Chapter Fourteen
FALSE POSITIVE
"What the hell is this?!"

Gladius is slumped low in the Magno Piloting Swivel Chair(tm), his feet up on the console, brooding. He has been trying to piece together Fystik's revelations, recent news reports, and the personal events of the past few days. He now knows for certain, as Captain Salata South had suspected, that the terrorist attacks on the governmental bases were accomplished with the aid of Scow Cow infiltration, supplied by Fystik and friends. His problem is the military involvement, and the implied seriousness of the situation. The thought of tangling with whomever has been bombing governmental bases doesn't thrill him.

He turns to the communications terminal. Hoddy Scrunge has done some work on the system and there is a strange, uneven metal box of homemade design bolted onto the center of the console. Several multi-colored wires protrude from the box and disappear into a number of freshly drilled holes in the panel. Giving a doubtful shake of the head, Gladius flips the toggle to power up the terminal. The lights wink on, flicker once, then stabilize. The 'SYSTEM READY' indicator glows.

Gladius brightens at the apparent reliability of the motor-mouthed kid. He types in the location code and places another deep space call to Rolezar Doughan.

Fystik, who has been snoozing in the Magno Navi Chair(tm), cocks an eye at Slate. Gladius notices the Dismemberon's concern.

"Don't worry, we made a deal. I just want to straighten some things out with my boss so that I'll still have a job when this is over, provided we make it out alive."

Fystik nods, closes his eye, and resumes snoozing.

PING!

The IDR Company logo appears on screen, followed by the image of Rolezar's assistant district manager.

"I need to speak to Doughan."

"The District Manager is presently… uh… unavailable," replies the assistant, squirming nervously.

"It's important. Tell him it's a message from Gladius Slate."

"Slate…"

"Yes. I need to speak to Doughan, now."

"He is unavailable."

"Look, I need some help out here or––"

The connection suddenly terminates. Fystik raises his eyelids, watches silently.

Gladius is baffled by the assistant district manager's abrupt manner. The perplexing bureaucracy of the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company is beginning to get to him. Enough is enough. He pounds another location code into the jerry-rigged communications console.

The logo of the Interstellar Detritus Reclaimers Union appears, accompanied by a thin, monotone greeting.

"With whom would you care to speak?"

"Mirty Fuegg, please."

BLEEEP. TWEEETLE. TARTARTATA.

A dim, static riddled image appears. Mirty Fuegg, Union president, leans into the cone of light spilling from his desk lamp. "This is Fuegg."

"Brother Fuegg, Gladius Slate here. Look, I'm in a bit of a bind. I think I've discovered the source of these terrorist attacks, but things are getting too hot out here, what with military involvement and all. The Company is insisting I stay. I said turn it over to the Space Commission, but they refused. Now I can't even get through to them."

"Military, you say? That's nuts, the Company shouldn't leave you, uh, stranded like this. Do you want to look at filing a grievance?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Just see if you could get through to Doughan, get me out of here or at least get me some help."

"Alright, hang tough, brother Slate, I'll look into it."

The screen goes dark as Mirty Fuegg terminates the connection. Buoyed by the promise of relief, Gladius settles back in his chair and closes his eyes.

The Annihilator's Cyan HooterTooters(tm) continue to ram the massive craft through hyperspace. On the bridge Captain Salata South paces, scar bright red, occasionally glancing toward the display of the Homing Detect O'Probe's(tm) flight path.

"They're getting further ahead of us," he announces.

"Yes, sir," replies the helmsman, wincing.

"Go faster." The disturbed Captain makes a brisk exit.

"Hey, Happyass," calls Geronimo, entering from the aft hold.

Gladius rises to face his ex-copilot, his scowl softening at the sight. Geronimo holds the awesome form of the completely assembled BIGGER GUN(tm).

"Does it work?"

"It should. I don't really think we wanna test it in here, though."

Fystik glances back briefly, then returns his attention to the Navi-Control(tm) console.

Gladius takes the enormous weapon into his hands, pulling on the shoulder strap. He caresses its metal, fondles its trigger, the aromatic scent of fresh gun oil tickling his olfactory. A keypad over the hand grip catches his eye. "What's this?"

