Vindication
Prologue
-8 years, 10 months and 30 days after the end of the Lylat Wars-
Meus Vetus Orbis Terrarum
The Lylat Wars (also known to some military hardliners as "The Venomian Conflict") instigated by the tyrannical Andross, caused major destruction and widespread chaos throughout the Lylat system; the effect of the conflict was devastating, so much so that once powerful worlds like Fortuna, Zoness and Katina were left either extremely crippled or completely inhospitable.
A power vacuum now existed; the Lylat Alliance, once led by Katina, now existed leaderless after the collapse of the Katinian world government due to the Venomian invasion. This led to the planet Corneria filling the role as the main administrator of the Alliance. As Corneria had sustained the least amount of destruction and still retained a sizable military force (especially due to the efforts by the mercenary outfit, Star Fox), they quickly adopted their new role and sent military and philanthropic aid to other allied worlds. Once Venomian forces were expelled from Corneria, the planet witnessed a harsh spike in immigration from these other worlds.
Due to the weakened states of other member worlds and the voluntary defense of those planets by Cornerian forces, a suggestion to dissolve the alliance and bring all planets therein under the Cornerian banner was proposed in the interplanetary committee. This measure was adopted by all acting representatives of each planet, and after the war, most of the Lylat system had been annexed by Corneria. The Cornerian Federation was established.
One of the first changes made under Cornerian rule was to change the dating system due to the significance of the war and the everlasting effect it had. Back before the war, it was mostly agreed among Lylat world governments and historians that the current year would be based on the Lylat Concordat, the famous treaty that unified all world governments together under a Lylat Alliance; when the Lylat Wars began, it was considered year 302, 302 years after the Concordat.
With the creation of the Cornerian Federation, the dating system was changed to BLW/ALW (Before Lylat Wars/After Lylat Wars), with 0 ALW marking both the end of the war, and the new beginning, a fresh start.
"History is written by the victors", the oft quoted saying goes. Andross was immortalized as a traitor to the Cornerian people for his treachery, and his name forever casts a shadow over the nature of bio-technology and the risks of power. Star Fox as a whole were hailed as heroes, and the legacy of their exploits lives on to this day, inspiring new generations of soldiers.
Truth is different from history. The victor can lie about the motivations therein, but the real truth is hidden, for one reason or another. Indeed, there is more to the story here than just a mad doctor who became evil and the heroes who saved the day. Nothing is black and white.
The sky above Corneria City seemingly burned with a dull orange hue as the sun made its way to the horizon, sinking below visibility, into the clouds and mountain ranges. Pinpricks of starlight began to appear as the rays of the sun decreased, allowing them to show off their beauty without any hindrance. Indeed, the spectacle of astronomy is something I quite enjoy to see. In fact, seeing this beautiful scene was the only notable memory I'd witnessed of this day, as it had been so far quite a drab day indeed.
Viewed from the window of a pallid break room, the scene was such a grand contrast; there I was, my coffee in hand, staring out in silent admiration of the cosmos spread before me, while the abyss stared back at what I can imagine to be a relatively unimpressive sight to it. At any rate, whatever it may think (if space could think at all, I humorously would, adding character to a literal void), I would hope my reputation would precede me: Senior Writer Johnathan "Jack" Mole, one of the top reporters and journalists of the Cornerian Times, 27 years of experience in and off the field, 51 years old.
During the Lylat Wars, I was elected to be a field reporter, observing and recording events from throughout the galaxy. I gained my reputation as a certain "rogue reporter", endangering myself by heading directly to the front lines, reporting from a first hand account, giving the viewers/readers a story they would not forget. I would walk through various battlefields and examine the toll the war had caused on the environment, speaking with locals and interviewing soldiers about their experiences. For these efforts, I received several distinguished awards and journalistic merits. It was, for me, the proverbial "glory days".
