America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (16 page)

“You never know when you might need a gas grenade,” I apologized. “Good thing you didn’t pull the pin.”

“Get away from me. Go kill your groundhog, if it’s so much more important than me.”

“I don’t want to kill it, just interrogate it,” I explained reasonably.

“You can talk to groundhogs?”

“No, but they can talk to me.”

“Oh, you poor baby, you have PTSD,” exclaimed Sue, drawing me back to cradle in her lovely bosom. “Let me hold you and make it better. Did you see lots of terrible combat on the moon?”

“Yes, lots,” I blurted out, still optimistic about closing the deal with a real Old Earth woman. “It was terrible. Aliens slithering everywhere, blood, guts, and gore. But thanks to you, I feel better now. The groundhog can wait until morning.”

“You have another grenade?”

“No, sweetheart. That’s not a grenade you’re feeling, but if you’re not careful it might still explode anyway.”

* * * * *

I landed my shuttle next to the groundhog hole so I could bring to bear the full force and resources of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion. No half measures. I sent a remote-controlled miniature track vehicle with mounted camera down the hole on a mission of first contact. The vehicle quickly cornered a large plump female groundhog at a dead end. In a gesture of goodwill, the vehicle extended its miniature arm, gifting carrots to the groundhog. “We come in peace,” I broadcast from the vehicle.

She slapped the carrots away, so I tried a different tack. A computer monitor lit up on the vehicle, establishing a direct line to New Colorado. My groundhog friend Hal appeared on the monitor screen.

“My, she’s a pretty one,” flirted Hal. “Sorry, never seen her before.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I accused. “Make her talk.”

“Ha! Good luck with that. Making a female of any species talk when she’s giving you the silent treatment is impossible.”

“Talk to her anyway.”

“Hello Chubby Cheeks,” greeted Hal, displaying his best yellow buck-tooth smile. “Do not be afraid. The humans won’t eat you. You’re not in Tennessee.”

The female groundhog appeared to give the computer monitor the one-fingered salute, but the image was grainy and unclear. I nudged the vehicle robot forward, boxing her in tighter. I brightened the spotlight, hoping to crank up the intimidation factor.

“Why did you dig at the very location of the UFO landing?” I asked. “Where did you come from?”

“Some rocks you don’t turn over,” warned Hal. “She’s probably just a dumb blond rodent. She knows nothing.”

“I’m smarter than I look,” responded the female groundhog. “I want sausage and pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. Isn’t that how negotiations start? I’ve been watching the Crime Channel.”

“Do you have cable TV down there?” I asked suspiciously.

“That’s for me to know, and you not to know.”

“Pizza pie won’t fit down your hole.”

“Then slice it into pieces!”

“Fine. I’m dialing Pizza Hut as we talk. It will be a while, the closest is in Portland.”

“The Hotel Oregon on Evans Street has pizza. Bring beer, too.”

“I like your style, Mrs. ...?”

“I am single,” she answered, batting her little eyes at the camera. “Thank you for asking, but don’t get any ideas. I heard about you legionnaires. You’re not scoring on first contact with me.”

“You are disgusting, Czerinski,” accused Hal. “Trying to take advantage of that poor scared thing. I’ve seen your porn on the database.”

“You’re Colonel Czerinski?” asked the female groundhog. “I’ve seen your porn, too. Really? You did spiders and scorpions?”

“Come out!” I ordered, sensing negotiations breaking down. “Do it now, or I’ll gas you out.”

“He means it,” warned Hal. “Humans emit various gasses all the time.”

“I surrender, big boy,” she relented. “Are you going to probe me?”

“No one is going to get probed, “I replied.

“Why not?”

“Humans don’t do that.”

“Not even scanned? You have no idea how long it’s been.”

“Lawyer-up,” advised Hal. “You need representation.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I argued.

“I don’t need your help,” she argued testily. “Especially if I’m not getting probed.”

“You want to date?” asked Hal, his love goggles on.

