Honor
Adrian and Arrande sweep the wide halls of the bunker with their rifles, moving along the wall to diminish their profiles. The bunker's design is pragmatic, with large doorways for the more massive Egenoid species. Adrian leads their exploration of each room with meticulous repetition; flank the doorway, move in, check corners, move out. Flank the doorway, move in, check corners, move out. She and Arrande fall into a rhythm, her hand signs guiding them through each step.
Arrande doesn't comment, but he can see her improvements. Her every movement is methodical and practiced, if rigid. The drills Samus has run with them since Pyralis have left their mark.
Suddenly, he places a hand on her shoulder in a "hold" motion. They stop moving. Among the faint echoes of the jungle bouncing off the stark resin walls, there's another sound intermingling.
Someone is talking.
Arrande removes his hand from her shoulder and points toward the noise with two fingers. They take controlled, heel-toe steps, creeping toward the source; an open doorway about fifty paces down the hall, with pale light spilling out. Flanking the doorway, Adrian peeks inside.
The floor of this room has caved in to a basement level. Several arranged flood lamps provide light. Among the debris of the former floor, a small group of Egenoids, armed with custom gear, chat in Egenok, the Stratocracy's common tongue. Adrian does a quick head count and holds up four fingers to Arrande.
One of them is small, yellow-green, and reptilian, with a neck so short their head practically fuses with their shoulders. Their eyes sit on each side of their head, just at the edges of their wide, flat-brimmed mouth. A large, bright-red neck flap occasionally balloons outward as they enunciate. A Haundovian. Crafty and good at getting into tight spots.
Two are wrinkly, squat, wart-skinned amphibians with high waists and bulbous bellies, roughly five and a half feet tall. Their webbed hands grip alien weaponry tight against their bodies. The texture of their skin is akin to unworked stone. Iticaulu. Tough and resistant to some firearms. Good front-line troops.
Then there's the last of them, and this one is cause for concern. Blue scales with an almost mineral quality to them, glinting in the limited light. Thick, muscular limbs ending in wicked, pointed nails. A long, thick tail, ridged with rough spines along its central line. And most apparent of all, massive, scarred wings riddled with holes, adding more height to a figure already at least eight feet tall.
Arrande feels his pulse quicken. A genuine Odaviiran, the draconic species at the very top of the Stratocracy's caste system. Powerful, dangerous, and always well-equipped. That should confirm the involvement of the Egenoid state in this operation… except the team is far too small to be led by an Odaviiran. Something doesn't add up here. Either way, Arrande knows they need to contact Samus.
He makes a hand motion to Adrian to get on comms. She tries her wrist mounted system, but motions back to him after a moment: Interference.
She pauses, then corrects herself.
Jammed.
Their minds go to the same place. Chowa.
Adrian signs that they're moving on to the next room. Arrande agrees — he's no fool. They can't start a fight here, not against that. They need Samus.
Unfortunately, the creature shadowing them since they entered the bunker is about to bring the fight to them.
000
Steel meets steel in a screech of sparks. A wall of muscle writhes before Samus, so erratic and so close she can't make out any key details. The thewy mass thrashes violently, knocking her aside, then breaks apart into two distinct shapes; Chowa, and their opposition, a slightly shorter burgundy-colored Vorminian, yet no less powerful in appearance. Solid metal plating covers their chest and stomach, flexing with their body, shiny and unmarred.
The horizontal irises of their green eyes narrow to slits as they take in the disgusting sight before them. They level a knife at Chowa, speaking in a higher, more melodic tone than Chowa's deep timbre. Samus' Egenok is rusty, but she picks up bits of the statement.
Specifically, the words traitor and pathetic.
Samus points her cannon at the new foe. A Vorminian is a deadly adversary to face, one reason she took Chowa on to begin with. Alone, even she would have to take such an opponent seriously. But alongside one of their own? This should be simple.
It should be, but the sound of gunfire echoes from elsewhere in the bunker. Samus and Chowa share a glance. "Go, Captain Aran. I have this."
Her eyes flick over the ruddy Vorminian once more, then she dashes for the door. They move to intercept, but Chowa interposes between them, knife at the ready. The unnamed Vorminian bares their teeth and hisses, circling their opponent with a focused, wrathful glare.
"You're despicable. Protecting some small, soft-skinned mammalian. They know neither discipline nor strength."
