The third in command, Corporal Green, stated that baby spiders tasted light, but were not filling, and that he wanted more. Only next time, he wanted tartar sauce. He thought the whole matter was funny. Corporal Green, who I think is mentally unstable, then went into a tirade accusing me of having sex with my mother and with goats. He is quite odd. Of the seventeen other humans I interviewed, sixteen admitted to eating the families of Habitat #40. One human, Private Williams, said he refused to eat the dead and argued with Lieutenant Czerinski about the matter. This is backed up by subsequent analysis of their helmet video camera recordings.

#1: What else did you find from captured computer and video camera data?

#14: I found a pattern of intent to exterminate our species and not take prisoners that ran from the highest levels of their command to the lowest private. I found electronic communications that ordered Lieutenant Czerinski to not take prisoners. This was before Czerinski even landed on the planet. Upon landing, Lieutenant Czerinski killed a sentry of an elite commando unit. They toyed with #100’s decapitated head as #100 begged for mercy. Viewing the helmet video camera recording is quite disturbing. Sergeant Lopez, again using his knife, stabbed #100 through an eye socket. Lieutenant Czerinski and his platoon then went on a rampage, indiscriminately throwing nuclear bombs down habitat entrances. Research shows the Legion itself has a brutal history. They are a bunch of expendable criminals and misfits that are used as cannon fodder and to do the dirty work of the United States Galactic Federation’s many wars. They are butchers.

#1: When Lieutenant Czerinski entered the habitat tunnel system, he encountered a security patrol. What does the captured video images of that contact show?

#14: The three tunnel guard sentries fought the twenty human pestilence in close quarters combat and were killed. At one point Lieutenant Czerinski knocked a sentry to the ground by viscously smashing a leg out from under him. The sentry threw his rifle away and put his arms up to surrender. The sentry begged for his life. Lieutenant Czerinski crushed his head with the stomp of a boot. The other sentries were torn apart.

#1: What happened at Habitat #40?

#14: Lieutenant Czerinski and his platoon snuck up on Habitat #40 and opened fire with rocket propelled grenades, small arms, and a machine gun, slaughtering 323 males, females, and babies. After the slaughter, the victims were cooked and eaten. Some babies were boiled alive.

#1: The habitat families were unarmed?

#14: Yes. Weapons were stacked. Habitat families were herded into a corner and cut down. Babies were shot off the ceiling. Then an eating frenzy followed.

#1: You said members of the human pestilence claimed they were starving, and later regretted their action?

#14: What they regretted was being caught. We have a recording of Lieutenant Czerinski discussing the matter with Sergeant Lopez. Sergeant Lopez stated that it would not be good if they were ever captured. He was right. And, we have a recording of Lieutenant Czerinski discussing the massacre with General Kalipetsis. General Kalipetsis ordered Lieutenant Czerinski to nuke the habitat in order to cover up the atrocities.

(All recordings, images, and electronic data were played for the court)

Cross examination by Defense Officer #2, of Intelligentsia & State Security Officer #14:

#2: Well, #14, you left a lot of information out of your testimony, and presented a lot of evidence out of context. Isn’t that right?

#14: No, I answered the questions I was asked to answer.

#2: You testified that Lieutenant Czerinski interrupted your interrogation by striking at your throat, but you forgot to tell the court that you had just told Lieutenant Czerinski that you had the eaten a female member of his platoon the day before. Yes?

#14: Yes.

#2: But you said no earlier?

#14: Yes.

#2: Which is it? No or yes? If you lie about small matters, why should we believe you about important matters? You lie a lot, don’t you?

#14: No.

#2: You lied when you told Lieutenant Czerinski that you had eaten the female human soldier. In fact, she was removed from the area to prevent mating. Yes?

#14: Yes.

#2: Why did you deliberately lead Lieutenant Czerinski to believe the female human solder was dead?

#14: I was angry and wanted to make Lieutenant Czerinski suffer.

#2: So, you only lie when you are angry?

#14: No.

#2: You lie at other times, too? Do you ever tell the truth? You had better start being truthful, or there will be consequences. It’s all recorded, you know.

#14: Yes.

#2: You provoked Lieutenant Czerinski?

#14: Yes.

#2: Then you easily ducked back from his expected lunge, at which time you sliced off his hand?

#14: Yes.

#2: Do you know that humans can’t grow back their limbs?

#14: Yes, but I did not know that at the time.

#2: And that makes your actions better?

#14: No.

#2: Aren’t there rules about abusing prisoners of war?

#14: Yes.

#2: So let’s summarize for the Court. You lie when you are angry? You break rules when you are angry? And you abuse prisoners of war when you are angry?

#14: No. That was an isolated incident.

#2: Isolated? You strung up Corporal Green and left him in a web, up side down? More anger issues?

#14: Yes, and I’d do it again, too. Green is a mouthy little human pestilence. I did nothing wrong. They are all vicious murderers. I did my duty investigating their war crimes.

#2: By lying?

#14: The captured electronic communications and video camera recordings speak for themselves.

#2: Yes, and they were presented out of context, too. As a member of the State Security Intelligentsia, you followed our troops into battle during the invasion of New Colorado. And, you analyzed captured documents and interrogated civilian prisoners?

#14: Yes.

#2: And you presented all relevant information you found to your superiors?

#14: Of course. What are you getting at?

#2: What was the human population of New Colorado before our invasion?

#14: It was a new human colony, so they only had about 30,000.

#2: The invasion began with the nuking of all small towns and industry?

#14: Yes.

#2: And all their military installations?

#14: Yes.

#2: What? Isn’t it true that the humans had no military presence on New Colorado? You lied to us again?

#14: We hit strategic targets that might have dual military and civilian uses, such as the air port, the space port, power generation, and the constabulary.

#2: You are being deceptive, and that is the same as lying to us again! You are saying that a power station, an airport, a spaceport, and a few cops are military targets and justification for nuking an entire defenseless civilian population engaged only in the honorable mining of minerals from the ground?

#14: The targets were determined by the General Staff, not me.

#2: But it is your job to analyze the data. To tell the General Staff if they did a good job in target selection?

#14: Yes.

#2: Did they?

#14: Yes.

#2: But there were no military targets.

#14: No.

#2: How many civilian prisoners did we take?

#14: About a thousand.

#2: What happened to the rest?

#14: I don’t know.

#2: Speculate. It is in your job description as an intelligence officer.

#14: Most killed. Some evacuated. Some are still hiding underground or in the woods.

#2: Evacuated? How would that happen if you nuked the spaceport and there was no military presence on New Colorado?

#14: I don’t know.

#2: I’m getting tired of that answer. What do you know? Did the humans have a military presence in orbit?

#14: No, just unmanned communications and weather satellites.

#2: In summation, and it is like pulling fangs from you, we slaughtered an innocent defenseless civilian population?

#14: Their very existence in imperial space threatened the Empire. The Emperor said so himself.

#2: Yes, so he did. And I will not argue with the wisdom of the Emperor, unless he based his information on intelligence from idiots like you. Did any humans resist the invasion?

#14: Yes.

#2: As you broke into their isolated homes and farms? I say that because all the towns had already been nuked?

#14: Yes.

#2: And obviously most of those who resisted were killed? You took a thousand prisoners out of thirty thousand? That is an extermination, not a military invasion. You call the humans pestilence? Isn’t pestilence something that needs to be exterminated?

#14: Again, I was merely using the words of the Emperor. You are treading on dangerous ground.

#2: Do you threaten me? If so, you just made the biggest mistake of your whole sorry-ass career!

#14: I meant nothing by that.

#2: Just a little angry, eh? Let’s move on. You collected intelligence on the humans because we do not quite understand what the humans are all about? We can combat them better if we can understand them better?

#14: Yes.

#2: So if we do not understand what humans are all about, it stands to reason that that humans do not understand what we are about, either?

#14: Yes.

#2: You said that after the battle at Habitat #40 Lieutenant Czerinski and Sergeant Lopez discussed what they had done.

#14: Yes, they knew there would be repercussions if we caught them. They expected to be killed slowly.

#2: Actually, weren’t they just coming to an understanding of what they did?

#14: How do you not understand that you slaughtered whole families?

#2: I don’t know. How did you not understand that when we nuked every town on New Colorado?

#14: General Kalipetsis knew. He understood right away. That’s why he ordered the habitat nuked. To destroy the evidence. To cover up the massacre.

#2: Probably. Lieutenant Czerinski and Sergeant Lopez also discussed the identification crystals. They did not know what they were.

#14: Yes. They thought the crystals were diamonds and that they could get rich from them.

#2: Isn’t that evidence of a lack of understanding between us and humans?

#14: It is evidence of ruthless looting of the dead, and a motive for more unnecessary killing.

#2: Did our troops loot?

#14: No.

#2: The captured video camera recordings clearly show #100 drinking and smoking intoxicants and possessing stimulants taken from human civilians.

#14: Those were insignificant items taken by young troops. The defendant hoped to get rich from his loot. Lieutenant Czerinski even cited Legion history when Mamelukes were victimized the same way.

#2: It is your job to collect intelligence and to pass it on to your superiors. In regards to the humans, have you done that to the best of your ability? Have you gained a greater understanding of what humans are all about?

#14: Yes, I believe so.

#2: Humans do not seem very forgiving, do they?

#14: No, they don’t.

#2: Are we still at war?

#14: We are at truce. Their armada was stopped. Both sides were badly mauled. We hold the north half of the planet and the moons. The humans hold the south. Prisoners have been exchanged, and face-to-face negotiations are ongoing.

#2: So, the war is over?

#14: I hope so.

#2: And the humans have forgiven us for the slaughter on New Colorado?

#14: Not likely.

#2: Are we doomed?

#14: I beg your pardon?

#2: Are you going to lie to me again? Or be deceptive again? I asked if we are doomed? Based on the intelligence you have gathered what are our future prospects of survival?

#14: If you are asking about future military operations, you should be asking the General Staff questions like that. Not me.

#2: The General Staff isn’t here. I’m asking you to state an opinion based on the facts you have gathered. You said earlier that the very existence of humans in imperial space was a threat to the Empire. That was when the human presence on New Colorado was merely a civilian mining operation. Now that our only two fleets have been savaged, and the United States Galactic Federation is mobilizing its military, are we in even more danger than before?

#14: I don’t know.

#2: You don’t know? Are you saying you have no information about the American Tenth Fleet headed our way? What are we going to do when the Tenth Fleet gets here? Throw rocks at them?

#14: That intelligence has not been confirmed. And, it is imprudent for us to be discussing the matter in open court.

#2: Well, I have a question for you. In addition to the American Tenth Fleet, just how many fleets do they have? I think it is a very prudent question in light of the fact that our only two fleets, the Invasion Feet and our Home Defense Fleet, have been ruined due to the incompetence of the General Staff. And another thing. Just how large is the United States Galactic Federation?

#14: I am not sure.

#2: Didn’t anyone bother to find out before we started this war?

#14: I was not involved in the planning of the invasion. I merely did my duty when I was sent.

#2: And I commend you and all our other brave soldiers for that. But since the invasion, you have gathered intelligence information on the capabilities and size of the United States Galactic Federation?

#14: Some, but the data is still being analyzed.

#2: You are holding back on us again. If you commit perjury one more time, I will draw my sidearm and shoot you myself. I am handing you a star chart of our corner of the Galaxy. Do you recognize this star chart?

#14: Yes, I collected this star chart from a burned out library on New Colorado. I submitted the chart to my superiors along with other military intelligence.

#2: The red dots seem to indicate the five inhabited planetary systems of the Arthropoda Empire. Right?

#14: Yes.

#2: And these hundreds of blue dots? What do they signify?

#14: The inhabited planetary systems of the United States Galactic Federation.

#2: I may not be an expert, but it looks like we have a serious problem. Do we?

#14: Maybe. This intelligence has not been confirmed.

#2: So the plan is to wait until the human Tenth Fleet arrives and destroys us. Is that going to be our confirmation?

#14: I am not a member of the General Staff. I cannot answer that question.

#2: Sergeant Lopez called you a bug just before you shot him. Do you know what he meant by that?

#14: Research shows that we resemble exoskeleton species from their home world. I suppose it was meant as an insult. But our exoskeleton is far superior and more evolved than their human body of soft tissue supported by bones. So I personally took being called a bug as a complement.

#2: You missed Sergeant Lopez’ meaning completely. Perhaps that is due to the imperfections of our computer translation devices. On the human home world a bug is something stupid and little, that can be easily squashed. It fits you perfect. Defense rests.

(After two hour recess)

JUDGE: In regards to the civil lawsuit, the Court finds that #14 used excessive force against Lieutenant Czerinski while said human pestilence was in custody. #14 wrongfully cut off Lieutenant Czerinski’s hand and allowed Lieutenant Czerinski to be nearly beaten to death. The Court awards Lieutenant Czerwinski 1,000,000 credits compensation for pain, suffering, and loss of a limb that will not grow back. These credits will be held in an account for Lieutenant Czerinski’s heirs, and to defer Court and appointed attorney costs in Lieutenant Czerinski’s criminal case.

JUDGE: In regards to the criminal proceedings, after carefully listening to the testimony, reviewing all of the evidence and recordings, the Court finds Lieutenant Czerinski guilty of Murder, Genocide, Terrorism, Prisoner Abuse, Custodial Assault, Criminal Conspiracy, Looting, Crimes Against Civilization and Decency (Eating the Families of Habitat #40), Theft, Custodial Gambling, and Extortion. To have found otherwise would have been an affront to our whole civilization. Does the defendant have anything to say before I pronounce sentencing?

Lieutenant Czerinski: Americans never quit. When the Tenth Fleet gets here, they are going to put a boot up your ass! It’s the American way.

JUDGE: Noting your lack of remorse, the Court sentences you to death, pending appeal.

CHAPTER 13

I was immediately taken to my cell. Five minutes later, #14 and four guards summarily strapped me to a backboard and carried me off. I put up a brief struggle and got tasered for my efforts.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I asked. “Did I lose my appeal already?”

“We are doing what I should have done a long time ago,” answered #14, as we arrived at what looked like a sterile medical treatment room. They slammed me and the backboard down atop a polished stainless steel medical examination table and put an IV into my left arm. Electrodes were attached to my head and chest. A spider doctor in a white coat supervised. Hell of a way to end things, I thought. The IV drugs were taking effect. I was feeling groggy. “Are you going to execute me now?”

“Don’t worry, you will die soon enough,” laughed #14, flicking the IV bag with a finger to make it drip faster. “You will tell me the truth now. These truth serum drugs will make you tell the truth, and cause extreme pain if you lie.”

“We can start now,” said the doctor. “Ask him something easy at first. Something we already know the answer to. I’ll be following his responses on the graph.”

“What is your name?” asked #14.

“Joey,” I answered.

“Your whole name!” demanded #14.

“Joey R. Czerinski,” I answered.

“What is your rank?”

“Lieutenant.”

“How long until the Tenth Fleet arrives?” asked #14.

“A long time,” I answered.

“What? How long is a long time?” pressed #14.

“How should I know?” I was trying not to answer, but the pain was unbearable.

“Are you sure the drugs are working?” asked #14. “Maybe we should give him some more?”

“The drugs are working just fine. You are getting truthful answers,” replied the doctor. “Czerinski is just a smart ass, even when unconscious. Focus on the questions you want to ask, and you will get the truth.”

“What takes the Tenth Fleet so long?” asked #14.

“Because the big boats are slow and heavy,” I replied, still feeling terrible pain, but not as much.

“Big boats? What do you mean big boats?” asked #14, as he checked the controls on the translation device. “This is a piece of junk manufactured by Green Spiders.”

“Battleships, dreadnaughts, super dreadnaughts, fighter carriers, destroyers, nuclear submarines, tug boats,” I added.

“What is a nuclear submarine?” asked #14, checking the translation box again. “Does it have something to do with water? You will attack our water supply?”

“It’s full of missiles. They will rain death down on our enemies,” I answered.

“How Big is the Tenth Fleet?” asked #14.

“Real big. Bigger than I even know. And the carriers are loaded with fighters – stealth fighters – that can swoop down on our enemies undetected by radar. You won’t know what hit you until the shock and awe lights up your world.” I then started singing an old Legion song from antiquity, “I’m Libyian, on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Battle group, JFK is gonna blow my ass away...”

“I order you to give him more medication,” said #14, turning to the doctor. “Something is going wrong here.”

“No! I have already given him the maximum amount I dare,” the doctor objected. “Just keep your questions simple so he cannot give rambling indirect responses.”

“Have you ever had sex with your mother?” asked #14.

“No, of course not,” I answered.

“Have you ever had sex with goats?” pressed #14, obviously disappointed by my first answer.

“No.”

“Have you ever even thought about having sex with your mother?” asked #14.

“Maybe, just once,” I answered.

“I knew it! These humans are perverts! You should all be exterminated,” yelled #14, more excited than ever. “I will exterminate every last one of you!”

“Focus, sir,” suggested the doctor. “Just ask pertinent military questions.”

“Tell me about battleships and super dreadnaughts,” demanded #14, sounded irritated at the doctor’s advice.

“They fire cruise missiles and drop bombs the size of Volkswagens,” I answered.

“Are Volkswagens big?” asked #14, concerned.

“Bigger than anything a bug like you could drive,” I answered. Then a bad thought came to me. The nuke! I started thrashing back and forth. “Where is my backpack?”

“What? It is safe in evidence, stored down below,” answered #14. “Doctor, what’s wrong with him? Is he having a reaction to the drugs?”

“Maybe, but it will pass,” said the doctor.

“It’s in this building?” I asked. I tried to chew through one of the wrist restraints but couldn’t reach it. “I need to get to my backpack now. Please!”

