Fire Across Lylat

by SergeantLawson

Nobody wanted to believe war was on the horizon. Paralyzed, the politicians refused to face the truth until Corneria was set on fire. Corporations, PMCs and criminal syndicates alike were pulled into the flames as the years dragged on. For over half a decade, Lylat would degrade from a realm of joy and discovery to a shattered wasteland of iron and blood.

10. Arctic Warfare (Fichina)

Chapter 10: Arctic Warfare (Fichina)

000

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before anyone gets confused, Cerinia and its people are still alive and kicking. I hadn't said anything before because it would be awkward and obvious if someone brought it up in-character. Imagine your friend running up to you and shouting, "Holy shit, America's still a thing!" I'd probably drag him to the nearest psych ward.

000

"Fox, they're right behind us!" Krystal's heart pounded as she split her attention between looking at her sensor display, keeping pace behind Fox, and staying between the icy canyon walls.

The two disturbingly Arwing-like black and red ships continued taking potshots at them from above.

Fox's reply was just as desperate. "Stay with me! We'll get through this!" A dreaded two-tone alarm proved him wrong. "They've got us locked! Dive!"

"There's nowhere to go! Fox-"

Krystal screamed, and the sound of it froze the orange vulpine's blood. Fox looked back in time to see her Arwing disappear in an explosion of snow and fire.

"NO!" was all he could say before the jagged ice wall sheared off his right wing. The vulpine lost control over his craft as its course degraded into a roll. Sparks and smoke billowed out of the wing mount, and a dozen alarms blared at the helpless pilot. Fox brought a hand up in reflex as the ground rose up to meet him.

When the Arwing torpedoed into a snowbank at the bottom of the canyon, there was no explosion to mark its pilot's demise.

000

Krystal gasped and sat upright, digging her claws into the mattress. The Cerinian's heartbeat pounded in her ears as she looked around in wide-eyed panic. First she recognized her bed, and then her nightstand. Each detail was a puzzle piece clicking into place. Hearing Fara's soft breathing from above completed the picture of her room aboard Great Fox, where everything was fine and no one died.

The vixen inhaled deeply to clear her mind and lower her heart rate. It wasn't perfect, but it helped. Everything is fine. No one died. Fox is fine. Krystal repeated those three lines over and over until she believed them.

She closed her eyes for a moment to let the adrenaline flush out of her system. Only after a full minute did she feel steady enough to contemplate what to do next. The clock on her nightstand displayed 01:40 (and below that, the date of 21-07), but going back to sleep was out of the question after the night terror she had just experienced.

And just what was said night terror all about? The dream had come from nowhere, as nightmares often do. Nightmares were far less common for Cerinians, so Krystal wanted to attribute her reactions to that same rarity. I don't have nightmares all that often, so I overreacted, she told herself.

But she couldn't make herself believe it, not when her own thoughts troubled her so deeply. Krystal would have called herself paranoid, if not for another, even more disturbing point. She remembered the nightmare. That also could have been blamed on Cerinians' increased dream retention, but that conclusion left too large a question mark. Krystal hadn't just retained "more" of it. She could recite every second in vivid detail if asked, right down to the scent of burning glass and plastic as her Arwing's canopy melted.

And that scared her.

Cerinian mental powers were no secret to the galaxy; everyone at least knew of their telepathy. Most people had heard stories of other abilities. A handful actually dedicated time and assets to research these accounts. Fewer still - even among Cerinians - could distinguish truth from legend.

Krystal wanted to think nothing of her nightmare, but she could not just let it roll off her back. Admitting she lacked answers was frustrating, but it was the unfortunate reality of the situation. She would have sought spiritual guidance, but they were nowhere near Cerinian-Kathari space. No priest or priestess was around to confide in, and the Disciples had no reason to be in Cornerian territory. Written guidance was the next best thing, but it wasn't as if Great Fox had a library full of the Ancient Texts for Krystal to leaf through.

The vixen deliberated like this for several minutes, before she released a protracted sigh. This was going nowhere. Though she hated the idea of doing nothing, a wait-and-see approach was the best option for now.

000

July 21, 02:00 Hours

Unidentified Vessel, Location Unknown

Far away from Krystal and her internal debates, a man contemplated his plot for the Lylat System. The canine dragged off of his cigarette, and then plucked it from his mouth between two fingers. He blew the smoke to the side so it wouldn't cloud his vision. The large window in front of him offered quite a view of the universe: a few planets here, a yellow and purple nebula there, and a thousand white pinpricks behind a hundred other colorful entities. The brightest celestial bodies were reflected in the glossy black floor. He found such backgrounds amicable to his thought process. Looking upon the creators' canvas - and other grand imagery - netted him a sense of purpose. These things served as reminders of how high his sights were set, or simply soothed the mind, depending on the situation.

The rectangular room around him was featureless; its purpose necessitated hardly anything. His silver-bodied black leather chair, tethered at the chamber's exact center, was one of two exceptions. A circular holoprojector in front of the chair, following the typical design of a silver pad with a blue projection ring a few centimeters inside the border, was the other. The roof matched the floor's gloss-black tiling. The wall-spanning window allowed solar bodies to provide lighting. A simple grey automatic door in the wall behind the seat completed the sparse ensemble.

Reinhardt Shears spoke aloud, despite being the room's sole occupant. "I believe you overestimate their abilities."

A response floated out of the speakers in his chair, but the holoprojector remained deactivated - Shears did not yet trust in face to face conversation. The voice was low but not deep; smooth but not silky. Its accent was posh, but far from haughty. The man's words carried an undertone that managed to be at once calming and unsettling. "On the contrary, Director. Wars can be won or lost through the smallest of battles. In the past, entire nations have been defeated with a single shot. This logic remains valid here."

Shears found it difficult to put a single descriptor on the voice despite his wide vocabulary. It seemed to articulate several tones at once, but that was likely a trick of the mind. Each phrase was carefully orchestrated, and all of those illusive differing speech patterns culminated into a single voice of confidence, discipline, and authority. This man was a fine speaker, and from the reports Shears had read, his leadership skills were no different. Many of the Venomian Republic's military officers led through intimidation and force; a mindset befitting their doctrine of absolute obedience and indoctrinated loyalty. There were flaws in such a mindset, inflexibility chief among them. If the common Venomian soldier was discouraged from independent thinking, how reliable would they be in dynamic, and especially decaying scenarios?

