Chapter Thirteen
TREACHERY & MANIPULATION
"You'll have to act quickly."

"Where are they?" snaps an angry Captain South. He towers over Hoddy Scrunge, who is being restrained by two soldiers.

"Who, H–O–O?" quivers Scrunge, shaking from the intense influx of weapons pointing troopers.

Salata grabs Hoddy by his greasy collar, hauls him close. The youth winces in the presence of the Captain's hideous facial disfigurement.

"What happened to your face, F–A–C–E?" Hoddy asks, truly curious.

South's scar fills with blood. "Look, dirt bag, two men were here. A tall, muscular one with short, spiky hair, and a shorter, smart-mouthed, wiry one with long greasy hair, right?"

"Uh… no, N–O. The big guy was here, but he was with some blue alien, a Dismemberon, I think, T–H–I–N–K."

South turns to Cleanerschmidt. How does a Dismemberon figure into this? Dropping Hoddy, they walk amongst the small military team that has the station's control bay locked down.

"We've had problems with those bastards for eons, now," South says in hushed tones. "It would certainly fit if the terrorists were some blue-faced supremacist group."

"Perhaps there is only one Dismemberon involved, sir. Just because the kid says a Dismemberon was with Slate doesn't mean the entire Dismemberon race is behind this."

South stops, fixes Cleanerschmidt with a narrow-eyed stare.

"Let me go!" squeals a female voice.

The two officers observe a soldier escorting the still hideously clad Asilla Ffee into the room.

"Who's this?"

"Don't know, sir," replies the trooper. "We caught her trying to sneak onto the Vi-Scout."

South looks Asilla up and down, then steps in close to her.

"Oooh," she croons, slipping into entice mode, apparently oblivious to South's raging scar, "I just love a man in uniform."

"Do you? What about men in Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarments. Seen any of those, lately?"

Ffee purses her lips, darting her tongue along their surface. "Maybe."

"Answer the question!"

Asilla jumps, taken aback. "One guy. I saw only one guy in his underwear. He was big and a real jerk. Was with some skinny blue alien. Then he got into a fight with the Nectar Nine boys and they all took off outta here."

"Yeah," adds Hoddy, watching from across the room, "tore off the Firm Tube in one of the docking bays, too, T–O!"

"Nectar Nine? You mean the Nectar Nine Police?"

Asilla nods.

"Great, those fascist cops will screw up everything. Cleanerschmidt, pull everyone out and get us back to the Annihilator. We have to intercept Slate before those cops do."

The troopers scramble for the Vi-Scout(tm), leaving a confused Hoddy and Asilla standing with mouths agape.

South thumbs his Commucon Stay-Close(tm). "Vice-Admiral…"

"What did you find, South?"

"Bad news. They aren't here, and what's worse, they've attracted the attention of some Nectar Nine Police officers."

"Pull your team out, South. If the NNP find them, they're dead. And we'll have lost our only lead to the terrorists."

"Already on our way, sir."

"All systems stable… looks like we've shaken off another couple of butt heads anxious to string us up," Gladius says. "Seems we've done nothing but get people riled." He deactivates his chair, swivels to Fystik. "Okay, Fystik, feed in the course to this so-called terrorist base, I'll check on Geronimo."

Fystik hesitates, staring down at the console.

Gladius stops at the bulkhead and looks back, weighs the possibility that the Dismemberon is about to renege on his deal. "What's the problem?"

"You said Petunia is dead, Mr. Slate?"

Gladius nods affirmative.

"I don't think so," Fystik continues. "We had an excellent early detection system on the Eighth Planet. She would have seen them coming. I'm sure she has escaped, and is probably on her way to fulfill our current contract."

"You knew her that well?"

Fystik blushes to a deep navy blue. "You might say we… were intimate. We are betrothed."

Gladius blinks, amazed. "So? That has nothing to do with our deal."

"I'm afraid it does. Our current contract is to deliver three more modified Scow Cows to the DataTrump Fruition Front. I am sure Petunia would do so. And if she knew our operation was exposed she would also attempt to cut future contact with the terrorists."

"Fine," Gladius shrugs. "Maybe we'll see her when we check this place out, if she's alive."

