Chapter Fifteen
FRACAS
"We don't have time."

Snax belches abruptly, having finished the remaining morsels of food in the Stencheron's galley.

"Excuse me," he says aloud, looking around sheepishly. Struggling to his feet, the satiated Metamorphrodite absently scratches his buttocks and heads for the door. He saunters down the hallway, pausing at the hatch leading to the ship's exterior. Hearing nothing, he peeks out. The large, gray hangar lies empty and quiet beyond the confines of the vessel.

"Hmmm, I'd better do some, urrp, like, recon." And with that, he cautiously trundles down the gangplank.

"Ten seconds to deceleration," informs the helmsman. "All decks are on full alert."

"Good," breathes Vice-Admiral Ragellon from his Magno Supreme Command Chair(tm), eyes intent on the forward view screen.

There is a sudden jolt and an increase in cabin pressure as the Annihilator is borne into normalspace. Its guns swivel, searching for signs of hostile activity.

"Detecting an armed defense grid with laser skirts," calls Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt from the weapons station.

"How big?" queries Ragellon.

"It stretches over an entire sector of the Green Moon, covering one-hundred and sixteen-thousand, two-hundred and sixty-seven point one, two hectares. It's protecting a small city and part of a farming belt beneath it. Outside the curtain appears to be only more farmland."

"That's a hell of a defense grid for a farming community." Ragellon observes the pillbox installations throughout the structure. "How did they manage to build it without Permits and Requisitions raising a stink?"

"Who knows what the terrorists may be capable of, sir," suggests Cleanerschmidt. "They could have pawns throughout the entire network of Galactic Governmental Civil Services."

"You may be right, Schmitty."

Salata South snaps his attention from the Holo-Monitor(tm) in disbelief. Ragellon is smiling at Cleanerschmidt.

"Thank you, sir." Cleanerschmidt defers his gaze to the floor.

"Call me Rags, son."

Salata stares blankly at the pair.

In a cold, dark cell deep in the sub-basement of Verd, Petunia sits, her hands chained to the wall behind her. She listens intently for the sound of footfalls in the outer corridor. Hearing none, she jerks her left arm. The five points of the Five Point Pin Laser(tm) emerge from her sleeve. Twisting her body around awkwardly, she flexes her wrist to start the five green beams of light, and trains them on the chains which bind her. The intense beams fizzle and pop, making slow progress against the hardened material of the chains.

The Annihilator advances through a dispersing cloud of synthetic particles. An extended arm, sporting a Remote Analysis Sieve(tm), samples the debris.

"According to the RAS findings," reports South, data scrolling across a small monitor, "the composition of this debris is an exact match with the materials used in the manufacture of Nectar Nine Police cruisers."

"Those bastards," fumes Ragellon. "They must've known the police were following them and called ahead for an armed reception. I told you those garbage men were working with the terrorist scum."

"At least we won't have to worry about the Nectar Nine boys screwing things up. Readings suggest that Slate must've survived. NNP cruiser debris is all I've got."

The Annihilator moves closer to the apparently lifeless grid, taking a defensive posture.

"No sign of activity," informs Cleanerschmidt.

"Curious," Ragellon muses. "Open hailing frequencies." The Vice-Admiral stoops to the Commucon Transmitter Hailing Microphone(tm), steadying himself on the console. "Attention grid station. This is the InterGalactic United Military vessel Annihilator. We seek permission to board the grid for a consult with your governors."

Silence.

"We are on a diplomatic mission. If you do not respond, Inter-Galactic Treaty five, five, seven point oh, three, section forty-four point three A, paragraph twelve, permits us to forcefully board the grid of our own accord."

Still no response.

"Can we break through?" Salata wonders aloud.

Ragellon and Cleanerschmidt turn their attention to him.

"A small portion of the grid has been knocked out, here," Salata continues, pointing to the Holo-Vis(tm) display. "It appears inoperable. The police may have tangled with it."

