Chapter Twenty
CHAOS
"It's playtime."

The scene on the Abrogate is not good. In addition to the wounded they have retrieved from the now extinct Annihilator, a high percentage of their own crew is either dead or in need of repair. Unfortunately, electrics have been severely disrupted by the electromagnetic pulse of the grid dissolution. The five AutoDocs(tm) are not receiving sufficient current to risk operating them; power fluctuations can be seriously hazardous for the patient, often causing uneven healing, grotesque scarring or, in the worst case, fusing of perfectly normal tissue.

On the bridge, the crew is trying to stabilize the ship's autonomous functions through a thin haze. An initial electrical fire had filled the room with dense, acrid smoke and several crew members now suffer from inhalation of toxic fumes. Major Wu Su is patrolling, offering consolation.

"Are you doing okay, Snabitts?" he asks of a petite blond ensign, resting his hand on her shoulder.

She nods, forcing a weak smile.

"Any luck with the radio functions?"

"Nothing but static on the long range frequencies, sir. We have got short range capabilities, but it's very short, I'm afraid. With luck we may be able to raise the Green Moon."

"Keep trying, Judy." He nods, moving on.

Captain Salata South hovers outside the private quarters where Vice-Admiral Ragellon lies unconscious. The Vice-Admiral's condition is critical: massive internal injuries, increasing cranial swelling, broken bones, lacerations and contusions. There is serious doubt amongst the medical team that he will survive the mission.

"There's not a lot you can do here, sir," calls Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt, startling South from his trance. "We could use your help down on the hangar deck. A couple of the guys think they may be able to get a Vi-Scout operational, perhaps use it to ferry survivors down."

South, aware of the limited options, takes a deep breath and follows the Lieutenant to the hangar deck.

The Decimater's Vi-Troop Carriers(tm) roar past the city limits of Verd.

"We're in range," Lieutenant Flinnff informs.

"Good work. Drop down to minimum altitude and prepare to commence the strafing runs," Itchtrong orders.

The communications officer quickly transmits the order to the other Vi-Troop Carriers(tm). Lieutenant Flinnff banks the craft into a tight descent, toward the city streets below.

Within the confines of his office, Bloition drops the last of his confidential documents into the Vap O'Shred(tm) intake and makes a move to the secret emergency escape tube. Inside the tube entrance a small panel illuminates, highlighting a Voice Command Actuator(tm). Bloition leans into it, hesitating as he considers the immensity of what he is about to do.

The sudden appearance of a military Frak Crak Assault Squad within striking distance is an unexpected surprise. The Observer, mastermind of the DataTrump Fruition Front, had assured him only a short time ago that help was on its way. With the arrival of the first warships, he had initiated and followed all the predetermined procedures designed to cope with the foreseen event of military intervention. But now, it seems that the attacking forces are playing an ace that they have held up their sleeve. It is time to try and trump that ace. He will miss the people he has befriended here on the Green Moon, but there is only one escape pod supplied, and there is only room in it for one: him.

Taking a deep breath, he speaks into the Voice Command Actuator(tm): "Begin Inf O'Worm destruct procedures. Destroy all information held on this base. Destroy everything."

"Voice identified," returns the electronic vocalization, "please invoke the data string code for confirmation."

Bloition recites the code in a methodical, unwavering tone.

"Order confirmed. Inf O'Worm destruct initiated."

The computer begins to whir, busily eating its own memory. Bloition activates the tube, launching himself downward.

Snax Mawhoooba trudges up the gangplank of the Astral Cargo Sled(tm). Fystik and Petunia have already entered the motorized, barge-like space vehicle. Petunia is in the cockpit, ensconced in the Magno Piloting Chair(tm), flipping switches.

Fystik sits in the Magno Cargo Handlers Chair(tm). From here, a skilled operator can manipulate the huge robotic loading arms which, at the moment, lay splayed out on the depot floor to either side of the craft. He begins to examine the controls to see how to fold the arms up for flight, but stops when he notices Snax entering the sled.

"What about him?" he asks, gesturing to Mawhoooba.

Petunia shoots the fat alien a look.

Snax smiles, trying to take a seat. "Hi, get a lift, can I?"

"Get him out of here," she says, igniting the sled's engines, letting them warm up.

Fystik takes a firm hold of Snax, straining under the weight as he hustles him to the hatchway.

"Wait, I helped you escape from the dungeon," Snax whines, "I can help you, like, I'm a good dude."

