Chapter Seven
FEEDBACK
"Our snitch has paid off."

"Salata, get in here!"

Captain Salata South senses the urgency in his commander's voice and follows the old man's wandering path into the Master Concert Control Room(tm).

"Display," orders Ragellon.

A computer generated holographic image of a solar system appears before the two military officers.

"Highlight the path of the transmission received on the Sub-Space Military Scrambler Channel."

The computer pauses, its internal workings performing the command. A green laser beam plots out the trajectory of the signal.

"Where's it coming from?" South asks.

"Eighth planet, sector nineteen. Our snitch has paid off." Ragellon points to the Eighth Planet, a minute speck on the map. "The transmission was jammed two point four seconds after it began, but from that we managed to triangulate the signal's origin."

"And I'll bet that's where the stolen Scow Cows have been taken," Salata surmises. "Enhance." The image of the planet is enlarged. "So, that's it," he says, studying the small dirt ball.

Ragellon is operating one step ahead. He fingers his Commucon Stay-Close(tm). "Have the Stellar Crak Reconnaissance Team put on red alert. Operation Maelstrom is moving to stage two. We leave as soon as Captain South and myself board the Annihilator."

Salata's eyes widen. "You're coming?"

"Hell yes! I want to be in on the take down. Let's get moving. These terrorist skuzz buckets are going to get a taste of what they've been dishing out."

"Exponentially." Salata is not completely filled with confidence.

* * *

"…so the Annihilator, under the command of Ragellon himself, is now en route to the Eighth Planet depot. I don't know what that does to your plans, but let me know what you want me to do."

The officer, in the dim twilight of the darkened office, stands at-ease before the massive Thalopoplar veneer desk. The senior accomplice, the Observer, sinks back into the lush, Buffalio down-filled, leather chair. After a moment, neatly manicured fingers sweep briefly beneath the glow of the solitary desk lamp in a gesture of dismissal. As the officer turns to exit, sharp points of light glint from numerous military decorations. The Observer watches the office door slide shut.

Captain Brown strolls up the Landing Rampola(tm) that connects the Expunger, a Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm), to its docking station on Desolate Harmony.

A young ensign disembarking salutes him. "Captain Brown, Captain Helfogg is expecting you."

Brown nods to the crewman, boards the ship and heads for the elevator.

Captain Helena Helfogg stands before the large view port in her private quarters, staring at the expanse of Desolate Harmony. She rubs her hand through the short, blond bristles of hair at the nape of her neck. Her severe military cut is softened by her smooth oval face and warm smile, helping her to retain her femininity. The door chime sounds.

"Come in."

The cabin door slides open and she turns to greet the trim, silver-skinned form of the Chromapien, Captain Brown.

"Heratio, you're late," she says, turning back to the view port.

"Unavoidable, I'm afraid," he says, the door shutting behind him.

"Did you hear Ragellon has assigned South to take over Ozzie Beethoven's assignment?" Helfogg asks.

"Yes, I met with the Vice-Admiral and Colonel Itchtrong earlier this week." Brown reclines on the Blissfollian Fun Fur(tm) covered Gyro Sofamatic(tm). "Still no word on the whereabouts of Ozzie?"

"I don't think they'll find him." Helfogg turns to face Brown. "Do you think South can steer Ragellon clear of trouble?"

"Doubtful. An investigation of this complexity may not be the best cap on Ragellon's career. South will have his hands full."

Brown undoes the snaps of his uniform. Pulling his tunic open, he reveals the hardened muscles of his hairless, silver chest. Helfogg crosses the room to the Gyro Sofamatic(tm). Brown considers the outline of her toned body through the white gown she wears, his breath quickening. Helfogg shrugs the gown from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Naked, she descends onto the awaiting Brown.

"Ragellon can wait," she breathes gently.

Caressing her body with one hand, Brown reaches back with the other, shutting off the light.

* * *

Black. Everything is black. Suddenly, a blinding flash of light smacks Geronimo in the eye. Blue fingers have pried open his eyelid. A blue face is hovering over him.

"He's awake," announces Fystik.

The table, onto which Geronimo is strapped, tilts up, revealing the room.

"You flew here on the New Gnu?"

"Uh huh." Tiny beads of light dart and pop before Geronimo's eyes. As they adjust, he notes that the room is filled with a variety of torture devices, not unlike those fancied by the Dismemberons, of the planet Visceraton. Geronimo freezes in terror, realizing that the blue alien is a member of the Dismemberon race, renowned for their sacrificial torture practices.

"According to what we could decipher from your ship's log," croons the Dismemberon, "you are the sole proprietor of the space craft."

"How'd ya figure that? My on board computer is frapped." Geronimo glances down at his body, surprised to discover he is clad only in his gray Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm).

"Ah, that little virus was of our own design. We have the cure, of course."

A female voice: "Who else knows that you stumbled into our trap?"

Geronimo twists his head around to find a petite, mousy woman in a loose-fitting white jumpsuit: Petunia Ren.

"Who are you?" asks Geronimo.

"I'm asking the questions."

"Aaauuuggghhh!!!"

