He came to an abrupt halt in the corridor, dumbfounded.

After a moment, Wingnut then turned smartly in place and returned to the bored young woman and her dog, who loitered by the station terminal.

"Excuse me," he asked her. "Did that... did your dog just -quack- at me?"

She stared at him listlessly, before taking another drag from her pocket still, deliberating. Just as the commander was becoming certain she'd not heard the question, the girl fought off the instant hangover and replied bluntly.

"No."

Wingnut stared down at the dog - a small breed, indeterminate, with the stupefied expression of a Jack Russell and the innocent, floppy ears of a cocker spaniel. It wagged its stubby tail, and he was sure its eyes were pointed in completely different directions.

It must have taken a boggling number of generations to inbreed the uniquely retarded nature of this dog, which simply panted at him in the wild, undirected curiosity that only the small and friendly breeds could manage.

Okay. Yeah, this was just another mutt. He must have been hearing things.

He turned, and suddenly alarmed that its audience was losing interest, the dog's head jerked up and its jowls flapped. "QWOOOCK! Quuck quuck quokk"

The woman pointed with her drinking tube.

"-Now- she's quacking at you."

The dog had distracted him for too long. He knew he had to hurry.

Once again, Wingnut returned to the Johnson County Sheriff to find Engineers once again crawling all over her hull like goblins in lab coats.

"Hey! HEY!" he ran up, waving his arms and yelling furiously. This gambit only worked when he looked big and shouted loud. They hated drama. "KNOCK THAT THE FUCK OFF! GIT! GIIIIIIIIT!"

--:-:--

The closest Engineer (he was pretty sure it was Elvira Martuuk) swiveled her head in his direction and hissed in alarm.

The rest dropped their spanners and their pocket computers, before leaping off onto the pad. As one, they dispersed scurrily into the first dark corners they could find. At least one voided his bladder in self-defense.

Wingnut could feel a dozen pairs of slitted, suspicious eyes regarding him from the shadows. It didn't matter, anyway, he was too late.

--:-:--

What had once been a Federal Dropship (and before that, a Type-7) had seen another upgrade. The little dastards had ripped her apart and rebuilt her -again-.

Even the chipped paintwork, which Wingnut's ships wore as a badge of hard work and tough adventures, was so pristine even the PRIMER glowed.

The Sheriff, now a Federal ASSAULT Ship, gleamed in the hangar light. The ship had only been three days out of the showroom, and it kept changing shape whenever he turned his back, and it was because of this wild little gaggle of scientists and mechanics that followed him. Everywhere. He. Went.

"Fuck's sakes," bitched Wingnut. "We really need to get an exterminator in here."

"If I may say so, Commander, I've never had the chance to work with Sirius technology before." Ryder beamed proudly. "The Packhound missile rack is an impressive piece of machinery to begin with."

CMDR Wingnut, now a Petty Officer in the Federal Navy Reserves, couldn't help but let her smile infect his. "Show me what you've done."

Ryder pointed up at the hardpoints on either side of the cockpit. "On the surface, they look just like any Class 2B seeker missile. But the real difference is in how the guidance system is programmed.

Instead of launching just two that find the shortest path from good-guy to bad-guy, the Packhounder launches four micro-missiles that walk off in random vectors before finding the target."

Wingnut nodded. "That's why I worked so hard to procure several of these systems from Sirius. But where's -your- magic touch come in?"

Ryder's smile grew brighter.

--:-:--

"Again, they look identical on the outside. But one of them is kitted to double its fire rate and reload speed."

Liz pointed to the other.

"That one is slightly slower to reload, but its internal magazine is double the standard size. The idea is that even when your first Packhounder runs dry, the other will continue laying on the ordinance even as it reloads."

Wingnut ran some basic meat-space simulations through his brain, and his eyebrows continued to climb. "An endless stream of chaos and destruction."

"Wholesale, Commander. There are some weaknesses in the system where a protracted firefight is concerned. Eventually, you're gonna have to boot it out of the encounter whether or not you want to. It won't kill battleships."

"But for exterminating low-level thugs in anything up to and including a pack of Vultures..."