Chowa's low rasp returns a far gentler tone. "You know not of what you speak. Had you participated in the Grand Crusade, you would know how dangerous they are. You are evidently young. From a good house, judging by your armor. Properly proselytized."
The red Vorminian proudly taps the butt of their knife to the armor. "Better than yours, doubtless. You wear the weak, factory-made fibers of the Federates. Why would you so easily turn your back on your name, your heritage?" They point the knife again, using it as a prop to drive their point.
A poor habit made by grandstanding children. It's an easy weakness to take advantage of.
Chowa leaps forward, slicing at the neck for a quick kill. They don't intend to waste time here, not when their captain needs them. However, the smaller Vorminian is indeed younger, and faster. They parry the strike and bring their knife around for a counter.
However, Chowa is quick enough to disengage before the blade can meet flesh. They parry and break away, waiting and watching for their next move.
The red Vorminian snarls and spits. "Coward."
000
Elsewhere, Arrande narrowly avoids the swing of a thermic machete. He can feel heat radiating off the scar it carves along the shoulder of his armor, can smell the ferrous burn. He tries to step back and tucks his rifle under his arm, firing point blank at his aggressor, but the commando is too swift; it keeps the distance close and slaps his barrel away while reeling back for another swing.
But its surprise attack has already gone wrong. Arrande's evasiveness gives Adrian just the time she needs. She pulls her sidearm, flanks the fight, and fires several times into the back of their stalker. A few shots ping off its armor, but enough meet their mark that the alien breaks off the assault and dives into the room they were spying on.
The entire encounter takes but a few breaths to resolve, but that's all it takes to turn this scouting mission into a scramble for survival. The stalker was a Kren, a serpent-like alien with finger-like appendages around its mouth. With their smaller bodies, they rely on blitz and guerilla tactics to overwhelm enemies. These apparent terrorists have quite the varied team.
But they can't ruminate on that. Adrian makes the call, signaling to run further into the bunker. They have to find Samus and turn the odds. Arrande doesn't second-guess her — there's simply no time. He drops a flash grenade into the room to cover their retreat, and it bombs the dark room with an effulgent blast. Their helmets adapt their polarization in time with the grenade's drop, shielding from the flare. The two run deeper into the foxhole, the footfalls of their enemies hot on their tail.
000
Samus dashes through the cold, empty halls, tracking the position of the transmitters in Adrian and Arrande's suits. She doesn't have the layout of the bunker yet, but even with its alien construction, it bears the sensibilities of a military installation. She stops as she reaches a major junction.
There, down the southern hall. Arrande and Adrian's flashlights cut through the blackness. "Arrande, Adrian!"
The two rush toward the sound of their captain's voice, spirits lifted out of their pulse-pounding panic. The neon lights of Samus' suit act as a beacon to guide them. Suddenly, Samus raises her cannon, pointing it at Arrande. A green-tipped missile extends from the end of her weapon.
He dives forward, giving her the clearance she needs to fire a super missile directly into the Kren leaping at him, machete drawn back. Its impact throws the attacker back into the shadows of the unlit hall.
Arrande gets back to his feet, and he and Adrian form ranks next to Samus. Adrian sticks to the most essential information. "Captain, five total. A Kren, Haundovian, two Iticaulu, and-"
"Odaviiran," Samus finishes. She points her cannon down the dark hall. The fireteam turns heel and directs their lights down the hall, illuminating the imposing form of the Egenoid cell's leader. His irises narrow to predatory slits in the light.
He's close already, less than thirty feet away. He spreads his wings wide and low, talking up almost the entire width of the hall. One would think making himself a large target is a poor tactical decision, but Samus can see small devices attached at his wing joints; shield projectors. She can see the two Iticaulu behind the Odaviiran's wingspan, leveling their rifles. They're using his body as living cover.
Yet they don't open fire, and their commander stands relaxed, facing the intruders head-on. He's covered in thick armor plating, a juggernaut by comparison to his underlings, and he grips a heavy two-handed mace with booster actuators in one hand.
Samus hasn't met many Odaviirans in her life. Every time she has, just looking at them rouses a deep-seated fear in her. Despite the difference in size and build, their draconic features pull intimations of her greatest nemesis to the forefront of her mind. Still, considering neither side has opened fire yet, she takes the chance to end this peacefully.
