Chapter 4
"The warp drive is down."
"We don't need it. Is there any way I could assist you?"
"No."
"Bring us closer to the planet. If we go critical, we can find refuge there."
"Agreed. I have brought up the shielding again. We can take a few more hits, but…"
Unaii trailed off, too absorbed by his piloting to continue conversation.
Being an interceptor, the interior was tighter than her gunships, but she found sufficient room behind Unaii's chair. The scarlet ambience within the Space Pirate ship bestowed a menacing gleam upon the alien as he worked furiously over an interface glowing with red Zebesian symbols. Aside from these merely superficial differences, Federation and Space Pirate ship systems were fundamentally identical, which was unsurprising, as most of Space Pirate technology had been adapted from stolen Federation crafts.
She closed her eyes, shutting the red glare away. She felt tired. Despite its unusual circumstances, this experience would blend together with scores of its kind. In her mind, her memories of space battles—indeed, all battles—had smeared into a singular conglomeration of raw memory, amorphous, nebulous. No matter the place, no matter the enemy, no matter the odds, fighting was always the same. No Federation, no Space Pirates, no Luminoth, no Chozo. Suddenly there are only two species—you and your enemy. And the future, once home to a trillion possibilities, is populated by only two outcomes—life or death.
Yes, everything was so simple that battle became almost a spiritual event to her. Within her enemies' crosshairs, there could be no doubt. There could be no guilt. There could be no screams echoing down the corridors of her mind, residual of sealed memories. There could only be confidence, only focus, only a singular determination to stay alive. And that always meant that some part of you still wanted to live, that some part of you believed that there was something for which to fight. Even if you could never cognitively label it, it was there. But, when the battles were over, she always doubted it. In all her life, it seemed that nothing good ever came out of bloodshed but guilt. Yes, she knew that many battles she fought were to save good people, to inhibit those who would destroy order and principle, and sometimes, ironically enough, to promote peace. But were these the intents of war? Or were they merely pretenses, veneers to conceal a nature intrinsically and horrifically violent—the nature of all sentient beings?
As she watched that clunky, crustacean-like figure, bent over his controls, locked in that familiar state of deep concentration that made the whole act seem like an art, she wondered what war meant to him and to his people. What were their pretenses? Certainly, they could not be the same. They could not, for themselves, think to themselves that they were saving anybody or anything, for they had never been threatened. Similarly, their conceptualization of order—their hierarchies, their government, their lifestyles—had never been challenged. They could not think that they were promoting peace, for they were always the aggressors. So why did they fight so ferociously against all the good species of the known galaxy?
A blaring alarm ripped her thoughts asunder. "What's that sound?"
"We've lost weapons."
Samus looked to the small, amethyst-colored sphere with no moons. This was not how she intended to visit Jualla VII, but she rarely planned or consented to the events of her life.
"Do you think you can land this thing?"
"Of course, but what are we going to do on the planet? They'll pick us off as soon as they land."
"We'll have better chances down there than up here."
"Why don't you perform more of your stunts?" he said, gesturing to the jagged hole in his viewscreen.
Samus could not tell if he was being sardonic or was seriously asking her. "I'm not a damned acrobat."
Unaii mumbled something in Zebesian until a series of newly blinking lights flickered. "Something is coming out of hyperspace."
Samus bent over him closely to examine the interface. Several things were coming out of hyperspace. She looked to the viewscreen. Ahead, eight space pirate vessels—a squadron of seven interceptors supervised by a destroyer—suddenly appeared, red streaks of warp residue trailing behind them for what seemed to be an infinity.
Samus blinked, pondering the implications these newcomers would have on her fate.
--
"Are these your friends?" said Samus.
"I—I don't know," Unaii said timidly, pulling the ship to a complete stop. The newcomers did not bear the insignia of the Republic, and they looked structurally older than contemporary Space Pirate ships. That was of little consequence, however; the new arrivals unleashed a hurricane of energy on one Federation vessel, tearing it apart in mere nanoseconds. The other vessel managed to jump to hyperspace, whereupon three hungry-looking interceptors detached from the squadron and pursued it in a flash. The lone human would have a chance, but not a good one.
Unaii opened an incoming communications signal, relieved that his death would be slightly postponed by precedent negotiations. The Zebesian that flooded his viewscreen wore carefully synthesized armor indicative of a prestigious rank and enhanced, as Unaii prudently noted, with red Phazon. Behind the dominating figure, within the scarlet-lit environment of the ship, various Space Pirates scrambled about on their various navigational tasks, occasionally hissing to each other insults or barking commands.
"Traitor Unaii," the Zebesian growled in his native tongue, "we have detected a second bioform on your ship. Confirm immediately."
"That's correct."
"Identify that bioform."
He hesitated, aware of how easily his situation could be misinterpreted. "Samus Aran. She has hijacked my ship."
The Zebesians eyes lit up. "Prepare for ingestion."
Unaii winced and looked to the destroyer.
"What did he say?" Samus said in the human language.
He tried his best to translate. "Our ship is going inside that ship." He turned back to the viewscreen. "Now, identify yourself," he demanded smoothly.
"You speak her tongue, traitor?"
"Identify yourself," Unaii repeated, more aggressively.
The Space Pirate was unfazed. "Admiral Trykeon Re-Kuluk of the Zebesian Empire," he said breezily, as if he was introducing somebody else.
"The Empire is dead, or so I've been told."
"The Empire will never die," Re-Kuluk hissed. "Not while blood runs freely in Zebesian veins. Remember that well, traitor."
Silence.
"Yes," Unai said, "I speak a little of her tongue."
"Tell her, then, that we have no intention of harming her."
Unaii looked Re-Kuluk quizzically. "She may think otherwise."
