With Friends Like These . . .

Chapter Four

Proposal

Two years later . . .

The man squinted in the blinding sunlight, his skin already glistening with perspiration mere moments after stepping out of his ship. He had forgotten how much he hated having to pay visits to Trellis V; it had been years since his last excursion, but the temperature was as unrelenting as ever.

The small desert planet, to the relative few familiar with its name, bore the dubious distinction of lying on the fringe of published star charts, both legal and illegal. As such, the Federation held no jurisdiction over it or its fellow systems in the Outlying Territories. Consequently, Trellis V had become known as a safe haven for those unable to trade within Federation territory due to what might charitably be classified as misunderstandings between Federation authorities and themselves. Indeed, the members of the local government were none too eager to quell the black market that brought with it the flow of hard currency—provided they received their share of the transactions, of course.

It was into this environment that the man entered, his long black coat glistening in the noonday sun, his lungs already burning from the acrid temperature of the air as he strode through the main thoroughfare of the port town of Dess Bantoine. What this place lacks in amenities, he thought as he made his way past dozens of street vendors, each attempting to entice him to purchasing wares he could easily acquire at half the cost on dozens of other commerce planets, it most certainly makes up for in personality.

Glancing about the street, his gray eyes scanning row upon row of dilapidated buildings, he allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips as he found what he was searching for. Crossing the street, he slipped through the huddled mass of locals, ducking into the shadowy darkness of a familiar hole-in-the-wall dive.

A thin smile tugged at his lips as the comforting scent of veldren spice wafted into his nostrils, riding the thick cloud of smoke that hung in the air from countless lit cigarettes. With a slight nod to the man behind the bar—an old friend with whom he had enjoyed a successful working relationship—he settled into a corner booth, his eyes surveying the familiar establishment.

"Can I help you?"

He looked up, a roguish grin forming amid the stubble of his five 'o clock shadow as he took in the figure of the waitress standing above him. "Well, that depends on what I need, I suppose," he said, resting his elbows on the table. Reaching into his pocket, he slid a hundred-credit disc toward her. "I'll take a Vandrallian bourbon neat for now. And, if you're interested, the rest is yours after your shift if you'd like to become better acquainted . . ."

Rolling her eyes, the waitress took the credit, stuffing it into her pocket, tossing a his change back to him. "No thanks, space jockey. You're not my type."

Well, that's disappointing. "And what exactly is your type?" the man inquired.

"Anyone who doesn't smell like he's spent a week soaking in beldrek piss." With a wry grin, the waitress left to fetch his drink.

Win some, lose some, the man reflected as he turned his attention back to the dim lighting of the drinking hole. Glancing at the chronometer on his wrist, he stroked the stubble on his chin. He had traveled quite far out his way just for the opportunity to finally encounter the quarry he had been hunting for quite some time. His sources—his very expensive sources, he reminded himself—had finally given him what he had been assured was reliable information. Same time every day without fail, they had assured him. You can't possibly miss . . .

Looking at his chronometer again, his eyes scanning the portrait on his datapad as he looked about the room for anyone who might possibly resemble his target, he felt his sense of anticipation disappear, replaced with embarrassment and fury. He barely noticed as the waitress placed his drink next to him, so consumed was he with his own thoughts. It's been ten frelking minutes, he thought. 'Same time without fail' . . . His brow furrowed. When I find those sons of bitches that lied to me, I'm going to—

His heart nearly ceased beating in his chest. On the far side of the room, he could make out through the thick cloud of blue smoke a figure that . . . I don't believe it!

Calmly sipping his drink, he focused his attention on the woman seated alone, his keen eyesight taking in every feature. Glancing at his datapad, he compared the portrait to the woman he was so diligently studying. Looking at her long legs, he imagined her standing, nodding as he realized her height matched the description he had been given. Her hair was darker, its blonde color now muted and dimmed by the same layer of dirt and grim that covered her face and coveralls.

There's no mistaking it, he told himself. It's her!

Downing the remaining contents of his glass, he stood, casually crossing toward her, waiting until her attention was focused toward the glass on the table before quickly sliding himself into the chair across from her.

The woman stared at him in astonishment at his brashness, her eyes narrow with suspicion. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, crossing himself in mock remorse. "Were you waiting for someone?"

"What if I was?" Her eyes were little more than narrow slits as she quickly studied his appearance.

"Well, in that case," the man said. "I'll leave as soon as they arrive, I promise. But until then, I thought we could—"

"Not interested."

Twice in one day, he contemplated, his ego now slightly bruised. You must be losing your touch. Turning on all the charm he could muster, he took hold of her hand. "At least let me buy you a drink—"

"Get away from me," she hissed, pulling her hand away. "Now."