"My name is-"
"I know who you are and I do not care," the draconic commander interrupts in perfect English. His voice is a rumbling bass that trembles her bones. "You have invaded my base and killed one of mine." He points to the corpse of the Kren blitzer, unmoving on the ground between them. "If you're here, Samus Aran, the Federation has caught on to us."
She doesn't take her cannon off of him as they speak. "They are. I'm sorry about your friend."
"Friend?" He responds with a deep, unsettling laugh. "She was a fool. I ordered her to keep pace with me, but she insisted on trying to run your men down and dashed ahead. She got exactly what she deserved. Had you not killed her, I would have done so myself after dealing with you." His eyes narrow. "We do not tolerate insubordination."
We. A deliberate choice of words. Odaviirans typically see themselves as the empire itself.
Samus tries to take control of the conversation. "My mission doesn't need to involve killing you, but I won't hesitate."
The boosters on his mace prime, a low red glow thrumming in the dark hall. "We don't ascribe to your Federation's limp-wristed concepts of negotiation."
Guns on both sides prime in response. Samus holds up her hand to calm her companions. "If you just wanted to fight, we wouldn't be talking. You know who I am. If you fight me, you know you'll die."
"I chose to speak with you because of who you are. I wanted to see the mettle of the Federation's greatest warrior," he replies, a growl settling in the backdrop of his voice. "Losing the element of surprise means nothing. Not now that I have you."
Samus doesn't understand. The way he talks, he sounds like he's spoiling for a fight. Why sit here talking to her?
Wait… didn't Adrian say there was a Haundovian with them?
A thumping noise draws her attention upward. The small chameleon-like alien she was just considering drops from the same ventilation system she used to infiltrate the bunker, wrapping around her head and blocking her vision. She staggers and tears at him, trying to toss him off, but he holds tight, coiling his tail around her neck to maintain his grip.
Sometimes she thinks not having both her hands free is a design flaw.
The Odaviiran grins. His helmet drops a polarized visor over his eyes, and he grips his mace with two hands, pointing it toward them. The tip ignites with a jet of flame, expanding to fill the junction and billowing toward Samus and her team.
000
Chowa and their opponent dance, deft hands moving to capture, deflect, and intercept. Their opponent matches them stride for stride. Glancing blows nick Chowa's arms, almost finding their mark on their neck or chest several times, forcing them to break away repeatedly. The red Vorminian may have faster hands, but their heavier armor makes their footwork slower.
Chowa catches their arm, but the red one is clever; they release their knife, letting it fall into their other hand. The switch is flashy and skillful, but risky, and one Chowa has seen several times before. It gives them the second they need to leap back before their opponent slices up with their opposite hand.
The old soldier eyes their young challenger with wary appraisal. The aggressor crouches low in a ready position, knife forward. "Stop fighting scared! You keep backing away, stand and bleed!"
"… what is your name?" Chowa asks. It's been so long since they've seen their own, especially a younger one. Their communal instincts fight against killer intent.
"Okib." They don't ask for Chowa's name. They don't care.
"Your movements betray you, Okib… you are well-trained, but have never been in battle before, have you?" Chowa observes.
They bare their teeth. "Empire education is sufficient. I will be ready for what comes next."
"Do you refer to this battle? Or did you truly intend to inflame the Federation with your callous disregard for peace?"
"This peace is a lie!" the ruby one snarls. "The ya'kesh test our borders, flagrantly abusing the arrangement they wrote! Why would you follow such impudent, honorless creatures?! A warrior of your skill would have their pick of stations to serve in!"
Their eyes narrow, a probing blade searching for the truth.
"Unless… you are Vhram."
With one word, Okib sparks fury in Chowa. Like a streak of living pitch, they dash forward, adrenaline and rage pushing them faster. The sudden outburst catches the red one off guard, but only for a moment. They struggle to match Chowa's ferocity in their trades, but the older one soon slows, the burst of energy taking its toll. It gives Okib the opening they need to dip under Chowa's arm and slice at a fastener for their vest. Chowa's knife scrapes against the backplate of Okib's armor as they pass, damaging nothing.
The two circle each other again. Chowa's breathing slows. That was a mistake… mustn't be so careless. Their vest dangles loosely on their chest, now a liability. With a sigh, Chowa realizes there's no point in denying it any longer. Wounded pride will only weigh them down and leave them vulnerable. They unfasten their vest.
Okib's eyes widen with vicious glee as they see the thorny symbol branded into the center of Chowa's chest. "I knew it. You are Vhram."
"I am."
