Chapter Eight
CONVERGENCE
"Is it playtime?"

Hyperspace. Flying faster than the speed of light. The Annihilator, a Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm), races toward the nineteenth sector, quadrant beta five delta, eighth planet with a compliment of three-hundred and twenty-one regular operating personnel, and an additional twenty members of the Stellar Crak Reconnaissance Team.

The huge Battle Accelerator class military vessels can function with a minimum crew of one-hundred and ninety-eight, but in wartime have the capacity to carry upwards of five-thousand personnel. The three-hundred and some currently on board represent standard operating requirements.

In his cabin, Captain Salata South prepares his field gear for combat. Vice-Admiral Joshua Ragellon pokes his head into the Captain's quarters.

"We're set to come out of hyperspace just shy of short scanner range. I can't wait to get my hands on 'em." He flares his nostrils and inhales deeply. "Man, this is invigorating."

Salata eyes him warily. "Any word of activity on the planet?" He pulls his Intensifier Musket(tm) from its custom, genuine Pulmerona cat-leather, case.

"We're attempting to track that now. There is no indication they've detected our approach."

Salata jerks out the auto-loader of the Intensifier and lets it slide back into place. "Any contact with the snitch?"

"None."

"Probably dead."

* * *

The Enhancement Chamber looms before Fystik and the Ambassador. It is a magnificent sight: several huge space-going vessels are moored at various workstations around the gigantic hangar. Fystik carefully guides the Whizzer(tm) between dozens of robotic work stations performing modifications to the wide variety of stolen space craft.

"What's that beauty?" the Ambassador asks, pointing to a sleek, black spacecraft.

"That's an Ebony Skulker, Series FX-Twenty," remarks Fystik casually, knowing it is way out of the Ambassador's league. "We picked that up a few weeks ago, but it's already been sold to one of our biggest clients."

"Pity."

They whiz on, moving further into the Enhancement Chamber.

The naked, reeking Snax and the underwear clad pair make their way down a long corridor. Gladius is somewhat revived and Geronimo makes conversation, choosing his words carefully.

"…so, silly me, I copied that derelict's log into my on board computer before you showed up. And then, when you kicked me off the ship, I'm cruisin' along, mindin' my own business, when suddenly my Byte O'Matic goes caphlooie. My guess is these bastards booby-trapped the derelict ship's log and hijacked me here."

"Same thing happened to us," Gladius replies. "It put a jinx on our nav-computer and rerouted us here. And then we got hit by that Tow Hold."

"Tow Hold?" Geronimo snaps a look to Gladius.

They stop short at a large sign.

ENHANCEMENT CHAMBER AND STORAGE
HANGAR -- THIS WAY

A flashing neon arrow, extending and retracting, points to a large access tunnel.

"There's probably a ship we can steal down there," suggests Geronimo.

"Borrow," corrects Gladius, offering him a sideways glance.

"You haven't changed, have you."

The three beings cautiously advance down the tunnel, stopping at a set of swinging doors. Geronimo edges up and peeks through the window.

"Holy shit!" He is stunned by the sight of the gigantic room filled with space ships, robotics and armaments. "This is junk heaven." He leans on the door and races into the room.

"Geronimo, wait," Gladius hisses.

"He's gonna get us kill––"

"Shut up, Snax!" Sighing, Gladius follows his ex-copilot into the Enhancement Chamber.

Fystik carefully guides the Whizzer(tm) toward a newly outfitted Arachide Belly Cruiser Detritus Reclamation Unit(tm). "That looks like your shi––"

Fystik slams on the brakes, jerking the Ambassador to the floor of the hover scooter. Geronimo is walking down the gangplank of the ship.

Pulling himself into his seat, the Ambassador spies Geronimo. "I didn't know you had any human mechanics."

"We don't." Fystik's pale purple eyes change to a viciously violent violet as they lock onto the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm) held loosely in Geronimo's hand. "That sacrilegious piece of cattle. I will kill him."

The Dismemberon steps out of the Whizzer(tm). Following Fystik, the Ambassador draws his Zipper(tm) and climbs from the vehicle. The Ambassador's bodyguard robot, sensing the change in mood, arms itself, ready to protect its master. The three of them duck behind a rotund recycling receptacle.

"Geronimo," Gladius shouts, over the din of machinery at work.

Geronimo stops halfway down the ramp, spies Gladius coming up from behind the ship. He doesn't notice Fystik and the Ambassador approaching from the other side.