"Randomizer."

"What's it do?"

"How should I know. Although I think I may have broken it when I put it together. Sorry." Geronimo shrugs and wanders off to search for more treasures.

"Fystik, how long until we reach this terrorist base?" Gladius is sighting his new weapon on the back of the unsuspecting Dismemberon's head.

"We will be decelerating in fifty-seven minutes and counting," calls the Dismemberon, intent on the navigational readouts.

"Good." The big man hefts the BIGGER GUN(tm). "Very good."

Salata South ruminates, pacing the hallways of the Annihilator, smacking one gloved hand into the other. He stops outside the large double doors of the Battle Orchestration Room(tm). Taking a deep breath, he swipes the latch pad and the doors slide open.

Inside, Joshua Ragellon sits at the El Grande Concert Control Console(tm), coordinating the four other ships that are on their way to join the Annihilator.

"Excuse me, Vice-Admiral, but we may have a problem."

The Vice-Admiral looks over his half-lensed spectacles, focuses on his senior officer. "How so?"

"That ship is getting farther ahead of us."

"Have we adjusted speed accordingly?"

"Yes, but that may be where our problem lies."

"Explain."

"If we follow too closely, we'll arrive before any of our backup support. That could put us in a strategically vulnerable position."

Ragellon ponders this.

"But if we wait," Salata continues, "the garbage men may alert the terrorists to our knowledge of the Eighth Planet…"

"…and they would alter their defenses accordingly, or escape," finishes Ragellon. "Damnation!"

"Do we follow and go in unprotected?"

"We have no choice. This is the closest we've ever been to nailing the terrorists. We can't risk letting them slip away. Prepare your team. This is going to get bloody."

"What the hell?" Officer Plinket is examining the readouts from the NNP cruiser's systems computer.

"Status checks no good?" asks Ravv, ambling back to his station, a large can of carbonated caffeine drink clasped in his pincers.

Plinket pulls at his thinning caterpillar mustache, his brow furrowed. "According to this, our braking AttiTooters are askew."

"So?"

"So, when we kick out of hyperspace and punch up the AttiToots to slow us down, we're likely to go into a blinding, spinning, barrel-rolling, somersaulting, tumble that will be uncorrectable for fifteen million kilometers of space flight. That'll really suck."

"Can't be." Ravv plunks his bulk into the over-sized copilot's chair.

"Why?"

"I checked all systems before docking at Scrunge Station. No way it go wrong."

Plinket sizes up his partner's serious look, then nods his head. "Probably this stupid computer. These L Seven-Fifties have never worked as well as the old Bozwell Three-Hundreds. Never could understand why they replaced them. We still got a bead on our mark?"

Ravv glances over to the Laser Tow Thread(tm) scanning screen. A bright green blip defines the position of the Ebony Skulker. "Still there."

"Initiating deceleration sequence," calls Fystik from the navigator's chair. "We'll be at the rendezvous point in five minutes."

"Good." Gladius props the BIGGER GUN(tm) next to the Magno Piloting Swivel Chair(tm) and takes his place at the helm. He fingers the Commucon Stay-Close(tm) on the arm of the chair. "Strap down, Geronimo. We're coming out of hyperspace."

In the forward hold Geronimo sits in a sleek, black Hover Screemer(tm). Climbing from the four-seater, open cockpit terrain vehicle, he glances at the cargo bay hatch, taking note of the quick-release latches and the extension ramp, then clambers up the ladder to the bridge.

"Decelerating… now," comes Fystik's lilting voice as Geronimo activates his Magno Chair(tm).

The view through the forward screen changes into that of a giant, grid-like space station with a small, green planet beyond it, both back-lit by a brightly colored nebula.

"That's some set up," says Gladius. "Looks like a huge weather control and manufacturing grid."

"Don't let it fool you," replies Fystik, calmly. "That's the finest defense grid in known space. An armada couldn't get through that without losing half its fleet."

