Chapter 7
The first light of a gray, misty dawn brightened the sky in the east as an azure furred vulpine kit strained to see the horizon from the window of his family's apartment. At long last, after a solid week of heavy, unceasing rain, a break in the weather seemed imminent. Nevertheless, a thin layer of fog still obscured the wide, open fields at the far edge of town and the launch complex beyond them. Come midday, the sun would cut through the soup, burning it away, but by then it would be over, and there would be nothing to see.
The kit glanced over his shoulder to the clock on the wall. It was the beginning of the first hour. At the start of any other given week, he would have already been dressed, his book bag in one hand and his lunch box in the other as he walked down the hill toward the transit station, heading to school. However, this day was different. This day was special. It was the day on which the eyes of all Cerinia were fixed on Three Mountains Space Center and the Aurora, the world's first light-speed exploration vehicle. Given the importance of the project, which had captured the public's imagination from the moment of its inception, all schools, businesses, and government offices throughout the region were scheduled to open a few hours later than usual, so that all citizens might experience the historic event.
"Aw, I still can't see anything!"
"I don't think you will Sebastian," came the voice of Mother as she returned from the kitchen, holding Baby Maria in her arms. "Not from the window anyway. Why don't you try the television?"
Sebastian was across the room in a flash, turning the gray box's round knob and plopping himself down on the floor in front of it, watching eagerly as the image of two news anchors faded into view. Sure enough, coverage of the launch preparations was already underway. One of the anchors was in the midst of giving a weather report.
"…is cloudy with an air temperature of thirty kalcors and variable winds. While we could probably ask for more favorable conditions, the International Space Exploration Agency has decided to give the go-ahead for an attempt this morning. ISEA started terminal countdown operations from 0:18. We are now in the final stages."
"I wonder what Dad's doing right now," murmured Sebastian, eyeing the colossal silver bird atop the many powerful rockets of the launch vehicle. Pride swelled in his chest when he thought of his father—former naval aviator, astronaut, and now mission commander aboard the Aurora with two-dozen crew members under his authority. Yet, that pride was tempered by a sharp pang of loneliness as he realized he would not see his father again for some time. Even at the tremendous speed of light, the Aurora's trip to their sun's nearest neighbor in the cosmos, a faint point of red in the evening skies, would take five long years. The crew would be in stasis, but for those who remained on the home world, time would pass, and life would go on as it always had. A child of only nine seasons, he would be a man of twenty by the time the mission was complete. Would Dad even recognize him? He did not know.
"You're the man of the house now son," his father had said to him as the family exchanged their final farewells on the train platform. "Take care of your mother and sister for me. I'm counting on you!" Down on one knee in front of Sebastian, the man whom he had looked up to for as long as he could remember was going away. The man who had never cried—at least not that the kit could recall—had tears welling up in his eyes, shimmering under the fluorescent station lights. Yet, his face bore a grin, one as warm and strong as the sun's rays on a summer afternoon in the lowlands. "I promise no matter what…we'll meet at this very spot in eleven seasons, and I'll be thinking about you every day until I return. I'm off to make history for our people. So no tears! No regrets! No goodbyes! Just, 'until we meet again.' Smiles and good wishes until we meet again…understand?" And Sebastian had stood straight and tall, wiped the rivers of tears from his cheeks, and grinned back, though it ached worse than anything he could have imagined. He had not stopped smiling, even as the train whistle blew, and the express sped out of sight, bearing his father on the first leg of his long journey.
"Minus 30…29…28…"
The countdown broke into Sebastian's thoughts. He clasped his hands, offering a silent prayer.
"15…14…heat battery activation…disconnect main umbilical clamps…"
"No goodbyes," Sebastian murmured, watching the metallic beast springing to life. "Just…'until we meet again.'"
"9…8…7…all systems green"
Sebastian sighed as Mother sat down next to him, holding him tightly with her free arm. "Until we meet again…"
"5…4…3…2…1…booster ignition and liftoff of the Aurora SEV, bound for new worlds and new horizons!"
A low, deep roar reached the kit's ears over the sounds of the television and the cheers from the neighbors across the hall. Rising to his bare feet, Sebastian dashed to the window, straining once again to catch a glimpse of the real Aurora through the mist. Before him the clouds were the color of fire as a second sun rose from the plains toward the heavens, the hot gases from the booster rockets tracing the arc of the great ship on its ascent.
"Until we meet…again."
---
"Here batter-batter-batter!" Tiger Torayama goaded the infantry private at the plate. "Man, I felt a cool breeze from that last strikeout. Next!"
"The only breeze you'll be feeling is the ball sailing over the fence," the canine prodded back.
"Not if I have anything to do with it," yelled a pilot from far left field.
"Go ahead and try it!" The right fielder taunted.
"No sweat Tiger! We've gotcha covered!" Fox called from center, slamming his fist into his glove with a defiant grin. "Bring it on!" Ah, it certainly felt good to be playing baseball again after such a long hiatus. Prior to accepting this posting, he hadn't picked up a glove since grade school. He watched as the batter took several practice swings, psyching himself to face the pitch. The infantryman was visibly stalling, pacing back and forth and stepping in and out of the batter's box as if he was uncertain of where to stand. When would he be ready? Hopefully it would be sometime today.
If one had ever desired a place in all the Lylat System to "get away from it all," Titania's Great Northern Desert would have ranked near the top of the list. Unfortunately for the would-be tourist however, this was far from a vacation spot. With scorching days, frigid nights, and the frequent dust storms that raged across the planet's barren surface, only the hardiest of native life forms managed to survive between the unyielding rock and the endless sea of sand. Visitors to this remote outpost of Cornerian territory were few, usually personnel for the smattering of bases the defense forces maintained across the more hospitable western hemisphere or the occasional archaeological expedition searching for undiscovered ruins built by the planet's original inhabitants. Their long dead civilization had mysteriously vanished without a trace…swallowed by the sands.
A few miles from the dunes at the fringes of the desert stood Camp Kennedy, home to the Cornerian Space Defense Force 82nd Air Group. Here its two interceptor squadrons shared barracks with a small army garrison—just over two hundred troops. Clearly, the pilots were the lucky ones. Morning and afternoon, a handful of craft would take to the skies, bound for combat space patrol in orbit or the occasional reconnaissance mission further afield. The ground troops could only watch enviously as they disappeared into the clouds. On the surface, there was little to break the monotony of the desert watch, save the eagerly anticipated weekly baseball games between the army garrison and the air group. Sometimes the airmen triumphed over their foes, and sometimes they made a humiliating retreat back to their barracks, only to fight again another day. The results were never certain on this battlefield—a battlefield marked by a long chain-link fence and lines drawn in the sand.
Fox mopped his brow, exhaling a puff of air as the late afternoon sun beat mercilessly down upon him, searing the fur of his bare back. It was hot…so terribly hot, and everyone was long overdue for a water break. "Get on with it already," he muttered under his breath as the batter rubbed some dirt in his hands, continuing to take his time. Back and forth…back and forth…the soldier paced. Then again, it was difficult to blame the guy. Fox could certainly understand the pressure the canine faced. It was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, and with the army down by one run; this was their last chance. They needed to score.
At last, the batter tapped the plate, signaling his intent. Tiger stole a quick glance over his shoulder, making sure the runner on second wasn't getting any ideas. Then, he wound up and let loose a powerful throw.
"Strike One!" Captain Kaminski bellowed from behind the makeshift home plate, a shallow tin bowl from the mess hall that had been turned upside down and planted deep in the sand. The fiercely competitive young soldiers desperately needed a trustworthy umpire capable of remaining neutral, and when it came to making impartial calls Kaminski did his job well. Despite the apparent conflict of interests, he was as tough on his own pilots as he was on the opposition.