“Calm down,” said #14, returning to his list of prepared questions. “Tell me about the captured star chart that was presented at trial. Is this star chart an accurate depiction of United States Galactic Federation assets?”

“The star chart is Star Wars #29,” I replied. “It is a poster.”

“But is it accurate?” asked #14, again.

“It’s a game It’s all a game! You will lose!” I yelled, in pain again. “The Evil Empire will fall!”

“Never!” shouted #14, slapping my face. The doctor pulled #14 back and restrained him. “The human pestilence will never prevail!” #14 insisted.

“Down with Darth Vader! The Force is with us!” I yelled. Suddenly an explosion rocked the very core of the underground facility. Concrete chunks fell from the ceiling, and I was knocked off the table.

“What was that?” demanded #14. “Is it your stealth fighters? Is it the Tenth Fleet?”

“My backpack!” I yelled in panic.

“It is the American Tenth Fleet!” screamed the doctor as he ran from the room. “We must get out of here!”

“How can we fight an enemy we can’t see?” asked #14, dazed from being knocked down and covered with debris.

“You can’t,” I answered.

Then the lights went out. Guards with flashlights entered the infirmary and carted me off to my cell, throwing me onto the floor. I felt ill. I was battered and bruised and still naked. I was cold, but still alive. The good news was that I no longer had to worry about being killed by the nuke in my backpack.

* * * * *

My cell door swung open and the guard announced I had a visitor. It was my attorney, and he was carrying a crisp new Legion uniform, boots, human food, and some letters from home. I could have cried.

“A most interesting turn of events on several fronts,” announced #2 as he set up his chair, table, and notes from his briefcase.

I was shaking, I was so happy to see him and to finally get clothes.

“I trust you are in good health?”

“Good as can be expected,” I said. “Did I win my appeal?”

“Yes. The case was dismissed on appeal, pending re-filing by the prosecution. It seems all existing evidence, documents, transcripts, video camera recordings, computer downloads, and stored body parts were destroyed by a nuclear explosion originating in the evidence room directly under the Court. Even the Judge got nuked. The matter is being investigated, but in the meantime your case has been dismissed on appeal for lack of reviewable evidence for the Appellate Court.”

“Dismissed?” I asked, as I opened letters from my parents. “I can go home?”

“Not yet. Technically you are still a prisoner of war. But soon, I think, you will be released,” assured #2. “Oh, I took the liberty to read your letters for you. State Security checked them already, so I did not think you would mind. Your parents love you. And they are a lot younger now because you sent them a Fountain of Youth chip. Just a side issue, but I would like to get one of those chips for myself. Do you think they would work on me? Anyway, your mother is running for the Senate from Arizona. There is talk of your father running for the Presidency of the United States Galactic Federation on a platform that you should have been released a long time ago. There is even talk of impeachment because the President tried to leave you in our custody in exchange for a peace treaty. You are now something of a celebrity back on Earth. Everyone saw you naked at your trial. The human public is outraged and demanding continued war if you are not released soon. I am told there are long lines of females who want to have your babies. Most interesting. Even the public here on Arthropoda is outraged that our leaders started an ill-advised war against such a giant as the United States Galactic Federation. There has been some rioting in our streets and the General Staff has confined all troops to their barracks, pending the formation of a new government. The Emperor has not been seen in public for days, and there are rumors that he is either dead or under house arrest. There are also rumors that the General Staff is negotiating a surrender.”

“Your surrender?” I asked.

“Yes. It is rumored the General Staff wants things settled before the Tenth Fleet arrives,” added #2.

“Don’t worry, it will be a while,” I said.

“Do you think the Federation will impose harsh conditions if we surrender?” asked #2.

“Not really,” I answered. “Oh, we might hang a few spiders. We might change your form of government to be more representative. Power to the people and all that. And, we will can the Emperor.”

“I think we could live with that,” said #2. “I will pass that information on.”

“After I’m released, I may still need your services,” I said. “Do you know anything about business law?”

“I am expensive. Which reminds me. Most of that one-million-credit judgment is gone because of my percentage and expenses. It costs a lot to be flying back and forth and having investigators gathering documentation between here and the moon and New Colorado,” explained #2. “What possible need do you have for a business lawyer?”

“It figures you took most of my money. Lawyers are the same on both our worlds. Anyway, I’m not worried about that. What I want to do is set up an import/export business here on Arthropoda. I need a business partner who can take care of all the local permits, licenses, payoffs, whatever.”

“And what would you import and export?” asked #2.

“I have a lot of ideas on that. To start with, Vodka, tobacco, coffee, and donuts I know would sell big-time. Do you have any casinos on Arthropoda? No? You will. I will see to that. How hard would it be to get Martian pot through customs? The business opportunities are endless, and our future looks bright,” I added.

CHAPTER 14

I slept through breakfast. At lunch time no one showed up. I looked through the cell door window. No spider guards could be seen. I yelled. No answer. I pounded and kicked the door. No response. By afternoon I could hear gunshots and explosions. Finally came the sound of boots in the hallway. A human voice called out, “We are Americans. Somos norteamericanos. Stand away from the door. We are setting a charge. Vuelva!” I scrambled to cover myself with a mattress as an explosion blew open the cell door.

Colonel McGee and Lopez – apparently promoted to lieutenant – entered through the dust and smoke. Colonel McGee tossed me a set of silver captain’s bars. “Your vacation is over, Czerinski,” said Colonel McGee. “We have a lot of spider ass to kick.”

“The war is over,” I responded. “I’m tired. I quit. Invite someone else to the party.”

“You are in charge of Bravo Company. The whole First Division is securing strategic points inside and around the spider capital. You will secure Capital Square, the Imperial Palace, and the Emperor. When we hold the advantage, more face-to-face negotiations will continue,” added Colonel McGee.

“Good to see you,” said Lieutenant Lopez, shaking my remaining hand. “I thought for sure the spiders would barbeque you on a spit and eat you for dinner.”

“He would taste bad, like polish sausage,” added Sergeant Green.

“Don’t POW’s get time off to recover,” I asked the Colonel. “I’ve been through hell.”

“You can rest when the Tenth Fleet gets here,” said Colonel McGee, sarcastically. “First Division is all there is to secure the whole planet. The spiders formally surrendered, but not all the spiders have stopped shooting.”

“But there is no Tenth Fleet,” I pointed out.

“Exactly our problem,” said Colonel McGee. “That is why we must quickly secure the capital, capture the Emperor, and disarm the rest of the spiders before they wise up and change their mind about surrender.”

I followed Colonel McGee upstairs into the sunlight. Armored cars waited. My old platoon gathered around, shaking my hand and giving salutes. We all climbed into the armored cars and raced to the center of Arthropoda’s Capital City.

Spider regular army troops were confined to their barracks under threat of nuclear bombardment from the Tenth Fleet and Weapons Platform T. Roosevelt. Intelligentsia and State Security troops were still armed and showing themselves in public. Spider civilians swore at us and threw rocks as the convoy sped by. Some spiders waived. An occasional bullet pinged off our armor. We did not stop at red lights, causing several unlucky civilian vehicles to be crunched along the way.

At Capital Square, Intelligentsia and Security soldiers were deployed at the intersections and atop the steps to the Imperial Palace. We smashed through the barricades and deployed around the palace. A spider officer dressed in a black Intelligentsia uniform confronted us over a public address system that apparently had been fitted with a translator device just for our benefit. But we didn’t need that anymore. In my absence, the Legion had retrofitted all military helmet cameras with back-engineered mini-translators so we could understand the screeching and hissing the spiders used to communicate their language. I had no trouble understanding the Nazi-looking spider officer when he announced, “You may not enter the Imperial Residence. Negotiations are ongoing as to the future status of the Emperor. Back away to a respectful distance.”

“The Emperor will surrender now, or you will be nuked,” I yelled back.

“You would not dare nuke the Imperial Palace during ongoing negotiations,” said the spider officer. “You had better consult your superiors.”

I looked to my rear. The spiders were repairing the barricades. More spider soldiers were arriving by truck. The spider officer atop the palace steps confidently stood in front of his troops. I radioed to the T. Roosevelt that I wanted the spiders at the intersections bombed. Now! I then ordered the machine gunners atop my armored cars to open fire on the Imperial Palace. The spider officer went down first, followed by his guards. Five hundred-pound bombs dropped from space, hitting the spiders massing at the barricades. The massacre was swift and complete. Bravo Company stormed the Imperial Palace steps with a fixed bayonet charge. It was a beautiful sight, recorded by our helmet video cameras for the TV news back home. As we burst inside the palace, we found ourselves in a large public reception area. The company was met by a butler. We stopped.

“Whom may I say is calling on the Emperor?” asked the butler.

“The United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion,” yelled Sergeant Green. “Step aside, fool.”

“You will wipe your feet first,” insisted the butler. “These imported rugs are very expensive.”

“Let me kill him!” shouted Sergeant Green, as Lieutenant Lopez restrained him. Sergeant Green threw a large vase at the butler as Lieutenant Lopez pushed him back farther.

The rest of the company poured into the lobby area. I walked up to the large double doors of the Emperor’s private residence, wiped my feet, and entered. The Emperor was watching the news on TV. He was wearing a bath robe and two pairs of pink fuzzy slippers. Other important-looking spiders were gathered about the TV, too.

“Do you know how much that vase cost?” asked the Emperor. “The Queen is going to be really pissed off at you.”

“Are you the Emperor?” I asked. “You are under arrest. Handcuff him.”

A large spider in a green military uniform stood between me and the Emperor. “You may not dishonor His Majesty by handling him like a common criminal. We will all die before allowing such dishonor to befall our beloved Emperor.”

“Fine with me,” I said. I drew my sidearm.

“Captain Czerinski,” interrupted Corporal Kool. “Colonel McGee is on the radio. He says it’s important.”

“I’ll get back to you,” I warned, pointing my pistol. I took the radio microphone. “What?”

“I am delayed because the spiders are blowing up bridges along our route,” advised Colonel McGee. “Wait at Capital Square until I get there. Then we will take the Emperor into custody according to the surrender terms negotiated earlier.”

“I already smashed the barricades, shot my way into the palace, and arrested the Emperor,” I advised.

“You what? You were supposed to wait until the imbedded reporters and the negotiation team arrived,” screamed Colonel McGee.

“Do you want me to give the Imperial Palace back to the spiders?” I asked.

“Just keep the Emperor safely in custody until I get there,” ordered Colonel McGee, as he hung up.

I then turned my attention back to the Emperor. “You are under arrest. You are confined to your bedroom. Go there now. You may not communicate with anyone outside this building without my permission. Violate these terms and you will be shot. Is that clear?”

“You will speak respectfully to His Majesty,” said the big spider, pointing a claw at me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am the Emperor’s #1 military advisor,” boasted the big spider. “Who do you think you are?”

“You helped plan the invasion of New Colorado?” I asked.

“I am the chief architect of the invasion,” bragged the advisor. “I am the Commander of the General Staff.”

I drew my pistol and shot the spider twice in the head. Blood splattered all over the carpet as the big guy dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. I pointed my pistol at the next spider. “Who are you? What is your job?” I asked.

“I am the Director of Social and Health Services,” replied the nervous spider. “Please do not shoot.”

“Okay, you can go,” I said, disappointed. I pointed my gun at the spider to his left. This one wore the black uniform of the Intelligentsia and State Security. Ribbons and medals decorated his chest. “You! What is your position?”

“I am in charge of the Federal Library System,” answered the decorated spider.

“You don’t look like a librarian to me,” shouted Sergeant Green, prodding the spider officer with a bayonet. “He looks like that that slimy #14, only higher ranking. See, he is dressed like a Nazi.”

“The Intelligentsia and State Security is in charge of all libraries and schools of higher learning,” insisted the spider officer. “I am a professor.”

I shot the professor, too. As I pointed my pistol at the next spider, Corporal Kool interrupted me again. “A message from Colonel McGee. More delays. He says members of the Emperor’s Cabinet and General Staff my also be at the Imperial Palace. They are to be detained, but treated with the respect afforded to officials of high rank. Negotiators will meet with them shortly.”

“I don’t think we were authorized to execute Cabinet members,” commented Lieutenant Lopez. “Oops.”

“These two are the reason I am in the Legion. They started this war,” I accused, pointing at the dead spiders. I holstered my sidearm. “Roll them into the carpet and get this mess out of here before McGee gets here.”

“Yes sir,” replied Lieutenant Lopez.

“Sergeant Green, tell the butler I am sorry about the carpet.”

“Yes sir,” replied Sergeant Green.

“The rest of you spiders listen up!” I yelled, now pacing. “There is a new sheriff in town. You know who I am. I’m mean as a junkyard dog. I brought a pack of mean junkyard dogs with me. You already know I eat babies for lunch. And I don’t like any of you. The mere sight of you upsets me. Do not give me any problems, or I will nuke your whole city and have the biggest spider barbeque ever. Corporal Ceausescu! Lock these spiders up!”

CHAPTER 15

Lieutenant William Norris, First Division, Third Battalion, United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion, shot down over New Colorado and reported MIA one day before the USGF counter attack, had been forgotten about. But now Lieutenant Norris was being released. The Arthropodan Empire had surrendered. The United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion had landed troops in Arthropoda’s Capital City #1 and was securing strategic points. A forced regime change was in progress.

To #14 of Intelligentsia & State Security, a change at the top was long overdue. The Emperor and his Cabinet cronies were a bunch of out-of-touch old fools. It grated on #14, however, that the catalyst for change was the human pestilence. The humans promised to leave soon, but #14 had his doubts. We shall see. #14 had orders to release Lieutenant Norris to a Legion shuttle waiting at Capital Square.

“Lieutenant Norris, follow me,” #14 ordered upon entering the holding cell. “You are being released. A Legion shuttle will transport you to the Federation Super Dreadnaught T. Roosevelt of the Tenth Fleet. Don’t come back. You are not welcome on Arthropoda.”

“Fine with me,” said Lieutenant Norris, happily. “But I wouldn’t exactly call that rust bucket T. Roosevelt a super dreadnaught. Anyway, I’m glad to be leaving, no matter what my mode of transportation.”

“Perhaps I got the name wrong,” said #14, conversationally. “I’ve been studying everything American. You will be surprised to know that we now get American TV here on Arthropoda. What does T. Roosevelt mean?”

“The T. Roosevelt was named after a United States president from hundreds of years ago,” answered Lieutenant Norris, trying to remember his history. “The one who said talk softly but carry a big stick. But the ship is so old it has been converted to a simple troop transport and space weapons platform.”

“Oh? My mistake,” said #14, as they walked along with their escort of security police.

“It’s not in the Tenth Fleet, either,” Lieutenant Norris said, laughing.

“Are you sure?” asked #14.

“Quite. The last time I checked, the Tenth Fleet was floating off the coast of Libya fighting the insurgency in Tripoli,” answered Lieutenant Norris.

“I’m sorry I seemed unfriendly at first,” said #14. “I am interested in your culture. I am fascinated by the images on your American TV. I just don’t want your troops here. What is Star Wars #29?”

“Star Wars #29 was the best selling and most popular VR – virtual reality – game in the galaxy a couple years ago,” said Lieutenant Norris. “You are interested in human role-playing games?”

“Yes, most certainly,” lied #14. “And who is Darth Vader?”

“Darth Vader is the evil dude in the Star Wars game. He leads the Dark Side and the Evil Empire,” added Lieutenant, giving #14 a closer look. “Kind of reminds me of you with that black helmet and storm trooper gear you wear. Only thing missing is the black cape. You own a black cape?”

“Real males do not wear capes,” #14 snapped. “Have you ever had sex with goats?”

“What? Now see here,” said Lieutenant Norris. They stopped walking. “Am I being released or not?”

“Of course you are being released.” said #14. “If I offended you, it is perhaps a problem with the computer translation gear. What are Volkswagens?”

“A cheap car used for ground transportation in crowded cities. Originally developed by a old-European German company that coined the name. Mainly they’re used as cabs,” explained Lieutenant Norris.

“Nuclear submarines travel under water, don’t they?” asked #14.

“Of course,” said Lieutenant Norris. “They can stay under a whole year if they have to.”

“I’ve heard enough,” announced #14, turning to #85 of the security police escort. “Take this human pestilence back to his cell. He is to stay there until I say otherwise.”

* * * * *

When #14 reached Capital Square, he walked past the Legion checkpoints and barricades, up the Imperial Palace steps, and into the public reception area. I was sitting at a desk blocking entry to the Emperor’s private residence. Lieutenant Lopez and a squad of legionnaires lounged around the reception area, too.

“What are you doing here, Czerinski?” asked #14. “I thought you were put on a shuttle going up to the super dreadnaught T. Roosevelt.”

“Leave got cancelled,” I replied. I was not happy. “I guess that’s the price of being popular. What are you doing here without Lieutenant Norris? He should have been here hours ago.”

“I’m personally taking care of it,” answered #14. “His release was slowed down by red tape. You know how it is with bureaucracy sometimes.”

“Whatever. You better kick someone in the ass, or I will,” I warned.

“Don’t worry,” #14 assured. “I intend to kick ass soon. But first things first. I need to see the Emperor, in private.”

“Sorry, not without an appointment. And certainly not in private,” I added.

“Since when does a high ranking officer of the Intelligentsia & State Security need permission from the human pestilence to see our own Emperor?”

“Since you lost the war,” I answered. “So, don’t go away mad. Just go away.”

“If I were you, I would be more concerned about the crowds gathering just beyond your barricades,” warned #14, “instead of meddling in affairs of state that are beyond you.”

I looked out the window. A few noisy spiders taunting the troops. Civilians. No big deal. “I’m just following orders.”