The StopEmCold Defense Grid(tm) consists of multiple layers of evenly spaced hubs, each with several spokes radiating out to connect with neighboring hubs. The spokes are structural girders and transit tubes for moving between hubs. The main purpose of the grid is defense and the hubs are devoted to weapons installments, however, each hub is a self-contained unit and can be tailored as a research station, orbital manufacturing plant, or weather control base for the planet below.

Various routes through the grid exist, but they are usually disguised with holo-projections of bogus spokes. Although small cruiser-style vessels can fit through most areas of the grid, something as large as a Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm) warship would need special guidance to squeak through designated passageways.

As with all StopEmCold Defense Grids(tm), unless they surround the entire planet, they are in geo-synchronous orbit and the edges are protected by an extremely high-powered laser. This laser, emanating from a source on the planet, is aimed at a mirror on the rim of the grid. This mirror reflects down to a land based mirror, then back up to the next successive mirror on the grid, and so on, zig-zagging around its circumference. All the mirrors are on automatic tracking pivots so that they can never be misaligned by movement of the grid or elimination of one or more mirrors.

In addition, the laser and mirrors oscillate to provide a 'solid' curtain of laser-light around the installation to be protected, and the laser is so powerful that it will slice, deli-style, even the fastest moving projectile. Unless the laser is turned off, there is absolutely no way to cross the boundary.

"How the fuck are we gonna get through that, huh?" squeals Geronimo.

"We got deceleration of vehicle," informs the Losfallonite Nectar Nine Police officer from the Laser Tow Thread(tm) tracking console.

"Excellent," affirms his partner, Officer Plinket. "I'm still a little nervous about this anomalous reading we're gettin' from the AttiTooters, though. Let's drop from hyperspace with a two-million kilometer buffer, just in case."

"Yes, sir."

Fraz-Boom(tm) guns poke their snouts from the nearest connecting hubs of the Green Moon's StopEmCold Defense Grid(tm). The face of the Glik-Gnome materializes on the Skulker's Holo-Vis(tm).

"Hold your position and await clearance."

Fystik turns to Gladius. "You must give a clearance code."

"I don't know any code, what code?"

Fystik calls out: "ZX dash FRT one slash seven."

The image of the Glik-Gnome fades out. Gladius looks questioningly to Fystik, who shrugs. Suddenly, the image of the Glik-Gnome reappears.

"That is an invalid code. You have ten seconds to supply a correct security code or you will be destroyed."

"Well, hang on, we're here to visit a friend," says Gladius, stalling for time, gesturing frantically to Fystik.

"Five seconds."

"Look, we… uh… misplaced our code," Gladius stammers.

"One… prepare to be destroyed."

"Wait! We're leaving!" Gladius thumbs the reverse AttiTooters(tm). The Skulker surges, backing away from the grid. The Glik-Gnome's image fades out.

"Petunia's here!" Fystik shouts. "She's already used that code, that's why they won't accept it."

Gladius glares at the Dismemberon.

"Sorry," Fystik replies. "I only know the one code."

Gladius swings the ship's nose toward the blackness of space.

"Hey, I said Petunia is here. What about it? You said we were going to rescue Petunia."

"I'm not going to tangle with that mess," retorts Gladius, avoiding the Dismemberon's gaze.

Geronimo, who has been massaging a growing headache, breathes a sigh of relief. "At last, Happybutt," he says, deactivating his Magno Chair(tm), "a little self-preservation, that's what I wanna see."

"Shut up, Geronimo." Gladius fumes, the conflicting pressures of Company orders, honoring of his word, and his own common sense are taking their toll.

Fystik, fearing a change of plans, glances from Geronimo to the tightly wound Gladius. In urgent need of a bargaining chip, he looks down at the monitors and readouts before him on the Navi-Control(tm) console. His face brightens. "We aren't going anywhere, Inferior Ones."

"Whaddaya talkin' about, Blue Face?" asks Geronimo.

"No fuel."

Gladius swivels, his eyes feral. "What do you mean, no fuel?"

"Just what I said, no fuel."