The proverbial "glory days" did not last forever, however. With the end of hostilities came the end of my field reporting, and my transition back into more domestic topics regarding Corneria directly. As a professional journalist I felt I could adapt to this sort of reporting again, as I had cut my teeth with such topics before, gaining experience until I reached those aforementioned glorious heights.
However, somehow, some way...it was absolutely grating after a while.
There's only so many fluff pieces and petty crime articles you can write before your readers (and you, yourself) get completely sick of it. If you are not careful, you start writing pure drivel and nonsense (read: "bullshit") just so you convince (read: "trick") readers to take a look at your "work" (read: "waste of effort"), and before you know it you've become a seedy tabloid or irritating gossip panel instead of a legitimate source of news.
That is the consequence of peace time, at least for my case. It sounds terrible, but I wish the Lylat Wars never ended. I would never admit that to anyone in a public setting, but it is the truth I face in my heart.
The real news became less fantastic, less dramatic, and more static. I couldn't feel the rush anymore, everything paled in comparison to what I experienced. I feel...I lost the passion. When you realize that, it is a horrible, wretched moment.
It wouldn't be until this very day that the fire inside me would be rekindled, a fire that would burn with the intensity of the star Lylat itself.
It was coming upon evening at the Cornerian News and Media Center; my coffee was becoming cold from my lengthy stargazing, so I quickly chugged it down in order to consume what little heat it had remaining. Throngs of fellow coworkers bustled down the hallway, proceeded out the array of doors en masse, clambered about the parking area, headed into their respective speeders and caused traffic delays, each attempting to leave first all at once, all per usual. This gargantuan amount of effort results in a 20 minute wait, minimum, daily. No one said goodbye, all per usual.
Unfortunately, I don't get to leave yet; I have overtime work to complete. Fortunately, it's good money. Who am I to bitch about it? Not like I have much to go home to.
Well, I complain anyway. I feel stagnated.
I chase down my coffee with a hastily made sandwich, then turned to examine the rest of the room, which was freshly renovated about 4 years ago. After the Lylat wars, certain public services and businesses were given priority in the reconstruction efforts. While I wouldn't be so brash to admit it outright, I like to think my efforts in the field helped influence the government in some way to ensure the center was placed within the first few pages of the construction queue. I couldn't help send some heavy implication around the office of that potential, unknown fact.
That being said, with all that renovation, why they couldn't spruce up the place more? It was basically the same, unimaginative room as before, even more dated somehow. I guess you can't be picky with these kind of things.
My attention slowly focused onto the screen emanating light, where my gaze lingered for quite some time. A portly badger, whose name I cannot recall, stared at the monitor with jaw loosely open, clutching and sipping from a large container of soda. A political talk show prattled on, with two blowhards jabbering about things they never saw or experienced, sharing uninformed opinions about things that have no clear answer. Granted, I could be biased; after all, it was our opponent network.
I check my DataPad; in ten minutes, I have to clock back in from break in order to resume writing my article about the opening of a trendy new restaurant, something that pandered to the newer generation. Completely boring, to say the very least, and very repetitive considering all the newer construction. I groaned and rubbed my forehead; I forgot to begin the article regarding new housing developments being built for the influx of immigrants from Zoness. It seems that kind of stuff keeps arriving in my dailies, constantly giving me what amounts to busy work.
Heading back to my office, I stopped by the vending machine, grabbed an energy drink, and resumed my walk. My doctor keeps getting onto me about my blood pressure and caffeine intake. I need this shit to function, but I do appreciate his sentiment.
I open the door to my crowded office. Favorite articles of mine, framed on the walls, reminders of bygone glories. Awards, trophies...wonderful times. Wonderful times...
I sit down at the chair, pulled up the DataCenter, and began my work.
Late night. Eyelids heavy. At least the workflow is finished.
I open the automated window in my office, feeling the cool night air rush onto my face. My nose twitched. It was time for a celebratory smoke.
