Prologue
INFERNO
"This is not my day."

High in orbit above the planet Flangeknit 27, a manually-controlled waste tug trudges through its daily routine: organizing a month's worth of Monstrous Indestructo Sani-Containment Bins(tm) into a holding grid.

"I hate this trash," mutters the operator, a bloated man in sweat-stained coveralls.

"What was that?" crackles the voice of the Senior Sanitation Engineer, Lyle Braithwaste, over the headset.

Lefty Fenzan wrenches the controls, fighting to guide the unruly Sani-Containment Bin(tm). "Nothing, sir. Just having some difficulty putting a Sani-Bin into the holding grid."

"Well get a move on, Lefty. They'll be here soon."

There is a click in Lefty's headset as his supervisor terminates communication. Grumbling, he returns his attention to the guidance controls of the skiff. His left hand, a robotic replacement, grips the manipulator handle of the huge exterior grapple arm that holds the bin. Loose material sloshing inside the bin is causing it to wobble unevenly. With his right hand Lefty frantically burps the AttiTooters(tm), trying to counter the instability.

Bleat!

A warning light flashes on the panel above his head. He glances out the port side porthole. Early. Must be re-evaluation month. Only time those Union loafers do any work.

A large Arachide Belly Cruiser Detritus Reclamation Unit(tm), belonging to the gargantuan Interstellar Detritus Reclamation Company, erupts from hyperspace. The blue glow of full-reverse HooterTooters(tm) reflects softly on its dull, white hull as the ship decelerates to a slow drift. The running lights change from green to amber and the bay doors of the belly begin to draw back.

While idling or maneuvering at low speeds four retractable arms hang below the bulging undercarriage of the Belly Cruisers, creating a striking resemblance to the udder of a cow. Naturally, this has resulted in a nick-name: Scow Cows.

"Hello control, Fenzan here, tell the IDR boys they'll have to wait, I'm not ready yet."

"Roger that, IDR has requested dry-dock procedures, Tooter maintenance or something."

Lefty brightens, wipes his brow on his sleeve. "This is the last bin anyway, then I'm outta here."

"Take your time, they'll be awhile."

"No way, gotta please my main squeeze tonight."

There is a faint whir as Lefty revs the nimble digits of his robotic arm. With renewed vigor, he stabs at the controls. Finally, the troublesome bin slips into its slot, locking with a solid clank. Lefty disengages the grapple arm and applies reverse thrust.

Thud!

Lefty lurches, checks the rear-view monitor: nothing. Not believing the sensors, he twists toward the stern view port: still nothing.

KaThud!

The collision reverberates through the deck. A stray bin has slipped, unnoticed, beneath the tug.

Bleeeee!

A warning buzzer squeals.

"What the hell," croaks Lefty, his mouth suddenly parched. He pounds at the keypad with his flesh-hand, silencing the alarm. His gaze darts from view port to view port.

A message appears on the operations screen:

"Lyle," Lefty rasps, "I'm getting a warning from something."

He looks out the port window again. The IDR Company Scow Cow is gone, another stray bin adrift in its place.

"Lyle?"

No response. Lefty toggles the radio to spaceport traffic control. Lyle's voice bristles from the speaker.

"…IDR vessel, all clear for entry into dry-dock bay six, but you'll have to lose the two Sani-Bins prior to entry. Please respond."

Fsssckt!

"Guys, you gotta drop the bins before entering dry-dock. Respond now, please!"

BLEEEEE!

Again, Lefty's computer console calls for his attention:

Lefty has ceased sweating, his skin now cold and clammy. He sits motionless, gaze fixed on the computer screen. Lyle continues to hail the docking Scow Cow.

"Hold your position! Dump the bins or I'll have to report this to the Space Commisssssskkkkllt––"

Silence.

Lefty blinks at the sudden break in transmission. He stares at the radio, his ship drifting silently, unguided.

"Hello, Lyle? Hello, control?"

Bunk! Screeekle!

Lefty jumps as the wayward bin scrapes along the bottom of the waste tug, rattling the fixtures. His breath is quick and shallow as emergency procedure fragments streak through his brain. He has trouble dealing with pressure, that's why he's a garbage man.

Silence over the communication link. Movement on one of the monitors. The rogue bin has drifted astern of the tug. Lefty's eyes lock onto a tiny, blinking light on the side of the gigantic bin.

"What the hell is that?!"

The light winks rhythmically, a bright red pinpoint against the massive hulk. Straining, Lefty discerns that the light is an indicator on a small device, foreign to the garbage container.

The blinking is perceptibly increasing in tempo. Lefty's mind makes the connection between the device and the warnings––too late.

There is a blinding flash from the orbiting station far behind him. Through the starboard view port, Lefty witnesses the station's transformation into a ball of plasma. The concussion wave rocks his skiff.

WHAAA! WHAAA! WHAAA!

A klaxon blares. The operations screen issues another warning:

"This is not my day," moans Lefty, his face pale, oblivious to the cacophony of alarms.

FWAMMMM!

A fiery blast strikes the small ship. Everything turns searing white.

Lefty Fenzan ceases to exist.