“I need the Emperor’s signature authorizing the Legion to occupy our main planetary air defense base. The base commander will not stand down unless he gets written orders from the Emperor himself. This has all been worked out with your General Kalipetsis. Every second I waste here talking with you increases the risks of your precious T. Roosevelt being accidentally blasted out of orbit. Not that I really mind the prospect of that happening,” said #14, as he brushed by me with his state security police escort and entered the private residence of the Emperor. “It would look bad for you.” The door slammed behind them.

“Who put a claw up your ass, you humorless piece of fish bait,” I yelled.

* * * * *

The Emperor’s head butler immediately confronted #14. “The Emperor has not risen yet, and is still having his morning tea in bed,” explained the butler when #14 asked for an audience. “I’m afraid it is quite impossible to see the Emperor this early in the morning. The Emperor has given standing orders never to disturb him this early.”

“Arrest this fool,” #14 ordered, as the hapless butler was carried away. The new head butler immediately led #14 into the Emperor’s bedroom.

The Emperor, propped up with large pillows, looked up from his tray of tea cups and accessories, and frowned. “Just because the human pestilence has occupied our capital does not mean that all civility has ended,” the Emperor admonished. “Who do you think you are, barging in here at this hour?”

“I’m the only officer on the planet who still commands troops willing to take action,” answered #14. “All the regular army wants to do is sit on their fat and lazy asses in the barracks watching American TV and getting wild ideas about democracy. Only the Intelligentsia & State Security and some elements of the Air Wing & Space Service are willing to oppose the human pestilence.”

“What can we do?” asked the Emperor. “The humans won the war. They have nukes in orbit. They have ordered me to abdicate or face a war crimes trial. They have created a legislature of greedy traitors that plans to elect that Defense Attorney #2 as Prime Minister.”

“We did not lose the war. We won the war. There is no Tenth Fleet. It was a bluff. The human pestilence have nothing between here and Earth to stop us. We wrecked their only fleets, and when our fleets are rebuilt, the human pestilence can easily be crushed,” announced #14. “Get out your notepad. There are orders that need to be sent out. First, consolidate what is left of our fleets around Arthropoda and put them on full alert. Announce there is no Tenth Fleet. Issue Imperial warrants of arrest for all members of the General Staff, the Cabinet, and the new Legislature. Dismiss the Director of the Intelligentsia & State Security and replace him with me. Order the abolishment to the caste system. Order that from this time on, all jobs, advancement, and social status will be determined by merit, not caste. Order the army out of its barracks. The army is to secure Capital Square and patrol the streets of the capital. Any rioters or looters are to be shot on sight. Martial law is declared, curfew established, and all assembly by civilians of four or more is banned.”

“I do not have to abdicate after all?” asked the Emperor, as he cheerfully sent out the electronic messages requested.

#14 watched the Emperor finish sending the orders. When completed, #14 took a pillow and smothered the life of the old spider. He turned to his trusted aide, #15. “It is done. Place the rest of the house servants under arrest and take them away. We still have a lot of work to do.”

#14 and his security police left. #15 stayed behind, posting guards and locking doors to make sure the humans didn’t discover the Emperor had been murdered. Then he paid Captain Czerinski a visit.

* * * * *

“Captain Czerinski, you are such a young man to have been through so much. You have been such a maker of history. But you do not appear to be any older than your youngest private.”

“So? Get out of here,” I replied. “Shouldn’t you be following your master around with your nose up his ass?”

“Your file says you are 53 years old. But you appear to be no older than 18 or 19. How do you explain that?” asked #15.

“It’s top secret,” I answered.

“Letters from your parents I read while you were in custody said something about a Fountain of Youth chip. And, your lawyer confirmed to me that you have an imbedded chip that reverses the aging process. Your lawyer is very interested in acquiring that technology, and frankly I am also,” said #15.

“Whether you are the Emperor or a grunt legionnaire, everyone dances with the Grim Reaper,” I said. “You can’t cheat death.”

“I was dismayed to find after researching the matter that the technology was recently declared illegal on Earth.”

“It is illegal on most of Earth,” I corrected. “But it’s still available if you are well connected or from the Kingdom of California.”

“How did you acquire the technology?” asked #15.

“I bought it,” I answered.

“Can you arrange for me to buy a chip and get the procedure done, too?” asked #15. “I’m moving up in the world and can pay you very well.”

“Impossible. Maybe someday I could get a hold of more chips if the truce holds and we’re not at war. During peace time we might even establish free trade between Earth and Arthropoda. But not now. And don’t you even think about cutting off my arm. That won’t work,” I warned. I shivered at the thought of losing my arm. I still was not used to my new metal hand.

“I see. Free trade? An interesting concept, but not likely,” said #15. “I think we will be at war again, soon.”

“You know something I don’t?” I asked.

“Yes. My boss just found out the Tenth Fleet is floating in the Mediterranean Sea, spying on Libyans.”

“We have weapon platforms loaded with nukes in orbit around Arthropoda,” I threatened.

“It will not be enough,” replied #15.

CHAPTER 16

At first it was just a few bored juveniles throwing rocks. School had been dismissed and juveniles were loitering everywhere. When there was no police or military response, a few more store front windows were broken. Crowds gathered. Several small fires drew even more crowds. A human armored car drove by, but they did nothing. Looting began as the crowd surged through the smashed doors and windows in the business districts. A riot had started.

The neighborhoods of Arthropoda weren’t happy. The power went out when electrical workers walked off the job to protest the General Staff’s handling of the war. Prices went up because everyone was hoarding supplies. Light brown spiders didn’t like dark brown spiders. Green spiders of the merchant caste seemed to have all the money and food, and they weren’t sharing. The caste system, which kept everyone in their place, was especially hated by the youth. Young spiders found it stifling to require that a son be a factory worker merely because his father was a factory worker. There was no hope for betterment based on merit. And Arthropoda’s entrenched leadership would not even discuss change.

The neighborhoods, already upset about losing the war, now saw troops of the human pestilence speeding through the capital. Humans at Capital Square were holding the Emperor hostage. There were even rumors the Emperor and his Cabinet had been eaten and babies were being snatched off the street to satisfy the humans’ palates. Maybe the Emperor had caused this mess and needed to be replaced. Maybe not. But humans should not be deciding that matter under threat of nuclear bombardment from the Tenth Fleet in space. And the humans certainly should not be deciding who was to be the next Emperor.

The neighborhoods were taking action, albeit destructive action. The first stores looted were the liquor stores. Groceries and electronics stores were looted next. Gun shops seemed immune to looting, perhaps because of all the dead looters on the sidewalk outside those shops. Fires began to get larger. Many crowds drifted towards Capital Square and the administrative heart of Capital City #1 because that was where the hated humans were holed up behind street barricades. The Imperial Palace lay at the exact center of the capital, and all major roads led there. The neighborhoods knew the humans were trying to set up a new government, and that really pissed them off.

I looked out the palace window and could see smoke rising from the distance. Colonel McGee had called on the radio and ordered a reconnaissance patrol to see what was happening in the neighborhoods. Also, legionnaires at the barricades were drawing sniper fire from civilians. It was clear to me what was happening. My world was turning to shit real fast. I told Lieutenant Lopez to go take a look for McGee.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Lopez took Sergeant Green, Corporal Ceausescu, Private Williams, and seven other legionnaires. They drove the armored car past rows of looted shops and empty littered streets. Finally, they met up with a crowd looting a large grocery store. The building had caught fire. The looters stopped and stared at the armored car. They seemed embarrassed at being caught. Sergeant Green pulled the slide back on the mounted machine gun and pointed it at them. Then the armored car moved on. The looters celebrated louder than ever and continued their destructive frenzy.

“Hey Lopez, how come we didn’t do anything about those looters?” asked Sergeant Green.

“It’s a spider problem,” answered Lieutenant Lopez. “Besides, I’m no cop. Our orders are to see what is happening in the neighborhoods and to report back. That’s all we are doing.”

“It’s a spider problem that we caused by confining their troops to barracks,” insisted Sergeant Green as they rounded a corner to see another crowd of looters attacking small shops. One of the looters was just lighting a gasoline bomb. Sergeant Green mowed him down with the machine gun. Green then turned his attention to the other looters, shooting as many as he could as they scattered in all directions. The other legionnaires joined in with small arms fire.

“Since when did you become a do-gooder?” asked Lieutenant Lopez, surveying all the dead and twitching bodies.

“I’m not a do-gooder,” answered Sergeant Green, as he reloaded. “I just don’t like punks.”

“Any excuse to kill spiders,” commented Corporal Ceausescu.

“I hear that,” added Private Williams.

“Shut up, Williams, or you will be walking home,” responded Sergeant Green.

A lone green spider emerged from one of the damaged shops, waving a white flag and hissing at the humans. As he got closer to the armored car, the computer translation device kicked in. “I will pay you 3,000 credits if you stay and protect our shops,” said the green merchant spider.

“That is not happening,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “We cannot stay.”

“But the looters will be back to burn us out,” insisted the merchant spider.

“Not these,” said Sergeant Green, as he shot one of the twitching looters. “He isn’t going to bother anyone anymore.”

“Others will be back,” said the merchant spider. “Will you take 4,000 credits to protect us? We have families here.”

“Sorry, Charlie, we don’t do credits,” replied Sergeant Green, giving the matter some thought. “Got any gold?”

The merchant spider took a ruby ring of his finger and handed it to Sergeant Green. “This ring is gold and more.”

“Yes indeed it is,” said Sergeant Green, holding the ring up to the light and then placing it in his pocket. Sergeant Green tossed the merchant spider an assault rifle and three clips. “That’s all I can do for you. We can’t be everywhere.”

“Thank you,” said the merchant spider excitedly. He snatched the rifle and ammo clips and ran off to his shop.

“I don’t believe you just did that,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “You can’t just sell off our equipment like that.”

“Why not?” asked Sergeant Green.

“It’s illegal.”

“We have plenty, and I don’t think Captain Czerinski would care. Besides, did you see the size of that ruby?”

“I’ll have you up on charges if you ever do anything like that again,” said Lieutenant Lopez.

“Since when did you become such a stickler for the rules?” asked Sergeant Green. “Oh I forgot. You’re an officer now. Excuse me, Lieutenant Lopez, sir. Now that you’re The Man, we should all kiss your ass.”

“You may not sell our weapons to the spiders,” insisted. Lieutenant Lopez. “It’s illegal and wrong in so many ways.”

“Don’t you give me any shit over this, Lopez. I knew you when we were both privates. I could kick your ass then and I’ll kick your ass now. Just try me. Besides, that green spider needed a rifle to defend himself. I would have given it to him for free, but the fool insisted on paying me. What am I to do?”

Just then about five more green merchant spiders came running out to the armored car waving white flags and more jewelry. “We need to buy rifles, too. We have families to defend,” they clamored.

“Abandono,” said Lieutenant Lopez, as he threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I give up, Green. You win.”

Legionnaires handed out assault rifles, ammo, and grenades in exchange for jewelry. Then they headed back to Capital Square for re-supply and to report. They shot up a bunch of looters along they way. It was Arthropoda’s first drive by shooting. Suddenly Lieutenant Lopez ordered the armored car to a halt next to a large wall at the approaches to Capital Square. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a spray can of Legion olive drab paint. “I have an inspiration!” shouted Lieutenant Lopez as he ran over to the wall with spray paint in hand.

“What is it with you Hispanics and spray paint?” asked Sergeant Green, shaking his head. “Even a planet millions of miles away from Earth isn’t safe from tagging. I’ll never understand you people.”

“Don’t mess with me when I’m having an artistic inspiration,” warned Lieutenant Lopez as he drew a WWII ‘Kilroy was here’ man peering over a wall. On the cartoon wall he spray-painted ‘Free New Colorado.’ Then he added ‘XIV’ for all his homies back on Earth.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” asked Sergeant Green.

“It just came to me.” Lieutenant Lopez shrugged and got back into the armored car.

* * * * *

Back at Capital Square, Sergeant Green volunteered to go out on another recognizance mission. I asked Sergeant Green if he was bucking for officer rank like Lieutenant Lopez.

“Sir, I just want to do my part for the war effort,” insisted Sergeant Green.

“I’m pleased with your progress as a Sergeant. You are a natural leader,” I added. “But you don’t usually volunteer for missions.”

“Captain Czerinski, are you questioning a brother’s creditability?” asked Sergeant Green. “I’ve always thought better of you.”

“No, of course not,” I replied. “If any missions come up, I will let you know. Dismissed.”

CHAPTER 17

I went to the top floor of the Imperial Palace to see how our snipers were doing. Legionnaires out on the barricades were still taking sniper fire, and I wanted our snipers to do something about it. Each sniper worked with a spotter. I grabbed a spotter’s scope and looked for targets.

“It’s a target-rich environment down there,” commented Corporal Krueger. “Mostly civilians. I try to take out anyone with a gun.”

“We’re being sniped at,” I complained. “Try to take out anyone shooting from that red building behind the crowds.” I scanned the crowds looking for leaders. I saw #14 and #15 walking with a civilian carrying a loud speaker, shaking hands. “See those two spider officers dressed in black over by the command car? Take them out!”

“I see them, but I can’t get a clear shot because there are too many civilians around them,” said Corporal Krueger.

“I don’t care about clear shots or civilians,” I said. “You can kill them all, for all I care. Just kill those two!”

Corporal Krueger fired five two-shot bursts. Spider body parts flew everywhere from the 50-cal. impacts. I couldn’t tell if the two officers were hit or not. It was chaos down there now. I brought my scope up to the top floor of the red building behind the crowds and zoomed in on the windows. I saw a spider sniper with a scope zooming in on me! I ducked back as bullets punched through the wall next to me.

“The sniper is on the top floor of that red building!” I yelled.

“I can’t see him,” complained Corporal Krueger.

“Well then what are you good for? I’m leaving,” I announced. “It’s way too drafty up here.” I radioed down to Lieutenant Lopez to put a cannon shell onto the top of the red building. Lieutenant Lopez was not a happy camper.

“We have taken more casualties after we won the war than we did during the war,” complained Lieutenant Lopez.

“Our snipers are hitting their snipers,” I assured Lopez. “Just don’t let the crowds get too close.”

* * * * *

Lieutenant Lopez looked out over the barricade at the crowd getting closer. Some were throwing rocks. Suddenly a Molotov cocktail exploded just short of Lieutenant Lopez’ barricade. Lieutenant Lopez rapped on the turret of the armored personnel carrier to get the gunners attention. “Clear the streets with a whiff of grape.”

“Huh?” asked the driver inside the APC.

“I said blow the shit out of them!” ordered Lieutenant Lopez. “And hit that red building too.”

* * * * *

The APC opened fire with machine gun and cannon. Sergeant Green heard the shooting from more than a block away and looked out over the barricade. The crowds hadn’t gathered on his boulevard. A civilian car was speeding toward his position. The driver was waving a green flag and screaming. What does that fool think he is doing, thought Sergeant Green. Fool!

The car accelerated and slammed into the barricade. The spider hissed as he jumped out of the car. Sergeant Green shot the spider just as a nail-laden bomb in the car exploded. A gap was blown in the barricade and several legionnaires were killed or wounded. Sergeant Green was saved by his flack vest and helmet, but was still seriously injured. Blood was splattered everywhere.

I’m a mess, thought Sergeant Green. He could see spiders dancing and celebrating off in the distance. Sergeant Green picked up the infantry phone located at the rear of the APC and yelled the order to the driver. “Kill them all! And hit those buildings behind the crowd too.”

By now all the APC’s and legionnaires were firing at the crowds, and it was all broadcast live on Arthropoda Channel #6 World & Local News Tonight. Sergeant Green sighed and slumped back against the rear of the APC, tossing the phone aside. The war is over for me. “Medic!” he cried out.

Corporal Ceausescu and Private Williams ran up to Sergeant Green and started first aid.

“Golly, boy, you look like a hound dog that done met up with a porcupine,” exclaimed Private Williams as he injected Sergeant Green with morphine.

“Words cannot express how much I hate you, Williams,” responded Sergeant Green.

“This will hurt,” said Corporal Ceausescu as she used needle-nose pliers to pull nails from Sergeant Green’s vest and arm. “But you will be okay when the pain stops.”

“I love you, Elena,” said Sergeant Green. “I always have, and always will love you, my beautiful angel.”

“What?” asked Corporal Ceausescu incredulously as she slapped skin-graft antibiotic bandages on Sergeant Green. “You are always giving me a bad time. You are even worse than Lopez, and he called me a puta. And now you love me? Get real.”

“I would never call you a puta. You are a beautiful angel. A saint. Pure as a virgin. I was just trying to get your attention, like a school kid,” cried Sergeant Green, struggling to get up. “I will kick Lopez’ ass right now to prove my love and devotion to you.”

“Do you want me to give him another shot of morphine?” asked Private Williams, as he gently pushed Sergeant Green back down.

“No, he’s had quite enough,” replied Corporal Ceausescu. She patted Sergeant Green, looking for hidden injuries. Giving Sergeant Green a little pinch down under, she said, “The good news, Green, is that your private parts weren’t blown off.”

“Lot of good that will do me if I have no blood pressure,” complained Sergeant Green as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a fist of gold rings. Selecting a ring with a large blue stone, Sergeant Green gave it to Corporal Ceausescu. “This ring is but a small token of my love for you, Elena. Please take it, my love. I’m serious. You are my destiny. Marry me.”

“Never take a wife until you have a house to put her in,” advised Private Williams.

