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Enemy Planet

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Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy, will be fresh for the fight; whoever is second in the field and has to hasten to battle will arrive exhausted.
—Sun Tzu

"Coordinates of aparoid system confirmed and stored in memory," intoned Robot Operating Buddy, Model Sixty-Four.

The Great Fox moved in formation with the hundred odd strong Cornerian fleet grouped around in a huge semi-circular half dome. It was pathetic, made up of hastily repurposed civilian ships and various defense force remnants, escorted by less than four hundred fightcraft—some of which were ancient museum pieces and Venomian relics. Their assault was all or nothing—the aparoids would outnumber them at least a thousand to one, if not more, until Beltino's self-destruct program ended them.

Never before had Fox faced an enemy of this magnitude, not even the Saurian crisis had been this severe. The most he ever had to deal with were pirate attacks or shepherding spice-caravans, routine work for mercenaries out of the war business. Then the aparoids came. Seven months of constant fighting, of almost annihilation. Fortunately they managed to rally together before shock overwhelmed Corneria, and pushed back the insects—and now, thanks to the orbital gate's survival, the federation could strike at the brain of the aparoids.

"This is it?" Falco's dismissive question brought him back to reality. "I'd thought there'd be more of them."

"Don't tempt fate, Falco," Fox cautioned.

"So what? They're on their last legs—three or four, right? I can't tell."

"The planet… it's lovely. I… wasn't expecting that." The viewscreen had been put on to maximum magnification, and Fox saw what Krystal was talking about. The aparoid homeworld was a pretty picture, green and purple geometric designs indicating extensive canal or road networks covered the surface, with two or three blue splotches that looked to be bodies of water.

"Wait a minute, its size and mass are disproportionate," Peppy interjected. "Don't be fooled by that one side—planet is tidally locked, it's the dark side we must look at it."

"ROB, can you rotate the viewer?" Fox asked over Slippy's clueless "Wha—".

"Acknowledged, rotating planetary image by ninety degrees."

The planet face shifted as ROB manipulated the viewer, the dayside turning away—the filters darkened to shut out the sun's harmful rays—and bringing the night fully into view. Like the dayside it was covered with an extensive grid converging on one large spot at the equatorial line. There were no oceans to be seen, or clouds. For that matter, the planet looked to have absolutely no axial tilt at all.

Something wasn't right about this.

"Peppy, are you saying…"

"No doubt about that, Fox, the planet is seven times larger than Corneria but its mass is less than Macbeth's."

"It is hollow…?"

"Multiple aparoid signatures detected—ten, fifty, two hundred fifty, one thousand, unquantifiable—"

Fox slowly stood from his seat as a gigantic—literally opaque—purple mass started swarming out of the central crater of the homeworld. Soon the planet itself was obscured by an ever-shifting mass of ships, fighters and drones. My god, he realized. We've walked into a trap.

"Maybe we can use that hole to get to the queen—" Peppy didn't sound too hopeful, and Slippy's less energetic response, "I detected a shield going up very quickly, though," all but made Fox's spirits sink.

"It's all or nothing now, team," he said quickly, before they started panicking. "If we must die for Corneria, then so be it. Let it be known that—"

"Multiple unknown contacts detected," ROB interrupted. "Displaying now."

The viewscreen pulled back to its original resolution—the purple swarm had shrunk significantly but, Fox noted with dismay, was still quite large. The distant star around which the aparoid planet orbited showed as a glowing halo of yellow-orange, only just beginning to be blocked out as the aparoids closed in on them. The glow of two Cornerian frigates entered the field, their fighters deploying in anticipation of combat.

But none of those things was what really concerned him.

Floating silently before the Cornerian fleet, moving toward the swarm, was a small group of blue-grey ships. Twenty vessels, escorted by four fighter ships each, marked by points of light.

"Where did they come from?"

"In-bound vector parallels with projected Cornerian movements," ROB answered Falco. "Flight-path analysis indicates they were moving in position twenty-three point nine point seven hours prior to orbital gate energy transport. Distance, sixteen light seconds down and ahead of Cornerian fleet."

"Can you make contact with them?" Peppy asked, eagerly. "If we know who they are we could set up an alliance!"

"Alien fleet has no indication they are aware of our position."

Fox observed the foreigners with interest. They were of a design he had never seen before—blocky and rectangular, almost like Andross' ships. Were these perhaps remnants of Venomian forces, on their way at the whim of their mad emperor? When were they launched, and how long had they been traveling? "Krystal," he asked, "can you sense anything from them?"

When he got no answer Fox's ears pointed upwards and he turned around. "Krystal? Are you—Krystal!"

She was on the ground convulsing madly, looking as if she was in a seizure, her marionette strings snipped. Fox raced over to her, falling to his knees, and cradled her head. "Krystal, wake up!" he yelled. Her mouth lolled open and drool came out; her eyes, though closed, were frantic in their movements. "Slippy!" he shouted. "Get the medic kit!"

"I'm on it—I'm on it!"

"Peppy, you take command—"

"Roger, Fox—"

"Is there anything I—?"

"Shut up and stay where you are, Falco—Krystal, wake up, please!"

Through it all ROB stood placidly, staring at the viewscreen. He said to nobody in particular, "Alien fleet moving into unknown formation, preparing to attack aparoid forces."

Fox peeled back one of Krystal's eyelids and almost let go when he saw how fast her eye was moving. It seemed possessed, as if it had its own mind or had been injected with some sort of stimulant. Slippy ambled in holding a red-and-white packet that he was fumbling open. Fox yanked the hypospray almost instantly out of the toad's hand and pressed it to the vixen's neck.

Instantly the sedative took effect and she calmed down, her eyes freezing in place for a split second before rolling to the side. Her breathing, which was erratic, slowed to normal levels. Fox put an ear to her chest—he was relieved to hear her heartbeat slowing down. "What happened to her?" he asked ineffectually. No one could answer him.

For several agonizingly long minutes they waited—waited as the aparoid fleet closed in on them, waited as the Cornerian fleet started bombarding the Great Fox with requests for orders ("Commander, the alien fleet is attacking, should we assist them, over?"), waited as Krystal fell into a deep sleep.

"Fox, what do you want me to do?" Peppy asked, covering the mouthpiece of his headset, which he'd put on lopsidedly in his haste to intercept the communications. Fox didn't answer, watching Krystal. Falco kept quiet but glanced nervously at the viewscreen. Slippy had the contents of the packet organized and ready for whatever Fox needed.

"Please, wake up," Fox whispered.

Finally, Krystal did wake—but her eyes did not indicate she saw them. They stared straight up. Then she spoke, chokingly, with emotion so unlike of her:

"O my son Absalom. My son, my son Absalom. Would God I could die for thee, O Absalom, my son. My sons!"

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