"Tell her, then, that if I wanted to harm her, I would murder you both now while you sit helpless in that rickety boat of yours."
Unaii relayed the information. Samus said nothing. They both watched in silence as a large hatch on the destroyer opened up and scooped them up like fish being scooped up into the maw of a shark.
--
Inside, empty ATCs lined both sides of the narrow space, attached to the ship by docking platforms and upheld by precisely calculated magnetic fields, and were occasionally interceded by fighters, some similar to Unaii's own, newer class needle-like fighter, others more akin to the sting rays Samus had seen in an eBook in a vaporous childhood memory. The variety of the ships—not only in regards to the class, but also specific model; indeed, it seemed as if she could see the whole technological progression of Space Pirate astromechanics over the last decade— seemed amiss to her, as if the destroyer had not been issued a uniform craft by any prevailing manufacturer but had instead recruited any miscellaneous vessels it had found in its travels.
A great clang resounded throughout the ship as they made contact with the docking platform. "Here we are, Hunter," said Unaii.
"Now what?"
"I do not know."
A group of twelve Space Pirates met Unaii and Samus as they exited the ship. One among the group, presumably the presiding officer, exchanged a few blunt words with Unaii in Zebesian. Then, four pirates detached from the group and escorted Unaii in one direction. The remaining eight formed a tight box around Samus and they headed in a different direction.
Before they exited the hangar, Samus caught a glimpse of a small Federation transporter, its crisp, glossy sheen glinting in the dark red lighting, projecting out like a beauty among beasts. Samus felt sympathy for it, somehow. After all, was she not in the very same situation? A human among monsters. But she wasn't theirs, hadn't been stolen, as she presumed the little transporter had. Or had it? Now, she couldn't be sure of anything anymore. In her time at Tallon IV, Aether, and the multitude of other planets and places she had visited over the past year, the political atmosphere had apparently gone in perturbing new directions. And yet she had not heard any news of a merging of the Space Pirates and Federation until meeting her most recent assassin. She had not even heard of an alliance, or even a peace agreement. The idea remained ludicrous to her.
But here she was, guarded rather than restrained, more of an unwilling guest than a prisoner on this Space Pirate destroyer, being led untouched to a Space Pirate admiral, whose intentions were purportedly peaceful. The idea of peace seemed was becoming increasingly likely in her mind, and she began to wonder what it meant for her. Why was the Republic hunting her in the first place? And would this mean she would have to end her individual crusade against the Space Pirates? No, she would never stop. She could never stop, could not choose to stop just as she could not choose to simply stop breathing. Not until they had paid the price for all the crimes they had committed in the universe. She found herself enthralled with the idea of striking down the Zebesian escorts all around her. Cool it, she told herself. What had happened to her guilt, she wondered? Just a few hours ago, she had felt the heavy weight of her murders bear down upon her. Now, though, she could barely restrain herself from killing her own escorts. But she knew must indeed restrain herself. They were heavily armed, anyway. She might lose an energy tank or two in the process. And she might need those later, depending on how congenial a host this Re-Kuluk would be to his unwilling guest.
The group made their way down several poorly-lit ships corridors, their heavy metal boots clanking on the steel floors, Samus trying futilely to memorize every turn in case the situation called for her flight. Each Space Pirate who found himself within their path made sure to remove himself and, as they passed by, shot Samus a look that expressed what she supposed was a confusing but potent mixture of curiosity, suspicion, awe, hatred, and toppled convictions; to many of them, she was sure, the existence of the Boogie Man had been essentially confirmed. Good, she thought, reciprocating their contempt in the corners of her eyes. Let them fear me.
At length, the group entered a cramped, gloomy elevator. Samus felt a new wave of adrenaline rush in. Though the hulky masses made sure not to touch her in any way, were it not for her protective suit, the incisive odors of her escorts would have overwhelmed her at this tight proximity. The last time she had been this close to Space Pirates, she nearly had an arm clipped off by a prosthetic claw arm. When it came to Space Pirates, close combat situations were the worst combat situations, and she had just voluntarily flung herself into one. Well, she corrected, this was not a combat situation—just a very unusual situation in which she had no idea how to handle herself. More importantly, how was she to behave in front of the Admiral? She knew so little of Space Pirates; only the various ways in which they could die by her hand. But now she was forced to consider their customs, mannerisms, and norms, a venture upon which she never embarked, because, well, she had never even thought that Space Pirates might have customs, mannerisms, and norms. It occurred to her how easily it would be, if the human and Space Pirate cultures differed also on a rudimentary level, to offend Re-Kuluk.
Normally, she wouldn't care. But within this ship she was a hunter in a wolf den. Provoking him would mean certain death.
The doors hissed open to reveal darkly lit chamber. "Where are we?" Samus breathed. Then she was being shoved into the room. She turned swiftly, but the elevator doors snapped shut. She was alone. Perhaps not. It was dark—she couldn't be sure. The room was circular, a faint luminescence radiating along the rim of the floor, but neither this nor the starlight pouring through one section of the thermoglass wall relieved the gloom.
"I have long awaited this moment, Samus Aran," growled a nearby voice insidiously. A flash of red Phazon, but too late—a searing pain bolted from her abdomen to her limbs to her head, and then the circular ring of light was spinning in all the wrong directions.
But she knew pain. Knew it well. Her energy cannon rematerialized around her arm in a flash. She picked herself up.
She had been right about Space Pirates, had always been right, and felt foolish for thinking otherwise, for worrying about mannerisms and formalities and matters of respect when there could be no such things between Space Pirates and humans. With the Space Pirates, she decided with a sense of finality, of certainty, there would never be peaceful intentions.