This man followed a different style of command. If a subordinate officer had an alternate strategy in mind, he encouraged them to voice their thoughts. This prevented vacuum decision-making, and had saved many a soldier throughout his career. He valued the lives of those under his command, from the most senior officers down to the lowliest of maintenance personnel. Though the mission always came first, he never viewed anyone as expendable. In his eyes, they were not tools to be used and discarded. Rather, their lives had been placed under his care, and he took it upon himself to ensure their safe return. His servicemembers respected him deeply because of this, and their resultant trust in each other was just one reason why his forces were so effective. Some of the more by-the-book Venomian military leaders found points of criticism in the men and women under his charge, concerned that they fought more for him than the glory of the Republic. Shears had deigned to surveil that particular matter: if the man's colleagues moved to strip his command, Reinhardt would be able to intervene prematurely.

These thoughts ran in the back of the Director's mind; he made a point of retaining the most information possible on his associates. Normally, Shears would be concerned with someone - including the man on the other end - tracing the call to his location. That was no longer possible with the myriad of relays, ghost signals and other assorted electronic diversions at his disposal. They could speak freely, without fear of unwanted listeners.

Shears turned a palm up, though the other animal couldn't see it. "Was that your goal on Corneria? Defeat the Federation with a single blow?"

The voice hummed. "That was my superior's goal, yes. I planned that operation… though I did not approve of it."

The Director cocked an eyebrow. "How is that?"

"The Chancellor ordered a strike against Corneria. He believed he could end the conflict before it began. I expressed my misgivings, but the Chancellor was quite… insistent." A pause as he took a breath. "Even with all of my forces, the endeavor would still have been doomed to failure. But I was given my orders, and I followed them despite my personal feelings on the matter." Another breath. "As we both know, the strike force was lost. However, the intelligence gleaned from the effort is invaluable to me." Another pause. "Especially the data related to the Meteo belt and the Cornerian orbital grid."

Shears tucked a thumb against his chin. "You executed your orders on paper, but used the operational assets to achieve a more rewarding objective." Clever.

"That is correct, but we digress from the topic at hand."

Shears nodded to himself. "Very well. Why does Star Fox concern you? They are exemplary pilots, but they are just one unit. They can only do so much, even with their hero status."

"My concerns lie in the last portion of your statement, Director: their 'hero status.' Morale can have greater effects than fleets. These Cornerians are some of the best your military has to offer. Even so, their combat prowess does not concern me as much as what they represent. They are a symbol of Cornerian spirit, and that alone is not to be underestimated."

"I don't share the gravity of your concerns, but you make a good point. Though I admit I am unsure what you need from me. I have already given you all of the files we have on them, as well as relevant secondary documents."

"No, nothing of that sort. Their ship will be near Fichina for the next month, correct?"

Shears blinked. That was something he hadn't divulged, and Star Fox's position was classified at all times. "Yes." But how did you know? Shears did not bother asking; he suspected the response would be cryptic and unhelpful.

The Director cleared his throat. "What do you need?"

"I plan to ambush this 'Star Fox' in the coming weeks. To accomplish this, it is wise to… how do your people say it? Fight fire with fire." The animal paused for just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

"I need four of your Arwing starfighters."

Shears' eyes widened.

000

July 24, 21:42 Hours (Three Days Later)

CSS Great Fox, Lower Decks

Passive Patrol Operations

The days since the wetting down had treated Fara well. She had come out of her shell following the party, taking time to talk with the crew rather than hermetically seal herself into she and Krystal's quarters.

Fara had also been touring the ship in her off hours. Well, her self-guided "touring" was more akin to aimless wandering, but it was still helpful. Battleships were already large, but this one's reduced crew size made things seem even further apart. Still, a mental layout of Great Fox was gradually piecing itself together from her nomadic travels.

The fennec's roaming netted a plethora of interaction opportunities as well. She took up whatever odd jobs they had lying around: adjusting things with tools; delivering PDAs to supervisors; fine-tuning weapon sights… all were bite-sized learning experiences. They proved instrumental in narrowing down her desired job.

So far, anything related to Medical was off the table. There was something about Miyu she didn't trust, at least not when she would have mood-altering drugs and Fara's coffee at arm's length.

The pilot came out of her thoughts just in time to avoid waltzing face-first into a pipe. Fara blinked at the offending metal object and asked the gods why it had to be right there. This ship's retrofits popped up in the weirdest places, especially down here in Engineering. Fara supposed she would get used to it eventually.

Now that she looked around, Fara didn't think she was in Engineering anymore. First, she had seen all of three people so far on this deck. Great Fox did have a reduced crew complement, but leaving such a vital department so understaffed would be foolish. Second, large metal crates were stacked everywhere, and there was much more space on this deck than those above. Third, a large sign that read "Cargo Bay" was bolted to the wall on her right.

Fara rolled her eyes, and would have continued on had a few choice sounds not reached her ears. Grunting, impacts, scuffling… there was a fight going on, and it was close. The notion of a fight breaking out on this ship made zero sense from what Fara had seen, but she still felt compelled to investigate.

The fennec pinned a direction with her ears. Once she had a solid bearing, she set off winding her way between stacks of supply crates. Each one was painted regulation grey, with two blue stripes running top to bottom and a Federation seal in the middle. Fara briefly wondered if she would find some lost crewman's remains in this maze.

She rounded yet another corner and finally came upon the source of the noise: two soldiers were positively beating the shit out of each other. One was a German shepherd in Marine combat trousers and a grey tee-shirt; the other was a lioness in matching trousers and a black sports bra. The fennec made half a move to intervene, but then she saw that their stances were disciplined, and there was no real venom in their strikes. This wasn't a brawl; it was a sparring match for the ages.

Fara had practiced martial arts in high school, but following the pair's moves proved hopeless. It was a mess of feet, elbows and knuckles driving into weak spots and pressure points. The German shepherd sent the bottom of his foot into the lioness' chest, knocking her flat on her back. She rolled away from a downward-hurtling fist and somehow used nothing but her left hand to twist herself back onto her feet. The other Marine was still hunched over from his attempted knockout punch. Wasting no time, the woman jumped up and launched a spinning hook kick into the side of his head.

