Chapter Twenty-Five
MAELSTROM
"Reality hurts, doesn't it?"

A distorted vision of the Decimater's bridge swims before the awakening Salata South. Realizing his whereabouts, he is careful to still appear unconscious. He raises his eyelids to thin slits, scans the area and sees the helmsman, an ensign, a lieutenant, a weapons officer, and two Frak Craks. He gently tugs at the bonds that hold him: titanium Magno Lockups(tm), thin metal bracelets that adhere with extreme power to an optional force field available on all military issue Magno Chairs(tm).

At this moment he notices that the lieutenant, busying herself at a console across the bridge, is watching him. Was that a nod? Did she nod at him? Wait, that is Lieutenant Ginjee, of the Abrogate. He gives her a long, slow nod in return and, wincing, she resumes her work at the control panel.

Snax waddles as fast as he can toward the hangar deck, looking back, fearful of the pursuit of Geronimo. With no sign of him, his appendages transform into horseshoe-shaped grippers and he climbs onto the handrails of a steep, metal staircase. Easing his grip he begins to slide, butt first, down the rails. Below, Lavoriss steps out at the base of the stairway, a singular eye plunging toward him. Snax's other singular eye dilates and he grips the rails in an attempt to brake, but inertia keeps him hurtling.

KaFLUMP!

Snax's cheeks engulf Geronimo and the pair plunge backward, spilling across the deck of the Decimater's large hangar. The two Hand Cannons(tm) skitter away. Snax's upper appendages change into knobby clubs and he swipes at Geronimo, catching him on the cheek and forcing him to the floor. He hoists himself on wobbly legs, then hustles toward one of the numerous small spaceships in the hangar.

Dazed, Geronimo staggers after Snax, diving at his legs, his arms encircling the alien's pseudo-pods. Snax falls forward, landing on his massive gut. The elastic properties of his skin cause him to rebound. Geronimo tries to roll out of the way, but Snax lands solidly on his head, pinching his face into the metal deck.

Slightly winded, Gladius arrives at the uppermost level of the Decimater. He has had to pause at each successive deck and check to see if the elevator has stopped. He now edges up to the stairwell door and peers into the hall. Further down, a door snaps shut. Gladius makes for it.

Yanking the door open, Slate confronts Fuegg at the end of a short foyer. Fuegg is fumbling with a set of double doors. They open and he steps in, pounding at the door control.

The doors begin to close and Gladius flings the BIGGER GUN(tm) in an attempt to prevent them locking. The GUN clatters along the floor and slides into the narrowing gap. The doors jam into the weapon.

Gladius reaches the doors, heaving them open enough for himself to squeeze through, then kicks the BIGGER GUN(tm) into the room, letting them slam shut.

KlaTHUNK!

The dead bolt drops into place.

They are inside the domed observation lounge. The entire ceiling is a transparent bubble of Stalwart Glass(tm). The protective roof screen is drawn back revealing an uninhibited, staggeringly awesome view of the cosmos.

Mirty has moved to the opposite side of the big room, his retrieved Zipper(tm) aimed at Slate. Gladius stands his ground, glaring across the room at Fuegg. The BIGGER GUN(tm) lies off to the side of the double doors, forgotten.

"Don't do anything, uh, foolish, now Slate. This may only be a Zipper, but it'll stop you, for sure, you can bet on that."

The gasping Geronimo rolls over, massaging his face, searching for the source of a metallic rattling sound.

Snax, hunched below the seal of the InterGalactic Military High Command which emblazons the hatch of Snoyan's Personal Stellar Cruiser(tm), has the faceplate off the door control panel and deftly works on the lock. With digits resembling needle-nose pliers, he quickly re-routes some wires and, with a pleasant ping, the hatch springs open.

Geronimo pulls himself up as Snax steps into the Stellar Cruiser(tm). He lunges for the portal, but the hatch slams shut in his face. Shit! This pod-toed scum is gonna get away.

Inside the Stellar Cruiser(tm), Snax slips into the Magno Piloting Chair(tm) and expertly manipulates the controls. The engines grind to life and Snax reaches into his pouch, pulls out a Hydroxilated Nutri-Chew(tm) biscuit and begins to munch.

"Aaauuuggghhh!!!"

Snax screams, spitting biscuit. Geronimo clings to the outside of the forward view port, a Hand Cannon(tm) barrel pressed to the Stalwart Glass(tm).

Snax's appendage transmutes into a tentacle and whips out to activate the forward shields. The repulsive energy field engulfs Geronimo. He convulses in the charge and involuntarily fires the Hand Cannon(tm).