"Punch through and get inside the grid?" Ragellon strains to straighten at the suggestion of action.

"Exactly. Firepower won't be as concentrated in this damaged area. Our Divertatron Flak Flicker shields should be able to deflect whatever the grid has to offer."

Ragellon and Cleanerschmidt examine the grid more closely. Repair robots and other equipment can be seen busily working in the damaged area.

"Once we're inside, they won't risk shooting toward the planet. We can quickly maneuver into a position to take control of the grid."

"And if we control the grid," pipes Cleanerschmidt, "we can lock it up so that no one gets out."

"Yes, I see," remarks Ragellon. "Good thinking, Schmitty, glad you're on our team."

Salata's eyes bug.

"Helmsman," Ragellon orders, "set a course through the damaged area of the grid. Schmitty, oversee the maneuvers."

"Sir," South says, "perhaps we should wait for our backup. They'll be arriving in less than three hours."

The Vice-Admiral gestures to the Holo-Vis Monitor(tm). Beyond the bustle of repair robots a wagon train of temporary, heavy-artillery guns can be seen edging into place to protect the breach in the grid.

"We don't have time."

First Clerk Alfonse gesticulates frantically to the image on the Holo-Vis(tm). "Sir, the Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft is advancing toward the damaged area."

"Perfect. Type in this code on the Repair Robot Interface terminal." Bloition briefly leans out of Holo-Vis Imager(tm) field of view. A multi-digit code number appears on the Grid Station Prime Hub Holo-Vis(tm) projection. "Bot interface will ask you to initiate the sequence. Do so only after the Battle Accelerator has fully entered the grid. And turn off all weapons systems. Let that ship approach unmolested." His image winks out.

Inside the Crusade Strategy Room(tm), First Chairman Supreme Bloition turns to the clerks and operators. "I must inform you that, as expected, the military has arrived. Today, the DataTrump Fruition Front is positioned to strike a mighty blow. An opportunity has presented itself, by which, we can inflict severe damage and buy ourselves some time, however fleeting. But, this action will leave us vulnerable, and intelligence indicates that reinforcements are on the way. It is time to evacuate to our beta operations site. Whatever you can't move, destroy."

The clerks and operators turn their attention to their terminals. The hush transforms into a buzz of activity as the occupants move to red alert.

Snax wanders along a sterile corridor deep within the underground complex below the core of Verd, searching. He opens a door and pokes his head into a large room filled with filing cabinets.

"Hey!"

Snax freezes.

"Let me see your identification."

Slowly, Snax turns to face a bookish woman dressed in a plain, white DiSeedlfith linen (commonly referred to as the 'newsprint' of linens) pantsuit, with a long, brown linen vest. A Hand Cannon(tm) rests, comfortably holstered, at her side.

"I'm, uh, well… where's the cafeteria?"

"You're in the wrong sector, bub, but that's okay. Name's Muriel Tizzaphooex. Second Clerk Tizzaphooex. I'm heading that way and I'd be glad to show you."

Snax thanks her profusely and the pair march down the long, pale corridor.

The nose of the Annihilator pokes through the outer boundary of the grid, in the area damaged by the encounter with the Ebony Skulker. Each nearby hub has several bustling repair robots darting in and around the mangled scaffold.

Salata sighs inwardly, his mind whirring, scar pulsing, as he watches the Holo-Vis(tm) images of the numerous bots working on the grid. Suddenly, each robot slows its work pace, then stops, as if observing the military vessel's advance.

"Enhance that image," he orders, "focus on one of the repair bots." The image magnifies.

The Vice-Admiral, noticing South's agitation, looks on curiously.

South clenches his teeth. "Enhance further."

The image of an idle repair bot fills the field of view. Small lights flash in sequence across its chassis.

Inside the Grid Station Prime Hub(tm), the Glik-Gnome sits at a control panel, orchestrating the grid functions. He glances nervously to his partner.

