With Friends Like These . . .

Chapter Two

Betrayal

"Look, Samus. There it is!"

Fortuna's voice rang in Samus's ears as she gazed upon the sight before her. Through the thick cloud of meteors and space debris through which she navigated, the bounty hunter could see her destination: Fairhaven Station, the deep-space headquarters of the Galactic Federation.

The manmade structure was spherical in shape, its size nearly impressive enough for unassuming travellers to assume it was a small moon or planetoid. Its metallic surface glistened in the light from the nearby sun, shining like a beacon in the blackness of space. Its already impressive defensive armaments were complemented by a half dozen Federation cruisers, a mere sampling of the galactic government's impressive naval armada. As Samus's ship grew closer, she could make out the outlines of countless small fighters and shuttles encircling the station, transporting vital materials to and from Fairhaven, running training simulations of various kinds.

Much like you used to do, she thought to herself as a host of uninvited memories swelled to the surface of her consciousness. Brushing them aside, she turned her attention to the instrumentation before her, patiently waiting for Fairhaven's security to take notice of her presence. Three . . . Two . . . One . . .

As if on cue, the red light of her ship's comm system began flickering, a high-pitched tone filling the cockpit, demanding her response. Nonchalantly, the bounty hunter flipped the switch next to the light, opening up the primary channel.

"Unidentified spacecraft, this is Fairhaven Station," the voice on the comm said. "You have entered restricted space. Identify yourself. Now."

Samus shook her head in amazement. The voice on the other end sounded young, inexperienced, her highly-acute hearing instantly noticing the faint tremor in his words, the ever-so-slight delay between sentences, the obvious markers of a new recruit just graduated from the Academy. Great. Just what I need.

Inhaling sharply, she flipped the comm switch to "talk" mode. "Fairhaven," she said, her voice calm, even. "This is Fortuna, registration number three-five-eight-six-oh-niner, requesting permission to come aboard."

Static filled the cockpit as she waited for a reply. When it did come, the voice was even more uncertain than before. "Um . . . Repeat, please, unidentified spacecraft. We're having some . . . transmission errors on our end."

You have got to be kidding me! Gritting her teeth, she opened the channel once more. "I repeat: Fairhaven, this is Fortuna, registration number three-five-eight-six-oh-niner, respectfully requesting permission to come aboard. Just what seems to be the frelking problem in there?"

Another long pause. "Um . . . Hang on, Fortuna," Newbie said. "I'm not seeing you on our manifest. Are you expected?"

"Of course I'm expected." Samus felt her patience begin to evaporate at an ever-increasing rate. "I have urgent business with Hunter Oversight. Very urgent business."

The sound of Newbie shuffling through reams of paperwork filled the comm. "Um, I'm sorry about this, but protocol dictates that I can't let you on board until you give me your license number and ID tag—"

That had done it. "On an open channel?!" Samus snapped. "Do you have any idea who could be listening in?! Are you out of your frelking mind?!"

Newbie now sounded like he was sweating bullets. "Ma'am, I'm . . . I'm sorry, but I—"

"That's it!" Samus reached for the stick, angling her ship toward Fairhaven's docking bay. "I don't have time for this. I'm coming aboard. If you want to stop me, you're going to have to shoot me down. But if you do, you're going to have to explain to Director Wilkins just why you ordered your boys out there to take down one of his best hunters." She paused. "But it's your call. I hope the Academy prepared you to make the right decision. . . ."

Static filled the comm once more as she waited. Finally, Newbie spoke. "My apologies, Fortuna," he said, contritely. "I have just been informed by my superiors that you are clear to land."

"Thank you so much," Samus muttered, flipping the comm to off as she expertly adjusted her ship's thrusters, guiding the spacecraft into the docking bay.

"Well, that went well," Fortuna offered as the landing gear made contact with the docking bay floor.

Samus shook her head. "Where do they find these grunts, anyway? I can't believe things have changed so much since I left. . . ."

Unstrapping herself from the pilot's seat, she stood. Reaching for the overcoat hanging in the small hall between the cockpit and the exit hatch, Samus gently patted the wall. "Let's keep our usual protocol, all right? I don't expect any problems, but . . ."

Fortuna's voice was calm, reassuring. "I have reviewed your report myself, Samus. I do not see why Director Wilkins or anyone else would take issue with your actions."

Nodding, Samus patted the small hip pocket of her jumpsuit, the presence of the data chip containing her report reassuring her. "I hope you're right," she murmured as she walked to the exit hatch, activating the elevator that would take her out of her ship. "I hope you're right. . . ."

