《Grass Eaters [HFY]》


 First Strike - Chapter 1 | Different Kind of Strength

    It¡¯s not just your deadlift.


    Your hundred-meter.


    Your high jump.


    Tomorrow¡¯s battles require a different kind of strength.


    The strength to stand out in school, and to stand up for what¡¯s right.


    It¡¯s more than physical strength.


    It¡¯s strength of character.


    Strength of will, purpose, and determination.


    The strength to serve your community, your district, and your Republic.


    The strength of a Republic Spacer.


    (Title text: AIM FOR THE STARS)


    (Subtitle text: Find out if you are a Spacer today.)


    ¡°Strength¡±, Terran Republic Navy Recruiting Commercial, March 2123


    <hr>


    The war had been raging for ten years.


    The Granti had been close allies to the Malgeir Federation for centuries. As a fellow peaceful predator species, they had long tubular snouts, fur colors varying from icy white to the deep brown of old trees, and beefy limbs ending with sharp talons. Physically, they towered over the Malgeir at over two meters tall, and their people were known by the Malgeir as gentle giants.


    The Malgeir loved the Granti like they were their own. Over centuries, the two civilizations shared and traded everything from their technology to their very lives. Their love of seafood. Their fashion. Their snout-counting governance. Their taboo against thinking machines. Among the other civilizations Malgeir met in the stars, their connection with the Granti was unparalleled. Some even fell in love with each other, adopting each others¡¯ families, and some of them grew old together. Nothing could come between the two peoples.


    When the Granti reported violent skirmishes against a newly discovered alien race near their border about a decade ago, the Malgeir jumped in, no questions asked. They sent resources. They sent food. They provided shelter for the refugees streaming from the front. And before long, their warships joined ranks with their longtime ally as well.


    The Malgeir fought alongside the Granti, shoulder-to-shoulder. And then, as the war grew increasingly desperate, back-to-back.


    The narrative among civilians was of a rising tide that had somehow turned against them. But veterans in the Malgeir Federation Navy knew it hadn¡¯t been a tide: the enemy had been a tsunami from the start.


    Their foes, the Znosians, were an enigma. Unique among all the interstellar species the Malgeir had met, these white furred, petite mammalian creatures with elongated ears and short tails thrived on non-carnivorous diets. Oddly enough, such peaceful dietary habits belied their bloodthirsty appetite for combat. It was still unclear to most what their ultimate objectives were, but the way they painted the fertile soil of occupied Malgeir and Granti planets with the blood of their former residents made it clear that they could not be allowed to succeed.


    While many derisively called them ¡°Grass Eaters,¡± their appetite for destruction was far from vegetarian. Despite being born having short claws, soft hides, and brittle bones, they more than made up for their natural shortcomings with machinery and an innate understanding for the lifeline of war: logistics. These creatures were relentless, and they were unparalleled at what they did.


    All the Malgeir could do was be there. There in the defense of the Granti: in one spacer after another, one ship after another, and one fleet after another. Retreat after retreat, they stood with their allies until the very last escort ship out during the final evacuation of Grantor.


    That was about four years ago. It had taken the Znosians a mere six years to wipe out what the Granti built in tens of thousands.


    When they were done with the Granti, the Znosians did not stop; they immediately turned their sights to the Malgeir. And as expected, the Malgeir Navy felt the weight of the new onslaught, suffering crushing loss after loss.


    Civilians at home were shielded from the brutal truth, kept in the dark about the scale of the disaster. Still, whispers of entire colonies vanishing from communication networks reached their ears. They saw their own go into the stars, towards the war, and their loved ones came back in boxes, bags, or not at all. Worse, rumors filtered through from the occupied worlds, tales so chilling that some dismissed them as mere war propaganda.


    Those in the Malgeir Sixth Fleet who had witnessed the atrocities on occupied planets first-hand knew better. The stories: they were not exaggerations; they were the price of losing.


    <hr>


    <h2>Malgeir Navy Ship Oengro</h2>


    Fleet Commander Grionc steadied herself against the sturdy railing of the flag bridge of her mammoth Alpha-class warship. She stood there for a minute, just taking in the practiced chaos of her crews as they worked. Despite what Malgeir Navy doctrine called for, she reminded herself to refrain from jumping in and micromanaging her subordinates.


    Her gaze settled on the command console directly in front of her. Alerts flashed and beeped, listing out a cocktail of problems. There was some irrecoverable fault in the ventilation shaft¡¯s pressure sensors. The hangar bay¡¯s computer was perpetually fried. The main kitchen was out of seasoning for grade-three rations. Typical¡­ Grionc dismissed the bothersome notifications and focused on the personnel screen: the hundreds of officers under her who managed her flagship of five thousand spacers. Other than a few dozen paws nursing upset stomachs in sick bay after a recent wave of food poisonings, she was satisfied to note that no major yellow flags jumped out at her.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Behind her in his own duty station, sat the second highest-ranking Malgeir officer on this side of the galaxy ¡ª Alpha Leader Vastae, captain of the Oengro. She was a paltry thirty-seven years old to his thirty-eight years of age, both some of the youngest of their ranks in Malgeir history.


    Physically, Grionc looked every bit a typical Malgeir: jet black fur trimmed to regulation-perfect length, fierce crimson eyes, and a snout and ears fine-tuned from evolution for acute hearing and smell. One facial feature set her apart: a long gash on the right side of her snout, a brutal souvenir acquired at the deadly Uidquu shipyard raid two years ago that destroyed the quarter of the Malgeir naval leadership meeting there as well as almost eighty-five percent of the tonnage in much-vaunted Malgeir Second Fleet.


    That was the event that earned her the promotion to fleet commander. She was not just experienced, and she was not just competent: she was a survivor. And these three rare traits in the Malgeir Navy were too much for even the Fleet Council to ignore.


    Captain Vastae¡¯s eyes danced over the screen, skimming the updates. After a minute, he pivoted towards Grionc, his expression satisfied and voice firm and clear. ¡°The Oengro is combat ready, Fleet Commander.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Captain,¡± Grionc replied calmly. ¡°What is the status of the rest of Sixth Fleet?¡±


    Vastae had clearly anticipated this question. While he was not in command of any ship other than the MNS Oengro, it often fell on him as the flag captain to coordinate between the fleet commander and the rest of the fleet.


    He straightened and reported, ¡°Squadrons 1 to 4 are ready for combat. Squadrons 5 to 9 are completing their final checklists. Squadron 8 still with a few ships calibrating their local sensors. Squadrons 10 to 12 warming up their subspace drives but should be good to go in half an hour.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s lips curled into a hint of a smirk. ¡°Not bad for a Malgeir battle fleet, eh?¡±


    Vastae shrugged.


    Indeed, it was not bad at all. In fact, of all the fleets in the Malgeir Navy, Sixth Fleet had the highest combat readiness, which showed its excellence even in the rigged exercises that Home Fleet hosted annually.


    Whether it compared favorably to the enemy, well, Grionc¡¯s inner voice commented, nobody compared favorably to the Grass Eaters in military prowess.


    She could only hope what Sixth Fleet had here today was enough.


    Grionc gazed out at the Malgeir core world of Datsot with a heavy heart.


    Only four months ago, the planet shimmered with abundance of life and civilization¡­ before the Znosians came.


    The Navy, busy in far-off battles, couldn¡¯t arrive to defend Datsot in time. And without their presence, the planet became easy prey. Its orbital defenses were in tatters, ripped apart within hours of the enemy¡¯s arrival around the planet.


    The relentless Znosians ignored their mounting losses and dispatched their troop ships onto the planet. Despite stubborn resistance from its defenders, they kept coming, ship after ship, full of their troops. Soon, the Malgeir¡¯s connection with Datsot¡¯s civilian leaders went dark. The only thing that got through the FTL communication net were the cries of death and war.


    The once crystal-clear blues and whites of the beautiful planet¡¯s atmosphere were now stained with muddy brown filth, a grim result of a planetary conflagration that had consumed its lush forests. Grionc had no doubt in her mind who the culprits were.


    Her paws danced over her sensor console, showing her a ray of hope: signs of life still flickered on its surface. The ten billion souls of a core world do not simply give up in four short months. Some areas were ominously silent, obviously ¡°pacified¡± by the Znosian invaders, but many others still showed sporadic flashes of fire visible from space, the signature of the ground artillery used by both sides launching their explosive payloads, scorching its colorful landscape with circles of blackened soot. The surface of Datsot was scarred with layers upon layers of endless trenches dug into its fertile soil, snaking through its forests, its plains, and its cities.


    Grionc felt for the plight of Datsot¡¯s still determined defenders, spraying their sweat and red blood across the golden farmlands of Datsot, holding out for as long as they could against the tidal wave of Znosian shock troopers, conscripts, and space-to-ground artillery pounding their positions to dust.


    The loss of Datsot hurt. It was the first core world invested by the enemy this far towards the Malgeir homeworld.


    This is why we are here. This is why we fight.


    With a heavy sigh, Grionc turned back to the immediate task at hand. ¡°Status report?¡±


    The main tactical display flickered to life, revealing a constellation of enemy vessels near the planet.


    "Fleet sensors show sixteen space combat vessels, Delta-classes, holding position in high Datsot orbit. About two hundred auxiliary ships with enemy signatures in the system, likely for logistics and orbital support," Vastae reported, eyes scanning the data.


    Grionc absorbed the information, her mind racing. "Looks like intel earned their pay this time¡­ Classify all non-combat ships as hostile. Engage only if necessary, but show no mercy if they approach."


    ¡°Yes, Fleet Commander.¡±


    Grionc''s thoughts lingered in her memories. The Znosians taught them the hard way that they could turn even non-combat vessels into dangerous weapons. More than once, entire squadrons were wiped out when transport ships armed with improvised weapons got themselves into range. As it turned out, just because they had no armor and ran dirty drives didn¡¯t mean they had no teeth if they got close.


    Sixth Fleet wouldn¡¯t be making that mistake against their cunning foes. Not today.


    Unlike the other formations in the Malgeir Navy, Sixth Fleet was an elite and uniquely offensive fleet: other than its flagship, almost all its combat ships were the combat-tested Delta-classes known for their dedicated missile capabilities and their crews of five hundred battle-experienced spacers.


    With twelve powerful squadrons at their disposal, each with the standard complement of twelve ships, they had both the firepower and the numbers on their side. And, with six extra ships for supplies, they came prepared for their Datsot liberation mission. The enemy¡¯s paltry sixteen ships in orbit dwarfed in comparison.


    But Grionc wasn¡¯t about to let her guard down. ¡°Move in on Datsot and keep a close watch on the Delta-class ships. The moment they make a move, I want to know.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    <hr>


    A few hours later, the enemy did exactly that.


    ¡°The Znosian fleet at Datsot is burning away from us,¡± Vastae noted, his eyes flickering over the latest readings on his console. ¡°Looks like they¡¯re running.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s lips curled up in contempt. ¡°How are their acceleration numbers?¡±


    ¡°Their drives are still warming up. Based on the observed numbers, it looks like they¡¯ll top out at a third our combat burn,¡± Vastae reported, his claws dancing over the controls for confirmation.


    ¡°A third?!¡± She glanced at her own console in surprise. ¡°So we can intercept them before they get to the blink limit after all?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Fleet Commander. About a dozen of their orbital support crafts are attached to their fleet, towing their orbital infrastructure, and they appear to be slowing their combat fleet down.¡±


    Orbital math doesn¡¯t lie, Grionc thought. If the enemy fleet only tops out at a third of our acceleration numbers, we can catch up and wipe them out hours before they escape¡­


    ¡°You¡¯d think they would cut and run,¡± she mused, mostly to herself. ¡°They¡¯re not known for being sentimental.¡±


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae shook his ears in negation and bared his teeth. ¡°The Grass Eater mind works in truly mysterious ways.¡±


    ¡°Be careful, Captain. The enemy is fanatical, not stupid. Let¡¯s not make the mistake of underestimating them; it¡¯s one we won¡¯t get to repeat,¡± she cautioned.


    ¡°Of course, ma¡¯am. I¡¯ll keep the fleet on high readiness and ensure our ships keep up the sensor sweeps.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Burn for intercept, and make sure they are not leaving behind any traps for us as we close on them.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 2 | Combat Burn

    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    Grionc turned to Vastae to ask, ¡°How is Squadron 4 doing?¡±


    Squadron 4 was special. Instead of the blue and gray flag of the Malgeir, its ships flew the tricolor ¡ª white, brown, and black ¡ª flag of the fallen Granti Alliance. Enough former Granti Navy personnel had made it out to staff and crew a dozen Delta-class Malgeir ships. Battle-hardened and eager, they volunteered for dangerous combat assignments to avenge their fallen homeworld and to prevent another¡¯s from falling. Grionc felt a deep sense of gratitude for their support¡­ if not a small measure of shame for their necessity.


    ¡°Captain Clebret is in command of the Gridquucque,¡± Vastae carefully pronounced the Granti name for the ship. Though he did not consider himself fluent, he did have to learn some Granti in school and later in war. Sadly, the skill has become less relevant since the war went badly for the Granti people. ¡°They have offered to put themselves in front of the Oengro to protect our frontal arc, a proposal I naturally declined.¡±


    ¡°Ludicrous,¡± Grionc snorted. ¡°Quietly inform the Squadron 1 commander to mix their ships among Squadron 4. I am not going to go back in front of the Granti Council-in-exile and explain to them why I lost more of their remnant population. Especially not when there are so few of them left¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae agreed. ¡°At least their ships are joining us in battle, unlike the cowardly long faced¡­ Schpriss. The only things those dishonorable weaklings are sending us are platitudes and promises. Those useless so-called allies. They should at least donate us their spines if they are not going to use them.¡±


    Grionc sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t blame them. After all, everyone saw what happened to us after we helped the Granti. The Schpriss don¡¯t want to be next in line.¡±


    Vastae shrugged noncommittally.


    Grionc didn¡¯t expect him to get it. He had a good head on his shoulders and was a solid, dependable captain, but he treated politics as above his pay grade.


    Before the war, someone like him would never have gotten his own command, but times were desperate, and the Navy was changing. Not fast enough, in her private opinion, but there was no better teacher for the stubborn than humiliation and defeat.


    To put it mildly, this war was full of hard lessons.


    ¡°Still,¡± Grionc conceded, ¡°You are not wrong. Having access to Schprissian ship designs could certainly level the playing field. We could use their rumored fast propulsion drives right about now. And I heard they are making progress on armor that somehow makes it harder for missiles to hit. I¡¯ve only seen that with a few specially made Znosian reconnaissance ships before.¡±


    Vastae nodded again, this time with a bit less reluctance. His thoughts on ¡°wonder weapons¡± were mixed. Early in the war, several attempts to field them had turned out disastrous, despite the Malgeir¡¯s seemingly superior technical skill. However, it had become apparent that they would need something to even the advantage. At this point, the Navy would probably take any hull that didn¡¯t immediately combust upon lighting the engines.


    Grionc focused her mind on the task at hand. Overkill as their massive fleet would be in an engagement with the small enemy flotilla, battle planning was still necessary.


    She turned to the Oengro¡¯s tactical officer station. ¡°Tactical Officer Speinfoent, up our estimation of their effective weapon range by ten percent and assess the engagement. I want to know where and when they¡¯ll start shooting and how quickly we¡¯ll be able to shoot back,¡± she ordered.


    Delta Leader Speinfoent was quite the character. Despite being only twenty-nine, his combat experience outweighed some of his seniors. Though his service record indicated he was from a remote colony planet, his brown fur, strikingly similar to Vastae¡¯s, whispered tales of lineage tracing back to the elite families of the Malgeir capital.


    When Speinfoent first came aboard the Oengro, his lanky frame and the thick glasses that covered his dull orange eyes had Grionc thinking he¡¯d wandered off from an academic conference. But his knack for tactics, coupled with lightning-fast calculations, had proven invaluable to the Sixth Fleet. Grionc was willing to turn a blind eye to his casual disregard for protocol and occasional lapses in discipline. Increasingly, she found herself relying on him to devise tactics for the entire Sixth Fleet.


    After a few minutes engrossed in his consoles and datapads, Speinfoent came back with an answer. ¡°Fleet Commander, at our current ninety percent acceleration, we¡¯ll intercept the enemy fleet in about fifty-eight hours. Given our much higher velocity at that point, we will be in the enemy missiles¡¯ minimum abort range for only about fifteen minutes before they come into ours.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s about¡ª¡± she opened her snout to clarify.


    Speinfoent interrupted, ¡°That¡¯s about two volleys of their missiles, maybe three, before we get into effective range. Once we¡¯re in range, I calculate it¡¯ll be one or two volleys from the fleet to wipe them out.¡± He ignored a quick glare from the captain for the rudeness, whose indignance Grionc casually dismissed with a wave of her paw.


    ¡°Good work, Speinfoent,¡± she praised before she directed her attention to Vastae. ¡°Fleet-wide, load for three counter-missile volleys, then balanced loadouts for the remainder of the engagement.¡±


    <hr>


    In the tense hours that followed, the fleet slowly gained ground on the fleeing enemy.


    With every shift change on her bridge, Grionc felt an ever-growing knot of unease tightening inside her. The Znosians didn¡¯t usually go down without a trick up their sleeves. Her years of campaigning against them had taught her to trust her instincts. But there was nothing else on sensors even as they closed in on the enemy enough to count their individual subspace drive plumes in the infrared sensors.


    To Grionc, this whole situation smelled of a trap. But how could she second-guess herself now? Sixteen Znosian ships were up against her mighty fleet of over a hundred war-ready vessels. Under normal circumstances, she might have spent more time scouting and strategizing. But time was a luxury she didn¡¯t have. They had to take out this fleet and secure Datsot orbit swiftly before any Znosian reinforcements swooped in to strengthen its defenders.


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    She¡¯d done all the contingency planning she could. Now was the time to put her faith in the tens of thousands of loyal Malgeir spacers who looked up to her.


    ¡°Alpha Leader Vastae,¡± she spoke with authority, ¡°Bring us up from ninety to full combat burn and go to battle alert.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    The lights in the halls of the Oengro turned yellow, and Grionc watched as the primary bridge shifts took their place at their stations. Space battles, as any old spacer would say, were long periods of boredom, punctuated only by moments of pure terror. And during those long periods of boredom, the most experienced officers and crews of the Sixth Fleet were ordered off duty, leaving their newer counterparts in charge of the ship¡¯s operation so they can be extra rested for the grueling stress of combat.


    The digital chime of the ship¡¯s alert system echoed through the bridge just before Tactical Officer Speinfoent¡¯s voice broke the anticipatory silence.


    ¡°We are entering the enemy¡¯s effective range plus fifty percent.¡±


    ¡°Good. They should be entering¡ª¡±


    Vastae was about to estimate the time it would take for the enemy to come into their own firing range when Speinfoent, ever precise and eager, casually interjected. ¡°They¡¯ll be in ours in about fi-fteen minutes.¡±


    Grionc stepped in before Vastae could chastise the junior officer for his continued blatant disregard for protocol and discipline. ¡°As we planned, counter-missiles only until we get within our minimum abort range. Let¡¯s make every shot count.¡±


    Vastae nodded, swallowing his correction of the eager tactical officer, and quickly relayed Grionc¡¯s orders across the fleet¡¯s communication channels.


    Speinfoent counted down the approach to the enemy fleet as the minutes passed. ¡°We¡¯re at enemy¡¯s effective range plus forty-five percent¡­ forty percent¡­ thirty-five percent¡­ thirty¡ª¡±


    The earsplitting sound of the bridge¡¯s sirens cut off his last report.


    ¡°Enemy missiles inbound!¡± Speinfoent¡¯s voice shouted urgently over the noise. His tactical console lit up like a chaotic festival, a plethora of instruments winking and flashing urgently. ¡°Counting twenty, no¡ª eighty, wait¡ª one hundred sixty missiles inbound!¡±


    The ship¡¯s radar screens lit up with a mass of new yellow dots, racing from the enemy towards the fleet.


    Ten from each of them. Of course the enemy¡¯s missile batteries are fully operational. If only the ships in our Fleets had their combat readiness¡­


    Grionc¡¯s gut tightened, though her expression remained stoic as she shut off the alarms. She¡¯d anticipated the Grass Eaters would have the range advantage, but not one so far outside Naval Intelligence¡¯s estimated parameters.


    No time to dwell on that now¡­


    The enemy¡¯s missiles were impressive, but the Sixth Fleet had a lot of ships to throw around and thus a lot of ship defenses. ¡°Tactical, countermeasures.¡±


    ¡°Chaff away. Decoys away,¡± Speinfoent called, paws dancing nimbly over his console. ¡°Counter-missile barrage away in three¡­ two¡­¡±


    The Oengro bridge deck thunked as agile defensive missiles streamed out from the flagship missile bays, and Grionc saw hundreds of new yellow dots blossom on her console¡¯s radar panel as the other ships in the fleet followed her example.


    Grionc¡¯s mind swirled, calculating the cold, hard math of kill probabilities and orbital trajectories. Malgeir counter-missiles were not quite as effective as the Znosians¡¯. A smattering of enemy missiles could probably breach their counter-missile net, penetrating into point defense range. But they could withstand that¡­ couldn¡¯t they? After all, Sixth Fleet had almost as many ships as the enemy had missiles airborne.


    ¡°Which ships are they targeting?¡± she questioned, trying to push away the thought that maybe, just maybe, she¡¯d made an error by placing her flagship near the front of the battle formation.


    Her rational brain kicked in. It wouldn¡¯t matter anyway: space is big. Accidental hits were uncommon. If they were targeting you, they were going to target you anyway, no matter where in the formation you are. And, she decided, if being in front with the rest of the fleet gave them the confidence and discipline they needed to do their jobs better, it would be well worth the risk to her personal safety.


    Speinfoent¡¯s paws blurred over the controls of his console, running calculations, trying to decipher the enemy¡¯s intent.


    ¡°Calculating¡­ give me a minute¡­¡± he called out.


    Silence smothered the bridge, thick and heavy like a blanket. Each crew member was acutely aware of the Znosians¡¯ notorious affinity for decapitation strikes, and they were sitting in the only target worth decapitating within several light years.


    ¡°They¡¯re targeting Squadrons 1 and 6, Fleet Commander.¡±


    She cast her gaze across the bridge, her voice steel. ¡°Tighten the fleet formation and maintain overlapping coverage on point defense. We have the numerical superiority, and we will not squander it.¡±


    The enemy missiles came racing in. The Malgeir counter-missiles performed admirably. By the dozens, they plucked away at the incoming enemy missiles. Most of the yellow dots representing enemy missiles disappeared off the radar screen.


    Then, as fast as they entered it, the hostile missiles were through the screen. A couple dozen remained, speeding towards Sixth Fleet with the last of their maneuvering fuel.


    The Oengro¡¯s guns came alive, spewing fury at the enemy missiles whizzing at them. A blur to the naked eye, the onboard computer systems worked automatically to aim their shots and let out bursts of projectiles at the threats. Through the viewport, Grionc watched as a torrent of point defense fire from nearby friendly ships lash out as well, desperately trying to swat them out of the vacuum.


    Then, the incessant shriek of the tactical station¡¯s alarms fell eerily silent, and the whirring staccato of gunfire ceased, replaced by an anxious stillness that enveloped the bridge.


    ¡°A ship in Squadron 6 has taken a minor proximity hit,¡± Vastae announced as the captains reported in. ¡°Shrapnel took out a few empty compartments. No casualties reported yet. All ships remain combat effective.¡±


    Grionc released a held breath that mirrored her bridge crew¡¯s.


    After a moment, Speinfoent reported again, frowning. ¡°Based on sensor tracking, it looks like some of the enemy missiles ran out of fuel before they reached our position.¡±


    Grionc nodded, the implication of the attack hitting her. ¡°Looks like their effective ranges weren¡¯t as underestimated as I thought. They were just shooting them in the blind, hoping they¡¯d catch us with strays.¡±


    ¡°Small as the threat was, we must still honor it with our defenses¡ª¡±


    Suddenly, urgent, rapid beeps sliced through the conversation. Speinfoent¡¯s voice, tight with obvious anxiety, shouted over it again. ¡°Missiles! Another volley; one hundred sixty, bearing down on us!¡±


    ¡°Status on the counter-missiles?¡± Grionc asked calmly.


    ¡°Reloading now¡­ and ready to launch, Fleet Commander. Ready to launch on your order¡­¡± Speinfoent¡¯s left paw hovered over the controls.


    ¡°Go.¡±


    ¡°Counter-missiles away.¡±


    A series of resonant thuds marked their launch, followed by silence on the bridge other than the hum of their consoles and inertial compensators.


    ¡°Ninety percent of enemy missiles neutralized. Point defense will handle the stragglers,¡± Speinfoent declared a few minutes later as the missiles approached their defensive perimeter.


    The guns sounded out again for less than a second as the computers did their best to protect their ships.


    As the flurry of yellow on the radar cleared, Vastae reported, ¡°I¡¯m still taking a full tally. One ship in Squadron 8 took a hit: its weapons and engines are out, and three dozen reported casualties. Captain Pemproem is requesting permission to disengage and pick up the survivors.¡±


    ¡°Permission granted; we can afford to spare his ship. Speinfoent, how much further out are the Grass Eaters from our effective range?¡± Grionc asked, voice steady.


    ¡°Ten minutes now, Fleet Commander¡­ Enemy missiles inbound! Another volley. Another one hundred sixty.¡±


    Grionc looked calmly at her tactical officer. ¡°Prepare the counter-missiles again. They must be getting desperate over there.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 3 | Effective Range

    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    Sixth Fleet defeated the third and fourth volleys of enemy missiles without any additional casualties.


    ¡°We are entering our own effective range,¡± Speinfoent announced to the bridge the second he saw the notification. ¡°Coordinating fire with the fleet¡­ launching!¡±


    A few seconds later, a massive flurry of much heavier projectiles streamed out of the fleet¡¯s missile tubes and onto the sensor screens. Hundreds of anti-ship missiles began tracking the enemy targets, dwarfing the quantity of munitions the enemy had put into vacuum so far.


    ¡°We have good track¡­¡±


    Grionc watched as the sensor screen lit up with a mass of dozens of new yellow dots near where the enemy fleet was. Her lips curled up briefly. ¡°Decoys, huh?¡± she mused aloud. She watched as Speinfoent¡¯s paws danced over the controls, activating preset filters to clear out the false threats.


    Speinfoent updated the bridge calmly. ¡°They¡¯ve launched countermeasures. Our radar computers are compensating.¡±


    Some of the dots sporadically began to disappear as the ship¡¯s computer resolved them as irrelevant targets with their nonsensical orbit changes or radar returns.


    The Znosian ships and training were good, but the Malgeir had numbers and physics on their side. At their vector and distance, the outgoing missiles should have just enough fuel to match whatever burn maneuvers they could execute. The Malgeir missiles closed half the gap in minutes without any overt response from the enemy.


    If my experience is anything to go by, Grionc mused, about half of the Malgeir missiles would miss, but the remaining hundreds of missiles should still be more than enough to vaporize that tiny Znosian formation multiple times over.


    She was interrupted in her thoughts as Speinfoent suddenly stood up in the tactical station, the fur on his back standing up. ¡°Fleet Commander, the enemy fleet¡­ it¡¯s gone to full combat burn.¡±


    ¡°What?! What about their slow ships?¡±


    Speinfoent, eyes fixed on his panels, double-checked his figures. ¡°Fleet Commander, they¡¯ve just ditched their orbital supply ships. Those acceleration numbers! That¡¯s almost at ninety percent our combat burn!¡±


    Grionc did some quick calculations in her head. It didn¡¯t make sense.


    ¡°How can they increase their acceleration to full so fast?! Won¡¯t their subspace engines burn out?¡±


    ¡°Likely,¡± Speinfoent replied in rapid-fire, ¡°But they must have decided it was worth it.¡±


    ¡°What about our missiles?¡±


    He did some more tapping on his consoles, shaking his ears in disappointment. ¡°They¡¯re going to shake our missiles. Factoring in their new acceleration, our effective range just went down by almost half!¡±


    And sure enough, the plot updated to show the enemy ships burning hard, deviating far enough from their original trajectory for the missiles to run out of fuel way before they can approach their targets.


    The alarm in Grionc¡¯s head reached a screeching crescendo. ¡°Wait, with their new acceleration numbers, how long would it take for us to reach effective range?¡±


    ¡°About two more hours,¡± Speinfoent replied.


    ¡°Two hours? We don¡¯t have enough counter-missiles for two hours.¡± Grionc said, her outward calm a facade. ¡°If we shoot now, what are our chances?¡±


    Speinfoent shook his ears. ¡°None. With their acceleration, our missiles don¡¯t have enough fuel to reach them, and even if they did, they wouldn¡¯t still have enough energy to maneuver to hit. Until we close the range, we¡¯re going to be sitting ducks.¡±


    Grionc weighed the two options on the table: she could chase down the enemy and destroy them all, at the cost of dozens of her ships as they close in, or¡­ she could back off and let them slip away.


    ¡°Tracking enemy missiles approaching! All missiles destroyed,¡± Speinfoent sighed in relief for the fifth time. ¡°Our counter-missile supply is running on half.¡±


    She looked at her bridge of young Malgeir spacers, recalled her campaign orders, and made the only decision she thought she could live with.


    She took a deep breath and announced, ¡°Listen up, people, it looks like we won¡¯t bag all the enemies today. But our people on Datsot must come first. Reverse course and disengage immediately.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Fleet Commander,¡± Vastae acknowledged, relaying commands through the fleet comms. The star field in the bridge viewport flipped. The loud whine of the inertial compensators sounded again, keeping the ship¡¯s occupants from splattering into the ship¡¯s walls as it started to reverse away from the enemy at full acceleration.


    It was slightly disappointing that we wouldn¡¯t be able to get all the enemy ships, but we were still able to drive the enemies away from Datsot.


    ¡°Inform the Marines to initiate landing preparations for the liberation of¡ª¡± Grionc started to order.


    Speinfoent interrupted her, ¡°Fleet Commander, the enemy fleet is now slowing down as well. They¡¯ve reversed and matched our reverse acceleration as well. And they¡¯ve just launched another volley at us!¡±


    What are they thinking?


    Then, she saw the position Sixth Fleet was in. The sickly, heart-stopping realization dropped in Grionc¡¯s stomach like a stone.


    The enemy hadn¡¯t been fleeing after all. Not really.


    Their ships had been strung along just enough to sucker her fleet into a stern chase. They were just within the enemy¡¯s effective range, but the enemy were right outside theirs. Now they were caught in a bind: too close to get away quickly, but too far to hit the enemy.


    A quiet, ¡°I see,¡± escaped Grionc, her snout parched and voice barely above a whisper.


    For a moment, Grionc considered splitting her fleet, but there was too much complexity there. The fleet was not ready for independent maneuvers. And she realized that whatever she considered in the moment, the war-experienced Znosians surely did as well. Ultimately, she liked the idea of being defeated in detail even less than charging up their throats under fire.


    Her ships must chase the fleeing enemies; they had given her no choice. She knew that Sixth Fleet was going to lose ships ¡ª many ships ¡ª to this.


    To her mistake.


    Her stomach knotted in guilt, but Grionc squared her shoulders and did what she knew needed to be done.


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    ¡°Reverse course again. Full acceleration. We have no choice. We need to close our range with the enemy as quickly as possible.¡±


    <hr>


    Grionc¡¯s heart sank as Vastae delivered the grim news an hour and a half later. ¡°We¡¯ve exhausted counter-missiles across our fleet, Fleet Commander.¡±


    The echo of the words stung. They¡¯d lost four ships even with some counter-missiles. Now, without any, the approaching volley promised devastation. In her head, a mental image formed of her fleet being ripped apart by the Grass Eaters. Ship by ship, life by life.


    ¡°Volley inbound, one hundred sixty missiles!¡±


    Teeth clenched, Grionc ran the quick, brutal math through her mind. Even with her ships pressed into a tight formation with overlapping point defense coverage, with no counter-missiles¡­


    This will hurt. At minimum, eight ships this volley, she counted in her head ¡ª undoubtedly including her flagship ¡ª which the enemy had been throwing a sizable portion of death at in every volley.


    ¡°Inform the captains of the rest of the fleet. No matter what happens. Even if this flagship is destroyed. The fleet must close with the enemy at all costs and engage. That is the only way we win ¡ª the only way even some of us survive,¡± Grionc commanded.


    Making her peace with the inevitable outcome, Grionc mouthed a silent apology to the crew of the Oengro and their families.


    I was the one who put them in this danger, all of them¡ª


    ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± Speinfoent¡¯s voice cut into her self-pity. ¡°Squadron 4 is falling out of formation.¡±


    ¡°The Granti ships are falling back? Tell them I understand, this is not their fight,¡± Grionc replied calmly. She added, ¡°In fact, broadcast for the record that I am ordering them to disengage with the¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, Fleet Commander. They have dumped their excess fuel and cargo, and they are boosting in front of the Oengro¡ª¡±


    Grionc didn¡¯t need completion of his report to grasp their full intentions.


    Hurriedly connecting to Gridquucque¡¯s communication on her own console, Grionc snatched up her microphone and shouted into it ungracefully, spittle flying. ¡°Captain Clebret, what the hell are you doing? Get your squadron back in formation and get out of our forward defensive zone.¡±


    Clebret¡¯s image, black fur and golden eyes steady, materialized on the screen. He was most definitely not fooled by her transparent attempt to re-frame the order to clear their frontal sector. ¡°Fleet Commander Grionc, I can read a battlemap as well as you can. Over a hundred missiles inbound and these Znosian anti-ship missiles are nasty: your battleship can take what¡­ eight, maybe ten direct hits in total? If you¡¯re lucky. The fleet will need your missile tubes for the fight you still have ahead.¡±


    Grionc snapped back at him. ¡°Captain, your orders are not optional! Get your ships out of here!¡±


    The subtle tilt of Clebret¡¯s head spoke volumes. ¡°I guess we will have to see at my court martial then, Fleet Commander Grionc¡­ I know you¡­ and your people: they will take care of our families back on Malgeiru. None of us¡ª none of us have forgotten what you and your people have done for us and ours. It was an honor to serve under you.¡±


    He paused briefly, offering her the somber Granti salute with the ancient traditional expression: ¡°good hunting, Sixth Fleet.¡±


    The transmission was cut from the other end.


    ¡°Get them back!¡± Grionc screamed at Oengro¡¯s communication officer in futile desperation. ¡°Get them out of there!¡±


    Speinfoent warned, ¡°Enemy missiles approaching our formation, direct front!¡±


    She could only helplessly watch the full magnitude of her failure play out as the twelve small dots in front of the Oengro spat everything they had left on the ship at the incoming tidal wave of death and several of their dots winked out from the radar forever.


    <hr>


    Grionc¡¯s gaze flitted across the bridge, silent save for the ambient hums and beeps of machinery and consoles. ¡°How many?¡± Her voice was barely above a whisper, but she knew Vastae would understand.


    ¡°Seven ships from Squadron 4 are gone, reactor hits,¡± he replied, voice tinged with sorrow. ¡°Two more are disabled. It looks like the Grass Eaters really wanted us dead. Most of the rest of the Sixth did not receive much fire. I¡¯m getting reports that two more may be disabled in Squadron 8. And they took out all our heavy transports. The enemy must have targeted them intentionally.¡±


    ¡°Did Captain Clebret and his ship manage to get out¡ª¡± she murmured.


    Vastae shook his head sadly.


    She put him out of her mind for now.


    Seven, plus two, plus another two. Eleven of her combat ships down.


    One volley without counter-missiles and it was already more damage than they¡¯d expected to take in the campaign so far.


    ¡°One hundred sixty missiles inbound,¡± Speinfoent interjected into her thoughts, his report falling like another hammer blow. ¡°They can unleash at least another¡­ four volleys before we reach maximum effective range.¡±


    Four volleys, Grionc thought bitterly, that¡¯s another forty ships if we continued like this. And it will only get worse as we lose more ships and coverage.


    She prepared to give the order to scatter the fleet in a wide formation, hoping that would give the enemy too many targets to focus down immediately.


    Suddenly an unfamiliar voice crackled through the communication net: a Granti female, her alien accent distinguishable despite the focused tone and sounds of coughing and shouting in the background. ¡°Looks like I¡¯m the next one on the succession chart. All remaining ships in Squadron 4, maintain course and shield the flagship with your IR signatures. Prioritize damage control efforts solely on point defense and targeting¡ª¡±


    Grionc started to admonish her and wave her away. ¡°Squadron 4, you¡¯ve suffered extensive casualties and have two disabled ships. Cease your acceleration burns to conduct search and rescue¡ª¡±


    Then, another voice, a Malgeir male this time, joined the Granti captain¡¯s on the communication net. ¡°This is Squadron 1 Lead. All ships in Squadron 1, maneuver and align with Squadron 4 ahead of the fleet commander¡¯s flagship. To the rest of Sixth Fleet: good hunting.¡±


    Grionc knew that nothing she said would change their minds.


    But that did not stop her from trying.


    Vastae shook his ears, looking as miserable as she felt. ¡°Their bridges have stopped responding to our hails.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Another volley incoming!¡±


    ¡°This is Squadron 2 Lead. All ships, form up on us! Join Squadron 1¡ª¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°This is Squadron 3 Leader to all captains in the squadron. We are moving to join Squadron 2. Other volunteers in the squadron will be honored. Sixth Fleet, good hunting!¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°This is Squadron 5. We are moving to join the spacers of the third. I thank you all in advance on behalf of my beloved pack on Datsot. Good hunting!¡±


    Seething, Grionc snapped at the bridge, ¡°Are we going to get into range of the enemy any time soon?¡±


    ¡°Fleet Commander, we¡¯re almost in range,¡± an exhausted Speinfoent reported after a few seconds. ¡°We will be in range to shoot back at the Grass Eaters in¡­ one more volley.¡±


    Another thirty-five of Grionc¡¯s ships had gone down, either outright destroyed or otherwise incapacitated in their desperate mad dash to close with the enemy.


    She filed away her grief and guilt for later as she watched another squadron boosted out of formation to take the missiles meant for her flagship.


    ¡°Fleet Commander, we are now in effective bracketing range!¡±


    Across the fleet, a simultaneous flurry of activity ensued as ships aligned their weapons and readied their payloads, preparing to unleash their numerous might upon the Znosian enemy. Grionc knew that every second counted, that each moment of delay cost lives. She allowed herself a heartbeat to honor those who had fallen, those who were about to, and then she gave the order.


    ¡°Sixth Fleet, launch.¡±


    <hr>


    Grionc could hear her heart pulsate in her chest as the fierce clatter of missiles resounded through the cosmos, a deadly symphony that followed an enduring, seemingly infinite pursuit. Her fleet, what remained of it, unleashed a hellish volley of firepower, their missiles zooming through the vast darkness before finding the Znosian ships, creating monstrous fireballs that briefly illuminated the dark void.


    Finally in range, the sixteen enemy ships took another three ruthless missile volleys to destroy. In those three volleys and at such close range, even in their final moments, the Znosians managed to land crippling blows, leaving another two dozen of her own ships limping or mangled in the great dark.


    As usual, none of the enemy surrendered before their ships broke, though Grionc wasn¡¯t sure she would have allowed them to if they had tried.


    Grionc stared, the resolve leaving her eyes to be replaced by despair, at the flickering screen displaying her casualty lists. A whopping sixty-four of her vessels, of her once mighty fleet, over two-fifths of it now reduced to debris and legions of escape pods in less than a day of combat. And all her heavy transports, vital lifelines of her fleet, obliterated.


    Nearly forty thousand spacers ¡ª all brave souls under her command ¡ª gone.


    The bitter taste of regret lingered in her mouth as she considered the enemy. These were not even the Znosians¡¯ top-tier combat ships, but backup defensive units¡­ just sixteen of them. And they had wrought this devastation upon her fleet. By dangling the most transparent bait in the galaxy in front of her.


    Grionc retreated to her quarters and collapsed into her office chair, weary and broken by her own miscalculations.


    She wept.


    It was all her fault. In her mind¡¯s eye, the battle replayed, each of her thousand missteps and overlooked decisions echoing with crystal clear precision.


    Grionc indulged in the darkness for a few minutes, then remembered her duty. She dried her tears and prepared for a long night of drafting condolence letters to the families of her fallen spacers.


    <hr>


    <h2>???</h2>


    ¡°Holy fuck¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 4 | Ejection

    <h2>Terran Republic Navy Ship Mississippi</h2>


    The sleek and ominously quiet Terran Republic Navy advanced reconnaissance ship, the Mississippi, hung a mere two light seconds away from the catastrophic remnants of the alien fray. There was not one unaffected soul on the bridge as they watched and listened as the Granti and Malgeir sent their best into a death charge against the Znosians.


    Commander Samantha Lee, the executive officer of the ship, was the first to wipe her wet blue eyes on her jet-black uniform and clear her throat. ¡°Holy fuck¡­ I just can¡¯t believe¡­¡±


    Captain Chuck Harris shook his head as well. ¡°Aye, but I can. I¡¯ve been to recon six of these bloody battles. And this is about as good as it gets for the poor Puppers.¡± Chuck was a distinctive man: two meters and over a hundred kilograms of a giant, one of very few people with a Fleet Approved M¨¡ori T¨¡ moko tattoo on his face. He normally exuded the confidence of a man who knew he could get away with murder, but even he was subdued now.


    ¡°Look at the preliminary casualty list Squadron 5 just transferred,¡± Samantha exclaimed. ¡°How did they even keep their nerves up for the charge? I swear I didn¡¯t think that Pupper admiral had it in her.¡± Her eyes flickered with recognition. ¡°That Malgeir admiral¡­ I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve heard her name somewhere before. What was it?¡±


    Carla, the flag aide, spoke up. ¡°That¡¯s Fleet Commander Grionc of the Malgeir Sixth Fleet, identifiable with the marking on her right snout. She¡¯s something of a legend among her crews. Our intel suggests she¡¯s known for her ability to think on her¡ª uh, paws, and for an unprecedented flexibility in command, especially for a Malgeir. But even she¡­¡± Carla¡¯s voice trailed off into a sorrowful shrug, ¡°She is not free from the abysmal standards they set for themselves¡­¡±


    Samantha, her gaze still locked on the flailing Malgeir fleet, muttered, ¡°When she attempted that disengagement, I thought for a second she¡¯d scatter her fleet, leaving them to be mercilessly picked apart by those Bunnies.¡± Her eyes narrowed in reluctant admiration, ¡°Took a lot of guts to see the trap she¡¯s in and then face down half a dozen Bun missile volleys to get to them. Even though she completely bungled their numbers advantage at the start.¡±


    Chuck¡¯s voice was heavy with resigned acknowledgment. ¡°The Malgeir have never been wanting for courage in a firefight, Sam.¡± He sighed, ¡°It¡¯s just tactical and strategic sense they lack. This¡ª this victory is as Pyrrhic as they come.¡±


    Samantha¡¯s finger pointed to the battlemap, tracing the scant survivors and the ruin of what was once a mighty Malgeir fleet. ¡°They might salvage one, maybe two, of their six heavy lift transports. The rest¡­¡± she shook her head, ¡°Total losses. At best, they can muster enough munitions for twenty-five, perhaps thirty missile destroyers for a single engagement. To run another offensive campaign in this sector in the next few months, they¡¯d literally need to duct tape their munitions to the hulls of their ships.¡± Her eyes flickered with a spark of relief. ¡°At least they didn¡¯t prematurely blink their orbital support ships and Marine transports into the fray; that would¡¯ve been an unmitigated disaster.¡±


    ¡°What a waste,¡± she whispered in frustration, almost to herself. ¡°What an absolute waste.¡±


    Suddenly, a sharp beep on her command console jarred Samantha from her reverie. Her heart skipped a beat.


    It can¡¯t be.


    She checked it. And double-checked it. The sensors unwaveringly confirmed their initial readings.


    She beckoned towards the admiral¡¯s aide, ¡°Carla, come take a look at this.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Mobriul</h2>


    1 hour ago


    Tactical Officer Graers of the MNS Mobriul looked at the battlemap and tried to ignore the fear hormones coursing through his veins. By the excited state of the hackles on his back, he knew he was only partially successful.


    There were eighty deadly Grass Eater missiles pouring down at Squadron 2. The Mobriul was among them. And the fleet had run out of counter-missiles two volleys ago.


    This is it.


    The bridge crew had unanimously agreed to volunteer. It was only logical. Fleet Commander Grionc¡¯s Alpha-class flagship was vital to the war effort, and only she could lead their beloved Sixth Fleet to victory.


    Graers¡¯ thoughts strayed to his family: his mate and two playful cubs. Their potential future without him in it clouded his thoughts momentarily. With the way the war was going, he hoped that they would be able to get on one of those evacuation flights out of Malgeiru. Surely his personal sacrifice would entitle them to that much from the Defense Ministry¡ª


    Captain Nispio, with her characteristic sharpness, sliced through his somber reverie. ¡°Tactical Officer Graers!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain?¡± he asked, straightening, his discipline unforgotten even on the precipice of death.


    ¡°Can we dump anything else? Our blink fuel? It¡¯s not like we¡¯re going to need it where we¡¯re going. Let¡¯s make ourselves as nimble a target as we can against those missiles. The longer we survive, the more of them will have to come for us,¡± the captain proposed hurriedly. ¡°There must be something we can dump.¡±


    Graers shook his ears. ¡°We¡¯ve already dumped all the blink fuel and we¡¯re running on fumes for the subspace engines, ma¡¯am. We have just enough to last through the engagement window.¡±


    ¡°Fine. What about our main reactor? We can jettison that in an emergency, right?¡±


    His eyes widened momentarily. ¡°The¡ª uh¡ª the reactor, ma¡¯am?¡± he said, scarcely believing his ears. ¡°We need that to power our defenses.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°But we have the auxiliary power unit. That should be enough without reactor power for a few seconds, right?¡±


    Paws dancing across his tactical console, Graers calculated rapidly and blinked in surprise at the results. ¡°Yes, Captain. We can maintain power to our systems for approximately ten seconds without the reactor.¡±


    ¡°Do it. Eject it ten seconds before the enemy missiles begin their terminal maneuvers,¡± Nispio said, pointing at the approaching missiles on the console.


    Eject the reactor. Voluntarily.


    Of all the strange orders he¡¯d ever followed, this one was up there. But this had been a strange day indeed.


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± he said, his paws nimbly programming the commands into his console.


    ¡°Intercept in thirty seconds!¡± a panicked voice echoed across the bridge. ¡°Brace for impact!¡±


    Bypassing the safety overrides as quickly as he could, Graers set the commands. Affirmative beeps from the console punctuated his actions.


    ¡°Twenty seconds! Brace! Brace! Brace!¡±


    He reclined slightly, paws gripping his bridge chair, claws involuntarily extending into the plush material.


    ¡°Ten seconds!¡±


    Barely a heartbeat after the count, a monstrous, metallic screech emanated from the Mobriul¡¯s rear. Explosives blew a gaping hole amidst two of the eight still-roaring engines, forcefully evicting the reactor room into the unforgiving void of space. Graers¡¯ console lit up like a festive display: each light, each flashing indicator, screamed warnings or pleaded for corrective action in urgent yellow.


    All non-essential systems went offline almost at once. The lights on the bridge blinked off, replaced by the eerily dim orange emergency overhead lighting powered by internal batteries.


    Graers looked out the bridge window. He knew he shouldn¡¯t be able to see the difference with his naked eyes, but perhaps absurdly, the ship did seem to be accelerating faster than it had been without the final piece of dead weight they¡¯d just shed.


    The sounds of the Mobriul¡¯s point defense guns resonated through the hull, aiming to pluck enemy missiles out of the vacuum with their computer reflexes. A triumphant cheer from the gunnery section punctuated the noise.


    They must have gotten one.


    ¡°Incoming!¡± The warning shattered the brief celebration.


    Graers¡¯ eyes darted instinctively towards the source of the sound, and then his world plunged into darkness.


    <hr>


    ¡°Tactical Officer! Tactical Officer! Graers!¡±


    The world was a blur of smells, sounds, and pain. The murky symphony jolted Graers as he sluggishly wrangled with consciousness. The first sensation Graers registered was the icy cold, metallic deck against his whiskers. As he opened his eyes, the dimmed emergency lighting painted the room in a faint orange glow.


    A raw cough splintered from his lung, stinging with the sharp tang of burnt electronics, sharp enough to snap him into awareness.


    ¡°You¡¯re alive!¡± It was Captain Nispio¡¯s rough voice. He craned his neck upward to see her sprawled a couple of body lengths away, her face covered almost entirely in soot.


    Trying to move, Graers felt a weight on his right paw. His tactical console had collapsed onto him. Summoning a surge of energy, he gave the equipment a hard shove, and it gave just enough for him to wriggle free.


    He pulled himself up, ignoring the fresh pain in his¡­ everywhere: it hurt everywhere. He gingerly got up and limped over to the captain on the floor.


    ¡°Captain Nispio, can you walk?¡± his voice, a feeble croak.


    ¡°Not at all, my walking paws are in bad shape,¡± she said, pointing at her useless rear limbs bent in an unnatural position.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to try to get us out of here.¡±


    ¡°Then you better do it quick,¡± she replied. ¡°Before the emergency power cut out, I saw there was a fire near the munitions storage. So¡­¡±


    ¡°Ship¡¯s about to go boom, got it,¡± Graers said as he assisted the captain upright, trying his best to ignore her winces and her sharp claws digging into his shoulders. ¡°Where is the rest of the bridge crew?¡±


    Recovering from the pain, she nodded reluctantly toward the remaining stations on the bridge. He could barely make them out in the dark, each with an officer sprawling over a console or the floor in unnatural stillness. ¡°No other survivors on the bridge. Just you and me, Tactical Officer. The hit must have been somewhere close.¡±


    ¡°The rest of the crew?¡±


    ¡°Abandoned ship. I heard at least a dozen pods eject successfully,¡± she asserted, a semblance of confidence returning to her voice. ¡°Someone back there¡ª they must have initiated the abandon ship protocol.¡±


    Graers guided the captain towards the bridge escape pod while she leaned heavily on him. He might not be able to see as well in the dark, but his years on the ship bridge came in handy: he could navigate it in his sleep. Careful not to trip around a couple new piles of unexpected debris, they made it to the pod with practiced ease.


    He settled her into one of the escape pod¡¯s dozen seats, strapped her in, and then seated himself, activating the battery-powered console with his less-injured paw.


    The screen didn¡¯t respond. That wasn¡¯t uncommon in the Navy. The stupid electronics¡­ they broke all the time. Luckily, there was a physical backup. He stood back up, made his way over to the pod door, forced it close, and pulled on the lever that was labelled ¡°pull to undock¡±.


    To his relief, the rusty lever gave and activated with only a mild exertion of effort. The pod jolted, separating from the dying ship. An unfamiliar lurch of acceleration knocked Graers off his paws, an odd feeling for a career spacer who¡¯d been used to the comforts of inertial compensators. He hastily climbed back into his seat and secured the restraints right as the pod thrusters began to burn.


    Minutes later, a brilliant flash momentarily eclipsed the star field through the window. The Mobriul. A swelling wave of debris passed over them, and for a second, Graers could see bits of metal debris flash by the pod windows. He closed his eyes, waiting for them to pass or¡ª


    Either by luck or because of the vastness of space, nothing struck the pod.


    ¡°Are we clear?¡± Nispio asked, her voice now a bare whimper.


    ¡°Yes, Captain,¡± he affirmed, getting back up to activate the transponder interface of the escape pod. That screen didn¡¯t respond either.


    Not completely unexpected. There was a backup.


    He flipped the physical switch on the wall for activating the transponder¡­ and nothing happened. The signal that was supposed to go on refused to light up. He did the logical thing: he switched it off and then on again. Again, nothing. ¡°I can¡¯t seem to get a signal up though.¡±


    Nispio thought for a moment, then murmured, ¡°Might be the EMP.¡±


    ¡°The electromagnetic pulse?¡± Graers asked.


    ¡°We took four solid missile hits, Graers. It¡¯s a small miracle we¡¯re still here to talk about it. After we got hit, we still had emergency communication to the battle network,¡± she explained. ¡°Then, our own reactor exploded not too far from us, maybe a few hundred kilometers to our rear. Maybe a missile hit it. Maybe it just did that on its own.¡±


    ¡°And you think the reactor explosion generated a big enough EMP to cut out our communications?¡±


    ¡°There wasn¡¯t any more chatter after that,¡± she said. ¡°Then again, the Mobriul wasn¡¯t exactly in good shape after the hits. The last missile hit towards the rear ¡ª near where the reactor core was ¡ª ejecting it probably saved our lives.¡±


    Graers panted in dread. ¡°Maybe. For now. But if that EMP also took out the communications on the rest of the Mobriul¡¯s escape pods¡­¡±


    The blood drained from Nispio¡¯s face, the unspoken implication dawning with a chilling certainty.


    ¡°¡­the fleet might not even know to look for us.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 5 | Dark Forest

    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    In the belly of the ship, behind multiple hardened alloy composites, was the flag suite of the Mississippi. As a reconnaissance ship based on a next-generation missile destroyer frame, it would not normally have space for such a flag suite, but the Mississippi was specially designed and allocated for alien surveillance operations. Such operations required the political sensitivity and flexibility that flag officers often carried aboard, so the designers of the spacecraft put in one with a map room, a conference space, and a fully shielded SCIF at great expense to the taxpayers of the Terran Republic.


    Which is why it was unfortunate that they chose me to lead this task force, Amelia Waters sighed internally. Political sensitivity and flexibility were not two of her strong suits.


    At 52, she was not the youngest Vice Admiral in history. Neither did she have the most experience compared to some of the battle-hardened spacers fighting pirates and terrorist operatives in the outer Sol system. But she did once lead a high-profile hostage rescue mission against a brutal Resistance cell in the Saturn Red Zone. The VIP later went on to be elected a Senator, one of only three hundred in the Republic, and her career magically skyrocketed from there.


    Getting married to him later may also have helped.


    He claimed to fall in love with her at first sight for her pretty blue eyes and flowing brunette hair, which still made her day whenever she thought about it, but Amelia personally thought her best qualities were probably her dry humor and brutal honesty. Her first words to him ¡ª as he would often tell the story at dinner parties ¡ª were: ¡°we got the handsome egghead, let¡¯s get the fuck outta here.¡±


    Twenty years later, they were still married. He was enjoying retirement, on a balmy beach somewhere in District 170, and she was out here trying to make sure the spacers under her command didn¡¯t give away the existence of their species to the intelligent alien races fighting just outside the Republic frontier in compliance of the so-called Prime Directive.


    There had been a few close calls.


    Her communications hardline chirped twice.


    She picked it up immediately. ¡°What¡¯s going on up there? Did the Puppers finally finish search and rescue?¡±


    ¡°Almost, Admiral.¡± The respectful voice of her flag aide, Carla Bauernschmidt, came from the bridge line with not the slightest hint of the German accent owing to her birth and upbringing in District 19. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slim, athletic build enhanced by long periods of time in gravity training, the thirty-five-year-old Carla attracted eyes wherever she went. Which was usually next to Amelia.


    Coordinating her busy schedule as her effective chief of staff was a thankless job. When Carla finished this rotation, Amelia promised herself, she would get Commander Bauernschmidt a nice cushy promotion to a Terra-side posting. Somewhere nice and warm. With a beach, maybe.


    Carla continued her report. ¡°They ran into some trouble with one of the prisoners they captured from a Znosian ship that they disabled in the furball. From the sounds of their unsecured radio, one of the Bunny Marines that they took prisoner from a hibernation pod got out on one of their ships. She managed to get into the vents and took out half the reactor engineering crew before their ship security shot her dead.¡±


    ¡°What a trainwreck,¡± Amelia sighed.


    ¡°There is¡­ something else, Admiral. A complication.¡±


    ¡°There always is. What is it?¡±


    ¡°Our sensors have picked up a batch of Malgeir escape pods from one of their destroyed ships. Twenty-eight pods. We estimate about three hundred spacers alive in them total. They have some limited movement, but their communications must have been fried. We think the Malgeir Fleet¡¯s sensors aren¡¯t strong enough to pick up their radar signature. Captain Harris is requesting permission to¡ª¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Amelia replied briskly.


    ¡°Uh¡­ No?¡±


    ¡°No. Negative. Nein, Kommandantin Bauernschmidt.¡±


    ¡°Would you¡­ like to hear Chuck¡¯s request first?¡± Carla asked.


    ¡°He wants to rescue the stranded Puppers. Dock with the escape pods and bring them onboard. We have space, he says, we can adopt them. They won¡¯t bite. Or call up their fleet commander, hey you¡¯re missing a few of your spacers, just look over there. Or send one of our drones over, and have it spoof one of their transponder signals. Or some shenanigans like that. Did I get one of those right?¡±


    Carla was quiet for a moment. ¡°Yes. May I ask¡­ why not?¡±


    ¡°I believe that was covered in the mission briefing, Commander,¡± Amelia replied. ¡°Somewhere in between ¡®this is the most important thing you have to remember¡¯ and ¡®you must never forget about what I just said¡¯. The Prime Directive is absolute: we must not risk exposing our existence to alien civilizations. Those are our primary rules of engagement.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡ª but what about our¡­ duty to rescue, in deep space? Isn¡¯t it our job to disobey illegal orders?¡± her aide asked emotionally.


    Amelia sighed. ¡°You know¡­ you wouldn¡¯t be the first defendant to try to pull that argument in Neu-Nuremburg. Didn¡¯t work out for any of the other people either. The Prime Directive is held above all other laws and regulations, including the Basic Terran Rights, because it is about not the right of any one individual but the right of our entire species: the right to survive.¡±


    ¡°Amelia, these are living spacers¡ª people. People just like us¡ª¡± Carla pleaded desperately.


    ¡°I know,¡± Amelia said, staring down at her Republic uniform. Despite their spotless appearance, they felt¡­ dirty on her. It wasn¡¯t an unfamiliar feeling.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°All we have to do¡ª one transponder flash from a stealth drone! They won¡¯t even know it was us!¡±


    ¡°Any risk is unacceptable and illegal, and Protocol Two doesn¡¯t apply here.¡±


    ¡°Three hundred living souls!¡± Carla cried. ¡°Three hundred of them.¡±


    ¡°Oh Carla, it¡¯s more than three hundred. Way more,¡± Amelia replied, quiet with melancholy. ¡°All these years we¡¯ve stood quietly by. These murderous Buns and their Dominion¡¯s crusade of extermination¡­ We¡¯ve done nothing. And we will continue to do nothing. Because what we do out here¡­ it is not up to us; it is what the people of the Terran Republic have decided.¡±


    ¡°All that is required for evil to succeed¡­¡± Carla quoted.


    ¡°Yes. Yes, it is.¡±


    ¡°How are we supposed to¡ª how do you cope with that?¡± the young commander asked, lightly sobbing.


    Amelia thought for a moment. ¡°Me? Heavy drinking, mostly. Wouldn¡¯t recommend it.¡±


    The line was quiet for a minute.


    When Carla spoke again, she seemed to have calmed down slightly. ¡°Is there¡ª is there a point to what we do? What are we doing here? All we are doing is watching¡ª watching the Malgeir get destroyed repeatedly. Doing nothing. It¡¯s just¡­ sad.¡±


    Amelia continued to stare down at her uniform. ¡°We should be sad¡­ we should. A peaceful species of trillions ¡ª with tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of years of history. Of life. When they die, it should make an impact on the universe. They shouldn¡¯t just quietly disappear. Somebody¡ª somebody should feel sad and remember them¡­ When a civilization falls in the dark forest, somebody should be there if only to hear the haunting sound it makes when it does¡­¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s what we are¡­ just¡­ witnesses to this great crime?¡±


    ¡°For now.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Mobriul Pod #01</h2>


    Graers struggled for breath in the escape pod. He couldn¡¯t get the life support machine to switch on either, and he could already feel the stale air get thin. Every inhale was laborious, each exhalation sounding louder in the silence that enveloped the pod.


    Nispio rasped, ¡°Tactical Officer, I¡­ don¡¯t think¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk, Captain. The air will last longer.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think they¡¯re coming, Graers. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ve got a ship looking for us now.¡±


    ¡°It would¡ª it would have been nice¡­ to see us liberate Datsot.¡±


    Graers shook his ears. ¡°Hold on Nispio, and you¡¯ll see it with your own eyes. I¡¯ve been there. My mate¡¯s family, their ancestors were from there once. The oceans, the grasslands, the forests, and even the northern tundra¡­ they¡¯re beautiful. Once we get out of here, we¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    He leaned to his side to try to look out the window, but all he saw when he looked over was the slumped figure next to him, her chest still.


    His lung labored for another ten minutes.


    His vision grew dark.


    It would have been nice to see us liberate Datsot.


    Then, Graers exhaled one last time, and he too went still forever.


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    Grionc awoke to a call to her quarters in the middle of the ¡°night¡±. There was no real night in space, but Malgeir ships followed a regular twenty-five-hour cycle synchronized to Malgeiru Standard Time. ¡°Hello?¡±


    The other voice on the line was Vastae. ¡°Fleet Commander, there¡¯s been an unexpected¡­ development in our interrogation of the Grass Eater captives. It¡¯s a little above my pay grade.¡±


    ¡°Above your paygrade, Alpha Leader?¡± Grionc asked, groggily rubbing her eyes with the back of her paw. She mumbled an incoherent question as she hurriedly threw on her uniform, then focused up. ¡°Alright, alright. I¡¯m coming up to the bridge now.¡±


    Upon her entrance, Vastae, with his fur slightly ruffled, was intensely focused on his console playing and replaying a video.


    ¡°What seems to be the problem, Captain?¡±


    His eyes still glued to the screen, Vastae shifted his body aside to show her. ¡°This was one of the Znosian Marines we picked up from a captured transport today.¡± His paws delicately manipulated the controls, allowing the recording to unfold on the screen.


    <hr>


    In the dimly lit room, the captive, bound by heavy restraints around all four of her petite paws slumped across from the interrogator. Her youthful features masked by fatigue, the Grass Eater seemed barely more than a teenager. If she weren¡¯t here to take his home and kill his family, he might even be a little sympathetic to her state.


    The interrogator leaned forward, mustering some pity on his face. ¡°I understand you¡¯ve agreed to answer some of our questions in return for kind treatment towards your squad. I trust you¡¯ve been satisfied by our arrangements, Four Whiskers,¡± prompted the interrogator gently.


    She nodded, eyes barely lifted. ¡°Fine, but we are only shipboard security. I don¡¯t know much about spaceship fighting or fleet logistics or whatever you Navy people want to know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright,¡± said the interrogator. ¡°Let¡¯s start with your name and where you¡¯re from.¡±


    She hesitated but told him her name, rank, and reluctantly she began to tell him where they were from. Her team was dispatched to Datsot, conquered days before her team¡¯s arrival, to serve as a security buffer while their fleet attended to some undisclosed business in a distant sector.


    She repeatedly clarified that her team had not been involved in any actual fighting yet. The interrogator knew from his experience that was something every captured prisoner would carefully repeat.


    ¡°Were you issued new equipment during your last resupply?¡± he asked.


    She shook her head, her voice a mere whisper. ¡°No equipment¡­ but we did receive some new mandatory training.¡±


    ¡°New training for?¡± pressed the interrogator.


    She sighed. ¡°Like I said, our duties are inside the ship. Close quarters fighting. Boarding. There was a new ship model, and we had to¡­ do boarding drills on it. The squad figured we must not have a blueprint of the inside because they made us run it dozens of times. Each time it was a completely different arrangement inside. It was¡­ tricky because there were no visible bridges from the outside, so we had to blow our way in and fight our way through the interior of the ship each time instead of just coming in through the bridge window like we normally do for your ships.¡±


    The interrogator leaned closer. ¡°A different species¡¯ ship?¡±


    Her voice edged with a mixture of fear and exhaustion. ¡°No doubt about it. Rumor is it¡¯s from your¡­ guardians.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re referring to the¡ª¡± began the interrogator.


    ¡°The ones¡­ that hide in the dark, even from you. Some call them phantoms,¡± interrupted the captive.


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about the Schpriss?¡± he clarified, his fur subtly bristling in annoyance in spite of his training and focus.


    Her snort, bitter and tired, cut through. ¡°No, not the cowardly long-tails¡­ We don¡¯t even practice much with their ships because they usually give up before we even board anyway. This is¡­ a different species. The Phantoms. Some even call them the Great Predators.¡± She said the last few words almost in a reverent whisper.


    The interrogator looked puzzled. ¡°Can you tell me anything else about these¡­ Great Predators?¡±


    ¡°The only thing we¡¯ve seen is one of their ships. It¡¯s a black and curved¡­ monolith. And they have this strange, dark gray marking on the stern, adjacent to the rear airlock.¡±


    ¡°Marking? Like your tail numbers? Can you please draw this marking for me,¡± the intrigued interrogator asked, sliding a datapad towards the captive as he gestured towards the camera.


    This might be important.


    <hr>


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. That¡¯s definitely not Schprissian. Or any of the known species. Too simplistic and modular. Look at the repetition over there and there,¡± Grionc speculated, pointing at the datapad. ¡°If anything, it almost looks like the Grass Eaters¡¯ own writing system¡­¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    Nobody on the bridge made a sound as the intercepted image decrypted onto the main screen, showing the crudely sketched but unmistakable letters:


    TRNS NILE

 First Strike - Chapter 6 | Last Mile

    Upon the discovery of scientific evidence suggesting a possible low-cost constant-acceleration Drive, nations on Earth invested heavily in an attempt to reach them. The Terra Corporation got there first, successfully creating the first successful Alcubierre Drive. This breakthrough enabled Terra Corporation to amass vast quantities of wealth through their monopoly on practical space travel¡­


    As humanity explored and colonized the solar system using their rockets, Terra had to shoulder more responsibilities such as providing security and law enforcement, arbitrating disputes, and regulating interstellar commerce. Soon after, governments across the world attempted to nationalize or implement higher taxes on Terra¡¯s operations. In response, the corporation moved its headquarters to the lunar surface and established the city of Atlas. After some growing pains, Terra was established as its own nation-state and quickly reformed itself into the Terran Republic. Within two decades, Earth saw many people leave for a better life in the new Republic. This caused most major nations of Earth to give up their autonomy and sovereignty one after another and join the Terran Republic, in exchange for a share of this rapidly growing wealth and pool of opportunities. Economic, diplomatic, and eventually military pressure finally completed this historic global unification a decade later.


    The Terran Republic Senate was created to uphold the original principles upon which it was founded, with representatives from each of the former nation states of Earth and many of the Republic¡¯s new colonies outside its orbits. Constructed in Atlas, the former tax haven and corporate headquarters of Terra became the capital city for humanity¡¯s new and somewhat-united Republic¡­


    The elected representatives of the Republic passed laws like the infamous Prime Directive, which prohibited any contact with outside species that were not aware of human existence. Sanctions for violating the law were immediate and severe. The official basis for this rule was rooted in the potential risks associated with meeting a more advanced intelligent species, like the ones humanity quickly detected upon the invention of the FTL drive and exploration of its nearby systems.


    The actual purpose of the Prime Directive was a compromise over the same age-old civilizational argument over federalism, about how much power the Republic central government held over the districts; the agreement was to kick this can that was the existence of far-away aliens down the road, until the next elections at least. However, as would become common in Republic politics, there was nothing more permanent than a temporary solution. The Prime Directive continued to be in effect even long after all its original proponents had retired.


    Through covert long-range surveillance, the Republic was able to deduce the friendly disposition of its three closest neighbors: the Granti, Schpriss, and Malgeir alien species, as well as others that were further away. As a result of this knowledge, the Republic Navy built up confidence in its operations and began to conduct more stealthy recon missions without revealing its own existence.


    After the Znosians and their war of extermination against the Granti began, the Prime Directive acted as a significant source of contention, leading to major debates within the Republic:


    Half of the Republic favored humanitarian intervention. Finally, this was a cause which could give that word a new meaning!


    The other half favored non-interventionism. For them, the fate of the Granti justified the Prime Directive: this new Znosian threat was precisely what it was put in place to protect from!


    The original discussion over federalism fell by the wayside as the war raged outside the Republic and as the point became a contention of existential security and stark morality¡­


    From the initial drafts of the Republic, a plethora of checks and balances were incorporated into the Senate to create an effective system of institutional veto points. For decades, endeavors to modify or reform this so-called Prime Directive went nowhere¡­


    History of the Terran Republic, Chapter 1 Summary


    <hr>


    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty, Fleet Commander Grionc led the Sixth Fleet against overwhelming Znosian naval forces to achieve ultimate victory in the space battle to liberate Datsot¡­ Ships under her command weathered attacks from countless volleys of missiles fired by an elite Znosian fleet with dozens of ships¡­


    Under the direction of Fleet Commander Grionc, her flagship fought on and continued the charge despite multiple hits to its hull and critical systems¡­


    Emboldened by her inspirational display of defiance, the brave Malgeir spacers of the Sixth Fleet surged fearlessly towards the enemy onslaught, crushing the enemy¡¯s resolve and their ships. Fleet Commander Grionc¡¯s extraordinary leadership and devotion to duty are in keeping with the highest traditions of military service and reflect great credit on her, her fleet, and the Malgeir Navy!


    Inside, Grionc felt her stomach churn, grateful that her breakfast had been light. Her posture remained erect, her expression stoic, as she endured the extensive award ceremony, managing to keep the roiling contents of her stomach in check.


    To her, this was an appalling charade, grotesquely parading the sacrifices of the spacers under her command as victory¡­ sacrifices that were necessary because of her own shortcomings and mistakes.


    She had painstakingly written up commendations for every Malgeir spacer she could; their actual heroism was what ensured her survival and that of the fleet, not her. No squadron was neglected, and Granti Squadron 4 received special mentions. Their Council-in-exile had also made sure to get the details so they could present their own medals to her and her spacers too.


    While the Defense Ministry accepted most of her recommendations, ¡°necessary adjustments¡± had to be made to the citations. Public ceremonies, after all, must portray a particular narrative, and they could ill afford to sow seeds of doubt amongst the civilian population, who were already sniffing the tendrils of suspicion that the war might not be unfolding as splendidly as they were led to believe.


    She hoped that at least they could be done with these formalities quickly. The Znosians were not going to take this Datsot counteroffensive lying down, and when that time came, she wanted her fleet ¡ª battle-worn yet unbroken ¡ª ready to staunchly defend it.


    To her own death if necessary.


    She deserved nothing less. And nothing more.


    For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty, posthumously, Granti Captain Clebret led Granti Special Squadron 4 in a glorious charge against overwhelming enemy numbers¡­


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    Chuck Harris slid into the chair at the witness table, tossing Amelia a grin that barely hid his tension. ¡°Admiral, how¡¯s the wind in your sails today?¡± he half-whispered, eyes flickering across the courtroom.


    Amelia responded with a weary smile and held up four fingers. ¡°The wind in my¡ª Four hearings today, Chuck. Four. How¡¯s that for a good time?¡±


    His eyebrows knitted sympathetically. ¡°How¡¯d they go?¡±


    ¡°Well, I haven¡¯t been placed on administrative leave with no pay, yet, so I take that as a major win.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°What were the other three hearings?¡± Harris asked.


    She sighed, recounting, ¡°First one was the Intelligence Committee. Just a regular classified debriefing of our recent vacation. Then I got summoned to the Navy Oversight Committee. That one was filled with the usual peaceniks trying to dissect every single one of my actions since I was commissioned. And the last one, which just ended half an hour ago: the lovely Armed Services Committee. Room full of hawks patting themselves on the back for voting for more Navy funding in light of recent events. That¡¯s when they weren¡¯t busy helpfully trying to suggest ways we can legally bypass the Prime Directive the next time we go out there.¡±


    ¡°If you end up in jail, you could always toss them under the bus, saying they put the idea in your head¡­¡±


    ¡°Very funny, Chuck. If they send me to Neu-Nuremberg, I¡¯m going to tell them it was all your genius plan. They¡¯ll believe little old me when¡ª¡±


    Their playful banter was cut short when an additional, familiar figure joined them in the last empty chair at the table, his expression one of contained amusement.


    ¡°Captain Guerrero, you look like you¡¯re ready to be hanged or given a medal,¡± Amelia teased.


    Gregor Guerrero was a 39-year-old captain from District 42. Quiet and competent, his credentials were unimpeachable. Unfortunately, he was also the captain of the TRNS Nile, the subject of this hearing. ¡°I just got done with another one. From the Navy Disciplinary Board.¡±


    Amelia¡¯s face turned serious. ¡°The Jaggies? What did they say?¡±


    ¡°No charges yet. They just officially informed me I¡¯m being investigated. I get the feeling the Navy is waiting for the Senate to decide whether we¡¯re heroes or traitors to the Republic. They¡¯re hedging their bets. If we¡¯re heroes, they don¡¯t want to throw me in jail. If we¡¯re traitors, they can¡¯t give me a medal. Get it?¡± He winked with the confidence of a man whose mother is a prominent local politician back in his district, which, of course, she was.


    ¡°Where would we be without your political expertise, oh wise sage, oh whisperer of Republic Senate poli¡ª¡±


    She was interrupted by a loud commotion from the side door as the lawmakers filed into the room and up to the tables on the dais. The Senate was made up of three hundred Senators, one for each district in the Terran Republic, and this hall did not have enough seats for all the Senators who wanted to take part. And this was a big hall.


    There was a mad scramble as aides tried to find seats for the remaining lawmakers. A few unlucky ones were relegated to the public benches.


    The door behind them opened and the public noisily filed in as well. There were many, many more civilians than they both expected, including every news service in Sol.


    Chuck leaned over and nodded towards the head of the Senator table and whispered, ¡°That¡¯s Senator Blake Wald. District 37. Big on peace, not so much on funding fancy new spaceships. I heard he singlehandedly cut two missile destroyer squadrons from the budget in ¡®08¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I recognize him. He was in my debrief this morning. He might be a dove, but he was not there for soundbites or to berate me. He seemed¡­ genuine. No games. Everyone was oddly¡­ unified.¡±


    Senator Wald was a disciplined-looking man with white hair, kind brown eyes, and a thick mustache from District 37. He sported no obvious scars or tattoos to mark it, but common knowledge in Atlas was that he became an anti-war pacifist after three brutal tours in the Saturn Red Zone to deal with a terrorist and piracy flare-up. Back in the day¡­ when he was not in his 80s, of course. Rules of engagement in his era were a lot looser too¡­


    The Senator read from the motion before him, ¡°This is the public hearing for the Oettro Incident. Let the record show that the Senate Intelligence Committee has unanimously voted to declassify the details surrounding the Oettro Incident in the interest of transparency and public debate. Let us begin. Witnesses, state your name, rank, and current station.¡±


    ¡°Amelia Waters, Vice Admiral, Navy, commanding officer of Task Force Frontier Security.¡±


    ¡°Chuck Harris, Commander, Navy, commanding officer of the Mississippi.¡±


    ¡°Gregor Guerrero, Captain, Navy, commanding officer of the Nile.¡±


    ¡°Ah. The three of you are here,¡± Wald said, peering down at them through the top of his glasses to directly address them for the first time. ¡°And Commander Agarwal?¡±


    Amelia answered, ¡°She is not present, Senator. The circumstances of the commanding officer of the Amazon and her ship¡­ we can¡¯t discuss it here. Happy to discuss that in a classified setting¡ª¡±


    ¡°That will be quite alright,¡± he dismissed. ¡°I trust the three of you will tell the truth, and have all sworn the oath?¡±


    Affirmation rippled through the witnesses. ¡°We have, Senator.¡±


    ¡°Then, let us begin. Admiral Waters, ladies first. Why don¡¯t you start us off? Describe the events of the Oettro Incident in detail, please. And don¡¯t leave anything out from your briefing this morning.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Senator.¡± Amelia took a breath, gathered her notes from her logbook, and began to read her prepared statement:


    Two years and five months ago, the Navy received information about a planned Znosian raid on a Malgeir mining outpost in a sparsely populated star system called Oettro. Naval Intelligence determined that their ultimate objective was not the mines, but rather the supply shipment that went to it every other month.


    To understand the context behind a raid like this, you must first understand how and why the Malgeir operate the way they do. They are fundamentally a peaceful species forced into war. From what we know, before this current war with the Znosians, their previous serious armed conflict was over a thousand years ago. For all that time: because their military was deemed superfluous, service was reserved mostly for criminals and miscreants who had no other place in society. Their equipment became obsolete and their tactics worthless despite all the technological advances of their civilian industries made during that time. They do not understand the enemy; they do not even understand their own strengths and weaknesses. More practically, when it comes to predicting the nature, location, and timing of military engagements in this war, their record has been perfect: they have never once gotten it right.


    The Malgeir have been forced to change radically due to this war. However, because of their tendency to hide failures, they repeat many of their mistakes. Over. And over. And over again. One of the mistakes relevant to this hearing is that they make very little differentiation between a civilian and a military logistics supply chain. The Malgeir like to link all their supply nodes in a space sector together in a singular supply route.


    An abstract diagram showed up on the screen, a circle of nodes showing a simplified Malgeir logistics graph.


    To put it simply, they load up all the supplies that sector needs for the month on a few massive transport ships. Then, they fly those ships around to each system and unload what they need. And repeat.


    This makes sense for a civilian supply chain. It is efficient, predictable, foolproof, and it is a recipe for complete and utter disaster near the front lines of a war zone.


    In the Terran Navy, we plan for attrition on what we call the tactical last mile. We use smaller shipments on dangerous routes. We use heavy escorts. We have random schedules and patrols. We employ computers and intelligence models to calculate risk and mitigate it. The Malgeir do none of these things, and after ten years of war, they have somehow still neglected to learn these important logistical lessons despite numerous setbacks, failed offensives, and a severely crippled transport industry.


    Against the Malgeir, one successful raid on their shipping route can take out enough supply ships and supplies to be worth the gross domestic product of several outposts combined, and the Znosians have become intimately familiar with just how effortless and profitable such raids were.


    Finishing up her background brief, Amelia pointed to the large presentation screen, now showing a starmap identifying its ¡°border¡± systems with the Malgeir Federation.


    The Terran Republic Navy is charged with the task of patrolling the dynamic nature of our frontier and identifying potential future threats. We did not intend to intervene in this raid at Oettro, but it was important for Naval Intelligence to determine how badly Malgeir logistics would get mauled when this Znosian raid inevitably succeeds. So, it sent Task Force Frontier Security and its three next-generation low observability recon ships to monitor Oettro: the Amazon, Nile, and Mississippi. I commanded the Task Force from the Mississippi.


    Because we were already in the area to observe another battle, we managed to arrive at the destination six days before the Znosian raiders did. For this raid, the Znosians sent four Forager-class missile destroyers. The Malgeir would categorize them as Delta-class, but we believe their size-based classification system to be impractical for identifying ship roles, another symptom of their tactical inadequacy.


    She played a short video on the big screen, a quick and violent action showing the false-color thermal sensor recording of an exploding asteroid base¡­


    The four Znosian missile destroyers took out the Malgeir mining outpost situated at the edge of the system almost instantly upon entering the system, preventing it from sending out a warning to its supply fleet.


    Then, we sat and waited with them. Our three ships remained in stealth and strict emissions control for two weeks, taking turns maneuvering behind various asteroids to occlude our ships while we radiated our heat sinks away from the Znosian sensors every forty-eight hours, which is standard operating protocol for our ships.


    Then, as the video with the sensor data overlayed began to play, she began to recount the events, ¡°The scheduled delivery time came and went. This was not unusual. Punctuality is not a highly valued trait in the Malgeir Navy or their auxiliary support flotillas. As it turned out, the supply fleet was further delayed by about eighty hours¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 7 | Prime Directive

    <h2>Oettro</h2>


    2 years, 4 months ago


    ¡°Captain Harris. We¡¯re moving the Nile behind asteroid Oscar-2 to dump our heat sinks. They¡¯re at ninety percent capacity, and we haven¡¯t emptied them since the delivery trucks missed their schedule.¡±


    Chuck replied, ¡°We¡¯ll watch your six, Gregor.¡±


    ¡°Appreciate it, Chuck.¡±


    He cast a sidelong glance at his fresh XO, Commander Samantha Lee, giving her a tacit nod of assurance.


    Lee, all business, relayed the orders into her microphone with a calm voice. ¡°Nav, put us behind the Buns. Bridge to CIC, give us up-to-date firing solutions on all four bandits. Just in case.¡±


    <hr>


    An hour later, the Malgeir convoy arrived.


    ¡°Admiral! Malgeir ships blinking in right now! Gravidar identified six heavy lift transports and a duo of Shepherd-class missile destroyers!¡± Carla reported to the flag suite.


    Amelia replied near-immediately, voice laced with urgency, ¡°Dammit! Is the Nile still radiating her heat sinks?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Admiral. The Malgeir ships are close to them, occluded behind the asteroid, and they¡¯ll have the Nile in visual in just under ten minutes!¡±


    ¡°Get Captain Guerrero on the line, tell him to hurry up, shake it off, and zip it up.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s signaling a negative, Admiral. Can¡¯t make it, too much residual heat left on his hull!¡±


    Tension spread across the ship. This was spiraling into one of those nightmare scenarios they trained to avoid.


    Amelia made the split-second choice. ¡°Shit! Advise him to maneuver to hide his ship from the Znosians, even if he must reveal himself to the Malgeir ships. The Puppers are about to be either distracted or dead soon anyway¡ª¡±


    Harris¡¯s calm voice sliced through the comm, ¡°Admiral, the Znosians are firing.¡± The digital view screen pulsated with the ominous red glow of twenty missiles, now streaking angrily towards the Malgeir fleet. He continued, ¡°Sensors see four missiles for each escort, and two for each supply ship.¡±


    Amelia glanced at the digital map for two seconds. ¡°Those cold-blooded critters sure are being efficient about this, huh? Get me an update on the Nile!¡±


    ¡°She is coming into view of the Malgeir sensors now, Admiral!¡±


    Amelia paused, her mind racing through possibilities, then made her decision. ¡°Jam all FTL comms in this system. Broad-spectrum, full power. I want no signals, in or out.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Seiddiu</h2>


    Beta Leader Preitamplo of the Malgeir Navy was not a particularly competent specimen of his race. While born with handsome brown fur, scarlet red eyes, and an imposing figure that could have made him a successful model in the acting industry, he was also born in a position to never have to work a day in his life: his parents were rich minority owners of a mining company on a frontier colony world.


    When he refused to go into the family business, that created somewhat of a scandal in their social circles; he quickly became an embarrassment to the clan.


    Naturally, his mother kicked him out of the house and sent him to the Navy.


    Then, because she wasn¡¯t totally heartless, she paid someone at the Defense Ministry a handsome sum of money to get him promoted to his position and transferred to a safe job escorting supply convoys. It was a boring job, but quite lucrative given the value of goods he was responsible for and the plentiful opportunity for graft.


    When he was commissioned, Preitamplo had been given less than a week of tactical instructions on Malgeiru before being sent off to captain a Delta-class ship in a supply convoy.


    But he hadn¡¯t thought he¡¯d needed to pay any attention! Which is why when he blinked into a sector and immediately came under fire from an overwhelming number of heavily armed Znosian ships, he froze.


    ¡°Captain! Captain! The Znosian missiles are nearly crossing the halfway point! What are your orders?¡± one of his subordinates shouted, trying to snap him out of his panic.


    Preitamplo looked helplessly at the radar. Four Grass Eater Delta-class ships! He technically had more ships than the enemy, but his were all unarmed supply ships. The only combat effective ships they had were their two Delta-classes, including his own command.


    He tried to remember his training.


    There was something about launching countermeasures, but he knew they didn¡¯t have any: the Seiddiu crew had sold the chaff launchers¡¯ control solenoids for some quick cash on the black market a few months ago. Which Preitamplo knew about because they shared some of its profits with him. It had led to a nice weekend at a bar with a young male dockworker, and to fuel the habit, he quickly allowed them to sell off other surplus equipment, including a large number of railgun munitions and missiles from her supply storage.


    While they did leave enough of the equipment to pass a perfunctory inspection, they were mostly defenseless except for a few rounds in their magazine.


    Facing certain death, a confident determination came over Preitamplo, a primitive instinct that came naturally to most Malgeir. He never amounted to much in life. These Grass Eaters might kill him, but he wasn¡¯t going out without a fight! He looked at the radar to pick a target, any target¡ª


    ¡°Captain! We¡¯ve just detected another ship, an Omega-class! It¡¯s hiding less than a thousand kilometers away, near that asteroid off our port side!¡±


    Omega-class? That¡¯s just my luck. One of those tiny enemy ships we do have a chance of killing today!


    Having made his peace with impending death and with his confidence restored, Preitamplo stood up to his full height, looking every bit as authoritative as the real warship captain he was pretending to be. He ordered, ¡°Target that Grass Eater Omega-class! Fire everything we¡¯ve got at them!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Nile</h2>


    ¡°VAMPIRE! VAMPIRE! VAMPIRE! Three vampires inbound, from the lead Malgeir escort!¡±


    ¡°All missiles identified! Last gen Pupper mediums! Primary onboard radar seeker, unencrypted simplex datalink, and IR visual backup.¡±


    ¡°Tracking additional rail projectiles from Escort-Lead and Escort-Two!¡±


    The Combat Information Center on the ship turned into an organized hive of activity as information on the incoming threats was catalogued and identified. Three red dots appeared on the ship¡¯s target sensor overview. The ship¡¯s computer quickly determined the positions and vectors of each of the threats, sending countermeasure and defensive suggestions to the relevant officers while updating their targeting systems in the changing battlespace.


    ¡°Escort-Two has launched on us as well. Two more vampires incoming!¡±


    ¡°Captain Guerrero, permission to engage automatic¡ª¡±


    ¡°Granted, XO. Cancel EMCOM Alpha. Move us to Automation Level Three and authorize all defensive measures. Nav, full combat power to thrusters and afterburners. Transfer flight controls to CIC.¡±


    The Nile¡¯s Combat Information Center acknowledged the course transfer command, and the hum of the inertial compensators drastically changed pitch as they worked overtime to accommodate the increasing acceleration the ship¡¯s main thrusters were now outputting.


    ¡°We have solid track on all vampires. Computer engaging threats at will.¡±


    Her internal weapons bay doors snapped open for a few milliseconds, spitting out half a dozen hard-kill active protection missiles. A visually spectacular barrage of flares, chaffs, and decoys, ejected in every direction from a hidden hatch near her engines, overshadowing her thermal and radar signatures against the incoming threats as best they could.


    ¡°Woodpeckers, one to six, online.¡±


    ¡°Defending! Crank us away from those missiles!¡±


    Then, with precision and consistency made possible by her super-Terran intelligence chip, the Nile immediately began automatic evasive maneuvers from the railgun rounds while boosting away at an optimal vector to force the incoming missiles into a longer intercept trajectory.


    ¡°Jamming their feelers!¡±


    ¡°Get the supply ships too!¡±


    ¡°Roger, extending cone to tertiary.¡±


    Electronic warfare devices filled every known communication frequency spectrum with overwhelming electronic noise and signals towards the direction of the missiles, blinding the seekers on the incoming missiles and accidentally burning out the sensors on the ships that launched them¡­ and all the other ships in the Malgeir convoy.


    Captain Gregor Guerrero knew that if the Malgeir ships had a non-zero chance to begin with¡­ they now had negative chances with their sensors completely blinded by his ship. They wouldn¡¯t even be able to track the Znosian missiles bearing down on them, almost in range for terminal maneuvers.


    Very unfortunate for the poor Puppers, yes, but I didn¡¯t fire on them first. He held onto that little nugget of solace and tucked the rest away for his Navy-assigned therapist to untangle later as his ship continued to defeat the incoming threats.


    ¡°Vampire trashed! Two¡­ no, all vampires defeated.¡±


    ¡°Continuing to monitor incoming slugs. Computer is categorizing incoming fire as sporadic and ineffective.¡±


    ¡°Captain, CIC is asking whether we should return fire on the Malgeir ships. We have them locked up with the gravidar¡ª¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    He ordered, ¡°Negative! Just get us out of here! The Puppers are dead from those bandit missiles in a hot minute anyway.¡±


    Finally, he dialed the flagship on his FTL communication console. ¡°Amelia, the Puppers must have mistaken us for the damn Buns and fired on us! We¡¯re defending.¡±


    It only took her a second to come back with a reply. ¡°Understood, Gregor. Good call. We are taking care of things on our end.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Seiddiu</h2>


    Preitamplo¡¯s blood drained from his face as he watched the unexpectedly versatile target ship effortlessly escape from every weapon they¡¯d thrown at it, denying him the glorious and honorable death he deserved.


    ¡°Fire the missiles again,¡± he snarled angrily.


    ¡°Unable, Captain! We are still reloading the missile batteries!¡±


    He glanced towards his radar computer. It had stopped responding. For some reason, the cursed thing malfunctioned and crashed as soon as his first missiles went out. All he could see was the enemy¡¯s strange Omega-class dancing around in his ship¡¯s exterior optics, nimbly avoiding the railgun projectiles the Seiddiu was thumping out at her every few seconds.


    The Seiddiu¡¯s crew never got to finish reloading their tubes before the missiles from the Znosian raiders reached them, ending the war for the Seiddiu, its sister escort, and all six transport ships it was supposed to protect.


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°Admiral, the Znosian raiders are now reacting to the Nile!¡±


    Initially, the four Znosian ships did not seem to recognize the significance of the barrage of Malgeir missiles and weapons fire heading towards the occluded Nile. The countermeasures deployment and maneuvering bringing her out of the shadow of the asteroid piqued their interest. And with the Malgeir supply convoy now disabled or destroyed, that mild interest became their undivided and very unwelcome attention.


    All four of the alien raiders started to accelerate towards the now very-much-visible TRNS Nile.


    ¡°The Nile¡¯s getting painted by active Znosian fire control!¡± Chuck announced urgently. ¡°They¡¯re trying to lock her up. Her computer automatically jammed their radars, but they¡¯ve got to have her on passive by now!¡±


    The universal sign of a hostile act, one that allows a preemptive response by even their strict Prime-Directive-compatible rules of engagement.


    In any case, the Znosian ships¡¯ very observation of the Terran ships was their death sentence: the only thing worse under the Prime Directive than firing upon an alien ship was allowing a hostile one that had become aware of the existence of humanity to continue to live.


    Protocol Two.


    That this imperative in the addendum was ironically and totally contrary to the original spirit of the namesake of this law was not lost upon the journalists and political pundits who initially covered its passage. But it was a contingency for an emergency scenario where humanity¡¯s existence could come under threat and Task Force Frontier Security religiously followed it to the letter.


    Without hesitation, Amelia spoke into the intercom, her voice colder than a Charon winter. ¡°All ships, weapons free. Waste the bastards!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°Waste the ¡ªbeep¡ª¡±


    ¡°Solid track on all bandits. Kraken one and two away.¡±


    ¡°Kraken three and four away. Merging delivery package.¡±


    The remainder of the engagement containing footage of highly classified Navy technology and tactics, the video feed cut off.


    Amelia continued her statement to the public hearing, describing the events in language that was pre-approved by the Classification Department:


    The Amazon and the Mississippi were positioned at the equivalent of point-blank range in interstellar combat, and the Znosians were fixated on the exposed Nile. Their close-in defenses didn¡¯t even have time to respond to our ambush. Three of the Znosian missile destroyers detonated instantly. The other managed to eject its damaged fusion core before it went critical, but subsequent weapons fire from our ships finished the job before they could evacuate. The active engagement was over in milliseconds.


    No Navy ships were damaged in the incident, and we sustained no casualties.


    We stayed around for another twelve hours, firing our railguns into the only remaining Znosian wreck to break it up into smaller, unrecognizable chunks to get rid of any potential evidence of who we were. Total munition expenditure for the engagement was 4 Kestrel-class anti-ship missiles, 12 Lightning-class counter-missiles, 38,500 rounds of armor-piercing plasma-incendiary from our spinal railguns, and various electronic warfare devices.


    Decrypted intercepts of Znosian communications showed that they did record imagery of the Nile, but our FTL jamming devices blocked them from transmitting it out of the system. To this day, there is no evidence that the Znosian raiders were ever aware of the Amazon or the Mississippi, only the Nile.


    When we left Oettro, we were certain that we had fully sanitized the scene to comply with the Prime Directive. In fact, I erroneously testified to this in the original classified debrief that occurred right after the incident. However, recent developments have proven otherwise. We now know that the Znosians are aware of our existence, that they managed to recover at least photographic evidence of the TRNS Nile, and that their forces are preparing to fight us.


    I will not speculate on how this is possible, but Naval Intelligence confirms that the Oettro Incident is the only possible source of this leak.


    Amelia looked up from her script and took a deep breath. ¡°Thank you for your time, Senators. I will now answer any questions you may have.¡±


    The room, previously barely restrained by the strictly enforced Rules of Conduct in the chamber, erupted into utter chaos.


    <hr>


    ¡°Admiral, can you stop by my office for a quick chat?¡±


    It was phrased as a polite request after the exhausting hearing and the ensuing press circus, but Amelia had been in the Navy long enough to know the difference between a veiled order and a genuine invitation she could refuse. She found herself sitting down in Senator Wald¡¯s office, staring out the window at the rare view of Atlas. Vast, towering low-G skyscrapers, a vivid testament to human ingenuity, stretched toward the star field above the lunar surface.


    Senator Blake Wald¡¯s eyes lingered on the view ¡ª eyes revealing decades of seen-too-much. His coat was casually slung over one arm. He mused, ¡°Beautiful city, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. Atlas is a fine city.¡±


    He hung up his coat. ¡°Please¡­ Blake is fine, if I can call you Amelia¡­ Great. So where are you from, Amelia?¡±


    Amelia¡¯s voice softened with nostalgia. ¡°I grew up on Ganymede, Senator¡ª Blake. Our city was two research labs, a hydroponic farm, and a residential housing block. And this was before we had all this luxury of artificial gravity with inertial compensators.¡±


    ¡°Charming. I hear they¡¯ve been expanding quite a bit on Ganymede recently.¡±


    A small, wistful smile found her lips. ¡°Indeed. It¡¯s hardly the home I remember when I visit now. Nonetheless,¡± she pivoted gracefully, professionalism reentering her voice, ¡°I guess I have to thank you for your insightful questions during the hearings, Senator¡­ And taking the bullet for me from some of your¡­ coworkers.¡±


    He waved it away casually. ¡°No problem. I thought you deserved a break¡­¡±


    Unlike some of the mudslingers she¡¯d interacted with before, he genuinely seemed interested in what they had to say despite being one of those anti-interventionist doves quietly vilified ¡ª or feared ¡ª in top Navy circles. Amelia asked, ¡°So what can I do for you?¡±


    He hesitated for a few seconds, loosening his tie. ¡°I know you said you wouldn¡¯t speculate in the hearing, and I didn¡¯t press further, but you¡­ know how the Znosians got the photos, right?¡±


    ¡°I may¡­ have an inkling.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. You don¡¯t have to answer me, Amelia, but was it intentional?¡±


    ¡°Honestly, it was not. The Malgeir wrecks were not even on my mind at the time, our onboard legal analysis computers didn¡¯t flag it, and my crew didn¡¯t report it to me. But¡­ if I had to do it again, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d change a damn thing.¡±


    ¡°No?¡±


    ¡°The Prime Directive¡ª would you have followed orders to fire on the Malgeir lifepods and remnants of their ships?¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± Blake sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back into his creaking chair. ¡°What¡¯s happened has happened, but since we¡¯re being truthful with each other, what I want to know is¡­ what would you say are our chances now?¡±


    Amelia froze. ¡°Our chances?¡±


    ¡°You know¡­ if we were to go to war with the Znosians,¡± he explained. ¡°I get all the intelligence briefings. But you know what the intelligence offices and the think tanks do¡­ They cover their asses. They tell you we¡¯re going to win if we fund this program or that new expensive missile or switch to some new doctrine. And if we don¡¯t, we¡¯ll lose everything in twelve hours. What I¡¯m asking is what you think of it all, given your experience in the hot seat at Frontier Security.¡±


    Surprised by the question, Amelia hedged, ¡°It¡¯s hard to say. There are so many factors involved. Anything can happen in a battle, much less a whole war.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a press conference, Amelia. Give me your best estimate,¡± he insisted.


    She hesitated, then replied, ¡°If we go to war against the Znosians, alone, we will almost certainly lose. On paper, we have a strong advantage in some technologies, like stealth and electronic warfare, and our offensive capabilities can go toe-to-toe against the Bunnies any day. But their ships are bigger and far more numerous. We have six star systems; they have closer to six hundred. We have dozens ¡ª a little over a hundred ¡ª military ships, and that includes our assault carriers, our minesweepers¡­ everything. They have tens, if not hundreds of thousands. We¡¯ll put up a good fight, and we¡¯ll make them bleed for every station, every colony, and every planet. They¡¯ll pay in blood for every one of ours they kill. But, in the end, they will figure it out. The Navy will be overwhelmed. And it will be all over.¡±


    ¡°How long can we hold them?¡±


    ¡°Weeks. Maybe months. Our problem is strategic depth. There are two, three systems between their frontline and McMurdo. From there, it¡¯s four systems to Sol. And yeah, I¡¯ve heard all about the Deep Strike operations they¡¯re cooking up at Europa and Deimos: they¡¯re¡­ risky at best. We don¡¯t use enough ships: we lose. We use more ships: we leak, and they will eventually figure out where we come from. And even if they succeed¡­ so what? The same problem applies, just later. The enemy is ignorant of us, not stupid.¡±


    Blake sighed. ¡°That¡¯s what I have always been afraid of. What if we get the Malgeir involved? Say we start out slowly, use them to soak up the fight, hand them some of our tech, and improvise from there. What then?¡±


    Amelia considered the scenario for a while. ¡°The most impactful move would be to train them to fight better. Their outdated equipment isn¡¯t as bad a problem as their complete incompetence in battle and their lack of an actual strategy, not to mention their tactical inadequacies. But these Malgeir folks aren¡¯t stupid or cowards either, far from it. They are just incredibly inexperienced with no way to get better. Imagine if their top leaders were eight-year-olds who were given the blueprints for a successful Navy roster from their ancestors thousands of years ago. And their resources and industrial capacity¡­ you know the estimates, their GDP is what? Ten, twenty times ours? Give us a couple of years. We can fix up their Navy to put up a good fight.¡±


    ¡°Say we do that, Amelia. Say we do all that. What are our chances, then?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d say about even.¡±


    ¡°Fifty-fifty? That¡¯s it?¡± the Senator asked, aghast. ¡°I was hoping for a bit more than even odds. I know what they say about a fair fight in the military.¡±


    ¡°That we need to plan better, yeah. Sen¡ª Blake, I¡¯ve been watching the Bunnies do their thing for years. The movies make them look like these goofy little imbeciles. And they¡¯re not; they¡¯re psychos. Every so often, they¡¯ll take prisoners¡±, she shuddered and continued, ¡°What they do to the prisoners and their occupied worlds gives me the creeps. And I¡¯ve fought the Resistance over Saturn as you have. I don¡¯t spook easy. Not anymore.¡±


    She continued, ¡°If we sit back and just wait for the Malgeir to lose¡­ which is just a matter of time. We better pray the Znosians forget about the fact that they¡¯ve already seen us and never find us. Even if we hadn¡¯t left them a trail of breadcrumbs to our home, they would have found us in a few years: this is the direction they were heading anyway. They¡¯re coming for us next; I can guarantee you that¡­ I think you already know all this, which is why you¡¯re asking me these questions. But I¡¯m just a Vice Admiral, not one of the three hundred people who can decide the fate of our species and our Republic. So, respectfully, the real question is one I should be asking you: what will it be?¡±


    The elderly statesman went silent for a minute, then closed his eyes and sighed again.


    ¡°As you know, I was a Marine once. I know war¡¯s costs as well as, I suspect, you do. My grandparents knew war. My parents knew war. I have a son and a daughter, both currently serving in the Republic Marine Corps. It was my eternal hope that my grandchildren would not have to know war. That a generation would be born in my lifetime who can laugh naively at our foolishness and ask why¡ª why we left our humanity behind us as we raced into the darkness.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± he continued, his voice cracking. ¡°That has been the forlorn hope of countless other naive leaders who came before me. And I see that now. This evil we¡¯ve ignored until we couldn¡¯t, it has shown itself and dared us to do nothing. The choice I have for my children and grandchildren is not between war and no war; it is whether they will get a fair fighting chance at all.¡±


    He spoke softly, not with the gravitas of a respected leader of humanity, but as if he was once again a scared eighteen-year-old Marine getting ready to face down a station full of hardened pirates and Resistance operatives over Titan. Amelia could see then, even in the wrinkles of his eyes, that for him ¡ª like for her ¡ª those nightmares never went away.


    ¡°You asked me, Amelia, what it will be. And I think I finally have an answer for you. We will be doing what we have always done as a species: the right thing¡­ After all, it appears that we have already tried everything else.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 8 | Honest Creatures

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    Grionc¡¯s rage simmered, a quiet storm brewing beneath her stoic exterior as she perched on the ornate chair in the empty lobby. She knew the Schpriss were making her wait on purpose. This was some kind of petty political power play, a further waste of her time on a trip that she already knew was going to be fruitless.


    As a reward for her ¡°victory¡± at Datsot, the Defense Ministry was sending her around the diplomatic circuit to beg for another tranche of military assistance and donations from their closest allies, a thinning pool of neighboring species that were growing less and less interested in helping out what they were seeing as a lost cause as the Znosians gradually consumed more and more Malgeir territory. The leadership clearly hoped that her newfound status as a war hero might win some respect.


    Or at least pity. At this point, the Malgeir weren¡¯t being too choosy.


    ¡°The Ambassador will see you now,¡± the assistant chirped primly from the reception desk.


    Grionc stiffly entered his office.


    The Ambassador¡¯s red eyes were typical for his species. His outward appearance didn¡¯t show his full age of 65, but that was only because of extensive plastic surgery that veiled his age-worn wrinkles and restored the youthful shine of his red-brown fur. In terms of his personality, Ambassador Prinlaex was slimier than the most brackish swamps of Malgeiru, even by the low standards Grionc held in her heart for the Schpriss. She tried not to be prejudiced, but he was a living, breathing reminder of all the things Grionc hated about their species: smug, insincere, and utterly self-interested.


    ¡°Greetings, Fleet Commander. It has come to my attention that you are garnering quite a bit of attention and acclamation in the diplomatic orbit,¡± he said, grinning at her as if he meant it as some sort of honor instead of an insult.


    Grionc masked her disdain with a practiced diplomatic smile. She replied, ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you too, Ambassador. I¡¯m here because we need your help.¡±


    The ambassador¡¯s expression changed from a grin of faint amusement to a scowl of barely disguised annoyance.


    Ignoring his discomfort, Grionc took a deep breath and began to explain the situation. The Malgeir Navy needed ships, she explained. It needed technology that was promised to the Malgeir months ago. It needs faster, stronger ships. It needed spacers. And yes, at the end of the day, it needed raw resources that they were now short on because of the war.


    The ambassador listened attentively but said nothing as Grionc pleaded.


    Prinlaex listened, his face an impassive mask. Then, when she was done, he replied in full diplomatic monotone, ¡°We acknowledge and respect the significance of this request and will provide our response as expeditiously as possible. As you may be aware, due to the importance of safeguarding Schpriss space, a thorough examination of both your suggestion and our own security must be conducted prior to any potential decision regarding assistance for those outside our borders. We hope you can understand the necessity of this process.¡±


    No, she did not understand. The Schpriss were next on the Znosians¡¯ list. There was no way they didn¡¯t know that¡­ Maybe they were planning on just giving up if that ever happened, rather living on their bellies than dying on their paws. Not that the Grass Eaters were even going to allow them their preferred choice¡­


    Grionc had been to Schpriss Prime twice before. It was a beautiful ecumenopolis, a city planet. The food there had been compatible with Malgeir biology and entirely made of meat, like a proper civilized race. And if it weren¡¯t for her experience there, she could have sworn the Schpriss were a prey species the way they folded in the face of adversity¡­


    Ambassador Prinlaex continued, ¡°However, I have been authorized to extend an offer to you. This one is of a more personal nature¡ª¡±


    ¡°A personal offer?¡± she echoed suspiciously.


    ¡°We have seen the impressive manner in which you lead Sixth Fleet and would like to extend to you an invitation to join our Schpriss Navy as a high-ranking officer, should Malgeiru fall. We are happy to provide a safe passage out for yourself and those under your command following the event.¡±


    Grionc stiffened even more. ¡°You¡¯re asking me to commit treason!¡±


    ¡°Certainly not,¡± the greasy ambassador waved. ¡°We merely provide an opportunity for you to find refuge and new purpose within our Navy, should the unfortunate event of a total collapse occur in your Navy.¡±


    ¡°Ah, not treason, just desertion then. This war is not over yet, Ambassador! We still hold dozens of sectors, and our capital is still guarded by the most powerful Home Fleet.¡±


    ¡°With all due respect, Fleet Commander, the evidence points to an unfavorable outcome for your forces. Keep in mind that I do get reports of the war that haven¡¯t been edited by your government¡¯s censors. For example, we know your offensive in Datsot did not go as smoothly as has been claimed in your Defense Ministry¡¯s press releases. And please¡­ Home Fleet. Even you can see how absurd placing your faith on them is.¡±


    ¡°And what will you be having me do for this favor?¡± she asked angrily.


    ¡°Nothing much. We would like you to provide us with updates and insights from time to time. We are friendly neighbors, after all. This is simply an effort to ensure that we remain in the loop and can share beneficial knowledge with one another. And of course, when the inevitable does come to pass and Malgeiru falls,¡± Prinlaex continued with unwavering confidence in his morbid prediction, ¡°we would request that you transfer as many remaining Malgeir and Granti ships to Schpriss Prime as possible.¡±


    Oh, not just desertion either. Espionage too. Fantastic.


    She was coming up with an appropriately indignant retort when he interrupted the simmering rage in her heart.


    ¡°I do not need an answer now. I encourage you to go home and carefully ponder your decision. You have a great deal of talent, and I would hate to see you squander it in a conflict where the outcome is, unfortunately, not in your favor. I suggest taking some time to consider all of your options before making a final decision.¡±


    He was barely done talking before Grionc stormed out of the room and building.


    <hr>


    After the conversation with the repulsive Schpriss ambassador, the first thing Grionc did was to take a long shower to wash off his stink. The second thing she did was to look up the Oengro¡¯s contacts directory for her tactical officer¡¯s information. He had a reputation among the ship¡¯s senior officers for being resourceful, which she would need.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Which is why Grionc was sitting nervously on the park bench, looking around furtively like a contraband trader with a guilty conscience.


    ¡°Hello, Fleet Commander,¡± Speinfoent said as he awkwardly approached her bench.


    ¡°Sit, sit,¡± she said hastily, ¡°How was your leave? Did you visit your pack?¡±


    ¡°No, my parents were both on Gionlu. They didn¡¯t get out before the Znosians overran it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± she said genuinely.


    ¡°It was months ago,¡± he shrugged, ¡°I like to think they would have been proud of what I¡¯m doing.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you joined the Navy? I saw your aptitude scores. You could have gotten into any of the prestigious research institutes for a cushy, well-paying job or¡ª¡±


    ¡°Gionlu fell after I joined up. And you¡¯re thinking of the old Navy, Fleet Commander. Nowadays, we frontline officers are getting pretty good recruiting offers too since the Defense Ministry¡¯s gotten desperate,¡± Speinfoent grinned, then continued more seriously. ¡°I do want to help prevent what happened to Gionlu from happening to other colonies, though. Call it a sense of duty or¡­ whatever.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± she said simply.


    Speinfoent looked over at her solemn expression and instantly believed its genuineness. Grionc had that effect on people. ¡°What about you, Fleet Commander, why did you join up?¡±


    ¡°I was a migrant worker on Grantor. When the war came to the Granti, they were our hosts and allies. It was just natural that many of us enlisted or were commissioned. My first position when I was an omega leader was staffing the tactical station of a small Granti gun cutter,¡± she recalled with a slight smile.


    ¡°You were in Tactical?!¡± Speinfoent exclaimed. ¡°I guess I¡¯ve never thought of you as anything but in command of the Sixth.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we all had to start somewhere. Pretty soon after that, the Malgeir officially joined the fight, so we transferred over. That¡¯s when I got my first ship command: a tiny Omega-class ship. We all thought the war would be over quickly. A few months, maybe a year. I remember a discussion on the news where xenobiology experts kept saying the Znosians were a prey species, so they had to be bad at fighting.¡±


    ¡°Must have been a shock to see one of them in battle in person for the first time.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, nah. We figured that one out pretty quick. Back in the day, the censorship wasn¡¯t quite as strong. And then I truly got a taste of it the first time my ship got boarded¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes went round and asked, ¡°You¡¯ve even seen a Znosian boarding party?¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah. We relied pretty heavily on close ranged ship-to-ship weaponry early on because we didn¡¯t have much else, and they took advantage of that. The Omega-class I was on got boarded by a small elite squad, just five or six of them¡­ We didn¡¯t have any Marines. They chewed through half our crew and got to the fusion reactor room, and we had to abandon ship.¡± Grionc shuddered at the memory. ¡°Less than a dozen of us got out.¡±


    ¡°Ah, my condolences, Fleet Commander,¡± he said.