Corporal Ceausescu paused, admiring the sparkle of the stone. She slid it onto her wedding finger, and gave Sergeant a long passionate kiss. “I love you too, Tyrone. I have always loved you. Of course I will marry you.” Corporal Ceausescu then grabbed Sergeant Green by the back of his collar and dragged him over to the armored car. Sergeant Green was then transported to the Imperial Palace with the other wounded to be evacuated later by shuttle to the T. Roosevelt.

* * * * *

Colonel McGee was yelling as he entered the Imperial Palace. He stepped over the wounded. “What the hell is going on here? We are supposed to be installing a new government, but General Kalipetsis tells me we are slaughtering the whole city! And guess what? It’s all being broadcast on spider TV.”

“Sir, we are being attacked. And, I suggest you get out of the doorway,” I said as I tugged at Colonel McGee’s elbow. “We are still taking sniper fire.”

“Let go of me,” snapped Colonel McGee as he pulled away. “General Kalipetsis saw the whole massacre on the spider news and he is not a happy camper. I really don’t need more grief from Kalipetsis.”

“Sir, what we need is more firepower. We need air strikes on those buildings full of snipers. Massive air strikes,” I suggested.

“Massive airstrikes? You don’t call in massive air strikes against civilians when you are in the middle of negotiations to form a new government,” said Colonel McGee.

“You do if you want to live,” said Lieutenant Lopez as he helped carry in Sergeant Green, setting him in the corner away from the windows. A bullet ricocheted off the doorway.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” replied Colonel McGee.

“No sir, but there are millions of spiders in this city. And they are all pissed off at us. We should leave and nuke this place. Turn Spiderville into glass,” suggested Lieutenant Lopez.

“Do we have any nukes?” I asked, suddenly optimistic. “That’s a great idea!”

“There are a whole bunch of captured spider nukes stored in the palace basement,” answered Corporal Kool. “Want me to get a few?”

“You are not using nukes for crowd control!” exploded Colonel McGee. “I’ll tell you what we are going to do. We are going to roust the Emperor and make him give a speech that will calm the spiders down.”

Colonel McGee walked over the door to the Imperial private residence and knocked. No answer. He tried the door knob. Locked. Colonel McGee then kicked the door down and strode in. He found the Emperor still in bed. From the smell, he had been dead for a while.

“Christ! Czerinski! Haven’t you been checking on this guy? What the hell have you been doing? I can’t leave you with one simple task?” screamed Colonel McGee.

“This don’t look good,” said Lieutenant Lopez, peering at the Emperor and shaking his head. “Tisk tisk tisk, Captain Czerinski.”

“Shut up, Lopez,” I replied. “It’s not my fault he vapor-locked.”

“Maybe we could prop the Emperor up in a chair by the window and move his claw back and forth like he is waving at all the spiders down there,” suggested Lieutenant Lopez. “It might make them happy for a while.”

“That might work,” said Colonel McGee, giving that matter some thought. “Do it!”

“Yeah, do it!” I ordered Lieutenant Lopez as I left the private residence with Colonel McGee.

“What more can go wrong?” commented Colonel McGee, shaking his head as he gazed out the doorway at the increasing smoke hanging over the city. Just then a 50-cal. sniper’s bullet struck Colonel McGee in the chest, splattering us all with blood and body parts.

“Private Nesbit!” I called out. “Go downstairs. Find as many nukes as you can and bring them up here.”

“What?” protested Private Nesbit. “You said I didn’t have to carry nukes anymore. Why are you always harassing me? You still haven’t got over Mars, have you?”

“Get down there now!” I ordered.

“I don’t even have any anti-rad pills left,” complained Private Nesbit.

“Anti-rad pills don’t work anyway,” said Corporal Ceausescu. “You’re going to glow in the dark forever and your dick is going to fall off!”

“Oh hell no,” said Sergeant Green, lifting his head up from his stretcher. “You aren’t serious about letting that idiot play with nukes again? Especially alien nukes? All by himself? He will blow us all up for sure.”

“You might be right,” I said, giving the matter some thought. “Williams! Go with Nesbit. And make sure you don’t drop any nukes you bring back.”

“Great,” said Sergeant Green in frustration. “You sent Dumb and Dumber to go play with nukes. You are Polish, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, or I’ll cut off your morphine,” I said nastily as I got up and followed Nesbit and Williams downstairs. Sergeant Green was right. Some things, if you want them done right, you should do yourself.

I expected to find a large vault and locked doors safeguarding the palace nukes. What I found was about twenty-five tactical nukes of all sizes in a corner stashed behind bomb shelter crackers and bottled water. Private Williams immediately started unscrewing the nose of one of the bombs. I hit Private Williams so hard, I knocked him into yesterday. Then I detailed a squad to help carry the nukes and Private Williams to the palace lobby. We scattered the nukes about to make a public display and to deter a spider attack. I had the largest nuke carried to the armored car. I ordered Lieutenant Lopez to set the timer for one week and to hide the nuke somewhere near the Intelligentsia & State Security Headquarters Building.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Lopez ordered the armored car driver to park by a dumpster next to a burned out grocery store. Then he set the timer on the nuke for seven days, and ordered the nuke dropped in the dumpster.

“But Captain Czerinski said he wanted the nuke hidden at the Intelligentsia Headquarters Building,” argued Private Nesbit. “You want to disobey orders?”

“That is not what Czerinski ordered,” responded Lieutenant Lopez. “Czerinski said hide the nuke as close as possible to the Headquarters Building. This dumpster is as close as is possible. The headquarters is surrounded by spider tanks and troops.”

“The Captain might get upset,” said Private Williams, his jaw still sore from being hit earlier.

“Captain Czerinski takes a grudge way too far,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “I believe in payback as much as the next guy, but I am not getting killed by spider tanks and troops just because Czerinski wants some spider officer nuked. He can do it himself if he wants revenge that bad.”

“That spider officer shot you. Remember? You swore you would kill him,” said Private Williams. “You swore you would exterminate them all.”

“I got over it,” replied Lieutenant Lopez.

Private Williams shrugged and opened the top of the dumpster. A spider jumped out hissing, “Why are you disturbing me?”

“What are you doing in the dumpster?” asked Lieutenant Lopez.

“I live here,” replied the spider bum. “I have lived here for years. Do you have any spare change?”

“Put the nuke in the dumpster,” Lieutenant Lopez ordered, gesturing to Williams and Nesbit.

“Did you say nuke?” asked the spider bum. “You can’t nuke my home. I have rights. Who do you humans think you are? There are laws. You will be in big trouble with the Habitat Protection Agency.”

“He is right,” agreed Private Williams. “We can’t just set off a nuke in the first dumpster we happen to come across.”

“Shut up you fools,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Load the nuke back into the armored car.”

They drove away, looking for a better place to hide the nuke. There was plenty of debris in the streets, but Lieutenant Lopez wanted to place the nuke somewhere special. Passing by some small shops, Lieutenant Lopez ordered the armored car to an abrupt halt. Green spiders ran out to greet them. It was the same merchant spiders Sergeant Green had sold rifles and ammunition to.

“Do you have more weapons to sell us?” asked the leader of the merchants. “We need more ammo. We are almost out. There was much fighting.”

“Would you like to buy a nuke?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “I have an extra nuke in the car.”

“What would I do with a nuke?” asked the merchant spider. “A nuke would be a burden on my family. Where would I put it? Under my bed? My wife would complain. You should pay me to take it off your hands.”

“Never mind,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “We will sell you more rifles, ammo, and clips. Then, I wash my hands of you.”

“Not so fast. If I wanted to buy your nuke, even though it is almost worthless, how much would you want for it?” asked the merchant spider.

“What would you do with a nuke?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “Sell it?”

“There are many of us green spiders who want our own country. Some even dream of having our own planet,” explained the merchant spider. “Perhaps owning a nuke would enhance our bargaining position.”

‘The price is two million credits,” said Lieutenant Lopez.

“I thought you said our credits are worthless to you humans,” said the merchant spider. “Do you think I have two million credits just lying around? Money does not just grow on trees.”

“That’s the price,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “It’s not negotiable.”

“How about one half million credits?” offered the merchant spider.

“It is worth a lot more, but I’ll sell it to you for one million credits,” offered Lieutenant Lopez. “I have other buyers. I’m giving you first chance because we have done prior business. We are friends.”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda. I should have lots of friends like you,” complained the merchant spider. “I will allow you to cheat me out of one million credits for this worthless nuke. No more.”

“I am not sure my translation device is working properly,” said Lieutenant Lopez, frowning. “Do we have a deal at one million credits?”

“Will you take a check?” asked the merchant spider, pulling out his checkbook and pen.

“Yes, of course,” replied Lieutenant Lopez, accepting the check. “After this war sorts itself out, there will be a lot of money to be made trading. Captain Czerinski said so himself. I will be buying land on New Colorado. Contact me and we will do more business.”

“How do you know that check is good?” asked Private Nesbit. “He’s a spider. You can’t trust spiders. Aren’t you even going to ask to see his ID?”

“Do spiders have ID?” asked Private Williams.

“You have to have some faith,” explained Lieutenant Lopez as he helped unload the nuke. “Not everyone is a crook. Besides. I know where he lives.”

On the way back to the palace, Lieutenant Lopez ordered the armored car driver to drive up the steps of a large white marble-faced building on the edge of Capital Square, with big spider lettering chiseled above the doorway. Dead spider rioters littered the steps. Lieutenant Lopez figured if the spiders’ economy was anything like humans’, the biggest and most prestigious buildings would be reserved for banking. Lieutenant Lopez and Private Williams entered the building through the damaged front door.

“If your intent is robbery, be warned, we at First National Bank of Arthropoda have the means to resist,” a spider behind a grilled teller’s cage called out.

“I am here to open an account and to make a substantial deposit,” replied Lieutenant Lopez, passing his check through the cage.

“Human pestilence can’t make deposits,” said the spider in the teller cage.

“Why not?” asked Lieutenant Lopez, pulling the slide back on his assault rifle. “This check should be good.”

“It is highly irregular,” explained the spider, looking at the check. “But given the size of this transaction, and the fact that I am the bank manager, I will make an exception for you, sir. Have you paid income taxes on this money? We do not tolerate money-laundering at First National Bank of Arthropoda.”

“With a war going on?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “I didn’t have time to pay no stinking taxes.”

“Taxes are a small matter that can be attended to later. Did you know that all deposits this large are reported to the Director of Intelligentsia and State Security?” asked the bank manager.

“I think we killed him,” commented Lieutenant Lopez.

“For asking stupid questions,” added Private Williams.

“I see,” said the bank manager nervously. “I will do my best to expedite your transaction. Do you have any identification?”

“Yes,” said Lieutenant Lopez, presenting Legion ID.

“Do you have a caste security number?” asked the bank manager. “Probably not. Sorry I asked a dumb question. Will this be a savings or checking account?”

“Checking. I want an ATM card, too,” said Lieutenant Lopez.

“Certainly, sir,” said the bank manager, handing back the Legion ID. A checkbook was printed and presented to Lieutenant Lopez. “I took the liberty of putting the American Embassy as your address, sir.”

“The embassy burned down. But I’m sure a new embassy will be established,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “I think the new embassy will be located where that red building stands across the Square from here.”

“We at First National Bank of Arthropoda appreciate your business and consider you to be a valued customer. Is there anything further I can do for you today?” asked the bank manager.

“Is this bank insured?” asked Lieutenant Lopez.

“Most certainly,” boasted the bank manager. “First National Bank of Arthropoda is the oldest, largest, most respected, most secure bank in the entire Empire. We have branches on all five planetary systems and on several space stations. We will soon even open a new branch on Planet #6. Your money is safe with us, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Lieutenant Lopez, as he turned to leave. “That will be all for now.”

CHAPTER 18

“It was really was too bad about McGee. He was a good colonel,” commented Lieutenant Lopez.

“Yeah, he paid attention to things. McGee thought of stuff I never would have thought of,” I added.

“Someone should tell the major,” suggested Lieutenant Lopez.

“What major?” I asked. “We have a major?”

“I think so,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Corporal Kool, do we still have a major? What’s his name?”

“We are supposed to have a major,” answered Corporal Kool. “But I haven’t seen him since we jumped. I think he got lost or something. Maybe he beamed into a building.”

“Well that’s just fine. We lost our major,” I lamented. “You know, I told McGee there were snipers out there. But does the brass ever listen to me? No.”

“You should see the Emperor,” bragged Lieutenant Lopez. “I propped him up in the window real good. Put a string on his hand so Private Nesbit can make his claw wave back and forth. I even put the crown on his head and everything, man. Su majestic mire muy regia.”

“Corporal Kool! Radio the T. Roosevelt and tell Sergeant Mendoza I want a 5,000 pound bomb dropped on that red building directly across Capital Square from the Imperial Palace,” I ordered. “And make sure he gets those directions right. Make him repeat them back to you.”

“Yes sir. And sir, General Kalipetsis is on the line,” said Corporal Kool.

“I just heard about McGee,” said General Kalipetsis. “Too bad. He was a good man.”

“Yes sir,” I answered.

“Where is your major? You know, what’s his name?” asked General Kalipetsis.

“Haven’t seen him since the jump,” I answered. “I think he got lost.”

“How do you lose a major,” asked General Kalipetsis. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yes sir. The Emperor is dead,” I replied.

“Impossible! I’m watching the Emperor on spider TV waving to the crowds,” said General Kalipetsis. “Are you sure?”

“Yes sir, he’s been dead for hours. We just propped him up in the window for show,” I answered.

“And how did this happen?” asked General Kalipetsis.

“You know, now that I think about it, I think #14 murdered him this morning. Strangled him in bed or something,” I said.

“That makes sense because that slimy bastard #14 just assumed control of Arthropoda,” said General Kalipetsis. “In fact, that is why I’m calling. We’re having a three way conference call with #14 to negotiate the future of Arthropoda. Starting now.”

“Hello Captain Czerinski. How very nice to talk to you again,” said #14 over the radio video.

“You are still alive?” I asked. “How about #15?”

“We are both quite fine,” replied #14. “I am not vindictive. I am still willing to grant you and your legionnaires safe passage back to the T. Roosevelt. Just leave Arthropoda forever.”

“Can’t do it,” said General Kalipetsis. “Your legislature just elected #2 Prime Minister, so the Tenth Fleet is staying to support the legitimate government of Arthropoda.”

“The Tenth Fleet? That’s funny. The Tenth Fleet is about as useful as the Emperor,” said #14, laughing. “The traitors and stooges you installed in the legislature have been arrested. As we speak, armored army units are securing our Capital City and establishing a perimeter around Capital Square. And that shyster #2 is in hiding.”

“No way,” I said, alarmed. “If I see armor anywhere near Capital Square I’ll set nukes off all over the city. I have captured nukes here. I have all sorts of nukes.”

“What we need is to calm down,” cautioned General Kalipetsis. “He knows about the Tenth Fleet?”

“Yes! And what we need is air strikes,” I said. “Hit that armor before it gets deployed.”

“Our planetary defenses and our remaining warships will blast you from orbit if you use nukes against Arthropoda. I’m warning you to back off,” said #14.

“Captain Czerinski, you are ordered, in the best tradition of the United States Galactic Foreign Legion, to hold your position at all costs until reinforcements arrive. We have #2 on spider TV, appealing for support from the neighborhoods against #14’s assertion of power. Help will be on the way.”

“This is like the Alamo. We will be famous heroes,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “They will find your metal hand in the ashes and put it in the Smithsonian Museum. Sera el material de que leyendas estan hechas.”

“Fight without air support?” I asked. “Against armor? I prefer martyrdom be postponed.”

“I know you can do it,” said General Kalipetsis.

“You must be out of your fucking mind,” I said, cutting off the signal from General Kalipetsis. “It’s not that I am afraid of dying. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

“About time you did that,” said #14. “Now we can talk. I don’t want nukes going off in my Capital, but the city is pretty much trashed anyway. Nuclear radiation is a lot more harmful to humans than it is to us. I will use my armor to remove you if I have to.”

“You aren’t strong enough yet to survive another war. Your own people will kill you,” I added.

“I am offering all human troops on Arthropoda safe passage off the planet. No pre-conditions. Just leave. Take your weapons and gear. I am being very generous,” insisted #14.

Just then a 5,000 bomb dropped on the red building directly across Capital Square from the Imperial Palace.

“#14, are you still alive?” I asked.

“Of course I am. That was not a very nice thing to do. It will cost you,” threatened #14.

“Sorry about that. It was an accident. I accept your offer. Send shuttles and we will begin the evacuation. And don’t forget, I still want Lieutenant Norris returned!”

“Agreed.”

* * * * *

It seemed like everyone had a plan. General Kalipetsis wanted to disarm the spiders, then nuke them. #14 wanted power. Me? I just wanted to survive the day. Shuttles were leaving now. Mine was the last. Lieutenant Norris sat across from me, happy to be going home. I looked down at Arthropoda as we blasted off toward the T. Roosevelt. After checking my E-mail, I called up front to the pilot. “Take evasive action now! A surface to air missile has locked on to us!” The shuttle lurched to the side and downward, skimming the northern continent at ground level and emitting chaff before striking out for space. A nuclear tipped missile exploded behind us, but we were safe. Later, the pilot asked how I knew about the SAM before it was detected on radar. Even paranoid people have enemies, I thought to myself. “Just a guess,” I answered.

CHAPTER 19

The Inauguration Day ceremonies were going to be a true spectacle. #14 stood atop the Imperial Palace steps overlooking a hundred thousand soldiers. Flags fluttered in a stiff breeze. Air Wing jets did a low altitude fly-by. #15, the new Vice President, moved off to his right. #14 stepped up to the podium. The crowd cheered and clapped in unison.