PAKOWWIEEEE!!!

The shot implodes on itself, the weird energy fluxes in the shield contorting the explosive force into a halo around Geronimo.

KERFWEEEEPPPUTOO!!

Geronimo is flung from the ship, tossed clear across the hangar, to crash in a stunned, smoking heap.

Snax peers out the view port at the unmoving form of Lavoriss. Oh, well. Returning to his munching and pre-flight, he punches more buttons and the storage hangar conveyor system slides the warming Stellar Cruiser(tm) into the airlock.

"Why, Fuegg?" Gladius is straining to contain a raging storm of fury. "Why did you sell out the IDR? Why did you sell us all to the military?"

Fuegg keeps the gun leveled at Slate, his chubby digits slick against the metal of the trigger. "Sell out? You really don't understand, do you Slate?" Mirty uses his other hand to light a fresh cigarette. He inhales, letting the smoke ring around his sagging jowls. "I didn't sell out to them, they sold out to me. Snoyan, Itchtrong, Mawhoooba, they all work for me."

Slate stalks slowly through the room, circling like a hungry cat. "You've been behind everything? The terrorist attacks, the stolen Scow Cows, the manipulation of the military?" He stares in disbelief. "You're responsible for my being here?!"

"Yes, all of it. I've done quite well, don't you think?"

Slate stops, his fingers digging into the back of a comfy lounge chair. "Why? Why do it?"

"I was asked to do it, and handsomely, uh, remunerated, I might add." Fuegg takes a long drag on his cigarette. A cinder of ash grows on its end. "Step one on the way to a New Order."

Slate is fuming. "Destruction and chaos is your definition of order?"

"It's my definition of fun, a challenge. The people I work for hold the real balance of power. They need something done and I plan to succeed. Getting rid of you and your, uh, friend, is just another minor hitch along the way. With this fiasco on the Green Moon the military will be hog-tied and the government will be, uh, putty in my hands." He taps the cigarette, letting the long, gray ash tumble and smash on the floor.

Itchtrong and Snoyan hustle through the decks, now a bee hive of activity as personnel scramble to and fro, trying to discern what the commotion is all about. The Colonel stops abruptly, pulls Snoyan into a small meeting room and closes the door.

"This is a real botch up, Dashe," he says, sincerely.

"I'll say. I thought Fuegg was on the level. Now he's trying to cut us out." She begins to pace.

"I can't have anybody cutting me out," Itchtrong replies, "not after all I've done for this thing."

Dashe turns on him. "You've done! I've been in on this almost since the beginning. You're just a pawn. A useful pawn, mind you, but a pawn all the same."

Itchtrong ices over, becomes acutely aware of the Junior Hand Cannon(tm) still secreted in his pocket.

"Pawn takes queen," he says coldly.

WHACK!

The shot strikes Snoyan in the chest. A healthy portion of lung and flesh spew out behind her, the great dollop slopping with a splatter across the floor. She staggers, looking at the disproportionately small, neat hole in her uniform front.

"Wha––" she gurgles.

Itchtrong fires again and again.

Flinnff barges onto the bridge, his face streaked with smeared rivulets of blood. His eyes are reddened and puffy, a result of the foreign matter which is stinging them. "What the hell's happening?! The crew's running around like idiots. Who's in charge?"

"Aren't you, Lieutenant Flinnff?" asks the helmsman.

"Shut up!" he screams, walloping the helmsman across the ear.

Flinnff rages about the bridge, confronting the two Frak Craks. "What the hell are you two doing standing here? Get your fucking asses out there and find Fuegg!"

The Frak Craks, continuing to carry out their last order from Itchtrong, stand stolidly in place.

Flinnff loses control and draws his Junior Hand Cannon(tm) on the Frak Craks. With lightning speed they raise their weapons.

Ginjee lunges over the piloting console, kicking the gun from Flinnff's hand, snatching him around the throat and jamming the muzzle of her own Junior Hand Cannon(tm) to his head.

"Back off!" she bellows.

The Frak Craks continue to point their weapons, unsure of what is going on. She looks down at the control panel beside her.

"Shoot her!" insists Flinnff, vehemently.

Ginjee strikes at a button on the panel, cutting the restraining force which holds South's wrists to the Magno Chair(tm). The Frak Craks waver, glance to each other. Salata leaps from his chair, barging into the pair, toppling them.