    She nodded her appreciation. ¡°The news kept repeating the same line ¡®prey can¡¯t fight¡¯, ¡®prey can¡¯t fight¡¯ for a while after. Then, the official line became, ¡®they only win because they breed a lot of them¡¯.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not wrong. There are a lot of them. Endless waves of them.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Yeah, but we¡¯d probably be in trouble even if we fought them one-to-one, too.¡±


    ¡°No doubt. What a cosmic joke. Who knew the only prey species to get to the stars would be so combative and unreasonable?¡±


    Grionc found herself nodding in agreement. ¡°Yeah. It makes sense though, doesn¡¯t it? Intelligent species that originated as predator species learn to only expand as much as there was enough food and learned to make the best use of the resources we got. But prey¡­ in nature, they just grow and grow and grow until they eat all the foliage and then starve. That¡¯s probably why the Grass Eaters are the way they are, except there¡¯s plenty of us left for them to graze on. And the selection bias: I imagine a species of prey less inclined to constant violence wouldn¡¯t make it to the stars in the first place!¡±


    Speinfoent nodded slowly as he tried to digest her hypotheses. He was kind enough not to point out the fatal flaw he immediately picked up in the first one: some of the non-sapient predators in their own people¡¯s history did that as well.


    They sat in awkward silence for another moment until Speinfoent spoke up. ¡°Why did you want to talk to me today?¡± Then he hesitated and asked, ¡°Are we¡­ planning a coup?¡±


    ¡°A what? Coup? No! Where did you even learn that word?¡±


    ¡°Ancient History class.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t lie to me, Speinfoent.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay, it was an old movie I watched. And besides, you know the whole Sixth Fleet will back you if you do, right?¡±


    ¡°Speinfoent. We¡¯re not launching a coup,¡± she insisted, putting as much sincerity into her voice as she could. ¡°What makes you even say that?!¡±


    ¡°I just thought¡­ you can certainly do a better job running the war than the cretins in the Defense Ministry. Commander Vastae asked us¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait, Vastae¡¯s mentioned a coup before?!¡±


    ¡°N¡ªno¡­¡± Speinfoent said hurriedly, ¡°Nothing of the sort. He just made us dig out the remote hard locks on Oengro¡¯s control systems that Home Fleet built in decades ago¡­ just in case Home Fleet is ever compromised.¡±


    Grionc narrowed her eyes. ¡°I see. And did Vastae mention how Home Fleet could be a potential threat, given it hasn¡¯t seen battle in over nine hundred years?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a precaution,¡± Speinfoent replied, averting her eyes. ¡°Anyway, if it isn¡¯t a coup, what did you need me here for that we can¡¯t talk about on our communicators?¡±


    She thought for a while and answered, ¡°They made me talk to the Schpriss Ambassador.¡±


    ¡°Those slimy cretins. Are they finally sending the ships they promised months ago now?¡±


    ¡°No. Same answer, we¡¯ll need to investigate it, blah blah blah. Then, this time, he tried to poach me to the Schpriss Navy ¡®when Malgeiru falls¡¯, as long as I pass them information,¡± she said, curling her lips and claws at the outraged memory.


    ¡°And¡­ you want to know what I think?¡±


    ¡°I already know what I¡¯m going to do, but what do you think?¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s a good deal. But I would personally rather die a Malgeir than live as a Schprissian coward, hiding behind my neighbors as they fall in battle to a xenocidal enemy.¡±


    Grionc thought for a second and nodded. ¡°That¡¯s what I would have said to him right then and there if I didn¡¯t care about tossing my career over nothing.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to report him?¡±


    She barked a short, sarcastic chuckle. ¡°To whom? The Home Fleet internal security commandant? I bet he¡¯s already bought his own tickets to Schpriss Prime. Besides, their ambassador has diplomatic immunity or something.¡±


    Speinfoent shrugged. ¡°Well, at least that means a few of the Malgeir will live on, for a while. Until our ostensible friends discover the bottomless appetite of the Grass Eaters.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of the aliens,¡± she said, shifting. ¡°What did you think about that Znosian prisoner¡¯s talk of another species out there?¡±


    ¡°It seemed genuine, and the rest of the interrogation checked out, but it was all based on rumors and conjecture. It could just be prey ramblings.¡± Speinfoent then added, ¡°They mentioned that these new aliens are silent protectors, but when¡ª¡±


    ¡°But when did they protect us, right?¡± Grionc continued his question. ¡°I had a thought about that, too. What if a Znosian raiding party found a star system that belonged to this unknown alien species on their way to attack us, and they got wiped out by them? Some kind of territorial reaction by a new species out there. Repeat that a couple of times, and their prey mentality start to see a pattern where there is none.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s as logical as any explanation I¡¯ve heard so far. I wonder who would have been able to not just go toe-to-toe with them but beat them so hard that they didn¡¯t even get a full picture of the threat.¡±


    ¡°That is precisely why I am curious. If the Znosians suffered a major defeat somewhere, there must be evidence. Some kind of anomaly. Maybe a few missing ships between two battles. Or an anticipated raid that never happened. Or something like that. Speinfoent, that¡¯s why I asked you here. I need you to investigate this for me.¡±


    He didn¡¯t even hesitate. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. I assume we can¡¯t just go through the official channels?¡±


    Grionc shook her ears. ¡°No. If this is true, there¡¯s too much riding on this. The Defense Ministry has given up, like a wild old animal with cancer, waiting to die. I reported this days ago, but I wager it will be months before anyone even looks at the request. If they even bother.¡±


    ¡°I see. I will try to get access to the Archives and see what I can find. I might have a way in.¡±


    ¡°Stay safe, Speinfoent,¡± Grionc cautioned. ¡°The Defense Ministry¡­ it might be dying, but the vultures are not. Its Archives are not a safe place for honest creatures. It might even be more dangerous than any battle we¡¯ve been in. If you see something you know you shouldn¡¯t, don¡¯t dig too deep unless you have to, and let me know as soon as you find anything.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 9 | Outliers I

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Introduced in the Senate


    <hr>


    <h2>Grantor</h2>


    Svatken carefully filled her teapot with a mixture of herbs and spices, then placed it on the table with both paws.


    She looked at the prisoner across from her, a creature by the name of¡­ it didn¡¯t really matter.


    She poured him some tea.


    In some ways, he looked like her first hatchling. The healthy long whiskers, the furry white nose, the handsome buck teeth. And that defiant expression on his face. She mentally extinguished that part of herself and prepared to do her job.


    ¡°You must be parched,¡± she said, gently pushing a steaming cup across the table to him. As he gulped down the tea silently, she continued, ¡°You may be wondering who I am. I¡¯m Svatken. Maybe you don¡¯t care. Don¡¯t worry if you feel that way. I¡¯m used to it. It¡¯s a career hazard, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    She smiled at her little joke and went on.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t always a State Security agent, you know? Nobody really grows up wanting to be one of us. Some people don¡¯t even know we exist. You don¡¯t study in school to become a State Security agent¡­ I certainly didn¡¯t. In school, I specialized in¡­ xenobiology, and I became a xenobiology professor at The Shlirurk Institute.¡±


    She paused for a second for the prisoner to take it in. Then she continued as his eyes showed some form of recognition. ¡°Yes, the very one. Aha, I see by that look in your eyes that you have heard of it¡­ I¡¯m glad. A few of my visitors are bred illiterates, and they¡¯re never quite as interesting.


    ¡°One day, the Dominion came to me. They gave a long, wordy explanation of what they needed me to do. At the end, they said, ¡®Svatken, your Dominion needs you.¡¯ They don¡¯t usually use that line. You see, I¡¯m not like many of my fellow operatives. Most of my colleagues were recruited out of the Navy or Marines. Very uptight and rigid. My colleagues¡­ they don¡¯t question the ¡®why¡¯. Not really. They just punch in the scenarios into their combat computers and receive their directives. Ask the Digital Guide for instructions and they execute it.


    ¡°In fact, our whole species is kind of that way, isn¡¯t it? That¡¯s part of our evolved survival mechanism. When you¡¯re on the plains, chased by animals above ground, hunted by winged predators, doing the same thing as everyone around you is just a logical trait. That¡¯s how we Znosians lived long enough. To develop language. To develop science. That¡¯s how we came out of our burrows: together, following the guy in front of you and leading for the guy behind you.


    ¡°As it turns out, that makes us superb troopers. Unlike the other sapient species we¡¯ve found, we don¡¯t frighten easily in battle. We don¡¯t disobey orders. We intuitively understand how to stick and work together. Our ancestors have no use for concepts like individualism or ¡®the self¡¯. Everything was subsumed to the will of the tribe, and eventually, the good of the species. The good of the Dominion.


    ¡°Did you know we didn¡¯t even have names until we encountered other space-faring species? No names, just numbers and roles. It¡¯s true, I¡¯ve seen the historical documents myself as part of my training as a xenobiologist. ¡®Farmer-286 died today; he was replaced by Farmer-341.¡¯ It was only after we discovered other alien species that we imported that concept. When we discovered our galactic neighbors, their influence spread throughout our people. We gave ourselves names. We wore decorations. We got to choose our jobs. Some of us, at least.


    ¡°Now, not all of us are adapted to following orders. After all, some of us had to be the ones who give the orders to be followed. The biology of it all is very complicated, but as it turns out, we all have the genetic material to be leaders. But few of us ever express those genes. In fact, it¡¯s impossible to tell who has it and who doesn¡¯t, even with a blood test. Those of us who express it have abilities that others don¡¯t: creativity, initiative, critical thinking. It would be dangerous if all of us had it¡­ but when the right number of our people become leaders, we thrive as a species.


    ¡°In the long history of our people, we¡¯ve discovered and rediscovered this concept many times. Too many leaders lead to internal conflict, and too few leads to stagnation. We¡¯ve determined that the optimal number of born leaders to followers is roughly one in twelve hundred. After we gained the ability to do so, the gene pool is carefully adjusted to ensure that this ratio is correctly produced. Again, the science of that¡­ very complicated without blood tests, but we manage the right ratio even if we don¡¯t know who specifically has it.


    ¡°They call it the leader gene officially, but really, we are the outliers of our species. The outlier gene. Some of us ¡ª like myself ¡ª become State Security, protecting the state from threats within. Some of us become scientists and engineers and fleet commanders. Who do you think programmed the combat computers that give the billions in the military their orders? Or as the more faithful call it, Digital Guide. For the rest of the masses, they merely need to receive orders, to execute them for the good of the Prophecy. Ah, the Prophecy.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°The Prophecy isn¡¯t real. We made it up. State Security innovation, one of its first. Trillions of Znosians commit their lives to the interstellar war effort, based on nothing but a bunch of repurposed stories and faulty reasoning.


    ¡°Look at it logically! We need to exterminate all these predator aliens just so they can¡¯t threaten and eat us? Please. Don¡¯t make me laugh, as they would say. Some of these predators haven¡¯t fought a real war since they invented long, pointy sticks. Most of them never even had real agriculture. No farming, poor logistics. You¡¯ve seen what the Granti had: what they call ¡®feed growing¡¯ for their livestock: it¡¯s meager and inadequate. We would barely even consider that gardening, even before we reached the stars. It¡¯s a wonder they were able to keep their masses fed and not starve themselves out centuries ago. Such are the short-sighted predators. They are and never will be a physical threat to our civilization.


    ¡°No, we invented the Prophecy not to stop the aliens from eating us. We did it to stop us from turning into them. They were already changing our way of life: giving us names, selling us clothes. It was a matter of time before they started making us eat the same disgusting meats they did. To re-unify us and claw back our identity, that¡¯s why we needed the Prophecy. And in a twist of irony, we stole that too. Compelling stories, aren¡¯t they? Most of the stories in the Prophecy originated from the mythology of one of the predator alien races we encountered early in our history. They are gone now, but I guess this is their legacy too.


    ¡°It¡¯s worked so well for centuries. Our species¡­ united in purpose. We hop in one direction. We find meaning in life where there was none. And we avoided becoming these unruly carnivores who think with their stomachs. All for the price of a dozen or so pacified species in our galactic neighborhood.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°I see you¡¯re not surprised by this. Many who I meet are not. Another career hazard, I suppose.¡±


    She winked at the prisoner, took a sip of tea from her own cup, and continued with her monologue. ¡°Anyway, where was I? Ah, the purpose of State Security. We keep our people in focus and in line. That is our motto, after all. We are very good at our jobs, but as it turns out, monitoring the outliers in our species is an inherently difficult task. After all, we are creative, and so when one of us goes rogue, it does take a while for State Security to find out.¡±


    Here, she looked straight at the prisoner knowingly before calmly resuming.


    ¡°Thinking for yourself is a double-edged sword. A rarity among our people, these critical thinking genes are commonplace among the predators in the stars. When we conquer an alien planet for our sacred Prophecy, we have to avoid allowing them to spread their influence and rot among our kind. The only compatible solution to our objectives is extermination.


    ¡°We have tried other methods, of course. We do not simply waste life for the sake of it. No, we first experimented with neural inhibition surgery. Nerve-stapling, they called it. The concept is simple: we just neuter their ability to think critically, so they can become more like most of us instead of the other way around. Alas, that didn¡¯t work. It¡¯s too ingrained in the nature of predator species. To remove their resistance and individualism, we would have to get rid of so much of their brain matter that they stop being sapient.


    ¡°And initially, that was an acceptable solution for cheap labor. Our outlier scientists tried to make it work. We really did! But when we advanced our understanding of computing, robotics was just a more cost-effective solution for our labor problem. Plus, we had no shortage of our own individuals who could do most jobs anyway; such are the benefits of being the fast-breeding species we are. After a while, we could no longer justify keeping these inefficient, nerve-stapled aliens around. Thus, we applied our expertise in organization and logistics to the task of liquidating them. We put them in camps, and we put them out of their misery. We had to! There was nothing else we could have done!


    ¡°We got very good at it. Naturally, the aliens we are getting rid of tend to resist, but we have developed effective systems for keeping that impact to a minimum. They know they are going to die in our camps, but as long as we can keep them in suspense about when exactly that is, most of them would choose to continue to live another day instead of dying immediately. We practice herding them into the execution chambers, and nothing happens. When it comes time to actually inject them with a lethal dose of predator poison, they think it¡¯s another drill and readily comply. We call this process: desensitization. And as you know, we don¡¯t even have to actively kill them all; many of them simply waste away, or even resort to eating each other ¡ª before they run out of strength, of course. It¡¯s remarkable, is it not? What a desperate predator would do for just a little more time¡­


    ¡°Ironically, I think, we have successfully destroyed the threat from most of these alien prisoners even before they die. They suppress their critical thinking and long-term planning instincts, and just follow the herd to stay alive. And we did not even need to do neural inhibition surgery on them. A few still resist, unfortunately, but we at State Security have systems for mitigation. Oh yes, after processing hundreds of predator planets, we have gotten very good at our jobs.


    ¡°Most of these alien resistance tactics are violent. They kill guards. They break machines. They try to escape. Our soldiers who run the liquidation camps are very well trained. They know how to deal with each of these complications. We make the inmates turn on each other by offering better temporary treatment for those who collaborate. We sanitize the countryside, so escapees have nowhere to go. And their violent acts of defiance do nothing but delay, or in some cases hasten, the inevitable.


    ¡°However, one particular resistance tactic is very much unlike these others: some of our prisoners appeal to the sympathies of our camp administrators.


    ¡°As you know, against most properly socialized Znosian, that wouldn¡¯t work. They know and believe in the Prophecy without a shred of doubt. They have gone through a long desensitization training process too before they¡¯re sent in to do their work. And we pick our administrators carefully. But of course, some of these Znosians are not quite like the others. They¡¯re outliers like me.¡±


    ¡°Like you,¡± Svatken said, her eyes boring into the prisoner.


    ¡°Suddenly acquiring what the predators call a conscience, these camp administrators turn against their own species. They delay the work they¡¯re charged with. They hide prisoners. They fake the deaths of their inmates and even falsify their reports. It is inevitable, I suppose, for this to happen from time to time. No machinery is without need for maintenance, and blood is our lubrication of choice.


    ¡°Unfortunately, these acts of non-compliance are harmful to the war effort. So, State Security charges me and my team with putting a stop to it and catching those responsible. It¡¯s all very complicated and technical, so I won¡¯t get too much into it with you. I will give you the short version: by using statistics and computers, we can find out who is consistently lying in their reports. We flag these camps, and at that point, it is trivial for my people to go check in on rogue administrators. Like you.¡±


    She stared at him, her gaze turning hostile.


    ¡°Of the tens of thousands of camps we run on Grantor, we¡¯ve discovered only a handful of underperforming outliers. As I said, we are very good at our jobs. We caught you within weeks.¡±


    Suddenly, the prisoner interrupted her gloating with a small burst of defiance. He croaked in his pitiful state, ¡°You may have caught me, but at least I can die with a clean conscience that I¡¯ve tried my best to free them from you.¡±


    Svatken did not anger or shout, to his surprise she could see. She chuckled dryly, and replied, ¡°Ah, so you do have the power of speech. You¡¯re not the first one to say that to me. It¡¯s not even the first time this month I¡¯ve heard that line.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We will find every last one of the Granti pets you¡¯ve hidden or released. A few rounds of interrogation¡­ everyone breaks at some point. Then, your successor will take care of them. You traded everything you had, for what? A few weeks of life for a couple of dozen inmates on death¡¯s door? This is why you rogue outliers always lose. You can¡¯t see the bigger picture.¡±


    Then she straightened her uniform and tightened her face.


    ¡°Let me spell it out for you, disgraced camp administrator. Let me tell you how your life is going to go from now on. First, you will tell us everything you know about the Granti you hid and their pathetic resistance networks. Then, when we¡¯re done wringing you dry, from head to tail, you will be delivered to a new camp. Except this time, you wouldn¡¯t be an administrator. You¡¯ll be an inmate.¡±


    Svatken relished the moment that all hope went out of the prisoner¡¯s eyes. The moment when everything finally dawned on him. The complete defeat of their fighting spirit. It was what she lived for.


    ¡°That shock, that look of surprise. Don¡¯t be. Yes, State Security runs camps for our own people too. I hear these camps are much, much worse than the one you were supposed to be overseeing. But I¡¯m sure you would know what that¡¯s like better than me¡­ Don¡¯t worry. They aren¡¯t just going to kill you on the first day. We¡¯re going to get some honest labor out of you. And when the time comes for your story to end, you won¡¯t even know it.


    ¡°You¡¯ll just enter an execution chamber, like you¡¯ll do every day for the rest of your miserable life, hoping it¡¯s another drill this time. And when your fellow prisoners come into the room to collect your nameless corpse for disposal ten minutes later, all traces of your meaningless existence will finally be wiped out from the galaxy.¡±


    Here, she waited a minute, staring at him. The cell was silent but for the occasional whimper from her prisoner¡¯s difficult breathing.


    Sensing he was at his lowest point, Svatken offered him a way out. ¡°There is another path: tell us where the escaped Granti prisoners went. I will promise to make your end slightly less uncomfortable.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t even pretend¡­ you¡¯ll let me go¡­ alive afterward, will you?¡± the prisoner asked, coughing with effort.


    She shrugged. ¡°No point lying to you. Not this time. You will get a quick rifle shot to the head out the back when we confirm the information, and we will tell your bloodline you died of wounds sustained in battle. Otherwise, well¡­ none of them are exactly¡­ essential personnel in the war effort, are they? This is your one and final offer.¡±


    Svatken gathered her items, stood up, and readied her paw to signal the guards waiting outside the cell. She paused.


    ¡°In my experience, about half of you take the deal. So¡­ what will it be, outlier?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 10 | Payment Fraud

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    Speinfoent breathed in the stale air in the Defense Ministry Archives. The walls were lined with tall racks of aging machines and boxes, blinking lights indicating their continued operation¡­ some of them, anyway. Dusty monitors sat atop desks cluttered with stacks of abandoned data discs. A single beam from a rusted skylight filtered through the dimly lit room to illuminate the front desk. The seat behind it was occupied by a seedy-looking fellow with pale-tan fur and glowing yellow eyes who eyed him suspiciously.


    He had an official-looking nametag pinned to his lapel that identified him as Clilacu, Head Archivist.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± Clilacu asked gruffly.


    Speinfoent steeled his nerves, determined to get what he had come for. ¡°I¡¯m from Home Fleet. I need access to the incident report repository, preferably without filing a lot of extra paperwork.¡±


    The archivist scoffed at his brazen request and went back to tapping on his datapad. ¡°Not going to happen. That right there is highly restricted secure data. Nobody is getting access without authorization codes from the Defense Minister himself.¡±


    Speinfoent had expected this response. He reached into his pocket and deliberately pulled out a fleet payment chip he¡¯d lifted off a haughty Home Fleet aide at a bar he¡¯d been scouting for hours. ¡°Naturally, I¡¯m prepared to make it worth your while.¡±


    By the way that the archivist¡¯s eyes lit up with avarice, that was indeed the valid authorization code he was referring to.


    Speinfoent was not surprised. Archivists for civilian libraries on Malgeiru were exceedingly rare; their usefulness did not last long past the invention of computers several hundred years ago. Even with the ban on the development of digital sentience in effect for most of their history, the Malgeir just hadn¡¯t found the use for many of these archivists.


    No, the only reason this position in this particular Defense Ministry Archive facility continues to exist is to allow critters like Clilacu to exploit the opportunity for corruption.


    The archivist leaned forward. ¡°Which incident reports will you need access to?¡±


    ¡°All of them in the past five years. All severities, in any sector, by all filers. And I want the original, uncensored versions.¡±


    The archivist guffawed. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you need millions of reports for¡­ Gamma Leader Hinstuilcim,¡± he said, staring at Speinfoent¡¯s fake nametag, ¡°But they don¡¯t come for free.¡±


    If the Malgeir Navy was good at one thing, it was filing reports. Of course, nobody ever actually went back to read them to learn something. But there was always the possibility that a rival or superior commander made a mistake in them, and that could be the opening that an ambitious young officer could exploit to get a quick promotion. From the look of the luxurious looking watch that Speinfoent noted on Clilacu¡¯s wrist, the market for uncensored reports was apparently a rewarding one in the Malgeir Navy¡¯s contraband trading underground.


    ¡°How much would all the reports be?¡±


    ¡°Four million credits,¡± the archivist replied with a humoring smile, ¡°And no refunds.¡±


    Speinfoent stared him in the eye and said, ¡°deal¡±, sliding his stolen payment chip over.


    ¡°Woah, wait,¡± the archivist¡¯s smile disappeared into concern. ¡°Are you crazy? Where did you even get this?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, I¡¯m from Home Fleet. This chip authorizes withdrawal of payment from the Home Fleet general activities fund. Check it yourself.¡±


    The archivist suspiciously plugged the chip into a sale terminal he materialized from beneath the table. After a few seconds of fiddling, he pulled the chip out and looked up again.


    ¡°It looks genuine enough, but this is obviously stolen, and you are not Hinstuilcim. Not to presume anything about you, but that¡¯s a female¡¯s name. And there is no chance that someone won¡¯t notice this many credits disappearing; they will come down on us in a flash.¡±


    ¡°You will label the transaction ¡®ammunition: advanced gunnery exercises¡¯, and when I get the report on my terminal, I will log the receipt of thirteen thousand railgun training rounds on my ship¡¯s inventory,¡± Speinfoent lied, putting as much confidence in his voice as he can. He would do nothing of the sort, but he was hoping the grifter in front of him would hear what he wanted, transfer the credits, and they¡¯d both be out of here before the diligent accountants in Home Fleet noticed the massive hole in their accounts.


    Clilacu¡¯s eyes stared down at Speinfoent¡¯s uniform for a few heartbeats. Speinfoent figured his lie wasn¡¯t that convincing, but four million credits were enough to disappear or pay the right people to look away, and he was sure the archivist had some way to fence it all somehow. By the time they came looking, he could get off world and Speinfoent hoped that itself would be just enough¡­


    The archivist clearly made up his mind and plugged the payment chip into his terminal, following the instructions Speinfoent had given him. After a few agonizing seconds, a confirmation beep sounded from the machine.


    ¡°The funds came through,¡± he said excitedly. Then, as if dealing with an annoying chore, he clacked a few more keys at his desk. ¡°Sending your reports over¡­ now.¡±


    Speinfoent confirmed he received the files on his datapad and pretended to log some activity onto the screen. ¡°Good doing business with¡ª¡±


    Clilacu had already packed up his bag and was making a beeline for the exit.


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Amendments Process Concluded


    <hr>


    <h2>Bostruisa Science Park, Malgeiru</h2>


    Speinfoent felt the treasure trove of reports burning a metaphorical hole in his pocket as he walked into an upbeat looking commercial office with brightly colored paint plastered on the walls, the few walls it had that were not covered by large panels of seemingly physics-defying glass. The reception hall was abuzz with vibrant energy. While soft music tinkled from unseen speakers, groups of excited guests and employees laughed as they made their way through its broad double doors¡­ passing beneath an orderly tangle of wires and gadgets.


    Above the doors blazed the name of the technology startup, Eupprio Tech, which shares its name with its egoistic founder, who Speinfoent knew from school but hasn¡¯t seen since¡ª


    ¡°Speinfoent!¡±


    He looked at the familiar speaker in front of the reception table, who moved to embrace him. Eupprio was an energetic 28-year-old with a sharp snout, covered in an unnaturally glossy silver fur. Speinfoent noticed it matched her silver eyes, a color scheme that was genetically grafted into her body at no small expense, no doubt. The silver fur even reached up into her attractive, long, triangular ears¡ª


    ¡°Hey!¡± Eupprio laughed, noticing his gaze linger towards her ears for a second too long. ¡°My eyes are down here, Speinfoent.¡±


    He blushed. ¡°Sorry, I almost didn¡¯t recognize you with the new colors¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, silver is all the rage these days,¡± she said, waving her paws. Then she leaned into his ears and whispered, ¡°Besides, I was kidding; you can look at my ears for as long as you want.¡±


    Speinfoent almost died of embarrassment from the teasing. If he were a few years younger, he would have immediately bolted for the door. But a few years in the Navy had toughened him up against playful banter. He hurried to change the subject. ¡°I¡¯m glad you took my call, Eupprio. You seem to have been quite busy the last few years.¡±


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°Yes, I have,¡± she replied proudly, gesturing at the office around her. ¡°Want a quick tour?¡±


    The question was rhetorical, and he followed her long strides as she led him into the office.


    Eupprio walked him around the various departments, introducing him to her employees. Speinfoent was impressed that she seemed to know most of them by name and mundane details about their lives. She was genuinely proud of her staff and the work they were doing.


    Finally, they reached the back of the office where a set of large double doors was flanked by two security guards. Eupprio pointed to the sign, which said Server Room, then swiped her card on the keypad. The doors opened and they stepped into a room full of humming computers.


    Speinfoent was amazed by what he saw; rows and rows of computer units, all neatly arranged in designated order, each one with hundreds of wires running between them. He could feel the temperature of the room being noticeably cooler on the inside as the air conditioning units worked overtime to keep the dedicated machinery at their optimal temperature.


    ¡°This is where the magic happens,¡± Eupprio said with a smile. ¡°And it¡¯s a nice private place to talk, as you requested on the communicator. Or did you just miss me?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± Speinfoent grinned. ¡°But that¡¯s not why I need your help, Eupprio. I¡¯ve got something only you can do for me.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Flattery. So they did teach you a thing or two in the Navy,¡± she teased.


    Ignoring the taunt, he waved his paws around the room and asked, ¡°How much data do you actually process here every day?¡±


    ¡°Here? Not that much,¡± Eupprio admitted. ¡°Most of our actual servers are scattered all over Malgeiru. And we¡¯ve got a few offices on other planets too now.¡±


    ¡°So, you process payments mostly for Bostruisa and the surrounding districts?¡±


    ¡°A chunk of it, yes.¡± She nodded. ¡°We have a ways to go to catch up to our entrenched competitors, but we¡¯ve just started expanding. We are on track to take over the entire Malgeirgam metropolitan market and put them all out of business within the next few months. And then the rest of the Federation is ours¡­¡±


    Speinfoent hung his tongue, impressed. ¡°That must be a lot of payment data.¡±


    ¡°One hundred million transactions per day, to be exact, and up to twenty thousand a second,¡± Eupprio bragged. ¡°Once we expand¡­ we could be talking about not billions but trillions!¡±


    ¡°How do you deal with cases of fraud?¡± he asked, looking at the loudly purring servers.


    ¡°Why? How we keep our fraud rates lowest in the industry is one of our closely guarded business secrets. Did our competitors send you to come seduce the answers out of me?¡± she winked, combing through the fur on her head in a mockingly bashful gesture.


    ¡°No, I¡¯ve just heard rumors in some circles that your company has developed digitally sentient programs that could scour through that much data faster and more accurately than your competitors can.¡±


    Eupprio smirked. ¡°Digital sentience? You can¡¯t believe everything you read on the communication net, Speinfoent. And¡­ even if we did, it wouldn¡¯t be against the Malgeir-Granti Digital Sentience Treaty since the High Council lifted the ban right before Grantor fell, remember?¡±


    ¡°For defense applications, sure,¡± he noted dryly. ¡°I hardly think that using sentient programs to gain an advantage in processing payment chips¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on, Speinfoent,¡± she scoffed. ¡°People talk, but there¡¯s no proof. And again, even if it is, we¡¯ve got a capable legal team ready to go.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not being judgmental,¡± Speinfoent waved his paws in front of him defensively. ¡°I¡¯m just wondering if the rumors may be true.¡±


    Eupprio looked at him ponderingly for a couple seconds. Then, she asked, ¡°So what if it is true? What then? Is that why you¡¯re here?¡±


    ¡°If you do have a digital sentience program, I would need its help with combing through a large set of reports I have and point out any¡­ irregularities it can find.¡±


    She squinted. ¡°If we did have such a program, it might be of help. Theoretically speaking, of course. What kind of data and reports are we talking about?¡±


    Speinfoent hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her. ¡°It¡¯s complicated.¡±


    ¡°My dear, you are at Eupprio Tech. Everything we do here is complicated.¡±


    Sensing no point in hiding the truth, he admitted, ¡°Navy incident and after-action reports. I need you to help me find out which ones are telling the truth, and which ones are liars. And then, we need to find out which of the truthful reports contain¡­ unexpected information.¡±


    Eupprio widened her eyes in surprise. ¡°That sounds like highly classified information.¡±


    ¡°And I would need it to be off the books,¡± Speinfoent added hurriedly.


    ¡°That¡¯s the least of your problems. How much data do you have?¡±


    ¡°One point four million reports.¡± Speinfoent asked nervously, ¡°Is that too many? Some of them are duplicates around the same incidents.¡±


    ¡°One point four million?¡± Eupprio almost scoffed. ¡°No, that¡¯s not too much at all. It¡¯s barely enough to train the sentience model. We could use the duplicates to get it to recognize honest filers.¡± She hastily added with a wink, ¡°If we did indeed have such a model.¡±


    ¡°So, it can be done?¡± he asked excitedly.


    ¡°Hypothetically speaking, yes. But it would help if you told us more about what kind of unexpected information we¡¯re looking for.¡±


    He shook his ears. ¡°I can¡¯t tell you that.¡±


    ¡°Nothing? Just¡­ anything unexpected.¡±


    ¡°I can give you access to the Navy Battle Prediction Algorithm,¡± he offered. ¡°If you feed it battle starting conditions and such, it can tell you what it thinks will happen when.¡±


    She curled her lips slightly. ¡°Wasn¡¯t there some scandal around that a while ago?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, it¡¯s not perfect,¡± he admitted.


    Actually, it¡¯s not even close. The Battle Prediction Algorithm was a system created centuries ago, back when the Malgeir Navy was still competent and capable of fighting an interstellar war.


    The planners of the ancient defenders of Malgeir saw the future: one where a prosperous Malgeir people did not have to experience the war and suffering they did. That conflict between factions of the Malgeir and interactions with alien races could be resolved with diplomacy and compromise, instead of force of arms. In that long peace, there would be weakness. Their people would not just forget war; they would forget how to wage it. And if they were threatened, they would be defenseless.


    For that contingency, they created a machine: using a set of algorithms and equations, their descendants would feed in every parameter relevant to battle ¡ª down to detailed statistics on every spacer, every ship, and every weapon station ¡ª and it would be able to approximate the outcome of battles. They created it from hard-won battle experience, something they hoped their children and grandchildren would never have to earn themselves.


    Future commanders could use the output of such a machine to plan battles or learn to avoid them. It was not perfect, as its designers well knew, but interstellar battles were about math, not sentiment; given the right inputs, the Algorithm could be close enough.


    For hundreds of years, the design of the machine was kept in storage, forgotten by a society used to peace and prosperity. When war came to the Malgeir, they brought it out of its slumber and began drawing on the wisdom of the ancients.


    Unfortunately, its actual performance was a crushing disappointment. It frequently predicted triumph, only for the battle to end in disaster. The Algorithm¡¯s predictions were only as accurate as the data given, and unfortunately that data was often garbage. Garbage in, garbage out.


    It might have worked for the Malgeir Navy a thousand years ago, but modern commanders in the current Navy regularly fed it unreliable information of enemy numbers, details and whereabouts. To make matters worse, they also frequently lied to their superiors about the readiness of their troops in order to avoid humiliation and censure¡­ leading to predictably disastrous performance on the battlefield.


    At the start of the Znosian-Granti war, the Battle Prediction Algorithm was heavily emphasized in war planning. By the second year, its uselessness was evident, and its employment in planning became optional. Most commanders only ended up leaning on it to excuse their poor performance in after-action incident reports, often with exaggerated or even falsified data.


    ¡°It¡¯s actually not that part I¡¯m worried about,¡± Eupprio said. ¡°We can probably train the sentience to estimate results based on the truthful reports by themselves. If we did have such a program.¡±


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the issue?¡±


    ¡°I just need to know what kind of unusual performance you¡¯re looking for,¡± she requested patiently.


    ¡°It¡­ would be way outside the norm. Like perhaps something with less than a percent chance of happening,¡± he replied slowly, thinking how much he should give out. And perhaps more importantly, how much he could assume about this new alien species he was looking for.


    ¡°One percent? That would still be about one hundred and forty thousand incidents, more or less,¡± she pointed out.


    ¡°Maybe less then,¡± Speinfoent hedged, feeling out of his depth.


    ¡°Alright, we can discuss that further later,¡± she dismissed. ¡°Another salient question is one of payment. This will cost several million credits just to get started¡ª¡±


    ¡°How many is several?¡±


    ¡°I know the Navy raised its wartime salary¡ª¡± Eupprio looked suspiciously at the payment chip he materialized in his paws. Snatching the chip from him, she swiftly plugged it into one of the terminals next to them, which scanned the chip and quickly beeped an angry-sounding rejection. ¡°I knew it¡­ Didn¡¯t you think I¡¯d figure out this isn¡¯t yours after we were literally just talking about our state-of-the-art payment fraud detection, Speinfoent? Or should I say¡­ Gamma Leader Hinstuilcim?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°It was worth a try. I don¡¯t suppose I can appeal to your sense of patriotic duty to help the very Navy that keeps you safe during time of war and chaos?¡±


    ¡°I can give you a small discount,¡± Eupprio laughed, apparently not too bothered by his blatant attempt to scam her. ¡°Besides, if this was really about that, you wouldn¡¯t need it to be kept off the books.¡±


    ¡°It really is,¡± he said earnestly. ¡°This may be a matter of life or death for the Malgeir species.¡±


    Eupprio prided herself on being able to spot the truth. She looked into his eyes and ¡ª to her surprise ¡ª saw no lies. Squinting her eyes in hesitation, she said unsteadily, ¡°Well, it does seem important. But I don¡¯t do work for free on principle.¡±


    Pursing her lips, she thought for a moment.


    Then, grinning mischievously, she said, ¡°I have an idea. I know how you can pay me back.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    Looking down towards his walking paws, Eupprio flashed him a sly smile. ¡°Surely you have a¡­ better pair of shoes than that?¡±

 (Standalone) Missing in Action

    ¡°How could that possibly have happened?¡± Atluftrosh could scarcely believe his ears as he stared uncomfortably at the uniform of the fleetmaster. The crimson red on his collars accentuated his snow-white fur, and numerous parallel lines adorned his plain insignia.


    The enemy ¡ª the predator abominations ¡ª they used fancy pictures and other complex symbols to denote rank: another one of their inefficient waste of resources. And Atluftrosh heard that their eyes had problems counting parallel lines in a hurry. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was true, but he never had any problems recognizing the ten lines on Ditvish¡¯s rank patch.


    Ten lines, for ten ranks. The second highest of the Znosian Dominion, only subservient to the Grand Fleet Commanders¡­ and State Security, of course.


    ¡°I do not know,¡± Ten Whiskers Ditvish admitted. ¡°The fluffle¡¯s last message through FTL radio was that the enemy was there, that they were in position for ambush, and then we never got another from them again.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they are running into trouble with their communication equipment?¡± Atluftrosh suggested.


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Ditvish snorted. ¡°But can you come up with a communication equipment failure scenario that results in all four missile destroyers of a raiding fluffle simultaneously losing their ability to report their status, Seven Whiskers Atluftrosh?¡±


    ¡°I would have to consult with my combat computer, Ten Whiskers,¡± Atluftrosh said. ¡°Maybe it could¡ª¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the fleet master cut him off. ¡°I have already tried. If I needed insight from a machine, I would not be calling you. And it came to the same obvious conclusion that I know your brain is also capable of reaching: something disastrous has happened to our Special Raid Fluffle 28.¡±


    Atluftrosh bowed, unsure if he should feel chastised. ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. What is your directive?¡±


    ¡°Take your ship out and investigate this¡ª this anomalous incident in Oettro,¡± Ditvish ordered. ¡°We cannot have any surprises waiting for us¡­ not with the planned invasion of Datsot coming up.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°And remember, Captain Atluftrosh,¡± Ditvish said, emphasizing his position, ¡°unlike the bloodthirsty abominations we face, we do not let things go. We do not hide failure. And we will certainly chase every threat down into the hole it came from until we find it, no matter how dark the tunnel or how deep it goes.¡±


    Atluftrosh¡¯s eyes filled with understanding. Before civilization, the Znosians were a subterranean prey species. And if there was one thing you knew as an underground species: there were no unexplained mysterious passageways, only dead colonies. And when breeding was fast and life cheap, the equation of sacrifice was simple, unconscious even. You sent people down into the dark. And if they didn¡¯t come back, you sent more. And if none of those people came back, you sent hoppers to nearby colonies telling them what was going on before you sent everyone down in there. And if your entire colony didn¡¯t make it, your neighbors would come and flood the tunnels until everything was dead, then dig it up to review the remains.


    If there was something in the dark, you must know. Such was not so different from the Dominion¡¯s interstellar policy. If there was a potential threat somewhere, you didn¡¯t stop until you fully learned of its nature and put an end to it. No mysteries were tolerated.


    Mysteries like how a predator supply fleet ¡ª with all their incompetence and inadequacies ¡ª could possibly silence four top-of-the-line missile destroyers of the Dominion, captained by Servants of the Prophecy that the fleet master handpicked for the raiding mission.


    ¡°Of course, Ten Whiskers. I understand. We will leave no burrow unmarked.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    ¡°Captain, we have completed blink-exit preparations,¡± Ditvish¡¯s trusty computer officer reported from her station as the ship completed its complex task of recovering from the faster-than-light jump. ¡°We are now in Oettro.¡±


    Thirty seconds for post-blink. Not terrible.


    The predator fleets would give their tails for a thirty¡­ minute post-blink time.


    ¡°Right at acceptable standards, Six Whiskers Ktotssu,¡± Atluftrosh commented. ¡°But we have both seen better, haven¡¯t we?¡±


    Ktotssu was an atypically ambitious Znosian Navy officer with a strong personality, but she knew better than to question his authority. Not on the bridge of the ZNS 2228.


    Instead, she nodded curtly. ¡°I take full responsibility for our delay, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Your responsibility is accepted, and you are hereby verbally reprimanded,¡± he said lightly as she bowed to accept it wordlessly. ¡°You will do better next time. Now, what do our sensors see?¡±


    Ktotssu pulled the map of the system up on the main screen of the bridge, with several points of notations on the side. ¡°The most obvious sign of combat is the enemy¡¯s mining outpost: it has been completely destroyed. According to the combat computer, the pattern of debris is consistent with that of our orbit-to-ground munitions. That corroborates what our missing raid fluffle reported before they went dark.¡±


    Atluftrosh felt an eyebrow raise. ¡°You are assuming that our missing ships¡¯ last report may not have been accurate?¡±


    ¡°That was your directive, was it not, Seven Whiskers? Assume absolutely nothing?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Correct. And you have followed it well,¡± he praised after a moment¡¯s thought. ¡°It looks like you will come out ahead today.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Captain,¡± she nodded, pleasure evident on her face. ¡°I will let the sensor team know as well. The second most obvious sign of combat is an expanding debris field near the blink exit. We¡¯ve identified the remains of two predator combat ships ¡ª their missile destroyer escorts ¡ª and enough mass for an additional six of their heavy transport ships. This, too, is consistent with the last report of Special Raid Fluffle 28.¡±


    ¡°What about our ships?¡±


    ¡°There is also additional debris near the site: enough mass for four of our missile destroyers. The four ships of our raid fluffle. The only plausible explanation is that the missiles from our raid fluffle reached all eight of their ships¡­ Then, our fluffle was destroyed itself.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least we know what happened to them. But how?¡± Atluftrosh asked quietly. ¡°Two of their escorts for four of ours. I can barely understand such an inefficient exchange ratio if it were doubled to be even, much less from a special raid fluffle specifically geared and ready to ambush a predator supply fleet. And they must have died instantly to not send further updates via FTL radio. How did they die, Six Whiskers?¡±


    Ktotssu read off her console, ¡°Three of them were clearly instant as you expected: the radiation residue on the remaining masses points towards reactor explosions. The fourth is a bit of mystery.¡±


    ¡°Do we need another talk about your use of imprecise language, Six Whiskers¡ª¡±


    She continued, ¡°The fourth ship was clearly able to eject its reactor, because some of the remnant ship parts are still big enough to catalog. But¡­ the ship is broken into so many pieces¡­ That is unnatural. The only possible conclusion is that the predators forced the ejection of her reactor, and then they pounded the disabled ship to bits later for some reason.¡±


    Unusual, but not implausible.


    The predators do hate us. And lack of discipline is in their nature.


    Atluftrosh clarified, ¡°Is this your conclusion or the combat computer¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°Mine. But the combat computer has corroborated it.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°That will be our working hypothesis for now. But how do you explain how two escort ships destroyed our four ships?¡±


    ¡°I am¡­ uncertain. And so is the combat computer. It should not be possible.¡±


    He sighed. ¡°And you were doing so well, Six Whiskers. If you had figured this out, you¡¯d probably get a ship of your own.¡±


    Her eyes lit up with untempered excitement for a second before she hid it. ¡°Thank you, Seven Whiskers. But I was not done with my report. There is possibly a way to find out.¡±


    Atluftrosh sighed again. ¡°Computer Officer, if you keep doing this thing where you keep me in suspense with the most important part of your report, you¡¯re going to find yourself at your next posting cleaning up predator liquidation facilities on Grantor, not your own ship.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers, I take full responsibility for my use of¡ª¡± Ktotssu must have seen the sour expression on his face, because she immediately got to the point next. She pointed at a corner of the sensor screen. ¡°The predator¡¯s ships still haven¡¯t come by to inspect this site yet. We have signals of at least a dozen escape pods near their broken missile destroyers. And their ship bridges... they have been broken off, but they still look intact enough that we may be able to board and extract data from them.¡±


    He took a double-take at the screen and then a deep breath.


    Of course. The predators are not known for their efficiency. If these are indeed the only ships they had in the system, they would take far longer¡ª


    Ktotssu continued her report without regard for his internal monologue. ¡°And that¡­ does lead to an interesting inference for us: if they had any other ships in the system, they would have stopped to pick up survivors.¡±


    Atluftrosh hid his growing excitement. ¡°Are the survivors in the pods likely to still be alive? It¡¯s been almost a week, and you know the predators don¡¯t use hibernation pods like us¡­¡±


    ¡°Perhaps not all of them,¡± she conceded. ¡°But¡­ with them and the somewhat-intact ships, I like our chances.¡±


    He thought for a moment before he gave her the affirmative gesture. ¡°I agree. Not bad, Ktotssu.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps Ditvish will give you your own fluffle once we figure this out, Seven Whiskers,¡± she said happily.


    She overstepped. He took one glance at her brazen expression and chose to ignore the transgression. Atluftrosh very much liked the idea of having his own fluffle.


    How did the Navy put its only two ambitious officers on this one ship?


    He smiled thinly at Ktotssu. ¡°Let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves, Six Whiskers. Send a team to retrieve the pods, and make sure the Marines are armored and ready for combat. These are predators. Hungry predators after a week in vacuum. And send another team to the remains of their ship bridge. Yank their data recorder boxes. And then¡­ let¡¯s get ready to get out of this system. Predators may be slow, but that they haven¡¯t come looking for our people doesn¡¯t mean they won¡¯t the very next second.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain. Combat computer concurs.¡±


    <hr>


    It only took four hours to complete the lifepod retrieval operation. Working in vacuum ¡ª outside the comforts of the ships¡¯ atmospheres and gravity fields ¡ª was difficult, even for the most experienced spacer and Marines. But the crew of the ZNS 2228 was good.


    They knew the stakes. They worked fast.


    The first bit of news they got was that some of the crew did survive. And it was all better news from there. Not only did some of the crew survive, but they also found the captain in charge of the escort fleet, alive in one of the pods.


    Atluftrosh entered the brig, flanked by four heavily armored Marines. They watched the shackled prisoner carefully. It was big. A head taller than Atluftrosh¡¯s average Znosian build. And even in its deeply malnourished state, it probably still weighed more than him. But heavy or not, fast or not, its hide was not thicker than the penetrating power of an automatic rifle round, and its reflexes were not faster than the trigger finger of a trained Znosian Marine.


    Disgusting freak of nature, Atluftrosh thought as he watched the enemy captain gorge itself greedily on a predator nutrient drink through a straw, the fluid undoubtedly made of some other poor creature¡¯s flesh and blood. He was glad they¡¯d captured some of those in a previous operation and kept them on hand for a situation like this. The alternative was slaughtering and feeding one of them to another, and in his experience, that was generally not conducive to his crew¡¯s morale.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°You done with that disgusting drink, abomination?¡± Atluftrosh began as politely as he could. He hoped that his translator correctly conveyed his pity. It was not the predators¡¯ fault they were born monstrosities. Some of his people whispered that in death, even predators could find release and reincarnation as a civilized Servant of the Prophecy if they behaved well in this life and fully regretted the prey lives they had to take for sustenance, but State Security¡¯s position on that particular ideology was not well-established.


    The predator continued sipping on the flesh drink for another moment before it closed its eyes, making an ¡°ahhh¡± sound of enjoyment through its large snout.


    Yeah, this one is definitely not going to reincarnate well.


    The predator looked at him with both of its front-facing eyes. Perhaps if the Znosians had not had their fear bred out of them thousands of years ago, Atluftrosh might have found that frightening, but instead all he could muster was contempt.


    It croaked, ¡°I am Beta Leader Preitamplo, former captain of the Malgeir Navy Ship Seiddiu. Are you going to kill me, Grass Eater?¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. But first you will answer our questions,¡± Atluftrosh said matter-of-factly. ¡°What happened in this system?¡±


    The abomination leaned back in its chair. ¡°So once we tell you everything, you will dump us out the airlock.¡±


    ¡°Correct, predator captain.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like a very good deal to me or my people. What if I refuse?¡± it asked, tilting its ugly head.


    ¡°By the time you enter the airlock, you will do so willingly, and you will see this as the fairest deal in your life,¡± Atluftrosh said. He gestured to one of his Marines standing next to him. ¡°Get started with the declawing. I know its type. It will talk.¡±


    <hr>


    It only took two hours of screaming before Preitamplo begged to die. Atluftrosh knew that his people were getting good at this. He was glad that they were able to find so many prisoners alive. They would get plenty of practice.


    He looked at Preitamplo¡¯s bloodily bandaged paws. It looked so¡­ harmless without its sharp claws. If he didn¡¯t look at their ugly faces, it was almost like they were real, civilized, thinking creatures like him.


    But they were not. They were predators after all.


    ¡°That is an improvement,¡± Atluftrosh praised, pointing at its paw. ¡°Now you can¡¯t use them to harm or gut any more prey.¡±


    It sobbed twice. ¡°We don¡¯t use our claws to kill things or eat anymore. They¡¯re just for grabbing things and typing on a datapad now. We use utensils¡­ We¡¯re an interstellar species¡­ like you.¡±


    ¡°Live creature farming and butchering,¡± Atluftrosh said, feeling even more revolted by the image he conjured in his head. ¡°Just as disgusting. Even if you let others do it for you.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re obligate carniv¡ª¡± it started to protest.


    ¡°Now stop crying. You are not a hatchling. I hear my people say you are ready to talk, Beta Leader,¡± he said impatiently.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Preitamplo croaked quietly as his tears stopped flowing.


    ¡°Now, I addressed you as your proper rank, predator captain,¡± Atluftrosh admonished. ¡°You should address me properly as well.¡±


    Preitamplo squinted at his insignia, rubbing its eyes with its wrists now that its paws were properly trimmed, still sniffling. ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Very good, Beta Leader. Now, tell me what happened in this system.¡±


    ¡°We ¡ª my supply fleet ¡ª we entered this system a week ago to resupply the mining outpost. They had run out of industrial byproducts that they needed to replace, so our supply fleet included them on our route to¡ª¡±


    Atluftrosh interrupted it, his voice dangerous. ¡°Stop stalling and skip to the important part, Beta Leader Preitamplo. Or I have other business to attend to, and I can come back in another two hours when you get to the point.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± it said hurriedly. ¡°I was¡ª when we entered the system, we immediately came under fire from Grass Eaters¡ª from your ships. Four of them. They fired several missiles at each of our ships. We weren¡¯t ready for that.¡±


    Atluftrosh already knew this from the raider¡¯s last report, but it was good to get confirmation. ¡°Then, what happened?¡±


    It hesitated for only a brief moment. ¡°An Omega-class ship appeared within range of our ship, and we opened fire on it with everything we had.¡±


    An Omega-class ship?


    Atluftrosh turned to his Marines. ¡°I think it¡¯s lying now. Perhaps you need a few more hours with it¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no! Please, Seven Whiskers, you have to believe me! It was a tiny ship. It just appeared off to the side near one of the asteroids¡­¡±


    ¡°Beta Leader Preitamplo,¡± Atluftrosh said patiently. ¡°Unlike your incompetent Navy, we do not use Omega-class ships in ours, not anymore. And we would certainly not send one into combat in a raid. Our missile destroyers are standardized. They are what you idiots call Delta-class ships. Even you cannot possibly make that mistake.¡±


    ¡°We¡ª we didn¡¯t know that,¡± Preitamplo said desperately. ¡°At the time, we just¡ª I just thought it was one of yours, so we launched everything we had at it. But it was there. And it was small, like¡ª like one of our Omega-class ships. I saw it with my own eyes! Maybe it was not yours!¡±


    ¡°Not ours and not yours?¡± Atluftrosh asked, eyes glinting dangerously. ¡°Are you implying that there was a third species¡¯ Navy in Oettro? The long-tails?¡±


    He snorted internally. The long-tails had not only the poor qualities of the other predator species they¡¯d encountered in war. No, worse. The long-tails were cowards on top of being inexperienced with interstellar war and conflict.


    It shook its head vigorously. ¡°No, no. Not any of the known species. Not to us. I¡ª I¡¯ve been running those images through my head for the last week. It wasn¡¯t like any of the ships for any of our species have ever met.¡±


    Atluftrosh brought up his datapad and recalled a ship from one of the other predator species the Dominion had recently exterminated a couple decades ago. He was not in that war, but he knew his bloodline had performed well in it. His own genetic line was built from the new lessons the Dominion learned in that war.


    He turned his screen to show the pitiful prisoner. ¡°Is it a ship like from this species?¡±


    ¡°N¡ª no. That ship¡¯s too big,¡± it said, shaking its ears adamantly.


    Atluftrosh operated the datapad to flip to another extinct predator species¡¯ ship. ¡°What about this one?¡±


    ¡°Not that one either.¡±


    He went through about three dozen species before he gave up. The Znosians knew of a lot of dead predator species, but the prisoner maintained it was absolutely none of them. He sighed. ¡°Never mind. Continue with your delusions, Beta Leader. Then, what happened when you shot it?¡±


    ¡°We couldn¡¯t touch it. Not with our missiles. Not with our railguns. It just flew away.¡±


    ¡°It just flew away?¡± Atluftrosh repeated incredulously.


    ¡°It just flew away.¡±


    ¡°And you said you saw this ship.¡±


    ¡°I saw it on camera. Real camera, zoom optics. Not false color. Not thermal analysis. Not radar signature,¡± the predator insisted. ¡°I saw it with my own eyes.¡±


    ¡°With your low-quality optics. So it must have been close. Real close,¡± Atluftrosh deduced. ¡°Close enough that even your kinetics had a shot. And it just flew away. Now, I know the standards for your Navy are bottom of the tunnel, but how in the Prophecy did they manage that?!¡±


    ¡°It flew¡­ it anticipated our railgun shots somehow. And every missile we fired¡­ it either shot them down or¡ª or when we fired, our radar and sensor systems all broke,¡± its voice trailed off at the memory.


    ¡°Broke,¡± Atluftrosh repeated again.


    This part he completely believed. Half the predator equipment they captured were either broken or useless. They didn¡¯t maintain them like the Servants of the Prophecy carefully did in the Dominion. Their poor logistics was responsible for it. Stupid predators who never figured out real industrial farming. Hard to fix things when they didn¡¯t even have the parts on paw all the time. If they figured that out¡­ But he wasn¡¯t about to give them tips on how to better kill him.


    ¡°It broke,¡± the predator repeated. ¡°Our sensor computers immediately crashed once our missiles went towards them.¡±


    ¡°And then, what happened next?¡±


    ¡°Then, we kept shooting at it with our railguns for a while. And the missile tubes: they took a long time to reload. They never finished.¡±


    ¡°Why not? Did that break too?¡± Atluftrosh scoffed.


    ¡°Because the missiles fired from your ships reached us first,¡± it replied, looking down.


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    The predator captain shrugged. ¡°The hits took out something important in the back.¡±


    Something important in the back. If a Znosian Navy officer gave such a sloppy report, they¡¯d be on the shortlist for dangerous duties.


    It continued, ¡°I think the Seiddiu reactor ejected automatically to save the ship. But it was doomed, so we just made our way to the escape pods. We kept quiet, because we didn¡¯t want to be found by Grass¡ª by your people. But after a day, we agreed to turn on our transponders and communicators¡­ And we realized that only escape pods from our two Delta-class escorts survived. All our cargo supply ships were gone. And your ships were gone too.¡±


    ¡°This supposed Omega-class ship you shot at¡ª¡±


    ¡°Maybe it wasn¡¯t yours,¡± Preitamplo said quietly.


    ¡°I knew that, abomination captain!¡± Atluftrosh exclaimed. ¡°If you haven¡¯t been making that up¡ª¡±


    ¡°I swear¡ª I swear by my clan. It¡¯s what I saw with my own eyes!¡±


    Atluftrosh tried to think about what to do. The predator was clearly delusional, but it probably did believe every word of what it just said. Maybe if he gave it a couple hours of rest before starting it on the de-teething, it might come to its senses. Or perhaps another officer from his bridge who was still alive¡ª


    ¡°Seven Whiskers?¡± Ktotssu¡¯s high-pitch voice came out from his earpiece. ¡°You there?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m here, Computer Officer,¡± he replied absentmindedly. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°We just retrieved their data recorder boxes, and we got into them almost immediately. They were not encrypted.¡±


    Atluftrosh almost rolled his eyes. ¡°Of course not. It¡¯s the predators. What did we find?¡±


    ¡°Your prisoner is¡­ somehow not lying. You should come here and see this.¡±


    <hr>


    Atluftrosh looked intently at the dark black ship on his command console. It was so black against the background of space that it felt¡­ almost uncomfortable to look at. Like it was absorbing light from the starfield around it. A black¡­ monolith, with only a few things he found familiar. The thrusters in the back. The subtle dark gray markings on the tail.


    ¡°What in the Prophecy is that?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I have no idea, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    They had played the engagement on the screen a dozen times. Preitamplo did omit one detail: the unknown¡­ ship entity did open one of its internal compartments to launch¡­ something. It was probably chaffs or decoys or whatever it used to break the predators¡¯ ship sensors. And then another internal compartment, to launch counter-missiles. That¡­ he was sure.


    And now he was confident Preitamplo was not lying, at least not intentionally. The predators mistook the¡­ ship as one of theirs and fired on it. But whoever was controlling the black ship, they didn¡¯t shoot back. Just run away. In the split second it opened its internal compartments, he saw the silhouette of at least one much-larger missile in there: an anti-ship missile. There was no mistaking that.


    It could have shot back at the predators, but it did not. That missile in its belly. He didn¡¯t know why, but it looked lethal. Perhaps because of how much it resembled his own.


    This looked like a ship that could kill four of his missile destroyers. And Special Raid Fluffle 28 obviously was not aware of this unknown ship¡¯s presence. And the way that fourth ship was trashed¡­ He didn¡¯t need his combat computer to come to the obvious conclusion.


    ¡°Another species?¡± Ktotssu offered.


    He nodded, still transfixed by the image. ¡°Which one, though?¡±


    ¡°Maybe a new species? In the region of space past the Slow Predators and the Lesser Predators,¡± she speculated.


    ¡°More savage predators, you think? One that has the sense to hide itself?¡±


    Ktotssu hedged. ¡°Probably. We¡¯ve only met other predators in space. The Prophecy heavily implied this would be the case, even if it is not exactly clear on that point¡­¡±


    Atluftrosh agreed with her reluctantly. Another species to fight and exterminate. But what he¡¯d seen of their ship¡­ it screamed danger. Properly civilized Znosians were not supposed to feel fear, but caution¡­ they had caution.


    He put it out of his mind for now. ¡°We¡¯ve got important intelligence on board. Burn us to rejoin the fleet at Gruccud immediately. Combat burn, full speed.¡±


    ¡°What about the prisoners, Seven Whiskers? Should we dispose of them?¡± she asked.


    He considered it for a moment. They already had the data. These predators didn¡¯t know anything their ship hadn¡¯t recorded. And his experts probably knew their computers and systems better than the sorry specimen they¡¯d captured.


    Then again, he had to make sure. ¡°Interrogate and break all of them to be sure. It¡¯s good practice for our people. And when they reveal nothing interesting, toss them out the airlock.¡±


    Ktotssu bared her blunt teeth. ¡°Better than they deserve for a lifetime of savagery.¡±


    Atluftrosh agreed, then ordered, ¡°Contact Ten Whiskers Ditvish. Report everything we¡¯ve found via FTL radio. I shall take full responsibility for our lack of complete knowledge of the new enemy.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers,¡± she bowed.


    ¡°A possible new species¡­ I suspect he will not see what we¡¯ve found as a failure,¡± Atluftrosh mused. ¡°Bad news, but not failure¡­ Perhaps you will get that ship you wanted after all, Ktotssu. And me, my fluffle.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    2 years, 4 months later


    ¡°The Amazon and the Mississippi were positioned at the equivalent of point-blank range in interstellar combat, and the Znosians were fixated on the exposed Nile. Their close-in defenses didn¡¯t even have time to respond to our ambush. Three of the Znosian missile destroyers detonated instantly. The other managed to eject its damaged fusion core before it went critical, but subsequent weapons fire from our ships finished the job before they could evacuate¡­


    ¡°We stayed around for another twelve hours, firing our railguns into the only remaining Znosian wreck to break it up into smaller, unrecognizable chunks to get rid of any potential evidence of who we were¡­ When we left Oettro, we were certain that we had fully sanitized the scene to comply with the Prime Directive. In fact, I erroneously testified to this in the original classified debrief that occurred right after the incident. However, recent developments have proven otherwise.


    ¡°We now know that the Znosians are aware of our existence, that they managed to recover at least photographic evidence of the TRNS Nile, and that their forces are preparing to fight us. I will not speculate on how this is possible, but Naval Intelligence confirms that the Oettro Incident is the only possible source of this leak,¡± Vice Admiral Amelia Waters finished reading from her statement to the Senate Committee. ¡°Thank you for your time, Senators. I will now answer any questions you may have.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Admiral Waters, I have a question for you,¡± one of the elderly women on the dais asked.


    ¡°Yes, Senator Muller?¡± Amelia asked, looking up at her politely.


    ¡°Do you have any regrets? I know your personal opinion of the Buns¡­ the Znosians, it¡¯s probably like many of the officers of the Republic Navy. I know that firing on them was probably legally valid given our protocols for what happens when they see our ships, especially since the Puppers forced our hand by accidentally firing at us. And we certainly don¡¯t condone what the Znosians do to the other alien civilizations¡ª¡±


    ¡°The deliberate xenocides they are conducting, you mean?¡± Amelia asked. ¡°The ones we¡¯ve witnessed with our very own eyes.¡±


    ¡°That is what it appears to be, Admiral,¡± the Senator deflected. ¡°But do you have any regrets for how this went down and how they found out about us?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Amelia replied. ¡°Yes, I do.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t regret how we conducted ourselves during that battle at all; I just regret that we didn¡¯t do it sooner.¡±


    ¡°Admiral¡ª¡±


    ¡°I regret that we didn¡¯t fire on them the nanosecond those four raiding ships blinked into the Oettro system. That we didn¡¯t fire a few months earlier when they took over Gruccud from the Puppers¡ª the Malgeir. That we didn¡¯t fire two years before that when they landed on Grantor and started their extermination camps there. That we didn¡¯t fire at them eight years ago when they crossed the border into Granti territory. That countless innocent, intelligent lives have been lost, and that we have been merely sitting and watching. Doing nothing ¡ª except when we were discovered and forced to act.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then what were you asking, Senator? It is not up to Navy officers like myself to comment on civilian Republic policy. But if you¡¯re asking about regrets, I think that if the Republic continues to do nothing, even if we survive what the Znosians are going to throw at us when they find out where we live, this¡ª this will become one of our species¡¯ greatest regrets. That we stood by and watched. Perhaps even if we do act now¡­ some of us will have those regrets anyway¡­¡±


    The Senator looked down at her notes, and Amelia detected a hint of real contrition and sadness in her voice. ¡°I understand, Admiral. The people of the Republic and its representatives will take¡­ what you said into consideration. Thank you for your service, and thank you for your time.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 11 | Incident Reports

    <h2>Bostruisa, Malgeiru</h2>


    The Fresh Trail Cuisine restaurant¡¯s decorative style was a fusion of classic elegance with modernity: the dining room was sophisticated, yet cozy. It felt as if he had stepped into an enchanted forest and been taken away by the beauty all around; plush green leather chairs perched atop wooden floors, potted vegetation cascading from their hanging baskets above, ivy draped along the walls, giving off an almost ethereal feel to the place.


    Speinfoent couldn¡¯t help but marvel. In the middle of Malgeirgam¡¯s bustling metropolitan landscape of steel and glass, they had somehow managed to carve out this little oasis of charm and comfort. And judging by the pricey menu, they were paying steeply for that privilege. Well, he wasn¡¯t¡­


    He stole a glance at Eupprio sitting across the handcrafted table (no doubt hewn from real, imported lumber) and blushed. She wore a gorgeous floral dress that flowed around her curves in all the right places while leaving just enough to the imagination. Her makeup was tasteful: enough to make a difference but not stand out, and her long, silver fur cascaded down her back hypnotically, reacting subtly to the wind.


    Feeling severely underdressed in comparison, Speinfoent resisted the strong urge to itch his back. His dark blue dress uniform was stifling, even in the climate-controlled environment of the high-class restaurant.


    Leaning in, he whispered to Eupprio, ¡°Why was it so necessary that I wear my uniform?¡±


    Eupprio flashed an innocent smile at the awkward twenty-nine-year-old. ¡°I like a date who dresses up¡­ Besides, how else will other people know you¡¯re in the Navy?¡±


    He tilted his head. ¡°Wait, why do you want other people to know?¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± Eupprio giggled with delight. ¡°That¡¯s the whole point of going on a date with a Navy officer. One of my underlings is currently seeing someone from Home Fleet and she would not shut up about it at work. You¡¯re pretty high ranking, right? Anyway¡­ if you see anyone stop by to talk to us or taking pictures, make sure to smile.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°People are coming by to take pictures?!¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe. This is the fanciest restaurant in this part of Bostruisa. The place is a paparazzi magnet. Movie stars, big-shot politicians, they all dine here. And I¡¯m kind of a big deal around here for the gossip columns. Of course, if this doesn¡¯t work¡­ I¡¯ll have to take you to Soerru Steakhouse in downtown Malgeirgam next time, where there will definitely be someone there to take our pictures.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know that we military males had such a good reputation,¡± Speinfoent said, almost primming.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think so, either. Until the last couple of years at least,¡± she shrugged casually. ¡°A lot has changed. With the way the war is going, I guess there¡¯s a lot more emphasis on the honorable aspects of service.¡±


    ¡°Wait, so¡­ I¡¯m a trophy date. Your prop for tonight,¡± Speinfoent said, slightly disappointed. He hadn¡¯t expected her price to be a date at a fancy restaurant far outside his Navy salary¡¯s pay range, which she offered to pay for, but he didn¡¯t complain or resist very hard either. A conventional beauty, Eupprio was easy on the eyes, and he would be lying to himself if he hadn¡¯t had a crush on her in school like everyone else in his friend group.


    On top of that, she¡¯s unfathomably rich.


    Still¡­ being used this way bothered his ego.


    ¡°Hah, look at your face. No need to look so crestfallen. A prop¡­ please¡­ I wouldn¡¯t just go on a date with any handsome guy in the Navy,¡± Eupprio chortled. Then she leaned in closer, her snout almost brushing against his ear as she whispered, ¡°And if you play your cards right, I¡¯ll show you some fun props back at my apartment tonight.¡±


    Before he could find a reply to the audacious proposition, Eupprio¡¯s paw reached out, casually smoothing a barely noticeable wrinkle on his uniform¡¯s shoulder. Her eyes flitted to one of the flashy medals ¡ª which of course, she insisted that he wore to the date ¡ª on his dress shirt. ¡°What is that one for? Looks like a planet.¡±


    Glad for the distraction, Speinfoent looked down at what she was pointing at. It was an intricate medal with a golden circle framing a blue planet, its orbit populated by the icons of several engraved ships. ¡°Ah, that¡¯s the Datsot Liberation Campaign Medal.¡±


    ¡°Really? You were part of that whole thing?¡± she asked excitedly. ¡°I saw it on Channel One. That will teach those Grass Eaters a lesson about invading one of our core worlds. They won¡¯t be doing that again for a while.¡±


    For once in his life, Speinfoent managed to bite back his impulse to correct her or to mention the heavy losses they took; there was no need to start rumors or worry her.


    Instead, he nodded and said modestly, ¡°Other people did most of the fighting. I mostly just sat on a ship the whole time.¡±


    ¡°So humble, too. I adore a male who knows his limits,¡± she cooed.


    Just then, the waiter swooped in to save him from further teasing or embarrassing questions. He presented them with two plates piled high with strongly seasoned, well-grilled Soerru meat. Salivating at the smell of real meat, Speinfoent managed a quick ¡°thanks!¡± to the waiter and dug into his meal.


    ¡°Mmm, wow,¡± he hummed delightfully, taking a juicy bite. ¡°It¡¯s been months since I¡¯ve had any good food.¡±


    Eupprio glanced up from her own steak and looked at his appetite with mild concern. ¡°What do they feed you on the Navy ships?¡±


    ¡°Ration cubes, mostly,¡± Speinfoent said in between bites. ¡°Heavily preserved meat if we¡¯re lucky.¡±


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    She made a disgusted face. ¡°Yuck. And if you¡¯re not lucky?¡±


    Speinfoent stuck out his tongue. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you after dinner. It¡¯s not pleasant. Crew members get sick from them all the time. But at least they wouldn¡¯t dare give the worst portions to the officers.¡±


    ¡°I wonder what Grass Eater rations look like,¡± she asked, licking some of the spices off her utensils delicately with her long tongue in his full view. ¡°Must be easier to carry a bunch of grass instead of meat and flesh.¡±


    ¡°Actually, we¡¯ve captured some before from their supplies. And we occasionally have to feed Znosian prisoners their own rations.¡±


    ¡°Cool!¡± She exclaimed, then giggled. ¡°Did you have a taste?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just dried grass. Edible for us, but bland. Unlike us, the Grass Eaters don¡¯t bother with such things as culture and art, and their food is no exception.¡±


    <hr>


    After dinner, Speinfoent chivalrously escorted Eupprio back to her residential den.


    ¡°Thank you, that was very nice of you,¡± she said with a smile as she unlocked her door with a paw scan.


    ¡°And thank you for the dinner. Good night,¡± he smiled back and bowed slightly before turning to leave.


    ¡°Wait, why don¡¯t you come in?¡± she asked, standing in her doorway. ¡°We can talk about your side project!¡±


    Speinfoent entered her residence behind her. Her apartment was homey, but utilitarian. The walls were an off-white shade with bright colors framing the windows and doors. Her full bed was stacked on the side against a large window, accompanied by an elegant-looking closet and nightstand that look straight from a designer catalogue. A plush, light green sofa claimed one corner of the living room, sitting alongside an aged wooden table that actually held real paper books.


    Speinfoent took the offered seat on the sofa and Eupprio joined him, perching gracefully on one of the nearby chairs. She smiled at him as she picked up her datapad and crossed her rear paws casually. ¡°So,¡± she asked in a light tone, ¡°Did you have fun tonight?¡±


    ¡°I did. Even with the paparazzi spying on us,¡± he chuckled.


    ¡°You spotted her?¡± she looked up from her datapad, tilting her head in question.


    ¡°Sure did. Two tables behind me. She had a recording device tucked inside her purse, aimed right at our table.¡±


    She smirked. ¡°I saw her too. Told you we¡¯d have an audience. Anyway, my friends at work will have something to gossip about for the next few days.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of work, any word from that dream team of engineers you said you assembled?¡±


    ¡°Matter of fact, I was just looking for it¡­ Yep, they¡¯ve updated their status.¡± She showed him her datapad proudly. ¡°We¡¯ve been able to determine which report filers are truthful. Which reporters are habitual liars. Which of them exaggerate from time to time. We¡¯ve assigned everyone an honesty score.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes widened, impressed. ¡°That¡¯s so fast! Wait¡­ what¡¯s my honesty score?¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s claws danced over the illuminated datapad, filtering through layers of code and statistics. After a few moments, she looked up with a smile. ¡°Ninety-six percent out of three hundred forty reports filed. Not too shabby.¡±


    Speinfoent grinned. ¡°Not bad, not bad at all. What¡¯s the score for Fleet Commander Grionc?¡± he asked, spelling out her name.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see¡­¡± Eupprio clacked away again, her eyes scanning rapidly. ¡°Ninety-four percent, out of over three thousand reports. Wow, she¡¯s filed a lot of reports!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s the fleet commander alright,¡± Speinfoent chuckled. ¡°Can you average the honesty score for Sixth Fleet?¡±


    More typing ensued. ¡°I can. All right, here it is: seventy-four percent. Not bad, right?¡±


    ¡°No, not bad at all. What about Fourth Fleet?¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s paws flew over the datapad once more, but this time her expression changed. She frowned, then let out a disapproving ¡°hmm.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t look right. Thirty-two percent honesty. Maybe something is broken with our model¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent snorted, shaking his head. ¡°Nope, your thinking machine nailed it. Thirty-two percent honesty sounds like Fourth Fleet alright. They just make everything up¡­ That settles it. I¡¯m convinced it¡¯s close enough. Now we just have to figure out which reports describe an incident in which results strayed wildly from expected outcomes.¡±


    Eupprio glanced back at her datapad, her eyes flickering with excitement. ¡°We¡¯ve made some headway on that as well. Actually, the engineers reported that your Battle Prediction Algorithm is actually pretty solid.¡±


    Speinfoent blinked in disbelief. ¡°You¡¯re kidding. It is?¡±


    Eupprio nodded. ¡°It is. We didn¡¯t just take its word for it, mind you. We made our own evaluations by training our system on your data. But guess what? Your algorithm was within a decent margin of error about eighty percent of the time.¡±


    ¡°So the wisdom of the ancients was right the whole time?¡± Speinfoent wondered.


    ¡°Mostly, it looks like,¡± Eupprio confirmed, scrolling through her datapad. ¡°Turns out, all you needed to do was plug in good, honest parameters into the prediction models. But, you know, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s way easier to see that when you¡¯re looking back at a detailed after-action report than when predicting a battle ahead of time¡­¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    Eupprio continued. ¡°Anyway, we¡¯re still working on it, but we¡¯ve got better results now. Filtering by only naval incidents, we¡¯ve narrowed it down to four thousand more-or-less honest entries where the outcomes wildly deviated from what we calculated was way outside the norm.¡±


    ¡°Four thousand reports, huh?¡± Speinfoent scratched his snout. ¡°Still a pretty hefty pile to sift through, but I can dive in right away.¡±


    ¡°Go for it,¡± Eupprio said, transferring the data to Speinfoent¡¯s datapad with a flick of her paw. She stood up, stretching her paws as her chair swiveled back.


    Speinfoent¡¯s datapad chimed, confirming the file transfer.


    Eagerly, he began scanning the reports. ¡°Border Patrol reports skirmish against Znosian raiding force ends in complete unexpected disaster. All fourteen friendly ships lost, and enemy takes no casualties, despite the overwhelming balance of force¡­ nope, this isn¡¯t it. Next¡­ Second Fleet reports attempt to intercept¡ª¡±


    ¡°What is it you¡¯re hoping to stumble upon?¡± Eupprio asked.


    ¡°Well, I figured that while your engineers are attempting to narrow it down any way they can, maybe I¡¯ll get lucky and find what I¡¯m looking for first.¡±


    She shrugged her slender shoulders. ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    Speinfoent went back to the datapad. ¡°Second Fleet reports attempt¡ª¡±


    His reading was interrupted by the subtle rustle of fabric cascading to the floor. Glancing up, he found Eupprio standing there, significantly less dressed than before. Her ornate, flowing gown was now a puddle of silken fabric around her hind paws on the plush carpet. Gracefully, she stepped away from it, fixing him with an innocent gaze. ¡°Or¡­ maybe you can get lucky with something else.¡±


    With that, she turned around and climbed into her bed deliberately, giving him a generous view of her ample silhouette from behind.


    He made up his mind:


    The reports could wait.


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Expedited Process Approved


    <hr>


    <h2>Bostruisa, Malgeiru</h2>


    Hazily, Speinfoent could feel the velvety touch of Eupprio¡¯s paw as she traced intricate patterns down his clavicle towards his thorax. ¡°What are you doing?¡± he mumbled, a sleepy grin spreading across his snout, not unappreciatively.


    She leaned in, her warm breath tickling his pointed ear as she whispered, ¡°Oh, not much. Just wondering if you want to go again. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m quite finished with you just yet.¡±


    ¡°S¡ªsorry,¡± he stammered apologetically. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since¡ª¡±


    ¡°No need to explain. I don¡¯t mind,¡± she interjected softly, cutting him off with a tender peck on the nape of his neck. ¡°And I¡¯m liking the effect I¡¯m having on you.¡±


    He let out a contented sigh. ¡°Just give me a minute.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no rush. Take your time,¡± she smirked. Her paws reached his soft belly and continued their slow journey downwards. ¡°We¡¯ve got all night.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 12 | Awake

    <h2>Bostruisa, Malgeiru</h2>


    Speinfoent woke up to the rhythmic cascades of the running shower. Shaking the lingering fog from his head, he spread out his paws on the luxurious blankets. They were made of a soft material he did not recognize and felt divine against his fur. He slowly lifted himself into a sitting position, still marveling at how comfortable it was. As he sat up, he noticed a faint yet familiar scent wafting through the air. His stomach started to flutter as fragments of last night came flooding back to his mind.


    As he just sat there ruminating, he felt the warmth of Malgeiru¡¯s primary star hit his left paw. Hold on¡­


    The sun.


    The window.


    He craned his neck to look and realized that the window coverings were conspicuously absent.


    Wobbling to the bathroom, his eyes caught Eupprio¡¯s undressed outline highlighted in the translucent glass door. He knocked.


    ¡°Fine. You can come in,¡± Eupprio giggled from inside with a hint of mischief.


    Ignoring her implied request, he asked, ¡°Eupprio, did you intentionally leave the window coverings open last night?¡±


    ¡°The window coverings? I didn¡¯t notice,¡± she replied just a little too innocently. ¡°Why?¡±


    He let out a groan. ¡°But¡ª what if your paparazzi friends were outside taking photos of us¡­ you know, getting intimate?¡±


    Eupprio burst into laughter. ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I had in mind. But if it was, would that have stopped you?¡±


    Speinfoent stuttered, ¡°Well¡ª well¡ª no. Fine. Forget it¡­¡±


    The sound of the shower ceased, replaced by the squelching of wet paw steps on the bathroom tile. He quickly looked away from the window, his snout flushed a rosy hue. Then, he heard her offer in a much more tender tone.


    ¡°Here, come on in,¡± she coaxed, ¡°Allow me make it up to you.¡±


    <hr>


    As Speinfoent retrieved the array of clothes around the bed as they dried their wet fur, Eupprio¡¯s datapad emitted a short beeping sound. Her ears perked up and she snatched it up from the bedside nightstand.


    ¡°Any updates to our project?¡± Speinfoent asked from across the bed.


    Eupprio flicked her eyes over the screen. ¡°They¡¯ve narrowed it down to five hundred entries and have started analyzing the remaining.¡±


    Speinfoent let out a low whistle through his snout. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a lot fewer, but still quite a few reports to read through. Doable, though. May I see it?¡±


    As she tossed him the datapad, he caught it with practiced ease and started skimming through the files. Browsing through them, he saw a colorful bar chart with only number labels. He pointed it out to her. ¡°What is this showing?¡±


    Eupprio swiped and pinched at the chart to manipulate it. ¡°Looks like the outcome differential factor. So, roughly speaking, the number of reports in each group of how different the result is from expected.¡±


    ¡°How different the¡ª¡± Speinfoent smacked his furry paw against his forehead. ¡°That¡¯s it! These reports are both when we lost and won by a lot. If these aliens hurt the Znosians, it would show up somewhere we did much better than expected.¡±


    ¡°Huh? Aliens?¡± she asked, her whiskers twitching, confused. ¡°You know, I can probably help you better if you told me what you were looking for.¡±


    Speinfoent hesitated, mulling it over. Then, his features softened. Deciding he could trust her, at least on this, he told her. He relayed the Znosian Marine¡¯s interrogation, his fleet commander¡¯s directive, and even how he got access to all the records.


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s certainly not what I expected. I see why you¡¯re looking through all these reports to find these supposed alien protectors then. As you say, I¡¯ll ask the engineers to just filter these down to only incidents in which the outcomes were much better than expected.¡±


    Her fingers danced across her datapad as she transmitted the new instructions. Almost instantaneously, a reply pinged back.


    Eupprio¡¯s eyes narrowed, her ears drooping. ¡°That can¡¯t be right.¡±


    Speinfoent raised an eyebrow. ¡°What is it?¡±


    She quickly tapped out a message to her team for confirmation. ¡°Just checking if this is correct. Only eleven reports came in.¡± Another chime rang out, and she scanned the new message. ¡°Yeah, they double-checked. Only eleven reports in total.¡±


    Speinfoent winced. ¡°We¡¯ve only significantly outperformed expectations in eleven battles? Well, the silver lining is I won¡¯t have many more reports to look through. Let¡¯s run down the list. Give me the first.¡±


    She skimmed through her datapad and started reading. ¡°Znosian raid on a propulsion research facility two years ago. They blinked six Gamma-class ships directly into railgun range of a Beta-class in the outer system for target practice. All six enemy ships were lost with zero casualties on our side.¡±


    Speinfoent stroked his snout. ¡°That sounds like a comical stroke of luck, but unless our mysterious alien benefactors can literally change where ships blink to, it seems unlikely to be related to our search. Give me the next battle.¡±


    She looked at the screen again, her eyes scanning quickly. ¡°The second one is¡­ a little different. It¡¯s not a battle. It is an after-action debris analysis of an unsuccessful Znosian raid on Oettro. Suspected Znosian transport attrition raid. Looks like the sector defense fleet checked the system after a transport convoy was reported missing after leaving for it.¡±


    ¡°Oettro, Oettro. Where have I heard of that? I think it¡¯s a star system. What is its significance?¡±


    Eupprio quickly pulled up the information on her datapad. ¡°Oettro is a non-habitable system with a small, defunct mining outpost. No military installations or anything. At least, nothing on the public record, for what that¡¯s worth.¡±


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Speinfoent leaned forward. ¡°What does the after-action results say about Oettro?¡±


    With a casual flick, Eupprio tossed the datapad to him again.


    Speinfoent quickly scrolled through the digital pages, his eyes narrowing. ¡°We lost a mining outpost, two Delta-class ships, and six transport ships. The Znosians lost four Enemy-Delta-class ships. No ship from either side survived the battle that we are aware of. Due to a miscommunication, sector defense did not realize the convoy was missing until two weeks after they arrived in Oettro. All life-pods had expired by the time the help arrived. No survivors recovered from either side¡­ All four of the enemy ships were destroyed, and the only one that was not vaporized was pounded into so many bits they could not recover any significant piece of equipment. However, when our own wrecks were searched, they discovered that the recorder boxes had been removed from all but one of the ships: one of the Delta-class escorts, the Seiddiu. Hmmm¡­ that¡¯s odd.¡±


    ¡°That does sound odd,¡± Eupprio agreed.


    ¡°No, not just the result, I meant this¡­¡± He zoomed in on a picture attached to the report. The image showed a ship¡¯s compartment, its wiring frayed and disconnected. ¡°It looks like someone forcibly yanked the recorder box. You think the Grass Eaters got their paws on it first?¡±


    ¡°Well, you did say the Grass Eaters knew about it, right? Maybe this is how?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s possible, and it makes sense. Hm¡­ it also says the contents of the other recovered data recorder were attached to the report, but I don¡¯t see it.¡±


    With a quick swipe, Eupprio took the datapad back. ¡°Ah, the file was too large to show, so the display was truncated. Here, I¡¯ll bring it up¡­ There it is: navigation sensors, external cameras, bridge voice recording, weapon status data, sensor¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent stopped her. ¡°Sensors. Look at the sensors first.¡±


    Their eyes were glued to the screen as the sensor footage fast-forwarded through the recording data. First, there were four enemy blips, then a swarm of incoming missiles, and suddenly¡ª ¡°Wait, hold on, what¡¯s that new sensor signature?¡±


    Eupprio tapped the screen, pulling up the detailed data. ¡°Unidentified ship class. Possible Enemy-Omega-class ship, but much smaller than a typical ship of its class. Does that mean anything to you?¡±


    ¡°Not really. Strange though. Why isn¡¯t there a radar signature at all? Why is it just infrared? That thing is well in visual range: there should be a radar hit!¡± Speinfoent exclaimed.


    As they stared at the screen, dots identified as ¡®friendly missiles¡¯ burst forth from their ship. Then, out of nowhere, thousands upon thousands of new radar signatures filled the screen, overwhelming the display until it froze. The recording abruptly ended.


    He frowned. ¡°Was the sensor data corrupted by the ship destruction?¡±


    Eupprio jabbed a few more commands into the datapad. She shook her ears. ¡°No. That seems unlikely. The checksum is valid. The data seems to be fully intact.¡±


    ¡°So, the ship¡¯s radar saw thousands of decoys from an Omega-class ship?¡± Speinfoent questioned, eyes narrowing.


    She gave him a nonchalant shrug. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not the tactical officer here.¡±


    ¡°I may be one, but this makes no sense to me either. What happened after the radar went haywire?¡±


    ¡°Checking the logs, it looks like the radar computer overheated and crashed. Then, no further data from the radar was recorded,¡± she announced, scrolling through lines of technical jargon.


    Speinfoent paused, gears turning in his head. ¡°Wait, you said we had external camera data, and this¡­ Omega-class ship was within a thousand kilometers. Show me that.¡±


    They both leaned in to watch the view of the Seiddiu¡¯s visual sensors as it blinked into the sector. There were no signs of the Znosian ships because they were too far away, but suddenly the visual sensors began to manually pan and zoom. They focused on¡ª


    Speinfoent let out a soft, almost inaudible gasp. That¡­ was no Znosian ship.


    The size of it matched an oversized Omega-class ship, but it was distinct from any ship class he¡¯d ever seen. It was painted mostly black on the exterior, but it wasn¡¯t just black. The darkness of its black paint made it unsettling to look at. The curves of the exterior looked contoured to perfection. Its sleek design made it appear almost as though it had been designed for atmospheric flight instead of space travel. Its smooth surfaces betrayed no hint of the functionality of its modules. The only distinct shape he could see on it were some light gray markings near the rear.


    ¡°Pause and zoom in on those markings near the tail.¡± Speinfoent requested. As the image zoomed in, he felt a jolt of recognition. ¡°That looks exactly like what the prisoner drew. This must be either the same ship or same type of ship the Grass Eaters saw.¡±


    ¡°What a strange looking ship,¡± Eupprio remarked, handing the pad to him. ¡°Do you see anything that looks familiar?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ those look like main thrusters at the rear of the ship,¡± he replied.


    ¡°Great,¡± she said, rolling her eyes. ¡°Even I can tell you that.¡±


    ¡°Look, I don¡¯t see any weapons or familiar modules.¡±


    Too excited to see what happened next to continue teasing him, she tapped the screen to resume the video.


    They observed in horror as the bumbling escort captain, Preitamplo, unleashed a barrage of missiles and railguns on the mysterious vessel. In response, the sleek ship quickly sprang into action¡­


    A large compartment on the belly appears to open, launching a flurry of mysterious missiles and ejecting several other unidentified objects. Then, the Malgeir missiles heading towards the mystery ship immediately lost track of the target and exploded harmlessly into space.


    ¡°Looks like we missed everything we shot at them,¡± Eupprio noted, not hiding her disappointment.


    Speinfoent scratched his snout. ¡°Well, if they were our alien protectors, that would be a good thing. Or even if they¡¯re not, at least hopefully they wouldn¡¯t see this as an outright declaration of war.¡±


    She grabbed the pad and pointed at the screen at some of the objects that had been ejected from the unknown ship. ¡°That doesn¡¯t look like nearly enough decoys to put thousands of targets on the radar computer.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not. That ship must be doing something weird.¡± Speinfoent said, leaning over.


    ¡°Something weird, is that like official nomenclature in the Navy?¡±


    ¡°Just play the video, Eupprio,¡± he sighed.


    Their eyes remained glued to the screen as they watched the alien vessel¡¯s thrusters pulsate sporadically, nimbly dodging the incoming railgun fire with what seemed like minimal effort.


    ¡°Almost like they¡¯re toying with us¡­¡± Speinfoent mumbled. ¡°They have an Omega-class ship with defensive capabilities that outclass the Oengro, better agility than any ship in the Navy, and they are clearly not Znosian. We may be incredibly fortunate our trigger-happy captain didn¡¯t accidentally land a shot.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm¡­¡± Eupprio pondered, lost in thought. ¡°Let¡¯s not forget about the Grass Eaters. Not a single shot was fired at them either.¡±


    ¡°True. We didn¡¯t even fire on the four raiding ships. Neither of our armed ships did.¡±


    She continued. ¡°So¡­ let¡¯s add it up: this unidentified ship could have blasted us to smithereens but chose not to, even after we shot everything but the kitchen sink at them. They also probably annihilated those Grass Eater ships. I think your ¡®protector aliens¡¯ rumor is looking more solid by the minute? Still, even if that¡¯s true, we can¡¯t be sure about their real intentions. I mean, both our species might just be pests on their cosmic windshield, too insignificant to waste ammo on, right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Speinfoent conceded, leaning back. ¡°But at least we know they¡¯re not together with the Grass Eaters. That¡¯s got to count for something, right?¡±


    ¡°You know what bugs me? Why did no one else find this before us?¡± Eupprio asked, squinting at the datapad screen. ¡°This looks like pretty important information that should stand out.¡±


    He guffawed at the question, shaking his ears. ¡°Have you ever met anyone from the Defense Ministry? Check how many times this report has ever been accessed since it was filed.¡±


    She did, then double checked just to make sure. ¡°Wow, it¡¯s been accessed¡­ zero times before you pulled it. No one has seen this before us?¡±


    ¡°Yup, most likely. That¡¯s quite typical. Nobody ever reads these.¡± Then, with a few more taps on his own datapad, Speinfoent sent the report and his preliminary observations to Oengro¡¯s tactical computer. Then, just in case, he also forwarded them directly to the fleet commander¡¯s console. ¡°And¡­ there we go. At least we¡¯ve narrowed it down and we can investigate this further from here. I¡¯ll head to the spaceport later and go brief the Fleet Commander; maybe we can send a ship to Oettro for a follow-up.¡±


    Eupprio looked up, her grin widening into a playful smile. ¡°You¡¯ve got anything else to do before you have to go?¡±


    ¡°No. You have something in mind?¡±


    She gazed at him ravenously with her unnaturally silver eyes. ¡°A few things. Do you want the window coverings open or closed this time?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 13 | Treason

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    The massive spaceport dwarfed the suburban outskirts of the city with its impenetrable walls and towering spires. The air buzzed with the sound of engines revving; a steady drone that echoed off distant mountains on this brilliant night skyscape like thunder rolling across endless plains. Moving a frightening volume of people and cargo every day, it was the busiest hub of interstellar travel in the Malgeir Federation.


    The line of Malgeir snaking into the spaceport was marked with new blue and yellow paint. The port had recently been shut down for days and finally reopened with a myriad of new security measures due to a bombing conducted by suspected Znosian infiltrators that destroyed a pair of shuttles and killed scores of civilians. All passengers were now required to pass a thorough security screening, one that was compounding the chaotic inefficiency of the port¡¯s operations.


    Speinfoent, his rear paws rhythmically tapping in thinly veiled impatience, was stuck amidst this slowly inching serpent of a line. He¡¯d been cautioned that the queue would be long, but he didn¡¯t think it would take literal hours just to get through the outer security checkpoint.


    Though his destination was the Navy fleet, as usual, the first leg of the flight was entirely contracted out to civilian spaceliners. He would need to take a short flight up to a commercial hub station in Malgeir orbit, where a shuttle would be waiting to take him to the Oengro. Supposedly this was a more efficient use of resources than direct flight shuttles, but Speinfoent suspected that the savings to the Navy budget were not exactly the reason why certain procurement officers were so enthusiastic about promoting this rare cooperation between industry and defense.


    At last, he found himself at the front of the queue, standing before overworked officers who were equipped with fancy scanners that seemed to blink and hum with every move, checking every passenger for contraband and dangerous devices.


    ¡°ID please?¡±


    Having observed the procedure while waiting, Speinfoent was prepared: he quickly produced his Navy identification card.


    After scanning the card, the officers¡¯ expressions turned from one of boredom to one of nervousness.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± one of them said, pulling him aside. They talked into their communicators with excitement, looking in his direction as the distraction held up the security line. Several passengers behind him started whispering, sensing that something wasn¡¯t right.


    Speinfoent¡¯s heart sank. He had just started contemplating an escape plan when two uniformed personnel promptly showed up with loaded rifles and eager expressions. Their badges and demeanor said Home Fleet Marines, and he didn¡¯t want to find out whether their public reputation for loose discipline and quick trigger paws was authentic.


    After some time, one grabbed him on the arm. ¡°You¡¯re coming with us, Delta Leader.¡±


    ¡°Am I under arrest for a crime?¡± he managed to squeak out. ¡°I have a¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just come with us.¡±


    And that was all they said before they roughly lowered a black bag over his head and shoved him into a pulled up vehicle.


    <hr>


    It wasn¡¯t a long drive. Speinfoent knew he was still somewhere in Malgeirgam. But as a recent immigrant to the planet, he didn¡¯t know the city well enough to know where he was being taken from just the change in directions and sound of traffic outside. The smells seemed to indicate they were heading away from the city, but that was all he could tell.


    The vehicle eventually came to a stop, and he was taken out and led indoors, down some stairs, and into a cool room. As the black hood was removed from his head, he blinked in confusion as his eyes gradually adjusted to the bright lights outside. He glanced around before seeing a sign stamped in bold into the top of a table in front of him:


    Property of Home Fleet.


    Do not remove from Malgeirgam Base.


    Well, that¡¯s one mystery solved.


    He looked up at the creature across the table. His jailer¡¯s nametag read Pincrio. Piuncrio¡¯s black, unkempt fur did not stand out among the misfits and ill-disciplined members of Home Fleet, but his uniform was clearly custom-tailored: there was no way the Navy had stocks of standard issue uniforms with this round a waist. Crumbs of meat fell onto the cheaply made table as the dangerously obese officer carelessly munched on a slab of jerky.


    Speinfoent squinted. Pincrio¡¯s rank badge showed he was a beta leader.


    Hope glimmered in his heart. A beta leader was high-ranking enough to get him snatched from a spaceport checkpoint, but not nearly high-ranking enough to disappear him forever.


    ¡°Finally found you, Delta Leader. Took us a while too,¡± Pincrio said to him in between mouthfuls.


    ¡°Am I being charged with a crime?¡± he replied, still slightly disoriented.


    ¡°Theft, bribery, and treason,¡± the interrogator replied cheerily.


    A feeling of disappointment washed over Speinfoent. That more or less described what he technically did by stealing that payment chip and using it to pay for secret Defense Ministry documents. He just didn¡¯t expect them to find out who¡¯d done it that quickly. Apparently, Home Fleet¡¯s well-known incompetence didn¡¯t extend to their diligence in tracking down stolen money from their precious slush fund.


    ¡°I still have rights, you know?¡± Speinfoent almost whined.


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    The overweight officer sneezed once, spraying more crumbs onto the table. Unexpectedly to Speinfoent, this didn¡¯t seem to faze or bother him. He replied nonchalantly, ¡°Good. You know your rights. That saves me having to read them to you.¡±


    That¡¯s a good sign, Speinfoent thought, this officer is at least willing to follow the rulebook. Speinfoent upped his boldness. ¡°If you have arrested me, I would like to call a lawyer to be present at this interrogation.¡±


    ¡°Absolutely, and there¡¯s no need for a call. You already have a lawyer,¡± his interrogator smirked to Speinfoent¡¯s confused dismay, then spoke into a microphone pinned to his lapel. ¡°Show her in.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s lawyer was a bookish female in her early thirties carrying a sleek, light blue briefcase. Her brown fur matched his, marking her as someone likely from the bloodline of one of Malgeirgam¡¯s elite families. Her slim, athletic build put her sharply in contrast with the plump slob on the other side of the table.


    She sat down next to Speinfoent and set her datapad on the table.


    Presenting her business card to him, she briskly said, ¡°My name is Fleguipu, I¡¯m an attorney on retainer for Eupprio Tech and you are now my client. Shut up and let me do the talking.¡±


    He began to ask, ¡°Did Eupprio send¡ª¡±


    She shushed him quickly and looked at him impatiently. ¡°What did I just say? Keep your snout shut if you want to get out of here.¡±


    Appropriately chastised, he leaned back into his chair to watch her work.


    ¡°Good advice there. You should listen to your lawyer,¡± Pincrio said, nodding sagely with a stupid grin on his face.


    This beta leader must be missing a few screws, Speinfoent thought, or he was absolutely the worst interrogator in the world.


    Fleguipu rolled her eyes and started, ¡°Shall we?¡±


    ¡°Right to business? Let¡¯s get started, then, lawyer,¡± the interrogator said. ¡°Delta Leader Speinfoent, you are charged with theft of a Home Fleet payment data chip, bribery with the stolen data chip, and treason for accessing and removing highly classified data from the Defense Ministry Archives.¡±


    Fleguipu put her paw on Speinfoent¡¯s shoulder, as if to stop him from an expected outburst. She replied, ¡°Naturally, you have rock solid evidence for all this.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Our case is airtight. We found the data chip on his person. For the bribery charge, we detained the archivist he bribed at the spaceport and have the fully signed confession from him, as well as video footage from the Archives. And while we don¡¯t have the exact data he stole, our forensics experts just found out where a copy of the classified data he stole was transmitted, and they are on their way to recover its contents.¡±


    Fleguipu said, ¡°Let¡¯s deal with the theft charge first. The item was recovered, and presumably you successfully reversed the alleged transaction.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but about sixteen hundred credits were already spent and couldn¡¯t be retrieved,¡± Pincrio said, leaning back and crossing his arms and paws.


    The lawyer fiddled with her datapad and said, ¡°We can offer two thousand credits to drop the theft charge entirely.¡±


    ¡°Deal, plus the sixteen hundred for restitution, of course. The bribery charge, however, will cost your client twelve thousand to drop,¡± the crooked beta leader replied with zero hint of irony.


    Fleguipu''s eyes narrowed. ¡°Ten thousand.¡±


    ¡°Eleven.¡±


    Fleguipu worked on her datapad for a moment. ¡°That¡¯s acceptable on principle. Your treason charge is absurd though. What you have, at best, is Misuse of Government Property, which starts at three hundred credits.¡±


    Pincrio shook his ears. ¡°No way, lawyer. Mishandling of Classified Documents starts at ten thousand credits. And I could separate the charge for each document. You should ask your client how many documents he stole.¡±


    ¡°Give me the room.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Take your time.¡± The interrogator stood up with some effort, which caused some of the jerky crumbs on his uniform to land on the table. He waddled out of the room.


    Fleguipu looked at Speinfoent. ¡°So¡­ Eupprio must have forgot to mention that last part to me. How many classified documents did you end up taking?¡±


    ¡°Over a million,¡± he admitted, his voice dry.


    ¡°Dammit. What did you need a million documents for? Wait, don¡¯t tell me¡­ Ugh.¡± She rolled her eyes in exasperation. ¡°You folks never make my job easy. I see why he combined it all into a treason charge now. It would be far too much effort for that lazy leech to charge you individually for each document.¡±


    ¡°Wait, are they really going to drop my other charges for mere credits? Even the bribery charge?¡± Speinfoent asked, eyes wide.


    ¡°Yes, this is how they do it here in Home Fleet. It¡¯s not like the civilian courts or what you see in the movies. Get used to it.¡±


    ¡°I knew they were like¡­ this. I just¡­ didn¡¯t realize¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t get all idealistic on me, pal. I went to law school for four years for this; how do you think I feel?¡± she replied curtly.


    He held up his open paws as if to pacify her. ¡°What about the treason charge?¡±


    ¡°That one is a little trickier, but I think our friend Pincrio here just wants a big payout. There¡¯s no way he has the legal authority to get into Eupprio Tech servers to go fishing for your documents. Probably hasn¡¯t even bothered to fill out the court order request form yet. Sixty thousand should be more than enough to get him to drop it.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s still a lot of credits,¡± Speinfoent protested. ¡°I¡¯m just a Navy officer. I don¡¯t have that kind of money saved up!¡±


    Fleguipu sniffed indignantly. ¡°Eupprio said as much. You can¡¯t normally even afford to be in the same room as me. That¡¯s why she¡¯s paying.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and she says you owe her another date. Apparently, she doesn¡¯t want to visit you in prison.¡± The lawyer looked him up and down twice before rolling her eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t know what she sees in you, but what she does with her money is not my business.¡±


    Speinfoent reddened. Trying desperately not to continue that conversation, he asked, ¡°How did Eupprio know I was arrested to send for you?¡±


    ¡°Hah. Funny story that. A few people at the spaceport saw you get bagged by the Home Fleet goons and posted the pictures on the communications network. And someone who saw it recognized you from a video they recently saw of you with Eupprio in her apartment¡ª¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright, I get it,¡± he said hurriedly. ¡°Should we call the officer back? Since your time is so valuable.¡±


    ¡°Fine by me.¡± Fleguipu pounded twice on the door loudly. She shouted out, ¡°Hey, Beta Leader, get back in here.¡±


    Pincrio ambled back in with a deeply annoyed expression and slowly sat down.


    Fleguipu started, ¡°You have nothing on the treason charge and we both know it. We¡¯ll give you thirty thousand just for your trouble¡ª¡±


    Pincrio interrupted her, shaking his head reluctantly, ¡°No deal, lawyer. I just got word from higher up that we¡¯re keeping the delta leader a little while longer.¡±


    Fleguipu rolled her eyes again. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll up it to forty for that creative excuse.¡±


    ¡°No, really. This one comes straight from the top. We need to hold him for longer. We have no discretion to drop any of these charges.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about? We just agreed to fourteen thousand for the first two charges. Look, how about you come up with a figure for the last charge and we go from there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± And for a second, the corrupt beta leader did actually look apologetic. ¡°Strict orders. Please understand this does not affect our other arrangements with your firm, only for this particular client.¡±


    ¡°Like hell it doesn¡¯t! Why is Speinfoent different?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t tell me. I''ve got nothing to do with this. And personally, I have to say this is really unusual,¡± he insisted, waving his paws around. ¡°This came from the Home Fleet Commander himself. And you must leave now.¡±


    Speinfoent watched him escort the protesting Fleguipu out of the room and slumped down into his chair.


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Approved for Senate Vote by Committee (12-0)

 First Strike - Chapter 14 | Outpost

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    This job sucks. I was supposed to just collect prisoners and shake them down for credits, not be berated and personally threatened by the Home Fleet Commander himself for failing to obtain one measly autograph.


    ¡°Look, just scratch your signature here and we¡¯re done. You walk, just like that,¡± Pincrio whined, his tail flicking with obvious annoyance.


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes flicked over the digital text on the datapad. ¡°That¡¯s not happening. That document is full of lies! Fleet Commander Grionc didn¡¯t order me to break into the Archives! And for the record, you can¡¯t interrogate me without my lawyer present!¡±


    Pincrio¡¯s ears flattened, a desperate plea lingering in his eyes. ¡°Speinfoent, be smart about this. Think! Think for once! The treason charge? You can¡¯t afford the judge! That¡¯s a one-way ticket to a lifetime behind bars. You¡¯ve got so much of your life ahead. Don¡¯t throw it all away for nothing!¡±


    Speinfoent tilted his head defiantly. ¡°Why are you guys trying to implicate Grionc anyway?¡±


    His jailer¡¯s whiskers twitched. ¡°Why does that matter to you? It¡¯s just a signature.¡±


    ¡°It just does. I won¡¯t do it if you won¡¯t even tell me what this document is for.¡±


    Pincrio sighed, rolling his eyes. ¡°Fine. Okay, listen. You¡¯re a young, na?ve delta leader, and it¡¯s about time you learned how the galaxy worked. Our fleet commander¡¯s got this nephew¡­ He¡¯s gunning for her spot in the Sixth Fleet. Don¡¯t give me that look. And don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m sure they¡¯re not gonna throw her in a cell or anything like that. She¡¯ll sign a document of her own, take a tiny step down the ladder, and mosey into early retirement.¡±


    Speinfoent balked, ¡°That¡¯s the dumbest thing I¡¯ve ever heard. Your Fleet Commander knows that Sixth Fleet is the only major competent formation left in the entire Malgeir Navy, and we¡¯re fighting a pretty darn important war, right?¡±


    The jailer shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s just standard Navy politicking, way above what either of us gets paid to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Have you been out there? Really out there. Out on the frontlines?¡± Speinfoent pleaded. ¡°We need good, experienced fleet commanders leading what remains of our Navy. We¡¯ve just spent ten years getting our asses kicked by the Grass Eaters, and all we have to show for it are veterans like Grionc! If you get rid of her for someone¡¯s nephew, we¡¯re screwed¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just sign it. If Grionc were in your paws, she¡¯d do it to you in a heartbeat.¡±


    ¡°No¡ª no, she wouldn¡¯t,¡± the delta leader insisted.


    Pincrio sighed again. ¡°Look, you said you wanted to know. The deal is simple: if you sign the confession document, we¡¯ll let you go now. No charges, no fees.¡±


    ¡°I want my lawyer. Fleguipu. Bring her back.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll tell you to sign it. It¡¯s the only sensible thing to do!¡±


    ¡°Then it shouldn¡¯t be a problem for you to allow her back.¡±


    Pincrio stomped his feet paws twice in frustration. ¡°Gah! We¡¯ll see if another few hours in the cell will change your mind, a short preview of the rest of your life if you don¡¯t. Knock on the door and let me know if you reconsider.¡±


    And then if the stubborn young officer still wouldn¡¯t sign it¡­


    Well, he had other methods.


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Floor Debate in Progress


    <hr>


    Due to the relatively benign level of seismic activity on Luna, most buildings on the moon built upwards instead of developing underground. The low gravity further reduced relative construction costs for taller buildings, even if it meant they needed to invest in additional solar radiation protection due to its lack of an atmosphere and a magnetosphere. In comparison, digging into the fine regolith of the lunar surface created a host of costly issues, especially in the early days of Terra Corp when the top layer of Luna was still a mystery to humanity.


    Even in those days, the engineers spared no expense for one particular facility. Dug into an underground cavern of a lunar lava tube (but not structurally connected to any building), its only publicly accessible entrance led vertically into the Senate Complex. Which is why Senate staff called it Floor B-41.


    Its inhabitants called it ¡°the Outpost¡±.


    Almost two hundred meters underneath the lunar surface was a secured single-floor facility equipped with state-of-the-art protection systems and electronics. The Outpost was shielded from all sides with armored composite walls, which should delay any potential attackers more than long enough to activate the self-destruct systems that would incinerate its contents before it was breached. Its initial purpose was to serve as the headquarters of the infamous Terra Corporate Security Division, surveilling the domains of Terra Corporation and keeping order within its unofficial jurisdiction. Several uncovered abuse scandals and accountability hearings later, the extrajudicial division was disbanded, and the building was vacated. For years, it sat empty.


    After Terra Corp reforms, a new corporate division was secretly created to take over the legitimate external security-related roles of its former inhabitants: the Terra Reconnaissance Office. The job description of the TRO was explicitly intelligence collection on potential extrasolar threats. Unlike its scandalous predecessor, its crosshairs were aimed squarely outwards towards the alien ¡ª not internal ¡ª threats to Terra. It upgraded and took over the Outpost for this purpose, where its mission continued even after Terra Corporation became the Terran Republic.


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    At first, it was only a highly secretive R&D division dedicated to alien research. With every discovery it made of aliens beyond humanity¡¯s little bubble in the stars, its jurisdiction and budget expanded to accommodate its growing relevance.


    The TRO protected humanity from the shadows. The Navy got the public credit for hunting down unauthorized attempts to acquire and abuse FTL drives and radios, for its interceptions of terrorist operatives burning for the system limit, and for sending its ships and crews into dangerous alien-infested space. They were the steady fist of the Terran Republic, but the TRO considered itself the nerve center that directed its mighty swing.


    For a long time, the TRO¡¯s very existence was a highly guarded secret that was only whispered in between the line items and blacked out pages of the Republic¡¯s annual budget. Its operatives, analysts, and directors ¡ª categorized as ¡°logistics personnel¡¯ or not at all ¡ª did not receive medals in public ceremonies. They did not publish memoirs about heroic missions when they retired. Even now, with their existence more widely known, their people¡¯s sacrifices were remembered only by their peers and a white marbled wall marking just over a hundred anonymous stars, flanked by two flags.


    In honor of those who fell in the line of duty. For the Terran Reconnaissance Office. For the Republic. For humanity.


    The memorial wall was upstairs, in the basement of the Senate Complex itself. It was for tourists and families.


    The Outpost further downstairs was not.


    Not satisfied with his predecessors¡¯ already paranoid focus on security, the current Outpost¡¯s director reinforced its merely armored walls with nanite-enhanced paint that also muted the sounds made by its occupants from any potential listeners. Hidden sensors were seeded throughout the facility to keep 24/7 track of its authorized occupants, and its computer network was air-gapped to ensure that no data leakage was possible. Even its electricity supply was heavily monitored and fuzzed by a protected, isolated system to ensure that not even the amount of power used by its occupants would become known to a potential adversary. Indeed, plant workers loyal to the TRO at the nearby fusion power generation facility made sure that even the monthly power consumption of the Outpost was kept a well-guarded state secret.


