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  “Sir, you do not have any appointments this afternoon,” advised the Military Intelligence officer.

  “Do not argue with me,” snapped the spider commander. “I have lots of appointments. Find out when they are, and cancel them immediately!”

  “Yes, sir!” replied the Military Intelligence officer.

  “Why is good help so hard to find?” asked the spider commander, looking up, but not expecting an answer. “Greetings, Medic Ceausescu. How may I help you?”

  “Good morning, sir,” replied Corporal Ceausescu. “I brought a copy of the Croc Protection Act for you to read.”

  “I always wanted one of those,” advised the spider commander. “Thank you very much, Elena. We do not need to be so formal, do we? You are not required to call me ‘sir.’ Supreme District Commander works just fine.”

  “Very well, Supreme District Commander,” replied Corporal Ceausescu. “Do you think my butt is fat?”

  For a moment the Supreme District Commander was speechless. Then he abruptly turned on the Military Intelligence officer. “What are you still doing here? Get out!”

  The Military Intelligence officer scurried out as fast as possible, slamming the door behind. The spider commander carefully examined Corporal Ceausescu butt, mindful this could be a trick question. Females of all species were devious that way.

  “I suppose you human pestilence females have evolved big butts as a survival technique to retain water while traveling through the desert. Am I close?”

  “How dare you!” Corporal Ceausescu shouted. Furious, she grabbed a toy model armored car displayed on the spider commander’s desk, and flung it at him. The toy bounced harmlessly off the spider commander’s exoskeleton, shattering to the floor.

  “I apologize if I said something offensive,” advised the spider commander. “All I meant to express was that obviously you are well prepared for drought, and selflessly carry a lot of stored water for you and your family and may others. Your attention to detail and duty is admirable, and I have nothing but respect for you as a soldier, as a water carrier, and as a human pestilence female.”

  “Show me that little trick again with your vibrating claw,” relented Corporal Ceausescu, laughing. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

  “Yes, my dear Elena of the Desert Oasis, Bringer of Sweet Water, Nectar of the Desert,” replied the spider commander, as he wrapped his three arms and one claw around her butt. He whirled Ceausescu about and placed her onto his desk. “We have all afternoon for you to learn all my little tricks, my sweet human pestilence hottie.”

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  Chapter 5

  General Lopez’s shuttle landed at the air strip next to the Mafia’s black shuttle. I personally greeted General Lopez to prevent him from being accosted by Teamsters pickets. Teamsters were chanting loudly, carrying rude signs reading, ‘Czerinski sucks’ and ‘Joey The Toe is a Grinch.’ The ingrates, I thought. I gave those fools Christmas off, but they still weren’t happy.

  “Why are Teamsters picketing you?” General Lopez demanded.

  “We’re behind schedule on digging, especially since the spider attack,” I explained, as I drove us back to my new command tent. The Teamsters ran behind us shouting. I drove faster. “So, I cancelled all days off, including weekends, holidays, and the upcoming pronghorn deer hunting season.”

  “If they don’t want to work, get rid of them,” ordered General Lopez. “It should be simple enough to use Legion engineers to dig the tunnel.”

  “The buried alien starship is too deep. Our engineers don’t have the expertise to dig that deep.”

  “Then bring in workers who will work!” demanded General Lopez. “The spiders aren’t having labor problems. They must not steal my prize! Do what ever it takes.”

  “Are you suggesting I use scab labor?” I asked, incredulous. “That would cause a riot.”

  “If work does not resume on my tunnel this minute, I will shoot someone for treason! My second star depends on getting to the alien ship first!”

  “Yes, sir!” “Who belongs to that black shuttle?” asked General Lopez, looking back as we walked into my new command tent. “Businessmen from New Memphis,” I answered. “They’re building a casino at the far end of Caldera Lake.” “You let the Mafia land?” asked General Lopez. “You should know better than that. Your negligence allowed the spiders to destroy our tunnel. Obviously the spiders know why we are here, and that’s your fault, too. I am personally taking command of this cluster.”

  “Good,” I replied. “Does that mean I can go home, back to New Gobi City?”

  “No! You don’t get off so easy. Why are casinos being built while work on my tunnel languishes?”