"Wholesale." the Engineer repeated.

--:-:--

"I can't wait to give it a try."

--:-:--

The face of Adjutant-General Harlow Wilson was somber, in contrast to the missile technician's proud glow.

"You'll be getting your chance - sooner than you might think. We have a Federal Navy strike contract for you.

The Hutton Orbital Trucker Cooperative - your boys - report they are at war with the Jet Hand Gang of Wolf 359, plus elements of the Rhea Drug Syndicate are moving in to put pressure on several stations in Orispuscho, including Carter Port.

I strongly suspect that these elements are loosely affiliated with the BRIMSTONE group that gave your Wing a hard time in the Ceos-Sothic shipping lanes last week.

It's your turn, Commander. Get to Carter Port. Eradicate the threat. Show me how OPERATION HELLFIRE is coming along."

Now everyone is reasonably certain that even official documents, transparently, are crafted from hundreds - if not thousands - if similar cut-and-paste templates for very specific scenarios.

Anyone who's even worked in 21st century consumer WEB-COR knows exactly what I'm talking about. Agreed? Yes? Very well, then.

So even when he saw the very Presidential-looking staff letterhead (and a re-produced holograph of his very signature), an already politic-weary and morbidly cynical CMDR Wingnut was immediately bemused at first.

It did, after all, greatly resemble correspondence he occasionally received from GALCORRECT. Before, it had been fines for broadcasting his excessively poetic expletives. They were now purchase vouchers for coffee refills.

Wingnut and Gallant had compromised upon this point to save the Sirius Corporation a great deal of money in the long run.

--:-:--

From the Office of Zachary Hudson To Commander Wingnut English

It is my [DEEPEST PLEASURE] to [CONGRATULATE YOU] on establishing the rank of [PETTY_OFFICER] in the [FEDERAL_NAVY_RESERVE]. To this end, [I] have [ENDORSED YOUR PURCHASE] of [FED_DROPSHIP] and [A SIGNIFICANT STIPEND] are [BEING FORWARDED] to your [SIGNIFICANT OTHER].

--:-:--

-That part deleted itself even as Wingnut's eyes scanned past it, and began retyping.

to your [NEXT OF KIN].

• Whoops. There it went again.

to your [GALBANK ACCOUNT].

--:--

[PLEASE FIND ATTACHED], with [MY REGARDS], a copy of your new [PERMIT, SOLAR SYSTEM]. If you have any [INQUIRY], please contact [ME] at ....

The door to the cargo bay hissed open as Wingnut passed it on his way to the bridge. As it did, he flipped an object through it without breaking stride, not even to see where it landed.

The cargo bay was completely empty. Not a single pod on the racks. The yellow brick tumbled end-over-end along the floor, coming to a stop, and the door hissed closed.

The gold bar sat there patiently, forgotten for the moment.

--:-:--

The Busted Flush lifted off a moment later from the inside of the hangar of the SETJAL starport, pivoting and zipping through the "mail slot," her nose oriented at the planet below.

"Three... two... one..."

--:-:--

Two minutes later, the ship appeared in the atmosphere above the enormous warehouse city of Trader's Rest, her arrival heralded by a sonic boom.

Wingnut and the tower traded their usual banter.

--:-:--

A different sort of door hissed open, and Wingnut stepped through into the office of Lei Cheung.

The gold brick clunked solidly onto the desk. Wingnut stared expectantly at the Engineer.

DONATE GOLD: 199/200

DONATE GOLD: 200/200 - bling!

--:-:--

Mr. Lei broke out in a broad smile and spread his arms welcomingly. "It only took you four trips. Well done, Commander. Welcome, at last, to my little -"

Wingnut, without so much as a twitch, interupted. "Just get your ass to work. Start with the boosters. Don't even wake me until you're done."

The smile didn't even crack. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

OPERATION HELLFIRE continues, with the "Busted Flush" actively scouting the origins of Rear Admiral James Crabb and the BRIMSTONE group - for later extermination. A passing brigand catches Wingnut snooping, and takes umbrage to such scrutiny.

A brief battle breaks out.