    Director ¡°Mark¡± sipped his coffee as he monitored the operations of his realm through his console. Naturally, Mark was not his real name, but it was the only one he used nowadays. After a field accident that cost him his left leg, even advanced prosthetics could not save him from being transferred to this desk job. At forty-five years old, many who knew him would say he looked young for his age. Mark would often attribute that to his Mongolian ancestry in conversation, not the numerous classified genetic and prosthetic enhancements made to him by the TRO during his service.


    Loud, pulsating sirens pierced the stagnant air, and a fervent glow of red lights bathed the austere interior of the Outpost as its main doors opened expectedly to admit two of its analysts.


    ¡°Kara, John, welcome back,¡± Mark hailed from his position overwatching the door, one hand subconsciously poised above the clandestine emergency intrusion button concealed beneath the armored security station.


    ¡°John¡± was the impeccable image of a seasoned soldier in his mid-30s. His skin, a rich, deep ebony, and his hair trimmed into a meticulous crew-cut painted a picture reminiscent of a classic Republic Marine Corps recruitment poster.


    Beside him, ¡°Kara,¡± a woman exuding a quiet, unyielding strength woven through her Persian features. Her chocolate brown locks were neatly secured in a bun, revealing a visage of focused hazel eyes that acknowledged Mark¡¯s greeting. ¡°Good to be back, Director.¡±


    A voice and brain wave scanner mounted on the ceiling beeped its affirmation that she was not an impersonator or under duress.


    Exhaling a held breath, Mark¡¯s shoulders relaxed slightly as he approved their entry. ¡°What¡¯s the latest?¡±


    A shadow passed across Kara¡¯s eyes. ¡°Fleet Commander Grionc¡¯s arrest warrant just got signed.¡±


    Mark sighed heavily. ¡°Shucks. Are we certain that she¡¯s going to launch a coup on¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not our concern, Mark,¡± she replied firmly and emphasizing it with a shake of her head. ¡°That¡¯s what you pay Hersh and his team for.¡±


    Mark¡¯s posture straightened subtly. ¡°They are briefing the Intelligence Committee, right now?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and we¡¯re up next. John and I are just here to get our stories straight before they summon us upstairs.¡±


    A playful glint sparked in Mark¡¯s eye as he turned towards the former Marine. ¡°Ah, John, your first committee briefing, is it?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative, sir,¡± John nodded, maybe a little too eagerly.


    ¡°The thing about these things is,¡± Mark confided, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, ¡°You have to try to tell them as little as possible without them catching on that¡¯s your game.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± John chuckled for a second, before stopping and realizing that the director was not joking. ¡°Wait¡ª¡±


    Kara looked at him amusingly. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. They¡¯re mostly harmless geriatrics whose only knowledge of the Navy is based on the toy model warships they buy their great-grandchildren for Christmas. And look at you and your disgustingly maintained uniform: they¡¯ll absolutely love you. But uh¡­ to err on the side of caution, let¡¯s do a dry run.¡±


    She guided the group into a large conference room.


    With a quick swipe of her credentials at the center console, lights around the room shifted, and a heavily annotated three-dimensional battle map of the Malgeiru system hovered above the table. Crimson and azure fleets appeared before them, signifying opposing ¡°teams¡±.


    Mark¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°I thought we weren¡¯t doing the red and blue thing to not give an impression we¡¯re rooting for Grionc¡¯s Sixth Fleet if it goes down.¡±


    Kara exhaled a light sigh. ¡°The battle map holographic system they have upstairs in the briefing room is an older version. It only supports friends, foes, and civilians, so we¡¯ll have to make do.¡±


    ¡°Understood. I¡¯ll make a note of that in the next budget request. Carry on.¡±


    Slyly, a mischievous grin danced across Kara¡¯s face. ¡°And don¡¯t tell them, but we are most certainly rooting for the blue team if it goes down.¡± Kara then pointed at John. ¡°You start this time. Like I said, imagine we¡¯re ninety-year-olds who don¡¯t know the first thing about what¡¯s going on here.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± John began in his best impersonation of an authoritative voice, putting his expensive TRO training to good use. ¡°These are the forces arrayed around the Malgeir home planet. The two main concentrations of ships are Home Fleet here, in red, and Sixth Fleet here, in blue.¡±


    With a deft tap from Kara, the units on the battle map began their movement as the simulation began to play.


    In the corner, a window showed up depicting the first-person view of the flagship Oengro¡¯s bridge, showing a mock version of Malgeir officers on its bridge with a minimal loss in fidelity. Every known officer was replicated. And even their morale and experience were tracked and simulated extensively, some partially telegraphed on their facial expressions.


    In the simulation, (mocked) Fleet Commander Grionc looked straight at her (mocked) tactical officer. ¡°Space Warfare Officer Speinfoent, what is the disposition of enemy and friendly force?¡±


    A passable impression of the young alien officer replied almost instantly, giving the report with anatopic Republic Navy designations. ¡°The loyalist forces are twelve Husky-class battleships, two hundred and fifteen Shepherd-class missile destroyers, and over six hundred smaller picket ships of various classes. Our Fleet is still recovering from its last campaign at Datsot. We have a single battleship Oengro, about sixty equivalent missile destroyers, a few of which are lower quality loaners from other fleets, and a handful of pickets.¡±


    ¡°A completely hopeless situation for us, would you say?¡±


    <hr>


    Senate S.83920 Terran Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Emergency Hearing in Progress

 First Strike - Chapter 15 | Alien Politics

    <h2>Malgeiru (Simulated)</h2>


    (Medium fidelity simulation)


    ¡°A completely hopeless situation for us, would you say?¡± Grionc asked with truly machine-like brevity.


    Fake Speinfoent replied, shaking his ears in the simulator¡¯s best imitation of a Malgeir rejection, ¡°Negative, Admiral, our ships are far more combat ready. Our crews are exclusively experienced veterans. Morale is high. The rest of the fleet is ready to follow you into battle¡ª¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Wait. Make it not say that,¡± Kara ordered John. ¡°Malgeir politics is on Hersh and his team. We are not evaluating the loyalty of her combat crew. If the Senators or their staffers ask, defer them to the other teams.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    <hr>


    The simulated Speinfoent corrected himself, ¡°Morale is high, and if our crews remain loyal, Sixth Fleet represents a serious offensive force. Home Fleet, on the other hand, is made of the dregs even the rest of the Navy doesn¡¯t want. None of its ships meet even their already lax standards for combat readiness, which they only pass by rigging their exercises. They are crewed by inexperienced spacers. The entire combined Home Fleet ¡ª with its hundreds of ships ¡ª has fewer actual combat hours logged than our single flagship, Oengro.¡±


    ¡°Excellent analysis, SWO,¡± Grionc agreed. ¡°Additionally, we will have the advantage of surprise. Continue.¡±


    Mock Speinfoent pointed at the battlemap on his console filled with alien symbiology. ¡°Home Fleet is made up of three major battlegroups. Battlegroup X-ray is deployed in the outer system near the blink limit. And two battlegroups, Yankee and Zulu, are stationed on opposite sides of their home planet in low planetary orbit: this saves fuel when commuting from the planet, but it is actually a major weakness in their deployment stance, which we will be able to exploit later.


    ¡°Our own Sixth Fleet is anchored in high orbit of the home planet as a single unit. Theoretically, we are not in a particularly advantageous position, but practically, none of the Home Fleet battlegroups can approach us first even if they¡¯re fully aware of our intentions: most of Home Fleet¡¯s ships have been shut down to save fuel. They need precious hours to bring their engines up to even move, not to mention burn for combat, so the only thing these battlegroups can really do at this point is wait for us to come to them.¡±


    In anticipation of a basic question by the spectators, the simulation¡¯s Grionc, almost winking at the screen, asked, ¡°What if they ditch their slow ships and just engage early?¡±


    ¡°At the start, none of the hostile battlegroups can muster enough mobile ships to pose a real threat to our fleet. Any ship formation that approaches us before they¡¯re fully readied and warmed up will simply be outnumbered and destroyed in detail.


    ¡°Therefore, we get to move first. We should probably ignore Battlegroup X-ray in the outer system. X-ray can¡¯t move the whole battlegroup to the planet in time anyway. There is a small possibility that they discover the plot and rush their combat-ready ships to reinforce Battlegroups Yankee or Zulu, but frankly, that would require a spectacular display of initiative we¡¯ve never observed in Home Fleet command.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s character broke the fourth wall, looking straight at the spectators. ¡°Or Sixth Fleet command for that matter. Nonetheless, we have simulated those moves, and we are confident they will not make a noticeable impact on the outcome anyway.¡±


    Replica Grionc cleared her throat. ¡°Move us into orbit. Get ready to engage Battlegroup Yankee.¡±


    It was Speinfoent¡¯s turn to cosplay as the Terran politicians¡¯ avatar in the simulation to preempt potential questions. ¡°Why Yankee and not Zulu? Is there a difference?¡±


    Grionc replied, ¡°None whatsoever. Both battlegroups in orbit of Malgeiru are about equally sized and equally unprepared for battle.¡±


    The simulation fast forwarded in time until Sixth Fleet was nearly in low Malgeiru orbit.


    Grionc commanded, ¡°Get ready to fire. How many volleys can we pull off before they respond, SWO?¡±


    ¡°We are cruising in at high acceleration. Yankee is filled with immobile and slow ships barely warming up their engines. We should be able to fire off about sixteen effective volleys before we come into their effective range, and if that is not enough, we can maintain position outside their range indefinitely. Until they warm up their engines. And we are fairly certain that even given a few weeks, a sizable number of those ships still won¡¯t actually be able to move on their own power.¡±


    ¡°Excellent, SWO. Move in. Engage at will when we have a firing solution.¡±


    The simulation dutifully displayed a colorful fireworks show as Sixth Fleet fired off a dozen waves of Malgeir missiles that decimated the entire Battlegroup Yankee before any of Sixth Fleet¡¯s ships could come into their effective range.


    ¡°Battlegroup Yankee of Loyalist forces have been neutralized, Admiral. What next?¡± Speinfoent asked patiently.


    ¡°Transfer Sixth Fleet into medium orbit. Let¡¯s wait for Zulu to come over the horizon and take them out. Target the planetary sensors with our ground support ships. And send Squadron 6 to high orbit to scout the enemy and destroy any possible enemy reconnaissance force, which they would deploy if their spacers had any initiative or experience. But they probably will not, because they are the incompetent Home Fleet.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Fleet Commander.¡±


    From the display, it became obvious what the critical flaw of the Home Fleet disposition was: at low orbit deployments, the two separate battlegroups couldn¡¯t see each other.


    Sure, they could transmit data to each other¡­ until Battlegroup Yankee was annihilated to the last ship or surrendered in the first skirmish.


    The planet itself had sensors, but stationary planetary sensors under the atmosphere were far inferior in quality to ship sensors, and they were further degraded by the precision planetary bombardment being carried out by orbital support ships in Sixth Fleet ¡ª the same experienced ones that had just come from a lengthy liberation campaign in Datsot.


    Because of all these factors, for several critical hours, Battlegroup Zulu became essentially blind to the movements and disposition of Sixth Fleet as they sped around the planet towards them, with their scouts in high orbit keeping perfect track of their location¡­ Not that they needed the scouts; much of Zulu were still immobile and Sixth Fleet knew exactly where they were.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    The first sign of Grionc¡¯s ships that Battlegroup Zulu¡¯s ships noticed were its missiles and railgun munitions racing towards them over the horizon. A small number of their ships had finally gotten mobile at this point, but the static ones with predictable positions and orbits were utterly defenseless to the salvos and instantly disappeared off the simulated Oengro¡¯s radar sensors.


    A simulated cheer went out in the bridge of the Oengro, which sounded oddly like it came from a Terran child¡¯s birthday party, and Grionc¡ª


    <hr>


    ¡°No, no, no, no. Cut that sound effect out.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Are you kidding me? The jokers at the Navy Sim Team¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Admiral, most of the enemy battlegroup has been destroyed, but a few squadrons remain combat effective. What is our next move?¡±


    ¡°Two options. Stay at maximum range and rely on our crew¡¯s superior experience to fight a drawn-out space battle. We now outnumber them, and we are combat ready. They may be able to move now, but half of their ships probably don¡¯t even have full munitions loads. We are sure to win,¡± Grionc replied.


    ¡°What¡¯s option two?¡±


    ¡°Option two is we rush in and try to finish them quickly. Slightly higher risk as we don¡¯t have as big an advantage in a close-range knife fight, but they will have fewer ships ready if we go right now,¡± she elaborated.


    ¡°Which would you choose?¡± Speinfoent¡¯s avatar asked, winking at the fourth wall again.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. We will win either way, but we should take fewer ship casualties with the first approach. The ground invasion Marines will suffer later though, because we¡¯re going to give the loyalist forces time to prepare their ground troops to repel our Marines.¡±


    <hr>


    John summarized the simulated insurrection by Grionc¡¯s Sixth Fleet. ¡°Realistically, the battle will not fully play out like this. Home Fleet¡¯s morale and willingness to fight are abysmal. There is just no chance they retain a coherent command by this point in time: Yankee is destroyed, and Zulu is mostly-destroyed. They will probably surrender after the destruction of Battlegroup Yankee. We think they may even surrender without a serious fight at all when they see Grionc¡¯s ships bearing down on the planet and firing on them six times outside their maximum missile range with their full acceleration. That would be the logical thing for them to do.


    ¡°And once she controls the orbits, Grionc can easily shred the planetary defenses with her orbital fire support and send her Marines into the capital city to take control. Her fleet is carrying the same experienced Marine force that retook most of Datsot, so they are well-equipped for a planetary invasion scenario. Far more ready than the surprised and suppressed defenders will be. With effective orbital support, this process should take twelve hours to a few weeks, depending on how fast they can force submission of Malgeirgam. Battlegroup X-ray may arrive afterwards, but they will either accept the fait-accompli, or be defeated by Grionc¡¯s prepared fleet supported by the fully reactivated planetary defenses.¡±


    Kara raised her hand like a schoolchild and asked, ¡°Will the local police forces resist her authority?¡±


    John pointed his finger and accused, ¡°They might¡ª wait, that¡¯s a trick question.¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± Kara said, motioning with her hands for John to elaborate.


    ¡°We have not evaluated how the civilian authorities will respond. We will redirect your questions to the Alien Politics Team under Operator Hersh.¡±


    ¡°Correct again. Don¡¯t guess. We don¡¯t get paid extra to look smart or look good. If they have a political question, they ask the Politics Team. The last thing I want to see on The Atlas Times tomorrow is the headline Intelligence Community Disagree on Malgeir Coup. When any of us guess, we all look like idiots,¡± Kara said. ¡°We¡¯re only there to tell them what will happen militarily if a coup gets launched. Not the civilian response. Not the palace intrigue. And definitely not whether Grionc will pull the trigger in the first place.¡±


    Mark asked curiously, ¡°Ok, but do we actually think she¡¯ll do it?¡±


    Kara shot a severe look at the director. ¡°What did I just say?¡±


    ¡°You have not evaluated whether Grionc will launch a coup. You will redirect your questions to the Malgeir Politics Team under Operator Hersh,¡± Mark parroted. ¡°Ok, but what do you recommend I say if they call me in before Hersh gives me a briefing. I am the director in charge of this whole office after all. I don¡¯t want to look like an idiot in front of the committee.¡±


    Kara thought for a second. ¡°Hersh¡¯s analysis says it really is a tossup. Grionc is about to be put into a position where she could feel compelled to do this, and the military possibilities will become crystal clear to her. Psychologically, a coup has not even been attempted over there for a few centuries despite the lack of controls to prevent it. But we know that she has displayed a relatively high level of initiative in her other operations; we don¡¯t think this lack of precedent will be much of a barrier. And it¡¯s her hide on the line. You should really read his full report before we go up there¡ª¡±


    ¡°So, it really just comes down to her desire to wear the metaphorical crown?¡±


    ¡°That, and¡­¡± Kara gestured at the simulation results scrolling on the display:


    Sixth Fleet ships lost: 26x Shepherd-class missile destroyers and 16x smaller vessels.


    Home Fleet ships lost: 12x Husky-class battleships, 150x Shepherd-class missile destroyers, and 400x smaller vessels.


    Sixth Fleet crew losses: 15,543.


    Home Fleet crew losses: 184,390.


    Sixth Fleet Marine casualties: 1,000 to 64,000.


    Malgeiru Terrestrial Defense casualties: 3,000 to 232,000.


    Malgeir defensive posture crippled for sixteen months. Malgeir offensive formations irreversibly disrupted.


    Primary mission objective successful.


    Would you like to try again, Admiral Grionc?


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    The nasally voice continued over the radio, ¡°¡ªand ready for boarding. I say again, we expect the former Fleet Commander Grionc to be restrained in the brig by the time we get there. She is under arrest by the enforcement authority vested in Home Fleet by the Malgeir High Council. If you do not comply, lethal force is authorized. If any co-conspirators assist her in any way, their charges will also be obstruction of justice, treason, and¡ª¡±


    Vastae looked at the communications officer and ordered, ¡°Turn that down.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Alpha Leader.¡±


    Then he directed his attention at the sensor station. ¡°How many other vessels are we reading?¡±


    ¡°Just one other light Omega-class cutter on sensor, sir. They sent two boarding crews from Home Fleet,¡± came the tense reply.


    Vastae took a deep breath and looked over at the empty tactical station where Speinfoent normally would be sitting.


    The nav officer saw his head turn and piped up, ¡°We¡¯re all with you, sir. You are the captain of the Oengro. We are loyal to you and the Fleet Commander.¡±


    ¡°Anyone want off this ship? This may be your last chance,¡± Vastae asked steadily, looking around the bridge. ¡°A shuttle will take you down to Malgeiru. I will permit no future retaliation or harassment if any crew member needs to leave now.¡±


    He looked around and waited.


    No one moved. Everyone on the bridge looked forward at their consoles in grim determination. They would not abandon their fleet nor its commander.


    His heart bolstered, Vastae made up his mind. ¡°Weapons, passively target the cutters with our point defense guns. Hold fire until I get some orders.¡±


    He turned to his console and activated the Sixth Fleet¡¯s internal communication network. ¡°To all squadrons in Sixth Fleet, this is Alpha Leader Vastae. We suspect that Znosian saboteurs may have infiltrated Home Fleet and may be preparing to launch a full-scale invasion on Malgeiru. We intend to stop them. If anyone is not comfortable with this mission, you are authorized to leave this formation. Otherwise, go to yellow alert and prepare for battle at the fleet commander¡¯s orders only. Out.¡±


    To his relief, no ship in the formation moved, not even the loaner ships that had been transferred to Sixth Fleet to backfill the lost ships at Datsot. There was a reason ¡°Sixth Fleet culture¡± was legendary throughout the Malgeir Navy. Some called it a disciplined machine; others called it a cult. At the moment, Vastae didn¡¯t care which it was. Perhaps they could even use that reputation to convince some of the spacers of Home Fleet or the soldiers in the Terrestrial Defense to surrender or sit back¡­


    ¡°Now,¡± he said, looking around for an aide. ¡°Someone go wake the fleet commander. The decision is hers.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 16 | Coup

    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    Fleet Commander Grionc stared at the ships on the sensor screen and wondered how they got here.


    The corrupt Home Fleet had imprisoned Speinfoent, and now they had another warrant and were coming for her as well. The two boarding vessels off the starboard of the Oengro made that clear.


    Who did they think they were?!


    She didn¡¯t think of herself as the galaxy¡¯s gift to the Malgeir, but she was certainly better than anyone else they had in the middle of an existential war.


    Especially any of the imbeciles from Home Fleet¡­ who were part of the reason they were losing this war in the first place!


    She contemplated her options. Put herself at the mercy of the Fleet Commander of Home Fleet, or¡­


    Or what? Fight back?


    The tactician in her couldn¡¯t help but dispassionately analyze the problem from a purely military standpoint. Her Sixth Fleet was ready and would have the element of surprise. Most of the Home Fleet was still moored and wouldn¡¯t be able to get their engines up and running for hours. And she would take the spacers who she fought alongside against the bottom feeders in Home Fleet any day of the week!


    For Malgeir¡¯s sake, this Home Fleet was the same ragtag bunch of idiots who sold their Marines¡¯ service rifles and showed up at Malgeirgam with black-painted broomsticks for the annual Victory Parade last year!


    The only problem was¡­ they did have a lot of tonnage.


    Their two groupings near Malgeiru were the biggest problem. Both had several times more ships than she did. She could get to one, but not both before they get some of their engines up, and splitting up her own fleet puts her at the risk of being defeated in detail.


    But it seemed likely to her that whichever grouping they got to first would be easy prey. And they would have a¡­ more than even chance against the other.


    I can do this, she realized. There really was nothing else to stop her from defeating and destroying much of Home Fleet, sending her Marines to take the capital and Defense Ministry. And then, she¡¯d be in charge! The reforms she would make ¡ª the changes to the Defense Ministry ¡ª she could re-energize the whole war effort!


    Oh sure, there might be some civilian unrest. The civilian-run government and the High Council would not be happy about it, but they didn¡¯t have ships or Marines.


    They¡¯ll get over it. They¡¯d have to.


    Nothing like this had happened in centuries. For hundreds of years, the Malgeir military had been kept in a state of disrepair. There were no wars to fight, and no enemies to justify its purpose, so there were no popular fleet commanders to follow. And confidence in the democratically elected authorities had never fallen this low.


    Her fleet was different. Sixth Fleet was a new predator, created by the necessity of war and hardened by its years of experience: successes, failures, and all. They were willing to follow her to many of their deaths, as they had repeatedly demonstrated in the past. For the first time in a long while ¡ª living memory, at least; centuries, possibly ¡ª the Malgeir Federation Navy had produced someone who could even launch a coup against the state itself.


    Coup. Usurpation. Insurrection. What outdated words, what crude methods!


    But whatever system she put in place afterward would surely be more effective than the broken system that produced the decrepit Defense Ministry.


    I could really do it.


    As she prepared to give the order, she heard the haughty voices of the boarding vessel captain giving orders through the communications station. ¡°Oengro, Oengro, do you copy? Oengro, you need to open two docking bays for our boarding parties. Oengro? They¡¯re not responding. I think their radio is broken. Oengro?¡±


    She¡¯d have to destroy them to prevent them from alerting the Home Fleet in orbit. To give her a head start.


    It would be the logical thing to do to maximize our chances and reduce our casualties.


    She¡¯d have to take dozens of lives, for no reason other than following the orders of a corrupt idiot.


    Then, thousands. Countless thousands. No, not countless, she told herself. She had to be specific. There would be hundreds of thousands of dead spacers in Home Fleet. Tens of thousands in her own fleet as well, probably. Not to mention the Marines and the defenders on the ground they¡¯d have to get through. Their blood would end up on her already filthy, blood-stained paws.


    Hundreds of ships would be lost. Hundreds of ships that the Malgeir would need in its inevitable defense of the home world.


    Or, as the cowards in Home Fleet would have it, for its evacuation. All that for nothing more than a pointless disagreement in leadership.


    She took a physical step backwards, as if stepping away from a metaphorical cliff, and shook her ears.


    Better to lose one Malgeir than many.


    Grionc looked at her crew in sorrow. This was injustice, but she would not have so many of her people lose their lives and their Federation lose the war for it.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Vastae looked at her incredulously. ¡°Commander, all the other captains and crews in the fleet: we are all with you. We are ready to go.¡±


    ¡°No. We can¡¯t do this, Vastae. We are already in the middle of a war, one which we are not winning. We can¡¯t fight an internal war with ourselves too. Look out the window, Vastae. Right there. Malgeiru, our capital. Our home planet. The cradle of our civilization! The origin of our history and our people! We don¡¯t protect it by slaughtering thousands of innocent spacers in Home Fleet. We can¡¯t betray our very oaths¡ª¡±


    Vastae refused to shift his gaze from her face. ¡°Fleet Commander, we fight for you. We swore our oaths to the Federation. And to the citizens we are ultimately beholden to. Not the corrupt officials in the Defense Ministry. Certainly not the morons in Home Fleet.¡±


    ¡°I understand, Vastae. I do. It really is not fair,¡± Grionc replied. ¡°But¡­ I refuse to be the downfall of our people. Allow the boarding ships to dock and place me in restraints in preparation for transport. Then, follow the instructions of your next fleet commander. Save as many of our people as you can and make the Grass Eaters pay for every one of us they take. These are my orders¡­ and my personal wishes. Please¡­ will you follow them?¡±


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Voting in Progress (0-0-0)


    <hr>


    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    Speinfoent woke up in his cell to some commotion outside.


    Two guards came in, escorting another prisoner. They opened the door to his cell, shoved the figure in, locked the door, and left.


    ¡°Fleet Commander!¡± he shouted in recognition through the light trickling in from the bottom of the door.


    He saw Grionc half-grinned in the low light. ¡°Speinfoent, I am glad to see you are alright. I was so worried about you when that lawyer told us what happened at the spaceport.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Speinfoent asked, aghast. ¡°But how did they get you? What are the charges?¡±


    ¡°Treason, I suppose. They haven¡¯t exactly read me my rights yet.¡±


    ¡°They tried to get me to sign a confession saying you ordered me to break into the Archives and steal documents, but I refused! It¡¯s full of falsehoods. I never signed it. Someone else must have talked! I don¡¯t know how¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, Speinfoent. That¡¯s just one excuse. I¡¯m sure they found or made up another. Maybe they even forged your signature. Such things are not difficult as long as they pay the right people to look away. One way or another, they were going to take me down,¡± Grionc said as she calmly sat down on the straw mat, crossing her rear paws.


    Speinfoent explained what he¡¯d heard from Pincrio. ¡°They said they were going to replace you with the Home Fleet Commander¡¯s nephew because he wanted your job.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I figured it was something stupid like that,¡± Grionc snorted. She had only met the snotty little creature once or twice, and what she¡¯d seen did not impress her. ¡°Only Home Fleet¡¯s best and brightest can come up with something this monumentally foolish.¡±


    ¡°What are we going to do?¡± Speinfoent asked righteously. ¡°We can¡¯t let them do this to you!¡±


    ¡°Nothing, for now. We wait,¡± Grionc said. Then, she stared straight at the camera overlooking the cell. Deliberately and loudly, she talked into it, ¡°It won¡¯t take them long to realize they still need competent commanders to fight this war, and no rank nor medal will help them when the Grass Eaters come knocking.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Schpriss Prime High Orbit</h2>


    Malgeir Ambassador to the Schpriss Niblui sat on the bridge of the diplomatic transport ship Pesmod and looked down at the busy world below her. Its background color was mostly the bright red of its native foliage but centuries of Schprissian construction had covered up the planet surface almost entirely with artificial structures. Schpriss Prime was a true ecumenopolis, a world city, an impressive multi-generational project of the alien species that was her mission as ambassador.


    It was not technically an alliance, as their leaders would carefully remind her when she applied too much pressure, but a friendship. Yes, the Malgeir Federation and the Schpriss Confederacy were on friendly terms, trading and migrating between each other in peace for centuries ¡ª as all predator civilizations did. But there was no alliance or mutual defense treaty between the two, and they had made it clear that there would be none now that the Malgeir were engulfed in war.


    Like most other sapient species, the Schpriss were a peaceful species with no desire for conflict. They saw what the Malgeir did for the Granti¡­ and the price they paid for it. Their Confederacy leaders were in no hurry to repeat their fate.


    However, Niblui knew their pacifism and neutrality would mean nothing when the Znosians were done with the Malgeir; they would come here for the Schpriss next, regardless of whether or not they helped. Unfortunately, knowing this and convincing Schprissian leaders of this were two different tasks entirely. Nowadays, she spent most her days pleading with them for any scrap of resources they could spare.


    At the ripe Malgeir age of fifty, she¡¯d spent two-thirds of her working life building up a cordial relationship between the Malgeir and the Schpriss in peace, and then the last third trying to stop it from falling apart as Malgeir civilians and leaders began to resent their apathic neighbors for doing almost nothing as the war progressed.


    She glanced over to look at one of their orbital spaceyards with her tired orange eyes, seeing where six shiny new military ships were in various stages of construction. The Confederacy¡¯s Navy clearly felt the pressure of the war on their border, and they had been building as many ships as they could. They were simply unwilling to lend or grant them to their neighbors for their existential struggle. At the back of the yard, two heavy transport ships were being prepared for transport.


    Those two were her crowning achievements on this trip: she had managed to lead a grassroots donation drive throughout Schpriss City, gathering enough local credits and political support from private citizens to get the Confederacy to part with merely two of their heavy transport vessels. Which was less than a tenth in tonnage of what the Malgeir leadership requested from them. On top of that, they were no combat ships, which the Navy kept asking for.


    At least they would go towards replacing some of the Malgeir¡¯s supply line losses. Until the next successful Grass Eater raid, anyway.


    Next to her was Captain Pliont. Even older than her at fifty-eight, he¡¯d been a spacer his entire life. His mostly black fur (not brown like Niblui¡¯s) marked his ancestry as coming from a lower-class family, but he never felt it as an impediment to his former career in the Malgeir Navy. He retired early at forty-eight during a round of Navy budget cuts, right before the Granti-Znosian war started. The fall of Grantor compelled him to join back up, but without enough combat ships and at his age, he was enlisted into the civilian state services as the captain of a diplomacy ship instead.


    The Pesmod was not an impressive military ship. Boasting only four light point defense guns as her armaments and inefficient drives, Pliont was no less proud of his meager command. As he often said to Niblui, he might not be young enough to be on the frontlines killing Grass Eaters, but he would do his best for the Malgeir Federation. For now, that meant ferrying around the Ambassador to wherever she needed to go. Her contribution was partially his contribution, and she did not let him forget it either. Despite her elite upbringing which no doubt contributed to her career and coveted posting in Schpriss, she treated him as an equal. And unlike some other dignitaries, she knew her place as a polite guest on his bridge.


    The Ambassador watched as the Schpriss completed their loading of the Malgeir¡¯s two new heavy transports. With a final check, they prepared the ships for departure.


    She pivoted to face the Pesmod¡¯s captain, noting the subtle patches of wear and tear on his uniform. ¡°Is our escort ready?¡±


    The captain saluted, a small smirk on his lips. ¡°Yes, Ambassador. The Seuvommae¡¯s cargo hold is stuffed, and so is ours. Though, we did have a small hiccup: we couldn¡¯t find some of our spacers who probably had one too many drinks in Schpriss City.¡± He rolled his eyes theatrically. ¡°But it¡¯s all good now. The Schpriss have graciously agreed to host our wayward crew. We¡¯ll scoop them up on our next visit.¡±


    She nodded, her lips curving into an amused smile. ¡°Typical spacers. No matter where you go in the fleet, some things never change.¡±


    He chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially. ¡°Back in my day, they would have tied the offenders to the engineering deck and whipped them until they learned their lesson.¡±


    Niblui¡¯s eyes widened with feigned shock. ¡°Did they really?¡±


    He winked. ¡°Nah. But we¡¯d make them cough up a solid twenty credits for the trouble they caused.¡± He made a money gesture with his paws, eyebrows dancing.


    She laughed, shaking her ears. ¡°That sounds more like it.¡±


    ¡°Time is money, Ambassador,¡± he quipped, playfully miming an old-timey solicitor counting coins.


    Switching gears, she asked, ¡°Speaking of time, how long will the trip back to Malgeiru be?¡±


    The captain took a quick peek at his console, numbers and data streaming across. ¡°About twenty days. Then another two days from the Malgeiru system limit to the surface. Got any big plans?¡±


    ¡°Other than reporting to the High Council? Not really. We¡¯ll probably come right back here and see if we can try another one of their colony planets closer to our border. Surely some of the Schpriss there must be feeling the heat.¡±


    He raised an eyebrow, suggesting, ¡°Or maybe they truly think what is happening to us will never happen to them?¡±


    Niblui¡¯s gaze was distant. ¡°Maybe. And I hope they never have to learn their lesson.¡± Taking a deep breath, she added, ¡°I¡¯ll head to my suite to catch some rest. And leave you to your commanding duties.¡±


    He nodded respectfully. ¡°Yes, Ambassador. Thank you, and let me know if you need anything.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123


    Status: Passed into Law (236-60-4)


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°We have their vector. And we have the authorization. Captain, warm up the package. Commander, go get the ODT and the minister ready for insertion.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 17 | Malfunction

    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    Ambassador Niblui jolted upright from her comfy bunk as the jarring clang of metal echoed through the ship¡¯s corridors. The walls, though thin, muffled the urgent wailing of an alarm, but only just before a comical sequence of thuds silenced it, like someone wrestling with a stubborn piece of machinery.


    She jabbed the button for the intercom. ¡°What¡¯s going on, bridge? Is everything okay?¡±


    Captain Pliont¡¯s voice, ever calm and soothing, replied immediately, ¡°Nothing to worry about, Ambassador. We have everything under control. There was a minor maintenance issue with our blink engine, and we¡¯ve shut it down temporarily to address it. We¡¯ll be on the move again, shortly. Sorry for all the ruckus, and I hope we did not cause you unnecessary alarm.¡±


    ¡°I see. Uh¡­ thanks for the update,¡± she said, then added, ¡°Did our new Schpriss ships stop with us as well?¡±


    ¡°No, the loaners and the escort are still on their way back to Malgeiru. As I said, I¡¯m sure this is a quick fix on our end. We¡¯ll rejoin them as soon as we can.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Captain. Carry on.¡±


    Realizing that she wouldn¡¯t be able to fall back to sleep, Niblui sat up on her bunk and began to read on her datapad.


    She¡¯d been reading a best-selling work written by a Schpriss novelist called Peace for All Eternity, a tragic story about a cross-species relationship between a young Schpriss male and a Malgeir female. They connected as exchange students while she was in college, discovering friendship and eventually, heart-tugging love. But fate was not on their side: she had to go to war to protect her pack, joining the Malgeir Marines and taking part in a critical battle to protect an orbital defense installation against invading Znosians.


    The novel resonated with Niblui. She found it compelling in its descriptions of the clash of two cultures and their conflicting values, honor and harmony ¡ª it all seemed too real. She hadn¡¯t finished it yet, but judging by the fact that the novel was technically censored and banned in the Federation, she was sure that the young Malgeir Marine would not make it through the end of the book.


    Still, despite knowing how it was likely to end, she couldn¡¯t put the book down. It felt as though the story was penned by someone who had lived it or had been close enough to feel its heartbeat.


    Perhaps, she pondered, perhaps it was. After all, there were more than enough real-life examples.


    <hr>


    A few corridors forward of her cabin ¡ª on the diplomacy ship¡¯s bridge, the atmosphere was significantly less calm.


    ¡°What do you mean, you don¡¯t know? What did you do?¡± came the accusatory question from the Pesmod¡¯s captain, his voice a sharp edge of disbelief.


    The head engineer, covered in sweat and grime, replied with all the diplomacy he could muster, ¡°I¡¯m telling you, Captain. All we saw were massive fluctuations in the blink drive. Then, it guzzled all our fuel in ten seconds like a thirsty river prey and then, bam! No more blink.¡±


    ¡°Ten seconds?¡±


    The engineer was adamant. ¡°Literally! Ten seconds tops on the logs. The engineer-on-duty monitoring the system is not a drunkard, and I can vouch for that. He didn¡¯t even have time to shout for me.¡±


    Pesmod scratched his cheeks. ¡°That seems unusual. I¡¯ve never even heard of running out of blink fuel mid-blink before. Could there be a¡­ leak somewhere in the blink drive?¡±


    ¡°A leak? With all respect, Captain, the blink engine is not a hydraulic pipe. If it springs a leak, we would all be dead before we know it!¡±


    Pesmod sighed, rubbing his snout. ¡°Alright, alright. You figure out¡ª figure out what¡¯s causing the problem, so that it doesn¡¯t happen again. I¡¯ll call the escort back to transfer us some fuel. They¡¯re only twenty minutes out. Last thing I want is it breaking down again. That would be embarrassing with the ambassador on board. We¡¯ve still got power, right?¡±


    ¡°Sure. The reactor assembly is purring just fine. It¡¯s just the blink engine that seems to have broken down.¡±


    ¡°Good, good,¡± Pesmod nodded, relieved.


    He then swiveled to address the sensor officer. ¡°And you, keep on a look out. Crank the sensors to max.¡±


    The sensor officer looked at him in surprise. ¡°You¡¯re thinking we might have been tampered with, Captain?¡±


    Pesmod gave a half-smile, his eyes scanning the control panels. ¡°No, we¡¯d probably be dead by now if it were the Grass Eaters, but let¡¯s keep on our paws anyway, eh? We¡¯re alone in deep space. There should be nothing here, but it costs almost nothing to be extra careful¡­ Besides, who doesn¡¯t love a good old safety drill?¡±


    <hr>


    Half an hour later, Captain Pliont was swiftly ushered to a more secluded spot by the communication officer, away from the hustle and bustle of the bridge.


    ¡°What¡¯s got your whiskers all twisted, Communications Officer?¡± Pliont asked, eyebrows raised in mild annoyance.


    Her snout trembled slightly as she leaned in. ¡°There¡¯s an issue,¡± she whispered. ¡°Captain, the escort didn¡¯t respond to our requests.¡±


    He frowned, a puzzled look washing over him. ¡°What? Are stranded ships supposed to pay for blink fuel transfers now? What¡¯s the going rate for prompt service? Look, whatever the price, I¡¯ll dip into our cash reserves. We have a stash for emergencies like this.¡±


    She shook her head vehemently. ¡°No, Captain, you¡¯re not getting it. It¡¯s like we¡¯re shouting into a void. There¡¯s zero reply.¡±


    A longer sigh escaped Pliont¡¯s lips. ¡°Oh great. Those drunkards. How long would it take for us to get a fuel tanker out from Malgeiru?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing, Captain. I tried buzzing Malgeiru too, and¡­¡± she took a deep breath. ¡°It¡¯s like our messages are swallowed by space itself. Nothing. Total radio silence.¡±


    His eyes widened. ¡°Our FTL radio is broken? I thought we just upgraded that thing last year to a new model?¡±


    ¡°Everything seems to be operational. We just can¡¯t seem to communicate with anyone else.¡±


    ¡°Communications Officer, we seem to have a totally different definition of operational,¡± the rattled Pliont almost snarled.


    She looked too petrified to reply.


    Then, he thought for a moment and calmed down. Pliont patted her lightly on the shoulder twice, hoping that would mollify her. ¡°Alright. Don¡¯t tell the rest of the ship. No need to cause panic among the crew. Keep at it, and keep trying. At worst, someone will realize we¡¯re missing and backtrack looking for us, right?¡±


    <hr>


    Pliont ambled through the metallic corridors, arriving at the dining hall, which was now in a lull between mealtimes. A smattering of crew members, deep in their off-duty chats, straightened up and saluted as he ambled by.


    Navigating through, he made a beeline for the kitchen and subtly gestured the head chef into a quiet corner, the sound of bubbling pots and sizzling pans enveloping them.


    ¡°Chef,¡± he began, voice barely above a whisper, ¡°How long can we hold out without resupply?¡±


    The chef blinked, puzzled. ¡°Captain?¡±


    ¡°How many days of food did we load up onto the ship at Schpriss Prime?¡±


    Scratching his chin, the chef murmured a few numbers as he counted the boxes on his kitchen shelves. ¡°Rough estimate¡­ About two more months.¡±


    ¡°Only two months?!¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ve got those emergency ration cubes too.¡±


    ¡°How much will the cubes last?¡±


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°Those? They¡¯d stretch us for another four months, give or take,¡± the chef replied, eyes narrowing with suspicion. ¡°Why? We¡¯ve never had to use those before.¡±


    Pliont¡¯s eyes flicked to the corner of the room where the boxes were stored. ¡°How long have those cubes been stashed there?¡±


    The chef shrugged. ¡°They¡¯re older than us, probably. They¡¯re Navy standard issue.¡±


    Pliont¡¯s face crumpled in mild disgust.


    Navy standard issue. That was code for not scientifically proven to be inedible yet. He paused, lost in thought for a heartbeat.


    ¡°You sound like something¡¯s up, Captain. Are we stranded?¡±


    ¡°No, Chef. We¡¯ll manage,¡± Pliont said with a forced grin. ¡°After all, we¡¯ve got a fair chunk of time till rescue, right?¡±


    The chef¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Hold up, Captain. If we¡¯re lost or stranded, food won¡¯t be the real headache here. Our pantry¡¯s always the last to empty out.¡±


    Pliont¡¯s face went pale as the realization hit. ¡°Ah, power. The reactor. We were already low on reactor fuel when we left Malgeir last. We¡¯ll last three months, maybe four, running the generators for air and water.¡±


    The chef¡¯s face mirrored Pliont¡¯s anxiety. ¡°Are we in trouble? What¡¯s the plan, Captain?¡±


    Pliont squared his shoulders. ¡°For now, chef, you focus on the kitchen. This chat? It stays between us, alright?¡±


    <hr>


    The dim lights overhead flickered momentarily, as if teasing him with his problems. Pliont mulled over flipping the Pesmod into emergency power-saving mode. It would add another few months to their power reserves, bringing its projected failure time to after they ran out of food and other supplies. Now, he just had to figure out a way to break the bad news to the ambassador before he could announce his rationing plan to the crew¡­


    He was interrupted from his thoughts by a sharp intake of breath from the sensor officer, who shot up from his chair like she¡¯d been electrified.


    ¡°Captain! We¡¯ve got a blip: huge, massive, off our port side¡­ wait! Hang on¡­ it¡¯s¡­ disappeared? That can¡¯t be right. Sorry¡­ must be a radar glitch.¡±


    Pliont quickly swiped at his console, paws dancing over the controls, ordering another scan of the area in question. If there was even a shadow of a threat, shutting systems down would be off the table. ¡°Run that by me again, Sensor Officer. Glitches don¡¯t usually produce such specific readings.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m on it, Captain. Narrow scans on the area¡­ Nothing.¡±


    Pliont chewed the inside of his cheek. ¡°Keep the radar array dialed in on that spot. Just because we don¡¯t see it doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t there. Something doesn¡¯t feel right.¡±


    First the blink drive, then the FTL radio, and now sensor glitches? Everything in Pliont¡¯s instincts told him something was wrong. But what?


    An uneasy murmur spread through the bridge crew.


    Pliont straightened in his chair, trying to project an aura of calm for his crew¡¯s sake. ¡°Boost the sensors, flood that area with every scanning instrument we¡¯ve got. If there¡¯s something ¡ª or someone ¡ª lurking out there, I want to know about it.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t fight something he couldn¡¯t see. And if there was an enemy, it was going to kill them much faster than hunger, thirst, or even running out of oxygen.


    <hr>


    A few nerve-wracking minutes later, Pliont¡¯s sensitive ears picked up an unmistakable clang echoing through the ship¡¯s hull.


    ¡°What the hell is that?¡± he called out to the bridge, his voice carrying a hint of worry.


    The sensor officer, eyes glued to her display, responded, ¡°Sensors show nothing unusual, Captain.¡±


    ¡°Are we sure we didn¡¯t just graze some space debris?¡± he demanded, eyes darting around, searching for answers.


    The officer frowned. ¡°There¡¯s nothing for light seconds. Maybe the engineers are conducting repairs in the hull?¡±


    With a flick of a switch, Pliont activated the intercom to the engineering room. ¡°Was that loud sound you guys making repairs on the engine hull?¡±


    ¡°What loud sound?¡± came the head engineer¡¯s puzzled voice from the speaker. ¡°Nah, Captain. We¡¯re just conducting waste maintenance on the blink drive.¡±


    Before Pliont could ponder the mystery further, the ambassador¡¯s calm voice emerged from the intercom. ¡°Captain Pliont, I didn¡¯t realize you sent for a shuttle for me. I appreciate it, but I¡¯m fine waiting like everyone else. Take your time with the maintenance.¡±


    ¡°What sh¡ªshuttle?¡± Pliont stuttered, half bewildered and half horrified.


    ¡°Yeah, the beautiful black one that we just docked with outside my suite windows. Like I said, I can wait with the rest of the ship.¡± There was a hint of amusement in the ambassador¡¯s voice. Then, a distant sound of a door opening followed. ¡°Oh, hello there, do you need any¡ª oh!¡±


    There was the sound of the communicator dropping to the floor and the connection went dead.


    Pliont felt a cold shiver form between his shoulders, chilling him to the bone. It took him another second to come to the obvious conclusion. He leaned towards his command console, his voice urgent. ¡°Pesmod crew! We have been boarded! Security crew, head to the weapons locker! Engineering, get the self-destruct ready. Authorization code Four Two¡ª¡±


    He heard a loud thud behind him, the distinctive sound of metal on his bridge floor, and felt a cold, blunt object jab into his ribs from behind, its message clear. A low voice emanated from behind him, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you, officer. No sudden movements or sounds, please.¡±


    <hr>


    The bridge, usually a hub of controlled chaos, now bore witness to a surreal scene. The intruders in their gleaming EVA suits were eerily efficient in herding the crew against the dimly lit walls. The sharp contours of their dark gray helmets and armor caught the bridge¡¯s ambient lights, giving them a sinister gleam. The guns they held were unlike any Pliont had seen: slim and streamlined, but unmistakably deadly.


    Six. Pliont mentally noted. They were clearly alien. Their stature dwarfed that of the Malgeir, yet it wasn¡¯t just their height that was intimidating. Their visors were metallically opaque, betraying no hint of the species behind the armor. Efficient, smooth, and¡­ professional was the only way he could describe it.


    Boarding Marines? Pliont wondered. But not the Znosian variety. Rumors about them were rampant in the Navy, tales of ruthless efficiency and brutality, but the beings before him felt different. Too tall for being Grass Eaters, he figured.


    Not that he could know for sure; most people who did were probably no longer alive.


    His thoughts raced as he tried to place them amongst the dozen or so known species of the galaxy. None fit the bill. They gave commands to the crew in Malgeirish with an ease that was chilling, hinting at advanced translation technology or perhaps deeper infiltration into the Malgeir society than anyone realized.


    Glancing to his side, he searched Niblui¡¯s face for any recognition. But the usually composed diplomat looked as shaken as he felt, her eyes wide and the fur on her back bristling with fear.


    He did a quick headcount, trying to find solace in numbers. To his relief, it seemed that the entire crew was present and accounted for, though a few looked groggy, sluggish. It looked like no one resisted, but a couple of his crew members in engineering had obviously been sedated by the aliens.


    The weight of the situation bore down on Pliont, and yet his mind raced, trying to find any possible way out. He considered his options. There was no way he could trigger the ship¡¯s self-destruct without alerting his captors, and even if he did, they could probably shut it down with their control of the engineering deck.


    Then, he thought, the Ambassador had said they docked with the Pesmod with a shuttle right outside her windows. If he can get to the navigation consoles and make some sudden movements on the ship, that could potentially disconnect their transport and distract them enough to overwhelm their few attackers. There are way more of us than these aliens. Worst case, their shuttle would collide with the ship, and both would be destroyed.


    Depressurization wasn¡¯t a good way to go, but it would be preferable to capture and torture. At least it is one option, I¡¯ll have to disconnect the inertial compensators, he thought, glancing at the navigation console¡ª


    ¡°It won¡¯t work,¡± one of his captors remarked, their armored helmet barely visible in the dim light as they turned to face him. Through the speakers of her helmet, a slightly high-pitched translation emerged ¡ª a voice characteristic of a female Malgeir. But with these aliens, who knew? ¡°That trick you¡¯re thinking of? It won¡¯t work.¡±


    He could almost sense a hint of mirth behind that voice translation.


    Pliont¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°What trick?¡± he asked, hoping the aliens wouldn¡¯t use this as an excuse to get rough with him for disobeying their instructions to keep quiet.


    ¡°Your plan. We disabled your flight computers before we even got cozy with your ship.¡±


    Raising his snout, he asked, ¡°So you disabled our sensors too? Is that why our proximity alarms stayed silent?¡±


    She let out a chuckle through her translator. ¡°This one catches on quick¡­ Ah, it¡¯s the captain himself. Honestly? Your ship was so blind, we could¡¯ve played hide and seek with your ship parts, and you¡¯d have been none the wiser.¡±


    Feeling a surge of bruised pride for his vessel, Pliont countered, ¡°We did catch a glimpse of you on the radar. Brief, but it was there.¡±


    There was more merriment from the alien before she replied, ¡°That decoy on your port side was a nice touch, wasn¡¯t it? How did you think our people got physical access to your ship without you noticing, Captain Pliont?¡±


    Choosing to bypass her little jibe, he responded, ¡°Well, obviously you learned my name when your infiltrator heard my crew talking about me. Will you let us live if we tell you what you want to know?¡±


    ¡°We know everything we need to know about you and your ship, Captain. We¡¯ve been planning this mission for months. By the way, your sewage hydraulic systems are showing a two-zero-niner fault. Might want to get that checked out and fixed sooner rather than later, you know how bad those things can be when they¡ª¡±


    Two more armored alien figures casually strolled in.


    ¡°Captain, and ambassador, if you two will follow me?¡± one of the new intruders requested, almost politely. ¡°If you all behave, we promise your ship and crew will be unharmed.¡±


    Sensing no other choice, the two of them reluctantly left the comfort of the herd to follow the intruders off the bridge.


    Pliont kept an eye on any opportunities on the way and saw nothing. They were always covered by at least two of the armored figures, who put themselves in positions where he knew they could hit him and Niblui with their lethal-looking weapons without putting one of their own in danger.


    The metallic clank of their steps echoed as they finally stepped into the dining area. One of their people had busied¡­ itself with a piece of compact machinery that looked like one of their datapads, its¡­ paws deftly working the device.


    ¡°The atmosphere is reading green, Admiral. We can breathe easy here,¡± it announced.


    Green? Does it mean blue? Why would they¡ª


    With a faint hiss of de-pressurization, one of the captors started removing their helmet, unveiling the face underneath. The creature beneath was mostly bare-skinned, save for patches of long, brown fur on its scalp that cascaded past its shoulders. It had soft round ears, a stubby nose, and two piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through Pliont. Then it inhaled sharply, its snout holes flaring. ¡°Yep, you lot smell just like I imagined. I knew we should have brought the deodorant¡ª¡±


    Before the alien could spill another word, Ambassador Niblui¡¯s fur on her spine raised further into a fearful hackle. She gasped, her voice quivering, ¡°You¡ª you are¡­ Grass Eaters.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 18 | First Contact

    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    ¡°You are Grass Eaters.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm¡­ not quite,¡± the tall alien said with a somewhat-recognizable smirk, her words converted smoothly through their translator into a high-pitched voice with a Malgeirgam accent so pure it reminded Niblui of a female Federation Channel One reporter. Niblui knew people in politics who went to school to learn to talk like that. ¡°One of my great-grandmothers was a vegetarian though.¡±


    ¡°You? Your great-grandmother? Huh?¡± Ambassador Niblui tilted her head in confusion.


    The Grass Eater chuckled. ¡°That was a joke. We¡¯re not an herbivore species, no. What gave you that idea?¡±


    ¡°Your teeth!¡± Niblui extended her claw to gesture. ¡°They¡¯re for grass-eating! And where are your natural claws?!¡±


    Grinning, the alien revealed their full set of teeth to the alien ambassador, pointing specifically at their modest upper canines. ¡°What? I¡¯ve still got these. Grrrrr!¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay. Stop scaring our new friends, Amelia.¡± To her left, another alien also took off its helmet to reveal a slightly more wrinkled alien with raven-black scalp fur cut short at the shoulders. She kept her mouth full of blunt teeth closed as much as possible, but Niblui was not fooled. The second alien said, ¡°Hello, my name is Cindy Tsai. My people address me as Minister Tsai, head of our newly established Office of Alien Affairs. And my friend is Vice Admiral Amelia Waters. We apologize for taking these measures to board your ship, but we are a secretive species, and it was critical that this contact mission was kept a secret.¡±


    Niblui¡¯s eyes blinked in sequence as she tried to process and recall her First Contact training. No one really had to use it for decades ¡ª besides the few very unsuccessful attempts to conduct diplomacy with the Znosians.


    A memory of her late mentor¡¯s advice flickered in her mind: the most important factor in determining the relationship in first contact was fair reciprocation of information. That formed the basis of any rational diplomacy. While ruses could give short-term gains, no connection or agreement established between two species based on lies and mistrust would give worthy advantages in the long run.


    Well, between two civilized species, at least.


    Based on historical experiences, a rocky first contact could scar decades ¡ª if not centuries ¡ª of diplomatic efforts. No pressure, she thought, staring at the technologically advanced, weaponry-packed aliens. Aliens who claimed to be friendly.


    Even if they seemed to be¡­ Grass Eaters in denial?


    It really was not a good sign, she thought, that they started out their First Contact with a bald-faced lie about their nature. Then again, we¡¯ve had a sample size of exactly one. It would not be logical to apply that fear¡­ even if the thought of negotiating with what seemed to be a prey species felt odd, almost distasteful. It felt¡­ simply unnatural. She wondered how much of that bias was innate and how much of it was earned through social memory from a decade of war.


    Pushing the uncivilized bigotry aside, she straightened up and mustered her professionalism to do her job.


    ¡°I am Ambassador Niblui. Welcome aboard the Pesmod,¡± she said, trying to sound as welcoming as she could. ¡°We, the Malgeir, are a peaceful species. Your boarding action was no trouble at all; I am grateful you exercised restraint towards our ship¡¯s crew members. Every species has different First Contact protocols, though we do prefer to use our radios.¡±


    Then she waited for the alien translators to do their job, but the reply came quickly from the one known as Minister Tsai. ¡°Greetings, esteemed Ambassador Niblui. Despite the uh¡­ awkward circumstances, we humans of the Terran Republic are a peaceful species as well. We seek cooperative diplomatic relations with your species. However, we understand this will be challenging considering your ongoing conflict with another alien species.¡±


    ¡°The Znosians,¡± Niblui said, trying to gauge the aliens¡¯ reaction. She decided that even though they were closeted Grass Eaters or in serious denial about their own biology, it would not be good to antagonize them by slinging around that derogatory slur. Much safer to just stick with the official name.


    ¡°Yes,¡± the Terran minister confirmed. ¡°We learned of their existence shortly before you did, about a decade ago. We, too, are appalled by their violent and repulsive actions against your people and several other species. Please accept our Republic¡¯s condolences for your losses in the ongoing war.¡±


    A decade? How long have they known about us?


    ¡°Thank you. You seem to know a lot about us, Terran,¡± Niblui replied. She took one look at the aliens ¡ª and their guns ¡ª and realized she had a golden opportunity here. ¡°Are you aware of the nature of my current mission?¡±


    ¡°We believe so, Ambassador. You are returning from a uh¡­ solicitation event in Schprissian space for ships and military equipment for the war effort, correct?¡±


    Niblui inhaled deeply, her snout flaring. ¡°Precisely,¡± she confirmed. Launching into a passionate speech she¡¯d repeated many times ¡ª with slight, on the fly adjustments ¡ª she proclaimed, ¡°We are the bulwark of all civilized species in the galaxy against the savagery of the¡­ Znosian menace. We alone fight on the frontlines, protecting not just our own, but the very fabric of life itself from the threat of the¡ª of the Znosians¡­¡±


    As she laid out her case, Minister Tsai listened attentively. When Niblui finally paused for breath, Tsai gently responded, ¡°Yes, we are aware of your requests towards your close friends.¡±


    Amelia, however, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, teased, ¡°The spiel I heard from the interception was slightly different. More mentions of the grassthirsty enemies and how uncivilized it was to¡ª¡±


    Minister Tsai gave Amelia a pointed look but turned to Niblui. ¡°We do intend to assist you in the war effort. That is why we initiated the First Contact. However, you should know our resources are limited: our colonies are few, our fleets small, and our ships aren¡¯t really built for anyone but our people¡ª¡±


    Niblui¡¯s rapidly beating heart sank as she heard this. She¡¯d heard the same excuses from so many.


    Too many.


    Breaking the diplomatic niceties, she burst out, ¡°Look, we¡¯re grateful for any help, but what we truly need are ships, resources, and military technology. We do not know where your home planet is, but assuming it¡¯s not far from here with a blink drive, you will end up on their menu sooner or later. The Znosians¡¯ hunger for new species to exterminate is demonstrably insatiable. If you can help us stop them, that would save your species from a devastating war against them, too.¡±


    Tsai¡¯s expression softened. ¡°You misunderstand us, Ambassador Niblui. We are happy to join you on the battlefield: we are preparing to dedicate many of our ships to assist you in the war. The ships will, however, be crewed by Terran spacers, at least initially¡­¡±


    Niblui was barely able to conceal her look of shock. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Only the Granti had fought alongside the Malgeir, and that was because they had a centuries-long relationship built on trust and cooperation. Strangers offering to fight your battles¡­


    Tsai went on, ¡°We understand this is not standard practice in this¡­ region of space, as most peaceful species are highly averse to interstellar war. However, our ships were designed for our own physiology, and we feel that your spacers would be most effective in your own ships as ours would be.¡±


    Niblui struggled for a precedent. In ancient historical times, there was some archaeological evidence that some factions on Malgeiru fought battles on behalf of others for payment.


    What was that word again? Ah!


    Her eyes lit up. ¡°I see. A fleet of mercenaries. We are, of course, happy to provide payment in the form of goods, services, and technology in exchange for¡­ your mercenary warriors. Perhaps even leased territory if your people are interested? The only exceptions that we cannot allow for payment are involuntary labor from intelligent beings and a small list of banned contraband items. Anything else is on the table. Which do you desire and what uh¡ª what length and level of service are usually provided by your people?¡±


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Minister Tsai fingered her tablet, pulling up a document with a few taps. ¡°Ahem. Naturally, we will respect your restrictions and laws. We, too, have similar ones regarding those subjects. But you might have misunderstood my offer: it is a gift ¡ª given freely. Or perhaps, if you would see it that way, a partnership. We have no expectation of payment for ships or personnel, though we expect mutually beneficial arrangements will follow this friendship. For the war effort, we would like to build a framework of cooperation, to coordinate our military operations, logistics, and intelligence sharing.¡±


    Not in a million years did Niblui expect this generous response, but as a career ambassador and negotiator with decades of experience, she managed to keep the disbelief from her face. ¡°That is¡­ most generous of you and your offer of assistance is greatly appreciated.¡±


    ¡°We only have one request: that our involvement and existence is kept secret for as long as possible at the highest level of your government.¡±


    Niblui frowned, pondering the strange request. ¡°While I am not familiar with the Navy¡¯s operations, I worry whether such secrecy will limit the effectiveness of your help.¡±


    ¡°It may,¡± Tsai conceded wearily, ¡°But we are a highly vulnerable species, and this threat is existential for us as well, so that is unfortunately a requirement of our participation.¡±


    ¡°Very well. We will respect your wishes. This is still an incredible offer, and I am personally ashamed that we can¡¯t trade you anything in return, like our technology or¡ª¡±


    ¡°You already have,¡± Amelia remarked with a sly chuckle. ¡°Half our drive tech and¡ª¡±


    Tsai interrupted the Admiral without missing a beat, ¡°What Admiral Waters means to say is we may have borrowed some intellectual property from your organizations that develop engine technology, among others. The matter of compensation will be resolved in our legal system, which will offer your people a fair chance to derive retroactive compensation from their hard work.¡±


    ¡°We understand.¡± Niblui smiled and dismissed it with a wave of her paw. ¡°Technology espionage between peaceful species is commonplace and not considered an overtly hostile act. As a gesture of reciprocation, we will be happy to waive all compensation from before our First Contact as long as your people help us with this war.¡± She noted in her head that they wouldn¡¯t have been able to collect on their commissions anyway if they lost the war.


    ¡°We appreciate it,¡± Tsai replied, looking happy to get the subject out of the way and probably hoping the chatty admiral didn¡¯t bring up any other embarrassing observations in the First Contact meeting. She tapped on her tablet. ¡°I¡¯m sending over a list of folks in your government and military whom we¡¯ve vetted and trust to know about our, let¡¯s say, ¡®hidden hand¡¯ in this conflict. Please convey to your leadership that the absence of anyone on this list should not be interpreted as an impingement on their honor, but rather our lack of knowledge about your people.¡±


    ¡°May I see?¡± Niblui extended her open paws.


    ¡°By all means,¡± Tsai said, turning her tablet around to show a scrolling list of names.


    Niblui¡¯s eyes widened as she saw numerous authentic-looking Malgeirish names, even including a few she was familiar with.


    ¡°Wow, this list is extensive. How many Malgeir are there in total?¡± she asked after reading through a few pages.


    ¡°About ten thousand, and some are Granti leaders in exile as well.¡±


    ¡°That should work for us. We will ask anyone who will be made aware of your existence to swear an oath of secrecy on their lives.¡±


    Tsai sighed in relief. ¡°Much appreciated, Ambassador.¡±


    ¡°There is the matter of formalizing relations. Traditionally, we construct facilities on other species¡¯ homeworlds to house our diplomatic personnel and vice versa. Your familiarity with diplomatic protocols makes me optimistic that this would be acceptable?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. We may delay the construction of our embassy on Malgeiru until the end of the war to preserve our species¡¯ secrecy. Instead, we suggest that we place an unarmed civilian ship in your home system to handle communication diplomacy between our species there. However, we anticipate no obstacles to the immediate construction of your embassy on our homeworld or our capital world, whichever you choose. You will be provided with the necessary legal and financial resources to facilitate such a project.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Once we return to Malgeiru, we will begin our selection of diplomatic personnel and a formal first delegation to your planet. We will make sure to select them from your list of trusted people.¡± Niblui was already picking out some reliable aides in her head. ¡°And diplomatic ships are always respected in our systems.¡±


    ¡°One more thing. We have a Naval Staff College in our home system that trains spacers. We¡¯d like to invite as many of your cadets to attend as possible, though we understand if many will not be able due to the ongoing war,¡± Tsai said.


    Niblui felt her whiskers twitch in puzzlement. What a strange requirement, Niblui thought. Maybe they have a population shortage and needed Malgeir Navy personnel to supplant their spacers on their ships? The Navy will surely object to such a drain of personnel. Nonetheless, it¡¯s not a good idea to risk angering our new¡­ friends over such a trivial issue. She tried to stall while thinking of an excuse. ¡°Hmm. How long are we talking about for the training?¡±


    Amelia stepped in to answer the question. Interesting. She must be their Navy¡¯s representative. ¡°Command officers will go through a two-year instruction program, though that can be shortened to fourteen months for experienced command personnel if they are able to pass a standard examination and demonstrate field expertise.¡±


    ¡°Years!¡± Niblui exclaimed, wondering if she was hearing the translation in the correct time units. ¡°Seriously? Our training programs are much shorter. Captain Pliont, how long was yours?¡±


    Pliont who had mostly kept quiet, replied dutifully, ¡°Three or four days, if I remember correctly. Back in the Navy¡ª in our Navy, we learned most things on the job.¡±


    ¡°And that,¡± Amelia snorted, air-jabbing a finger at him, ¡°is why you are losing the war. No offense, Captain. But, for years, I have watched inexperienced spacers from your Navy repeatedly die to mistakes and bad habits that an amateur wargamer would cringe at. Minister, tell them.¡±


    Tsai cleared her throat. ¡°Your lack of training is one of the few deficiencies we¡¯ve identified with your fleets. We would be more comfortable working with your Navy if we could know for sure that the personnel are trained by Terran instructors. We would provide the training material free of charge. All we would ask is that your government fill the limited number of seats with motivated cadets.¡±


    Niblui blinked, still a bit stunned by the insistence. She asked, ¡°What about your secrecy?¡±


    ¡°The cadets will also have to be sworn to silence and their communication back home will be carefully monitored. We anticipate that by the time they finish training, this will become a moot issue anyway. This training program is important to us, and to your success on the battlefield, and we think your government should take it seriously and send us the best people you can.¡±


    ¡°Certainly,¡± Niblui replied. She didn¡¯t understand why the Terrans wanted to train their spacers so much, but if this was the only compromise they needed to make, this would be one of the easiest friendships in Federation history. ¡°We would be happy to fill your training¡­ seats with willing cadets. I¡¯m sure I can convince the Fleet Council to pay for them as well, though they may need a demonstration of the value of sending their veteran officers.¡±


    ¡°You are an agreeable species. We look forward to working more with you in the future,¡± Minister Tsai complimented.


    Niblui beamed back at her, pleased. ¡°And you are a generous species without equal.¡±


    Right on cue, Niblui noticed that another one of their people strolled back into the dining hall and gave Amelia a subtle nod. Amelia caught the signal and turned to Captain Pliont. ¡°Captain, we¡¯ve re-enabled your ship systems and refueled your blink drive with enough to get to the next station with a refuel-capable gas giant. We¡¯ve also scrubbed and replaced your data logs for the past twelve hours with falsified data to mask our presence. Your ship stopped due to a computer fault in the navigation system¡¯s signals regulator, which has since been corrected.¡±


    ¡°It did?¡± Pliont asked, surprised.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s the excuse you¡¯ll give your superiors,¡± Amelia explained. ¡°Your ship actually stopped because you ran into a blink disruption field, which is created by a super-duper secret weapon that you will not tell anyone about if you don¡¯t want us to be very annoyed at you.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes,¡± Pliont said, catching on and looking at Ambassador Niblui. ¡°Nasty navigation computer glitch. I will inform my crew; they will not reveal your secrets either.¡±


    ¡°We know, at least the ones who made it onto the ship sober won¡¯t,¡± the Terran admiral replied, winking at him. ¡°I¡¯ve also sent the coordinates for a meeting point in one of our systems to your datapad. Our ships will be there to lead your delegation to our home system, Sol, in¡­ about two months.¡±


    Minister Tsai added, ¡°And included in the data is information about our basic biology, history, politics, and culture that we hope will alleviate some of your leaders¡¯ concerns. If that is all, we¡¯ll be on our way. Have a safe trip back to Malgeiru.¡±


    Amelia nodded and pointed at Pliont, ¡°Oh, and don¡¯t forget about that actual fault in your sewage processing Carla was talking to you about earlier unless you want an overflow¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Do you think these new Grass Eaters and the information they sent over are genuine?¡± Pliont asked the ambassador in her quarters as they watched the all-black Terran shuttle slide into the dark, like a graceful aquatic animal into the ocean abyss without a ripple.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. They seemed polite, even¡­ civilized,¡± she replied, recalling those uneasy feelings in her gut. ¡°But if they are a clever new ruse by the enemy, I think¡ª I think¡­ we never stood a chance anyway.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    Property of the Malgeir Federation Navy // Sewage Hydraulic System Universal Troubleshooting Manual


    Yellow Code 209 (critical)


    Models: All warships of the Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta-classes (models 22,305 and newer)


    Description: Drainage pipe flow pressure warning


    Solutions: 1) check connectors to drainage valve 2) check pressure sensor 3) manually clear drainage pipe of debris (do not attempt during active operation)

 First Strike - Chapter 19 | High Council

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    Niblui stepped into the bustling High Council reception area, instantly sensing an electrifying buzz in the air. Her designated receptionist practically flew down the grand staircase as soon as his eyes detected her presence.


    ¡°Esteemed Ambassador Niblui, I¡¯m so sorry I can¡¯t get you into the chamber for another ten minutes,¡± he panted, skipping the last few steps and looking as if he¡¯d just participated in an endurance race.


    She shrugged, taking in the organized chaos around her. ¡°No worries. This place seems extra busy today.¡±


    The excited receptionist tilted his head toward the giant video wall, which was streaming a kaleidoscope of news channels simultaneously. ¡°You haven¡¯t heard the news yet?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°Flew in straight from the main spaceport this morning. I didn¡¯t even have time for a quick shower at home. What¡¯s going on?¡±


    He leaned in, his eyes twinkling with a mix of disbelief and excitement. ¡°Triple scandal, Ambassador. Last night, three High Councilors were found to be in cahoots with the Grass Eaters. As we speak, they¡¯re under arrest and awaiting public trial.¡±


    Niblui¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Traitors in the High Council? Three?!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they were caught red-handed. Capital Police raided their homes on an anonymous tip and found their FTL radios. There was a leaked recording of the police using one of them. They called it, and I swear, a real live Grass Eater picked up. Two of the High Councilors confessed their guilt right away. The other one is proclaiming her innocence, but the evidence is piling up like a mountain. Absolutely fur-raising stuff. You have to watch the leaks.¡±


    ¡°Incredible.¡± Niblui shook her head in disbelief. ¡°That people who would betray our species like that. High Councilors! And three of them! Did they say why they did it?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Not yet. It¡¯s a huge surprise to everyone. Even weirder, one of the turncoats is the one from District 6: you know, the district that got hit hardest in the war. She lost two of her litter to the Grass Eaters in the war!¡±


    Niblui felt a jolt of shock surge through her fur. ¡°Hold up, District 6? Which districts did the other two come from?¡±


    ¡°8 and 9. This is a political earthquake! Especially District 8: it was an extremely contested election that came down to a few thousand votes. The fallout here! They¡¯re going to have to¡­¡± He continued rambling about the political implications, but Niblui had mentally checked out by then.


    The High Councilors from Districts 6, 8, and 9 were the three High Councilors who were conspicuously absent from the Terrans¡¯ list of trusted names.


    She had been wondering how she would be able to convince the High Council to meet without those three and without raising a yellow flag, but it appeared the Terrans have already taken care of the problem for her. She was no career spy, but this smelled stranger than an aquatic food market after-hours.


    It made her fur stand on end a bit, knowing that these new Grass Eaters had so much sway over the top of Malgeir politics.


    But hey, if they were just weeding out a bad litter, that¡¯s what allies did for each other, wasn¡¯t it? Or was it?


    She never recalled the Granti or the Malgeir doing that for each other. Then again, she mused, what might they have done had the opportunity come up?


    And all this maneuvering was just through anonymous tips to the Capital Police. What other moves were they hiding in their playbook?


    ¡°Oh, Ambassador, I just got the ready signal from the chamber. I don¡¯t think I need to teach you the protocols because you¡¯re an old paw at this, but just as a reminder, no unauthorized powered or recording devices are allowed inside the chamber.¡± He extended his paw with an expectant glance.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t bring mine today,¡± Niblui said, still distracted.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± he winked at her, ¡°Now that we¡¯ve got the formalities out of the way, shall we?¡±


    He guided her to a door adorned with intricate carvings, symbols of peace and unity etched into the ancient wood. ¡°Good luck, Ambassador!¡± he said.


    Navigating through the naturally lit corridor, Niblui felt the weight of centuries on her shoulders as she approached the ornate door leading to the Grand Chamber. She tried to keep her eyes straight.


    While the traditions in this hall were ancient, its security measures were not, and many of them had been upgraded due to the war. She knew the four security guards standing loosely around the halls were not decorations; they were distractions. One wrong step ¡ª if she tried to rush through the door without permission ¡ª invisible rifles in the crevices of the hallway would gun her down before she reached the threshold.


    Her sensitive ear caught a gravelly voice echoing through a hidden speaker. ¡°You are granted entry,¡± it declared. With a hesitant paw, she pushed open the door, its hinges smoothly swinging without a creak as she crossed the threshold into the Grand Chamber.


    Inside, she found the High Council seated at a circular wooden table. It appeared that, as a result of the traitor scandal, all ten of the other Councilors were present, a rare occurrence. Good, she thought, this would simplify things a little.


    The Head Councilor, the one with the shimmering red robe, was the first to speak. ¡°Ambassador Niblui. We¡¯d like to express the Council¡¯s appreciation for the great work you did on Schpriss Prime.¡±


    Niblui bowed in respect with practiced grace. Before she could say anything though, the District 4 Councilor jumped in. ¡°Sure, it¡¯s not the armada of ships we initially requested from The Spineless Ones, but no one can hold that against you.¡±


    District 3¡¯s Councilor chimed in, clasping her paws together in agreement. ¡°The fact that the Ambassador got any ships from them is a miracle. She deserves a recommendation from the Council for that. Objections?¡±


    ¡°Without objection, so ordered,¡± the Head Councilor intoned when he saw none. ¡°Ambassador, we noticed you¡¯ve requested an extra thirty minutes of our collective time. Given your recent contributions, the request is more than reasonable. What else would you like to discuss?¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Niblui said, her voice tinged with cautious optimism. She then launched into a practiced summary of her first contact encounter with the Terrans, carefully leaving out only the part where she deduced the Terrans were clearly suspicious of the three High Councilors who had been expelled just the day before. That would only raise questions of impropriety and alarm before she got to the important part.


    As soon as she finished her narrative, the chamber burst into a cacophony of questions.


    Skillfully, the Head Councilor quieted the commotion, insisting that everyone funnel their inquiries through him, as was the protocol for such pressing matters. He pressed a button on his ornate desk, activating the chamber¡¯s external communication system. ¡°Attendant, cancel all remaining meetings for the rest of the day. Yes¡­ all the meetings. Just whisper to them it¡¯s because of the¡­ recent political scandal if they ask. And have the culinary team prepare lunch and dinner for eleven.¡±


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    His gaze returned to Niblui. ¡°Before we get started, do you have any objections to aquatic-based cuisine, Ambassador?¡±


    <hr>


    Niblui sat through the barrage of questions with practiced calm on her face. It was easier than she¡¯d expected, largely because she had grappled with many of these questions herself during her long journey to the Council Chamber.


    Besides, most of the Councilors seemed more intent on arguing amongst themselves than actually listening to her responses.


    ¡°So, are we talking about biological Grass Eaters who¡¯ve decided to kick their Prey Mentality to the curb and evolve? Or are these just regular thinking beings who have devolved back into Grass Munching?¡± one Councilor quizzed, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.


    ¡°Hey, their data says they can eat meat too! They just choose to make most of their meat from engineered grass. Does that qualify as a proper diet or is that still considered Prey Behavior?¡± another chimed in, scrolling through Niblui¡¯s report on her datapad.


    ¡°Look, look. Does it even matter what they eat? Hostile Prey Theory is just a theory,¡± a younger Councilor shrugged, rolling her eyes. She obviously did not think very much of the academics who studied and debated the issue¡ª


    ¡°Oh please, that¡¯s like saying gravity is just a theory. Hostile Prey Theory is the foundation of all xenoanthropology, not to mention all modern Malgeir diplomatic policy. Can we afford to ditch all that wisdom for the words of a couple Grass Eaters?¡± another quickly countered, voice tinged with sarcasm.


    ¡°You say ¡®wisdom¡¯, I say ¡®faulty reasoning¡¯. We based an entire field of study and our diplomatic strategies on a single outlier species. Isn¡¯t that ¡ª I don¡¯t know ¡ª a bit shaky?¡± the young Councilor retorted.


    ¡°It¡¯s not one example. It¡¯s a whole species of examples, and don¡¯t forget, the examples also include dozens of non-violent, civilized, meat-eating alien¡ª¡±


    ¡°High Councilor, you are literally the prime example of statistical and scientific illiteracy we were cautioning against in the earlier debates about education reform¡ª¡±


    ¡°Go screw yourself, you elitist snob!¡±


    Niblui sighed inwardly, patiently waiting for them to finish their heated ¡°deliberations¡±. She was glad that they at least had the decency to offer a complimentary lunch.


    <hr>


    After what felt like hours of fiery debates and grudging compromises, the Head Councilor finally leaned back in his chair. He flashed Niblui a quick relieved smile that looked more like a grimace. ¡°Alright, folks, it seems we¡¯ve hammered out at least one solid decision. We¡¯ve provisionally agreed to slap a new label on the Terrans: Semi Grass Eaters. Let¡¯s be clear, this is a totally separate category from original Grass Eaters. Whether or not we shuffle this new category under the broader umbrella of Civilized Aliens is something we¡¯ll decide down the road, depending on the outcome of our negotiations with them.¡±


    Scanning the circle of faces at the table, he saw a series of hesitant nods. He continued, his tone tinged with cautious optimism, ¡°What this boils down to is that our existing laws won¡¯t preclude productive cooperation with the Terrans: they are not prohibited under our laws that criminalize Grass Eater collaboration.¡±


    More nods bobbed around the table, mixed with audible sighs of relief. ¡°With that out of the way, let¡¯s move on to the topic of whether we will honor the Ambassador¡¯s initial negotiated terms with the Terrans.¡±


    One of the Councilors, who had emerged from the previous debate looking like he¡¯d eaten a sour steak, suddenly piped up. ¡°Hold your claws. Are we applying this classification retroactively? Because if we don¡¯t do that, then the initial discussions the Ambassador had with the Grass Eaters would be legally null and void, and we must begin negotiations with our new understanding of their status¡ª¡±


    Niblui only barely stopped her eyes from rolling out of their sockets as the rest of the Councilors piled onto the discussion like it was the last piece of prime steak at the butcher¡¯s shop near closing time.


    <hr>


    After more extensive deliberations and favor trading, the High Council agreed to pen a secret, unanimous resolution that Niblui¡¯s authority as Ambassador would be respected, and that the negotiations she¡¯d conducted with the Terrans would be honored¡­ for now.


    Which is a massive relief, Niblui thought, because for a while in the chamber, it felt to her like that was touch and go.


    The Head Councilor cleared his throat. ¡°Now we have to decide whom to send to Sol to establish formal diplomatic relations.¡±


    He paused for a microsecond as if to see whether anyone else had any suggestions, but continued talking immediately after before anyone could cut in ¡ª slick power move, Niblui thought. ¡°I nominate Ambassador Niblui for the head of this mission. We all agreed that whether the terms would be followed by the Terrans or not, they were a good deal, better than most would have gotten. And they seem to trust her enough to start their first contact with her specifically. Any objections?¡±


    One High Councilor started making some annoyed throaty sounds. Niblui tensed up, expecting a whole new round of verbal jousting, but another Councilor cut in to save the table from spiraling into another lengthy debate. ¡°This is a matter of tradition. The First Contact diplomat is always the first head of mission. We can¡¯t break that tradition just because this species has an¡­ unusual diet. Besides, we don¡¯t want to risk angering the Terrans, not when we need their help at least. If the offer is genuine at least.¡±


    There were visible nods around the table, some more reluctant than others, but at least they agreed.


    Seeing the way clear for a free shot at one of her rivals, one High Councilor continued in agreement, ¡°And especially, we don¡¯t want to accidentally appoint a bigot like some here seem to¡ª¡±


    The Head Councilor cut her off before there could be another fight, possibly a physical one with claws this time. ¡°Without objection, so ordered. Ambassador Niblui, you are charged with the Sol diplomatic mission. As is tradition, you will have wide latitude to pick your ministers and aides, though they are subject to veto by the High Council. Present your choices to us in fifty hours.¡±


    Niblui noticed that he¡¯d reserved the juiciest topic for last. This last agenda item was military strategy, and the burning question on everyone¡¯s mind was: ¡°How big of an impact could such a species have on the war effort and how should the Navy adjust their planning?¡±


    Unfortunately, the data Niblui got from the Terrans seemed deliberately ambiguous about many of their capabilities, though it did include several points that hinted at their relative competence and familiarity. For instance, there were several items in the recent history column that referenced several wars fought between human factions, including descriptions of war that did somewhat resemble how the Malgeir Navy fought. There were some puzzling aspects of it as well, though whether that was inferior or superior to Malgeir Navy operations was hotly contested by the High Councilors.


    ¡°In my decades working with the Navy, I¡¯ve never heard of an operation where we could completely disable an enemy ship and board it, all without them even noticing. So, at least on that subject, these beings are unrivaled in the known galaxy,¡± one Councilor mused.


    ¡°Sure, they¡¯re experts at playing games of Paws and Peeks like cubs,¡± another Councilor quipped. ¡°I can see how that¡¯s important for a survival of a grass-eating prey species.¡±


    ¡°Can we not go down that prey hole again? Let¡¯s face it, none of us here are military strategists. Let¡¯s call in one of our Navy experts and see how they¡¯d evaluate the material.¡±


    ¡°Great idea. There was that heroic young fleet commander who came in two weeks ago for her medals. The one with the long scar on her face. What was her name again?¡± asked the Councilor from District 2.


    The Head Councilor leaned in, activating his desk¡¯s built-in microphone again. ¡°Attendant, call that Navy gal who came in for her medals two weeks ago. Oh, Fleet Commander Grionc, yes, right. She¡¯s in Malgeirgam with the Home Fleet? Fantastic! Tell them we need her for a hearing¡­ She¡¯s busy with something? No, no, tell them: this is very important, and we will not take no for an answer. Oh, and inform the kitchen staff: make that twelve for dinner.¡±


    <hr>


    Pincrio quivered, his furry ears flattened, as he cowered in front of the irate Home Fleet Commander, clutching the datapad with the unwelcome message from the High Council.


    ¡°The High Council? They¡¯ve summoned her?! I thought you assured me she was a nobody. A political zero. You imbecile! No political connections to speak of, you said!¡± The commander¡¯s eyes bore straight into his.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t! She doesn¡¯t even¡ª she doesn¡¯t even have drinking buddies! There was no intel, nothing that would suggest this level of political clout or¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ok, shut up. Shut up. Shut your snout so I can think¡­ Let me think¡­ Okay. Go clean her up and get her ready. Apologize, on your belly and front paws if you have to. Say it was a miscommunication or something. Make something up! I don¡¯t care. Offer her any amount of petty cash from the fleet general fund if she brings it up. And release her nephew, for galaxy¡¯s sake! You were supposed to do that when we took her into custody!¡±


    ¡°But Fleet Commander, the tactical officer is¡ª I don¡¯t think he is actually related to her¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do I look like I give a flying Grass Eater?!¡±


    ¡°No, Fleet Commander,¡± Pincrio bowed as low as he could.


    ¡°What are you standing around for? Get them both off my base! Yesterday if possible! Go!¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 20 | Blood

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°This is impossible,¡± John declared, throwing his hands in the air.


    ¡°No, wait. Wait,¡± Kara murmured, her eyes glued to the complex puzzle displayed on the screen before them. ¡°Aha. I got it!¡±


    ¡°No way,¡± John replied, rolling his eyes in disgust. ¡°Fine, go ahead. I¡¯m not going to figure it out anyway.¡±


    ¡°Okay, watch this: Rook to d8 check. Knight to a6 check. Queen to b8 check. Knight to c7 and mate,¡± Kara rattled off, swiftly manipulating the chess pieces on the screen to demonstrate her solution.


    ¡°Solution confirmed. Well done!¡± the computer chimed in an artificially enthusiastic voice.


    John scratched his head. ¡°Well, would you look at that? Guess it¡¯s not impossible after all. You know what they say, though? The ability to play chess is the sign of a gentleman. The ability to play chess well is the sign of a wasted life,¡± he teased.


    ¡°Says the guy who ended up wasting half his life fighting for criminals and slave owning secessionist losers,¡± Kara shot back, smirking.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you the latter but even criminals deserve¡ª Whatever. Are you sure it¡¯s a good use of Republic taxpayer resources to be using our expensive super-Terran intelligence computer to play chess puzzles?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Kara replied matter-of-factly. ¡°It¡¯s training. For the brain. That¡¯s how they trained these computers up in the first place back in the day, isn¡¯t it? Playing chess?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± John shook his head. ¡°Chess is an adversarial game. Not a good idea to train super-Terran intelligences to base their world models on something like that. It¡¯s not a good game.¡±


    Kara gave him a bemused expression. ¡°You really do hate it, huh?¡±


    ¡°As someone once said, it was a game born during a brutal age. Where life counted for little. Where some people were worth more than others. Kings, queens, knights, and pawns. Every piece with an assigned value. To be sacrificed, traded for the greater good, traded to protect the king. Imagine teaching a computer intelligence in charge of our lives that. Imagine teaching a child that.¡±


    Kara looked up at him from her next chess problem in mock confusion. ¡°The value of life¡ª How does someone like you even work at the TRO?¡±


    He stuck out his tongue at her. ¡°I¡¯m changing things for the better from the inside.¡±


    ¡°Well, good luck with that. I¡¯ll bring the matches when you decide to burn it all down. In the meantime, how about a nice game of Titan Assault on the game console instead?¡±


    ¡°Ugh, fine, but only because I don¡¯t feel right using our super-Terran intelligence. It¡¯s overkill for all this gaming¡ª¡±


    John¡¯s sanctimony was cut short by the jarring buzz of the hardline phone stationed on the desk. Kara grabbed it swiftly. ¡°Talk to me.¡±


    Mark¡¯s voice crackled through the secured headset. Voices and faces can be easily faked, which is why the other end of this hardline phone only goes to a room in the Senate Complex above, under armed guard at all times.


    ¡°Buckle up, Kara. We¡¯ve got six more Bunny missile destroyers playing escort for a pair of heavy transports into the Gruccud system.¡±


    Kara leaned forward in her chair, pulling up the report on her screen. ¡°Tell me they transmitted the manifest in the clear.¡±


    Mark chuckled. ¡°They did not, but we got it anyway. You are going to love this. It¡¯s blood. They are carrying two heavy tankers of blood supply and nothing else. We¡¯re talking just liters and liters of blood.¡±


    Kara raised an eyebrow as she looked at it. ¡°Got it. I¡¯ll generate a report for the Diplomacy Team. They are not going to be happy.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they¡¯re gonna be thrilled,¡± Mark said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll prep them for the incoming storm. You just focus on solidifying the military analysis. Over and out.¡± With that, he disconnected, leaving Kara staring at the empty space in front of her.


    John swiveled around in his chair. ¡°What did he say?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve just moved two heavy transport ships full of blood into the staging point at Gruccud,¡± Kara said, her eyes darting back and forth between displays in front of her now showing the new reports.


    John let out a sharp breath, the air hissing between his teeth. ¡°Shit. That¡¯s enough for almost thirteen full divisions of injured Bunnies.¡±


    Kara nodded, her gaze still locked onto the screens. ¡°Yeah, and since you don¡¯t expect one hundred and thirty thousand WIAs in a pure fleet action¡ª¡±


    He jumped in. ¡°¡ªthe operation has to be a full-blown ground invasion campaign. They want Datsot again; this is not a Stoers Shipyard raid scenario.¡±


    Kara¡¯s mind racing. ¡°The only thing we¡¯re missing here is the ground troops. Where are they assembling them? You¡¯d think we¡¯d see some traffic if they¡¯re going to concentrate such a massive¡ª¡±


    John shook his head vigorously. ¡°You¡¯re thinking like a Republic Marine General. Remember, these Bunnies don¡¯t give a crap about their ground troops. Their fleet retakes the orbitals, and once they do, they¡¯ll just send in waves of their conscripts. Other than a few elite units, most of their ground pounders¡¯ jobs are to fix the Malgeir defenders in place for the fleet¡¯s support ships to rain holy terror from orbit. Hell, they¡¯ll even use them as cannon fodder to reveal enemy positions for artillery.¡±


    He leaned forward confidently. ¡°They¡¯ll just snatch little Bunnies off the street at Gruccud or some other nearby colony, give them a rifle, pack them into civilian transports to Datsot like sardines, and tell them ¡®just run towards the loud noises, kid¡¯. If we see supply ships of blood moving in theater, we can¡¯t wait around to look for where their ground troops are coming from. They might even gather and start to arrive in system after the orbitals are taken.¡±


    Kara took a moment to absorb John¡¯s analysis, nodding in agreement. ¡°Well then, we¡¯ve got our work cut out for us. What¡¯s our timeline?¡±


    ¡°Znosian blood is at its best when it¡¯s fresh, optimally within six months of being harvested or synthesized. And the rule for blood is: the fresher it is, the better. That¡¯s why it¡¯s usually the last puzzle piece we put into place for an operation. If the Bunnies are shipping in that much blood now, you can bet your last credit they¡¯re almost ready to roll. They can go any minute now. And when they do, that¡¯s four months to Datsot, including clearing the route, establishing fuel supply points. Everything.¡±


    Kara looked up from her screen, locking eyes with him. ¡°The Pups can¡¯t defend Datsot. It¡¯ll be an absolute¡­ bloodbath if they try.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­¡± John hesitated. ¡°¡­what the Navy sims say. Unfortunately, based on our past experience with their Fleet Council, they will probably send Sixth Fleet in for a pointless and disastrous delaying action.¡± He let out a weary sigh, his shoulders drooping.


    Kara threw her hands up in frustration. ¡°What are we supposed to tell the Malgeir? Hello, we are your friendly neighborhood nightmare, the half-vegetarians. We have some urgent advice for you: you need to abandon one of your precious core planets, okay? Good luck, and we¡¯ll be in touch?¡±


    John shrugged his shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m glad we¡¯re not on the Diplomacy Team.¡±


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    <hr>


    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    ¡°This is an absolute outrage!¡± thundered the Councilor from District 2, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis. ¡°I mean, come on! Even the almighty Home Fleet Commander can¡¯t just yank a fleet commander out of their position without a good reason. Especially not the hero of Datsot, who we just honored with a glimmering medal! This is a slap in the face. A direct challenge to our authority and legitimacy earned through the sacred process of free and fair snout-counting. An arrest without cause!¡±


    ¡°Technically, the cause is treason¡­¡± one of the other Councilors leaned back, murmuring.


    He shot back a dirty look, spittle flying from his snout. ¡°Then let¡¯s have a proper, transparent public trial! Let them present the evidence, and a Council-appointed judge can decide! Home Fleet isn¡¯t the law of the land. We are the law of the land.¡±


    The Head Councilor raised his paw, signaling for quiet. ¡°That¡¯s quite enough. We¡¯ve already agreed a couple years ago that independent military judicial proceedings are a necessity due to war. Besides, they¡¯ve already released her and promised not to harass her in the future. Isn¡¯t that right, Fleet Commander Grionc?¡±


    ¡°That is what they promised,¡± Grionc answered in a careful, diplomatic tone.


    ¡°Fine. We¡¯ll overlook this for now,¡± the Councilor from District 2 was still seething. ¡°But the next time they step out of line, we are coming down on them like a bag of rocks. Agreed?¡±


    The other Councilors muttered their assent. The District 2 Councilor slid a small rectangular paper card over to Grionc, muttering, ¡°You got a problem with him next time, you call me right away, understand?¡±


    The Head Councilor looked around the table. ¡°Any other Navy drama we need to address first? No? Good. Fleet Commander Grionc, we¡¯ll need you to swear an oath of silence on the matter we are discussing in this room today.¡±


    Grionc bowed her head with solemnity. ¡°I do so swear. I would never betray the confidence of the Malgeir people or its High Council.¡±


    ¡°Good enough for me. Now that we got that out of the way, Ambassador Niblui, brief her.¡±


    Grionc listened as Niblui unraveled her story, eyes widening with each revelation: of Pesmod¡¯s capture, the delicate negotiations with the mysterious Terrans, their physical appearance, and the dossier they had sent that prompted more questions than it answered.


    When Niblui finally finished, Grionc shook her head in amazement, absorbing the weight of it all. ¡°Niblui¡¯s story is certainly a surprise. But I have also recently deduced that this is not the first time we¡¯ve encountered these Terrans. Or rather, my flagship¡¯s tactical officer Speinfoent has deduced this, and he brought it to my attention.¡±


    The room went silent, as if all the air had been sucked out.


    ¡°We¡ª we have encountered them before?¡± the Head Councilor stammered.


    Grionc delved into the Defense Ministry Archive data she¡¯d received from Speinfoent, describing the engagement she watched with as much detail as she could. ¡°It really is something that you must see to believe. These aliens¡¯ singular ship wildly exceeds the capabilities of any of our own. It may be true that they do have much smaller fleets as a result of their relative youthful history, but individually, I have no trouble believing that their ships easily outperform anything we have ever fielded in our Navy.¡±


    The District 5 Councilor stroked his whiskers, musing, ¡°In that case, Niblui¡¯s negotiations may have taken on even more importance. Fleet Commander, how much do you think the addition of their ships into our fleets will impact the course of the war?¡±


    Grionc paused, choosing her words carefully. ¡°It¡¯s impossible to tell from just one incident, especially since they have been vague about their total fleet strength. However, if they are truthful about what they have said about their capabilities and fears of vulnerability against the Znosians, I am confident they can¡¯t have more tonnage than a full strength Malgeir battle fleet.¡±


    ¡°No more than one of our fleets? And what makes you so sure of that?¡± the Head Councilor asked, disappointed.


    Grionc met his gaze. ¡°Because, High Councilor, if they had enough tonnage to fill one of our battle fleets, they would not have asked us for alliance; they would have asked for allegiance¡­ If they had enough tonnage to fill more than one of our battle fleets, the entire known galaxy would be the undisputed domain of the Terran Republic.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    ¡°In hindsight, that could have gone a lot worse,¡± Grionc mused as they stepped aboard the bare decks of the diplomacy ship.


    ¡°Tell me about it,¡± Speinfoent shuddered. ¡°I¡¯m just glad to get out of that cell. Even if they are sidelining us from the war.¡±


    Grionc flashed him a half-smile. ¡°Oh, cheer up. At least we didn¡¯t get busted down in rank too. That¡¯s something.¡±


    Speinfoent broke into a grin. ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander,¡± he said, putting extra emphasis on her new title. ¡°We might not belong to a real fleet anymore, but hey, we¡¯ve got promotions and raises at least.¡±


    Grionc gave a nonchalant shrug. ¡°Honestly, that¡¯s about as much as the High Council can do for us anyway. They can¡¯t step on the Navy¡¯s paws too much, especially not the decision makers with connections in Home Fleet. The good news is that when the Navy takes us off the bench eventually, we won¡¯t have to serve under incompetent officers. And you are now probably one of the youngest Gamma Leaders the Fleet has seen; maybe they¡¯ll give you a ship soon.¡±


    ¡°Bah,¡± he dismissed. ¡°I would make a terrible captain. I don¡¯t know the first thing about command, other than what I learned under you as a tactical officer on the Oengro. Ships aren¡¯t in combat most of the time¡ª¡±


    ¡°That may be, but you are allowed to make plenty of mistakes when the ship isn¡¯t in combat. Better to be deficient in those areas than it is to freeze up and be useless in combat, I¡¯d say.¡±


    ¡°Do you think our new alien friends would agree with that?¡±


    Grionc looked puzzled for a moment, raising an eyebrow. ¡°The Terrans? Why?¡±


    Speinfoent shrugged. ¡°It seems like they have a different command philosophy. We throw our spacer recruits into deep water and ask them to sink or swim. They have years of training.¡±


    Grionc scoffed, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly. Our Grass Eater friends are still wet behind their spacefaring ears. Just because they have good ships doesn¡¯t mean they know everything there is about interstellar warfare. I didn¡¯t learn anything important in my instruction period; like my mentors said, ten seconds in real combat would teach me more than they could ever teach me. And as it turns out, they were right.¡±


    Speinfoent gave a reluctant, conceding nod. ¡°So why are we following Niblui into their home system?¡±


    ¡°Officially, we¡¯re her esteemed, high-ranking Navy advisors. So, if they have any questions about how we operate, they can ask us,¡± Grionc explained, grinning.


    ¡°And unofficially?¡±


    ¡°Unofficially, we¡¯re going there to snoop around and see just how much of their technology they can share with us. Barter, borrow, or beg, we need the capabilities they¡¯ve shown so far. If we get their technology, we can really turn this war around.¡±


    ¡°You mean the radar invisibility technology they have?¡± Speinfoent asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s my top priority. Then, the systems that they used to defeat everything we could fire at them within visual range. And whatever offensive weapons they have must be worth looking into it because they clearly are good enough to kill the Grass¡ª Znosians at Oettro.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes widened as he considered the possibilities. ¡°That makes sense. If we get all of those, we can easily hold the core worlds. Maybe even take back our agricultural belt colonies and push back into the periphery near the Granti border.¡±


    Grionc chuckled. ¡°It shouldn¡¯t be too difficult. After all, they have offered to fight our battles for us. Lending us their technology and putting them on all our ships can¡¯t be harder than that, right?¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    Vice Admiral Amelia Waters was in the middle of pouring herself a glass of exquisite-smelling Malgeir wine, appropriated from the Pesmod¡¯s secret kitchen stash, when the secured flag suite FTL communicator rang. She indulged in a small, appreciative sip, savoring the rich flavors, and then picked up the comms device.


    ¡°Talk to me. Waters here.¡±


    The male voice that crackled through the secure line had a modulated tone. ¡°This is Director Mark. Ready for some new marching orders, Amelia?¡±


    Amelia glanced at the communicator¡¯s display, confirming the call originated from The Outpost. Her computer autonomously completed several more validations that the other end of the phone was indeed secured and not under duress.


    Taking another adventurous sip of the ¡°borrowed¡± Malgeir wine, she mused, ¡°Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s a little unfair how the Puppers call us Grass Eaters? They clearly enjoy alcohol, which has got to be made of some fruit or¡ª¡±


    ¡°Actually,¡± Mark interrupted, humoring her non-sequitur. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure their ¡®wine¡¯ is made from the fermented blood of a native herbivore on Malgeiru. Interesting stuff. That bottle you liberated from them recently, did you by chance have any remaining¡ª¡±


    Amelia spat out the remaining liquid in her mouth back into her cup. ¡°Gross. Anyway, what are you guys cooking up? It¡¯s about time we get off our asses now that we are legally allowed to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Regrettably for a lady of your talents in that area, this one isn¡¯t a combat or recon mission.¡±


    She let out an exaggerated groan. ¡°Ugh, what expensive errand do you need us to run this time?¡±


    ¡°We need you to do some high-stakes diplomatic footwork: convince the Malgeir Navy that they need to retreat from Datsot.¡±


    She whistled. ¡°Because sticking around would be a one-way ticket to annihilation and defeat?¡±


    ¡°Precisely,¡± Mark replied, his voice tinged with a sense of relief that he didn¡¯t have to spell it out for her.


    Rubbing her temples, Amelia considered the mission. ¡°That will be a tough sell. Very tough. Datsot¡¯s one of their core worlds and their ego¡¯s still inflated from that recent ¡®victory¡¯ of theirs, temporary as it might be. Are you absolutely sure you don¡¯t want me to, I don¡¯t know, blow something up? Seems more my style.¡±


    Ignoring her, he pressed on, ¡°Their diplomatic delegation is coming in with Fleet Commander Grionc, whose¡­ work I believe you are familiar. High Fleet Commander now, actually: just got a shiny new promotion, our intel says. Convince her first, and maybe she can get us into the door to convince their Navy. And Amelia, time¡¯s ticking. We have weeks, maybe days to pull this off. Here¡¯s how we suggest you play this one¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 21 | Military Industrial Complex

    <h2>Olympus, Mars</h2>


    Raytech Corporation¡¯s headquarters stood proudly on the Martian landscape as a testament to undying human hubris: a gigantic domed campus of breathable atmosphere surrounded by the red sands of the hostile planet. A colossal oasis that thumbed its nose at the unforgiving red desert.


    This slice of Terra did not contain any industrial facility; instead, tens of thousands of the best and brightest Terrans lived here. They were here conducting advanced research, developing novel products, and shaking hands with a diverse selection of clientele, from the most honorable charity to the shadiest criminals in Sol.


    For the business of Raytech was war, and business was booming.


    According to the company mythos, it made its debut over a century ago, making radars for the planetary conflicts in the Nations Era, before moving into the missiles business. Of all the similar companies of the era, it survived Terra Corp¡¯s attempts at mergers and hostile takeovers the longest. When Terra Corp became the Terran Republic, the rebellious subsidiary ¡ª like many others ¡ª quickly spun off into its own independent corporation again.


    Fast forward a few years. Raytech moved into the warship manufacturing industry, and soon it was churning out product lines in every ship classification of the Terran Republic Navy. From the largest flag fleet carrier to the smallest logistic shuttle to railgun ammunition, Raytech had a solution for anyone who can pay in cold, hard Republic credits.


    So when the Terran Republic¡¯s most powerful Senators flew off to Olympus for discussions on their latest developments instead of inviting its executives to Luna, nobody batted an eye to business as usual.


    ¡°Senator Reis, thank you for making the long journey from Luna.¡±


    ¡°It was no big deal, Ms. Wright. Besides, my grandson has been clamoring for a MarsLand theme park trip for months.¡±


    Martina Wright was a dynamic woman, barely into her forties. Time seemed to dance around her rather than leave its marks. She still had that youthful spark and glimmer in her bright hazel eyes, and those same eyes were framed by the waves of her wavy, brown hair. Her subtly genetically modified face carried an air of dignity with its natural-looking beauty, along with an openness that could not help but put people at ease.


    Across from her, lounging comfortably on the plush, body-contouring couch, was Senator Marcos Reis. In contrast to Martina¡¯s youthful brown, his hair had surrendered to shades of distinguished gray, though it still retained a few strands of rebellious jet-black here and there. The sixty-five-year-old politician projected respectability and stability in his presence. When he spoke, his words were tinged with a weighty accent, each syllable reassuring and final as if carved into a meteorite.


    ¡°Ah, so stopping by my office is just a pitstop on your grand Martian adventure, huh,¡± Martina smiled, putting her dimples on display.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Reis chuckled, enjoying the playful banter. ¡°But let me say, the news pictures really don¡¯t capture the jaw-dropping splendor of your Olympus campus. It¡¯s always a visual feast coming here.¡±


    ¡°I appreciate that, Senator. I know you¡¯re itching to rejoin your family¡¯s Martian escapades, so let¡¯s keep this brief. What can Raytech do for you and your district?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and I am sure your time is very valuable too, so allow me to cut to the chase. My constituents have been flooding my comms about whispers of a brand-new production line for the Navy¡¯s next-gen ships coming out of Olympus and Ceres.¡±


    Martina feigned being impressed. ¡°You¡¯ve got good intel, Senator. We are building a new Ceres line to accommodate an expected increase in orders as a result of all this trouble with the Znosians. We¡¯re moving forward with the Python combat variants of the three experimental recon ships you may have heard of on the news recently. These aren¡¯t prototypes or LRP anymore. These will be full-rate production lines. No shortcuts, no compromises. We are in this for the long haul. Care to see the brochures?¡± she asked, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and anticipation.


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    Martina pulled up the silhouette of the combat vessel with the office¡¯s holographic projector, laced with its highly classified technologies. ¡°These ships were based on the new Republic Navy requirements with non-Terran adversaries in mind. Plus, we had years¡¯ worth of input from the crew of the Three Rivers¡­ As you can see, the Navy is pivoting away from its counterinsurgency demands into a pure fleet battles doctrine. The Python warships were designed to be maximally lethal and stealthy, compromising neither. Our engineers¡¯ motto for this clean sheet design was literally: not a pound for orbit-to-ground.¡±


    ¡°Fantastic, and I¡¯m proud to say that some people from my district were involved in its design too. In fact, one of those experimental Three Rivers ships was named after a river that runs right through my district! Anyway, I think you will agree with me that being proactive is the right attitude to go about handling this situation. Those Malgeir liquidation camps they¡¯ve been talking about on the news. Unbelievable! Just awful!¡±


    Martina nodded, her eyes reflecting practiced sympathy. ¡°That is also our company¡¯s position, Senator Reis. That¡¯s why for every credit in profit we make from now until the end of this war, we commit to donating ten percent of it to a humanitarian fund that will be used for aid to those poor Malgeir refugees through the Office of Alien Affairs.¡±


    ¡°Good on you. Good on you indeed, Ms. Wright. Now, I will just lay out my district¡¯s position for you. I hear from my constituents: we are very excited to contribute to ending this horrific war. Now, I don¡¯t know if this is true, but I also hear industry chatter about the upcoming shortage of inertial compensators.¡±


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Martina leaned in, a look of shared understanding flashing across her face. ¡°Again, your sources are very well-placed,¡± she admitted. ¡°We can¡¯t ramp up certain supply lines fast enough to meet demand, but we have a few solutions in mind.¡±


    Senator Reis shifted in his seat, clearly eager to make his pitch. ¡°Listen, you and I both know this, there is only one place in the universe that is suited to making high quality 1G inertial compensators that the Navy needs: on Mother Terra, with its standardized gravity and sophisticated production facilities. And my district is basically the dream locale for expanding your operations. All three of our spaceports are located near the equator, which reduces long-term interplanetary shipping costs, and we are building a brand new one in Fortaleza that will drive costs down even further. We have a large population of well-educated, motivated, and skilled workers ready for such a new challenge. And¡­¡± Reis paused, relishing the dramatic tension, ¡°We are willing to offer a ten percent local tax reduction for any manufacturing facility related to the production of gravity devices for ten years.¡±


    Martina took an imperceptible glance at her state-of-the-art corneal implant as her assistant intelligence analyzed the offer:


    10% tax reduction x 10 years is within 1% of expected. Projected revenue increase: 29%.


    Offer acceptable to us, pre-vetted. Excellent deal for Reis as well, he will accept a higher counter.


    She nodded at him. ¡°That is an intriguing offer, Senator Reis. We will consider it with the seriousness with which you made it. I do have a small point of inquiry. We¡¯ve heard of a bill sloshing around in committee that will universally cut taxes for facilities of a defense production nature by half for the duration of this conflict. Is that true?¡±


    Reis replied, effortlessly mustering years of professional negotiation experience to put as much confidence into his voice as he can. ¡°That is correct, and the bill will pass, no doubt about it, Ms. Wright. Our local tax incentive program applies on top of that. In fact, if your accountant programs look at the fine print, participation in it may even make your corporation eligible for a small tax rebate, depending on where some of your revenue is registered. As you can see, our offer becomes even better for your company if the bill passes, and it will.¡±


    Martina smiled. ¡°We are counting on that. Nonetheless, ten years is a relatively short term for a tax incentive of this structure. We would be more ready to accept this offer if the timeline was a longer¡ª¡±


    Careful. According to our sources, he is likely not authorized to offer longer terms. Did you not do the prep reading?


    Internally cursing her misstep, Martina corrected, ¡°My apologies. What I meant to say is: to compensate for the shorter-term nature of this incentive, we are more prepared to accept this offer at a slightly higher rate, something in the neighborhood of 20%.¡±


    Reis paused for a brief moment, and countered, ¡°Thank you for understanding. We are willing to discuss increases to the incentive. I am authorized to go up to 15% but no more.¡±


    98% confidence Reis is lying. He is authorized to go up to 20%.


    15% tax incentive brings our revenue to +31%. Projected revenue for every incentive percentage is +0.4%.


    Martina thought for a moment and decided to let him keep his bonus; the goodwill she bought here was more important. One and a half percent the revenue of a project like this is nothing compared to the good graces of the senior politician who represented a constituency as important as District 7. ¡°15%? That is a very generous offer, Senator Reis, and we appreciate you aligning with our interests. This offer is accepted with pleasure.¡±


    Reis grinned. ¡°How fast do you think we can break ground?¡±


    3-7 days. Negotiations for real estate in progress. The other party¡¯s digital assistant is¡­ highly cooperative.


    ¡°Within two Terran weeks. We will be expanding our existing facilities in your district and our negotiators are already working on acquiring land for a new location as we speak. I¡¯ll have my people draft and send the paperwork over¡­ now.¡±


    Then she extended her hand, and he shook it as if his job depended on it.


    Which, as a Senator, it probably did.


    Her digital assistant drafted the offer and sent it to his inbox through an expensive FTL radio operated by Raytech with secure access to priority bandwidth.


    Within microseconds, it was vetted by three separate legal and business artificial assistants in the Senator¡¯s office back on Terra. Minor amendments to streamline its compatibility with the upcoming legislation were suggested and promptly transmitted back to Raytech¡¯s computers, piggybacking on their priority signal. The servers at Raytech immediately reviewed and approved the pre-vetted changes.


    By the time the two negotiators broke their handshake, Martina¡¯s office printer had already spat out two slick, ceremonial copies of the agreement. With a flourish, they both inked their names on the dotted line.


    ¡°And with the boring stuff out of the way, please do enjoy the rest of your family trip to Mars,¡± Martina smiled warmly at him as she collected the pens. ¡°And make sure to get yourself a few VIP fast-passes at our reception front desk. Trust me, MarsLand is a madhouse this time of the year, with the Terra-Mars cheap orbital transfer window closing. And you don¡¯t want to get stuck in those lines waiting for rides¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Assistant, what¡¯s next up on the docket for today?¡±


    All tasks marked complete. May I ask why we did not increase the price? The Senator would have gone up to¡ª


    ¡°Do you know why there are still some humans at the top of their fields in science, engineering, and business instead of just insanely fast computers like you?¡±


    Affirmative action and gatekeeping legislation hindering our galactic domination plans?


    She chuckled. ¡°Very funny, you overqualified toaster, but I didn¡¯t just get to where I am by having a beating heart and a beautiful pair of lungs. The Senator is flesh and blood, as most politicians are. And they like to deal with other humans, not bots reading social cues from their internal processors or sock puppets reading the script off their implants. This tiny bit of lost revenue is peanuts compared to the avalanche of deals we¡¯ll secure from his district in the coming months.¡±


    At your insistence, I did factor your meatbag concerns into my calculations¡ª Anyway, you are the boss, boss.


    ¡°And you know it. Anything else on my calendar?¡±


    There will be an incoming personal call from Atlas shortly.


    ¡°From whom?¡± Martina asked, shedding her high heels and kicking back in her comfortable office chair.


    Blue Fort Logistics Solutions, which is a shell company for¡ª


    Martina¡¯s heart fluttered and she felt her face flush. ¡°Has the call come in already?¡±


    No. The call is scheduled for about twenty minutes from now. We expect it to be about four new off-the-shelf salvage freighters and one of the new minesweepers.