Tiger frowned, seeing the runner behind him taking a few steps in the direction of third. Nevertheless, he hurled the ball once again, and once again it landed solidly in the catcher's mitt.
"Strike Two!"
"That's how ya do it Torayama!" A few pilots who had just finished their duty shifts shouted their encouragement as they stopped to watch. "One more baby! One more!"
"Let's go Salazar," yelled one of the army bystanders. "You can do this!"
Salazar stepped out of the batter's box…collecting himself. He took a few more practice swings, then returned to his place, tapping home plate and nodding to the pitcher. As Torayama's fastball streaked toward him, he swung hard, and a solid crack echoed across the sands…a base hit! The army supporters rose to their feet. Hope kindled, they cheered loudly for their teammate as he dropped the bat and took off, his feet pounding the earth. The right fielder cursed, struggling with the unpredictable ground ball. Managing to snatch it up, he launched it into the air, but it failed to reach the first baseman in time. Tiger now had two problems, one on either side.
"Hey, it's all right! It's all right!" Fox called. "Shake it off!"
"Just got lucky, that's all!" echoed the shortstop. "Let's throw the next punch!"
A coyote rose from among the ground troops and headed toward the plate, a smug smile on his face. One Corporal Lance Mitchell…here stood one of their team's most formidable sluggers. "You ready for this," he taunted the pitcher. "Three-run homer just for you…right here kitty!"
"Oh I'm ready," Tiger grinned, tail lashing back and forth as his muscles bunched under his striped coat. "But you're a hundred years too early to get a homer off me! HYAAAH!"
Mitchell swung quickly, but he only got a piece of the ball, popping it high and away toward the control tower.
"Foul Ball!"
Tiger windmilled his right arm, loosening it up while an onlooker retrieved the stray ball. He looked tired. The game had been long, and the desert heat was beginning to take its toll on him. Eyeing Mitchell, he grunted as he managed to send another killer pitch across the plate.
"Strike Two!"
"Keep it comin'!" Fox called. If his wingman could put Mitchell away here, they could all breathe a bit easier. The next few army personnel in the lineup weren't particularly skilled and could be dealt with in fairly short order.
"Ball One!"
Tiger however, appeared to be running out of steam.
"Ball Two!"
A worried murmur arose from the assembled pilots on the fence. They watched in dismay as Tiger hurled a third sloppy pitch, this one taking a dangerous bounce off the sand before the catcher smothered it in his mitt. That was close…too close! Now it was the pitcher's turn to step off the mound for a bit and collect his thoughts. In center field, Fox knew very well what was going through Tiger's mind. They all knew it. A walk here would load the bases and put the game on the edge of a cliff. Mitchell had to be stopped here and now.
Tiger took a deep breath, checked the runners, and aimed for the outside corner of the strike zone. The white sphere spun wildly as it sliced through the air, but just before it reached the plate, it seemed to wobble ever so slightly, and Mitchell's sharp eyes stayed his hands. The coyote had received a free pass to first.
"Shit!" The pitcher cursed, burying his forehead in his hand as Mitchell dropped his bat and jogged the short distance to first base. Eagerly taking his place in the batter's box was a young private, the army's hope for victory. Tiger raised his hand, signaling the umpire for a timeout, and hurriedly summoned both the catcher and the outfielders to the "mound" for a quick meeting. His expression was unusually grim.
"Guys, I can't do this."
"Why? What's wrong," asked Trent, the catcher. "Did you pull something?"
"Nah," Tiger shook his head. "But my arm's shot to hell. I'm gonna have to trade spots with one of you."
The right fielder shifted uncomfortably. "Trade spots? Now? I dunno if that's a good idea."
"That could be a problem," agreed the left fielder. "This could be the game right here, and none of us can pitch worth a shit compared to you…not by a long shot."
"He's right Tiger," Fox nodded. "If you ask me, you should just finish it up. It won't be much longer." If only there were a relief pitcher to substitute at a time like this. However, the small, amateur team could not afford such a luxury.
"Oh c'mon!" Tiger growled, rolling his right shoulder with a grimace. "Were you guys asleep when I walked Mitchell? A first grader could throw better than that."
"Maybe," Trent nodded, "But even at your worst, you beat us hands down."
"Look, this isn't time to bullshit," said Tiger. "Sure, I know I could go head-to-head with any one of you guys and kick your ass...if I hadn't pitched nine innings already. If somebody doesn't trade off with me, we're going to lose this game and have to put up with those army meatheads rubbing our noses in it for a week. Do you really want that?"
"No," conceded Trent.
"All right then!" Tiger retorted. "So, who's replacing me?"
"Maybe we should flip a coin," suggested the left fielder uncertainly. "Unless we have a volunteer?"
"We're not flipping coins," Fox said flatly.
"Does that mean you're pitching," asked Tiger.
"No," Fox shook his head, placing one hand on his wingman's shoulder. "You are."
"Oh for crying out loud—" Tiger snorted.
"Tiger!" Fox cut him off, his gaze hard. "You aren't switching off. If you had heat stroke or a broken arm, sure, we'd step in and take over. But you're still standing aren't you? C'mon…where's that gung-ho spirit of yours?"
Tiger bristled. "This isn't about spirit. This is about what's best for the team!"
"Then let's do what's best for the team," said Fox, "And that means you finish it! If we lose…I'll take full responsibility."
"You do realize what you're saying," Trent cautioned, looking to the vulpine. "Pride isn't the only thing at stake here. A lot of our buddies have bet a month's pay on us ending this losing streak of ours. Are you willing to face up to them if we crash and burn?"
"I am," Fox nodded, eyes still fixed on Tiger. "But I won't have to…because Tiger's gonna stop 'em cold…right here!" To be sure, it was definitely a gamble. Deep down, he wondered if this was all a huge mistake, but he wasn't about to let anyone else know that…his wingman least of all. "C'mon Tiger. Whaddya say?"
Tiger paused. He closed his eyes and drew a slow, deep breath, exhaling in a long whoosh. Looking back at Fox, a corner of his muzzle twitched into a wry smile. "I say…what the hell are you people standing around for? Let's do this!"
Fox grinned. "Give 'em hell Torayama." Giving his teammate a good slap on the uninjured left shoulder, he and the rest of the outfield retreated back to their posts. One way or another, the outcome would be decided in the next few moments.
"Play ball!" Captain Kaminski called as Trent regained his station. Tiger said nothing, staring down his opponent with fearless repose—like a hunter stalking his prey. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he sent the ball sailing over the plate. The army private swung quickly, but to no avail as the ball buried itself in the catcher's mitt.
"Strike one!"
"A perfect throw," thought Fox. If his wingman was still fatigued, there was no outward sign. Amidst the cheers from the assembled pilots, Tiger was strangely silent, forgoing the usual provocative banter with his adversary. There was an uncharacteristic air of deadly seriousness about him. The gloves were off. He was taking no prisoners. Another fastball leapt from his hand, and once again, the soldier's bat found only empty air.
"Strike two!"
"Let's go Torayama!" A pilot called from among the assembled airmen.
"Hang in there Kramer!" A chorus of ground troops countered as they rose to their feet. "Don't give up now!"
The atmosphere was electric as every pair of eyes in the vicinity remained fixed on the dueling opponents in the center of the field. Tiger shifted his weight, giving Trent the slightest of nods before winding up and catapulting the ball into flight—but as it sailed out of his hand, it was immediately obvious to Fox that something was wrong. All at once, the pitcher's brave front collapsed as his face contorted in pain, and the ball sailed cleanly, but with only a fraction of its usual velocity toward the plate. Kramer seized on it at once. With the report of a thunderclap, he sent the ball high into the air toward the outfield. The die had been cast, but where would it land?
"I got it!"
Fox checked his pace as he and the left fielder both started for the pop fly. Having more height than distance, the white sphere reached the top of its arc well within the bounds of the empty field. It certainly lacked the necessary momentum to get over the fence. However, judging who was in a better position to grab it wasn't easy.