"Luxury Scow Cow, Happybutt. Better'n yours!"

"Yeah, I can see two more IDR Company vessels over there," Gladius replies, pointing across the hangar. "This must be where the hijacked vessels are brought."

Suddenly, at the edge of his vision, Geronimo catches sight of movement.

ZIP!!!

Geronimo is hit. He lurches sideways, plummeting from the ramp, the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm) falling with him.

Gladius watches Geronimo's body fall into the grease pit beneath the ship. He motions for Snax to stop.

"What's goin' on?"

"Shut it!" Gladius backs away from the ramp. Crouching, he sees the two sets of feet approach.

"I got 'im," beams the Ambassador, looking down into the pit. There is no sign of Geronimo other than a few drops of blood.

In a frenzy, the Dismemberon searches for the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm). He activates the Commucon Stay-Close(tm) communicator on his belt, speaks calmly and evenly: "Weenel… Weenel… "

Gladius pushes Snax along a narrow walkway next to a Flypan Space Ram(tm). "Keep going. I'll circle around and see if Geronimo is okay."

Snax scratches himself, his singular eye darting around its socket. Sweat has begun to pour down his thick neck. "Leave him, Gladius, let's get ourselves out of here."

Gladius fixes his new copilot with an icy stare.

BLWAPP!

A blast from the Ambassador's guardian bot nails Snax's protruding posterior. An electro-ray envelops him, searing off the coating of alien excrement. His body jerks wildly, his limbs rapidly changing, barely pausing between bizarre transmutations. Indeed, some of them Snax hasn't even seen before. He yelps, then slinks off into the tangle of enhancement equipment, leaving Gladius alone with the robot.

Gladius watches the bot as it takes aim at his chest. The rush of adrenalin has restored Gladius to his former, quick-reflexed self. Whatever emotional damage the psycho-torture has caused seems, for the time being, to have disappeared. The bot locks onto its target. Gladius's muscles twitch, tensing like a coiled spring.

"Do it, you metal piece of––"

The bot fires. Gladius leaps. The ray strikes a direct hit on the Flypan Space Ram(tm) and energy snakes over its surface.

Gladius does a zig-zag and dives onto the floating robot's back, his legs wrapped around its belly, one arm applying a choke hold. The bot begins to spin, frantically trying to dismiss its unwanted passenger. Slate clings on desperately. Prying at a groove along its side, he rips open the control panel.

"Sounds like my guardian has 'em cornered," calls the Ambassador triumphantly.

Hearing the sounds of bot distress on the other side, Fystik cautiously approaches the front of the Space Ram(tm). He rounds the nose of the small ship, the Ambassador right behind him, and sees Gladius ripping at the guts of the whirling bot.

The bot begins to smoke. Gladius releases his grip and is flung across the aisle, crashing into a workstation. He immediately crawls behind some stubby equipment. Fystik withdraws behind the nose of the ram, also knowing what is about to happen.

The Ambassador rushes forward, approaching the runaway robot.

"What's happened to my guardia––"

KABLAMMM!!!

It explodes in a spray of shrapnel. The Ambassador is blown backward by the blast, landing ten meters across the chamber.

Gladius peers out from behind the equipment. Across the aisle, Fystik does the same. Their eyes lock. Gladius tenses, then rises up from behind the barricade, his well-defined muscles apparent beneath his Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm). The slender, unarmed Fystik, no match for the tough human being, quickly ducks out of sight.

Seeing the Dismemberon retreat, Gladius turns his attention to the unmoving Ambassador. He breaks from his cover, trots to the lifeless form and rolls the body over. Blood foams from the dandy's mouth. A large piece of bot is wedged inside the Ambassador's rib cage.

Hearing the Whizzer(tm) start up, Gladius wrenches the Zipper(tm) from the Ambassador's death grip. The Whizzer's(tm) engine increases in pitch, growing rapidly louder. Gladius turns. Fystik and the hover cart barrel toward him.

ZIP!

Gladius fires, hitting the Whizzer's(tm) right stabilizer. Fystik madly tries to regain control of the vehicle. It begins to yaw. Gladius dodges to one side. The Whizzer(tm) veers over his head, plunging directly for the Space Ram(tm).

KABANG!!!

The Whizzer(tm) slams into the Ram, careens out into the aisle, and rips apart into a twirling tangle of torn metal. A limp Fystik flies clear and tumbles into a heap, disappearing beneath some machinery.