“Sorry, tonight is the night I’m having my eyes gauged out.”

“Can’t you reschedule?” asked Hal, hoping to close the deal. “The tongue has no bones, but is strong enough to break a heart.”

“That was so beautiful,” gushed the female groundhog, aroused.

“I’d like to check you for ticks,” continued Hal, deal closed.

“Anytime, big boy. Probe me like an alien.”

“Let’s go!” I demanded, cutting of the flirting.

“Nothing had better happen to her,” threatened Hal, sensing I was snatching more victory from the jaws of victory. “I’m a personal online Facebook friend of world-famous science fiction writer Walter Knight. If Chubby Cheeks gets probed, I’ll be the only one to do it. I’ll have your job if she is molested by the Legion in any way!”

“Don’t worry, the Legion does not abuse small stupid animals,” I assured. “But she will quarantined to New Colorado for her own safety.”

“Old Earth is way overrated,” lamented the female groundhog. “It’s nothing but two-thirds water, the equivalent of cheap scotch at a wedding. If my fate is to be abducted by humans, so be it. I’ll miss Earth’s thick hard crust and soft chewy center, but it rains too much in soggy Oregon, anyway.”

Chapter 21

Inmate Charles Coles was not extradited to Scorpion City because he was human, but his days at the county jail were numbered. His cellmate was a short-timer, so on the day of his release, Coles strangled him and assumed his identity. They looked similar. No one challenged Coles when he presented his inmate ID card during release. Coles walked out the front door before his murdered roommate was even discovered.

From the start, Coles was certain the scorpion venom craze was just a fad. At least a hundred thousand human and alien jobs were vested in the blue powder business. Coles intended to fill the recent leadership vacuum at the Polish Cartel. He was connected and readily accepted by the humans, but not so much by aliens.

Aliens had doubts that Coles was really Polish, being he was black. Coles argued convincingly that that there were lots of Black Russians, and Poles were almost Russian. A check on the Galactic Database backed him up on that. Truth be told, most spiders and scorpions were relieved not to have to do business with the bad-breath human pestilence subspecies Italiano Mafia.

* * * * *

I am not a cop, but I have learned fighting crime is like playing whack-a-mole. Whack one criminal, more pop up just out of reach, leaner and meaner. Fighting blue powder drug dealers, narco-terrorists, and aliens takes its toll. At times it can become too much. Lines blur between fighting crime, national security, and self-interest. The Legion can nuke an alien empire, but you can’t nuke criminals. They’re a part of our culture, and the nuclear blow-back would destroy us all.

But what happens if galactic narco-terrorist criminals start exploding nukes or dispersing nerve agent? It’s against the rules of civilized criminal behavior. Real criminals don’t molest kids, and they don’t set off weapons of mass destruction. It’s a rule, unwritten somewhere in the code of criminal conduct. Mafia aren’t communists, but communists are Mafia. It’s technical.

In my world, the Legion is sworn to fight all enemies, foreign, domestic, and psycho. I released the female groundhog prisoner to Hal’s custody because she did not quite fit neatly into any of those categories, kind of like the ATM Network. Paroled, both rodents wore matching pink ankle bracelets and tracking chips embedded in their ample rumps.

* * * * *

General Daly’s mail was routinely checked for explosives, toxic poisons, and sand mites. Some bills he paid by check using snail mail. Such was the case with his home garbage bill. The general casually licked the seal on the return envelope, a fatal mistake. Nerve agent dabbed on the seal sent General Daly into convulsions, followed by sudden death. The old leatherneck would be missed.

* * * * *

General Kalipetsis was mustered out of retirement, after concluding a long term as Governor of New Colorado, to fill in for General Daly. I was summoned to Legion Headquarters in New Phoenix to brief the new-old general on local problems. General Kalipetsis looked good, no doubt benefiting from the latest Fountain of Youth microchip implants. He was already moved in, filling his office with personal items and plants.