"Shit—I don't got it!" The left fielder cried out in despair.
Caught by a sudden gust of wind, the ball curved in mid-flight, changing everything in the blink of an eye. There was no way the left fielder could get under the ball, nor could anyone from the infield reach it in time! The vulpine groaned internally, his jog breaking into all-out sprint. It was falling fast, gravity's inexorable pull assisted by the downdraft, and it was going to hit the ground ahead of him, far ahead, but he could not let that happen. In the time it would take to scoop up the ball and hurl it back toward home plate, the winning runs would score. He had to make it! Somehow he just had to make it! But it wasn't possible!
Back in the infield, the army runners charged around the bases as the pilots watched helplessly. Though he could ill-afford to pay them any mind, Fox could discern their blurred outlines in his peripheral vision. The soldier from third was almost home, and the ball was only seconds from the dirt! Where the hell was he?!
"GRAAAAH!!!!!!!"
In an act of pure desperation, he pushed off hard with his right foot and leaped forward, eyes fixed on the white sphere as he threw his outstretched hand toward it. Then he slammed into the sand face first, his mouth immediately filling with its dry, coarse bitterness. The ball? Where was the ball?! Hardly daring to believe, he clenched his left fist and felt the small weight on the tip of his fingers slide gently into his palm. He had it! Somehow he had the ball! Heaving himself back onto knees, the vulpine sneezed the dirt from his muzzle and pumped his glove high into the air as an ecstatic whoop tore from his lungs! The airmen had won.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!"
"We did it! We really did it!"
"Hell yeah! Great catch McCloud!"
Fox sprang to his feet, yelling at the top of his voice as he and the outfielders rushed toward the base of the control tower to join the rest of the team, still clutching the ball firmly in his glove. What an awesome finish! He hardly felt the scorching heat or his thirst anymore. All around them, the crestfallen army garrison could only stand dejectedly in silent repose; some gathering up their belongings and trudging wearily back toward their barracks. But the pilots of the 82nd Air Group grinned from ear to ear, reveling in their triumph. Victory was theirs.
"McCloud! Torayama!"
"Yes sir!"
Fox swiveled an ear as Captain Kaminski's voice cut through the cloud of excited chatter. "Yes sir," he replied crisply, immediately all business.
"You two clean yourselves up and be in my office by 1800 hours," said the squadron commander, redoing the top two buttons of his summer uniform. "I've got a job that needs to be done, and you boys are the ones to do it." To an outsider, his demeanor might have seemed a little gruff, but as a pilot who had spent more than six months under his command, Fox could easily discern the subtle nuances in his commander's expression. From the looks of it, the husky was very pleased.
"I'll have the details for you when you arrive. In the meantime," Kaminski directed his gaze toward the army barracks, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "someone needs to tell Colonel West how his troops fared in today's engagement. I believe that burden rests with me."
---
"A recon mission?"
"That's right." Kaminski nodded, waiting patiently as Fox and Tiger studied the flight plan on the large pad between them. "We haven't given the area around Macbeth a good sweep for some time now. I want you to take a look around on your patrol tomorrow afternoon."
"Macbeth," Fox muttered under his breath. For any serviceman, the name Macbeth brought back unpleasant memories. Although settled long ago by Cornerian miners, who developed the barren rock with backbreaking toil and sweat, transforming it into a substantial industrial powerhouse as well as a center of aeronautical innovation, the government had yielded sovereignty to Venom some years before…in the interests of peace. Now, obtaining information of any kind on the planet was extremely difficult, even under the best of circumstances. The world's new masters had all but isolated it from the rest of the system, tightly controlling anyone or anything that passed between it and the outside. Thus, the few sporadic, long-range scans by the space defense forces were the only clue to be had about Venom's intentions—provided that the craft were not driven away by opposing combat space patrols before they could enter sensor range.
"Is this the standard 'take a snapshot and run like hell' mission sir," asked Tiger. "Or are we looking for something in particular?"
Kaminski keyed the flat display, pulling up a grainy, composite image of Macbeth's surface. "This was a scan of the planet taken by the Star Fox ESU shortly before their ill-fated mission last year. As you can see, there's nothing too much out of the ordinary." The squadron commander paused for a moment, allowing his subordinates to absorb the image before them. "Now, here's a scan that was taken two months ago." With a few taps of his fingertips, the husky called forth a new image of precisely the same dimensions, but with a key difference.
Fox's eyes were immediately drawn to a dark spot just south of the former provincial capital. "What the hell is that?" The vulpine's tail swished in agitation. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a natural formation, and it was big—very big. If he didn't know better, he would have guessed it was an impact crater.
"That boys, is what you are going to tell me," Kaminski replied. "These orders are coming from the Joint Chiefs themselves—straight from the top. We're going to find out what those guys are building down there, and take appropriate action."
Tiger folded his arms, eyeing the map with a dubious expression. "Pardon me for asking sir, but how are we going to get a closer look? Even if we were to cross the demarcation line, our sensors wouldn't have the power or the resolution to make a detailed picture."
Kaminski nodded. "Indeed. That's why you'll be taking this."
Fox watched as his CO brought up another set of images on the display. Beneath the wireframe of the Corneria Fighter was a large, elongated piece of external ordinance—or at least something that resembled it. "A torpedo sir?" It was one big enough to cripple a small warship. Why would a strap-on warhead be of use on a mission like this?
"Not this time McCloud," Kaminski shook his head. "It may look like a torpedo, but that casing holds a high resolution sensor package. With this baby mounted to your ventral hard point, you could practically read a billboard on the surface and still be two million kilometers from their side of the line…but there's a catch."
"Wasn't there always a catch," thought Fox.
"These gadgets need a lot of juice to do their stuff," the husky explained. "That means while you make your run, you'll have to divert most of your shield, weapon, and engine power to the sensor pack. Assuming you've done your jobs well and evaded detection from the surface, you should be able to take your scans and get the hell out of there before they can intercept you. If not…"
"If not, we'll be sitting ducks," said Fox. This was definitely a high stakes operation, with the potential for both tremendous reward and disastrous failure. Indeed, in the worst possible outcome, it could very well cost them their craft and their lives, but this was their duty…what they had been trained to do. All those long years at the academy boiled down to situations like these. An assignment like this was inevitable, and while Fox could not speak for his comrade, he knew he was up to the challenge. "Leave it to us sir," he said confidently, looking Kaminski squarely in the eye. "We'll be gone before they even knew we were there."
"I hope so kid," the squadron commander nodded. "I really do." Locking his steely gaze with the two young pilots before him…first Fox…then Tiger, his voice grew quieter, yet lost none of its earnestness. "Needless to say, I expect a first-rate, professional job as always. I'm counting on the both of you. Don't let me down."
"Yes sir!" Fox replied solemnly.
"Yes sir!" Tiger echoed, nearly in unison.
"One more thing," said Kaminski. "We have only one sensor pack. That means one of you will be responsible for scanning the surface. The other will fly cover for the operation." Reaching into his pocket, he brought forth a coin.
Fox could not help but tilt his head curiously. Hard currency? No one had used hard currency since before he was born, or even his father and grandfather before him. He watched as the husky flipped the silver sanpon, turning it over in his palm.
"A long time ago, people tossed these things to decide between two alternatives," the husky explained, holding up the disk to display each of its unique sides. "Here's how the game works. The side with the figure is called 'heads.' The side bearing the Great Seal is called 'tails.' When I toss the coin, Torayama will choose a side before it hits the floor. McCloud, you will take the other side. The man whose side is facing up wins the toss and will carry the pod. The other will back him up. Are there any questions?"
The pilots shook their heads.
"Good," Kaminski nodded. Without another word, the squadron commander sent the coin spiraling into the air, tumbling end over end…much like the baseball from the afternoon game.