Okib cackles, contempt and spite clear in their voice. "You stand there and lecture me? Sickening. No wonder you ally with an enemy. No one else would have you."
Chowa's pulse slows, a cool clarity settling across their body. Stripped bare, with nothing holding them down save the scar on their chest, only as heavy as they let it be. Just their body, a blade… and an enemy. Chowa flips their grip and crouches into a ready stance, their golden eyes steady and tranquil.
Okib mocks Chowa. "The way you fight, I should have seen it sooner. Running away so much must come naturally."
Chowa doesn't rise to their taunt, simply watching, waiting. The younger feints like they're about to charge, yet they draw no reaction from the elder. Only placid appraisal.
Okib's muscles twitch, as though ready to burst at any moment. They sway back and forth, hesitating to commit, emerald eyes wide, darting between Chowa's hands, their eyes, their feet.
But Chowa is motionless, opaque. Smooth sinew rests, biding time and conserving energy.
The dam breaks, and Okib charges. Their arms flicker back and forth, checking, parrying, capturing. Okib grabs hold of Chowa's attacking arm and goes in for a stab. Performing the same switch the younger Vorminian did mere moments before, Chowa drops their blade and catches it with their open hand. In a smooth motion, they take that same arm and slip it underneath Okib's stab, using their forearm and the knife as a pincer to capture the attack and divert it away.
Okib jumps back, a new streak of brighter crimson staining their red arm. They snarl and leap back in without thinking, incensed by the very idea of this… cretin mimicking their moves.
The younger presses the assault, pushing the elder back, back, until their back is to the wall. However, Chowa effortlessly transitions their steps up the wall. The attack continues, rotating upwards as the two take to the ceiling, Okib constantly pursuing, unaware of the trap they're being lured into.
This coward, this Vhram, how dare they show up like this? How dare they steal their glory, sully their virgin battle by being so beneath them? Killing Vhram isn't a challenge, it's a mercy. These thoughts storm in the mind of Okib as they get increasingly aggressive. Their attacks grow more frequent and frenetic, sacrificing tempo for quantity.
They don't notice how slow they've gotten, how their sturdier armor comes at the price of weight. Their grip on the ceiling is unsteady, taking more and more effort to hold. Meanwhile, Chowa doesn't have to waste energy directly confronting Okib. They linger just out of range, only letting the distance close to keep their opponent aggressive.
Once they reach the center of the ceiling, Chowa holds position, drawing Okib in. The elder catches an incoming stab, rotating the attack high, pincering the offending arm between forearm and blade once again. Okib's pulse spikes as they see the opportunity before them, and they release their knife to try to catch it.
Chowa finds it odd how the briefest of seconds can burn themselves into memory. They can read the young one's expression so clearly. Okib transitions from wide-eyed excitement, so sure of their immediate victory, to sudden panic as the knife falls to the floor above them. They've clearly practiced this maneuver tirelessly… and their muscle memory betrays them. Their other hand, already on route to the wrong destination, races to correct course, but it's too late.
As Okib's hands smack into each other in a futile attempt to grasp their weapon, Chowa rotates his knife's grip and stabs forward, meeting his opponent's neck.
Okib reels from the shock. Chowa sticks one hand on the ceiling and flips their position, slicing at Okib's legs and sending the younger tumbling to the floor beneath them. All of this occurs before Okib's knife can hit the floor. Their body soon follows, landing with a heavy crash.
Chowa doesn't give them a chance to reorient. The fight is already over… there's no need to extend Okib's suffering. They release from the ceiling and drop atop them, piercing under their jaw and into their head.
There's often a stillness that follows a battle. A solemnity that allows the weight of one's actions to settle on their backs. Okib's eyes stare up at Chowa, empty, wide, and devoid of life, frozen forever in the realization that death has found him.
So young. So, so young.
000
They've been backed into a corner. With the bunker's entrance past their foes, they had no choice but to run further into the compound, and now they've gotten chased into a dead end. "Take positions at the doorways and watch the vents!" Samus orders. "We don't want to get snuck up on again!"
Adrian and Arrande take opposite sides of the hall, crouching behind the doorways for cover. The lights of their rifles shine down the way they came, revealing the slowly encroaching wall of the Odaviiran's wings. Samus stands in the center of the hall, several paces ahead of them, defiant. She won't let them get to her crew. She is the line they will not cross.