Fystik heaves Snax out the door. The portly alien waddles uncontrollably down the ramp. Fystik is about to punch the button to close the door when a clangor draws his attention.

At the far end of the depot the big metal doors, which seal off the room from the rest of the base, have burst open and a small company of armed guards has rushed in. In the middle distance Gladius and Geronimo split and dive, in opposite directions, to hide amongst the cargo. Fystik quickly closes the hatch and dashes to the cockpit.

BLAM! BLAM!

Gladius hits the deck, rolling behind some boxes. Geronimo cringes, hunkered low as a steady stream of projectiles blast through the surrounding crates.

"Stop that cargo sled!" shouts Rhymo Stanzilli.

The guards advance, winding their way through the maze of boxes and shelving.

Gladius checks the BIGGER GUN(tm), then glances across the aisle to his ex-copilot. Geronimo adjusts the Prompt O'Sting(tm) pole slung on his back and draws the two Hand Cannons(tm).

CaCRACKKK!

A shot splinters the corner of the crate, centimeters above Gladius's head. Amidst raining slivers, he bolts to his left, away from Geronimo, and bursts into the corridor at the end of the aisle, coming face to face with an armed guard. Gladius lets loose with the BIGGER GUN(tm).

FWWWWWWISSSSSSUUUUU!

A stream of liquid nitrogen splashes over the guard. Gladius watches wide-eyed as the frozen figure topples backward. The fall is abruptly halted by the concrete floor and, with a cymbal-like crash, the guard shatters, pieces scattering.

Geronimo, from across the room, spies Gladius turning and heading back toward the loading bays and the warming Cargo Sled. With a quick look, he too turns and withdraws, heading for the far end of the depot.

Fystik is struggling to get the six loading arms retracted for takeoff, the ungainly Cargo Sled looking like a wounded crab with a couple of broken legs. Impatient, Petunia punches the AttiTooters(tm) and the Astral Cargo Sled(tm) begins its slow and clumsy ascent to the huge shaft in the ceiling above its landing pad.

"Get those arms in or we'll never fit into the shaft," she calls.

Fystik gawks at her, face contorted and eyes bulging, as he wrestles with the awkward manipulator arms.

Geronimo sneaks between the stacks of crates. Over the whine of the ascending Astral Cargo Sled's(tm) motors, he can hear the scuffling of guards rushing past his position. He rounds a corner and comes to a dead end, his path blocked by a large tarp covered object. He scrambles over it. The Prompt O'Sting(tm) pole snags. Yanking on it rams the end of the pole into the tarp. The pole fires an electric charge into the object.

CLICK!

Something beneath the tarp activates.

BRRRZZZZ! VVVVEEEEE! KaCHUNK!

The object under the tarp begins to move forward. Geronimo yanks the pole free, jumps back.

"Hi, kiddies! It's play time," announces a fatherly voice within the tarp.

The sheet snags and slides off, uncovering the incredible firepower of Mr. Munitions(tm).

A guard glimpses Geronimo's back through a jumble of boxes. Cautiously, he approaches, aiming his Junior Hand Cannon(tm). Just as he pulls the trigger, his target bolts out of view, revealing the ominous bulk of weaponry.

CLACK! VVWWWEEEE!

The shot ricochets off the armor plating of the robot.

BLA–BLA–BLA–BLA–BLA–BLA–BLAM!

Mr. Munitions(tm) does what he's designed to do, shredding the guard in a spew of projectiles.

"It's not nice to point guns," advises the paternal robot, crawling forward on its dual treads, ready for battle.

"They're dying nicely!" shouts a joyous Flinff.

The Vi-Troop Carrier(tm) is skimming along main street, mowing down the scampering pedestrians.

Flinff turns from the scene of carnage beyond the view port to his commanding officer. "Three and Four are landing in sectors nine and five, deploying troops."

"Good." Itchtrong concentrates on a monitor displaying schematic diagrams of the complex below the city. Two flashing dots, which have been steadily converging toward the same location, are the focus of his attention. "Get us down near the surface entrance of the Cargo Depot, sector seventeen. We'll make that pick up."

Ikky Hummanah guides the War Buzzard(tm) into a docking position next to the Abrogate.

"This is Commander Hummanah, of Emergency Services," he chokes, over the open channel to the Abrogate. "Please extend a Gooey Tube for us to bring supplies across to your ship."