"Tails!" Tiger shouted, moments before the coin clattered to the floor, spinning unsteadily for a few moments before settling on the unpolished wood. The Great Seal of Corneria was clearly discernable under the light.
"Congratulations Torayama," said Kaminski. "You're our cameraman."
---
"Unnh! Can't…shake 'em…"
Fox's eyes opened blearily. Staring up at the ceiling of the barracks, a voice pricked his ears.
"Get 'em off…ugh…"
What was that? The vulpine rubbed his eyes, and blinking awake, he realized the sound was coming from below him. Peering over the side, of his bunk, he watched as his wingman tossed and turned in his sleep, apparently in the midst of a terrible nightmare. The striped cat was breathing heavily. He had already kicked his blanket onto the wooden floor, his fists tightly clenched, as if holding a fighter's control stick in a death grip. Strange…Tiger was a deep sleeper most of the time. What was disturbing him tonight was difficult to guess. Fox scratched his head, sitting up and hopping down to the floor, relieved that the rest of the squadron was too soundly asleep to be awakened so easily.
"Fox…get 'em off…unnnh! Where…are you Fox?"
"Tiger," Fox called gently, his voice just above a whisper. He hoped the sound would be enough to snap his comrade out of it.
"Errrgh…I've had it…"
"Tiger," Fox hissed, a little more strongly. What was that nonsense about people being easiest to rouse when they were dreaming?
"Eject…eject…eject…" Tiger moaned.
"Hey!" Fox gave the feline a light, swift jab in the side. "C'mon…wake up!"
"Eugh!" Tiger sat up sharply, eyes wide, and his fur damp with sweat as his breathing slowly quieted. It took a moment for his eyes to settle on Fox, who was peering down at him with a look of quiet concern.
"Easy there buddy," said Fox. "Some bad dream huh?"
"Yeah," Tiger nodded, clearing his throat and yawning widely. "For some reason, you and I were at that new colony…Katina. Dunno why we were there, but all of a sudden, the sky just burst, and out fell all these Venomian fighters. There were hundreds of 'em, we were just trying to survive and—" he shook his head, waving one hand dismissively. "It was only a dream."
"Something on your mind," asked Fox.
"Nah, I just need to take a piss," Tiger muttered, rising and stepping into his boots. "I'll be back in a sec."
"Okay then," Fox chuckled. "Just don't get shot down on your way to the can."
"Pfft, you're a riot McCloud," Tiger snorted as he pushed open the screen door and ambled to the toilet. The night was unusually warm and quiet, without the slightest puff of wind, meaning the inner metal door had been deactivated for the sake of ventilation. Through the thin, wire mesh, Fox could hear his wingman's lone footsteps on the sand for some time before they died away in the distance. Planting one foot firmly on the lower board, he scrambled back into bed, placing his hands behind his head as he allowed his eyes to drift aimlessly around the darkened room, its contents faintly illuminated by the pool of moonlight reflecting off the unpolished floorboards. In spite of the fact that the entire squadron shared the same sleeping quarters, the large, simple, and most importantly dry surroundings of the bunkhouse were far superior to the musty, four-man units back at Lake Caldwell. Naturally there was zero privacy, but that didn't bother him. Theirs was a close-knit team, and even Captain Kaminski slept, showered, and relaxed in the same room as the pilots under his command. They were more than just a unit—they were a family.
The sound of footfalls again heralded Tiger's return, the dull thudding steadily growing louder until he tramped up the wooden steps outside and eased open the screen with a low squeak of its rusty hinges. Kicking off his boots, he sighed and stretched out on the mattress below, but Fox could tell by the sound of his friend's breathing…and the soft, almost imperceptible noise of his tail tip patting the floor as it twitched back and forth, that he was very much awake…and most likely deep in thought.
"Hey Fox, are you still awake?"
"Yeah."
"I was just thinking…" Tiger murmured. "About tomorrow's mission…"
Fox rolled onto his belly and stretched, peering off the side of his mattress. "What about it," he asked.
"Well," said the big cat. "What if we find something down there? I mean something huge…something that the brass just can't ignore. Whaddya suppose they'll do about it?"
"Hell if I know," sighed Fox. "I'm just an ensign."
"Yeah, but I mean…what would you do if you were in their shoes?" Tiger sat up. "What if it's some kind of interplanetary missile system or…a biological weapons factory or…a cloaking battleship?"
Fox chuckled. "A cloaking battleship? Now how would we be able to see it if it was a cloaking battleship?"
"Oh stop dicking around," Tiger rolled his eyes. "Just answer the question."
"Well," Fox mused, rolling the thought about in his mind for a bit. "I'd tell Venom to give me a damn good explanation for it, give them a chance to remove it, and then blow it into next week if they didn't."
"Ahh," Tiger wagged a finger, shaking his head. "But that's just it right? We know the Great Council would never authorize it. Now that…thing on Macbeth could be a big pile of dirt, or it could be Armageddon, but they're not going to do a damn thing. They're gonna just sit on their asses and wait…until there's a big smoking crater where Corneria City's supposed to be."
"Hey, you're preaching to the choir Torayama," Fox nodded grimly. "I do read the news you know, and we both had to memorize the constitution back at the academy remember? Article 12 Paragraph 1: 'The armed forces of Corneria shall maintain adequate resources to ensure the security of the state and its people—no more and no less.'"
"Paragraph 2," Tiger muttered. "No unit of the armed forces of Corneria shall fire on a hostile until fired upon."
"Paragraph 3," the pilots sighed in unison. "The right to pre-emptive strikes interpreted in the context of self-defense shall not be exercised without a unanimous vote of approval by both houses of the Great Council."
"Which won't happen," said Fox. "Honestly, has their ever been a unanimous vote on anything since the foundation of the world government?"
"Hmph," Tiger scoffed. "They can't even unanimously agree on what to feed us for lunch."
Fox scratched his head, brows creasing. "It's a real problem though," he said. "I can definitely understand why they wrote those provisions into the law. Think about it...so many wars have been fought over the centuries that we can hardly keep track of them all. So many innocent people died for the same petty reasons...again and again and again. The people who united our world wanted to make sure we'd have a lasting peace."
"Yeah," Tiger nodded. "But there's one little problem in that great vision. Those people didn't know about Venom and Doctor Andross, now did they?"
"No they didn't," Fox muttered. "And because of that, our hands are tied."
"Oh there will be a lasting peace all right," said Tiger. "When all of us are dead in a surprise attack, there will be peace."
"Which is why we just have to keep our eyes open," Fox replied. "We can defend Corneria even if Venom attacks first. Just because we're surprised doesn't mean we can't fend off an invasion."
"Tell that to Captain Kaminski." Tiger's teeth were beginning to show. "How many times did he ask for supplies and equipment? How many times did he tell the brass that we didn't have the resources to do our jobs? They always just blow him off! They don't give a shit about what guys like us are seeing every day! I'm telling you Fox, this system is going to hell...and fast!"
"Hey, keep it down you two," hissed Trent, over in the next bunk. "Some of us ain't insomniacs over here."
Fox winced, noticing a few pilots in the nearby bunks were beginning to stir uncomfortably. "Whaddya say we talk about this on the way to the target tomorrow," he whispered to Tiger. "You and I should get some sleep. We've got a heavy day ahead of us."
"Yeah," Tiger mumbled, turning over onto his side. "And I'm the one whose gonna have the bull's-eye on my hull."
---
"Rise and shine Manuel," Captain Ricardo spoke softly as he stood over his chief science officer's stasis pod, disengaging the magnetic seal and rotating the manual release until it locked firmly into place. "We'll be coming out of light speed in a couple of minutes." A soft hiss of escaping gas greeting his ears, and the canopy swung open, bringing the disoriented occupant of the tiny chamber out of his deep slumber.