Beneath his helmet, the Odaviiran commander's wide, sharp grin deepens. He levels his mace again and sparks the tip, letting off a short blast of flame meant to intimidate. Behind him, his toadies march ever forward.
Samus fires her power beam at the massive target, but the lights of the shield generator shine as it absorbs every pellet. The Odaviiran is a living wall for his troops. If it weren't for the tension tightening inside her with every step they take forward, she'd admire their teamwork and tactics. What she'd give for her diffusion or wave beam right now.
Arrande's keen eyes spot the gleam of the generators. With a few practiced gestures over the side of his rifle, he swaps his ammunition to phase charges; this should pass right through that barrier. He takes calm, even breaths as he prepares to fire. Yet as his barrel falls into position, the Odaviiran's thick metal mace rises to block the shot. Arrande's lip twitches, and he switches to the other side. The mace follows, blocking again.
My flashlight! Arrande realizes. He can see where I'm looking!
Closer, closer now. Each step is a note in the drumbeat of their impending doom.
Samus tries her missiles, but each time she fires one, the Odaviiran lets loose another flash of flame, causing them to explode prematurely. Adrian lays down short bursts of covering fire, but the low output of her automatic energy rifle does little to the powerful barrier.
Samus takes in all of this in the span of a breath and formulates a plan. She cuts her outward mic and speaks over the shadowband. "Arrande! Turn off your light and aim for the gen closest to you. Adrian, steady your light on both!"
Closer and closer, only within fifty feet of her now. Twenty more and she'll be in range of the flamethrower. But he can't block Arrande's shot and shoot down her missiles at the same time.
Adrian steadies her light. Samus fires a super missile at her target, and the Odaviiran responds appropriately, destroying it with another blast of flame. But just as Arrande is about to pull the trigger, one of the Iticaulu opens fire on him. He flinches as the shot from their ionic carbine grazes his shoulder, throwing his shot into the heart of the shield. The crackling charge bypasses the barrier, but the commander's thick armor renders it impotent.
Ten feet away. Samus can feel her desperation mounting. This team is practiced, honed. Evaluating their strategy on the fly and adapting to everything thrown at them. The rigid, militant structure of Egenoid society makes them all deadly warriors who understand defined roles. It's drilled into them from the moment they're born. She can only guess how long this unit has worked together. Her crew has operated for just a few months now. It lays the difference out plain for her, the stark reality of her inexperience on full display.
Samus grounds herself, firing charged blasts into the wall in a vain attempt to slow the imminent assault. She knows she can survive this if she flees — there's plenty of room above the encroaching wall for her to vault over. But as long as either of her crewmen draws breath, she will hold the line.
The Odaviiran draws within range of her, sparking his mace.
"Agk!"
A sharp cry of pain comes from behind him. He glances over his shoulder as one of the Iticaulu gunners staggers from the bite of a throwing knife in their back.
As they turn to face the flanking attacker, a flow of ink and quicksilver plunges its knife into the Iticaulu's chest, drawing downward across its round belly and exposing tender bowels to stinging outer air.
The Odaviiran commander switches fronts, swinging his mace through the air at the new foe. Its jets fire, propelling the crushing head with lethal speed and illuminating the attacker; Chowa easily fluxes around the swing.
The Odaviiran's eyes widen as the orange glow of his mace's boosters illuminate this new opponent. The gleam of familiar silver plate adorns them. So they've killed Okib.
Chowa pulls their knife from the shocked Iticaulu, sending a spray of purplish blood across the floor. They sweep under the Odaviiran's guard to take advantage of the opening left in the wake of the momentous swing. The remaining Iticaulu tackles Chowa before his blade can find flesh.
A crackling shot rings out, shortly followed by the blast of one of Samus' super missiles. With his back turned, the commander made for an easy target. The barrier sputters and falls.
"Moving in, watch your crossfire!" Samus orders, dashing into the melee.
Her open cry draws the commander's attention, and he sweeps back toward her, firing his mace again. She sees her opening. She bashes her cannon against the mace with all her might, throwing the rocket-propelled swing over his shoulder.
In his struggle to regain control of his wild swing, she opens fire with a barrage of super missiles, cracking the hardened plates of his armor.
He comes back with a wide horizontal sweep, and with acrobatic grace, she slips beneath it.
He follows through with wing and tail, and she springs between them, dancing in the air like a golden hawk. She lands in a crouch, continuing her barrage.