“The human pestilence is gone. The heredity-based caste system is gone. Employment, social status, and financial success are now based on merit and character. Our space fleet will soon be rebuilt, and its honor restored.”

“The total industrial and military resources of the Empire’s five planetary systems are being mobilized to drive the human pestilence from Arthropodan space. We will take the war to Earth, just as the humans once took the war to these very steps of the Imperial Palace. I will exterminate the human pestilence once and for all. That is my will. That is the will of Arthropoda. That is the will of God!

“We will avenge the murder of our Emperor at the hands of the human pestilence. In honor of our murdered and beloved Emperor, and to honor all of you, I will not assume the title of Emperor. I will merely take the position of Leader.

“Now is the time to strike the human pestilence while they are still weak. I will lead Arthropoda against the human pestilence with my last breath of life. I will be the sword of God that will smash the puny human worlds. I swear it. May God himself strike me down, should I falter.”

A basketball sized rock fell from the sky striking the ‘Leader.’ There was not much left of either #14 or the rock. After piecing the rock back together, investigators found the inscribed message: LIGHT UP YOUR DAY, COURTESY OF THE USA.

#15 stepped forward and assumed the office of President of Arthropoda. He promised a more moderate agenda of free trade, fair elections, the rule of law, and goodwill toward neighbor nations.

CHAPTER 20

A demilitarized zone separated spider territory from human territory on the planet of New Colorado. The DMZ Village, occupied by both Intelligentsia Security troops and the Galactic Foreign Legion, served as both local military administration center and grievance airing point for both species. Today the spiders’ main grievance was that the legionnaire snipers were better shots than the Intelligentsia snipers during an exchange yesterday. #10, the ranking Intelligentsia officer in the village, approached me and my men in front of the joint dining hall. I noticed the spiders carried four-foot riot batons. Firearms were forbidden inside the DMZ Village. #10 was accompanied by three Intelligentsia soldiers. Four more spider troopers hung back a few feet, forming a half circle around us. Save us from peace, I thought to myself.

“Captain Czerinski. Your unprovoked sniper attacks across the DMZ will not be tolerated,” said #10, starting the round of negotiations.

“Your snipers shot first,” I responded. “They got what they deserved.”

“You will get what you deserve. Your armed intrusion into the DMZ is a violation of the cease fire agreement,” said #10. “Our patrols were merely defending Arthropodan territory.”

“Your soldiers can kiss my ass,” I replied. “You have been provoking incidents all along the DMZ for the last month. Do it again and I will call in an air strike.”

“We will melt Arthropodan territory into glass,” added Lieutenant Lopez. “Puta.”

“The human pestilence sends the Butcher of Planet #6 and his attack dog to enforce the peace? What a joke,” commented #10. #10 then swung his baton, striking Private Williams on the side of his Kevlar helmet. Lieutenant Lopez was struck next. Lieutenant Lopez had time to put up his forearm in self defense, but was still knocked down. I immediately drew a concealed 9 MM pistol and shot #10 and his three guards. The four spiders who had hung back from our discussion dropped their batons and ran. I shot them too. I then got on the radio and requested armor and air strikes.

What I got in response was General Kalipetsis yelling at me on the radio. “Czerinski! What in the hell are you doing up there? Trying to start a war?”

“The war has already started,” I answered. “I’m just trying to live through it.”

“I am reviewing what just happened from your helmet cameras,” said General Kalipetsis. “It was probably only an isolated attack by a local commander. Pull back from the DMZ Village now. This will all blow over in a few days. Christ, Czerinski, you know firearms aren’t allowed in the DMZ Village.”

“So fire me,” I responded. “Kick me out of the Legion and send me home to Mars.”

“That’s not happening,” replied General Kalipetsis. “You are in the Legion for the duration.”

* * * * *

The spiders sent a new #10 to replace the dead #10. Both sides admitted to wrongdoing and agreed to use restraint in settling differences, and to make more of an effort to coexist. Both sides moved more armor, artillery, air support, and nukes up to the DMZ. We painted our blue helmets spotted green. I wasn’t invited to these discussions. Instead, I was sent to the desert where it was reported that the spiders had tunneled fifteen miles under the human zone and set up bunker fortifications. Satellite reconnaissance showed irrigated fields and crops and a substantial housing development in a previously thought to be uninhabitable desert area on the frontier. General Kalipetsis sent me to make contact with the spiders and to tell them to leave. I had explicit orders not to kill anyone or to start a war. Yet.

Our column of armored cars was met by green spiders at the front gate of a bunker complex. Their leader, a large merchant spider, seemed to be expecting our arrival. “Welcome to Waterstone,” said the merchant spider. “What brings the Foreign Legion this far out to the frontier? A lovely day for a visit?”

“You are fifteen miles past the border,” I announced. “You are trespassing. Get out or I will call in an air strike and nuke you all.”

“That was harsh,” whispered Sergeant Green.

“We are not leaving. Our bunkers and tunnels are impervious to nuclear attack,” responded the merchant spider. “And we have air support. If anyone should leave, maybe it should be you.”

“Don’t you realize you are violating the ceasefire agreement your government signed?” I asked. Legionnaires deployed their weapons to my left and right. “Do you want to start a war?”

“The Anthropodan Emperor does not represent us. Besides, we bought this land,” said the merchant spider, handing me a scroll. “This deed has been filed and notarized by a human court.”

I read the deed. It said Lieutenant Manny Lopez of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion sold one hundred square miles of desert land known locally as Waterstone for ten million dollars in gold.

“This isn’t legal,” I insisted. “Spiders can’t buy land in the human zone.”

“We can and we did,” said the merchant spider. “I’ll have my lawyers contact your lawyers if you persist in trying to breech our contract.”

“Lieutenant Lopez!” I called out. “Get up here!”

“Lieutenant Lopez trotted up to the gate and saluted. His arm was still in a cast. “Sir? What’s up?”

I waved the deed in front of Lieutenant Lopez. “Your name is on this deed for having sold this land to the spiders! Care to explain?”

“I’ve been dabbling in real estate on the side,” explained Lieutenant Lopez. “You have a problem with that?”

“They’re spiders! You can’t sell spiders our land,” I said. “This is fifteen miles from the border.”

“They are legal immigrants,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Under colonial law, anyone is allowed to stay on land legally acquired and developed. The deeds were recorded with a local magistrate.”

“Under false pretenses, I’m sure. There is no way any judge knowingly allowed spiders to buy land in the human zone.”

“This land was a worthless desert before the green spiders dug wells and irrigated. Now Waterstone is an oasis,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Besides, we have another problem. They might still have their own nuke.”

“What?” I yelled. “Where would spider squatters get a nuke?”

“I sold it to them before we left Arthropoda,” explained Lieutenant Lopez. “How was I to know they might bring it to New Colorado?”

I turned to the spider merchant. “Do you still have a nuke?”

“Of course I do,” answered the merchant spider. “How do you think we negotiated our freedom from the Empire? Once the Emperor found out we had a nuke in his capital, they couldn’t let us leave fast enough.”

I gave the matter some thought. General Kalipetsis gave me explicit orders not to kill anyone and not to start another war. This part of New Colorado really was a godforsaken worthless desert. But the green spiders seemed happy living here, piling up rocks and irrigating alkaline flats that looked just like Death Valley. Sure. Why not? Let them have it.

I gathered all ten thousand spider inhabitants for an announcement. I addressed the crowd on a public address speaker. “Repeat after me: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States Galactic Federation of America. And to the Republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” I motioned for Corporal Kool to give me the citizenship forms he had brought up on the computer. “You are all now citizens of the United States.”

“We now have constitutional rights?” asked the merchant spider. The whole town let out a cheer and rushed forward to sign the citizenship forms and to touch me. Alcohol flowed freely, and a celebration began. Today would be their Independence Day. The merchant spider was the first to sign his papers.

I went through the checklist with him. “You can now vote and run for public office. You have the right to join one of two political parties,” I explained. “Do you want to be a Democrat or a Republican?”

“Democrat,” answered the bewildered merchant spider, shrugging.

“You might want to reconsider that,” I said. “It’s still legal to be a Democrat, but they are frowned upon these days as being weak on security matters.”

“We will be Republicans,” announced the merchant spider.

“Excellent choice,” I said. “General Kalipetsis will be happy to hear you all are Republicans.”

“General Kalipetsis is going to have a conniption when he finds out what you just did,” said Lieutenant Lopez.

“General Kalipetsis will get over it,” I answered. Just then a speckled green spider gave me a hug and slobbered all over my face. I gave the spider a shove. “Get away from me!”

“I think she likes you,” said the merchant spider, chuckling.

“She?” I asked, as the speckled green spider put a claw around my waist and slid a hand down to my rear, giving me a pinch. “Is she drunk?”

“It is almost noon. Of course I’m drunk,” answered the speckled green spider. “You are our savior, our hero, our George Washington. In appreciation, I want to give my body to you.”

“Are you nuts?” I responded, giving her another shove. This time the shove had emphasis.

“I love warrior males who resist,” she said, putting four arms around me. “You excite me so much.”

I looked the female spider in the eyes and saw a reflection of her next meal. I drew my commando knife and took a wicked swipe at the female spider. She blocked my blow and twisted the knife from my hand. A metal sap across my head put me in La La Land. The crowd, both spider and human, cheered drunkenly as the spider babe dragged me semi-conscious across the street to a hotel. I probably made history that night by mating with a female spider. It wasn’t all that bad. ‘Amanda’ had skills that no human should know about.

I’m sure Amanda is a tender loving being. But as she had hissed during lovemaking, I have never been so terrified in my life. At times I thought she was going to suck out my blood and eat me. I was determined to never mate outside of my species again.

“I really like you,” Amanda said, afterwards.

“I really like you, too,” I said. “You are very special to me.” I probably would have enjoyed myself more if I had not been concussed and terrified.

“Can I see you again?” she asked. “Maybe we can establish a lasting relationship?”

“No, love,” I responded, gently. “If you ever approach me again I will shoot you.”

“Too bad. You humans are so odd,” said Amanda, getting dressed. “I like humans. I like you. However, I will respect your customs and not press the matter. I will always treasure our one-night stand.”

CHAPTER 21

#10 of the Intelligentsia & State Security addressed his troops. “The human pestilence is the most vicious and barbarous enemy imaginable. Humans rarely take prisoners. They think nothing of eating our soldiers and civilians alike. Even babies are not safe from their ravenous appetite. Their hordes swept across the galaxy like locusts, but we stopped them here on Planet #6. It is a credit to your courage and determination. You are the first line of defense against the human pestilence. Be proud. It is our responsibility to be diligent and sharp as a razor claw. We cannot rest. We are the Emperor’s sword. A study of human history is a study of repeated genocide. The galaxy will never be safe until the humans are dealt with once and for all. Let it begin here.”

* * * * *

Across the DMZ General Kalipetsis addressed his men. “New Colorado was a barren lifeless planet with a carbon dioxide atmosphere until the human race terra-farmed it. It took one hundred years to create the lush paradise you see all about you. Then, after all our hard work an ingenuity, the spiders invaded and tried to exterminate our peaceful colony using nukes and nerve agent. Now, the spiders have decided they want to live here. The spiders want a windfall from our efforts. I have news for the spiders. Humanity will not leave New Colorado, and the spiders may not stay. The spiders will learn the hard way that human race is the most deadly species in the galaxy. When reinforcements arrive, the Legion will be serving an eviction notice on the spiders.”

* * * * *

Corporal Krueger and Private Delacruz were three miles across the spider border. The Legion sniper team was looking for targets of opportunity. Spider snipers had been causing casualties all along the DMZ, and it was time for payback. Private Delacruz scanned the distant roadway for movement with his spotter’s scope. A small column of vehicles was making its way through the hills from the DMZ. One vehicle in particular interested Private Delacruz. It was a staff car. The vehicle was adorned with green flags on the front, had no roof, and was abound with antennas. The passenger in the back seat wore the black uniform of an Intelligentsia officer. The fool must be new to the area, thought private Delacruz. Or, maybe he is just stupid. He rides around like he owns the place.

As the vehicle passed by, Private Delacruz set off a remote-controlled IED (improvised explosive device). The staff car was flipped onto its side. The officer, the new #10, landed safely on his feet and drew a pistol. Corporal Krueger fired once, a two round burst of 50-cal. rounds that blew #10 apart. Corporal Krueger and Private Delacruz then ran towards the DMZ. The two were in peak physical condition. They could run for miles. It was standard operating procedure to hit a target, relocate quickly, and then set up for another hit. Blocked by spider patrols at the DMZ, they covered themselves with camouflage nets and waited for darkness.

* * * * *

#64, riding in the lead vehicle, radioed in to report the IED explosion and the coordinates given by their sniper location device. An Intelligentsia tracker team was immediately dispatched to the scene. #64 accompanied the tracking team swiftly through the forest. The team was led by #85 and his partner, a giant monitor dragon. The serpent would stop, flick its tongue, and continue to follow the scent. #64 kept a wary distance from the dragon. Everyone knew the dragon’s motivation for its relentless chase – dinner. Dragons were always hungry. They were bred that way. Dragons didn’t care much whether it is human or Anthropodan on the menu.

As they approached the DMZ border, the dragon crouched, stalking its prey. #64 unclipped its leash and let the dragon circle. Suddenly the dragon darted through the underbrush, striking Private Delacruz in the face with poisonous three-inch fangs. Private Delacruz never saw the monster that killed him. Hearing the commotion and screams, Corporal Krueger immediately raised his hands and surrendered.

* * * * *

In the joint dining hall of the DMZ Village, the spiders and humans sat and ate on opposite sides. The food was terrible and the portions were too small. Among the spiders, Intelligentsia and army separated. On the Legion side, officers ate apart from their men. But, today I walked into the dining hall, escorting our newest member of the United States Galactic Foreign Legion, fresh out of basic training. He was armed with a shotgun and a submachine gun. Everyone in the village was armed now. I put my hand on the shoulder of the large light green spider from Waterstone and announced, “Gentlemen, meet Private George Rambo Washington, our newest legionnaire. He’s one of us, now. Make it work.”

“Interesting name,” said Private Williams. “How did you get it?”

“I chose the name based on Captain Czerinski’s recommendation,” answered Private Washington. “He said it comes from a long line of great human warriors.”

“Traitorous green scum,” commented #64. “We will not eat with him.”

“Good. It will smell better in here when you leave,” I said.

“Does that mean he’s eating with us?” asked Private Williams.

“You have sex with your mother,” said Private Washington defiantly, obviously feeling the need to stick up for himself.

“Sergeant Green,” I said, as I sat down with my men, “work with Private Washington on his swearing. He doesn’t have our lingo down quite right.”

“He’s saying it right,” insisted Sergeant Green. “It’s the translation device that’s messing up.”

#64 walked across the dividing line to confront Private Washington. “What did you say about my mother? You pond scum!”

“Who’s your mamma?” taunted Private Washington.

“Enough! Both of you be seated,” I ordered. I nodded to one of the spider sergeants. “Somebody here take care of Crab Boy.”

“You don’t give orders to the Intelligentsia,” responded #64. He reached into a pouch and pulled out two dog tags, tossing them onto the table by my plate. Through dried blood I could read DELACRUZ. The other tag said KRUEGER.

“What happened to my men?” I asked.

“Delacruz was eaten by a monitor dragon. Krueger is under arrest for terrorism and the murder of commander #10,” answered #64. “Good riddance to both human pestilence.”

“You will return Corporal Krueger immediately,” I ordered. “I hold you personally responsible for his well being until he is returned.”

“I will not,” replied #64. “The human pestilence will be tried and executed according to our laws.”

“This farce will continue no longer,” I said, getting up from my table. Humans and spiders stood and backed away from each other, fidgeting with the triggers of their assault rifles. “The DMZ Village will be evacuated. I am burning it down.”

“You cannot do that,” said one of the spider sergeants of their regular army. “No good will come of that. You do not have the authority.”

“If our species are going to be at war,” I said, placing the dog tags in a pouch, “then I’m through sneaking around about it. Let the fun and games begin.”

“If war comes, you do not have enough troops to win,” warned the spider sergeant. “You will not have a chance.”

That night I burned the DMZ Village to the ground. The red glow could be seen from space. Via satellite, the red glow on BHTV was visible from across the galaxy on Earth.

CHAPTER 22

Planetary Commander #1was enjoying his first cup of coffee – human coffee, it is the best, ‘mountain grown,’ he had heard from Military Intelligence. #1’s tranquility was disturbed by the intercom.

“The Emperor is on line one,” announced his administrative assistant.

“Good morning, Your Majesty. How may I help you this fine day?” asked #1, trying to sound upbeat.

“Fine day?” asked the Emperor. “It’s not a fine day when I turn on my TV and see the DMZ Village burning down before my general on Planet #6 even bothers tell me about it! What the hell is happening on my Planet #6?”

“There nothing to worry about, Your Majesty,” assured #1. “A couple of our local Intelligentsia commanders got killed trying to make a name for themselves messing with that Captain Czerinski. Remember Czerinski? It was Czerinski who burned down the DMZ Village when we caught some human assassins and refused to repatriate them. I was about to order an artillery barrage to teach the human pestilence a lesson when you called.”

“I’m glad to hear that I have nothing to worry about,” said the Emperor. “Other than you are about to start a war with the United States Galactic Federation.”

“The human pestilence only have a few Legion units on Planet #6,” responded #1. “We could easily defeat them.”

“You idiot! Place yourself under house arrest and put the Lieutenant Governor on the phone,” demanded the Emperor. “It seems like no one can follow orders. That will change!”

* * * * *

“General Kalipetsis, the President is on the phone for you, sir,” announced First Sergeant Mendoza.

