Chapter Three
PAWNS
"Should I follow you?"

Desolate Harmony. A large spaceport catering to everything: from high-priced bounty hunters to Holo-Image Evangelists(tm).

The spaceport is known for its colorful characters, its bar brawls that can alter the port's orbit, and its high exchange of money, meals and murder. But that's not all for which the spaceport is famous. Desolate Harmony also has the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company head offices and Arachide Belly Cruiser(tm) dry-docks. Close to eighty per cent of the IDR fleet rotate through the port each year. Most operatives consider Desolate Harmony to be home port.

Outside the dry-dock administration stands a large, musclebound man. He adjusts his blue and gold fatigues, hefts a metal case over his shoulder, and strides, with grace and determination, down the corridor.

Rounding the corner from the docking bays is a one-eyed, pod-toed creature of unusual porcine-like stature, struggling with an oversized duffel bag. With the exception of a wide belt supporting a small utility pack, the otherwise naked alien endeavors to catch up with the big man. The alien, a member of the Mondometamoros, a race of metamorphrodite beings whose appendages are able to adjust to the requirements of the environment, waddles uncomfortably on stubby, flat-footed legs.

"Gladius Slate!"

The man in the blue and gold fatigues jerks to a stop, turns.

"Excuse me, dude," apologizes the one-eyed alien, "but, like, are you Gladius Slate?" A Spleenrot Surfin' Dude(R) magazine that had been tucked beneath the alien's sweaty appendage, drops.

Piercing green eyes scan up from the smutty publication, over the bulging belly of a rotund torso, past the sloping shoulders which define the chinless neck, up to the single eye of the alien.

"Who are you?"

"I'm, ah, Snax Mawhoooba, sir. I'm your new copilot. Like, the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company has assigned me to the Gladknight V. That's your ship, right? Your Glad-ee-us Slate, right?"

"Yes."

Snax roots in his duffel bag, produces a printout of his orders, and hands them to Slate. "I'm your new guy. Figuratively speaking of course, as I have no specific gender, but you can probably see that."

"Union?"

"Permittee," Snax beams, undaunted. "I need thirty-three-thousand, two-hundred and twenty-six more hours before I can get into the Union."

Slate, his faith in the powers-that-be beginning to wane, stares at Mawhoooba.

"Oh yeah, I also have some new orders for us," informs Snax, pulling out a small computer memory card with the IDR logo on it.

"Play it when we get to the ship," Gladius says, turning and walking away, "we've got a debriefing session to go to first."

"You want me to follow you? Should I follow you?" calls Snax, fumbling to pick up his gear.

Gladius shakes his head. Permittee. Another piece-of-cannon-fodder permittee. The Union is going to hear about this.

They enter the meeting hall. A large cluster of IDR Company operatives, each wearing blue and gold fatigues, each emblazoned with the IDR Company crest, sit near the front, talking. Gladius takes a seat alone, near the back. Many of his co-workers avoid him, wary of the big man's reputation as a troublemaker. Snax bumbles his way to Gladius, plopping his frame next to the human.

The alien looks absently at a poster displaying Mirty Fuegg, president of the Interstellar Detritus Reclaimer's Union. Mirty's round face is frozen in a squint, avoiding the cigarette smoke drifting from the stubby butt tucked in the corner of his mouth. Below the photograph a bold slogan reflects the sentiments of the Union's relationship with the gigantic Company: "Our Union. Our Company. Our Future."

"Like, uh, what are we doin' here, huh?" asks Snax, pulling a Hydroxilated Nutri-Chew(tm) biscuit from the pack on his belt.

"Shut it," Slate hisses.

District Manager of the Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company, Rolezar Doughan, takes his place at the lectern. The tall, thin being of angular stature, bred specifically for managerial duty, clears his throat: a high-pitched whine with a hint of rattle. The room grows quiet.

"IDR operatives, I'm sure you are all aware of the recent disappearances of many of our Arachide Belly Cruisers. Not only have we lost the expensive ships, but numerous valuable operatives have also vanished."

There is a brief buzz throughout the gathering as many recall friends gone missing.

"We are in the very unfortunate position of not knowing what has become of these ill-fated employees, and all I can hope is that no harm has befallen them. Somebody is trying to damage our organization and I will not tolerate it. I assure each and every one of you that the Company will not rest until the perpetrators of these heinous acts are brought to justice.