Fystik fidgets, looking at the floor. "Petunia and I have discussed the possibility of this very situation, and Petunia refuses to believe that the terrorists will not let us terminate our dealings. I know they are very nervous, mistrusting." He raises his eyes to Gladius. "They won't leave loose ends. They will extract information from her… then kill her."

"Kind of like what you two were going to do to Geronimo and I?" asks Gladius, astonished.

"No, no. That was just business. Well, pleasant business, perhaps. But nothing personal, I assure you."

"Uh huh."

"I will give you the course change if you give me your word that we will attempt to locate Petunia, and rescue her if need be."

Slate considers this momentarily, then lets out a frustrated sigh of resignation. "Okay. But no more deals. And if she or you make any aggressive moves against myself or Geronimo, you're both dead. You got me?"

The Dismemberon briefly holds Gladius's stare, then lowers his eyes. "Agreed."

"We got course change happening," informs the Losfallonite.

The Nectar Nine Police cruiser, chasing the fleeing Ebony Skulker, blasts through hyperspace. The throb of the powerful Super HootToot Pursuit(tm) drive reverberates through its frame.

"Laser Tow Thread initiating course redirection."

"Great, I'll pull back on the throttle," Plinket says. "Let's maintain a discreet trailing distance. We'll nab the bastards when they slow down."

Ravv spasms in a silent chuckle and returns his concentration to the instrumentation.

"Get me Military Control A–S–A–P."

"Military Control A–S–A–P," crackles the voice.

"This is Vice-Admiral Ragellon, on board the Annihilator. Give me High Commander Supreme Dashe Snoyan."

Salata casts an annoyed look at Cleanerschmidt, who is listening intently. The Lieutenant, noticing South's agitation, shrugs and returns his attention to the Holo-Vis(tm) as an image of a slightly disheveled, yet striking middle-aged woman, High Commander Supreme Dashe Snoyan, appears.

"Yes, Vice-Admiral Ragellon?"

"Thank you for your promptness, High Commander."

"You rarely call if it isn't urgent, what is it?"

"Operation Maelstrom is paying dividends. I have a good lead on the terrorists."

Snoyan straightens. "Fill me in."

Ragellon quickly briefs the High Commander Supreme with the information he has gleaned. Snoyan listens intently.

"…we're trailing our suspects now, heading for what we believe to be a terrorist base," concludes Ragellon. "I want some back up, however, before I go in."

"Good work, Vice-Admiral. I can possibly spare four ships." She consults her Pocket Pal(tm) command center, checking on the position of each ship in the fleet. "You can have the Battle Accelerators Decimater, under Itchtrong; the Expunger, under Helfogg; the Abrogate, under Wu Su; and the Pulverizer, under Brown. All are presently stationed at Desolate Harmony."

"I'll have our flight plan fed to their navigational controllers," advises Ragellon with a tone of finality.

"Be careful, Vice-Admiral."

The High Commander Supreme's image blinks out.

Inside the High Commander Supreme's office, the naked Colonel Dwayne Itchtrong, commander of the Decimater, crawls from the recessed boudoir, out of the rhythmically waving follicles of a luxurious Blissfollian Fun Fur(tm) comforter.

"It seems that poop, Ragellon, has finally found something," Dashe says. "We should plan for a botch up."

"As usual. May I suggest that I arrive late. Let Ragellon and the others screw with the up front defenses. Meanwhile, myself and the Frak Crak Assault Team can take care of business at the back door."

"That would be the most expedient way to deal with the situation."

On the bridge of the Annihilator, the helmsman maintains his vigil over the Battle Accelerator's guidance systems. Ragellon, South and Cleanerschmidt step through the portal.

"How are we doing?" asks Ragellon.

"One minor course correction, so far," informs the helmsman, motioning to the Holo-Plotter's(tm) brightly colored tracings that highlight the Homing Detect O'Probe's(tm) flight path.

"Let me know the moment we get a position fix on their destination."

Heratio Brown's silver lips nuzzle naughtily in the nape of Helena Helfogg's neck. With a smile she pulls away from him, offering a playful wink.

