With Friends Like These . . .

Chapter Seven

Bravo

She looked around the disintegrating remains of the compound, flame dancing across charred fragments of splintered wood, darkening once-brilliant metal with blackness. For a moment, she lost her sense of location: she was no longer with her squad on Acheron B9, but instead was back on a mining colony many years ago, her frightened cries—the screams of a terrified child desperately searching for her mother—ringing in her ears, her eyes playing tricks on her as she was certain from the shadows—Impossible, she tried to convince herself—she swore she saw the menacing form of the dragon beast moving toward her, his sharp talons prepared to—

"What are our orders, ma'am?!"

She was jolted back to reality as the corporal shook her shoulder, his inexperienced eyes filled with terror, their routine mission suddenly compromised beyond anyone's wildest imagination.

The terrified grunt could barely maintain his grip on his pulse rifle, so obvious were the tremors wracking his arms. One shaking finger moved to his temple, his eyes growing even wider as he realized the digit was now coated in crimson liquid.

The warrior in her took command of the situation. "Bravo Boys, fall back!" she shouted into her comm, her eyes darting about as she searched in vain for any trace of her men. "Return to operations now!"

Four soldiers staggered through the smoldering wreckage of the doorway, sending relief washing over her at the sight. Turning her comm back on, she continued her sweep of the wreckage. "Hudson, Spielman, Roby, and Cordray are accounted for," she called in, her stomach tying itself into knots once more as she waited with trepidation for the rest of her squad to report in. Come on! Come on—

"I'm here, kid."

A raspy voice sounded in her ear. "Where are you, Sarge?"

Her sergeant's gruff voice crackled into the comm once more. To an outsider, the fact that he addressed her as 'kid' would be considered an insult of the highest order; any sergeant who dared speak to his commanding officer in such a fashion as a matter of course would, per Federation Militia protocol, be stripped of his stripes and put on kitchen detail—or worse. But Sarge was her mentor, her confidant, the man who had taken her under his wing, who had helped convince his men that a woman was more than capable of leading them.

She picked up on the hesitation in his response in an instant. "Sarge? Where are you?"

His voice came across the comm once more, his speech delayed by heavy, painful breaths. "I'm with Jacobson and . . . what's left of Standard. We . . . We got hit pretty hard by whatever the frelk got us." He took another painful breath. "Standard . . . The poor bastard never saw what killed him. . . ."

She felt the sense of anxiety come upon her once more. "Where are you?" she asked.

Sarge's voice sounded even more raspy and weighted now. "We're in . . . in medical," he responded. A mirthless laugh sounded from his throat. "Ironic, isn't it, kid?"

"Don't talk like that," she ordered as she gestured toward Cordray, signaling for her munitions expert to prep his heaviest payload. "We'll . . . We'll come get you and Jacobson out of there." She snapped her head toward her squad's tactical expert. "Roby, pull up the blueprints of this place. I want to know every possible entrance into that wing of the—"

"Sarge! SARGE!"

She cursed under her breath as she glanced toward the source of the voice, realizing she had forgotten the channel she had opened on her comm was one that any member of her squad could hear. The terrified newcomer to their squadron was now a blubbering mess upon the ground, his head buried in his hands, rocking back and forth.

"Goddamn it, Henderson!" Spielman snapped, taking hold of the quivering soldier, thrusting him against the metal of the wall. "Cut the shit! This isn't going to help Sarge and Jacobson one frelking—"

"Lieutenant Aran!"

General Donaldson's voice cut through over the comm, his curt, disciplined voice nearly causing her to reflexively snap to attention. Brushing the dirt from her eyes, she responded, doing her best to keep her voice even. "Sir, I—"

The General wasted no time. "What the frelk is going on down there? What the hell did your men do?!"

She grimaced as she swore she could hear his fingers clenching the armrest of his chair from his command ship in orbit around the planet.

Donaldson continued his blistering assault unabated. "I leave you unmonitored for ten minutes and the next thing I know our entire installation is under attack! Just what in God's name do you have to say for yourself, Lieutenant?"

Swallowing, she forced herself to hide the fear in her voice. "I . . . I don't know, sir," she replied as she jumped over a loose electric wire that began to sparkle and dance wildly near her feet, nearly making contact with the boots of her tactical gear. The pulse rifle in her hand suddenly felt unnaturally heavy as she frantically fought to determine her next course of action.

"We were conducting a routine sweep of the training facility, when everything just . . . went to hell . . ."

The comm fell silent for a moment, as if Donaldson was carefully processing what she had said. Finally, after what felt like hours, his voice returned. "All right, Aran. Listen closely. Your mission parameters have just been revised. We just patched into the facility's computer. Based on our preliminary analysis, it looks as though someone managed to plant a number of Class C explosives at various points throughout the building."

Her men's ears pricked up at Donaldson's words, their faces turning ashen, profanities flowing from their lips. "Son of a bitch . . ."

