Chapter 19

Watch out! Watch out! Gah, they can't hear me! NO! Mossini! I couldn't warn him… Aaaargh… I'm Hit! Damn! Who are my scanners aimed at? Husky Seven, I'm hit! Dammit stay away from that bomber! Lightning Ten, move it! I can't keep them off much longer! Shit! There goes my other engine! Repulsors failing! I can't maintain altitude! What's wrong with this ejector seat?! This is it!!! YEEEAAAAARRRRRGGHH-

Matt Keeler was jolted out of unconsciousness by the vision. He was dimly aware of being in somewhere cramped, and he felt like he was tied down. His eyes snapped open in panic. But he was not captured, as he had feared. Nor was he dead. He was still in his shattered cockpit, still strapped in. He stared out into the darkness. Night, obviously. I'm still on Macbeth. Matt tried to look around, but he found resistance blocking his movements. He belatedly realized that a torn metal canopy strut had speared his helmet, pinning it in place. He unclipped his safety harness and slipped out from under his helmet. Intense pain roared through his body, forcing him to stay crouched on the cockpit's floor for a while. When he had prepared himself, he rose, then slid out of his wrecked ship. The cockpit canopy had been shattered, and upon closer inspection the metal strut that had gone into his helmet had missed his head by the barest of millimeters. Parts of his fighter were still smoldering, and it looked like something inside had exploded, blasting away most of the tail of the fighter, but sparing the cockpit. He stared at his reflection in a shard of reinforced glass, revealing that he had a gash along his left cheek, and had been bleeding from the nose and mouth some time ago. His right arm sported another gash and was still bleeding by the looks of it.

This crash wouldn't have looked survivable from the air, but the ground is soft enough that the whole ship didn't explode on impact. I got lucky. Still, the enemy could be sending scouts down here right now.

Matt didn't waste any time. He crammed as many survival necessities as he could into his pockets and picked up his pocket blaster…

"Drop the gun, Cornerian."

Matt swore and dropped the weapon back into the cockpit. He turned and raised his paws, wincing from the pain in his damaged right arm.

Three of the menacing, insectile creatures advanced out of the forest, aiming assault rifles at him. "On your knees, now!"

Keeler did as he was told. He scanned around looking for something to use, to gain an advantage, but nothing he saw would have helped him.

The biggest of the three creatures came up and planted the muzzle of his rifle on the back of Matt's head. "Look at this one. He couldn't even be old enough to drink." Keeler was terrified, but kept his fear beneath the surface.

The creature leaned in close. "You know, we don't take prisoners."

All of a sudden the creature's knee dug into Keeler's back, driving him to the ground. Before Matt could do anything, he was kicked in the gut. He yelped in pain and rolled over, then someone swept a rifle butt across his face.

Again someone stomped his gut and his yelps turned into scream as the pain built.

"Gosh! I always wanted a Cornerian to beat up on!" One of the creatures taunted.

Those were his last words. Something dropped from the trees and landed on his head, snapping his neck. The other two goons tried to fire on the shadowy figure that had attacked, but it knocked their guns away before they could get a shot off. One went for a knife, but his assailant grabbed his neck and snapped it instantaneously.

The last one had thrown a kick in at the thing's head, but it caught his leg and held it. To Keeler's amazement, flame blossomed from the thing's paws and quickly engulfed the last insectile trooper, reducing it to a charred, burning mass in seconds. The thing crouched low next to Keeler and asked "Are you OK? Keeler, can you hear me?"

Matt's vision was blurring rapidly. The last thing he saw before blacking out from the pain was that his rescuer was wearing a blackened, half-burned Katinian flight suit.

"So Admiral, where do we stand?" Bill asked.

He had met the admiral in the conference room a couple of days after the debacle at Macbeth to discuss losses and their situation. Commander Warren would have been with them, but he turned out to be amongst the dead from the last battle.

"We are headed straight back to Katina, to repair and re-equip." Said the Admiral. "It's going to take a couple of months to do that so I assume we can get some shore time when we get there. Thanks to Star Fox holding the line at Solar, Katina should be relatively secure."

"Thanks to Star Fox, we're all alive." Bill said. "If only we had caught Pontac when we had the chance."

"He's out of our grasp now." Said Hendrix. The lion paused a moment. "You know, I've been thinking, you're quarters do not fit your rank. You're much too important to have that tiny cubicle you call officer's quarters."

Bill waved it away. "Don't worry Admiral. The space is cozy enough and Commander Warren had the same size accommodations."

"But Commander Warren was just a Commander."

What the hell?! This can't be right!

The Admiral kept talking. "A Colonel's rank demands better quarters."

Bill didn't believe his ears. "Colonel, sir?"

"Colonel Grey, when you get a promotion you salute and say 'Thank you, sir.' Without Warren's services, you are effectively in charge of every fighter in this fleet, even those off our escort carriers. You need to be a Colonel to do that."

Hendrix handed Bill a small box. Upon opening, Bill saw the rank insignia of an Air Force Colonel; the Katinian triangle on which was superimposed the image of the presidential shield, bracketed by wings.

Bill was speechless. The Admiral removed Bill's Commander Insignia and replaced it with that of a Colonel, as per standard protocol when promoting an officer.

"You'll do your new job just fine, Colonel."
Bill was overwhelmed, but where politeness and courtesy failed him, military efficiency kicked in. "Thank you, sir." He said, saluting.

"It'll be interesting to see how your pilots react to that shiny thing on your shoulder." Said Hendrix. "Go and check up on how they're doing. If they promise not to be too depressed, I'll open up the bar."