I pull out my lucky lighter, an item that hasn't brought me much luck recently, but I figure I might as well keep it around. After all, it's a rare lighter, an antiquated "flame" model that still used the old kind of fuel, the kind used in old style vehicles from days far gone by.
I pull out my favorite kind of cigar, imported from a lovely land somewhere on Zoness, more specifically a small island nation called Porreta. Impeccable imports from that place...I should really visit there some time when I'm free. The environmental clean up there has been going tremendously well I hear, and that's it's pretty nice nowadays.
Absentmindedly, I reach behind me to grab the knife on my desk. I clip the end of the cigar with a quick swipe. I flick the lighter, and the flame dances on top of it. I stare at it for a while. In it, I saw the flames on the planet Macbeth. I saw there the destruction left in Star Fox's wake as they commenced the counter-attack against the Venomian forces who had occupied much of the industrial complexes on the surface. The train station had been completely demolished, the soil was indefinitely scorched and bereft of life. The industrial buildings and their projects grinded to a halt, damaged beyond repair. The businesses were in upheaval, the mining sector was rendered lifeless. There would be no recovery for the Macbethian government here, their economy and industry now in ruins. At least they had been rescued. At least Corneria annexed them into the Federation. If not for them...
I shook my head and I lit the cigar, puffed it a few times, and slowly exhaled. The flavor was just what I needed.
An incoming call on my DataPad interrupted my meditation. The boss.
"Hello, this is Jack Mole, Senior Writer. How can I help you?" Standard greeting. I don't like answering the boss directly.
"Hey Jack, hope you got through the workflow alright." The thick accent was commanding, yet assuring somehow.
"I got it done. Anything else you need?"
"Yeah, and something you've been wanting too."
My eyes widened from their tired state. To say I was intrigued was an understatement.
"What is it?"
"Do you recall a certain case, Miles Darvinian?"
"...yes," I uttered, instantly recognizing that name.
"You got a scoop. An anonymous fellow is "donating" a certain package. We're treating it as an anonymous source and whatnot. You feel me?"
"Oh...oh damn. Yeah, I understand."
"See, there ya go, you get it! Go to the coordinates I'm sending, get there tonight, gonna add an extra bonus to your pay."
I was tired. I worked much longer today than expected. There was no way I could stay awake for this kind of thing.
"I'll be there."
"Good stuff, be sure to grab as much information as you can, don't skimp on any juicy details, alright?"
"Right. I'll get it in by morning."
"Good stuff. Talk to you later." He ends the call.
I put the DataPad back into my pocket. The thought briefly settled in my mind that my fur reeked of smoke; this probably was not too professional of an appearance.
Too bad, not enough time. I hastily threw on some cologne, locked the office, grabbed another energy drink, and dashed off to the speeder.
Miles Darvinian was a subject I did two articles about, about 5 years ago. One was a mere mention of his indictment as an accomplice to Dr. Andross; the second one, which almost won best article of the month (but lost to our damned competition) was about his first trial in the Cornerian Court of Justice, which was closed off to the public.
A lot of details were tightly underneath bureaucratic red tape back then, but I fought for every loose thread. A damn fine article, if I do say so myself; still, it remains an incomplete picture of a being that is considered to be as terrible as the mad doctor himself. Maybe tonight, I would find my answers.
Traffic on the route was pretty light, considering it being the weekend. I sipped through another energy drink and turned the air conditioner on to combat the drowsiness. The radio sung its tunes low, an instrumental piece done by a classic composer of some great stature. It set the mood; the starry skies mixed with the gentle rumblings of classical music created such a beautiful atmosphere.
I glanced at the rear-view mirror, and witnessed the lights of Corneria City moving off into the distance. Where the fuck were these coordinates taking me? I expected that it would take me to the outskirts, not the countryside. The view I can't complain about, but it was definitely going to be a long night.
A call blaring through the dashboard interrupted my thought process.
"Jack, you on your way?" My boss utters this with an air consisting of anxiousness mixed with stress and the stench of authority. A common trait he has.