In a fury Gladius tries to rise, but can't escape the Magno Restraining Field(tm) of his chair, which frustrates him further. He pounds the deactivate button and, suspecting a ploy, attempts to stride to the Dismemberon's station. The GravLite(tm) gravity forces him to make one huge, looping step, and he has to catch himself on the Nav-Control(tm) console. His gut sinks at the information on the screen. No fuel.

"That snot-nosed kid back at that service station was supposed to gas it up." He looks up from the screen, gazing listlessly around the cabin.

"Well, perhaps there is enough to make it back to the Green Moon," suggests Fystik.

Gladius shoots the blue-skinned alien a nasty grimace.

"No fuckin' way," Geronimo shouts. "Didn't we just decide not to conduct any suicidal activities?"

Gladius ignores his ex-copilot and crosses to his Magno Piloting Swivel Chair(tm). Geronimo moves to Fystik's shoulder, staring at the screen in disbelief.

hhhHHHHUUUUMMMMAAA!!

Geronimo tumbles backward, red cape billowing over his head. He flails for his Magno Chair(tm) and manages to pull himself into the seat, then claws at the cape to untangle himself. "You're not gonna go into that grid, are you?" he shouts, over the whine of the engines.

Gladius has resigned himself to his fate. "No. But our only choice is to take this thing down."

Fystik smiles. Geronimo closes his eyes, his fingertips pressing his temples.

"I'm going to try and make it around the edge of the grid," informs Gladius. "Maybe we'll have a chance there."

The Skulker's HooterTooters(tm) blaze. The sleek black craft vaults forward, heading for the far edge of the grid. The grid comes to life, Fraz-Boom(tm) guns appearing from everywhere to track the vessel.

Gladius steers the ship parallel to the grid.

FFFWWWWWCCCCHHHHTTTT!!!

"We've been hit in the left stabilizer," informs Fystik. "May I suggest you begin evasive––"

Before the Dismemberon can finish his thought, Gladius yanks on the joystick, then quickly slams it forward. The Skulker pitches wildly, structural supports straining. The grid opens fire and the Electro-Pulse Surges(tm) of the Fraz-Boom(tm) guns whine around the speeding ship.

Inside the Grid Station Prime Hub(tm), First Clerk Alfonse bursts into the NabAll Nerve Center(tm). The Glik-Gnome sits in the Magno Control Chair(tm), rapidly issuing commands to the defenses. He is observing the Skulker's mad dash on a large Holo-Vis(tm) monitor.

"We've got a crasher!"

"Go to full alert weapons stance," orders Alfonse.

"I've done that. That ship is moving too fast."

Alfonse brushes the Glik-Gnome aside and begins to feverishly bash at the controls.

CRRRCCCKKKLLLLZZZZSSSSHHHHTT!!

The Skulker shakes violently.

"What'd they hit?" shouts Gladius, expertly guiding the ebony craft through the flak.

"Don't worry," informs Fystik, "that one was only cosmetic."

BBWWWWAAAAMMMPPP!

The sleek ship lurches again.

"The right stabilizer's gone!" Fystik has turned a pale, powder blue.

"That ain't cosmetic," shouts Geronimo.

The Skulker starts a slow, clockwise roll.

"Crap!" Gladius wrestles to correct the attitude and guide the ship away from the grid.

The ship fights back, veering toward an inevitable collision, the outer rim of the grid fast approaching. Gladius, sweat pouring down his brow, mouth dry, reefs on the joystick. Geronimo and Fystik, eyes wide, stare out the forward view screen.

BACLLLANNNGG!!

The Skulker takes a hit in the tail. It jolts violently, wobbling in its trajectory. The edge of the grid is upon them. The percussion of the hit has caused the front end of the Skulker to swing out, narrowly missing collision, but the back end doesn't clear.

KASCRRRAAAANNGGGG!!

The vertical stabilizer unit peels away in a blaze of sparks. The grid strut crumples, wrenching on the nearby hub. A Fraz-Boom(tm) gun misfires, slicing through two more struts. Like dominoes, a ripple of destruction fans out from the damaged area, then quickly subsides. The grid shudders and its mirrors, which support the laser curtain, swivel and adjust to maintain the security continuum. The Skulker remains outside the security zone.

