The Ark Read online

  “There has been a terrible mistake!” cried the driver, thrashing about. “Yes, and you made it!” replied the Intelligentsia officer. “I have done nothing!” “Now you say you have done nothing?” asked the Intelligentsia officer, contemptuously. “You no longer brag now that justice has caught up with you? You pervert!”

  “I’m innocent! I am not a pervert!” “Do we still have a torture kit available?” asked the Intelligentsia officer. “I brought my own batteries this time.” “Our commander sold it as war surplus,” answered a team leader. “Corruption at the top sucks.” “That matter will be investigated,” promised the Intelligentsia officer, giving the human pestilence driver another kick. “It is a sad day when there is no torture kit available when you need one. We will make do with spikes and hot coals. Hot damn!”

  “No!” pleaded the driver.

  “Stop!” ordered Private Tonelli, pointing his assault rifle at the spiders. “Let them go!”

  “We have permission from your commander to take these perverts into custody, and to execute them,” explained the Intelligentsia officer. “Do not interfere with the administration of justice.”

  “There has been a change of plan,” advised Guido, advancing forward with other legionnaires. “We’ll do it for you. You don’t have jurisdiction.”

  A team leader whispered to the Intelligentsia officer, “It means less paperwork if the human pestilence do it, especially since we lost our torture kit. I heard you say so yourself.”

  “Good point,” replied the Intelligentsia officer. “Fine! It is about time Czerinski finally came to his senses about letting these perverts run loose. We have laws that deal with undesirables like this. So do you! The law is not to be messed with!”

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  Chapter 11

  Super Bowl Sunday had become a major event on both sides of the border. This year it was even bigger because the Super Bowl was played just before Ground Hog’s Day, a favorite holiday newly acquired from the human pestilence. After the game, spider marines would pour out into the desert with their shotguns, looking for prairie dogs to shoot. It was great sport, especially when driving drunk. The annual event was even beginning to take hold on the American side, though the prairie dogs were still on the Endangered Species Protection List, and fines were steep if caught.

  On the day of Super Bowl CCCLXIX, nearly two hundred spider marines lined up at Guido’s guard shack to make last minute wagers. Spider team leaders kept the long line orderly as Guido recorded the action.

  “I want to bet five hundred credits on America’s Team,” advised a spider marine private, counting out a month’s pay. “I’m going all in!”

  “You want to bet on Dallas?” asked Guido, incredulously. “Dallas didn’t even make it past the first round. Their quarterback choked as usual. It’s a Dallas tradition dating back hundreds of years.”

  “How could America’s team not make it to the Super Bowl?” asked the spider private. “Isn’t that unconstitutional? On Arthropoda, we would not allow that sort of thing to happen. Someone should be charged with choking their quarterback!”

  “I swear you spiders don’t know anything about football,” Guido said, laughing.

  “I know we’re having a party!” retorted the spider private, giving his buddies high fives claws. “We’ve got the pig in the ground and the beer on ice!”

  “That’s nice,” said Guido. “Who is playing?” asked the spider private, impatient about being embarrassed in front of his comrades. “Seattle is favored by seven and a half over Tennessee,” answered Guido. “I’ll bet on Tennessee,” replied the spider private, knowingly. “I heard Tennessee rocks! Go Vols!” “They’re the Titans,” advised Guido, recording the transaction on his pad. “The Titans rock, too!” shouted the spider private. “Go Rocky Top!” Spider marines began chanting, “Go Titans!” “Whatever,” mumbled Guido. “I’ll gladly take your money. Who knows, you might even get lucky.”

  * * * * *

  Mickey Romo placed a huge big-screen TV on the side of Harrah’s Hotel tower, facing the Arthropodan side. Spiders gathered across the border and along the shore to watch Super Bowl CCCLXIX. A few adventurous spiders floated on boats, ever mindful of the crocs watching and following. Occasionally a shot rang out when a croc got too close. Pilgrims even interrupted their Ark vigil to watch the Super Bowl. The net result was the biggest tailgate party in New Colorado Super Bowl history.