Donaldson's voice was equally grim. "Get the picture, Lieutenant? The entire frelking building is a powder keg waiting to explode. I want you and your men to—"

Frelk! Not wasting a moment, she brushed her hand over her face, her fingers coated with sweat, dirt, and grime, weighing her dwindling selection of options for rescuing her companions. "Roby!" she snapped. "Where are the schematics I asked for? There has to be another way into medical—"

Donaldson did not enjoy being interrupted. "I'm not through with you yet, Aran!" he shouted over the comm. "I just gave you a direct order to evacuate immediately! Please, tell me there's a very good reason why you haven't done so yet!"

Spielman, Roby, Cordray, and Hudson stopped what they were doing, their eyes focused upon their young lieutenant, unsure of whose orders they should follow.

"Sir," she replied, making a point to utter each and every syllable slowly, deliberately. "Sir, Sergeant Melkonis and Corporal Jacobson are trapped in medical. We can't just leave them there—"

"You're goddamn right you can!" Donaldson shot back, his tone now icy, filled with cool, calculated contempt. "I'm not risking the lives of the rest of your squad on some half-assed rescue attempt! Not when the entire frelking facility could light up like the Fourth of July at any time!" It was his term to speak slowly now, every word clearly delineated. "Get. Your. Men. Out. Of. There. Now!"

"Kid."

Sarge's voice was in her ears once more, his breathing labored, shallow.

"Don't do this to yourself, kid," he wheezed. "Don't frelk up your career on our account. Jacobson and I . . . We'll be all right—"

"Like hell you will," she hissed into the comm, fighting the burning sensation welling up in her eyes. Forcing herself to breathe, meditating as the Chozo had taught her, she felt her desperation turn to calm resolve. I'm not giving up on them, she told herself. I'm not—

Donaldson's berating voice was louder than ever over the comm. ". . . or, so help me, I'll see to it that you're court-martialed and thrown in the brig for the rest of your life! Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant? Well?! Do I—"

The comm suddenly went dead, Donaldson's voice disappearing without a trace. Confused, she glanced up, her brow furrowed in confusion as Hudson looked with mock dismay upon the comm amplification unit he typically carried upon his back, the piece of equipment now charred and melted on the floor, a thin plume of smoke wafting from the barrel of his pulse rifle. Looking up at her, he shrugged helplessly. "Oops. That's a shame." He kicked the now-useless piece of metal down the corridor. "Looks like we're going to have a hard time staying in touch with the man upstairs. . . ."

Roby followed Hudson's lead. "I'm afraid didn't quite catch that last part of the General's orders, ma'am," he said,. Stepping forward, he offered her his datapad. "Here are the schematics you asked for, ma'am," he said. Looking at her intently, he glanced toward the smoldering doorway through which they had entered, his thoughts turning to Sarge and Jacobson. "I think I found a way in. But, it's going to require some special . . . talents . . ."

Nodding, she tossed her pulse rifle toward Cordray, the private catching the weapon single-handedly. Moving quickly, she removed her combat fatigues, discarding the garments as she talked, knowing they were useless for what she was about to attempt.

"The four of you," she said as she undressed. "Get Henderson out of here. Fall back to the main entrance and wait for me there. If I'm not back with Sarge and Jacobson in ten minutes, get to the landing pad. Don't wait for me. Understand? That way, Command can't prosecute you as well as accomplices to insubordination."

The men looked at each other, then back at their order-defying CO. "With all respect, ma'am," Cordray said. "There's no way in hell we're leaving without Sarge and Jacobson. Besides, you'll need cover in case there are any surprises waiting for us."

Dressed only in her skintight bodysuit, she sighed, realizing her squad mates would disregard any order she gave to the contrary. "All right," she said. "If this is what you want . . ."

Closing her eyes, she concentrated, focusing intently as she tapped into the technology she had rarely used since she first entered the Academy. Come on, come on! I need you! Where are you?!

Just as she feared she had forgotten how to summon it—it had been so long, after all—she felt the symbol above her breast glow with power, the armor concealed within activating from its long slumber, her body suddenly encased within the protective embrace of her second skin of red, orange, and yellow.

The green light of her visor came to life as she glanced down the corridor, her HUD bombarding her eyes with dozens of critical readouts.

"All right, Bravo Boys," she said, her arm cannon at the ready. "Let's raise some hell."

"Samus, we are approaching our destination. ETA: 2 minutes."

Samus glanced up from the flashing instruments on the console before her, frowning beneath her helmet as she flipped several switches to her left.

"Thank you, Fortuna," she responded, hastily silencing the warning klaxon that suddenly rang through the cockpit with the flick of another switch.

Erelik leaned forward, his face betraying not a hint of concern. "Trouble?"

"Not exactly," Samus said, her voice flat as she checked her instrumentation once more. Great. Not again.

"It's the lower port engine," the bounty hunter continued. "We . . . blew it out three years ago getting away from the Feds."

"Correction."

If Erelik hadn't known better, he would have sworn the AI sounded somewhat irritated.

"I warned you we could not handle that sort of velocity," Fortuna said.

"I know," Samus said, patting the console gently. Sighing, she shrugged toward Erelik. "She tends to be very protective of her equipment. Anyway, we've been holding it together as best we can since then, with a frelk load of tape and chewing gum, but it looks like our luck is about to finally run out." She turned back to the navigator's chair behind her. "You wouldn't happen to have a Z-547 engine for sale, would you?"