“Tell the President I’m not in,” said General Kalipetsis. “Tell him I’m out doing important general stuff out in the field.”

“I can’t do that, sir,” said First Sergeant Mendoza. “He knows you are here.”

“Just fine,” snapped General Kalipetsis, turning on his communications device and seeing the President staring back at him. “Hello Mr. President. How very good to talk to you again.”

“I put you in charge of patrolling one little DMZ on one measly planet,” said the President. “How hard can that be? I wake up and what do I see on the Galaxy-FOX News Network? The DMZ Village burning down!”

“It's not my fault,” said General Kalipetsis. “Captain Czerinski burned it down. Besides, the spiders aren’t cooperating. They’re sniping at us every chance they get, and things are getting out of hand. We need re-enforcements so we can drive the spiders off New Colorado once and for all.”

“General Kalipetsis, you had better start looking at the big picture. There are aliens out there a lot nastier than the spiders, and they’re causing problems on the other frontier. And, there is always the Chinese problem. They’re getting restless, again. You will not be getting more troops. The regular army is needed elsewhere. We need to be building alliances, not starting a new war.”

“But what if the spiders attack?” asked General Kalipetsis. “I think we can only prevent disaster with a pre-emptive strike.”

“I just got off the phone with the Emperor of Arthopoda,” said the President. “We have a lot more in common with the spiders than not. You will work things out with their local field commanders. That is an order.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, you are being a bit naive,” said General Kalipetsis. “You can’t trust the spiders. They will nuke us while we sleep. They have done it before.”

“If you start a war on New Colorado I will put you on a slow prison ship bound for Earth,” promised the President. “You probably won’t make it here, though, because you will get thrown out an airlock along the way. And that will be the end of any political aspirations you might be harboring too. Am I making myself clear, General?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said General Kalipetsis. “What shall I do about Captain Czerinski? He is like a loose cannon. He might start a war all on his own, even if I don’t. I was thinking about placing him under arrest for burning down the DMZ Village.”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea to court-martial a Congressional Medal of Honor awardee and the son of my new Vice President. Besides, the public loves him,” added the President. “He gets things done. Giving the green spiders at Waterstone citizenship was a stroke of genius. And they even chose to be Republicans. The spiders are even joining the Foreign Legion. Which reminds me. By Executive Order I have created a National Guard company out at Waterstone. It’s all spiders. The problem is that every adult male and female spider in Waterstone wants to join. We might end up with a National Guard division instead of just a company. You want more troops? There you go. I want you to go to Waterstone and inspect my new National Guard troops and give them anything they need, such as equipment, drill instructors, weapons, even armor.”

“Yes sir,” said General Kalipetsis.

“Don’t disappoint me, General, or I will give your star to Captain Czerinski.”

* * * * *

“Captain Czerinski,” said General Kalipetsis, on field radio. “Are you still roasting marsh mallows and wieners down at the DMZ Village? Got a pig in the ground yet?”

“Sorry about the village, sir,” I said. “I guess I lost my temper.”

“Well, I smoothed things over with the President,” said General Kalipetsis. “But in the future, use a little more restraint. Also, plans for war are on hold. The President has ordered local field commanders – that’s you – to work things out. I will be negotiating with the Lieutenant Governor.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have good news from here, sir. The spiders just released Corporal Krueger. And the word on the ground is that the Emperor has abolished the Office of the Intelligentsia & State Security, citing the agency for being out of control, insubordinate, and a threat to the stability and well being of the Empire.”

“Outstanding! Finally some good news,” said General Kalipetsis. “I have some good news for you too. The President started a National Guard unit at Waterstone, and we have lots of spider volunteers. I want to fly down there with you for an inspection and see how we can assist.”

“I can’t do it, sir,” I lied. “I am in the middle of negotiations with the new #10. But, I can call ahead for you to Waterstone. I know the mayor. I will have him roll out a red carpet reception for you. He’ll have a band, drinks, food, TV cameras, and lots of happy spiders.”

“Thank you, Czerinski. That would be great,” said General Kalipetsis.

“There is only one hotel in Waterstone,” I added. “It’s run by an influential spider named Amanda. I will call her and tell her that the Supreme Commander and Governor of New Colorado will be arriving and to make sure you get only the best rooms for you and your staff. She wants to talk to you anyway about a gambling license for her hotel. Maybe you can fast track the license process for her. When you see Amanda, tell her that you are dedicated to protection and well-being of Waterstone. She will love you to death for it, sir.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for the heads up, Captain Czerinski,” said General Kalipetsis. “You are a good man and a credit to the Foreign Legion.”

CHAPTER 23

#64 drank vodka as he sat in the DMZ Tavern, a local drinking spot that catered to the military. #64 liked vodka. It was the only good thing that came from the human pestilence. As he drank, #64 griped about the sorry state of the galaxy to anyone who would listen. “I have had two commanders assassinated by the human pestilence. And what is the General Staff’s response? They just let the humans go,” complained #64. “That Czerinski struts around like he owns the whole planet. He attends parties at our governor’s mansion. He is promoted. And that sniper, Krueger. We capture Krueger and he gets pardoned and released, too. Now Krueger is in one of those guard towers, laughing at us.”

#85 nodded in agreement. “I should have fed Krueger to my dragon when I had the chance,” said #85, reaching under the table to pat the monitor on the snout and give it another slurp of vodka.

“The humans get stronger every day. They are re-enforcing their positions with more bunkers, armor, and legionnaires,” said #64. “They are even enlisting traitorous Greens into their Foreign Legion.”

“Traitors,” slurred #85 in agreement.

#64 was getting louder now. He eyed with contempt a green soldier sitting nearby. “You! Traitorous Green! You dare to drink with us?”

“I am a soldier, just like you,” responded the green spider. “I have earned the right to be here.”

“You have earned the right to be exterminated,” said #64. “You are not of the warrior caste. Go back to your money-grubbing shops.”

“The caste system was abolished by the Emperor,” said the green spider, now standing. “I joined the army to avenge the insult of human occupation of our capital. I am a loyal subject of the Emperor.”

“Greens are only loyal to money. Your kind built a city on the human side of the DMZ. You trade with the humans. It’s even rumored that your females have sex with humans. Do you deny it? Your race is an abomination.”

“I have faced and killed humans in combat. Have you?” asked the green spider. “After all I’ve been through in battle, the last thing I am going to do is tolerate insults from a piss-ant like you. Prepare to die.”

As the green spider took a step forward, he was shot from behind by an unknown assailant. The monitor dragon, already alerted by the smell of tension in the air, pounced on the dying spider, tearing it apart. The crowd lifted their mugs and cheered a toast. The bartender, another green spider, quietly left the building. #64 announced that all drinks were on the house, courtesy of the Greens.

“Let this be a lesson to all traitors,” #64 said to the crowd. “The human pestilence, their green allies, and collaborators on the General Staff, including the new Governor, should be exterminated. Our honor demands it!”

There were more cheers. Every spider carried a communications imaging device. #64’s speech and the murder of the green soldier were recorded and broadcast to friends over the internets. Even as #64 addressed the bar crowd, his comments were being aired on local TV. Soon, three police officers showed up. The police still wore the black uniform of the defunct Intelligentsia. “You are under arrest,” announced the ranking officer, flanked by his two subordinates. “Put your hands and claw out to be cuffed up.”

“Really?” said #64. “For what? Drunk and disorderly?” Everyone laughed.

“Murder, treason, and sedition,” replied the officer. “You will come with us.”

“He will not come with you,” hissed #85. The crowd pressed in on the officers, creating a barrier between them and #64. The monitor tugged at his leash, sensing blood would soon be spilled. The police officers raised their submachine guns as the crowd jostled them.

“Stop!” yelled #64. “These police officers are just doing their duty. Following orders. Do not blame them. Let them live, for now. Blame their superiors. Blame the new Governor. Blame the General Staff. I will submit to arrest. But I will treat this arrest like a badge of honor.”

The crowded parted as #64 was lead away. By now a nasty crowd had gathered outside too. Spiders pushed and hissed at the police officers as #64 was put inside a police car. More police were arriving. Spiders pounded on the car windows and rocked the police car back and forth. Finally the police car sped away, leaving a riot in its wake. And it all made the Eleven O’clock News.

* * * * *

At the detention center, sympathetic and frightened guards allowed #64 to keep his communications device. #64 used the next few weeks in maximum security to record his thoughts and to send out messages. #64 wrote a short book called ‘My Story,’ outlining his plans for Arthropoda. He accused the humans and Greens of holding the Emperor hostage with outlandish promises of a rumored Fountain of Youth. The Emperor, desperate for immortality, was willing to sell out the interests of Arthropoda for false human technology and the Greens’ money. The fool.

#64 demanded that all those collaborating with the humans be punished. The human pestilence needed to be exterminated. A new and more powerful Arthropodan Empire would rise from the human ashes and sweep across the galaxy. It is our destiny.

Many agreed. Crowds gathered at the prison, demanding #64’s immediate release. Demonstrations occurred on all five of the other inhabited planets. Finally a magistrate set bail and allowed visitors. #85 was the first let in.

“Your bail is being posted as we speak,” said #85, triumphantly. “They dare not hold you any longer. Justice will prevail.”

“No!” said #64. “I like it here. It gives me peace and quiet and time to think.”

“You are kidding? Right?” asked #85.

“Tell my followers I will not leave my jail cell until the new Governor resigns, admits his collaboration with the enemy, and trades places with me,” said #64.

“That is not likely to happen,” said #85. “The Governor will not trade a mansion for a cell.”

“Tell the Governor! Tell all I will begin a hunger strike until the new Governor is locked up,” said #64. “And another thing. We need to get more organized. I want you to form a new political party. Issue members dated ID cards for a fee. Put our candidates in place for the upcoming elections. I will give you a list of trusted sergeants I have in mind. I want a militia formed to enforce the will of our new party. We will call them dragon troops. Our new party will be the Dragon Party.”

“I like the sound of that,” said #85. “Dragon troops. The name alone will instill fear.”

“We need to send a strong message by making some examples of our enemies. Greens are to be pressured out of the military. Green merchants are to be taxed extra to help pay for our activities. I want Krueger and Czerinski killed. And, I want Waterstone destroyed,” concluded #64.

“It should be easy enough to kill the human pestilence. Maybe we can even destroy Waterstone,” added #85. “But when you talk of organizing a political party and financing a private army, it sounds like you want to seize power. How far are you wanting to take this?”

“All the way,” said #64. “The Governor and even the Emperor are propped up by a rotten foundation supported by no one. Smash that rotten foundation, and the whole power structure comes crashing down. But one step at a time. First, I want some payback.”

* * * * *

Sergeant Krueger sat atop a tower overlooking the DMZ. He was reading the news. It was boring duty. Major Czerinski put him on light duty to assist in his recovery from incarceration. Sergeant Krueger supposed that Major Czerinski thought light duty was a reward for the ordeal. Truth be known, promotion to sergeant was good enough. The spiders roughed him up a little, but no real harm was done. It was time to just move on. So, Sergeant Krueger endured his light duty by putting his feet up on the desk, reading the newspaper, and relaxing as much as possible. The newspaper blocked all view of the danger at the window. Sergeant Krueger smiled as he thought about even getting some shut-eye later. A busy sergeant needs his beauty sleep.

Suddenly Sergeant Krueger threw his paper down, and stretched out his arms. What was that awful smell? It seemed familiar somehow. Then he remembered the night Delacruz was killed. He lurched forward in his chair just in time to see the monitor dragon, black as coal, slip through the open window. Before Sergeant Krueger had time to leap from his chair or reach for his rifle, the dragon had him by the neck, cutting off his air as it whipped him around like a rag doll. The last image Sergeant Krueger ever saw was the red eye on the side of the dragon’s head as its jaws tightened.

* * * * *

What was left of Sergeant Krueger was found at 0600 shift exchange. No one had bothered to check on Sergeant Krueger during the night. It was assumed that Krueger was safe up there in his tower. Land mines and sensors protected the tower perimeter. If Sergeant Krueger was sleeping, who cared? The war was over and we are at peace. I was called to inspect the scene and arrived at 0700.

“He was eaten,” advised Sergeant Green. “It was probably one of those giant lizards the spiders keep as pets.”

“This is no way for a soldier to die,” I commented. I looked over the railing. “How did a giant lizard climb the tower? Can they fly?”

“You are from the Southwest,” said Sergeant Green. “You have seen lizards climb straight up walls. It’s no big deal for them.”

I nodded. I guessed it was possible. “The question that still remains is whether this was deliberate or just a random attack by a wild animal.”

Sergeant Green slammed his fist against the wall. “Of course it was deliberate! Lizards are attached to spider military units. It was a lizard that tracked and captured Sergeant Krueger. It was a lizard that ate Private Delacruz. Remember? It was probably the same lizard that killed Krueger.”

I tried to put it all out of my mind for just a few seconds. I closed my eyes and sat down. Just then a sniper’s bullet shattered the window where I had just stood. I dropped to the floor. Sergeant Krueger’s blood soaked my uniform. Below I could hear gunfire as legionnaires returned fire into the DMZ. However, the sniper got away.

* * * * *

I returned to my office to clean up. Being that we never did find our lost major, I got his job, rank, and office. A replacement for Colonel McGee had yet to arrive, so I got his job, too. That involved lots of paperwork, which I delegated. General Kalipetsis put me in charge of rebuilding the DMZ Village. General Kalipetsis was not happy with me. Apparently his visit to Waterstone did not go well. It seems Amanda had somehow injured the general while she was giving him a tour of the Hotel. Details were not forthcoming, and the matter was being kept hush-hush. General Kalipetsis was still recovering in the hospital.

Waiting in my office as I arrived was an official from General Kalipetsis’ staff. “Major, I am glad to meet you. I am James Yamashita, newly appointed Director of Tourism for New Colorado. I am escorting a busload of VIPs across the DMZ on a sightseeing tour. They’re taking a lot of pictures and stuff like that. Your troops won’t let us cross. I have written permission from General Kalipetsis to cross the DMZ and go anywhere I want.”

“It is not safe to cross the DMZ at this time,” I advised.

“What happened to your uniform? Are you injured?” asked Yamashita, apparently just noticing the blood.

“No, I am not injured. Thank you for asking.”

“I hope we aren’t at war with the spiders again,” commented Yamashita. “War would ruin tourism on New Colorado. Do you realize how much interest there is in traveling to New Colorado and seeing the spiders first-hand? Ever since we all saw you on TV fighting the spiders, the public can’t get enough of them.”

“No. We are not at war, yet. But there was an incident on the DMZ this morning. Travel is restricted for now,” I explained. “It’s for your own safety.”

“Now what do I do? We came a long way to take pictures of friendly spiders,” complained Yamashita.

“You want friendly spiders?” I asked. “Have I got a deal for you! Go to Waterstone. There are plenty of friendly spiders at Waterstone. They like tourists, too. There is even a casino hotel. It’s first rate. I will write you a pass so you can get through.”

* * * * *

Happy to have gotten his way, Yamashita gathered up his charges and loaded them on to a bus headed for Waterstone. They were greeted at a Legion checkpoint about three miles from Waterstone. Private Washington asked for Yamashita’s travel pass.

“The bus still needs to be searched before I can let you pass,” advised Private Washington, after inspecting the travel pass.

The tourists filed off the bus. They all were fascinated by the big green spider wearing a Legion uniform. Tourists began snapping pictures of the first friendly spider they had seen since the spider tour began.

“How long have you been in the Legion?” asked Yamashita, snapping a close-up photo of Private Washington.

“Get that camera out of my face or I will shove it up your butt hole,” answered Private Washington.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” asked Yamashita. “I am the Secretary of Tourism and a personal friend of your commanding officer, Major Czerinski. He signed my pass. Did you notice that? What is your name, Private?”

“You get your odd-ball collection of motherless children under control and back on that bus, or I will eat them all, starting with you. I think humans are yum-yum tasty,” threatened Private Washington.

“Major Czerinski assured me you spiders in Waterstone were friendly,” cried Yamashita, as he ran for the bus.

“You are not in Waterstone,” said Private Washington. “You are in the desert. Everything in the desert bites, stings, or kills. Never mess with a green spider in the desert!”

As the bus drove away, Washington walked up to the next vehicle. The van contained two green spiders. Private Washington asked them for their travel pass.

“We are refugees from the purge going on across the DMZ,” explained the driver. “We are going to Waterstone to start a new life. We have no pass.”

“Why didn’t you take the tunnel like everyone else?” asked Private Washington.

“We were in a hurry. How does it feel to be working for the humans?” asked the driver.

“I feel free and strong,” answered Private Washington. A sensor light alarm on Private Washington’s duty belt began flashing. Private Washington checked the screen: HIGH RADIATION DETECTED. TACTICAL NUCLEAR DEVICE SUSPECTED.

The same alarm flashed in Lieutenant Lopez’ office. Lieutenant Lopez ran outside to the van. Pointing his assault rifle through the driver’s side window, Lieutenant Lopez shot both spiders dead.

“I sure hope that sensor isn’t malfunctioning again,” commented Private Washington, noticing the blood had splattered on his sleeve would be hard to wash out.

“You better hope the sensor is malfunctioning,” warned Lieutenant Lopez, as he opened the van door and threw the dead driver out onto the ground. He began searching the van. “Find the nuke. Now!”

After a brief search, Private Washington found the nuke in a backpack. Its timer had been set. Clutching the backpack, Private Washington drove the van out into the desert to a deep spider hole prepared for just this sort of situation. He dropped the nuke down the hole, then raced for the cover of a nearby hill. The explosion could be heard for miles. No one was harmed.