"Yes, yes, I'm on my way there."
"Good. This story is fuckin' gold, don't you go losing it on me."
"Yes, I got it, don't worry."
"This shit is rare, you know what I mean? You make sure you get your press badge? I don't want to hear you forgot that shit. She's gonna want to see proof."
"Yes." I forgot the damned pass. I'll make something up, I'm not driving back to the center.
"Good, one more thing, I don't care what the hell is on that thing, you make sure you write every goddamned note you can. This could be the biggest story we have run in years."
"Yes. OK." My money is on "that thing" being some sort of missive or memory block. I kind of want to keep it a surprise for myself, what excitement could it bring?
"Fine, get a move on Jack, clock is ticking."
"I'm almost there, don't worry."
"Alright…good...also, while you're on my mind, please tell me you haven't been smoking those cigars again? Your office reeks of it, and opening the window doesn't help that."
"Well...I can't promise you that..."
The boss sighs and the speeder com-link disconnects with an almost inaudible click.
I like the boss well enough, and I can only presume he likes me as well, considering my past contributions. He's the head of the Cornerian Times, but also is part of a great aristocratic family on Corneria, with business ties to Macbeth and Fortuna.
I turn up the radio. The road turns into what seems to be an endless straightaway. I keep driving well into the night.
In the middle of podunk nowhere, well outside any sort of town or settlement, I find myself. Just miles of grassy plains, tinted blue from the moon light on either side of me. The time on the internal dashboard clock read as 11:34 Nighttime. In a most eerie fashion, I had not seen any other drivers at all; made the trip quite lonely. Not that I don't enjoy the quiet ride however; I prefer the solitude. It was just odd to not have seen anyone at all...how far out was I going?
The plains gave way to a dense forest, lush with vegetation. I wondered in amazement how truly wild Corneria was. Aside from the city and surrounding areas, most of the surface had been preserved in a natural state; while roads were constructed across the planet, they were designed to be slightly above the ground so that it would not disturb the vegetation and growth; if Corneria was good at anything, it was being simultaneously pro-environment while still living within it.
I had been so mesmerized by the scenery that I had not noticed I had reached my coordinates; the chime of the positioning system rang incessantly, attempting to shake me from my trance. Once I brought my attention to the ringing, I slowed the speeder to a crawl. Taking account of my surroundings, I spied a what seemed to be a small structure, possibly a farmhouse or an abode, by a small creek in the mass of trees.
I got out and inhaled the forest air. Crisp. Fresh. Very unlike the city, which had admittedly improved much better over time pollution-wise.
I walk up slowly to the structure. In the dark, the structure didn't really possess much noticeable detail, which probably lent itself to it being a good spot for meetups such as this. Stepping toward the front of the structure quietly, a small light turns on from the top of the doorframe. A figure steps out of the sliding door, which opens with a slight hiss due to the hydraulics. With an attempted deep voice, she utters her questions.
"Who is there?"
"Jack Mole. From the Times." My mouth felt unexpectedly dry.
"Where's your pass?"
I subtly swallow. "Didn't have time. Had to rush down here."
The figure approaches. Her fur is pure white, betraying the shadows she attempts to disguise herself in. She examines me thoroughly with her eyes. Her nose wrinkles and her eyes squint slightly.
After a long moment, she proceeds.
"I can tell. I suppose it isn't necessarily needed. I recognize you at any rate."
"I suppose my reputation precedes me, then."
"I suppose it does."
Another awkward silence.
She fishes out a small briefcase from behind the door and walks towards my direction, staring directly into my eyes. I'm...flustered to say the very least. She is rather pretty, relatively young I would wager, about in her twenties. If I were a decade younger, I might have said something stupid or flirtatious. In these times, I keep myself relatively reserved.
"Take this. Tell Wesley I don't owe him anything after this. This is all he gets, this one last favor. I'm done."
The boss' name. Interesting. She looks like him in certain ways. It seems like they aren't very personable with each other at the moment.
