Chapter Ten
REGROUP
"Trouble?"

SMACK!

Vice-Admiral Joshua Ragellon's knobby fist slams onto the desktop. "How could you let yourself be outwitted by a GARBAGE MAN!"

South remains silent, contemplating the twisted paper clips strewn about the desktop.

Ragellon paces in an unsteady shuffle behind his desk in the Command Office on board the Annihilator. He lowers his voice, but remains firm. "Who was this other man, this Lavoriss?"

"We don't know for sure. He made a remark about recognizing me during the covert operation into the IDR Data Division."

Ragellon perks at this piece of information.

"He said he's not an IDR employee," South continues, "and that he arrived at the Eighth Planet separately, in his privately owned vessel. Slate knew him, they appeared to be friends."

"Knew him. Maybe Lavoriss arranged the meeting?"

"Lavoriss, a terrorist operative? It's a possibility, I suppose. If he was snooping around Lypsix V and the Data Division, perhaps he is the terrorist's man on the inside. He could have been there pinpointing ships for hijacking."

"Hmm… odds are. What about our snitch, Mawhoooba?"

"There was no sign of him."

Ragellon aligns himself then slowly plops into the Magno Supreme Command Chair(tm). He attempts to tilt back, but can't make it stick. "And you found no one else on that dirt ball?"

"Two bodies, and the two garbage men make four, that leaves one unaccounted for. Mawhoooba?"

"Two bodies. We can't be sure they were alive at the time of our initial scan. Which means there could have been at least two more terrorists down there, possibly three if Mawhoooba is dead."

"Who were the bodies?" counters South.

"Miscreants tend to kill other miscreants… maybe a disagreement?" Ragellon reaches to the Commucon(tm) on the desk. "Have Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt join us in my office, please." He turns back to Salata. "I've got a hunch that Lavoriss is a terrorist operative and that he may be working with Slate."

South clenches his jaw, giving his head a slight shake. "I don't know, Slate never struck me as the criminal type. There was something odd about those two."

"Exactly!" Ragellon fixes South with a quivering stare. "How else would you explain Lavoriss at Lypsix V, his friendship with Slate, and the fantastic luck of having our snitch pay off on the very first outing?"

Salata cocks his head, considering.

"That wasn't Slate's first trip to the Eighth Planet," Ragellon concludes. "He knew exactly where he was going."

The Command Office door whisks open and Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt enters. Ragellon waits for the door to slide shut.

"Gentlemen," he begins, "I believe that the computer blackout we experienced as we approached the Eighth Planet was the result of a jamming device."

"Yes, all systems on the Vi-Scout were completely out," informs Cleanerschmidt.

"Are you suggesting another escape attempt, sir?" asks Salata.

"Not an attempt, South."

"The bastards blasted right by us, undetected," Cleanerschmidt blurts, then blushes.

"Exactly," confirms the Vice-Admiral.

South scowls at the Lieutenant.

"Sir, um," Cleanerschmidt says, shrinking under South's glare, "do you think the second escape vessel is following whomever made that undetected escape?"

Ragellon smiles at the young Lieutenant. "I do, and I'm assuming that it was the garbage men on board that second ship. The IDR has been the target of too many hijackings to be coincidence. I think these garbage men may be terrorist insiders. We're going after them, Lieutenant, direct the bridge accordingly."

Cleanerschmidt nods affirmative. South's scar is beginning to pulse.

The Ebony Skulker, Series FX20(tm) quietly whips through hyperspace. Gladius is struggling with the Deep Space Commucon Holo-Vis(tm), trying to link up with the IDR administration offices at Desolate Harmony. The system is misbehaving and frustration is beginning to get the better of him.

BUZZT! FWATCHAAA!

The Holo-Vis(tm) begins to smoke, green sparks arcing across its projecting lenses. Gladius jumps, quickly snatches up an extinguisher and douses the console.

As the dust settles he slumps into his chair and rubs a hand through his brush-cut. This business has gotten out of hand and he would desperately like to turn the whole mess over to higher powers, but to do that he needs to report his findings to the IDR offices. Obviously, that is going to be more difficult than he would like.

"Hey, Gladman!" Geronimo's excited voice issues from the aft compartment. He has been nosing around in the rear of the Skulker, peeking into various holds and hatchways.

Gladius pulls himself from the chair, moves to the bulkhead, peers into the darkness. "Find something?"

An overly large metal case eases through the bulkhead and, in the ship's limited gravity, softly bumps to the deck at Gladius's feet. His mood is only mildly amended by the label on the case. The words 'BIGGER GUN(tm)' are stenciled in Intimidating Red Text(tm).

Geronimo pops up from behind the case. "We may need this if those military dicks track us down."

"They're not going to track us down. We're going to get in touch with the IDR and let them handle it. I don't need anymore of this crap."

Geronimo pulls himself out of the hold and looks at the blackened communications console. "You been tryin' to reconfigure the Commucon?"

Gladius shrugs. He moves to the Navi-Control(tm) console, studies it briefly. "We've got a small way-station coming up in the ThotThunk Range. I'll kick us out of hyperspace and make the call from there." He types in the new coordinates.

BLEEP!

The computer makes the adjustment, changing the Skulker's course.

"Should we… um, have a… ah, look…" Geronimo staggers, placing a hand on the bulkhead.

Gladius eyes him, concerned. Then he notices the dark stain, partially hidden by the Ambassador's liberated cape, spreading from Geronimo's shoulder. "Geronimo, you okay?"

"Ah… yeah… fine… just a li'l… light-head…"

"We'd better get you looked after. You're still bleeding from that Zipper wound."

Geronimo looks down at his shoulder. He gingerly lifts aside the cape revealing a nasty looking row of ragged holes. He's lost a lot of blood, his Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm) is sodden to the waist. He stands there, staring down at the mess for a long moment, and then finally looks up, his face quite ashen.

