Chapter Eleven
BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE
"The military?"

A neon sign buzzes, unheard in the vacuum of space, at the top of a scaffold perched on the main hub of a small space station. The sign not-so-proudly displays seven flickering, lime-green letters: S C R U N G E.

The Scrunge Way Station traces a slightly elliptical orbit around a small planet in the ThotThunk solar system. Its three docking bays lie empty, waiting for new arrivals. Any arrivals.

Within the station its manager, a wild-haired, greasy Homo sapiens teenager named Hoddy Scrunge, sits hunched over the Operations Control Console(tm). He occasionally pauses from flipping through a HooterTooter Deep Space Looter(tm) comic book to glance at the Holo-Vis(tm) display.

His co-worker, Asilla Ffee, an oddly attractive, although somewhat plump young woman with a tendency to wear too much makeup and an elfin-green jumpsuit unzipped to her navel, enters the control bay and peers over Hoddy's shoulder.

"What're ya doin'?"

Hoddy looks up, barely noticing the unzipped Ffee.

"Reading, R–E–A–D–I–N–G," he spells. Hoddy has the annoying habit of spelling the last word of every sentence.

"Uh huh. Any sign of customers?"

Hoddy glances at the Holo-Vis(tm). "Nope, N–O–P–E."

"Oh."

She leans over, cleavage clearly on display, and leers at him enticingly. Bug-eyed, Hoddy swallows hard, then turns back to the adventures of the HooterTooter Looters.

BLEEET!

The Proximity Alert(tm) alarm sounds. A tiny red speck suddenly appears amidst the green map tracings of the local space: a ship has decelerated from hyperspace.

"Hoddy! Look!"

Scrunge looks at the Holo-Vis(tm), seeing the fast approaching blip. He snaps to the controls, switches the display to photo-imaging and enhances the picture. The view enlarges, detailing the sleek lines of the Ebony Skulker, Series FX20(tm).

"Wow, W–O–W! Have you ever seen a ship like that, Asilla, A–S–I–L–L–A?!"

"Not ever," she sighs. "Try 'n hail it."

"Right, R–I–T–E." Hoddy swivels to the short range Commucon(tm) and opens a channel. He turns on the Intergalactic Greeting Beacon(tm) and awaits a response.

Nothing.

"Maybe their communication equipment is damaged," suggests Ffee.

"Yeah, go get docking bay three ready, fire up the lights, L–I–G–H–T–S. Then go get the repair bots on-line, they may need a fix up, U–P."

"Good idea, Hoddy, but why don't you do that. I'll go start up the kitchen bots in the diner and make myself beautiful. After all, there may be some hot, I mean hungry, dudes on that baby."

"Okay, O–K." Hoddy races out of the control bay.

Asilla watches the Holo-Vis(tm) image grow larger. Through the forward view screen of the vessel she can make out the figure of a firmly toned man, apparently the pilot. Hello, Daddy! You're my ticket outta here. With a giggle, she wiggles and jiggles out of the control bay, heading to her quarters.

On board the Annihilator, Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt leans into his Commucon Stay-Close(tm). "The target ship has entered normalspace, sir, and seems to be on an approach to a small way station."

"How long until we can rendezvous with that station?" crackles Ragellon's voice.

Cleanerschmidt glances toward a snarling South, then leans into the Commucon(tm) again. "We experienced some minor HooterTooter difficulties during acceleration, sir, which put us behind by about forty minutes."

"Damn. Tooter problems. That's the last thing we need. Delivery of the Humongous RangeroPrima Supreme War Galleons can't come soon enough. I'll be glad to see the arse end of these jalopies. Is South handy?"

South strides to the Commucon(tm). "Here, sir."

"South, get the Stellar Crak Reconnaissance Team ready to move the minute we're in range of that station."

"Aye, sir." South casts a sideways glance at Cleanerschmidt and moves out.

Gladius switches off the Navi-Control(tm) autopilot system and begins to manually guide the ship toward the Scrunge Way Station. Behind him Fystik struggles feverishly, but can't pull his hands free of the strong Magno Field(tm) of the chair's seat. Slate turns to stare him down. Fystik quickly stops, pretending not to have been doing anything.

"What?"

"Don't give me any crap, you Dismembergoon. I'm not in the mood. But the Space Commission might be." Gladius returns to his piloting.

Fystik scowls at Slate's back. "Turn me in, go ahead. Then you'll never find out what you want to know."

"Maybe, but I sure wouldn't have to look at your ugly face anymore. Intergalactic hijacker like you, I'll bet there's even a reward on your head. You're like money in the bank to me."

Gladius watches out the view port as one of the docking bays at the Scrunge Station lights up. He fires the braking AttiTooters(tm) and swings the sleek craft toward the lit bay.