* * * * *

#85 led the militia dragon troops up the steps of the Governor’s Mansion. As he got to the top, he heard the explosion and saw the mushroom cloud forming on the horizon in the direction of Waterstone. Everyone knew what that meant. The guards at the mansion stepped aside. #85 arrested the Governor without incident. A few green soldiers and civilians were also arrested. Some resisted. At the prison, #85 led the Governor to #64’s cell. No one obstructed their path. #64 and the Governor traded places. The event was recorded for planetary TV news.

“What will become of me?” asked the Governor.

“Shoot him,” said #64, as he walked away.

CHAPTER 24

The starship of unknown design landed next to the Governor’s Mansion. The starship was not detected by planetary defenses or radar because of advanced stealth technology. Startled spider soldiers established positions around the starship. Armor was brought in. #64 was awakened from a sound sleep and told an ‘ant-like’ creature, calling himself ‘Prince Tak of the Formicidaen Empire,’ had landed in Governors’ Square and asked for an audience with the Governor of Inhabited Planet #6. The ‘ant’ then asked for #64 by name. #64 was already seated at a large conference table with #85 to his right when Prince Tak and his smaller attendants entered.

“What are you?” asked #64, studying the mandibles and pincers of the ugliest creature he had ever seen. Even the human pestilence paled in comparison to this hideous beast.

“I am Prince Tak, an emissary of the Formicidaen Empire, located on the far side of the Human Empire,” answered the prince. “I have been sent to forge an alliance between our two great species against the humans.”

“Excuse me if I am taken aback by your presence,” said #64. “Until now I thought we and the human pestilence were the only sentient species in the galaxy. I see now we are not alone.”

“There are many sentient exoskeleton species across the galaxy,” explained Prince Tak. “We are all cousins, united against the abomination you call the human pestilence.”

“And you propose an alliance with us against humanity? You propose that we help you in a war of extermination against Earth?” asked #64.

“Exactly,” said Prince Tak. “We plan a general attack soon. With help from the Arthropodan Empire, the humans will be crushed between our pincers.”

“I am afraid you have landed on the wrong planet,” said #64. “I am but a local governor of a small colony. And at the moment, my Emperor is a bit irritated at me. What can I do?”

“We know who you are. We have the right planet,” said Prince Tak. “Let me explain. We have been watching your rise to power with great interest. We know your Dragon Party is the only opposition to the Emperor, and is active on all six inhabited planets. We know you want to seize power from the Emperor. I can help you.”

“What is it to you who rules Arthropoda?” asked #64. “It’s our business, not yours.”

“Your Emperor is cozy with the humans. That grates on you, doesn’t it? The Emperor and the humans are forming an alliance against the Formicidaen Empire and our allies. Picture it. Arthropoda helping humans to kill your exoskeleton cousins from across the galaxy. It is immoral and makes no sense.”

“You said you could help me seize power. I am interested. How?” asked #64.

“We have a fleet near your home world. A well-timed nuclear attack would kill the Emperor and his entire governmental infrastructure. You would be the natural choice to succeed the Emperor because you are already organized to grab the throne. It’s what you have always wanted.”

“I’m not so sure my fellow Arthropodans would appreciate me nuking our own Capital City,” said #64.

“I am sure you are right. At first there would be confusion about what happened,” explained Prince Tak. “You could easily blame the nuclear attack on the Greens. Everyone knows they have threatened to use nukes. Before anyone can prove otherwise, you will have seized power. Our starships will assist with logistics and the deployment of your dragon troops. By the time the peasants have figured out what happened, it will be too late for anyone to challenge your power. Then, the humans will be next.”

“You seem very well versed in the intrigues of Arthropodan politics,” commented #64. “How is that possible?”

“Our superior stealth technology allows us to come and go as we please,” bragged Prince Tak. “We have been in your space for quite some time. We have even been in contact with separatist groups on all of your six inhabited planets. But of all the leaders we have contacted, you are the only leader with a vision of a strong Arthropodan Empire. We need a strong ally in the Arthropodan Empire to help us exterminate the human pestilence.”

“You could have helped us earlier when we were actually at war,” added #64. “Were sitting on the fence for a reason?”

“We were not ready then,” explained the prince.

“Your plan has potential. I will consider it and discuss the matter with my aides,” said #64. “In the meantime, I will arrange for you a tour of our lovely planet and our military facilities.”

“Yes, of course,” said Prince Tak. “Do not delay too long. When war comes, you will either be with us or against us.”

After Prince Tak left, #64 gave orders to have the mansion swept for listening devices. Several were found, including one under the very chair where Prince Tak had been sitting. A Green technician handed the listening device to #64 personally.

“Why are you still here?” asked #64. “Most Greens were smart enough to take the hint and get out while the getting is good.”

“Where would I go? The army is my home. Besides, I am a loyal subject of the Emperor,” said the Green technician. “You won’t drive me out. You better hope we don’t all leave.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked #64, now getting angry. “Was that a threat?”

“No. We Greens are the Empire’s best at business. We are your best scientists. You will need our smarts to figure out how that starship got around our planetary defenses. After the elimination of the caste system, we Greens joined the military and proved in battle we are your best soldiers. Can you really afford to lose us? Are you so strong that you can throw away your best assets? Especially now that a swarm of ants has entered our space without permission. I saw the ants. They are evil They can’t be trusted.”

“Get out! Everyone out!” ordered #64. “Except #85 and the Council of Sergeants.” #64 turned to #85. “Well? What do you think?”

“About what?” asked #85.

“About Prince Tak’s plan to help me seize control of the Empire. About his plan to exterminate the human pestilence once and for all,” said #64. “Well?”

“You want the truth?” asked #85. “I am kind of glad there is a human pestilence buffer between us and the Formicidaen Empire.”

“You don’t trust the prince?” asked #64.

“The prince is an ant,” said #85. “I don’t like ants. Ants eat all that is in their path. And their path is headed our way.”

“But we have more in common with the Formicidaen race than with the soft, warm-blooded humans,” protested #64. “He called us their exoskeleton cousins.”

“It is not enough,” said #85. “Our culture more closely matches the humans. Hell, these days we even watch the same TV shows.”

“Only because I have not yet figured out how to smash their communications satellites and make it look like an accident,” groused #64. “Perhaps I can blame the ants.”

“The prince was playing you,” said #85. “He thinks you suffer from megalomania. Tak assumes he can use that weakness to manipulate you. He praised you but he does not know you. Then, before he left, he made threats. You noticed that, I hope?”

“Yes. He made a mistake threatening me. That ant is very arrogant. He is very wrapped up in himself, and it’s a small bundle. That did not sit well with me, either,” commented #64. He gave the matter some more thought. “Place that oversized ant under arrest and have him interrogated. Seize his ship and tear out its secrets. Advise the Emperor of the full details of the plot against his life and send him a recording of this meeting. Advise the Admiralty that a Formicidaen space fleet has invaded our space, intent on attacking our capital. It must be located. Free all Greens held on political charges. By Executive Order, I reverse all discrimination against their ilk and order compensation for any losses my government may have caused. Also, get Major Czerinski on the phone. We need to talk.”

* * * * *

I sat at the conference table flanked by Lopez, Green, Kool, Williams, Ceausescu, Nesbit, Yamashita, Amanda, Washington, and the Mayor of Waterstone. #64 and #85 arrived at the DMZ Village late for our meeting. They were flanked by the Council of Sergeants.

“Where is General Kalipetsis?” asked #64.

The General had a nervous breakdown and is being confined,” I replied, glancing at Amanda. “I have been brevetted to Brigadier and have full authority to negotiate.”

“First of all,” said #64, slamming his claw on the table and setting the tone for tough negotiations, “I demand better quality Satellite TV. The selection and reception sucks, and I think it is a deliberate provocation.”

“I will look into that,” I promised. “Consider it done.”

“You had better,” threatened #64. “Or we will switch to cable and ZNN.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Lieutenant Lopez, rising to his feet.

“Enough!” I said, motioning Lieutenant Lopez to sit down. “Tell me more about the ants.”

“We interrogated Prince Tak. He revealed the location of the Formicidaen fleet. They are hiding in the asteroid belt off our home world. Our fleets will flush them out. I expect that the ants will flee directly for the border. We want your Sixth and Seventh Fleets to ambush the Formicidaens as they approach your space. Together we will crush them,” said #64.

“It’s a sound plan. Agreed,” I said. “Also, I want my scientists granted access to the Formicidaen starship. I insist all captured technology be shared.”

“Fine,” grumbled #64. “Anything else?”

“Yes. We want to interrogate Prince Tak ourselves,” I insisted.

“Sorry,” said #64, shrugging. “The Prince was shot and killed while trying to escape.”

“I want to see his body,” I said.

“He was eaten by monitor dragons,” said #64. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Not really,” I said. “But for now we will move on to domestic issues. Secretary of Tourism Yamashita wants to build a string of jointly operated hotel casinos inside the DMZ. His economic incentive zone proposal will only be feasible, however, if casino gaming remains illegal on both sides of the border. Can we agree to that?”

“Yes,” answered #64. “But what about the casino at Waterstone? That would be unfair competition inside human territory.”

“Waterstone is beyond my control,” I stated. “They have been granted dominion status and have applied for statehood. Waterstone may also opt for kingdom status. The matter will be decided by a referendum vote in the next election. Also, Waterstone’s boundaries need to be re-negotiated because of increased Green immigration. I propose their boundaries extend beyond both sides of the DMZ.”

“Impossible! You will not infringe on Arthropodan territory,” insisted #64.

“You caused the increased immigration with your persecution of us Greens,” said the Mayor of Waterstone. “Now we need to secure water rights. Waterstone will expand whether you approve or not.”

“It’s all worthless desert out there anyway,” I pointed out. “It’s not like they’ve discovered oil or gold out there in those alkaline flats. We can sell them whatever land they want at a good price.”

“I will have my geologists check it out anyway,” said #64. “Do not threaten me, I warn you. I will sell that strategic border land only if it suits me.” He eyed the mayor. “Do you really think you can survive out there in the desert?”

“I do not know what the future holds,” said the Mayor of Waterstone. “But we will make our own future happen no matter what you do.”

“Moving on,” I said, checking my list. “Amanda and Nesbit will coordinate the hotel casino operations. They have the most experience in those matters.”

Amanda moved her claw across the table and touched #64’s claw. He recoiled. “Keep your claw to yourself!” snapped #64. “I don’t like pushy females.”

“I will be submissive if you prefer, Your Majesty,” said Amanda. “You are such a strong and assertive male. I like that in my males.”

“See that you stay submissive, or else,” said #64, still flustered. He motioned to #85. “Work with her on the economic zone projects.”

“Thanks a lot,” complained #85. “Just throw me under the bus.”

“I think this meeting has been very productive,” I said. “We can now leave the details to our subordinates.”

“One more thing,” said #64. “I know how you operate. I have sensors pointed at your space cannon, so don’t even think about dropping a rock on my head. I will be Emperor some day. I will remember any and all slights against me and Arthropoda. Be warned.”

Lieutenant Lopez immediately sent an E-mail to Sergeant Mendoza, cancelling orders regarding the space cannon. There would be no surprises from space this week.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said. “You just make sure those oversized lizards stay on your side of the DMZ.”

CHAPTER 25

“How much do you think we could sell this ship for?” asked Lieutenant Lopez.

We had been working for days on the Formicidaen ship, trying to tear out its secrets, and Lopez was getting impatient.

“Its new technologies are worth billions,” I answered. “But who would buy it? Only the United States government could afford the price, and we already own half of it.”

“How about if we cut it up and sell it piecemeal?” suggested Lieutenant Lopez. “Or, maybe the ants would buy it back.”

“The ants probably would buy it back,” I said. “But that would be treason. We wouldn’t live to spend the money. Or else we would be exiled fugitives on some bug world forever.”

“It just seems like a waste to have something this valuable in your grasp and not be able to cash in on it,” complained Lieutenant Lopez.

“We have enough money,” I said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we both billionaires? And the casinos we are setting up along the DMZ will make us even richer. All we have to do is kick back and watch the money roll in.”

“You can never have enough money,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Besides, this ship could be an insurance policy against something going wrong. If war ever breaks out again with the spiders, casinos on the DMZ will be worthless. They’re like buying real estate on a volcano. You just never know when it will blow.”

“The scientists say they think this ship is a prototype. Prince Tak was a fool to land something this valuable where it could be captured,” I said. “Its speed and stealth technologies are amazing. I suppose we could become pirates and use the ship to raid Formicidaen shipping for booty and prizes.”

“I’ve had that same thought,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “ARRRRR, ARRRRR, mate. Hand over ye gold bars and ye Formicidaen babes” He laughed. “Do you think the Legion would let us do it? We’re about to go to war with the ants anyway.”

“No,” I answered. “The Legion might use the ship to lead a sneak attack, but there wouldn’t be much time for pirating. We would be part of a military operation. Besides, I have no interest in leading the charge against the ants in the next war. I want to stay right here on New Colorado where it is safe, until I get my discharge papers. They are due any day, now that we are at technically at peace.”

“Dream on. You are in for the duration, and it’s not over yet. It’s not even close to being over,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “We will go where the Legion orders us to go. I just want to make sure we go in style in this ship.”

“The spiders might have something to say about that,” I said. “It’s their ship, too.”

“And that’s another thing,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Do we want the spiders to have all this new technology? If for no other reason than that, we should steal this ship for the good of humanity. It is our patriotic duty to steal this ship. Its stealth technology should not fall into their claws.”

“You might have a good point,” I conceded. “But stealing this ship would damage our alliance. We are allies now. We agreed to share the technology. Our fleets are working together at this moment, hunting down Formicidaen ships in our space.”

“The alliance will be damaged if the spiders figure out this technology before we do,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Sure, the President made an agreement with the Emperor. You and I helped form that agreement. But no one trusts the spiders. No one is really happy with that agreement. It was the best deal we could get at the time. But the situation has changed. We are stronger now.”

“Nothing has changed,” I argued. “We have treaty obligations.”

“You know #64 is lying about Prince Tak,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Tak wasn’t killed trying to escape. The spiders are hiding him somewhere, pumping him for strategic and technical information. The spiders are withholding that information in violation of our treaty. That violation voids the treaty.”

“So what are you saying?” I asked. “It’s still not our call to violate the treaty.”

“We should steal the Formicidaen ship for the good of humanity,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Our government can claim we acted on our own without their knowledge. Warrants of arrest will be issued for us as a cover. Then, we secretly sell the Formicidaen ship back to the United States for its exclusive use and research. Do you think two billion dollars is too high?”

“I don’t like the part about warrants of arrest,” I said. “Your plan could backfire on us.”

“The warrants are just a ruse to fool the spiders,” explained Lieutenant Lopez. “Your father can get us a pardon when things calm down.”

“You should be in the C.I.A., not the Galactic Foreign Legion,” I said. “Do you really think the President would go for your idea?”

“No,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Not at first. It’s too risky for any president. We would have to steal the ship, then convince the President afterwards. And, we have to steal the ship now, before all those spiders take the ship apart.”

“Now?” I asked. “You mean this week?”

“No, I mean this minute,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “I’ve already turned our business interests over to Sergeant Green and Amanda to run while we are absent. We seize the moment, now.”

“Sergeant Green has my money? I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, Lopez, but we are not stealing the Formicidaen ship,” I said, getting up to leave. “You need to think this through.”

Privates Washington and Williams entered the ship, carrying crates of supplies. Corporal Kool followed with legionnaires carrying missiles and nukes. Lieutenant Lopez nodded to Corporal Kool. “Secure the ship. Kick the spiders off. We blast off in five minutes.”

“Belay that order,” I said. “We are not going anywhere.”

A couple shots rang out. Lieutenant Lopez pointed his pistol at me. “Strap in, we are leaving now.”

Moments later we blasted off, and beamed across the galaxy to the Formicidaen home world. From our stealth ship, Lieutenant Lopez watched in fascination the line of ant merchant ships passing back and forth from the planet below.

“I know what you are thinking,” I said, looking at Lopez. “You are thinking it will be an adventure to be pirates. Pirates of the Foreign Legion. It sounds grand. It has a ring to it. But you forget – humans hang pirates. What do you think ants do to pirates? What ever it is, it can’t be good.”

“I turn command back over to you, General,” said Lieutenant Lopez, holstering his pistol. “Which ship do you want to plunder first?”

I looked at the radar and light displacement screens showing spaceship activity originating from a single spaceport on the planet’s surface. “All is not forgiven, Lopez,” I warned. “Only constraints on imagination limit how painful your death will be.”

“Oh come on, Czerinski,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “You are wound way too tight. Look here. Already I have a message from General Kalipetsis commending us for our initiative and authorizing us to attack Formicidaen shipping. We are going to be rich beyond our wildest dreams, and heroes to boot.”

“That was fast,” I said, looking at the message. “They want to know what we named our new ship.”

“The U.S.S. Shenandoah,” Lieutenant Lopez said immediately. “They will never catch us.”

“That fits,” I said. “You know, this is not going to have a happy ending. We are sitting on top of an anthill. We will die a horrible death for sure.”

“You sound worse than Sergeant Green,” scoffed Lieutenant Lopez. “No pain, no gain. Let’s just do it, sir.”

“Target ten ant merchant ships with missiles, and use the space cannon to drop nukes on the spaceport and the space station,” I ordered.

“What?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “Where is the profit in that? I want booty.”

“The Formicidaen fleets are massed at the frontier, poised to invade and destroy humanity,” I explained. “We need to draw them back.”

“Draw them back to us?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “Are you sure about that?”

“Today we send a message to the ants. Humanity is pissed off about their intrigue with the spiders. Humanity is pissed off about their invasion plans. And humanity is not to be messed with. They need to fear us.”