Clear of the grid, Gladius manages to nose dive the ship toward the planet.

Deep beneath the Green Moon's only city, Verd, lies a sprawling business complex. Secreted within this are the disguised offices of the terrorist organization: the DataTrump Fruition Front.

In the Crusade Strategy Room(tm), the nerve center of the terrorist base, the emergency meeting of the DFF directors is interrupted by the sound of a whooping klaxon. First Chairman Supreme Bloition rises to his feet, jabbing at his Commucon Stay-Close(tm).

"What the hell is going on?" he barks at the security team in an adjacent room.

"We have a crasher, cleared the grid, but still exterior, margin five," reports a security agent. "Cop Hopper already dispatched."

"Get me Alfonse!"

Alfonse is surveying the damaged grid being displayed on a bank of Holo-Vis Monitors(tm) when the image of the First Chairman Supreme impinges on the central Holo-Vis(tm).

"What the hell is going on?!" demands Bloition.

"Uh… just a little security incident. There has been no breach and it's being taken care of, sir," replies Alfonse, cringing at the impending wrath.

"Standby for deceleration!" calls Officer Plinket from the Magno Piloting Chair(tm) within the hurtling Nectar Nine Police cruiser. "Brace yourself, Ravv, this could get rough!"

The insect-like Losfallonite nods and grips the arms of his Magno Navi-Chair(tm) with his claw pincers.

Plinket watches the count scroll down to zero.

"NOW!" he shouts, and the hum of the reverse drives crescendos to a feverish whine.

The compact police pursuit vehicle bursts forth into normalspace and immediately begins to yaw to the left. The on board stabilizers detect the abnormal situation and fire the corresponding AttiTooters(tm) in an attempt to straighten the vehicle's flight. As forewarned by the systems computer, the braking AttiTooter(tm) drives are, in fact, misaligned, and when the stabilizing AttiTooters(tm) kick in, the braking AttiTooters(tm) automatically adjust to compensate for apparent vehicle skew. Unfortunately, they are being informed to adjust to an abnormal situation using normal settings.

The computer performs a rapid iteration with the incoming data, producing a hideously complicated, ever increasingly complex series of corrections representing the flight attitude the cruiser should take. The drives alternate, firing rapidly, the aberrant pitching of the vehicle quickly degenerating until, approximately six seconds after eruption into normalspace, the ship is flung into a blinding, spinning, barrel-rolling, somersaulting, tumble.

"What the hell is this?!" The Glik-Gnome stares at the rapidly approaching, squiggling ball of fuzz displayed on the Mid-range Sens O'Scope(tm).

Alfonse snaps to attention at the sight of the projectile. "Not another attack! Get a target lock, quick!"

The Glik-Gnome flails at the keyboard, initiating automatic targeting systems to track the curious missile.

"Done!"

The whirling Nectar Nine Police cruiser, with its cargo of lunch-less, comatose police officers, barrels down on the Green Moon's StopEmCold Defense Grid(tm). Seconds from impact, it has barely scrubbed off any speed at all.

"Fire, dammit!!!" shrieks Alfonse.

The Glik-Gnome's finger plants onto the trigger button. The gaping barrel of a HubbaMort(tm) cannon spits its load, rattling the Grid.

Less than twenty kilometers out, the snub-nosed, exploding shell interacts with the embroiled police cruiser. Both cease-to-be in a silent, blinding flash of splitting atoms.

"Sir," calls the anxious helmsman.

Salata moves to the main bridge console. "What's the problem?"

"The ship we've been following, its disappeared."

"What?! How?!"

Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt shifts his attention to the commotion, stunned by what he is hearing.

"The signal just stopped."

Salata punches the intercom. "Vice-Admiral Ragellon, please report to the bridge." He examines the last trace of plot points defining the Homing Detect O'Probe's(tm) flight path. There is a vast variance in direction and speed readings, then nothing.

Ragellon storms into the room. "What's gone wrong?"

"We've lost the signal from the garbage men, sir."