The sound of her boots hitting the ground reverberated noticeably as Samus made her way through the station toward Wilkins's office. Her stride was purposeful, uninterrupted, not hesitating for a second as she continued along the familiar path. Her hands concealed within the pockets of her overcoat, Samus arrived at the familiar elevator shaft. Moving on autopilot, her thoughts turned elsewhere, her finger gave the order to the transport to ascend to the thirty-second floor. Stepping into the transport, she did not fail to notice the passengers within immediately cease their conversations the moment she entered, nor did she miss how they surreptitiously congregated to the other side of the elevator, giving her a wide berth.

Uncertain of how to react, she offered them a small smile. Her face returned to its normal stoic expression as her attempt at camaraderie seemed only to heighten the passengers' discomfort. She frowned inwardly as the elevator continued its ascent. Am I really that intimidating? Even without—

Before she could ponder any further, the transport stopped, signaling their arrival at the thirty-second floor. As Samus exited the elevator, she felt the tension in the transport leave with her, the remaining passengers striking up their conversation once again, the relief in their voices palpable.

Turning her full attention to the task at hand, Samus proceeded down the long corridor, toward the office at the far end of the level. Upon arriving at the double doors, she sighed as she was greeted by two Federation Patrolmen.

Oh, I almost forgot how much fun this is, she thought as she followed the well-practiced ritual, holding her hands above her head. The FPs were notorious for their insistence upon practicing the strictest possible security protocols, routinely, in Samus's view, going out of their way to make the unfortunate person subject to their scrutiny as uncomfortable as possible.

"I'm unarmed, gentlemen," she said as they approached. "You can relax. I promise."

The FP nearest her did not seem impressed by her reassurances. The visor of his helmet stared at her, unmoved. "State the purpose for your business in this sector, ma'am," he said, his tone flat, emotionless.

"I'm here to see the Director," Samus replied, raising an eyebrow. "If that's acceptable to you."

The FP glanced at his partner, shaking his head. "The Director isn't seeing anyone today. He—"

"Security clearance gamma–theta–upsilon–delta."

At her words, the voice analyzer on the door flashed green. The thick double doors slid open, granting her access to the offices within.

Smiling, Samus glanced at the FPs. "Satisfied?"

She was certain the FP nearest her was seething beneath his helmet. "Open your coat," he muttered.

Wordlessly, Samus obeyed. The FP glanced beneath the overcoat, proceeding to pat down the bounty hunter. As his hands grazed her hips, Samus frowned. "Watch yourself," she hissed as his hands lingered a little too long for her tastes. "I bet it would be really difficult for you to do your job with only one arm. . . ."

Standing, the FP dropped his hands. "You're clear," he begrudgingly admitted. "Go on in."

Closing her coat, Samus passed through the double doors, making a right at the next junction. Without pause, she made her way to Director Wilkins's office. Without knocking, she pressed the hatch release on the wall. The door shot open, the hiss of pressurized air sounding in her ears as Samus entered.

Her gaze involuntarily fell upon the large window that dominated the far wall of the spacious office. On the other side of the thick glass was the pure vacuum of open space, every star, every planetoid, every Federation vessel in the system on display. Wilkins had insisted upon having an office with a view, he had told her long ago, back when she had first been hired by the Federation as a freelance hunter. It was the one thing they shared in common: the unadulterated love of the freedom travel in deep space provided. "Out here, Aran, a man can truly be free," he had said. "Free to find his own place in this universe. . . ."

Samus turned to the desk before her, expecting to see Wilkins's ice-blue eyes staring warmly at her, his hand offering her a glass of Cordonian whiskey, a secondary reward for another successful mission.

But the man seated at the desk was not Wilkins. This man was shorter, heavier set, his black mustache contrasting sharply with his bald pate. His eyes—brown, not blue—betrayed no sign of warmth. These eyes were cold, analytical, the eyes of a bean counter, not the eyes of a fellow warrior.

"Who the hell are you?"

The words escaped Samus's lips before she could stop herself. Running a hand through her blonde ponytail, she felt her defenses rise to full alert, her eyes absorbing every detail in the office, every feature of this unfamiliar man now seated before her.

The man frowned in response. "Not a very good way to introduce yourself, now, is it?" he said, rising from his seat.

Something about his tone of voice sent alarm bells through Samus's mind. "Where's Wilkins?" she asked. "Why are you in his office?"