"As you may know from the recent memo, an emergency meeting with the Board of Directors has been held and the recommendation put forward that operatives are now to be armed at all times. I would urge, for your own safety, that you adhere to this policy. In addition, please forward any information you may discover regarding these crimes to myself directly. I must point out that anyone caught aiding or abetting said offenders will be dealt the most severe penalties allowable under Intergalactic Law."

Rolezar pauses to flush a build-up of mucus from his nasal cavities.

"Now, as a special treat for you, Mirty Fuegg, your Union president, who is taking a brief pause from contract negotiations, would like to say a few words."

Snax shifts in his seat, excited, while Gladius pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a migraine.

A pudgy, balding man wearing a checked flannel shirt makes his way to the podium. Suspenders clipped to drab green work dungarees strain under the weight of his protruding belly. He drops his cigarette butt, crushing it with his heel, and steps up to the microphone, shielding his eyes from the glare of the lights.

"My Union Brothers and Sisters," begins the gruff voice, "I want to thank you all for your, uh, impeccable dedication. The Company is very happy with the service we've been providing. You should all be proud.

"I would like to extend my sincerest hope to the families of any individuals reported as missing, that they will be returned unharmed. Also, I just want to, uh, re-iterate Mr. Doughan's, the Union's Executive Board, and the Company's Board of Directors concern about the potential, uh, damage these acts of piracy pose. It threatens to shake the very foundations of our Union as well as the Company. Without this Company, we, the members of the Detritus Reclaimers Union, would be out of work, and without us, this Company could not exist."

A murmur ripples through the room.

"The Union Executive Board has met with the Company Directors and we have reached an agreement. It has been decided that it is each individual's duty to actively participate in bringing this, uh, nastiness to an end. So keep your eyes and ears open, please. Together we make this Company, together we can supplant this, uh, insurrection."

Another buzz runs through the gathering. Mirty Fuegg continues to prattle on about Union business. Gladius Slate sits motionless, intent on the words of the president, when a small distraction catches his eye. Snax is bent over, his entire head engulfed in the duffel bag on the floor in front of him. He snuffles around inside, chattering softly to himself. Then, with a small squeal, he emerges, a pack of Plezure-Senz Fizz Mints(tm) clamped in tweezer-like digits. Straightening, he notices Gladius looking at him. He smiles, displaying his prize to the big guy, and returns his attention to the podium. Slate stares in bewilderment at the odd profile of his newest copilot.

"…and I expect the minor differences still hampering the contract negotiations will be resolved in short order. I wish you all good luck and safe journeys. Thanks, folks."

There is a mix of semi-hearty applause as the operatives stand up, stretching and chatting. Snatching up the metal case, Gladius makes a hasty exit. Snax scrambles to collect his things.

Walking briskly, Slate enters an access tube leading to his ship, an Arachide Belly Cruiser(tm), with Snax lumbering awkwardly after him. Once inside, Gladius stows the metal case in the forward hold.

"What's in the case?" puffs Snax, dumping his gear at the copilot console.

"My insurance policy. Give me our orders."

Gladius snatches the memory card out of the alien's recently formed pincer and pops it into a reader on the piloting console. The image of Rolezar Doughan, the District Manager of the IDR Company, appears in a Holo-Vis(tm) projection over the console.

"Commander Slate. By now you will have met your new copilot. The Personnel Department has assured me that he is an able-bodied, enthusiastic being who will likely rise to the elite ranks of management one day. Treat him accordingly."

Snax smiles at the appraisal. Gladius eyes him doubtfully, then returns his attention to the image of the District Manager.

"Regarding your new orders, the Waste Management Department has an urgent salvage mission involving a reportedly abandoned vessel. Your navigational computer is being programmed now. Please standby for launch initiation. You will be briefed en route."

The powerful engines of the ship, the Gladknight V, ignite, nudging it out of dock.

"You better lock yourself in, permittee," suggests Gladius, activating the field of his Magno Command Chair(tm).

Snax plops himself onto the Magno Couch(tm) and, sprouting digits, activates the couch's restraining field.

Clear of the grid, the MatterMovers(tm) kick in, propelling the Gladknight V toward the distant reaches of the galaxy.

The office complexes of Desolate Harmony stretch over a large portion of spaceport grid. The hundreds of plush suites are arranged so that each has an entire wall of Stalwart Glass(tm) facing toward the swirl of the galactic hub. In the dim recesses of one of these offices, a lone figure watches as the glowing afterburners of the Gladknight V's engines recede to pinpoints, eventually disappearing amidst the backdrop of stars. Turning away from the view port, the Observer's attention shifts to a Holo-Plotter(tm) and the green traces recording the Gladknight's trajectory into the wilderness.