Had he been an ordinary man, he was certain he would have melted under the fury of her stare. But he was no ordinary man. Laughing, he leaned back in his chair, resting his hands in his lap. "Your reputation precedes you," he said. "You're just like the stories I've heard. 'Ice Queen Aran,' that's what they—"

His experienced eye could not fail to notice her slight, sudden intake of breath at the mention of that name. Recovering quickly, she leaned toward him. "I don't know who you think I am, but I don't know anybody named Aran. My name is Clemens—"

"We both know that's a lie." He held up a long strand of hair he had removed from the back of her palm, the strand that had fallen from her head and laid to rest on her arm. Wordlessly, he inserted it into a small apparatus he had withdrawn from within his coat. The machine hummed for a few moments as it analyzed the strand. A small beep sang out from the device as it finished its task. Identification confirmed, a voice acknowledged. Subject identified with 99.89 percent probability as Samus Aran.

He smiled at her. "So, Ms. Clemens. Would you like to try—"

In an instant, his face was pressed against the table, blood trickling from a large gash in his forehead, his arms pinned behind him as she leaned over him from behind, her knee pressing into the small of his back, having seemingly defied the laws of physics, leaping across the table faster than even his well-conditioned vision could comprehend. How in the hell did she—

He grimaced as he felt a smooth metal object press into his spine, its shape betraying its function as recognition dawned upon him.

"Don't make a sound," the woman hissed in his ear. "Understand?" She paused as she looked around, relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to her activities, the smoky haze obscuring the altercation.

She pressed the power pistol in her hand into his back. "You know what this is? Nod if you do."

Not seeing any other choice, the man nodded, his temple throbbing.

"Good." The woman took hold of his collar, sharply pulling him up into his chair once more, forcibly sitting him down. Her weapon trained upon him, she crawled back across the table, sitting back in her seat, concealing her gun beneath the table.

"Now," she said. "Who sent you?"

The man raised an eyebrow, forcing himself to keep from laughing lest it be interpreted the wrong way. Very impressive, girl. Very impressive indeed. "I believe you have the wrong impression of me, Ms. Aran. I'm not someone's errand boy. I came here because I wanted to meet with you."

Samus frowned. "How . . . How did you find me?"

The man smiled. "It wasn't easy, I'll admit. You've covered your tracks very well, Ms. Aran. Hiding out in the Outlying Territories was a wise choice. The locals are much less likely to pick up news bulletins from the Federation out here. And those who do receive them are less inclined to believe them than most."

"You still haven't answered my question," Samus said. "And my trigger finger's getting very tired of just sitting here . . ."

The man took a hold of Samus's glass, taking a long sip from the liquor within. "I'm a very powerful man, Ms. Aran. I'm used to getting what I want. And when I want something badly enough, money is no object."

"Spies?" Samus's eyes involuntarily darted about the smoky establishment. "That's how you found me, isn't it? You have people working for you everywhere, don't you?"

The man shrugged. "Never underestimate the power of hard currency, Ms. Aran. Especially in an environment where the government has failed in its obligation to ensure its citizens are protected. You'd be surprised to see just how little it takes to convince someone . . ."

"I'd imagine so," Samus countered. She looked the man directly in the eye. "You said you wanted to meet with me?"

"Indeed," the man said. "I am in need of someone with your unique talents, Ms. Aran. Someone I can depend upon. Someone who will not cross me at the last minute."

"You've come to the wrong place," Samus said. "I'm retired. I've lived that life, and look what it's gotten me."

"Oh, come now, Aran," the man, shaking his head. "You? Retired?" He laughed. "You're a young woman in your prime. You shouldn't be holed up on this godforsaken chunk of desert. You should be out in space, hunting down escaped criminals, collaring the scum of the galaxy. 'Delivering justice for those the system cannot or will not help.'" He grinned as Samus's eye twitched. "Recognize those words?"

"That . . . That was from my thesis I wrote at the Academy," Samus murmured. "I earned a lieutenant's commission because of it." She grabbed hold of the man's collar once more, pulling him close to her. "How did you find that?"

"I know everything about you, Aran," he said. "How your parents were murdered by the Pirates when you were just a girl. How the Chozo found you, raised you as their own. How they gave you that unique armor of yours. How you left them to join the Academy, thinking you could make a difference. Your spectacular yearlong stint in the Militia upon graduation and your subsequent exit . . ." He shrugged. "It hasn't been easy piecing together the details of your life, Aran. But, like I said: When currency talks . . ."

Samus rose to her feet. "Still not interested."

"Really?" The man looked at the Amazon before him, her coveralls doing little to conceal her athletic frame. "Don't tell me working the loading docks at this pathetic planet's port is what you want to do for the rest of your life."

"I like the Outlying Territories," Samus said. "No one bothers me. At least, not until you showed up."

"Fine." The man threw up his hands. "Go ahead, Aran. Leave. Don't even bother to listen to what I have to offer you."

Samus glared at him. "There's no amount of currency you could offer that could make me reconsider." Turning away, she started to walk away.

"Not even if I could help you clear your name?"

Samus froze momentarily, slowly turning around. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"You heard me." The man looked her in the eye. "I can help you get back in the Federation's good graces. I can get you working for them again. All of this . . . Your exile . . . Having to hide . . . It can all end."

Samus's voice was barely audible. "How?"

"Easy," the man replied. "I have proof of how you were set up. I know who ruined your life."


AN: More to come!