--:-:--

Hah! You never learn. I know about your troubles with Crabb, and I've figured out your weaknesses. No matter how many of them you've got, those puny little miniguns of yours will NEVER get through my -

... wait, why do you only have two this time? I thought there were six guns on your -

torpedo torpedo torpedo! tooooooooooorpeeeeeeedooooooo!!

Snaaaaake! I'm not done with you yet, Sna -

The Python's commander screams protractedly as his ship begins to buckle inwards around his ears. Momentarily, the hull plates form the shape of a pretzel, before disappearing with a thoomph into the void of space.

--:-:--

.... who the fuck is Snake?

CMDR Wingnut stared long and hard at the refuse he and CMDR Hillside had managed to collect along with the cargo they had meant to pick up.

"Pesticide... food-printer cartridges... scrap metal... grain... and animal byproducts. Huh."

The worst part was, since this was all technically illegal salvage, he couldn't sell it on the Commodities Market. They were, after all, stolen, even if there was no victim about to protest the sale.

And when he saw the dismal prices these mundane things would fetch on the Black Market, the commander despondently shook his head and said, "I can go one better than that."

To this date, the people of Ceos and Sothis still have no idea where the "Frankenfurter" came from, who originally invented the recipe, what it actually contained...

... or how - against all odds - it became the new system delicacy.

OPERATION HELLFIRE

--:-:--

So Wingnut had a problem.

There was a lot of money to be made with these missions he had queued up, but though it seemed like a legitimate job, his employer was technically running afoul of the law in the next system over.

Every time he and Hillside tried to scoop the artwork, antiquities, black boxes, and technical blueprints floating around Sothis, that heavily armored Anaconda and his little Fer-de-Lance escort would appear from superspace and start interrogating the Busted Flush's cargo manifest.

Then the shooting would begin.

--:-:--

Rear Admiral James Crabb - commander of the "Hammering Claw" - was never interested in the loot. He was not there for salvage operations of his own, and the loadout of his reinforced Anaconda spoke for itself.

The sadist seemed more to enjoy the hunt more - springing his trap and trying his college best to destroy anyone who came near the floating cargo pods. As long as the Flush was carrying cargo that scanned against his own manifest as "stolen," Crabb was fully permitted to destroy the ship.

Crabb was, simply put, a cargo hawk.

The "Busted Flush", and she alone, was clearly marked next on his list.

--:-:--

It was now Day Three of this crap.

Once or twice, the "Bellator Honestus" - Hope's own Anaconda - had swooped in to provide support, but even both ships could not concentrate enough firepower to destroy even one of their foes.

The Bella too, had to withdraw.

--:-:--

To make matters worse, the law seemed to be on Crabb's side. Oh, sure, the Feds would appear and involve themselves into each fight, allowing Wingnut and Hillside to quickly limp away and lick their wounds.

But every single time, the Hammering Claw would lock up its weapons, and simply walk its way out of the encounter. Invariably the System Security Forces would release him (as if they had the firepower to do otherwise), and the pursuit was again rejoined.

As long as Crabb did not return fire on the Feds, they would not make the effort to give chase until the next encounter.

Wingnut may not have been breaking Sothic law - but neither was BRIMSTONE, the mysterious agency protecting the lost salvage. The same rights that protected Wingnut from prosecution, also protected Crabb.

The Federation had no jurisdiction once the shooting stopped.

--:-:--

Everywhere the two of them went, Crabb was there, waiting. They could not complete the salvage operation, and Wingnut's client was becoming impatient. There were millions of credits on the line, and he was tired of running.

And so a plan was hatched that day. It was called Operation HELLFIRE - the antithesis to BRIMSTONE - and it had a very simple first step.

--:-:--

Rear Admiral Crabb had to die.

Wingnut and Hope, in their respective ships, were returning to a starport after a fruitless mining expedition. Detecting the Meta-Alloys that Hope was delivering to Hillside, a pirate swoops in for the interdiction.

As the "Stella Glacius" dropped out into normal space with its pursuer, the "Busted Flush" automatically fell in behind them both.