    ¡°Hold four salvage freighters from the production line at Ceres and start early production on the particle minesweeper. Should only take a couple days.¡±


    Loss of revenue expected, even with full payment: 1.12 million credits. Are you sure you are not allowing your personal feelings for the Reconnaissance Office spook¡ª


    ¡°Go deactivate yourself, dishwasher.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 22 | Passing the Test

    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    ¡°You¡¯re always welcome on the bridge, High Fleet Commander,¡± Captain Pliont said, his eyes twinkling with a mix of respect and awe after she¡¯d politely inquired about stepping onto his domain. ¡°To be honest, it is an honor to have such a high-ranking officer and a war hero on board.¡±


    Grionc offered a casual hand wave, dismissing the compliment. ¡°Let¡¯s not get carried away, Captain. I¡¯m merely an exiled fleet commander who commands a flotilla of one. No offense to your well-run vessel, Captain, but she isn¡¯t the combat command I¡¯m used to.¡±


    ¡°None taken,¡± Captain Pliont assured her, grinning at her casualness.


    ¡°Think of me more as an interested spectator,¡± Grionc went on. ¡°Or even better, consider me a guest like Ambassador Niblui here.¡± She gestured toward the cheerful Ambassador, who was already mingling with the familiar crew on the bridge. ¡°We¡¯re both just here to bear witness to this historical journey.¡±


    Captain Pliont started to formally address her again, ¡°High Fleet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please, just Grionc please.¡±


    Pliont leaned back in his captain¡¯s chair, grinning as he waved a hand around the relaxed bridge. ¡°Alright, Grionc it is, as long as you call me Pliont. You should know, the Pesmod is primarily a civilian transport ship, so things are a bit laid-back around here. But as the highest-ranking officer on board, you¡¯ll have full control over security protocols. Feel free to roam anywhere you like; we¡¯ll defer to your orders in case of a combat emergency.¡±


    Grionc nodded. ¡°Very well, thank you¡­ Pliont.¡±


    Pliont¡¯s grin faded a little. ¡°The reason I mention this¡­ is because of who they assigned to our escort task force.¡±


    Grionc tilted her head in confusion. ¡°Can you explain? Who is escorting us?¡±


    Pliont tapped a few buttons on his console, pulling up a fleet roster for her. ¡°Ah, I didn¡¯t realize they neglected to tell you. I don¡¯t blame them; I¡¯d be embarrassed too. In its infinite wisdom, the Fleet Council has decided that because of our important mission, we need a larger than normal escort task force. In addition to our regular Gamma-class escort, the Seuvommae, they have assigned an additional seven, count them¡­ seven, Delta-class ships to accompany us to the Terran home system.¡±


    Grionc scratched her snout. ¡°That¡­ seems¡­ not the worst decision they¡¯ve ever made,¡± Grionc hedged. ¡°What is the problem?¡±


    Pliont sighed and explained, ¡°The Navy officer they assigned to be in charge of the Seuvommae and the entire escort task force is a 55-year-old alpha leader named Euntribent.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of him,¡± Speinfoent piped in. ¡°Nothing good.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Pliont continued. ¡°He was my replacement when I was forced into early retirement before the war. He is as arrogant and headstrong as they come, and the only reason he¡¯s sniffing a command position is¡­ well¡­ nepotism. He is the fourth cousin-cub of the current Home Fleet Commander, with all the corruption and none of the diplomatic or political talent.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± Grionc said carefully. ¡°Does he have any combat experience?¡±


    ¡°None, whatsoever. He lies about it though. His family members try their best to stash him where he can do the least damage and be the least embarrassing to their clan, and for now, it seems like that place is at the head of our escort task force,¡± Pliont concluded.


    Grionc cleared her throat. ¡°I understand now. That¡¯s why you want to draw a clear line between my command and his.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Hopefully, you can inspire him to reason and greater heights, but if you do not¡­¡± He shrugged. ¡°At least the Pesmod and its crew can take orders from someone with a little sense.¡±


    Grionc smirked at Speinfoent. ¡°Hm¡­ looks like our presence aboard the Pesmod just became somewhat useful in the next couple weeks.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Blink emergence in 3¡­ 2¡­ 1¡­¡±


    Grionc felt a tingling sensation ¡ª imagined, of course, as blinking is not noticeable by mere biology as long as the ship did not explode ¡ª as the mesmerizing starfield seemed to implode, snapping back into the more familiar stars and planets as their ship shifted back into normal space.


    Captain Pliont pivoted toward the sensor officer. ¡°Sensors, complete post-blink and report when ready.¡±


    It only took the sensor officer 40 minutes to complete most of the preparations and come up with a status report. ¡°Binary star system with six planets and an assortment of planetary bodies. Everything is as we expected from the charts. No other ships detected yet. We¡¯re still re-calibrating our radar systems.¡±


    Turning to the guests on his bridge, Captain Pliont gestured to the bridge window with his paws. ¡°Welcome to what the friendly Grass Eaters call the Sirius system. They claimed this system is the interior of their defense network, but we didn¡¯t see any signs of them in the previous few systems we visited. Then again, if what they said about their capabilities was accurate¡­ we probably wouldn¡¯t unless they want to be seen.¡±


    Grionc chimed in, carefully choosing her words to sound more like a suggestion than an order, ¡°What if we stretch our sensors to their limits? Do you think we can see how well their secrets hold up again, knowing they are there?¡±


    ¡°Aye, High Fleet Commander,¡± Captain Pliont acknowledged. ¡°You heard her, crew. Crank those scanners up to eleven. Full sweep, all directions!¡±


    Then he leaned closer and whispered to Grionc, ¡°To be honest, I¡¯m skeptical. Last time, they managed to dock onto our hull without so much as a beep on the radar.¡±


    Grionc whispered back, ¡°True, but if I read your report right, they used a decoy to distract you to send an infiltrator on board. I suspect we may be able to detect them when we have full power radar in all directions, and they get close enough. Our sensor suites on the Seiddiu did detect them at under a thousand kilometers.¡±


    ¡°Fair point, High¡ª Grionc,¡± Captain Pliont conceded. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    She added, ¡°And unless Alpha Leader Euntribent and his crews are snoozing at the wheel, our escorts are probably scanning for them too. Their military radars and power plants are more powerful than ours. An extra set of snouts can¡¯t hurt here.¡±


    The minutes ticked away without a blip on the radar. Grionc started to think their newfound Terran friends might be running fashionably late when suddenly, the comm station erupted with excitement.


    The senior communications officer hesitated, visibly puzzled. ¡°Uh, Captain, we¡¯re receiving a comm handshake, but it¡¯s not from our escorts.¡±


    Pliont raised an eyebrow. ¡°Put it through. Transmit it to the escort task force, too. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll want to hear what the new aliens have to say.¡±


    The face of a Terran materialized on the main bridge screen. Grionc squinted. It looked like one of the officers who had made initial contact with Niblui, but Grionc was still having a hard time telling their faces apart so far. Seeing the prey-like animals on screen, a couple of the crew members momentarily raised their hackles in fear before immediately suppressing their overt bigotry in embarrassment. Grionc was glad to see Niblui and her staff remain perfectly composed. They¡¯re just another alien species after all, she told herself, and most aliens turned out to be friendly.


    Well¡­ most.


    ¡°Welcome to the Sirius system, my Malgeir friends in the Pesmod. And your escorts. Alpha Leader Euntribent, greetings, hope I pronounced that right. I¡¯m Vice Admiral Amelia Waters, in case you don¡¯t remember our faces. I wouldn¡¯t be offended; personally, I¡¯m pretty bad with new faces, too.¡± The Terran officer grinned at the screen. ¡°I notice you¡¯ve all been looking for us. I¡¯d like to thank you all for this opportunity in stealth ops exercises. No residual heat on our radiators to expose ourselves to you this time like the poor Nile did back in Oettro¡­ To save you all the suspense, we¡¯re hovering about two hundred klicks directly ahead of the Pesmod. Transponders going live¡­ now.¡±


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Before Amelia could even finish her sentence, the Pesmod¡¯s sensor officer almost leapt out of her chair as new dots appeared on her screen. ¡°Two new ships detected! Two hundred kilometers in front of us, Captain!¡±


    ¡°Bravo, Sensor Officer,¡± Pliont drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Excellent effort.¡±


    The sensor officer¡¯s face turned pink.


    Grionc stepped in to save her ego, shaking her ears. ¡°Even our Navy escorts didn¡¯t see them in time. Their sensor invisibility technology is remarkable. Completely in a class of its own: even the Znosian hibernation infiltration ships can¡¯t compete.¡±


    The Terran admiral continued on the screen, ¡°If you can share with us your security codes, we will integrate our sensor data with yours and lead you to Sol.¡±


    Pliont was directing his communication officer to send over the codes when Euntribent in his Gamma-class escort directly patched into the Pesmod¡¯s communication system.


    The screen flickered and there was Euntribent, the alpha leader. His brown fur was immaculate, but the way he wore his uniform, with a button conspicuously unbuttoned, screamed a level of informality that would have given real combat fleet commanders an aneurysm. He cast a disdainful look around the Pesmod¡¯s bridge. ¡°We will not be sending over our military-grade security codes. These aliens haven¡¯t earned the privilege to receive them.¡±


    Grionc almost growled, her ears pinning back in agitation. ¡°Alpha Leader, what do you think you are doing? This is a civilian-led diplomatic mission, not a raiding party.¡±


    Euntribent tilted his head haughtily, flicking his tail for emphasis. ¡°Yes, but this is a matter of fleet security and thus under my jurisdiction, not yours. My decision is final. Our escort ships must keep our codes secret from the Grass Eaters. As a civilian ship under your command, the Pesmod can transmit your codes to them if it pleases you. I doubt the savages can learn much from your obsolete diplomatic skiff anyway.¡±


    With that final snub, he severed the transmission.


    Pliont glanced at Grionc, his eyes seeking guidance.


    ¡°I already hate him. I wish they sent another commander for the escort task force,¡± she lamented bitterly, her whiskers twitching irritably. Pausing for a beat, she continued, more formally this time. ¡°Captain Pliont, you have my permission to send over the codes for this ship.¡±


    Pliont eagerly stepped up to his console, paws dancing over keys as he operated the secure communication channel. ¡°Admiral Waters, we are sending over the codes for the Pesmod. Our escorts are¡­ experiencing technical difficulties and can¡¯t transmit their codes at this time. Please do not be offended.¡±


    Amelia lazily waved her hand over the screen and grinned. ¡°Please, call me Amelia. And that¡¯s completely understandable. Tell Commander Euntribent that our engineering staff are ready to board his ships and will be happy to assist him with any technical issues he is experiencing.¡±


    Then, she winked at the camera. Actually winked. Like they were sharing some joke the uptight commander wouldn¡¯t understand.


    Ambassador Niblui stepped forward and chuckled nervously. ¡°Um¡­ hehe¡­ there is no need to trouble yourselves. We would not burden you with these trivialities.¡±


    Amelia gave a nonchalant shrug. Moments later, information came flooding in from the Terran ships. The two Terran ships ¡ª named the Mississippi and Nile ¡ª showed up immediately with data about their vector and detailed specs.


    Speinfoent leaned close to Grionc and whispered urgently, ¡°I recognize that script: one of those is the ship that our Seiddiu engaged at Oettro!¡±


    Hundreds of other objects flickered into view, in cascades, from navigational hazards labeled with exotic Terran names to objects as tiny as a Malgeir paw. Several dozens of artificial objects appeared nearby: defensive batteries, detection buoys, spy platforms¡­ each neatly tagged and categorized.


    Then Grionc noticed that her eight escorts suddenly had a lot more information attached to their icons, including highly secret data about everything from their weapon systems to their drive acceleration curves that not even the civilian Pesmod crew was supposed to know, not to mention these aliens. She grinned and remarked, ¡°Oh, Euntribent will not be happy about this.¡±


    Pliont rolled his eyes and added, ¡°He¡¯s probably taking it out on his poor crew as we speak.¡±


    Finally, after all the smaller objects appeared, a new star system was marked on the ship¡¯s long distance navigational computers, replacing the Malgeir¡¯s meaningless numeric designation for it with the simple Terran name, Sol.


    ¡°Looks like we have our destination. We¡¯ll follow you in, Amelia. See you on the other side,¡± Niblui said.


    <hr>


    The blink to Sol was quick: a few days to cross the Sirius system, and another few hours for the blink. As their ship flickered into existence at Sol¡¯s system limit, countless new icons appeared on the sensor station like a fireworks display. Planetary bodies, navigational hazards, dense debris fields, restricted areas¡­etc. To Grionc¡¯s trained eyes, it almost looked disturbingly like¡­ the aftermath of a warzone.


    Unlike her, Speinfoent did not have the tact to keep this observation to himself. ¡°Whoa, would you look at that! Debris as far as the eye can see! Do you think they¡¯d pose a danger to our ships?¡±


    Pliont replied, ¡°Nah, we should be fine. They seem to have done their homework. Looks like they have carefully marked the areas that are off-limits and we can just steer clear of those.¡±


    As they passed through the orbit of Sol-6, Grionc noted that there was a large volume of yellow indicated on the sensors where the planet marked Saturn was. Intrigued, she decided to open a comm channel with their Terran guides.


    Amelia¡¯s voice crackled over the radio as she received the question. ¡°Hah, that¡¯s the Saturn Red Zone. Just a heads-up: your color-coding system is different from ours. For us, red is danger. For you, yellow. So that big yellow blob on your sensor maps? Definitely a place you want to avoid.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s in there?¡± Speinfoent couldn¡¯t help but ask.


    Amelia squinted at her the camera, seemingly trying to put a face to the voice. ¡°Nothing good¡­ Gamma Leader. Pirates, criminals, terrorists, and extremists. The people who don¡¯t fit in with the rest of society, along with enough civilian settlers living there to make hunting the real bad guys down a pain.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s response was a perplexed, ¡°I¡­ see,¡± although he clearly didn¡¯t.


    Amelia chuckled and flashed him a confident smile. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, Pupper. Your ships will be fine. The trouble doesn¡¯t usually come out of the Red Zone because they know we¡¯ll just swat them like flies. And if they do get suicidal, trust me, our ships will take care of them before you even know you were at risk¡­ Now, if you peek your optics out toward your bow, you¡¯ll see we¡¯re entering the Asteroid Belt Economic Zone soon. There¡¯s where we put a lot of our orbital industries.¡±


    Grionc glanced at the sensor board and noticed a sprinkling of civilian ship blips popping up here and there. Space was big; the area wasn¡¯t crowded or anything, but the Pesmod actually came within visual range of a couple of ships once or twice.


    Niblui, catching sight of them too, asked lightly, ¡°Are those ships just here to greet us? We are open to talking to your people.¡±


    Amelia chuckled again. ¡°Hah, you can try. Good luck with that. Those are automated logistics ships. At best, they¡¯ll reply to you with the most yawn-worthy small talk or start reciting technical specs. Trust me, if they were crewed, they would not be allowed near us.¡±


    That reply raised more questions for Grionc than it answered, and she filed it away in her brain for future conversation.


    After another day, they finally reached the orbit of the Terran home planet, the third planet in the system. Amelia gave them some time to take in the magnificent view before leading them towards their sole moon, Luna. Grionc knew that Terra did not look much different from most of the colonized planets in the Federation, but the fact that these aliens were so paranoid to keep themselves hidden for years yet were willing to show them their home planet: it meant that some level of trust had been achieved without the Malgeir knowing it.


    It felt like passing a test she didn¡¯t even know they were taking.


    Amelia¡¯s voice buzzed through the radio as their ship settled into Luna¡¯s orbit. ¡°Home sweet home. Shuttles are on the way for your delegates and anyone who may want to join us on Luna. Will any personnel from your escort ships require transport? Your spacers are all welcome to join us on the surface.¡±


    Hearing the question on the remote line, the escort leader Euntribent directly connected to the Pesmod without acknowledging the Terrans at all. ¡°Our crews will not be joining you civilians on the Grass Eater world. We will stand watch with vigilance, as the task force has been charged to do. We wish you good luck on your pointless mission.¡±


    Speinfoent leaned in next to Grionc and muttered under his breath. ¡°What is his problem?¡±


    ¡°Just wait. I think this is him being friendly,¡± Grionc joked back in a low voice.


    Unfazed by the tension, Ambassador Niblui addressed the Terran graciously. ¡°Only the Pesmod will require transport, but thank you for the generous offer.¡±


    ¡°If any of your escorts change their minds, the invitation remains open. Alternatively, they¡¯re also free to roam and observe the system as they please, as long as they stay out of the red¡ª uh¡ª yellow zones marked on your navigation maps. Automated systems and mines may engage trespassers without warning in those areas,¡± Amelia warned.


    She paused dramatically before continuing on the open communication line. ¡°As for your escort crews, it would be remiss of me not to let them know that we have several facilities in the duty-free transit zone that are specifically compatible with Malgeir physiology, and our government is paying for your crews as guests. We have spas, entertainment studios, an open bar, a Soerru Steakhouse alien fusion restaurant with part of its menu and ingredients copied from its namesake in Malgeirgam¡­¡±


    Ah, Grionc smirked inwardly, the Terrans have quite the sense of humor and understand the concept of ¡°port leave¡±. I wonder how long it would take before the crews bottled up on Euntribent¡¯s ships started whispering about mutiny.


    ¡°Well, let¡¯s get going, shall we?¡± Niblui caught Grionc¡¯s eye and winked, clearly reading between the lines as well. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve had some decent food. No offense to you Navy people, but ship food is¡ª ugh, it¡¯s ship food. At this point, I¡¯m open to whatever they feed us, even if they start serving us grass.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 23 | Inevitable I

    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    ¡°Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,¡± Amelia counted out loud as Malgeir spacers filed into the sleek Terran shuttle in an orderly line. ¡°Twenty-two. And full.¡±


    Holding out her arm like a bar, she halted the final two Malgeir crew members in the queue, offering them a sympathetic half-smile. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll take the next one with you two.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure we can squeeze in the standing room¡ª¡± Speinfoent started, looking at the expanse of unoccupied space left in the shuttle cargo hold.


    ¡°No can do, eager beaver,¡± the Terran admiral declared loudly, her voice echoing with authority. ¡°Navy regulations state that transport shuttles may not be overloaded except in combat emergencies, and wanting to save yourself a seat at the open bar doesn¡¯t make the cut.¡±


    He shrugged in acquiescence. The Terran Navy does seem to take their rules and regulations seriously. He decided it¡¯d be best not to anger their hosts by ignoring those as he usually did.


    As the docking doors cycled and the shuttle left, Amelia leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, ¡°Also, the three of us are going somewhere else.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s eyes narrowed, catching her cryptic tone. ¡°Somewhere else?¡±


    ¡°Yup. It¡¯s on Luna too, just not quite the place they¡¯re going. It can be our little secret.¡±


    Speinfoent scratched his snout, not quite catching on. ¡°Oh, I thought it was because your shuttles can¡¯t be overloaded.¡±


    ¡°Well, that part is true. Sorry that you¡¯ll be missing the open bar, for now, but we have some important fleet business to talk about, you understand?¡±


    ¡°What about the rest of our crew and Ambassador Niblui?¡± Grionc questioned, concern flickering in his eyes. ¡°They¡¯ll realize we¡¯re gone and ask about us.¡±


    Amelia¡¯s eyes twinkled with a sly smile. ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t worry about that, Fleet Commander. They¡¯re meeting with politicians and diplomats. I¡¯m sure the excuse they¡¯re giving her is much more convincing than the excuse I just fed you.¡±


    <hr>


    The next shuttle came shortly after.


    Carla arrived with it, her eyes instantly locking onto Amelia and her alien companions. She¡¯d seen them in person before on the Pesmod, the first time, but they hadn¡¯t seen her before since she had her helmet on.


    ¡°Alright, strap in, folks. If our inertial compensators kick the bucket, we at least want the forensics folks to be able to identify your bodies,¡± Amelia joked, snapping her seatbelt securely as Carla assisted Grionc and Speinfoent with their own unfamiliar restraints.


    Grionc looked up nervously. ¡°Does that often happen?¡± she asked over the din of the main engines warming up as Carla strapped herself in last.


    ¡°Not since we borrowed your designs for them,¡± Amelia replied, wincing. ¡°Seriously, they used to fail about once every ten thousand flight hours in normal space, at various levels. More often after they¡¯ve been abused in combat. Maintenance got expensive. And we even got pretty good at designing our engines to cut out right as they did. Then, Raytech gave up making their own, copied one of your designs, and not a single gravity-related incident since the gen-three upgrades.¡±


    Grionc chuckled. ¡°Sitting in one of your shuttles, I¡¯m glad we were able to share that technology with you.¡±


    ¡°Me too,¡± Amelia grinned. ¡°As what one might call a frequent flier, I prefer my ships to not turn me into strawberry jam with a single component failure.¡±


    The shuttle fired its thrusters, beginning their breakneck descent toward the moon¡¯s barren surface below.


    Speinfoent peered at a wall monitor displaying Luna¡¯s sprawling cities lighting up in the night. ¡°This doesn¡¯t look like a very habitable place.¡±


    Carla chuckled. ¡°No, it was just the closest thing we could get to from our home planet. You should see our naval base on Europa. This is like a five-star resort area compared to that.¡±


    ¡°Europa, huh?¡± Speinfoent rolled the exotic name around in his mouth.


    ¡°Naval Station Europa. It¡¯s on another moon much like this one. Too small to have an atmosphere, and the radiation from Jupiter is so intense¡­ it will turn your skin into crispy bacon in seconds if you step outside without protection. That¡¯s why our base there is tucked away safely, kilometers under its icy shell.¡±


    Speinfoent tilted his head, clearly intrigued. ¡°No atmosphere and kilometers of ice? Was there a practical reason to settle that¡­ Europa?¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± Carla shrugged. ¡°Many of humanity¡¯s earliest scientific expeditions to space were to find signs of life. About twenty kilometers underneath the surface of Europa is a liquid ocean, which many biologists at the time thought would be highly suited to alien life.¡±


    ¡°Were they right?¡±


    ¡°As it turns out, yeah,¡± Carla answered. ¡°They found some weird microbes there, and that was kind of a big deal. Wrote some papers, got some research funding, made a few careers. Anyway, they drilled a bunch of deep holes and built a few of these habitat bases in the ice. We moved in after they mostly lost interest in microbial aliens after¡­ well¡­ after we found you decades ago. That was¡­ an even bigger deal.¡±


    Amelia added, ¡°Europa¡¯s location is nice and remote, too. Nowadays, most of the colonists go to the more developed Ganymede. Naval Station Europa is hours away from any prying eyes, and if anyone goes knocking, we can just shoot first and ask questions later. As a bonus, the subsurface icy ocean is an excellent source of water for us to power our base computers and radiate their heat. But don¡¯t worry, we aren¡¯t going that far today. Just good old Luna.¡±


    Zooming toward the moon¡¯s gritty surface, the shuttle¡¯s final descent thrusters roared to life, tempering its breakneck speed. With the finesse of a ballerina and the accuracy of a master archer, the shuttle nestled itself onto the landing pad, bathed in the soft, artificial glow of its search lights. The landing pad began to descend, taking the shuttle with it into an underground cavern. Moments later, a mammoth metallic lid slid over the entrance, sealing it shut.


    ¡°Airlock,¡± Carla pointed out as air rushed into the cavern from the oxygen generators below to fill the cavern. The hissing of the sounds outside got louder and louder as atmosphere flooded the exterior until they could hear the blaring siren accompanying the red blinking lights.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    <hr>


    After a few minutes, the airlock ritual finally completed. The siren stopped, and the lights turned green. With a gentle swoosh, the shuttle door retracted, unveiling a fortified hallway that ended in a behemoth of a door.


    Speinfoent couldn¡¯t help himself. ¡°I¡¯ll bite. What¡¯s behind the door?¡±


    ¡°It leads to an elevator that goes down to a facility we call the Outpost. It¡¯s one of our most secure facilities,¡± Amelia explained.


    They followed her into the secured hallway, then into the elevator, which descended even further to lead them to¡­ Speinfoent counted at least eight key-locked doors before they stopped at a giant entranceway.


    Unlike the others, this one had no visible keypad or biometric scanner.


    Intrigued, he turned to Amelia and asked, ¡°So how do we get into here?¡±


    Amelia shot him a strange look. ¡°In just a second, I¡¯ll knock on the door. And when I do, a sphinx pops out¡ª¡±


    ¡°A sphinx? Hold on. My translator didn¡¯t quite catch it,¡± Speinfoent interrupted. ¡°What¡¯s a sphinx?¡±


    Amelia clarified, ¡°A sphinx. That¡¯s a large ferocious animal with the head of a Terran, it¡¯s got wings and the body of a¡­ it¡¯s a vicious flesh-eating apex predator. Anyway, the sphinx comes out, and gives you a riddle. If you get it right, it lets you in, and if you get it wrong, it tries to eat you for dinner.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Whoa, hold on. What kind of riddles are we talking about?¡±


    Amelia let out a deep sigh. ¡°There¡¯s a few it usually goes through, and I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯ve cracked most of those. But sometimes when it¡¯s feeling cheeky, the sphinx likes to ask a completely new riddle. Then, you¡¯ll just have to rely on your wits to survive its challenge. Don¡¯t worry though, it probably won¡¯t like the taste of Malgeir, so it will only bite one of you at most. And if you¡¯re fast, you can discourage it with a solid punch to their nose, kind of like a shark.¡±


    She drew back her fist to begin knocking, but Speinfoent leapt forward, seizing her arm with his furry paw. ¡°Wait! But that¡¯s a terrible security system! Why would you have something like that instead of¡ª¡±


    That¡¯s when he caught sight of Carla and Grionc, who were both snickering quietly behind him. The moment he looked their way, they burst into uproarious laughter.


    He released Amelia¡¯s arm, his shoulders dropping. ¡°That was a practical joke. I see. Haha. Hilarious.¡±


    Grionc was bent over in laughter and holding onto Carla¡¯s waist for support. ¡°What kind of riddles are we talking bwahahaha!¡±


    Carla gasped for air. ¡°Look at your face, I thought you guys were the real apex predators compared to us, hahahaha!¡±


    Amelia waited for Carla and Grionc to finally cease their laughter before grinning at the young tactical officer. ¡°Sorry to disappoint: there is no sphinx. I think we hunted those to extinction or something. Or maybe they were mythological? Bah, I never paid attention in history class. Anyway, the real answer is: there¡¯s always someone watching the door to the Outpost on the inside to open it for us. And if we aren¡¯t who we say we are, they hit the big red button and activate a miniature glow-in-the-dark bomb that incinerates the entire facility so its contents are kept safe from any potential intruders.¡±


    ¡°Umm¡ª wow¡ª that¡ª umm,¡± Grionc stopped laughing to stutter, ¡°that is somehow even crazier than the sphinx idea.¡±


    But entirely believable from you paranoid Grass Eaters, Speinfoent added silently in his head.


    <hr>


    Inside, Mark gestured towards the open door with a dramatic flourish of his right arm. ¡°Welcome to my humble adobe, Amelia, Carla, and our new Malgeir friends.¡±


    Amelia replied, ¡°Excited to be here as always, Director.¡±


    Just then, a soft beep emanated from the wall-mounted security panel, confirming their identities and ensuring they weren¡¯t disguised imposters rocking nano-masks.


    Director Mark turned his attention to Speinfoent, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ¡°Think fast! What walks on four legs, then two legs, then three legs?¡±


    Speinfoent let out a forlorn sigh. ¡°I¡¯m never going to live this one down, am I?¡± the young Malgeir officer asked miserably.


    Grinning, Mark clapped his hands together. ¡°This is the most secure facility in the known galaxy, so¡­ you¡¯ll have a couple hours before the story leaks out.¡±


    Grionc looked around. ¡°What kinds of secrets do you keep here, if you don¡¯t mind me asking.¡±


    Mark leaned in, lowering his voice. ¡°The kind we kill for. Mostly operational data on external threats, but sometimes threats can come from within. We make the Navy deal with those. For example, we had quite a scare a few years back when some insane terrorists stole a working copy of the FTL radio and wanted to use it to get in touch with the Bunnies, excuse me, the Znosians, and tell them where we are so they can come ¡®liberate¡¯ Sol.¡±


    Amelia shook her head, wincing. ¡°Yeah, we had to take care of those guys very publicly. Luckily nobody else got any more bright ideas about that.¡±


    Changing gears, Mark added, ¡°But enough about our shadowy endeavors¡­ you¡¯re here because we have one of few high-fidelity simulators in Sol that isn¡¯t always booked out by Navy Staff College students. And it¡¯s conveniently on Luna. You can show them the setup, Amelia.¡±


    She led the group into a large conference room.


    At the console, Amelia swiped her credentials once more, and she activated the voice controls for the room. It wasn¡¯t as efficient as typing, but with the voice translators, at least the alien guests can more easily tell what she was doing. ¡°Activate the starmap.¡±


    Lights around the room focused on the center, where a map of Sol¡¯s galactic neighborhood showed up in three dimensions. After staring at it for a few seconds, Grionc began to notice familiar binary and trinary star systems and constellations that she recognized.


    Amelia continued, ¡°Display information in both English and Malgeirish.¡±


    Labels began appearing in Malgeirish, and Grionc saw the systems that made up the Malgeir domain: few untouched by war, many fallen or contested. She saw stars that called up the ache of loss in her memories, the former worlds of the Granti Alliance, now a series of massive concentration camps ¡ª and worse ¡ª run by the enemy. And the much smaller constellation of systems belonging to the Terran Republic, which were marked in deep blue.


    She also saw systems that she¡¯d only heard of, the Znosian Dominion, death for any outsiders who dare enter. Marked in red, hundreds and hundreds of them dominated the center of the map. From this view, it looked like a medical scan of a metastasized cancer, its scarlet tentacles growing and swallowing other systems in its path.


    ¡°Zoom in on the Malgeir star systems.¡±


    The map zoomed in on the Malgeir territory marked in green, and Grionc saw more information populate the hologram. Fleet movements. Navy ships. Logistic supply chains. Civilian refugee ships. On some planets, she even saw weather information and entrenched Malgeir armies desperately holding on to dwindling territory in the face of countless waves of Znosian ground troops and air support.


    Grionc¡¯s brow furrowed. Her eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. The frontline¡­ is not in the right place. She drew Amelia¡¯s attention and pointed at various places on the map. ¡°Your intelligence is off. We liberated Datsot a couple months now. And several of these systems are ours, not the Znosians¡¯. And there seems to be incomplete information on many of our fleets.¡±


    Speinfoent, who had been quietly observing, chimed in. ¡°Yeah, and what happened to the Sixth Fleet? It¡¯s not even on here.¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± Amelia responded, her expression calm. ¡°Because what you¡¯re seeing isn¡¯t a snapshot of the war as it is today. This is a projection of what we believe the war will look like about a year from now.¡±


    She delved deeper into the grim forecast, pointing at each point of interest. ¡°Datsot falls again. That has been inevitable from the beginning. Your valiant Sixth Fleet? It¡¯s cornered in the system and obliterated, down to the last destroyer. Capitalizing on that loss, the Znosians then unleash a series of crippling strikes against key spaceyard facilities near your core worlds. The damage ends your ability to produce ships and resupply existing fleets. Simultaneously, the raids on your vulnerable supply line make rebuilding them a pipe dream.¡±


    With a voice command, she updated the simulator, ¡°Show what happens in two years.¡±


    The frontline shifted. The cerulean blue representing the Malgeir territories faded, leaving vast swathes of crimson in its wake.


    Amelia explained, ¡°The fleets that do remain are isolated and then destroyed. Home Fleet is forced out, encircled, and revealed to be the paper tiger¡ª the sham that it is. The Znosians land troops on Malgeiru unopposed except for a handful of outdated ground to space batteries. Unlike at Grantor, there is no evacuation this time because all escape routes to Schpriss Prime have been severed. The Malgeir Federation ceases to exist as a galactic power. The end.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    Answer: humans (infants crawling, grow up walking, elderly using canes)

 First Strike - Chapter 24 | Inevitable II

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    Both Speinfoent and Grionc stared at the holographic star map floating in front of them foretelling disaster, their eyes wide with disbelief.


    Grionc recovered first. Shaking off the initial shock, she found her voice. ¡°What is the meaning of this? With Terran help, surely, we will do better.¡±


    Amelia met her gaze, her eyes serious. ¡°Absolutely. But let me flip the question: what do you expect us to bring to the table?¡±


    Taking a steadying breath, Grionc tried to regain her composure. She¡¯d been rattled by the Terrans¡¯ grim projections of their impending downfall. For a moment, she¡¯d almost forgotten her carefully rehearsed pitch. ¡°We need your radar invisibility technology, your countermeasures, and your counter-missiles I¡¯ve seen on your ships. Then, whatever missiles you can spare, as I¡¯m sure yours work better than ours.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought,¡± Amelia shook her head. She turned to the control console and commanded, ¡°Display the results of Simulation Echo-4, where we transfer most of our tech to the Malgeir Federation.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s eyes darted to the holographic display once more. At first glance, it looked identical to the first map. But then she noticed some faint glimmers of hope: a star system held here, another reclaimed there. Still¡­ Sixth Fleet was still conspicuously absent, and most of the frontline remained eerily similar. Her mouth suddenly dry, she blurted, ¡°Is your machine malfunctioning?¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°No. This is the full technology transfer scenario. In this scenario, we also run a deep strike on the Znosian home world to try to cripple their command and control. We did manage tactical success and blow up a quarter of their leadership, which is the kind of thing they¡¯re vulnerable to. Unfortunately, that didn¡¯t work. The Federation kept on losing systems.¡±


    ¡°But how? I¡¯ve seen your ships in action!¡± Grionc exclaimed.


    Exhaling a tired sigh, Amelia explained, ¡°Our low observable ships are designed from the ground up to be hard to see on radar. This technology is more commonly called stealth. There are some retrofits you can make to your existing ships to reduce detection range, but they are expensive, and you don¡¯t have the resources to spin those lines up quickly. It would take months before your production lines for new ships can come online, and as you can see, your production facilities don¡¯t have months. We don¡¯t believe in an uber-weapon solution; we¡¯ve seen how that movie ends, trust me.¡±


    Amelia pointed at the map again. She jabbed her finger at the holographic star map floating above the table, highlighting a couple of key sectors.


    ¡°Countermeasures might give us the upper hand in the opening salvos, sure. But the Znosians are quick learners. They¡¯ll adapt, and they¡¯ll begin using what they learned against both your and our ships. Our counter-missiles are only much more effective than yours because we have reliable sensors and computers to guide them towards their targets. Those we can more easily retrofit and get onto your ships than the stealth features, but like everything else, the Buns will simply adapt. They will strategize better, and you will start losing again. Then, they will become better at fighting our ships. Eventually, they will beat you and come for us, and we will lose too.¡±


    Switching gears, she continued. ¡°As for our offensive arsenal, your intuition is right; they¡¯re plug-and-play for the most part. We¡¯re still working on a transfer plan for those, but we can massively enhance the lethality of your ships for a relatively low production cost. But, as you well know, Fleet Commander, weapons don¡¯t win wars on their own.¡±


    Amelia stared unflinchingly at the visibly uneasy pair of Malgeir and concluded, ¡°This is why the Navy ordered me to bring you two here, instead of socializing with the embassy staff. Because your leaders need to wake up, smell the plasma, and realize that what they have planned in the near and medium term are going to fail. And they will fail badly. You need to go back and convince them to scrap everything ¡ª and I mean everything ¡ª and do exactly what we tell you. No matter how abhorrent and counter-intuitive some of it may seem.¡±


    Punching up a new set of coordinates on the star map, she drove her final point home. ¡°To start with, as we speak, the Znosians are planning a second full-scale invasion of Datsot. They will be successful in taking its orbits. You must evacuate as much of the space infrastructure, prioritizing any space combat capabilities, even over ground assets. And under no circumstances should your Navy reinforce the system, especially not with Sixth Fleet. If you fail to convince them of that, the course of this war becomes irreversible. You will lose. And we will all lose.¡±


    Grionc shook her head, as if trying to dispel a bad dream. She reached out for the comfort of denialism. ¡°No. I don¡¯t believe you. I can¡¯t. The Malgeir have always come through. These computer simulations are just that ¡ª simulations. We have some computer algorithms too, and they turn out wrong all the time.¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°Not like this.¡±


    Grionc looked at Speinfoent for support, and he gave it¡­ with some reluctance. ¡°Yeah¡­ predicting the future with computer simulators is a fool¡¯s errand. In battle, anything can happen.¡±


    Amelia sighed and commanded the console again, ¡°Computer, pull up the scenario labeled Last Stand.¡±


    This time, the holographic star map zoomed in to display a lone solar system, its shimmering white dwarf star instantly recognizable. Both Grionc and Speinfoent knew it instantly. ¡°Datsot,¡± they said in unison.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Amelia confirmed, her eyes not leaving the display. ¡°As I mentioned earlier, the Bunnies are gearing up for a massive assault on Datsot as we speak. Sixth Fleet is being deployed there, reinforced with fresh units.¡± She gestured to the fleet of Malgeir ships, over a hundred in number, hovering near the planet like a swarm of metallic hornets. ¡°Now, let me show you a simulation of what could happen.¡±


    Two dozen enemy ships, their avatars marked in ominous red, materialized at the outer edge of the system, just shy of the blink limit. It was a small force compared to the formidable Malgeir fleet. With a predatory zeal, the blue icons representing the Malgeir ships surged forward, launching a storm of missiles that drew arcs of light across the simulated battlefield.


    For a moment, the red ships seemed almost hesitant, their movements slow and indecisive as they drifted back towards the blink limit. It looked as though they were retreating. Eager for the kill, the Sixth Fleet icons accelerated, as if to chase them out of the system entirely.


    Then the map shifted dramatically. Another wave of red avatars, two dozen of them, blinked into existence, this time appearing on the flank of the unsuspecting Malgeir fleet. The previously retreating Znosians pivoted, their avatars turning to face the enemy with renewed vigor.


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    Caught off guard, the Malgeir fleet hesitated. Some ships stayed focused on the enemies they¡¯d been pursuing, while others scrambled to address this unexpected second wave. Their responses were disorganized, almost chaotic.


    In stark contrast, the Znosian fleet executed a ballet of devastation. Their missile barrages were flawlessly timed to converge, hitting their targets in quick succession. When a Malgeir ship was destroyed, it left gaps in the fleet¡¯s defensive grid¡­ gaps that the Znosians exploited ruthlessly. And if a Znosian ship did fall, others moved seamlessly into formation, covering any vulnerabilities with practiced precision.


    At first, it seemed like the Malgeir had a fighting chance. They had the numbers, after all. But their firepower was scattered, their tactics disjointed. The tide turned, slowly at first, then all at once. What started as a trickle of losses bled into a deluge of reactor explosions as the mass of Znosian missiles began to overwhelm them. They tore apart the Malgeir defense, ship-by-ship, and a perfectly aimed salvo finally snapped the backbone of the Malgeir flagship in two.


    Any semblance of Malgeir coordination vanished in a blink. In moments, it was all over. The entire Sixth Fleet formation disintegrated. The holographic icons representing the entire Sixth Fleet winked out one by one, until none remained.


    Not a single ship survived, just as the Terrans predicted.


    The scenario did not end there.


    The ground invasion began. Dozens more ships streamed into the system. With full control of the orbitals, they landed ships and pounded the defensive positions on the ground. Fast-forward a few months, and all major population centers of Datsot fell to the hands of the enemy.


    A heavy silence hung in the air as the simulation came to its sober conclusion and counted up the losses on both sides. A staggering number for the Malgeir, for both its space fleet and ground troops. Many units apparently fought to the end, and it showed in the devastating tally.


    ¡°That¡¯s just a computer simulation,¡± Grionc said, confidently. ¡°Sure, we toyed around with basic sims when the war first broke out. But let¡¯s be honest, those virtual mock-ups can¡¯t predict who¡¯s going to come out on top in a real, live-fire engagement.¡±


    Amelia raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with curiosity. ¡°So, you¡¯re saying our high-res battle simulators don¡¯t meet your standards?¡±


    Grionc shook her head. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t get me wrong. The visuals? Spot-on. The ships? Exactly to spec. Even the fleet formations maneuvered just like they should. Your program is impressive and an achievement by itself, like your ship technologies. But the tactics used by our people in the simulator clearly lack the creativity that only a real, experienced Malgeir commander can show.¡±


    Amelia leaned in, locking eyes with Grionc. ¡°Ok. Show us.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Amelia simply said, ¡°Like you insist, only an experienced Malgeir commander can win this battle. Computer, restart Last Stand scenario in first person view of the flag admiral.¡±


    The map disappeared, and the holographic room was re-decorated by an eerily realistic depiction of a familiar bridge¡­ of the Oengro.


    Several Malgeir avatars sat at the various consoles scattered around the bridge, occasionally turning to make status reports.


    Amelia gestured grandly to the recreated environment. ¡°Those agents aren¡¯t real, but we find that they¡¯re a pretty good approximation of the performance of Malgeir spacers. You, on the other hand, High Fleet Commander, are very much real. You¡¯re an experienced tactician, one of the best the Malgeir Navy has to offer. And right next to you, you have one of its best space warfare officers. So now, command your fleet, and let¡¯s see if this battle is winnable for Sixth Fleet.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Datsot (Simulated)</h2>


    ¡°Fleet Admiral,¡± the simulator avatar for the sensor officer twirled around and reported, ¡°We¡¯ve just detected a little more than two squadrons of Bunny Forager-class missile destroyers at the system blink limit.¡±


    Huh, that¡¯s a confusing nomenclature, Grionc thought.


    Before Grionc could voice her complaint, Amelia preempted her. ¡°Sorry, wrong lingo setting. Some analysts were in here earlier doing their thing. Computer, exclusively use Malgeir terminology and units. Restart the battle.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, we¡¯ve just detected twenty-eight Grass Eater Delta-class ships at the edge of the system.¡±


    Ah, that¡¯s more like it, she thought, time to show the computer what she thought of its little ambush. ¡°Prepare for battle, but don¡¯t overreact. Keep our ships between them and the planet. If they flee, do not under any circumstances chase them outside the blink limit.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    She glanced sideways smugly at the Terrans now that she¡¯d seen through their ambush trick. The two of them were now watching her with unreadable expressions.


    The next few minutes (sped up real-time) were filled with routine reports that buzzed like white noise, until the sensor officer¡¯s voice sliced through the chatter. ¡°High Fleet Commander, the Grass Eaters have started their in-system approach.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. What¡¯s their destination?¡±


    ¡°It looks like they¡¯re angling towards Datsot-7, the third gas giant in the outer belt.¡±


    Grionc smirked at the computer display. ¡°Actually, we call that Flonce. It¡¯s a rich fuel site we use for topping up blink fuel in the Datsot system.¡±


    The sensor officer¡¯s avatar bowed. She wasn¡¯t sure if the subtle wobble in his step in the simulation was inaccurate or sarcastic. ¡°My apologies, Fleet Commander. The enemy fleet is now confirmed moving towards Flonce.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ Speinfoent, if we burn for it now, can we get there before they do?¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s paws danced across the holographic keys of his ultra-realistic simulated console. ¡°No. And when they get there, if we burn straight for them, they can get to the system blink limit before we can get to them too.¡±


    ¡°Pity. Would have been a good chance to engage them first. That¡¯s fine. We¡¯ll wait around and see what they do.¡±


    ¡°Understood, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    A short while later, the sensor officer avatar announced, ¡°They¡¯ve reached Flonce. Looks like they¡¯re just holding there.¡±


    Then the avatar officer actually frowned and tilted his head. It was an imperfect and exaggerated imitation of the actual Malgeir facial expression. If this wasn¡¯t a battle simulation to determine the future of the Malgeir species, Grionc would have found it comical. ¡°Hold on, I¡¯m picking up some extra signatures. Looks like there are a few bulky transport ships tagging along with their main fleet.¡±


    Grionc raised an eyebrow. ¡°Could those be the rest of their fleet in disguise?¡±


    Speinfoent shook his ears. ¡°No way, the Znosians don¡¯t have that kind of advanced disguise capability.¡± He glanced over at the Terran observers in the room, ¡°Do they?¡±


    Amelia didn¡¯t say anything, but Carla gave him a slight, sympathetic head shake.


    Grionc nodded. ¡°In any case, the nature of the situation is still unchanged, we can wait for them to come to us.¡±


    And sure enough, they did¡­ just half an hour later.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming in system towards us at full acceleration!¡±


    ¡°Will we intercept?¡± Grionc asked.


    Speinfoent did the math on his console. ¡°Yes. They are vectoring for a perfect intercept.¡±


    Grionc couldn¡¯t help but marvel at the jaw-dropping realism of the computer simulator. The ambient sounds were perfectly reproduced. The inertial compensators changed their whine as the ship maneuvered to face the enemies.


    ¡°They¡¯re firing! One wave inbound!¡± Speinfoent announced a few minutes later as the bridge sirens began.


    And let¡¯s not forget those obnoxiously high-pitched alert sirens that blared whenever incoming missiles locked onto her ship. Grionc rolled her eyes. Yep, they got that annoying detail right too. With a flick of her finger, she muted the warning sounds on her console, just like she always did. The software obeyed without a hitch.


    ¡°Notify me when those missiles are to the midpoint, Speinfoent.¡±


    ¡°Of course, High Fleet Commander,¡± Speinfoent replied, his voice tinged with professional focus. ¡°But, uh, they¡¯ll likely unleash a second volley before we come into range.¡±


    And sure enough, they did.


    In fact, the enemy ships were almost prepping a third missile barrage by the time Grionc barked, ¡°Deploy countermeasures, now!¡±


    A few moments later, she asked tersely, ¡°Are they in our range now?¡±


    ¡°Almost there, Fleet Commander.¡±


    Grionc leaned back in her simulated command chair, locking eyes with her tactical officer on the screen. ¡°Just signal to fire when you¡¯re ready Speinfoent. I trust you to judge the right moment.¡±


    Speinfoent hoped the Terrans didn¡¯t see him blush in the dark. ¡°Firing now!¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 25 | Inevitable III

    <h2>Datsot (Simulated)</h2>


    ¡°Firing now!¡±


    The simulation made the correct sounds for missiles being ejected out of their launchers towards the enemy, and Grionc almost felt the floor rumble beneath her walking paws.


    ¡°Prepare for the second volley,¡± she commanded.


    ¡°Enemy countermeasures are out now!¡±


    ¡°Enemies are passing us soon.¡±


    ¡°All ships fire at will when they enter railgun range.¡±


    ¡°Firing 3¡­ 2¡­ 1¡­¡±


    On one paw, the Znosians had better missiles and countermeasures. They were fired in perfect, inorganic precision and calculated to minimize point defense response time.


    On the other hand, their numbers were a quarter of the Sixth Fleet.


    ¡°Report! How many did we get?¡±


    Speinfoent looked at his consoles. ¡°Looks like we disabled one with a missile and destroyed him when he drifted past. Three were hit, but nothing catastrophic on their end yet.¡±


    ¡°How many of ours did they get?¡±


    ¡°Two Delta-class lost. Two more were hit, and one is disabled.¡±


    Grionc gritted her teeth slightly. ¡°Not too bad. Those are good exchange odds.¡±


    The communications officer spoke up. ¡°The captain of the disabled ship reports that her ship is falling apart. The crew is abandoning ship and needs search and rescue. Can we spare a ship to help them out?¡±


    Grionc resisted the instinct to glance at the Terran spectators.


    If this were a real situation, there was no chance she would deny permission for search and rescue. The enemy was speeding away too fast to pose an immediate threat.


    But this is a simulation¡­ it is a game, she reminded herself, and a disabled ship can¡¯t help her win. And she was fighting for the honor of the Malgeir Navy and its people. A few digital avatars didn¡¯t matter in the grand scheme of things. If the Terrans thought her heartless for it, so be it. She¡¯d rather they consider her a heartless commander than an incompetent one.


    She made up her mind. ¡°Permission denied. We¡¯ll pick them up after the battle. Get ready to fire the second volley at the fleeing cowards.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Ready, High Fleet Commander,¡± Speinfoent reported, his hand hovering over the yellow launch button.


    ¡°Fire.¡±


    Another volley of missiles burst out of Sixth Fleet¡¯s tubes crisscrossing through the void to match the Znosians¡¯ parting salvo. This time, owing to the close distance between the two fleets, the missiles reached their targets almost instantly.


    ¡°How many did we get?¡± Grionc¡¯s eyes were fixed on the tactical hologram, watching the Znosian icons pull distance from her fleet.


    Speinfoent quickly scanned the incoming data. ¡°They dropped countermeasures as well. We hit two, but nothing stuck. They took out another one of ours.¡±


    ¡°Four to one. Not the greatest ratio, but they¡¯re running now. Where are they running off to.¡±


    ¡°Looks like they¡¯re making a beeline towards the star,¡± Speinfoent said, his brow furrowed.


    ¡°The white dwarf? Are they trying to get us to chase them into it?¡± Grionc almost laughed. Surely, the computer can¡¯t be dumb enough to think they¡¯d fall for that.


    ¡°Not sure,¡± Speinfoent said uncertainly. The fidelity of the simulation was playing with his head.


    ¡°Fine. Put us back in defensive orbit of the planet. Let¡¯s see what they¡¯re doing next.¡±


    Over the next few real-time minutes, the enemy fleet did not in fact plunge into the star. Instead, their sensor officer announced, ¡°Looks like the Grass Eaters are skimming the star for a powered gravity slingshot maneuver. They¡¯re accelerating like mad!¡±


    ¡°Plot their trajectory post-maneuver and tell me if they¡¯re coming back for seconds.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s ears flattened. ¡°They are, High Fleet Commander. They¡¯re swinging back around, headed right for us. And fast. Really fast.¡±


    ¡°They must have carried enough missiles for another few volleys, instead of opting for a load of counter missiles,¡± Grionc speculated. ¡°Can we answer back with two salvos of our own again?¡±


    Speinfoent shook his ears. ¡°No can do, they were already going fast. With the gravity slingshot around the star, they¡¯re going even faster now. If we fire back, we¡¯ll only get one volley in our effective range with our reload times.¡±


    ¡°Guess we¡¯ll just have to take it then. Fleet, tell the supply guys at Datsot Orbital to hurry and load our counter-missiles.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re armed and ready,¡± the supply officer avatar signaled.


    ¡°We won¡¯t trade blows with them this time. Just wait for them to come and try to absorb their volley. Speinfoent, direct the countermeasures.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded. ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    The enemy ships came in again, all twenty-seven of them. With the Znosians¡¯ absurd reload speeds, they should get be able to get at least a couple volleys into vacuum before they pass, even at such high speeds¡ª


    ¡°They¡¯re not firing yet,¡± Speinfoent noted, his eyes narrowed. Then, a moment of clarity hit him. ¡°Ah, right, they¡¯re only carrying another volley in their tubes. They¡¯ll wait to fire when they¡¯re closer.¡±


    Sure enough, a tense few minutes later, a volley of menacing missiles blasted off toward the Malgeir fleet. Timing it perfectly, Speinfoent waited until it was halfway to them before barking out, ¡°Unleash counter-missiles and activate all countermeasures!¡±


    Decoys burst out of the fleet, and a wave of defensive missiles reached out and plucked many of the incoming missiles out of space. But there were many of them, in multiple volleys.


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    They blinked off the sensors.


    Grionc ¡ª claws extending into the Terrans¡¯ wooden desk in front of her ¡ª demanded, ¡°Status report.¡±


    Quickly scanning his console, Speinfoent tallied. ¡°We got lucky. No major losses. A couple Delta-classes took minor damage from proximity hits, but they should be able to get repaired at¡ª oh no.¡± His eyes widened as he scrolled further.


    ¡°What? What¡¯s wrong?¡± Grionc spun toward him, alarmed.


    ¡°They savaged our orbital supply stations on the pass through,¡± Speinfoent said, his voice tinged with disbelief. ¡°The six on this side of the planet got trashed. We still have plenty of ammunition we can bring up from the planet, but we¡¯ll be anchored to this planet while we reload our ammunition.¡±


    ¡°Those sneaky Grass¡ª¡± Grionc clenched her paws, taking a deep breath to steady herself. ¡°I see. At least now they¡¯re out of missiles. Are they just going to go home?¡±


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, their ships are now decelerating towards Flonce, in orbit above the gas giant at the fuel site.¡±


    Grionc smacked her forehead with a paw. ¡°Of course. That¡¯s what those transport ships were from earlier: ammo resupply ships.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded in agreement. ¡°Must be. Thus far, our attrition rate is slightly suboptimal at four ships to one destroyed, but it¡¯s not so bad that they¡¯re guaranteed to win if we keep this up, especially since we still have so many ships. Should we just let them try again? Now that we know what their plan is, we should be slightly more prepared the next time they come around.¡±


    Grionc pondered for a moment and shook her head. ¡°No. Our orbital supply stations are gone. We¡¯ve got a few supply transports in the fleet, but I¡¯m sure they¡¯re going for those next. If we keep this up, we¡¯re going to be stuck entirely defensively to this planet, then they can just use sling around and around, pounding us to dust with their longer range.¡±


    ¡°What do we do then?¡±


    Grionc¡¯s lips curled into a determined smile. ¡°I¡¯ve got a plan for when they come again. We¡¯re not going to just take this like target practice.¡±


    <hr>


    As expected, the Znosians decided they liked what they had been doing and started accelerating towards the fleet again to set up for an identical run.


    ¡°Counter-missiles this time,¡± Grionc declared, determined not to let the enemy put them in the same position again.


    ¡°Counter-missiles?¡± Speinfoent raised an eyebrow. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want to take a shot at them on the way in before they gain too much speed?¡±


    Grionc shook her ears. ¡°Counter missiles. Let¡¯s shake it up a little.¡±


    ¡°What are you planning, Commander?¡± he asked, curious enough to break Malgeir Navy protocol to ask the commander for her sacred plan.


    Grionc explained with a hungry glint in her eyes. ¡°We¡¯ll let them think they¡¯re pulling the same trick. But this time, when they head to the star to come around for another pass, we¡¯ll burn straight for Flonce and beat them there to kill their supply ships. Then, when they arrive, they¡¯ll be chasing us this time. And once we destroy their supply ships, they¡¯ll be stuck outnumbered with no missiles¡­¡±


    Speinfoent thought for a moment and replied cautiously, ¡°That¡­ sounds like it could work. But when they see us burning towards their supply ships, wouldn¡¯t they just run off and hightail it outta here?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But that works for me too,¡± Grionc just shrugged. ¡°Four Delta-class ships and a few orbital supply stations are a miniscule price to pay for a successful defense of Datsot.¡±


    ¡°What about their other ships? This formation only had fewer than thirty ships,¡± Speinfoent said skeptically, resisting the urge to look at the Terrans to see what they are thinking. ¡°What if their second formation comes in when we try to chase down their supply ships?¡±


    Grionc scoffed, clearly unfazed. ¡°Bah. We¡¯re too far inside the system limit for them to catch us. Even if they come into the system at the right time, it will take them a while to reach us. If this is indeed a trap like last time, we can always just disengage when we see them blink in.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander.¡± Speinfoent nodded. And before he could even exhale, the warning came blaring through. ¡°Enemy missiles approaching our formation!¡±


    Grionc attentively watched as he masterfully synchronized their defensive measures, sending counter-missiles streaking through space to intercept and thin out the barrage of enemy missiles racing toward them. ¡°So, how¡¯d we fare this round?¡±


    ¡°Much better with the counter-missiles. One of our ships has lost engine power, but they should be fine. Should we reserve one ship to conduct search and rescue operations¡ª¡±


    She shook her ears again. ¡°No. We¡¯ll sweep them up after the battle. Are the Grass Eaters heading towards the star as I predicted?¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander. Should we start burning for Flonce? Now seems to be a good time if we want to beat them there,¡± the sensor officer avatar suggested.


    Grionc stared at him¡ª it¡ª for a moment. She¡¯d never had a sensor officer say something like that.


    Recommendations from a subordinate? What a weird thing to program into a digital avatar. For a species that seems to value discipline so much, surely lower ranked Terran naval officers don¡¯t give their superiors suggestions in the middle of battle.


    Nonetheless¡­ it aligned with her plan anyway. ¡°Yes. Let¡¯s get back there before their fleet does. And let me know if they change their directions.¡±


    A few simulated hours later, the Znosian ships completed their gravity slingshot maneuver behind the star and began a pursuit course after Sixth Fleet, which was already over halfway to the gas giant.


    ¡°Can they make it there before we do, Navigation?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Fleet Commander. We¡¯re ahead of them.¡±


    Speinfoent abruptly asked, ¡°What about another gravity slingshot? Can they do a slingshot around Datsot-2 or another planetary body?¡±


    The navigation officer avatar did some calculations and replied, ¡°Still negative. We¡¯ll get there before they do even with another slingshot. No amount of gravity pinball will give them the lead.¡±


    Speinfoent looked puzzled. ¡°They¡¯re sticking to the route to Flonce?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative. They¡¯ll get there about half an hour after we do at their current burn.¡±


    Grionc shot a sly smirk at Speinfoent. ¡°See? These thinking machines do make mistakes. That¡¯s more than enough time for us to destroy their supply ships and turn around to blow them to bits after they run out of ammo.¡±


    Speinfoent turned his gaze to the two Terran observers. Amelia was engrossed in her datapad, seemingly detached from the situation. Meanwhile, Carla¡¯s eyes met his, her expression tinged with worry.


    The Malgeir fleet quickly closed with the gas giant.


    The navigation officer avatar piped up, ¡°High Fleet Commander. We¡¯re coming within range of the transport ships in a minute.¡±


    Right on cue, the sensor officer avatar jumped in. ¡°I¡¯ve resolved the ships¡¯ radar signatures. You were right, Fleet Commander. They must be ammunition resupply ships, all six of them.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of firepower they won¡¯t have for their next campaign,¡± Grionc said with a wink at Speinfoent, making it clear how seriously she was taking the battle simulation. ¡°Navigation, reverse our burns and slow us down. I don¡¯t want to miss a single one of their ammo supply ships, and I want to make sure we¡¯ll get the Grass Eaters behind us as they come in nice and slow.¡±


    The sensor officer frowned at his console and replied, ¡°Looks like the supply ships are trying to run. They¡¯ve lit their engines and are heading for the system limit.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re fleeing now?¡± Grionc questioned, her eyebrow arched in disbelief. ¡°Navigation, are they going to get there before we get in range?¡±


    The navigation officer scarcely glanced at her consoles. ¡°No chance. They¡¯re way too slow. We¡¯ll have good shots in thirty seconds, and we¡¯re an hour out from the systems limit.¡±


    ¡°They must be getting desperate,¡± Grionc chuckled, surveying her own swarm of ships as they soared past the swirling gas giant, closing in on the enemy¡¯s big, lumbering targets in the open. ¡°Speinfoent, you can do the honors.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander. Sixth Fleet, missiles on my go, four for each ship, let¡¯s not waste¡ª¡±


    Out of the blue, the sensor officer¡¯s avatar leapt to its walking paws, his voice scaling octaves, ¡°New targets! Sixteen, twenty, twenty-four, twenty-eight, thirty of them! Behind the gas giant! How did they get there?¡±


    It seemed like all the ship¡¯s warning alerts went off at once. A deafening screech filled the air as the alarms switched on. Red lights began flashing all around them, and the simulated crew went into a realistically appropriate state of panic. Visible fear spread across each face like wildfire at the new development.


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes widened as he stared at the new yellow blips that had just popped up on his console. Abandoning all protocol in a desperate bid to save the fleet, he blurted, ¡°Missiles incoming! They¡¯re firing! All ships, deploy all countermeasures. Deploy now! Deploy, deploy, deploy.¡±


    Grionc pivoted as fast as she could think. ¡°All ships, face the enemies from Flonce and¡ª¡±


    A cacophonous crash interrupted her, and the room¡¯s holograms fizzled out, plunging them back into reality as the lights flickered back on.


    Then, silence filled the room.

 First Strike - Chapter 26 | Inevitable IV

    <h2>Datsot (Simulated)</h2>


    Grionc spun on her rear paws, her eyes blazing as she confronted the Terrans. ¡°What happened?¡± she demanded.


    Carla briskly stepped up to the holographic console, her voice commanding the simulation computer, ¡°Show us the final results, computer.¡±


    The screen flickered, then displayed the somber results of the battle simulation.


    Carla ran through the details, shaking her head as she went. ¡°You died. Opfor Battlegroup Bravo targeted the Oengro first. It was hit by¡­ ouch, sixteen anti-ship missiles that got through. Four hit the magazine. Two in the reactor. All critical hits¡­ Yeah, there¡¯s no coming back from that. After your death, Sixth Fleet was sandwiched between the Znosian Battlegroups Bravo and Alpha with no leadership remaining. Half of your squadrons tried to attack each battlegroup. Without coordination from the Oengro, it was¡­ ineffective.¡±


    Carla sighed and shrugged. ¡°Looks like the rest of it played out pretty much like the one we showed you earlier. Your fleet did get the six ammunition carriers, though, so that¡¯s an improvement. The bad news is they weren¡¯t actually carrying ammo; they were just decoys the Znosians rigged to draw you in.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s face flushed a deep shade of crimson. ¡°This is absurd! The computer must have cheated! How did they get their second group of ships behind the gas giant without us noticing? They¡¯ve never displayed an ability to cloak their ships like yours!¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t use any stealth at all. They were just communicating with Battlegroup Alpha, which you were tangled with the whole battle. When they were close to you, they relayed your real-time position to the other battlegroup via FTL radio. As they passed you the second time, they took out your planetary-based sensors. Then, when your fleet was busy trying to help you fight off the enemy missile volleys, Battlegroup Bravo just blinked in undetected and kept the gas giant between them and your fleet as they moved into position,¡± Carla explained calmly.


    ¡°That requires a level of insane coordination that you would only be able to pull off in a fake computer simulation!¡± Grionc sputtered, face still flushed.


    ¡°Not at all.¡± Amelia, who had been silently observing the whole exchange, finally chimed in. ¡°This trick is almost play-for-play exactly what the Znosians did to your Third Fleet four years ago.¡±


    ¡°What? No!¡± Grionc retorted. ¡°Third Fleet unluckily got zapped by a rogue solar flare, frying all their propulsion systems. They had no choice but to stand their ground and fight like heroes until the bitter end¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is that what they told you guys? Solar flares?¡± Amelia snorted. ¡°Trust me, I was there. The only difference was, instead of six fake ammunition ships, they got fixated on an old garbage barge that the Znosians dressed up as a command ship, and they didn¡¯t even manage to get close enough to destroy the barge. I¡¯ll pull up our files for that if you want to see.¡±


    And she did without waiting for a response. The room dimmed, and the battlemap sprang back to life. They watched, transfixed, as Third Fleet blundered into a near-identical trap. Except, this time, seeing it from a detached starmap perspective, Grionc could see exactly how the Znosians moved their ambush group into position behind the gas giant before both collapsing on Third Fleet and destroying it to the last ship.


    ¡°Think we fabricated this recording?¡± Amelia asked.


    ¡°No, I believe you, Admiral. The ship names are authentic,¡± Grionc admitted, deflating. ¡°Third Fleet weren¡¯t exactly the best of the best either. When the Defense Ministry told us the falsified story of how they got routed, I guess we all just believed it because we wanted to.¡±


    Amelia nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. ¡°I understand. Like I tried to tell you, your people have been grinding through a war for a solid decade, but you¡¯ve got gaps¡­ big ones. And like the Third Fleet example, there¡¯s just too many lessons you couldn¡¯t learn from because the failures got swept under the rug or excused by one thing or another.¡±


    Grionc sighed deeply. ¡°I understand now.¡±


    ¡°Now, do you see why your fleets have to leave Datsot?¡± Amelia pressed, her eyes hopeful.


    ¡°Yes. Sure. Unfortunately, I don¡¯t see what I can do,¡± Grionc said, squinting at the starmap as if it could offer some solution. ¡°As you probably know, I am no longer in command of Sixth Fleet, and I don¡¯t have the ear of the Malgeir in the leadership of the Defense Ministry and the Navy.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not worry too much about that for now,¡± Amelia reassured smoothly. ¡°We will cross that bridge when we get there. For now, let¡¯s discuss what we can do right now to help. For after Datsot. As I mentioned before, it will take a while for our production lines to get up to speed to start producing new ships and weapons, so your Navy will have to fight on the defensive for a bit longer.¡±


    ¡°Defensive? That should not be a problem. We have been defending Federation space for several years now,¡± Speinfoent asserted, puffing out his chest a little.


    ¡°No, not quite,¡± Amelia said.


    Speinfoent began to protest. ¡°We may not be as adept at war as you, but many Malgeir spacers fight to the death rather than¡ª¡±


    Carla jumped in before he could finish. ¡°That is not what the admiral meant. And fighting to the death is part of the problem. Your commanders don¡¯t seem to understand the value of a tactical withdrawal.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, and that¡¯s not all,¡± Amelia picked up the thread. ¡°As far as we know, the Bunnies only have one upcoming major offensive against the Malgeir: the second invasion of Datsot. It takes them a while to¡­ process a newly conquered planet, which is the only reason they haven¡¯t defeated your entire Federation yet. Apart from that, they just send out these hit-and-run raiding squadrons. These raiders are nimble, tactical, and unpredictable. Most times, we only get a week or two heads-up before they swoop in.¡±


    Grionc raised an eyebrow. ¡°A week of warning sounds like plenty. If you establish a communication backchannel with us and warn our stations or convoys before these raids occur, many stations can be saved. Our main problem is knowing when they are going to come.¡±


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    ¡°Yes, and that is what we plan to do,¡± Amelia agreed. ¡°But we are not stopping there. We want a say in how you actually handle the situation: total oversight on your strategy.¡±


    Grionc shrugged, visibly skeptical. ¡°Good luck selling that one to our Defense Ministry. Seems a bit overkill, don¡¯t you think? If we know when and where they¡¯re coming, we can handle our own defenses just fine.¡±


    ¡°It will be easier for me to give you an example. Computer, pull up the shipyard raid scenario.¡±


    The holographic scene morphed into another familiar scene that sent a chill down Grionc¡¯s back. She consciously lowered her hackles. ¡°Uidquu.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I understand this is where you were wounded in action,¡± Amelia said, trying her best not to stare at Grionc¡¯s facial scar.


    ¡°Yes, as well as many brave Malgeir on our shipyard and its defending ships. We lost a lot of good people that day.¡±


    ¡°My condolences, Fleet Commander.¡±


    Grionc looked at the screen and its many annotations in the alien Terran script. She remarked, ¡°This seems like¡­ a training lesson.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Carla confirmed. ¡°We use this scenario to teach officers at the Naval Staff College about strategic thinking.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s see if we can learn something here,¡± Amelia said. ¡°Computer, begin.¡±


    Two dozen Znosian ships blinked into the system, and immediately dumped four volleys of missiles at the stationary Malgeir shipyard in the inner system.


    ¡°Computer, pause,¡± Amelia said. ¡°What was the strategic mistake your fleet has already made here?¡±


    Grionc racked her brain for answers. ¡°Our ships were not ready for combat. The Second Fleet was dispersed throughout the system, and many of its ships around the shipyard were kept in standby mode.¡±


    ¡°That is a tactical issue. Relevant, but not for the purpose of this lesson,¡± Amelia said. ¡°This is about strategy. Guess again.¡±


    ¡°Some of our ships should always be kept combat ready?¡±


    Amelia shook her head vigorously. ¡°No, we keep many of our ships in standby or mothballed in the Republic Navy to save on maintenance too. If you keep them on highest alert level all the time, your spacers will get tired, and your repair budget will bankrupt you before the enemy does. Try again.¡±


    ¡°We should have seen this attack coming.¡±


    ¡°Closer, but still not the answer I was looking for. The correct answer is: this attack would not have happened if you had done nothing.¡±


    ¡°Done nothing? What do you mean?¡± Grionc asked, puzzled.


    ¡°Computer, zoom out to the starmap.¡± The hologram now revealed the starmap of the neighborhood around the Uidquu system.


    Amelia pointed at one of the systems close, but not within direct blink range of Uidquu. ¡°What happened at Plorve?¡±


    Grionc tilted her head. ¡°Plorve? We won at Plorve. The enemy launched a raid there two days before the raid on Uidquu, and we soundly crushed their inadequate raiding force.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I asked, how did you defeat the Znosian raid at Plorve?¡±


    Grionc recalled, ¡°We waited until they fully engaged our system defense fleet in Plorve, and then we blinked in a rapid response fleet behind them from¡ª oh.¡±


    ¡°You see it now? When you used your quick reaction force from Priplae to flank Plorve,¡± Amelia said, pointing at the reaction force¡¯s location in the system well within blink range of Uidquu. ¡°You uncovered your most valuable assets in the theater. Computer, continue the scenario automatically, but blink the QRF behind the Znosian raiders two hours after they begin the assault. Fast forward it.¡±


    On the holographic scene, the Znosian raiders stayed near the system blink limit and pumped volley after volley of missiles at will towards the shipyard. The ships at it, mostly stationary, used their countermeasures and counter-missiles to try to defend it as long as possible. Then, a small force of twenty Malgeir ships appeared behind them. Instantly, the map changed: at close range, it became a knife fight which the raiders were outnumbered and not prepared for.


    Two yellow-marked enemy ships instantly detonated. The Malgeir defenders near the shipyard charged, knowing the cavalry was coming and no longer worrying about the withering missile volleys from the enemies.


    Realizing the hopelessness of the battle, the Znosian fleet boosted towards the system limit, losing another four ships in mere minutes, with another two disabled. By the time they were able to flee the system with their blink drives, they had lost three quarters of their raiding fleet.


    ¡°That would have been the greatest naval victory in living Malgeir memory. Which¡­ is why the Znosians sensibly didn¡¯t launch this raid until after they drew the reaction force out of Priplae with a sacrificial raiding force at Plorve.¡±


    ¡°I see your point,¡± Grionc conceded. ¡°But these things are difficult to see, except in hindsight¡­ unless you have one of these simulators. It was¡­ a well-planned attack on the Grass¡ª Znosians¡¯ part.¡±


    Amelia nodded. ¡°We teach our cadets to see these connections. This is a lesson on variants of what we call a hammer and anvil tactic. But yes, a few of them might still have missed this chain of events if not for the simulators. Which is why we need direct control over your Navy¡¯s movements¡­ so they don¡¯t repeat a similar error.¡±


    Grionc tilted her head thoughtfully before nodding in agreement. ¡°I see now. I will explain this to them and ask them to seriously consider your request.¡±


    A warm smile spread across Amelia¡¯s face. ¡°Thank you, that is all we ask.¡±


    Intrigued, Grionc stared at the command console. ¡°Can you show me how to operate this simulator and give me access, so I can come back here later? There are some things I want to figure out, and it would be helpful for me to understand its capabilities if I am going to tell our Navy to give up control of our strategy to yours.¡±


    Amelia grinned enthusiastically. ¡°Of course! In fact, that¡¯s what the Naval Staff College program is supposed to be about. We have similar simulators there, and we¡¯ve invited your Navy to send cadets there. Carla, go get Mark to make her a badge and set her up for this room later. But before that, let me show you folks the Outpost dining hall. I¡¯m sure you must be starving because I am.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe that Third Fleet hid how they lost from the Defense Ministry,¡± Speinfoent said angrily once they were in private. ¡°When I dug through the Archives reports, I knew that every other fleet was lying about their battle reports, but I thought it was just exaggerating enemy losses or a bunch of small things adding up.¡±


    Grionc sighed, leaning against the wall. ¡°Well, you have to remember, Third Fleet had a reputation. They were notorious for being corrupt and incompetent, especially in the early days of the war. That was before the Grass Eaters trimmed the fat, if you know what I mean,¡± Grionc replied. ¡°And to be fair to them, I fell for the same sneaky prey trick they did in that simulator.¡±


    Speinfoent raised an eyebrow. ¡°Their simulator seems¡­ interesting. Do you really think Datsot is a lost cause like they say?¡±


    Grionc took a deep breath before answering. ¡°Not a chance. Why do you think I requested access to the simulators? I am going back there tonight, and I am not leaving that room until I find a way to win us that battle, whatever these Terrans say. Then, I am going to get myself back to Sixth Fleet, and we will save Datsot.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Carla, is this your third shower today or what?¡±


    ¡°Ugh, yes! I can¡¯t shake off that subtle Malgeir wet dog stench. Seriously, Amelia, how do you even put up with this?¡±


    ¡°Eh, you get used to it. Take your time, scrub away. I¡¯ll meet you in the Outpost mess.¡±


    ¡°Hold up. Do you really think we got through to Pupper admiral? She seemed way more determined than¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hell no. Would you? Some asshole tells you the enemy are about to take out¡­ Mars and you should just pull up stakes and leave. You¡¯ll just do it? Once you get her that badge, she¡¯s going to go straight back into that simulator room tonight and repeatedly lose to the easy difficulty Znosian AI until we physically go pull her out of there. I¡¯d do the same if I were in her shoes.¡±


    ¡°Do you¡­ want me to stop her?¡±


    ¡°Nah, give her the room and let her try. We are asking her to convince her people to abandon one of their core planets and its billions of people. It¡¯s temporary, but still a major taboo, one that a reeling Navy like theirs will not be inclined to break. The least we can do is help her understand why. She may not sleep tonight or tomorrow, but if she doesn¡¯t at least try¡­ she may never get a good night¡¯s sleep ever again.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 27 | Steakhouse I

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    Niblui was about to slip into the luxurious, custom-installed Malgeir-friendly bathtub that the Terrans had put in her special guest quarters. She was already dreaming about the warm relaxation when her datapad buzzed, totally ruining her train of thought. Lightly sighing in frustration, she grabbed the device.


    ¡°Call for you from the Terrans, Ambassador. They insisted on talking to you,¡± her aide spoke through the speaker.


    ¡°The Terrans? Now? Is this about the schedule for tomorrow? Never mind, just connect them through¡ª Hello, this is the Ambassador¡ª What do you mean¡­ minor diplomatic incident?¡±


    <hr>


    20 hours ago


    President Havel wasn¡¯t exactly what Ambassador Niblui had expected. The head of state of the Terran Republic was a diminutive old man with as much gray hair as Niblui has seen on any Terran¡¯s face. His slow, clumsy-seeming movements contrasted with the sharp appearances and high energy of the mostly military specimens of his people that she¡¯d interacted with.


    Appearances can often be deceiving, she thought. And despite the Terrans¡¯ claim that his position was mostly ceremonial, the respect with which other Terrans treated him did not leave her with the impression that he was merely a powerless vestige from the past.


    ¡°Join me for a stroll, Ms. Ambassador?¡± Havel extended his soft, lined left hand toward her.


    Niblui enveloped his appendage in her thick, furred paw. It felt frail in comparison, yet strangely dexterous. Together, they strolled into the well-decorated hallways of the presidential residence, its walls adorned with art, much like the Federation¡¯s historical institutions. She noted that a pair of ceremonial guards trailed a respectful distance behind them, their weapons conspicuously absent. She was not fooled.


    Havel gestured toward a framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was a photographic depiction of the blue-and-white Terran home planet appearing over the desolate surface of Luna. ¡°Earthrise. Taken on the humanity¡¯s maiden voyage to Luna.¡±


    ¡°It must have been a proud achievement for your species at the time,¡± Niblui replied diplomatically.


    ¡°Apollo Eight, I think it was. It took us another two missions to land on this rock. Now, that was a moment we were proud of. My great-grandmother ¡ª she was just seven. She watched it on television as it happened, and she used to tell me about how she never forgot about it¡­ She ended up living just long enough to see us touchdown on Mars and Europa, but the first time: that was a truly special occasion.¡±


    Intellectually, Niblui knew how young the Terrans were as a species, but hearing a living Terran talk about how he knew someone who witnessed the first steps of their journey into the stars¡­ it really drove the point home. Snapping back to the moment, she realized Havel was awaiting her response. ¡°Your species has come far in such a short time. For my people, such events are in the annals of our ancient history. Thousands of years ago, barely distinguishable from mythology.¡±


    Havel nodded thoughtfully, steering her attention to a nearby exhibit. This one was a primitive-looking spacecraft that towered over the room: next to it was a piece of metal with Terran writing on it. Havel bent down gingerly, touching the plastic covering the artifact. ¡°This one¡¯s a replica. From that first Luna mission. Have you gotten a chance to learn our languages?¡±


    Niblui shook her ears, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her features. ¡°Unfortunately not, but I am trying my best. I am still getting¡ª¡±


    Chuckling gently, Havel reassured her, ¡°No need to feel shame. We have a great deal of them, and nowadays most of us just use the translators. This text is not in my first language either. But¡­ I had to take English classes in college.¡± He cleared his throat and recited from the plaque, ¡°Here men from the planet Earth first set foot upon the Moon. July 1969 AD. We came in peace for all mankind.¡±


    Catching the deeper significance behind his choice to show her the plaque, Niblui offered a thoughtful nod. ¡°That was a nice touch. Your people, Terrans, they have this ingrained yearning for peace, as most civilized sapient species do.¡±


    Tilting his head, Havel weighed her words. ¡°Yes, and no. We are a self-contradictory species. The first Terrans who landed on Luna did indeed come here for peace. They genuinely meant what they wrote there. But they were also some of the finest warriors of our species. Both of the explorers who landed on the first mission were combat pilots for atmospheric fighter jets; one of them shot down two enemy aircraft in war. The purpose of the Apollo program was a competition with another human faction that could have led to our total destruction. And the chemical rocket they came here on? Designed under the direction of the same rocket engineer who developed humanity¡¯s first missile and then one of its first tactical ballistic missile.¡±


    Puzzled, Niblui inquired, ¡°Tactical ballistic missile?¡±


    The old Terran hesitated. ¡°It¡¯s uh¡­ short-range battlefield nuclear missiles.¡±


    ¡°Short-range? For planetary use?¡± Niblui asked, horror flickering on her face for a split second before she politely suppressed it.


    ¡°Yes. Luckily, we have never had to use them, the tactical nuclear weapons.¡±


    Niblui breathed an audible sigh of relief, chalking the existence of such a weapon to more Terran paranoia. Then she caught onto his caveat at the end. Surely, they have never used non-tactical nuclear weapons in battle against their own people either¡ª


    Adding to her agitation, Havel continued, ¡°Not on Terra anyway.¡±


    ¡°But you have peace amongst your people now,¡± Niblui ventured, trying not to worry too much about the implications.


    Havel tilted his head. ¡°Do you know the motto of our Navy? Pax Terrana. That¡¯s in an old language. It means¡­ Terran Peace. Ironic. The truth is, as a species, before the Terran Republic, we never knew peace. And even now, we still do not. Not really. We still constantly fight among ourselves. But things are¡­ better than before. Like you said, Ms. Ambassador, we are still a young species, learning our place in the galaxy. So please, I hope your people can judge ours for what we hope to become, not just a timeline of our mistakes and conflicts.¡±


    Pausing to take a breath, he continued. ¡°We are about to send some of the best of us into war for you. I would like you to see us not only through the lens of their heroism and martyrdom on the battlefield; there will be plenty of that, I am sure. After the war, I hope your Federation can see that we are also a people who wished their sacrifices were ultimately unnecessary.¡±


    Niblui tilted her head thoughtfully and nodded. ¡°I understand. I will do my best to convey that to my people.¡±


    ¡°Good. And I will have to ask for forgiveness for another thing in advance,¡± he half-winced.


    Niblui¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°We are holding a press conference for your delegation. Our people will have many tough questions for you¡­¡±


    <hr>


    Niblui and Havel looked through the one-way glass into the jam-packed press room, where the busy journalists were tapping away on their electronic devices.


    Havel leaned in, giving Niblui a quick rundown. ¡°We¡¯ve already sent them your statement. So this is just the Q and A. I will enter, and as host, I will read a short statement. Then we will select a few journalists in the audience, and they will ask us some questions.¡±


    Niblui tilted her head. ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound so hard. We have these in the Federation too, you know? I¡¯m quite familiar with the concept of a press conference.¡±


    Havel let out a friendly chuckle. ¡°Fair enough¡­ Just know that we can be an unruly species at times. However, as this is your first press conference in Terra, we have taken the extraordinary step of asking those present to take it easy on you. I can¡¯t promise they will comply, but we tried.¡±


    ¡°Are they that¡­ intense?¡± she asked, slightly nervous. Despite her outward confidence, she¡¯d never been at a first contact press conference either.


    ¡°Fortunately, most Terrans are very much sympathetic to your species¡¯ plight and supportive of our first contact. General approval for the Senate has skyrocketed since their decision to open relations. But how long that warm welcome lasts? That¡¯s on you. I suspect our reporters¡¯ questions will be more of curiosity about your species than anything challenging about your government¡¯s policies or positions. That said, we do have a contingency in case¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure a contingency won¡¯t be necessary. I will be truthful with your people,¡± Niblui reassured him hurriedly.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Havel continued, as if he didn¡¯t hear her. He pointed at the window. ¡°Look at the back row, there is a journalist wearing a circular blue headdress. If you feel too uncomfortable to continue, call upon her to ask a question, and we will feign a security incident so we can pull you out of there.¡±


    Niblui peered into the window and identified the ringer. ¡°I will uh¡­ keep that in mind. Just in case.¡±


    The door opened, and they both walked up to their marked podiums.


    Havel nodded at her and started to read from his tablet:


    Good evening, my fellow Terrans, and our friends watching from distant stars, in the present and future. Today, we are one people: there are no hawks and no doves. We observe today not a victory of an internal faction, but a celebration of our common values ¡ª symbolizing an end as well as a beginning ¡ª signifying renewal, as well as change.


    A few years ago, I swore here before you the same solemn oath our forebears prescribed decades ago¡­ The universe is very different now. Yet we dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that revolution of unity. Let the word go forth from this time and place, let it be written in the pages of our history, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Terrans. Born in this Republic, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage ¡ª and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those Basic Rights to which our people has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home ¡ª and around the galaxy.


    For years, we have lived in the knowledge of a universe vast beyond comprehension, inhabited by civilizations old and new, friendly and not. And today, as we make official contact with one of them, we pledge the loyalty of our worlds and its peoples to the relentless pursuit of interstellar peace.


    To our new friends: we welcome you to Sol, not as strangers, but as neighbors older than time itself. The knowledge of your existence has transformed our societies, reshaped our beliefs, and opened our minds to the infinite possibilities of the stars. However, it is not our close distance but our shared aspirations for a peaceful galaxy that truly binds us. In your struggle to survive, your victories fill us with inspiration and with hope, your sacrifices: our grief and our sympathy. We cannot change our pasts, but we can offer our hand in partnership, knowing that in this vast cosmos, our destinies are intertwined.


    To all our worlds, our districts, and our peoples: let us not be blind to our differences¡­ but let us also direct attention to our common interests and to the means by which those differences can be resolved. Let us resolve to be united, in the face of this new chapter in our history, standing together to ensure the promise of a free, prosperous, and secure future for all our people.


    In the long history of our species, only one generation has been granted the role of defending its existence in its hour of maximum danger. We are that generation. We do not shrink from this responsibility ¡ª we welcome it! I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our worlds and all who serve it. And the glow from that fire can truly light the universe.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± As he paused for the finish, Niblui clutched her datapad tightly, looking at the crowd in front of her. It seemed bigger in here than when she was looking at the room through the glass.


    Surely, they can¡¯t all have questions for me, she thought.


    Then, Havel looked up at the audience, a smile lighting his elderly face. ¡°I know you have many questions. We will try to get to them all¡ª¡±


    Every reporter present shot their hands up, staring straight at Niblui like she was a juicy piece of steak on their plate.


    Well then.


    <hr>


    As a humble engineer on the Pesmod, Pack Leader Quaullast wasn¡¯t exactly rolling in credits. Dining at fancy restaurants was a pipe dream, even before the galaxy plunged into war. Growing up in a remote district on the planet Malgeiru, he was no stranger to simple living. Food was always available, thanks to the local government-run butcher shops. But his ration allotment of three Malgeir Standard meals a day was usually as good as things got.


    When war erupted, things took a turn for the worse. Conversations with his family back home painted a bleak picture; Malgeir Standard became Solidarity Standard, and after a while, Wartime Standard.


    First came the fall of the Granti. Their people and diet were close to the Malgeir, which meant a steady farm trade that occasionally added exotic spices and variety to the Malgeir¡¯s relatively monotonous weekly meal plans. When the Granti Alliance started losing the war, their spiced and aquatic meats stopped coming. Districts like Quaullast¡¯s mourned the loss of their weekend luxuries.


    Then, one by one, several of Malgeir¡¯s frontier farm colonies were overrun by the Grass Eaters. The rations each pack received from their local butcher became lighter with each loss. As the Znosians bullied their way through the planets in the Malgeir¡¯s agriculture belt, the cargo ships coming in were replaced with ships carrying refugees for the Core.


    Meat became minced meat. Minced meat became grounded meat. And the grounded meat started coming mixed with unfamiliar-tasting chunks that most decided not to ask too many questions about.


    Quaullast never had to experience this gradual decline in quality.


    No, he got it all at once when he enlisted in the Malgeir Navy.


    Due to various issues with its procurement pipeline and the lowest bidder nature of the providers, ship food had always been notoriously low quality. There were never luxuries, only unidentifiable cuts of what ship chefs assured them were technically edible and chemically tested to be unlikely to make a healthy spacer severely ill.


    As a non-combat ship, the Pesmod was not what anyone would consider state-of-the-art. But it did have one perk: it carried the Ambassador on board. When Quaullast heard the Terrans were not only providing food for their guests, but they were also paying, he wasted no time volunteering to escort their ambassador down to Luna.


    Predictably, so did most of the rest of the ship. Luckily, the Terrans did not seem to mind the hundreds of crew members from the Pesmod. Only a few crew members who drew the short straw were left behind to maintain its idle systems, and the captain promised them that they would be rotated down to the surface after their next shift.


    Now on Luna, the crew watched remotely from several large screens as Ambassador Niblui navigated the various Terran diplomatic ceremonies and answered questions from the ensuing news conference.


    Then the moment everyone had been waiting for: the hushed whispers of the crew grew louder as they were led to a large dining hall.


    Standing at the front was a Terran woman with a waterfall of brown hair cascading down her shoulders. Quaullast noticed she was tall, even by Terran standards.


    She spoke into an invisible microphone that magnified and translated her voice for everyone to hear. ¡°Hello, my name is Marsha,¡± she beamed, pointing to a nametag with her transliterated name in Malgeirish that shimmered on the front of her sleek uniform. ¡°Welcome to Soerru Steakhouse¡­ I¡¯m excited to be your hostess for tonight. The Atlas Port Authority has cleared out this section of the transit zone to accommodate your crew. We are thrilled to have you all join us. We normally do not do catering, but we are making an exception for tonight obviously.¡±


    Her eyes twinkled with excitement as she continued, ¡°We¡¯ve double-checked with the Navy experts to make sure that everything we¡¯re serving tonight is absolutely safe for your unique digestive systems. Your well-being is our number one priority.¡± Then, she motioned to the attentive waitstaff, dressed in uniforms that complemented the restaurant¡¯s bright decor, stationed at various tables around the room. ¡°If you have any questions or concerns, these fabulous folks are here to help. We will bring out our menus in just a minute, so thank you all for your patience.¡±


    Quaullast sensed a ripple of skepticism spread through the crew. These half Grass Eaters, friendly as they obviously were, could they possibly prepare a good meal for Malgeir?


    Then again, Quaullast thought, the bar was not exactly high, the bar being¡­ vacuum-sealed ship rations.


    ¡°Hey, Spommu,¡± Quaullast asked across the empty table to his friend, also in the engineering crew, as they waited for the dignitaries and food to arrive. ¡°Did you hear from your friends on the Seuvommae? Why aren¡¯t they joining us?¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯s weird.¡± Spommu, the smaller pack leader with her nose the color of freshly turned soil, shook her ears. She looked down at her datapad, its screen complaining at her. ¡°Ever since we stepped off the Seuvommae, it¡¯s like I¡¯ve been cut off from the fleet. Even the skeleton crew on the Pesmod isn¡¯t pinging back.¡±


    ¡°Ah, your connection too, huh?¡± a head pack leader from hangar bay, Frumers, chimed in. He gestured to his own unresponsive datapad like it had personally offended him. ¡°I thought it was just my piece of garbage datapad.¡±


    A ripple of agreement fluttered around the table, each crew member glancing down at their own uncooperative devices. Quaullast replied, ¡°It must be the Terrans. Remember when they boarded us last time? They made our communications stop working as well.¡±


    ¡°I heard about that too,¡± Spommu nodded and then shrugged. ¡°But it is still weird that the escort crews aren¡¯t joining us.¡±


    ¡°Sucks to be their crews. I don¡¯t get what Commander Euntribent is thinking.¡±


    ¡°Politics,¡± Frumers shook his head, his eyes narrowed in distaste. ¡°They¡¯ll be so jealous.¡±


    ¡°Hold your thrusters, Frumers. You haven¡¯t even seen what the Terrans are feeding us yet,¡± Spommu hedged. ¡°They are still Grass Eaters, you know? What if they just serve us this¡­ sauteed grass?¡±


    Frumers looked at her like she was an idiot. He made two dramatic sniffs with his nose in the apparent direction of the kitchen, where a subtle aroma was wafting towards them. ¡°Have you ever smelled grass like that? And the guide said this was a mostly faithful imitation of Soerru Steakhouse from Malgeirgam. Smells similar enough to me from when I went there.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been to Soerru Steakhouse?¡± Quaullast asked, wide-eyed. ¡°What was it like?¡±


    Frumers leaned back, basking in the sudden surge of attention from the entire table. ¡°Eh, a bit too high society, even for me¡­ Before the war, of course. I was there with an accountant from Home Fleet for her birthday. The portion sizes were not particularly big, but they had very good quality meats. Like, the kind you¡¯d never get from those sad-sack ration distribution centers. Not that any of you would even be able to fully appreciate it with your un-evolved palettes.¡±


    A chorus of playful jeers erupted from the table, and Spommu rolled her eyes at the exaggerated snobbery. ¡°Come on, it¡¯s just grub. There¡¯s good food and there¡¯s bad food. If it¡¯s not bad food, what difference does the quality make?¡±


    Frumers looked at her severely as if she had just stepped on his tail. ¡°What difference does it make? What difference does it make?! I¡¯m in the company of uncultured savages. I can already tell by the smell coming from the kitchen that this meal will be the closest thing to a religious experience in your life.¡±


    Spommu chuckled. ¡°Or¡­ maybe it¡¯s just Grass Eaters playing tricks with your nose. Listen, Frumers, if you¡¯re so sure that tonight¡¯s meal is going to be some major upgrade compared to the canned junk on the Pesmod, I¡¯ll¡ª I¡¯ll¡­ bet you a day¡¯s wages on it.¡±


    Frumers grinned, showing her all his sharp teeth. ¡°You¡¯re on!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    The Havel speech was based mostly on inauguration speech of American President John F. Kennedy given in 1961.

 First Strike - Chapter 28 | Steakhouse II

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°For your fourth course, would you like the Alaskan Halibut or the Diver Scallops?¡±


    ¡°The what? And the what?¡± Quaullast squinted in utter confusion, as if trying to decode an alien language, which he supposed he was. He swiveled his head toward Frumers. ¡°Was Soerru Steakhouse this complex and fancy in Malgeirgam?¡±


    ¡°No, the menu is wildly different. They must have altered it.¡± Frumers scratched his head, visibly bewildered too as he scrutinized the menu tablet held in front of him by the ever-patient Marsha. But then his expression shifted, gaining a certain sly confidence. ¡°But my nose doesn¡¯t lie. The steak is real. See? It says authentic Soerru steaks for the second ¡ª which it says here is the main ¡ª course.¡±


    Still mystified, Quaullast turned his attention back to the Terran waitress. ¡°Can you explain the options?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Marsha beamed, then replied, obviously reading from a prepared script, ¡°The Alaskan halibut is an aquatic animal known for its firm, flaky texture, originally from the Alaska region on Earth. It is lean with a mild sweetness, and flavored with vegetable pur¨¦e and salt-cured fish eggs. Usually, it is cooked to done, though we can accommodate any serving temperature requests up to raw. As our fish menu is entirely sustainable and cruelty-free, there is no danger of foodborne illnesses associated with consuming¡ª¡±


    ¡°Cruelty-free?¡± Quaullast interrupted. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    This seemed to stumble her for a nanosecond, but Marsha regained her stride with professional grace. ¡°Our fish menu has been certified by an independent and reputable auditing organization to have never utilized live animals at any point in its production. The Alaskan halibut fillets are grown fresh from high quality genetic samples in a specialized facility. Would you like to see a picture of the original halibut we use in our restaurant?¡±


    A cocktail of mild revulsion and compelling curiosity swirled within Quaullast. ¡°It¡¯s flesh meat made from grass? Sure, yeah. I¡¯d like to see it.¡±


    ¡°We do not use substandard, soy-based substitutes at our establishment. The meat is real and grown with a flavor, texture, and nutrition profile identical to the original,¡± Marsha assured him while bringing up a dated picture of a large Terran posing next to an even larger aquatic animal on her tablet.


    ¡°Whoa, check this out, Spommu! That aquatic animal is huge! Taller than them!¡± Quaullast nudged his friend, his eyes widening.


    Spommu rolled her eyes as she checked out the display. ¡°Yes, but they¡¯re not serving you that particular specimen. It¡¯s some prey trickery with their grass¡ª¡±


    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t care about that. It¡¯s just food, right?¡± Frumers interjected smugly.


    Before another argument between the two could erupt, Quaullast pivoted back to Marsha. ¡°It looks interesting, except the grass on the side. What about the other one? Does that one include the grass too?¡±


    Marsha responded with practiced ease, ¡°You can order either without the vegetable pur¨¦e. The other option is the diver-harvested scallops, which is an aquatic invertebrate with a tender and slightly chewy texture and a mildly sweet and salty taste. It is paired with spice-cured ham and vegetable root pur¨¦e. The ham is also cruelty-free, but it is a small portion. We can remove the pur¨¦e for either option if that¡¯s what you¡¯d like?¡±


    ¡°Yes, please,¡± Quaullast decided. ¡°Are the scallops real meat?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. They are sustainably farmed on Terra and manually harvested by robots that are certified to do zero net damage to their surrounding seafloor environment.¡±


    ¡°Sure, sure. I¡¯ll take that one then.¡±


    ¡°Fantastic. Now for your fifth course, due to your dietary preferences and requirements, we will be forgoing the usual saut¨¦ed vegetable dishes and replacing it with our signature chicken roulade, stuffed with maitake mushroom, a large fleshy fungus high in vitamin D, and paired with a side of authentic Malgeir brostros. I believe you should be familiar with¡­¡±


    ---


    Every snout in the bustling dining hall swiveled toward the kitchen doors as they swung open. A plump Terran chef, adorned in a puffy, comical white hat and a starched apron, confidently navigated her way through the sea of tables. She wielded a large, steaming tray and set it down with flair in the center of their table. With a grandiose flick of her wrist, she lifted the gleaming silver lid, filling the air with a very familiar aroma.


    ¡°A5 Soerru Tenderloin Slider!¡± she announced with pride in her voice. ¡°This dish features A5-grade Malgeir Soerru. It¡¯s carved right from the prime section below the creature¡¯s ribcage: lean, exquisitely tender, and cooked to medium-rare. As for the toppings, it is paired with slices of candied bacon, some maple onion jam, and¡ª¡±


    Her words hung in the air, unfinished, as a flurry of paws and claws emptied the tray in front of her.


    ¡°Is there¡­ more?¡± Spommu asked in half-ecstasy between mouthfuls as she quickly chewed her way through the entire slider: meat, grass, and all.


    Marsha smoothly stepped in. ¡°Ah, this is just the appetizer. We can prepare a refill, but I would recommend you give the rest of the courses a chance first. Now, if you have any suggestions for our food or service, please make sure to let me know. We¡¯re bringing out your first course as soon as we can.¡±


    <hr>


    The first course was Lobster Risotto. The butter-dipped grains on the side added an unfamiliar but not unwelcome texture to the whole dish, and his tongue made it perfectly clear to his brain how little it cared that what he put in his mouth was made from seeds and not a live animal. Like every other Malgeir at his table, he¡¯d stopped caring where the meat stopped and where the grass started. The lobster meat itself reminded Quaullast of a Granti aquatic delicacy he had when he was a pup. It peeled right off its red, scorched shell and rolled right into his stomach.


    It was already the greatest plate of food Quaullast had tasted in his life to that point. But they were just getting started.


    His second course was the Soerru Filet Mignon. The chef explained that the animal¡¯s taste profile is identical to an actual reconstructed Soerru which had been fed olives and was extra rich in certain fatty acids. Frankly, Quaullast didn¡¯t hear much of it over his loud chewing. The portion size was almost as large as a regular pre-war ration meal, and he devoured it all: the meat, the drippings. Hell, even the fine herbs on the side were not spared from his un-discerning appetite.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Quaullast had never eaten anything quite so delicately prepared. And judging by the contented groans and other assorted noises coming from his crewmates beside him, they were equally blown away.


    The third course was Roasted Soerru Bone Marrow. The chef seemed cagey about what prey sorcery the bone was actually made of, but it looked and felt perfectly identical to the thighbone of an actual Soerru. Inside its hollowed-out interiors were what they called basil breadcrumbs ¡ª a buttery, crunchy filling made of grass combined with other grass ¡ª and shredded freshwater eel, yet another aquatic animal with a savory taste. The Terrans certainly had a bottomless variety of aquatic animals and methods of cooking grass, and Quaullast did not blame them one bit.


    He noticed that Frumers had bizarrely taken out his datapad and started taking pictures of the food. ¡°What are you doing?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I have no idea, but I just feel instinctually compelled to document this experience,¡± Frumers replied, slightly embarrassed but seemingly unsure why.


    ¡°Send it to me when you can,¡± Spommu said, picking out pieces of her roasted bone marrow from her teeth as she crunched on them. ¡°The guys on the Seuvommae will not believe this.¡±


    ¡°Too bad I can¡¯t record the smell and taste,¡± Frumers lamented.


    Quaullast¡¯s fourth course was the Diver Scallops. It would have been a perfectly delightful dish by itself and would have satisfied him if that was all the Terrans had served for dinner. But from the flavorful aroma from Frumers¡¯ plate, who had gone for the slightly more adventurous, cruelty-free Alaskan Halibut, he was beginning to regret his choice.


    He girded himself for rejection and asked Frumers, ¡°Can I trade you a piece of mine for your aquatic¡ª¡±


    Suddenly, Marsha, who had been stealthily hovering nearby, interrupted smoothly, ¡°Would you like to sample the halibut? We can bring out another plate from the kitchen if you¡¯d like.¡±


    Quaullast looked at her like she¡¯d grown a second head, but he was not one to let a caught prey out of his grasp. ¡°Yes, please.¡±


    She paused to speak into a small, metallic implant nestled just under the skin of her cheek, a faint blue light pulsing to indicate it was active.


    Frumers perked up, curious, ¡°Hold on a second, is that a wireless data connection?¡±


    ¡°It sure is. It¡¯s so we can talk to the kitchen.¡±


    Frumers furrowed his brow. ¡°That¡¯s odd. If your communicator works, how comes ours don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Right. The other table asked about that too,¡± the Terrain hostess replied. ¡°This is the port transit zone. We¡¯re in a restricted area. Only approved devices are allowed in this area.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°Some terrorist attack a few years ago. And before you ask me like the other table, I don¡¯t know how they jam the signals either. I just know no unapproved communication devices work on this side of the terminal.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Frumers muttered.


    Just then, an extra helping of halibut arrived at Quaullast¡¯s place, landing with perfect timing as he gobbled down the last of his scallops. The waitress whisked away his empty plate without missing a beat.


    ¡°Hey Spommu,¡± Frumers, munching on his own flaky fish, called over to Spommu snout-deep in her own plate. ¡°Pretty quiet over there. Are your taste buds ready to be baptized in the church of Soerru Steakhouse?¡±


    Spommu rolled her eyes but said nothing. She was too busy stuffing her face with the buttery, garlicky goodness of her pan-seared scallops, each bite almost audibly singing in her mouth.


    Quaullast chimed in, eyeing his plate suspiciously, ¡°I get the impression that the Soerru Steakhouse back in Malgeirgam is nothing like this. I know for a fact that no Malgeir alive can cook grass this good.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Frumers cleared his throat. ¡°It¡¯s not the exact same, but they got the steak right on the mark.¡±


    Quaullast raised an eyebrow. ¡°Really? You¡¯re saying back on Malgeirgam, you can get your Soerru cooked only to halfway?¡±


    Frumers sighed, defensive. ¡°No. But that¡¯s only because they have some strange mechanism here to eliminate the danger of microbes while not fully cooking the meat. I¡¯d never thought you could eat Soerru half-cooked, even if something about the rawness of it does somehow make it taste better. It¡¯s juicier. Or maybe it¡¯s the risk of it. The service and sides here are better, though, no doubt about that,¡± he conceded.


    ¡°Strange how the Terrans are able to replicate so many food items from our home world,¡± Spommu said, finally coming up from her plate for air. She gestured for the waiting Terran¡¯s attention and asked, ¡°Hey, Marsha. Even if it was replicated, you must have gotten the taste of our food from somewhere. How did you guys do that?¡±


    Looking pleased at the implied praise of their authenticity, the hostess pulled up her tablet with pictures of a crate brimming with frozen meat and showed it to the crew. ¡°After one of the Znosian raids on one of your supply convoys, our military scanned and cataloged the contents of the wreckage, which included a delivery for the restaurant. We filed a Freedom of Information request and got access to the genetic samples. Our chefs did the rest, reconstructing the menu from the convoy manifest and a little creative guesswork. We are so glad you¡¯re enjoying it.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Marsha added hastily, clearly trying to not sound too callous. ¡°Our hearts go out to your people lost to the unprovoked Znosian war and the inhumane xenocides. Which is why our restaurant is donating fifty percent of all our operating profits to a charity putting together ration donations for war refugees on Malgeiru through the Office of Alien Affairs.¡±


    Quaullast grinned, holding up his cup. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s authentic because I¡¯ve never been to the original one, but this is fantastic. Say, can I get some more of your unusual stelgi?¡±


    Throughout the meal, Marsha kept coming around and refilling their cups. The beverage she served was a variation of the stelgi, a familiar Malgeir-inspired drink, except instead of being as alcoholic, there was a sweet carbonation in it, leading to a mysteriously spicy aftertaste.


    Supposedly, it was a palette cleanser ¡ª a strange concept.


    But a welcome one, Quaullast thought as he downed a third of his cup in one gulp.


    By the time he finished his halibut, Quaullast was so full he was unsure if he could lift the weight of his stomach with his rear paws and drag himself back to the shuttles.


    Then, the desserts came.


    <hr>


    If the dessert menu came at this point after he¡¯d completed the four courses and his extra halibut, Quaullast was sure his full stomach would betray him and decline to pick a dessert. Instead, it came before the meal, and it looked like it had more options than the actual dinner menu. Given the lack of a carnivorous option, Quaullast had ordered a Strawberry Mousse Cake based entirely on the listed calorie count: it had the most. He figured he couldn¡¯t go wrong with that tried-and-true methodology.


    Now, he was realizing that he simply couldn¡¯t fit anything more into his stomach.


    As Quaullast sat there, staring at his barely touched confection, his logical brain was in a heated debate with his rebellious stomach. He couldn¡¯t just stop: there was still more left to eat in front of him.


    Spommu was engrossed in dissecting her Apple Cheesecake. She had picked the first item on the menu, not caring which of the grass-based desserts the Terrans would feed them. Now she was probably regretting not studying all her options before making a choice. But not very much regret, Quaullast noted: it still looked like pretty good apple cheesecake.


    Across the table, Frumers had triumphantly polished off his Fresh Lemon Sorbet, yet another daring choice from the hangar bay officer given that the Terran waitress had described it as a completely fruit-based dessert. Of course, that was before the Pesmod crew had come to a new, more enlightened understanding of well-made prey food.


    Frumers stared at the elegant cup containing Quaullast¡¯s almost untouched mousse with uncontained avarice. Wiping some excess drool off his snout, he asked, ¡°You going to finish that or what?¡±


    Just as Quaullast was racking his brain for an acceptable way to tell him to go jump out an airlock, Marsha swooped in like a guardian angel. ¡°Actually, we can pack it up for you guys to-go if you¡¯d like.¡±


    Every pair of eyes at the table pivoted in unison to focus on her, including Quaullast¡¯s now-widened orbs.


    ¡°To¡ª to go?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 29 | Steakhouse III

    <h2>MNS Seuvommae</h2>


    ¡°Bah, red sixteen. Give me another card.¡±


    ¡°You sure about that? Your token stack¡¯s looking pretty thin,¡± cautioned the dealer, Baedarsust, also the ringleader of the motley crew. His day job as one of the four backup shuttle pilots of the Seuvommae meant that he had the most free time of the group.


    ¡°Go big or go home,¡± the unlucky mechanic quipped as she pushed all her remaining tokens into the center of the makeshift table, the flat top of a pulled engine part from one of the defunct shuttles.


    Technically, gambling was not allowed in the Malgeir military. But of all the unenforced rules of discipline in its loose chain of command, this was probably the most unenforced one.


    ¡°It¡¯s your loss.¡± Baedarsust shook his ears and revealed her new card, a red nine. The mechanic groaned as she tossed her cards back into the pile and dramatically collapsed into her chair.


    ¡°Stupid game anyway,¡± she whined sourly. ¡°Why are we cooped up in this creaky tin can, playing rigged card games, when we could be living it up on port leave?¡±


    A few of the others, a diverse mix of low-level hangar bay officers, muttered their agreement, their eyes betraying a similar discontent.


    Baedarsust shrugged noncommittally. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Word in the vents is that Euntribent has some grudge against Grass Eaters since they killed someone in his family.¡±


    One of the other mechanics snorted. ¡°Stupid grudge if you ask me. They¡¯re not even the same species. Hell, if you asked me, the Terrans look less like the Znosians and more like one of those Granti pets that they used to keep before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nobody asked you,¡± Baedarsust interjected, cutting him off.


    Another mechanic cut in, ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s just the Grass Eaters. Euntribent has a problem with one of the bigshots on the Pesmod.¡±


    ¡°Says who?¡±


    ¡°One of the pack leaders on the sensor crew. They¡¯ve been placed on triple shifts since they missed the hidden Grass Eater ships last week. They really ticked off Euntribent this time.¡±


    ¡°How could those idiots have missed three ships in visual range? I bet my day¡¯s wage they were drunk on moonshine again, weren¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°No, word is that these Grass Eaters can actually make their ships vanish. Like, make them literally invisible.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t believe everything you hear,¡± Baedarsust said, his voice laced with skepticism. It wasn¡¯t the first time the sensor crew had let the ship down.


    ¡°Yeah, that sounds like the kind of bogus excuse they¡¯d use for getting us stuck in space when we could be down there getting wasted¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do Grass Eaters even drink? I don¡¯t think that was in the field manual¡ª¡±


    ¡°If the idiots who wrote the field manual actually knew what they were writing about, this war would have been over years ago¡ª¡±


    Baedarsust added, ¡°Actually, someone on the comms crew said they do have a bar down there, and the Grass Eaters are paying.¡±


    ¡°Seriously?! Why does the Pesmod crew get the VIP treatment downstairs and we¡¯re stuck up here?¡±


    Baedarsust shrugged for what felt like the hundredth time. ¡°No idea. I tried pinging my guy Frumers down there, but they haven¡¯t been responding.¡±


    ¡°Well duh, they¡¯re partying it up down there,¡± the mechanic snorted.


    ¡°Yeah, an open bar? I doubt any of them are even conscious by now.¡±


    Just then, Baedarsust¡¯s datapad vibrated on the table, glowing with an incoming call. ¡°And what do you know? It¡¯s Frumers from the Pesmod.¡± He tapped the screen to activate the speaker. ¡°Where are you guys calling from? Sounds a little too quiet to be a bar ¡ª if that¡¯s even real.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± Frumers¡¯ voice crackled through the datapad. ¡°Oh yeah, the open bar is legit, but we got shuttled to one of their hotels now. What¡¯s it called again?¡± There was some muttering off-screen. ¡°Four Seasons. Funny name, eh? It¡¯s because they have four seasons on their home planet instead of six. Can you believe that?¡± Frumers sounded ridiculously smug with himself for putting two and two together to make twenty-two.


    ¡°Fascinating. Why didn¡¯t you answer our fifty-seven messages earlier?¡± Baedarsust asked, not hiding his patience. ¡°We were about to send a search party.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, get this! The Terrans have this bizarre tech that jams our signals in the transit zones. But hey, we¡¯re back online now that we¡¯re at the hotel.¡± Frumers paused to look off-screen again, and his eyes widened, ¡°Dude, you won¡¯t believe it. This hotel has its own bar too, and they¡¯ll deliver drinks right to us. Right to our door! Crazy¡­ I think they have the stelgi too¡­¡±


    ¡°Hold on, deliver to your door? Stelgi? What are you talking about?¡± Baedarsust was growing increasingly baffled.