Shards of metal fling off with every connected warhead. The Odaviiran roars and whips his enormous claw out to grab her. Samus tries to jump back, but he catches her leg and slams her back down into the ground.
With a superior snarl, he holds the boost trigger on his mace, straining to lift it off the ground one handed, intending to heave it overhead to crash it down into her. The slow ramp of the motion gives Samus enough time to picture exactly what will happen to her if it follows through.
The crack of Arrande's rifle rings out again, piercing through the thin armor coverage in the commander's elbow. Burst fire from Adrian's position focuses his armed hand enough that he drops the mace.
Samus takes the initiative. With a swift kick to the commander's wounded elbow, she pulls free of his grip and fires a final missile directly into his helmet. The blast knocks it off his face, and it falls to the ground behind him, cracked and useless.
The proud dragon collapses to his knees, gritting his teeth, tasting the blood that runs between them. He glances at his companions; Yuba and his sister, Taaba, both lie dead on the ground, disemboweled. The black Vorminian, the kin-traitor, holds small, nimble Sikreek up in the air with one hand, pulling their knife from his tiny, unmoving body. They're wearing Okib's armor; the paradoxical sight of such an honorable gesture performed by a scale-traitor makes him sick.
He looks at Samus. His face now exposed, she can read the mix of disdain and resignation in his glimmering emerald eyes. His voice rises as a guttural rumble, pulling straight from his soul. "You win, then. But I still get what I want. Even with my death, your governors will see this ingress as an act of war. The Stratocracy will pay you ya'kesh back a thousandfold for what you've done."
Samus' cannon remains trained on the massive Odaviiran. She takes no chances. "You don't have to die. Surrender and you'll see a fair trial."
Laughter scrapes the raw length of his throat. "Saak'do kashee."
He suddenly lunges his good claw up, and Samus readies her shot. Her tension becomes abject horror as the Odaviiran commander tears open his own throat, showering her armor in crimson arterial spray.
He falls to the ground, his sharp-toothed grin frozen on his face.
Samus lowers her cannon, the shock of the moment ebbing away. She releases the breath in her lungs in a long rush, letting the built-up pressure inside release. The image of the proud warrior before her, splayed out and bleeding, brings with it a cold realization that it could just as easily have been her in his place.
Chowa and the rest of the fireteam group up around her, taking in the sight. "I can't believe it…" Adrian says in amazement, "We took down an Odaviiran."
"I never thought I'd actually fight one," Arrande adds.
Chowa nods solemnly. "They fought well. Their kull was clearly quite familiar with one another. It is sad that we had to deliver their end."
Arrande sweeps his light over Chowa. "Dios mio, Chowa…"
Samus absorbs Chowa's appearance. In the dark, against their pitch skin, it's easy to miss the blood spatter covering them. In Arrande's light, Samus can see every detail plain as day, like a horror dive. She takes in the surrounding carnage, understanding with a dark clarity that Chowa single-handedly killed almost every member of the enemy unit.
Their talent for death-dealing is disquieting… but she's never questioned their loyalties. "Thank you, Chowa."
Their golden eyes glimmer with quizzical appraisal in the faint light as they wipe their knife clean. "Whatever for, Captain Aran?"
Samus subtly shakes her head. What an appropriately Chowa response.
"What was that last thing he said?" Adrian asks, shining her light on the Odaviiran's body.
"Saak'do kashee," Samus answers. "Death with pride."
000
The GFS Elysium is a fine vessel, worthy of any Federation crew. A proper carrier, made to patrol the border systems as an intimidation tool. The air inside is crisp and scentless, reflecting the Federation military philosophy that cleaning efforts are most effective when they go unnoticed. Everything is meticulously organized, from the gleaming floors to the rows of shiny new fighters on different levels of the docks, allowing ample space for the Crosshair in its docking bay.
Samus stands at attention, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind her back, razor sharp gaze facing forward as she awaits the ship's commander. Behind her, the crew mirrors her, though perhaps not quite as intensely. The docking bay is rife with whispering and furtive looks thrown their way by the Elysium's crew; the rumors are true, Samus is leading a team.
She ignores it. It's not like she's keeping it a secret. She needs to focus on the bigger issue — what she's going to tell Commander Cress. Samus idly glances at the fighters docked in the bay. A few technicians are performing maintenance on their engines.
Her gaze narrows as she spots a particular fighter. There's discoloration on its afterburners.