On board the crippled Abrogate, Major Wu Su paces before the view port, studying the War Buzzard(tm). Captain South strides onto the bridge, his demeanor replenished by the promise of engaging a Vi-Scout as a shuttle. He spies the foreign vessel.

"That's no rescue ship!"

"It doesn't look like one," coughs Wu Su, his voice hoarse from the smoke, "but with the casualties we now have on board, I see no choice but to extend the tube."

"I understand your position, Major, but I think we should use caution. I'd like to be part of the welcoming committee."

"Certainly. Take all the necessary precautions."

South turns to one of the aides waiting at the entrance to the bridge. "Private. Go down to the hangar deck, find Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt, and have him bring weapons and a security crew to the forward starboard airlock."

The private salutes and hustles from the bridge.

"We've suffered phenomenal losses today, Captain," wheezes Wu Su. "Let's try not to lose anymore."

South heads for the airlock.

Gladius serpentines through the maze of containers, the BIGGER GUN(tm) at the ready. He rounds a corner and is hit by the swirling blast of the Astral Cargo Sled's(tm) exhaust. Squinting against the wind-whipped debris, he gazes up at the huge shaft above Loading Bay Number One.

The Sled's engines whine as it strains against the ceiling of the depot. Fystik has been unable to get all six arms retracted, and now three are hung up on the rim of the exit vent. The ship lurches wildly as Petunia forces more power into the equipment, desperate to escape.

Inside, Fystik is being flung about the cockpit as the manipulator pistol grips recoil from the forces tugging at the exterior arms. He reefs on the controls and the ship lurches forward, banging into the corner where the shaft meets the ceiling.

"Fystik, stop fighting me!" Petunia shouts, over the howl of the laboring engines.

"Well, give me some slack so I can get the damn arms in!"

Petunia eases up on the throttles and the ship settles slightly, allowing Fystik to casually retract another arm.

"They're extending the tube," shouts a pirate. He wears the white coveralls of a medical engineer and quickly secures a Hand Cannon(tm) inside the garment.

Ikky Hummanah slides a Junior Hand Cannon(tm) up his sleeve, nods to his partners, then takes a position at the hatchway. "Let's hit 'em hard goin' in," he calls, looking to one particularly brutish mercenary named Larp. "You got the Fester Rocket?"

Larp produces a hideous, bazooka-like weapon: the Fester Rocket(tm). It fires an exploding charge that flings great dollops of NuMeltink Acid(tm). The acid instantly adheres to flesh, quickly dissolving through to the bone.

"Children shouldn't play with Hand Cannons," clucks the hearty voice of Mr. Munitions(tm).

Smoke has begun to fill the warehouse. He aims his mass of weapons at two retreating guards. The guards split, diving for cover. Mr. Munitions(tm) opens up, his blasts splintering crates of dry goods stacked in the aisle. He lets go with a small cannon, lobbing an explosive warhead into a huge structural support pillar. The entire warehouse rattles with the concussion.

"Right-oh! What a good shot that was," he chuckles.

Bloition steps to the door of the cargo depot, cautiously peering through the window. The sound of weapons fire issues from within. Through the haze of cordite, spectral figures emerge.

"First Chairman Supreme," blurts Rhymo Stanzilli, bursting through the door. Three ragged guards stumble in after him. Behind them, Mr. Munitions(tm) proceeds to shoot at anything in his path, animate or inanimate.

"What's going on?" snaps Bloition, staring at the berserk robot.

"The intruders activated that munitions robot," gasps Rhymo, taking cover behind the door. "It's been blowing out the depot's main supports. I'm afraid the whole place may collapse."

"The tube's attached, sir," informs Cleanerschmidt, glancing through the airlock window. He unlatches the safety on his Intensifier Musket(tm).

Salata moves into a secure position off to the left, training another Intensifier on the door. Four other troopers, Hand Cannons(tm) slung at their sides, have convened at the hatchway, waiting to escort the medical support team.

Cleanerschmidt observes as the motley group worms their way through the tube into the airlock. The apparent leader, his Fu Manchu mustache wrapping a flagitious smile, clacks his metal appendage against the window. The Lieutenant glances to South. The Captain nods.

BWEEEP! HOONNGGGK.

The airlock door whisks open. Cleanerschmidt looks at the seven grinning rogues huddled within the tiny alcove. Sensing trouble, he backs away, leveling his gun.

"Nail the fuck!" orders Hummanah.

FWWWSSHHHHH!!!