One Frak Crak recovers and attempts to aim his gun at South. Salata kicks him hard in the face. The second soldier clubs the Captain across the chest with his gun butt, sending him sprawling.

BLAM! BLAM!

Ginjee shoots the offending trooper, then flings Flinnff onto the other. Salata scrambles up, scooping the dead trooper's Intensifier Musket(tm). He offers a quick nod of thanks to Ginjee.

"Seal the doors," he barks. "Now!"

The surprised helmsman does so, locking off the bridge.

"As of this moment, I, Captain Salata South, am taking command of this vessel. Recall all personnel."

Flinnff, defeated, seethes with hatred.

In the observation lounge, beneath the silent canopy of the galaxy, Mirty Fuegg is keeping Gladius Slate at bay with the Zipper(tm).

"I believed in the Company, Fuegg. I believed in the Union." Gladius is on the move again, sidestepping through the lush decor of comfortable furniture. "Hell, I may even have believed in you."

"Reality hurts, doesn't it?" states Fuegg, matter-of-factly. He backs away, continuing his slow dance with Gladius.

"How did I fit into this? What was the point of it all?

"You were the military's idea. Your old friend, Salata South, and that idiot Ragellon."

"South is in on it?!"

"No, he's too stupid. But their plan to use you as bait presented an opportunity I couldn't, uh, resist. You played it perfectly."

Contempt burns at the back of Gladius's throat. "You still haven't told me why."

"Ah." Fuegg smiles, his jowls folding into sausages beneath his chin as he looks Gladius up and down. "Why would you choose Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarments, or Magno Chairs, or a, uh, Zipper, for that matter?" he says, hefting the weapon in his hand.

"Because… they do the job."

"Wrong, my friend. That's what you are meant to think. You choose them because you have no choice."

Gladius fails to make any connection.

"It's a scam, really," Fuegg continues. "You see, there is only one gigantic mega-corporation which controls the patents on, uh, everything. They have a manufacturing and distribution network of subsidiary companies which give the appearance of a free market state, but in reality, there is only one elite group in control. In fact, our entire civilization, if you can call it that, the social, political and economic fabric of the universe, has blended into one giant, uh, miasma, manipulated at will by a privileged few." Fuegg nods slowly. "OmniCorp owns the imaginations of everyone."

"And this affects me how?" Gladius shrugs.

"Whether you realize it or not, you are under the spell of, shall we say, higher powers. Becoming what they want you to be: one more sheep in the, uh, flock. A happy, oblivious sheep, mind you. Living the good life, as defined by the Corporation." Mirty lets his eyes drift out the viewing screen, toward the Green Moon. One hemisphere is obliterated by the dust of the massive explosion. "The Corporation needs to get paid for supplying you with, uh, peace of mind, Slate. Do you know how we do that?"

"Why don't you tell me."

"We buy things, lots of things. Things we need, things we don't. The Corporation has merchandise its gotta move, Slate. Turnover equals profit. That's what its all about. And that's where I come in." He takes a deep draw on his cigarette, exhales the plume into the air. "I work for OmniCorp. That Union thing is just a necessary ruse. All those terrorist bastards thinking that they are going to save the Universe from, uh, oligarchy? Just dupes in the cause."

Slate stares, transfixed, at the repugnant man before him.

Mirty breaks into a broad smile. "By blowing stuff up, people need to buy new stuff. Drag the military into it and things can spiral out of control. Why, they've already ordered twelve Humongous RangeroPrima Supreme War Galleons. Preparation for the upcoming, uh, conflagration. Factories are cranking up production. Simply put: it's good for business.

"True, it'll be messy for awhile, but once everything is beaten to a pulp and the, uh, commoners can't take it anymore, then I, Mirty Fuegg, will step in with a plan to rebuild, refurnish, re-equip. The New Order. A government fully sympathetic to OmniCorp, lead by Mirty Fuegg, the man who looked in the face of, uh, adversity and said, 'Hi, how ya doin'?'"

"You're crazy," sighs Slate. "You're living in delusion, as power-drunk as this elite few that you say are controlling all our lives. You're a sick man, Fuegg."

Fuegg laughs heartily. "Slate, OmniCorp had regional headquarters on the Green Moon. I've started the ball rolling. Or rather, I've allowed the military, with your help, to, uh, roll it for me. Don't you see? That entire colony was in the direct employ of the Corporation."

"But where do the terrorists fit? I thought that was their headquarters down there."

"It was! That's part of the beauty. The DataTrump Fruition Front is a subsidiary of the Corporation! Who would suspect the Corporation of, uh, malfeasance if the Corporation itself is a victim?"