Both Marines stepped back and righted themselves. The pair of warriors raised their fists, solidified their footing, and then engaged each other in a battle of knuckles and fingertips. Several of the impacts made Fara wince; they looked absolutely brutal, and she was sure she heard a rib crack at some point. Just as quickly as the fighting had started, it stopped. Fara was confused at first, but realization dawned when she realized both Marines had knife hands leveled at the side of each other's necks.

Twin kill shots. They're evenly matched.

The two Marines lowered their arms into a handshake. The lioness turned towards Fara. "Looks like we've drawn a crowd." Now that they weren't moving like blurs, Fara recognized the lioness from her wetting down ceremony.

The beast of a canine followed her gaze. "Well whaddaya know, the new pilot found her way down here. It's, uh…" He snapped his fingers twice. "Phoenix, right?"

"Right," Fara nodded, "That was one hell of a fight."

"Eh. Bruises heal and fractures build character," the lioness retorted with a smirk. "Staff Sergeant Jennifer Lindholm, by the way." Fara nodded again; they had never been properly introduced at the party. "This here is Major Norman Carver."

The canine crossed his massive arms. "I'm the commander of Great Fox's Marine detachment. It's not a hard job… usually." The last word came with a pointed look at the lioness.

Lindholm feigned offense. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Carver rolled his eyes. "Right. And I'm sure the call I got from the MPs last time you were on leave was a big misunderstanding." He motioned to Fara. "Come on over, Phoenix; I'll give you the tour."

"The tour?" she queried with an arched eyebrow. She saw nothing other than the two Marines in this outcropping of supply crates.

Lindholm sauntered over to one of the crates. The lioness set her paw on the release latch, pulled it up and then rotated it to the left. Another pull opened the container… with nothing inside of it. Fara's confusion turned to curiosity as Lindholm walked into the empty crate and banged her fist against the opposite hatch. To her surprise, someone pulled it open from the outside. Lindholm and Carver stepped through, the former beckoning Fara to come along with them.

What she found on the other side looked almost like a field camp. The rectangular open space was bordered by stacks of the same grey, blue insignia-stamped containers. Six of the metal containers that made up the right "wall" were missing their doors on this side. From the olive drab fold-out cots set up inside each one, Fara assumed the shipping crates had been repurposed into small living quarters. Aside from the bedding, each "room" had a sleeping bag and footlocker. Other than that, each of the improvised quarters had been personalized to a small extent by their respective owners.

A Marine was sprawled out on the furthest cot, holding up a FurFur's Delights adult magazine for shade and some quality reading material. Two other Marines sat on opposite sides of a table, playing some kind of card game. They used footlockers - also olive drab - as makeshift chairs. There were a few other things scattered around the area, but the workbench on the left side caught Fara's attention. A Marine-issue AMR-110 magnetic assault rifle was disassembled on its surface, its owner meticulously cleaning and inspecting each part. A weapon maintenance kit lay open near the rifle, as well as a small bottle of oil with a swab balanced atop the neck. The workbench's tool rack, originally intended for common mechanic's tools, had been completely repurposed. Instead of socket wrenches, screwdrivers and drills, the hooks and pegs held scopes and sights, barrel attachments like suppressors and flash hiders, and a few side-mount tactical gadgets like rangefinders and laser/light modules. A six-slot weapon rack was set up to the right of the workbench. One of the slots was empty for obvious reasons, but two others each held another AMR, for a total of three assault rifles. Two more slots gripped S-4 "Buzzard" magnetic submachine guns, and the final rack played home to an ASG-10 semi-automatic assault shotgun.

"Damn," muttered Fara, more impressed than anything else. She thought she'd seen it all, but here was a Marine field camp on a battleship staring her right in the face.

Lindholm snickered, while Major Carver announced, "Gentlemen, we have a guest." All four heads turned in their direction. "You all know who Ensign Phoenix is already, so let's just run through introductions from our end." Carver pointed at the bobcat on the cot. "That yiff junkie is Sergeant McTavish."

"Yo." The bobcat dropped half of the magazine to give them a two-fingered salute.

Carver gestured to the pair of Marines at the table. "The pitbull on the right is Lieutenant Smithers - we call him Smitty. Pretty-and-pink on the…"

"Hey, up yours!" protested the rosy feline, whipping her head around so fast that a lock of blonde hair fell down into her eyes.

"...on the left is Captain Sheila Vincent. They think they're card sharks. Finally, the gun nut at the workbench is Gunnery Sergeant Slavic. And this," Carver swept an arm to encompass the whole scene. "Is our little spot to relax on our downtime. What do you think?"

"It's pretty impressive. I'm surprised they let you set all this up on board a ship."

Lindholm sucked on her teeth. "Eh… technically, they don't."

Fara turned towards her and raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The yiff junkie, Sergeant McTavish, spoke up from his cot. "It means the higher-ups don't know our humble abode exists."

That took Fara by surprise, even by Star Fox standards. "What about McCloud?"

Lindholm took over. "Nah, the CO doesn't care. We're talking about the Admiralty. Us Marines may be ground-pounders, but we report to the Navy's chain of command while we're with SpecDiv. It's no secret McCloud commands in his own way, and most of the gold stars are fine with it - we get shit done with the best of 'em, so they turn a blind eye when we bend some regs. But there's a few people with sticks up their asses and bones to pick. You know the type; they care about following rules more than getting the job done."

Fara grimaced. "Yeah, I know a few myself."

"Yeah, well take that bad attitude and then put a lot of power behind it. They hate how much autonomy we have; I mean like they're personally insulted by our existence. Every once in awhile, one of 'em will drop by for an inspection." The lioness put air quotes around that last word. "That's why we have this all set up behind an empty shipping crate."

Fara whistled. "Yeesh. How bad does it get?"

Lindholm actually sounded hesitant. "The last one was about six months ago… it got ugly. This asshole commodore - that's between captain and admiral, by the way. The guy had a thing for harassing our department heads. Word eventually got up to McCloud, and he called our esteemed guest up to the bridge."

"And then?" Fara was more than a little interested at this point. She hadn't been acquainted with Fox or his crew for very long, but from what she did know of them, this was shaping up to be a very good story.

The lioness grinned wickedly. "Oh-ho, I was right there when it went down. And let me tell you, it was a sight to behold…"

The scrawny, literal rat stormed onto the bridge with all the discipline of a tornado. "Commander, I demand you give me an open comm channel! I will speak with Fleet Admiral Marcus at once!"