The man walked slowly toward the front of his—Wilkins's—desk, his eyes fixated upon Samus. He glanced down at the datapad in his hand, his fingers darting over the device, his head nodding in silent approval. Looking up once more, his eyes narrowed. "Lieutenant Aran, I presume?"

Samus felt her heart skip a beat. No one's called me that in years. Not since . . .

The man smiled slightly as he noted her reaction. "I see," he said. He studied Samus's face intently. "You've grown since your days in the Militia, Aran." In more ways than one, he thought to himself as he noted the curves of her body she was attempting to conceal beneath her overcoat.

"How . . . How do you know who I am?" Samus hissed. "No one but Wilkins—"

The man held up his datapad. "Your personnel file. Your Militia ID photo. Your complete record of service." He scrolled through the extensive documentation. "An impressive array of decorations for one so young," he commented. "Very impressive. Although, the circumstances surrounding your departure are a little murky—"

"That file was sealed years ago," Samus interrupted, her hands tightly clenched. "All records were supposed to be destroyed. That was one of the conditions when I . . . when I left. How did you frelking open it?" She was now both outraged and deeply worried. "Who are you? Where's Wilkins?!"

"Director Wilkins, I'm afraid, is no longer with us," the man said. "He died three standard weeks ago." He shook his head. "Massive heart attack. Never saw it coming."

Wilkins is . . . dead? Samus felt her face turn white, her jaw clenching tightly.

The man continued. "I am his replacement. My name is Alberson."

Samus barely registered this piece of information. "Three weeks ago?" she whispered. "I . . . I didn't know. I was—"

"Yes," Alberson said, taking a seat behind his desk once more. "Let's talk about your recent activities, shall we?"

Get it together! Samus snapped at herself. You're more professional than this. Give him your report.

"Right," Samus said. Reaching into her hip pocket, she withdrew the data chip, placing it before Alberson. "This is my report on the mission to Zebes. I trust you'll find everything is in order."

Alberson slid the chip into his datapad. His eyes skimmed the contents of the report, his head occasionally shaking back and forth in surprise, several baffled laughs breaking the tense silence. Finally laying down the datapad, he stared at Samus in amazement. "Do you want to know what I've been doing for the past three weeks, Aran?"

Samus looked at him, confused. "I don't follow."

Rising, Alberson crossed his arms. "Then let me spell it out for you. I've had the Regional Administrator for Sector Gamma on the comm every day demanding to know why one of the hunters under my authority went on a one-man rampage on one of the planets in his jurisdiction."

Samus's eyes widened in disbelief. "What are you talking about? I had a contract! Mission parameters! Everything was there in black and white, just like always! Wilkins signed the damn thing—"

"What contract?!" Alberson's voice grew louder, more intense. "There's no record in our system of any contract being offered to you to—how did you say it?—'exterminate the Metroids and disrupt Space Pirate operations on Zebes.'"

"You can't be serious!" Samus felt her heartbeat quicken once more. "Document HD-349803. It's in my ship's computer, for God's sake!"

Alberson smirked. "You know how the system works, Aran. The minute a contract is created, three copies are sent to each of our databanks throughout our network. It's mathematically impossible for someone to delete all nine copies. They may get lucky once, but to hit all three databanks before our security protocols discover them is unthinkable!"

He gestured toward his datapad. "I've read your file, Aran. You're quite a mess, it seems. 'PTSD. . . . Unwilling to work with others. . . . Refusal to follow orders. . . . Intent on pursuing your own agenda at all costs. . . .'" He shook his head. "You know what I think, Aran? I think you went on a little joyride to Zebes because you found out the Pirates were there. And then you made up this little story about this impossible life form called a 'Metroid' to justify your actions."

"They're real!" Samus snapped. "Federation High Command knows all about them! Who do you think ordered Wilkins to hire me in the first place?!"

"Please," Alberson snarled. "High Command couldn't possibly have ordered Wilkins to hire you. That would be a preach of protocol of the highest order. At the very least, there would be a paper trail—"

"Why?" Samus interrogated. "Do you think they want evidence proving they knew Metroids existed? If the public found out—"

"Your conspiracy theory just gets more and more incredible with each passing moment," Alberson interrupted. "Admit it, Aran! You wanted revenge on the Pirates didn't you? That was your motivation for all these lies, wasn't it?! After what they did to your parents. . . ."

Samus felt her hands begin to shake, her face turning red. "Don't you dare mention them," she whispered.