Gladius climbs to his feet, staring for a long moment at the smoking ruins of the Whizzer(tm). He shudders, shaking off the wave of muddled thoughts that have engulfed him. "Geronimo," he calls, "if you're okay, you can come out now."

WHHUUUMMPP!

Gladius falls, face first, to the floor, the Zipper(tm) skittering away. He rolls over to confront a square-bodied mound of pink muscle: Weenel Deluthe.

"Git up you peeece of sheeet. I'se gonna reeep you'se fuckink head off, heh heh heh."

Weenel Deluthe is a genetically manufactured, psychologically reared, specimen of the short-lived BioCenturian(tm) Project. The initial intention of the project was to create a biological super-musculature for doing guard duty in prison colonies and other difficult work in dangerous situations. As it turned out, faulty genetics over-produced the muscle tissue of the first trial specimens. They needed intense psychological training just to maintain their muscle tone, let alone function in everyday society. Later versions, of which Weenel is one, still received the genetic instructions for over-blown muscles, but the psychological training began at birth.

For many of these experimental beings, the knowledge of what they were proved to be too much for them to handle. The stringent psycho-rearing of their childhood was such that when they began to move into and learn about the real world, they gave up. Most turned into junk food eating blobs, too large to move –– even to use the toilet. They lived, coated in their own filth, on government assistance programs. Most died at a young age.

Of the few who survive, they have done so by becoming complete egomaniacs. They lived like monks, for years at a stretch, until their mental powers equaled that of their physical ones. And now, one of these egomaniacs, Weenel Deluthe, is advancing on the fallen Gladius Slate.

Gladius begins to crab-walk backward, toward the Zipper(tm). Weenel's massive hand darts out, grabs him by the Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm) front, and jerks him into the air, feet dangling above the ground. Startled, Gladius tries to block the anticipated roundhouse punch, but, being unsuccessful, is sent crashing into a spider-like, multi-armed robot carrying a replacement Magno Chair(tm). The chair, the robot, and Gladius crash to the floor.

"How you'se like dat, sheeet for brainz, heh heh?"

Weenel lumbers toward the pile of robot and human parts, wiping drool from his chin with the back of his hand. Scrambling, Gladius grabs an arm broken from the robot.

"You'se gonna weesh you was ded, sheeet for brainz, heh heh," Weenel chortles, reaching for Gladius.

Gladius swings the robot arm, catching Weenel full in the face. The pink bulk staggers, warm red blood running from his upper lip.

Gladius lashes out at Weenel again, but the beast recovers and the blow smacks into the palm of his upturned hand. Weenel's digits close around the robot arm and yank it from Gladius's grasp. He drops the arm, grabs Gladius by the shoulders, and leans in, their faces millimeters apart.

"You cut mee good, sheet for brainz," says Weenel, spitting blood into Gladius's face, "but now I'm gonna reep you'se wide open, heh heh."

He begins to squeeze. Squirming, Gladius pulls his feet up into the alien's chest and pushes. Weenel's grip gives way to the slipperiness of the Spiffy Sensor Suit Undergarment(tm) fabric, and the pair tumble in opposite directions. Gladius quickly rises, darting away from his opponent.

"Where da fawk you'se goink?"

Glancing back, Gladius sees Weenel launch the fallen Magno Chair(tm) as if it were a football. It arcs across the room toward him. He leaps at a piece of hardware being hoisted by a passing crane. The Magno Chair(tm) clatters to the floor, narrowly missing him.

Weenel grunts, stopping at the sight of Gladius rising on the crane. Gladius maneuvers onto the top of the crane's load, a military issue Triple-Barrel Blunderbuss Cannon(tm). He undoes the safety chain with one hand, then reaches for the crane's hook release with the other. Looking down from the swinging load, he sees Weenel advance.

"Git down from dere, sheet for brainz," orders Weenel, now standing directly below the Triple-Barrel Blunderbuss Cannon(tm).

Gladius yanks the hook release. The armament drops, obliterating Weenel from Gladius's view. There is a meaty slap as the Triple-Barrel Blunderbuss's descent comes to an abrupt halt. It teeters back and forth.

"You wanna play catch? Here. Catch, heh heh."

"Crap!" Gladius curses, dangling from the safety chain.