"Oh wow...my head," Lieutenant Manuel groaned, squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace.
"I know," the azure vulpine nodded. "I'm still a little out of it myself, but I need my crew to be at their posts. This is it."
"Aye sir." The junior officer slowly sat up, gingerly placing his weight onto his legs for the first time in five long seasons...and promptly collapsed onto one knee, narrowly escaping falling face-first into the deck plating. "Argh...my legs! They feel like jelly!"
Ricardo nodded, rubbing his own eyes with a yawn as he offered his free hand to assist his subordinate back to his feet. "It takes awhile for the effects to wear off. We may have been exercising in our sleep, but I'm afraid there's just no substitute for the real thing. Just take it slow."
"No, I'm all right sir." Manuel shook his head, regaining his feet with some effort and taking a few experimental steps around the room. This time his legs managed to work properly. "What about the others?"
"They're already awake," the captain replied, gesturing to the empty metal shells lying open on both sides of the compartment. "We let you take an extra couple of hours. It's your birthday remember?"
"So it is!" Manuel grinned. "The twenty-third day of Sangjeb. That makes me 34 cycles!"
"And you don't look a day over 29," Ricardo chuckled. "Come on. Let's get to the bridge."
A short walk down the main corridor, a narrow affair that forced passage in single-file, brought the pair to the cramped nerve center of the great silver bird. Given both the overwhelming importance of the mission and not knowing what to expect while being so far from home, absolutely no space had been wasted. Every last piece of real estate had been packed with instruments of all shapes, sizes, and types. The fact that anyone could navigate the massed controls with appreciable speed was as commendable as their design and fabrication, but there was little time to contemplate such thoughts now. The only thing that mattered was that every system was at peak readiness...down to the very last transistor relay.
Ricardo took his seat and strapped himself in securely with little fanfare, quickly making a note of the time and date before bracing himself for the abrupt deceleration sequence. The faint point of red light that had beckoned them from Cerinia's night skies was now brighter than anything else nearby, and even with the adaptive filters on the external viewports, he found himself squinting as the approaching solar disc grew ever larger in his field of vision.
"FTL drive deactivation in 5...4...3...2...1—"
The words had hardly left the pilot's mouth before the Aurora shuddered violently under the strain of its powerful braking mechanisms. The captain winced, gripping the armrests tightly as the restraints dug into his uniform, thankful for whatever systems were bearing the brunt of the extreme inertia. Without them, the entire crew would have been vaporized instantly as they crashed into the bulkheads. It was nothing he couldn't handle, but somehow he felt skipping lunch had been a prudent course of action. At last, the unblinking points of light before them returned to their proper places, and with a final lurch, the ship came to a halt on the doorstep of a medium rocky world, just barely within the temperate zone of its stellar neighbor.
"Reading all stop sir," the pilot reported, gazing at the alien system in wonder. "We made it. We're really here!" For a few long moments, the crew fell abruptly silent as they took in their surroundings. Even Captain Ricardo found himself at a loss for words, overcome by the gravity of the situation. Here they were...the first people from Cerinia to ever travel so far and so fast, and to have the chance to visit planets so far away as to be invisible for even the most powerful of their ground based observatories. This was a moment that would be forever etched in his memory, and in the history of the world. It was a moment to be treasured and savored to the fullest.
"Incredible," breathed Manuel, his eyes large as he finally came to his senses and almost frantically began taking scans of everything in sensor range. "I can make out at least four nearby planets, and that's just a short range sweep. I don't think one season will be long enough to do this system justice. There's just so much to see here. So much to explore!"
"Indeed," said Ricardo as he peered down at the rugged surface far below. "We may be the first beings to ever see this place up close."
"I don't think so sir," Manuel exclaimed. "Take a look at those lights down there! Those aren't forest fires! They're cities!"
Ricardo rose from his seat, moving to get a better look at the twinkling points, cloaked in darkness on the far side of the planet, over his science officer's shoulder as they gradually came into view. "Then we're dealing with a civilization down there?"
"Yes sir," replied Manuel. "And a pretty advanced one by the looks of it. There's evidence of radio transmissions, and I can see what looks like a rail network. There are even some artificial satellites in low orbit."
Satellites? The captain scratched his chin as his mind considered the possibilities. If the aliens below had the technology to create satellites, were they also aware of the Aurora's presence? This was all happening a little faster than he had expected. "What kind of satellites," he asked.
"I'm not sure sir, but they're moving awfully fast."
Ricardo's ears cupped forward. Something was...not quite right about the metallic objects that were approaching from over the curve of the horizon below. For one thing, they were overtaking the ship much more rapidly than any satellite he had ever previously observed. That, and the fact that they were changing direction—once…twice...three times as he watched—was bothering him. One would set the pace, and the others would follow, almost like birds in flight...or fighters in formation. "Those aren't satellites," he said. "They're alien ships!"
---
"How's it comin' over there Tiger," asked Fox, carefully matching speeds with his wingman as he formed up to starboard.
"I'm making my final pass right now," Tiger replied. "We might just pull this off after all."
"No worries Torayama. I've got your back," Fox assured him. "You just concentrate on flying straight and level."
"Roger that." Without another word, Tiger peeled away and dove for the deck...and the demarcation line separating interplanetary space and Venom's sovereign territory. Moments later, his fighter slowed to a crawl, its sensors set to maximum power. It was at this point that his comrade was most vulnerable. Yet for all Fox's vigilance, he had not seen so much as a single enemy contact. His sensor display was completely clear. It was quiet...too quiet for two Cornerian ships practically within spitting distance of Macbeth. Either the spotters were asleep, or something else was occupying their attention. One thing was certain...the Joint Chiefs would be pleased with five complete passes over the target region...the last practically grazing the line itself! Unfortunately, Fox could not say the same for himself. He could see the object clearly, even using the standard sensor package on his own fighter, and what he saw disturbed him. The lump on the map was no mountain, crater, or mound of earth. It was artificial, its perfectly round surface giving off a metallic sheen in the fading light as it approached sunset, only broken by what appeared to be scaffolding here and there on the outer edges. What the hell was Doctor Andross up to?
"Look at that thing!" Tiger exclaimed over the radio. "Is it a building? I've never seen anything like it!"
"You aren't the only one," said Fox. "Whatever it is...it's definitely not a peace offering."
"No joke," said Tiger. "It's bigger than a battleship, but it looks more like a dinner plate...and it's way too big to get into orbit. What the hell?" The big cat exclaimed. "I see all kinds of military vehicles all over the place. Armored personnel carriers…fuel trucks…speeders…looks to me like half the planetary garrison is down there."
Fox's muzzle wrinkled. "Well, the Great Council won't be able to ignore this one—no matter how blind, deaf, and stupid they could ever be. The question is...will they make up their minds on what to do about it before the shit hits the fan?"
"Well," said Tiger. "The sooner we get these scans to them, the better. I'm all done here. Let's get the hell out of here before we're discovered."
"Agreed," Fox nodded as he made a sharp turn away from the planet, throttling back just enough for his wingman to overtake him. "We'll be in the clear as soon as we get past the moon."
"Yeah..." Tiger's voice was skeptical. "Fox, is it just me, or has this all been WAY too easy?"
Fox exhaled sharply, glancing at his comrade's barely discernable form off his port wing. "No Torayama…it's not just you. Frankly, I'm surprised we're not beating a dozen bandits off our tails right now. It's like there's no one watching down there...and we practically marched up to their front door and knocked!" Before he could say anything further however, a faint blip on his sensor display caught his attention. "I think I just found the answer..."
"Confirmed," said Tiger. "I'm reading weapons fire on the far side of the planet and at least six separate heat signatures. They're Venomian interceptors all right! Maybe they're conducting a training exercise."