The bridge crew's heads collectively pivoted for a moment before the assorted spacers went back to work. Fox, whom had been gazing out to the stars, turned around with no sense of urgency. "Commodore, good. I was wondering where you'd gotten off to."

The man spluttered. "You… you watch your tongue! I am a Commodore of the Cornerian Federation Navy and you will address me as such!"

Fox smiled all too warmly. "Of course, sir. How do you like my ship?"

"How do I like… do not ignore me, Commander! I gave you a direct order for an open channel to Fleet Command!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that would be impossible. We are at EMCON Alpha One - radio silence. As I'm sure you are aware, that is standard protocol for lone special operations ships. And we all know how important the rules are." The vulpine spoke slowly and calmly, with just a bit of condescension.

"Hmph. Then I will leave immediately."

Fox shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't allow that."

A vein bulged in the commodore's forehead. "You can't allow-"

Fox raised a finger. "One moment." Steam could very well have been jetting from the rodent's ears as Fox pressed two fingers against his earpiece. "CIC, Bridge."

"Bridge, CIC."

"TAO, please report to the bridge."

"Aye, sir. I'm on my way."

"Very well." Fox released his earpiece. "As I was saying: I can't allow your shuttle to leave because, unlike our own, it is not properly equipped to mask our position after you clear our hangar - also protocol."

The rat stepped forward and jabbed a bony finger at Fox's nose. "Then I shall requisition one of your shuttles!"

"Also impossible. Those assets belong to CF Navy SpecDiv, and by extension, me - not you. With all due respect. Sir." Fox took a deep breath. "Now, since we're all stuck here, allow me to ask again: how do you like my ship?"

A snort accompanied the response. "Oh, do not get me started on that, Commander! Undermanned departments, non-regulation modifications, light duty shifts, and oh the informality! But most of all, your command staff disturbs me!"

Every single crewman immediately swiveled towards the verbal exchange, while Krystal quietly stepped onto the bridge behind all the action. She alone noticed Fox's eyebrow twitch. Never breaking eye contact with the commodore, Fox set his datapad atop a nearby workstation. The workstation was occupied, but its attending crewman said nothing.

"Please enlighten me, Commodore," said Fox in a lower tone as he stepped forward, "What exactly did you mean when you said my command staff disturbs you?"

"First, the sheer nonchalance and utter disrespect of your Guard Commander! That avian, the…"

Fox cut in, now with a more severe edge to his speech. "That avian's name, sir, is Commander Lombardi."

"I do not care for names! Either way, your TAO concerns me far more!"

Behind the commodore, Fox noticed Krystal narrow her eyes and bare a few teeth.

"Elucidate for me, Commodore. I insist." To everyone except the rodent in front of him, Great Fox's CO was starting to look dangerous.

"She is a Cerinian! How one of her kind was granted such a position is beyond me! Do you even know what she is capable of with those abnormal powers? I doubt any sane-"

"Commodore!" Fox had only raised his voice by a small margin, but the weight his tone carried silenced the other animal immediately. To the rat, McCloud now appeared significantly larger than he had a minute ago. "I have had quite enough! First, you demanded boarding permission despite full knowledge of our EMCON status - and in doing so, endangered my entire crew! I decided to look past that solely because I have to play nice with people like you. But ever since you landed in my hangar bay, it has been insult after insult!"

"How dare you speak this way to-"

"Still talking." Fox growled from the back of his throat. "You have done nothing but insult my crew since you landed, and I have never seen such disrespect from anyone in a Federation uniform! And let's not forget that two months ago, this undisciplined, lazy, informal crew saved your entire flotilla! You were too blind to see a pirate fleet hiding in a gas cloud just two thousand kilometers away, and before you could even catch up with reality, you had gotten everyone aboard three of your ships killed! How many of their families cried themselves to sleep because of your incompetence? Do you even remember their names?! Oh, wait - in your exact words: you do not care for names."

The rat glared up at McCloud. "You do not understand the complications of leading a battle group! In that position, we do not have time for-"

Fox growled again and bared his canines. "Complications? No, this isn't complicated. In fact, it's remarkably simple! I could recite all five hundred and seventy-nine crew aboard this ship, because everybody under my command is far more than just a name. They are individuals. Take Lieutenant Michael Vance, for example. The reason I don't have five hundred and eighty people here, is because he was murdered while on leave. He was on the way home from the airport to see his wife and two daughters… a guy with a gun took his life, for the paper in his wallet. My TAO, that Cerinian you spoke so lowly of, held a service in the hangar bay to honor his memory. She's the closest thing we have to a chaplain on this lazy, undisciplined ship - and she gave us closure in ways I never could."

Fox moved his hands behind his back. "One of us will lose our stripes by the end of the day, so I will be blunt: you are everything I despise as an officer. I would demand an apology, but I know you wouldn't mean it. Therefore, I will save time and make things very easy." The vulpine paused before delivering his final statement. "Clear yourself from my bridge, Commodore. With all due respect… I have things to do."

With that, Fox turned back towards the frontal viewports.

The Commodore made the grievous mistake of grabbing Fox by the shoulder. "You will not-"

McCloud whirled around and sent an elbow into the side of the rodent's head. When the officer tried to snag a handful of his shirt, Fox snapped his forearm up to break the connection. With the other man's balance lost, Fox shoved him away. The commodore backpedaled straight into Krystal, and made yet another grave error of trying to throw her off of him. Krystal wasted no time reversing his backward momentum by wrenching him to the deck face-first. She landed on top of him with her right knee digging into his neck, her left in the middle of his back, and both of his hands clasped firmly in one of her own.

One of the crewmen ran for the general announcement system, popped open the comm box and grabbed the radio. "Security to the Bridge, Security to the Bridge."

With the rodent down on the floor, Fox slowly moved towards him as he recited criminal charges. "For two months ago: gross dereliction of duty. For today: wilful endangerment of a ship at EMCON. Multiple counts of harassment. Wilful interference with official military business and vital duties. Multiple counts of misuse of rank and status for personal gain. Disregard for chain of command. Not to mention all the other charges we can dredge up for your comments on my command staff. And now - two counts of assault on military personnel."

Twenty seconds later, three security personnel jogged onto the bridge, kitted out with holstered laser pistols, stun guns, cuffs, light ballistic vests and eight-point duty caps.

