America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits Read online

  “Salvage your wrecked shuttle and leave now.”

  “This is just one big misunderstanding. Have you attended your mandatory cultural diversity class required by treaty of all DMZ military commanders?”

  “That stupid class is on my to-do list,” answered the spider commander contritely. “I already know you human pestilence are compulsive liars. You even lie about lying about your lies.”

  “If you had taken your cultural diversity class, you would know digging reduces human stress. Digging is an ingrained human nesting instinct. You're lucky we don't have more female legionnaires. This place would be like Swiss cheese.”

  “Liar!”

  “The right to dig is the law, guaranteed somewhere in the Constitution, something you also don't know anything about because you skipped class. I'm going to snitch you off.”

  “What is he doing?” asked the spider commander, confronting Major Lopez scanning with a rad meter. “What are you looking for? What is that instrument?”

  “It's technical,” I answered. “Even Major Lopez doesn't know what he's doing. That's why I have an XO, to delegate checking stuff I don't want to check when I don't know what I'm doing.”

  “Do you ever tell the truth?”

  “Not often. Major Lopez, please stop checking stuff. You're upsetting the aliens. They're twitchy enough about our being here as it is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where's medic Ceausescu? Make sure she's not digging a nest somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I've heard of your medic Ceausescu,” said the spider commander. “Her drapes don't match her carpet.”

  “I'm not going there,” I replied. “I see you didn't take that class, either.”

  “No, sir,” agreed Major Lopez.

  “Good idea,” added Sergeant Green knowingly.

  “When will the shuttle be ready for tow?” I asked.

  “At least a day,” answered Major Lopez. “Not until tomorrow, maybe longer. We might even need to build a road. For that we'll need more equipment.”

  “Unacceptable!” shouted the spider commander, about to blow a gasket. “You are stalling.”

  “On the plus side, we don't have to file an environmental impact statement, this being the Empire,” advised Major Lopez. “At least not until we get closer to the border.”

  “There will be no road building!”

  “General Kalipetsis will contact your regional commander about your lack of cooperation,” I bristled. “He will file an official complaint about your blatant obstruction of justice.”

  “I am the regional commander, and I do not care about your obstruction of justice.”

  “Then General Kalipetsis will complain to someone else more regional than you. You're in big trouble, mister.”

  “I don't know what you are up to, Czerinski, but if you steal as much as one rock from the Empire, it will be war.”

  “We are missing a legionnaire,” I finally confessed. “Private Harold Crack. We leave no legionnaire behind. I'm not leaving until I've hunted down Cactus-Claw and got my legionnaire back.”

  * * * * *

  “Why are the human pestilence digging holes?” asked Little-Claw, spying on the crash site activity through binoculars from a nearby hill. “Where's a cop when you need one. Human pestilence aren't allowed to dig holes in the Empire.”

  “Maybe they think we're stupid enough to bury the ransom money next to the shuttle,” reasoned Cactus-Claw. “Or, maybe it's something else.” He eyed a Legion monitor dragon pulling at its leash, its tongue darting in and out sniffing the breeze. “Time to go. We'll be back to dig our own holes, and find whatever treasure the human pestilence Legion is really looking for.”

  Chapter 10

  Cactus-Claw led his small gang of ten east through narrow slot canyons. A perfect place for an ambush, but the caves offered excellent concealment from surveillance satellites and drones. Cactus-Claw noticed movement along boulders above. He signaled for his gang to take cover.

  “Surrender!” ordered the spider commander. “Drop your weapons and come out!”

  Cactus-Claw stood in the middle of a sand bar looking up. “I have something you want, more valuable than money or cash.”

  “You have nothing I want. I warned you not to return the the Empire.”

  “I have a ghost in a jar,” said Cactus-Claw, holding up a mayonnaise jar full of Harold Crack for all to see. “It glows in the dark when you shake him, better than fire flies.”

  The spider commander climbed down for a better look. He reached for the jar, but Cactus-Claw pulled back. This wasn't his first other rodeo.

  “Colonel Czerinski claims your ghost is a legionnaire,” commented the spider commander. “Now his lies all make sense. He seeks to not share a strategic weapon, in violation of treaty. Give it to me!”