Commander Cress approaches her, flanked by two petty officers providing escort. "That was prompt! I see why some soldiers swear the Federation has a budget set aside just to hire you." He flashes a fake smile at her.
She doesn't return the gesture. "I'm nothing if not punctual. Lieutenant?" She holds out a hand. Adrian comes up and hands her a datapad, which the bounty hunter pushes toward the commander. "If you would."
"Hold on," Cress says, reeling the conversation back. "Your transmission said you killed the enemy insurgents. But what about their purpose? Were you able to find any link to the empire? Official orders?"
Samus can see the eager gleam in his eyes. He's practically salivating at the thought. It confirms her suspicions. "No. They appeared to be independent agents."
Her crew glances sidelong at one another. The communications revealed nothing concrete, but an Odaviiran being there is tantamount to absolute evidence. The Stratocracy's highest caste doesn't descend from their homeworld unofficially. However, they remain silent.
Cress' expression sours. "You're certain? No links to the Imperial army? Nothing?"
"Nothing." Her eyes flick back to the fighter she noticed a moment ago. "You've got access to quite the batch of resources. The Elysium was just commissioned, wasn't she?"
"She's brand new, yes," Cress replies. He resentfully engages in the meaningless small talk. "Just put under my command."
"Everything on it is new?" she asks, perking an eyebrow.
"Yes, all of it." He reaches for the datapad, eager to get this conversation over with.
Samus pulls it back, coiling it in her arm. "Really? A skirmish in border space would have been headline news."
"There hasn't been one," Cress answers irritably, pushing his open hand forward to prompt her to hand the device over.
"Is that so? Then why are your technicians performing a V2 actuator replacement on a fighter with visible thruster burn?"
A hush falls over the space between them. Samus' crew watches with dawning realization. Cress' escorts glance at him, radiating uncertainty. The commander stares daggers at her. "Let's see you paid," he says, voice icy.
The captain hands him the datapad, which he snatches away to start the process. They stand in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. As he goes through the motions, Cress shoots a look at Chowa, who watches him with unsettling intensity. "Your 'friend' didn't cause you any trouble when you told him you were killing his countrymen, did he?"
"No. They didn't," she replies.
Cress finishes the transaction and hands the datapad back. "All done. That just leaves one more point of business. We'll take your shipment from here."
She takes the datapad and folds it under her arm. "Actually, Commander, after some consideration, I've decided to stick to the original plan. My crew and I will deliver it ourselves. You clearly have important duties here in border space. I shouldn't divert your resources."
"It wouldn't be a-"
"We'll be escorting the shipment as planned," she reaffirms.
Samus thinks she can see a vein throb in his forehead. Perhaps he isn't used to this kind of open-faced insolence.
Cress grits his teeth, speaking through them. "You are… entitled to finish the mission at your discretion, Samus. However, I would urge you to do so promptly. You wouldn't want to make the Federation worry something has happened to you. Who knows what kind of chaos might follow if we were to lose you?"
She knows a veiled threat when she hears one, but matches the severity of his stare. "Thank you, Commander. I'll keep that in mind. Preserving peace is my first priority."
000
"Should we do something about him?"
Adrian's question draws the attention of everyone on the bridge. Arrande and Chowa both respond with silence, knowing there's little point in answering. They don't have the power to oppose a Federation commander.
Samus sighs and shifts in the captain's chair, her eyes never leaving the small positional display showing the Elysium slowly growing more distant behind the Crosshair. She doesn't answer either.
"Captain?" The lieutenant looks up at her stoic leader in expectation. The captain still doesn't respond. "Samus?"
There. They're far enough away now. Samus engages the FTL system, and the ship gives a subtle shudder as it speeds away, back on course for their next destination. "No, Adrian. There wouldn't be a point." She knows sound can't travel in a vacuum, but she didn't want to speak openly while still within range of the Elysium. Maybe it's mere superstition on her part, maybe she's concerned someone slipped a listening device onto the Crosshair while her back was turned. Either way, they can't be spied on while traveling in FTL.
Adrian takes an agitated breath. "But he clearly-"
"I know. But knowing and proving are two very different things." Samus drops her elbow on the armrest, propping her cheek up on her knuckles. She sullenly reflects on her inability to do more in this situation. She'll call Anthony, let him know. But the most he could do is be wary of Cress — leveling an accusation at him would just look bad, especially with them being even in rank. She'll contact the Federation chairman, but even the good rapport they have with each other inspires scrutiny among the bureaucrats. It wouldn't be actionable.