“We will tell the ants who did this?” asked Lieutenant Lopez.

“No. Let them panic and speculate,” I said. “We will hide in deep space and pick off their merchant ships for prize money. The ants will find out soon who attacked their home world. You wanted to be famous? They will put us on the Five O’clock News when they hang us from our toes and skin us alive.”

* * * * *

Lieutenant Lopez tracked the lone freighter on radar, inbound toward the Formicidaen home world. “The prize value of that ship alone will make us wealthy beyond our dreams,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Just think of the riches it may be carrying.”

“Fire a cannon flare across its bow and command it to stop,” I ordered. “Then initiate electronic jamming on all frequencies.”

The freighter came to a halt. I used the space cannon to put a small round through its side. I could see no sign of armament, but I remained wary. “Let them repair the damage before we board.”

“What good is a prize ship if you fill it full of holes?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “It’s damaged goods.”

“Our crew is small. A big freighter like that may have a large crew,” I explained. “They need to know we mean business.”

Williams, Washington, and Kool led the boarding party. The ant crew of ten quickly surrendered. Its captain, the largest ant aboard, was very upset. “I put a lifetime of savings and effort into this ship, and you pirates punch holes in it for no reason,” complained the captain. “We surrendered, and you shot us anyway?”

“Shut up, ant,” said Private Washington, giving the captain a shove. “Don’t look at me. Put your face to the bulkhead.”

“What are you hideous creatures?” asked the captain, eyeing Private Washington. “You look like a giant spider.”

“Your empire plans invasion against Earth, and you don’t even know who we are?” I asked. “We are the Grim Reaper, coming to collect souls.”

“I know who you are, human,” said the captain. “It is that spider I have never seen. Just make sure you keep your oversized pet under control. There will be a reckoning if any of my crew are mistreated.”

“What are you carrying?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “I want a bill of lading.”

“Take it all. What do I care?” asked the captain. “It’s all insured. But please, don’t damage my ship. It’s all I have.”

“It’s my ship now,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “Be happy if you survive the day.”

“ARRRR, ARRRR,” bellowed Private Williams. “Give us your chest of bobbles and gold coins or you will be walking the plank, you scurvy dog. ARRRR, ARRRR.”

“Shut up Private Williams,” I said.

“Is he stable?” asked the captain.

“No,” I answered. “He is from Tennessee.”

“Take us to your hold,” ordered Lieutenant Lopez, giving the captain another shove. “I want to see your cargo.”

The captain led us to the cargo area. What we found wasn’t cargo. It contained about two hundred sentient beetle-like creatures locked up in cages. Soon our translation devices started working. “You are here to free us?” asked an elder beetle. “We heard explosions. Are we saved?”

“What is this?” I asked. “You command a prison ship?”

“These beetles are valuable cargo,” explained the captain. “They are tireless workers that will bring instant profit to any factory. They’re quite docile, too.”

“This is your only cargo?” asked Lieutenant Lopez, grabbing the captain by the neck. “I want treasure!”

“Isn’t this enough?” asked the ant captain. “They are worth a fortune.”

“If there is not more, I will kill you for free,” said Lieutenant Lopez.

“They are slaves?” I asked. “Not just laborers?”

“These beetles and their planet, Coleoptera, are the property of the Formicidaen Empire. They are the spoils of war.”

“There was no war,” said the beetle elder. “We don’t even have a military. The ants just invaded and took what they wanted. They take whatever is in their path. It’s what they do.”

“You deserve to be slaves,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “You gave up your freedom without a fight.”

“We are a peaceful species,” said the elder beetle. “There is no violence on Coleoptera. We don’t believe in war. War solves nothing.”

“Are you kidding?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “War has solved every problem there ever was: slavery, Nazis, Communists, spiders, megalomaniacs of all kinds ... Democrats. All those ills took wars to eliminate. And it will take a war to get rid of these ants.”

“We still have spiders,” corrected Private Williams.

“I’m going to hit him,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “I will kick him through the goal posts of life.”

“Who will join the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion in a war to free your planet and save the galaxy?” I called out. No beetles stepped forward.

“The beetles are not like you and I,” commented the ant captain. “They want to be ruled. They need our guidance. It’s their lot in life.”

“We will not join your war,” repeated the elder beetle.

“I only advocate war as a means of peace,” I said.

“I will fight,” said a young beetle, stepping forward. “Old School here doesn’t speak for me. Many of us would have fought, but we had no weapons. We weren’t organized like the ants. Arm us. We will kick ass.”

“What is your name?” I asked.

“We don’t have names,” said the young beetle. “A name will make you vain.”

“You are required to have a name if you join the Foreign Legion. It’s a rule,” I explained. “Your name will be Jackson. Action Jackson. Private Action Jackson. It kind of rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?”

“Thank you sir,” said Private Action Jackson. “I like my new name.”

“Anyone else?” I called out.

“Youth do not know any better,” said the elder beetle. “They are full of themselves. No one else will join your war.”

“Shut up, Old School,” I said. “You are full of shit! Anyone else?” About nine more beetles stepped forward.

“Ten out of two hundred?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “Your species disgusts me.”

“The rest of you will remain locked up,” I announced. “This ship is now a prize of the Shenandoah. It will be put on automatic pilot to rendezvous with a human ship in about thirty days. You will then be beamed to Earth.”

“What will become of us?” asked the elder beetle. “More slavery?”

“Slavery is outlawed on Earth,” I answered. “Be glad I’m not sending you to Mars. Military Intelligence will interrogate all of you for information about the ants and your home world. You will probably be put on TV for propaganda purposes. When you are no longer useful, I hope they chop you up and turn you into canned cat food.”

“Who will care for us while we are locked up during the voyage?” asked the elder beetle. “Who will feed us?”

“The ants,” I said.

“You would leave us to the mercy of the captain and his crew?” asked the beetle elder. “They will mistreat us.”

“You misunderstand,” I said. I drew my pistol and shot the ant captain in the head. “He will be your first meal. Enjoy.”

“You are the most barbarous species I have ever encountered,” said the beetle elder. “You are worse than the ants.”

“For the sake of the galaxy and the future of your species, you had better hope so,” I said.

“That was extreme,” commented Lieutenant Lopez, as we walked away. “Are you going loco?”

“To defeat your enemy, you have to become worse than your enemy,” I said. “Didn’t they teach you that in basic training?”

“No,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “You need counseling.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I just read that in the new and improved Wall Street Journal.” I headed back to the command deck. “Let’s liberate Coleoptera.”

“Yes sir, General,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “And make some money along the way.”

CHAPTER 26

In orbit around Coleoptera were three Formicidaen warships, a space station, and a large communications satellite. Shuttles were docking at the space station to unload cargo for transfer to freighters. I targeted all five with missiles. All were destroyed. Then I dropped a large nuke on the ants’ main surface spaceport, destroying most of their planetary air support. Smaller military targets were located and nuked at our leisure as we prepared a TV broadcast to the population below. On screen was Private Action Jackson, flanked by Private Washington and myself.

Action Jackson spoke to the camera as the planet watched. “My fellow Coleopterans. I am General Action Jackson speaking to you from orbit high above Coleoptera. Do not be alarmed by the nuclear flashes in the sky or by the falling debris from the Formicidaen ships. It is just the beginning of the end of the Formicidaen occupation of Coleoptera. No longer will the ants steal our citizens into slavery. On the ground the Formicidaen spaceport has been destroyed, along with their air force. Smaller military installations are being targeted as I speak.”

I raised my brows, mulling over Private Action Jackson’s self-promotion to general as he continued. “I have assumed full control of the government of Coleoptera. I order the apparatus of government to stop collaborating with the ants and to assist our population in revolt against the evil Empire of Formicidae. You may ask yourselves how is our salvation made possible after suffering for so long? I have better questions. How is it that our leaders did not resist the ant invasion in the first place? How is it that we were not prepared to defend ourselves? How dare they collaborate in our enslavement?

“To my right is General Joey R. Czerinski of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion. General Czerinski rescued me and my mates from a slave ship. General Czerinski shot the slave ship’s captain and fed the body to collaborators who would not join our historic struggle. Humans do not tolerate slavery. General Czerinski has nuked the ants’ home world and is currently raining down death and destruction upon the ants on our world. The United States Galactic Federation stands with us against the unjust and corrupt Formicidaen Empire.

“To my left is General George Rambo Washington of the Arthropodan Empire.” My eyebrows rose even higher at the mention of Washington’s surprise promotion to general, but Action Jackson didn’t miss a beat. “General Washington also pledges support for our cause. More help is on the way as we do battle against the ants together on several fronts. Our new allies are the fiercest warriors in the galaxy. But freedom will not be handed to you. The flower of freedom will only be kept alive by our own sacrifice and blood. Otherwise, we merely trade one master for another. Rise up in revolt. Give the ants no quarter. Arrest all collaborators. You will be supported from the air and space. Legion troops will be landing soon. Do not be alarmed by their presence. Humans are our allies. Stay tuned for further instructions and developments. Thank you and God bless our struggle.”

“That was quite a speech, General,” I said, after the camera went off. “I hope we can deliver on your promises.”

“I said what needed to be said to inspire confidence,” said General Action Jackson.

“A leader is a dealer in hope,” I commented. “You did good.”

“When will re-enforcements arrive?” asked General Action Jackson.

“I don’t know,” I said. “We are still working on the logistics of that. My plan for now is to survive today. I expect a Formicidaen fleet will arrive before ours. And, they will arrive in greater numbers.”

“First, cleanse your planet of ants,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “We will intercept the Formicidaen fleet. We have your back.”

“I don’t know how we can ever repay you,” said General Action Jackson. “We are in your debt.”

“If you survive nuclear devastation,” said Lieutenant Lopez, “paying us in gold bars and jewels would be nice. Also, I would like to negotiate an exclusive casino franchise on Coleoptera.”

* * * * *

One day later, a Formicidaen fleet of twenty warships beamed into Coleopteran space. Using our stealth technology, we circled behind the fleet and established video communications via a relay station with Prince Tok, Commander. Washington and Jackson shared the screen with me. “This is General Czerinski of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion, commanding the Tenth Fleet from aboard my flag ship Shenandoah. You are trespassing on United States Galactic Federation and Coleopteran space. You will halt immediately or risk destruction and war with the United States Galactic Federation and its allies.”

“Nonsense,” said Prince Tok. His radar officer located the relay station, but not the Shenandoah. “We are en route to put down a minor slave rebellion on Coleoptera. It is you who are trespassing in our space. It is you who risk destruction.”

“The United States Galactic Federation has signed a mutual defense pact with the sovereign planet of Coleoptera. If you take any action against Coleoptera, you will immediately be at war with the United States Galactic Federation. Are you authorized to take that step?”

“What is that sitting next to you?” asked Prince Tok. “A giant spider? It’s hideous.”

“I am General George Rambo Washington of the Anthropodan Empire. The Empire is allied with the humans. Beware, we have already killed your Prince Tak and destroyed his fleet when he trespassed into our space. You will be next if you do not withdraw.”

“I will not be intimidated by an oversized spider,” said Prince Tok. Lopez signaled that his ship was broadcasting the exchange live to the Formicidaen Fleet flagship on the frontier. “I sweep arachnids aside. You are a sub-species suitable only for factory work.”

“You are lower than whale shit,” responded General Washington.

“Whale shit? What is a whale?” asked Prince Tok, obviously stalling to wait for instructions.

“Something really low,” said General Washington, puffing up. “You have been grievously insulted.”

“How dare you interfere with an internal Formicidaen matter,” said Prince Tok. “You will pay for your insolence and for violating our territorial integrity.”

“Coleoptera is an independent planet,” said General Action Jackson. “It is you who violates our territorial integrity. You also violate interplanetary law.”

“A beetle who finally has some calcium in his exoskeleton?” said Prince Tok. “You and your species are nothing.”

“I hold thousands of ants hostage on Coleoptera,” said General Action Jackson. “I can kill them at any time, but I prefer an exchange. I demand the Empire return our citizens.”

“It is a dangerous game you play, beetle,” said Prince Tok. “Do you have any idea who you have allied yourself with? Do you know anything of humans?”

“I owe my life to the humans,” said General Action Jackson.

“When humans get bored, they commit genocide against themselves,” said Prince Tok. “There are humans who still live in the Stone Age, left behind while the elite conquer the stars. If humans have such a low regard for their own kind, what makes you think they will respect your species? Humanity is an abomination that thinks you are a tasty meal or something to be stepped on.”

“Shut up and contact you superiors for instructions,” I said, as I cut off communications.

We listened on Formicidaen frequencies for Prince Tok’s instructions from the main fleet on the frontier. “This is Supreme Commander Prince Tuk. I monitored your entire conversation. I will be beaming to your location to further assess the situation. Most of the fleet will be joining you soon.”

“Sir, it would be ill advised to beam in unescorted,” said Prince Tok. “We have yet to locate the human Tenth Fleet or their allies.”

“It is all a ruse,” said the Supreme Commander. “If the humans were in strength at Coleoptera, they would have attacked you already. Hold your position. We will attack with overwhelming force once we have developed more intelligence from your sector. I do not want to over-commit our fleet while the humans are still massing on the frontier.”

“I’m still concerned about your safety,” said Prince Tok.

“Not to worry. My command ship is a prototype equipped with new stealth technology,” boasted the Supreme Commander. “It’s one of only two manufactured. Soon we will have more. I will be at your location shortly. We will avenge the attack on our home world. Destiny is not a thing to be waited for. Destiny is to be taken.”

* * * * *

I was able to locate Prince Tuk’s command ship with our star light deflection technology because we knew the approximate place and time Tuk would be arriving. Our first missile killed the Prince and his command ship. More missiles killed more ships. I demanded Prince Tok surrender. He complied. Soon shuttles transported Coleopteran troops, pilots, and crews to seize the remaining starships.

“Why are my prize ships full of beetles?” fumed Lieutenant Lopez. “These ships are mine!”

“Possession dictates ownership,” answered General Action Jackson. “Coleoptera needs these ships because now is the time to strike a fatal blow to the ant home world. Surprise will bring us victory. We leave as soon as the nukes are loaded.”

“On whose authority do you take my ships anywhere?” asked Lieutenant Lopez. “You are not a real general. You enlisted as a private in the Foreign Legion. We put you on TV for propaganda purposes only. You are nothing unless I say so.”

“You are a guest of Coleoptera,” said General Action Jackson. “I will be lenient with you because I am in your debt. These ships belong to the Coleoptera Defense Force, and we will attack the ant home world now.”

“General Kalipetsis is on the radio,” interrupted Corporal Kool. “He sounds close.”

“General, where are you?” I asked.

“I have good news and bad news,” said General Kalipetsis. “The good news is I just beamed into orbit around Coleoptera on the T. Roosevelt. We are landing troops, supplies, and weapons to assist the beetles. Would you believe there are still ants down there fighting? The bad news is we are the only Legion ship available. The rest of the Fleet is at the frontier confronting the main Formicidaen fleet. We are blocking them from attacking Old Earth. Also, the Spider Governor of New Colorado wants that prototype ship returned. He is very upset. We do not want to return the prototype ship, so make yourself scarce.”

“Can you spare troops to crew the Formicidaen ships we captured?” I asked.

“I am keeping the captured ships,” advised General Action Jackson, as he cut off radio transmission. I had not noticed it before, but there were now a lot of Coleopteran troops on the Shenandoah with General Action Jackson. “We attack the ant home world now. The attack will be led by the Shenandoah. When our mission is completed, I will return your ship.”

* * * * *

The battle for Formicidae was quick and decisive. We beamed into orbit without incident. Planetary defenses assumed we were merely Prince Tok returning in triumph from the beetle slave revolt. The Shenandoah targeted Formicidaen ships and satellites. The Coleopteran Fleet dropped hundreds of nukes. Surprise was total, destruction complete.

Formicidae was bombed back into the Stone Age. Nuclear winter made the planet uninhabitable. The Empire ceased to exist. The few survivors reverted to roaming nomadic scavengers. The Formicidaen Fleet on the frontier surrendered to the USGF Fleet. Many ants accepted an offer to join the United States Galactic Foreign Legion. Those who refused were shuttled to concentration camps in the polar regions of Coleoptera, and never heard from again. Formicidaen colonies, gathering areas for the former Formicidaen Empire’s slave trade, quickly collapsed or were seized by Coleopteran troops.

General Action Jackson appointed himself President for life of the new Coleopteran Federation. I hid the Shenandoah underneath my new hotel casino in New Colorado’s DMZ. My detached metal hand is on display in the lobby. It’s become quite a tourist attraction in the grand tradition of the Legion. I wear a new advanced prostheses hand that looks and feels almost real. Lopez and I are partners running the casino hotel. We retired from the Legion, and we are rich. The only Evil Empire we do battle with now is Harrah’s Casino & Hotel Resort Corporation. It is a challenge. Corporate lawyers are almost as scary and hard to kill as giant ants, spiders, and beetles.

~COMING SOON~

Follow Joey Czerinski and his ragtag band of profiteering miscreants in their continuing adventures in America’s Galactic Foreign Legion – Book 2 is coming soon!

~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~

Walter Knight

Walter played football on Tucson High School’s last state championship team (1971). He served three years in the army, and the GI Bill paid for his college education, helping him earn degrees from Fort Steilacoom Community College, Central Washington State College, and the University of Puget Sound School of Law.

Walter lives a very quiet and private life, residing with his family and horses, dogs, cats, and fish atop a hill in rural Washington. Walt enjoys taking road trips to explore ghost towns and casinos.

To contact Walter Knight, please visit www.penumbrapublishing.com