  “I'll smash the jar against the rocks unless I receive amnesty for all crimes, past, present, and future.”

  “Your future is not set, but I am authorized to grant amnesty for your current transgressions.”

  Cactus-Claw reluctantly tossed Harold Crack to the spider commander. The spider commander shook the jar. Sure enough, the agitated human pestilence ghost glowed in the dark better than fireflies. “Can you hear me, legionnaire?” asked the spider commander.

  “Cactus-Claw has my gold teeth,” whined Harold Crack. “So does Czerinski!”

  “Return the teeth,” ordered the spider commander, glaring mad dog with all eight eyes. “Looting the dead is a war crime, and a punk thing to do.”

  Cactus-Claw grudgingly gave up a small pouch of gold teeth. “I am no punk. Can I go now?”

  “The casino heist money, too.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Crime doesn't pay. I'm doing you a favor. Money can't buy happiness.”

  “Maybe not, but it can buy me a boat.”

  “This is the desert. No boat for you!”

  Cactus-Claw handed over a Legion duffle along with his dreams of aquatic adventure. “They call me a bandit. I'm chump change compared to what the feds steal on both sides of the border. You would leave us to starve?”

  “Get a job if you don't like being broke. I suggest you run. If the Legion finds you, this conversation never happened.”

  “What happens to me?” asked Harold Crack. “It's a war crime to be abducted by aliens during peacetime. There will be an accounting. You will pay.”

  “Shut up, ghost. Do you want the rest of your teeth back? If so, you will help fight Czerinski. You will drive those rats back across the border. Yes, I know what you did with those rats from the Legion dungeon. I will get revenge for that.”

  “I didn't have a choice,” explained Harold Crack. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “You don't have a choice now. Why is Czerinski digging holes in the Empire's ground?”

  “Why does a monitor dragon lick its butt? Because he can.”

  Breaking down Harold Crack's street cred bravado, the spider commander shook the jar violently. An expert interrogator, the spider commander tolerated no nonsense from human pestilence thugs, dead or alive.

  “Okay!” relented Harold Crack under increasing torture. “I'll ask around the spirit world, and get back to you.”

  “There's more of you ghosts?” asked the spider commander, alarmed it was becoming increasing difficult to kill human pestilence. Back in the day, death was forever.

  “You ghosts?” asked Harold Crack, put off by such blatant prejudice and insensitivity. “We don't use the G-word.”

  “Answer ghost!” ordered the spider commander, shaking the jar like a margarita shaker.

  “Stop that! Most spirits are benign, but yes, they are everywhere. If I find out about Czerinski, you will release me?”

  “You legionnaires are in for the duration. I'll return your gold teeth. That's the best I can do.”

  * * * * *

  Cactus-Claw continued east in the vast maze of slot canyons. Thunder clouds
on the horizon threatened flash floods, but Cactus-Claw was not deterred. Leading his gang was the rock he pushed. It couldn't get worse, could it? Well, yes.

  The slot canyons were uphill, both ways. Scorpion bandits emerged from the sand, pointing automatic weapons. Broke, unarmed, and hungry, Cactus-Claw sank to his knees, giving up without a fight. It got worse.

  “Winner winner, spider dinner,” exclaimed Crazy-Sting, leader of the scorpion pack. “Where's the casino money?”

  “The Arthropodan commander stole my money,” lamented Cactus-Claw. “Can you believe it?”

  “The military industrial complex sucks money like a vacuum cleaner,” answered Crazy-Sting. “Trying to make an honest living as a criminal has been tough ever since they legalized drug dealing. We've been reduced to eating rats. Fortunately, there's been lots of rats lately. Got anything of value on you?”

  “Just information. That's valuable. The human pestilence Legion is digging lots of holes in the valley.”

  “That's something.”

  “Enough to save our lives? Can't we all just get along?”

  “Spiders and scorpions are natural enemies,” explained Crazy-Sting remorsefully. “I need more than holes in the ground.”

  “I sold a ghost-in-a-jar to the Arthropodan commander,” offered Cactus-Claw, handing Crazy-Sting images from his communications pad. “The Legion will want its ghost back.”