Geronimo's eyes bug at the ear piercing scream filtering in from somewhere outside the small room.

"That must be one of your accomplices," offers Fystik. "Our associate, Weenel Deluthe, is an expert in psycho-torture. He discovers a being's worst fear and then turns it to his own advantage. The screamer is being shown that same fear repeatedly with the help of the Astral Mart Seven-Thousand Mind Sucker."

Petunia inches up to the bound Geronimo. She leans in, her face a hair's breadth from his. "How did you get past our Blast O'Bots?"

"Uh… uh…"

"Who sent you here? The military? The Space Commission? The Nectar Nine Police? Or are you just some stupid pack rat who got sucked into our trap?"

"Uh… uh…"

The door opens. Petunia whirls to face an enormous, pink humanoid, as wide as he is tall. He is dressed in a loincloth, like that of a Sumo wrestler. The beast is a wall of solid muscle.

"Did they talk?" Petunia asks.

"Naw, I trew dee Metamorphrodite into dee peet. Da udder won know sheeet," slobbers Weenel Deluthe.

"Then we must make them talk."

"May I have the pleasure?" asks Fystik, his tone betraying his anticipation.

"Yes, but don't take too long with it." Petunia returns her attention to Geronimo. "You're more than a pack rat." She nods to Fystik, gestures to Geronimo, "Do this one first."

She ducks out and the door slides shut, leaving Geronimo alone with the two odd creatures.

"Oooeeee! That stinks."

Naked once more, Snax Mawhoooba slowly rises from the bottom of a dark, smelly pit. His appendages have changed into spiky claws resembling crampons, and he struggles to hoist his bulk up the wall of the cesspit. Covered in the excrements of humans and aliens alike, he hauls himself out the top of the slick-rimmed hole.

"I gotta have a shower." With flesh twitching and appendages threshing, he staggers down the passageway toward a brightly lit cross-corridor.

Fystik opens a Quaanaheeni-hide case and lovingly unsheathes a Tri-Prong Defacer(tm). Its diamond blades glint into Geronimo's eyes.

"Not attached to your face are you?"

The Dismemberon culture has evolved from roots deeply seated in deity appeasement. In their early prehistory, no anxiety was too small that a sacrificial offering couldn't be made. Over time, the act of the sacrifice gradually supplanted the reason for the sacrifice, giving the Dismemberons a nasty reputation.

Fortunately, the advancement of the Dismemberon culture has taken the necessary turns to ensure survival amongst the unforgiving racial prejudices of an expanding galactic community. The sacrificial practices are now reduced to harmless reenactments and celebrations during civic holidays. Unfortunately, the instinctual factors which trigger the enjoyment of bloodsports, remain.

"Not for long," chuckles Fystik, a sound that is both pleasant and horrifying. He revs the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm).

Weenel lets out a hearty laugh, sniffing and snorting at Geronimo's terror. Fystik approaches, the diamond blades whirring, drawing near Geronimo's face. It thrills him to watch Geronimo sweat.

BEEP!

"What is it now?" Fystik whines, exasperated.

Weenel turns to a computer terminal mounted on the cell wall. "Veesitors. The Ambassadoor ees heere. Earlee again."

Fystik, who is poised over Geronimo, the Defacer centimeters from trisecting his face, climbs down from the restraint table. Geronimo decides he can start breathing again.

"What's Petunia doing?"

"Shee's on a Trans-Space Trunk Call to da beeeg clientz," replies Weenel, reading the computer display. "I don' tink she'z gonna wanna bee deezturbed."

Fystik exhales sharply, returns the diamond blades to their Quaanaheeni-hide case, then places the Defacer into a desk drawer.

"I'd better meet the Ambassador, then," he says, crossing to Weenel. "You finish this. But take your time with the big one, I'd like to entertain him before he becomes redundant."

Fystik slips out of the cell. Geronimo looks from the retreating Fystik to the massive form of Weenel Deluthe, who, with a rocking motion, rotates to face Geronimo. A crooked grin breaks across his monstrous face.

In her private quarters, Petunia Ren paces before her Holo-Vis Deep-Space Scrambler(tm). The picture fails to materialize, but voice manages to come through amidst the crackling of cosmic interference.

"…it's important to warn yo…fwestttzzz…inks your end of the operatiffwwwzzzottt…eopardy due to a…crizzzkllleee…areful of new arrivals…fwwzzappp… trust no one…sszzzikt…report as soon as…ssccikkle…"

The message continues to crackle. Petunia recalls the encoded transmission that Fystik intercepted. This confirms it: one of the prisoners is a spy, but working for whom? And if her contact knows about it, just how deep is the infiltration? One thing is certain, if spies have made it this far, then there isn't much time to waste.

Snax wipes his pod across the door latch. The door slides open, admitting the distraught alien into a large locker room with shower stalls.

"Finally, a place to clean up. Whew, do I ever stink. No job is worth this." He steps into one of the cubicles. A long pull-chain hangs down from the shower head. Snax yanks the chain. The floor gives way.