  “That’s prime beachfront property out there,” I said. “Developers are flocking to a real estate boom. You should try the swimming. The beauty of Caldera Lake is a natural for luxury resorts.”

  “It’s a croc-infested mud hole!” shouted General Lopez. “Oasis, sir,” I corrected. Corporal Ceausescu interrupted, bursting in to my command tend to confront Master Sergeant Green. “I am upgrading!” she announced. “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Sergeant Green. “You and I are splitting up,” Corporal Ceausescu explained. “I found someone who appreciates my fat butt!” “I appreciate your fat butt,” replied Sergeant Green, trying to be reasonable. Corporal Ceausescu lost her temper, shoving Sergeant Green with both hands. “Go to Hell!” “Fine!” retorted Sergeant Green. “I was getting tired of your bubble butt, anyway. Who are you seeing? Some dirty, dusty, lazy unemployed miner? I’ll kill him!”

  “I found myself a general, I’ll have you know,” bragged Corporal Ceausescu, hoping to needle Green. “He’s an officer and a gentleman, unlike you!”

  “You’re screwing General Lopez?” asked Sergeant Green, giving the general a hard, angry stare. “But you hate Lopez. You always have!”

  “I wouldn’t touch your puta with Czerinski’s dick,” advised General Lopez, clearly upset. “It’s all wishful thinking on your bitch’s part.”

  Corporal Ceausescu removed her helmet and struck General Lopez above his left eye. The blow knocked Lopez out cold.

  “I told you never call me that again, you pig!” shouted Corporal Ceausescu, gloating over her handiwork. “Want some more?”

  “I think you killed him,” I interrupted, shoving Ceausescu away. I checked for a pulse, not finding one. Lopez wasn’t breathing, either. “He needs CPR. Someone call a medic!”

  “Elena is our only medic,” advised Sergeant Green. “Elena, save that nasty fool.”

  “Not in a million years!”

  “But he needs immediate first aid,” I insisted. “Someone needs to stop the bleeding, or do CPR – whatever! I’m certainly not doing it.”

  Corporal Ceausescu lunged past Sergeant Green, kicking General Lopez in the ribs. General Lopez let out a long groan, going into convulsions.

  “See, he’s still alive!” yelled Corporal Ceausescu, trying to kick Lopez again. I shoved her back. “He won’t be much longer, with first aid like that!” I replied. “Back off!” “Why should I?” asked Corporal Ceausescu, attempting still another kick. “Master Sergeant Green, place Corporal Ceausescu under arrest for assault!” I ordered. “Shit!” exclaimed Sergeant Green. “You must be out of your fucking mind, sir.” “Yeah!” said Corporal Ceausescu. “Bring it on Tyrone! Go ahead and try to arrest me! Show us you have some balls! I’ve got a news flash. You don’t!”

  “I want to know who your new boyfriend is,” demanded Sergeant Green. “You’ve been cheating on me? What was that about a general, if it’s not that scumbag Lopez?”

  “That’s none of your business!” replied Corporal Ceausescu, storming out of the tent. Sergeant followed close behind, demanding an answer. “It is my business! Elena, I still love you!” “Oh isn’t that just precious!” she sneered. “Hey!” I shouted. “What about Lopez? He’s still alive and needs first aid! Come back here! That’s an order!” Ceausescu gave me the one-f
ingered salute and kept going. One of the pickets, Alfredo The Knife, poked his head inside my tent. “Did you just whack General Lopez?” asked Al The Knife. “Maybe now we can negotiate in good faith.” “Give me a hand,” I ordered. “We need to carry the general to Guido’s guard shack and call spider medics to fix him!” “So, you did whack Lopez?” asked Al The Knife. “That’s pretty gutsy of you.” “I’ll whack you, too, if you don’t get in here and help me!” I threatened. “Sorry, but I cannot cross a picket line,” explained Al The Knife. “The Teamsters hired us for extra muscle during their labor negotiations. I’m supposed to set a good example for the rank and file.”

  “You’re an example of an idiot who I’m going to shoot in a minute!” I said. “Is Jimmy The Neck out there? Get Jimmy The Neck in here!”