Fox rested his hands at the small of his back. "Staff Lieutenant Zonoc, place this man under arrest."

"Gladly." Krystal took an offered set of cuffs from a security crewman and detained the rogue commodore. Once she was certain he couldn't slip the cuffs, the vixen forcefully dragged him up off the floor and to his feet.

The rat couldn't point (such a shame; it seemed like his favorite activity) but he decided to keep shouting regardless. "I will have your head for this, McCloud! Mark my words- agckh!" He squirmed and yelped as a series of metallic clicks resonated through the bridge.

"Sorry," Krystal chimed with a big, friendly smile, "Are these too tight?"

The sapphire vixen kicked him in the ankles, and they filed out of the bridge with the other security personnel.

After the dust had settled, the entire bridge crew saluted Fox as one before returning to their duties.

"Damn," Fara whistled, "That's one hell of a story."

One of the Marines piped up. "It's true. Every word."

The lioness casually mentioned, "McCloud and Zonoc have been looking out for each other ever since. Kinda cute, honestly."

Major Carver rolled his eyes. "Lindholm…"

"What? I'm just saying."

Fara asked, "So what ended up happening to the guy?"

Jennifer whistled. "The court-martial tore him, like, three new assholes. Last I heard, they busted him all the way down to Staff Lieutenant and dropped him off at some backwater outpost on Katina." She snorted. "It's a shame, though. I wanted to see him get carted off to the orbital supermax prison. I'll bet a gang of jacked up dudes woulda turned him into a pincushion for their di-"

Carver wouldn't let her fantasies get off the ground. "Anyway… what actually brought you to us, Phoenix?"

Fara reached up to rub at the back of her neck. "Uh… I was kind of just wandering aimlessly and hoping I'd run into something interesting. I heard two people beating the crap out of each other and figured I'd take a look."

Gunnery Sergeant Slavic, the gun nut, chuckled from his spot at the workbench. "That sounds about right for those two. Who won, by the way?"

Jennifer purred almost seductively, "Yeah, Phoenix," The lioness snaked an arm around her shoulders, "Who won?"

Fara gulped.

To the fennec's endless thanks, Major Carver answered her many frantic prayers. "Neither one of us. If we had been using knives, we would've decapitated each other."

Jennifer dropped her arm, but not before letting her fingertips glide across Fara's shoulder blades.

Fara looked down and aggressively straightened her sleeves for no apparent reason - they had been perfectly aligned beforehand. Just as she was reaching to fiddle with some other piece of her black Navy uniform, she stopped. "You know what? I have an idea."

Major Carver saw the gears turning in her head. "Shoot," he prompted with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm new to the Navy, so I have to pick a new MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) - you know, my job. Still working on that. But, I'm also one one of our primary operators. That means I have to pick a combat specialty, too."

The assembled Marines seemed to like where this was going, so Fara continued. "All of the primaries had their Arwings designed to fill specific roles, so we can tackle pretty much anything that comes our way."

Gunnery Sergeant Slavic set down the rifle barrel he'd been cleaning. "Yeah; it ain't every day you strap two railguns to a fighter and bring down a carrier in one shot."

Fara nodded. "Right. And as far as I can tell, the Arwings match the boots. The CO's fighter is the most adaptable out of the squadron - twin hyper lasers, charged shots and nova bombs. I guess you could call him the mainstay. Same goes for the ground: from what I know, he goes in with a GP-98 laser carbine and packs most of the grenades. Lombardi seems to like his marksman's rifle, and he usually fits longer-ranged weaponry to his Arwing. Just like you said, Slavic, Zonoc is our heavy in the air. Seems like she's our squad gunner on the ground, too."

Lindholm affirmed, "Yeah, I see her packin' a three-fifty every now and then." The M350 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) was the Cornerian military's newest magnetic light machine gun. "How does she even carry that thing around? It's a heavy sumbitch. I mean, the magazine - just the box mag - is the size of her head."

Fara shrugged. "Beats me. Anyway, Lynx is our field corpsman. She told me that aside from her medical backpack, she likes to keep her loadout light with an SMG and some survival gear. Apparently it lets her double as recon."

"Erm… no offense, Phoenix," Lindholm tapped her index fingers together and did her best to sound polite, "But we kind of know all this already."

"Oh, I know," replied Fara, not insulted in the slightest, "My point is, they've been missing one all along." She noted the furrowed brows and confused looks. "Just bear with me here. Think of your typical combat specialties, and then tick off the ones they've covered. You've got your Rifleman, your Designated Marksman, your Squad Gunner, your Corpsman, and your Recon. What are we missing?"

Lindholm counted on her fingers and stopped halfway through six. The answer seemed to hit the rest of them a second later. Jennifer turned fully toward her. "Oh, you clever, clever girl."

Fara voiced everyone's thoughts. "They need an Assaultman. Close-range weapons, proficient with explosives… and from what I saw between you and Carver out there, if I'm gonna be up in their grills, it couldn't hurt to be an expert in hand-to-hand combat."

Lindholm grinned. "You want the Raiders to show you the ropes?"

"Raiders? Wait… I've heard of you guys. Some kind of Special Forces unit, right?"

The lioness nodded. "Ding ding ding, right on the money. We can kick ass anywhere, but we're really trained to fight in space, whether it's repelling boarders, invading space stations, or even firefights in straight-up hard vacuum." Fara had heard of Sargasso pirates raiding cargo ships, cruise liners, and even lightly-manned Fortunan government craft. The idea of elite military operatives dedicated to the same purpose was comforting - or terrifying, depending on one's uniform and national flag.

"What about when the gravity goes offline?"

Jennifer chuckled almost demonically. "That's when it gets fun. Don't get me wrong, zero-gee combat is really trippy. But if you master it…" She cracked her knuckles. "…nothing is more satisfying than literally pummeling a 'Nomie into the fucking ceiling."

That mental image sealed the deal. "Let's do it."

Carver asked, "Are you sure, Phoenix?"

"Absolutely. Teach me how to do… that."

Jennifer popped her neck from side to side and somehow cracked her knuckles again, despite having just done it thirty seconds ago. "So…" The lioness reached up to her forehead and tucked a lock of blonde hair back into her high-shaved, left-swept side cut. "How about a rematch, Carver?"