"I'll be sure to tell him, Miss…?"
"Ask Wesley on your own time. I've really got to get going"
"My apologies, miss, bu-"
"Time is of the essence. I busted my ass to get that tech, and he better appreciate it. There's no time for a discussion on what's on there; I'm sure you need to get back to the center, and I need to get back where I'm needed soon."
"All right then. I'll be off. Thanks."
"Right. Keep it safe and confidential. Don't connect it to any networks. Wear gloves when you handle the device, don't eat or smoke with it, just be careful in general. It needs to stay in this condition that I'm giving it. Wesley will tell you what to do with it after you are...finished. We're done here."
"OK."
I nodded and turned around to my speeder, walking at a brisk pace. Taking one more glance behind me, I see what appears to be a spacecraft light up behind the small structure, and the insignia of a red fox emblazoned on the hull. Struck with realization, I avert my gaze back to my speeder. Throwing the briefcase into the trunk, I enter the speeder and drive off.
The drive back was long and uneventful. I didn't turn on the radio. Too many thoughts filled my mind with questions. Why did the boss have his own daughter get this information? Why is the boss' daughter in the Star Fox team? How did she gain access to the information? What was the favor for? Why was the meeting so weird?
As if on cue, a call came in.
"So Jack, you get it?" The boss sounded tired.
"Yeah...why was it from your dau-"
"I'll explain in the morning. Not over the phone. Too late at night. Just be sure to bring it back and we can pore through the tech, alright?"
"I...well...alright."
"There ya go. I appreciate what you're doing. Drive safe and I'll talk to you later."
"Goodbye, Wesle-" I hastily cut myself off. Damn it.
"Pardon?"
"I mean, goodnight, sir."
"Right. You too."
Awkward.
This calls for a smoke break.
I don't usually smoke in the speeder in case of company riding with me, but I feel I deserve the reward. I take my lighter out. I clip the end of the cigar with a pocket knife which had sat idling on the passenger seat. I light the cigar and repeat the mantra of puffing it. Damn fine Poretta cigars. Always made with quality.
It hits me right then why the meeting with that young lady was awkward; I reek of smoke. That must have been why she reacted that way.
Fuck.
Too late now.
"I suppose my reputation precedes me." I said in a mocking tone to myself. "A fucking washed up journalist reeking of cigars, yeah, nice reputation. Saw your article on the new restaurant chain, really captivating shit." I can just picture her going back to those mercs with the most annoyed look. They must be talking shit about me. Fuck. The more I think about it, the more it makes me angry. How dare they think that of me? Why would they think that? Fuck.
My brief rage was sated by a deep breath. The reality is that I'm making assumptions without any backup information. Who knows?
More likely than not, she's probably not thinking about me at all.
Another puff on the cigar.
Silence. For a little while, anyway. The odor of the smoke fogs the mind for a second. Strong stuff.
Then the disparaging thoughts return.
What if the thing I have here does shit for my career? What if this was just some odd job the boss had sent me on? What if none of my questions get answers? What if I stroke out from all these damn energy drinks? What if I'm stuck doing the same shit, day in, day out, no change, no progress, no new recognition, no…
Another deep breath.
No. Leave the worries behind. We got it, and we will see what is in it.
Another puff on the cigar.
Exhale.
This is going to be a long ride back home.
I arrive at the center at 1:05 Nighttime. Quite a desolate, yet peaceful sight at night. Not a soul sans for the front door security guard. Under my breath I cursed, because I did forget my pass in my office. I walk up to the front door intercom, on the exterior of the building.
"Hello, Ray? It's Jack."
"Jack, come on, you forget the pass again?"
"Yes, Ray, that's why I'm talking with you."
"Never want to talk to me until you need me? I see what's up."
"Please, Ray, I apologize. Just open the door for me, alright?"
"Fine, alright, Jack. I'll make an exception just for you. Gimme a moment." He always says that every time.