"No time, snookums," she says, pulling her one piece uniform up over her firm, bountiful body, "you heard Snoyan's orders. We're on full alert."

"So, Ragellon and South may have turned up a clue," ponders Brown, buttoning his tunic.

"Hard to say, but Ragellon can scramble the fleet without any red tape." She slides her feet into her boots, then turns to Brown, who has finished dressing. "Perhaps they have found something. It's about time somebody did."

They kiss tenderly, then, separating, they assume the demeanor of command.

Together, they stride down the corridor of the Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm) Expunger. Stopping briefly at the elevator, Brown's silver hand gives Helfogg's a quick squeeze. They exchange a lover's glance, a hint of smile, then Brown steps into the elevator. Hearing the lift descend behind her, Helfogg continues to the bridge.

The flight crew snaps to attention as Helfogg enters.

"We're ready to disembark, Captain," calls the Expunger's helmsman.

Helfogg slides behind her control desk, taking her seat in the Magno Command Chair(tm). "Sound the alarm, prepare to get underway."

Captain Brown strides through the corridors of Desolate Harmony, heading toward the docking station of his Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm), the Pulverizer. A Whizzer(tm) pulls up beside him, the stout, bullish form of Major Hugh Wu Su within.

"Heratio, get in," calls Wu Su. "I'm on my way to the Abrogate. I can drop you at your ship."

Brown nods his thanks, then jumps in next to Major Wu Su. The Major gooses the throttle, speeding the Whizzer(tm) toward the Pulverizer.

BLEEET!

A small alarm informs of an incoming transmission. The Observer taps the keypad on the desk console. A text message appears on screen:

The Observer considers the information, then clears the screen.

* * *

BLOOOP!

The Compu-Stud's Trajectory Tracer(tm) of Petunia Ren's spaceship, the Stencheron Stellar Glider(tm), alerts its crew to the message appearing on the data display terminal:

Petunia quickly touches the 'ENTER' key, allowing the computer to proceed with its deceleration sequence.

Snax, who has wedged himself into a corner of the Stencheron's rear compartment, belches softly and reaches for another Hydroxilated Nutri-Chew(tm) wafer from the carton clenched in his pods. Several crumbs fall lazily in the GravLite(tm) gravity field.

SNICK!

His tongue flicks back into his mouth, one of the larger crumbs adhering to its sticky tip. Satisfied, he leans forward to peer out a porthole.

Petunia settles into her Magno Chair(tm) and braces herself for the strain of deceleration from hyperspace. The computer readout indicates six seconds to initiate.

FWWWOOOMMMM!

Snax catches the briefest glimpse of a bare-bones grid shape erupting into view before he is tossed violently against the forward bulkhead by the tremendous g–force of deceleration.

What now? Groping for a hold, suckers emerge from his right pod. He suctions onto the surface of the bulkhead and grapples to the porthole.

Outside the ship looms a sprawling, scaffold-like structure, its general appearance being that of numerous, interconnecting spoked hubs. Beyond the space-grid lies the patchwork patterns of a farming planet.

As the Stencheron approaches the grid, Snax notes the unusual configuration of the hubs and platforms. Huge Fraz-Boom(tm) guns poke from cleverly camouflaged pillboxes within the grid's superstructure. The grid bristles with armaments.

"Request identification code," comes a voice over Petunia's Commucon(tm).

"Code ZX dash FRT one slash seven," says Petunia, leaning toward an Ocular Tester(tm) retina scanner.

"Code identified. Prepare for retina scan."

She opens her eye, pressing it into the scanner.

FWZZZZZT!

The scan is completed.

"Welcome, Petunia Ren."

A bookish Glik-Gnome appears on the Holo-Vis(tm) screen. Petunia, looking at the familiar, squat, long-eared alien, nods.

"Please follow the lit portion through the grid and proceed to the planet's surface."

The Holo-Vis(tm) blinks out.

Beyond the front view port, several of the spokes disappear. Rows of lights wink on, indicating the route through the grid. Petunia deftly guides the Stencheron, and the three Scow Cows in tow, along the lighted pathway, toward the city lying on the surface of the small Green Moon below.