"Oh, yeah… I guess I forgot." With that, Geronimo's eyes roll back in his head and his legs turn to rubber. He sinks, not so gracefully, to the deck.

"Damn," mutters Gladius. He scoops up his fallen comrade and heads toward sickbay and the AutoDoc(tm).

BEEP!

Vice-Admiral Ragellon's Commucon Stay-Close(tm) is blinking. He thumbs open the channel.

"Sir, our target has changed course," reports the Annihilator's helmsman.

"Match their course."

On the bridge, Cleanerschmidt looks up from the Navi-Control(tm) console. "They're heading to the terrorist base," he whispers, "I can feel it."

"Let's hope you're right, Lieutenant."

Startled, the Lieutenant flushes. South is standing behind him, nodding.

"Let's hope you're right."

Sickbay on the Ebony Skulker is a compact, sanitary room with white walls, bathed in diffuse light of no apparent source. At the center of the room stands the epitome of modern medical marvel: the AutoDoc(tm).

The AutoDoc(tm), a horizontal sarcophagus of gentle curves on a raised pedestal, has virtually revolutionized the medical profession. A nearby cupboard contains a few token pastel green and chrome instruments. Except for inspection by the curious, they have rarely been out of their case. They are obsolete and are here only should the AutoDoc(tm), in a rare occurrence, break down.

Pity the poor bastard who has to get worked over with the instruments should the AutoDoc(tm) be out of service: surgeons have also become obsolete. There are AutoDoc(tm) technicians, but they are token remnants of doctors because the AutoDoc(tm), as the name implies, is totally automatic. Insert the sick person, close the lid, touch the pad marked Initiate Repair Sequence and the AutoDoc(tm) does the rest: diagnostics, repair and fitness tuneup, anywhere from twenty minutes to several hours –– depending on severity of injury, of course, and providing the patient hasn't crossed the ever-so-critical 'point of no return', a serious stumbling block on the road to immortality.

Gladius nudges the 'LID OPEN' touch pad with his knee and hoists the limp Geronimo, ready to set him into the AutoDoc(tm). There is a small puff of escaping air as the hydraulics raise the lid. He flops Geronimo into the unit.

"Oof!"

Gladius jumps at the sound, since Geronimo is out cold. He steps back, puzzled. Geronimo doesn't seem to be fitting down into the sarcophagus properly. Grabbing Geronimo's Sensor Suit front, Gladius sits him up, then peers down into the AutoDoc(tm).

"Get this alien scum off of me," Fystik hisses.

The Stencheron Stellar Glider(tm), Petunia's ship, speeds through hyperspace, the three modified Scow Cows in tow. Snax snoops along the access way in the cargo hold. He stops at the ladder which leads to the upper deck, listening. Voices. Cautiously, Snax climbs the ladder, poking his singular eye through the hatch.

"You're early," snaps the mild-looking man dressed in garments befitting an office clerk.

"Unavoidable," replies Petunia to the Holo-Vis(tm) image suspended before her.

"Trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"If you bring the authorities on us, you'll regret it," the clerk advises.

"Bloition, I assure you, I'm not being followed."

"Do you have the merchandise we requested?"

"Of course, but this will have to be our last transaction."

"We shall see. Bring the merchandise to the usual rendezvous point."

The image blips out.

"Compu-Stud," Petunia calls.

"Ready," comes the electronic reply.

"Plot a course for the Elyeesiastapopadopoulos Nebula. Main rendezvous point."

"Working… done."

"Initiate course change."

"Initiated."

Snax retreats into the cramped cargo hold, an expression of concern distorting his face.

Gladius hits the 'INITIATE REPAIR SEQUENCE' touch pad and glances through the AutoDoc's(tm) small window at the napping Geronimo. Fystik stands nearby, his hands trussed together with a thin piece of insulated wire, glaring at his captor.

"This ship is moving," he observes.

"You're a genius, aren't you?" Gladius grabs Fystik by the wire and flings him out of sickbay.

"Let go of me, you lower life form."

Gladius pushes him along the narrow corridor into the bridge area, shoves him into one of the Magno Chairs(tm), then forces the Dismemberon's hands between his legs, into the main field area of the chair.

"Hey, you can't––" protests Fystik.

Gladius activates the chair's Magno Field(tm). The field attracts the metal wire, holding Fystik's arms down.

"Sit tight, Blue Spew. You're going to answer some questions." Gladius stands in front of the Dismemberon and folds his arms.

"Weenel will kill you, you container of disease. Harm a well-groomed hair on my head and you'll quickly regret it."

"Weenel is dead."

Fystik narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Gladius, trying to determine if the human speaks the truth.

"And you'll be dead, too, you ugly, blue-faced scat, unless you answer my questions." Gladius leans into the Dismemberon and smacks his hands firmly onto the alien's slight shoulders. "Why did you hijack my ship? And why were there other IDR Company Scow Cows on the Eighth Planet?"

Fystik sneers at his oppressor, then launches a wad of turquoise spittle into Gladius's face. Slate pulls back, glaring at the Dismemberon and slowly wiping at the sticky substance with his sleeve.

"Petunia will introduce you to Mr. Munitions, ha!"

"Bad news for you," Gladius returns. "If your pal Petunia was on that planet, then she's dead, too. The military showed up and blew the hell out of the place. All that's left of your little operation is a crater."

"Liar!" Fystik is enraged, verging on tears.

BEEP! TWEET! TWEET!

The Navi-Control(tm) sounds an alarm. Information skitters across its screen. Gladius glances over to read:

"You want to be this way, fine." Gladius moves into the Piloting Magno Swivel Chair(tm) and begins to concentrate on the readouts of the Skulker's navigational instruments.