"I don't think so." Fox shook his head. "The Venomian military never does training here. They're too worried about accidentally blowing their big ammo dumps by accident. They wouldn't be firing unless they were dealing with a real threat..." A shadow crossed his face, "...or a real victim." His hands jerked back on the control stick as he pulled sharply up and away, heading back toward the planet as fast as his craft would carry him.
"Hey!" Tiger called. "Where the hell are you going?"
"I'm going to find out what's going on," Fox replied, shunting shield and weapons power to his engines. The fighter surged forward, inertia from the sharp acceleration pressing him firmly against the back of his seat. "You go on home. I'll be right behind you."
"The hell I am," retorted Tiger, banking and starting to follow. "You can't just go charging over there all by yourself! What if you get flamed?"
"I won't get flamed," Fox replied calmly, his voice level.
"We have to stick together," urged Tiger. "What kind of a wingman do you take me for? I'm not going to save my own hide and have you throw your life away!"
"Tiger, listen to me," said Fox. "Don't worry about it. You just get back to base as fast as you can. Those scans you're carrying are too valuable. They're worth both our lives several times over. I won't be long...I promise!"
"This isn't part of the mission," said Tiger. "If you want me to go home, you're coming with me. You can't just take off on your own like that!"
"Oh yes I can," said Fox. "Tiger, our mission is to gather intelligence right?"
"Right," Tiger said, not entirely convinced.
"Then I'm gathering intelligence on that battle," said Fox. "You've got your data, and I'm going to get mine. Besides...what if it's a Cornerian ship? Maybe it's a civilian star liner that got off course...or some of those poor miners trying to defect? They'll be sitting ducks!"
"One fighter won't exactly even the odds," Tiger cautioned.
"Maybe not," said Fox. "But I might be able to distract those interceptors long enough to let whoever they're attacking get away in one piece."
Tiger sighed. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Just make sure you don't stay one second longer than you have to." With that, he pulled high right and soon disappeared from view among the stars.
Fox eyed the sensor grid impatiently as he streaked toward the blips ahead of him. "Damn it," he muttered to the Corneria Fighter. "C'mon baby...can't you go just a little faster? Just this once," he coaxed. But the throttle was wide open, the whole craft shuddering violently as it threatened to fairly fly itself apart under the stress. There wasn't a single amp of power that he hadn't already redirected to the propulsion system. All he could do was grip the stick and wait, and the waiting was torture. The fact that he didn't know what was going on...who was in the line of fire...that made it all the worse. The seconds ticked by slowly...every one of them seeming to last forever, and they might as well have been an eternity, for in a dogfight, time was as valuable as life itself. If you were a split second too late, you were dead. If only he were back in the seat of that Arwing right now!
At last, the blips on the grid entered visual range. Lumbering sluggishly and trailing flaming plasma from one engine was a ship he did not recognize...small, clumsy, and looking as if it belonged in a museum. What kind of relic was this? No shields, no weapons, and a hull of titanium alloy? Beset on all sides, five Venomian fighters circled like sharks, taking shots at the hapless vessel between them at will. There was no mistaking it. With a single volley, any one of those interceptors could have destroyed the ship, but instead, they were toying with their victim, killing it slowly and painfully as they battered it again and again, their cannons set to minimum power. Such cold-blooded cruelty!
Kzzzzt!
"Huh?"
Gzzzzzzzzrrgggggrhzzzzzzzzzzzt!
A transmission? The unidentified craft was trying to raise him, but the signal was so primitive that his comm. system was having trouble deciphering it. Restoring his power allocation to normal, he managed to bring the image on the lower portion of his HUD into focus. Materializing from the snow and static was a compartment filled with leaking gas, showers of sparks, and a crew of strange vulpines…their coats a deep shade of blue. The nearest, a female with a long, bloody cut on her right cheek, began to speak earnestly in her native tongue. Though her words were unintelligible, the look of abject terror on her face transcended all barriers of language and culture—a universal plea for deliverance.
"Just hang on," he said, trying to reassure the being in front of him. "I'm here to help you." How close were they to the demarcation line? A quick glance back to his instruments told him the entire group was still in interplanetary space, neutral ground that he could legally enter, but they were drifting...slowly and steadily toward Macbeth. He wouldn't have much time to act.
"What's going on over there Fox," came Tiger's voice over the comm. "Is it miners?"
"No," Fox replied. "You're not going to believe this, but it's an alien ship."
"No kidding," Tiger exclaimed. "Are you for real?"
"I'm going to give them a hand," said Fox, throttling up and heading straight for the nearest Venomian fighter. "Try to get Titania on the horn for me. We'll add this one to Andross's rap list while we're at it." Ignoring the green targeting box on his HUD, the young pilot streaked under his enemy's wing, narrowly avoiding a collision as the opposing fighter shook violently in his engine wash. "All right you lowlifes! You wanna pick on somebody your own size?" Gritting his teeth, he rolled into a tight turn, his port wingtip nearly slicing across the canopy of another bandit. "C'mon asswipe! Over here!"
But the Venomians ignored Fox. Instead, they continued to circle slowly, their orange blaster bolts tearing into their victim's hull. Like a wounded animal, the unarmed vessel veered back and forth in a futile attempt to shamble away from its pursuers, bleeding fuel and oxygen through the breaches in its titanium skin. But there was no refuge to which it could flee for safety…no safe harbor to which it could run.
"What're you doing," Fox yelled, zipping back and forth in front of the interceptors. "I'm right here you scumbags! Fuck Andross!" Gesturing obscenely with his right hand, he swooped past the flight leader to no avail. "C'mon, damn it!" He had been so close that he had clearly seen the enemy pilot staring straight back at him. Why the hell weren't they taking the bait? On any given day, they would have loved an opportunity to shoot him down, provocations aside. Why was today so different?
"Aw, don't make me beg," he groaned. If only he could fire a few warning shots over their bows. That would get their attention and fast. Unfortunately, such a move was a violation of the rules of engagement that had been drilled into him since his first day at the academy. No, starting a firefight was out of the question. "But what if," he mused. "What if I just lock onto them?" As long as he didn't fire the first shot, it was still legal right? At least he'd be obeying the letter if not the spirit of the law. The vulpine winced as the tin can in front of him lurched under another barrage of blaster fire. It was now or never. Pulling over and behind one of the enemy fighters, he charged his nose cannons and lined up the target in his sights, watching the crosshairs on the HUD glow red. "You'd better be glad I'm just shitting you," he said.
The effect was immediate. Jerking his head around, no doubt in response to the warning klaxons in his own cockpit, the Venomian pilot abruptly broke off his attack, making a sharp turn as he tried to shake the Cornerian fighter off his tail.
"Oh no you don't!" Fox grinned. "You're not getting away that easily." It was time to put all those combat maneuvering exercises to good use. Banking sharply to one side and then the other, the two wove back and forth, the enemy pilot trying desperately to clear his six and Fox matching his every move.
"Nice try, but you're going to have to do better than that!"
The black fighter rolled over and over, pulling out of an Immelman turn and streaking past the alien ship. Suddenly he throttled back, attempting to use his former prey to cover his six, keeping the aliens between him and the other craft. Unfortunately for Fox, the tactic worked, causing his targeting computer to lose the smaller silhouette behind the fractured hull of the primitive vessel. "Damn it," he cursed. The enemy pilot had given him the slip, and his comrades weren't happy. Swiftly forming up on their leader, the entire flight turned away from the disabled hulk and headed straight for the lone Cornerian—their only true threat.
"Well, now that I have your attention," Fox muttered under his breath. Flipping onto his back and pulling back on the stick, he traced a wide arc down and away, his pursuers hot on his tail. "That's right," he nodded. "I'm the one you want. Pay attention to me." He grunted, g-suit hissing sharply as he broke hard left and cut the throttle in an attempt to evade the nearest ships, which were almost in gun range. Three bandits shot past, unable to keep up with him in the tight turn, but a loud klaxon warned that the remaining Venomian pilot was attempting a missile lock.
