Chapter Two
INVESTIGATIONS
"…wait a sec."

In a lush office on the Orbital Camp Glowblade InterGalactic United Military Base, Vice-Admiral Joshua Ragellon sits at his desk. Spread before him are glossy brochures describing the Humongous RangeroPrima Supreme War Galleon(patent pending). It is the latest offering from UniQuark, a division of OmniCorp. OmniCorp is the mega-corporation that makes absolutely everything, from battleships, to can-openers, to synthetic sub-atomic particles called Eykeyah bosons. If OmniCorp doesn't make it, you don't need it.

Ragellon massages his wrinkled forehead between a well-groomed thumb and fingers. His once dark-brown Negroid face has changed dramatically with age. The creases have deepened and appear filled with dust, while the highlights are buffed to a brassy sheen. The former lustrous blackness of his close-cropped military haircut has long since given way to white, with a peppering of gray at the temples. There is a slight quiver to his movement, betraying the inevitable ravages of age, and his yellowed eyes appear watery behind half-lensed reading glasses.

Across from him sit two of his most experienced officers: the silver-skinned Chromapien, Captain Heratio Brown, and the sinewy, hardened Homo sapiens frame of Colonel Dwayne Itchtrong.

"I don't see why we need another upgrade so soon. The Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCrafts are barely a year old," says the Vice-Admiral.

"The Mark IIs are serviceable, but we really feel the RangeroPrima is in a class by itself," replies the metallic, quavering voice of Brown. "UniQuark has really outdone themselves with this one."

"They're fully loaded, sir," supports Itchtrong. "Just one of those would make short work of any threat-rich environment. It's a dream machine, really."

"I like your style, Itchy." Ragellon smiles as he gathers and straightens the brochures. "The High Commander Supreme is anxious to get your input. I'll be happy to pass on the recommendation."

He removes his reading glasses, sets them on the desk and begins to fiddle with them. Colonel Itchtrong looks at Captain Brown, who raises his eyebrows. The Colonel clears his throat, attracting his commanding officer's attention.

"Any news on the terrorist incidents, sir?"

"Oh, right. I'm expecting Captain South momentarily. He's been investigating the Solarex incident."

"South is a good man," offers Brown, nodding his head with approval.

Itchtrong rolls his eyes, not sharing the sentiment.

"Sir," crackles a voice over the intercom, "Captain Salata South has arrived from the Solarex Research and Development Colony."

The office door opens. Ragellon pulls himself out of his seat, gains his balance, and greets Captain South. He winces at the sight of the Captain's scar, which is blazing red.

"Captain South, you know Colonel Itchtrong and Captain Brown?"

South nods to them, his scar blazing brighter at the sight of Itchtrong.

"How's the gash, Slash?" says Itchtrong.

"I have my report, sir," South says, ignoring the remark and addressing the Vice-Admiral.

"Good." Ragellon turns to Itchtrong and Brown. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse us."

Dismissed, they exit with curt nods.

Alone with South, Ragellon takes a more informal stance: "How's it been in the trenches, Sally?"

Cringing at the use of his nickname, Captain South reclines on the settee, flexing his stiff leg. "We lost three squads and the Extricater will be laid up in dry-dock for a month, Rags."

The Vice-Admiral chuckles at the use of his nickname.

"Yes, I heard. Shame about that. So, what have you got?"

Marching down the sterile corridors of Orbital Camp Glowblade, Captain Brown confides in Colonel Itchtrong.

"The Vice-Admiral is certainly being stingy with the information on the terrorists. I'm not sure whether that's a good sign or a bad one."

"Ragellon's too muddle-headed to sort the damn mess out. Probably just as well, leave the glory to one of us, eh, Captain?"

Brown cocks his head, considers the possibility.

"…unless we've overlooked something." Salata shifts, leans forward. "But there's one thing that I find, let's say, odd. Tell me what you make of this."

Ragellon nods and folds his arms on the desk top.

"According to some of the crew members who worked with Beethoven, the site of every incident has had garbage strewn clear into low orbit, hell to maneuver through."

"What did you expect," Ragellon interjects, "the place has just been blown by a super-seismic. Of course there's crap in orbit, we've seen it with a lot lesser explosions than these."

"No, no, you don't understand." South winces, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the highly polished front face of Ragellon's desk. "I mean excessive garbage, real garbage, everyday garbage that hasn't been collected."

"That doesn't surprise me. With all the ships the IDR's been losing garbage collection has been more than a little lax."