The Blunderbuss Cannon hurtles upward and Gladius swings out in an attempt to avoid the projectile. The Cannon hits the crane's hoist block, dislodging it and snapping the safety chain. Terrified, Gladius flies helplessly toward a silent Scow Cow far below.

SMACK!

Gladius slaps onto the Scow Cow's engine cowling. He searches for a handhold, finds none, and slides down the smooth surface, landing hard on the floor. Grimacing at the thud of Weenel's advancing footsteps, he struggles to pull his battered body up, turns to face him.

"You'se had eet now, sheet for brainz."

Grabbing Gladius by the shoulders, Weenel pounds him into the hull of the ship, causing a dent to form. He then begins to squeeze, again.

"You… miserable… piece… of… " Gladius gasps, his shoulders feeling like they're about to be reduced to sand.

"Aaaaaahhhhh! I'se like you'se too."

FFFWWWWSSSHHHH!!!!

The meat bag's smile disappears. Three diamond points poke through the muscle of Weenel's massive chest, narrowly missing Gladius's face. Blood begins to pour from the pink body. The alien totters backward, relaxing his grip on his captive. Gladius crumples to the floor. Weenel turns, revealing a deeply burrowed hole in his back. Barely visible within the hole is the handle of the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm).

Weenel, whose musculature is maintained through his acute mental concentration and stamina, begins to quiver. The huge ripples of muscle begin to release their tension, slowly at first, individual mounds deflating randomly, then gradually picking up speed. His flesh begins to crawl as if his body were a sack of rodents anxious to escape. His transformation has become audible, creating a moist, rippling noise.

Suddenly, his remaining strength lets go and his flesh slaps to the floor like a water balloon, his skeletal frame momentarily poking skyward, until the elastic recoil heaves his jellied mass up around it. The blob leaps off the floor, distorting like a huge, liquid-filled bag. The force of the event causes a snapping echo that resounds throughout the Enhancement Chamber. Gladius cowers against the Scow Cow, covering his ears. As the sound subsides, he looks toward Weenel.

Across the fallen body stands Geronimo Lavoriss, one hand clutching his wounded, bleeding shoulder. "You've looked better, Gladman."

"Yeah, sure," returns Gladius, flexing his own shoulders, somewhat dazed.

Geronimo examines Weenel's lifeless blob, waves still criss-crossing through the pancaked bag of gel. He gingerly peels back the edges of the freshly bored hole, now just a tear in the flaccid skin, and yanks out the Tri-Prong Defacer(tm). "I think this'll be real useful." Geronimo wipes the gore on the bluing flesh, sending more ripples through the ex-Weenel. "Speaking of useful, where's your permittee?"

Gladius can only glance weakly around the chamber.

BLING!!!

Petunia reads her computer screen's threatening message. She pulls open a drawer in her desk and empties the contents into a small handbag, then activates her Commucon Stay-Close(tm). "Mr. Munitions, have my Stencheron Stellar Glider readied on platform six for immediate take off. Make sure it's fully armed."

"Gladly, my dear," returns the fatherly voice of Mr. Munitions(tm). "Is it playtime?"

"Not yet, set the three completed Scow Cows in holding bay four on an autopilot that will follow in the Tow Hold of my ship."

"That won't take but a minute. Anything else?"

"Meet me on board the Glider after you've finished. Company's coming and we won't be popular." Petunia clicks off and tucks the communicator into her pocket. She darts a look to the monitor:

"Compu-Stud," says Petunia to the computer terminal, "I want all credits immediately transferred to my ship's computer."

"Working… done," reports the station mainframe.

"Now, have a team of bots transfer the contents of my personal vault to the Stencheron Stellar Glider."

"Awaiting authorization key."

Petunia rummages in her handbag, produces an oddly-shaped key. Opening a hidden panel on the terminal, she inserts the key.

"Working… verified: Petunia Prudence Ren of Distentia XII. Transfer has begun."

Petunia plucks the key from the panel and slips it back into her bag. She crosses to the door, stops at a small closet and removes a holster and a metal case.

"Compu-Stud."

"Yes."

"Still no sign of Weenel or Fystik?"

"Working… Weenel is in the Enhancement Chamber. Deceased."

"And Fystik?" Petunia asks, still hopeful her cohort is alive.

"Unknown."

She sighs heavily, then continues with renewed resolve. "After my last orders have been completed I want you to put all Blast O'Bots on Maximum Supreme Alert. Kill any intruders. I repeat, kill any intruders."

"Understood," returns the cold voice of the Compu-Stud(tm).