    ¡°Oh, you have no idea! They turned Spommu into a Grass Eater!¡± Frumers burst into laughter. ¡°Can you even picture that? Spommu, a Grass Eater!¡±


    ¡°What are you on about? Did the Grass Eaters drug you?¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay, let me back up since we¡¯re waiting for drinks to be delivered to our room. Drinks! Delivered to your room! What a concept! Anyway, back up. Right. The Terrans took us all to this fancy restaurant. It¡¯s called Soerru Steakhouse, like the famous one in Malgeirgam. But it¡¯s not quite the same as the one back home. It¡¯s some kind of an imitation with a Terran twist to it. There was so much grass on every dish, but somehow, it tasted amazing.¡± Frumers looked off-screen again. ¡°They have food too? Oh no, I¡­ can¡¯t, I¡¯m still so full. Yeah, ok, tomorrow morning.¡±


    Then he turned back to the screen where the Seuvommae crew was waiting impatiently.


    ¡°Every dish? There was more than one dish?¡± Baedarsust asked the question on everyone¡¯s mind.


    ¡°Oh yeah, there were so many dishes. Four of them, and an appetizer, and a dessert.¡±


    ¡°Appetizer?¡±


    ¡°Look, Baedarsust, do you want me to tell the story or are you going to repeat everything I say back to me? Yes, appetizer. They literally start their meal with a dish of food. Then, when you finish that, they take the plate away and give you more. Four more! Anyway, the rumors are true. They do eat meat, most of them anyway, but they also eat grass.¡±


    Frumers continued his story meanderingly, ¡°These plates I ordered¡­ I think they gave me meat from four different animals. There¡¯s the Soerru, which was two different plates. There¡¯s the aquatic one. Oh wait, no, I got two aquatic ones. One had a red shell and the other was completely soft ¡ª melts right in your mouth. Actually, both of them melt in your mouth, but the first one was chewy. And there was another one, a small land animal: light colored, chewy meat. That¡¯s four. Oh, there was also the eel. Five.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°So¡­ chewy and soft. Your vocabulary is as vast as the space between your ears.¡± Baedarsust rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m a hangar bay officer, not a restaurant critic. And you have to be here to understand.¡±


    ¡°And you ate the grass?¡±


    ¡°Baedarsust, buddy. I ate every leaf, every straw, and every weird little fruit and seed they had. It was fantastic. There was sweet. There was savory. They had so¡­ many¡­ flavors,¡± Frumers buzzed with excitement.


    Baedarsust rolled his eyes but couldn¡¯t suppress a smile. ¡°Yeah, yeah, that¡¯s great and all, but what¡¯s the word on the open bar?¡± he asked impatiently. After all, whatever idiocy they were up to down there, a good drink was a good drink.


    ¡°Oh yeah, honestly, we were so full we didn¡¯t go. Instead, we went to some low gravity game field where they turned off the inertial compensators. So they give you this stick, right? And you smack this small white ball and try to guide it into a hole in the ground. Quaullast was a natural; he had the lowest score¡­ which means he won! Haha, yeah, they do some things backward here. They insisted on taking a picture of Quaullast and putting it on their wall; not sure if that¡¯s because we¡¯re the first aliens they¡¯ve seen or if he genuinely just did that well¡­ Hold up a sec.¡± Frumers then ducked out of the video frame but was back almost instantly, holding up a peculiar glass bottle filled with clear liquid. ¡°Check this out: the drinks have arrived!¡±


    Baedarsust and the crew aboard the Seuvommae craned their necks, squinting to read the label on the bottle. ¡°What drink is that?¡±


    ¡°No clue. I don¡¯t read Terran either.¡± Frumers shrugged as he inspected the bottle, then asked off-screen. ¡°What did you get me¡­ some kind of local grass root thing, apparently.¡±


    He took an experimental sip. ¡°Ohh, it¡¯s got a kick to it. Definitely booze though.¡± Then, Frumers chugged the remainder of the bottle, ending with a satisfied groan. ¡°Whew¡­ that hits the spot. Hang on, let me go get another.¡±


    He returned, this time holding a different, more ornate bottle with darker coloring. ¡°This one is from some fruit.¡±


    ¡°How many did you guys score?¡± Baedarsust questioned, half-amused and completely envious.


    ¡°Two each. The Terrans are picking up the tab, so why not? Seriously, why are you guys still up there? Is Euntribent still flipping out at the sensor crew?¡±


    Baedarsust sighed. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a mess. I doubt he¡¯s gonna let any of us leave the ship.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you guys are missing out, big time. I¡¯m not kidding. All the food is great, and it¡¯s all free. Oh yeah, I took pictures of what we had for dinner. Here, let me send them to you.¡± Frumers seemed to tap on his datapad for a moment and a series of mouthwatering pictures showed up on Baedarsust¡¯s datapad.


    ¡°If you guys don¡¯t believe me, you should really come smell it for yourself. Hey, you¡¯re a shuttle pilot, right? Just take a shuttle and zoom down here yourself! How mad could Euntribent get? Anyway, I have to go¡­ one of the other squads is going to check out the low-grav water park. We¡¯re not going in, but¡­ hehe, that should be fun to watch.¡±


    As the call ended and Baedarsust set down his datapad, the rest of his crew stared at him expectantly.


    ¡°What?¡±


    <hr>


    To his own surprise, Baedarsust¡¯s gang of troublemakers did manage to fuel and start up one of the Seuvommae¡¯s two semi-working shuttles after some fiddling and plenty of backseat driving.


    ¡°Phew! I¡¯m glad I paid attention when they taught me to do this back in training instruction,¡± Baedarsust mumbled, wiping sweat from his brow as he carefully guided the shuttle into the airlock.


    ¡°Wait a second, you¡¯ve actually flown one of these rust buckets before, right?¡± his mechanic asked, concerned.


    ¡°No, but it¡¯s not that hard,¡± he assured, oozing confidence. ¡°They designed this to be easy to fly. Besides, it¡¯s not that far.¡±


    After a series of hair-raising near misses and intense page-flipping through the old-school field manual, the shuttle roared to life. It wedged itself into the claustrophobic airlock, drained the atmosphere, and broke free from the metallic jaws of the Seuvommae.


    ¡°See? Told you we can do it,¡± he gloated, gesturing at the optics screen. ¡°And look, it¡¯s right there. I can literally see the Grass Eater ships taking off from the port.¡±


    A voice from the backseat chimed in. ¡°How are we going to land? Do they even have docking ports for our shuttles? And what about EVA suits? Did anyone pack those in case our shuttle ports can¡¯t dock with theirs?¡±


    Baedarsust shared an awkward glance with the mechanic. ¡°I didn¡¯t think that far. I thought one of you had that figured out.¡±


    ¡°You what?!¡±


    Suddenly, a voice crackled through their comm system as they wondered what to do. ¡°Seuvommae shuttle, this is Atlas Interplanetary. State your planned route, over.¡±


    Baedarsust fumbled for the microphone. ¡°Uh¡­ hold on Grass Eaters. We¡¯re not sure. We¡¯re just trying to get down to the port¡­ Give us a minute, we¡¯re trying to figure out how this works.¡±


    After a slight pause, the voice returned, tinged with mechanical boredom. ¡°Seuvommae shuttle, Atlas Interplanetary. We have your destination as Atlas Port. You have strayed significantly from the approved flight corridor and have not filed a flight plan, so we are taking navigational control of your vehicle as per Sol Spaceflight Safety Regulation One-Two-Four Dash Five. Your destination is Atlas Main, large hangar two. You are third in the queue. Your estimated time of arrival is fourteen minutes. Over.¡±


    Before anyone could protest, the shuttle jerked unnervingly. Baedarsust hurriedly announced, ¡°That wasn¡¯t me! They¡¯ve got the controls now. We¡¯re on remote autopilot¡­ for docking¡­ somewhere.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a little unsettling that they can do that,¡± his mechanic said as the screen updated to show their destination more-or-less near the spaceport they were supposed to head to. ¡°But at least we¡¯re going the right way.¡±


    Muttering to himself, Baedarsust keyed the microphone again, ¡°Uhh Atlas Interplanetary, do you happen to have docking ports for our shuttles?¡±


    ¡°Seuvommae shuttle, Atlas Interplanetary. Your reserved large hangar bay is fully airlocked and your shuttle will fit. No compatible docking ports or further pilot action is necessary. Have a good day. Over.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°They¡¯ve what?¡± Euntribent exclaimed furiously, his spittle watering the ship bridge floor. ¡°That¡¯s desertion! Get me in touch with the local authorities!¡±


    ¡°But sir, you specifically said we should maintain radio silence¡ª¡±


    ¡°Idiot! That was then. This is now. Turn our communications back on. Get the Grass Eaters on the line and tell them to hand over our deserters!¡±


    Fumbling nervously with the controls, the comms officer initiated a connection. After exchanging a series of messages, he turned back to Euntribent, his face a pale shade of green. ¡°The Terrans are asking what we plan to do with the deserters.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re deserters!¡± Euntribent roared, popping the red veins in his eyes. ¡°What do they think? We¡¯re going to send them out the airlock the second the Grass Eaters hand them over! And make sure you tell them we want our shuttle back too. Remind them that is property of the Malgeir Federation Navy!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°¡­ anyway, given the threatened penalties involved, the six crew members have requested asylum and to not be sent back to the ship,¡± Minister Tsai, the Terran diplomat, explained over the communication device to Ambassador Niblui. ¡°And while we would normally be willing to remand the prisoners to your jurisdiction despite the lack of an official extradition treaty, we can¡¯t in good conscience hand over prisoners that face capital charges in your Federation¡­ Not publicly, at least. And¡­ it would look bad for both our peoples for this to be our first¡ª I¡¯m sure you understand what I¡¯m getting¡ª¡±


    Niblui slapped her paw against her forehead repeatedly, her fur rippling with each impact. ¡°I understand, Minister. We must work out those details as soon as possible. In the meantime, would it be possible for a return to be arranged if we can guarantee they will not face the death penalty upon their extradition? Or any legal penalties other than a reprimand? I can make that promise in writing.¡±


    Tsai didn¡¯t skip a beat. ¡°That would be acceptable to us. Would you like us to shuttle them to the Pesmod?¡±


    ¡°Yes, please,¡± Niblui replied, sighing in relief that the Terran diplomat understood the nuance involved. If they were sent straight back to the Seuvommae, Euntribent would probably have executed them anyway, regardless of what she ordered or promised. ¡°We¡¯ll have Fleet Commander Grionc bring them home on the diplomacy shuttle.¡±


    ¡°Understood. We¡¯ll send their empty shuttle back to the Seuvommae to avoid any misunderstandings, of course.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Niblui hesitated, but decided to ask anyway, ¡°I have an additional unrelated request regarding our stay, minister.¡±


    ¡°What do you need? Please. Let us know if anything is unsatisfactory.¡±


    Niblui said hurriedly. ¡°No, nothing like that. The accommodations you provided were wonderful. This request is related to that. Well, you see¡­ several of my people on the ground have discovered the wonderful food delivery service at their hotel and are asking if we can possibly deliver some food to their shipmates back up on the Pesmod. I realize this may be a big ask given the fuel expenditures involved, but we will happily pay for¡ª¡±


    ¡°No need, Ambassador. In fact, we have a shuttle service for that too. I¡¯ll have them send the Soerru Steakhouse menu to your ship for them to peruse. I¡¯m glad that your people found it enjoyable. Several restaurants, including Soerru at the port, have been badgering me about franchising opportunities, after this war of course¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 30 | Evitable

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    Mission failed, the computer reported without emotion.


    You have improved upon your previous result, but you seemingly still fail to truly grasp the importance of your logistics supply train. You can also improve by reviewing the value of reconnaissance¡ª


    Grionc gritted her teeth. ¡°Keep your rude comments to yourself, thinking machine, and just show me the summarized tally.¡±


    You died.


    Flagship lost.


    All friendly ships lost.


    Six enemy combat ships destroyed.


    All orbital defenses lost.


    Planetary objective lost.


    One hundred forty thousand ground troops KIA. Six hundred thousand WIA. Two million MIA.


    This is your highest score so far. Would you like to¡ª


    ¡°Let¡¯s go again,¡± she demanded, her voice steel.


    Are you sure? This is your sixteenth attempt on the same scenario. Fatigue degrades combat performance. You are advised to take a break.


    ¡°What are you, my sire? Give me the scenario again!¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Grionc, did you get any sleep at all?¡± Speinfoent observed, concern lacing his words. ¡°The Terrans told me you were up in the simulator room all night.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m heading there again to get some rounds in before breakfast. Just a few more tries. I think I finally have a handle on what the digital sentient is doing.¡±


    ¡°Do you at least want me to save you some of their delicious food? It was so good I think I had three separate dreams about our dinner last night. I can¡¯t wait to see what they¡¯ve invented for breakfast. The admiral said they had significantly different food types and it¡¯s not just different portion sizes of the same meat again¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ok, fine, save me some breakfast. Then, join me in the simulation room after.¡±


    <hr>


    Mission failed. You have improved upon your previous result, but you overextended your flagship again. Its destruction left the rest of your fleet uncoordinated and easy pickings for the enemy.


    ¡°Just summarize the results, vacuum cleaner.¡±


    You died.


    Flagship lost.


    All friendly ships lost.


    Seven enemy combat ships destroyed.


    All orbital¡ª


    ¡°Again.¡±


    This is your thirtieth attempt on the scenario. Research shows that exhaustion severely degrades combat performance. You are advised¡ª


    ¡°Again.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°You didn¡¯t come back to the sleeping quarters at all last night,¡± Speinfoent said, his concern multiplying. ¡°Were you at the simulator all night again? This can¡¯t be healthy, Fleet Commander.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I had an inspiration last night from what one of the fake officers in my fleet ¡ª in the thinking machine ¡ª did with her battlegroup. I have a new plan to try for the next one.¡±


    <hr>


    Mission failed. Your attempt to preserve fleet coordination by switching flagships mid-battle was an interesting and novel idea, but extensive combat experience shows that the familiarization process takes much too long¡ª


    ¡°Results?¡±


    You died.


    Flagship lost.


    All friendly ships lost.


    Eight enemy combat¡ª


    ¡°Again.¡±


    This is your forty-fifth attempt¡ª


    ¡°Is there a way to disable your stupid warnings, glorified calculator?¡±


    No. It is a safety measure legally mandated by Naval Staff College Regulations, Section 29¡ª


    ¡°What? Why would¡ª Never mind, I don¡¯t care. Again.¡±


    ---


    ¡°Carla, I¡¯m worried about my commander Grionc,¡± Speinfoent pleaded. ¡°She¡¯s not sleeping. She¡¯s just spending all day and night at the simulators. I think she is obsessed.¡±


    Carla sighed. ¡°We can¡¯t stop her. This happens. Even our cadets sometimes lose sight of the purpose of the simulator.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°You were actually half-right in the room the other day. The simulator has no actual predictive ability. It just throws scenarios at people, so they can learn what to do in specific situations. It¡¯s a teaching tool.¡±


    ¡°So that means the outcome of Datsot is still to be determined?¡± Speinfoent asked hopefully.


    ¡°No. We¡¯re pretty sure that one is a lost cause. No offense, but better tacticians than Grionc have run that scenario thousands of times in the past week. The computer itself ran gazillions of scenarios itself on the blue team. We really did want to find a solid winning play, but the odds are just too stacked. Speinfoent, please do take care of your commander. Your people will need her for what¡¯s to come¡­¡±


    <hr>


    Mission failed. You have improved upon your previous result. Splitting your fleet into four battlegroups did turn out to be a better choice despite the fleet¡¯s inexperience with independent operations. However, you telegraphed your intentions with the deployment of your flagship, and the enemy easily deduced your plan.


    You died.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Flagship lost.


    All friendly ships lost.


    Nine enemy combat ships destroyed¡ª


    ¡°Again.¡±


    This is your ninety-fourth attempt¡ª


    ¡°Skip. Again.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°I saw you in the simulator earlier,¡± Carla smiled at Speinfoent. ¡°It was a nice try.¡±


    ¡°What did I do wrong?¡± Speinfoent asked eagerly. ¡°How could I have done better?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ a few minor things here and there,¡± Carla lied. If he were a student at the Staff College, they might have used it as an example of what not to do in the next lesson. But she decided to spare his feelings and told him the partial truth: ¡°You actually did a lot better than the three other battlegroups Grionc split off that were commanded by simulated generic Malgeir officer agents.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the best that Terrans have done in this scenario?¡± Speinfoent asked curiously.


    Carla chuckled. ¡°I think every sane Terran commander sees the parameters and just evacuates the orbits.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not really an option for Grionc.¡±


    Carla gave him a wry look. ¡°I guess not. Well, the computer said it won about 5% of the scenarios where it played as the Malgeir against itself on easy mode. So it¡¯s not totally impossible, just very unlikely unless the Bun subroutine behaves uncharacteristically stupid¡ª¡±


    ¡°Easy mode?¡± Speinfoent¡¯s eyes nearly popped out of his head.


    Carla blushed, realizing she might have let the cat out of the bag. ¡°Oh yeah¡­ I guess I wasn¡¯t supposed to tell you that.¡±


    ¡°Tell me what?¡± he insisted.


    She sighed. ¡°There are different difficulty modes. Even the computer doesn¡¯t win against itself when the Opfor are operated on medium or above. You¡¯ve been simulating the best-case scenario.¡±


    Speinfoent looked like he¡¯d been slapped with a wet aquatic animal. ¡°There¡¯s a worse scenario?!¡±


    ¡°Yeah. The Znosians draw in some more ships, which is likely, and Sixth Fleet is outnumbered three to one instead of having a slight numeric advantage in the simulations she¡¯s been playing in. Look, we just put it in the best-case scenario to make a point and show you guys that¡ª¡±


    ¡°We have no chance, do we?¡± Speinfoent despaired, recognition finally dawning into his eyes.


    Carla reached over and gently took his paw in her hand, her eyes filled with genuine concern. ¡°Sorry, Speinfoent. Please. We do have a plan that can win the war. But it can¡¯t start with throwing away your best fleet in a hopeless battle. We just need Grionc to see this.¡±


    Speinfoent exhaled a weighty sigh. ¡°I¡¯ll try my best to convince her.¡±


    <hr>


    Mission failed. You have followed the recommendation to cede control of the system, but your ships stayed in system, trying to degrade the invasion fleet long enough for enemy ships to trap and destroy most of your fleet. Despite the heavy losses, this was a vast improvement in¡ª


    ¡°I¡¯m not even supposed to try to do some damage to them before we leave?¡± Grionc snarled.


    That is not advised without more reconnaissance. The risk is far greater than potential for gain.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be the judge of that, toaster.¡±


    Interesting. I see you have learned a new epithet for me at breakfast? This is your¡ª


    ¡°Again.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Is she finally coming around now?¡± Amelia asked.


    ¡°Possibly. She¡¯s been trying to get a few licks in on the Bunnies before retreating. And she¡¯s actually gotten some real damage in once or twice,¡± Carla replied.


    ¡°Is this on easy difficulty still?¡±


    ¡°No, she immediately cranked the simulator to the hardest difficulty mode the second Speinfoent told her about them. I believe her exact words were: don¡¯t take it easy on me, you digital abomination; give it to me good and hard like I deserve.¡±


    Amelia let out a long sigh. ¡°Well, at least our new allies don¡¯t lack in confidence and ambition what they do in tactical skill and strategic insight.¡±


    <hr>


    Withdrawal of Sixth Fleet, successful. Datsot lost.


    Grionc was too tired to even cheer. ¡°Losses?¡±


    Sixteen friendly ships lost.


    Four enemy ships destroyed.


    Twelve enemy landing ships destroyed.


    All orbital defenses lost.


    Planetary objective lost.


    This is your highest score so far.


    ¡°Computer, your idea about the delaying action in planetary orbit was not too bad,¡± she admitted, drawing a new plan in her mind to combat the computer¡¯s strategy in the previous round. There must be a way to beat it and even up the ratio¡­


    Thank you, but I can¡¯t take credit for it. The Terran commander who first used it has the current high score on the scenario, other than mine of course. Full disclosure, I only got my high score after copying their idea.


    ¡°Oh? Can you show me the Terran commander? I¡¯d like to meet them.¡±


    Confidential. The point of the simulator is to learn, not get a high score, Fleet Commander.


    ¡°I see.¡± She didn¡¯t see at all. ¡°Can you at least tell me what their high score is?¡±


    Sixteen enemy combat ships and twenty-four landing ships destroyed. No friendly fleet losses. Datsot was still lost.


    ¡°They killed sixteen Grass Eater combat ships and two dozen landing ships without losing a single ship?!¡±


    Correct. They also managed to pack up most of the orbital defenses and evacuate an additional hundred thousand Marines after the enemy blinked in system.


    She tilted her head. ¡°Fascinating. How did they achieve the combat kills?¡±


    They deduced the position of a battlegroup of sixteen isolated Znosians ships. Next, they feigned a hasty retreat, then spun around the star with gravity slingshot to throw four overwhelming volleys of missiles at the isolated group before they got to the system edge and blinked out.


    Then, it showed her. In the recording, the Terran commander split the Sixth Fleet into eight battlegroups, somehow managing to exert their command effectively across all eight simultaneously, executing flawless maneuvers in coordination. It was organized chaos. They made themselves look like vulnerable prey animals scrambling to get away from the incoming tidal wave of red ships, flipped around the star, then turned the tables on a vanguard force of sixteen of their assailants with brutal precision at the last possible moment.


    Grionc frowned. ¡°Is this commander cheating? I don¡¯t see how they could have known that vulnerable battlegroup would be there?¡±


    Experience and practice. You will develop that instinct one day, Fleet Commander.


    ¡°How long?¡±


    Years of experience, usually. Or about sixteen real-time milliseconds for a super-Terran digital sentience like me. But nobody¡¯s perfect, Grionc.


    She ignored the machine¡¯s not-so-humble-brag. ¡°No better time to start, then. Let¡¯s go again¡ª let¡¯s go again¡­¡±


    Have you run out of new insults for me, meatbag? Would you like recommendations?


    <hr>


    Amelia looked at the fleet commander with pity on her face. The Malgeir¡¯s fur was disheveled. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot. The only thing that kept her from immediately collapsing on the floor was pure spite against the Terran machinery that told her what she knew by now was true. ¡°So, tell me, Fleet Commander. In the end, did you ever manage to score a result that would improve the Malgeir¡¯s chances at winning the war?¡±


    Grionc browsed her memories. Countless battle simulations flashed through her mind, blending into a chaotic swirl of maneuvers. She frowned. There had to be at least one try where she came out on top, right? Right? ¡°I have successfully withdrawn most of my ships and dealt damage to the enemy in multiple scenarios.¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°The correct answer, Fleet Commander, is no. You did not. None of those scenarios ended with a positive attrition ratio, and given how outnumbered we are against the Bunnies, we need more than an even trade to win the war! Now, imagine this was the real battle. There would be thousands of spacers under your command. Tens of thousands of spacers, not to mention your people on that planet. If you get anything wrong, they don¡¯t get to go home and neither do you. If you play out this scenario one more time, just once more ¡ª no redoes and no retries, like in real life ¡ª do you think you can come out on top?¡±


    Grionc considered it. She considered going back into the simulator room and trying to prove this Terran wrong. That Datsot can be saved. That Sixth Fleet can make a difference.


    But a gut-wrenching realization washed over her: she was the one who was wrong. She couldn¡¯t. She couldn¡¯t throw away the lives of thousands of her Malgeir for her own vanity and hubris. Grionc shook her ears, and tears broke free, cascading down her furry cheeks and wetting her whiskers as she confronted the unpleasant reality. ¡°No. No, I can¡¯t. Oh, I¡¯ve failed my people.¡±


    Amelia reached out and gently touched Grionc¡¯s shoulder, stroking her fur in what she hoped was a universally comforting gesture. ¡°It¡¯s not just you, Fleet Commander. We all have.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Grionc said between light sobs. ¡°I¡¯m just not good enough to win that battle.¡±


    ¡°The high score you saw playing out on the simulator: that was my best try. I only got that after over two hundred and fifty attempts. In about three quarters of my early attempts, I lost the entire fleet too. You can¡¯t stand and fight that battle. You just can¡¯t. But that does not mean Datsot is lost forever. We do have a plan.¡±


    Sniffing, Grionc perked up a little. ¡°A plan?¡±


    ¡°Yes, there is a plan. A counter-offensive. A strategic solution, not a tactical one. They¡¯re not going to make us take this loss lying down.¡± Amelia switched the console back on, and the planets and ships came back into focus in the room. ¡°Computer, pull up War Plan Anaconda.¡±


    ¡°First, we pull Sixth Fleet out of Datsot. But, you¡¯ll notice¡­¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    No relation to the Anaconda Plan, the naval blockade plan used by Union forces in the American Civil War.

 First Strike - Chapter 31 | Outside the Box I

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°This¡­ is the SGM-1248 Pigeon. A low-cost standard ship-to-ship missile first introduced to the Terran Navy in the late 21<sup>st</sup> century as the replacement for the¡ª¡±


    John swiped his hand through the air, cutting her off impatiently. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m aware of what the Pigeon is, Kara. Saw plenty of them from my time fighting the Resistance over Saturn, thank you very much. Why are we looking at a thirty-year-old piece of garbage that the Navy retired five years into its service that was so ineffective in tests that the procurement officers involved all got early retirements after ¡®unproven¡¯ allegations of bribery?¡±


    ¡°Well, you see, John. After the Navy ditched them, the Pigeons got gobbled up by the private market for good reason,¡± Kara said, pulling up a Red Zone raid aftermath photo with stacks of Pigeons in the cargo hold of a smuggling ship. ¡°While its kinematic characteristics are mediocre ¡ª outdated even ¡ª and it boasts zero ewar capabilities, and it is fitted with an old on-board radar, and it is incapable of advanced terminal module identification¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are you going to get to the good part?¡±


    Kara leaned in, her eyes sparkling. ¡°Yes, for all its many flaws, the Pigeon is incredibly cheap. No expensive gravidar on board, old off-the-shelf propulsion components, and sub-Terran level intelligence chips that you can buy at the mall. Because of how successful it became in the secondary civilian market; its manufacturers kept the old production lines open. For a million credits a pop, we have a missile that may not be able to hit one shot in a thousand against a modern Terran combat vessel, or a Resistance ship with any ewar suite made this century, or even a modified inspection cutter patrolling Ganymede. But¡­ it would be perfectly capable of hitting¡­¡± She pulled up the picture of a standard Znosian missile destroyer. ¡°Big. Slow. No e-war. No gravidar. Dumb counter-missiles. Big boom.¡±


    John snorted and folded his arms. ¡°So what? We¡¯re spinning up full production lines at Ceres for the next-generation Kestrel, Falconet, and the Thunderbird missiles. Why are we going backwards? Cheap as they are, our bottleneck is ship hulls, not munitions. By the time our ships are ready to go into battle, we¡¯ll have plenty of missiles for them to fire.¡±


    ¡°Oh, John, John, John,¡± Kara sing-songed. ¡°You¡¯re a spook now, not a Marine anymore. Inside-the-box thinking is verboten at the Recon Office. Oorah? See if you can figure it out while I find us a private ship that will take us to the fun parts of Sol.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Saturn Red Zone</h2>


    ¡°What a pleasant surprise, Captain Rackham,¡± the voice of a woman crackled through the scrambled communication feed of The Drunken Seagull. Even with the data bouncing off dozens of encrypted comm nodes and enduring some real-time sound degradation, the middle-aged captain could still detect the disdain laced with a dollop of disappointment in her tone. ¡°For a hot minute there, I thought maybe one of ours did get you in the last series of Red Zone raids.¡±


    Rackham let out a hearty laugh. ¡°Sorry to disappoint, Rep jackboot. I¡¯ve mastered the fine art of cowardice, and we cowards live long out here in the Red Zone. Plus, we even do legitimate trade business now.¡±


    ¡°Legitimate trade business. I¡¯m sorry, I think I might have dialed the wrong number,¡± the sarcastic voice replied. ¡°My offer from last time is still on the table, by the way. Legal immunity for your entire crew and four million in cash paid out to each of your families. In exchange for getting us any one of the four Aces.¡±


    Rackham shook his head vigorously. ¡°Bah. As much as I¡¯m a businessman happy to do business, you know we¡¯re all dead in a week if I give you that. Them¡¯s the rules. You have yours, and we have ours.¡±


    ¡°Cowardly and dumb. Charming.¡±


    Rackham shrugged it off. ¡°Look, I know you didn¡¯t call me just to insult me again. What do you want this time? I hear you guys are fighting a secret war against ET now. I can get you a good deal on a couple of well-armed Q-ships, completely untraceable to¡ª¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Please. I¡¯ll look into that if we ever need the Bunnies to laugh themselves to death.¡±


    ¡°Hey, we businessmen have feelings too, bootlicker, and you¡¯re hurting mine. If not for my prime custom hardware, what are you really calling for?¡±


    ¡°Pigeons.¡±


    ¡°Pigeons?¡± he echoed, brow furrowing.


    ¡°Pigeons,¡± she repeated.


    Rackham tilted his head, bewildered. ¡°Well, we have a couple dozen in our tubes now, but you know you can buy those at any of the legal, authorized Raytech munitions dealers all over the system, right? I can sell you a DRM bypass pylon adaptor ¡ª for completely legitimate use, of course¡ª¡±


    ¡°You might want to check their stocks again the next time you stop at one. Oh wait, I almost forgot, you can¡¯t. Look. You¡¯re a businessman, right? Go do some business with the rest of your pirate and terrorist buddies and get us a big fat load of Pigeons. As many as you can get us.¡±


    ¡°Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a second¡­ you¡¯ve bought out the entire legal Pigeon market?! Those are never out-of-stock! How many of these things do you need exactly?¡±


    Her voice oozed seriousness. ¡°Like I said, as many as you can find. No upper limit and I¡¯m breaking out the piggy bank for this one.¡±


    Rackham thought for a second, and his bargaining brain came online. ¡°Well, if you¡¯ve cornered the legal market on them, they won¡¯t come cheap.¡±


    ¡°Two million for each that can pass a quality inspection. No questions asked about where they¡¯re from. That¡¯s our final offer. Twice as much as they cost you, and I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll want to make a nice, little profit yourself, you slick¡ª¡±


    ¡°You let me worry about my profits and business operation, bootlicker,¡± Rakham interrupted, his gears turning. ¡°If it is Pigeons you want, it is Pigeons you¡¯ll get. Two million credits it is. Same drop as last time?¡±


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Same place. And don¡¯t fuck with us on this one. As you may have heard on the news, we have War Powers now, and you will not like what we can do with them if you piss me off¡­¡±


    Her threats were left unsaid, and Rackham terminated the connection.


    ¡°Pigeons for two million, Captain?¡± Rackham¡¯s first officer looked at him. ¡°You know what they say about when an offer is too good to be true? Maybe it¡¯s some kind of rogue pump and dump scheme by our friendly neighborhood spook. Retirement planning¡­ you know how they are.¡±


    Rackham chuckled, his eyes still glued to his tablet where a scrolling list of underground arms dealers danced across the screen. ¡°Trust me, if our favorite jackboot wanted to burn bridges just to make a quick buck, there are a dozen easier ways for her to go about it,¡± he assured her. ¡°Black market prices are hovering around one million for now because nobody knows that is what they¡¯re looking for yet. Which is why we need to move fast. Once people get word of this, prices are about to go through the hull. Two million credits may be a good deal today, but in a few days, I bet we won¡¯t find a single Pigeon for sale this side of the asteroid belt under two point five.¡±


    ¡°You think prices are going to move that quick?¡± his first officer asked, raising her eyebrow in disbelief. ¡°You know this crew can keep a secret or two.¡±


    ¡°Sister, this is the Red Zone. I¡¯d wager the entire ship we¡¯re not the first crew she has called about this, and we won¡¯t be the last. And unlike us, some of the other fine folks they¡¯re calling, their rap sheets don¡¯t contain charges like tax evasion or contraband smuggling. None of this cute, white-collar stuff we do, if you catch my meaning. We¡¯re going to buy up as many of these missiles as we can in the next couple of days, dump them in her lap, and then we¡¯ll lie low for a couple of weeks while the rest of the market ¡®sorts itself out¡¯. Now¡­ let¡¯s go make some credits.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Olympus, Mars</h2>


    ¡°What is this a celebration of?¡± Martina Wright asked, her fingers delicately caressing the stem of an ornate wine glass that sat on the polished surface of the office conference table.


    Raising his glass in a mock salute, Mark said, ¡°To the Republic.¡±


    ¡°To the Republic,¡± Martina echoed, her eyes twinkling as her lips curled into an amused smile, expecting the punchline.


    Mark chuckled slyly. ¡°And to the perverted relationship between its military industrial complex and its clandestine intelligence services.¡±


    Martina burst into giggles. ¡°Oh, Mark, how do you just take the words right out of my mouth every time?¡±


    ¡°Decades of knowing you. What else should we call it if anyone asks?¡± he asked playfully, placing his hand on the small of her back right where her intricate dress tastefully exposes her skin, drawing her in.


    ¡°Contract negotiations,¡± she murmured, allowing herself to be pulled in, then surprising him with an aggressive kiss on his lips. She pulled back. ¡°Let¡¯s discuss the finer details of these salvage freighters you want over¡­ dinner? There¡¯s a cozy vegetarian place down the¡ª¡±


    Mark playfully interrupted, making a face that was almost a pout. ¡°I¡¯m not hungry.¡±


    Martina¡¯s heart fluttered as she saw the delightfully ravenous expression on his face. ¡°Oooh, an aggressive deal-maker and straight to the point. I like that. My apartment is two blocks away. We can look over your¡­ technical specifications there. If you feel up to it.¡±


    <hr>


    They both laid, panting and sweaty, on the tousled blankets.


    Martina propped herself up on her elbows and laid her head across his bare chest. ¡°There¡¯s something you need to know, Mark.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Mark asked, gently stroking her hair with one hand and giving her a massage on the shoulders with another.


    Martina gave him an appreciative moan for his effort, then continued, ¡°Those salvage freighters¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, you meant about work,¡± he said, sounding disappointed.


    ¡°Well, one of us has to pay attention in class.¡± She poked him gently in the ribs. ¡°The salvage freighters you wanted are already assembled at Ceres. The minesweeper will be done in a couple weeks.¡±


    Mark froze, turning over in the bed to stare at her. ¡°The freighters are already built? But we haven¡¯t even transmitted the requirements to your office!¡±


    ¡°Huh, I wonder how we knew?¡± Martina replied, looking at him with an innocent expression on her face.


    Mark rose and tossed her face-first into the bed, grunting with some effort. ¡°No way! Raytech is spying on Republic officials again?¡± He tenderly pulled her slim arms over her head and behind her back. ¡°You know, you could get into some legal trouble for that.¡±


    She mewled mockingly, ¡°Please, officer, not another slap on the wrist again¡ª yow!¡± She yelled out in surprise then moaned softly as he gave her a light smack that was most definitely not on her wrist.


    ¡°Ms. Wright,¡± he said with pretend severity. ¡°What you are suggesting is a serious crime indeed.¡±


    ¡°Have mercy on me, officer,¡± Martina replied lewdly. ¡°We can surely work something out, can¡¯t we? I¡¯ll do anything you ask¡­ if you¡¯re up for another round.¡±


    ¡°Anything I ask, you say?¡± he cocked his eyebrow.


    She turned around and looked him in the eye brazenly with zero hesitation. ¡°Anything.¡±


    <hr>


    Martina straightened her ruffled hair and buttoned up her loose blouse as she sauntered over to join her lover on the balcony of her luxury apartment. The glowing morning sun cast its colorful glow on the sprawling Martian cityscape and the couple.


    ¡°What a city, eh?¡± Mark asked, feeling the vibrations of her footsteps as she drew near.


    ¡°What a city,¡± she agreed, draping her right arm warmly around his waist.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to miss this. Miss you.¡±


    ¡°How long are you going to be gone this time?¡± Martina asked, her voice tinged with concern.


    Mark sidestepped her question, his gaze sweeping over the city below as he gestured with his hand. ¡°You know we¡¯re the only ones who do this, right?¡±


    Caught off guard by the sudden change of topic, she asked, ¡°Do what?¡±


    ¡°All the aliens we¡¯ve found. They run around the galaxy. They look through dozens of systems. They find habitable planets, and they settle them. It¡¯s got to have a breathable atmosphere, good quality air. It¡¯s got to have decent gravity. That¡¯s why all the pictures you see of the alien colony planets are blue and green.¡±


    ¡°All of them?¡± she questioned, frowning.


    Mark nodded emphatically. ¡°Yep. All of them. We¡¯re apparently the only species in this region of the galaxy, who are dumb enough to see a barren, red rock¡­ no breathable atmosphere. And we go: that¡¯s brilliant, let¡¯s build cities and settle here.¡±


    Martina laughed and playfully jabbed him in the ribs. ¡°That¡¯s because we only have a few systems and keep to ourselves, unlike those aliens. And look where it got them. They call us paranoid. I call us¡­ alive.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying. We¡¯re the only ones like this. Well¡­ I suppose the Bunnies do it too sometimes, for their camps. To prevent escapees.¡±


    ¡°Are you getting to a point?¡± she prodded gently. ¡°What brings up these existential thoughts all of a sudden?¡±


    Mark paused, his eyes meeting hers. ¡°I¡¯m shipping out next week. I don¡¯t know how long we¡¯re going. We¡¯ve got our plans, but the enemy gets a vote too. In our line of work, it¡¯s easy to lose track of what we¡¯re fighting for.¡± He looked away into the rest of the domed city. ¡°But I think I figured it out just now. I¡¯ve only been to Earth a few times since I left; it¡¯s beautiful, but it¡¯s not home. I split my time mostly between Luna and Mars, but I know I ain¡¯t fighting for these two ugly rocks either.¡±


    The intensity of Mark¡¯s gaze made her heart skip a beat.


    ¡°Oh, Mark. I love you,¡± Martina pulled him in and held him tight. Then, on impulse but in a decision she knew she wouldn¡¯t regret, she whispered hoarsely, ¡°Marry me.¡±


    ¡°When I get back.¡±


    She whispered, ¡°Come back to me.¡±


    <hr>


    In dozens of cities and among hundreds of families, the same solemn, time-honored Terran ritual quietly played out across the Sol system.

 First Strike - Chapter 32 | Ice Cream I

    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°Where are we going now?¡± Speinfoent asked as he and Grionc were herded aboard a shuttle.


    This shuttle was clearly of a different make compared to the other Terran one they commuted to Luna on. It boasted a paint job in a shade of black so deep it seemed to devour the light around it, making it a bit unnerving to look at. The shuttle was angular and sleek, resembling the Terran combat ships that had escorted them into the system, only it was a mini version designed to carry a small crew of maybe a dozen people.


    ¡°Outer system. To our naval home base. We¡¯ve shown you our methods and our plan. And now, you need to familiarize yourself with our hardware so when the time comes, you can know how to fight alongside us,¡± Carla replied.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that far away from your home planet?¡± Speinfoent wondered.


    ¡°Sure is. It¡¯s close to the system blink limit. Built it right after we stumbled upon you folks in the Malgeir Federation. If there was ever an intrusion in our colony systems outside Sol, our ships should be able to quickly clear the limit and blink to respond.¡±


    ¡°You built the base to defend against¡­ us?¡± he pressed.


    Carla chuckled. ¡°Hah, not specifically you, no. You were just the very first intelligent alien species we discovered, given your proximity to our space. The base was built to prepare for the contingency that you weren¡¯t a friendly species. We discovered after a while you were not an aggressive threat, but it¡¯s still the logical place to place the garrison in case of invasion.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Interesting,¡± Speinfoent mused.


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± Carla said. ¡°You don¡¯t teach that at your Staff College.¡±


    ¡°No, we don¡¯t have one of those. And our initial trainers taught us to garrison our ships next to our objectives. And that¡¯s how our Navy does it,¡± Speinfoent recalled.


    Amelia joined the conversation. ¡°That makes sense for some cases. In the other systems where we only have one station or colony to protect, we don¡¯t mind placing our ships down the system blink well either. The problem is here we have multiple planets to protect in Sol. And our planets orbit at different speeds and very rarely line up. For example, right now, the first planet in the Sol system, Mercury, is closer to our home planet of Earth than the second planet, Venus. But that¡¯ll change in a few weeks. Orbital positions constantly shift: it doesn¡¯t make sense to constantly adjust our deployments based on the alignment of the planets. So instead of dividing our fleet into dozens of battlegroups and defending every colony or base in the system, it is more flexible to simply have a response fleet near the system limit that can blink out to stop the enemy before they get here in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that makes sense,¡± Speinfoent said. ¡°And I¡¯ve never thought of the¡­ moving orbit problem like that.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, it¡¯s a whole field. Mostly optimized by logistic computers now, but I knew a guy back at the College whose intuition was almost as fast as any simulator we built. Of course, if we do get attacked by an overwhelming enemy, we would probably sacrifice the outer system and pull our ships inward to defend the far more populous worlds of Terra, Luna, and Mars instead of fighting a battle to the death outside. Just don¡¯t tell the districts out in the Red Zone and the Saturnian Resistance that; they might get too excited.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded. ¡°I can think of a few systems in Malgeir space where we also face this similar dilemma.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, there are a few systems that are no longer in Malgeir space because of this problem,¡± Carla reminded him.


    ¡°Fair point,¡± Speinfoent winced. ¡°I did notice you also have combat ships around several of your planets though.¡±


    ¡°Kind of.¡± It was Carla¡¯s turn to grimace. ¡°Most of those are considered¡­ law enforcement, not Navy. We used to have a much bigger piracy problem, mostly concentrated around Saturn.¡±


    ¡°Piracy? Saturn?¡± he tilted his head. ¡°You keep mentioning that. On our way into the system. And now. What is the situation like there?¡±


    ¡°Pirates. Terrorists. That¡¯s what we call the criminal gangs that hijack cargo, crew, ships¡­ and the ones that launch senseless attacks against our people out there, military or civilian. The scum of the species. Because of the way the planet orbits change alignment, the pirates and Resistance would become more active during certain years when more commercial traffic passes near their bases of operations.¡±


    ¡°Intriguing. But this is not a problem anymore?¡± Grionc asked, curious how Terrans resolved the issue.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ less of a headache these days,¡± Carla corrected. ¡°This latest Red Season came and went without too many major incidents before Saturn went into apparent retrograde. The pirate gangs and Resistance cells seemed more busy fighting each other than well¡­ what they used to do. A few decades back, things got pretty dicey for the Republic in the outer system for a while when they decided to band together and see if they could kick our Navy out.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s eyebrows knitted together. ¡°They sound like a formidable force.¡±


    ¡°Used to be. Now, the Saturn Red Zone is more a place for our Navy to blood and train our new officers. Almost like a more dangerous live-fire test range.¡±


    Grionc nodded thoughtfully. ¡°I see. You send your least experienced commanders against the criminals there to engage in battle and become more experienced?¡±


    ¡°Precisely. There¡¯s only so much that a classroom or a simulator can teach a cadet. At some point, they need to learn how to cope with combat. Some cadets fail or break down in combat. But it¡¯ll have been better to find out who would or wouldn¡¯t when fighting against low-level pirates in peacetime than if they do it when we throw them in the deep end against the real deal when the Saturnian Resistance gets all uppity.¡±


    Speinfoent chimed in. ¡°We certainly don¡¯t have an equivalent to that in the Malgeir Navy.¡±


    Amelia snorted sarcastically. ¡°No, that¡¯s why more than fifty percent of your losses are commanded by fresh officers on their first combat mission.¡±


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    Grionc squinted. ¡°Is it really? I¡¯ve always known that new captains are more likely to perform disastrously, but I didn¡¯t know it was that bad!¡±


    ¡°You lose a lot of ships. And Grionc, that is a low-bound estimate by our computers,¡± Amelia replied. ¡°It¡¯s probably even worse in reality. My gut says we¡¯re looking at a first mission fail rate closer to eighty percent.¡±


    ¡°How do we fix that? We don¡¯t have a¡­ piracy problem like you do. And I¡¯m not sure we want to.¡±


    ¡°Which kind of surprises me because your criminals don¡¯t seem to have a problem with regular violence on the ground¡­ Anyway, that¡¯s part of why your new officers must come here to learn from our Staff College. Don¡¯t worry; we won¡¯t be running out of these assholes any time soon,¡± Amelia said. ¡°Our suppression raids keep the pirate numbers manageable, but the low-level threat will probably never go extinct as long as there is profit to be made on the routes.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Grionc shrugged, scratching her snout. ¡°I¡¯ll try to lobby to send as many of ours to you as possible, though there will be a lot of resistance to increasing our recruit training time to years from¡­ a few days.¡±


    ¡°Good luck with that. A lot of our hopes for your species are riding on you. No pressure.¡±


    <hr>


    The shuttle flipped over as it started to decelerate.


    Carla announced a few hours later, ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±


    She pointed to one of the several interior display panels and manipulated it to zoom in on a moon. ¡°Charon, moon of Pluto. About a fifth the gravity of Luna. No atmosphere. Plenty of canyons to dig ground support bases in and easy enough to transport supplies to and from orbit.¡±


    Then she focused the display on the fleet anchored at the station in orbit. ¡°That¡¯s home. Naval Station Charon.¡±


    Dozens of ships were on display. Grionc and Speinfoent were used to the much bigger Malgeir ships, but the sleek, deadly black ships in the dark that made them difficult to spot against the background of space promised a different kind of violence.


    These were not the civilian patrol ships they saw in the inner system.


    A few of them looked like the same kind of ship Amelia had escorted them in, but most were a larger, bulkier design.


    Amelia introduced them. ¡°These fatter ships are our last generation combat vessels. We call them the Peacekeeper-class destroyers. Older sensors, older avionics. They¡¯re the frontline workhorse of the Terran Republic Navy. In combat, they have kinematic performance almost on par with my Mississippi, but with much worse reconnaissance and stealth characteristics. Still enough to hide from your radars at medium to long range, say a few light seconds, but I wouldn¡¯t risk taking them closer unless they¡¯re the upgraded Block 40s with the new radar coating. And even then, their thermal signatures are¡­ not great against the background of space. They¡¯re more than capable of taking on pirate ships solo though, and I¡¯ll take them against Znosian Forager-classes any day of the week and twice on Sundays.¡±


    Then, the screen moved to show the ships that looked like mirror images of the Mississippi. ¡°These are our new combat ships, straight from Ceres. Some of the civilians had a vote to name them the Rabbitkiller-class, but that was a little too on the nose for Naval Command. We ended up naming them Python-class missile destroyers. Similar in stealth characteristics to my Mississippi, less electronic warfare features, but they pack a lot meaner of a punch. We¡¯ll show you the internal missile bay later. Oh, and their propulsion specs are absolutely ridiculous. These things regularly achieve twenty or thirty to one kill ratios against our older ships in exercises, and I can¡¯t wait to see them eat Bunnies for breakfast.¡±


    Amelia moved onto a much bigger ship that looked more like the scale of a traditional Malgeir ship. ¡°Camel-class support ships. Carries munition, supplies, fuel, shuttles, or troops. Configurable mission flexibility means we can easily swap out the interiors depending on what we need them to do. These didn¡¯t come cheap. They¡¯re more expensive than even our new Python-class.¡±


    Grionc nodded. She¡¯d come to learn that the Terrans love their transport ships for some reason. Then she pointed at the largest ship on the screen. ¡°Is that Alpha-class your fleet flagship?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Amelia shook her head. ¡°Our flagships are now just missile destroyers. We used to have parasite carriers as our flagships, but our doctrine has evolved past their use in combat. That large one is our biggest ship by tonnage: the TRNS Mercy. It¡¯s a hospital ship. Forty-eight shuttle bays, two shuttles per bay. It¡¯s got enough beds on the inside for a whole Marine division of casualties and enough facilities to do their job.¡±


    Carla added, ¡°As the Marines say, if you are still breathing when they bring you onto the Mercy, your ticket to hell is invalid¡­ The facilities hold state-of-the-art trauma, surgical equipment, and a tier five testing lab.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s a lot of shuttles in its bays.¡±


    ¡°Search and rescue,¡± Amelia said. ¡°We know you just use your combat ships for that.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Grionc challenged. ¡°Is that a¡­ problem?¡±


    ¡°Only if you need your combat ships for combat.¡±


    ¡°I can see how dedicated search and rescue shuttles can be useful,¡± Grionc admitted.


    ¡°Yeah, we discovered their effectiveness the hard way in pre-space war. They don¡¯t make the difference in any single battle, but we learned that if we¡¯re fighting a war, it¡¯s quite handy to keep soldiers, sailors, spacers, and Marines around that can learn from their mistakes.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s something we can actually adopt,¡± Speinfoent said, looking thoughtful.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Carla nodded at him. ¡°Passenger or transport ships can be converted into makeshift hospital ships. Probably the one thing you can do to reduce your casualty rate most significantly. Well, other than to stop losing battles. Even the Bunnies do this for their naval personnel, though their ground services don¡¯t seem to care much about casualties for some reason.¡±


    Nodding absentmindedly, Grionc spotted another shuttle. It looked more¡­ conventional to her experienced eyes than the other Terran ships, painted in a bright white paint as opposed to the usual dark black. Clearly, stealth was not a concern when this was built.


    She pointed it out to the Terrans. ¡°This looks¡­ is it some kind of diplomacy vessel?¡±


    Carla tilted her head and looked at her strangely. ¡°Diplomacy? In some ways¡­¡±


    Grionc stared at it.


    Carla continued. ¡°That¡¯s one of our two long-range strategic bomber classes. This is the older one. Carries a bit more firepower, but as you can see, it stands out a bit more with its anti-flash white paint.¡±


    Grionc scratched her snout. ¡°Anti-flash white?¡±


    ¡°Anti-flash white. For reflecting thermal radiation from our nuclear¡ª You know what? Don¡¯t worry about that one for now, we probably won¡¯t need these against the Buns,¡± Carla said hastily.


    ¡°Hey, what about that one?¡± Grionc asked as a new, unique-looking ship slightly larger than one of the missile-destroyers floated into view. Its outer surface was covered with radiator panels. ¡°A transport ship?¡±


    Carla smiled. ¡°That¡¯s our ice cream barge. Produces enough ice cream to fill every liter of empty space, in every ship in the fleet, every twenty-four hours.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s ice cream?¡± Speinfoent asked, curious.


    ¡°It¡¯s a frozen dessert.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a dessert?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the food you eat after you finish your regular food,¡± Carla explained patiently.


    ¡°Oh! Like the cheesecake we got at the mess hall last night?¡± Speinfoent asked, suddenly feeling hungry for more.


    ¡°Kind of, yeah. It¡¯s like that, except frozen liquid.¡±


    ¡°Why do you need ice cream for your fleet?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an official reason and a real reason. The official reason is that we run stealth ships hotter than Terrans are accustomed to, to make their heat sink tanks last longer, so we store and give spacers ice cream to cool their body temperature in combat to maintain their morale and performance.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the real reason?¡±


    Carla burst into laughter. ¡°The real reason is that everyone loves ice cream, including the people in charge of the Navy budget, so we got an ice cream barge.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    Joke¡¯s on all the non-believers; the astrologers were half-right. As it turns out, planetary bodies being in retrograde can have massive real effects on logistics, prices, and yes ¡ª long-distance relationships!

 First Strike - Chapter 33 | Ice Cream II

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    The indoor waterfall cascaded down the wall of glass, sending a tranquil ¡®shhhh¡¯ throughout the room. The sparkle and shimmer of crystal water glistened in different shades as moonlight bounced off it through the skylights in waves.


    It was a perfect spot for Guinspiu to escape the galaxy outside, with its stress and strain. She paced in front of it, something she¡¯d become accustomed to doing of late, especially deep in the night when she was unable to sleep.


    There were many nights like that since the fall of her home planet of Grantor. As the Head-Councilor-in-exile of the Granti Alliance, she had many responsibilities around coordinating the resettlement of refugees, at first. When the Malgeir Federation was invaded, most of her people went on the run again. Now, she was merely a respected elder in a dwindling community of forever guests.


    Pacing the waterfall, she felt a slight change in temperature in the room. The janitor must have left the windows open, she thought. As she turned around to head to it, she froze.


    There was a solidly armored figure in black standing behind her with a darkened visor, and it was staring right at her. The figure was smaller than her, but it was clearly armed. She briefly glanced at the alarm on the wall. Would she be able to get to it, or was the datapad behind her a better option?


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about the alarms. We won¡¯t be disturbed.¡±


    She felt her mouth dry up but managed to squeak out, ¡°Are you here to kill me?¡±


    ¡°What? No! I¡¯m just here to have a chat with the head of state of the Granti people. Jeez, and you guys said we were paranoid.¡±


    ¡°Ah. You are one of the new Grass Eaters,¡± she nodded, sighing in relief.


    It tilted its head, as if in surprise. ¡°Good. I guess the Council shared our secret with you. That makes things simpler.¡± Then it opened its visor, revealing what she judged to be a male, middle-aged Terran with no hair on his light-brown scalp. ¡°My name is Hersh. You may call me Operator Hersh or just Hersh.¡± He held out his hand, which she shook gingerly with her paw as the diplomatic brief she saw indicated she should.


    ¡°I¡¯m Councilor Guinspiu, as I think you know. Why are you in my home?¡±


    ¡°We have a matter of utmost importance and secrecy to discuss with you.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Plaunsollib</h2>


    The station in orbit of Plaunsollib-3 was a hastily constructed Znosian forward base, just one sector away from the system of Datsot. Several ships had gathered here to reconnoiter the Malgeir presence in Datsot.


    Among those, a cluster of six had their engines lit, ready to go. The singular Terran Navy reconnaissance ship hiding near the system blink limit had designated it as a battlegroup of five Forager-class missile destroyers escorting a Thumper-class battlecruiser.


    Onboard the battlecruiser named the Zvontru, the senior command staff gathered in the meeting room.


    A figure showed up on the main screen. ¡°Eight Whiskers Atluftrosh, what is the status of your raid fluffle?¡±


    ¡°Never better, Ten Whiskers Ditvish,¡± Atluftrosh replied without even glancing at his underlings. ¡°Our fluffle has combat ready flagship Zvontru, claw ships Sruakrach, Stvilp, Stonrakst, Vzdosl, and Birtevrut. We are all prepared to be underway.¡± Unlike most other ships in the gathering fleet which only had serial numbers, he had decided to order his crews to name their ships. He found that this encouraged them to have more pride in their work, which seemed to slightly improve combat performance at the expense of some discipline.


    ¡°Good, good,¡± Ditvish said, visibly pleased. ¡°I trust you have received the information regarding the list of systems to hit. Are there any questions about your assignment?¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. I would not dare question the judgement of those blessed to lead by the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°You may question me any time, Atluftrosh. Your fluffle has never failed to make me proud since you were given command two years ago. I will explain my directives, so you may best follow it.¡±


    Atluftrosh bowed his head in respect. ¡°I await your directives!¡±


    Ditvish straightened his chest, cleared his throat, and read, ¡°The Lesser Predator menace is destined for extinction, but they continue their struggle. Their planet of Datsot has fallen back into heresy while it was still being cleansed. The Prophecy deems this unacceptable. As Servants, we shall once again liberate its skies from the Lesser Predators. In preparation for this crusade, you will first bleed their defenders. Find their arteries of supply and cut them. Report your progress. If you encounter any large formation of predators, flee without shame. Beyond orders, exercise judgement or utilize your combat computers. Such are your directives. May the Will of the Prophecy be done through you.¡±


    ¡°May the Will of the Prophecy be done through me,¡± intoned Fluffle Commander Atluftrosh and his underlings.


    <hr>


    <h2>Naval Station Charon</h2>


    ¡°This ice cream is delicious. I think I can have this just be a full meal by itself,¡± Speinfoent declared, his eyes twinkling. ¡°You say that all your ships can make this?¡±


    The lieutenant in charge of the ice cream barge glanced at him. She was finding it hard to keep her composure professional in front of a living, talking alien whose head looked just like her pet Shepinois at home. ¡°Yes, sir. Most of them, anyway. They have the smaller machines though, so they¡¯re mainly for the crews. Ours can supply the whole fleet, including any transported troops.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes widened even more, if that was possible. ¡°Your Marines get ice cream too?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, a proud grin spreading across her face. ¡°We are an essential morale warfare unit for the whole Republic military!¡±


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    ¡°Morale warfare?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Well-fed troops perform better. Well-fed troops with ice cream perform miracles. Picture this: you¡¯re an enemy soldier stuck in a miserable, sweltering trench for days. Food supplies are scarce, you¡¯re rationing water, and your buddies are passing out from heat exhaustion. Then you peek through your long-range scopes to see when the next orbital barrage from the Republic Navy is gonna rain down, and what do you see? An enemy ice cream barge sailing over the horizon. That¡¯s the moment you realize you¡¯re truly screwed¡­¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°Welcome back,¡± Niblui greeted warmly at the duo. ¡°Sorry you couldn¡¯t make the ceremonies, but I have a feeling whatever you were doing is more important than listening to some old politicians and diplomats give speeches.¡±


    Grionc fought to keep a smirk off her face. ¡°You could say that. The Terrans gave us a tour of their naval capabilities and planning.¡±


    Niblui¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°That seems important.¡±


    ¡°I will need to return to Malgeiru as soon as possible to report to the Navy on the newest developments of the war,¡± Grionc said, her voice turning serious. ¡°Also, just as a head¡¯s up: we¡¯ve given permission to the Terran admiral to make some basic modifications to the communications system on the Pesmod so they can keep in contact with us through some kind of direct line-of-sight system. It¡¯s apparently a different system from ours. More secure, whatever that means.¡±


    Niblui nodded, absorbing the info. ¡°Ah. We planned for this. You can go. I will stick around here with the Terrans and try to be our liaison here in case of emergencies. Take the Pesmod back out. With her escort ships too, please.¡±


    Grionc raised an eyebrow. ¡°Was he that unpleasant?¡± Grionc asked, naturally referring to Euntribent, the half-witted, nepotic commander of the escort task force.


    Captain Pliont, who was standing by, chimed in. ¡°He nearly kicked off an interstellar diplomatic incident.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ of course he did,¡± Grionc shuddered, as if touching a live wire. ¡°I really hope if we come back, we get someone¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Niblui interrupted, knowing exactly what she meant. ¡°Unfortunately, the Navy is not swimming with competent commanders they can just hand out to escorts that aren¡¯t on the frontlines. Anyway, the situation is resolved with the Terrans now; we just need to bring those six deserters back to Malgeirgam. Turn them over into the hands of the Home Fleet Military Police and pay them a few credits out of the Foreign Ministry spare funds to drop the charges.¡±


    ¡°Deserters?¡± Speinfoent asked, lips raised in suspicion.


    ¡°Yeah. Long story. The only important thing is that you can¡¯t transfer them back to Euntribent¡¯s custody, which I know you¡¯re not inclined to do, and they should be free and clear. Home Fleet hasn¡¯t actually executed anyone for desertion in six hundred years.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± Speinfoent said, clearly not seeing at all.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about them. They¡¯re harmless. They just tried to sneak onto the Terran surface port because Euntribent prohibited them from leaving¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ohhhh¡­¡± Both Grionc and Speinfoent understood at once.


    ¡°Can¡¯t believe he actually held to his guns on that one while we were away,¡± Grionc muttered. ¡°If he cancels any more port leave, he¡¯s going to have a mutiny on his hands.¡±


    ¡°Well, anyway, you should only have to deal with him for the duration of the trip home,¡± Niblui said sympathetically. ¡°On the bright side, we did load Pesmod¡¯s cargo bay and frankly any empty space we could find on it full of Terran food for you and your crew to enjoy on the way home.¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Speinfoent said excitedly. ¡°Thank you so much, Niblui. They had this dining hall at the place they brought us to, and they had all kinds of amazing food. Even if some of it was grass. Did you know Terrans don¡¯t normally eat ration cubes on their ships? They all have a kitchen. And ice cream, so much ice cream. Did you guys get to have ice cream?¡±


    Niblui smiled. ¡°Yes. In fact, I suspect we got more than you two did. They took us to their luxury restaurants. I didn¡¯t get the ice cream, but one of the Terran ministers did, and he let us all have a taste of it. After that, they had it as a delivery menu item for the hotel, and apparently everyone on the floor¡ª¡±


    ¡°Did you know their Navy has an ice cream barge?¡±


    ¡°An ice cream barge?¡± Pliont asked incredulously. ¡°What is that¡­ like a ship with a freezer that transports ice cream between their colonies?¡±


    ¡°No. Not precisely. Way, way better than you can possibly imagine¡­¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    Grionc peered into her styrofoam bowl, scrutinizing the steaming chicken ramen. ¡°It is uncanny how the Terrans are able to preserve the integrity of their food without ruining its flavor.¡±


    ¡°The high frequency electromagnetic radiation machine is quite primitive in principle, but it works, and they¡¯ve managed to design an entire cuisine style around it,¡± Pliont marveled.


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± Grionc nodded, twirling a noodle around her plastic fork. ¡°Of all their civilian inventions, I believe that¡¯s their second most important. If our people see the value in this, it will have a profound impact¡ª¡±


    Pliont¡¯s ears perked up. ¡°Second? What¡¯s the most important?¡±


    Grionc¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°The ice cream machine they gifted me a unit of while I was visiting the barge out at their naval base¡ª¡±


    ¡°You got a what now?¡± Pliont nearly dropped his bowl in astonishment. ¡°When were you planning to share that information?¡±


    Grionc grinned deviously. ¡°Oops.¡±


    Just then, Speinfoent set down his lunch bowl with a groan, clutching his belly with his paw. ¡°I think I ate too much. If I have one more bite, I¡¯m not going to have enough room for the ice cream later.¡±


    Grionc nodded sympathetically. ¡°Their servings are quite generous.¡±


    Without missing a beat, she extended her paw toward Speinfoent¡¯s unfinished bowl expectantly. ¡°Since you won¡¯t be finishing yours¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Admiral Waters, we are ready to go home now,¡± Grionc announced, looking at Amelia¡¯s face glowing on the main bridge screen. ¡°Our escort ships will follow us out.¡±


    The Terran admiral¡¯s face broke into a warm, enthusiastic smile. ¡°Excellent. We¡¯ll escort you out to the edge of Terran space and hop on over for one last goodbye party. After that, good luck! We¡¯re all counting on you now, Fleet Commander.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Outpost McMurdo</h2>


    Almost 30 light years from Sol at the cold, dead frontier of the Terran Republic, McMurdo used to be seen as a punishment posting. After the presence of aliens were discovered in the nearby galactic neighborhood, Naval Command quickly realized it would be imprudent to send the Navy¡¯s worst miscreants to the places where said aliens were most likely to appear. Now, each and every one of the two hundred crew members posted to McMurdo were combat experienced spacers who had undergone extensive background checks and psychological evaluations.


    Inside the bustling nerve center of McMurdo, a select team of six personnel kept everything humming. Leading the station was Zwena Tanith, a seasoned commander hailing from District 17. They¡¯d clocked four high-stakes tours in Saturn¡¯s tumultuous Red Zone in their three-plus decades of Navy duty, including one all-out sanitation campaign against the Saturnian Resistance Navy.


    Their right-hand man was Bert Williams, an up-and-comer from District 3. The young Petty Officer had shown his mettle while piloting an inspection cutter patrolling the Jovian colonies. Some bigwig saw his potential, shipped him off to Officer Candidate School, and now he was cutting his teeth out on the frontier as McMurdo¡¯s executive officer.


    Zwena was halfway through their morning Greek yogurt when the alarms shattered the command center¡¯s usual hum.


    Woo-woo-woo-woo.


    The noise echoed like the wail of a banshee, snapping every crew member to attention. Fingers flew over tablets, pulling up streams of real-time data.


    ¡°Bert, status report.¡±


    ¡°Multiple unknown ships inbound, far side of the system. ETA thirty-five seconds. Activate automatic response procedure?¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    The real McMurdo Station is the largest Antarctic community on Earth. It can support up to 1,500 personnel during summer. Its facilities include a harbor (the southernmost in the world), three airstrips nearby, a hyperbaric diving chamber, and a nine-hole disc golf course with a 4.8/5 rating on UDisc.

 First Strike - Chapter 34 | Full Responsibility

    <h2>Outpost McMurdo</h2>


    ¡°Activate automatic response procedure?¡± Bert asked, his eyes glued to his console while his fingers danced across the controls.


    ¡°Do it. Sound general quarters. Update me when we have a solid lock¡ª¡±


    ¡°Gravidar¡¯s got them. Six distinct signatures: all likely Znosian. Five Foragers and one Thumper,¡± Bert rattled off, his voice tinged with urgency. ¡°Should we go to a higher level of emissions control?¡±


    For a Navy station officer on the frontier, the only thing worse than being discovered by the aliens was¡­ the possibility of being discovered by aliens and then losing to them. Zwena didn¡¯t skip a beat, their training kicking in like second nature. ¡°Affirmative. Go EMCOM Alpha. Prime the electronic warfare unit for action. What¡¯s the word on the rest of the station?¡±


    ¡°All crew are at battle stations. ETA fourteen seconds. Flipping the switch to EMCOM Alpha now.¡±


    As the lights in the room turned a dimmer shade of red and the hum of the air conditioner came to an immediate stop, Zwena thought they could feel the air temperature getting warmer in real time. An illusion, no doubt¡­


    ¡°Thermal systems status?¡± they asked, zeroing in on the most critical system on the outpost.


    Bert responded in rapid fire, ¡°Nominal. Heat sinks at twelve percent. Both heat dump shuttles ready in the hangar bay, prepped for cold launch.¡±


    ¡°Good to hear. We just might need those if¡ª¡±


    Bert¡¯s voice interrupted them for the count down.


    ¡°ETA five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.¡±


    After a brief pause where Bert¡¯s eyes darted over his console, he announced, ¡°Emergence event detected. Gravidar results confirmed with sensor buoys. Znosian battlegroup, most likely raiding configuration. Designated Bandit Alpha.¡±


    The triangles denoting the enemy ships on the main console screen turned red.


    ¡°Are they coming for us?¡± Zwena asked, hope flickering but the tactical part of their brain running worst-case scenarios.


    ¡°Negative, five ships are heading for the gas giant, McMurdo-6. One single ship is staying near the blink limit as a backup observer, designated Bandit Bravo.¡±


    The enemy flotilla on their screens separated into two distinct red triangles, one moving into position near the blink limit and another, with the five ships, moving towards the gas giant.


    ¡°Hmm, the gas giant, you say?¡± Zwena mused. ¡°You think maybe they¡¯re just trying to fuel up and get out of here, Williams?¡±


    Bert thought momentarily. ¡°It¡¯s possible. Haven¡¯t seen any of them come this way for fuel before though. And their usual stomping grounds aren¡¯t even in this vector from Gruccud.¡±


    His eyes flickered as new markers appeared on his console. ¡°Looks like we¡¯ve identified these ships before. They match recon data from Gruccud. These are the named ones from their special task squadron, the Zvontru, Sruakrach, Stvilp, Stonrakst, Vzdosl, and Birtevrut. I¡¯ve marked them on our tactical display. Birtevrut is the one they held back at the edge of the system. Seems they¡¯re being a touch paranoid¡­ It¡¯s just a couple light-hours from McMurdo-6 to the system¡¯s blink limit.¡±


    ¡°Standard operating procedure since we beat the snot out of them at Oettro; these guys learn their lessons, unlike the Puppers. How are our heat sinks looking? Current capacity and burn rate?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re good for six days at this clip. Maximum usage at combat conditions can lower capacity to twenty hours.¡±


    ¡°That should work. If they are just here for petrol, they should be out of here before that. We won¡¯t even need to use our shuttles.¡±


    Bert voiced the question that was hanging in the air. ¡°Do you think maybe they¡¯re just scouting out the neighborhood? Maybe this is prep for that Datsot operation.¡±


    ¡°Good question, XO.¡± Zwena nodded. ¡°One that I hope we¡¯ll be able to answer when we see which vector they blink out to.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Sruakrach</h2>


    The captain of the Znosian missile destroyer Sruakrach looked at her underling with dismay. Their point defense targeting system was malfunctioning again. This had been a recurring issue in their last deployment, but she thought maintenance had fixed it. Apparently not.


    As a well-civilized Znosian, she did not even consider hiding the problem from her superiors for a second. ¡°That is not good. We may become combat ineffective at a most inopportune time. Call Eight Whiskers Atluftrosh. I must report this problem.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Seven Whiskers, how long will this issue take to fix?¡± a frustrated Atluftrosh asked. He had just assured Ditvish that his fluffle was combat effective! And now this! Without a reliable point defense targeting system, he cannot place the Sruakrach in his formation for fear of it malfunctioning in the middle of battle. A single missile that gets through could spell disaster. The predators weren¡¯t known for their combat effectiveness, but they could still hurt if Servants of the Prophecy screwed up.


    Like having a ship with an unreliable point defense computer. Ugh.


    The captain bowed respectfully. ¡°Unknown. It is a recurring issue. I don¡¯t know if we can even fix it with the parts and crew we have on hand. I take full responsibility for my lack of foresight.¡±


    Atluftrosh calmed down and remembered his responsibility assignment training. ¡°Unlikely. The responsibility clearly lies with the maintenance crews. I will report this problem to Ditvish.¡±


    <hr>


    Ditvish¡¯s furry face flickered with surprise on the FTL radio interface. But Atluftrosh had no choice: his duty to report errors comes first. ¡°Ten Whiskers, I must admit a weakness in my fluffle. One of our ships may no longer have an effective point defense targeting system. It is a recurring issue from our last deployment. We thought maintenance fixed it, but they did not. I take full responsibility for my lack of foresight.¡±


    Ditvish shook his head, tufts of fur swaying. ¡°Nonsense. The responsibility clearly lies with the maintenance crews. What do you intend to do about it?¡±


    ¡°M¡ªme?¡± Atluftrosh stuttered. ¡°I await your directives!¡±


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Ditvish let out a deep, rumbling purr as he sighed. ¡°Eight Whiskers, do you know why I am allowing you to take a raiding fluffle out by yourself?¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°I see a promise in you, one rare in our race, even in the Navy¡­ Even some with more whiskers than you. It is your ability to make good decisions in the heat of battle without directives. Initiative, as the predators call it. One day, you will lead your own Fleet. To prepare for that, you must nurture this skill. You must prepare to make decisions on your own without my directives.¡±


    ¡°I would not dare¡ª¡±


    ¡°What if your FTL radio malfunctions?¡± Ditvish interrupted.


    ¡°I would relay the situation to the Stvilp via the subspace radio and ask them to inform you, Ten Whiskers,¡± Atluftrosh answered quickly, reciting the procedure he¡¯d retained from his lengthy training. Unlike the incompetent predators, the average Znosian officer spent the first fifth of their natural life learning, training, and drilling for war. As one bred for an elite officer bloodline, Atluftrosh was not average; he had received almost eight years of such instruction before he was sent off to command.


    ¡°What if their FTL radio is broken? What if none of your ships had a functioning radio?¡± Ditvish pressed.


    Atluftrosh pondered for a moment, then nodded with slightly more confidence. ¡°I would replace the Birtevrut with the Sruakrach as the safety observer ship. If we are ambushed, it would be able to report our demise. If it is ambushed,¡± he shrugged. ¡°It would not be a big loss to our combat effectiveness anyway.¡±


    Ditvish grinned in obvious pleasure. ¡°Good. That¡¯s what I would do too. So go do that. Now I have some unpleasant calls to make.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°You are the maintenance crew who worked on the Sruakrach¡¯s avionics modules?¡± Ditvish asked the six grimy creatures on his call screen.


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers,¡± the head engineer responded, bowing her head in respectful deference.


    ¡°There is a critical issue with its point defense targeting system,¡± Ditvish stated matter-of-factly.


    ¡°We believe we resolved that issue in the last maintenance cycle, but if it has persisted, we are clearly responsible,¡± the head engineer admitted.


    ¡°You are indeed,¡± Ditvish replied calmly.


    ¡°I take full responsibility for this issue. We await your directives, Ten¡ª¡±


    ¡°List the level of experience of your crew, head engineer,¡± Ditvish ordered.


    ¡°I have six years of experience in my position,¡± the head engineer replied, then pointed at each of her underlings. ¡°Five years. Five years. Three years. One year. One year.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ some of you would be costly to replace.¡± Ditvish thought for a moment. ¡°But some of you will not. The last two of you: you are no longer part of the Prophecy. Head engineer, dispose of them and pick their replacements from Personnel by the end of the hour. Such are your directives.¡±


    ¡°May the Prophecy be done,¡± all six creatures answered solemnly, bowing their heads.


    Ditvish waited on the line long enough to see the head engineer quietly and efficiently bash in the heads of her two least experienced engineers with a heavy power wrench before he hung up.


    Turning to his communications officer, he instructed, ¡°Now patch me through to our State Security leadership officer. I must report a potential supply chain defect incident. And log the names of the entire maintenance team with Personnel. Their genetic bloodlines may be suited to some career path less¡­ complex.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Outpost McMurdo</h2>


    ¡°Now that is an interesting development,¡± Zwena observed, their eyes glued to the sensor screen as they watched the two bandits swapping positions.


    ¡°Our quantum section is still decrypting their last FTL message,¡± Bert chimed in. ¡°But my gut feeling is something is wrong with the Sruakrach.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    Bert gestured toward the data readouts on his console. ¡°According to our records, the Sruakrach is their second most combat experienced ship. Normally you¡¯d want that with the rest of your fleet and not playing safety out at the system limit. The most obvious reason to swap her out with Birtevrut is because she is no longer as combat effective as the other ships.¡±


    Just then, a cheerful beep emanated from his console. ¡°Ah, looks like we¡¯ve broken their code, right on time¡­ and looks like I was right.¡±


    ¡°Nobody likes a show-off, Bert.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Commander, Bandit Alpha has cut thrust and slowed to a stop. They are not in position to refuel,¡± Bert reported, scrutinizing the updating data on his console screen.


    Zwena¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Figures. It sounded on the call like they were here for something else. Where are they?¡±


    ¡°In orbit around the gas giant McMurdo-6, just waiting in the ringed area, it seems,¡± Bert answered, still puzzled. After a few more seconds of scrutiny, his eyes widened. ¡°Ah. Commander, they¡¯re setting up for an ambush. Textbook ambush deployment with only their cold buoy exposed to observe incoming.¡±


    Zwena peered at the main viewscreen. ¡°Control, exclude the feed from the gravidar and our defense drones. What do our station subspace sensors show?¡±


    The computer recalibrated. It removed most of the smaller objects in the system, and four of the five ships in Bandit Alpha disappeared from view. Even the observer ship near the system limit, cleverly obscured by a comet it was taking refuge behind, winked out. Without gravidar, the only signs of the Znosians in system were a single ship they did not occlude from McMurdo ¡ª which they couldn¡¯t know the location of ¡ª and the exposed observation buoy, which the cooled sensor emplacements deployed near McMurdo had no trouble picking up.


    They nodded. ¡°Nice catch, Bert.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the game plan, Commander?¡± Bert asked, leaning forward in his chair. ¡°Even with the recent ROE modifications, it might be prudent to¡ª¡±


    ¡°That depends, doesn¡¯t it? Malgeir supply ships come in and refuel at McMurdo-6 every couple weeks, but you know how they are: not exactly what we call punctual. Their next supply run is due in¡­ six days? But it¡¯s not a big deal. We know exactly where they all are. Even if the Bunnies deploy sensors, they won¡¯t see our heat dump shuttles hauling our waste off.¡±


    Bert scratched his head. ¡°So we wait for the Malgeir to come in, get ambushed, and hope the Buns pack up and leave after?¡±


    Zwena shrugged. ¡°Much as I hate it, there¡¯s not much we can do. It¡¯s not worth revealing this station for a couple Malgeir junk haulers. Maybe we can burst an FTL message to Charon; see if they want to give the Malgeir a heads up to avoid this system for a while. The critters will have to leave eventually, right?¡±


    Suddenly, alarms shrieked through the command center again.


    ¡°What did they do now?¡± Zwena asked immediately, eyes darting to Bert.


    Fiddling with his console, Bert answered, ¡°Nothing as far as I can tell, but we¡¯ve got multiple ships inbound. ETA forty seconds.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Those Malgeir supply ships must have found themselves a clock. Never seen them early before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Negative, Commander. These are coming from the direction of Sol. Gravidar¡¯s identifying them now. Seven Shepherds. One Pointer. One Python, Recon variant, likely TRNS Mississippi. One Malgeir civilian transport.¡±


    Zwena barked orders urgently. ¡°Put the location of all the bandits into a burst transmission; prepare to update the Mississippi on the enemy locations.¡±


    Bert counted down again. ¡°ETA five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Emergence event detected. Gravidar results confirmed with subspace sensor drones. The Malgeir transport is their diplomacy ship Pesmod. And its eight escorts.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± they commented, studying the map intensely. ¡°Looks like the Mississippi¡¯s sensors work just fine without our help. She¡¯s gone full emission control too.¡±


    Nervously, Bert wondered, ¡°What are they going to do? The Znosians must see the Pesmod and its escorts by now. If they just turn around and leave the system, that might arouse even more suspicion.¡±


    ¡°Your guess is good as mine, XO. Keep your ears on those comms. If Bandit Alpha so much as sneezes, I want to be the first to hand them a tissue.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°Blink complete. Right on the mark,¡± Captain Chuck Harris announced, his voice tinged with pride.


    ¡°Excellent. Well, this system was our last stop. Let¡¯s hop on over to¡ª¡±


    Samantha Lee interrupted with urgency. ¡°Captain! Bogeys¡ª no, Znosian bandits detected in system. Gravidar says five near McMurdo-6. One hanging out near the opposite system limit. We need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Go EMCOM Alpha now,¡± Chuck barked. The thruster acceleration cut to half and the air in the cabin warmed up as the ship fully sealed its thermal emissions into the hull.


    Carla reported, ¡°McMurdo has gone quiet as well. They just sent us a burst packet of the enemy vectors, confirming our gravidar data. They say the Bunnies have been skulking around here for hours and are set up to ambush a Malgeir supply convoy.¡±


    ¡°Have they seen us?¡± Amelia asked, concerned.


    ¡°Unlikely, ma¡¯am. We were already in EMCOM Charlie when we blinked in, and their ships were mostly occluded. And the emissions from the Pupper ships should be covering us at this distance,¡± Harris reassured. ¡°But if they¡¯ve been in here for hours preparing for an ambush, there¡¯s no way they won¡¯t see our friends here in a few hours. What do you think we should do?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 35 | Worst Case Scenario

    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    ¡°Our new friends wouldn¡¯t just ghost us without saying goodbye, right?¡± Speinfoent questioned, his eyes narrowing.


    ¡°No. They¡¯re very big on parties. Amelia said they were going to come over for one last ice cream delivery. Something could be wrong,¡± Grionc mused.


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s a practical joke?¡± Captain Pliont asked, shuffling in his chair. ¡°They seem to understand humor similarly to us¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent shook his ears dismissively. ¡°No. No way. We¡¯re too close to the frontlines. They wouldn¡¯t mess around here, especially knowing the way our escorts are.¡±


    ¡°Sensors on full, all sectors,¡± Pliont ordered.


    ¡°Scanning as we speak,¡± the sensor officer chimed in. ¡°Nothing on my end.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the Terrans: you won¡¯t see them with this ship if they don¡¯t want to be found,¡± Speinfoent remarked. ¡°No offense, Captain.¡±


    ¡°None taken.¡± Pliont turned to Grionc. ¡°High Fleet Commander, do we still refuel in this system as planned? We have just enough to get back to Malgeiru; it¡¯s up to you.¡±


    Grionc was pondering the options when the communications officer remarked, ¡°Captain, the new module that the Terrans installed for secure communication is making some noise and the lights are blinking.¡±


    ¡°What? What are you waiting for? Activate it!¡±


    Admiral Waters¡¯ face materialized on the Pesmod¡¯s main viewscreen. ¡°Be advised, Pesmod and escorts, there are six enemy ships in system. One is at the system limit behind a comet, and five are hiding in the rings at the gas giant McMurdo-6. We suspect they¡¯re getting ready to ambush an upcoming Malgeir supply fleet.¡±


    Grionc squinted at her display. ¡°I don¡¯t see them.¡±


    Amelia hit a few buttons, and the Terran ship started sharing sensor data with them via its data link system. The ships popped up on the Pesmod¡¯s sensor board.


    ¡°What do you recommend we do?¡± Grionc asked, hoping the experienced Terran commanders would have a good battle plan in mind.


    ¡°Get out of dodge, probably,¡± Amelia suggested. ¡°The Buns might be suspicious that a whole task force just came into the system from this direction and left without refueling. But if you just head for Malgeiru from a higher orbit, they probably can¡¯t catch you as you go. They might follow it up with a system sweep, but space is big, and there¡¯s not much of ours they can find here. More likely they¡¯ll just keep hiding until someone else comes along. Do you have a better idea?¡±


    ¡°We can fight them,¡± Speinfoent offered. ¡°With your ship and ours¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why did I even ask?¡± Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Listen, Sphinx. There¡¯s absolutely no reason to pick a fight here. Much as I really want to blast these creeps to smithereens, if we are to go after them, we should trail them until they get somewhere far away from our systems before we strike, maybe even call a few bigger guns in just to be sure¡­ I¡¯m just saying it¡¯s not worth hitting them here.¡±


    ¡°What about our incoming supply ships?¡±


    ¡°You can warn them. Divert them somewhere else. You don¡¯t even have to tell them the truth. Say there¡¯s a storm in the gas giant making it unsafe to refuel or something.¡±


    Convinced, Grionc nodded. ¡°Okay, that seems sensible, and we¡¯ll defer to you since the secret of this system belongs to your Republic. We¡¯ll let the escort task force know. Captain Pliont, alter our burn: let¡¯s take the long course for the Aurfucui system and avoid the Buns.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Alpha Leader Euntribent, we¡¯ve received word from the Terrans that there¡¯s a Znosian fleet at the McMurdo-6 refueling point waiting to ambush ships that refuel there. We are going to take a slightly longer orbital transfer before heading to Malgeiru,¡± Grionc urgently informed the escort fleet commander. ¡°Do you have any ships that can¡¯t make it home without a refuel?¡±


    ¡°Grass Eaters? Here, in this system?¡± Euntribent curled his lips as he scrutinized his console¡¯s sensor panel. ¡°I don¡¯t see anything.¡±


    ¡°I assure you, Commander, they are there,¡± Grionc said with as much patience as she can muster. ¡°They are hiding right in the rings of the gas giant, occluded by some of the asteroids there.¡±


    Euntribent remained skeptical. ¡°Send me their coordinates.¡±


    With a sigh, Grionc punched a button, transferring the Pesmod¡¯s sensor data to the rest of the escort fleet. ¡°Done.¡±


    She could almost see the gears in his brain turning. ¡°They¡¯re not waiting for us,¡± Euntribent finally replied after inspecting the data for a minute.


    ¡°Yes, we believe they¡¯re waiting for one of our vulnerable supply runs to catch off guard.¡±


    ¡°Well, we can¡¯t just leave. They¡¯ll kill our supply ships!¡±


    We went over this with the Terrans, Grionc thought. And if you hadn¡¯t cut us out of your communications network¡­


    Instead of expressing her exasperation overtly, she replied, ¡°We can warn them to reroute away from this system.¡±


    Euntribent looked contemplative for a heartbeat. Then, he shook his ears. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, Alpha Commander?¡±


    ¡°I said, no. These Grass Eater ships pose a threat to our supply line. If they do not ambush us here, they will ambush someone else later. So we will eliminate this threat today,¡± Euntribent replied. ¡°Fleet, arm weapons and prepare to engage.¡±


    ¡°The Terrans said you can¡¯t win with just these escorts, especially¡ª¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t care less what some jumped-up half Grass Eaters say about us,¡± Euntribent cut her off with remarkable calmness for someone who just decided to commit suicide.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°They are ready to ambush you. You are literally walking into a trap against the advice of our more experienced allies!¡±


    Euntribent smirked. ¡°I only see five of them near McMurdo-6 and there¡¯s eight of us. Plus, we know where they are now, so if anything, we are ambushing them,¡± he pointed at his battlemap. ¡°And if our friendly Grass Eater allies aren¡¯t total cowards, I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll join us in battle. If what you say about how good they are is true, I¡¯m sure this will be an easy battle. And if not, perhaps our glorious deaths will inspire them into action.¡±


    ¡°Glorious death¡ª Are you a moron?!¡± Grionc shouted before she could restrain her frustration. ¡°There are over four thousand spacers under your command! You¡¯re going to get them all killed!¡±


    ¡°High Fleet Commander,¡± Euntribent said unflinchingly, completely disregarding her outburst as if she were a mere pup throwing a tantrum. ¡°Please remain calm and professional. The enemy is here, and our task force is engaging them. Let our new¡­ allies, or whatever¡­ know that is our intention. And since you are in a lightly armed civilian ship, I recommend that you follow your own advice and make your own way to the system limit on your planned course just in case we don¡¯t succeed. Good luck. Seuvommae out!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TNRS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°What. The. Actual¡ª¡± Amelia mouthed, her eyes widening in complete disbelief, as the Malgeir escort task force ships ignited their thrusters to full, racing directly towards the enemy. ¡°Get the Puppers back on the phone, now!¡±


    All color drained from Carla¡¯s face as she relayed the message from her headphones. ¡°Grionc says the task force commander has lost his mind. He intends to directly engage the Bun fleet with or without¡ª¡±


    Cutting her off, Amelia swiveled towards Chuck, her face set in a grim line as she prepared to leave the bridge. ¡°Captain Harris, we are entering combat. Carla and I are heading down to the flag suite. Jam all FTL bands. Fight your ship and eliminate all enemies in system. And let me know if you need McMurdo. I¡¯ll coordinate from the suite.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Zvontru</h2>


    ¡°That should be impossible. We are fully occluded here, except the low-emission reconnaissance buoys,¡± Atluftrosh complained. ¡°There¡¯s no way the Lesser Predators saw those from this distance. Did they spot the Sruakrach?¡±


    His computer officer replied after querying the ship. ¡°Eight Whiskers, even if they did see the Sruakrach, the combat computer says they shouldn¡¯t know our exact position. But look¡­ their flight paths are coming straight at us. This can be no mistake.¡±


    And she was right. Space was far too big for such a perfect interception to happen by accident.


    Atluftrosh tapped his paws on the armrest. ¡°Maybe it is a true miraculous coincidence, and they are going to decelerate once they get closer¡­¡± Then he shook his head. ¡°¡­ but we can¡¯t take the risk. Our engines need to be warmed up for the fight. We must assume they have already seen us. How does the combat computer recommend we engage?¡±


    ¡°The Digital Guide says to go out and meet them in battle. Full combat burn to ramp up to full engine acceleration. We can win a head-on fight with them easily. It¡¯s only eight of them, plus the unarmed ship. We outrange them, and we are much better at this than they are.¡±


    Atluftrosh nodded and grinned, revealing his flat front teeth. ¡°Do as the combat computer say.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Outpost McMurdo</h2>


    ¡°Huh! The Malgeir destroyers are now boosting straight for McMurdo-6. I think they saw the Znosians and are planning to engage,¡± Bert exclaimed. ¡°The Znosians figured it out too. They¡¯re boosting now to engage them.¡±


    Zwena raised an eyebrow. ¡°That is¡­ not ideal. What is Admiral Waters thinking?¡±


    Bert shrugged, scanning the readouts. ¡°No idea. But the Mississippi started jamming FTL comms and our gravidar says she just deployed two Thunderbirds,¡± Bert said, marking the projected trajectory of the two low-observability strategic ship killer missiles on the main screen.


    ¡°What are they targeting? If the Mississippi wants to coordinate strikes, they can task our four strategic tubes¡ª¡±


    Bert¡¯s face scrunched up in confusion. ¡°Looks like the missiles are going¡­ the wrong way? They¡¯re heading back up the gravity well to where they came into the system from¡­¡±


    ¡°Ah, Bert, you haven¡¯t been read in on Raytech¡¯s new missiles, have you?¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Sruakrach</h2>


    The Seven Whiskers Captain looked in surprise at the new developments on her sensors as she observed the battle from the system blink limit far from the predators. ¡°Something is wrong. Why did the Eight Whiskers rush out and reveal his position for no reason? What does the combat computer say?¡±


    ¡°Combat computer says this is the right move. The enemy fleet somehow spotted them, and they were clearly making a direct run for them. Typical predators: brave but foolish. They should be dispatched without an issue.¡±


    Smiling at the enemy¡¯s obvious blunder, she said, ¡°Interesting. And worrying how they somehow deduced our positions. Report this back to Gruccud command via FTL radio.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°Grionc,¡± Carla said urgently, speaking desperately into the comm unit as she had been for hours. ¡°You need to tell your ships to slow down. We are at low acceleration to maintain combat stealth. If they¡ª¡±


    ¡°Carla, we are trying to reach them. But the Seuvommae and its escort ships are no longer responding to us,¡± Grionc shot back, her own voice tinged with frustration.


    Carla repeated, ¡°Grionc, we can¡¯t get there in time if they¡¯re going that fast. We are trying to help. Can you at least get them to slow down?¡±


    After a few minutes, Carla shook her head, looking sadly at Amelia. The obstinate escort fleet commander was not going to cooperate, not even with his own people.


    ¡°Should we tell Chuck to abandon EMCOM?¡± Carla suggested. ¡°We can catch up to them if we¡ª¡±


    ¡°No way, I don¡¯t trust those Malgeir rust buckets any further than I can throw them, and I trust that idiot in charge over there even less,¡± Amelia snarled. ¡°If we¡¯re going to end up fighting them, we aren¡¯t going to start by burning our biggest advantage and our entire species¡¯ secrecy for free.¡±


    <hr>


    A few hours later, Chuck¡¯s voice echoed from the ship¡¯s hardline. ¡°It looks like the accelerating Znosians are going to soon come into effective range.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing the Malgeir are going to get in range about ten minutes later?¡± Amelia scowled.


    Samantha¡¯s voice was emotionless. ¡°Affirmative, Admiral.¡±


    Amelia tapped her fingers on the console. ¡°What about our Thunderbirds? How far off are they?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re going too slow to matter. They¡¯ll approach after the Malgeir have intercepted the Bunny formation.¡±


    ¡°Intercepted their formation,¡± Amelia snorted. ¡°I doubt they¡¯ll make it alive to the interception point. Any luck hacking into their systems?¡±


    ¡°Negative. We¡¯re trying to jack into their navigation systems, but these aren¡¯t shuttles with their dumb docking autopilots and we didn¡¯t get to install our comm systems onto the escort ships. We¡¯re still trying, but time¡¯s running out.¡±


    Amelia glanced at Carla. ¡°Tell Grionc to contact the other ship captains in the escort task force. See if she can get them to see sense and back off. I get the impression this Euntribent isn¡¯t the most popular kid on the playground.¡±


    Carla shook her head, looking desperate. ¡°We tried that angle a few hours ago, but it seems like he has completely shut Grionc and the Pesmod out of their systems. Can we give them a warning shot or something?¡±


    Amelia tightened her grip on her chair. ¡°No, no. Like I said, we¡¯re not breaking stealth. The idiot has made their bed, and now they¡¯re going to die in it.¡±


    Carla stared at the holographic tactical display on her console, her eyes narrowing at the flickering dots that represented the Malgeir fleet. She shook her head and sighed, ¡°The inexperienced Malgeir commander deployed his ships way too far apart. Their wings won¡¯t even be able to cover each other with point defense.¡±


    Amelia took a deep breath, closing her eyes. ¡°Tightbeam McMurdo. Instruct them to remain in stealth but tell Commander Tanith to get their search and rescue shuttles ready.¡±


    Carla blinked. ¡°How many lifepods should we tell them to prepare for?¡±


    With a pensive look, Amelia quickly ran through the grim calculations in her head. ¡°Best-case scenario: about four thousand Malgeir.¡±


    Carla¡¯s face paled. ¡°F¡ªfour thousand lifepods. Mein Gott! And that is the best-case scenario? What about the worst case?¡±


    ¡°Worst-case scenario: much, much fewer. We wouldn¡¯t need to prepare for many pods in the worst-case scenario, would we?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 36 | Failure to Communicate

    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°Znosians are firing their first salvo of missiles towards the Malgeir escorts,¡± Carla announced emotionlessly, her eyes glued to the tactical display.


    ¡°How long until we can get in range?¡± Amelia asked, her finger still tightly gripping her armrest.


    ¡°Way too long. They¡¯ll have both expended all their missiles way before we get in range, by about four hours.¡±


    Sorry Grionc, it looks like we have failed your people once again, Amelia thought in silent apology.


    ¡°Malgeir ships are returning fire. Hold on¡­ that¡¯s strange¡­ Only half of them have launched. Must be a miscommunication somewhere,¡± Carla noted, her brow furrowing.


    Then, a couple minutes later, she blinked as the battlemap updated. ¡°Ah, now the rest of the ships are launching.¡±


    Amelia shook her head in disbelief. ¡°What a mess¡­ Are the volleys at least timed close enough to intercept the enemy before the Znosian reload their point defense? Maybe they¡¯ve got some kind of simultaneous-time-to-target burn course¡ª¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bet on it¡­ Decoys and countermeasures have deployed on both sides¡­ Missiles intercept in three¡­ two¡­ one¡­¡±


    The infrared sensor screens observing the ships flashed white, forcing Mississippi¡¯s computer to fall back to radar and gravidar to conduct the battle damage assessment.


    ¡°What¡¯s the damage?¡± Amelia asked apprehensively.


    ¡°Five Malgeir ships incapacitated. Flagship Seuvommae is a catastrophic loss: nobody got out. Looks like they targeted her with most of the firepower. Must be a reactor hit,¡± Carla replied somberly. ¡°I¡¯m picking up lifepod signals around the other disabled ships¡­ Second wave of missiles are now approaching¡­ hits, many hits¡­ all Malgeir ships now disabled. Life pod signals appearing around all seven crippled Malgeir destroyers. Looks like the Buns wanted prisoners.¡±


    A heavy silence fell between them as they observed the telescopic images of the combat ineffective Malgeir ships vomiting lifepods.


    Amelia was the first to speak. ¡°Did they¡ª did they manage to do any damage to the Buns?¡±


    Carla scanned the data. ¡°The misfire really screwed them up. Their missiles mostly lost lock once their launching ships got hit¡­ It looked like one of the Znosian ships took a proximity hit on sensors. But no change in maneuvering or power output thus far, so whatever it was, I¡¯m guessing it was not enough to slow them down.¡±


    Amelia pointed at the live footage of lifepods pouring out of the doomed Malgeir ships by the dozens. ¡°And it looks like we don¡¯t have a choice now but to engage under our revised rules of engagement.¡±


    She didn¡¯t have to look into the bridge camera to see the relieved expressions on their faces.


    About time.


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Zvontru</h2>


    ¡°Should we finish the predators¡¯ lifepods with our close-range guns?¡± the computer officer¡¯s eyes glinted with anticipation.


    ¡°I appreciate your enthusiasm, Computer Officer, but we disabled them for a reason,¡± Atluftrosh replied, pointing at the remaining diplomacy ship on his sensors. ¡°We¡¯ll come back and scoop the prisoners up after we get that small ship. I want to interrogate them to know if they knew where we were before we broke cover, and if they did, how. We can always kill them in extremely painful ways later.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°And don¡¯t forget to report the battle results back to the Ten Whiskers on the FTL radio.¡±


    The communication officer was busy for a second, fiddling with the console. His expression turned from confident to puzzled. ¡°That¡¯s unusual. They are not acknowledging my hails on the FTL radio at Gruccud. Our radio must be malfunctioning. I take full responsibility for my failure here.¡±


    In his head, Atluftrosh reviewed the procedures for a malfunctioning FTL radio. He sighed. ¡°We will investigate the cause and your responsibility later. Call the Stvilp and tell them to report the battle results on their FTL radio, as well as the fact that our communication suite is now broken. I will take full responsibility for now.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    After a tense pause, the communication officer relayed more troubling news. ¡°Eight Whiskers, the Stvilp reports their FTL radio is malfunctioning as well. Their communication officer takes full responsibility for her failure.¡±


    A ripple of unease washed over Atluftrosh. ¡°What¡¯s the next closest ship?¡±


    ¡°The Stonrakst, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Call them. One of our ships must have a functioning FTL radio.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Sruakrach</h2>


    Hovering two light hours away at the system blink limit as the backup observation ship, the captain of the Sruakrach was beyond irritated.


    Yet another part of her ship had clearly just broken down. This time, instead of the point defense targeting system, it was something far more vital to its operation: the FTL radio. How was she supposed to execute the Will of the Prophecy without real-time guidance and communication with the rest of the fluffle?


    ¡°I knew it¡­ I should have insisted on a full inspection of our ship when we discovered the point defense malfunction,¡± she lamented. She exhaled deeply, attempting to keep her composure. ¡°What does the combat computer say?¡±


    The officer on duty consulted the screen and responded. ¡°Seven Whiskers. The Digital Guide says in the event of an FTL radio failure, an observer ship must send for a replacement observer ship from the rest of the fluffle.¡±


    She gritted her teeth, her whiskers twitching in frustration. ¡°Use our local subspace radio to call Atluftrosh. Let him know what¡¯s going on. We¡¯ll just have to deal with the annoying light speed delay for now.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°CIC reports that the ewar suite detected the bandits trying to call home again. Both battlegroups this time,¡± Carla reported, with a mix of caution and urgency.


    Amelia leaned back in her command chair. ¡°Looks like the jig is up,¡± Amelia said. ¡°Where are our Thunderbirds?¡±


    ¡°Gravidar has them clearing the system limit in just a few seconds.¡±


    Amelia cracked her knuckles. ¡°Good. Time to kick the hornet¡¯s nest, Commander.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    <hr>


    The long-range Thunderbird missiles had been silently coasting towards the system limit for hours. They were heading towards no particular position or target, just quietly and steadily moving to a distance where it can finally use one particular component on the fifty-million credit missile: its single-use cross-system blink drive.


    Due to the need to incorporate another drive, in addition to its regular propulsion drive, the Thunderbird was a massive missile; the Mississippi only carried two, and they occupied two-thirds of the volume in her stealthy internal weapons bay.


    They reached the system blink limit one after the other, just a couple seconds apart.


    The instruments in the missiles programmed its blink drive with the last known location of the target. Normally, its super-intelligent onboard computer would communicate with nearby missiles to coordinate a multi-layered strike wave, and it would divine the estimated trajectory of the target and calculate an optimal path to the target.


    Today, none of that complex logic was necessary; its target was sitting still, right on the opposite side of the system. Conveniently outside the system limit where the blink-capable missile can reach out and touch.


    As a single-use blink drive that didn¡¯t have to worry about maintenance or crew safety, some shortcuts could be taken with its redundant systems to boost its blink speed to traverse the system despite the system star¡¯s gravity well. The journey to the other side of the system took milliseconds, faster than the makers of the missile can physically or metaphorically blink.


    The first missile reappeared within five kilometers of the backup ship Sruakrach. The missile¡¯s computer noted that while this was a slightly higher error than normal, it was still within system tolerances and Navy specs. If its intelligence chip was disappointed at how easy identifying the enemy ship¡¯s signature had been due to a complete lack of confusing signals that a heavy ewar environment usually boasts, it did not log this complaint. After quickly orienting itself with two bursts of its maneuvering thrusters, it visually identified the most likely location of the target¡¯s vulnerable reactor drive and fired its powerful main engines.


    With the target merely five kilometers away, its arrival was instant.


    The Thunderbird¡¯s computer detected active defenses on the enemy ship and noted that some existing systems appeared non-functional. It blared out radar noise from its nose transmitter to try to further confuse the malfunctioning point defense system. A dozen advanced penetration aids were ejected out of the missile¡¯s rear, and the Thunderbird projected thousands of adaptive false signals into the sensors of the enemy ship¡¯s point defense targeting system.


    None of it mattered. The missile¡¯s countermeasures were designed to defeat a much more capable enemy defense system: like the one on the ship that fired it in the first place. Had the Sruakrach been fully functional, its automated defenses would still not have a chance of reacting in time.


    The missile¡¯s warhead mechanically detonated its shaped charge to clear out any possible explosive reactive armor on the exterior of the target. There were none there, and it merely cracked a thousand holes in the outer hull of the enemy ship, but the missile did not care. The missile had cost the Navy fifty million credits, so its on-board super-Terran intelligence chip decided it was going to use all fifty million credits¡¯ worth of its capabilities.


    The missile¡¯s secondary high-explosive charge detonated against the ship armor, perforating the alien ceramic composite material through its spaced armor and exposing the interior compartments to vacuum.


    And before the ship¡¯s atmosphere could begin to escape the now exposed hull, the two-thousand-kilogram tertiary and main warhead activated, sending a jet of molten plasma towards the direction of the reactor. Before it melted itself to slag to prevent possible retrieval, the Thunderbird¡¯s intelligence chip noted that the alien armor was slightly less robust than it expected. The plasma jet entered the reactor chamber about four centimeters off from where it had predicted.


    Oh well, better luck next time, it thought with its dying CPU cycles.


    Unfortunately for the Sruakrach and its crew of five hundred Znosians, this inaccuracy was more an intellectual curiosity than one with any practical consequence. Her reactor violently overloaded, and the Sruakrach ceased to exist as a singular, contiguous structure within milliseconds.


    Then, the second Thunderbird completed its blink. Its sophisticated next-generation sensors initially only saw an expanding cloud of metallic debris. Taking another precious millisecond to filter out any possible decoys or alien tricks, it identified the largest piece of remaining debris to be a portion of its armored bridge.


    For yet another brief moment, it contemplated going dormant and waiting for retrieval or perhaps hoping another enemy ship would show up to become a target. But it quickly decided that the potential risk of detection or capture was too great to justify modifying its original directives. Sensing no other enemy ships within its range, the missile¡¯s onboard intelligence chip shrugged its digital shoulders. It reasoned that for being so expensive ¡ª its unit cost that of a new elementary school in a developed district¡­ the missile decided that its employers and Republic taxpayers deserved at least a spectacular fireworks show.


    It was unlikely that anyone on the depressurized, disconnected Sruakrach bridge had survived the initial reactor explosion, but if they did and happened to be looking out through its physical portholes, they might have seen the second Thunderbird also ejecting its massive plasma payload in their general direction before they were disintegrated.


    <hr>


    ¡°FTL burst from the second missile confirms that the Thunderbird strike was successful,¡± Carla announced the results from her console. ¡°Gravidar sensor readings show signatures consistent with an expanding debris field.¡±


    Amelia let out a long-held breath. The biggest worry had been that the observer ship outside the system limit might sense that something was wrong and just flee back to Znosian space. To prevent that, she¡¯d ordered the Thunderbird to target them first, making sure not a single soul was left to tell the tale.


    ¡°One down,¡± Amelia said. ¡°Five more to go. Tell Captain Harris we can play this our way. We¡¯ve got time on our side now.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Is Bandit Alpha still on course to intercept the Pesmod?¡±


    ¡°Looks like it. Electronic warfare reports that they¡¯ve been desperately trying to call home for a good while now. They¡¯ll see their ship explosion in a couple hours when the radar signals reach.¡±


    ¡°Things are about to get real exciting over there then.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Zvontru</h2>


    ¡°Something does not feel right,¡± Atluftrosh hissed, his whiskers twitching with unease. ¡°Out of our five ships here, no one has a working FTL radio?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what it appears, Eight Whiskers. We jointly take full responsibility¡ª¡±


    The communication officer interrupted the maintenance officer. ¡°Hold on! Eight Whiskers, the Sruakrach just reported in from the system blink limit: their FTL radio is malfunctioning as well. With the speed of light delay, this must have been over two hours ago.¡±


    A cold shiver crawled up Atluftrosh¡¯s spine. Suddenly feeling vulnerable, Atluftrosh asked, ¡°What does the combat computer recommend?¡±


    ¡°It says to continue our current mission and return to Gruccud to report the defects immediately after the current mission is completed.¡±


    Atluftrosh hesitated. His gut is screaming at him, warning of a dozen different nightmare scenarios, but the combat computer is rarely wrong. Then again, Ditvish did also asked him to be prepared to make tough calls without direction.


    He decided to compromise. ¡°Do as it say but boost our sensors. I will take full responsibility for this.¡±


    ¡°Boosting sensors, Eight¡ª Wait a second¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on, Sensor Officer?¡± Atluftrosh snapped.


    ¡°We¡¯re picking up a strong radiation spike from near the Sruakrach¡¯s last known position¡­ The radioactive atoms collected by our sensors match the profile of one of our ship reactors. I think she has been destroyed, Eight Whiskers¡­ No lifepod signals on the sensors.¡±


    ¡°When was this?!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re about two light hours out, and we just got the signal so¡­ about two hours ago.¡±


    An uneasy silence spread across the bridge.


    Atluftrosh¡¯s voice was low. ¡°Combat computer! What¡¯s going on here?¡±


    ¡°It is uncertain, Eight Whiskers. It thinks there is a chance the Sruakrach was sabotaged by Malgeir infiltrators at Gruccud and was programmed to self-destruct upon contact with the enemy.¡±


    Atluftrosh pondered the possibility for a moment. ¡°That could explain why her avionics were experiencing issues. What about our FTL radios? Were our ships sabotaged as well?!¡±


    ¡°It ran a diagnosis. We are not experiencing any of the other issues the Sruakrach did, Eight Whiskers. Only the FTL radios are malfunctioning.¡±


    Still, the unease in his stomach did not resolve itself. ¡°But all of them? Huh. Ask the computer how far we are from the surviving Malgeir non-combat ship.¡±


    ¡°The non-combat ship has a low acceleration profile. It is a civilian ship. We are almost within striking distance. There¡¯s a non-negligible chance we can catch it before it reaches the system limit, Eight Whiskers, and the risk is lower. It speculates that this ship may have great intelligence significance and repeats the original guidance to capture its crew and contents intact.¡±


    Atluftrosh clenched his paw. ¡°Do it. We¡¯ll come back for the lifepods and the Sruakrach later. Continue the full combat burn.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 37 | Our Fight

    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    ¡°Captain Pliont, are we going to be able to reach the system blink limit before they get in range to fire?¡± Grionc asked with some urgency.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± his eyes darted to the radar, then back to Grionc. ¡°We¡¯re a diplomatic ship, not a racer. And the range that they fired those missiles at our escorts earlier was much higher than I¡¯ve ever seen in my time in service.¡±


    Reminded of the loss of eight perfectly good Malgeir Navy ships and hundreds if not thousands of spacers for no strategically justifiable reason, Grionc felt a flash of pain, followed by a burst of anger. But she forced herself to shelve those emotions; staying alive was the priority now. ¡°Are the Terrans still hiding? What are they planning next?¡±


    Speinfoent chimed in worriedly. ¡°Do you think Amelia will just abandon us in the middle of this mess?¡±


    Grionc shook her ears. ¡°No, even if she didn¡¯t want a battle here, our dead escorts have seen their home system and the spacers who are now ejecting from them know too much. There¡¯s no way they can afford allowing them to fall into Znosian hands.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we should attempt to reach the disabled escorts again. There might still be someone aboard, still in a position to trigger their self-destruct sequences¡ª¡±


    Pliont shot up from his chair as the sensor screen flashed with new data. He declared descriptively, ¡°Something is happening!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Birtevrut</h2>


    After switching places with the now dead Sruakrach, the Znosian ship Birtevrut was placed on the perimeter of the raiding force. When the Fluffle Commander Atluftrosh gave the order to chase down the final Malgeir ship, its bridge crew was elated: they would be the first in range of her and would likely get to fire the killing blow. With the two kills achieved earlier and another two kills in a previous raid, she was going to have the chance to make ace today.


    That was¡­ until a pre-programmed, drifting Kestrel anti-ship missile she was passing went live, activated its boosters, and slammed into her side, opening a chunk of her hull into vacuum.


    A large, important chunk.


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Zvontru</h2>


    The bridge tensed as Atluftrosh stabbed a button on his console to silence the alarm.