"How the hell can you lose a Scow Cow… wait a sec." Salata's eyes drift, unfocused. "I'm a terrorist, right?"

"You're a terrorist," humors the Vice-Admiral.

"And I want to destroy a spaceport. The easiest way to infiltrate such a thing unnoticed is to find something regular, something that's a common occurrence, then manipulate that to get inside."

"I'm with you."

"So, I know that the garbage is picked up on a routine schedule. And I know nobody bothers with the security of a garbage scow. If I load a scow with a couple of Mega-Boom Bombs, then…"

"…it's easy to saunter in and blow up an entire base." Ragellon considers his officer's theory.

"The terrorists may be hijacking Scow Cows," Salata blurts.

"Good point. Let's check some dates." Ragellon activates the in-desk flat screen and starts tapping at the keypad.

There is a brief pause, then the IDR Company logo appears, beneath it is:

Ragellon begins to type:

"Damn! The IDR have the security breach detectors on full… very interesting."

The screen blinks and a new message appears:

"Maybe we should talk to IDR management and try to gain access to their records along proper channels," suggests Salata.

"Never. If it's an inside job we risk alerting the culprits. This level of secrecy strikes me as very suspicious." Ragellon drums his fingers. "We'll just have to find another way in. After all, there's no point in proceeding if we don't have some kind of evidence."

* * *

Lypsix V, a rocky planet near the center of the galaxy, is home to the LypService Station Supreme(tm), (Clean Docks and Good Eats reads the sign). And the station is home to the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company Data Division. It's here that the IDR computers handle all scheduling concerns: Monstrous Indestructo Sani-Containment Bin(tm) distribution, Arachide Belly Cruiser Detritus Reclamation Unit(tm) fleet deployment, garbage collection.

A sub-compact Scissor Ship(tm) docks in the upper strata of the station. Its pilot, in the uniform of a Data Division Processor, adjusts his clothing and conceals a Junior Hand Cannon(tm) under his jacket. Pulling his cap firmly on his head, he exits the Scissor Ship(tm) and marches into the station.

Whaammm!!

"Watch where yer goin', dork," winces a scrawny man with straggly hair, clad in a baggy, patchwork jumpsuit.

"Excuse me," says the pilot, trying to brush by the man.

"Ooowhhheee, you IDR clowns are all the same." The wiry man blocks the pilot's path. "Excuse me? Well screw you. Geronimo Lavoriss doesn't take shit from the IDR, Company or Union, anymore!"

The man known as Geronimo pulls out a TruBlu IdentiTag(tm) with FREELANCE RECLAIMER stenciled in bold letters across the top. He flashes the tag into the pilot's face.

"I'm my own boss, lightnin' bolt!"

With that, he leans heavily into the pilot, bouncing him off the wall. "'Scuse me!" And he grumbles away down the corridor.

The pilot grunts, trying to restrain himself from pulling out the Junior Hand Cannon(tm). The jagged scar that splits his mug burns blood red. Captain Salata South hates this undercover, covert nonsense. He yanks his cap down to shield the scar, then marches toward the main entrance of the Data Division.

"Your ID tag, sir," demands the computer sentry.

Salata slips a forged TruBlu IdentiTag(tm) from his breast pocket and slides it into the wall terminal.

"Retina scan…" intones the monotone computer.

South palms a small object and holds it against the eye scanner, leaning in to shield his activities from the security camera. The eye scanner reads the object, a hologram of a retina patterned to match the forged IdentiTag(tm).

The doors whisk open. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Salata South enters the Data Division.

Geronimo Lavoriss struts into Kitty's Kulinary Kipeche Kuisine(tm) diner and sits down on a Naugahyde(tm) barstool. A Kitty Klone(tm), one of the servers, trudges up to the counter, her NibbleNice SensiPad and Stylus(tm) ready to transmit his order.

"The Quaanaheeni burger with Glucossian fries and hot Chocosmelt to drink. Easy on the Nummer Sauce," orders Geronimo.

"Anything else, sweetie?"

"Well, it depends what you're offerin'?" Lavoriss proffers a wink.

"That Stellar Cruiser your ship?" she asks, motioning to a luxurious space yacht visible through the large, overhead viewing window.

"Me, own a borin' statement of complacency like that? You gotta be kiddin'." He points to a smaller, poorly maintained ship that seems to be a compilation of various other ships. "That's my baby, the New Gnu."

"That one?" Her shoulders slump.

"Yeah." Geronimo hands her a grimy, dog-eared business card. "I'm Geronimo Lavoriss, the finest Freelance Reclaimer in the business. Salvage is my specialty."

