With the majority of the vessels' controls out of commission, the tiny transport spun wildly out of control.  The only bright element in their current situation was, being reliant upon the servo control, the main thrusters had ceased to function.  Otherwise the ship would have corkscrewed blindly through space and may well have boomeranged back into the supernova that had been Smedley-9.  Stauch, having climbed into the pilot's compartment to render what assistance his limited training could provide, was busy attempting numerous systems bypasses, utilizing the mystic "Eenymeenymineymo Technique", in hopes of regaining at least partial control of the small vessel.

Krashaki, meanwhile, had his time occupied with the, still functional, lateral thrusters.  These were independently fired, solid-fuel rockets completely separate from the main system.  The trick was trying to synchronize individual ignitions with the ships' maniacal gyrations in such a manner that the transport could incrementally be placed in a straight line of drift.  The pilot was achieving partial success in this endeavor, when Corporal Broski appeared in the hatchway to announce that the fires, though numerous, had finally been extinguished.  Having made this announcement, he immediately disappeared back into the cargo bay.

Stauch, having noticed the wry, unbecoming smile that adorned Broski's face, thought it prudent to follow his subordinate, in order to ensure Mr. Siddons' continued safety.  He entered the cargo bay and stood with his hands on his hips, his feet shoulder width apart.  The compartment reeked heavily of ozone intermingled with a scent disturbingly akin to singed hair.  At the rear of the bay, Mr. Siddons stood surrounded by wisps of dying smoke, pawing and patting at several smouldering areas on his now-blackened uniform.  He had the distinct "thousand yard stare" that Stauch had seen on countless faces of soldiers after combat.  The sergeant was about to ask him what had transpired during his absence, when a sharp, metallic pounding from the corner caught his attention.  His gaze fell on Corporal Broski, protectively hunched over his busy task.

"What are you doing, Broski?", Stauch inquired quizzically.

"Busy sarge.", was the only response the corporal offered, not looking up.

"With what?", Stauch asked suspiciously, half expecting a combat knife to appear in Broski's hand.  He moved into a defensive stance, as his commando training dictated then thought better of it and placed his hand on the grip of his Northern Technologies, P239, 45 gigowatt phaser pistol.  He had always considered himself a patient and caring NCO, but his patience was wearing thin.

A shrug was the only answer he received from the Corporal.  Stauch, relatively confident that Broski intended no further ill-health to the smoldering Siddons, sighed in resignation as he began to assess the damage.  He was certain that Broski's project would remain a mystery until the young corporal decided otherwise.

"Well, gentlemen...", Captain Krashaki began from the pilots compartment.  "The good news is that I have corrected our two-axis rotation enough to see where we're headed.  The bad news", he added, "is that I don't think you're going to like the looks of our destination."

With this announcement both Siddons and Stauch crowded toward the pilots compartment to catch a glimpse of their impending fate.  Corporal Broski, still banging busily away and without looking up, muttered a barely distinguishable, "...barbecued chicken."

The sight that confronted the trio from the pilots' compartment was like a scene from some sick, science fiction Armageddon.  Two massive battle cruisers squared off on one another, one was easily recognized as their beloved USS Escort, while the other had a distinct Wyzenhymer design to it.  The space between the two ships was filled with fighter craft engaged in a bitter struggle of life and death.  It was also painfully obvious, to those in the transport, which side was doing the most dying.  Most disheartening was the damning realization that the tiny shuttle was headed directly for the hulking form of the Wyzenhymer flagship itself.  Krashaki wasting no time, ordered Stauch into the copilots seat only to find that the Space Commandos were very big on initiative.  Stauch had already placed himself in the required location.

"Siddons, get back to the rear and get me some systems back on line, Siddons...Siddons?", Krashaki asked.

"Oh wow, oh geeeez, wowowowoooooo...." From behind them, Siddons' voice trailed off to a low whimper.

As one, Krashaki and Stauch turned to look at the obviously distraught demo man.  Siddons' blackened form stood stiffly, his arms at his sides, his mouth agape.  The only physical movement being that of his eyelids, which blinked rapidly.

"Christ, He's gone catatonic on us!", Stauch exclaimed.At that moment, Broski appeared in the hatch.  In his hands was an unidentifiable piece of metal which had been hastily pounded into some semblance of a cup, it's seams leaking their contents down his fingers and onto the floor.  Broski grinned happily and brought the faux cup to his lips.

"God I love chicken."