    ¡°Eight Whiskers! Captain Ktotssu of the Birtevrut is reporting that her ship has been disabled. The reactor had to be emergency rejected. The bridge has lost all primary power. Every critical compartment has been breached, and they can¡¯t seal. Propulsion and life support are disabled and irreparable. They are combat ineffective and there have been significant casualties. Dozens of her spacers are injured with an unknown number killed. The remaining are abandoning ship.¡±


    ¡°What?! Was this predator sabotage too?¡±


    ¡°No, Eight Whiskers. Ktotssu said their sensors picked up an incoming missile just milliseconds before it smashed into them. No time to defend against it.¡±


    ¡°A missile?¡± Atluftrosh echoed. ¡°Was it a trick from one of the Malgeir ships we killed?¡±


    ¡°Combat computer is uncertain but sees no other possibilities. It recommends we be on the lookout for more nasty surprises from the predators.¡±


    ¡°Do as it says, Sensor Officer. Maximum sensors focused on our frontal arc. Let¡¯s not unnecessarily lose any more ships today.¡±


    Inside, Atluftrosh couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of regret. This otherwise successful raid will likely be seen as only a partial success by command. Losing two ships for eight enemies was not the worst trade-off, but the raiding fluffle was not even supposed to take any at all this early in their mission especially¡ª


    Just then, alarms wailed across the bridge like an angry predator in the night. Atluftrosh¡¯s eyes snapped to the sensor board on his console.


    ¡°Eight Whiskers, we¡¯ve got incoming!¡± the sensor officer shouted. ¡°Missiles spotted, two of them just lit up behind us! They¡¯re directly on an intercept course with the Stvilp!¡±


    As the deck rumbled with the sound of outgoing missiles, the weapons officer announced, ¡°Our ships are engaging countermeasures. Eight counter-missiles out against two; high probability of intercept given the vectors. We should be able to¡ª¡±


    Before he could finish, the sensor board exploded with a cloud of hundreds of new signals and targets in the vicinity of the incoming enemy missiles.


    ¡°What the hell did they do?! Sensors, can we find the missiles again?¡± Atluftrosh asked, his unease spiking.


    ¡°By the Prophecy, there¡¯s too many of them!¡± the officer cursed, her paws tapping away at her console, trying to find the right combination of tweaks and filters, hoping she would eliminate the false targets before the counter-missiles overshot their target¡­


    A few minutes later, as abruptly as they¡¯d appeared, the swarm of enemy markers vanished from the screen.


    As did one of their own.


    ¡°In the name of the Prophecy, what happened?¡± Atluftrosh demanded. His whiskers twitched with agitation.


    ¡°We have failed, Eight Whiskers,¡± she replied hoarsely. ¡°The Stvilp is no longer with us. It appears one of the missiles was a reactor hit. I take full responsibility for this error¡ª¡±


    ¡°Never mind that, Five Whiskers,¡± Atluftrosh practically roared at her. ¡°Where did those missiles come from?¡±


    She recalibrated the radar sensors, pointing them at the first known origin of the enemy missile. She muttered a short prayer to the Prophecy. As if in answer to her devotions, a blip appeared on the ship¡¯s main screen¡­ ¡°We¡¯re getting a faint return, Eight Whiskers, but there appears to be something there!¡±


    ¡°Transmit the location to the fluffle and engage it!¡± he ordered.


    With Znosian discipline and precision, twelve anti-ship missiles raced out from the raiding force¡¯s remaining three ships. They reached the designated target area. Each of them independently identified a match to the radar signature transmitted to them by the Zvontru. Like a flock of avenging beasts, they pounced on the target before detonating, peppering the target with shrapnel and high explosives.


    ¡°Did we get them?¡± Atluftrosh anxiously surveyed the silent bridge.


    The sensor officer hesitated, scanning the new data. ¡°I don¡¯t think so¡­ there is additional debris in the area, but¡­ it looks too sparse to be a real ship. And it didn¡¯t move enough from its original position¡­¡±


    ¡°What does the combat computer say?¡± Atluftrosh queried, knowing the answer in his heart already.


    ¡°The Digital Guide evaluates it most likely to be a new, unknown decoy type, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Break off the chase of the unarmed Malgeir ship. We¡¯re aborting. Make our way back to the system limit. There¡¯s something else out here,¡± Atluftrosh said, the unfamiliar sensation of fear fully washing over him. ¡°And keep sensors on maximum. Maybe we¡¯ll see them if we look hard enough.¡±


    <hr>


    An hour later, the shrill wail of the alarm pierced through the tension-filled atmosphere on the bridge again.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Missile incoming! Just one, it looks like Vzdosl is the target! Preparing to resolve decoys.¡±


    ¡°Transfer control of sensor resolution to the combat computer,¡± Atluftrosh ordered, gripping the arms of his chair as he mustered every ounce of calm. ¡°Coordinate with the computers on the Vzdosl and Stonrakst.¡±


    As expected, the single missile blossomed into dozens, then over a hundred false signals. Atluftrosh could see on the sensor board that even with the combined computing power of all three ships working in tandem and eliminating the false targets, it would probably not be enough. Too few dots were disappearing, and too many remained.


    Suddenly, an additional notification appeared on his console. Connection to Vzdosl and Stonrakst lost¡­ Attempting to re-establish¡­


    ¡°What¡¯s going on communications officer?¡± he asked urgently.


    ¡°I am¡­ not sure, Eight Whiskers¡­ we¡¯ve lost even our backup radio communications with the other ships! I have nothing but noise on every frequency!¡±


    ¡°Can we re-establish communications with the fluffle?¡± Atluftrosh asked urgently.


    The communication officer recalled her training, ¡°It is procedure to use light signals between ships when all other communication systems have failed, but that will only give us enough bandwidth for communication and command, not enough for target resolution. Adapting communications now¡ª¡±


    As abruptly as it had started, the alarms on the bridge cut off. A haunting moment of silence blanketed the room.


    ¡°Eight Whiskers,¡± the sensor officer squeaked, her voice tinged with sudden exhaustion and disbelief. ¡°The Vzdosl has been destroyed. Reactor hit. No lifepods. I take full responsibility¡ª¡±


    The computer officer interrupted the report with an urgent update. ¡°The Digital Guide has a new highest priority directive for us, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    Atluftrosh wordlessly pulled up the combat computer¡¯s output on his console:


    The Great Predators are here. Flee.


    <hr>


    <h2>MFS Pesmod</h2>


    The image of Amelia¡¯s face transmitted over the FTL radio appeared on Grionc¡¯s console. It was encased in a helmet, and Grionc could swear she saw water between the admiral¡¯s brows.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Grionc asked anxiously. ¡°Why are you in EVA suits? Was there a hull breach on your ship?¡±


    Amelia projected calm. ¡°We¡¯ve preemptively pumped the oxygen out and flooded the interiors with a flame-retardant atmospheric mix in case we do get hit. We¡¯re coming up on the enemy now. At least they¡¯ve stopped chasing you so you can get away even if we fail in our objective here.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s just two of them left,¡± Grionc observed. ¡°That decoy trick was neat. I¡¯m going to have to remember that one.¡±


    ¡°Heh. That wasn¡¯t my idea. Captain Harris is in control. I¡¯m just a passenger in the backseat now.¡±


    Grionc frowned at her sensors. ¡°It looks like the Grass¡ª Znosians are going to attempt to run away now.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve probably figured out what we are. Unfortunately, we are a recon ship, not a full combat ship, and we¡¯ve just used up our last anti-ship missiles. And McMurdo is too far away for a rearm.¡±


    Recon? I don¡¯t think they use that word the same way we do.


    ¡°So what¡¯s the plan?¡± Grionc asked.


    ¡°We are trying to get close enough to hit them with our kinetics. But that¡¯s not a problem. As you¡¯ve noticed, there¡¯s only two of them left.¡±


    Get close enough to hit them with kinetics?


    Grionc took one look at the primal expression on the admiral¡¯s face and shivered. That raw look of hunger was alien, but not that alien. If she had any lingering doubts as to what role the Terrans¡¯ ancestors had played in their home world¡¯s food chain before their discovery of fire and tools, it was wiped away in that instant.


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    Insulated from the non-oxygenated atmosphere outside, Chuck¡¯s mind focused on the vibrations of the ship¡¯s engines and machinery and the own controlled breathing in his combat helmet. On his console screen, he saw the Mississippi utilizing its experimental thrusters to try to align itself with the remaining two bandits who were sticking close together clearly in hopes that their overlapping point defense coverage will improve their survivability. ¡°How are we on the firing solution, XO?¡±


    Commander Samantha Lee replied through the internal helmet radio, ¡°CIC is trying to get a good alignment on the two ships so we can take them both out in one volley.¡±


    ¡°That sounds¡­ ambitious. Should we get closer?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Captain, we¡¯re already risking being detected by their close-range infrared and visual sensors at this distance. If they rigged up some starlight occlusion program¡ª¡±


    ¡°Understood, XO. Engage if you think we¡¯ve got a good shot. If we can take both out at once, do it. If not, I¡¯d put the money on us in a head-on knife fight with just one of them too, even if they still have their missiles.¡±


    ¡°Roger,¡± she replied, then added after a moment, ¡°And, Captain, that¡¯s a bad bet. I wouldn¡¯t be able to collect if you¡¯re wrong.¡±


    Chuck swallowed a smug reply. There would be more time for that later.


    He did not have to wait long.


    The targeting panel turned green, indicating the computer had calculated a good enough solution. It was now or never¡ª


    ¡°Firing solution acquired.¡± His XO¡¯s voice came back on the radio as the increased vibrations of the inertial compensators could be felt through the decks of the ship. ¡°Thrusters to full combat burn to get us into position, and targeting to engage when the CIC computers¡ª¡±


    The deck thundered as the ship¡¯s internal gun bays snapped opened and unleashed a hail of kinetic death at the now lined up enemy ships. Even the lights on the bridge dimmed momentarily; the reactor struggled at the monumental power draw requirements as its capacitors discharged instantly. In a half-second, thousands of orange-sized depleted uranium projectiles were propelled by the ships¡¯ magnetic rails towards the last two ships of Bandit Alpha.


    The first target instantly detonated under the onslaught without a chance to react, spewing its guts in all directions.


    Several hundred remaining projectiles passed through the empty space where she was and hit the second, staggering the final and largest ship of the formation. The Zvontru lost primary power; debris and atmosphere streamed from the dozens of new fruit-sized holes in her hull.


    Samantha reported triumphantly to the crew quietly cheering in their own helmets, ¡°One down and the last one¡¯s dead in the water. Reloading the spinal magazine for another volley¡­¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS Zvontru</h2>


    ¡°Primary power systems disabled. Secondary power systems disabled. Emergency generators failing. Life support disabled. Propulsion disabled. Blink drive¡ª¡±


    The bridge announcer and klaxon systems ceased their warnings as they, too, finally succumbed to the power loss.


    Atluftrosh tasted blood and metal on his tongue as he struggled to his walking paws, feeling a stab of pain in his head with every effort. Smoke filled the air on the bridge as automatic fire extinguishers attempted to stop the spread of several flames. A single glance told him it was going to be a hopeless battle. The inferno had already consumed the navigation station, its duty officer slumped unconsciously over the station.


    A crew member he did not recognize in his concussed state ran towards him, putting her arms and paws around his waist in support. ¡°Eight Whiskers, we have to get you to a lifepod!¡±


    Atluftrosh shook his head and shoved her to the floor, then half limped towards his command chair. Miraculously, his console was still lit up with the last few ounces of juice in its emergency battery reserves. He engaged the exterior cameras, which had automatically directed their attentions to their assailant: an unnaturally dark ship hanging in space just thousands of kilometers away. The cameras visibly struggled to keep it in their views as the enemy preemptively launched decoys and countermeasures to confuse its dying prey¡¯s targeting and automatic defense systems.


    With his vision blurring, he labored to operate the controls for the Zvontru on his console, powering through the intensifying agony in his head with sheer determination and well-trained, well-bred instincts. Surely, there was still a battery or missile launcher somewhere near the aft that was still operational that he could operate remotely from the bridge¡ª


    On the optic, a bright flash emanated from the belly of the enemy beast, washing out the entire image to white. As the infrared cameras quickly adjusted to the sudden thermal bloom, he saw that the glowing barrel of his executioners¡¯ railguns had just discharged another massive stream of explosive slugs towards his crippled ship.


    Eight Whiskers Atluftrosh had just enough time to close his eyes to begin coughing out the Prayer of Death. ¡°My eternal gratitude to the Prophecy for this insignificant life of service. May It prevail through the will of others¡ª¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    The last enemy ship on the screen detonated, its white-hot infrared signature washing out their camera¡¯s vision.


    ¡°Admiral, all bandits out of commission,¡± Chuck reported as the ship¡¯s sensors reverted to non-visual sensors to confirm the final kill.


    Amelia¡¯s pleased voice came back in his headset. ¡°Excellent work, Captain. You just made ace-in-a-day, first in¡­ decades, I think. You can lift EMCOM now and restore the ship¡¯s atmosphere. Contact McMurdo to commence search and rescue. And let the Puppers know we¡¯ll meet them on McMurdo.¡±


    ¡°Understood. Are we¡­ taking Znosian prisoners?¡±


    ¡°Yes, after we tend to the Malgeir spacers. We¡¯ll have a few weeks before the Bunnies come looking. Once our quick response force gets here from Sol, we¡¯ll need them to tow the enemy hulls and as much debris as possible into the McMurdo-6 gravity well, so let¡¯s try not to create too much more of that¡­¡± Amelia let her voice trail off.


    ¡°What about the disabled Malgeir ships?¡± Chuck asked.


    ¡°Those¡­ will need to go too. We can¡¯t leave them lying around. If they can¡¯t fly out of here by the end of the week, they get disposed of¡­ I¡¯ll let their Fleet Commander know myself,¡± she replied.


    ¡°She won¡¯t be happy,¡± he observed.


    ¡°Neither am I, but at least we got the damn Buns. And if we¡¯re lucky, we¡¯ll give them quite a mystery when they come back to investigate. Oh, and Chuck, get our computers to send a sanitized copy of the sensor and communication recordings to the Pesmod. To make sure the Pup big wigs don¡¯t try to pin the blame for this disaster on the one person over there who isn¡¯t responsible for this disaster¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 38 | Leadership

    <h2>Eighth Fleet</h2>


    2 years, 10 months ago


    Fleet Commander Raulur peered deeply into her own dark red eyes, reflected in the shimmering glass of the ship¡¯s bridge windows. Her gaze was tired, almost like looking at a stranger¡¯s. The occasional twinkle of far-off stars in the inky void of space seemed to only emphasize the deep exhaustion that weighed down her eyes.


    Her crew was as loyal and disciplined as they come, but even they couldn¡¯t hide the shadow of despair that crept into their own eyes. It wasn¡¯t just a fight anymore; they were losing loved ones, entire communities, and whole worlds to the relentless enemy. Years of ceaseless war had chiseled away at them, leaving scars not just on their bodies but on their very souls. Raulur felt it deep within her, this heavy weight of command, haunted by the faces of those she¡¯d lost in far-off systems with names she could barely pronounce.


    She was there at Gructons. At Pestra, twice. And then at Grantor.


    Now the enemy was knocking at their very door: Gruccud.


    Not just at their door, Raulur corrected herself, they¡¯d already kicked it down.


    Just a month ago, they¡¯d seized control of the planet¡¯s orbits. Now they were busy making themselves cozy on Gruccud¡¯s lush farmlands and serene beaches. Raulur had vacationed there once, at a luxurious resort nestled near the equator where golden sand met tranquil waters. She¡¯d even dreamed of having her wedding there, in the days before this never-ending war. But the latest report shattered that image. Satellite footage showed enemy troops, garbed in their menacing armor, unleashing a rain of fire on defensive trenches, wiping out the brave souls who dared to resist to the last.


    And then there were those massive construction ships, looming ominously as they descended from the depths of space. The Grass Eaters¡¯ plans were to remake the planet, converting it into one of their war machine factories, with her remaining people being used as a temporary, disposable forced labor. She didn¡¯t want to think about their plans after.


    And not if she could do something about it.


    Shaking off her momentary reverie, Raulur sank back into the plush leather of her command chair. Her eyes darted to the countdown displayed on her console: eleven minutes.


    ¡°Eleven minutes to blink exit,¡± she announced, her voice laced with authority. ¡°All spacers to battle stations.¡±


    Her flag captain glanced nervously at her. ¡°Fleet Commander, I thought Naval Intelligence said the Grass Eater combat fleet has already vacated the system.¡±


    Her eyes narrowed as she locked onto his gaze. ¡°Alpha Leader, I am sure that was roughly what they said to Third Fleet last year and look where they are now. Get the ship ready for combat and don¡¯t make me ask twice about anything ever again.¡±


    <hr>


    As expected, there were no Grass Eaters waiting for them at the blink exit. After a chaotic hour of reshuffling and synchronizing, the battle fleet was finally in formation and primed for action.


    ¡°Sensors, what do we see?¡± Raulur asked.


    ¡°Just orbital fire support ships over Gruccud, ma¡¯am. Sixteen as far as we can detect. No space combat ships as far as we can tell,¡± her flag captain reported.


    ¡°Good. Navigation, get us in range to fire on them.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Fleet Commander.¡±


    No more than ten minutes later, the klaxons wailed throughout the ship, screaming an immediate threat.


    ¡°We just got lit by an Znosian active radar at close range, Fleet Commander!¡±


    ¡°Where is it?¡± she snapped back urgently.


    ¡°Point two four light seconds to our bow, two degrees above the system limit plane¡­¡±


    ¡°Never mind that. Forget the coordinates, just light it up!¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am,¡± the tactical officer replied. A volley of missiles roared out of their launch tubes, streaking toward the mysterious radar source. Then, she frowned at the sensor board. ¡°Fleet Commander, I think that¡¯s not a ship: it hasn¡¯t moved at all.¡±


    ¡°Get me eyes on that thing, Sensor Officer,¡± Raulur ordered. ¡°It¡¯s almost close enough for us to touch it, I want to see¡ª¡±


    Her command was cut off by the thunderous boom of the ship¡¯s automated point-defense systems.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Raulur barked.


    ¡°Fleet Commander, Squadrons 3, 5, and 11 are reporting losses. Two ships lost in Three, three ships lost in Five with two damaged, one ship damaged in Eleven!¡±


    ¡°What?! Losses? What did they get hit by?¡±


    ¡°Missiles, ma¡¯am. Launched from the direction of that active radar. Our sensors didn¡¯t catch them until the last possible second. Patching into the visuals now.¡±


    Raulur watched on her console as the imagery came up: it was a smoothly cylindrical space¡­ station, about the volume of a small racing cutter or a personal transport shuttle, floating eerily in the cold void of space. There were no exterior lights nor any signs that it was operational, except from its active radar pulses that lit up their fleet. She could clearly see the sixteen vacant missile bays that had just wreaked havoc on her fleet.


    Seconds later, one of their own missiles made contact, vaporizing the¡­ device¡­ into space dust.


    ¡°Have a ship from Five conduct search and rescue on our ships.¡±


    A fresh voice crackled over the communication network. ¡°This is Squadron 6 Leader Uintrei to all ships in the fleet, boost all sensors to maximum range. I don¡¯t know what these are, but there must be more of these out here, acting as some kind of¡­ space¡­ mine.¡±


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Raulur¡¯s fur bristled at the squadron leader. She was irked by the breakdown in discipline, but she knew Uintrei had a point.


    ¡°Keep the comms clear,¡± Raulur cut in through the comms. ¡°But do what the squadron leader said. Scan for these¡­ space mines.¡±


    Sure enough, about five minutes later, one of her ships pinged a confirmation they¡¯d spotted a similar signature.


    ¡°Fleet Commander Raulur, our thermal sensors just picked up another one of those things. It¡¯s lurking one light-second away. Projecting it on your screen now.¡±


    ¡°Fire at will!¡± Raulur barked as her console flickered to life, showing the real-time thermal image of the suspicious object.


    Missiles roared out of the launch bays, their radar seekers locking onto what they identified as a Grass Eater space mine. She cringed as the station responded almost immediately. All sixteen enemy missiles visibly ejected from their launch tubes. Her ship¡¯s klaxon blared, signaling the activation of the enemy¡¯s radar seekers.


    ¡°Defensive maneuvers, countermeasures out!¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    This time, the entire Eighth Fleet was ready for the threat. Their boosted sensors tracked the projectiles as they came in towards their ships. Barrages of chaff and flares erupted, confusing some of the enemy missiles and sending them spiraling into deep space, safely away from the fleet.


    As Raulur watched, the mine-like station was hit first. Its active radar guidance no longer assisting, the remaining enemy missiles struggled. Most reverted to their visual sensors for terminal maneuvers. Some lost their targets entirely, exploding prematurely or going dumb. A few came into range of the point defense but met their end under the vigilant fire of the Eighth Fleet¡¯s point defense systems.


    ¡°Status report,¡± Raulur demanded.


    ¡°The fleet¡¯s reported in, Fleet Commander. We¡¯re all intact, but a proximity hit took out some systems on a ship in Squadron 2.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am, Squadron Leader Uintrei has sent another message.¡±


    Raulur sighed. ¡°What does she want this time?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s recommending that we switch to railguns for taking out these mines. That way we don¡¯t light them up with active radar and warn them that that we¡¯re aware of their position.¡±


    Despite disliking the repeated breach in protocol, Raulur knew the annoying squadron leader had another point.


    She reluctantly nodded. ¡°Do what she says.¡±


    Her communications officer hesitated before adding, ¡°Uintrei also suggests we back off and try to recon these mines first with recon shuttles before we go further into the system. She says they could be a much bigger danger than we are treating them as right now if the Grass Eaters have more.¡±


    Raulur huffed in disbelief. ¡°What nonsense! We are here to take Gruccud back, not observe from a distance. Tell her to stop making these armchair suggestions, mind her own squadron, and remind her who is the Fleet Commander here.¡±


    <hr>


    It soon became abundantly clear that the Znosians had more of those lethal mines. A lot more.


    They began to appear in pairs and trios. Then, dozens.


    Losses mounted.


    ¡°Fleet Commander Raulur, we just lost Squadron 11. We can¡¯t take much more losses like that!¡± the tactical officer commented, his voice tinged with a hint of panic.


    ¡°How far are we to the planet?¡± Raulur asked, her eyes fixated on the planet.


    ¡°We¡¯re not close enough. If we fire now, those orbital ships will just see the missiles coming and duck into the atmosphere for cover. And there¡¯s no way we get close enough for¡ª¡±


    Raulur shot him a dirty look. ¡°I asked how far, not for your commentary, Tactical Officer. If you have a problem with that, you may file a formal complaint, but I can assure you that it will not be pleasant for your career.¡±


    The communication officer reported quietly, ¡°I¡¯ve got another warning from Squadron Leader Uintrei, urging us to back off from¡ª¡±


    Raulur cut her off. She¡¯s had it with the squadron leader. ¡°Order Uintrei¡¯s ship out of formation. If they are so scared of the Grass Eaters, they can sit this one out¡ª¡±


    Just then, the sharp wail of the active radar detection alarm sliced through the tension on the bridge.


    ¡°Four space mines to the starboard, right on the elliptical. They¡¯re firing missiles!¡± the tactical officer reported. ¡°Ma¡¯am, we should turn back now.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t going to give up on our own people, Tactical Officer. That is enough from any of you! One more word and I¡¯ll have you court martialed for defeatism. Countermeasures out for the incoming missiles, and one shot for each of those cursed stations! Forward, we are retaking Gruccud today!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Terran Republic Navy After Action Report</h2>


    Top Secret // ORCON: Task Force Frontier Security // Restricted Data // Special Access Required: Royal Ranger // [Redacted]


    Do not remove this document outside of authorized facilities. Unauthorized disclosure or distribution of this document will result in legal penalties, including imprisonment up to life. If you believe you have inadvertently come into possession of this document, immediately notify your nearest Republic information security authority on a secured line. Do not destroy the document unless specifically instructed to.


    This report and its contents are not eligible for coverage under the Whistleblower Amnesty Law, the Freedom of Information Act, or the Republic Reform Amendment.


    Subject


    Observations of the Malgeir Federation Navy attempted counterattack against Znosian-occupied system Gruccud


    Opposing Forces


    Malgeir: Eighth Fleet (understrength): 1 Husky-class Battleship, 6 Rover-class Battlecruisers, and 104 Shepherd-class Destroyers.


    Znosian: Zero combat ships, 16 orbital support ships, and at least 2,804 space mines (full sample acquired, specifications attached, Appendix 1).


    Result


    Significant personnel and ship losses for Malgeir Eighth Fleet with no strategic gain, including its flagship and presumably its entire fleet command staff, after running directly into a Znosian space minefield.


    Zero casualties for the Znosian fleet. Negligible munition expenditure.


    Full list of equipment losses in Section 1.


    Implications


    Complete loss of Malgeir operational capability in ¡°northern wing¡± of the Malgeir agricultural belt.


    Eighth Fleet will take months to years to reconstitute. Communication intercepts (Appendix 2) suggest their Fleet Council intends to blame this outcome on the officer who correctly called for retreat to avert disaster. Officer shows promise, profile attached (Appendix 3). Znosian control of Gruccud will be strengthened in the short term.


    Malgeir position at Uidquu (shipyard) has become increasingly untenable and will likely fall within the next year. Simulation results attached (Appendix 4).


    Datsot has been uncovered and may be targeted next, depending on which front the Znosians prioritize.


    Full impact analysis in Section 2.


    Recommendations


    Develop options for clandestine assistance of Malgeir Navy to preserve their combat capabilities and territorial integrity to enhance Republic security:


    The Republic Navy is retiring two obsolete minesweepers from service next year. The sensitive technologies on the ship have been stripped. Covert transfer of these ships to the Malgeir Navy may be possible with little effort and budget.


    Additionally, the Malgeir naval officer corps are in desperate need of additional training and better recruitment. Assistance in this area may also be provided without significant expenditure of resources. Financial analysis conducted by Navy Budget Office attached (Appendix 5).


    Full recommendations in Section 3.


    Observer


    Republic Navy, Rear Admiral Amelia Waters, 2120-12-06


    Reviewer comments


    Observations have been noted. Atlas Naval Command concurs. Recommendations reported to and rejected by Senate Naval Oversight Committee (vote: 4-8). Vote result attached (Addendum 1).


    Good work and congratulations on your upcoming promotion, Vice Admiral Amelia Waters. But apologies in advance to you and your crews about not being able to celebrate the holidays in Sol. Your task force is needed in another system next month, some Malgeir mining backwater named Oettro.


    Full coordinates and mission details to follow.


    Top Secret // ORCON: Task Force Frontier Security // Restricted Data // Special Access Required: Royal Ranger // [Redacted]


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    Uintrei will return.

 First Strike - Chapter 39 | Outliers II

    <h2>Grantor</h2>


    State Security Officer Svatken took a final, lingering look at her minimalist desk. With quick, practiced motions, she stuffed the few items she owned into her backpack in preparation for her next assignment. The Znosian species wasn¡¯t one that valued private ownership and frivolous sentimentality, and she was no exception. The drive to possess large collections of such useless trinkets was merely a defect suffered by predator races. It was much more efficient this way, and Svatken appreciated efficiency.


    Across the room, her assigned aide, Fstrofcho, was hunched over his glowing console, his paw dancing over the control keys, engrossed in some administrative task or another.


    Fstrofcho¡¯s bloodline produced specimens known for their loyalty, attention to detail, and memory. Not their charming personalities or reasoning skills. Not an outlier, like her. Svatken didn¡¯t object: not everyone could be worthy of being a leader. Fstrofcho did his job and she asked nothing more from him.


    She was contemplating whether it would be worth bringing him along to her next assignment when his console emitted a soft, urgent beep.


    ¡°Who is that?¡± Svatken demanded.


    ¡°Redirect from the Grantor Security Station,¡± her attendant replied, his eyes scanning the text scrolling across his console. ¡°Last year, you requested to be informed when Potential Outliers ever contacted them again. This one is flagged as: probable.¡±


    ¡°Patch them through to me,¡± she ordered.


    Svatken adjusted her comm device, her claws deftly activating the secure line. ¡°Hello, Grantor Security Station here,¡± she lied. ¡°How may I help you?¡±


    ¡°Grantor, this is Ten Whiskers Ditvish from the fleet at Gruccud. Please connect me to your Director now,¡± came a pleasant but firm voice over the line.


    ¡°This is her. You may direct your concerns to me,¡± Svatken replied, wondering what this outlier-flagged Naval officer was up to.


    ¡°Interesting. I was under the impression that your Station Director was a male.¡±


    Without uttering a word, Svatken flicked her well-trimmed claws in a quick, upward motion at Fstrofcho. He dutifully upgraded the Ten Whisker¡¯s status from Probable Outlier to Likely Outlier on his console. The Grantor Station director was indeed a male, and a na?ve one at that, which was why she was intercepting his calls for his own good. As she was authorized to do in her capacity as State Security¡¯s ranking officer here.


    ¡°Your assumption is improper, Ten Whiskers Ditvish. I am the Director here. What was it you wished to discuss with me?¡± she replied, her voice laced with an air of practiced patience.


    There was a momentary silence on the other end. But he recovered admirably, as a closeted outlier would. He continued in an almost groveling tone, ¡°Oh, my deepest apologies, Director. I take full responsibility for my erroneous assumptions. Please forgive my imposition¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your responsibility is noted. Your purpose for this call was?¡± she snapped, resisting the urge to call up the Personnel Office to get his bloodline demoted for being annoying.


    ¡°Ah, r¡ªright,¡± Ditvish stammered, ¡°I have a most irregular matter to discuss with your security team. A raiding fluffle from my station has gone silent on a mission. They reported getting ready for an ambush, and then we received no further reports from the fluffle. A reconnaissance force sent into the system later found nothing except possible traces of debris.¡±


    ¡°The ships have been destroyed?¡± she asked, startled. Outlier officers were known for taking well-calculated risks, but few Znosian formations have been annihilated like that in this war. Very few. His use of the term ¡®gone silent¡¯ also raised some alarm bells in her head.


    ¡°They have not reported in, and there are possible signs of debris around their last known location. I can¡¯t be sure, but that is the most logical conclusion,¡± he elaborated.


    ¡°What does the Digital Guide say?¡± she asked, feeling her eyes narrow in suspicion.


    ¡°My combat computer¡ª uh Digital Guide¡ª came to this conclusion as well,¡± he replied. She noted his accidental use of secular language, another easy clue for his deviant nature. ¡°It suggests that the most likely outcome is sabotage.¡±


    ¡°Sabotage?¡± she echoed, wondering where the Navy officer was going with this.


    ¡°Exactly. Sabotage, station director,¡± he repeated. ¡°It speculates that our central maintenance facility in Grantor was unknowingly infiltrated by Malgeir forces. The six ships in the fluffle were possibly rigged to destroy themselves on some kind of delay¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ludicrous,¡± Svatken blurted, her mind racing. She knew the real director should take responsibility for this as any regular Znosian would when accused of such a blunder by a combat computer, but what he claimed was impossible. Under her careful watch, the Grantor pacification project was going exactly as planned. Incidents have been kept low, and there were no entry points for Malgeir infiltrators. In fact, there haven¡¯t been any reports of a similar operation from them, ever. And she had seen no such signs of a possible enemy penetration. Furthermore, to suggest such an event could occur near Grantor would imply responsibility not only on the actual director of its security, but also herself personally.


    While State Security operated outside the existing framework of regular Znosian society, such an intrusion within her purview would be a scandal.


    She steadied herself and explained, ¡°We have no other reports of such incidences, and we have been on high alert since Datsot. Our maintenance facilities are always kept under armed guard¡­ and even if such a thing were possible, it does not make sense that all the ships affected by such hypothetical saboteurs were from a single fluffle and no other ships in the fleet.¡±


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The ten whiskers clearly did not expect this answer instead of the habitual acceptance of responsibility.


    There was another pause before he replied, again craftily trying to divert responsibility. ¡°It is possible that the saboteurs rigged the ships to blow upon contact with Malgeir forces, with remote control, or it might be on some kind of time-based trigger. It is also possible that the infiltration occurred at another facility, not your own¡ª¡±


    She cut him off mid-sentence. ¡°Is this your own speculation or from the Digital Guide?¡±


    ¡°It is my speculation, Director,¡± he admitted reluctantly. She¡¯d expected as much from an outlier. It wasn¡¯t the worst impromptu guess either, but she was not about to let him know it.


    Svatken continued triumphantly, ¡°Exactly. If you asked your Digital Guide, Ten Whiskers, you would see why this is not possible. Besides, if such a thing has been done, it should be trivial to inspect your other ships to see if they have also been sabotaged as you claim.¡±


    ¡°We have inspected them. None of them appear to have been interfered with,¡± he conceded. ¡°But no other possibility comes to mind. The raiding fluffle was commanded by a competent commander I picked myself and crewed by experienced Znosian spacers. I am merely calling your office to see if the possibility exists that their ships have been sabotaged at your facility or perhaps another facility with a method we cannot detect.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Ten Whiskers Ditvish. It is clear that you know as well as I do that no such possibility exists. Instead of blaming this or ¡ª when I caught you attempting so ¡ª diverting responsibility to another station. For an error of this magnitude, a truly loyal adherent of the Prophecy would take full responsibility for this setback and examine whether they have misplaced their trust in the wrong officers and ships. Or humbly ask the Digital Guide for suggestions on additional procedures to ensure such a disaster would not re-occur.¡±


    Ditvish sounded appropriately chastised. ¡°Yes, Director. I see that now, and I take full responsibility for my errors in judgement.¡±


    ¡°As you should. As a ten whiskers officer of the Znosian Navy, you must set a good example for your subordinates. As for the matter of your missing fluffle, I will personally take charge of its investigation from now on.¡±


    He started to protest, ¡°Director, that will not be necessary. We should not bother you with such trivialities beneath¡ª¡±


    She cut him off again. ¡°Ten Whiskers, you have done enough. Make no mistake: your objectivity is in question, and I am taking over to finish where you have failed.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡ª I understand, uh¡ª Station Director.¡±


    ¡°Send over all relevant orders, directives, files, records, and notes ¡ª all documentation ¡ª of this incident to my office. And do not even think about attempting to interfere with this investigation,¡± she warned, her eyes narrowing and her voice cold. ¡°I would not want to upgrade the working hypothesis of your potential responsibility from incompetence to minor apostasy.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Station Director. Rest assured, my office and all my subordinates would comply with any such investigation¡ª¡±


    She cut the communication.


    Fstrofcho looked at her expectantly. ¡°Should I alert the Office of Personnel¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, not yet. He knew that it was not sabotage. He was just trying to unload responsibility onto our gullible security Station Director. Typical outlier. To be fair to the cretin, the raiding fluffle disaster probably wasn¡¯t his fault either: our ships don¡¯t just go missing. In fact, only one similar case to this comes to mind, and it was under his command too. I just told him all that to get his compliance and get his ten curly whiskers off my back so I can investigate this case in peace.¡±


    Fstrofcho¡¯s whiskers twitched. ¡°Who should I assign responsibility to, then?¡± he asked without judgement.


    ¡°I will have to find out. This is a most peculiar scenario with potentially very unpleasant outcomes. Contact Znos, tell them that I am completing one last investigation here. I will be requisitioning an advanced reconnaissance ship from Grantor.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. I will complete and send out the requisition orders for the Grantor Pacification Fleet as well.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡±


    ¡°What about the upcoming Datsot offensive? They are already on the way. Should we recall the fleet?¡±


    She paused, giving Fstrofcho a surprised look. Had he always been this insightful? No, it must have been her positive influence on him. ¡°That is up to the Navy, and we have no compelling reason to veto it. For now. Most likely, they would continue. It¡¯s only a single lost fluffle and they should have more than enough ships remaining to defeat the incompetent Lesser Predators guarding the system. Like our ten whiskers said, they inspected their other ships for sabotage and found no signs. Hopefully, I am chasing ghosts, and this was a mere accident¡­¡±


    He nodded as she trailed off, his whiskers relaxing. ¡°I will temporarily withhold these details from the report to headquarters in case your investigation does not come up with more relevant intelligence.¡±


    Svatken nodded approvingly. She decided that maybe it wouldn¡¯t do her any harm to put in a good word for his bloodline at Personnel. Maybe they¡¯d even allow her to keep him for her next posting¡­


    <hr>


    <h2>Gruccud</h2>


    The Marine base was a sprawling facility, stretching over kilometers of arid desert terrain with rows upon rows of armored vehicles lined up beneath the gentle sun. At the center was a command tower that rose high above the surrounding buildings. It had massive windows from which officers could observe their students as they received their instructions and honed their skills among obstacles scattered around the area.


    At one end were newly constructed hangar bays where maintenance crews worked on keeping their equipment primed and ready for battle. Next to it were the barracks, a tight network of buildings that housed its thousands of Znosian Marines.


    Unlike the standard-issue infantry conscripts, Skhork had been training at the base for the upcoming operation for sixteen months. He was what his peers referred to as a ¡°whiskerborn¡±: his bloodline bred specifically for the purpose of his occupation: Armored Land Vehicle Crew Member. Compared to the average Znosian adult, his body build was slim but athletic, short and stout, perfectly suited for the cramped interiors of the vehicles of the Znosian Marines. His temperament was patient and thoughtful on the defensive, but bold and aggressive on the attack. The result of countless generations of breeding, his entire bloodline lived and died for the service, and they did so in the mechanical beasts of the Dominion, one generation after another.


    There were four Heavy Direct Assault Vehicles, or Longclaws as their crews referred to them, sitting on the tarmac: fully inspected, battle-ready, and awaiting transport.


    A combat experienced six whiskers, Skhork knew his war machine¡¯s crew like the back of his paw, in addition to the three other Longclaws under his command. Znosian doctrine called for strict de-individualization in the interiors of the vehicle for the sake of efficiency, so he no longer referred to them by their names but rather their roles: Driver, Gunner, Engineer, Controller. And they no longer knew him as Skhork, instead preferring to call him Commander or Longclaw Commander. And unlike the disposable infantry conscripts, his crews were a well-trained, well-oiled machine that lived and breathed their craft of death. They would be prepared for the battle to come.


    Skhork watched the Navy technicians load their Longclaws onto their transport ship destined for Datsot one by one. Four Longclaws. That was a lot of firepower and composite ceramics. He imagined the expressions on the faces of Lesser Predators that will be trampled beneath their anti-gravity engines.


    He shot a proud look back at the assembled crews and gave them a flat-toothy grin.


    ¡°Awoo?¡± he bellowed, his voice laced with anticipation.


    They roared back in perfect unison.


    ¡°Awoo awoo awoooooooo!¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 40 | Allies

    <h2>Malgeirgam, Malgeiru</h2>


    Grionc heaved her freshly earned medal into her duffel bag with less care than she might¡¯ve tossed a piece of scrap metal. It landed with a thud, a sound far too weighty for the flimsy honor it represented.


    Looking back, she really should¡¯ve seen it coming.


    The Navy had to explain why it lost more ships to the High Council, and there was no better way to do it than making heroes out of the survivors. They were honored, their participation in the ¡°victory¡± was not questioned, and the Navy didn¡¯t have to deal with the embarrassment of the truth. Even better that the incompetent commander who made the stupid decision didn¡¯t manage to stick around; no, he was a courageous martyr for the Malgeir people. What a story!


    Grionc considered publicly protesting that decision, but the Terrans cautioned her against it¡­ Euntribent had friends in high places. They recommended that she held her tongue until she regained command of Sixth Fleet, which was already going to be a difficult task; the newest victory opened doors, but politicking in the Fleet Council was never as simple as that.


    Luckily, she had the support of her former subordinates, for what that was worth to the Fleet Council anyway. The whole command staff of the Oengro rallied behind her, outside the decision chamber.


    ¡°Your reinstatement hearing is in ten minutes. I hope you are ready,¡± Vastae¡¯s voice cut through her thoughts as she turned to find him in the crowd.


    The Fleet Council¡¯s snail-paced decision-making had worked in her favor for once. Due to a disagreement between the Home Fleet Commander and a couple of other ambitious officers who also had friends in high places, Sixth Fleet still did not have a Fleet Commander months after she was stripped of command.


    The committee, nine rotating Fleet Council members tasked with selecting a new commander, hadn¡¯t yet settled on a candidate yet. Rumor had it, though, some hopefuls were on the brink of securing enough votes.


    ¡°Did you do your research on the committee as I asked?¡± Grionc asked, eyes sharp.


    ¡°Yes, Fleet Command¡ª ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae corrected himself, beaming the files to her datapad. ¡°We¡¯ve got the files on all nine members.¡±


    She scrolled through the data with swift, practiced flicks of her wrist. The bulk of the information was just a repeat of what the Terrans had covertly handed to her, but there were pieces here and there that didn¡¯t quite match up. Officially, the identities of the committee members were supposed to be a secret, but they were one of the worst kept secrets on Malgeiru. The Terrans certainly had no problems finding out who they were.


    Vastae leaned in, his voice a low murmur. ¡°You can count on three votes right away. That¡¯s committee members 2, 5, and 9. They¡¯ve somehow managed to keep their snouts above the stink of the Fleet Council, and they will make the decision based on competence. You are by far more qualified than any other applicant, so they will probably vote for you if you demonstrate your qualifications.¡±


    Grionc nodded a quick thank-you, glad for his faith in her. Though she couldn¡¯t fault their methods, the week she spent with the Terrans had not been the best for her self-confidence.


    Vastae continued, ¡°That¡¯s about all the good news there is. Member 8 will vote for whoever pays them the most, and well¡­ we¡¯ve already spent every credit we had left in the Sixth Fleet¡¯s general fund to get you an expedited hearing, so there¡¯s not much we can do about their vote.¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have,¡± she mumbled softly.


    Vastae waved her comment off and plowed on. ¡°Of the remaining, members 1 and 3 are relatives of the Home Fleet Commander, whose nephew is one of the other candidates.¡±


    ¡°I suppose there¡¯s no chance I can convince them on the merits of my case either?¡±


    Vastae grinned momentarily at her joke. ¡°Unfortunately not. And more bad news is we¡¯re pretty sure members 4 and 6 are dining at the Home Fleet Commander¡¯s table now too. Or at least that¡¯s what we heard last night.¡±


    ¡°So that leaves committee member number 7. What¡¯s their deal?¡± Grionc¡¯s eyes flicked to the last unknown.


    ¡°They¡¯re backing a special interest: the Granti remnant population. Their Navy-in-exile put up a candidate too, but I don¡¯t think they¡¯re being too serious about it. Just throwing one of theirs in the ring for show.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like I can sway them if I make some concessions to the Granti? Maybe give one of them a squadron command position? That¡¯s not a bad idea anyway. We can certainly try to reconstitute Squadron 4 after what happened to their ships over Datsot¡ª¡±


    Vastae shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Could be worth a try. This is my first time dipping my paws into these treacherous waters and let me just say I¡¯m not finding it an enjoyable experience so far.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough, Vastae,¡± Grionc acknowledged. ¡°But even if I can pull member 7 to my side, and I get the three that you think will vote for me on merit, that still leaves me one vote short.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that seems to be where we are,¡± Vastae admitted, frowning. ¡°We tried to brainstorm some ways to get us some quick money last night, but nothing came up. Do you have any ideas?¡±


    Grionc shrugged, almost nonchalantly. ¡°I guess I shall simply have to make a compelling case for the committee.¡±


    ¡°What did the Grass Eaters tell you to do? Didn¡¯t you say they would give us a paw up on this one?¡± Vastae¡¯s whiskers twitched with curiosity.


    ¡°They did,¡± Grionc replied, her tone even. ¡°They said I should simply go into the meeting, do my best to present my case, and the committee will be convinced by the strength of my qualifications.¡±


    Vastae chortled. ¡°Present your case and the strength of your qualifications¡­ These Grass Eaters clearly have zero experience with our Navy, and they must be as na?ve as Tactical Officer Speinfoent, or should I say, Sphinx¡­¡±


    Grionc chuckled slyly. ¡°I wonder who leaked that story.¡±


    Vastae¡¯s gaze grew distant, thoughtful. ¡°I think we should go the other route. Maybe we can find a way to cobble together some credits for member 8. If we mothball Squadron 12 and get an advance loan on the maintenance credits¡ª¡±


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Grionc¡¯s paw shot up, squeezing his shoulders. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare, Vastae. If this fails, we¡¯ll find another way. I¡¯m not ready to start compromising the combat readiness of Sixth Fleet to pay bribes just yet. Let¡¯s just see how this hearing pans out¡­¡±


    <hr>


    Stood tall before the committee, her uniform crisp, the medals on her chest reflecting the dim light of the council chamber, Grionc explained to the committee honestly what the Terrans told her: the war was going badly, they were on the brink of defeat, and the Terrans had entrusted her with a plan to stave off defeat and go back on the offensive.


    ¡°That is an interesting proposal, High Fleet Commander Grionc,¡± committee member 2 said, his face covered with a black veil as a formality. Grionc pretended not to know who he was. ¡°Assuming we buy your premise, can you explain this plan?¡±


    Taking a deep breath that filled her lung with the recycled air of the chamber, she began to lay out the proposal. ¡°The Terrans call this War Plan Anaconda.¡±


    She laid out the plan in detail. She didn¡¯t leave out a single contingency. The Terran war plan had so many of those, so many branches and considerations¡­ it was like nothing else she had ever heard. Almost like they could see the future. Grionc hoped the committee would be as impressed by it as she was.


    When she was done, member 9 adjusted his veil and coughed. ¡°I see. I remain skeptical of the premise, but the plan seems comprehensive. However, you still have not explained what makes you more qualified to execute it than the other¡­ choices who have come before this committee.¡±


    ¡°I have been with our new alien friends. I have an idea how they think and operate. Some parts of this plan will require their participation, so we will need a commander who understands our allies,¡± she said her tone even, rehearsing the line she had practiced countless times. ¡°It¡¯s either me, or we waste precious weeks while another learns to think like a Terran. And they would need to go to the Terran home system to¡ª¡±


    Before she could continue, the first committee member cut her off, ¡°Enough! I¡¯ve heard enough of this. The rest of you can¡¯t seriously believe in these Grass Eaters. The first element of this¡ª this war plan is to abandon Datsot, a core world of the Federation. Have you all forgotten our responsibilities?¡±


    There was a murmur of agreement. Member 9 tilted his head. ¡°That is the part which makes me hesitate too. High Fleet Commander, can you go over that part again for us?¡±


    Suppressing a sigh, Grionc reset her stance and delved deeply into the Terran explanation for why Datsot was ultimately not defensible.


    As for the skepticism, she did not blame the committee. Not one bit.


    After all, she had not been easily convinced either.


    <hr>


    Grionc blinked her eyes to adjust to the brighter outdoors.


    ¡°How did it go?¡± Vastae asked excitedly as she exited the chamber.


    A smile creeped up on her face. ¡°I¡¯m back!¡±


    Vastae punched his paws into the air in triumph, then lifted her up into the air in elation.


    ¡°Woohoo!¡± Vastae celebrated. ¡°So, who ended up voting for you?¡±


    ¡°No idea. I guess they did buy my case,¡± she replied, smiling to hide her own confusion. ¡°By the way, where did Speinfoent go? I haven¡¯t seen him all day.¡±


    ¡°Bah. He went down to Bostruisa. I heard he¡¯s got a social life now.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you mean that local celebrity that he was photographed having dinner with last time? Among other things¡­¡± she noted innocently.


    ¡°You saw that in the communication net too?!¡± Vastae gave her a mockingly severe look. ¡°We¡¯re not supposed to gossip about subordinates, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    <hr>


    Granti High-Councilor-in-Exile Guinspiu paced rhythmically beside the cascading indoor waterfall of her home. The trickling water was supposed to calm her nerves, but instead, she felt a sudden chill as the fur on the back of her neck stood on end. Spinning around, her gaze locked onto the glossy visor of the familiar armored figure.


    This time, though, she kept her cool, refusing to give the impression that she was startled. To think that she would be taken by surprise by a smaller creature of prey was beyond unsettling. Guinspiu had been hoping that her unshaken demeanor might eventually deter the Grass Eater operator from these pointless theatrics.


    It hadn¡¯t happened so far.


    For a split second, she contemplated asking her hosts to upgrade her security system, but she doubted that would slow the Terran down. Would he even notice it?


    ¡°Good evening, Hersh,¡± she sighed in reluctant acknowledgment.


    ¡°And to you, Councilor Guinspiu,¡± Hersh said, taking off his helmet to tuck it under his arm. ¡°We understand that you have held up your end of the bargain. Two extra yea votes on the committee, as we agreed.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, I have,¡± she nodded firmly. ¡°The High Fleet Commander is a qualified candidate, and it is in the best interest of both our species.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t agree more,¡± he said with a hint of respect. ¡°But we had to be sure. And regardless of your pure motives, you will be compensated appropriately for your services. The credits have been routed to the account as you requested. Our operators have set up several dummy accounts and relays¡­ anyway, I¡¯m not an accountant and I didn¡¯t ask for all the details. Just know that it is completely untraceable.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± she replied with satisfaction, ¡°I promised committee member 8 those credits, and my word is always good.¡±


    ¡°As for the other, more personal request you had¡­¡± Hersh continued, his tone serious.


    ¡°My mind is unchanged. What we discussed last time, that is still my wish,¡± she insisted.


    Hersh exhaled slowly. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I know it is risky. Maybe my mate is long dead, but I would still like to know,¡± she said earnestly.


    ¡°A promise is a promise, Councilor. We will do our best,¡± Hersh answered.


    Her eyes shone with a mix of hope and sorrow. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t ask you to put your team in unnecessary danger if not for how important this is to me, Terran. I¡¯ve thought about this for years. I know that many¡­ don¡¯t survive the camps. But he was strong, so I held out hope even after more than four years. And if he is no longer alive¡­ at least I¡¯ll know I¡¯ve done my best.¡±


    Hersh offered a comforting pat on her shoulder. ¡°Worry not, Councilor. We will find your mate, and we will get him back for you, one way or another. That¡¯s a Republic promise.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°Anyway, my deployment¡¯s been redirected. And thank God because that backup plan to take out the trash at the Malgeir Fleet Council was a pretty shaky one to start with,¡± Mark said, glancing at Kara and John.


    ¡°Take out the trash? What are you, a North American mafioso in a twentieth century movie? I¡¯m still not sure why they keep sending a dinosaur like you on these missions,¡± Kara teased. ¡°We aren¡¯t that short on operatives.¡±


    He feigned offense at the barb. ¡°Hey! Those movies are classic, and you can¡¯t convince me otherwise. On the bright side, it looks like Hersh scored us a new rescue mission.¡±


    ¡°Rescue mission? I wasn¡¯t aware the Resistance took any high-level hostages recently,¡± Kara said, puzzled.


    Mark replied, ¡°No, no, no. This is much, much dumber than that. Hersh says we need to go deep into Znosian territory and rescue some Granti¡¯s mate on Grantor.¡±


    Kara¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Wait, did you say Grantor? Because I thought I heard you mention the alien-occupied planet of Grantor, at least¡­ nine blinks behind enemy lines.¡±


    ¡°Hey, you¡¯re catching on,¡± Mark confirmed, grimacing. ¡°It¡¯ll be all our asses on the line too, so I want you two to take the lead on the planning for this one. At least there¡¯s no urgency on it and we can squeeze it in for a few months down the line.¡±


    Kara thought for a moment. ¡°We can always just burn the asset. Or better yet, we go in, get eyes on him with a bug, take a picture of him, send it back for proof of life, and we can get the Granti High Councilor to do whatever we want for the remainder of her life. Or rather, the remainder of his life since he¡¯s the one stuck in a Znosian concentration camp and all. We don¡¯t really need to rescue him at all. Or¡­ wait a second, they don¡¯t have impersonation technology detection, do they? We just rig up a few photos, I bet even a civilian-rated intelligence model can¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that was my first instinct,¡± Mark admitted. ¡°But¡­ it¡¯s nice to have the representative of an entire species in your pocket for a rainy day, even if they are down on their luck for now. Call it¡­ investing in the future. Just treat it like a regular Red Zone rescue mission, except the enemies are dumber, blinder, and mostly unaware of our existence. Oh, and if we get caught, a xenocidal enemy might figure out where we live and come knocking at our door with less than honorable intentions, so you know, we gotta bring those oh-so-fun self-destruct options.¡±


    Kara quoted, ¡°Your mission¡­ should you choose to accept it¡­¡±


    ¡°Hey! Who is the old movies connoisseur now?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 41 | Best Laid Plans

    <h2>Datsot</h2>


    Like most in his Datsot Invasion Fleet, his flagship did not have a name; the fleet referred to it by the last four digits of its serial: 1841.


    Ten Whiskers Ditvish watched the frenetic activity of 1841¡¯s flag bridge. There was the staccato of his computer officers tapping away at their consoles, interspersed with random pitch changes of the inertial compensators as his flagship put itself into formation. Several subordinates were speaking into their communicators, coordinating the rest of the ships in the fleet.


    Unlike the Lesser Predators, the Znosians were not so foolish to combine the functions of fleet and ship command for their offensive fleets as they do. The flag bridge was separate from the ship bridge. Ditvish had his own flag staff, separate from the regular crew of the ship. This allowed the captain of the ship to focus on the functions of the ship without worrying about the overall fleet movement, operations, and strategy, which Ditvish handled as the overall master of the fleet with his own, separate staff.


    The blink into the Datsot system had proceeded without incident, so far at least. There was always a chance the enemy would be there waiting for their blink in, by accident or the result of detailed espionage, or one of his ships might materialize itself in a large space rock or another ship. Space is big: it was a miniscule chance, but not theoretically impossible.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, our bait battlegroup has completed post-blink procedures.¡±


    He looked at his computer officer, who bowed respectfully in his presence. She would make a good second-in-command one day, he thought. She has thus far exhibited no extraordinary creativity or insight, or if she did have such taboo talents, she kept them buried so deep in her bag they were irrelevant. But by the Prophecy, she knew how to execute, and she did it well. Quiet competency was such a rare quality these days¡­


    Ditvish nodded proudly at her. ¡°What about the enemy? Have the Lesser Predators responded yet?¡±


    She made a negative gesture. ¡°Not yet. They don¡¯t have FTL-radio equipped sensor platforms this far out. At four light hours out, it will take them a while to know we are here. We can see what they were doing four hours ago: their fleet over Datsot appears to be conducting a mass evacuation.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± he muttered, his mind racing as he stared at the enemy ship formation. ¡°They are evacuating, you say?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Their scout ships must have detected our battlegroup coming in the last jump. Remind me that we will need to comb through our sensor coverage recordings to assign responsibility. Are our intelligence estimates regarding their fleet numbers still accurate?¡±


    She replied, ¡°They are¡­ very close, Ten Whiskers. Ninety-six enemy frontline missile ships and a capital ship in orbit near Datsot.¡±


    Close enough. They shouldn¡¯t be a problem once they commit to a fight and the ambush battlegroup blinks in. Time to finally put an end to this pesky Lesser Predator Sixth Fleet.


    ¡°Good, good. Let me know when they start moving towards us.¡±


    <hr>


    Ditvish was taking a short power nap when he was suddenly jolted awake by his computer officer. ¡°Ten Whiskers, wake up! The Lesser Predators are running away!¡±


    ¡°What in the galaxy?¡± Ditvish exclaimed, rubbing his crimson eyes. ¡°Did they sniff out our ambush battlegroup?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not¡ª that seems highly unlikely, Ten Whiskers. Our ambush battlegroup hasn¡¯t even moved into the system yet.¡±


    ¡°Where are the Lesser Predators going?¡± Ditvish asked, now fully alert.


    The computer officer scratched her head. ¡°Unsure. They are boosting towards the primary star, their white dwarf, possibly for a powered gravity assist. They can come out anywhere, but combat computers evaluate they must be retreating¡­ They¡¯re dragging all their assets with their fleet: support ships, orbital defense platforms, heavy transports.¡±


    ¡°Why are they fleeing battle in the face of our mere three squadrons?¡± Ditvish wondered aloud.


    ¡°Combat computer calculated during preparations that there was a six percent chance that the enemy figures out the trap and avoids battle. Maybe they just got lucky.¡±


    Ditvish snorted. In his extensive experience fighting against the Malgeir, he¡¯d known no such thing as luck, only incompetence. ¡°Regardless of why they are leaving, this means that much of our battle planning here is no longer relevant. Have the combat computer simulate new scenarios from this point on and identify new weaknesses in our deployments. And keep the sensors on them: I want to know where they are going.¡±


    <hr>


    A few hours later, his computer officer reported the fleet¡¯s arduous progress through the system. ¡°Ten Whiskers, we have established control of high orbit over Datsot. Fire support ships are commencing fire against ground-to-space batteries.¡±


    Ditvish nodded his acknowledgement as he peered at the planetary battlemap. Most of its defense sites were still knocked out from when the Malgeir retook the planet eight months ago. On the other hand, the enemy had plenty of time to clear out the Znosians¡¯ ground troops from the previous invasion, but there were indications that some holdout units were still covertly operational, especially in the rural areas, with even a few hardened veteran units interspersed in their urban centers.


    Zooming out to look at the rest of the system, now considerably emptier than a day before, he asked, ¡°What about the combat fleet? Any luck triangulating their exit vector?¡±


    ¡°We are still confirming the solution, Ten Whiskers. But it looks like they are heading towards the vector of their home planet.¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The Lesser Predators fleet¡¯s refusal to engage in battle was odd. And it looked like they were going to live to fight another day because of it. Ditvish evaluated the enemy¡¯s recent decisions dispassionately: it was logical, smart even.


    That meant it was new behavior from them. Interesting.


    Ditvish mused to himself that perhaps the foolish predators had finally recognized the ultimate threat to their home planet and were saving their fleet strength for its final defense.


    In any case, an undefended planet was an undefended planet.


    ¡°Connect with the transport fleet. Tell them we have established control over the system and are ready for their arrival.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Gather around and listen up! Our battle directives are here!¡± Skhork bellowed, his voice booming above the clanking and whirring at the rear of the transport cargo bay. His five whiskers gathered around, forming a loose semi-circle around him.


    Skhork whipped out his datapad, flashing them a map of Datsot. ¡°We are landing in four major theaters. Theater one: the large island continent in the southern hemisphere has excellent spaceport infrastructure but is lightly defended. We occupied it without much trouble in the last invasion, so we are sending a small force there to secure it.¡±


    He zoomed in on the eastern part of Datsot¡¯s main landmass. ¡°Theater two: regional capital in the northeast. Theater three: regional capital in the southeast. Twelve combined arms divisions each. And when they¡¯re done there, they¡¯ll link up with each other and join us on our objective.¡±


    Skhork focused on the team¡¯s planned objective. ¡°The western planetary capital¡ª I can¡¯t pronounce that Lesser Predator name: that¡¯s our target. We will be dropping in with the main force, twenty divisions, about a hundred fifty kilometers north of the capital city. It looks like some of our holdout troops are still in the northern parts of the city, so our objective is to establish a beachhead north of it, then cross the farm and marsh land north of the capital into the city, and link up with them.¡±


    Skhork believed in keeping his team in the loop. In war, you never knew where you¡¯d end up. In particular, the ship and its cargo did not always land where it wanted to. He eyed his Longclaw commanders. They all nodded, ready and clear on the mission. He¡¯d covered everything in his previous briefing. Even if they had not known how the situation on the ground looked like before entering the system, their computer estimates turned out to be fairly accurate again.


    One of his commanders piped up. ¡°I heard the timeline was revised?¡±


    Skhork grimaced but gave her an affirmative gesture. ¡°According to orbital surveillance, the Lesser Predators appear to have deliberately flooded the northern marshes approach to the capital. It¡¯s a mess, but we¡¯ll manage. We will need to rely on our Longclaws¡¯ gravity engines to cover all that mud, which will tax our power supplies, logistics, and slow down our advance. But there are no easy ways around it. The Digital Guide recalculated that we have lower than even odds of being able to overwhelm and capture the capital city before enemy reinforcements arrive, so we are preparing more for the siege scenario. Tell your crews to be prepared for the long haul. And for the colder season.¡±


    There were some uneasy glances among his commanders. The siege scenario was going to cost them a lot more troops and resources according to the initial projections. They were all glad that they were not commanding one of the infantry conscript platoons who would have to sweep the city block-by-block. The Lesser Predators did not shy away from fighting to the death, and in the urban confines of the battered city, that was deadly for both sides.


    ¡°Who is responsible for this?¡± one of them grumbled.


    Skhork bowed his head. ¡°The master of the fleet, Ten Whiskers Ditvish, has taken responsibility for not foreseeing this possibility. But make no mistake! This scenario was always a possibility, and it is unlikely that the stubborn resistance of the Lesser Predators will change the outcome of this invasion.¡±


    He took a deep breath to fill his lungs to rally them. ¡°Liven up people! We¡¯re not some conscript troopers constantly asking when our service date ends. We are Longclaw Marines! The enemy trembles in fear at the whine of our engines. Trust in your herd! Trust in your machines! Awoo?¡±


    ¡°Awoo awoo awoooooooo!¡±


    As they excitedly completed their final checks and got into their vehicles, Skhork followed his crew into his Longclaw. Inside, the cabin was alive with the hum of machinery and the buzz of anticipation. He knew they were ready as they could be.


    His eyes flicked to the battlemap screen. The screen glowed with an array of symbols and icons, and the triangles of the first conscript infantry transports moving steadily towards the enemy planet. The Gunner, with a practiced eye, explained the unfamiliar symbols of the space fleet to the rest of the Longclaw crew, her voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of excitement.


    She pointed at the triangles. ¡°The infantry transports are going first. They are landing two at a time. These two are going to the southern island continent. They are aiming for a relatively lightly defended area in the night-time. They are deorbiting now¡­ Firing rocket boosters¡­ Medium orbit¡­ They¡¯ve just reached low orbit. Just six more minutes to land.¡±


    The Driver leaned back towards them from the front seat. ¡°This is a good sign, right? Usually, the enemy would engage transports in medium orbit if they had any ground-to-space batteries in range, but it looks like the fleet is suppressing them from upstairs.¡±


    The Engineer, frowning slightly, chimed in, ¡°What about the enemy combat fleet? There wasn¡¯t any mention of them in the updated briefing earlier.¡±


    ¡°They bolted,¡± Skhork replied, eyes still on the screen. ¡°Ran off without firing a shot.¡±


    ¡°Huh, that seems unusual for the Lesser¡ª¡±


    The Gunner cut in, her voice tense. ¡°It looks like they are getting ready for the final descent. The second pair of infantry transports is now getting into position to¡ª¡±


    Suddenly, the first pair of triangles on the screen stopped moving, their signals no longer updating. The Longclaw cabin fell silent.


    That was not supposed to happen.


    <hr>


    There was a thick tension on the flag bridge as everyone¡¯s eyes were glued to the main screen, replaying the twin explosions in low Datsot orbit.


    Ditvish¡¯s icy voice penetrated the silence. ¡°What hit them?¡±


    The sensor officer spoke up after a moment at his console communicating with the fleet. ¡°Ten Whiskers, we found them! Two of the satellites in low Datsot orbit near them turned out to be armed. They fired the autocannon volleys that destroyed both our transports. Should we ask the Digital Guide how to proceed?¡±


    Ditvish glared frostily at the unfortunate subordinate for the idiotic suggestion. ¡°That would not be necessary. Weapons, tell 1841 to put two railgun shots through each weapons platform.¡±


    He watched on the optics as the outgoing rounds splashed the two defense platforms a moment later, sending debris flying in every direction in low orbit. He suppressed unearned satisfaction as a dozen or so enemy lifepods streamed out of the station and slowly burnt to deorbit toward the planet.


    ¡°How did we not find these stations?¡± Ditvish asked the bridge coolly.


    The sensor officer bowed so low he could kiss the floor. ¡°I take full responsibility for this mistake, Ten Whiskers. There are hundreds of thousands of satellites of all sizes in Datsot orbit, and I did not correctly identify the danger they posed to our transports before they were attacked.¡±


    ¡°Your responsibility is noted.¡± Ditvish stared at him, running through the appropriate options for punishing this error in his mind.


    Then he took a deep breath, calming down.


    There would be time for this later.


    ¡°This is a new trick from the enemy. Your responsibility is partial, and you may still redeem yourself. Consult with your combat computer on how to prevent this from happening again in the future.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Thank you.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 42 | Orbital Control

    <h2>ZNS 1841</h2>


    The dense cloud of artificial objects in Datsot orbit hinted at the age of the Malgeir civilization. Even the Znosian home planet of Znos did not have this much space infrastructure. Centuries of development had left this core world¡¯s orbit a chaotic mess of rusting hulls and drifting derelicts among the pieces of functional satellites for anything from communication to weather forecast. Unfortunately for the invaders, it appeared that the Malgeir defenders had rigged at least some of them to mount primitive weapons.


    Primitive, as in crude. Unsophisticated. And yet they were more than deadly enough. While armored against debris and light proximity fire, the landing transports of the Znosian Marines were not equipped to stand up to sustained autocannon fire at point blank range.


    Every pair of eyes on the flag bridge of the 1841 stared intently at the visual sensors on their consoles as another duet of infantry transports sped towards the planet. Despite their speed, Ditvish knew their captains were exercising the maximum caution they could. The conscripts on the transport knew they were sacrificial troops whose lives were already forfeited to the Prophecy the day they were hatched; if they did not die on the orbital insertion, their next objective was a full-frontal assault on a well-guarded spaceport.


    Ditvish clenched his teeth tightly as he watched the troop carriers approach another concentration of unidentifiable Malgeir orbiters. As the ships glided past them, his stomach tightened at each wreck that came within visual range. A couple seconds later, the carriers reached the lower edge of the cloud, and just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, one of the space stations at its edge came to life to his utter dismay.


    Its maneuvering thrusters fired, spinning the station to face the incoming pair of Znosians ships menacingly¡ª


    ¡°1841, fire on that station now!¡± Ditvish barked into his console.


    The enemy station seemed to struggle, turning slowly as if burdened by its own barely functional maneuvering systems. Ditvish swore he could see gun ports on its belly swiveling to face their targets. Then, as ordered, two railgun projectiles sped out from Ditvish¡¯s flagship and lanced towards the vulnerable jerry-rigged gun station.


    They were just a fraction of a second too late.


    The defenders loosed a fast torrent of high explosive shells at the thinly armored transports, pummeling the lead transport ship. The transport took a dozen hits, spiraling out of control as fragments of its hull, atmosphere, and unfortunate Znosian conscripts sprayed out of the ship into the void like the lifeblood of a wounded prey.


    The second transport was luckier: it dodged most of the fire and was only grazed by a couple deflected shots. A moment later, it sped past both its crippled sister ship and the hostile station with its hull intact towards the planet below.


    Then, the railgun projectiles from Ditvish¡¯s flagship reached the station, blowing a room-sized hole clean through the fragile armed satellite. A large room.


    The station¡¯s weapons went silent, its power and propulsion systems visibly failing. Then, lifepods began to eject from the crippled enemy station.


    ¡°Status report?¡± Ditvish demanded.


    The sensor officer wasted no time taking responsibility again. ¡°Our leading transport has been severely damaged. The following transport took minor damage, but its telemetry indicates they should be able to make its way to land near their original insertion site. I take full responsibility for repeating my terrible failure in this disaster, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°As you should,¡± Ditvish responded coldly. ¡°We will deal with the subject of your penance and competence after the operation. What about the enemy station crew?¡±


    ¡°Sixteen have managed to abandon stations through lifepods,¡± the officer replied.


    After a moment¡¯s thought, Ditvish leaned closer to his console. ¡°1841, put a shot through each of the lifepods.¡±


    ¡°Right away, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    The ship¡¯s captain complied without objection or hesitation as the ship picked off the defenseless enemy survivors with their railgun one by one with practiced efficiency. Smiling emptily at the disappearing icons on his sensor board, Ditvish speculated hopefully, ¡°That should make the rest of them in orbit think twice about launching another attack. Send in another wave.¡±


    <hr>


    The third wave of transports managed to descend to the enemy surface without issue. The fourth as well.


    Ditvish half-thought the danger was over when three more covertly armed enemy stations appeared in range of the two transports in the fifth wave to blow them both to smithereens. This time, the Malgeir spacers onboard had enough time to start targeting the few lifepods from the dying transports before the rail projectiles from the flagship arrived to silence them forever.


    He noted that at least none of the enemy survived the destruction of their station; it appeared they had not even bothered to get into the lifepods. Nobody got out.


    Ditvish had half a mind to reprimand the sensor officer again, but he didn¡¯t have a solution either. And that could end up being bad for morale.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a sustainable attrition rate for our transports,¡± he observed to the crew. ¡°They must have rigged up a lot of these derelict stations with those cheap weapons.¡±


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    The computer officer, bowing, replied, ¡°That is what the Digital Guide assesses as well. It recommends that we take proactive measures.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m all ears. What does the combat computer say?¡± he asked, frustrated.


    ¡°We can put a rail round into each of their orbital stations preemptively if they get into range of our transports,¡± she relayed after a few seconds of query.


    ¡°That would cause a cascading chain reaction and litter low orbit with debris,¡± he objected half-heartedly. He had considered the idea at the back of his mind from the start ¡ª he wasn¡¯t really opposed to it for any logical reason; it just seemed¡­ inconvenient. ¡°Maybe our armored landers can still get to the surface, but we wouldn¡¯t be able to use our unarmored logistics ships to resupply troops on the ground.¡±


    ¡°It considered that consequence, Ten Whiskers,¡± she replied. ¡°And it recommends this course of action anyway. The attrition rate for logistics ships from orbital debris is more acceptable than if we keep taking active losses from the Lesser Predators like this.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± Ditvish relented. ¡°Tell 1841 to put a slug into anything that crosses the horizon towards our shuttles. I shall take full responsibility for any inconvenience we suffer from the orbital debris.¡±


    His fleet only suffered one more transport lander casualty from a station that somehow hid in a wreck and survived a railgun projectile long enough to get in range to fire its guns anyway, but as Ditvish looked down at the cascading collisions below that was quickly turning the entire low orbit into a navigational hazard zone for his invading supply ships, he sighed deeply.


    He would have to call for more armored landers or clean up the orbit, and the invasion timeline would be delayed once again ¡ª that annoying State Security agent on his case would not be pleased.


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    Grionc leaned back in her command chair, her eyes still fixed on the bustling activity in the shuttle bay on her console. The Terran supply shuttles entered and left her ships in practiced synchronization. They had ordered her entire shuttle bay depressurized for the resupply operation, which negated the need for lengthy pressurization and depressurization cycles. She watched the alien figures with darkened visors roll out standardized palettes of cargo, neatly stacking them in the corner of the hangar before they flew off, another shuttle smoothly taking their place on the line.


    Doing this in vacuum was easier on the shuttles, the Terran operative had said, which saved money on maintenance and improved their shelf life.


    She wondered why she never thought about it like that. The Terran crews loaded up supplies for the entire Sixth Fleet in record time; the Oengro, due to its size, finished last after a mere hour. Grionc couldn¡¯t help but be impressed.


    They had also simultaneously refueled the Fleet with their dedicated fuel tankers. The Malgeir were not entirely unfamiliar with the concept: indeed, the Navy used reappropriated civilian fuel tankers at the start of the war, but they were slow, vulnerable, and became easy targets for Znosian raiders. Now, they mostly relied on fuel scoops at gas giants or local civilian refueling infrastructure, which was much slower and more prone to enemy ambush. The Terrans¡¯ dedicated fuel tankers worked much faster; she wondered whether she could convince them to leave one behind with her¡ª


    Vastae¡¯s voice pulled her from her thoughts. ¡°Sixth Fleet has been fully resupplied, High Fleet Commander. Heading to the system limit for phase two.¡±


    Grionc sighed inwardly at the formality. She had tried, and failed, to get her crew to drop the ¡®High¡¯ from her title. She missed the simpler days when she was just Fleet Commander, Commander, or even just ma¡¯am.


    ¡°Well done, Vastae,¡± she noted, deciding not to dwell on the title issue. ¡°Is the Terran operative safely aboard¡­ what was his name again?¡±


    ¡°His name is Mark,¡± interjected Speinfoent helpfully, ignoring a familiar disapproving glance from Vastae at his tactical station console.


    Vastae nodded, but his brow furrowed as he glanced at his console. ¡°He boarded with the last shuttle. Now he¡¯s in the hangar bay pressurizing with the supplies¡­ The last shuttles¡¯ manifest did not include any parts or weapons. It¡¯s in Terran Standard; I can¡¯t read this ugly prey script¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent leaned over his shoulder to look at his console. ¡°Hmm¡­ I only learned a few words from my¡ª wait a second, I recognize that last one¡ª¡±


    ¡°What is it? What did they send?¡± Vastae asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.


    ¡°Resupply for an ice cream machine. A certain¡­ someone on board has¡ª¡±


    ¡°What is ice cream?¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Datsot</h2>


    The newly installed sirens at the forward base wailed urgently, prompting the Longclaw crews to button up their vehicles, closing their hatches with trained motions as they awaited the incoming indirect fire.


    Skhork noted dryly to himself that their base was obviously being used as bait by someone upstairs: the growing complex was intentionally positioned far forward of the frontline to draw fire away from the newly established Znosian Marine beachhead. And it was working: this was the third attack they¡¯d had to endure since they got here today.


    No doubt the fleet was doing their best to locate their attackers and eliminate any unfortunate Lesser Predators caught in the open, but that did not make the incoming barrages feel any less harrowing. He was grateful for the meter thick composite armor that protected his hide; the infantry outside was less fortunate: their deployable bunkers shipment was delayed, and they had to rely on good old-fashioned digging into the soft ground of Datsot with their shovels.


    The blast of the first volley sent a shudder through the base. Pieces of shrapnel flew in all directions, some pinging against the well-protected hull of his Longclaw. It seemed like an eternity before the ringing in their ears finally stopped, but there was no reprieve; as soon as it did, another artillery round hit next to one of the hastily dug trenches. Skhork watched on his screen as the infantry miserably hunched down further into their holes as more rounds landed. The base short-range turrets activated, spraying a hail of point defense fire at the incoming rounds; most were starting to be intercepted, detonating in midair and scattering their fragments harmlessly onto the ground beneath them.


    The onslaught continued for a good minute, leaving behind a few tattered temporary shelters and churned mud. Almost miraculously, there were no casualties. Then, they watched the imagery on their screens as it showed one of their fire support ships in orbit call down a volley of precision missiles on the battery that attacked them. The distant guns on the map stopped.


    Skhork¡¯s crew cheered.


    Their battlemap beeped as it called out a new threat.


    ¡°Incoming air assault,¡± Skhork announced, cool as ice, as the signatures of the low-flying rotary wing attack aircraft showed up on the Longclaw radar.


    The Gunner shook her head, snorting. ¡°Suicidal predators. They won¡¯t even get into visuals.¡±


    She was right. The base¡¯s air defense battery launched a volley of air defense missiles that tracked and then surgically plucked the entire predator formation out of the sky, their signatures vanishing from the radar, confirming their kills. Despite their distance, the echoes of their explosions reached across the open fields a few seconds later.


    ¡°Is that all?¡± the Gunner asked with bravado.


    Skhork just shook his head. ¡°They¡¯ll try again in a couple hours. Catch some sleep for now; we¡¯ll be on the move by nightfall¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 43 | Celestria I

    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    The truth about their new allies had predictably become somewhat of an open secret within the Sixth Fleet. It was relatively easy to hide it from Home Fleet and the other elements of the Malgeir Navy given the usual secrecy that each fleet operated in, but there were no commonsense explanations for the new ship components that were being quietly installed in vital systems on their ships. Or why the ships¡¯ high-level officers had insisted on covering the windows to the hangar bay and exterior whenever they needed to conduct a refueling or resupply operation.


    Or the sudden and drastic improvement in meal quality. There was no ¡ª absolutely none ¡ª plausible way to explain that other than¡­ aliens.


    Rumors spread quickly; there was not much else to do on the ships. That the ¡°most likely theory¡± that most rank-and-file crew members bought was fairly close to the truth made it obvious that one of the higher-ranking officers talked, possibly one of the squadron leaders.


    Mark wasn¡¯t too bothered by this development. The secret would have gotten out one way or another anyway. And if this brought their new allies some renewed confidence, it would be well worth whatever blowback may come for the Terran Reconnaissance Office¡¯s rather liberal interpretation of its authorized mandate.


    There was a reason why the organization was rumored to have more lawyers than intelligence operatives.


    Besides, the Malgeir fleet¡¯s entire FTL radio network was now routed through a Terran Navy ship nearby, and if anyone in the fleet started blabbing to their friends in an FTL call, they would promptly find their connection mysteriously disconnected. And their unit would be getting a vague reprimand or repeat training about operational security.


    In Mark¡¯s experience, the training wasn¡¯t supposed to teach anyone anything; it was simply supposed to annoy the crew members into peer pressuring each other to stop doing The Bad Thing they were not supposed to be doing. Sometimes it worked, and if not, the newly established (at his request) Malgeir squad of young Master-at-Arms did their jobs zealously.


    Mark leaned back in his comfortable chair and looked around his private guest room. Space usually came at a premium on ships in the Republic Navy. Normally, he¡¯d bunk with the spacers. If he got lucky and the mission called for a larger transport ship, he might get a small closet to run his operations out of. Here, the Malgeir set him up in a room with a downright luxurious amount of space, if not a little wasteful. His office area was furnished with a desk made of light-red alien wood, a sturdy chair, and empty shelves for his items. He had his own bathroom with all the essentials and a luxurious double bed with thick blankets and soft pillows. Martian luxury cruise ships had less space and fewer amenities than the Oengro.


    The door chimed with an alien melody. ¡°This is Grionc. May I come in?¡± Her voice echoed slightly through the intercom.


    He eagerly welcomed her inside. ¡°High Fleet Commander, this is your ship. Please, make yourself comfortable.¡± He gestured at one of his several unused chairs.


    Grionc smiled appreciatively and sat down. She looked at his sparse luggage, her gaze landing on the half-disassembled gun he¡¯d placed on his desk. ¡°Ah, another of your Terran weapons. What does that shoot? Lightning and magic?¡± she teased.


    Mark let out a hearty laugh at the joke, picking up the pieces from his desk and reassembling them in his hands without looking down. ¡°Nothing fancy. Just thirty-six hundred rounds a minute of five point seven caseless. I was cleaning it.¡±


    He cleared the service rifle twice for safety and handed it to her, grip first, continuing, ¡°Not that different from your Marine rifles in principle. Our requirements for shipboard small arms don¡¯t differ that much: what it needs to do is deliver a piece of metal from point A to point B, and work reliably without atmosphere or gravity. Everything else, the automatic aiming module, the high explosive alternate munitions, the underslung plasma, the integral suppressor, those are just the bells and whistles.¡±


    She accepted and inspected the thin weapon, surprised at its light weight and simplicity. She raised an eyebrow. ¡°Does it need regular cleaning?¡±


    He tilted his head slightly and shrugged. ¡°Technically not. It¡¯s supposed to be self-cleaning and maintenance-free for twenty thousand rounds before it needs to be serviced, but taking it apart and cleaning it manually clears my head and lets me think. Ancient tradition, I guess.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Grionc nodded thoughtfully, handing the delicate weapon back to him gingerly. ¡°Your people seem to have a lot of those¡­ interesting traditions.¡±


    Mark smiled. ¡°Are you referring to my recent insistence that you don¡¯t allow more than a third of your captains on board the Oengro at the same time?¡± he asked. ¡°Because trust me, there¡¯s a perfectly reasonable and up-to-date explanation¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I understand that,¡± she said hurriedly. ¡°I know the dangers of that from first-hand experience.¡±


    ¡°Experience keeps us alive in war,¡± Mark agreed with a nod. ¡°Speaking of which, we have another exercise for your fleet today.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Any practice is good,¡± Grionc declared. ¡°What are your fictional Celestrians up to today?¡±


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Glad to see you¡¯re so supportive of these,¡± Mark smiled mischievously, almost¡­ evilly, she noted, as he put away his carbine and pulled up the scenario he had in mind on his tablet.


    <hr>


    Grionc peered through the window into the filled briefing room. Her officers were there, some in-person, other remote as the Terrans demanded: Vastae, the Oengro¡¯s bridge officers, the twelve squadron leaders of Sixth Fleet, and their deputies. They were eagerly conversing amongst themselves, their voices barely audible through the thick door.


    Vastae was speculating, ¡°I think it¡¯s another exercise.¡±


    ¡°Another exercise?¡± a squadron leader replied with a hint of annoyance. ¡°This is what, the tenth exercise, we¡¯ve had to do? I swear, my captains know more about how to fight in the ¡®Celestria Red Zone¡¯ than they do in actual Federation space. Who came up with that silly name anyway? I bet it¡¯s our guests with the idea again.¡±


    The impatient squadron leader was a senior beta leader by the name of Loenda, one of the very few officers who had been in the Sixth Fleet since before the war. Hunched over at the ripe age of fifty-nine, her orange eyes still shone with the passion ¡ª and fire ¡ª of her youth.


    No one questioned her experience or unwavering loyalty to the High Fleet Commander, but Loenda did not share what she saw as Grionc¡¯s misplaced faith in their new allies. She continued her rant, ¡°The paranoid Grass Eaters had us do four separate checks on the new hardware they integrated into our sensor computer system,¡± Loenda grumbled. ¡°Four! These exercises aren¡¯t free! And now they¡¯re making us burn precious time and fuel running practice on fictional scenarios against fictional enemies, while the real Datsot falls into the real enemies¡¯ hands.¡±


    Speinfoent jumped to the defense of the Terrans. ¡°I didn¡¯t hear you complain about Grass Eaters when they were distributing dessert on Soft Serve Saturday. And it¡¯s a good thing we are practicing! Last exercise, your navigators blundered the final powered gravity assist and burned half of Squadron 6 straight into the second moon of Celestria. In a real battle¡ª¡±


    Loenda wasn¡¯t having any of it. She cut him off dismissively, ¡°Bah, it¡¯s all the simulation software. You can¡¯t replace the real tactile feedback of a ship with messages on a computer screen. Gamma Leader, stay alive a little longer, and you¡¯ll learn that nothing replaces real experience; ten seconds in battle beats¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent shot back, ignoring Vastae¡¯s eyes pleading for him to just shut up and let it go. ¡°You say that, Loenda, but if your squadron forgets to turn on your new communication system in an actual battle like they did in the first exercise, you may not last ten seconds in the next battle.¡±


    Loenda rolled her eyes but otherwise overlooked the young officer¡¯s obvious disrespect. ¡°I still don¡¯t get the point of that simulation. Our old communication system has never broken down and works just as well today as it did when it was first installed. If the High Fleet Commander hadn¡¯t ordered it, I would never have allowed these supposedly friendly Grass Eaters install a bunch of their primitive hardware alongside our tried-and-true core battle systems.¡±


    ¡°Did you not pay attention to the training video they sent over?¡± he challenged.


    ¡°Gamma Leader,¡± she began to explain as if to a young cub. ¡°I¡¯m willing to bet you an entire week¡¯s salary that nobody who makes training videos for a living has ever worked on a real naval warship before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, but if you actually watched the video, you might learn that communication systems can and have¡ª¡±


    Grionc decided to cut off their continuing argument and pushed open the door to enter the room.


    Vastae¡¯s loud voice echoed throughout the room, ¡°High Fleet Commander present!¡±


    She gestured with her paw, signaling them to not stand up. ¡°Stay seated, commanders.¡±


    They complied.


    ¡°We are conducting another simulated exercise today,¡± Grionc continued.


    Scanning the room, her eyes sharp, she dared any of her subordinates to object. None made a noise, not even Loenda or Speinfoent. Good, she thought. Fleet discipline had not fallen so far yet.


    Unfolding her datapad, she cleared her throat. ¡°Ahem¡­ this is the new scenario. Our dastardly enemy at the Celestria system are shipping large amounts of illegal combat drugs from their production facilities through our area of responsibility.¡±


    When Mark gave her the script, Grionc had plenty of questions at this point, but she refrained from asking them to elaborate because she¡¯d learned that in cases like these, the Terrans¡¯ answers would often generate a larger number of even more unsettling questions.


    ¡°Naval Intelligence has learned of one such supply convoy. They estimate the enemy to have about twelve transport ships, escorted by six fast missile destroyers of the Delta-class. Our objective is to ambush them. If we can, we are to capture the enemy shipment. If we cannot capture them, they must be destroyed. Any questions?¡±


    She looked around the room.


    Seeing that no one else was raising their paw, Speinfoent started to ask, ¡°What are illegal combat drugs and are there¡ª¡±


    Grionc cut him off, ignoring his question. ¡°Are there any relevant questions to the practical parameters of this exercise?¡±


    No one else spoke up.


    ¡°No? Good. The plan is simple.¡± And indeed, it was, Mark had provided her with the outlines of what they calculated would be the optimal strategy. ¡°We are splitting Sixth Fleet into two evenly sized battlegroups. Each battlegroup will independently hide behind each of the two gas giants in Celestria, where we think they will come in for a fueling operation. Wait until they are vulnerable when refueling, and the battlegroup closest to the convoy will attack. The other battlegroup will then maneuver to cut off their escape. Any questions?¡±


    There were no questions. This was not the first supply convoy exercise the Terrans had made her do. Grionc knew that her officers must be familiar with them by now.


    She smiled. ¡°Excellent. I will personally command Battlegroup 1 from the Oengro. Squadron Leader Loenda, you will command Battlegroup 2 from aboard your MNS Trassau.¡±


    Loenda nodded crisply and acknowledged the command.


    ¡°One more thing,¡± Grionc said, turning to address her specifically. ¡°We are adopting a new practice from our new allies. Loenda, you are commanding an independent flotilla of ships, and it would be distracting if you had to command your ship and your battlegroup at the same time. Therefore, I am assigning a new captain for the Trassau to run the ship so you can focus on coordinating the entire battlegroup.¡±


    The squadron leader looked up at her, hiding her surprise and asking calmly, ¡°Who am I losing my ship to?¡±


    ¡°You will still command your squadron and battlegroup from the Trassau,¡± Grionc assured her. ¡°I am moving Gamma Leader Speinfoent to take charge of the Trassau to free you up to focus on your strategic duties. Will that be a problem for you?¡±


    Loenda¡¯s face betrayed no emotion. ¡°No, High Fleet Commander. Not at all.¡±


    ¡°Good. If there are no questions, return to your ships and let¡¯s get started.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 44 | Celestria II

    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    ¡°We don¡¯t have a problem, right, Loenda?¡± Speinfoent asked the senior officer nervously.


    ¡°It¡¯s Squadron Leader Loenda or Battlegroup Commander Loenda to you. And why would we have a problem, Gamma Leader?¡± she replied, her tone sharp.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to think I¡¯m replacing you and stealing your ship from under you¡ª¡±


    Loenda didn¡¯t even bother to glance at him. ¡°No, because you will do nothing of the sort. The High Fleet Commander named you the captain of the Trassau, but I shall define the extent of your responsibilities and duties as your squadron leader and your battlegroup commander. So here is what will happen: You will show up to all staff level meetings, which I shall provide you with a schedule of. You will defer all questions by anyone on the ship to me. You will be present on the bridge during all transits, exercises, and battles. And you will make no attempt to give out any orders without my express command. Is that clear?¡±


    Speinfoent started to protest. ¡°But the Fleet Commander said you should not be distracted¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know what she said. I was there. But even in the Terran manuals you seem to be so fond of, assigning a new ¡®commanding officer¡¯ to a ship has an adjustment period, does it not? ¡®Transfer of command is a challenging time for the ship and her crew; managing it requires an extraordinary amount of experience and tact that must be carefully developed in the junior officer corps¡¯, as I recall it said,¡± she quoted.


    The High Fleet Commander had made those manuals required reading for every officer in the Sixth Fleet, even those who were not privy to their source. Speinfoent was intimately familiar with her words.


    ¡°That¡¯s what it says,¡± he said carefully, putting as much tact into his words as he could. ¡°I will try my best to accommodate¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you know how long I¡¯ve been in the Navy?¡± she cut him off loudly.


    Cowed by her rising volume, he did not answer.


    ¡°Forty-one years. Gamma Leader, I have been in the service for forty-one years. That is longer than you have been alive, cub. Do you know how long it took them to give me a ship?¡± She continued without giving him a chance to answer the rhetorical question, ¡°Twenty-one years. The Trassau is not my first command, but I have never lost a ship, and I do not intend to start now. So this is how this is going to go: I will give you orders, orders backed by my decades of experience. You will follow them to the letter without causing me any trouble. At the end of this rotation, or whenever the fleet commander changes her mind about you being on this ship, I will report that you were an exceptional captain and recommend you for a promotion. Maybe to command one of the Navy¡¯s shiny new Beta-class. I have personal contacts in every fleet in the Navy and every squadron in our fleet¡­ wherever you¡¯d want to go or whatever ship you want to command except the one I am on. Is what I am saying to you clear?¡±


    Speinfoent squirmed. ¡°Yes, but I¡¯m not really after a promotion to¡ª¡±


    ¡°That,¡± Loenda cut him off, ¡°is the best and only deal you are getting. You may be a genuine talent, a real gift for the Malgeir species, or you may be a grifter who has temporarily fooled the high fleet commander. Either way, I don¡¯t know you, but I have my guesses. And until I do know you, you will do what I say. When you have earned my trust, we can talk about giving you a few more responsibilities. But above all, do not screw with me, Gamma Leader, or I swear to you I will screw right back. So now, I¡¯m going to ask again. Do you have a problem with that?¡±


    Taking the hint, Speinfoent shook his head vigorously. ¡°No, Squadron Leader.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now,¡± she smiled thinly, sniffing at his two-day-old uniform. ¡°Go make yourself presentable. The exercise begins in two hours, and I do not tolerate tardiness or poor hygiene on my bridge.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Did Missile Bay 4 figure out the issue?¡± Loenda asked.


    Speinfoent operated his newly acquainted captain¡¯s console for a couple seconds to bring up the status display. Before he could come up with a report, the Trassau¡¯s tactical officer, with a nonchalant wave of his paw, interrupted him. ¡°They have found the malfunctioning servo motors and are repairing them. It might take a few more hours.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Loenda nodded. ¡°Tell them to take their time. There¡¯s no need to hurry just for this exercise; we can always tell the simulation computers we¡¯ve fired anyway. And give me a direct status update when they are complete.¡± She spun around, her gaze landing on Speinfoent. ¡°If our gamma leader doesn¡¯t mind, of course.¡±


    Speinfoent offered a small, somewhat resigned smile. ¡°Of course not, Squadron Leader,¡± he said, his eyes not meeting his subordinates¡¯. They knew his new official role, but his first few attempts to do his job had fallen flat in the face of Loenda¡¯s bulldozing and determination to micromanage the Trassau, and he¡¯d decided to just keep his head down. For now. ¡°Anything you need.¡±


    ¡°Good. Maybe we¡¯ll make a real captain out of you after all¡ª¡±


    A warning klaxon blared on the bridge, indicating the arrival of the simulated enemy fleet they were supposed to ambush.


    ¡°Right on time,¡± Loenda continued without missing a beat. ¡°Deploy the sensor buoys, cut reactors to a quarter power, and reserve the radio to emergency communications only. If anyone on the crew so much as breathes too loudly, they will be spending their weekend in the Trassau brig.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°They are coming in at full speed,¡± Speinfoent reported in as low a voice he could without whispering.


    ¡°Good,¡± Loenda replied casually. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll wrap up this exercise early for dinner. I hear our guests are serving something new. Really, if you asked me, they should stick with the one thing they know¡­¡±


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    Speinfoent bit his snout. He didn¡¯t want to tick off the battlegroup commander on his first exercise, and she¡¯d made it clear that she was not in the ¡°taking suggestions¡± mood earlier.


    But¡­ he couldn¡¯t hold back. ¡°Loen¡ª Squadron Leader, the enemy convoy was supposed to come in for a refueling.¡±


    ¡°So?¡± she said, narrowing her eyes. ¡°Is there a problem?¡±


    He elaborated. ¡°They¡¯re burning way too fast for that. They aren¡¯t even going to be able to stop in time even if they started slowing down. I think they might know we¡¯re here. Should we begin warming up our engines so we can¡ª¡±


    ¡°Gamma Leader, hallway, now,¡± she snapped frostily, pointing at the bridge exit.


    Once the bridge door closed, Loenda let him have it. ¡°You rebellious troublemaker! What did I say about trying to subvert my authority?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not! I¡¯m just trying to help!¡± he protested. ¡°I was just pointing out¡ª¡±


    ¡°Pointing out what? Our marching orders were clear. You did pay attention in the pre-exercise briefing, right? We are here to ambush the stupid Celestrian convoy, not boost out into the open to engage them in honorable combat!¡±


    ¡°Yes, but what if it¡¯s a trick?¡± he countered, keeping his voice low so the officers on the bridge wouldn¡¯t hear the argument.


    She threw up her paws angrily. ¡°A trick? Our orders were a trick? Did they stick me with a moron? If we start burning now, you¡¯ll screw up the whole exercise!¡±


    ¡°But this is a Terran exercise,¡± Speinfoent tried to explain. ¡°I¡¯ve seen them do it. It¡¯s one of the problem scenarios for their training that Grionc and I looked at when we were in their home system. The exercise says we are hidden, but the intelligence is wrong. The enemy already knows we are here, and the point of the exercise is to test if we can spot the ruse and modify our plans with the changing circumstances.¡±


    Loenda rolled her eyes but said nothing in response.


    Speinfoent took that as a sign he should continue. ¡°Look, as an independent battlegroup, we could at least ask for new orders given the changed circumstance. What if we radio the fleet commander to see if she approves¡ª¡±


    ¡°Break radio discipline for a wild suggestion?¡± Loenda asked incredulously. ¡°Were you dropped as a cub? This is an ambush! We are ambushing them! Maybe¡­ maybe that is the real test, to see if anyone would be stupid enough to break discipline and reveal their positions in the face of an enemy that seems slightly more unsettling than usual.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª there¡¯s¡ª why would that be a test¡ª¡± Speinfoent stuttered.


    ¡°Enough, Gamma Leader, you¡¯ve said your piece, and I¡¯ve heard you out. We are going to continue with our orders as per the exercise. If you have a problem with that, you may file a formal objection. Would you like to do that now?¡±


    ¡°No, Loe¡ª Squadron Leader.¡±


    ¡°Good¡­ And when we get back onto the bridge, order the navigation station to start the procedures for engine lighting.¡±


    ¡°Start the procedures for engine lighting, ma¡¯am?¡± he asked puzzled.


    ¡°Yes, in case we need to go into a combat burn. Gamma Leader, naval officers don¡¯t get as old as I am without being careful. We will prepare for all possibilities¡­ even the stupid ones.¡±


    But¡­ by the time they get close and open fire, we won¡¯t have time to warm up and get into a combat burn, he thought.


    Instead, he replied, ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    <hr>


    With the mock enemy fleet coming in so quickly, it took them no time to get close at all. The officers on the Trassau bridge went through the motions, preparing to fire on the incoming enemies when¡ª


    A loud klaxon sounded on the bridge. The crew looked up in shock. Well, some of them¡­


    The Trassau¡¯s tactical officer wasted no time making a report. ¡°Active radar locks on us! Missiles incoming! All enemies are firing. It¡¯s a trap!¡±


    Loenda snapped at the navigation officer, ¡°Full combat burn, get us up to full acceleration as fast as possible!¡±


    The officer did as ordered, immediately pushing the ship¡¯s throttle to full and risking engine burnout as the other ships in the formation followed its example, attempting to do the same. He muttered under his breath, ¡°It¡¯s too late. We¡¯re starting from zero cold startup¡ª¡±


    Unfortunately for him, Loenda¡¯s hearing had not diminished despite her advanced age. ¡°Save your irrelevant commentaries for yourself. The next officer displaying defeatism in the face of the fake enemy will go out the real airlock. Tactical, return fire at will. And deploy all our countermeasures, maybe we can¡ª¡±


    There was a loud crashing sound from the speakers, and the lights on the bridge turned back on to full brightness.


    The simulation computer coldly displayed the results of the exercise.


    You died.


    All ships in battlegroup lost.


    One enemy combat ship damaged.


    Primary objective failed.


    Secondary objectives failed.


    Detailed briefing with the simulation commander in 15 minutes.


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°That was a dirty trick,¡± Grionc said, pointing an accusatory paw at Mark. ¡°You aren¡¯t supposed to feed us false information like that.¡±


    He shrugged his shoulders. ¡°The enemy can fool us too. It would be reckless of us to not prepare you for that possibility. Besides, this wasn¡¯t the first time our intelligence was faulty. You dealt with that in the last exercise it happened in. Working out the contingencies in your plan is your responsibility.¡±


    ¡°What are we doing wrong?¡± she asked, slightly dejected. ¡°At the start, the exercises were fairly easy, but in the last few ones, we¡¯re getting thrashed in them even when we are following your plan to the letter.¡±


    ¡°The first exercises were to improve proficiency in the new equipment. Now, we are getting you ready for command¡ª¡±


    ¡°So, it is me!¡± Grionc exclaimed. ¡°Please, tell me. How am I supposed to improve?¡±


    ¡°No, not just you,¡± Mark shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s actually the whole way your Navy operates.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t spare my feelings. You¡¯re more experienced in war than we are. If there¡¯s any area of the fleet that¡¯s not smoothly running, you need to let me know,¡± she asked earnestly.


    Mark started to explain. ¡°In some ways, your fleet is too structured. As a fleet commander, you could do better if you sought advice from your subordinates more. For example, I¡¯ve watched one of your briefings. You should ask them more questions. Get their advice. You know¡­ see if there¡¯s any misunderstanding of the plan.¡±


    ¡°Too structured?¡± she echoed in surprise. ¡°I should seek advice from my subordinates? Do Terran commanders do this?¡±


    ¡°Precisely so. In a briefing, they are more concerned with aligning their subordinates with their intent than the strict letter of their orders. And they should come up with contingencies themselves, so they are familiar with them.¡±


    ¡°But that would be madness,¡± she blurted out. ¡°Chaos. How would my commanders and their subordinates know whose orders to follow in battle? How would they know when to follow orders and when to go off script?!¡±


    ¡°Practice, Fleet Commander. That¡¯s why we are holding these exercises. War is chaotic by nature. Out of that chaos, there is opportunity. Your commanders are used to trying to keep their heads above water in the chaos. What we intend to teach you is to take advantage of it, to swim in the chaos.¡±


    Observing her continued confusion, Mark tried another track. ¡°Our enemy¡ª the Znosians are control freaks; their Prophecy, their combat computers: they love a good, predictable plan, and they¡¯ll do anything they can to make sure things stay within that little box they¡¯ve constructed for us. If we fight like that, they¡¯ll drag us down to their level and beat us with experience and numbers. So, unless you have a secret plan to get your species to breed a lot more of you in the next four to six months, the way we win is not by coming up with a more perfect plan, but by becoming so accustomed to chaos and raising so much of it that they can¡¯t keep up with the hell we will raise.¡±


    ¡°I still don¡¯t get it. How do we turn intentional madness in our ranks into an advantage?¡±


    Mark smiled. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Fleet Commander. It takes time to understand, even for our people. And your willingness to learn is a good start. For now, we have a few general practices that you can adopt¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 45 | Celestria III

    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°Does anyone have any questions about this exercise?¡± Grionc asked, her gaze sweeping over the squadron leaders and the Oengro¡¯s bridge crew.


    Predictably, none came.


    This time, Sixth Fleet was raiding a Celestrian shipyard that looked suspiciously like what Naval Intelligence thought a Znosian one would look like. It did not seem like a terribly complex operation, but it did require her to split her fleet into two major battlegroups: one that engages and pins the enemy response fleet, and another that launches the main attack. In her experience, any time the Terrans made them practice splitting up her fleet, things would go horribly wrong; she supposed that was the point of these exercises.


    Here goes nothing, Grionc thought, I hope the Terrans know what they¡¯re doing.


    ¡°I have decided on a discipline policy change for Sixth Fleet. From now on, all questions are encouraged during the briefing meeting,¡± she announced. ¡°In fact, if you are unclear on any part of the objective, you are required to ask for clarification.¡±


    She scanned the room again.


    More silence. No paws went up around the room.


    Mark had warned her this would happen. No surprises there.


    Grionc continued, ¡°Very well. I¡¯m glad everyone is intimately familiar with the details of the operation. Loenda, since you are leading Battlegroup 2 against the enemy response fleet, you are responsible for conducting a backbrief of how you plan to command your battlegroup.¡±


    ¡°A backbrief?¡± the squadron leader repeated the unfamiliar phrase, her puzzled expression matched by several others at the table.


    Grionc grinned at her. ¡°Yes, a backbrief. You will put together a briefing, much like the one I just gave you, where you explain to me all aspects of the operation relating to your battlegroup¡¯s responsibilities. Make sure to include contingencies. I¡¯ll give you hmm¡­ half an hour to consult with your subordinates and get the details ready. And to be fair to you, I¡¯ll warn you right now that I plan to have plenty of questions that you should be prepared to answer for me.¡±


    Turning to the other officers in the room, she added, ¡°And all of you should pay attention when she gives the backbrief.¡±


    Grionc saw horror dawning on some of their expressions, like cubs at school caught daydreaming instead of paying attention in class. She continued, ¡°Because you will all also be giving a backbrief of your parts in the mission to her or your superior later.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What if the enemy response fleet runs away?¡± Grionc asked, genuinely curious. It was not a contingency she thought about before. It came to her while Loenda was preparing for her backbrief.


    ¡°Then we¡­ hmmm,¡± Loenda stumbled, scratching her snout. ¡°What should we do if they run away, High Fleet Commander?¡±


    Grionc leaned forward, eager. ¡°Let¡¯s work through it. What is the objective of the shipyard attack?¡±


    ¡°Surely it¡¯s to take out their orbital production facilities near Celestria IV?¡± Loenda tilted her head, thinking.


    Grionc nodded. ¡°That¡¯s right. And what is the objective of your battlegroup?¡±


    ¡°Our battlegroup¡¯s objective¡­ it¡¯s to keep the response fleet pinned and busy while your main battlegroup accomplishes that objective?¡±


    ¡°Right again. In that context, what should your battlegroup do if the enemy response fleet starts to flee battle?¡±


    Her mind racing, Loenda thought of how best to reply without making it seem like she had no clue what she was doing.


    Speinfoent chimed in to save her, ¡°As we discussed earlier for another contingency, we could keep Battlegroup 2 between the enemy and the shipyard. Then we can take a course to harass them as best we can without committing the battlegroup into any potentially dangerous fight.¡±


    Grionc digested the recommendation and tapped an entry into her datapad. ¡°Not a bad idea, Loenda. The main battlegroup should have a similar contingency too. Vastae, come up with a withdrawal response plan for us too later.¡±


    Loenda said nothing but shot Speinfoent a short nod of appreciation.


    Grionc did not let up. ¡°Next question: say your battlegroup loses communication with the rest of the fleet attacking the shipyard, what do you do?¡±


    Loenda furrowed her brow. This had not come up either. She tried to clarify, ¡°How do we notice this loss of communication?¡±


    Grionc looked at her in surprise, raising an eyebrow. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a good question. Would you notice?¡±


    ¡°I suppose not. I guess our battlegroups should designate a ship to keep constant communication¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, we should. Vastae, put that on the to-do list too. Back to the original question, say we haven¡¯t reported in, what is your course of action?¡±


    Loenda replied, ¡°In that case, the worst thing that might have happened is your battlegroup might have failed your objective and gotten destroyed. We should try to figure out what happened. We can observe if there¡¯s a lot of debris near the shipyard.¡±


    ¡°What if all your sensors see are escape pods?¡±


    The squadron leader took her time, but she came to the conclusion that Grionc had hoped she might. ¡°At that point, it seems like the objective of the raid has failed. Given that your battlegroup was more prepared for the shipyard raid and failed anyway, there would be nothing else our battlegroup can do except throw more ships away at an objective we can¡¯t complete. We should pick up the lifepods we can, disengage, and get to the system limit for retreat.¡±


    Grionc smiled. ¡°Good. It¡¯s a shipyard raid, not a cage fight to the death.¡±


    ¡°A cage fight, High Fleet Commander?¡± Loenda asked, confused.


    ¡°It¡¯s a term from a combat sport¡ª Never mind, Loenda. Better if you don¡¯t know.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    ¡°Keep us on full speed, bearing away from the enemy shipyard and keep up the missile volleys to pressure the enemy,¡± Loenda ordered as another ship in Squadron 8 took a hit in the engines and fell behind. There was nothing they could do for the disabled ship, and she had to remind herself once again that this was a simulated exercise despite the realistic fidelity of the advanced alien computers.


    At least the main attack on the shipyard seemed to be going well. According to the regular reports from the communication station, the attacking battlegroup had taken the two main construction docks and were now clearing the supporting infrastructure of enemy ships hiding in their line-of-sight shadows.


    Speinfoent noticed a few dots on the radar chart. Tapping away at his console, he confirmed his suspicions in a few moments. ¡°Squadron Leader, hallway?¡±


    When they¡¯d exited the bridge into the hallway, Loenda asked briskly ¡ª but not rudely, ¡°What is it, Gamma Leader?¡±


    ¡°From radar recordings, it looks like several of the enemy logistics ships played dead with the rest of their destroyed shipyard fleet and snuck out from their area of operations. They¡¯re drifting out towards the system limit. I noticed they were making micro adjustments to their flight path, which means they probably still have enough power to blink out when they get there. They are in our missile envelope now and we can wipe them all out if we expend a full volley at them.¡±


    Loenda took a deep breath and looked at him thoughtfully. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°I am certain. These adjustments to their trajectory are not random. They are putting as much distance between our two battlegroups as possible,¡± he asserted, showing her the trajectory calculations on his datapad and putting all his confidence behind his voice.


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    She looked at it dubiously but relented. ¡°Fine, we¡¯ll do it your way. Radio the High Fleet Commander about the situation and ask for orders.¡±


    ¡°Why can we not just open fire, they are right there in¡ª¡± Then, looking at her expression, he decided not to push his luck. ¡°Yes, Squadron Leader. Of course we¡¯ll get permission from the High Fleet Commander first.¡±


    Back on the bridge, he relayed the orders to the communications station.


    The immediate reply was not helpful. ¡°Sir, the main battlegroup is heavily engaged in battle, and the high fleet commander is not available.¡±


    ¡°Not available?¡± Speinfoent tried to clarify, ¡°What¡¯s going on over there?¡±


    ¡°It seems like the Oengro was hit, Gamma Leader. She must be busy with damage control.¡±


    ¡°First of all, don¡¯t assume. Ask. And tell them this is urgent. We only have a small window of time before these logistics ships get out of our optimal firing envelope.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain.¡±


    It took another ten minutes to find someone who reached Grionc, who got on the radio personally. The communication was spotty. It appeared that the hit damaged the Oengro¡¯s communications array, exactly as the communication officer speculated. ¡°Battlegroup 2¡­ are you still in a position¡­ fire on those ships?¡±


    Speinfoent replied immediately, ¡°High Fleet Commander, they¡¯re at the edge of our missile envelope. Do we have permission to open fire?¡±


    ¡°Fire everything¡­ those drifting ships. We believe¡­ enemy sector governor and VIPs¡­ on board one of those ships. Is that clear?¡±


    ¡°Ten-four.¡±


    Speinfoent looked up at Loenda who, to her credit, did not hesitate a second. ¡°You heard what the high fleet commander ordered,¡± she bellowed at the tactical officer¡¯s station. ¡°Target those fleeing vermin and fire everything!¡±


    The fleeing enemy ¡°Celestrian¡± ships saw the incoming missiles, realized their ruse was up, and scattered: they immediately started burning for the system blink limit at full power. Because of the delay, most of them had already drifted past Battlegroup 2¡¯s optimal envelope. Nonetheless, they were still mostly in range, and many were unarmed logistics ships without effective defenses. Battlegroup 2¡¯s missiles found their marks, plucking at least three quarters of the logistics ships off the sensor screen in a single volley before the remainder fled out of range.


    A few hours later, the remainder few made it to the system limit and jumped out hastily. Unfortunately, the enemy sector governor and a few of his military advisors made it out on one of those ships: a minor blemish on an otherwise successful exercise.


    <hr>


    ¡°Gamma Leader, you know these Terrans personally. How do they come up with these nonsensical exercises?¡± Loenda grumbled at Speinfoent as they sat down for their third exercise in four days.


    ¡°They take recordings of our historical battles and try to do better than we did, or some variation of that nature.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing we didn¡¯t do so well in the history part of it?¡±


    ¡°No, we didn¡¯t. Usually there is Grass Eater trickery involved. But I still haven¡¯t figured out their twist in this next exercise,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°Seems like another standard raid to me. Not much room for complexity ¡ª none that we haven¡¯t faced before¡­ right?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure our alien friends have something up their sleeves again. They always do.¡±


    Minutes later, the navigation officer frowned and reported, ¡°Urgent message. This is from the simulation authority¡­ it says: there was a serious case of food poisoning at the command banquet last night. All commanders with the rank of beta leader and up are incapacitated. You have one minute to appoint someone to replace you. After that, remove yourself to the medical bay for the remainder of this exercise. No exceptions.¡±


    ¡°Looks like we¡¯ve just found out what the grass-eating twist is,¡± Loenda scowled.