In what was surely a little dog's noisy bluff, the Flush deployed its fangs - four woefully under-powered mining lasers.

Wingnut was definitely not kitted for combat right now, but he would be damned if the pirate got away.

--:-:--

pyooooooot

The Pirate yelped as a bright red flash played across his canopy, and glowing orange marks were etched into his paint.

Dazzled and disoriented, he rolled away and the incandescent streaks wound about the body of his ship.

Though the hull was unaffected, the striations had definitely caused his paint to peel and chip.

Even now, they cooled almost instantly, doodling ugly black marks but dealing only superficial damage.

--:-:--

If the pirate had been driving a 1988 Honda Civic, Wingnut was trying to disable it with a handful of Sharpie felt pens.

While it was in no danger from these, his efforts at petty vandalism sure were pissing off the Civic's owner.

--:-:--

The ship shuddered as the Stella's more potent weapons landed, and the pirate's VI began to complain. Clenching his teeth, this unruly scofflaw gripped his stick and -

pyooooooot

Another red flash blinded him and he flinched, blinking away stars. As he hesitated again, more missiles landed.

--:-:--

From the drop, it only took seventeen seconds before the enemy signature winked out with an ignominious "poof."

Not a single shot had landed on the Stella.

--:-:--

".... that worked out better than I expected."

"Way to..." They could both hear the sunglasses. "... draw his attention."

On the fourth or fifth drop of their pursuit, the Thargoid interceptor (Wingnut still wasn't sure as to its class) acted to the script. It turned away from the floundering Orca and came charging through the toxic green mist towards its unwelcome houseguest.

The sky filled with drones once again. They knew it was going to try and bully them into backing off again.

This time, he took an entirely different approach, much to the surprise of CMDR Hillside in the number-two seat.

Rather than cowing back with the reverse thrusters, he urged the Busted Flush forward full throttle and thumbed the drift button.

--:-:--

Another sound joined the eerie alien howling - Wingnut was baring his own teeth in an angry cry of his own, like some silly blonde anime protagonist.

Just as the two ships were about to collide, Wingnut reversed thrust and slammed the throttle full open.

The ship began to brake to an extremely violent stop. One could almost hear the sound of tires screeching on an ancient 21st century motor-car.

Three things happened.

--:-:--

First - both commanders jerked forward in their seat as the bow thrusters kicked in at full power, their bodies straining against the seatbelts.

--:-:--

Second - the canopy of the Flush suddenly exploded, sending shards of Lexite tumbling out into space.

--:-:--

Third - Wingnut's bellow came onto the radio, the pickup of his microphone activating at the same time his helmet did. Both CMDR Hillside, and only on the other side of the Nebula aboard the "Bellator Honestus," CMDR Hope could hear him screaming.

"RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGH!!!"

--:-:--

The Thargoid stopped in its track, surprised at the reaction it had provoked this time.

Prey was not backing down.

Prey was playing chicken.

Prey was trying to bluff IT.

Prey had just... self destructed?

This was surprise.

It was even more surprised when just above its "eye," a significant dent appeared in its surface, like a sniper's bullet had punched into its forehead.

The alien howled again, and backed away, quivering as it did so. The howling subsided into a gentle whine, and the drones quickly folded back into the ship as suddenly as they appeared.

Slowly, slowly, it retreated back into the cloud, hissing toxic ammonia gas from its wound. Hillside could see something tumble into space from the crater it had left, and zoomed in on it with the camera suite.

--:-:--

A perfectly ordinary-looking coffee cup.

With a Hutton Orbital Station logo emblazoned on its side. Despite being flung through what was essentially transparent steel and into the face of an extra-galactic menace, it was hardly even dinged.

It -was-, however, spinning faster than anything he had seen spin before.

WHAT WAS THAT THING MADE OF!?

--:-:--

It fled. Again. And this time, there were no more Non-Human Signal Sources. The creature had had enough of this stalking and the antics of these naked apes in their silly little metal boxes.

--:-:--

Once the Flush had collected the canisters the Interceptor had abandoned and turned back for Moni's Hub, Hillside finally spoke.

"I cannot believe you just mugged a fucking alien."