"So, you wanna play hardball do you?" A quick check of his sensor grid put the bandit on his six at just over a kilometer away—too close for him to outrun the warhead. He broke hard right, again closing the throttle, but the Venomian leader was too smart to be fooled by the same move twice in a row. Hanging back, he lined up the green and white interceptor in his crosshairs.
KRRR! KRRR! KRRR!
"Oh shit!"
A concussive warhead leapt from beneath the enemy's wing, a bright flash heralding its launch as it made a beeline for Fox's canopy. They really were trying to kill him! The missile was a powerful weapon, able to deliver a mortal blow with a single shot if it struck an engine or blasted through the cockpit's thin skin. In all honesty, it didn't matter where the missile struck. With five-to-one odds, even a non-fatal hit would leave the Cornerian pilot a sitting duck, easily finished off with little effort. His first taste of combat, and here he was, staring death right in the face, but there was no time to contemplate that now. Acting on instinct, he punched the throttle wide open, his other hand jettisoning one of his three countermeasure flares. No luck! Like a cobra chasing a fleeing rodent, the missile snaked around the decoy, hungering after his engine...seeking it with all its might. It was gaining. No matter how Fox tried to jink and weave, it kept coming, riding the ion trail straight up his tailpipe.
"Shit! Shit-Shit-Shit!" He yelled, launching another flare. Again the missile ignored the smaller target, brushing it aside like it wasn't even there. It was only a dozen meters from his tailfin now…its crimson glow reflecting off his instrument panel! It would only be a matter of seconds before it overtook him. Quickly he pressed the red button on the side of his helmet, pressurizing his flight suit as his hand hovered over the ejection handle…
"Now, this is your last resort…"
Lieutenant Commander Maxwell's chalk made soft clacking sounds as he rapidly sketched an outline of a planet and the various layers of its atmosphere.
"In an emergency situation, should you be unable to return to base, make a landing elsewhere, or ditch, and your craft is in imminent danger of being destroyed, you can eject by pulling the handle above your head firmly toward you. This will ignite two sets of charges, one blowing your canopy clear, and the other firing the thrusters attached to the bottom of your seat…"
"Sounds like one helluva ride," Bill whispered, leaning ever so slightly toward Fox. "It'd be kinda fun if you weren't about to die."
"Yeah," Fox whispered back. "Dad says it's like being blown out of a cannon—"
"Mr. McCloud, Mr. Grey, are you two looking to march off another ten demerits on the drill grounds this afternoon?" Maxwell's face was unsmiling.
"No sir," said Bill, straightening up in his seat.
"No sir," said Fox, solemnly retrieving his pen. Thanks to Falco, they'd be spending four hours on the track anyway, marching under the blazing summer sun with heavy rifles on their shoulders. He chanced a furtive glance at his watch. It was 1423…not even halfway through the lecture. Sometimes he could have sworn Maxwell slowed the passage of time, minutes seeming to drag by like hours, and hours like days. Though an excellent pilot, his instructor always managed to suck all life from the material, leaving it bone dry. Wearily, he forced himself to sit up straight and tall, filling his notebook with black ink.
"If you're anywhere above this line, make sure you seal your suit before you eject—unless you're a radiation proof, self-heating mutant that can hold your breath for hours on end," continued Maxwell. "Should you bail out in space, the emergency transponder in your helmet will act as a beacon to any ships in the vicinity. That being said, while a rescue ship will try to pick you up as quickly as possible, there is no guarantee an enemy won't pick up the signal first. If you're too close to enemy space, you can deactivate the beacon, but you might end up running out of air before you can be located visually."
"Great," thought Fox. This lecture was getting better all the time.
"If you don't go out with your craft, suffocate, or get picked off by an enemy pilot," Maxwell said, "there is also the possibility that you may be captured." His face was grim. "The Venomian military is well known for its inhumane treatment of prisoners. While there isn't much to go on, it is thought that they routinely torture captives, subject them to a variety of cruel and unusual punishments, send them to slave labor camps, or execute them outright by various barbaric means." He paced back to the small podium. "Ladies and gents, ejecting over enemy territory is a pilot's worst nightmare. It is my sincere hope that none of you will experience it, but…should you find yourself in that situation, these are your options. Consider them well, and consider them in advance. When you're in a dogfight, you won't have much time to make the call."
Live or die? Go out in a fireball, or take a chance of getting captured? His gripped the handle uncertainly…
"They clubbed us senseless, and the next thing I knew, we were waking up in a prison cell…"
Peppy's words came flooding back into his thoughts.
"They beat him, they tortured him…"Fox frowned as a crazy idea sprung to life. Easing back on the throttle, he closed the distance between his ship and the missile, his fingers moving instead to jettison the last countermeasure. "Well Dad," he said. "If this doesn't work, I'll be seeing you soon." Taking a deep breath, he launched the flare and cut his engine entirely.
The missile was instantly upon him. A flash of light blotted out the stars as the warhead detonated, the shockwave tossing the fighter end over end like a leaf on the wind…but it remained intact. He was alive! Breathing a sharp sigh of relief, he quickly checked for damage. Aft shields were out of commission, an oxygen tank was punctured, and the afterburner was not responding…probably damaged by flying shrapnel. Amazingly however, most of the primary systems were still functional, though he could endure no more punishment from the rear. Another direct hit would finish him for sure.
"Pfft, you missed me," he chuckled dryly. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"
A couple fighters were returning their attention to the crippled alien ship, which was finally starting to make its escape, limping clear of the combat area. If he could keep the Venomians busy for just a little longer, Fox was confident the strangers could leave the system in one piece.
"No you don't! I'm your opponent now!" Streaking forward, he lined up an unsuspecting bandit in his sites. This time he could return fire!
"Come back here—"
"Recon 1, this is Home Plate…"
"Damn it," Fox muttered under his breath. "Not now. Please not now!"
"Recon 1, this is Home Plate. If you can hear me, respond."
"Home Plate, this is Recon 1," said Fox, trying to keep up with the enemy fighter as it slowly but surely outpaced him. Behind him, two more were in hot pursuit. "I'm a little tied at the moment," he said.
"Recon 1, you are to disengage and return to base immediately."
"Understood," said Fox, starting to lose his target. "I'm covering a ship in distress. As soon as they make their escape, I'll bring it home."
"Negative Recon 1," replied the tower. "You are to proceed to base. Disengage at your earliest opportunity—"
Suddenly the voice on the comm. was replaced by one that was much more familiar.
"McCloud, this is Kaminski. You heard the man! Break off and get back here on the double!"
"Sir," replied Fox. "That ship out there…it's completely defenseless. If I bug out now—"
"I know about the ship," said Kaminski. "Torayama gave us the details just a little while ago, and it's a damn shame, but there's nothing we can do for those people."
"I can keep these bandits off their backs," said Fox, grunting as he barely dodged a stream of blaster bolts. Forced off his target, he made a sharp turn to the right, rolling onto his starboard wing. "They'll be out of range in a few minutes. Request permission to stay sir."
"Denied," said Kaminski.
"Sir, they're an innocent party—some kind of primitive civilization. With all due respect, I can't just stand by and watch them be killed."
"Oh yes you can," the squadron commander replied. "And you will. Now, get your tail back here before you get shot down."
"I won't get shot down sir—" Fox began.
"Damn it kid," shouted Kaminski. "Don't you realize where you are? This is Macbeth! Are you planning to go in there and start your own fucking war over one ship?!"
"I'm on our side of the line si—"
"You think that'll make a difference to Andross," Kaminski thundered. "You've already done too much! Now you get your ass back here right now…that's an ORDER!"