Slate shakes his head in disgust.

"C'mon Slate, it's win-win. You'll be hauling trash for decades to come. The military will be kissing more ass than a donkey convention. OmniCorp will demand restitution. The DataTrump Fruition Front will resurface somewhere else. Hostilities will, uh, escalate. The public will be running in circles, thankful one minute that the government is pulling out all the stops to protect them, and enraged the next that they are so, uh, incompetent. And just for fun, next week the Interstellar Detritus Reclaimers Union will go on strike. Crap piles up fast, Slate."

Gladius, realizing how much Fuegg enjoys relating the tale of his own destiny, uses the distraction to inch closer to him. "And I suppose you already have the coup planned?"

"You are so, uh, astute. You'd make a good ambassador in my New Order. Yes, I have full documentation of military botch-ups and government corruption. The leaks will trickle out as needed. It won't be difficult to wind up the citizens of the free universe. At the appropriate moment, I will step in and, uh, save the day."

Fuegg snubs out his cigarette in the back of one of the chairs, attention focused on grinding the stubby butt into the upholstery. Gladius lunges forward.

Fuegg looks up, his finger jerking on the trigger of the Zipper(tm). The shot rips into Gladius's forearm as he collides with Fuegg, driving him backward over a couch. The Zipper(tm) goes flying. Mirty struggles, trying to wrest himself from Slate's grip.

Grunting, Gladius hefts Fuegg and hurls him across the lounge. Fuegg bounces across a table and crashes to the floor.

"Your fantasy is over!" Slate dives across the room at the scampering pseudo-president of the Interstellar Detritus Reclaimers Union. He lands on Fuegg's back, hands coiling around Mirty's flabby neck. Fuegg struggles into his pocket, pulling out a small, metal cylinder. Gladius continues to squeeze, Fuegg's face turning a deadly crimson. Mirty manipulates the cylinder, touches a clasp at the side. A needle-thin platinum blade appears.

"Let… go… Slate…" Fuegg wheezes, "I'll… give you… uh… anything."

"Never, Fuegg, I've had enough of deals and orders. I'm putting a stop to this nightmare, forever."

Mirty lashes out with the blade.

"AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!"

Gladius releases Fuegg, his hand clutching his pierced eye. He falls to the floor, rolling onto his back, vital liquids smearing his face and blurring the vision of his other eye.

"I made you… an offer," gasps Fuegg, regaining his composure, "and I meant it."

Gladius's fading vision falls upon the fallen Zipper(tm), resting just under the chair next to him.

"But, if you don't want to be nice to me," chokes Fuegg, rubbing at his neck, "I won't be nice to you." He raises the blade and hurtles at the prone Slate.

Gladius registers the fuzzy shape of the advancing Fuegg. He rolls, snapping up the Zipper(tm). Fuegg slaps to the floor, exhaling sharply.

"Hold your ground," orders Slate. One hand holds his eye, the other grips tightly on the Zipper(tm).

Fuegg gasps for breath, ignores the order, and pulls himself to his feet. "You're going to die, Slate."

"I don't think so." Gladius sights down the barrel, his gore-slicked hand tensing on the trigger. Blood trickles into his good eye, the image of Fuegg faltering, wavering, dissolving into a liquid blur.

ZIPPETY! ZIP! ZIP! Click. Click.

Gladius empties the charge on the small pistol. He blinks to clear his vision. Fuegg, panting for breath, leans on a table before him, untouched by a single shot.

"You're not worth it," sighs Gladius. He tosses the Zipper(tm) away, claws his way onto unsteady legs, and makes for the door. "You're small time, Fuegg, always will be."

Fuegg's ego rages at the comment. His stubby fingers tighten on the knife. Gladius unlocks the door, allowing it to open.

"Die, garbage man!" the pugnacious Itchtrong spits, pistol whipping his Junior Hand Cannon(tm) across Gladius's face. Gladius's legs buckle and he falls flat on his back, revealing Fuegg.

"Fuegg!" The Colonel leaps over Slate and barges straight for the corpulent form of the Observer.

"Itchtrong, just take it easy. I don't think you understa––"

Itchtrong seizes Fuegg by the throat, pressing his Junior Hand Cannon(tm) against the rotund man's head.

Gladius drags himself toward the open door.

"After all I did for you, all the information I gave to you, at tremendous risk to myself," Itchtrong yells.

Fuegg slams the thin blade into Itchtrong's guts, reefs upward. The Colonel convulses in agony, squeezing the trigger on the Junior Hand Cannon(tm).

