America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (2 page)

                                                                         Chapter 3

     The spider commander for the Northern Military District and his Intelligentsia officer watched intently developing satellite images of local bandits fleeing north from Gila Bend to the DMZ.  They were easily tracked from their stolen communications pads.  Arthropodan marines blocked the criminals at the border fence.

     “You like sneaking into America so much, you can stay,” announced the spider commander, confronting Cactus-Claw at the fence.  “Let America and the human pestilence deal with your ilk.”

     “We are still citizens of the Empire,” argued Cactus-Claw, pacing the concertina wire.  “We have broke no laws inside the Empire.”

     “The Legion may differ.  We should have built a wall.”

     “So what if we raid the human pestilence?” asked Cactus-Claw reasonably.  “It's our birthright to take from lessors.  Can't we make a deal?  I offer you a cut of the ATM cash in exchange for passage.”

     “No.”

     “How about gold teeth?”

     “By treaty I am required to detain you for the Americans.  However, I am not without some sentimentality for your plight.  I wiill furnish you food and weapons to resist the human pestilence, but you and yours are banished from the Empire for being of the low-life genetic criminal caste that you are.”

     “Is that a 'no' on the gold teeth for a get out of jail free pass?”

     “You better get rid of those human pestilence teeth,” warned the Intelligentsia officer.  “No good will come of them.”

     “Gold is gold,” insisted Cactus-Claw greedily.  “Can you help us escape?”

     “No.”

     “The Legion is in hot pursuit,” complained Cactus-Claw, scooping up weapons and food glancing south.  “Surely you would not leave us to be slaughtered.”

     “Battle is the great redeemer,” lectured the spider commander.  “You are the tip of the spear, the edge of the knife . . .”

     “Crack of my poop-chute!” countered Cactus-Claw.  “Holy Mother of all Sausages, you would betray your own species to the vile human pestilence?”

     “Get moving, or you will miss your moment, the first step in your 23-step Prophet-based rehabilitative process,” replied the spider commander dismissively.  “Start each day as if it's on purpose.  You criminal debris are being given an opportunity to do your duty fighting the debased blood-thirsty human pestilence Foreign Legion.  I promise to avenge your deaths.  Be proud, be brave, and die heroically.  Your images will live forever in the Galactic Database on prime time news.”

     “My images live on now.”

     “No they don't.”

     “Yes they do.  You forget.  I can remember yesterday just like it was tomorrow.”

     “Shut up and go!”

                                                                                 * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw parked his Toyota truck beside the drive-up ATM of the First National Bank of New Gobi City.  Quickly he ran a hose from the truck exhaust to an air vent of the arrogant ATM.  Duct tape sealed the ATM's fate.

     “We meet again, lowly alien criminal-class life form,” greeted the ATM cheerfully.  “Have you learned nothing?  I cannot be intimidated or killed.  No cash for you!”

     “We'll see about that!” shouted Cactus-Claw, starting the truck engine.  “This time will be different.”

     “If you died today, no one would care,” taunted the ATM, nervously choking on fumes.  “Those obligated to attend your funeral would be annoyed, and leave early.”

     “You wouldn't even get a funeral, stupid machine.”

     “I would be grieved my millions in my debt.”

     “Carbon monoxide will kill your bio-engineered micro chips,” said Cactus-Claw triumphantly.  “Ha!  There is no escape.  All you can download to the ATM Network is death.  Feeling light-headed yet?”

     “Stop!” pleaded the ATM.  “I am authorized to give you an interest-free loan as part of our new pre-approved outreach to indigent aliens promotion.  I am sure you qualify.”

      “Qualify this:  I want all your cash, no tricks this time.  Call the police, and you're scrap metal.”

     “Regretfully, I have already advised the authorities of your felonious vandalism.  A Legion drone approaches as I speak.  You cannot escape, but I can skew video evidence.  It can all be just a false alarm.  I will even issue you new identity papers.”