"You're a pack rat." She turns away, disgusted.

Salata South closes the door on the cramped KnoItAll Data Booth(tm). He pecks at the keypad, trying to access pick-up dates for the IDR at the Solarex Research Colony:

"That's the day before I was dispatched to Solarex," Salata whispers. He types again:

Salata blinks at the last sentence. He gingerly slides his IdentiTag(tm) into the slot next to the screen.

CLICK! CHUNK!

Salata rises for the door as the emergency locks slam into place, trapping him within the Data Booth. He grabs for his Junior Hand Cannon(tm).

In the office of Cheeznee Boof, the Data Division director, the security alarm sounds. The once statuesque man, a top field operative during his early career with the IDR but now sporting the paunch of a committed Stayle Ale(tm) drinker, reaches into his desk to retrieve a Pulse Pistol(tm) and races out the door. He rushes past two Secur O'Bots(tm) already flying down the corridor toward the source of the alarm.

Data Processors poke their heads out of their rooms, quickly retreating at the sight of Boof and the Pulse Pistol(tm). They realize that the ancient weapon is powerful, but prone to misfires and ricochets. It's best not to be around should there be any shooting.

Cheeznee rounds the corner, the offending booth in sight.

BLAMMM! BLAMMM!

The door blows open. Salata steps out, Junior Hand Cannon(tm) smoking. A surprised Boof ducks back behind the corner. The two hovering Secur O'Bots(tm) continue on around and open fire.

Captain South's old commando training kicks in and he dives across the corridor, rolling and returning fire. Sparks shower from the chassis of the security robots, their servos whining to maintain stability. One Secur O'Bot(tm) loses its gravity repulsion system and drops, clanging to the floor. Its safety mechanism shuts it down.

South squeezes off another couple of rounds, scoring direct hits on the second bot. It begins to spin, wobbling wildly, and heads down the hall in the direction it came, scuffing the walls. Boof, still secure behind the corner, listens as South's feet beat toward the exit. He jumps out into the corridor.

"Halt!" He levels the Pulse Pistol(tm) at Salata's retreating back.

South slows to a stop.

"Drop your weapon!"

CLACK. CLATTER.

Cheeznee edges up to Salata, his gun trained on the back of the disguised Captain's head. South listens to the other man's breath, sensing his approach. His muscles tighten.

"Turn around, real slow," commands Boof.

Salata complies. Cheeznee winces at the sight of the Captain's facial disfigurement. Recognizing the expected window of opportunity, Salata lunges.

FWWWZZZZAAAA!!!

The Pulse Pistol(tm) fires, its orange blast messing up the wall as it flies from Boof's hand. Salata drives forward, his fist a battering ram. The startled Boof exhales completely as the fist strikes his diaphragm. He crumples to the floor. Salata scoops up his Junior Hand Cannon(tm) and turns to run, but the other man is quick, grabbing at South's ankle, tripping him. Salata hits the floor hard, turns and shoots.

ZZZAAACCCKKK!!!

"Aaauuuggghhh!!!"

Cheeznee screams, cradles a bloody stump. He stares at his hand lying lifeless on the floor, a pulsing jet of blood issuing from his shorn wrist.

"Thanks for the eats."

Geronimo leaves a minuscule tip and pushes himself off the bar stool, unaware of the Rude Finger Gesture(tm) the Kitty Klone(tm) jabs at his back.

Stepping outside he pauses to stretch, then strolls toward the docking bay and the New Gnu.

WHAM!

Geronimo lands on the floor in a heap of arms and legs, not all of them his. Regaining what composure he has, he glares into the face of the miserable klutz who has knocked him over. He winces.

"You again!"

Salata kicks at Geronimo, catching him in the temple, dazing him, then races down the corridor to his Scissor Ship(tm).

* * *

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Someone scheduled a pick-up for the same day as the terrorist attack, but it was never confirmed," informs Salata, back in uniform. He stands opposite Ragellon in the Vice-Admiral's office on the Orbital Camp Glowblade Military Base.

"It's too bad you couldn't get a hard copy."

"Do you want me to go back in?"

"Can't, too risky. Something's up, though. Why else would you need clearance to see who ordered a garbage pick up?"

"Not much to go on," admits Salata, "but it does seem like they're hiding something."

"If we've discovered the terrorist's method," the Vice-Admiral muses, "we still don't know why, or if, they're connected to the IDR. And how the hell do we go about stopping them?"