  “Are there many ghosts-in-a-jar?”

  “Don't know, don't care. I got mine from Colonel Czerinski. Maybe that's why the Legion is digging holes. Maybe there's treasure in the ground. Together we can find out. If it's gold, I'll file a mining claim and split with you fifty-fifty.”

  “It's not gold,” commented Crazy-Sting. “Half of nothing is still nothing, but you have a deal. File that claim. We'll be partners in dirt. All the galaxy's creatures should own dirt before they die, if for nothing else than to have a place to be buried. You don't want to live forever, do you?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Now I remember you,” exclaimed Crazy-Sting. “You were featured on America's Most Wanted. You're that spider who steals human teeth. I like your work, bro, but don't you know humans hold a grudge forever?”

  “Tell me about it. I'm both hunted and haunted.”

  “Can you get me on TV, too. My mom would love it.”

  “Sure. Have your agent contact my agent. If we team up, he can get us ratings on both satellite and cable.”

  Chapter 11

  The bandits followed wild donkey and camel trails further into the foothills, finally reaching an abandoned prospector's shack. The stone structure provided much welcomed relief from the increasing cold of winter. Spiders and scorpions huddled for warmth in their respective corners.

  A Legion drone hovering overhead sent instant images as Legion armor and Arthropodan marines approached the shack. A shot rang out as a scorpion guard sounded the alarm. The bandits first instinct was to flee, but they were quickly surrounded. Scorpions tried to burrow through the rocky ground, but to no avail. The end was at hand (claw).

  “Surrender or die!” I ordered on a loudspeaker. “Throw down your weapons and come out with your claws up!”

  “I'm not surrendering to spiders,” said Crazy-Sting, peering out a window at our combined human and spider troops. “They'll kill us anyway. Might as well fight it out trying to escape when it gets dark.”

  “I got this,” replied Cactus-Claw, waving a white flag out the doorway. “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “Don't need one!” shouted the spider commander, irritated that jailhouse lawyers are everywhere.

  “That's not what it says at Legal-zoom.com,” responded Cactus-Claw, checking Galactic Database resources on his communications pad. “Do the words habius corpus mean anything to you? Back off or I'll sue!”

  “We're in hot pursuit of casino robbery suspects!” I added confidently, having gone down this route before. It's a slippery slope. “Come out. Do it now!”

  “Just as I thought!” replied Cactus-Claw. “You're all bluster. You have no warrant, only the word of the human pestilence Foreign Legion!”

  “We should bomb them from space,” I suggested. “One hit from the the T. Roosevelt Space Weapons Platform, poof, they're gone!”

  “He raises some valid points,” advised the spider commander. “I can't just allow citizens of the Empire to be accosted by the Legion. The Emperor has decreed compliance to the rule of law and due process. Do you have an arrest warrant, or am I to merely trust your word?”

  “I have a treaty signed by your Emperor that allows pursuit and execution of bandits across the DMZ.”

  “Is that how you deal with Arthropodan citizens? Summary execution?”

  “Yes, and so do you. Besides, drone images show there's also scorpions in that building. That makes them all enemy combatants.”

  “Scorpions?” exclaimed the spider commander. “That changes everything. Damn the collateral damage and jailhouse lawyers. We don't even have to drop leaflets warning them to get out of the house. As soon as I get a judge to sign off on an airstrike, they're all dead.”

  * * * * *

  A spider judge arrived carrying a shot gun in one claw and a search warrant in the other. “You were right to get a warrant,” advised the spider judge, firing a blast at a scorpion in the window. “The law is nothing to be messed with, especially when those godless scorpions are involved.”

  “I want to take them alive,” I said, remembering Private Crack. “We're missing a legionnaire hostage.”

  “Oh, hell no,” replied the spider judge, climbing atop an armored car turret to man the 50 cal machine gun. He fired a full burst into the building. “Come out, you pimples on the ass of galactic society. There is no escaping justice on my watch!”

  “My lawyer says I have a right to privacy and a right to be secure in my home!” shouted Cactus-Claw, ducking behind the stone wall. “I'm filing an accountability complaint against you with the Bar Association.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Does anyone else know?”

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

  Chapter 12

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