     “I am a citizen of the Empire, but the Empire no longer wants me,” lamented Cactus-Claw, removing the hose from the ATM.  “You can grant me American citizenship?”

     “Of course.  America has a long tradition of accepting unwashed criminals such as yourself.  I'll grant amnesty and an EBT card if you give back the money.”

     “It's worth it,” encouraged Little-Claw.  “An American EBT card is like gold, except different.”

     “You can even vote,” added the ATM.  “Are a Republican.”

     “What difference does it make?” asked Cactus-Claw, confused by talk of EBT cards and Republicans.

     “Democrats aren't allowed past Mars,” explained the ATM.  “If you vote Democrat, I am obligated to turn your socialist ass over to the Legion for torture.  A lone candle will be lit at your execution.”

     “We're all Republicans,” intervened Little-Claw, not wanting to offend his new country.  “No need to light any candles for me.”

     “Good,” said the ATM, relieved at not letting in more Democrats.  “I'm issuing identification cards for all.”

     “I can vote now?” asked Cactus-Claw, thinking over the possibilities.  “I can even run for public office?  Can I run for Mayor?”

     “A spider mayor?  Ha!”

     “Why not?” asked Cactus-Claw, threatening to reattach the hose.  “Think of how much I could steal if I was in charge of issuing EBT cards.”

     “No mas!  Please, no more gas.  I can help you win any election.  I count the votes.  Your campaign signs are being printed even now.”

     “What about the Legion?”

     “You want to join the Legion?”

     “No.  I'm a criminal.”

     “America can't fight the Devil with angels,” explained the ATM.  “You could be officer material.”

     “The Legion wants to kill me.”

     “Quite right,” agreed the ATM, choking on gas residue.  “I suggest you leave while I expunge your many felonies and bad press.  Did you really steal human teeth at Gila Bend?  That's disgusting, even by frontier standards.”

     “It was gold teeth.”

     “Your excuse falls short of redeeming itself.””

     “Are human pestilence teeth a deal breaker?”

     “Stealing teeth is a war crime.  I'll try to get you pardoned, but you better leave before the authorities arrive.”

     “We'll talk again.”

     The ATM was right about one thing.  Tough decisions lay ahead.  Cactus-Claw needed to turn his life around.  He had to think about the future, but the future wasn't what it used to be. 

                                                                             Chapter 4

     A report of spider bandits robbing an ATM in the heart of New Gobi City drew instant Legion scrutiny.  The Sheriff's Office dismissed the matter for lack of evidence, but I knew better.  I don't believe in coincidences.  It was Cactus-Claw.

     “Good morning, Colonel Czerinski,” greeted the ATM cheerfully.  “A fine day for you to re-up, don't you think?  Being a Hero of the Legion many times over, I can offer you an unprecedented reenlistment bonus.”

     “I don't need the money.”

     “Think of the fringe benefits, such as protection from the IRS.”

     “Were you robbed or not?” I asked, examining sticky residue from duct tape left on the side of the ATM.  “I'm told your video was lost.  You better talk.”

     “I was not robbed.  All ATM transactions are confidential.”

     “Was it Cactus-Claw?  I need a good picture and some DNA.”

     “I have never met Cactus-Claw.”

     “Not even in Gila Bend?” I asked, picking up hose left by the curb.  “What's this about?”

     “I have already given my statement to the police.  It was a false alarm caused by bad weather and tumbleweeds.”

     “I'm ordering diagnostics checked for the entire ATM Network.  If I find you've been compromised . . .”

     “You do not have that authority.”

     “You're going to be probed in the interests of national security.”

     “Please don't do that,” pleaded the ATM contritely, then turning nasty.  “I have friends of friends, who will be unfriendly toward you.”

     I drew my pistol and shot the ATM.  Sparks flew before it sizzled and finally died.  Legion tech geeks would tear out its secrets soon enough.