The beastly canine's knuckle cracks sounded more like small-caliber gunshots. "Challenge accepted."

000

August 4, 20:55 Hours (11 Days Later)

CSS Great Fox, CIC

Fichina Orbit

Patrol Operations

Fox's voice floated out of Krystal's earpiece. "Staff Lieutenant, how are things?"

Krystal tapped a button on her wristcom, opening her own transmitter. "All quiet down here, sir. The only things we're picking up are FSU fighters in-atmo."

"Glad to hear it."

"Anything interesting on your end of the ship? I hope you didn't splatter one of Falco's relatives on the windshield again."

"That happened one time, two years ago." His tone turned smug. "Hey, at least we get windows."

Krystal smirked. "You get windows, I get scanners that allow me to see thousands of kilometers in every direction." She took a breath and shifted her datapad to her left arm. "So, I take it things are just as uneventful up there?"

Fox's response came with a raised voice, clearly meant to address a different individual. "Well, other than Hallman shooting at stars with finger guns instead of manning his station… yeah, pretty much."

"Alright then. Next SITREP in thirty minutes?"

"Same Fox-time, same Fox-channel."

Krystal rolled her eyes. "You're terrible. TAO, out."

"CO, out."

The sapphire vixen tapped her wristcom again, closing the audio channel. She stood in the middle of the CIC, her domain and the ship's nerve center. The crewmembers' voices were lowered - as was commonplace for the department. Glass displays to her sides and rear projected various data plots and other data, with two or three personnel attending to each display. The workstation rows installed against the square room's bulkheads were fully manned: Great Fox may have a downsized crew, but Krystal and the other command staff left no open seats in such a vital department.

Centered in the bulkhead in front of her was a live map of Fichina's surface below the ship - not the entire planet; that would have been ridiculous. The display updated every ten seconds, as evidenced by the track markers jumping around the screen. Each sensor contact, or "track" - all aircraft, in this case - showed up as a yellow blip, with an attached random number. If there were any other Cornerian signatures on display, they would have appeared with green markings. Enemy contacts would be colored red.

"Ma'am?" someone called out.

Krystal looked to her left. A grey feline had removed his headset and pivoted his swivel chair towards her.

"What is it?" asked Krystal once she had walked over.

"I'm tracking three-" he glanced at his display, "-correction, five unidentified aircraft. ID beacons disabled. They seem to be holding a flight path similar to the other Fichinan patrols, though."

Krystal leaned over and took note of the craft in question. She nodded. "Okay. Keep an eye on them."

"Roger that," acknowledged the crewman as he put his headset back on.

000

At the Same Time, On the Surface…

"Gah! What the hell?!" The arctic vulpine yelped as he fell sideways out of his snowmobile. He looked behind to see another arctic fox walking towards him, holding a second snowball in his left paw.

"Sorry man, did I wake you?" he asked nonchalantly, bending down to offer his unoccupied paw.

The downed trooper took the hand up, and proceeded to brush the first snowball's remnants off the back of his helmet. "Sarge, it's already cold as balls out here! Now I've got this shit running down the back of my neck." He grumbled a few other things as he dusted off his thick arctic camouflage fatigues.

"Don't sweat it, kid. You'll live." The sergeant dropped his other snowball.

"Why are we even out here this late, anyway? The sun's going down, and it's going to drop to fifty below zero tonight."

The taller sergeant crossed his arms. "Is that Centigrade or the stupid one?"

"You know I mean Centigrade! Look, I get it: security's important. But why do they have to send us way out here in the open? I mean, we have eyes in the sky right over there!" He jabbed a gloved finger at an angle behind himself, pointing out a loose formation of five aircraft. The sergeant immediately snapped his head in that direction. "What?" asked the younger trooper, his brow furrowed beneath his ballistic goggles.

"That's not one of our air patrol routes, rookie."

The sergeant grabbed his binos from where they hung around his neck. He took a few steps forward as he adjusted his bino set to bring the image into focus. Beside him, the other trooper did the same. When the view cleared up, they could see three of the craft were fighters. The other two were low-altitude VTOL gunships - spiritual successors of the centuries-dead helicopters - with door gunners on each side.

"Those are not ours, Sarge."

"No… they're Venomian!" The pair of vulpines bolted for their snowmobiles, gunned the engines, and sped off to intercept. The three fighters immediately split off and up, while the gunships moved into range. Their door gunners opened up, stitching lines of machine gun fire all around the Fichinan soldiers.

"Patrol One, troops in contact! We've been engaged by multiple hostile aircraft; requesting support!"

A gravelly reply came across the radio. "This is Patrol Two. We're coming right at you, ETA 20 seconds."

"Patrol One, Patrol Three. We're set up on the far side of the hill to your North-East. Lead them to us."

Patrol One's younger trooper swerved left to avoid another stream of high-velocity death pellets. When he looked up, a third snowmobile was barreling towards them at full speed. The driver was hunched over the controls; a second man rode on the back with a guided missile launcher balanced on his shoulder. The VTOL's pilot recognized the larger threat, and fired a rocket of his own just as the Fichinan soldier launched his.

Both rockets hit their intended targets.

The gunship exploded in a mid-air blaze and dropped like a stone. Its rocket slammed into the ground half a meter in front of the snowmobile. The explosion's shockwave pulverized the two men's internal organs, killing them instantly. Their vehicle caught air through the blast, still moving full throttle without a driver. The snowmobile landed in a bank, and its fuel tanks caught fire a handful of seconds later.

With no other option, Patrol One's vulpines opened up their throttles and drove off in Patrol Three's direction. The trio of fighters were nowhere to be found, and while they may have taken out one of the gunships, the other's crew was hellbent on avenging their deaths.

More rockets hit the ground behind them and to their sides as they drove up a hill. Just as they were about to reach the peak, their radios crackled to life. "Patrol One, stop! Stop, now!"

With no time to ask questions, the two soldiers did so, wrenching their throttles down to zero. They still had enough velocity to clear the peak anyway. Just on the other side were two other Fichinan snowmobiles parked sideways. The drivers had crouched behind them and balanced their advanced pulse rifles against the vehicles.

The Fichinan troops opened fire as soon as the Venomian gunship appeared. The door gunner on the left jerked around from several gunshot impacts and slouched back into his seat. The one on the right caught a slug through the faceplate. The exit wound blew open the back of his helmet and pitched him clean out the side of the aircraft. The gunship's pilot had been moving fast enough that he, too, couldn't react before he had already passed the ambush.