  RV’s lined up everywhere, and music rocked. The air smelled of barbeque and spices. Baby Back ribs, chicken hot wings, Doritos, coolers, and beer bongs complemented the party atmosphere. Border restrictions were relaxed so tourists and pilgrims could visit the casinos and camp in the parking lots and beaches.

  A banner was strung across Main Street entering the Arthropodan side that read, ‘Welcome Super Bowl tailgaters! Happy Ground Hog’s Day!’ A small sign posted under the banner warned, ‘Marijuana junkies and fiends will be summarily executed.’ A sign on the American side warned that the alcohol limit of .08 was strictly enforced, and that ‘Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.’

  Feeling festive, I dressed the part. For the first time in years, I put on my fancy dress uniform, complete with blue sash, white kepi, ceremonial sword, and lots of medals. I took a walk along the rows of tailgaters. They got a kick out of my getup.

  “Over here general!” shouted a reveler, as he turned meat on his grill. “I have polish sausages just for you!”

  I skewed a sausage with my sword and held it closer to the coals. “I like my sausages burned on the outside!” I replied. Everyone cheered.

  “That’s quite a pig sticker you’ve got there,” commented the cook. “Careful, you don’t want to ding it up.”

  “Using a saber to cook over a flame is a time-honored American military tradition,” I advised. “Check all the famous sabers in the Smithsonian. The real ones, the ones that actually saw combat, all have burn marks.” I held my sword and burned sausage high above my head and waved to the crowd. “The Legion will kick spider ass!” I shouted. The crowd cheered louder, pressing free beer and vodka on me and Lieutenant Perkins. We drank up.

  * * * * *

  Despite the ATM’s advice, I bet big on Seattle to beat the spread against Tennessee. Why? I never bet unless I have a hot tip. For the Super Bowl, I had a secret inside angle I hoped would pay off.

  Tennessee lost the coin flip, and Seattle got off to a good start by returning the opening kickoff for a touchdown. Outstanding! Everyone watching at Harrah’s cheered. A few spiders hissed.

  Tennessee came roaring back with a sustained drive to tie the score. It was a good game, back and forth, with Seattle finally pulling ahead 34-28. Tennessee gave up the ball on their own fifteen-yard line with forty-five seconds left and no timeouts. They were finished. All Seattle had to do was take a knee, and they’d win. Of course, that didn’t do me any good. My bet was that Seattle would beat a seven and a half point spread, and the six on the scoreboard didn’t cut it. Damn! I stood to lose millions. I kind of went all in.

  Fans massed on the sidelines, poised to rush out on to the field. In Caldera, spiders who had bet on Tennessee and took the points were already celebrating, firing off their automatic weapons and occasional RPGs.

  Seattle’s quarterback took a knee. Time ticked down to three seconds when Seattle coach Dan Daly, Jr. called timeout. Some fans rushed out onto the field anyway, but police mounted on horseback herded them back to the sidelines. Confusion reigned in the stands as the Seattle field goal unit trotted out on to the field. Seattle’s kicker, a soccer style kicker from Argentina, limbered up, going through his odd kicking style motions. The TV announcer railed against the Seattle coach for risking a sure victory, trying to pile on three more points.

  “There is absolutely no reason for the Seahawks to tack on three more points at the end of the game,” commented Phil Coen, of Channel Five World News Tonight Sports Center. “What are they thinking? It’s reckless and unsportsmanlike. It’s
just piling on.”

  “It’s Vegas baby!” replied Coen’s co-host, Brad Jacobs.

  The players lined up at the fifteen-yard line. The ball was snapped, the kick was up ... and the kick was good! Seattle won 37-28, beating the Las Vegas point spread! Seattle fans went wild. Someone poured beer over Coen.

  Reaction across the lake was immediate. A spider marine machine gun opened up on the big screen at Harrah’s, shattering windows and causing chaos among the crowd watching below. A legion helicopter gunship rocketed the spider machine gunner and his armored car. A SAM knocked the gunship out of the sky. Everyone took cover. I requested nukes, but was refused by those wimps at Headquarters. I settled for an artillery barrage. The spiders followed suit. A tank shell took out a big corner of Harrah’s.

