Corporal Winterrose, while waiting for orders, was standing with the other men next to the scent racks. He was watching with bated breath. If a large enough hole was created, a sonic bomb could do some major damage to the machinery, not to mention that he and the others would be wiped out of existence. It occurred to the Corporeal that his sympathies may lie with the oppressed peoples of the city, but nevertheless he wasn’t anxious to be killed by a sonic bomb. After all, once you’re dead, it doesn’t matter who wins—you’re still dead.
As he continued to watch, the Destroyer's phasor burned metal and filled the room with smoke. A hole was beginning to form, and hot molten norimuinatit dripped onto the plastoglass scent-release rack emitting fumes, which had a pungent odor and caused a stinging sensation in the eyes. Breathing was becoming difficult.
"Switch on the ventilation system," yelled Hurd.
"It's on, sir," said the Captain.
Hurd tied a cloth around his face and head, covering his mouth and nose.
The Corporeal shifted his position and moved forward until he could see the screen above the console. The G15 was firing a continuous phasor beam at the scent release doors. It had been firing for the past fifteen minutes, and although the phasors of a G15 were a hundred times more powerful than a hand held phasor it would still take a half an hour to burn a small, but large enough hole for a sonic bomb to be able to do damage.
"Where the hell is the turret?" yelled Hurd. He was seething with anger.
The Corporeal standing next to communications said, "They just came on line, sir."
Suddenly a red bolt, and then another quickly following the first, hit the front left side of the G15.
"Direct hit, sir!" yelled the Captain. "Direct hit!"
"By the curse of the Zorgs! Take that you dirty pigs!" Hurd started shaking his fist at the scent release doors. "Shoot 'em again," he yelled. "Shoot 'em again."
"They're out of control, sir. They're careening to the right."
"Tell the turret to shoot again!" yelled Hurd, and then started laughing. "We got 'em now."
"Sir, the turret reports they shot two more times, but the destroyer had its shield turned on."
They both watched the screen as the destroyer, while wobbling like a spinning top when it slows down, started to ascend toward the roof of the building.
"Sir, they're landing on the roof."
The top of the building shook under the weight of the destroyer slamming down.
"It won't matter," growled Hurd as he braced himself. He was disappointed he wasn't able to watch the G15 plummet to the street below killing everyone inside. "There's nothing they can do on the roof except eat more phasor shots from the turret." He pointed at the scents. "Get the doors open and put our babies in motion."
The Captain punched a button on the console and watched for the doors to slide open, but nothing happened. He punched the button again: still nothing. He jumped out of his seat and ran over to the doors. "Sir, the doors were welded shut by the destroyer’s phasor."
Hurd's smile left his face. "So, they think they can stop us.” He started to say something, but his face became red, and he started to sputter.
"We need to call in a technician with a phasor-beam metal cutter, sir."
"Do it."
"Yes, sir."
Twelve minutes later two technicians were busy cutting between the crack of the door and the doorframe.
“Now that the G15 has been disabled,” boasted Hurd in a confident voice as he patted the scent sitting on the launching pad, “we will kill all the rebels and put an end to this insane war.” And then under his breath he added, “It’ll only be a matter of putting my plans to work to take over this planet.” Suddenly his smile vanished and he glared at the technicians. "Hurry up," he yelled. "What's taking so long?"
No one answered him, and the technician kept working. Finally, after a few, long and torturous minutes, "Won't be long now," said the technician. "I'm starting to see daylight."
Suddenly the building shook like the aftermath of an earthquake, and the Captain, watching the viewer, could see the turret being vaulted over the edge of the building. "Oh my God," said the Captain.
"What now?" growled Hurd.
"The destroyer just slammed into the turret and knocked it off the building."
Hurd was livid with rage. "What the else can go wrong?" he blurted out.
"It won't matter, sir. They can't get through the doors."
"That's right," said Hurd a little calmer. "Bring some guards up from the basement to deal with them.
"Yes, sir."
"And as an extra precaution," he added, "send three men to guard the door from the inside."
"Yes, sir." The Captain called out, "Corporal Winterrose."
He came running. "Sir?"
Take two men. Go to the back and guard the door.
"Yes, sir."
The Corporal ran to where the men were waiting while the technician worked on the doors, singled out two men, and then the three of them disappeared down one of the rows and behind the racks.
No more than a minute had passed when Corporal Winterrose reappeared around the corner and started toward the arsenal room.
"What are you doing, Corporal?" asked the Captain.
"I'm going to get three phasor rifles, sir. In case we need them."
"Okay Corporal. Carry on."
Corporal Winterrose entered the room, grabbed up three phasor rifles and slung them over his left shoulder. It was awkward with all three of the rifles on one shoulder, but he needed his right arm and hand, his shooting hand, swinging free and easy for a very special reason.
*