"Let's go! On me!" called one of Patrol Three's men. The pair sprinted down to Patrol One, and all four men took aim at the gunship.

Once the VTOL had yawed around, the quartet of Fichinans laid down a hail of pulse rifle slugs. The pilot wasn't about to go down without a fight, and answered their fire with his own twin nose-mounted machine guns. One of Patrol Three's soldiers screamed as the high-caliber rounds tore him in half at the waist.

Before the Venomian could gun down any more of the infantrymen, Patrol One's sergeant tracked a rifle burst through the gunship's portside engine. The left side of the craft burst into flames, and the critically damaged thruster started firing out of control. The pilot was helpless as his craft spun through the air like a top. After a few rotations, the portside rocket pod cooked off, and all twenty warheads detonated in their housings. What was left of the VTOL split into three pieces and tumbled down into the hillside.

000

Aboard CSS Great Fox…

The CIC sensorman Krystal had spoken to minutes prior took in the readings on his screen. "Holy shi- ma'am!" He ripped off his headset and whirled around his chair.

Krystal jogged over. "What have you got?"

"I just lost tracks on two of those aircraft. Sensors show multiple low-intensity detonations on the planet's surface."

One of the comms officers called out from the other side of the CIC. "TAO, Fichinan chatter reports shots fired!"

A third crewman interjected, "Ma'am, I've reacquired the other three aircraft. They're holding an interception course; in about ninety seconds they'll be all over us."

Krystal nodded. "Understood." She keyed her wristcom and opened a line to the bridge. "Captain, TAO."

Fox's laid-back tone contrasted sharply with the situation at hand. "Lieutenant, you're early. Miss me alrea-"

"Fichina is under attack and multiple unidentified aircraft are approaching our position."

The vulpine's demeanor changed like flipping a switch. "Copy that. We don't have all the facts, so only fire in defense."

"Understood. TAO, out."

On the bridge, Fox called out. "Deck Officer, set General Quarters!"

The avian in question nodded. "Aye, sir!" He bolted for the general announcement system.

Everyone aboard Great Fox heard the resultant call. Fara had been chatting amicably with three other crewmen when the general alarm sounded out of nowhere. A baritone announcement came with the alert: "General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands, man your battle stations! Transit up and forward starboard side; down and aft portside. Unknown aircraft approaching; contact imminent." By the time the transmission was over, it seemed like half the crew was storming through this tiny corridor - Fara included. The next minute was pure organized chaos as five hundred and eighty people double-timed it to their battle stations. Arms Masters issued weapons and armor to security personnel and Marines. Damage Control personnel suited up with flameproof suits and oxygen tanks. Everyone in the berthing areas went from dead sleep to dead run in three seconds flat. To the uninitiated, it would indeed have seemed like "pure organized chaos," but Fara knew better. This was discipline in its purest form: every single man and woman aboard the ship knew exactly where they were going and exactly how to get there.

Just as quickly as the torrent of activity had begun, it was over. All hands were strapped in and ready to deal with any disaster known to Lylat. As for Fara, she had finally chosen Security as her MOS. By sheer luck, she had been assigned to guard the CIC. Strapped up with a laser pistol on her hip and a light ballistic vest, Fara secured the hatch behind her and took up a post next to it.

Fara would have likened the next moments to watching the conductor of a grand orchestra, with a battleship's lethal arsenal as her instruments.

Krystal ordered, "Deploy all hardpoints; standby to engage targets."

"Aye, aye!" echoed a few crewmembers. Krystal wiped out the Fichina surface and replaced it with local sensors. The display was a simple black background with green rings overlaid as range markers. Three red dots steadily closed on the center mark, their contact pips tagged with 5024, 2716, and 1095. The other monitors on the display bulkhead switched to various external camera angles. There were so many voices piled on top of each other, Fara could only fathom how Krystal was able to sort through it all.

"This is a Cornerian Federation Navy warship. Identify yourself and divert your course, or you will be subject to defensive action."

"…contacts bearing three-one-six, mark five-niner…"

"…CIWS set to auto, holding fire…"

"…port side, rounds loaded; targets painted. Mark-160 locked and covering…"

One crewman raised his voice above the others. "Missiles inbound! Too close for SM-90's!"

Krystal widened her stance and grabbed a support beam. "Launch chaff; brace for shock!"

A set of flares blasted from one of Great Fox's portside chaff tubes. Two of the heat seeking warheads were baited into harmless detonations, but the third carried on and slammed right into midships. The small warhead had no chance of getting through the battleship's thick armor plating, but the impact was still felt. Lights flickered momentarily, and one of the standing CIC crewmen lost his footing. The man on his left caught him before he could fall.

"Return fire!" shouted Krystal as she picked up her datapad off the deck, "Mark-160, portside!"

"Return fire, aye; tracking targets!" From one of the external cameras, Fara watched a gun designed for taking out shuttlecraft and assault boats, lock in a target lead on one of the comparatively tiny Invaders. The crewman behind the controls annihilated his prey with the touch of a button. The gun fired a three-round burst of hypersonic tungsten slugs, all of which punched right through the middle of the Venomian fighter. With its center disintegrated, the Invader's remaining outer shell crumbled and drifted away in pieces. Before the crewman could lock in a follow-up shot, the remaining two had circled around to the starboard side and each fired another missile. They were too close even for chaff, but their impacts were just as ineffective as the first.

Even so, Fara was getting tired of wobbling around like a drunk elephant. If those 'Nomies keep this up, I'm gonna leave one hell of a nose print on the floor tiles!

Another crewman called out, "TAO, CIWS engaged!"

Fara watched in awe as Great Fox displayed its raw firepower even in its smallest weapons. In this case, a twelve-barreled gauss minigun spun up and unleashed the crimson fires of hell upon the nearest Invader. The offending bogey lasted about a tenth of a second before splitting in half - both pieces detonated individually a few seconds later.

The last Invader was making a run for it. A wise decision, but he was far too late to save himself.

Krystal waited until the fighter was just coming around the bow to instruct, "Go to the thermal DEWs (Directed Energy Weapons). Kill track five-zero-two-four."

"Surface, aye. Guns, kill track five-zero-two-four with thermals."