Alfonse's finger is perilously poised over the 'INITIATE' button. He watches the Annihilator as it presses deeper into the grid. Finally, he lets his finger fall firmly on the button.

Salata witnesses the flashing lights on the repair bot change sequence, blink on and off simultaneously. He quickly glances to the starboard monitor, then the port side. "Pull out! It's a trap!"

BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!! kaBOOOMMM!! baKOOOMMM!!!
ffFFWWWT!

The hundred or so repair bots surrounding the Annihilator, plus the additional battery of high explosives that the bots had been busily secreting within the area, explode in unison. The trap has been laid so that the explosive force is channeled inward, toward the target, and further damage to the grid is kept to a minimum. The violent concussion of the implosion hits the ship. Anyone standing is tossed to the floor.

Many crew members receive broken bones and skull fractures, but the serious damage remains unseen in the confusion. The massive engines and drive components have been knocked out of alignment. Although still operational at reduced capacities, there is a risk that the drives will tear themselves apart.

"Full reverse Tooters!" shouts Ragellon.

The helmsman jams at the controls.

Deep in the engine room, the chief engineer is pulling himself off the floor. He hears the drives whine with throttle up, but a horrible screeching rapidly overpowers the sound of the engines. He gasps at the wild shaking of the gargantuan Engine Number Three. Half crouching, mouth agape, he stares as the massive machinery shreds, tossing huge chunks of metal around the engine room. The chief engineer is taken out like a bowling pin.

The Annihilator makes another lurch, larger than the first. The internal explosion wrenches at the frame of the ship, causing serious structural damage. Decks in the immediate vicinity of the engineering department heave, cock-eyed and buckling. Doors jam, their frames twisted.

The bridge is mayhem. Some crew members in Magno Chairs(tm) have whiplash. One ensign sits with his head lolling backward at an impossible angle. Sparks and smoke belch from the bridge consoles.

The helmsman's control ruptures into a fireball, engulfing his body. His scream trails off into a bubbling gurgle.

Ignoring the dropping oxygen masks, the remaining bridge crew scramble for the emergency exits, conveniently located at either end of the bridge. Ragellon rises from his chair, only to be squashed to the floor by a falling Holo-Vis(tm) projector.

Salata grabs the fleeing Cleanerschmidt by the scruff of the neck. "The Vice-Admiral is down!"

Cleanerschmidt follows South to Ragellon's side. They heave at the Holo-Vis(tm) projector, rolling its bulk off of their unconscious leader, and drag him from the smoking bridge.

The brilliant, emerald green curtain of laser, which stretches from the grid to the ground, flickers in the distance.

"What the fuck is that?" calls Geronimo, pointing.

High above the Hover Screemer(tm) bright, firework-like explosions flash in the midday sky.

"Firefight," Gladius shouts. "Somebody's tangling with that defense grid."

"Great. Who's tryin' to kill us now?"

"Let's just get this over with."

Nodding, Geronimo tromps the Hover Screemer(tm), accelerating along the dirt road toward the lethal curtain.

Alfonse stares at the image of the crippled Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm). It drifts lazily, punctuated by the occasional spasm, slowly rotating and wedging deeper into the opening in the grid. He reluctantly thumbs the Commucon(tm).

"First Chairman Supreme?"

Bloition's face appears on the Holo-Vis(tm), behind him the bustle of the Crusade Strategy Room(tm) has momentarily ceased as the clerks listen to the report.

"Assessment?" demands Bloition.

"The ship is non-functional, caught in the middle of the grid. But I'm afraid that section of grid is inoperative and non-salvageable."

"Don't worry, that ship will act as a suitable obstacle until other arrangements can be made. Any sign of other military craft?"

"No, sir."

"Well, expect them. It won't be long before reinforcements arrive."

Once again the Holo-Vis(tm) blinks out, leaving Alfonse to stand nervously beside the small Glik-Gnome.