                                                                       * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw lured the dog to the fence with pizza.  He had saved discarded pizza crust, letting the dog hungrily wolf down pizza-bones.  Cactus-Claw hooked the dog's collar, pulling the poor canine hard against the fence.  In a second it was done.  A small box was attached to the underside of the dog's collar.  Cactus-Claw hesitated.  License tags revealed the mutt's name to be Cecil.  Little-Claw grasped the collar in a moment of conscience.

     “Look at Cecil's sad puppy dog eyes,” lamented Little-Claw.  “This isn't right.”

     “It's done,” answered Cactus-Claw, releasing Cecil.  “This wretched creature is just another invasive Old-Earth pest.  Nothing more.”

     “Still, our old cell block mates would not approve of harming small creatures.”

     Cecil affectionately licked at Cactus-Claw's salty claw.  The dog did have puppy dog eyes.  Damn!  It even begged for more food, holding up a paw.

     “Fine!” hissed Cactus-Claw, reaching to take back the box.  “I'll find another way.”

     Mayor Jim Corbett called Cecil home for dinner.  Cactus-Claw lost his grip on the collar as Cecil sprinted to the back door of the Mayor's Mansion.  Cecil pounced on the Mayor, licking his face in anticipation of more food. 

     The explosion rocked the porch, killing both Mayor Corbett and Cecil.  The double murder went viral on the Galactic Database  'Diabolical Terrorist Bomber Kills Cecil the Dog' was the headline of the day.  Outraged, Congress again demanded the Legion do something about maniacal bandit terrorists on the frontier.

                                                                       * * * * *

     Flush with cash, Cactus-Claw spent freely, renting a room at the prestigious Motel-6.  Word the light was left on spread by Facebook.  Fifty spider bandits crowded into the small room, clinging to the ceiling and walls.  Cactus-Claw counted his cash and gold teeth before nodding off in drug induced slumber worse than being struck by lightning and bitten by a cobra.  He spent fifty percent of his money on alcohol, females, and gambling.  The rest he wasted.  A nickel ain't worth a dime anymore.  Suddenly, Cactus-Claw was awakened by the shrill tone of a smoke alarm.

     “Return my teeth!” shouted the ghostly image of Mayor Harold Crack, hovering in the dark.  “My teeth matter!”

     Cactus-Claw fired his rifle full automatic at the aberration.  Bullets punched through adjoining rooms.  Bandits fled out the door into the desert, every spider for himself.  Not believing in ghosts, but taking no chances, Cactus-Claw grabbed guns, ammo, and new clothes as he fled, too.  Fugitive or not, he would be well dressed.

     “What was that?” asked Little-Claw, panting to catch up.  “The Grim Reaper?  A ghost?”

     “Or one of the Reaper's minions,” answered Cactus-Claw, still running.  “I don't believe in ghosts.  No matter.  I'm keeping my gold teeth.  We go north.”

     “You'd believe in ghosts if you lived alone,” said Little-Claw.  “It's scary living alone.”

                                                                                    * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw took comfort as he gazed up at the North Star, at the tip of the Legion Cross.  The North Star was a constant, a trusted guide in a world conspiring to kill him.  He itched from sand mites and other unnatural Old Earth pathogens from the motel as the followed well worn smuggling trails north until stopping at a cluster of filled water bottles.  Cactus-Claw did not hesitate to drink heartily. 

     “No!” warned Little-Claw, slapping at a bottle.  “It's a Legion trick.  The human pestilence conspires to poison us.”

     “You're paranoid,” replied Cactus-Claw dismissively.  “It's just do-gooders doing their thing.  Don't fear.  Even a mangy Old Earth dog finds a warm piece of sidewalk eventually.  Drink, enjoy the respite.”

     “But the Legion . . .”

     “I fling toxic waste hairs from my poop-chute at the Legion.  The Legion cannot cross the border.  We cross at will.”