A buzz from the doors followed a slightly audible click, which meant the doors had been unlocked. I rushed inside. There, the lizard Ray sat with his feet on the security desk, which had been placed in the center of the lobby.
"Long night, Jack?"
"You bet, Ray."
"Find out anything good?"
"We'll see." I motioned to the briefcase. "I have to check on it."
Ray feigned interest. "Lemme know if you find anything interesting."
"I will."
Ray is a good guy, but he's honestly not too dedicated at his job. Granted, his job only consists of sitting at the main desk, monitoring the premises, and sending other lower rank guards to check out things while he watches some shows discreetly on one of the security monitors he modified (two of which just so happens to be the camera in the hall facing my office, oddly enough, and the break room). The turnover rate for security here is pretty high I hear, so he has almost endless job security due to the fact he's been here for quite a while. His experience means he has a job and they won't get rid of him, short of a major robbery. He's probably the only one here I could consider a true friend in any capacity. Then again, we don't talk much at all, but I suppose it is something.
Waving to Ray, I take the automated lift up to my floor. I immediately notice how they took out the muzak from the intercom; odd, considering it had been a staple here for so long. Maybe it's off during closing hours? I swore I remember those late nights where I did hear it play. Perhaps I'm not correctly remembering it. Besides, it's just elevator muzak.
The doors of the lift open and I step out onto the office floor. The silence of the office is so wonderful. Part of me loves these late night jobs, they come very rarely if at all anymore. The solace is something to behold. I stop by the vending machine and grab another energy drink, although I feel that the excitement I have about this has me wired up enough. It never hurts to be extra awake, though.
I walk up to my office door, unlock it, and open it wide. I immediately smelled the smoky scent left behind previously, some hours ago. A moment of guilt appears in my mind and passes immediately. It was a damn fine cigar, and I have no regrets.
I know what the boss said, but my curiosity is piqued. Time to open this bastard.
I set the briefcase down onto the desk...damn, this is a pretty nice case. A thought arises in my mind where I find some way to keep the briefcase when it is all said and done, but I push it aside.
But what did come up in my mind was what the young lady had said before; don't smoke around it. Immediately I felt guilt and embarrassment recalling that moment when she wrinkled her nose...I shook my head, dismissing the unfortunate moment. I need to take this somewhere else. The room still smells awfully like smoke, and from her tone, I'd say it needs to be returned just as I had received it...ie. not completely smelling of fine Poretta cigars.
I then also recall the gloves. Putting on a pair I had in my jacket pocket, I leave the office and seek out another place. I recall Ray's camera setup; not sure why I felt the need to be discreet, but I suppose tonight's events implied that I should be at the very least inconspicuous. I head to the break room.
The classic break room, just as desolate as when I left it earlier this evening. The stars were brighter outside the window, sparkling as if they were jewels on a cosmic crown. I sometimes feel I could have had a side gig in poetry, but the whole concept was never really my forte despite the flowery language I use quite a bit.
Taking a napkin off a table, I wipe off the briefcase of any potential prints I put on it. I figured, if I'm being this discreet with it, I might have some serious shit here. Can't be too careful; I've been in dicey situations before.
I set the briefcase down onto the table, and open the two locks; the case springs open very satisfactorily. The item inside, a DataPad, with the label "Property of DR. MILES DARVINIAN, CMS, BA".
I stop breathing for a second. This DataPad was sought after by the Cornerian Defense Force for so long after it went missing during the trial. Rewards were posted for this, and yet here it is, in my hands. How did it get here? What am I getting into?
I glimpsed at a note in the briefcase, which read as such:
"Update the firmware with the memory block or things won't display properly. Once you are told, execute the program "un.app"."
I did as it said. I inserted the memory block into the port on the DataPad. My hands were noticeably shaking, out of nervousness or excitement, I'm not too sure. The memory block fits in with a small click.
I cannot wait any longer. I pull out a notepad and a pen from my pocket. I turn it on; the DataPad flickers to life.