  Johnny The Gut quickly hoisted a white surrender flag atop the Belle. Romo quickly did the same at Harrah’s. As the sun set, a tense truce followed. An occasional bullet pinged off the side of Harrah’s façade. Power was cut. The only light was from the bonfires on the beach lit by tailgaters who refused to let a small war ruin a good party. By midnight, all was forgotten, and both sides were drunk in grand Super Bowl tradition. By morning, the only sound of gunfire was from hung-over spiders sneaking up on prairie dogs to celebrate Ground Hog’s Day.

  * * * * *

  “I want a rematch!” fumed the spider commander. “That game was fixed!” “Sorry,” I said. “They don’t do rematches for the Super Bowl. You have to wait until next year.” “But I lost money on that game,” complained the spider commander. “I want my money back!” “It’s not my fault you spiders don’t know anything about football,” I explained. “You can’t just take back a legal wager. You lost. Get used to it!”

  “I know enough about football to know I got screwed by that Seattle coach,” complained the spider commander. “Is Coach Daly any relation to General Daly? It’s all becoming real clear what happened now!”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “The Super Bowl can’t be fixed all the way from New Colorado. Face it. You spiders can’t play football, you don’t know anything about football, and you surely do not know how to bet on football. Get over it!”

  “My marines have a football team that can beat anything you legionnaires could ever muster any day of the week,” advised the spider commander. “Do not tell me I don’t know my football. I played football, back in the day. I once ran for four touchdowns in one game.”

  “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” “The game wouldn’t even be close,” boasted the spider commander. “Spiders play football?” I scoffed. “You? Beat the Legion in football? Not likely!” “Play us,” challenged the spider commander. “If you dare.” “You might bring in ringers from off-planet,” I accused, thinking I should do the same thing. “You would cheat.” “We can exchange personnel rosters to keep the players strictly local,” suggested the spider commander. “I’ll give you one month to form a team. What are you afraid of?”

  “You’re on!” I said. “Care to put money on the game?”

  “Of course!” answered the spider commander. “But, I’ll have to get a loan. Everyone is short of cash until next payday.”

  “That reminds me. Who is going to pay for that huge chunk of Harrah’s tower that’s missing?” I asked. “And what about my helicopter gunship? Do you have any idea how expensive those things are? Gunships don’t just grow on trees! I don’t care what General Lopez says, it’s not coming out of my paycheck!”

  “Were any legionnaires killed in that crash?” asked the spider commander, remembering vividly his own near-death experience. “That was a bad crash.”

  “No,” I replied, somberly. “There were injuries but, by some miracle, the crew survived. Otherwise we would still be at war! Thank you for asking, though. I think a few tourists at Harrah’s are still missing.”

  “As are a few boaters,” added the spider commander, visibly shuddering at the thought of being eaten by crocs. “That’s what they get for ignoring the croc warning signs,” I advised. “Your side fired first!” “Your side cheated first!” “Cheating is legal. Shooting at a hotel across the border is not!” I argued, noticing the spider commander’s duct taped injury. “What happened to your head? Do you want me to call a medic?”

  “No medics! Enough of medics!” “Did one of our rockets do that?” I asked, hoping to get some satisfaction. “None of your business!” snapped the spider commander. “All I did was bump my head. I’ll be okay when the pain stops.” “Next time wear a helmet.” “Good advice around you human pestilence, but there won’t be a next time!”

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  Chapter 12

  Centuries ago the ‘Ark’ crashed at the base of a volcano on an uninhabitable planet, later to be terra-formed and named New Colorado. The fate of the alien crew was sealed when a tremor-caused rock slide buried the huge starship before repairs could be completed. Eventually the engines were fixed, but the Ark was hopelessly trapped and lost under a mountain of ash sediment.

  The alien spacers committed suicide rather than face slow death underground. Eerily, their large grasshopper-like exoskeletons still remained upright at their work stations. The macabre crew had the appearance of ghosts dutifully running a haunted ship of the damned.