On the hangar deck of the Annihilator, Salata South follows his Stellar Crak Reconnaissance Team into the Vi-Scout(tm), a small, troop carrying ship. Nodding to his wincing soldiers, South strides through the personnel hold into the cockpit and takes his place in the Magno Command Chair(tm).

"Close it up, we're planet fall in two minutes."

There is an immediate frenzy of activity. Corporal Denizen Brecht, the Vi-Scout's(tm) pilot, presses a large metal pad. There is a hum as the Magno Chairs(tm) and Benches(tm) activate. She turns to the Captain, tries not to wince. "Beginning launch sequence now."

South nods his approval.

"Salata," comes Ragellon's voice over the intercom.

"Here."

"Your flight plan's loaded. So far, all appears quiet on the planet."

"Anything on the sensors?" asks Salata over the whine of the Vi-Scout's(tm) revving engines.

"A lot of robotics, but only five life signs."

"Any defense posture?"

"Nothing."

"Are we still to assume battle stance?"

"To the extreme."

South smashes a fully-charged clip into his Intensifier Musket(tm). The Vi-Scout's(tm) Mini-HootToot(tm) thrusters engage, propelling the small craft from the belly of the Annihilator.

Now on board the Stencheron Stellar Glider(tm), Petunia Ren runs through a rapid pre-flight check. Satisfied, she activates a small device next to the piloting console. The words 'JamBon Signo-Blocker(tm) ENGAGED' light up bright red across the main control panel operations screen.

"Everything is ready, Miss Petunia," comes the jocular voice of Mr. Munitions(tm).

Petunia turns to watch the well-armed, mechanical monster crawl into the spacecraft on his dual treads. The robot's body is a cube, approximately two and a half meters per side, slightly taller and beveled along the front plane. There is a block-like, smiling turret for a head, and every surface contains numerous ports and cabinets: each with a new and exciting piece of weaponry lurking within.

"Can I shoot something, Miss Petunia?" chortles Mr. Munitions(tm).

"Wait until there's something to shoot. Close the hatch and strap yourself down."

The Stencheron Stellar Glider's(tm) engines whine as she moves the ship into launch position. With a glance to the smiling Mr. Munitions(tm), Petunia punches the 'ACTIVATE' button on the JamBon Signo-Blocker(tm).

"We've lost all instrumentation," calls Denizen to Salata.

The Captain scans the cockpit instruments. All the screens display video snow. His grip tightens on the Intensifier Musket(tm).

The bridge of the Annihilator has also fallen into disarray. All its screens display white hash. Technicians scramble, trying to discern the unknown cause of signal loss.

"The bastards are jamming us," whispers Ragellon.

"Launch!" snaps Petunia.

The Stencheron Stellar Glider(tm) vaults into space, the three Scow Cows following. With the help of the JamBon Signo-Blocker(tm), she slinks around the small planet, away from the approaching military vessels, and escapes undetected.

On board the Vi-Scout(tm) the snow gives up, returning the instruments to crystalline images and data readouts.

"All systems have returned," states Denizen, the control stick jostling in her hand. "We're on our final approach."

"How do I look?" asks Geronimo, whipping the dead Ambassador's red cape around his shoulders.

"It's especially wonderful with the underwear," remarks Gladius dryly as he scoops up the fallen Zipper(tm).

Geronimo is admiring his reflection in the glossy blackness of a sleek stealth vehicle, the Ebony Skulker Series FX20, investigating the folds of the cape. "You could conceal a Hand Cannon in here real easy."

Gladius is already heading for the exit. "Let's find Snax and get out of here."

With one last look at his new attire, Geronimo trots after his ex-boss.

"The area is pressurized… seventy-eight point one, one, two percent nitrogen, nineteen point zero, six, one percent oxygen, one point eight, eight percent carbon dioxide, point nine, four, seven percent various trace elements, none toxic," calls Lieutenant Cleanerschmidt, Salata's second in command and navigator. "We'll have air to breathe."

"Good." Salata flips a switch opening the Inform-U-Amp(tm) microphone to the troops. "Okay people, we disembark in one minute. I hope you enjoyed your flight on the Revenge Express, and remember: The only good bad guy resembles Swiss cheese."

The Vi-Scout(tm) slows its descent to hover over a landing platform. Corporal Denizen carefully sets the ship down. With a lurch the platform activates and the Vi-Scout(tm) begins its descent.