Hoddy is gawking through the view port at the rakish, sweeping lines of the Ebony Skulker, Series FX20(tm). Transfixed, mouth agape, he watches the graceful craft slow itself and ease into the docking slip. Through the forward view screen he sees the pilot, clad in a Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm), stand and look at him. The pilot waves to him. Hoddy waves back. The pilot waves again, with more furor. Hoddy waves back, again. The pilot begins to point frantically at the docking station.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to extend the tube, T–U–B–E."

Hoddy taps the keypad, activating the lock beams that will hold the ship steady in the bay. Then, concentrating on a scope, he spins a small wheel and gently guides and adheres the Firm Tube(tm) over the exterior hatch of the Skulker. There is a slight hiss as the pressurization equalizes.

Gladius flips the toggles which shut down the motion control and guidance systems of the trim, black craft.

Fystik watches his captor closely, contemplating what the Space Commission might do to him should he be placed in their custody. A death sentence isn't completely out of the question.

"Look, uh… what is your name again, Inferior Being?"

"Slate, Gladius Slate." Gladius crosses to the Magno Chair(tm), switches it off and hoists the Dismemberon roughly to his feet. "And don't bother trying to get friendly. You've already dug your own latrine, now I get to watch you get dumped on." He hustles the alien through the hatch.

Scrunge takes a quick step back as a dainty, blue-skinned creature is pushed through the airlock, followed by the pilot.

"Hi, H–I. I'm Hoddy Scrunge, S–C–R–U–N–G–E."

Gladius glares at the pit-faced teenager, then swings the bound Fystik to one side. "You got a Deep Space Commucon?"

"Yessir, located on the deck beneath us, just off the Scrunge Star Lounge, L–O–U–N–G–E."

"Which way?"

Hoddy is baffled by his customer's rudeness. "Uh, round the corner and down the ramp, R–A–M–P."

Slate turns and begins to push Fystik along the corridor. Hoddy trots behind.

"Will you be wantin' me to fix your cool ship, S–H–I–P? It's so neat I'd love to go in an' have a look at 'er, E–R. Why, right here, I got the best repair bots anywhere, W–H–E–R–E. They'll fix that baby up good as new, N–E–W. We'll take readings on what type of fuel you're usin', synthesize some new stuff, then juice it up, U–P."

Slate stops to look at the babbling kid.

"And we'll fix yer Commucon, C–O–M–M–U–C–O–N. It must be busted, huh, E–H? Of course, otherwise why'dya wanna use ours, O–U–R–S. We'll take care of that, first thing, T–H–I–N–G. No problem, P–R–O–B–L–E–M. Just a nominal charge, F–E–E. Hell, I'd almost do it for free just to have a look inside that baby, but I can't, C–A–N–T. No freebies, F–R–E–B… F–R–E… freebies. Uncle Walf said so, S–O. He gave me this station, ya know, N–O. Told me to do my best, B–E–S–T. Asilla says it was to get rid of me, but she's got kinda an unpleasant personality, P–E–R… whatever. I think I'm doin' a good job, it's just that business has been kinda slow, S–L–O–W. That okay with you, Y–O–U?"

Slate breaks his gaze from the jabbering mouth and sizes up the teenager. "Is what okay with me?"

"If I fix up yer ship, S–H–I–P?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Gladius says, softening. "Fuel it up. Thanks."

Slate turns, pushing Fystik toward the gangway and the lower deck. As they reach the bottom of the ramp they pause briefly, looking for the Commucon Booth(tm). Fystik gestures to the sign down the hall:

"That looks like it, Inferior One."

Gladius shoves him down the hall. The passageway has a row of view ports on the space side, through which the underbelly of the docked Skulker can be seen. Fystik stops abruptly, staring up at the bottom of the black ship.

"Move it!" orders Gladius, grabbing Fystik by the collar.

"Wait," he says, trying to point with his bound hands, "look."

Gladius scans the hull of the Skulker. A flush washes over him at the sight of a small foreign object adhered to it. The object has a Micro Catalyst Antenna(tm) protruding from it, allowing it to transmit a hyperspace transcending signal.

"Homing Detect O'Probe."

"Yes," chirps Fystik. "Probably military, judging by its markings."

"Must've launched it when we passed over their bow," Gladius surmises. Disturbed, he pushes Fystik toward the Scrunge Star Lounge. "We'll deal with that in a minute, right now, I've got a call to make."

The lounge is a mess of neon lights and loud green walls with yellow stripes. One side is a cafeteria-style bar with an assortment of foods being prepared by an assortment of robots. The opposite side is a large wall of Stalwart Glass(tm), the view spreading out beneath the docking slips into the star-speckled reaches beyond. In the middle are small clusters of sloped, three-legged tables, each appearing to have one leg shorter than the other two, and, at the far side, the entrance to the Holo-Cine(tm) theater, with four Deep Space Commucon(tm) booths next to it.

As Gladius guides Fystik between the tables, a woman appears at the bar. Slate gives her a terse glance and continues to prod Fystik toward the booths.