BWAMMM! Toink!

The shot goes straight up, splintering a small hole in the Stalwart Glass(tm) ceiling of the lounge.

Thhhssssssss!

Fuegg and Itchtrong raise their eyes to the heavens, sense their impending doom.

With a howl, the room begins to decompress. Dust and debris start to whirl, forming a funnel cloud at the freshly opened atmospheric drain. Slate frantically pulls himself through the door, gripping the wall with all his might.

Itchtrong and Fuegg are being sucked upward, caught in a cyclone of tumbling furnishings, nearing the hole. The Emergency Atmosphere Control Door(tm) kicks in, slamming shut and sealing off the lounge.

Inside, Fuegg and Itchtrong reach the center of the engine which drives the howling vortex. Their bodies shred, churning into a roiling blob, as they are extracted through the tiny hole, sucked into the vacuum of space.

Gladius, wincing with pain, holds his hand over his blind and bleeding eye. At last, able to relinquish his stamina, he slumps onto the floor, exhaling heavily, thankful that it's over.

"Inferior One," lilts a melodic voice, "you look of ill health."

Gladius raises his good eyelid. Through his smeared vision he sees a blurred foot, attached to the form of a blue-skinned alien figure with blond hair. "Fystik?"

"Yes, come, we must hurry. The Frak Craks have been called off and the order has been given for the ship's security to lock down the vessel." Fystik helps Gladius to his feet.

"Where's Geronimo?"

"There's no time. Petunia is waiting. Once military control is reestablished we won't be able to leave. They'll seize our ship." Fystik leads Gladius along the corridor to the elevator.

"We can't leave without, Lavoriss," insists Gladius.

Fystik guides the big man into the lift, locks the controls off and punches for descent. It opens on the hangar deck.

Stepping from the lift, Slate sees the Astral Cargo Sled resting near the airlock. "How did you get in?"

"The flight deck door opened and a Stellar Cruiser flew out, in quite a hurry I might add." The Dismemberon steers Gladius toward the sled.

A sound tweaks Slate's ear. "You hear that?"

"What, oh Inferior One?"

"A groan." Gladius wipes at his blood-caked good eye, searching for the source of the sound. He spies a body slowly coming to life. "There, it's Geronimo!" He points to the sluggish lump in the corner of the hangar. "Get him, help him."

Fystik leaves Gladius and crosses to help the waking Geronimo, hustling him to the Astral Cargo Sled. As the reunited trio begin up the ramp, Petunia calls to them from across the hangar.

"Fystik, forget that heap, we're going with this one." She is standing at the hatch of a Vi-Troop Carrier and ducks inside once they see her. They stumble across to the vessel and climb aboard.

Inside, Gladius collapses onto a Magno Bench and confronts Petunia. "You came back. Why?"

"Him," she says, jabbing a thumb at Fystik. "Says you helped re-unite us."

Fystik eases Geronimo into the on-board AutoDoc emergency unit, then takes a seat for himself.

"Hold on!" calls Petunia. She initiates the hangar conveyor and the ship chugs toward the airlock. The Mini-HootToot drives fire up, warming for the lift-off into space.

"Captain South," the helmsman of the Decimater calls, "all Frak Craks are accounted for. Confirmed count: six dead, eighteen confined to the security lockup. All systems are coming back on-line, the control override to the Laredo X–Press has been rescinded. Main console will be fully operational in ten minutes."

"Good," South snaps, fully in charge.

"Aeronautics report a ship leaving the hangar."

"Scan."

"Scan functions have yet to return to full operations," pipes one of the ensigns.

Ginjee moves to the view port and surveys the exterior of the Decimater. "I only see the Abrogate out––wait."

"What is it?" South crosses to the view port. A lone Vi-Troop Carrier passes over the bow of the Decimater. He strains to see into the vessel through its side viewing ports. He can make out the shapes of three figures. One is a rather large, muscular man clad in a Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment. He daubs at his face with a blood soaked cloth. For a brief moment, as the small ship reaches its closest point before continuing on past the disabled Abrogate and out of sight, the man looks up.

"Good-bye, Slate," whispers Salata. "Good luck."

"What was that, sir?" Ginjee asks.

"Nothing."

"Shall I activate a Tow Hold and snare them, sir?" calls the ensign.

"No, let them go." South turns back to the bridge. "Ginjee, put in a Deep-Space Trunk Call to Desolate Harmony. We've got to make a full report of this mess. And somebody check on Ragellon."