The Ebony Skulker, Series FX20(tm) gracefully glides through hyperspace, its crew oblivious to the NNP Cruiser that follows it. Slate, his massive frame hunched over the piloting console, attempts to focus on the delicate instruments before him. His blue-skinned companion whistles a melodic tune, swinging his thin legs back and forth in the navigator's seat. Fystik studies his captor carefully, curious about the big man's angst.

"What's your real problem, lower life form?" he asks, abandoning caution.

Slate slowly swivels his chair, then leans toward the slight alien. "Look, Fishstik, we made our deal. I'll take you to where Petunia would be if she weren't dead, and you'll see me to the terrorist base so I can send my stupid report to IDR headquarters and keep my job, okay? Telling you my personal problems does not enter into it."

Fystik shrugs, focuses on the Navi-Control(tm).

Geronimo enters the bridge, examining beneath the red cape and flexing his newly healed shoulder. Spying Fystik, he stops abruptly. "What's he doin' here?"

"He was repairing himself in the AutoDoc. He's going to lead us to the terrorists."

"What?!"

Fystik glances toward the commotion.

"We're going to help him find Petunia Ren in return for his getting us a fix on the terrorists," informs Gladius.

"Petunia? Terrorists?! No fuckin' way! That's a good way to end up D–E–A–D dead!"

"Oh, don't you start."

"What?" Geronimo looks from Gladius to Fystik and back.

"Never mind." Gladius rubs his forehead, choosing his words carefully, trying to convince himself as much as Geronimo. "I am a sworn agent of the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company. I have been asked, in the name of our missing brothers and sisters, to keep tabs on the situation and report any information to my superiors. Through Mister Fystik here, we have a lead on the suspected culprits. Now, you can help us, or I can eject you into space."

Geronimo glances to Fystik, who offers a weak smile and a shrug, then back at the somewhat haggard Gladius.

"Alright, I'll help."

Petunia completes the shut down procedure of the Stencheron Stellar Glider(tm), which lurches as it begins it's descent on the landing platform, en route to the underground hangars. The three Scow Cows remain parked on the surface field.

"Mr. Munitions," she calls.

The robot comes to life, turns his turret to listen.

"I want you fully armed. This is our last deal with the DataTrump Fruition Front and we don't want any misunderstandings."

"Oooo, it will be my pleasure, Miss Petunia."

CLICK. WHIRR. FWICKT.

Numerous weapons appear and disappear along the surface of Mr. Munitions's(tm) metallic bulk. The sounds and smells of on-line fire power fill the cabin.

"Heh, heh," he chuckles.

In the cargo hold, Snax cautiously lumbers through the maze of containers. Reaching the aft bulkhead, he stops next to a ladder. Checking to see that no one has been alerted to his presence, he slowly climbs upward, poking his singular eye into a dim compartment. The galley. Spying some delectable treats, Snax's mouth begins to water.

"Snacks," he moans lustily, pulling his portly form up into the food preparation compartment.

From its metal case, Petunia pulls a mini Five Point Pin-Laser(tm) and attaches it to her left forearm. She shrugs her shirt sleeve down to conceal the weapon.

"Open the hatch," she orders to Mr. Munitions(tm).

"Vroom, vroom," mutters the large robot, moving on his dual treads to the gangway. "Here we go!"

Opening the door, he advances onto the ramp, Petunia close behind.

"Welcome, Petunia Ren," calls First Clerk One, Rhymo Stanzilli. He stands alone on the large, flat-gray docking bay.

"Where's Bloition?"

"Ooo, hoo," Mr. Munitions(tm) chirps, weapons activating, his senses detecting a hostile presence. But before he can fire a single shot, a Bot Force Paralyzer Ray(tm) encircles him, disrupting his electronic field. Mr. Munitions(tm) sputters, then freezes.

Petunia stops in her tracks, fists clenching. She glares at Rhymo. "Problem with my bodyguard?"

"Not at all," replies the fastidious First Clerk One.

A full compliment of Protect O'Bots(tm) emerge from the gloom around the Stencheron, followed by three combat-garbed henchmen, one of them carrying a Bot Force Paralyzer Ray(tm) gun.