"Hey, boys," calls Asilla Ffee, her face freshly troweled with cosmetics, her outfit now so tight and skimpy that her ample flesh appears constricted, oozing out. She strikes a sexy pose, pouts her lips, and bends forward to enhance the dark cleft of her cleavage, in hopes of catching Slate's attention. But Gladius ignores her, stopping at one of the booths.

"HEY!"

Gladius and Fystik jump, startled at the sudden screech. Taking a closer look, they grimace at the sight of Asilla, her body painfully bound in a hideous, cream-colored outfit that, with its various strings, snaps and gaps, looks more like an ill-repaired fishing net than a garment.

"What would you boys like to eat?" she asks, switching to a deep, sultry voice.

"We're just here to use your Commucon. We don't want anything to eat," Gladius informs flatly.

Asilla's shoulders sag. She releases the breath she's been holding and her muscles relax, allowing more flesh to bulge through her outfit.

"I don't know, Inferior One, I could use a petite repast," suggests Fystik.

Gladius disregards the comment and forces his prisoner into the chair nearest the Commucon(tm) booth. "I'm going to make my call with the door open. Move one centimeter and I'll break your legs. Then I'll call the Space Commission and tell them where they can find you."

"Mr. Slate, I really don't think there is any need to make such a hasty threat. I'm sure we can work something out between us."

"Yeah?"

"Of course." Fystik resigns himself to an attempt at cooperation. "Perhaps I could answer some of your questions."

"And now I'm supposed to believe you?"

"Why would I lie?"

"Why would anybody, you blue toad?" Slate shakes his head. "This whole experience has been nothing but one lie after another. First, I'm sent on an assignment where my ship gets hijacked, then my copilot turns out to be a spy, I'm psycho-tortured by some lurid wall of muscle, I'm harassed by the military who try to blow me up and turn out to still be tracking me, and now you, who tried to run me down with a Whizzer, wants my trust!"

"Too much to ask, is it?" replies Fystik, averting his eyes.

Slate steps into the booth and places his call. Before long, a static-riddled image appears: the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company logo. The image dissolves into that of the IDR Commucon Receiver(tm), an inter-space operator.

"With whom would you like to speak?"

"Rolezar Doughan, District Company Manager, Priority Big Hurry One from Operative Gladius Slate, on full Charge Reversal."

"Please allow a moment for connection…"

Gladius taps his fingers, turning to look at Fystik fidgeting in his chair.

"Slate, what's the problem?" asks Rolezar Doughan, his image barely stabilizing due to sub-space interference.

"I've found out who's been stealing the Scow Cows."

"Good work! Who?"

"Well, I'm not sure of the details, but––"

"Not sure of the details!" snaps the District Manager. "Why are you calling me on a Priority Big Hurry One, with full Charge Reversal, without all the essential information. These calls are expensive, you know. If you don't have all the infor––"

"Doughan! I need help! The military is involved and it has something to do with that lousy copilot you assigned me. It sounds like they were the one's responsible for that security breach on Lypsix V. I can't handle this alone. Just take the information to the Space Commission, or somebody, and let them handle it. It's not my problem anymore."

"The military?" Rolezar glances around, leans in and whispers, "I'll have to confer with the Executive Board, you stay close and observe. See if we can nail down who these terrorists are."

"I don't know about any terrorists."

"You said you knew who was taking the Scow Cows."

"I do. I think they're middle men, more like black market arms dealers than terrorists."

"Okay, let me think." Rolezar steps out of view.

Gladius takes a deep breath. Management.

Doughan slinks back into view. "Stay there, lie low, and keep your ears open."

"Rolezar, I'm out of it. Call the Space Commission. I've done my part," Gladius insists.

"Your part is to follow orders. I'm not entrusting an IDR Company concern of such importance to the Space Commission. Only an IDR Company agent can handle this. And right now, you're that agent."

"But I––"

"Look, I'll discuss this with the Board and we'll get some help out to you as fast as we can. Think of the grieving families wondering where their loved ones are. Loyal operatives, your comrades, who may have paid the ultimate price. Don't they deserve answers?"

Gladius considers the reception he received on the Eighth Planet, then concedes with a sigh.

"Good man," Rolezar assures. "Keep us informed of your position." His image snaps off, the deep space link cut.

Gladius steps out of the booth, bewildered. Fystik watches the brooding Slate as he takes the seat across the table.

"Fystik, I need some answers."

A thin hint of smile breaks across the Dismemberon's face. "Oh, is that so, Inferior One? Well, I think I've just had a memory lapse. But, some nourishment might increase the activity of my brain waves."

Gladius wipes his face with his hand. "Help me, or I'll pick up that phone and have the Space Commission inspectors here so fast…"

Fystik wags his head and reclines decadently in his chair. "Oh, I don't think so. From what I heard of your conversation, it's you who needs me, now. Therefore, any agreement we make will be on my terms."

A small shudder pulses through Gladius.