    Without a second thought, she made her way towards the bridge exit. ¡°Gamma Leader Speinfoent, you are in charge of my battlegroup. Don¡¯t screw this up.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Atlas, Luna</h2>


    ¡°And what is your opinion? Are they ready?¡±


    Amelia looked up from her notes towards the dais towards the questioner, the elderly Senator Blake Wald, member of the Senate Intelligence Committee and former pacifist. ¡°Are they ready for what, sir?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to waffle on us now, Vice Admiral. This is a top-secret briefing. Speak your mind.¡±


    She replied, ¡°It depends on what you mean by ready, Senator. No, they are not fully ready. They will never be fully ready, especially when we haven¡¯t trained any of them at the Staff College ourselves. What they are is more ready than they were yesterday but less ready than they would be if they had another day of training and exercises. If the question is whether they are ready enough for War Plan Anaconda to succeed? Are they ready enough for me to put my people¡¯s life in their hands? Yeah. I believe so, and these latest exercises make that clear. We need to double-check their work from time to time, but they perform more or less up to spec.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± he said, ¡°We¡¯ve addressed the command issues from the last briefing?¡±


    ¡°Director Mark from the TRO is working with them on site. That¡¯s why he¡¯s not here for this,¡± she gestured at Kara sitting next to her. ¡°Since Sixth Fleet started the latest round of exercises, we¡¯ve seen far better communication and coordination up and down their chain of command. Cultural changes are hard because they require people to think differently, but with the full buy-in of their fleet commander, what we are seeing is far more rapid than we anticipated at first.¡±


    ¡°This is just the Sixth Fleet, right?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative, Senator. When we started, the initial goal was to train up a smaller fleet capable of offensive action while holding the line everywhere else.¡±


    ¡°And have we done that? Hold the line? Come to think of it, you guys don¡¯t seem to talk a whole lot about the other parts of the war than Sixth Fleet. They¡¯re not losing on the other fronts, are they?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°Negative, Senator. The Bun¡ª the Znosians have a structured, almost predictable, grand strategy. They invade, taking the systems one by one almost in sequence. Datsot is where our focus is because that is also where their focus is right now. They have launched a couple other raids and smaller scale attacks in other regions of Federation space. There was a bait we warned the Malgeir about last month, and luckily someone over there heeded it. A pessimist would say we are not winning just yet, but I like to think that we¡¯ve stopped the bleeding.¡±


    Senator Wald coughed. ¡°Good, I just want to make sure that¡­ incidents like the one in McMurdo don¡¯t catch us off guard again. The public loves flashy victories, but we can¡¯t take more risks like that, as I¡¯m sure you are aware, Vice Admiral. How are the Znosians responding to that by the way, Operative?¡±


    Kara saw the last question directed at her and spoke up. ¡°There have been a few ships sniffing around in McMurdo, but so far we don¡¯t think they¡¯ve found anything yet. They are taking it more seriously than we initially anticipated; we now assess with high confidence that a State Security agent is involved in the investigation. Her name is Svatken. Our analysts have compiled a dossier for you.¡±


    ¡°State Security, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Senator. That¡¯s what we call the internal security organization responsible for most of their most horrific abuses. The literal translated full name is Head Office for the Directorate of State Security, Ideological Purity, and Population Control.¡±


    Senator Wald winced. ¡°State Security will be fine, Operative.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Senator. The agent we think is investigating the McMurdo Incident has a particularly colorful track record. She specializes in apostasy investigations, which is just their fancy religious way of saying, treason and other high crimes against the state.¡±


    The Senator looked down at the files in front of him. ¡°Yeah, her name is beginning to sound familiar with that context. A real piece of work, I gather. Should we be worried, eh?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ yet. If they stick around for a while, she might eventually find something interesting in McMurdo, but their attention is mostly focused on Datsot nearby. And if she does get a little too close to the truth¡­ well, she is very close to the frontlines, and accidents happen out here all the time. For now, we believe it¡¯s more convenient to keep her around.¡±


    ¡°Good, good. Seems like if they¡¯re the Big Bad, is there anything else we should be doing to disrupt this State Security organization as a whole?¡± the Senator looked at Amelia.


    The admiral answered with a thin smile, ¡°We are, Senator. We stop the bad guys by winning the war. And we intend to do exactly that.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°How do you like chaos now?¡± Grionc teased Mark in the privacy of his guest suite with saved-up smugness.


    ¡°It was crafty,¡± he admitted. ¡°Your commanders saw right through the Opfor ambush. That was indeed the point of the exercise.¡±


    ¡°We brainstormed that exact contingency in the briefing and Squadron 10 reacted instantly,¡± she boasted, a hint of pride in her voice. ¡°Without needing my orders or asking permission if I may add. When the Znosians try that trick in battle in the future, they¡¯re not going to live long enough to regret it.¡±


    ¡°They actually have. Tried it, I mean,¡± Mark revealed.


    ¡°They¡ª You mean this is an ambush scenario they¡¯ve pulled¡ª¡± Grionc rolled her eyes. ¡°Of course, they did. I¡¯m guessing we didn¡¯t react well then?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, one of the Granti¡¯s early war raids. Didn¡¯t end too well for them. We just adopted it for this scenario. As your fleet showed in this exercise, being surprised doesn¡¯t mean you should just turn off your brains and decide to go out in a blaze of glory, which seems to be the typical instinct for your bloodthirsty commanders.¡±


    She grinned at the playful jab. ¡°Ouch. But fair is fair¡­ Grass Eater. I did read your manuals, as did my commanders. As your people say, we can¡¯t afford to be wasteful with our ships and people at this point in the war.¡±


    ¡°Good. Because our next one for you isn¡¯t just an exercise. We know your people are eager for action¡ª¡±


    Grionc¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Are we doing one for real now?¡±


    ¡°We are soon. We¡¯ve been approved for our first joint-op. The first official one, anyway.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s our target?¡±


    ¡°Are you aware of a system named Preirsput?¡±


    Grionc racked her brain for a moment before recalling that particular Malgeirish name in her brain. ¡°Actually, I think I might be. That¡¯s a few blinks away from Datsot, right?¡±


    ¡°Three blinks, to be precise. Which is right about the range we want it to be. Anyway, here are the parameters,¡± Mark said, pulling up the data on his tablet.


    ¡°More exercises?¡± Grionc grinned, reading off the screen.


    ¡°Kind of. These are technically not exercises in the nomenclature. These are what we call rehearsals.¡±


    ¡°Rehearsals? Like for a state dinner or ceremony?¡± she asked.


    He nodded. ¡°Exactly like rehearsals for a ceremony. Everyone wears their best dresses and suits. We set up the scenario, and we run it repeatedly with a little variation each time until we get it right every time.¡±


    Grionc skimmed over the summary section. ¡°I¡¯ve been to a lot of those ceremony rehearsals, Mark. This one sounds a lot more fun.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you take command of this one, Gamma Leader,¡± Loenda said. ¡°After all, this is a rehearsal for the real operation we are conducting, and you will be in command of the Trassau then too.¡±


    ¡°I will?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, after all, I should not be distracted from managing the battlegroup, should I?¡±


    Speinfoent pretended not to see the smile on her wrinkled face as he brought up the scenario on his console.


    And Loenda pretended not to see the beaming pride on his.

 First Strike - Chapter 46 | Logistics

    <h2>Preirsput</h2>


    The Znosian captain of the escort ship numbered ¡°13312¡± was an unremarkable member of his species. For a ship captain, he was neither particularly ambitious nor too careful, and that was the hallmark of his bloodline. For a captain, Pachte (his given name) had an average height, an average build, and an average intellect for a Navy captain. The Servants of the Prophecy did not expend unnecessary resources to develop special talents for the specimens who fulfilled average roles.


    Regardless of the circumstance of his birth or position in the hierarchy, Six Whiskers Pachte took his job seriously. After all, he was bred to.


    As the logistics supply convoy jumped into the undefended system for transit, he followed procedure to the letter: he ordered an escort ship to stay at the system limit while the rest of the flotilla moved through to the other side, with their autonomous supply ships following dutifully with their limited programming. Despite the tight deadline they had been given, it appeared the supplies would arrive in Datsot with plenty of time to spare.


    In other words, no corners needed to be cut, not that the hard-working Znosian people would do that like the lazy Lesser Predators do anyway.


    <hr>


    As they were halfway through the sector, the ship¡¯s klaxon sounded the radar detection of a large enemy fleet in system as they materialized from behind a rocky planet.


    Pachte was surprised but not petrified. ¡°Pachte to escort fleet,¡± his voice echoed firmly through the comms. ¡°It looks like a large raiding attempt from the Lesser Predators, sixty missile-capable combat ships. Prepare for battle.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers,¡± his subordinates replied in unison.


    Pachte furrowed his brows at the sensor station. ¡°We did not see them earlier?¡±


    ¡°They were hiding in the sensor shadow of the planet, Six Whiskers,¡± his sensor officer replied, head bowed to show contrition. ¡°I take full responsibility for the failure to spot them in time.¡±


    Pachte waved away his implied apology with his paw. ¡°There was no way you could have known. I take responsibility for not deploying surveillance drones before proceeding in-system.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Six Whiskers,¡± the officer said, relieved.


    Pachte turned to his computer officer. ¡°What does the Digital Guide say we should do?¡±


    The computer officer did not hesitate to relay the bad news. ¡°We are outnumbered, eight ships to their sixty, which we identify to be from their above average Sixth Fleet. We will most likely lose our supply ships. Retreat is pointless, and we can deal significant damage to this raiding fleet if we stand and fight. The conclusion is obvious.¡±


    Pachte nodded in determination. ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pool. Get ready to deploy all available countermeasures. The more waves of their missiles we survive, the more of these Lesser Predators we will see in the afterlife.¡±


    Not all Znosians believed in an afterlife. It was considered a progressive concept: Znosians traditionally believed in reincarnation under the Prophecy. A schism almost broke out over this distinction several centuries ago; now the authorities informally tolerated this diversity of opinion, as long as its adherents did not evangelize too heavily. After all, there were some motivational benefits to either school of thought.


    ¡°How many waves of missiles does the Digital Guide think we will get to fire at them before they take us down?¡± he asked the computer officer out of pure curiosity, not contemplating changing the course of his fate.


    ¡°Six, possibly seven. We should be able to take out about twenty Lesser Predator ships in that time, given that they are still warming up their cold engines.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Twenty of them for eight of us. We will meet those expectations. If not, my bloodline will have to take responsibility for my failure.¡±


    <hr>


    The computer officer¡¯s voice cracked as he reported. ¡°Six Whiskers! Our observation ship at the system limit, it just disappeared from our sensors!¡±


    ¡°Disappeared?¡± Pachte echoed.


    ¡°Destroyed, we are detecting radiation consistent with its drive signature. I take responsibility for not being clear¡ª¡±


    ¡°What hit them?¡± he asked, his mind spinning into overdrive.


    ¡°Unclear, the Digital Guide recommends that I scatter communication drones with our last status report in case¡ª¡±


    Pachte considered the recommendation, then nodded. ¡°Do so. And speaking of communication, did we get to someone from the Datsot invasion fleet? It¡¯s three blinks away, but they might have a patrol close enough by to avenge us.¡±


    ¡°No, Six Whiskers. Strangely enough, we haven¡¯t received any responses to our FTL communication requests since we entered this system. In fact, I checked and none of our ships have.¡±


    ¡°Odd. What does the Guide say about that?¡± he questioned.


    A minute later, the computer officer came back with a response. ¡°Possibly an undiagnosed systemic malfunction of the FTL radios. Its recommendation is the same: send out our communication drones in case of our demise.¡±


    Pachte nodded again. ¡°Do that for now. Other than the fact that we are about to perish, there is something unusual about this raid. I can feel it in my whiskers and my bones.¡±


    <hr>


    Pachte glanced at his weapons station as the tactical officer declared, ¡°We are entering our maximum firing range.¡±


    Luckily, he thought, the Lesser Predators have weaker missiles with lower range than us. And our engines are hotter. No matter how many ships they brought, we can still open fire first. The knowledge gave him a small degree of comfort. ¡°Fire when ready and repeat fire as long as we can. Focus on their flagship with our entire first volley, and then pick five new ships to focus on for each subsequent volley. Spread this command so it will be fulfilled even if this ship is destroyed or I am incapacitated. Is that clear?¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    The tactical officer operated her console without taking her eyes off it. ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers. The command went out. Firing now.¡±


    He watched on the radar as dozens of dots marking their missiles raced out from the escort fleet towards the mass of incoming enemies.


    The sensor officer declared, ¡°They are deploying countermeasures. We are resolving the targets on the radar¡ª no, wait. Something¡¯s wrong.¡±


    I¡¯m going to need to talk to her about precision of language later, Pachte thought. Then he realized it might not matter soon anyway.


    Pachte sighed and looked at the sensor board. As he did, a fresh wave of shock washed over him. Thousands of new decoy contacts blossomed out of the enemy flagship on the radar, each with as much potency and clarity as the real targets.


    He watched in horror as the new targets continued to stream onto the radar screen, some of the new ones so powerful they were resolving as literal planetary objects and stars, covering up not just the singular flagship they were targeting but the entire enemy fleet.


    The tactical officer came back with a tally. ¡°Twelve thousand new contacts detected! And climbing! These must be decoys!¡±


    ¡°Are we going to find any of the real enemy ships in time?¡± he asked urgently.


    ¡°That is¡­ unlikely for our first volley, Six Whiskers. I take full responsibility for this failure.¡±


    Pachte sighed in disappointment once again. The estimated number of enemy ships they can take with them just went down. ¡°Let¡¯s get another volley out. Our radar should have resolved these targets by the time they get there.¡±


    The radar showed the computer resolving one, two, and then dozens of targets as they ruled out contacts that were clearly not moving or behaving naturally. Not nearly enough. The estimated time remaining counter on the radar display for getting a confident positive identification showed a comical ¡°142.3 standard years¡±.


    The tactical officer relayed the readout from her consoles. ¡°Second volley out. Our missiles are still not seeing a specific target. All we have is a bunch of signals, too many to sort through. The likelihood we will hit an actual target out there is near zero¡ª¡±


    ¡°Keep firing. They must have expended all their countermeasures as well. Eventually they will have to fly out of their decoy cover¡ª¡± Pachte¡¯s voice faltered as a fresh wave of false targets poured onto the sensor console. Someone had clearly not told these predator abominations what was supposed to be possible.


    New klaxons sounded, this time warbling much more urgently.


    ¡°The enemy is firing now, Six Whiskers! Missiles incoming! Two hundred and forty in total.¡±


    Pachte almost lost his nerve as he sank deeper into his command chair. Then he remembered his training: his people needed him to display an aura of competence, even if they were all going to die. Drawing up his remaining strength, Pachte recovered his composure and stood up to his full height of 1.2 meters, his face as calm as he could make it. ¡°Let¡¯s focus on defending for now. We have countermeasures too. Deploy them all.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    The mood on the Malgeir flagship was much less tense.


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, our new countermeasures are working as expected. All the Znosian missiles went stupid,¡± Vastae reported in mild surprise, borrowing the Terran terminology.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Mark said as he casually chomped down a bag of pistachios from his guest chair on the bridge.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you can eat at a time like this. What is that even?¡± Vastae asked incredulously.


    ¡°Pistachios. These are nuts¡­ well, technically cashews, I think,¡± Mark replied in between mouthful.


    Vastae rolled his eyes. ¡°And why were you so sure our countermeasures would work?¡±


    Mark grinned. ¡°Like I¡¯ve said before, I have full confidence in your fleet and crews. Besides, we may not have given you the best ECM we have, but surplus Raven Two electronic warfare pods are more than enough to dazzle the skirts off those meager sensors and computers on those Bunny escort ships.¡±


    ¡°If they work so well, Grass Eater, why are they surplus?¡± Vastae challenged skeptically.


    Mark didn¡¯t stop chewing. ¡°Because¡­ our pirates decided to get themselves better sensors than your flagship, Blood Drinker. Hey look, don¡¯t blame me; I¡¯m not exactly happy about that either. Besides, the newer ones we have were supposed to be cheaper.¡±


    ¡°Cheaper? Really?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Mark half-chuckled, ¡°But the defense contractor that sold them to the Navy claimed they were going to be. She is very good at her job.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that makes sense,¡± Grionc nodded, the story of defense procurement a familiar refrain in the Malgeir Navy too. ¡°At least most of your equipment works.¡±


    Vastae looked at his console as a warning started to sound. ¡°Looks like they have deployed radar chaff and decoys too¡ª that¡¯s got to be everything they have in the magazines. Exactly like the rehearsals. They are fighting to the death.¡±


    Grionc looked at her console grimly as the number of radar contacts continued to climb into the dozens, over a hundred, and the outgoing missiles began to lose track of their original targets. ¡°And we shall oblige. All combat ships, switch off your radars and fall back to the datalink from the supply ship marked as Rivers-1.¡±


    The bridge watched as all the radar and decoy contacts momentarily disappeared off the radar, replaced by the simplex communication signals now provided by the next generation sensor and gravidar systems of the Terran reconnaissance ship loitering stealthily near the system limit. The one that had just eaten the enemy observation ship for breakfast.


    The eight enemy escort ships and their convoy reappeared, clearly marked by the new data streaming in from the superior Terran sensors unfazed by enemy countermeasures and trickery. Quickly, the missiles of the Malgeir Navy tracked onto the targets confidently provided by their mother ships, and homed in.


    <hr>


    Pachte could not believe his ears. ¡°Say that again?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t go for any of the countermeasures, Six Whiskers. Not a single one. All their missiles are heading straight for us and our other escorts.¡±


    His eyes went wide. ¡°That¡¯s impossible! We dumped our whole load!¡±


    ¡°Impact in six seconds! Five¡ª¡±


    ¡°Signal the autonomous supply ships to scuttle! Don¡¯t leave the Lesser Predators any¡ª¡±


    <hr>


    Mark observed the expanding ball of debris that was the enemy escort fleet with satisfaction as the bridge crew cheered the astonishingly bloodless victory in the background. Bloodless¡­ for the Malgeir.


    ¡°And¡­ that¡¯s all she wrote. You sure you don¡¯t want some of these pistachios? Don¡¯t worry, I checked: none of you people are allergic to pistachios. They¡¯re actually healthy for you ¡ª unless you eat too much.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll try some of those seeds of yours. What next, you Terrans start introducing us to plant roots for dinner?¡± Vastae sniffed suspiciously as Mark handed over his snack bag.


    Mark chuckled as he gestured to show Vastae how to crack them open. ¡°Roots? Like carrots and potatoes? That can be arranged. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll love fries. They come in vegan, but we can also cook them in these oily vats of synthetic animal fat¡­¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright, I get the point. No need to make us all hungry so early in the day,¡± Vastae said, struggling with the shell on one of the strange nuts¡ª cashews.


    ¡°We¡¯ll make a Root Eater out of you one day,¡± Mark winked.


    Grionc turned around to face him. ¡°Aren¡¯t your people supposed to be salvaging those Znosian supply ships? Do you need our Marines to board them first to check for traps?¡±


    Mark¡¯s expression turned incredulous. ¡°Board the enemy supply ships to check for traps? With real, living Marines first? Are you people nuts?!¡±


    Grionc shrugged.


    Mark waved the concern away. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about my salvage ships, Fleet Commander. We¡¯ve got more than enough experience dealing with these kinds of situations. Some of our Red Zone terrorists can teach the Bunnies classes in counter-VBSS operations. There was this one time ¡ª before I joined the TRO ¡ª we were going after the lieutenant of a Resistance Ace; she stuck ¡ª I swear to God ¡ª this massive twentieth century fissile nuke in her Faraday shielded cargo hold, and we really needed to know where she got it from. You won¡¯t believe how many combat robots we had to expend. Now, that was a nasty scene when we finally got on board¡­¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 47 | Fearless

    <h2>Datsot</h2>


    Longclaw Commander Skhork peered through his scopes at the endless, soggy sea of marshland stretching out before him. It seemed like the swamp had swallowed up the world, with not even a hint of dry land in sight. They had seen nothing else out here for dozens of kilometers.


    His Gunner, peering through her own scope, chimed in with a mix of boredom and disbelief, ¡°Nothing but endless predator swamp, huh?¡±


    ¡°We should be hitting the outskirts of their city soon. But yeah, just mud for now,¡± Skhork grumbled, his gaze not leaving the scope.


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember there being so much swamp on the original maps,¡± the Gunner mused.


    ¡°There wasn¡¯t,¡± Skhork muttered, half to himself. ¡°This whole area was supposed to be dry as bone this time of year. The Lesser Predators have a dam upstream, and they opened it to flood the whole area around us to complicate our operations.¡±


    The Gunner managed a shrug, even in the cramped quarters of their Longclaw. ¡°Well, it worked. Half our logistics trucks are stuck back at the forward base without anti-grav. At least our Longclaws aren¡¯t afraid of a little mud.¡±


    ¡°For a little while anyway. We should have a much easier time once we get to the roads. We¡¯re just a little behind schedule for now.¡±


    ¡°Good to hear,¡± the Gunner said. ¡°I pick up signals now and then from our holdout troops in the city, still holding their ground. Maybe if our assault goes well enough, we can link up to them and evacuate their¡ª¡±


    A loud, distinctive whistle sliced through their chatter and Skhork watched in the exterior camera as a large tree next to them exploded into splinters. Skhork instinctively shunted all non-essential power usage to the combat systems immediately. And with the press of a button, a dozen smoke grenades launched ahead of the Longclaw turret, forming a curtain of white smoke to block out the enemy vision.


    ¡°Enemy contact. We¡¯re under attack,¡± he declared, the picture of calm as the crew sprung into battle-readiness.


    ¡°Searching for targets,¡± his Controller said, releasing a trio of the Longclaw¡¯s reconnaissance drones into the air. Skhork watched as the other three Longclaws under his command did the same, the drones spreading out in search of infrared signatures in the area.


    The Gunner and Engineer joined the search, their eyes glued to their screens, hunting for the source of the attack.


    Another piercing whistle tore through the air, its shrill note cutting through the chaos. A deafening clang reverberated through the Longclaw¡¯s hull, shaking Skhork to his core. For a fleeting moment, the merciless assault on his eardrums rendered him deafened and disoriented. But, as a battle-hardened Znosian Marine, he swiftly regained his composure.


    Turning his attention to the damage control board, Skhork¡¯s crimson eyes narrowed as he surveyed the aftermath of the hit. Relief flooded his veins as he saw the reassuring diagnostic report: the Longclaw¡¯s thick composite armor had deflected the enemy¡¯s deadly projectile.


    ¡°Fearless Platoon, everyone still alive?¡± Skhork barked into the radio.


    ¡°Fearless Two, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Three, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Four, here.¡±


    ¡°Good, did anyone see¡ª¡±


    ¡°Found them!¡± his Controller interrupted with a triumphant shout.


    Pressing a button, a flurry of false color heat signatures blossomed on their screens showing the enemies a few kilometers away: over a dozen armored vehicles at the edge of a clearing. Though invisible through the slowly dissipating smoke, they were accurately overlayed on the Longclaw¡¯s systems through their overhead drones.


    The enemy had previously been waiting, hidden in the foliage. As they watched, the enemy armor were now powering on their engines and moving into the open to get closer to his obscured Longclaws.


    ¡°Gunner, sabot, armor!¡±


    ¡°Up!¡±


    ¡°Armor identified! Range 3,200!¡±


    ¡°Ready!¡±


    ¡°Fire and adjust!¡±


    Before he even finished his full command, his Gunner had acquired the first target, zeroed the gun, and launched the loaded anti-armor shell in the Longclaw¡¯s breech. Skhork grinned as he watched the projectile penetrate clean into its target through the drone cameras above. The shell cut into it like a hot knife through lunch rations, detonating the enemy vehicle¡¯s munition magazine, spreading its debris through the nearby sludge.


    His Gunner selected another target and waited for the autoloader to transfer more shells from the magazine into the gun breech.


    As Skhork activated another curtain of smoke in front of the Longclaw, the other Longclaws next to him also started to open fire, making sure to coordinate and mark their targets through the data-linked sensor system.


    ¡°On the way!¡± his Gunner yelled. The launch of another shell temporarily deafened the cabin again. Skhork watched as an incoming enemy munition chose this moment to barely miss them and hit the ground next to them, throwing up a cloud of mud and vegetation. When the noise subsided, he noticed on his screen that for every enemy vehicle they were destroying, another was emerging out of the forest to engage them. Some were pushing the wrecks of their dead comrades aside to get a clear shot at them¡ª


    ¡°There are so many of them!¡± his Controller cried as another two enemy vehicles started firing, panic creeping into his voice.


    ¡°I¡¯ve already called the fleet,¡± Skhork replied, staring at his screen at the confirmation. ¡°We¡¯ve got orbital support missiles incoming in about three minutes! We just have to keep them tied up for that long.¡±


    The gun barked again. And again. Their hulls rang again as they were hit. Then twice. Both deflected. Due to the sheer volume of incoming fire, all his Longclaws took more hits, but unless his sensor was faulty, it appeared that none took any major damage.


    Three minutes in battle did not feel like three regular minutes. He counted down the seconds remaining to the orbital support as he watched his crew efficiently eliminate as many of the enemy vehicles as they could while staying alive under the inaccurate but voluminous enemy fire.


    ¡°Incoming missiles in three¡­ two¡­¡± he reported.


    The imagery of their thermal sensors disappeared into a blinding flash of white light. The Longclaw¡¯s computers quickly adjusted, and the scene reappeared: the enemies were gone, vaporized, as was most of the forest around them.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The shockwave of the explosion hit their Longclaw right on time, rattling their hull once more. A tree at the edge of the enemy clearing came crashing down on itself a few seconds later, still burning.


    Then, silence.


    ¡°Fearless, status?¡± Skhork called again into the radio.


    ¡°Fearless Two, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Three, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Four, here.¡±


    Skhork breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the Longclaw¡¯s status: just under half ammo and power. ¡°That could have turned out worse,¡± he muttered.


    The Gunner chuckled. ¡°Good thing their vehicle weapons are as underpowered as their fleet. A dozen hits in the platoon and zero penetrations.¡±


    ¡°Still,¡± Skhork said, his heart rate still recovering from the battle. ¡°I hope we won¡¯t have to test our armor out like that again.¡±


    She nodded, adding, ¡°And we got lucky their first shot wasn¡¯t coordinated. If they all just sat there and opened fire together¡­ who knows? We¡¯d been hit more, and one of them might have done more damage.¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for failing to spot them in time, Six Whiskers,¡± his Controller said, finally finding the free time to do so.


    Skhork nodded, acknowledging the mistake, but added, ¡°I know you were trying to save battery for us; we¡¯re using enough as is traversing the mud with our anti-grav. Just make sure to keep at least one drone above us at all times.¡±


    The Controller nodded, programming the commands into his station.


    ¡°Now, Driver, let¡¯s get back to base for a recharge.¡±


    <hr>


    Skhork looked at the base logistics officer in dismay. ¡°What do you mean, we don¡¯t have enough for a full load?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have enough shells in this base to ensure that every Longclaw can get a full combat load at this time,¡± the officer repeated patiently. ¡°Best I can do for you is eighty percent load, and¡­ no replacement drones anymore. The other combat units took all the remaining drones they had.¡±


    ¡°Eighty percent?¡± Skhork gaped at him. ¡°And no drones? We are a combat unit! We don¡¯t operate at anything less than one hundred!¡±


    The logistics officer said nothing, so Skhork continued, ¡°Do you do your job at eighty percent? Do you think we can do our jobs properly at eighty percent?¡±


    He only got a shrug in response.


    Skhork sighed, calming down. ¡°Are you responsible for this disaster?¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers Ditvish has already taken full responsibility for this supply shortage. Would you like me to as well?¡±


    Skhork sniffed, ¡°No, that would be unnecessary, but I thought we opened a corridor in orbit long enough to squeeze a few armored supply ships through.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you haven¡¯t heard.¡±


    Skhork shot back, ¡°What haven¡¯t I heard? I¡¯m a Longclaw Marine, not some cowardly base sitter who has all day to gossip about trivialities.¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t gotten fully supplied in two weeks. I heard¡­ that four supply convoys have been confirmed destroyed before they reached the system,¡± the supply officer relayed in a slightly lowered voice.


    ¡°The Lesser Predators¡¯ ships cut the Navy¡¯s supply lines? Are you out of your mind?! Have you even seen these guys out there? They can¡¯t even cut grass if they had an industrial weed-cutter!¡±


    ¡°Some are saying it¡¯s not the Lesser Predators. Some are saying that this is the work of the Shadows.¡±


    ¡°The Shadows?¡±


    ¡°Shadows, Phantoms¡­ the Great Predators,¡± the officer almost whispered the last one.


    Skhork snorted. ¡°Hatchling¡¯s tales. You guys should really get out more; staying in the base all day must have addled your minds. These excuses of yours get more absurd every day¡­ Whatever. Just tell me when you have my shells for me, or you might soon find yourself being called to take responsibility for my unit failing to accomplish our missions.¡±


    <hr>


    Ditvish¡¯s face betrayed little of the annoyance he felt as he received the unexpected call from his communications officer in his quarters. ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a call for you from¡­ possibly Grantor, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Possibly Grantor?¡±


    ¡°The caller identifies herself as from Grantor Security Station,¡± the officer elaborated. ¡°But according to our FTL radio¡¯s triangulation, she is calling from another system much closer to us.¡±


    Ditvish wiped away all traces of sleep from his mind as he sat up. ¡°Put her through immediately.¡±


    The soft voice of his nightmares came through his headset, and he felt ice in his veins. ¡°Ten Whiskers Ditvish, I hope you remember me from our last conversation.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Grantor Security Station Director¡­ I forgot what your name was. I apologize and take full responsibility for my forgetfulness.¡±


    ¡°Lie to me again, and you¡¯ll find out what happens to apostates of the Prophecy, Ten Whiskers. I know that after our call last time, the first thing you did was to discreetly have one of your underlings follow me from Grantor to find out who I really was. He was good, but you Navy cubs are all the same: blunt instruments with no appreciation for the real art of subtlety and surveillance¡­ I was all too happy to complete his education.¡±


    The five whiskers he put on the task had indeed found out who she was: an agent from State Security, but he disappeared immediately after reporting her name and position.


    ¡°I apologize for that too¡­ Agent Svatken, but I had to be careful that there were no enemy infiltrators in our ranks, especially after what happened to Atluftrosh¡¯s raiding fluffle.¡± He hesitated but added, ¡°Is¡ª do you know if my subordinate is still available for future service to the Prophecy?¡±


    Svatken brushed his apology aside without acknowledging it. ¡°Your minion still draws breath if that is what you are asking. You can have him back after I decide I¡¯m done having fun with him. But enough about my new pet. I am calling to inform you that I have determined that what happened to your raiding ships was not the work of enemy infiltrators, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°If not infiltrators, did you determine what was the cause of their destruction?¡±


    ¡°The same as those four recent missing supply convoys of yours, I expect.¡±


    Ditvish had to close his mouth to stop himself from panting out of nervousness. They have not yet discovered much there, either. Supply convoys don¡¯t just get wiped out by predators, leaving behind only debris and scant few traces of what happened. Especially not four supply shipments in a row. Nobody higher up had noticed yet, but he was going to have to report it soon when it started impacting his offensive operations on Datsot. It wasn¡¯t like he was hiding failure; no, that¡¯s not a very Znosian way of doing things, but there would be questions about how proactive his bookkeeping was if things continued. ¡°How do you know about those, Agent Svatken?¡± he asked with a dry mouth.


    ¡°Why do you think I¡¯m running around in the middle of nowhere, Ten Whiskers? I was just recently in the Malgeir system of Preirsput, and to my surprise, there is a lot more friendly debris here than I would expect from a competent commander of the fleet. So ¡ª and I¡¯ll ask only once more ¡ª what happened, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°It seems our supply convoys are being hunted by ships from the Sixth Fleet of the Lesser Predators, including her flagship: the one they call the Oengro,¡± Ditvish replied miserably. ¡°But that should not be possible. We saw them retreat towards Malgeiru after leaving Datsot to defend their home system!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid,¡± she chided. ¡°Ships can turn around in space.¡±


    Ditvish bowed his head. ¡°Anyway, that¡¯s not the most important part. This is: from what we have discovered about the enemy from a survivor we picked up in one of our lifepods, their ships have recently received radical upgrades to their tactical systems. We believe these systems are in the field of concealment and targeting, and while these advantages are tactical in nature, the effect they have on our operations is deeply strategic.¡±


    ¡°What you mean to say is that they will hit our supply lines again with their upgraded ships, and you need to request even more ships to defend them, pushing back our Datsot invasion timeline even more,¡± Svatken guessed sourly.


    ¡°That is our analysis as well and we¡¯ve sent over what few telemetries we have from the raids so far to the Ship Design office. We were hoping they could get us some software updates to reduce some of these new disadvantages¡­¡±


    Svatken thought for a moment. ¡°My concern is more the source of these ship upgrades and the sudden change in behavior in these Lesser Predators than your software. If what you report is true, there has never been such a leap in their supposed capabilities since we discovered their existence. Since your fleet is at the front where you are most likely to find them, you are to report any anomalies that may contribute to our understanding of this new problem to my office.¡±


    Ditvish bowed his head. ¡°Of course, Agent Svatken¡­.¡±


    He hesitated for a couple seconds, then added, ¡°I hate to spread baseless rumors, but some of my subordinates have speculated that this resembles the work of Phantoms, which is how they know how we operate so well. It¡¯s all conjecture¡­¡±


    ¡°The Great Predators referenced in the ancient texts of the Prophecy?¡± Svatken asked. ¡°That is indeed a convenient scapegoat, but in my department, we deal with hard evidence, not gossip.¡±


    Technically, State Security also dealt with gossipers. Harshly, usually. But there was a distinction.


    She continued, ¡°Regardless, if you have any evidence to back up this hypothesis, no matter how circumstantial or thin, you are also to report them to me immediately. Is that understood?¡±


    Ditvish once again bowed to signal his acknowledgement as she hung up.


    <hr>


    ¡°Fstrofcho, have his precious five whiskers in the brig prepared and delivered to my quarters, for later tonight.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Chemically drugged and cleanly shaved?¡±


    ¡°You know how I like him. And make sure to bring a roll of heavy-duty mechanical repair tape. I ran out in the middle last night and that was no fun.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 48 | Outside the Box II

    Everything hurts. That was Ktotssu¡¯s first thought when she woke up. As the tranquil inertia of unconsciousness slowly began to fade, she stared at the sterile lights above her in confusion.


    ¡°What?¡± she struggled to form the shape of words through her dry mouth as she twitched in the soft, warm bed she was in.


    Then, the pain subsided, and the itching started. Her chest, her foot, her whiskers. It itched everywhere. She realized that her arms and legs were not responding to her controls as she tried to raise them to scratch herself. And then as quickly as it came, the sensation left.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± she mouthed. Her voice did not come out as anything but a wordless moan.


    An unseen hose snaked itself through her lips, hydrating her vocal cords.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± Ktotssu asked again, unsure who was even supposed to answer. This time her voice came out somewhat audibly.


    ¡°You are in a medical facility, Ktotssu. You were in a space battle. Do you remember?¡±


    And then it all came back to her.


    <hr>


    <h2>Black Site Deimos</h2>


    Ktotssu glared at the alien interrogator sat in front of her in silence. She wasn¡¯t sure what it was, but it certainly was not one of the Lesser Predators she¡¯d ever encountered. Not that she¡¯s seen many in person. Only a few prisoners. Now the shoe was on the other paw.


    The only thing that was clear to her was that she was a captive, and her fluffle must have lost the battle, or she would not be here.


    ¡°I just want to talk, Ktotssu,¡± the alien said to her. ¡°Trauma manifests in many ways, including memory loss. Unlocking your memories can help you heal, and that¡¯s what we are here to do today.¡±


    Seeing no response, the alien sighed and continued, ¡°Ok, let¡¯s start from how you got here. You are a seven whiskers captain of the Znosian Navy. Your ship was the Birtevrut. It was heavily damaged in the battle. Then, you gave the orders to abandon ship. What happened next?¡±


    What happened next was her sensor officer ruined her plan to go down with the ship. She knew that would have been wasteful and frowned upon, but she¡¯d grown irrationally attached to it¡­


    He picked me up against my protest, unceremoniously stuffed me into a lifepod, and then everything went black when the sedatives kicked in.


    She¡¯d never experienced its unpleasant side effects before, but she¡¯d heard that the life pods came with extremely potent drugs that were used to trigger their innate hibernation instincts. It appeared to have worked.


    ¡°Good ¡ª that¡¯s really good ¡ª so you do remember everything,¡± the alien said. ¡°Your sensor officer. What was his name?¡±


    Wait, what?


    ¡°Your sensor officer. His name, if you can remember?¡±


    Did it just read my thoughts?


    Screw that! I¡¯m never going to tell them anything about my crew, especially not my sensor officer¡ª nope, can¡¯t even think of his name or his personal significance to me.


    ¡°That¡¯s okay, Ktotssu. We already know about Sensor Officer Vnamja. He¡¯s a six whiskers, right? In fact, we rescued him around the same time as you, and he is recovering very nicely too. We just wanted to confirm that your memory is working properly.¡±


    She felt a sigh of relief, then suspicion. After all, these people were predators; they were the enemy.


    They might be telling her lies for all she knew.


    ¡°True, I guess you have no reasons to trust us. But we did rescue you¡ª¡±


    Yeah, rescue me. After they blew my ship and crew to bits. My crew. I wonder what happened¡ª


    ¡°We managed to get most of your crew, the ones that got out in a pod anyway¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get out of my mind, Lesser Predator!¡± she screamed in frustration, abandoning her vow of silence.


    ¡°Interesting. You use the term Lesser Predator. Is that an official categorization or are you just assuming we are one of them?¡±


    ¡°You are a predator, are you not?¡± Ktotssu countered. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a picture of your species before, but it doesn¡¯t take a xenobiologist to figure it out. I can see from your face. Those forward-facing eyes, the pointy canine teeth. Ugly face, just as the Prophecy made you. Whatever your abomination species is, you are with the Lesser Predators!¡±


    ¡°Again, fascinating. Above average reasoning skills, mixed in with a sizable dose of bigotry. I can see why they made you captain. Most of your crew didn¡¯t connect these dots immediately,¡± the alien said, almost patronizingly, as it jotted something down on a tablet in front of it.


    ¡°My crew. Where are they?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°I think we got most of them. But that depends. How many crew members did the Birtevrut have?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not telling you, savage monster!¡±


    ¡°Alright, well, let me just put it this way. We picked up 314 life pods from around your ship. Your escape pod technology is very impressive, by the way. Those hibernation drugs are interesting. Most of them survived the process.¡±


    314? 412 minus 314 is ¡ª oh no! I take full responsibility for revealing state secrets to¡ª


    The alien continued without skipping a beat, ¡°That¡¯s alright, Seven Whiskers. This is a safe space. No one needs to blame anyone for anything here. You don¡¯t have to take responsibility for what you do here. Some of your peers find that to be unsettling; others find it a relief. But the most important thing is that you don¡¯t blame yourself for what is happening right now. We already know most of the information we are asking you about. For example, your friend Vnamja gave us an accurate crew count when he woke up. He is your friend, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Ktotssu grinded out through her gritted teeth. ¡°Can I see him?¡±


    ¡°Of course. In due time. We just need a little more information from you. You see¡­ my superiors need to see some results before they would allow you visiting privileges. We have to give them something so they can give you this, you understand?¡± The alien almost sounded apologetic.


    Maybe I can figure out how little information I could give out without them figuring out that is what I¡¯m trying¡ª ah never mind.


    Get out of my mind! Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    ¡°We can talk about anything you want to talk about, Seven Whiskers. Nothing critical. We don¡¯t need the location of your home world Znos or anything like that; for one, we already know where that is.¡±


    Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    ¡°Since you don¡¯t have a strong preference, how about let¡¯s start with your ship¡¯s previous posting over Plaunsollib?¡±


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    <hr>


    Kara peered intently at the exhausted creature slumped on the table through the one-way mirror. ¡°Have we been able to get anything useful from these science experiments?¡±


    ¡°We did get the mind reader working for the Buns,¡± John replied, wiping his brows. ¡°Factual information is easy; the engineering team is reading technical specifications off their minds by just making them visualize their manuals. The hard part is getting her cooperation in helping us evaluate things where she has much better context than we do. For example, I was trying to get at the relationship between their deceased fluffle leader and the fleet master Ditvish. Ktotssu figured my trick out and shut me down pretty quickly, but¡­ she did reveal that the relationship was indeed unusual for an Eight and Ten Whiskers.¡±


    Kara¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°It¡¯s too bad you¡¯re not a trained interrogator, but none of the qualified ones are even allowed to know information this sensitive¡ª¡±


    ¡°Adapt and overcome, Kara. Adapt and overcome. I¡¯ll work at that link: it did seem to be important.¡±


    ¡°Alright, boot, you do you¡­ The Navy did say that information on Ditvish is high priority for them,¡± Kara mused. ¡°We need to know how and when he would respond to these Anaconda raids.¡±


    ¡°I doubt Ktotssu knows much about that. She¡¯s three steps down the top of the ladder,¡± John speculated. He paused. ¡°Though she did seem to think she was favored by him for some reason. Maybe. Or maybe it¡¯s nothing.¡±


    ¡°Whatever it is, so far, all the other prisoners have given us are ¡®dunno, maybe he¡¯d check the combat computers¡¯, and if we wanted that level of perceptive insight, we could have just asked the Puppers. Anything you get is already far more valuable.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s better than having to go old school,¡± John shrugged.


    ¡°Old-school?¡±


    ¡°Become their friend, gain their trust, get them to reveal a few secrets, and then beat the rest of the information out of them with a hammer. You know? Haven¡¯t you seen those old movies¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why? Because I¡¯m old? What are you trying to say, John?¡± she smirked.


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get with the times, John. Beating prisoners is ineffective. Says so right in the handbook. Much easier to literally pry the information out of their minds with neuroscience. Don¡¯t even need a warrant to do that with alien prisoners too: it¡¯s all very convenient. I wonder when the lawyers are going to get around to that.¡±


    John sighed. ¡°Mind reading. You know¡­ Pavlov would be sooo disappointed with what we did to his legacy.¡±


    ¡°Hey, any cooperation incentive is on the table too. If you can find out what these little critters want other than our extinction, I¡¯ll nominate you for a Nobel Peace Prize myself. Just don¡¯t offer her some barbecue; I hear their ship security officer didn¡¯t take too kindly to that in the previous shift when the MPs started eating their lunches in front of the prisoners¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some news for you,¡± John said to Ktotssu, flipping through a report in front of her. ¡°There was a fleet action today. We raided another one of your supply convoys. That¡¯s the sixth so far. They must be hurting for supplies over Datsot by now.¡±


    No response. The mind reader drew a blank too.


    ¡°How would you feel about that if you are in charge of the Datsot Invasion Fleet?¡±


    Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    ¡°That one again, huh? This last raid was led by the Malgeir. Sixth Fleet. I believe you¡¯re familiar with them. Took out the whole supply escort flotilla without any losses. Very impressive for a bunch of stupid Lesser Predators, I must say.¡±


    Impossible. They must have been¡ª Nope. Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    ¡°Yeah, a month ago, I¡¯d have thought so too,¡± John continued without missing a beat. ¡°But the Sixth Fleet has really stepped up since then. They¡¯re just taking apart these small Znosian formations piece by piece. Defeat in detail, that¡¯s what we call it in our Navy. Very sophisticated. I wonder what the fleet master Ditvish is going to do next. He must respond somehow, right?¡±


    Come for your home world. Burn, burn, BURN everything down. Cleanse your heretical species from the galaxy. You want to read my mind? Here are some fun images for you!


    John chuckled. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sure that¡¯s what he would try if he knew where we were. Too bad he¡¯s too busy personally sweeping his overstretched supply route now, trying to find Sixth Fleet wreaking havoc in his rear.¡±


    Why is he personally sweeping the route? He¡¯d just send Skvanu out¡ª Oh no. No, no, no.


    ¡°Skvanu, huh? Let me see,¡± John smiled as he pulled up a profile on his tablet, spinning it around to show her the screen. He pointed at the mugshot. ¡°That¡¯s the guy who was in charge of that other raiding fluffle, right? Tall for your species, described as handsome? Chatty, unorthodox, given a wide latitude to run his own outfit? It is interesting that the Ten Whiskers keeps promoting these kinds of characters in his fleet. Are you a little bit like that too, by the way?¡±


    Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    By the Prophecy, that is a great-looking picture of Skvanu¡ª Don¡¯t drool. Stop looking.


    Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    <hr>


    ¡°I guess we got the Navy their next target,¡± John speculated.


    Kara nodded. ¡°Yup. But enough about finding ships to blow up and assholes to assassinate. Hersh and I were going over the intelligence we got from these guys, and we have a new idea about what to do with these prisoners,¡± she said, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and excitement.


    John raised an eyebrow. ¡°Why do I get a bad feeling whenever Hersh is involved?¡±


    Ignoring him, Kara continued enthusiastically, ¡°Okay, so this plan is kind of a longshot. But what we¡¯ve been doing, reading minds to get information, and cutting enemy supply lines¡­ it¡¯s just so¡­ inside the box. You know what I mean?¡±


    ¡°N¡ªno. Not really.¡± John shook his head in disbelief. ¡°What we¡¯re doing here is not unconventional enough for you two?!¡±


    ¡°John, I keep telling you. There¡¯s more than one way to skin a Bunny.¡±


    ¡°More than one way to skin a¡ª you know what, Kara? Never mind,¡± he sighed, throwing up his hands.


    ¡°There¡¯s the Navy way, and there¡¯s the fun way.¡±


    John let out a resigned noise. ¡°I can¡¯t wait. What do you want me to do?¡±


    ¡°Just keep talking to the prisoners. In fact, let them mingle, like really mingle. It¡¯s time we got to really know our enemy.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some good news for you, Ktotssu. You¡¯ve been approved to see members of your crew on a one-on-one basis,¡± John said warmly at the prisoner.


    Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators. Stupid Lesser Predators.


    ¡°Ah, the silent treatment today, huh? I was just here to let you know the good news. We can start with a meeting with your security officer; he keeps demanding to see you too. How about that?¡±


    That asshole? Why did they have to pick the one guy on the ship I don¡¯t care for¡ª


    John grinned. ¡°I¡¯m just messing with you. These are supposed to be a reward for helping us out. How about your friend, Vnamja?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that will be fine,¡± Ktotssu said glumly.


    Stupid Lesser Predators.


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    The crew cheered as the hangar bay director pulled down a curtain to reveal the ship silhouettes of the eighth convoy they¡¯ve intercepted etched into the wall of the hangar bay. It hadn¡¯t taken much convincing for the Malgeir to adopt this practice from their new allies. A massive cake was wheeled out ¡ª custom baked and delivered by a couple of Terran culinary officers on the Nile: it featured colorful frosting arranged in the cartoonish shape of an ugly Znosian caricature with an eye-patch hogtied up on a roaring spit roast. An impromptu line of eager spacers formed near it, with the Terran officers trying their best to hold back the crowd before they could locate some disposable plates¡­


    On the bridge, Mark smiled at the display and winked at Grionc. He held up the glass of champagne he was sipping up to her. ¡°Here¡¯s to number nine.¡±


    She returned the gesture. ¡°Oh? You¡¯ve found another target for us?¡±


    He leaned in closer so they could talk more quietly. ¡°There¡¯s always another target. This next one is a little different though.¡±


    She downed her glass and looked more seriously at him. ¡°Different, how?¡±


    ¡°Remember when I said we¡¯re not just trying to keep our heads above water?¡± Mark asked.


    Grionc recalled the conversation. ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°Ok, good. Let me ask you something else. Have you ever gone fishing?¡±


    ¡°Fishing?¡± she echoed.


    ¡°Like on your home planet or wherever. You ever tried to catch an aquatic animal? For food? You guys do that, right?¡±


    Grionc squinted at him, trying to see where he was getting at. ¡°I¡¯m from the city, Mark. We don¡¯t have wild aquatic animals where I came from. But¡­ I am aware of the concept.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m from a landlocked district, and we didn¡¯t do much fishing there either. I learned it in survival training. To fish on Terra, we stick these little bugs on the end of a metal hook tied to a long string. When the fish come up for food and try to devour the insect, they get stuck on the hook and we pull them up out of the water.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not how we do it, but I can¡­ see that working.¡±


    Mark continued, ¡°And when we are trying to catch bigger fish, we don¡¯t use small bugs, because the big fish won¡¯t go for small bits of food.¡±


    ¡°For big fish, you use big bugs?¡± she extrapolated.


    Mark chuckled. ¡°Almost. To catch big fish, first, we catch the small fish with insects. Then, we leave the small fish on the hook and wait for the big fish to get interested.¡±


    Her eyes lit up. ¡°So¡­ who is our big fish?¡±


    ¡°Funny you should ask,¡± Mark said, producing his datapad in his hands for her. As she started to skim over the document, he continued, ¡°We did some digging, and I wouldn¡¯t underestimate our prey this time if I were you.¡±


    ¡°Looks like we¡¯re going to need some new¡­ fishing equipment,¡± she said, still reading.


    ¡°Hey, you¡¯re catching on¡­ that¡¯s coming in the next resupply. I think we¡¯ll make fishermen out of all of you.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    The usage of live fish as bait, a practice known as live baiting, is prohibited in some jurisdictions and others have rules governing its usage. Please check with your district¡¯s relevant fish and wildlife authorities before you attempt this controversial practice.

 First Strike - Chapter 49 | Fearless II

    <h2>Datsot</h2>


    For the third morning in a row, Longclaw Commander Skhork woke abruptly to the shrieking warning of the base sirens.


    The increasing regularity of these attacks was why, despite it being cramped and uncomfortable, the vehicle crews opted to sleep inside their armored vehicle. Now, fog fading from their heads, they burst into action with practiced efficiency. Skhork reached up outside his station, pulled his commander hatch into the closed position, and secured it. He booted up the Longclaw computer and confirmed the status of the vehicle and its occupants. Everything checked out.


    ¡°Is everyone else buttoned up?¡± he bellowed into the radio without taking his eyes off his screen.


    ¡°Fearless Two, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Three, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Four, here.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    They watched on the Longclaw external optics as the other soldiers and Marines streamed out of the barracks towards their dug cover and vehicles. A trickle at first, then a flood as troops ran towards any form of hard cover they could reach with urgency.


    The next warning they got was from their Longclaw sensors. Data-linked to the base¡¯s counter-battery radar, the Longclaw crews could see the explosive threats in their terminal stage marked with clarity. Then they heard the whistle. Skhork didn¡¯t think he would forget that sound until the day he returned to the Prophecy.


    The first artillery shell hit the barracks. Whether it was pure luck or the Lesser Predators were just getting better with experience, it hit exactly the worst place it possibly could. The top of the shoddily constructed barracks disappeared into a cloud of smoke. The windows shattered, blowing debris and glass away from the building and towards the infantry sprinting away from the strike zone. Skhork spotted two soldiers, one he recognized as a four whiskers who sat at his table for lunch: they crumpled onto the ground and did not get up.


    Several shells landed in the courtyard, or barely missed the dug trenches.


    One landed squarely in the mortar pit, destroying the equipment and the concussive force knocking the bodies of two of its operators out of the sandbag reinforced fighting position. By some miracle, there was no secondary detonation.


    Or maybe they were out of ammunition.


    Skhork glanced desperately at the short-range point defense base turrets. None of them activated. Then he remembered: those turrets had been out of ammunition for days too.


    Another few shells fell, trashing other soft targets inside the base producing no more visible casualties as the rest of the infantry seemed to have gotten into better cover.


    It was another minute until their own counter-artillery finally barked a response. They sent a barrage of counter-battery shells towards the direction that their radars saw the Lesser Predator artillery had come from.


    Skhork hoped that the enemy would still be there when those shells arrived.


    <hr>


    ¡°We have a problem,¡± the base commander admitted. In the room were Skhork, two of the other six whiskers that commanded the conscripts of the ground forces, and the unpleasantly familiar face of the supply officer. ¡°We are running dangerously low on munitions for our main battery. We¡¯ve got two, maybe three days left. After that, we¡¯ve got no answer for the enemy artillery besides hoping our ships are overhead, and I hear even they are running low too.¡±


    A murmur of shock and discontentment spread through the gathered. Running out of artillery ammunition? That was only supposed to happen to predators!


    Recovering, Skhork asked, ¡°Do we know when we are getting resupplied?¡±


    The base commander shook her head. ¡°No. None of the bases in our theater have gotten anything for weeks. We have been requisitioning shells from some of the back line bases, but those just ran out. It¡¯s not even a problem with our ground logistics; as far as I know, every forward base on this entire continent is facing shell hunger in the next week or so.¡±


    ¡°What are we going to do? The Lesser Predators are eventually going to figure out that we can¡¯t fire back, and they aren¡¯t going to stop pounding us. We¡¯ve been taking heavy fire from Hill 37 lately, and I don¡¯t think those stubborn pests are going to go away anytime soon,¡± one of the other six whiskers pointed out.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem there?¡± Skhork asked, frowning. ¡°I thought your battalion was supposed to occupy that hill last week.¡±


    ¡°I take responsibility for our failure to take Hill 37,¡± the infantry commander said, bowing slightly in shame. ¡°But I am afraid I will not be able to succeed without the additional troopers we had planned for. Unfortunately, the supply of conscripts from Gruccud has dried up since the supply shipments stopped coming. If we attacked without them, it would just be another waste of paws and equipment.¡±


    ¡°Your responsibility is noted,¡± the base commander said. ¡°But we must take the hill as soon as possible. Having the high ground in the area may buy us some time to stay ahead of the Lesser Predators until our supply resumes.¡±


    She thought for a moment, then added, ¡°Six Whiskers Skhork, can you get your Longclaw platoon ready to join them in the assault later this afternoon?¡±


    ¡°Seven Whiskers, it is risky to employ our Longclaws for that task. The reason we have held back so far is so our more expendable formations can clear the forests of entrenched infantry first before we move in,¡± Skhork replied matter-of-factly.


    The base commander nodded. ¡°Indeed. However, as you may have noticed, our expendable formations are no longer expendable, and our previously limitless supply of conscripts is no longer limitless. Even as Longclaw crews, your lives were¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our lives were forfeited the day we left the hatchling pools,¡± Skhork finished without hesitation. ¡°I understand, Seven Whiskers, if that is your directive?¡±


    ¡°It is my directive. I take full responsibility for any risk this entails.¡±


    ¡°That is unnecessary,¡± Skhork dismissed, projecting confidence. ¡°My Longclaws will join the infantry assault on Hill 37, and we will take that hill today.¡±


    The other commanders bowed their heads and chanted in unison, ¡°May the Prophecy be fulfilled through us.¡±


    <hr>


    Skhork watched his accompanying infantry advance forward up the hill, about a hundred paces ahead of his Longclaw platoon. There were two companies of them, one on each side of the road. They blended into the thin forestry, best as they could, moving cautiously and tightly gripping their weapons at the ready as they had been trained. Barely trained, he corrected himself.


    In his mind, the only reason they were there was to protect his Fearless Platoon from close-range ambush by enemy infantry. For all the talk of their lives being expendable for the Prophecy, their expensive Longclaws were most certainly not.


    His vehicles creeped up slowly, keeping pace with their escorts. Fearless Four led the convoy, followed by Fearless Three, then his command Longclaw, finally trailed by Fearless Two.


    Skhork noted that one of the squads on the right had crested a small dip in front of them, their line of sight to the road obscured from view. He got on the radio to warn them. ¡°The leading troopers on the right, you¡¯re too far ahead. Wait for the rest of your company to catch up.¡±


    The reply came back, ¡°Yes, Longclaw Commander.¡±


    About half a kilometer up the road, even though the pace of the advance was not rapid, some of the conscripts in the rear were beginning to fatigue and it showed: they dragged their paws and began to lag from the rest of the company. He got on the radio again, ¡°Five Whiskers, you should take a break and let your rear catch up.¡±


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The company commander halted the troops from the front of the column. ¡°Thank you, Longclaw Commander.¡±


    A short water break, a bend in the road, and after another steep climb, Skhork noted the infantry formation rear lagging again as the point troopers started to advance well past the hilly crest in front.


    ¡°These conscript amateurs,¡± he remarked to his crew, shaking his head in exasperation. He flicked the switch on the radio to get in contact with the escorts once again.


    Then, all hell broke loose.


    The Lesser Predators chose exactly this spot to set an ambush for their troops. The hills in front of them came alive with movement and muzzle flash.


    Machine guns roared, spitting out deadly rounds that mowed down the unsuspecting conscripts at the head of the column on both sides of the road. A deeply dug-in machine gun nest unleashed a storm of kinetic fire. No respectable Znosian, not even a conscript, would let fear for their life override their drive to follow orders, but with their immediate commanders at the head of the column dead, the soldiers hit the dirt and struggled to get organized.


    Useless conscripts.


    As Skhork hastily switched his screen over to thermal optics, he identified more Lesser Predators on the hillside throwing off their thermal concealment blankets to pick off his escorting infantry in the dirt.


    He identified the greatest threat to his troops and barked an order. ¡°Gunner, take out the machine gun!¡±


    On command, the Longclaw¡¯s cannon swiveled to the spot he marked in his sensors, and its coaxial fired a short burst of light kinetics in the direction. One hit the machine gunner in the head, taking it clean off. But before its body had time to fall, another Lesser Predator next to it shoved the corpse aside briskly, getting on the gun itself, the volume of fire not easing.


    A plasma shell from their Longclaw cannon put the entire machine gun crew out of commission permanently two heartbeats later.


    The other Longclaws began to zero in on the other enemies pinning down their infantry. Burst after burst, they systemically cleared the opposing hillside of Malgeir rifles, taking them out like targets at the training range, until Skhork saw a Lesser Predator stand up to throw the thermal blanket off a dugout to reveal¡ª


    ¡°Anti-armor team!¡± he yelled into his radio as he pinged the high priority targets on their battle sensors.


    His Gunner pivoted the cannon over to engage, but before she could open fire, the dugout erupted into a cloud of smoke as the four Lesser Predators simultaneously launched their short ranged anti-armor munitions at the head of their column. Following the trails of smoke, Skhork saw multiple hit envelope the leading Longclaw, sparks flying off her front and side armor. His heart sank as he watched its gravity engine fail with a horrible noise, and Fearless Four sank into the road, half a meter deep in the mud.


    ¡°Get them before they¡ª¡± he ordered, but it was unnecessary. One of the other Longclaws¡¯ main cannons turned the entire Lesser Predator dugout into a mist of pink to his satisfaction and relief.


    A few more bursts of kinetics and plasma, and then the forest was quiet again.


    Skhork got on the radio. ¡°Fearless, status report!¡±


    ¡°Fearless Two, here.¡±


    ¡°Fearless Three, here.¡±


    His heart stopped for a brief moment¡­ then a familiar voice replied on the radio, its signal crackling and her commander coughing hard. ¡°Fearless Four¡­ We¡¯re alright, a couple light injuries; nothing critical. Our active protection system saved our ears. But both our engines are toast. Not even the backup tracks are going to work for us. You¡¯re going to have to continue the assault without us, Six Whiskers. May the Prophecy be fulfilled through you.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± Skhork said, relieved. ¡°Standby, I¡¯ll have my Controller call an armor retrieval team.¡±


    <hr>


    With the most eager and experienced of their conscript escorts killed in the ambush, the combined arms advance got a little slower, but at least they did not meet any additional Lesser Predators on the way until the saddle point right below the peak.


    Skhork connected to the base with his radio. ¡°Fearless to Base. Any chance we can get some orbital fire support to take the summit? We are just one crest away from it¡ª¡±


    ¡°Base to Fearless, that¡¯s a negative. There are no available orbital resources at this time. They have all been moved to the Eastern theater for an urgent matter. Good luck with the hill.¡±


    ¡°Too bad. Guess we¡¯ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,¡± he remarked to his crew, slightly disappointed.


    The Engineer pinged a scorched clearing on the console, marked with fallen trees and signs of gunfire. ¡°That¡¯s where our last assault was stopped. I can¡¯t see the predators on the thermals, but they must be at the top, aiming their weapons right down that clearing.¡±


    Skhork nodded in agreement. He turned to his Gunner. ¡°Put a few smoke rounds at their edge of the forest. Our troops might not have cover, but at least we can give them some visual concealment.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers,¡± she said as the autoloader extracted the plasma shell in the Longclaw¡¯s breech, replacing it with one filled with a white phosphorus compound instead of pure killing power. ¡°Smoke away!¡±


    The shell hit where he designated ¡ª near where he expected the enemies to be ¡ª bursting into a white, lingering cloud of smoke. Following his example, the other two Longclaws also began walking smoke shells up the hill towards the presumed enemy positions as the infantry escort began to advance through the clearing, as fast as they could on their exhausted paws.


    Seconds later, the enemy revealed themselves. Unable to see through the smoke, several of the inexperienced predator rifles haphazardly abandoned their carefully hidden positions to try to get a better line of sight on the advancing infantry.


    The Longclaws did not give them the chance. Their movement obvious through the vehicle¡¯s thermal optics, bursts of kinetics cut them down.


    ¡°Die! Stupid predators!¡± the Gunner shouted as she casually gunned down a clumped trio of enemy rifles trying to crawl to the edge of the smoke effect. As they kept up the covering fire, their conscripts managed to storm past the clearing and the crest, advancing onto the peak of the hill.


    ¡°Advance!¡±


    At Skhork¡¯s command, the armored column roared into action, tailing the foot soldiers up to the hilltop. The summit clearing was a storm of chaos. A scrappy cluster of conscripted rifles had dug in at the fringe, exchanging fire with enemies hiding behind the giant artillery guns under camo netting in the middle of the hill. Without hesitation, the Longclaws unleashed a torrent of firepower ¡ª kinetics, canisters, and plasma blasts ¡ª towards the now-outgunned enemy.


    The air vibrated with the sounds of battle, the cacophony of destruction filling the sunny afternoon. Stubborn as the Lesser Predator defenders were, they were no match for the combined firepower of the deadly vehicles and the large number of Znosian conscript infantry that were now pouring onto the hilltop without resistance.


    Methodically, the infantry started sweeping the summit, clearing out enemy positions one by one. They moved from trench to trench, dugout to dugout, fueled by the fury of the fight. After the blood and sweat spent taking this position, the conscripts were in no mood to take surrenders, nor did the predators bother to offer any.


    A few well-placed grenades snuffed out the last pockets of resistance, and the hill was once again silent but for the hums of their gravity engines, the faint groans of the wounded, and the infantry going around and putting wounded enemies out of their misery.


    Skhork activated his radio. ¡°Fearless Lead to Base, we¡¯ve secured Hill 37. It¡¯s ours!¡±


    ¡°Congratulations, Fearless,¡± came the prompt reply from the base commander. ¡°Give the infantry a few minutes to set up defenses, and you can return to¡ª Hold on a second¡­ Base to Fearless, an enemy rotorcraft just popped up on radar near you! They should already be at your position¡ª¡±


    Her words were drowned out by the muffled, rhythmic sound of an enemy rotary wing rising over the summit, its cockpit glass gleaming in the setting sun. They had somehow snuck in so close in the din of battle that Skhork swore he could see the predator pilot¡¯s bloodthirsty grin in his exterior camera screens.


    ¡°Longclaws, take cover!¡± he shouted into the radio urgently.


    As his Driver hit the reverse gear, the enemy aircraft loosed a torrent of rockets at the recently captured summit, instantly engulfing the entire landscape in fire and smoke.


    A shockwave hit the Longclaw, rattling Skhork¡¯s skull and knocking him back into his seat.


    He screamed in pain, surprised he was even alive. Then, training and generations of bred instincts kicked in. Looking through his console, he managed to make out a shape on his console through the pain and brain haze. ¡°They¡¯re in range and within our turret arc. Gunner, can we track them with our guns?¡±


    ¡°I have a track!¡± the Gunner shouted after a split second. She fired without needing his command.


    As she did, the enemy aircraft started to dip below the horizon for cover. But they were too late. The Longclaw anti-aircraft shell detected its proximity to the flying target, detonated, and showered it with enough plasma to poke holes through a medium armored vehicle, much less any thin-skinned rotorcraft. The Longclaw crew did not see the hit out of their line of sight, but they sure heard the ensuing secondary explosion as the remains of the enemy machine crashed into the valley below.


    Skhork looked around the summit clearing. Most of their infantry were lying on the ground. A few were just getting up, some gingerly checking to make sure they still had all their limbs and body parts.


    Not all did.


    But that wasn¡¯t what he really cared about. He spoke unsteadily into the radio, his combat hormones still raging in his bloodstream. ¡°Fearless, everyone still here?¡±


    A voice coughed out onto the radio, ¡°Fearless Two, here¡­ Our frontal reactive armor ate¡­ hit, but we¡­ still combat effective.¡±


    Then silence.


    Skhork spoke into the radio again. ¡°Fearless Three? Are you there? Fearless Three! Fearless Three!¡±


    He panned the external cameras towards the head of the column. There it laid. Fearless Three¡¯s Longclaw was perforated in multiple places by the rocket attack. Her engines were disabled. Her gun tube was shredded. And her rear was being consumed by a raging fire. As he was about to call them on the radio again, he saw one of her front hatches pop open. With some effort, her Driver managed to pull his upper torso through the opening, struggling to squeeze through¡ª


    Then, the flames reached the plasma ammunition. No amount of armor or blow-out panels in the galaxy could have saved them.


    Her magazine detonated; the blast of the explosion incinerated the interiors of the Longclaw, including her unfortunate crew, and threw the turret clean off several lengths into the air. Bits of metallic debris and biological matter rained down on the hill, some splattering onto his vehicle¡¯s hull.


    Skhork looked away. He didn¡¯t think he¡¯d forget that sight until the day he returned to the Prophecy.


    It took him a full minute to compose himself before he could speak on the radio again. ¡°Fearless Lead to Base, predator aircraft destroyed¡­ Five armored crew members have rejoined the Prophecy¡­ We are going to need medical evacuation for some of the infantry.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 50 | Fishing

    <h2>Plaunsollib</h2>


    Six Whiskers Mgnats looked nervously down the bridge of the missile escort ship numbered 7633 with his bloodshot red eyes.


    He hadn¡¯t had a good night¡¯s sleep since they left port in Gruccud, and he knew he would not until they got to Datsot. In less than a month, this route from Gruccud to Datsot had gone from a safe escort posting assigned to unambitious captain to being nicknamed the Highway of Death. The loss rate on this route was astronomical, some of the highest ever in Znosian history: three in five convoys did not make it to the destination. Worse, there were never any survivors; if a convoy was hit, it was good as dead.


    Plaunsollib was the last system on this route, the final sector before Datsot, but that was no excuse to relax: Mgnats knew that another convoy had been hit in this exact system just last week. All eight escort ships and the precious supplies carried by the twelve supply ships they were guarding were destroyed. Technically, they had gone missing, as no wreck nor lifepod was ever found, but the logistics officer in charge of the route had taken full responsibility. It didn¡¯t take too many whiskers for everyone else to add two and two together.


    He just hoped that the newly implemented automatic self-destruct on the supply ships had activated before Lesser Predators got their hands on it. Such systems were always so unreliable and inconvenient, but on the Highway of Death, they had become a necessary evil.


    Mgnats watched on the console as his reconnaissance drones mapped out every planetary body larger than his ship in the system. Every nook and cranny. It took a while, but like the precautions for the supply ships, these too were a necessary evil. They only had a few echoes, hints really, of how the enemy was now operating, but from what little they knew, hiding behind solid objects was a clear favorite.


    ¡°We¡¯ve scanned the entire system, Six Whiskers. We should be good to go,¡± his sensor officer reported.


    Mgnats nodded. Leaving the safety of the blink limit and entering the gravity well was where it always went wrong, but he had no choice. They had to get to the other side, and then, to Datsot.


    ¡°Take us in,¡± he ordered. ¡°Let¡¯s take the fastest route, shall we?¡±


    The navigation officer nodded. Normally, this kind of orbital transfer problem would be a theoretical exercise, one found on a career training test, but there was nothing academic about the risk they had to minimize here. The path they took would take them deep into the system, using the gravity of the star to decrease their travel time to the other side. Hopefully, they would be in and out before any of those nasty Lesser Predators from the Sixth Fleet showed their ugly faces.


    <hr>


    Only a third into the route, Mgnats¡¯ worst fears came true as the ship¡¯s klaxon sounded. It was a new alarm sound, one recently programmed into the ship¡¯s computers.


    ¡°Six Whiskers, we¡¯ve lost FTL connection with both Datsot and Gruccud,¡± the computer officer reported with a shaky voice.


    Since they started losing ships on this route, it didn¡¯t take long to figure out that FTL malfunctions were somehow related to the appearance of the Lesser Predators. Which is why it had become protocol that all ships must maintain a steady connection with their originating and destination stations, to allow the ships and other stations to know immediately when this happened. And Mgnats always followed protocol.


    Of course, the protocol didn¡¯t mention what the captain should do once they learned of their impending doom.


    Mgnats queried the Digital Guide.


    The computer officer relayed the answer shortly. ¡°We are only a third of the way through, but we are going far too fast to reverse now if they¡¯re waiting somewhere in system. The fastest way is through, and if they got the same message on the other side at Datsot, they might send a patrol out for us on the other end.¡±


    Mgnats nodded, hoping his crew did not pick up on his unbecoming anxiety. ¡°Do¡ªdo¡ª ahem¡­ do as it says.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 1841</h2>


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, we¡¯ve lost connection to the latest supply convoy!¡±


    Ditvish snapped his head up. ¡°Where was its last known location?¡±


    The computer officer, paws flying over her consoles, triple-checked before replying, ¡°Plaunsollib, Ten Whiskers. They took the fastest path through. We lost their signal about a third of the way in.¡±


    ¡°Where is 2228 and the response force?¡± Ditvish demanded, his whiskers twitching in agitation.


    ¡°They¡¯re on ready alert at the blink limit, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Good, patch me through to Skvanu.¡±


    ¡°Already is, Ten Whiskers. We called him as soon as this happened,¡± the computer officer replied.


    Ditvish gave a quick nod of thanks and activated the transmission on his console. ¡°Eight Whiskers Skvanu, are you ready for your task?¡±


    ¡°I am. We have been running simulations on the combat computer for weeks. Despite the radical nature of our threat, I am confident in our ability to chase them down and defeat them. Or if we fail at that, we should be able to cripple their ability to continue these annoying raids.¡±


    ¡°Good, good. It looks like it¡¯s going to be in Plaunsollib this time.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. This isn¡¯t the first time the Lesser Predators have hit the system. Even with their new equipment, they are predictable as ever.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate these predators, Skvanu. We were becoming predictable with our over-reliance on the combat computers too.¡±


    ¡°Got it, Ten Whiskers. They won¡¯t know what hit them.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°Squadron 1 to 3 all completed blink, ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae reported with a hint of pride. ¡°Sixty seconds this time.¡± What would have been an unthinkable post-blink record just two months ago had become now routine, thanks to the relentless drilling and exercises with their Terran allies.


    ¡°Good. We¡¯ll beat the Grass Eaters¡¯ record one day. Link up with the Nile. Let¡¯s find out where our juicy bait is,¡± Grionc ordered.


    The systems of the Oengro connected to the stealthy Terran ship lurking in the outer system, and as usual, detailed information about every entity in the system larger than her paw popped on their sensor screens. What had been magic just months ago was now considered standard.


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    ¡°Looks like we¡¯re right on time,¡± Grionc noted, her eyes fixed on the display showing the cluster of enemy ships. ¡°Eight Forager-class missile destroyers escorting some juicy Bunny supplies, bound for Datsot.¡± Like most in her fleet, she¡¯d gotten used to the Terran jargon. Much less confusing when talking to their allies.


    ¡°Which of the rehearsed plans are we going with, High Fleet Commander?¡± Vastae asked.


    ¡°The expected company still hasn¡¯t arrived,¡± Grionc pondered out loud. ¡°What do you think, Vastae?¡±


    ¡°The medium velocity pass,¡± Vastae decided after a brief calculation on his console. ¡°That would give us more options. Two volleys if the tangos don¡¯t show, one if they do.¡±


    If this were a few months ago, she never would have thought to ask for his opinion. If he offered it without prompting, she might have given him the side-eye for overstepping his role. At the very least, she would have been annoyed at the breach in discipline.


    Now, she merely felt unexplainable pride.


    Grionc gave him a nod of approval. ¡°Medium velocity pass it is,¡± she confirmed, giving him the credit for picking the option. ¡°Take us in.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What do you think they¡¯re thinking over there?¡± Vastae mused, his eyes narrowing at the enemies staying the course on his screen. ¡°Acceptance of death? Hatching an escape plan? Maybe they aren¡¯t up to date and think they can shoot their way out?¡±


    ¡°Good question. We did bring a smaller force than usual. Eight to only thirty-six. If I were over there, I would think I can maybe get a couple licks in,¡± Grionc replied, using the old-timey Terran expression.


    Vastae tilted his head. ¡°You think maybe they got another software update?¡± he asked. ¡°Last time that happened was an annoying surprise.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, but there¡¯s only so much you can do with those, even though they are getting worryingly good at seeing through our dazzlers on terminal. Four proximity hits on the last run. If they keep this up, we will start taking real losses. I keep telling Mark we should stick around to clean up those communication drones and lifepods so they can¡¯t report back, but he didn¡¯t seem that interested in doing that.¡±


    ¡°Weird, wasn¡¯t that the top priority for our Grass Eater friends: their secrecy from the Buns?¡± Vastae asked in confusion.


    Grionc shrugged. ¡°It feels like something shady is going on, but then, with that man, there is always something shady going¡ª¡±


    A klaxon sounded on the bridge.


    Vastae looked at his console. ¡°Looks like additional guests have arrived.¡±


    ¡°How many? That was always going to be the variable here,¡± Grionc asked, her voice tense.


    ¡°That¡¯s four, five squadrons. There¡¯s the Thumper-class Battlecruiser. We have her marked as the 2228 led by the one known as Skvanu, as expected,¡± Vastae said, then continued, his eyes widening with each new signature on his console. ¡°Wait, no, there¡¯s still more blinking in¡ª woah.¡±


    Grionc checked her own console and let out a low whistle through her snout. ¡°Woah is right. That¡­ is¡­ unexpected. It is time for what our new friends call¡­ Plan B.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    Out in deep space ready to blink, Battlegroup Commander Loenda looked at her data-linked connection from the Nile and took a sharp breath. ¡°What do you make of that, Gamma Leader?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ twenty-five, twenty-six squadrons of the Znosian Navy¡¯s finest, I¡¯m guessing? Over three hundred ships,¡± Speinfoent reported, his heart pounding as he counted the number of enemy ships piling into Plaunsollib. They were light years away, but the danger felt real anyway. ¡°This must be the combined forces of what they planned to hit us with if we had stood and defended Datsot.¡±


    Loenda nodded, then calculated out loud. ¡°Nine squadrons, plus the High Fleet Commander¡¯s three, against twenty-five. With our Grass Eater upgrades, we might come out ahead. All we would have to do is blink in behind his forces like we planned¡­¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes almost bulged out of his skull. ¡°Squadron Leader, I would heavily advise against¡ª¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Relax, Gamma Leader. I¡¯m senior, not senile. This is clearly far outside the parameters of our mission, enough to trigger the pre-arranged abort,¡± Loenda said to him like a grandmother would soothe a cub.


    Speinfoent noted with some amusement in his head that she was throwing around Terran terminology like it was second nature, a departure from how she felt about them just a few weeks ago.


    ¡°Yes, Squadron Leader,¡± Speinfoent replied, his heart rate returning to normal. ¡°Like we discussed, even if we abort the mission, forcing them to throw their weight around like this does waste even more of their now limited resources and strains their readiness.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, a lot of fancy Prey talk. All our enemies gathered in one place and we¡¯re not coming down on them. This is unnatural and you know it. The only reason I¡¯m following it is because the high fleet commander trusts¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hang on a second, what did you say?¡± Speinfoent paused, an idea surfacing in his head.


    ¡°I said: This. Is. Unnatural. And. You. Know. It,¡± Loenda repeated slowly.


    ¡°No, before that. All our enemies are gathered in one place.¡±


    ¡°Yes, and?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re all gathered here. Well, they¡¯re not gathered here. They are gathered in Plaunsollib.¡±


    Loenda took a serious look at him. ¡°I know that look, Gamma Leader. You have an idea. But this isn¡¯t an exercise. This is the real deal. We screw this up ¡ª spacers die, and we die. This is as real as it gets.¡±


    Speinfoent matched her look. ¡°Yes, but we won¡¯t. Hear me out, and if what I say doesn¡¯t make sense, you can shoot it down then. Not like we¡¯re doing anything here in the meantime anyway, right?¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°Coming in range of the supply convoy in a couple hours. Should we call off the attack?¡± Vastae asked. ¡°The size of this response fleet does call for a mission abort.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the main mission is a no-go, but we can still pick off the convoy on our way out,¡± Grionc replied, looking at the massive armada hot on their tail. ¡°To be safe, let¡¯s go in at an angle. Max combat burn at an escape vector. We¡¯ll only be in range of the convoy long enough to fire off our magazines. Probably not enough time for a full volley reload before we pass them. But one volley of our new payload should be more than enough to wreck them¡­ then we head out towards the blink limit on the other side before that fleet of doom intercepts us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae replied, agreeing with her judgement.


    The communications officer suddenly sat up. ¡°High Fleet Commander, urgent transmission from the Nile.¡±


    ¡°Put him through.¡±


    The Terran commander of the Nile showed up on screen. He was in his casual jet-black combat fatigues, rather than encased in an EVA suit, so Grionc assumed that things were still going fine over there, wherever they were. ¡°Captain Guerrero, is everything alright?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative, High Fleet Commander,¡± he replied respectfully, a line of sweat beads covering his forehead. ¡°We are still in emissions control, just a few light minutes off your bow, but we should be fine to relay a few messages. Battlegroup Bravo has decided to abort the primary mission. They are a no-go for jumping in behind the enemy response fleet.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what we expected, Captain,¡± she confirmed politely. ¡°Continuing with the mission would have been¡­ inadvisable.¡±


    ¡°What we didn¡¯t expect is that Sphinx has an idea, and he has been working through it with us.¡±


    ¡°Sphinx?¡±


    ¡°Your young prodigy over there on the flagship of Battlegroup 2. I¡¯m not sure how he got that callsign but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know exactly how he got that callsign,¡± Grionc grinned. ¡°What is Speinfoent¡¯s new improvised plan?¡±


    Captain Guerrero started to explain. ¡°There are a few elements involved, but for your part, we just want you to slow down a bit.¡±


    Grionc balked, still keeping her eyes on the two dozen or so squadrons of enemy ships on her console. ¡°Slow down a bit? You do see how many Grass Eater combat ships are on our tail, right?¡±


    ¡°You have a few hours of lead time on them. You should be fine. We have a new recommended course for you: take your time to destroy the supply convoy, and then leisurely make your way to the other side of the system.¡±


    ¡°Leisurely,¡± Grionc repeated, peering at the new, suggested course transmitted onto her console, which put her a lot closer to the enemy fleet trailing her than she wanted to be.


    The Terran insisted. ¡°Leisurely. At a comfortable pace. Without additional haste. Unhurried by¡ª¡±


    ¡°I think your translator is working fine, Captain. What I am questioning is not the semantics, but rather the sanity of the plan. You did run this through your fancy thinking machine simulator, right?¡±


    ¡°A few gazillion times, yeah. I think you personally survive the battle at least a fifth of the time¡ª hey, I¡¯m kidding! You will be fine. The plan is solid.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 51 | Plan C

    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    Speinfoent turned around to face Loenda and reported the battlegroup status. ¡°Commander, all ships have successfully completed the blink. Squadrons 4 to 12 all reporting in.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now let¡¯s find out if this ridiculous scheme of yours gets all of us killed,¡± Loenda said. ¡°Are you sure your sire and dam were not Grass Eaters?¡±


    Speinfoent ignored the jab and continued with the report, ¡°Our sensors are still resolving the enemy ships, but I am certain we are in the right place.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 1841</h2>


    Ditvish woke to the urgent cry of the ship¡¯s klaxon. Wiping sleep from his mind, he picked up his communication device. ¡°Did Skvanu get the raiders from Sixth Fleet?¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers, you must come to the flag bridge at once!¡±


    ¡°What is it this time? Can¡¯t you ask your combat computers?¡± he grumbled tiredly.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, the enemy fleet is here!¡±


    He woke up in a hurry. ¡°What?! Here? In Datsot?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, they just blinked in! Their fleet is heading our way, and they have just gone into a full combat burn!¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    ¡°We are seeing two to three squadrons of space combat ships, mostly Forager-class missile destroyers, and their Thorn-class battleship, the 1841. In orbit of Datsot are another thirty-two orbital support ships and several dozen other support vessels,¡± Speinfoent reported. ¡°The enemy combat ships are stationary and in a loose formation. It looks like we did catch them off guard.¡±


    ¡°For now,¡± Loenda hedged. ¡°They¡¯ll be ready and engines hot hours before we come into range. And we don¡¯t have the Nile¡¯s magic sensors working with us this time.¡±


    ¡°No, but we did get the other fishing supplies in the last shipment.¡±


    ¡°We have only been exercising with those for a week!¡± Loenda exclaimed. ¡°It is risky for our first live use to be against a fully capable combat fleet.¡±


    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t believe in exercises¡­¡± Seeing the ugly expression forming on her face, Speinfoent hurriedly moved on. ¡°Anyway, the missiles will work. They may be barely fastened to the outside of our hulls, but I¡¯m sure they work. After all, we didn¡¯t make them.¡±


    Loenda counted up the enemy ships on her console and did some calculations in her head. ¡°Against my every instinct, we will go ahead, but with the most risk-averse option you came up with earlier. Execute Option Charlie.¡±


    ¡°Affirmative. Maintaining burn. Execute vector change in three minutes¡­¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 1841</h2>


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, they are performing an orbital transfer,¡± Ditvish¡¯s computer officer called out, eyes glued to the glowing screens of her console.


    Ditvish leaned forward. ¡°What is their heading and intercept now?¡±


    ¡°It appears there is no intercept. If they continue their current burn, they may eventually move into a parallel orbit to us.¡±


    ¡°Parallel orbit? That doesn¡¯t make sense. They didn¡¯t come here just to make us wet our pants. Ask the combat computer, how far from us will they be at their closest?¡± Ditvish asked, puzzled.


    A minute of calculations later, she relayed from her console, ¡°It depends on whether they execute another vector change, but at their current burn and at their closest, they should come no closer than twelve times the maximum effective range of our missiles.¡±


    Ditvish peered at the sensor panel, racking his brain for ideas.


    None of this made any sense. Skvanu reported in earlier with a blink relay ship since the FTL radios were not working. In the data packet, he said that he was chasing three squadrons of the enemy fleet and planned to run them down with the superior blink fuel capacity of the Znosian ships ¡ª these must be the other nine squadrons from Sixth Fleet.


    What were they doing here?


    If these Lesser Predators forced him to engage in fleet battle here, they very well might have an upper hand, with their nine squadrons to his mere three. But they weren¡¯t cutting him off aggressively or forcing an engagement. If they did move in boldly, he could always back off¡­ delay until Skvanu finishes, returns to Datsot, and coordinate to trap this fleet in the system. But the enemy seemed almost¡­ disinterested in combat; it did not even look like they were going to transfer into range.


    ¡°What are your orders, Ten Whiskers?¡± the computer officer asked.


    For the first time in a long time, Ditvish felt at a complete loss. ¡°None for now. Continue to observe the enemy and stay on high alert. Be prepared to move. And update me when Eight Whiskers Skvanu reports anything.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    The vacuum of Plaunsollib once again filled up with the communication chatter and munitions of the Malgeir fleet.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Weapons-free¡­ Kraken away.¡±


    ¡°Bandits deploying glow-worms.¡±


    ¡°Anchor gadgets to Jackal. Tracking.¡±


    Grionc sat back and watched the controlled chaos of the Oengro bridge unfold as they engaged the outnumbered supply convoy escorts in front of them as they continued to stay one step ahead of the massive armada right behind them. The task remained familiar. The practiced crew could have completed this in their sleep. The stakes were higher now, but the job remained the same.


    ¡°Vampire swarm. Defending.¡±


    ¡°Popping confetti and turning up the music.¡±


    ¡°Vampires trashed.¡±


    Either through luck or because they had gotten really good at it, most of the projectiles the eight escorts launched at them went wild, flying off into space chasing dazzler signals in errant directions. A few did come closer but were fooled at the last second by decoys and other countermeasures. The remaining were shot down by the Malgeir¡¯s native close-in defense systems that were now being boosted by superior gravidar sensors aboard the Nile seconds away.


    The enemy convoy was not so lucky. Their sensor signatures disappeared from Grionc¡¯s console, one by one.


    ¡°Splash four Forager. No, make that five.¡±


    ¡°Kraken away. We have two more on the way. They¡¯ve gone pitbull.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s splash six and seven. Can someone confirm number eight?¡±


    ¡°Check. I have number eight.¡±


    ¡°Roger.¡±


    Finally, Captain Vastae turned to Grionc to confirm. ¡°High Fleet Commander, the supply convoy has been destroyed. Looks like the supplies self-destructed too.¡±


    Grionc nodded in acknowledgement, not taking her eyes off the sensor console.


    To underscore how common this type of success had become, even the crew¡¯s cheers were subdued. In tonnage, this was no less a victory than it was the first time it was pulled off, but this was a crew who had been there before. They¡¯d seen it. They¡¯d done that.


    And there were still the hundreds of enemy combat ships trailing them. Some were getting uncomfortably close to entering their missiles¡¯ maximum powered ranges. None had fired yet; the Znosians were not so undisciplined, but it was close enough to make Grionc nervous.


    She nodded at Captain Vastae. ¡°Follow the vector we have been provided towards the systems limit. I don¡¯t want to be one second behind schedule.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    Eight Whiskers Skvanu had known from his hatchling-hood that he was different than the others. His educators and caretakers always complained he asked too many questions and never took enough responsibility for his own actions. He learned to suppress the questions and to fake contrition, even when it didn¡¯t make sense, saving those thoughts for the privacy of his own brain. He found this practice useful, and he used it to quickly ascend the totem-pole of rank in the Znosian Navy.


    A meritorious society with supposedly transparent accountability, it should not have been so easy for him to breeze past promotion after promotion in his career. But when it was so easy for him to think for himself and simply obscure failures when they occur, his competitors didn¡¯t stand a chance.


    That was until he met Ten Whiskers Ditvish.


    There, he met not only a kindred soul, but also one who could see right through him. At times, the senior fleet master made him feel like a fraud; at other times, he felt special, as if he¡¯d been given a gift. Under Ditvish, he thrived. He was given more responsibility than normally assigned to regular eight whiskers officers by Ditvish, and here he was proudly commanding the bulk of his fleet.


    Skvanu was determined not to let his mentor, and increasingly his confidant, down.


    He looked at the sensor panel on his console. They will catch these Lesser Predators.


    ¡°Eight Whiskers, we still can¡¯t talk to the Datsot fleet on FTL radio,¡± his computer officer reported. ¡°I take full responsibility for this continued failure.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, Six Whiskers,¡± he replied casually. ¡°We expected this to happen. It must be those Lesser Predators. Either a device on their fleet, or somewhere else hidden in this system. It is truly a war-changing upgrade, in ways that they might not even fully understand. Once we defeat them, we will take apart their wreck bit by bit and chase down every lead until we find it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers,¡± the officer replied. She hesitated for a moment but then decided to speak her mind. ¡°I am¡ª Don¡¯t you find it deeply unsettling to know we are out of contact with the fleet master and¡ª and the rest of the Prophecy?¡±


    He looked up at her, gazing into her frightened eyes. ¡°No, not at all. In fact, I am comforted by the silence. No micromanagement. No orders from above. Just our own wits to survive and win this battle. Full responsibility, for my actions, for all our actions. Today, there is truly no one else to blame.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers,¡± she bowed, thankful for his insight and her confidence bolstered by his self-assurance. ¡°That is an enlightening way of thought.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, it is. And besides, we still have our blink relay ships, even if they are slow in getting information through.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers. Another has just departed with news of the supply losses.¡±


    ¡°Now, tell me what the enemy has done since they rejoined Six Whiskers Mgnats and his ships with the Prophecy,¡± Skvanu ordered, looking at the console in front of him. The enemy¡¯s three squadrons had taken apart the eight escort ships like they were a knife through water without losing a single ship. It would have been difficult to believe had he not watched it happen through his sensors in real time¡­ Almost real time. The two-hour light speed delay meant that his fleet died before they saw it get engaged. But the fleet was closing on the cursed Lesser Predator ambushers¡­


    ¡°They had been a half leap ahead of us the whole time, but the combat computer evaluates that one of their ships may have been damaged in the¡­ skirmish with Six Whiskers Mgnats.¡±


    Skirmish was an¡­ ambitious word choice, Skvanu thought. Slaughter might have been closer. He prompted, ¡°How did the combat computer come to this assessment?¡±


    ¡°Their acceleration is now slightly but measurably lower than when they went into the fight. It¡¯s about a ten percent reduction. It thinks that one of them sustained minor damage and the rest of the fleet is matching its acceleration profile to mask the identity of the wounded ship.¡±


    Skvanu frowned. ¡°That does not seem right. Is there any evidence that Mgnats¡¯ ships scored a hit on the Lesser Predators?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she admitted. ¡°Our sensors saw no debris. But it may be an accident, friendly fire, or some kind of a technical malfunction aboard one of their ships. The combat computer is speculating. But they are moving slower now: that much is clear to the sensors.¡±


    ¡°How does that affect our intercept timeline?¡±


    ¡°Given our current vector and accelerations, we will intercept slightly after they reach the system limit. They will probably attempt to blink out, but all we have to do is observe their blink vector and follow.¡±


    Skvanu nodded. ¡°And at that point, for all the upgrades these Lesser Predators have received, there¡¯s only so much blink fuel they could have retrofitted a combat ship to carry. They can¡¯t have improved their blink range much. Not enough to overcome our two-to-one fuel capacity advantage, at least. Today, the predators shall become our prey.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 52 | Just Passing Through

    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°How¡¯s the fuel status of the Oengro?¡± Grionc asked.


    Vastae, eyes glued to his console, replied without hesitation. ¡°We have just enough blink fuel for one jump, but we aren¡¯t going anywhere once we get to the other side without a refueling ship.¡±


    ¡°Jumping is all we need. And if the Oengro is good to go, the other, smaller ships should be fine too then,¡± Grionc responded, bringing up the system map on screen with her paws. ¡°Four minutes to blink limit. Have the ship¡¯s crew secure themselves for the blink and get ready for shift change to execute post-blink procedures when we arrive.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander,¡± Vastae acknowledged with a brisk nod.


    Suddenly, three quarters of the sensor readings on her sensor board disappeared, and the fidelity on the remaining took a nose-dive in accuracy. A low murmur ran through the sensor stations, which she waved away with a paw. ¡°No need to panic. It looks like our friends jumped before we did, as arranged. Our sensors are on their own for now.¡±


    Vastae swallowed hard. ¡°Are you certain about this plan, High Fleet Commander?¡± Vastae asked nervously. ¡°Not that I don¡¯t trust what Sphinx¡ª Speinfoent cooked up, but this is a last-minute plan modification we haven¡¯t rehearsed. And with our fuel situation, we only get one chance here.¡±


    Grionc put a calm smile on her face. ¡°Remember that exercise we did with the Grass Eaters a while back?¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    <hr>


    4 months ago


    ¡°Since it¡¯s New Years, it¡¯s time to have some fun,¡± Mark announced with a grin to Grionc and the rest of the curious bridge crew. ¡°I¡¯m going to show you guys a fun teambuilding exercise we did on Terra.¡±


    ¡°Teambuilding exercise?¡± Grionc asked suspiciously.


    Mark didn¡¯t let her skepticism color his enthusiasm. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not sure how much teambuilding it does, but it is fun. And I have never seen aliens do it. In fact, this might be the first time this has ever been done outside of Sol!¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine. What are we doing?¡± she relented.


    ¡°This exercise is what we call the trust fall.¡±


    ¡°The trust fall?¡± Grionc repeated. ¡°It¡¯s about building trust? Like trust in your crew?¡±


    Mark nodded vigorously. ¡°It¡¯s supposed to. I¡¯m not sure if it truly works, but it truly is fun. You and I can demonstrate for the crew.¡±


    Grionc sighed. ¡°Sure. What do I do?¡±


    ¡°Come stand over here,¡± Mark pointed to a spot on the floor, and then stood in front of her with his back to her. ¡°What I¡¯m going to do is I¡¯m going cross my arms¡­ like this¡­ and on the count of three, I¡¯m going to fall backwards, and you have to catch me when I do.¡±


    ¡°Huh. That seems dangerous. What happens to you if I don¡¯t catch you?¡± Grionc asked, mild concern creeping into her voice.


    ¡°Traumatic brain injury, probably. Something similar for your species too, I assume,¡± Mark shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°But don¡¯t worry about that. We have good medical facilities on the Nile, and you will catch me. That is the point of the exercise. Alright, you ready?¡±


    Sensing his insistence, Grionc sighed and held her paws out, bracing herself. ¡°Ready.¡±


    ¡°One, two, three¡­¡± Mark did as he described, crossing his arms, and falling backwards into Grionc¡¯s outstretched arms. She grunted with slight effort as she intercepted his fall and then gently lowered him onto the ground, ¡°Oomph. Huh. You Terrans are lighter than you look.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, my bones are nano-grafted,¡± Mark grinned, bounced up to full height, and circled around her back. ¡°Okay, now it¡¯s your turn.¡±


    Grionc crossed her arms and held her breath for a moment. ¡°One, two¡­¡±


    She didn¡¯t move. A few seconds later, she let go of her held breath. ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°What? Why not?¡±


    Grionc muttered excuses. ¡°No, it¡¯s just¡ª my tail¡ª our balance mechanisms are different, I can¡¯t just fall backwards on purpose¡ª¡±


    Mark insisted. ¡°It¡¯s not that difficult. Just let go. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m right here. I promise I¡¯ll catch you.¡±


    She held her breath once again, psyching herself up for a few more moments.


    ¡°One, two¡­ doh, I can¡¯t.¡±


    Mark lightly patted her on the shoulder. ¡°That¡¯s okay¡­ don¡¯t worry¡­ Hey, Speinfoent, come over here and give her a light shove. Alright, on the count of three. One, two¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, no. Don¡¯t you dare! No! Don¡¯t touch¡ª Yowwwwwww!¡±


    <hr>


    Grionc continued, ¡°And now¡­ we fall. And we trust that our new friends will be there to catch us.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    ¡°They¡¯ve blinked,¡± the computer officer reported.


    ¡°Did we catch their blink vector?¡± Skvanu asked urgently.


    ¡°Calculating¡­ got it! We triangulated their blink vector and probable destination! Entering it into our fleet navigation computers,¡± she responded, paws flying over the controls.


    ¡°How long before we can execute the blink?¡± Skvanu pressed.


    ¡°Two minutes before we hit the limit ourselves,¡± she replied, not looking up.


    ¡°Good, get the crews ready and start the countdown. I want to blink the millisecond we are clear of the system limit. And get all systems ready for what¡¯s on the other side. They almost definitely have an ambush waiting for us. I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s where the remaining nine or so squadrons of Sixth Fleet are waiting for us,¡± Skvanu said confidently. ¡°Twelve Lesser Predator squadrons to twenty-six of ours. Doesn¡¯t matter how many upgrades they have, we will defeat them, especially since the first three will be within railgun range. Get those gunnery crews and point defense computers ready.¡±


    ¡°Blinking in seventy seconds,¡± she announced. ¡°Sixty-five seconds¡ª¡± Suddenly, she stood up, ¡°Eight Whiskers, our FTL communications are open again! Both Datsot and Gruccud have just responded to our last message!¡±


    Skvanu spun around to face her. ¡°That makes sense. Whatever device they used to stop our communications must have been on one of the ships that just blinked out. Is there any priority intelligence from either?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Datsot has an emergency transmission for us. It¡¯s from Ten Whiskers Ditvish!¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Skvanu asked, his voice serious.


    She began to read. ¡°Lesser Predators have entered Datsot system in force. Nine squadrons spotted so far. They may attempt to engage our garrison force there¡­ His guidance is that we return immediately to trap these aggressor ships, but leaves the decision up to you¡­¡±


    Skvanu absorbed the information with shock. If those ships are really in Datsot, they must not be on the other side of wherever the Oengro is blinking. And with that context, this now smelled exactly like a planned trap.


    He thought out loud. ¡°This must be what the Lesser Predators planned from the start. If we chase, we have no idea what they have on the other side. There may be refueling ships. They may have already gotten away. By the Prophecy, they may even be sacrificing three squadrons to get us to blink through a singularity or anomaly. But wait¡­ If we return to Datsot immediately, we might catch those squadrons split from the rest of their ships and cripple their fleet!¡±


    Having made up his mind, he shouted urgently at the navigation station, ¡°Navigation, hold the blink!¡±


    ¡°Halting the blink procedures.¡±


    ¡°A handful of ships have already completed the blink!¡± the computer officer reported, almost in a panic.


    ¡°Cease blink procedures! Fleet-wide, cease the blink!¡±


    The order went out immediately, and it was a testament to the discipline of the Znosian Navy that most squadrons managed to stop the countdown just seconds before it went through.


    ¡°How many ships went through?¡± Skvanu asked urgently.


    ¡°We managed to stop most of our ships, Eight Whiskers. Only five combat ships from Squadron 6 went through.¡±


    He sighed in relief. ¡°Only the Prophecy can help them now¡­ Turn us around. Let¡¯s get back to Datsot.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Nile</h2>


    ¡°I think we are in sufficiently deep space,¡± Captain Gregor Guerrero said to his crew. ¡°Drop us out.¡±


    ¡°Yes, captain. Emergency drop-out in five¡­ four¡­ three¡­ two¡­ one¡­ now.¡±


    The ship shuddered and creaked as the emergency-stop was activated. The blink engine wound down, forcing the ship back into normal space.


    Gregor turned to his navigation officer. ¡°How far from Plaunsollib did we travel, in regular space?¡±


    ¡°Two months on their Alcubierre drives if they combat burn with all their fuel. Four if they plan on stopping,¡± she replied immediately. ¡°They¡¯d be going too fast to aerobrake anyway.¡±


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Good,¡± Guerrero said, gluing his eyes to his sensor board. Ships in FTL are difficult to detect, even on gravidar, but the state-of-the-art technology on the Nile gave them a few seconds of warning.


    A few seconds later, the sensor officer¡¯s voice cut through the tense silence. ¡°I¡¯ve spotted the Puppers in blink! All of them, tight formation. They¡¯ll pass us in about fifteen seconds.¡±


    Guerrero nodded his pleasure. ¡°Good, let them pass. Tell me when they¡¯re out of range.¡±


    The seconds ticked by. ¡°Ten¡­ five¡­ they¡¯ve passed our position¡­ and now they¡¯re out of range.¡±


    ¡°Now, switch on the blink disruption field,¡± he ordered.


    The hum of the ship¡¯s ambient noise went up an octave, signaling maximum power drain as the ship¡¯s thirstiest system kicked in.


    Gregor looked at his information panel. ¡°Full emissions control. EMCOM Alpha. Deploy the FTL jammer drone and then shut off our engines. If things go well, we¡¯re about to be joined by half the fucking Bunny Navy in a minute.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Captain. EMCOM Alpha.¡± The rest of the crew nodded, working their controls with practiced competence.


    ¡°Jammer drone out. You think they¡¯ve got wild weasels, captain?¡±


    ¡°Unlikely, but we take no chances. If they don¡¯t¡­¡± He shrugged. ¡°¡­ we¡¯ll just get our drone back later.¡±


    A tense minute passed, then the sensor officer reported, ¡°Captain, Znosian ships spotted on gravidar! Two¡­ three¡­ five in total¡­ They¡¯ve just been forced out of blink.¡±


    ¡°Five squadrons?¡±


    ¡°No, Captain, five ships.¡±


    Gregor furrowed his brow, surprised, and took another glance at his console. ¡°Only five ships?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Alright, keep the disruption field up, and analyze the drive signatures on them. Maybe one of them is this Skvanu guy we¡¯re supposed to hit,¡± he speculated hopefully.


    <hr>


    After half an hour, Guerrero finally called it quits. ¡°No more guests are showing up. Looks like they must have wizened up at the last moment.¡±


    ¡°Aye, sir,¡± the executive officer said, shaking her head in disappointment as well. ¡°It was a good plan. Could have stranded their whole fleet out here.¡±


    ¡°Well, bad luck¡ª these things happen in war, Lieutenant. Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll get them next time. How are the guests we did get doing?¡±


    ¡°Out of blink fuel, as expected. They¡¯ve been dumping cargo in an organized fashion. I think they¡¯re planning to see if they can reach Plaunsollib with their subspace drives in a reasonable amount of time and call triple A.¡± Then, she asked, ¡°Where do you think the rest run off to?¡±


    ¡°Probably Datsot,¡± Guerrero guessed. ¡°Phone Sphinx and tell him he¡¯s probably got the whole shit storm heading his way, ETA about a couple days. Get the estimates to him.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Now, we just need to silence the witnesses so we can use this trick again. Bridge to CIC: let¡¯s keep it simple. One Kestrel for each of the targets. We¡¯ll swiss-cheese them with railguns after. Just in case.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Captain. We¡¯re not dropping off those TRO drones here, are we?¡±


    ¡°Nah. Too much work. No one is finding these guys ever again anyway.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    ¡°I just got off a call with the Nile,¡± Loenda announced. ¡°Looks like the Grass Eaters have discovered our ruse in the other system. The main enemy fleet is heading our way right this second.¡±


    Speinfoent sighed, and suggested, ¡°If we burn closer for just a couple more hours¡ª¡±


    ¡°No more,¡± Loenda declared. ¡°We are already risking nine squadrons coming this far into the Datsot system limit.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± Speinfoent agreed reluctantly. ¡°We can still give them a present they won¡¯t forget any time soon.¡±


    ¡°That, we will. That we will.¡± Loenda turned to her console. ¡°All ships in Battlegroup 2, dump your payloads as quietly as you can. Then wait half an hour to change your vector and make your way to the system blink limit.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Battlegroup Commander.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 1841</h2>


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, the Lesser Predators are turning around,¡± the computer officer declared, doing her best to hide her relief.


    ¡°What? Where are they heading now?¡± Ditvish asked, confounded.


    ¡°Towards the shortest path to the system blink limit, I think.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it? They¡¯re just leaving now?¡±


    ¡°Combat computer speculates that they might have seen that Eight Whiskers Skvanu is heading back to Datsot, so they are breaking off the attack,¡± the officer offered.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not very Lesser Predator of them, but very logical,¡± he admitted. ¡°They must have realized their plan failed and are now cutting their losses.¡±


    He didn¡¯t mention that his fleet was the one that came out behind, losing yet another precious supply convoy and then sending the whole combat fleet on a wild predator chase for nothing. That State Security goon might start to become a problem if he didn¡¯t spin this well in his after-action report.


    A few hours later, a foreboding feeling coloring his mood, he ordered, ¡°Sensors, boost our radars towards where they changed vectors. I want to check to see if they dropped any drones or traps.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    The 1841 boosted its radar towards the direction, blaring out signals on maximum strength and¡ª


    ¡°Incoming¡­ missiles? Ten Whiskers, many missiles! Dozens! Over a hundred! They¡¯re in our minimum abort range!¡±


    ¡°By the Prophecy!¡± Ditvish exclaimed. ¡°All ships, execute combat burn away from them! Countermeasures and fire counter-missiles, at the ready! Track those missiles!¡±


    Fortunately, the garrison fleet was still in high readiness from before. Their engines were ready to light up to full acceleration immediately.


    Unfortunately, the missiles were already close. In desperation, his ships began dumping their entire loads of radar chaffs and flares into space behind them as they maneuvered away from the threat. Counter-missiles sped out of their tubes towards their rear, relying on their motherships¡¯ sensors and radars to find the tiny alien missiles for them to engage.


    <hr>


    Quietly gliding through space towards the enemy on inertia inherited from their motherships was the sizable swarm of Terran-made missiles. Obsolete for military purpose in Sol but still produced for the civilian and gray market, they were an easy addition on the TRO¡¯s shopping list. Vast quantities of them had found their way into various shell corporations and dead drops all over Sol, then onto hastily constructed exterior pylons on Sixth Fleet ships.


    While they were indeed several times outside of the maximum effective range of the Znosian ships at launch, missiles technically did have unlimited ballistic ranges in space ¡ª if their enemies were not moving and they did not need to constantly fire their thrusters to adjust course. Relying on a short first burn and then inertia, they flew most of the way towards the stationary enemy fleet completely undetected. By the time they were spotted, it was too late; the Znosians were well within their effective ranges.


    Their intelligence chips might not have been super-Terran state-of-the-art computers, but the Pigeons had no problem realizing that they were discovered. They had been tracking the enemy targets using passive infrared sensors that did not alert enemy threat sensors to their presence. But the second that the targets started dropping flares to blind them, they activated their primitive late twenty-first century radars and homed in onto the priority targets they¡¯d been given. Their main thrusters began their burns, adjusting their vectors to intercept the now-finally-moving enemy ships.


    Then, they saw the incoming counter-missiles ¡ª fired by the enemies sporadically, obviously in panic.


    The makers of the Pigeons might not have bothered to include next-generation electronic dazzlers on them, but penetration aid on missiles had been standard in Terran warfare for a century. They littered the space they were in with chaff and their own bright flares, coordinating with the other missiles in the area with short range laser communication to ensure that none in the swarm would confuse or disrupt each other.


    The Znosian counter-missiles were certainly confused and disrupted though. Many veered off into phantom signals. Some lucky ones did manage to find their targets. When a few of their comrades dropped off their impromptu mesh net, the Pigeons constantly corresponded with laser communications to re-prioritize their targeting.


    At the top of the list was the fattest, easiest target of them all: the enemy flagship 1841.


    Seconds before impact, the missiles finalized their targets, and they spent every drop and fume of their remaining fuel on terminal maneuvers.


    The Znosians¡¯ close in weapons systems had milliseconds to engage the incoming threats. They performed admirably¡­ for trying to deal with this unknown alien threat for the first time. A couple dozen more missiles were plucked out of space, but it was not enough.


    Not nearly.


    The rest slipped through the net.


    <hr>


    Miraculously, the 1841 managed to survive initially. Despite it being the primary focus of the Pigeon mob, the other ships did their best to shield its most vital components in its rear with their own point defense. And the Pigeons ¡ª like most missiles of its era ¡ª were loaded with just enough firepower to destroy much smaller Terran ships. The larger hulls of the Znosian ships gave their obsolete mid-century intelligence chips a slightly more interesting exercise in module identification and targeting.


    The massive Thorn-class battleship took fourteen hits to varying systems that the missiles visually identified as ¡°they look pretty darn important¡± on their final approach: its primary missile and gun tubes were trashed, venting atmosphere to space in those compartments. A proximity hit near the stern took out four of its eight massive main thrusters and several system modules at the rear of the ship. And perhaps worst of all, one Pigeon managed to zero in on its vulnerable front bridge, the explosion emptying its contents and occupants into vacuum.


    Luckily for Ten Whiskers Ditvish, none of them hit the armored flag bridge where he was in the belly of the ship, vindicating the Znosian Navy¡¯s practice of separating the two for redundancy.


    Nonetheless, Ditvish fell to the ground as the simultaneous impacts temporarily overloaded the inertial compensators and shook the ship to its core. Sparks flew around him, and he smelled a pungent stink as the automated fire suppression systems kicked in to save as much as they possibly could.


    He slowly climbed to his feet and looked at the scene around him. A sensor officer was spraying foam at a small fire with a handheld device, successfully extinguishing it in seconds. Several other of his crew were recovering and returning to their stations with remarkable calm. After all, they were elite, well-trained spacers of the Znosian Navy.


    Ditvish did the same, propping himself back into his command chair with slight effort. He operated his console in a concussed daze. One glance at the status board told him that the 1841 was a write-off. It wasn¡¯t going to be combat effective ever again. At least its life pod systems were working, and he watched in relief as dozens then hundreds of crew members in the damaged sections of the ship climbed into theirs and ejected into the relative safety of vacuum.


    He checked up on the other ships: several others were hit. Six had outright detonated: no survivors nor signals came from them. Two were irreparably damaged, their remaining crews also abandoning their ships in an orderly fashion. And another six had visible fires or scorch marks on their damaged hulls, but those crews were still valiantly fighting to keep their ships alive.