  Although the crew of ‘hoppers’ was dead, life was not completely extinguished. Their eggs, dry and dormant over the centuries, remained, waiting to be called to life. Finally the signal came. It was time. Vibrations in the ground activated the hatching sequence. Like fleas hatching to the vibrations of passing foot steps, the hopper eggs came to life as the tunnelers approached.

  The babies hatched. Completely self sufficient, they were the exact miniature copies of adults. The young scurried and hopped about the ship, looking for ‘mommy’ and food. First they ate their egg shells. Then they found the exoskeleton crew, and ate them. The hoppers broke into food stores and lockers, and gorged themselves on ship supplies their parents left for the hatchlings. Sensing movement and activity, the ship’s computer activated life support systems. Machines came to life to tend the babies.

  “Rescuers are coming soon,” the babies were informed. “You must be patient, and prepare.” The starship hummed with life as more systems came online. The emergency beacon intensified its broadcast.

  * * * * *

  “A football game?” asked General Lopez on the phone. “The prize is the Ark! Focus, man! Get your priorities straight.” “The spider commander challenged us,” I explained. “What else could I do? Besides, we can make a lot of money off this game.” “How much?” “The game is scheduled for right after payday. We will clean the spiders out. They can’t play football. The very idea is ridiculous.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” warned General Lopez. “The CIA says the spiders now have a pro league on Arthropoda. Nike even gave those bugs football uniforms and equipment in exchange for TV advertisement rights.”

  “Maybe we should sneak in a few pro players of our own,” I suggested. “Why take chances with our money when we can bring in ringers.”

  “Good idea!” exclaimed General Lopez. “I’ll authorize the beam transport of players, and see who I can recruit from Old Earth. Now, what about the Ark? That’s still our main priority.”

  “The distress beacon has increased power,” I advised. “We can hear the starship hum. It’s as if the ship came to life. And, it’s transmitting messages. Our translation devices are trying to interpret.”

  “Keep trying,” advised General Lopez. “Good work. I am returning to New Colorado to see for myself. This could be the greatest history-changing discovery since Columbus discovered America, and I want to be there when it happens. I’m bringing the press corps with me. Make reservations at Harrah’s.”

  “Yes, sir.” “Did I ever tell you I played football back in the day?” asked General Lopez. “I was a star.” “No, sir. I knew you were a baseball player, a pitcher.” “That too. I’m going to quarterback our team. It’s going to be a glorious media event.
First, I will guide the Legion to a historic football victory over the spiders. Then, I will lead the Legion to seize the Ark. The best part is, it will all be broadcast on TV and the Intergalactic Database!”

  * * * * *

  Legion engineers bulldozed a football field, and built a stadium of bleachers. General Lopez arrived with five pro NFL players who had failed to pay their income taxes. They were playing in exchange for getting the IRS off their backs. The media converged on Caldera City, giving the game as much coverage as the Super Bowl. After all, the football pride of humanity was at stake. News anchorperson Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight interviewed me on Media Day for the big game.

  “Colonel Czerinski, don’t you find it a bit incongruous than a mere month ago the Legion and the spiders were shooting at each other on this very spot over the controversial Super Bowl victory by Seattle, and now you are playing football against the spiders like nothing happened? Given that history, aren’t you tempting fate with this so-called Rematch Bowl?”

  “Not at all,” I answered. “Sport brings differing cultures together. Look at what soccer did for world sports.” “No one likes soccer,” replied Coen, dismissively. “Soccer causes riots and hooliganism.” “I’m just doing my part to further world peace.” “Your reputation suggests otherwise. Do you still feel any animosity toward the spiders?” “I feel only the bonding that comes with good sportsmanship,” I answered. “What do you think the outcome of the game will be?” asked Coen. “Do the spiders have game? Can they bring it?” “We will kick their exoskeleton ass,” I replied, confidently. “It won’t even be close.” “Are you prepared to back that up with more than just trash talk?” asked Coen. “Do you have any money riding on the game?” “I always have money riding on big games,” I said. “This game will be no exception. We all will be placing big bets if the spiders dare to cover our action.”