Larp launches a charge from the Fester Rocket(tm). The charge smacks into Cleanerschmidt's chest, knocking him back. The shell erupts, splashing NuMeltink Acid(tm) into his face.

"AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!"

The Lieutenant gurgles, his flesh drizzling freely from his skull. Everyone in the alcove receives a smattering of the nasty acid and flinch under its stinging touch. Two of the troopers manage to draw their weapons and fire into the airlock. Two of the mercenaries go down.

"Shit, they were waitin' for us," shouts Hummanah, trying to return fire. "Retreat, assholes!" He rushes back into the tube, Larp and the three remaining mercenaries follow.

Salata dashes to the hatchway and, taking careful aim to avoid puncturing the tube, fires his Intensifier. Another soldier of fortune goes down, dead.

In the null gravity of the tube, Hummanah is scrambling to enter the War Buzzard(tm). Larp, who still hefts the Fester Rocket(tm), is struggling along behind him. South picks off another pirate. Wounded, the man clutches his abdomen, crying out to his cohorts. Looking back, Larp and Hummanah spy South taking aim. Hummanah quickly punches the button to close the hatch, abandoning the remaining pirates. Seeing the door begin to close, South adjusts his aim at Larp.

The shot catches Larp in the arm and he reflexively jerks the trigger of the Fester Rocket(tm), launching a wild charge inside the War Buzzard(tm) airlock. It bursts against the ceiling above Hummanah, providing a searing shower of acid, which instantly begins to husk the flesh from his bones.

"AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!"

Hummanah swivels, seeing the skin slough off his chest and arms. He looks at Larp, who can only offer an apologetic shrug. Ikky, who's nickname is now truly appropriate, squeezes a bony, dissolving finger on the trigger of his Junior Hand Cannon(tm).

SHHHNACK!

The shot impacts with Larp's forehead, splattering his brains against the interior of the hatchway.

Salata caught a brief glimpse of the NuMeltink Acid(tm) charge bursting above Hummanah before the War Buzzard's(tm) hatch had fully closed, and has quickly sealed the Abrogate's hatch in case of sudden decompression. He now stands, staring through the porthole at the unmoving vessel, watching as the remaining healthy pirate trapped in the Gooey Tube(tm) claws up to the Buzzard's hatch, peers in, and begins to wretch violently.

The captain turns away at the nauseating sight and becomes aware of the curses and splattering of water within the confines of the Abrogate's airlock. The four troopers are feverishly rinsing themselves under the wash of a fire hose.

"Captain, get over here! Your arm!"

Wisps of vapor curl from numerous cigarette-like burns on South's arm. Startled, he rushes over and plunges his arm into the cool, gushing stream.

Geronimo creeps along, trying to get as far away from Mr. Munitions(tm) as possible. The roar of the Cargo Sled's(tm) engines is waning, being replaced by the stutter of guns and explosions. The weapons robot is out of control, shooting holes in the depot's walls and supports. Lavoriss edges backward keeping an eye on the danger, his Hand Cannons(tm) at the ready.

BUMP!

Geronimo turns, ready to annihilate whatever he's bumped into. What he's bumped into also turns, ready to shoot back. Lavoriss faces his ex-boss, Slate.

"Geronimo," Gladius gasps, relieved.

"Looks like the blue-faced toad and that bitch have taken off without us," observes Geronimo.

The two men watch as the Astral Cargo Sled(tm) clears the opening far above, leaving a patch of daylight.

As the Astral Cargo Sled(tm) exits the depot entrance and rises above the city, Petunia observes the demolition wreaked by the Frak Crak Assault Squad storming through the streets. Windows are shattered, vehicles lie wrecked and smoldering, the cratered boulevard is strewn with bodies.

Fystik's eyes widen as he looks at the rear view screen. A Vi-Troop Carrier(tm) is rapidly closing on their position, its cannons taking aim at their vulnerable hull.

"Petunia, may I suggest we not dilly-dally, it seems we are about to be attacked!"

Petunia glances to the rear view screen, inhales sharply, and punches the HooterTooters(tm).

KABBLLLOOOIEEE!!!!

An explosion rocks the Sled. It veers wildly, trailing smoke.

"Did you get it?" queries Itchtrong, aboard the Vi-Troop Carrier(tm).

"Confirmed hit," reports Flinnff. "It's not destroyed, but its trajectory indicates that it has been rendered unstable."

"Good." The display monitor before Itchtrong shows that the two blips, now merged into a single point, continue to flash. "Take us down into the depot."