Her new employer smiled. "A Z-547? Aran, you insult me. I wouldn't be caught dead dealing that obsolete piece of junk. My men will give your ship a complete overhaul as a prepayment for services expected to be rendered."

Samus was thankful her helmet concealed her face; she had no desire for Erelik to see the expression of astonishment that momentarily came upon her countenance. "That . . . That would be great," she said, unsure of how else to respond. "But how can you—"

Erelik raised his hand, cutting her off. "It's not a gift, Aran. It's an investment. You're no good to me unless your equipment is in top form. And, before you ask, you don't need to worry about a thing. I have some of the best mechanics in the galaxy on my payroll. They won't leave a scratch."

Samus narrowed her eyes as red light began to glow from the console.

"Ten seconds to arrival," Fortuna reported. "Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . ."

The blur of silvery light beyond the cockpit suddenly slowed, stars becoming tiny pinpoints of light against inky blackness once more as the Fortuna's jump drive switched off automatically. Instinctively, Samus's eyes pored over every detail of her scope, trying to piece together just where they were.

"The Hanoait system," she murmured to herself, the figure of Hanoait Alpha filling the cockpit's window, the gassy green giant of a planet looming before them. Uncertainly, she glanced back to Erelik. "Why are we here? This planet can't support life. Just what are you—"

Undeterred, Erelik leaned back in the navigator's chair. "Relax, Aran. Just swing around to the far side of the planet. You'll see why we're here soon enough."

Realizing she had little choice, Samus took hold of the stick in her left hand. "You heard the man, Fortuna," she whispered. "Let's come around to the other side. Slow and steady, just to be safe."

The yellow gunship edged her way around Hanoait Alpha, her pilot taking care to ensure that the vessel remained out of the planet's substantial gravitational pull. Green vapor floated up from the planet below as the Fortuna continued her solitary journey, casting an ethereal glow to the proceedings.

Erelik, for his part, looked as though he was having the time of his life. Whistling triumphantly, he suddenly pointed toward the cockpit window as the ship came around to the dark side of the planet. "There!" he exclaimed. "There she is!"

Samus looked at him in utter bafflement, her eyes turning back toward her console once more. "What the frelk are you talking about? There's nothing there except dead space."

Her employer raised an eyebrow. "Really? Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, I am," the bounty hunter insisted. "My scope shows nothing at all. Not even a—"

The familiar knot returned to her stomach as a thought crossed through her mind. It can't be! There's no way! The size required to house one is . . .

The fingers of her left hand launched into a fast-paced dance across her console. "Fortuna, switch to thermal imaging," she ordered. "Now!"

Erelik was amused. "You have thermal imaging? How did you manage to—"

Samus ignored him as she looked at the large orange mass that suddenly appeared outside the cockpit window. What the hell is that?

Erelik leaned forward, his fingers brushing against the shoulder of her armor. "That's my baby, Aran. The Independence. What do you think?"

Samus was momentarily speechless as she struggled to comprehend the sheer size of the vessel now visible before her. "It's . . . It's as big as a Federation carrier!" she murmured. "Cloaking device . . . Advanced shielding . . ."

"And all the trimmings." Erelik rubbed his hands eagerly, like a child on Christmas morning. His tone suddenly became practical, efficient. "Oh, by the way: You may want to hail them before they shoot you down. My men tend to get a little trigger happy."

Shaking her head, Samus opened the comm. "This is gunship Fortuna, requesting permission to dock. And don't pretend you're not there. I have you on thermal."

A derisive laugh rang across the comm. "Well, you're a presumptive little bitch, aren't you?" the voice said. "You've got a lot of stones, dearie, thinking we're going to let you on board just like that. In fact, since you somehow found out we're here, I'm thinking it would be best if we just shot you down before you can—"

Erelik casually leaned forward. "Now's not the time, Edmonton. Just let the nice young woman board and we'll be fine."

The speaker's voice was now filled with amazement. "Sir? Is that you? What happened to your ship? Why are you on this prissy little—"

"This ship belongs to my newest employee," Erelik responded calmly. "Now, unless you wish to be unemployed, Edmonton, you will let us board without any further trouble. And, before you even ask, my security confirmation is Gamma–Three–Five–Niner."

Samus held her breath involuntarily as the massive figure of the Independence suddenly entered the visible spectrum, its plethora of artillery lining the mammoth ship, all weapons trained upon the Fortuna. Her hand hovered over the jump drive initiator, prepared to make the jump if things took a turn for the worse.

The weapons suddenly came to rest as Edmonton spoke once more. "You're all clear to come aboard, Fortuna. Welcome home, sir. . . ."

Erelik gestured toward the far side of the ship. "Right there, Aran. Nice and slow."

The yellow gunship flew toward the docking bay, her small form disappearing into the bowels of the larger vessel, as if swallowed by some hulking leviathan, leaving time and fate to determine whether or not she would ever be seen again. We're here, Samus thought as she guided the ship toward the landing pad on the far side of the dock. We're here. . . .

AN: More to come!