Arrande speaks clearly, head bowed in somber consideration. "Quelling a scuffle on border space that reignites tensions between the Federation and Stratocracy… would be a hell of a way to fast track a promotion of necessity."
He doesn't look at her, but in his still body and pensive, thousand-yard stare, Samus can see the uncomfortable truth he's grappling with. It's the same one she's had to come to terms with several times in recent years.
The Federation military is not immune to corruption.
Adrian looks between the two of them, bothered by their apparent indifference. "But we can tell someone! Right?! We should tell someone!"
"I will," Samus promises. But she knows it won't change anything. Cress is probably putting together a cover story for the fighter deployment already.
So much of her career has involved weighing potential evils against each other: those involved with the BSL lab versus the X-parasites, the Metroids versus genocide.
The destruction of her home planet versus letting the Pirates defile its memory again and again. Though she had no choice in that matter. The Pirates chose for her.
Her choice to keep silent about the Odaviiran is just one more on the scale. Measuring that against a reignited war? It was a simple decision. Yet it still disquiets her to counter Cress' lie with one of her own.
All the while, Chowa sits quietly, watching the navigation screens. Despite how bereft of feeling this mission has left them, there is still one task to complete before they can truly reflect on it. "Captain Aran. We have arrived."
Samus disengages the FTL drive, bringing the ship back to normal space. The simulated viewport fills with the image of the system's star; the Crosshair has come to a stop just outside its Roche limit. Ship sensors warn that loitering here will strip the hull's radiation shielding.
"Are we in position?" Samus asks.
Chowa nods, checking their current location. "We have arrived on the opposite side of the system to the Elysium."
Good. They won't be visible to the Elysium from here.
A sudden sobriety takes hold of her as she considers what they're about to do. She awkwardly fumbles with how to proceed with this new, alien tradition. "… should we… stand? Say anything?" she asks Chowa.
"That is unnecessary, Captain Aran. Though I would like to perform the ejection myself." Chowa cranes their neck back, their golden eyes reflecting steady conviction.
Samus nods.
Chowa looks forward, pausing above their controls for a breath, then pressing down. A brief sucking noise dully sounds from elsewhere in the ship, and the body of the Odaviiran commander floats into view, wings bound around his body and fully armored, mace clenched in hand.
Chowa bows their head. "Sulinn ra'keeo dan."
The three humans on the bridge watch the unfamiliar ritual, only partially understanding its symbolism. They don't ask for elaboration — each of them is considerate enough not to pepper Chowa with questions right now.
Arrande knows the Egenoid faith is an integral part of their military, a dangerous notion to him that drapes warfare in the banner of divine ordainment. He's not particularly enthusiastic about his captain entertaining the gesture, but keeps his qualms to himself.
Adrian sees parallels between this and old legends about burials at sea. She doesn't understand why they're showing such respect to an enemy. He wouldn't have given them the same treatment, she's sure of it. But she respects her captain's decision, so she doesn't speak against it.
Samus knows Odaviirans believe their progenitors were literally born from cosmic flame, and the strongest of them return to it. Raised by a selectively spiritual people, she's seen firsthand the power of things undefinable by humanity's narrow scientific perceptions. Perhaps, she thinks, there is merit to that claim.
For their part, Chowa feels torn. The Odaviirans have ruled over their people, all the Egenoid races, further back than their forefather's time. It is their rule, their law, that dictated the superiority of the Blood of Odaviir above all others in their empire, the only ones worthy of their bodies returning to the cosmic flames of creation. Those laws no longer bind Chowa. They have turned their back on their former homeland in favor of a former foe.
So why respect them? Why follow such old customs?
As much as it pains them to realize, no matter how far they have traveled, no matter whom they keep company with, Chowa is still Vorminian. Still Egenoid. Perhaps not Odaviir's soil, but still cold blood. Even those chains that bound them were a part of their culture, their very flesh.
And core to them, beyond any personal assessment of the caste system and its values, they are a warrior. And so was he.
They watch with solemn respect as the body of the Odaviiran pulls further into the star's embrace. The light of the massive cosmic furnace dances in their eyes, coiling solar flares flowing in a golden field.
"Thank you… Samus."
00000
Questions:
1. Does Egenoid culture feel interesting or clichéd in this chapter?
2. Does this chapter effectively deepen Chowa's character?