  “Sorry, Jimmy can’t cross picket lines, either.”

  “Now!”

  A moment later, Jimmy The Neck peered inside the command tent. “Damn! You’re right, Al!” exclaimed Jimmy The Neck, with newfound respect. “Joey The Toe did whack Lopez.”

  “If you don’t help me get General Lopez to the border checkpoint, I will whack you, too!” I shouted.

  “If you want help disposing of the body,” replied Jimmy The Neck, “I can think of better places than Guido’s shack to hide it. Why don’t you just throw Lopez in the lake and let the crocs eat him? Bada-boom! No more body for the cops to find!”

  “Lopez is still alive!” I advised. “I need help. He’s too heavy.”

  “It makes no difference,” advised Jimmy The Neck. “Didn’t Al tell you? I can’t cross this picket line until the Teamsters’ unfair labor complaints are resolved. It’s the law.”

  “Fine!” I relented. “Your Teamsters can have weekends and holidays off.” “What about deer hunting season?” “No! Duck season is all I can do. Take it or leave it!” Jimmy The Neck consulted by phone with the Teamsters’ business agent in New Memphis. “You’re a hard negotiator, but you have a deal. This labor dispute is officially resolved!”

  * * * * *

  Jimmy The Neck and Alfredo The Knife helped me carry General Lopez to the border crossing. We set Lopez down on soft sand by the spiders’ guard shack.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Jimmy The Neck. “It’s still not too late to dump Lopez in the lake.”

  “Leave!” I ordered. “Get out of here!” Jimmy and Tony left, heading triumphantly to the Teamsters Hall to announce their victory over the bosses, and to make sure everyone knew the Teamsters owed them big time.

  “That human pestilence is trespassing,” advised a spider team leader, coming out of his guard shack. “And his blood is causing a foul mess. Don’t you know that’s how disease is spread?”

  “General Lopez needs immediate medical attention,” I advised. “Call your doctor and medics, or he will die. Do you want to be responsible for a Legion general’s death?”

  “I have some magic duct tape,” offered the spider team leader, alarmed. He handed me a roll. “It might stop the bleeding!”

  “Good idea,” I said. I used a dirty sock I found by the curb for a direct pressure compress, taping it to Lopez’s forehead.

  “You shouldn’t use that sock,” commented Guido, crossing over from his guard shack nearby. “I know where it came from. It’s nasty.”

  “Why is the human pestilence twitching like that?” asked the spider team leader. “Is he having breathing problems?” “I think General Lopez is going into shock,” I explained. “I think it’s the smell from that dirty sock,” added Guido. “Want me to spray it with disinfectant?” “Did you call your doctor?” I asked the spider team leader. “We need an ambulance!” “Sorry,” said the spider team leader, rushing back to the guard shack. “I forgot! Where is your Legion medic – you know, our commander’s girlfriend?”

  “Huh? What do you mean, girlfriend?” I demanded, momentarily startled. As I looked down at Lopez, I snarled, “It’s Elena’s day off. She went fishing. Tell your medics to hurry. General Lopez is fading fast!”

  I could hear a siren getting louder. Soon, an Arthropodan ambulance arrived, and medics immediately put more magic duct tape on Lopez’s head. I pointed out the possible rib injuries, and medics wrapped his torso in magic duct tape, too.

  “He’s fixed,” announced the spider medic team leader. “Give him two OxyContin, and he’ll be okay when the pain stops.” “General Lopez is not okay,” I advised. “He needs a doctor!” “Who here is medically trained?” asked the spider medic. “Me or you? This human pestilence will be fine.” I drew my pistol and pointed it at the spider medic. “General Lopez is going into shock. Get him to your doctor!” The spider medic examined General Lopez again, closer. Lopez was still twitching and gurgling, with saliva and blood bubbles draining from the side of his mouth.

  “Are you are saying that these spastic movements are not normal human pestilence trauma symptoms?” “No!” I replied, cocking my pistol. “Then there is a possibility your officer is in shock,” advised the spider medic. “You think?” I asked. It took all the restraint I had not to shoot the spider medic. Fools like that should not be allowed to pollute the gene pool, even among spiders. “He needs a doctor.”