A triumphant gleam shone in Alberson's eyes. "Just as I thought. I don't have a clue what Wilkins was thinking, hiring you for so many assignments. You're a ticking time bomb, Aran, just waiting to go off. And I can't have someone like that working under me. It not only makes me look incompetent, it makes the entire Federation look like a gang of frelking shiltzbats." His expression was deadly serious. "And I will not permit that to happen. Ever."

He typed a sequence into his datapad. "As of this moment, your security clearance for this station is hereby revoked. You will have no further contact with me or anyone else in this office. Is that understood, Aran?"

"You . . . You're blacklisting me?!" Samus felt rage begin to drown out the rest of her emotions. Keep it together! Keep calm! "After everything I've done for the Federation . . . After everything I've sacrificed, you're casting me aside, just like that?!"

"You have ten minutes to board your ship and leave before I send in a squad of FPs to escort you out," Alberson said, his eyes fixated upon his datapad, not even bothering to acknowledge Samus's presence. "I suggest you find a new line of work, Aran. Preferably something that keeps you as far away from human contact as possible—"

Samus's hands were on his uniform in an instant, her vision nothing but red. Before she knew what was happening, she had lifted him above her head, her powerful muscles begging her mind to let them hurl him across the room. "How's this for human contact?!"

The door behind her burst open, the sound of boot steps filling the air as four FPs rushed in, weapons drawn. "Drop him! Now!"

Alberson smiled as he glanced up at the security camera on the wall. "You just made a big mistake, Aran! Assaulting a Federation officer carries a fifteen-year minimum sentence."

Shit! Samus cursed herself for her stupidity. After all she had done, all she had worked for, her life as a free woman within the Federation was now gone.

"I said, 'drop him'!" the FP repeated. "Now!"

Her eyes closed, Samus relinquished her grip on Alberson, the director standing on the floor once more. As she let go of his shirt, her fingers brushed against the metal band around her wrist, depressing a small button.

"Hands up!" the FPs shouted in unison, their power pistols whining, ready to be fired. "Do it!"

Slowly, Samus turned around, her hands above her head, her head hung in despair.

Alberson gestured to the FPs. "What are you waiting for? Take her in!"

As the FPs moved toward the former bounty hunter, a steady rumble filled their ears, growing louder by the moment. "What the hell?" the lead FP muttered.

Alberson's eyes grew wide as, outside the massive window, the figure of a small yellow ship moved toward their location at frightening velocity. Understanding washed over him in an instant. Cursing, he gestured frantically toward Samus. "Shoot her! Shoot her! She's going to—"

With a cry, Samus delivered a powerful kick to the abdomen of the FP closet to her. His power pistol fired as his finger involuntarily pulled back on the trigger, sending a bolt of pure energy ricocheting around the office. Curses and screams of panic filled the air as Alberson and the FPs dove to the floor, instinctively covering their heads.

Taking advantage of the diversion, Samus rushed toward the window, hurling her overcoat behind her. Dressed only in her jumpsuit, she concentrated, willing the power stored within her to burst forth.

At her mental command, the energy–matter diffuser unit on her breast glowed white. With a brilliant flash of light, her armor took physical form, encasing her in orange, yellow, and red. The HUD in her visor immediately went to work, filling her vision with layer upon layer of environmental readings, as well as tracking the flight path of the ship now mere klicks from the window.

Turning back toward Alberson and the FPs, Samus smiled slightly beneath her helmet. "You may want to grab onto something," she said.

Alberson's face was white. "Oh, shit—"

A loud explosion tore through the office as the Fortuna unleashed a volley of missile fire upon the window. The thick glass was no match for the concussive blast, shattering instantly. The vacuum of space rushed into the office, pulling anything not nailed down into the inky blackness.

Alberson and the FPs gasped for air as they clung desperately to each other, one of the FPs holding onto the frame of the doorway for dear life. The emergency plating within the window frame immediately began to close, thick steel moving quickly to seal off the office from the chaos.

Without pause, Samus leapt through the window, her boots clearing the opening just as the steal closed upon itself. Her helmet's life support system fully operational, she drifted through the weightless void as the yellow spacecraft circled back, moving to intercept her trajectory.

Inside the office, Alberson and the FPs gasped for breath as atmosphere was restored. Alarms rang throughout the station, red light filling the corridors as a fresh squad of FPs rushed through the door.

"Are you all right, sir?!" the commander asked, helping Alberson to his feet.

Finally able to form words, Alberson's white face turned red with anger. "Aran . . . I want her, dammit! Get her! Now!"

AN: More to come!