"Sir please…" Fox ground his teeth, silently urging the small craft on the edge of his grid to hurry. He was squeezing the control stick so tightly that his knuckles were completely numb. All he could think about was that despairing look on the female alien's face, the depth of her fear and anguish. How could he let her and the rest of her crew join the countless victims of Doctor Andross and his underlings?
"I'm finished debating ethics with you Ensign McCloud!" Kaminski yelled. "You either come back RIGHT NOW, or you'd better never come back. If you do, I'll have you shot down on site! BREAK OFF AND COME HOME!"
"UUUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!" Fox howled in frustration. As another set of enemy bullets streaked past his canopy, he punched the stick sharply to one side. Well, this was it. Both he and his craft were committed to one fate, and one fate alone. He had made his decision. Yet, even now, he knew with all his heart that he would relive this moment again and again in memory for the rest of his days, creeping into his thoughts while he was awake, and haunting his nightmares when he slept. Eternally he would be at a loss, wondering again and again if his decision had been the right one, and how things might have been different had he chosen the other path.
"No," cried Manuel. "He's disengaging! The other ship is disengaging! Come back," he pleaded. "Please! Please come back!!"
HHHHHHHHRRRRRRRROOOOOOOM!!!The Aurora shook violently from bow to stern, rocked by another salvo as the black alien fighters resumed the full fury of their assault. Captain Ricardo could only watch helplessly as they came around again and again, their endless rounds pouring into the side of the ship. The silver bird, once so proud and beautiful was a wreck, and Manuel's cries were swiftly silenced, as a ceiling rivet gave way, sending one of the main beams plummeting down on him. Dead. In an instant, his crew's bright young prodigy was dead…crushed like an insect. So too was the comm. officer, her blood dripping from her instrument panel to form a small pool beneath her seat. Only he and the pilot remained, the young man at the helm still valiantly preparing to jump back to light speed, but it was over. They didn't have a prayer.
Ricardo grimly sank back into his chair, gripping hard as a tremendous explosion tore through the bowels of the great ship. It should have bothered him…bothered him that the mission was an utter failure, bothered him that decades of research, hard work, and sacrifice were to be obliterated after less than a single day, bothered him that he and his crew would die here at this distant point of light in the night skies, their atoms cast adrift on the stellar winds into the dark, frigid depths of space for all eternity, never to find rest in their family tombs…but it didn't bother him. What bothered him, more than anything, was that he would not be coming home. In his final moments, all he could think about was home, of his darling wife that he would never hold in his arms again, of Maria, who would never know her father, and of Sebastian, who would grow to manhood, and stride onto the train platform five seasons from now to wait expectantly for a train that would never come.
As the ship lurched in its death throws, the captain reached into his shirt pocket, pulling forth a small photograph of his family, the one he always carried next to his heart.
"Until we meet again," he murmured softly, looking into the faces of his wife and children for the last time. "Sebastian…forgive me."
In a blinding flash, the bridge's smoking interior turned pure white. The deck pitched wildly. The bulkheads shattered like glass, their fragments scattering like scraps of paper in a strong breeze. Blown apart by a final shot to its engine core, the great bird disintegrated in a massive ball of fire and was no more.
---
"Enter!"
Fox stepped over the threshold and walked into Kaminski's office, numbly placing a single data pad on his superior officer's desk. "My report sir," he mumbled, standing quietly as the outer door slid shut with a whirr and a soft click.
"Ah, thank you," the husky nodded. Picking it up, he began to review the details of the afternoon's incident, his thumb tapping the screen softly now and then as he scrolled from page to page. "You certainly took your time putting this one together," he commented after a moment. "I was beginning to worry." Lifting his eyes, his brows creased as he watched the young pilot, still standing in the center of the room, feet apart, head bowed, his right fist shaking as it hung clenched at his side. "Something on your mind," the squadron commander asked.
Fox remained silent.
"Well?"
The vulpine raised his head, ears slowly swiveling backward. "Permission to speak freely sir…"
Kaminski laid the pad to one side, his somber blue eyes looking deep into Fox's angry green ones. Nodding once, his expression seemed all too knowing, as if he could read the young man's mind, already quite aware of the pent up tirade that waited to burst from his mouth.
"We let them die," said the squadron commander.
Fox's brows rose as he heard his own words emerging from his CO's mouth.
"Macbeth, high orbit, one Cornerian fighter against five Venomian interceptors…and a defenseless ship in distress," said Kaminski. "Could that fighter have scored a tactical victory all by itself? Unlikely." He rose to his feet, coming to stand face-to-face with Fox. "Could that fighter have occupied the aggressors long enough for that ship to escape? Yes."
A brief but heavy silence descended as the captain paused, contemplating thoughts unknown. Looking back at the vulpine, Kaminski waited, allowing his words to sink in, to have their full effect. Then, the veteran pilot spoke again.
"So, in that knowledge, why did I order you to bug out and run for home? Was it because I value one bird and one pilot above the lives of strangers?" Kaminski shook his head. "No. On the contrary, you and I both know that the first duty of each and every pilot is to serve and protect those who are weak, those who cannot defend themselves, regardless of whether they are strangers or family. That being said, let's say you and I followed our first instincts earlier today. We jumped in there, beat off those Venomian bastards, and those people escaped with their lives in that tin can of theirs. How many lives would we have saved…a few dozen maybe…certainly not more than thirty? I'm not telling you that numbers make lives any more or less valuable, but what if you had ended up killing one or two of those Venomian pilots? What if Andross used that excuse to start a war…a war that could cost billions of lives and bring this entire star system to ruin?"
Fox sighed. As cunning as the diabolical ape was, why oh why did General Pepper choose to exile him to Venom rather than placing him in a maximum security prison on Corneria, where he could rot under the watchful gaze of the capital police and all the Cornerian people? If that had been the case, he would have never agitated the convicts of the prison planet's great communes to revolt, encouraged thousands of formerly loyal citizens to defect, and enslaved the native population of lizards to do his bidding. There would have been no Venomian Empire, no bloodthirsty interceptor pilots to kill hapless explorers and no threat of apocalyptic war.
"We don't know if he would have done it," said Kaminski. "Frankly, I believe that when he's ready, he will furnish his own excuse to strike. The scans you and Tiger brought back today have only reaffirmed my conviction that war is inevitable. But…" The canine paused. "Until that terrible day comes, we must strive to prevent such a war at all costs. For the sake of everyone in Lylat, we must do our duty, follow the will of the Great Council, and defend the peace until the last possible moment."
Returning to his seat, the husky folded his hands in front of him, his expression becoming softer. "And sometimes there is no perfect answer, but as commander of this squadron, it is my responsibility to do what I believe is right to ensure that peace, regardless of what I would do personally…and that holds for the men under my command. I understand your feelings," he nodded. "But when I make the call," he said, looking Fox squarely in the eye, "the discussion is over, and I expect your complete and immediate obedience. As long as you are under my command kid, you will carry out my orders."
"I'm sorry sir," said Fox, his mind made up at last. "But I'm afraid I just can't sit idle and watch Andross slaughter innocent people right in front of me." First his father, and now those alien explorers had perished, and he had been unable to protect any of them. "I'm not about to wait until he kills enough people for the Great Council to come to its senses," he said. "I'm going to do something about it." Pulling a second pad from the pocket of his uniform, he placed it on the desk in front of his commanding officer.
"What is this," Kaminski frowned, picking up the pad and skimming through its contents.
"That," said Fox, "is my resignation sir." Bowing his head, he reached for the golden wings pinned to his chest. Stripped of them? No. Voluntarily, he was giving up the wings he had longed after ever since he was a kit, the wings he had suffered so much to earn. The great eagle felt heavy in his palm, as if it too did not wish to leave him. It was more than just unclipping a pin. It felt more like he was severing part of his own body. Somehow, he unclasped his fingers, sending it clattering onto the desk in front of him. Then, he walked away.