“Colonel Czerinski, I am glad to be working with you on the front lines again,” said General Kalipetsis, shaking my hand vigorously. “You had better check your mail, too. Everyone got nerve agent letters, even Sheriff McCoy and the spider commander.”

“Any suspects?” I asked.

“I was hoping it was an Imperial plot so we could deal a death blow to those spiders once and for all, but DNA linked the letters to a common criminal named Charles Coles. He’s linked to the Polish Cartel leadership. It appears you didn’t kill them all. Now that you’re off vacation, I expect you to finish the job.”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Daly left a letter in his safe addressed to you,” added General Kalipetsis, handing me a sealed envelope. “Open it here, please.”

“My good friend, please avenge my death. Semper fi!” I read out loud.

“That’s it? No clues or motive about his murder?”

“I have the same message stowed with my personal effects,” I explained. “Revenge from the grave is best served cold. Daly was a tough old bird. I’ll miss him and will honor his desire for revenge.”

“Revenge is best served hard to swallow, like bad tasting vegetables,” commented General Kalipetsis, grimly clipping a dead leaf from one of his many office plants. “Revenge is best served slow, not to be rushed. Plant revenge seeds, then harvest your nasty revenge vegetables for more seeds, and grow more revenge vegetables. Make a huge pot of revenge stew, seasoned with revenge spices, and use it to wipe them all out.”

“Wipe who all out?”

“Whoever needs wiping out.”

“I see.”

“Which reminds me, you are ordered to plant flowers all along the DMZ as part of a beautification project. Favored is a particularly hardy species of bloom known as tansy ragwort, the Yellow Rose of Oregon.”

“Really?”

“A beautiful DMZ is a happy DMZ. Just do it. The scuttlebutt is that the CIA thinks spiders don’t like tansy. It messes with their allergies.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope there are no hard feelings about you not getting your star. I was asked to step in because of my command experience along the DMZ.”

“I’m retiring soon. You can keep your star and your beautiful DMZ.”

* * * * *

As part of ongoing normalization of relations with the Arthropodan Empire, America engaged in ‘Shopping Diplomacy.’ I was ordered to shop at the new Costco Superstore Mall grand opening in North New Gobi City. The press of the human and alien crowd was impossible. Frustrated by the lack of parking, I circled. Finally, I settled for a handicapped zone, displaying my emergency Legion handicapped sign.
Rank has its privileges.
Unfortunately, the spider mall cops were all over that.

“Sir, have you been drinking?” asked a spider mall cop, suspicious of all human pestilence.

“Of course not,” I answered, getting out of my car. “If this is about the handicapped zone, I can assure you I have lots of disabling old war wounds.”

“Sir, did you stop and smell the roses before entering the Empire?”

“What? Are you nuts?”

“Sir, resist at your peril.”

“I’m not resisting. You’ll know when I’m resisting!”

“You will submit to a snout-swab,” insisted the mall cop, poking at my face with a cotton swab. “Your eyes look dilated and red from pollen accumulation allergies.” He touched the snot-dripping swab to his communications pad for analysis. “Aha! Just as I thought. You are incubating lethal doses of illegal Old Earth pollen contraband concealed in your snout. Sir, you are under arrest. Turn around to cuff up. Do it now!”

“To hell you say.”

The mall cop tasered me. More spiders arrived to participate in my resisting arrest and a good old fashioned mall cop beat-down. I passed out.

I woke up, concussed, in alien Night Court. “It’s about time you woke up,” admonished the spider judge. “I find you guilty. Next human pestilence case!”

“But I haven’t been given an opportunity to defend myself or present evidence,” I protested. “Do you know who I am?”

“There is no need for you to present evidence,” replied the judge dismissively, not impressed with my ‘who I am’ comment. “You are charged with possessing lethal amounts of Old Earth pollen contraband concealed nefariously in several bodily orifices. The evidence is overwhelming, and I doubt your lies are more original than other human pestilence shoppers.”