"Looks like they were destroyed," Ragellon comments, studying the abrupt end to the erratic flight path. "How long until we catch up with where they left hyperspace?"

"Forty-five minutes, sir," informs the helmsman.

"Go to full alert, I want all hands to battle stations."

The Ebony Skulker glows a dangerous, cherry red as it blasts through the Green Moon's atmosphere. Half of its heat protection is being seared off by the excessive speed of reentry. On its bridge, Gladius's muscles have begun to ache. He tightens his grip, the joystick twisting in his hands.

AAAHHHHOOOOOOGAAA!!!

An alarm sounds, followed by the electronic voice of the ship's autonomous monitoring system: "Fuel reserve depleted! Fuel reserve depleted!"

"Find a soft place to hit," yells Geronimo.

A portion of the ship's console ignites in a shower of burning electronics. Geronimo reaches for an extinguisher to douse the fire. The wide-eyed Fystik holds on for life.

The Skulker bursts through a layer of thin cloud, a chartreuse field of Fibra Grain(tm) below. Gladius pulls back on the stick and revs the sputtering braking AttiTooters(tm). The ebony craft touches down, rips through the field, dirt and Fibra Grain(tm) flying into the air.

Toppling a staunch DooVinee tree as though it were a match stick, the Skulker comes to rest, it's nose plowed into the ground.

Within the charred ship, Gladius deactivates his Piloting Magno Swivel Chair(tm) and slides to the floor. Fystik slowly rises, holding tightly to the navigational console. Both look to Geronimo, who has braced himself, knuckles white, his eyes shut tight.

"Lavoriss," coughs Gladius, "we're down. You can get up, now."

Geronimo slowly opens his eyes, one at a time. Realizing that the ship has stopped shaking, he touches the de-act button for his chair and stands on wobbly legs.

The three travelers stretch and begin to acquaint themselves to the moon's gravity. Gladius picks up the BIGGER GUN(tm), pulling the strap over his shoulder.

"How far are we from… anywhere?"

Fystik looks at the flickering Navi-Control(tm) console. Touching a button, he awaits a response. The screen flashes the information.

"The Green Moon's only city, Verd, is one-hundred and twenty-two point three kilometers away, due east."

"That's a hell of a hike," Gladius sighs.

"Hike, shmike," Lavoriss calls, "find yourselves some more firepower and meet me outside."

Confident once more, Geronimo springs toward the cargo access corridor, leaving Fystik and Slate to trade a questioning glance.

Finding two Hand Cannons(tm) and a Prompt O'Sting(tm) pole, Fystik and Gladius climb out of the bridge emergency escape hatch. The large human breathes deeply, sucking in the clean, Green Moon air. He helps the delicate Fystik onto the outer hull, and then down to the ground.

"Where is Geronimo?" asks Fystik, excited. "We must hurry along to meet Petunia."

SSSCREEEEEKLLLE… POP!

The bottom of the Skulker begins to creak and groan. Steam and dust blow out from below the hull and hydraulics whine to an inaudible pitch as, trying to open like a jaw, the buried nose of the listing Skulker is pried skyward.

Gladius squints through the dirt and debris. The screech of hydraulics and tearing metal wanes and is replaced by the pounding, arrhythmic tempo of contemporary BoomFaFa-Waltz(tm) music. Fystik's foot begins to tap to the uneven beat. From the darkness within, a pair of tri-lights ignite, then glide from the belly of the ship.

The glossy black, stream-lined, open-cockpit Hover Screemer(tm) comes to a chirping halt in front of Fystik and Gladius. Geronimo sits in the driver's seat, merrily revving its engine like some spotty teenager.

"Whaddaya waitin' for?" he shouts over the din of the music. "Hop in."

The Dismemberon follows the large human into the luxurious confines of the Hover Screemer(tm). It rocks gently as the gravity repulsers adjust to the added weight.

Gladius eliminates the painful, wailing music by snapping off the front panel of the Maxiphonic Aural Processor(tm), then glares at Lavoriss. Before they can activate their Magno Bucket Seats(tm), Geronimo floors the Screemer, hurtling it across the field toward a dirt road.