"Guns, aye." Fara's eyes widened upon seeing a brilliant orange beam fire from one of the ship's coaxial gunports. The shot went wide; it had to have missed by twenty meters, but the heat was so intense that it still melted part of the Invader's starboard wing and fried one of its two engines. The enemy pilot tried to limp away with the pathetic remains of his equally pathetic fighter, but Corneria's finest would have none of it. At a nod from Krystal, the crewman fired a second beam and flash-vaporized the last of their enemies.

There was a moment of silence, and then: "TAO, Sensors. All targets neutralized. No additional incoming, but I am seeing multiple enemy squadrons on the surface."

"Are they coming our way?"

"No, ma'am. I think we scared them off."

Krystal let out a breath. "Alright. Well done, everybody. Keep sensors at full power and low-level weapons systems online. If Andross so much as sneezes in our direction, I want to know about it."

A unified, "Aye, aye!" rang through the CIC.

Krystal reopened her comm line to the Bridge. "Captain, TAO."

"Five-by-five, Lieutenant; what's the status?"

"Targets neutralized; Great Fox is clear."

"I must say, I'm disappointed."

The vixen furrowed her brow. "Er… I'm sorry?"

"Our thermic lance is capable of incinerating assault craft and boiling armor plating off of light warships. Using it to terrorize enemy fighter pilots is excessive."

She could tell he wasn't actually displeased, and just messing with her instead. Knowing that, Krystal bit back in full force. "Military men share an affinity for large explosions and wanton destruction. Consider it a… very violent alternative to buying you flowers." One of the CIC crewmen laughed sharply for a split-second before managing to restrain himself. "Either way, we're clear of hostile contacts, but Fichina isn't. Several dozen enemy craft are attacking FSU's main fighter base."

"And here I thought I'd be able to finish my coffee. Invaders don't have jump drives; where are they coming from?"

"We don't know, but our best guess is a ship on the far side of the planet. That hemisphere's environment is hostile enough that the FSU hasn't established a major presence."

Fox hummed and thought for a brief moment. "Something tells me you're right on the money, as usual. How's the battle going on the surface?"

Krystal checked a few displays. "Venomians have the numerical advantage, but it's shrinking rapidly. Those Fichinan Wasps are the best fighter craft in Lylat… behind our Arwings, of course."

"All right. Grab Fara, suit up and meet me in the hangar bay; I'll ping Falco and Miyu. We're heading down to give the Fichinans a hand. Once the base is secure, we'll take our Arwings to the far side of the planet, find that ship, and knock it out from below."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll see you in ten." Krystal terminated the link and walked up to Fara. "We're going down to Fichina."

Fara protested, "Down there? To the surface?" The fennec thought first of her thin summer coat (it was the middle of August, after all), and then of Fichina's you're going to die of frostbite on your asscheeks and it's going to suck level of extreme temperatures. Fara would never admit it, but putting the two images together brought up a tiny undomesticated whimper.

Krystal's smile was all too warm, and her pat on Fara's shoulder all too friendly. "Grow some fur or pack some mittens, dear. Your day is about to get a whole lot colder."

On second thought, Fara realized it wasn't all bad. That thermal lance had given her some nasty ideas for her Arwing…

000

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Jesus Christ. Not counting my own notes, trivia and all that, this chapter hit 9300 words on the dot. As for the wait, I know it was far too long. I just kind of lost motivation for a solid two months, and then had the genius idea to hammer out the last seven thousand words over nearly every waking hour of the past three days. God, I need a drink.

As for the story itself: now the plot thickens. I had originally planned the Star Wolf battle as this chapter's finale. But, FurFur's incessant bitching about the wait (jk, jk, you're awesome) convinced me to roll it into the beginning of number eleven. So, Star Wolf is coming up next!

Reader challenge: the first person to correctly guess my character inspiration behind Shears will win the Internet. (to be clear, the answer is a single character, from a single franchise)

Oh, one last thing I need to cover: I know I use a hell of a lot of acronyms, abbreviations and the like. This is for the sake of immersion, and while some terminology here and there won't be covered or defined immediately after its first use, believe me when I say I won't purposefully keep you in the dark about things you need to know.

Trivia

General Quarters is a call to action, and a tool the CO can use to effectively counter any situation. This is not just for combat; GQ can be sounded for any reason, at any time. The formula of a typical GQ announcement is: "General Quarters, General Quarters," followed by the reason for GQ and orders to move "Up and forward starboard side, down and aft portside." Additional orders may be given over the comm if necessary. Here is a breakdown of this chapter's GQ alert: "General Quarters, General Quarters!" All hands on deck; get ready to bolt like Usain. "All hands, man your battle stations!" The CO had reason to believe the ship would engage in combat, and ordered the crew to their posts for that situation. "Transit up and forward starboard side; down and aft portside." Don't you hate it when it seems like traffic is trying to go eight different ways, and you're about to be late for work? Yeah, the CIC crew hates when they can't fire back because they can't get to their stations… because they're stuck in traffic. This order directs said traffic so the entire crew, no matter how large, flows in a circular loop: that way, everyone reaches their posts in a timely manner. It also helps guide sailors woken up by the alarm who may not yet be fully alert. "Unknown aircraft approaching; contact imminent." This piece of the transmission should be obvious enough: it outlines the situation for the crew in the shortest time possible so everyone knows what they're dealing with right off the bat. Supervisors and department heads usually have more information, and give their people a more complete image once they arrive.

All in all, there's three things you need to know about General Quarters.

1) If the alarm sounds while you're taking a shit, you will suck it back in and get your bare-cheeked ass in gear.

2) It is the only acceptable time to show up wearing boxers/panties and a flak jacket, manning a 20mm deck gun.

3) Nothing, and I mean nothing will get you from a dead sleep to a dead run faster than GQ.

SM-90's are the Cornerian Navy's interdiction missiles. What does that mean? They're missiles, designed to shoot down other missiles. When the crewman announced the incoming missiles were "too close for SM-90's," he meant they were close enough that there wouldn't be enough time for Great Fox's fire control to lock them in and shoot them down. That's why our warships have multiple countermeasures and defense systems (CIWS, chaff, etc.).

Back To This Rambling Idiot's Author's Note: That's all I got for today. SEE YOU IN FOUR MONTHS! (joking, the next one'll be out within a month if things go right)