  Other medics started an IV drip. The spiders loaded General Lopez into the ambulance and raced off, code-three. That was the last I saw of General Lopez for a while.

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  Chapter 6

  Slowly, General Lopez recovered from his concussion and injuries. The United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion made repeated demands for his release. At first, the spider commander denied still holding General Lopez locally. Then, the spider commander promised the general’s release was imminent. Still stalling, the spider commander contacted ISSS, the Intelligentsia State Security Service, so that Lopez could be properly interrogated.

  “General Lopez is a USGF Foreign Legion Military Intelligence officer attached to the human pestilence General Staff on Old Earth,” explained the spider commander. “He knows why the Legion is digging here at Caldera Lake. Send an interrogator here at once!”

  “I am truly sorry, but all of our torturers are either busy or away on vacation during the holidays,” advised a perfunctory at Intelligentsia Headquarters. “We are completely booked up for the weekend.”

  “Torturers get days off?” asked the spider commander, incredulously. “When did that start?” “Even our torturers have families,” replied the Intelligentsia officer. “Did you not get the memo?” “What memo?” asked the spider commander. “This is ridiculous!” “If you need an Intelligentsia interrogator to torture information out of any suspect, deviant, criminal, or political malcontent, or even for general purposes, you are required to submit your request seven days in advance on DD Form 24-1208, with the proper priority code number.”

  “But this is a matter of immediate intergalactic security!” insisted the spider commander. “Surely an exception can be made.”

  “Everyone thinks their interrogation is important,” advised the Intelligentsia officer. “But, we can make exceptions by phone, and review your case if the matter is truly an emergency.”

  “The Legion is digging tunnels at Caldera Lake!” advised the spider commander. “My marines are digging, too, in an effort to get there first. We need more intel. We must find out what the Legion is after. General Lopez knows that information, but he is not talking.”

  “How long has all this digging been going on?” asked the Intelligentsia officer in a skeptical tone.

  “About three months,” answered the spider commander. “We blew up the Legion’s tunnel, and the Teamsters went on strike, but they are back to digging.”

  “Is this a crank call?” asked the Intelligentsia officer. “The ISSS has no sense of humor about crank calls. In fact, unauthorized humor will be dealt with harshly. We just issued a memo about your type.”

  “How would you like those memos shoved up your poop chute?” threatened the spider commander. “How is that for
unauthorized humor?”

  “How would you like a knock at your door in the middle of the night?” threatened the Intelligentsia officer. “We still do that, you know. I know where you live. The ISSS is not really the kinder and gentler agency the Emperor talks about on TV to the media.”

  “Knock on my door?” ranted the spider commander. “Let me tell you about my door! The Legion stole my brand new geodesic dome and dragged it – with me inside – across the border, using my favorite armored car, which they also stole!”

  “Obviously you are unstable,” accused the Intelligentsia officer. “I have serious doubts about you really being a commander. Who did you say you are, again?”

  “I am the Supreme Commander on special assignment for the Caldera Lake Military District! I demand a torturer be sent here immediately to extract vital military and strategic information from human pestilence legionnaire, General Lopez!”

  “Sir, if you and the Legion have been tunneling for three months, I doubt there is any valid emergency that would justify canceling our torturers’ vacations. Our torturers get very testy about that. Believe me, you don’t want to piss off a company of highly trained torturers during the holidays.”

  “I’ll have you shot if I do not get satisfaction!” advised the spider commander. “I’ll shoot you myself!”

  “I see you have anger-management problems, too,” replied the Intelligentsia. “I’m putting a note in your Intelligentsia Comments File for you to receive counseling and political re-education.”

  “There’s no such file!” replied the spider commander. “Wait until I get a hold of your file! It will read ‘incompetent traitor scheduled for execution’!”

  “Sir, please do not think I have no sympathy for your plight,” advised the Intelligentsia, reasonably. “I’ll tell you what. I have one Intelligentsia cadet I can send you. We’re not using him because he got held back from the last graduating torture class, but whatever he lacks in the classroom, he makes up with enthusiasm. The kid is a real go-getter, even if he does have issues. We’re all dealing with issues during the holidays. Right?”