Weenel Deluthe selects a dirty pair of Reticulated Ocular-Cocktail Eye Extracting Tongs(tm) from a tray next to Geronimo. He clacks the tongs and studies Geronimo's frozen face. Stepping toward the restraining table, he emits a small, wicked chuckle.

The trap door in the ceiling bursts open. A blob-like figure smashes onto the unprepared Weenel Deluthe, driving him to the floor. Weenel's head cracks against the heavy base of the table, knocking him out cold.

"Snax!" squeals Geronimo. "Get me the fuck outta this!"

"Like, who are you?" asks Snax, pulling himself up.

"I'm Geronimo. Gladius's former copilot."

Snax begins to unstrap him. "Where's the boss?"

"I don't know. We'd better find him and get outta here. We've stumbled onto somethin' we don't wanna be a part of." Geronimo wrinkles his nose as he climbs from the torture table. "What's that smell?"

"I don't smell anything." Snax's upper appendages have changed into squeegees and he is methodically scraping goo from his body.

Geronimo quickly steps to the desk and begins to rifle through it. He plucks up the Quaanaheeni-hide case, rips it open, and the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm) tumbles to the desktop.

"This'll come in handy. Let's go, we may have to kick some butt before we get outta here." Geronimo races out of the room with Snax lumbering after him.

"Ambassador," Fystik says, bowing low, "it is a pleasure to see you again."

An ornately dressed human in a green satin tunic, plumed hat, and flowing red cape struts down the gangplank of a StellarHawk Galactic Cruiser(tm). A Zipper(tm) pistol hangs from his hip, partially hidden by his distended belly.

"Where's Petunia?" drawls the Ambassador.

"She is currently otherwise engaged, but I assure you, she will present herself to you shortly," lies the blue alien.

"I need my new vessel for a raid I have planned next week," explains the Ambassador, pulling the hat from his head. "The pesky peasants on Alfalfadoria Sixteen are havin' a little trouble with their taxes, don'tcha know."

A small, hovering robot follows the Ambassador to the platform floor.

"I cain't really get rid of 'em without attractin' a lot of unnecessary attention. So I thought I'd arrange fer a little pirate plunder to teach the pukes a lesson."

"How clever," compliments Fystik. "Let us go to the Enhancement Chamber to see if the necessary overhaul has been completed. This way."

Fystik leads the Ambassador and his robot to a small Whizzer(tm) hover sled. Boarding the sled, they whiz down a tunnel leading to the Enhancement Chamber.

Geronimo pauses at a large metal door. Snax, writhing beneath the coating of excrement, catches up to him. A sign above the door reads:

ASTRAL MART 7000 MIND SUCKER(tm)
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

"I should leave old Happybutt in there," Geronimo mutters.

"Yeah," Snax agrees.

"But I can't."

"Oh."

Geronimo recalls Fystik's explanation of what was taking place in this room and the blood curdling scream he had heard. He steels himself against the unknown horror contained within, then punches the door release.

The large metal door hisses, shudders, then slides open. Geronimo steps in, his eyes shut. "Gladius, are you in here?"

"AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!"

Geronimo opens his eyes. The room is filled with holo-projections of Gladius's worst fear: A hundred permittees, all clones of Snax Mawhoooba, running around trying to tell Gladius what to do. Geronimo catches sight of Slate, also in his Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm), stuck to a Magno Restraining Chair(tm), his eyes sucked open by an attachment. He is being forced to live a nightmare.

"AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!"

Taking a deep breath, Geronimo pushes through the projections to where his ex-boss is trapped. With a quick slash of the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm), Geronimo carves through the back of the chair, boring deep into its electronics. A spray of sparks and blue fire flash in his face. He strikes again with the three diamond blades, ripping the components of the seat to pieces.

Gladius slumps forward, falling to the floor, quickly shutting his eyes. Geronimo tries to heft the musclebound mound onto his meager shoulders, but drops him. He decides it would be better to drag him out of the room.

"Snax! Give me a hand, will ya!"

"I can't," whines Snax, "I can't do anything until I've had a shower."

Geronimo shakes his head and begins to reef on Gladius's prone bulk. Once outside, Geronimo taps the door release, closing the door and blocking the sights and sounds of the permittee mayhem. Slowly, Gladius opens his eyes.

"He's alive, huh?" queries Snax.

Gladius looks up, focusing on his copilot. His eyes fill with a mixture of rage and fear, blood rises to his face and he leaps at Snax. But the moment his hands encircle the alien's neck, he jerks them away.

"Jeez! Wha… what have you been into?" he stammers.

"Shit, okay? I've been in shit!"

"Son of a bitch!" Gladius teeters and stumbles back against the wall.

"Let's go, we gotta get outta here!" urges Geronimo.

Gladius turns to him, confusion awash on his face. He looks at his soiled hands, then around the corridor, uncertain of his whereabouts. "Yeah, let's go home," he mumbles, and slumps down the wall.

"Let's move," Geronimo says, tossing a concerned glance to Snax, "that big mother's probably awake by now."

Snax nervously glances over his shoulder. Geronimo prods the reluctant Gladius to his feet and the group heads down the corridor, away from the torture rooms.