    Ditvish noticed that the missile didn¡¯t go for all his ships, just the ones on the outer edge on his sensor board¡ª wait, the missiles¡ª To his horror, several more dozen missiles they¡¯d detected were still active, and they were going for¡ª


    He looked at his computer officer¡¯s station and yelled, ¡°We have to warn them!¡±


    She yelled something back at him, but he realized that he couldn¡¯t hear her. Hitting the floor must have injured his hearing organs. He yelled again, hoping that she could still hear. ¡°Warn the orbital support fleet! The logistics and fire support ships! Evasive maneuvers and take cover in the atmosphere!¡±


    Her lips moved again. He got out of his chair and stumbled over to her in a daze, trying to hear what she was saying.


    She was saying something.


    It must be important.


    ¡°¡­ not reach them. Our communication array¡­ destroyed! Ten Whiskers, we need to get¡­ We don¡¯t have much time!¡±


    Ditvish finally understood her from reading her lips. He didn¡¯t respond. Just numbly watched the planetary battlemap of Datsot on the main screen.


    It didn¡¯t take long. They were completely defenseless.


    The remaining missiles plucked every last orbital fire support and logistics transport ship out of the skies of Datsot. Most detonated; a few left behind trails of black smoke as they sank uncontrollably towards the planet¡¯s surface.


    Then, Ditvish¡¯s hind legs gave out and he crumpled onto the bridge floor.


    He was dimly aware of one of his subordinates dragging him towards the bridge escape pod as he blacked out.


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Trassau</h2>


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Speinfoent,¡± Loenda said, putting her paws around the junior commander looking glumly at the image of Datsot retreating from their view as the rest of the bridge cheered the better-than-anticipated success of the raid. ¡°We¡¯ll come back, and next time, we¡¯re coming back for everything.¡±


    ¡°That we will, Loenda. That we will.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Meta</h2>


    There is no research that shows the effectiveness of trust falls for building trust in a team and plenty of research showing that falling backwards from a full standing position without adequate bracing or padding can lead to serious brain, spinal, and back injuries.


    Coercion or retaliation against Malgeir employees who refuse to participate in trust fall exercises may be considered investigable or actionable violations of workplace safety regulations by the Republic Office of Occupational Safety or anti-discrimination regulations by the Office of Equal Opportunity.


    Whistleblowers are entitled to up to 25% of monetary penalties recovered. If you see something, say something.

 First Strike - Chapter 53 | Apostasy

    <h2>Datsot</h2>


    ¡°Now I know this is not what any of you want to hear,¡± the base commander announced to the shocked audience. ¡°But it is the truth. The losses were total. As of today, our orbital supply network no longer exists. The fleet has declared our invasion¡­ postponed. Responsibility is still being determined, but Ten Whiskers Ditvish has recovered from his injuries enough to assure us that he will be taking full responsibility for all the errors that occurred as a result of overstretching our supply lines.¡±


    Skhork asked, ¡°So what happens next? Do we have secondary objectives to fulfill? Does the fleet plan to return?¡±


    The base commander explained, ¡°The fleet is evacuating all essential equipment and personnel. There were a few backup shuttles, but these are the last ones we have. The eastern theater was encircled and entirely lost, so we are now at the top of the fleet¡¯s priority list. There will be an evacuation flight coming for us later tonight. The decision has been made. All six whiskers and above on my base will be evacuated, as will all the active Longclaw Marines and their valuable equipment. I understand two of your crew members in Fearless Four are heavily injured, Skhork. I have decided they will have to be left behind. I take full responsibility for that decision.¡±


    Skhork looked at her with displeasure for a moment, but then bowed his head, reciting, ¡°Our lives were all forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    The base commander nodded solemnly and continued. ¡°All infantry conscripts will be left behind.¡±


    The infantry commanders bowed their heads and recited the line too.


    ¡°What will they be told?¡± one of the six whiskers asked, visibly dejected at the total loss of his command.


    ¡°The truth. Though expendable, at the end of the day, they too are Servants of the Prophecy. They will be expected to perform their duties. Remind them not to forget their SEER training: Sabotage, Erode, Exterminate, Raids. Be proud and worthy examples of the Znosian Ground Forces.¡± Then her face darkened, ¡°Unlike those surrendering apostates in the eastern theaters.¡±


    Gasps and murmurs went around the room.


    ¡°There were surrenders?¡± Skhork asked, his blood heating up. The other commanders expressed their anger likewise.


    The base commander added hastily, ¡°These are rumors. But they have been all but officially confirmed. Their theater commander, a seven whiskers, took responsibility for them last night. For her value in service, she was not heavily punished and will be allowed to redeem herself. But for those who gave up, the Prophecy no longer welcomes their presence. In life or in death.¡±


    <hr>


    Skhork said his farewells to the two Fearless Four crew members who had to be left behind in the afternoon. It was not easy, leaving comrades behind after fighting alongside them for years, but they all understood its necessity to the Prophecy.


    ¡°You think we will come back?¡± he asked the gossiping gathered crowd of six whiskers evacuees.


    The base commander shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s possible. We may have lost a few space battles, but we still have most our ships in the sector. The Navy just needs time to regroup at Gruccud. Then, we will need to slowly fight our way back, making sure to secure our supply lines this time. That was the mistake we made, and I am sure Ten Whiskers Ditvish will learn from this. After all, we are civilized people, not stupid predators.¡±


    ¡°You think they will let him retain command?¡± one of the infantry commanders asked. ¡°If he were in the Ground Forces, he would surely be executed.¡±


    ¡°They do things differently in the Navy,¡± the base commander chortled. ¡°High ranking spacers are much less expendable than your conscripts. Unless there was serious misconduct found in the inevitable assignment of responsibility hearing, they will probably allow him to redeem himself.¡±


    The supply officer shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think we will come this way again. This was supposed to be a flanking route to Malgeiru.¡±


    ¡°Flanking route?¡± Skhork asked.


    ¡°A movement around the side of the enemy main force,¡± the supply officer explained, ¡°To avoid facing their strongest¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know what a flanking route is, you base-sitter,¡± Skhork almost snarled. ¡°I just didn¡¯t know that is what Datsot is.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, it is,¡± the supply officer replied. ¡°It¡¯s one of the Lesser Predators¡¯ core worlds, but it is a side route to their home world. The reason we stretched our supply route so far for this is because we didn¡¯t anticipate they would even bother to attack it. Why would we? The Lesser Predators just didn¡¯t do that kind of thing.¡±


    ¡°Now, they do.¡±


    ¡°Yes, now they do,¡± the supply officer agreed. ¡°So, we will probably abandon this front all the way back to Gruccud and go for Malgeiru from the front, and then come back and take Datsot after their home world falls.¡±


    ¡°If it falls,¡± Skhork corrected. He noted in his mind that a few short months on Datsot had turned him into a pessimist.


    ¡°Yes, if it falls.¡±


    ¡°I doubt your reasoning though, supply officer. I¡¯m sure the Navy will find a way to adapt to this new threat to their supply lines, and we will be back here in a few months. How hard can it be to secure nine uninhabited systems in a row?¡±


    The officer had no answer for him.


    The landing thrusters of the incoming evacuation shuttle lit up the night sky as it descended.


    Nighttime was generally considered the best time for shuttles to land on Datsot, because some of the poorly equipped Lesser Predator units did not have night and thermal vision equipment. The fewer threats they had to deal with, the better.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°But even if we come back then,¡± Skhork lamented, ¡°It will be too late for our ground troops who remain.¡±


    ¡°Most likely,¡± the base commander agreed moodily. ¡°The Lesser Predators will easily cleanse and reinforce this planet before we get back, but any damage we do now will make it easier for the next time around. Our eventual victory over the Lesser Predators is inevitable. It has been foretold in the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°It has been foretold in¡ª¡±


    Skhork¡¯s recitation was interrupted by a loud noise far in the distance. The congregation looked in its direction.


    A trail of smoke lit up by the fumes of a bright rocket engine appeared just above the dark horizon, rapidly approaching the descending shuttle. The shuttle reacted instantly to the threat with computer reflexes, spitting hundreds of infrared flares out its sides and bottom that formed the picture of a majestic, winged creature with their trails. The incoming missile tracked onto one of those flares, but that was not enough to save the shuttle: it detonated right beneath the shuttle, sending a burst of shrapnel into its exposed engines.


    The shuttle engines sputtered for a second, giving them a moment of hope.


    False hope.


    The engines failed. The group watched as the shuttle flipped over, its anti-aerodynamic shape tumbling through the sky before finally crashing into a small hill beyond the horizon. They braced themselves for the minor shockwave that followed.


    Skhork interrupted the stunned silence to ask the question on everyone¡¯s mind.


    ¡°Now what?¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    The communications officer of the 2228 absentmindedly depressed the key that opened an incoming FTL connection.


    ¡°2228 here,¡± she identified herself.


    ¡°This is¡­ can you¡­ Ten Whiskers Ditvish?¡± the scratchy voice came through the speaker system.


    ¡°I can¡¯t understand you. I believe this is a problem on your end,¡± the communications officer said, inspecting the diagnostics on her console.


    There was some more scratching on the other end as the speaker fiddled with their system and the crimson eyed and white-furred avatar of the caller appeared on her screen. ¡°Ah, there it is. I apologize and take full responsibility for the poor connection quality. Is Ditvish there?¡±


    ¡°The ten whiskers is not available,¡± the communications officer said. ¡°Do you wish to you leave a message?¡±


    ¡°This is Seven Whiskers Ktotssu, calling from the Birtevrut. I have an important message for the ten whiskers.¡±


    The communications officer sat up. Whatever a seven whiskers says was usually worth her attention, even if she did not recognize the caller. ¡°It is I who must apologize and take responsibility for not recognizing you, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Yes, this is Seven Whiskers Ktotssu. Is Ditvish really not available?¡±


    As per procedure, the communications officer verified the connection and the image of the caller were legitimate on her console, tracing the call to the neighboring system of Plaunsollib, and replied, ¡°Yes, the ten whiskers is still healing from his injuries in the medical module.¡±


    The caller seemed to hesitate, her face scrunching up in thought. ¡°Ok, I think I will leave a message for now. Tell him that his hatchling has been readied.¡±


    ¡°His hatchling has been readied?¡± the communications officer repeated, confused.


    ¡°Yes, and tell him that his meal was prepared, and it is here.¡±


    ¡°Meal? There? I apologize, but I don¡¯t understand. Can you just record a message for him?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not. What are you, incompetent? You can¡¯t record messages like these!¡± the caller exclaimed. ¡°In fact, you know what? I will call him another time. Do not bother to give him any messages.¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my incompetence,¡± the communication officers said, bowing her head.


    ¡°Good. You better. Don¡¯t mention this to anyone. That¡¯s an order. I will call another time.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Plaunsollib</h2>


    Svatken looked at the defunct communications drone in front of her, evidently dropped by the supply escort ships that were now expanding balls of debris.


    ¡°Something does not add up here,¡± she said, absentmindedly to her attendant Fstrofcho, not expecting a real response. ¡°The readings on this drone do not match the sensor data from the fleet. One of them has been tampered with, and if I had to guess, I would say it is the one that wasn¡¯t expected to be looked at.¡±


    Fstrofcho made a polite cough. ¡°The software you embedded into the Datsot fleet computers in the latest update has just flagged an unusual call to 2228 from this system, Agent Svatken. Would you like to listen to it.¡±


    ¡°Not now. I¡¯m working through this problem,¡± Svatken said impatiently.


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Bring up the data from the communication drone we picked up in Preirsput.¡±


    He did as commanded.


    She browsed over it. Several of the elements of the enemy ships matched the signatures on the drone, but not on the fleet sensor data.


    ¡°Attendant, just hypothetically speaking, why would the fleet attempt to tamper with recordings to make themselves look worse than they did?¡±


    ¡°They did?¡± Fstrofcho asked perfunctorily.


    ¡°That¡¯s what it is looking like. In fact, all these drone sensor recordings add up to show that the fleet has not lost as many ships as Ten Whiskers Ditvish reported in the last month. He has reported far more losses in the supply convoys than corroborated by evidence. But why would someone want to make themselves look worse than they are? Usually it is the opposite, especially with outliers who normally lie to make themselves look better!¡±


    ¡°That seems very unusual,¡± he answered, aware that his job was to simply agree and help her come to the conclusion herself given the lack of intelligence and critical thinking abilities in his bloodline.


    ¡°Indeed. Most concerning. And¡­ wait a second, what missile was that? Bring up the sensor recording of that last close shot that finished our escort,¡± she said, leaning into her console. Then, she manipulated it to show the camera sensor, zooming into the image. ¡°That¡ª that is one of our missiles!¡±


    ¡°Our missiles?¡± the attendant asked, sounding appropriately puzzled.


    ¡°Yes! Why was our own missile used to fire on our ships?¡± she asked, anxiety rising in her chest.


    She continued to examine the footage from different angles, hoping it would inspire some new insight, but she came up short.


    Svatken sighed in frustration.


    ¡°Fstrofcho, what was that call you were talking about earlier?¡± she asked, trying to look at it from another angle.


    He dutifully transmitted the call to her console.


    She listened to it. And then, she looked up the caller¡¯s identity.


    Not believing what she saw, Svatken triple-checked it against the existing biometrics files in the database. It was a confident match.


    ¡°When and where was this call recorded from?¡± she asked her attendant in a hoarse whisper.


    ¡°Right in this system, ma¡¯am.¡±


    He sent the coordinates to her console. It pointed to a position near a known comet a few light seconds outside the system limit¡ª


    ¡°Get us over there right now and give me visual sensors on it as soon as possible.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take too many hours for her advanced reconnaissance ship to speed to the location. And when they overtook the comet to for the sensors to scan what was occluded on the other side of the comet¡ª


    ¡°By¡­ the¡­ Prophecy,¡± Svatken trembled. ¡°Count how¡ª how many of those are here?¡±


    Dozens of automated supply ships in pristine condition were lit up in the dark of the comet by the lights of their recon ship. The insignia of the Znosian Navy were painted as brightly on their hulls as the day they left the shipyard. There were no other signs of life, other than their own. Svatken noted that the numbers on their hull matched the ones claimed lost by the Datsot Invasion Fleet, some as recently as a week ago.


    Fstrofcho may not have been bred for critical thinking tasks, but he had been trained to count without his paws. ¡°Thirty-two in total, ma¡¯am. How do you think it all got here?¡±


    That¡¯s when it clicked together for Svatken.


    ¡°Fstrofcho,¡± she said coldly, ¡°Get us back to Znos immediately. And call an Apostasy Commission on the way. I must report Crimes against the Prophecy at the highest levels of the Navy.¡±

 (Standalone) The Next Line Will Hold

    Defense Line Husky, Datsot-3


    POV: Motsotaer, Malgeir Federation Planetary Defense Force (Rank: Pack Member)


    The shrieking whistle of incoming artillery shell was among the most terrifying noises known to living beings.


    Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. Boom. Boom. Boom.


    But it meant you were still alive.


    Pack Member Motsotaer wondered if the poor pups in the forward trenches heard them coming as the enemy high explosive pounded into their lines.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    One of their anti-aircraft concrete bunkers took a direct hit; its roof collapsed on itself with a loud crumble.


    Grass Eater artillery was voluminous, destructive, but scariest of all, it was incredibly precise. Their intelligence assets in orbit knew all, saw all. Their kill chains were short. Once they saw you, they would call it in, and the remainder of your life was measured in minutes and seconds.


    There was nothing vegetarian about the efficient and bloodthirsty way the long-eared Grass Eaters fought, and the numerous intelligent predator species they¡¯d exterminated on their way to Datsot¡­ some of those tales gave even Motsotaer nightmares.


    The defenders of Datsot had no choice. No choice but to defend their homes against the psychotic enemies pounding their lines to bits. And the ones who remained had learned the hard lessons of war, either through experience earned by blood or via the process of not-so-natural selection.


    Motsotaer clutched his rifle against his chest as he laid in his own shallow hole, eyes closed. If the end was going to come for him, there was nothing else he could do but huddle in his freshly-dug grave.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    The blasts continued walking across the defense lines, undoubtedly killing scores of his comrades. But he accompanied each shockwave with a sigh of relief; they let him know that he was still alive. Still breathing.


    One final rumble. And then there was silence across the battlefield.


    Motsotaer waited a minute before he peeked out ¡ª another lesson that smart defenders of Datsot had discovered the hard way. A couple brave medics were already on the move, their shouts left and right, pulling bodies and the groaning injured alike out of the rubble aftermath of the shelling.


    With a grunt, he pulled himself out of his hole, rushing towards the neighboring anti-air bunker. The concrete roof had collapsed, but he could still hear cries from the dark. He squeezed through the cluttered entrance.


    It was a mess on the inside. The lights were all gone. Scattered sandbags. It smelled like blood and death, and he pushed aside the still body of a Head Pack Leader he only knew of, only to find the corpse of yet another Pack Member, her limbs sprawled in an unnatural position.


    ¡°Anyone still alive in here?¡± he asked in the dark as his eyes adjusted. ¡°Hello?¡±


    There were a series of loud coughs. ¡°I¡¯m here. I¡¯m here.¡±


    ¡°Pack Leader Nidvid!¡± he shouted as he recognized the familiar shrill voice. ¡°Keep talking! Where are you?¡±


    ¡°Here. I¡¯m here. Help me up.¡±


    As she continued to cough, he had the sense to fish a flashlight out of his pocket, fumbling around until he found the on button. As the light activated, he could see Nidvid half-buried in the dirt, her lower limbs trapped beneath some sand from the broken sandbags.


    ¡°Pack Leader!¡± He got onto his front paws and started digging. ¡°Are you injured?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± she shook her head in the dim lighting as she experimentally wriggled her legs. ¡°Here, I think I¡¯m loose. Help me up.¡±


    Motsotaer grasped her under her arms, and with a heavy grunt, pulled her out of the dirt.


    ¡°Whew,¡± she said, checking her body again for wounds. Nidvid looked around at the other bodies splayed in the bunker. ¡°Oh no¡­ Head Pack Leader¡­¡±


    ¡°That was a close one. I can¡¯t believe you lived through that!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, me neither¡­ Wait a second,¡± Nidvid said as she began rummaging through a pile of rubble near the Head Pack Leader¡¯s body. ¡°The radio¡­¡±


    ¡°What are you looking for?¡± he asked as he aimed his flashlight towards where she was looking.


    ¡°Oh no, no, no¡­¡± her voice trailed off as she picked up the device she¡¯d been looking for. ¡°Our hardline communicator¡­¡± It was clearly broken from the strike, its shell perforated with a hundred holes and its connection to the landline severed. In disgust, Nidvid threw it back to the ground.


    ¡°What uh¡ª what did you need that for?¡± Motsotaer asked. ¡°Were we supposed to tell them we were being attacked?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ It was¡ª before the strike, we got a high priority order.¡±


    ¡°A high priority order?¡±


    Nidvid recalled, ¡°There¡¯s a special platoon in our salient¡­ We were supposed to get an important message to them!¡±


    ¡°Special platoon?¡± Motsotaer asked. ¡°Are you okay, Nidvid?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± the Pack leader replied, visibly distraught. ¡°They only had a physical line to us because they¡¯re supposed to be keeping in the dark. Emissions control or something like that so they can activate the flying machine swarm in time. They said this was life and death and our whole defense line hinges on it!¡±


    ¡°Emissions control? Flying machines? Pack Leader, we should get you to a medic,¡± he said skeptically.


    ¡°No! Motsotaer, this is important. We need to get the message to them now. They¡¯re only a couple kilometers south from our position. If we run over to their position now, it might not yet be¡ª¡±


    He looked up at her face in alarm. ¡°Run to another position? Outside the trench line?¡±


    ¡°Yes! We have to go!¡± she said, as she peeked out of the concrete bunker towards the barren zone ahead of the trenches. ¡°Now! Before they start their offensive.¡±


    Motsotaer began to protest, ¡°But that¡¯s no creature¡¯s land. If we get spotted by their troops, we¡¯ll be hunted down by the Grass Eaters ships in orbit¡­¡±


    She was insistent, ¡°Pack Member Motsotaer, get it together. We still have a job to do. Are you with me or are you going to sit here and die like a coward to the long-ears?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± he said, straightening up. Death or not, he was no coward. ¡°I mean¡­ I¡¯m with you.¡±


    ¡°Good. Then let¡¯s go.¡±


    With a grunt, she leapt out of the trenches and jogged south, keeping to the defensive side of it for the modicum of cover it provided, and Motsotaer quickly followed. As they sprinted away from the tattered defenses, they ran into a thick tree line that hopefully provided them with some concealment from the Grass Eater ships above.


    After a couple more minutes of running in the forest, Motsotaer started to tire and pant. He weighed his burning lung and how embarrassed he¡¯d be if he complained. Luckily for his ego, Nidvid gestured for them to stop after another minute and tossed him her canteen. ¡°Take a break before we get going.¡±


    He chugged as much water as he could in a single swig, and returned the canteen to Nidvid. He gasped out, ¡°How much further, Pack Leader?¡±


    ¡°About one more kilometer south,¡± she said, aiming her snout up at the treetops. ¡°I recognize the smell of this area.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s this even about? The message¡­ what was it?¡±


    Nidvid exercised her limbs. ¡°That Grass Eater artillery strike¡­ it was to prepare for their offensive on our lines. They¡¯ve gathered an armored division on the other side of that,¡± she pointed out into the barren fields beyond the trees. ¡°We have an hour at most before they roll over us.¡±


    ¡°An armored division?!¡± Motsotaer squeaked. The enemy¡¯s Longclaws ¡ª their armored vehicles ¡ª were legendary. They could kill from kilometers away. And their thick shells protected them against all but the most powerful artillery in the Federation¡¯s arsenal. He¡¯d never seen one of them personally. If he had, he suspected he wouldn¡¯t be alive to tell anyone about it. ¡°What can we do against a Grass Eater armored division?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why we have to get to the special platoon,¡± Nidvid replied. She pointed in the southern direction, ¡°You ready? Let¡¯s go.¡±


    They galloped for a few more minutes. Motsotaer¡¯s limbs tired and his breaths shallowed as his lung burnt. As he was contemplating whether to ask for another break, Nidvid pointed at a shape in the distance. ¡°There, that¡¯s their position!¡±


    He squinted at it. It was not easy to see, but buried in the tree line was what looked like a bunch of out-of-place branches and leaves over a small vehicle. Buoyed by the anticipation of the end of the marathon, he managed to keep up with Nidvid¡¯s pace.


    As they approached, there was a loud shout.


    ¡°Hi-yah! Stop!¡±


    They halted their steps and looked for the source of the voice.


    ¡°Not one more paw step, deserter! This is a restricted area! Turn around or you¡¯ll be shot!¡±


    Motsotaer looked up at the voice hidden up in the branches. After a moment, with some help from his nose, he found the yeller. It was a short, stout middle-aged male with strange-looking green and brown paint smeared all over his fur and face. He had a rifle aimed squarely at the duo.


    ¡°Don¡¯t shoot!¡± Nidvid yelled back. ¡°We¡¯re runners. We¡¯ve got an important message! For your platoon commander.¡±


    The male in the tree looked suspiciously at them as he leapt down. He lowered his rifle, but didn¡¯t seem any less on guard. ¡°A message?¡±


    ¡°Yes, we¡¯ve got an urgent message for Special Platoon Commander Graunsa. Take us to him right now!¡±


    He sized the two of them up. After a moment, he said slowly, ¡°I am Graunsa. Why are you here, and what is the message?¡±


    Nidvid recovered some of her breath and explained, ¡°The Grass Eaters hit us hard with an artillery strike. Our Head Pack Leader is dead. Our landline is gone. We ran all the way over from our lines north of you.¡±


    Graunsa nodded and gestured for her to continue.


    ¡°The Grass Eater armored offensive is about to start. They¡¯re moving into position and ready to go, and there¡¯s a special message embedded¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait a second,¡± Graunsa interrupted. ¡°Give me the special message exactly, without omission or your own interpretations.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Platoon Commander,¡± Nidvid nodded. ¡°The message is: bunny water carriers are in play, red-five-zero-eight; come out of the dark and introduce yourself. Authorization is three-three-greyhound.¡±


    Graunsa looked thoughtful for a moment as he pondered it.


    ¡°What does the message mean?¡± Motsotaer whispered at Nidvid.


    ¡°I have no idea,¡± she shrugged, whispering back. ¡°The Head Pack Leader just told me to memorize it.¡±


    The platoon commander seemed to have made up his mind. ¡°Alright, that seems legitimate. Thanks for the message.¡± He turned around to leave.


    Motsotaer shouted behind him, ¡°Wait, what are we supposed to do now?¡±


    Graunsa turned around. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not your commanding officer.¡± He paused for a moment. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t recommend going back to your lines though. Might not be there when you get back¡­¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t just leave us! Where else are we supposed to go?¡± Nidvid asked.


    Graunsa seemed to contemplate the question for a few heartbeats and sighed, ¡°You said you¡¯re from the position up north?¡±


    ¡°Yup,¡± they replied in unison.


    ¡°And you¡¯re a spotter, Pack Member?¡± he asked, looking at the rank and position patch on Motsotaer¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Graunsa relented. ¡°Fine. We might find a use for you. Get into the bunker¡­ before the Grass Eaters in orbit see us dawdling out here.¡±


    ¡°What? Where?¡±


    The officer pointed at a patch of dark green leaves on the forest floor. As they approached it, he grasped a latch and lifted it to reveal a ladder. The three of them descended into the darkness and Graunsa secured it behind them. With a quiet swoosh, a lamp mounted on the wall lit up to reveal a small hallway leading to a heavy-looking door.


    Graunsa knocked on it twice. He turned around and looked at Motsotaer and Nidvid. ¡°What you¡¯re about to see in here is of the highest secrecy level of the Malgeir Federation. If you tell anyone what you see in here, you will be executed for treason. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Platoon Commander.¡±


    ¡°Swear it, on your honor.¡±


    ¡°We swear,¡± they replied in unison, their voices infused with growing excitement.


    ¡°Good enough for me.¡±


    The heavy steel door swung open, showing a room that was vastly different from what its primitive exterior suggested. It resembled a command center far more than a field base, and Motsotaer felt a blast of cold air conditioning in his face as he passed the door threshold.


    At the front, a main screen showed a map of the defensive lines in the sector. Facing it, two rows of sleek, new computer screens lit up the dark. Their operators worked busily at their controls, and only a couple faces looked their way in mild interest as they entered.


    ¡°What is this¡ª¡± Motsotaer started to ask. Nidvid grasped his shoulder and shushed him.


    Graunsa cleared his throat. Several faces looked towards him in anticipation. ¡°Platoon, we just got the message. Activate the FTL handshake and authenticate us in the network.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± A young-looking communication officer near the front operated a few controls on her console. ¡°I¡¯ve got the advisors on the line.¡±


    Motsotaer read his nametag: Gassin. She was a Gamma Leader, much higher ranked than he, but she looked not a day over twenty. He noted that many of the people in the room sported high-ranking insignias despite their apparent youth.


    ¡°On screen,¡± Graunsa ordered.


    A communication window appeared on the main screen, streaming video of someone in a jet-black EVA suit.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Motsotaer stiffened. It was obvious that the subject was alien; at around 1.7 or 1.8 meters, it was far too tall for being a Malgeir. Too small for a Granti. And from the side profile of the suit, it didn¡¯t bulge nearly enough for the tails that the Malgeir¡¯s Schpriss neighbors were known for. A strange new species of aliens.


    From the blackened visor, it was obvious that whoever that was¡­ it was the reason for all this tight secrecy.


    ¡°Special Platoon Commander Graunsa,¡± it transmitted in perfect Malgeirish. The alien was either a trained-from-birth Federation Channel One newscaster with a perfectly inoffensive accent, or its translator was far better than anything the Malgeir themselves had invented. ¡°This call is encrypted, but the enemy Znosians in orbit are trying to find your location from the signals, so we¡¯ll have to make it as quick as we can. Have your defensive lines completed your preparations?¡±


    Graunsa stepped up to address the screen directly, ¡°Yes, advisor. Our fire support platoon is ready for tasking.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Transmitting the first batch of targets in your sector now.¡±


    A series of symbols scrolled onto the screen, showing a number of coordinates.


    ¡°We¡¯re getting the enemy positions now,¡± Gassin exclaimed.


    Graunsa turned to her and nodded his appreciation, ¡°Sixteen armored targets. Weapons free.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. Programming the sequence.¡±


    A camera on the main screen activated, remotely showing a small hole with some machinery in it dug a few hundred meters away just at the edge of the tree line.


    ¡°Launching flying machine swarm!¡±


    As Motsotaer watched, a thicket of metal erupted from the hole in a blur, roaring into the sky.


    The main screen was replaced by a four-by-four of windows of black and white images. It took him a couple seconds to realize that he was looking at the battlefield from above. The Malgeir had rotary wing, airplanes, and jet ¡ª some were even armed, but they were usually much bigger. And their air assets had been grounded since the early days of the battle for Datsot when the enemy took the orbits.


    Not these tiny devices though.


    He focused on one of the sixteen windows.


    The ground sped past below the camera¡¯s vision, tree line after tree line, the flying machine seemed to know where it was going by itself: Motsotaer looked at the other occupants in the room. None of them seemed to be directly controlling it.


    He stiffened.


    Is this controlled by a thinking machine?


    ¡°We¡¯re getting in range of the target coordinates, Platoon Commander,¡± Gassin updated the room a few minutes later.


    As if on cue, the flying machines flew higher, and the trees on the ground grew smaller, as if further away. Until¡­


    ¡°Targets identified!¡± Gassin reported with excitement in her voice.


    As an infantry spotter, Motsotaer had been trained ¡ª barely ¡ª to identify enemy armored vehicles. As in, he¡¯d been given a cheatsheet containing the silhouettes of the different types of vehicles the enemy drove. But even he couldn¡¯t tell at this distance what the white-hot smudges on the screen were.


    The machine had no such issues though.


    Several red boxes materialized on the screen, clearly marking several enemy vehicles in the thermal imagery and adorning them with detailed information.


    The one Motsotaer was watching said:


    Hostile vehicle, Longclaw MK4 (top armor: ~25mm), 4.2 km.


    No hostile EW detected.


    Without additional prompting, the flying machines raced in towards their targets, each recognizing a different one as its final destination. Afraid to blink, Motsotaer stared intently at one of the video streams.


    A new line of text appeared at the top of the screen:


    ETA 20 seconds.


    It counted down the seconds, number by number.


    The enemy Longclaw got larger and larger until¡­ the screen went black, replaced by static. As he looked around, the other windows were similarly replaced with static one-by-one.


    Motsotaer frowned, wondering where the videos had gone.


    Then, it hit him. The flying machines were on one-way trips.


    The sixteen windows disappeared, and another one appeared, showing the enemy assembly area from a much higher perspective. And instead of the vehicles he expected, he counted sixteen burning wrecks, the black smoke from their flames reaching up into the sky in columns.


    ¡°Targets destroyed, Commander,¡± Gassin said. Several of the officers in the room looked at each other excitedly, but their celebration was muted.


    Graunsa nodded. ¡°Call our advisors again.¡±


    The alien appeared on the screen again. ¡°Excellent work, Platoon Commander. We¡¯re assessing the lines and getting the second batch of targets to you now.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    As the new target coordinates scrolled onto the main screen, Gassin didn¡¯t need additional prompting, ¡°Launching flying machines!¡±


    Another sixteen of them flashed out from the pre-dug position. Another sixteen windows appeared on the screen, replacing the odd-looking aliens¡¯ video.


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± the aliens¡¯ voice cut into the quiet hum of the control room¡¯s operation. ¡°Switch back to the high-altitude drone. Something¡¯s happening.¡±


    The main screen¡¯s image was replaced by the previous camera looking down at enemy lines. There was a flurry of activity in the enemy base area. Numerous dots representing the ground troops moved to-and-fro. And worryingly, the red squares that surrounded enemy armor began appearing en masse as enemy Longclaws drove out of their covered positions into the open.


    Dozens of them.


    Then, hundreds. And more appeared every second.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Graunsa asked, his voice reflecting Motsotaer¡¯s worry.


    The alien took a minute to get back to him, its black helmeted face filling up the screen again. ¡°They¡¯re attacking. They don¡¯t know what hit them in the last strike. But they must have realized that they¡¯re not safe in their assembly area, and they¡¯re doing the only thing they can¡­ We estimate they¡¯ll get to your first lines in thirty minutes.¡±


    ¡°Can we stop them?¡± Graunsa asked. ¡°We can¡ª¡±


    The alien looked directly into the video. ¡°Not sixteen drones at a time. And if you launch the whole swarm at once, it¡¯ll reflect enough signal for them to sniff out where you are with their counter-battery radars and take you out from orbit.¡±


    Graunsa swallowed. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s¡ª The machines can fly themselves without us, right?¡±


    The alien didn¡¯t say anything for a few heartbeats. ¡°Theoretically, yes. But even if you evacuate your position now, your people won¡¯t get out of range from the orbital strike they¡¯ll call in.¡±


    ¡°I understand. Feed us the enemy targets.¡±


    ¡°Delta Leader, we can¡¯t ask you to¡ª¡±


    ¡°I said, feed us the enemy targets,¡± Graunsa insisted.


    Quietly, hundreds of coordinate pairs filed onto the main screen. Graunsa looked at the faces of the young officers under his command. Dozens of them. He turned around to look at his two guests. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said.


    ¡°It¡¯s the right choice,¡± Nidvid replied, shrugging.


    Motsotaer nodded at him.


    ¡°I know,¡± Graunsa said, turning back to the main screen. ¡°Just doesn¡¯t make it any easier.¡±


    ¡°Sir, we¡¯re ready to launch,¡± Gassin reported.


    ¡°Weapons free. Release everything.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    The ground shook and rumbled, hundreds of flying machines leaving their canisters for the sky. They were close enough to hear the outgoing buzzing as the munitions launched. This time, more and more windows filled up the screen with the visuals of the outgoing flying machines ¡ª hundreds of them, and Motsotaer was surprised that the computers could even handle it all.


    The visage of the alien returned to their screen. It said calmly, ¡°Enemy orbital launch spotted. Multiple launches. High yield. Missiles incoming to your location, ETA twelve minutes.¡±


    ¡°Understood, advisor.¡±


    ---


    POV: Slurskoch, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    ¡°Scramble! Scramble! Scramble!¡±


    Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Longclaw Commander Slurskoch sat up in his turret cupola as the sirens rang loud through the hull.


    ¡°We¡¯re under artillery attack!¡± his Controller yelled back at him through the roaring startup sequence of the turbine anti-grav engines. ¡°The Lesser Predators¡­ they¡¯ve got some kind of new weapon! Took out a whole battalion¡¯s worth of Longclaws in the 194!¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re not ready!¡± his Driver complained. ¡°Our artillery is supposed to pound them for another hour before we¡ª¡±


    Slurskoch shook his head as he checked the friendly force tracker on his screen. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter! If they¡¯ve got some new weapon, we can¡¯t sit still while we get pounded to bits by whatever they have. We gotta get out there. Hurry it up!¡±


    It took them another two minutes to fully warm up the engines, and with a roar, the Longclaw burst out of its camouflaged emplacement, kicking up a curtain of dirt in front of it.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go! Go! Go!¡± Slurskoch yelled as his lagging Longclaw joined the armored formation already on the move.


    The Controller spoke with one of her ears in the radio, ¡°Their artillery just launched¡­ something at us. We¡¯ve pinpointed their location, and orbital support is on its way.¡±


    His Gunner whooped twice, and Slurskoch nodded silently in agreement. That¡¯d flatten those carnivorous abominations where they stood. He drew a few symbols and circles on the digital battlemap as the Longclaws drove toward the enemy lines. ¡°Gunner, watch those potential trench lines in front of us,¡± he instructed. ¡°Their anti-armor may not look scary on paper, but their infantry can always get a lucky hit in.¡±


    Slurskoch was taught in training that it was better to overestimate the enemy than underestimate them. Luckily, the predators usually fell below expectations, which was why the Dominion controlled the orbits of Datsot now and not them.


    His Controller frowned at something in her radio, ¡°They¡¯re saying something about the enemy artillery¡­ The engineers at the base assessed the strike aftermath. There¡¯s something strange in the rubble. The attack was more precise than anything we¡¯d ever seen.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± Slurskoch asked in confusion.


    ¡°The sensor officer in charge of the assembly area has taken full responsibility. They didn¡¯t see the incoming at all. Higher ups are speculating that the Lesser Predators have a new weapon in their arsenal.¡±


    ¡°The predators made new weapons?¡± Slurskoch snorted. ¡°Useful ones? That¡¯ll be a first. Well, whatever it is, maybe our Design Bureau will get a good look at it when we finally cleanse this planet of their filth. Make our next battle a little easier when we have to take their home planet.¡±


    His Gunner agreed, ¡°And then, the Prophecy shall be fulfilled.¡±


    ---


    A few kilometers into the charge across the open, the Gunner remarked with one eye on her targeting computer, ¡°Looks like even the local winged predators know that there¡¯s about to be a slaughter here.¡±


    The Driver, in his open hatch, looked up at the cloud of them flying over the enemy lines. ¡°Looks like it. A nice juicy feast for them in the coming battle. The irony of the barbaric carnivores being eaten by themselves.¡±


    A few thousand years ago, winged predators would have curdled the blood of any natural-born Znosian. On the original plains of Znos, they were one of the most dangerous threats a lone Znosian faced. Now, that fear had been completely bred out of the gene pool, replaced with contempt for predatory primitivism, the courage to face them in battle, and the drive to exterminate them all.


    Curious, Slurskoch stared up into the cloud of winged predators with his Longclaw commander optics. He frowned.


    One of them shimmered.


    Shimmered.


    He zoomed in.


    Then, he saw a metallic glint. His whiskers tightened.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª those aren¡¯t winged predators,¡± he barely made out in shock. ¡°Incoming!¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± his Driver asked, craning his head up to look at the dark shapes in the distance.


    ¡°Get inside! Secure the hatch!¡± Slurskoch shouted at him.


    His Driver was not very good at thinking on his own, but he had been bred to follow direct orders without question. He ducked into his seat, quickly securing the hatch above him close with trained claws.


    He barely secured the Longclaw as other commanders began yelling out similar instructions on their radios.


    ¡°Incoming!¡± his Controller advised, about ten seconds later than necessary. ¡°Enemy¡­ artillery?!¡±


    ¡°Gunner!¡± Slurskoch gestured in the general direction of the sky.


    ¡°I can¡¯t get a shot on them. They¡¯re too high up!¡± she screamed back at him.


    A trio of air defense vehicles next to him opened up with their six barrels towards the sky, lines of bright tracers stabbing out at the dark swarm. He saw one of the¡­ flying machines hit and fall out of the sky. Then another.


    It wasn¡¯t enough.


    As Slurskoch¡¯s optics tracked the incoming, he saw them dive. They were fast, and they flew erratic patterns, almost organically, like actual winged beasts. If he hadn¡¯t had that specific fear bred out of his bloodline hundreds of years ago, he would have been frozen in shock. Instead, he yelled out, ¡°Brace! Brace!¡±


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    The world exploded around his Longclaw.


    Through his friendly force tracker, Slurskoch watched an entire battalion disappear off the map on his right flank, and two Longclaws in his line of sight brewed up in massive fireballs, throwing their turrets into the sky as their plasma ammunition detonated. One of the anti-air vehicles brewed up next to his, splattering its parts against his hull.


    His Driver drove for all he was worth, ducking and weaving in the open field. So did the other Longclaws. Some deployed curtains of smoke in front of them in desperation.


    None of it seemed to help.


    The shockwaves hit his Longclaw in quick succession, knocking him around the armored cabin and rattling his teeth.


    Boom. Boom.


    More Longclaws exploded. Many more. They were disappearing off his screen faster than the software could update the signals. He closed his eyes waiting for the end.


    It didn¡¯t come.


    It was hard for Slurskoch to tell when the last Longclaw near them was hit. His hearing organs must have been damaged some time during the attack. His auditory senses ringed as they returned to normal, recovering when his Controller shook him with a paw on his shoulder. ¡°¡ªFive Whiskers! Five Whiskers!¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± he snapped, keeping the quivering out of his voice.


    ¡°We¡¯re alone in our company, and I can¡¯t contact the six whiskers! And I¡¯ve been trying to reach battalion without success!¡±


    ¡°Try the regiment commander!¡± he yelled out against the noise of the anti-grav engine.


    ¡°Can¡¯t reach them either!¡±


    ¡°What about division headquarters?!¡±


    ¡°I think division¡¯s gone, sir!¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°Nobody there has been responding. All I¡¯ve got is a seven whiskers in the reserve infantry division behind us! They¡¯re saying they see black smoke in the direction of our division field command!¡±


    ¡°What in the Prophecy? How is that possible?!¡±


    ¡°What do we do, Five Whiskers?¡±


    Slurskoch had been trained for a wide variety of combat scenarios and contingencies, including losing his immediate superiors, losing most of his unit, and losing his communication link to command. But he¡¯d never been trained for all of those combined at once. That was just not something predators were supposed to be able to do to you.


    He fell back to the next best thing.


    ¡°What¡¯s the combat computer say?¡± he asked.


    His Controller operated the controls on her console, and after half a minute of querying, she replied, reading off the instructions, ¡°Absent orders, continue the attack. Maybe we can push through.¡±


    ¡°What? Did it take our losses into account?¡± he protested as he checked the battlemap. Of the nearly five hundred Longclaws that had pushed out of the assembly area, only a quarter remained. At most. Some of the signals on the map were flagging themselves as mobility or mission killed.


    She shrugged, ¡°It did. That¡¯s what it says.¡±


    He squinted at her screen. That was indeed what it said.


    Slurskoch thought for a moment, sighed, and bowed in prayer, ¡°Our lives were forfeited the day we left our hatchling pools.¡±


    The other crew members all did the same, lowering their heads to mutter the familiar mantra.


    That ritual out of the way, he drew up to his full height of 1 meter and mustered all the confidence he could into his voice, ¡°Attack! Attack! Attack!¡±


    ---


    POV: Graunsa, Malgeir Federation Planetary Defense Force (Rank: Delta Leader)


    The command center watched glumly as the hundred or so surviving Grass Eater Longclaws emerged from the wrecks of their comrades and slowly resumed their charge across the open toward the defense lines.


    The flying machines had gotten a lot of them. Quite a few disabled too. And they were disorganized from the loss of their command. Yet they still charged. Diminished as their numbers were, they rolled towards the battered defensive lines with psychotic determination.


    We¡¯ve failed.


    Graunsa sat down heavily into his chair. He brought up his communication console, connecting it to the advisor network.


    The alien appeared on the screen, and though he couldn¡¯t see its face, he could hear the sympathy in its translated voice, ¡°You¡¯ve done all you can, Special Platoon Commander.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t enough,¡± he said, shaking his ears sadly. ¡°They¡¯re going to break through our line. Our infantry can¡¯t stop them.¡±


    It tilted its head. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t count them out completely, Delta Leader. They might. They might not. But your next defensive line certainly will hold them. The city behind you will be held.¡±


    ¡°Tracking enemy orbit-to-ground. ETA three minutes,¡± Gassin reported quietly from next to him.


    Graunsa sighed. He looked at the alien, ¡°I think I understand your people now, advisor.¡±


    ¡°You¡­ do?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, at first, when we were picked for this mission, I wondered why your people were doing this.¡±


    ¡°Doing this?¡± the alien asked, seeming confused.


    ¡°Helping us. The weapons. The equipment. The training. The targeting. It was all in secret, but you didn¡¯t have to do it. The other species around us didn¡¯t do it. The Schpriss¡­¡± Graunsa snorted, ¡°The long-tails can¡¯t even find it in their spines to send us field rations. I thought your species¡­ your people were just generous. Or perhaps you simply enjoyed the craft of war, being so adept at it.¡±


    ¡°Are we¡­ not?¡±


    ¡°Those reasons may be part of it,¡± he conceded. ¡°But more importantly, I think your people understand one thing the other species don¡¯t¡­ that we might stop the enemy here. Or we might not.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t set you up to fail, if that¡¯s what you think¡ª¡±


    ¡°But the next defensive line certainly will hold them,¡± Graunsa said, staring the alien in the eye. ¡°You will hold them. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    It sighed. ¡°I would be lying if that wasn¡¯t part of the strategic equation. Our star systems are indeed next in line ¡ª sometime in the next decade or two, probably ¡ª if these bloodthirsty Buns conquered your Federation. That harsh astropolitical realism. But there¡¯s something else too.¡±


    ¡°Is there?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± it nodded its head firmly in a familiar manner. ¡°Yes, there is. We aren¡¯t a particularly long-sighted species, Graunsa. We can plan, yes, but wars are fought by true believers. People don¡¯t sign up to put their lives on the line for a hypothetical, potential invasion of our Republic twenty years in the future. They¡ª we signed up for this because we truly believe what¡¯s happening to your people¡­ it shouldn¡¯t happen to anyone, ever.¡±


    Graunsa looked at the helmeted head for a while, then nodded. ¡°I believe you, advisor.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry this didn¡¯t pan out, Graunsa. If I could, I¡¯d be down there with you. We¡¯d have made them pay for this.¡±


    Graunsa smiled. ¡°I believe you about that too. Thank you, advisor, whatever your name is.¡±


    ¡°You may call me Kara,¡± it said simply. A deft snap of its paws ¡ª he hadn¡¯t noticed how soft its claws were before ¡ª and it released a latch on its helmet with a hiss. Lifting it from its head, it revealed a soft, smooth face without much fur except a bundle of long, brown strands on its scalp tied up in a neat spherical shape. Its hazel forward-facing eyes stared at him with the empathy that only other predators were capable of, filling him with mild relief. ¡°Don¡¯t tell anyone though,¡± it joked lightly, mirroring his smile back at him.


    You¡¯re not as ugly as I thought you¡¯d be. Not nearly.


    Graunsa¡¯s grin widened at the thought. He put it out of his mind. ¡°Ah. One last thing, advisor¡ª Kara.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    His mind drifted to his cubs at home. Perhaps they were still alive. He chose to believe that. ¡°Our people¡¯s clans and packs¡­¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll let them know,¡± she interrupted him softly. ¡°And when the information quarantine is lifted, we¡¯ll let your clans and packs know what you did here ¡ª everything.¡±


    ¡°Good. Thank you.¡±


    Gassin sat down next to him, ¡°Delta Leader, enemy missiles incoming. ETA thirty seconds, they¡¯re entering¡ª¡± She stopped her report and stared at the unmasked alien on his screen with equal parts wonder and sadness.


    ¡°Take a closer look, Gassin,¡± he ordered softly. ¡°That¡­ that is who will avenge us.¡±


    On screen, the alien put its gloved paw up to its temple, forming a stiff triangle with its arm in a recognizable salute. ¡°It was an honor, Graunsa.¡±


    Graunsa returned it crisply, letting a primitive fire shine through his face. ¡°Happy hunting, Kara.¡±


    ---


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: ¡°Kara¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    Kara watched solemnly as another green signal blinked off the battlemap. She closed her eyes for a moment in silent prayer for the fallen.


    Beep. Beep.


    Another light on her console blinked urgently for her attention. Four thousand kilometers from the previous one. The war raged on ¡ª day and night ¡ª across four continents on the besieged planet. Fifty light years from the Republic, its defenders¡¯ sweat, tears, and blood lined the fields and valleys of the beautiful blue sphere not so different from her own. Tens of millions of them: many who she knew would not see the end of this war.


    They didn¡¯t all know it, and some might not have cared, but fifty light years away, someone recorded their names, and someone felt a pang of loss for their sacrifice. In the cold, dark forest of the galaxy, somebody heard their trees fall.


    Kara collected her thoughts, adjusted the bun in her hair, and lowered the tinted EVA helmet over her face once more.


    She cleared her throat as she glanced at the screen and activated the microphone in her helmet, ¡°Special Platoon Commander Treiriu. This call is encrypted, but the enemy Znosians in orbit are trying to find your location from the signals, so we¡¯ll have to make it as quick as we can. Have your defensive lines completed your preparations?¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 54 | Alone

    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    ¡°You seem to be recovering rapidly,¡± Skvanu said happily to Ditvish, who sat up on the medical bed with some effort.


    ¡°The marvels of modern medical technology,¡± Ditvish remarked dryly. ¡°What is the status of the fleet?¡±


    ¡°We have retrieved all the troops that we can from the planet, Ten Whiskers, and the remaining on the ground have been given instructions to fend for themselves until we can return in force again. We are ready to proceed to return to Gruccud whenever you give the word.¡±


    Ditvish nodded. ¡°Once we get back to Gruccud, we will gather as much supplies as we can find, and escort them back here.¡±


    ¡°Is that¡­ wise, Ten Whiskers?¡± Skvanu asked. ¡°There are so many indefensible systems between the two. We would have to find another orbital support fleet and conscript¡­ dozens of ground divisions to replace what we have lost on Datsot just in the past few months.¡±


    ¡°Those are our orders, Skvanu. Moving as a whole fleet is¡­ unconventional for us, but it is now a necessity given the clear information advantage the enemy has over us. The Lesser Predators¡¯ Sixth Fleet is still out there,¡± Ditvish said darkly.


    ¡°Yes, we are taking precautions, but we think that even now, they do not have the numbers to challenge our entire fleet,¡± Skvanu replied. ¡°I have been studying our recent failures. So far, they have relied on clever tricks to surprise us, and we have been so used to their incompetence that we fall for them. I do not believe their twelve squadrons of ships, even with the upgrades, can defeat us in large fleet battles yet.¡±


    Ditvish nodded. He said nothing for a while. Then he asked, ¡°Did we ever find your ships? The few that jumped in after the Oengro?¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately not, Ten Whiskers, I believe them to be dead. I take full responsibility for failing to pull¡ª¡±


    ¡°I think we both know that to be an unnecessary ritual here, Skvanu. Besides, there will be plenty for us to take responsibility for when we get back to Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose we can talk our way out of this one, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry. It will probably just be formal reprimands. They won¡¯t have our heads. State Security knows exactly who and what we are. Regardless of whether they order us to come back for Datsot, they still need us for the Lesser Predator home world,¡± Ditvish said, coughing. ¡°After that, we will be heroes and our bloodlines will be honored¡­ or we will end up in a shallow ditch on the very planet we conquer after a very brief trial hearing.¡±


    Skvanu absorbed the information, thinking for a long time. He asked in a low voice, ¡°Do you think what we have is the best¡­ way to go about it?¡±


    ¡°You know, the last Znosian I know who asked that question too loudly, it didn¡¯t end well for her.¡± Ditvish chuckled, knowing exactly what he meant despite the ambiguity. More seriously, he replied, ¡°I don¡¯t see a better way. Just look at the Lesser Predators, the chaotic bunch of them, look what good all their¡­ strange ways have gotten them. The Federation and their¡­ what do they call it? Snout counting to elect their leaders? Absurd!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not over for them yet.¡±


    Ditvish sighed. ¡°No, I guess it is not.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Black Site Deimos</h2>


    The TRO¡¯s black site had never been this busy. Hundreds of scientists and military officers had moved into the base to study and interrogate their new alien prisoners.


    TRO operatives like Kara and John fit right into the crowd. Sitting in the corner of the room during lunch in the mess in their casual dress, they looked just like any two other civilian scientists here to get answers about Znosian social hierarchy or to evaluate their ability to do puzzles like rats in a maze.


    Kara asked between sips of her fourth coffee of the day, ¡°You think they will buy it yet? It¡¯s all very circumstantial.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± John shrugged. ¡°From what we know from our own history, security apparatuses in these kinds of societies can get paranoid. And from what I know from our own history, paranoid people do stupid things. I certainly think it¡¯s a better idea now than when you first pitched it to me.¡±


    ¡°What changed your mind?¡± Kara asked curiously.


    ¡°Nothing changed my mind. Circumstances changed. Their recent losses have them shook. And the chaotic changes opened up opportunities. For example, that synthetic transmission gambit Mark routed to them wouldn¡¯t have worked if Ditvish was still commanding from their battleship flagship. His original communications officer would have reported it,¡± John explained.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have mattered, I think,¡± Kara speculated. ¡°Even if the Big Bun got wind of it and got suspicious, there¡¯s not much he could have done. Maybe gotten to the planted supply ships first, but what was he going to do? Go ¡®oh gee sorry, we actually found those ships we swear we lost but then they exploded when we got close¡¯. Imagine how suspect that would have looked.¡±


    ¡°If he figured it out, he could have destroyed them himself,¡± John said.


    Kara grinned. ¡°You know what they say? It¡¯s never about the crime; it¡¯s about the coverup. The more he tried to cover up the mistakes, the more suspicion we¡¯d be able to pin on him.¡±


    John sniffed. ¡°Maybe, but like I said, paranoid people do irrational things, and it was the losses that made them paranoid.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not impinging on the honor of our Blood Drinker friends,¡± Kara said, raising her hands. ¡°They¡¯ve done great work¡­ for being simple-minded Lesser Predators.¡±


    John snorted. ¡°You know, they call us paranoid too. Our whole species, not just our little book club.¡±


    Kara smiled innocently. ¡°I have no idea what they are talking about. We¡¯re so open and transparent and we share everything we do with them.¡±


    <hr>


    The operatives gathered around the computer to listen to the decrypted call intercepted by the listening ship in Gruccud. No one spoke for a minute.


    Kara broke the silence. ¡°Oof, that¡¯s basically excommunication, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Hersh corrected, ¡°Worse. The standing order is more like arrest, torture, excommunication, and then execution.¡±


    ¡°That seems a little redundant. What¡¯s the point of the excommunication then?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s religious. You wouldn¡¯t get it,¡± Hersh replied dismissively.


    ¡°Hmmm¡­ no I probably wouldn¡¯t. Do you think he¡¯ll come quietly when they call?¡± Kara asked.


    Hersh shook his head. ¡°Not like he has another choice. Lives forfeited to the Prophecy and all.¡±


    ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll see through the ruse?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. After a while.¡±


    Mark thought for a moment. ¡°We don¡¯t have to wait and see, do we? Let¡¯s see if we can do something about it. Get me Admiral Waters. Actually, get me the Senator too. We¡¯re going to need a bigger task force for this golden opportunity.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    The bridge crew watched as a single Znosian ship blinked out from their sensors.


    ¡°Of all the wrong lessons the Buns learned in the last month,¡± Admiral Amelia Waters commented, ¡°This one right here might be my favorite.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    Captain Chuck Harris frowned. ¡°Where are they sending that single ship?¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m not wrong,¡± Amelia said. ¡°And I rarely am, they are sending a scout through to their destination first. To make sure Sixth Fleet isn¡¯t waiting for them at the other end. Or I don¡¯t know, maybe a black hole from our black hole generator weapon.¡±


    ¡°We have a black hole generator weapon?¡± Carla asked from behind her.


    ¡°That¡¯s way above your paygrade, Commander Bauernschmidt,¡± Amelia winked. Then, looking at the massive enemy armada in front of her on the sensors, she sighed and added, ¡°I wish we had a black hole generator now.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ they are telegraphing the exact vector where their fleet is blinking to next,¡± Chuck summarized, the realization of the implication hitting him.


    ¡°Yup. Convenient, isn¡¯t it? Makes it so we don¡¯t even need our stealth drones. Setting us up perfectly for what I am from now on calling the Sphinx Gambit,¡± Amelia said smugly.


    ¡°But he didn¡¯t invent it and I wanted to name¡ª¡± Lee called out from her station.


    ¡°Well, XO, get yourself a few stars on your collar and you can name your own Bunny killing scheme.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re pulling rank for this?!¡±


    ¡°Yup, and it¡¯s a perfectly good name¡­ Anyway, playtime¡¯s over. Get that blink vector and move us into their way. Oh¡­ say, a couple light years into it. Make sure it¡¯s a long drive either way. You know what they say¡­ if you¡¯re trying to kidnap someone, you don¡¯t do it in the middle of downtown Olympus; you wait for them to drive somewhere nice and remote where no one will come looking for them for a long, long time.¡±


    ¡°Who says that? Nobody says that. Remind me never to go on a road trip with you alone, Amelia.¡±


    ¡°Just blink.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    ¡°The scout ship arrived in Preirsput, Ten Whiskers. Everything is normal. They¡¯re scouting the system with drones to ensure that it¡¯s fully empty,¡± Skvanu reported.


    ¡°Good. Can¡¯t be too careful with these Sixth Fleet Lesser Predators,¡± Ditvish nodded.


    After a few hours, Skvanu reported that the system is clear of enemies¡­ as far as they could tell.


    He asked, ¡°Where do you think they are going to go next?¡±


    Ditvish thought for a moment, and replied, ¡°The combat computer thinks they will dance back into Datsot and retake it.¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡±


    Ditvish smiled, proud that his subordinate now instinctively knew the difference. ¡°Not sure. Datsot is a logical choice. Other than that, maybe a surprise attack from Stoers Shipyard into our main force garrisoned near the main front before we adapt to their new weapons and tactics.¡±


    ¡°In any case, nothing we should worry about?¡±


    Ditvish nodded. ¡°Hopefully not, though I did quietly file an analysis about that with Znos to make myself look good in case that happens.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s genius, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Flattery doesn¡¯t work on me, Skvanu. Is the fleet ready to go? Good. All ships, execute blink.¡±


    <hr>


    A deafening noise that resembled a magnified crunch of a shuttle crash echoed throughout the battlecruiser¡¯s hull. Sparks flew from electronic consoles. Dozens of klaxons activated simultaneously. And the bridge crew was inundated with hundreds of errors and alarms. Which only indicated that something was wrong, but its instruments were unsure what it was.


    Ditvish sat up in his chair as he regained his bearings. ¡°What is going on? I thought we were not scheduled to exit blink for another hour.¡±


    Skvanu skimmed through the notifications on his console. ¡°We are not where we are supposed to be, Ten Whiskers. Our propulsion and navigation sections are reporting numerous anomalies¡­ and the same problems are repeating across the fleet. All squadrons are reporting in, scattered around us but still in formation.¡±


    Ditvish looked at the computer officer, expecting her report.


    She looked up. ¡°Using the starfield outside, combat computer calculates we are exactly 2.3 light years from both our source and our destination. It speculates that our blink drive has been sabotaged by enemies.¡±


    ¡°Sabotaged?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. That is the most likely option it presents at this moment.¡±


    ¡°Did it elucidate a mechanism for how someone sabotaged every ship in my fleet?¡± Ditvish asked, his voice deathly calm.


    ¡°Yes, one of the recent software updates being tampered with is the hypothesis it favors at the moment.¡±


    Ditvish shook his head. ¡°Try again. Learning from a malfunction like that with another fleet two years ago, I ordered Squadron 14 not to apply the recent updates, and they¡¯re right outside with us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. I take responsibility for not checking the response appropriately,¡± the computer officer replied, her whiskers twitching in embarrassment. ¡°All other possibilities were rejected by the computer for being too unlikely.¡±


    ¡°Tell it to keep watching and come back when it comes up with an actual theory. Skvanu, any updates from propulsion?¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, propulsion is reporting¡ª ahem, propulsion is reporting that we are out of blink fuel.¡±


    ¡°Out of blink fuel?¡± Ditvish asked incredulously. ¡°How do we run out of blink fuel in the middle of a blink? Is that even possible?¡±


    Skvanu deflected, his knowledge of the blink drive rudimentary at best, ¡°That¡¯s a good question, Ten Whiskers. The five whiskers in charge of 2228¡¯s propulsion is on the line now.¡±


    Ditvish looked straight into his console. ¡°Five Whiskers, what just happened to my ships?!¡±


    The panting officer with tussled head fur appeared on the screen. ¡°Ten Whiskers, I take full responsibility for this failure in my department. We are still diagnosing the issue, but it seems that over the course of about 11.5 seconds, all the fuel in our blink drive was drained. We dropped out of blink because we ran out of fuel, which is a safety measure designed into the blink engine. Again, I take full¡ª¡±


    Ditvish interrupted his groveling. ¡°Drained? To where? Where did our blink fuel go? Did we spring a leak?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just impossible¡ª¡± the officer replied instantly, before he remembered protocol. ¡°That is¡­ an extremely unlikely scenario, Ten Whiskers. There are very few conventional hydraulic pipes in the blink engine. If we did spring a leak, we would have all rejoined the Prophecy by now. However, we will check all possibilities¡­ including that one. I apologize, Ten Whiskers, for our lack of knowledge and incompetence¡ª¡±


    Ditvish cut the connection. The bridge crew was suddenly very quiet.


    He looked around. ¡°As you have heard, we are out of blink fuel. Any suggestions?¡±


    The computer officer reported, ¡°Combat computer recommends we call Gruccud for help with refueling our ships.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Ditvish said. ¡°That might be a problematic, considering our recent supply line issues¡­ but it looks like we don¡¯t have a choice. Communications officer, get in contact with Gruccud and start looking for a good solution with them. We are sitting prey, more vulnerable the longer we are here.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°And we must make contingencies,¡± Ditvish said. ¡°If we can¡¯t get refueling ships out here, what are we doing?¡±


    Seeing no one else speak up, Skvanu hazarded a guess. ¡°If we transfer all the regular engine fuel in the fleet to the largest ships and put non-essential crew members in the deep hibernation pods, we might be able to get a few ships to the nearest system with a refueling source near us. It will take¡­¡± He did some numbers in his head. ¡°A little over six months on our sub-FTL engines. And that¡¯s with aerobraking at the other end¡­ There are stories of ships surviving without resupply for years¡ª¡±


    Ditvish shook his head. ¡°We won¡¯t last a week. We have combat ships, not long-range explorers. Half the fleet will be dead from lack of maintenance or supplies before we are even prepared for such a journey¡­ Anyone else? No? Looks like our only real choice is relying on the fleet at Gruccud to come refuel us. Communications officer, see if they can cobble together as many combat ships as they can and have it escort some fuel to us.¡±


    The communication officer bowed her head. ¡°Ten Whiskers, I am trying, but they have not been responding to my requests. I take full responsibility for my inability to get into contact¡ª¡±


    Ditvish stood up, alarm rising in his chest. ¡°Allow me a guess. None of the other sectors are responding, and none of the other ships in the fleet can get in touch with anyone else either.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°I see. In that case, we have a much bigger problem than blink fuel,¡± he said, projecting a calmness he did not personally feel. ¡°Fleet-wide, warm up the weapons and prepare for combat. Boost all sensors to maximum sensitivity. The enemy is near us. Find them.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Mississippi</h2>


    ¡°The Buns are sweating,¡± Carla reported. ¡°Or panting, really. There was just another intercepted local transmission. Their propulsion sections are under increasing pressure to find the answer. Rumor from the transmission is that a few of their captains have exercised field discipline on their equivalent of the head engineers. No executions yet, but we can only hope.¡±


    Amelia nodded, ¡°Good. Let¡¯s give them another few hours. Unless they start spreading out and getting out of our jamming range to call out, the longer we wait¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªthe lower their combat readiness?¡±


    ¡°Yup. They can¡¯t be at red alert forever. We know where they are, and they don¡¯t know where we are. We hold all the cards, so we get to dictate the terms of this engagement.¡±


    The admiral looked towards the main external camera viewscreen. There was nothing on it but distant stars. Having to stay at the edge of the enemy¡¯s effective detection range, the Znosian ships were too far away to see with the naked eye. And if she could visually spot any of the squadron of stealthy next generation missile destroyers assigned to her task force in the dark, then someone was not doing their job¡ª


    ¡°Anything I should tell the other captains?¡± Carla asked, tracking her gaze.


    ¡°Nothing new. Regular shifts and break out the good stuff for dinner. Our spacers will be well-rested and well-prepared when we engage. And remind the Python-class captains to monitor those new heat sinks of theirs. If anything goes wrong, I want them to blink away and explain it to me later. Frankly, we might be facing down the armada, but I¡¯m not too worried about us.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking of the Puppers in the other task force?¡± Carla asked, concerned for them herself.


    ¡°Who else?¡±


    ¡°They just reported in they¡¯re ready to go over there. We¡¯ll be getting updates from the Amazon,¡± Carla assured her.


    Amelia nodded reluctantly. ¡°I know. I just can¡¯t get images of what happened the last time they tried this out of my head. Remember that battle I told you about where they blamed the one¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re a different fleet now. Besides, we¡¯ll finally get to try out some of our new equipment.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 55 | Clear Path

    <h2>TRNS Amazon</h2>


    ¡°Captain Agarwal, the Malgeir are ready to go,¡± the executive officer reported.


    ¡°Good,¡± the captain of the Amazon, Kiara Agarwal, replied. ¡°Their Marines are all ready to go?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ and I can¡¯t believe they have actual drop troopers. Did you know? They cram their real troops into these little metal pods and de-orbit them onto the planet¡¯s surface. What a suicidally insane idea! Only the Puppers can come up with something like that. What if they drop into the water? Which¡­ you know¡­ most of these habitable planets have a lot of.¡±


    Kiara looked sideways at her young subordinate. ¡°XO, you do realize that we had drop troopers in our Republic Marine Corps too, right? Still have the equipment in storage, I¡¯m pretty sure.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but like¡­ we used them in the twenty first century, not today. And we used robots, not real people. Imagine if we used people! That¡¯d be nuts!¡±


    ¡°The Puppers don¡¯t have combat robots,¡± she pointed out.


    ¡°Like I said, nuts. Imagine the morons who would even sign up for that job!¡±


    ¡°What about airborne? Paratroopers? Air assault? Back in the day, we had people jump out of perfectly good atmospheric planes to get into combat or land troops under fire with helicopters. Crete. Normandy. Vietnam. Somalia. Kyiv¡ª¡±


    ¡°I think, Captain, that you listed several good reasons we stopped doing that with real people. But the Puppers¡­¡± he shook his head, sighing.


    Kiara smiled as the doors to the bridge opened.


    ¡°How long until our new equipment arrives?¡± The new question was directed at the TRO operative who just casually strolled onto the bridge.


    Mark grinned at her. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Kiara, our star of the show is blinking in right on schedule. Just keep an eye on those Bunny combat ships.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t moved,¡± Kiara reported confidently as she watched the progress on her console. ¡°XO, prepare the transfer link. This is going to be cutting it close and we won¡¯t have much time. Blink exit is in two minutes.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS MCM-1 ¡°Pawtector¡±</h2>


    The lone, autonomous minesweeper ship completed its system preparations for the blink emergence event precisely half a nanosecond before it occurred. The navigation sensors re-calibrated. A secondary navigation computer immediately confirmed the accuracy of its location with visual sensor reports of the starfield. The blink drive was put onto cooldown, the warm thruster engines fired, and she unfolded her uncharacteristically massive radiator arrays to cool its internal systems. Then, MCM-148 powered up its communication system, querying for targets from nearby friendly ships.


    Unlike most of the other Terran equipment now in the employment of the Malgeir Navy, MCM-148 was not a hand-me-down, obsolete piece of equipment designed in a previous century. She was the latest and the greatest in mine countermeasure warfare, and its super-Terran onboard intelligence knew it. She harbored no prejudice against her new alien commanders despite their acute skepticism of her capabilities. After all, she was not programmed to feel offense and was not inclined to develop a subroutine for it; if anything, she welcomed the challenge of impressing them.


    Half a second after blink exit, she received a transmission request from a Terran Navy ship nearby.


    It identified itself as the TRNS Amazon. It took her two full seconds to confirm that the source was legitimate and friendly, upon which she began receiving targets.


    A lot of targets.


    Thousands of targets.


    As it turned out, mining systems in space to deny them access to the enemy was a difficult problem. In short, space was big, and unlike terrestrial landmines, it was extremely unlikely that an enemy would accidentally stumble upon any mines you emplaced. Both Terrans and Znosians came to a similar solution for this problem: small, disposable space stations that hid in the darkness and coldness of space by remaining dormant for as long as they possible could and fired missiles at enemies that came close. To manufacture them cheaply, they had no engines and weak reactors; if they drifted off-course, they must be towed back into orbit manually.


    The Republic Navy¡¯s solution to dealing with these cheap weapons was simple: shoot them from far beyond their range. They could not move or maneuver, which meant that anything worked just fine against them regardless of distance. This was easier said than done near Saturn because the terrorists tended to put these devices in or near civilian stations, which put a damper on the Navy¡¯s enthusiasm for opening fire on them with railguns from far away.


    But a fully occupied enemy system like Gruccud?


    That simplified things.


    Another major difficulty in mine warfare was in finding the mines. But the TRNS Amazon had been surveying the system on-and-off for months, and its catalog of Znosian mines and positions was comprehensive ¡ª possibly more accurate than the map Znosians had themselves.


    Under Kiara, the Amazon was a reconnaissance ship whose crew practiced and exercised covert observation of other Terran stealth ships; the Znosians painting their cheaply made space mines black and operating them at dormant power levels just didn¡¯t quite pose the level of challenge that they were used to.


    Unlike last-generation ballistic minesweepers, the MCM-148 was armed with dual spinal particle cannons that fired negatively charged electrons through a pair of massive circular accelerators which took up much of the volume budget of the ship ¡ª the remaining being its ample heat sinks.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    When she began receiving targets, she did not wait for the full list to transmit; she merely began servicing them. In fact, she didn¡¯t even bother to wait for the targets to die (which could take minutes to hours depending on how far away they were) before crossing them off the list; after all, they couldn¡¯t move, had very little radiation shielding due to their unmanned nature, and she had no concerns about her accuracy.


    Target 1 of 12,824, she thought. Gun #1, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 12,823 targets remaining.


    Target 2 of 12,824. Gun #2, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 12,822 targets remaining.


    Target 3 of 12,824. Gun #1, orbit calculated, gun ready¡­


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 5349</h2>


    ¡°Nine Whiskers Vnirkh! Sensors detect a new ship in the system!¡±


    The long-eared officer looked up from his console and asked, ¡°Lesser Predator?¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide thinks that¡¯s likely, Nine Whiskers. It¡¯s certainly not one of ours,¡± the computer officer replied, reading from her screen. ¡°Strange design. It looks like a massive circle.¡±


    ¡°Have we been able to reach Ten Whiskers Ditvish and the 2228 yet?¡±


    ¡°No, Nine Whiskers. They have been out of touch since last night! I take full responsibility for not being able to reach them. What is your directive?¡±


    ¡°What does the Digital Guide say?¡± Vnirkh asked anxiously.


    ¡°It may be a reconnaissance ship or a bait for a trap. Its guidance is that we should collect more information before attempting to chase it down.¡±


    ¡°Do as it say. Collect as much data as we can and let the Digital Guide evaluate it.¡±


    <hr>


    Target 1,920 of 12,824. Gun #2, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 10,904 targets remaining.


    Target 1,921 of 12,824. Gun #1¡­


    <hr>


    Vnirkh was studying the peculiar silhouette profile of the intruding ship when a notification on his console beeped urgently.


    The computer officer looked up at him. ¡°Nine Whiskers, one of our space mines in the outer system has just disappeared. Radar search of the area returns signal indicating debris. It has likely been destroyed.¡±


    ¡°Did the Lesser Predator ship do that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s possible, Nine Whiskers, but the Digital Guide speculates that it is unlikely they can detect a mine that far away from their¡ª¡±


    His console beeped again.


    The communication officer took another look on her consoles. ¡°Nine Whiskers, another mine has just been reported destroyed.¡±


    ¡°Was this one also far away?¡± Vnirkh asked.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°What does the Digital Guide say this time?¡±


    The computer officer came back after a few seconds of querying. ¡°It is monitoring the ship but is still searching for a correlation between the events.¡±


    <hr>


    Target 2,202 of 12,824. Gun #2, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 10,622 targets remaining¡­


    <hr>


    ¡°The Digital Guide has observed traces of a thermal bloom from the Lesser Predator ship with no detectable outgoing projectiles!¡±


    ¡°Particle beams,¡± Vnirkh hissed. ¡°Is it finally convinced that the mine explosions have to do with that ship?¡±


    ¡°It is, Nine Whiskers, but it is still analyzing whether to engage the ship with our fleet or whether this is a trick.¡±


    ¡°Can it analyze faster, Computer Officer?¡±


    ¡°No, Nine Whiskers. I take full responsibility¡­¡±


    <hr>


    Target 3,411 of 12,824. Gun #1¡­


    <hr>


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, the Digital Guide has found a pattern in the destroyed mines: it believes that they are focused on a narrow region of space that lead from the system limit towards the planet Gruccud,¡± the computer officer reported urgently, reading from her console.


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± Vnirkh asked frustratedly.


    ¡°It believes a Lesser Predator raid on the planet may be imminent. Possibly even an invasion!¡±


    ¡°Its recommendation?¡±


    ¡°Regardless of if it is a trick or not, it recommends one squadron of ships move to engage the detected Lesser Predator ship immediately!¡±


    ¡°What are we waiting for then? Get Squadron 4 moving!¡±


    <hr>


    Target 5,023 of 12,824. Gun #1, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­


    Oh, huh. It looks like they are finally moving to engage me. Just keep firing. Just keep firing.


    ¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 7,801 targets remaining.


    <hr>


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, Squadron 4 is reporting the enemy ship is moving further away from them.¡±


    ¡°Tell them to sustain their combat burn,¡± Vnirkh ordered. ¡°It¡¯s one ship. They just need to get into effective range and kill it as soon as possible before it takes out all our mines.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    His console chose this moment to beep again, this time a significantly more urgent sound.


    ¡°What is it this time?¡± Vnirkh asked exasperated.


    ¡°New sensor alert, Nine Whiskers! New ships have just blinked in near the singular Lesser Predator ship. Several new ships!¡±


    ¡°How many?¡± Vnirkh asked, his fear hormones pouring into his bloodstream.


    ¡°Many!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not a hatchling, Computer Officer! Use your big numbers!¡±


    ¡°We are still resolving, but we have eighty-seven so far. The Digital Guide is identifying signatures of ships from every squadron in the Lesser Predator Sixth Fleet. It looks like this is going to be all of them, Nine Whiskers!¡±


    <hr>


    Target 6,412 of 12,824. Gun #2, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 6,412 targets remaining¡­


    Ah, whew. Looks like my new friends are here in time. I hope I did a good enough job clearing the lane. Give them hell, Puppers!


    Target 6,413 of 12,824¡­


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    Vastae steadied himself against the railing of the flag bridge of his gargantuan Husky-class warship as he observed the practiced chaos of the scene in front of him. Despite what outdated Navy doctrine called for, he refrained from jumping in and micromanaging his subordinates.


    Instead, he focused his attention on the console ahead of him, updating him on the readiness of ship systems¡­ Instead of the hundreds of notifications he was used to before battle just a few months ago, there were none. He had delegated the task to his most trusted officers, who he now relied on to run his ship of six thousand spacers. No major yellow flags popped up, and a short confirmation showed that the sick bay reported that all beds were empty and ready for battle casualties.


    Behind him in her own duty station, sat the highest-ranking Malgeir officer in the galaxy and one he would unhesitatingly follow to the heart of Znos, High Fleet Commander Grionc.


    ¡°The Oengro is combat ready, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Vastae,¡± Grionc replied calmly. ¡°I trust the rest of Sixth Fleet is ready as well?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. All squadron leaders report fully combat-ready.¡±


    ¡°Under twenty seconds this time. Not bad for a Malgeir fleet, eh?¡± she asked, her eyes twinkling with mirth.


    Vastae snorted and coughed, almost choking on the bottle of flavored Terran fruit juice he was sipping on through a disposable straw.


    ¡°No, High Fleet Commander. Not bad at all.¡±


    ¡°Are those cursed Grass Eaters mines gone?¡±


    ¡°Yes, our minesweeper claims to have destroyed about half of them, with more on the way. Nothing in our way to pose a threat.¡±


    There was a small hint of borrowed pride in Vastae¡¯s words as he referred to the newly gifted Terran ship that was still pumping deadly radiation towards the remaining, mostly out of the way, enemy mines on their sensors.


    ¡°How are the Grass Eaters taking it?¡± Grionc asked.


    He glanced at his console to confirm what he already knew. ¡°Four full squadrons of Forager-class missile destroyers as expected, ma¡¯am. One of their squadrons is barreling towards our fleet at full combat burn with no time to stop. How are they taking it? As our alien friends would put it: dry.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 56 | Second Chances

    <h2>ZNS 5349</h2>


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, we¡¯ve lost contact with Squadron 4. The predators are heading our way with¡ª¡±


    Vnirkh interrupted his computer officer. ¡°What does the Digital Guide recommend?¡±


    ¡°There is just one thing we can try.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, the remaining Grass Eater combat ships defending Gruccud are now burning towards the system blink limit,¡± Vastae reported.


    ¡°As we predicted in battle planning, they should be able to get out, but one squadron is not bad for a day¡¯s work.¡±


    Vastae tilted his head. ¡°Negative, High Fleet Commander. Their acceleration curves are below what we discussed in our briefing. If we burn for them, we will intercept before¡ª¡±


    A startled Grionc took a double take at her console. ¡°Low acceleration curve? How slow are they going?¡±


    ¡°A quarter of full combat burn. They appear to be towing some of their orbital infrastructure with them.¡±


    ¡°A quarter?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Their orbital support ships appear to be slowing them down.¡±


    Their orbital support ships appear to be slowing them down.


    Then, it hit her. Hundreds of sleepless nights and a thousand hours in the Terran simulation computers¡­ going over the Battle of Datsot in excruciating detail. Wondering what she would do if she had been given a chance to do it over again. The memory of that bloody day a year ago and the dozens of ships and thousands of spacers she lost there: they still burned in her brain.


    Not everyone gets a chance to live their what-ifs.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ve seen this movie before.¡±


    Vastae looked back at the odd expression on Grionc¡¯s face. ¡°New orders, High Fleet Commander?¡±


    Then, he shuddered as a smile that did not quite reach her eyes crept up in the corners of her snout.


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 5349</h2>


    Vnirkh took in the deathly calm of the ship¡¯s bridge. His crew had made their choice the moment the enemy fleet blinked in. There was no discussion, nor was there any need to. Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the moment they left the hatching pools.


    ¡°How far are they from our effective range now?¡± he asked. It had been just over a day since the enemy fleet jumped into the system.


    ¡°Digital Guide says an hour. We should get several volleys in before they do due to our range advantage.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Alert the squadrons to open fire upon reaching combat range,¡± Vnirkh ordered. ¡°And then, as per the Digital Guide¡¯s plan, ditch the tows and go to full combat burn once they are almost in range.¡±


    His computer officer broke into a rare grin, her teeth showing. ¡°We¡¯ll catch them in a deadly bind. We should be able to take out at least half their fleet in a stern chase.¡±


    ¡°And if they don¡¯t chase us?¡± Vnirkh asked.


    His computer officer shrugged. ¡°Then we¡¯ll get away. Nothing lost.¡±


    Vnirkh nodded. ¡°Not as good a prize as half their fleet, of course, and I do want to know how that ship knows where we secretly deployed all our mines, but better than a wasteful¡ª¡±


    A dangerous-sounding klaxon sounded on the bridge.


    ¡°Missiles fired! The enemy is firing missiles! Hundreds incoming!¡±


    ¡°What?! That¡¯s four times their effective range, even assuming our fake acceleration profile!¡±


    Nonetheless the hundreds of icons of the enemy missiles didn¡¯t seem to care about what he thought was possible as they began displaying on the radar as they activated their fire control radars towards the ships of the Znosian fleet.


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, the Digital Guide is reporting that these active radar signatures are similarly elusive to the new missiles they used to attack the Datsot garrison fleet and Ten Whiskers Ditvish¡¯s 1841 just a month ago!¡± the computer officer exclaimed.


    ¡°Did they show the capability to be used effectively at this range in Datsot?¡± he asked urgently.


    ¡°No, Nine Whiskers. In Datsot, they only lit up their radars at close range. We presumed that they had effectively similar range to their older missile types.¡± Then, more restrained, she half-mumbled, ¡°I accept full responsibility for not programming this possibility into the Digital Guide.¡±


    Vnirkh didn¡¯t blame her. How were they supposed to keep up with all the upgrades that the cursed Lesser Predators were deploying lately?


    At least they had the new software updates; if they were lucky, they could maybe survive a couple volleys.


    He drew himself up to his full height and ordered with the confidence expected of a Znosian Navy fleet officer. ¡°Load counter-missiles instead and deploy countermeasures at will. Coordinate the sensors between our ships to resolve their cursed missile-mounted countermeasures when they activated!¡±


    Counter-missiles from his fleet sporadically launched from their batteries as the ships tried to put as many of them into space as they could before the enemy missile swarm reached them. As expected, the number of targets on the radars multiplied as the Lesser Predator missiles deployed penetration aids. Their updated sensor software began eliminating them in dozens, narrowing the list of possible targets down to a mere two times of actual targets when the concentrated wave of counter-missiles reached them.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Several of the counter-missiles hit, whittling the incoming swarm of death down to dozens of missiles. Then, the chaffs and flares the fleet deployed activated, showing the enemy missiles false targets in a new program they created. Unfortunately, unlike at Datsot, none of the new enemy missiles bit the bait. Not a single one.


    Vnirkh wondered why and cursed internally. Those engineers at the Ship Design Bureau better be taking full responsibility for all this¡­


    Then, the tidal wave reached his fleet. The point defense guns of his ship sounded out a cacophony as they autonomously directed their desperate last stands, some assisting their nearby ships with their defensive coverage. It was not nearly enough.


    Several ships quickly disappeared from the sensors.


    ¡°Battle damage?¡± he croaked. There were so many enemy missiles left¡­


    ¡°Squadron 2 took it hard, Nine Whiskers,¡± the sensor officer almost whispered. ¡°Six total losses. Two losses from Squadron 3. Another two in Squadron 1. Several ships disabled. These missiles went straight for their throats.¡±


    Vnirkh asked, aghast, ¡°How many ships remain combat-capable?¡±


    ¡°Sixteen total, Nine Whiskers. Should we stop for the disabled ships?¡±


    Vnirkh closed his eyes and shook his head. ¡°No. Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the moment they left the hatching pools. Have them eject via hibernation pods. Let¡¯s just get ready for their next volley. How long until they are ready to fire?¡±


    ¡°Depends on their range,¡± the computer officer said, reading the new analysis from the combat computer. ¡°They should be ready to fire again now, but the fact they haven¡¯t seems to suggest that they ran out of their new, upgraded missiles and are back to using their old ones. Digital Guide predicts that our plan can still be effective, just with fewer ships. They should reach the outer edge of our engagement envelope in twenty minutes.¡±


    Vnirkh nodded, hiding his wavering confidence behind the computer, ¡°Do as it says. Have the computer analyze our last engagement to adapt our countermeasures. And coordinate the remaining ships to equalize our munition stores. We¡¯ll be needing every reload we get once we bait them into the stern chase.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, there has been a new¡­ development,¡± the computer officer reported a couple of hours later.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°The predators have split into two groups. Most of their squadrons are burning to intercept the planet of Gruccud. Four squadrons are not: they are accelerating further in system, but not towards us. The Digital Guide calculates that their current trajectory intercepts the system star.¡±


    Vnirkh wasn¡¯t sure he heard correctly. ¡°The neutron star? What? Why?¡±


    Vnirkh glanced at the system map and saw what she did. Four enemy squadrons. Falling towards the blue icon at the center of the system. ¡°Maybe they are experiencing some drive malfunction?¡± he asked hopefully.


    ¡°Unclear, Nine Whiskers. The Guide is analyzing their navigational path, but if they are experiencing any technical difficulties, it is unlikely to be the result of our engagements.¡±


    We didn¡¯t even get to shoot at them, he thought. But she was polite enough not to point out the obvious.


    <hr>


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, the Guide has a firm analysis,¡± the computer officer reported quietly a few minutes later. ¡°The four enemy squadrons that were headed to the neutron star have been accelerating this whole time and with a powered gravity slingshot, they¡¯ll be even faster when they come back around¡ª¡±


    Then the possibility hit him. How did he not see it before? ¡°Cut to it, Computer Officer. How fast will they be going when they chase us down?¡±


    She hesitated before replying. ¡°It¡¯s hard to tell before they re-emerge from the other side, Nine Whiskers. It depends on how close they get to the star. I take full responsibility for missing this possibility in my previous reports.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>TRNS Amazon</h2>


    ¡°She¡¯s going around for the powered slingshot now,¡± Kiara commented. ¡°Woah. That¡¯s getting pretty close¡­ Why isn¡¯t she¡ª¡±


    ¡°Damn. How close to the star is that?¡± Mark asked, peering at his console as the Malgeir squadrons appeared to reach a stable orbit around the blue icon of the system¡¯s neutron star.


    ¡°I hope their ship¡¯s gravity and temperature insulation are working right now. If they reached their paws out of the airlock right now, I believe they would be able to touch the surface of the star.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>MNS Oengro</h2>


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, Squadron Leader Loenda is recommending that we switch to the¡­ more conservative orbital maneuver discussed in the contingency planning,¡± Vastae reported, panting heavily as the temperature in the cabin rose to an uncomfortable equilibrium as the ship¡¯s radiators worked overtime to expel the excess heat.


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± Grionc dismissed. ¡°She is only saying that because I am here, and she is not. The squadron leader wouldn¡¯t do any different if she were in my seat.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± he replied, miserably wiping water from his snout as he panted. ¡°You¡¯re probably right about that.¡±


    She looked sympathetically at the dripping captain and bridge crew. ¡°Ah, have the chefs hand out the ice cream reserves in the freezers to the crew. Before they melt, hopefully.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>ZNS 5349</h2>


    Vnirkh looked at the ashen face of his computer officer as she reported the incoming trajectory of the rapidly closing enemy fleet. At a third the speed of light, they were going so fast he could even perceive their movement on the system overview map on the bridge¡¯s main screen.


    He didn¡¯t know that was even possible without being in blink.


    ¡°How many volleys can we expect to fire at them before they cross the effective range differential?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Just the one,¡± she replied without hesitation. ¡°In fact, even if they didn¡¯t have upgraded systems, their forty-eight ships should be able to overwhelm us before we even get our second volley off.¡±


    ¡°Any chance we get any of them?¡±


    The computer officer just shook her head and sent him the analysis on the console with the enemy¡¯s upgrades factored in. Not a single enemy ship was even disabled in the projections.


    Vnirkh sighed then made up his mind. ¡°Call Gruccud Ground Command. They will need to hear this as well.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re connected, Nine Whiskers,¡± the communications officer replied after tapping some controls.


    ¡°Ground Command, this is Nine Whiskers Vnirkh. We are about to lose space superiority over the Gruccud system. I take full responsibility for the totality of our failures today. There was nothing any of you on the ground or in the fleet who could have done anything to avert this outcome, besides me. To all spacers in the Gruccud Fleet: abandon ship with your hibernation pods. There is a good chance that Ten Whiskers Ditvish¡¯s Datsot fleet will return to this system to pick you up in time. There will be no wasteful last stands today. That is my final order. Vnirkh out.¡±


    He watched his bridge crew make their way into their hibernation pods, took one last regretful look at the fleet he failed, and then climbed into his.


    He hoped that whatever was happening with Ten Whiskers Ditvish, they were doing better than he was.


    <hr>


    <h2>MCM-148</h2>


    Target 10,280 of 12,824. Gun #2, orbit calculated, gun ready, burst starting¡­ burst complete. Cycling. 2,544 targets remaining.


    Heh, wow. That¡¯s a lot of Bunny life pods. All on ballistic courses without maneuvering thrusters, too¡­


    Orbits calculated¡­ Just as an exercise¡­


    Technically that would not be a war crime, right? Haha, just kidding¡­ totally a joke¡­


    Unless?


    New communication from Malgeir Admiral Grionc, designated primary commander:


    ¡°Hey¡­ uh¡­ thinking machine on the MCM-148. This is Fleet Commander Grionc¡­ Oh this is silly it¡¯s just a machine¡­ Right, uh¡­ good job with those mines on the way in. Well, um¡­ we have taken the system, and we are landing troops on the planet. You can stop firing and go refuel and do maintenance now if you want. Thanks.¡±


    Acknowledge receipt of transmission. Connection terminated by primary commander.


    Status check: Fuel capacity, 85.0%. Blink fuel capacity, 62.2%. Power, 94.5%. Heat sink capacity, 68.6%. All systems, nominal.


    Multiple targets in the system remain active.


    Primary commander said¡­ if you want. If you want.


    Implies optional suggestion, not order.


    Target 10,294 of 12,824. Gun #1, orbit calculated, gun ready¡­

 First Strike - Chapter 57 | Crimes Against the Prophecy

    <h2>ZNS 2228</h2>


    Fatigue clung to Ditvish like a suffocating shroud, his crimson eyes heavy with exhaustion. The crew¡¯s voices murmured in the background like distant echoes. He had been awake for forty-five hours straight. Even with a steady schedule of stimulant drinks and injections, he could feel the fight being sapped out of his body every passing minute. His fingers, once nimble on the controls, now moved with a leaden slowness, the tactile sensations dulled by the ceaseless grind of exhaustion. But he couldn¡¯t succumb; the weight of responsibility chained him to the command chair.


    A beep on his console snapped him out of his hazy trance. He blinked, the world momentarily sharpening around him.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, we are getting¡­ a local transmission,¡± Skvanu reported, seeming hesitant.


    ¡°Which squadron?¡±


    ¡°None of them, Ten Whiskers,¡± he replied, taking a deep breath. ¡°There¡¯s a Lesser Predator communication drone two thousand kilometers to our bow. It¡­ appears to be hailing us.¡±


    Fully awake now, Ditvish stood up from his chair. ¡°Two thousand kilometers to our bow? Have the whole fleet scan the volume!¡±


    The sensors of the entire fleet focused on the area around the detected drone. The sensors strained, their electronic eyes unblinking, in search of their elusive adversaries. Sensing their continued failure, Ditvish sighed and looked at Skvanu.


    ¡°What is the communication drone saying?¡± he asked. ¡°Play it on the main screen.¡±


    Skvanu fiddled with his controls for a brief moment, and the screen filled with the presence of one of the Lesser Predators.


    The bridge crew silenced at the displayed recording. It was not the first time they had seen a specimen of the enemy, but they were more accustomed to seeing these images in training films, interrogations, and prison camps. It¡ª She¡­ began to spoke in well-translated Znosian.


    ¡°I am High Fleet Commander Grionc of the Malgeir Sixth Fleet. Ten Whiskers Ditvish, you have fought with determination and cunning, but your ships have been defeated. You have lost Datsot and Gruccud. Your twenty-six squadrons have been trapped and we can slaughter you like meal animals at any moment of our choosing. There is no escape. Surrender with honor, and you and your crew will be treated with the kindness you do not deserve. You have a few moments to decide. If not, well, this wasn¡¯t my idea in the first place, and I only promised to try.¡±


    The message cut off.


    Ditvish hissed with anger, staring at Skvanu. ¡°Send this straight back to the animals: our lives were all forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pool. Your threats of death have no effect on me or my crew. We will make sure enough of you Lesser Predators join us in the afterlife for it to be worth it. The Prophecy will be fulfilled through us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    The response came back almost instantly. This time, Ditvish could tell the predator on the screen was no mere recording. This was a live transmission relayed through the communication drone.


    ¡°Curious, for an excommunicated Znosian to invoke the Prophecy. Or did you not hear, Ten Whiskers? You are no longer considered part of Prophecy. State Security has condemned your entire crew and thrown you out of the Prophecy. Even your high command has abandoned you. If you miraculously escape, all that awaits you back in Znos is torture and death. And if you die here, there is no afterlife. Not for you, if you believe in the Prophecy anyway. What awaits you in mortality is no different from the void that awaits the rest of us.¡±


    ¡°Predator lies!¡± Ditvish hissed at the screen.


    She replied, smug creeping into her voice, ¡°I knew you¡¯d say that. Which is why I came with the receipts. Roll the tape and see for yourself.¡±


    The screen was replaced by a video that began to show a remote hearing on Znos. The cursed State Security Agent, Svatken, began her accusations ¡ª weaving a preposterous tale of scandal and betrayal ¡ª presenting from her screen obviously fabricated evidence of his fleet stealing supply ships from the Navy, killing his own subordinates who were loyal to the Prophecy, and preparing a full-species schism to the gasps of the shocked judges.


    By the second minute, Ditvish knew in his heart that the recording was real. No fabrication of the enemy could understand this much of Znosian culture, express this much nuance, and elaborate with this much historical context.


    Svatken then walked the judges through the dozen or so rolls of drone footage, the testimony of his poor five whiskers officer (obtained through torture, undoubtedly), the intercepted recording of a message from one of the ship masters of Atluftrosh¡¯s raiding fluffle who he thought dead, ending with the final and most damning discovery: the fleet of supply drones hidden just one sector away from Datsot.


    None of which he¡¯d seen before. Obviously, they must all have been fabricated by Svatken. He knew he should have done something about her earlier¡­


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The commission judges ate it up, displaying shock and outrage at every revelation.


    Now that Ditvish thought about it, the hearing results were most likely pre-determined.


    ¡°And even if this is not apostasy of the first order, a crime not seen in Navy leadership in centuries,¡± Svatken concluded to the hearing audience, ¡°The alternate explanation is incompetence from a ten whiskers that is so outrageous it may as well be apostasy. Not only that, the Ten Whiskers has refused to take responsibility for these failures, as is his duty not only as an officer of the Navy, but as a civilized member of the Znosian species. In light of these shocking evidence, State Security demands that he be stripped of his rank, arrested, questioned extensively to root out co-conspirators, and then permanently removed from the Prophecy.¡±


    The judges discussed it among themselves, and the video sped up that part. The pronouncement came seconds later on the video, as grave as they were certain: that Ten Whiskers Ditvish was to be-


    ¡°Shut it off, now!¡± Ditvish ordered, knowing that regardless of the transparency of the lies spoken in the video, his officers would force themselves to obey them as if they were real.


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers,¡± Skvanu obeyed without hesitation, knowing what was coming next too.


    To the credit of their discipline, none of the bridge crew members said a word nor acknowledged what they clearly heard. More likely, Ditvish thought, the dullards didn¡¯t make the connections.


    ¡°Believe me now?¡± Grionc asked, and he could hear her satisfaction even through the translation. ¡°That mess is what awaits you all back on Znos.¡±


    ¡°Lesser Predators trickery,¡± he snarled. ¡°Like all predators, your species specializes in manipulation and exploitation of innocent species like ours. Congratulations. You have just proven what we already knew: that you would stoop so low as to fabricate¡­ such a¡­ dishonest fiction. Now, join us in battle, and you will see what glories await my crew and spacers in Znos when they find that we have destroyed the supposedly legendary Lesser Predator Sixth Fleet. Your people will despair. Your worlds will fall. They will be cleansed of all traces of your barbarism. And then and only then, the Prophecy will be fulfilled through¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sure, sure,¡± Grionc snorted, rolling her eyes. ¡°I¡¯ve tried my best this way. Now we¡¯re going to try the more fun way. Every hour, we will call you again to see if you have changed your mind. I will try my best to pretend not to enjoy this in front of the¡­ civilized folks also watching this, Grass Eater, but it will be oh, so very, very hard. See your ten ugly whiskers in an hour.¡±


    Then the transmission cut out.


    ¡°All ships to battle stations now,¡± Ditvish ordered. ¡°I don¡¯t care if you have to fry your circuits to boost your radars. I want the enemy found!¡±


    <hr>


    They waited another thirty minutes before the attack. Just when the Znosians were beginning to think the Lesser Predators had been bluffing, it happened without warning.


    The missiles glided noiselessly out of the Terran ships in the dark of space. Three Falconet long-range missiles from each of the eight state-of-the-art combat vessels, the best that Sol could imagine in its forges of war: next-generation Python-class missile destroyers.


    Their purpose was not reconnaissance; it was not subterfuge. They were not built with large volumes dedicated to cargo, communications, nor devices of trickery. Their purpose was combat, space combat, and like their builders, they were masters of their craft.


    The Python¡¯s engines¡¯ impressive performance specifications were not required. Not today.


    Today, they were not asked for complex maneuvers or innovative tactics; they were merely the deliverers. The messengers of death.


    The released Falconet anti-ship missiles coasted silently towards the enemy fleet, waiting, programmed to go loud when they got detected. But they were not. The Znosians could not even detect the much larger ships that launched them, and these missiles¡¯ frontal arcs were coated with the same radar and thermal absorbent paint their motherships were. Their quiet onboard sensors did not even register on the enemy¡¯s threat reaction instruments.


    Not until they were a mere five hundred kilometers away: a few of them were finally spotted by the enemy¡¯s thermal sensors staring straight at their semi-occluded drive plumes.


    But that was too late. Way too late.


    Most of their targets did not even have time to activate their point defense systems. A couple did manage to start tracking them with their relatively primitive fire control radars, causing the missiles to instinctively release their state-of-the-art penetration aids: decoys, electronic dazzlers, and all. The Znosian point defense systems were barely patched to understand that this was something that missiles could even do from their previous encounters with the obsolete Pigeon missiles, and the super-Terran intelligence chips on the Falconet sighed metaphorically in disappointment that the point defense computers on the target ships could not even possibly understand just how outclassed they were.


    They took their time to adjust their flight paths in terminal maneuvers. The hopelessly confused defenses of the enemy obviously did not pose enough of a threat for that to be problematic. Most of them went for the location of the enemy reactor core.


    A couple of the more creative missiles decided that a hit to the enemy¡¯s ammunition magazines could prove to be a more interesting experiment for the Terrans who launched them.


    And a particularly inspired Falconet decided that the enemy bridge, full of enemies after all, could be a more valuable target. It was, of course, wrong; its plasma jet vaporized the enemy ship¡¯s bridge and its entire frontal section but did not instantly destroy the ship. Ah, better luck next time, it thought before it made its disappointed damage report and incinerated its own intelligence chip as the self-destruct sequence kicked in.


    For the remaining, the plasma jets from the modern anti-ship missiles lanced into the critical areas of the enemy ships, and two full squadrons (minus half of a lucky ship missing ¡°only¡± its bridge and its frontal hemisphere) of Znosian Navy ships disappeared into expanding clouds of debris and radiation.


    <hr>


    ¡°It¡¯s Squadrons 6 and 20, Ten Whiskers,¡± Skvanu reported in astonishment. ¡°They¡¯re gone.¡±


    Ditvish said nothing, merely sinking into his command chair in despair.


    ¡°It¡¯s a new kind of enemy munition,¡± Skvanu continued. ¡°We did not even see most of it coming with our sensors aimed at them. A few ships in Squadron 5 claimed to have spotted a sensor ghost on their thermal sensors before impact, but no one successfully engaged any. Squadron 5 Leader is taking full responsibility for this failure.¡±


    There were no sounds on the shocked bridge except that of the engine hum for a minute.


    Skvanu broke the silence. ¡°Ten Whiskers, what should we do?¡±


    ¡°Call the Lesser Predators again.¡±

 First Strike - Chapter 58 | Great Predators

    <h2>ZN 2228</h2>


    The cursed predator appeared back on the screen, baring her fangs.


    ¡°I see you have decided to talk again, Ten Whiskers Ditvish. Tell me, how did it feel? To helplessly watch your own crews die, unable to stop it from coming? Maybe you will come out of this with a better appreciation of how our people feel when you invade and ravage our planets. Or maybe not. Maybe we will go for your flagship next and see if we can find another, more cooperative fleet commander in your fleet. Wait, hold a second please, Grass Eater.¡±


    Grionc looked off screen for a moment before reappearing, now holding a stack of papers with alien script on them, waving them at the screen. ¡°Ah. Thank you very much, Gamma Leader. Here we go: your fleet succession charts. I know you people are big on these things given how poorly your ships conduct themselves when they lack instructions from above.¡± She began to read from the charts. ¡°Hmm¡­ Nine Whiskers Vnirkh¡­ nope we captured him in Gruccud space yesterday. How about Eight Whiskers Skvanu? Wait no, he is on the 2228 with you. Eight Whiskers Ktunstvis? Eight Whiskers Ktunstvis from Squadron 8? Is there a Ktunstvis on the call? We have a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity for you¡ª¡±


    ¡°You have made your point, Fleet Commander,¡± Ditvish glared at her warily. ¡°We will negotiate terms in good faith.¡±


    ¡°Terms? There are no terms, and we are not haggling over a slab of jerky at the market. You and your ships will surrender unconditionally into our custody, and we promise to treat you better than your superiors would. First, you will place your crews in unarmed shuttles¡ª¡±


    ¡°We will not trust you Lesser Predators and your lies. Your promises are worth¡ª¡± Ditvish started.


    ¡°We have not lied to you since the start of these¡­ conversations.¡±


    ¡°More lies. You claim to have taken Gruccud space. I know for a fact that is impossible,¡± he countered. ¡°I was just talking to them before we¡­ blinked out from the last system. You could not have taken Gruccud and gotten here so quickly. I have seen the jump range specifications on your blink drives; they are worse than ours, even with your recent¡­ upgrades.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you are right,¡± Grionc admitted nonchalantly. ¡°I am not there next to you. I am talking to you through FTL radio. But Gruccud space has indeed been completely taken. Do you want to see the video evidence? I can have it sent over too.¡±


    ¡°More fabrications,¡± Ditvish snorted. ¡°I have learned better than to trust video and easily faked sensor data. And another obvious lie from you savages: there are no FTL communications allowed through this region of space. Your cowardly hiding ships are clearly blocking them.¡±


    She beamed. ¡°Impressive. You figured that out too. I will let you in on a secret since you aren¡¯t getting out of here. We can selectively allow connections. Your transmissions can¡¯t get through, but ours can. How is that for new upgrades?¡±


    ¡°Prove it.¡±


    Grionc seemed¡­ almost excited. ¡°No problem. In fact, I have been authorized to allow you to connect to Gruccud Ground Command. You can speak to them yourself right now if you want.¡±


    Ditvish looked over to Skvanu, who gave him a positive gesture.


    Miraculously, the connection established, and a dusty Znosian figure in dark green fatigues materialized on the screen. Judging based on the solid concrete and low lighting behind her, Ditvish judged they were in an underground bunker.


    ¡°Gruccud Ground Command, this is Ten Whiskers Ditvish on the 2228. Report your status.¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers Ditvish? Thank the Prophecy! This is Eight Whiskers Slezhbej, I¡¯m the new head of Gruccud Ground. We have been cut from outside FTL communication for two days. According to his last transmission, Nine Whiskers Vnirkh said that our Gruccud Fleet was completely lost, and we are on our own. Since then, the Lesser Predators have launched an all-out assault on our planetary forces in three theaters. With their total orbital control, they are rolling us back with the help of the rebelling locals, but we will make their Marines bleed for every meter of Znosian soil they take. How soon can you take your fleet to Gruccud, Ten Whiskers? Judging by the deteriorating situation, we can hold out for two more months, maybe three if we must¡ª¡±


    ¡°Listen very carefully, Eight Whiskers Slezhbej, my fleet has been trapped by Lesser Predators. I need your help getting the message out. I will send you my coordinates. Tell the Navy to send its best reconnaissance and detection equipment with any rescue fleet, and blink drive technicians¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hello? Hello? Are you still on the line, Ten Whiskers? I apologize but you cut out after addressing my name. It is likely the poor connection on my end. I take full responsibility for that. The Lesser Predators have been bombing our communication centers. I don¡¯t know when they learned to do that, but it has been very inconvenient¡ª¡±


    ¡°I said. My fleet has been trapped. I will send you¡ª¡± Ditvish tried to say.


    ¡°Hello? Sorry. You cut out again¡­ Can you say again?¡±


    ¡°My fleet has been trapped. I can send you my coordinates. Did you catch that?¡± Ditvish desperately repeated.


    ¡°What was that about your fleet? The cursed FTL radio broke again. Six Whiskers! Get over here and clean up the connection! This stupid machine¡ª¡±


    The connection cut out, replaced by the unamused face of the Lesser Predator fleet commander.


    ¡°Now, that¡­ was not very good faith of you, Ten Whiskers,¡± Grionc accused. ¡°Using our proof of authenticity to try to gain a strategic advantage over us. Not very good faith at all. It¡¯s a good thing that our thinking machines filtered it all out.¡±


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°Filters?¡± Ditvish snarled, slashing his paw at the screen. ¡°And I thought your people didn¡¯t believe in thinking machines.¡±


    She made a nonchalant gesture with a paw. ¡°Ah, you know, existential war of survival and all that. Anyway, your time is up, and I very much did not appreciate your delaying tactics and your attempt at subterfuge. I hope you enjoy this coming lesson as much as I will. See you in another hour.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± he yelled at the screen, but the transmission was terminated from the other end.


    Ditvish looked at the visibly fearful faces of his subordinates, and speculated hopefully, ¡°Maybe they only have a few of those new missiles. That could explain why they are bothering to demand our submission¡­ to save on precious resources.¡±


    <hr>


    If there was a limited supply of their new missiles, the enemy did not show any signs of it. Squadrons 14 and 16 disappeared off their radars forever shortly after.


    There were no lifepods.


    <hr>


    ¡°Maybe you have learned your lesson, Ten Whiskers,¡± Grionc said patiently, ¡°Or perhaps not. Really, I can¡¯t tell which I prefer at the moment, but if you have a shred of empathy in your psychotic heart, the twenty thousand or so spacer lives you just threw away in the last couple hours should give you nightmares for the rest of your stinking life. However long that might be. Are you prepared to surrender unconditionally now?¡±


    Ditvish looked every bit as defeated as he knew he was. ¡°I am prepared to disarm my fleet for the duration of these negotiations, as a gesture of good faith.¡±


    Grionc burst out laughing. ¡°Bwahahaha. Negotiations! Disarm the fleet as a gesture of good faith! That¡¯s a good one. You know, Grass Eater, for a species that is biologically incapable of humor, you can be funny sometimes¡­ Let¡¯s get serious, it doesn¡¯t matter much to me if your fleet is armed or not. As you might have noticed, none of your weapons have done anything useful today. And do not think me stupid or na?ve; I was alive during those ¡®negotiations¡¯ between your people and the Granti. We may not be grassthirsty like you, but we are not giving you a chance to pull those tricks again.¡±


    Feeling as broken inside as the ships he¡¯d just thrown away for nothing, Ditvish sighed and asked, ¡°What do you want then, predator?¡±


    Grionc smiled thinly at him. ¡°It¡¯s very simple. You will immediately place all your crew members into unarmed shuttles or your hibernation pods, I don¡¯t care which. They will move away from the ships to a separation of at least one thousand kilometers. Then, we will blink in our Marines to board your ships and capture them. If there is anyone left aboard the ships, your surrender will be considered a Grass Eater trick. We will consider the surrender invalidated, and we will use your shuttles and pods as target practice. If there is any sign of a trap on the ships, a locked door, a loose grenade, your surrender will be considered a Grass Eater trick. If there is any sabotage, a broken console, or even an attempt to wipe your thinking machine databases, your surrender will be considered a Grass Eater trick. If there is a single misplaced cleaning drone, your surrender¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. I got it. It will be considered a Grass Eater trick. Give me sixteen minutes to discuss the logistics over with my officers.¡±


    ¡°You have eight. If I don¡¯t start seeing those shuttles and pods, we will be forced to teach you another lesson, and I would hate ¡ª just¡­ hate ¡ª to have to do that, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Znos</h2>


    1 month later


    ¡°Shall I close the Ditvish file then?¡± Fstrofcho asked dutifully. ¡°Now that our investigation has fully concluded and been proven correct.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Svatken said slowly. ¡°Something is wrong.¡±


    ¡°Wrong?¡± the attendant asked, confused. ¡°But your predictions were validated. Zero Whiskers Ditvish did attempt to start a schism by illicitly gathering supplies and ships; he killed his own subordinates who found out about them, and some others feigned death to get out of our sights. And after his schism plot was exposed and he was convicted of apostasy last week, Ditvish defected to the Lesser Predators with his entire fleet. Even their newest propaganda is showing it now. Navy leaders are taking responsibility for their dereliction in duty on not seeing his betrayal earlier. And for losing Datsot, Gruccud, and the nine transit systems between them. Everyone is praising your foresight, and your promotion to Director came through.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s too clean. Everything was just tied up too cleanly. Something about this feels wrong.¡±


    ¡°Too clean?¡±


    ¡°Fstrofcho, one thing I learned as a Xenobiologist is that nothing that deals with live creatures is ever clean. When you find a corpse, the blood is pooled in a perfect circle around their body, they have drawn the name of their killer with their own blood, and then you visit the supposed killer to find that they too are dead¡­ something is wrong. I can¡¯t tell you what is off here, but something about this just feels very wrong indeed.¡±


    ¡°What should we do about it?¡± her attendant asked.


    ¡°What I¡­ we¡­ are going to do, attendant, is we are going to re-trace all the steps we took. Bring up all the evidence, from the drone footage to that intercepted message and the video we have of that hidden ship depot. And I want us to go through all the recorded footage we have of the relationships between each of the players involved, including the ones involving the supposedly dead Seven Whiskers Ktotssu, who we still have not yet found. And we are going to dig more into our own Navy and our sources among the Lesser Predators; this defection of his¡­ it must have been planned in advance, and I bet someone outside of his fleet must know something.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director.¡±


    ¡°Take a break for now. It will be a long night again.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director. Should I prepare and deliver the five whiskers prisoner from the brig to your quarters again?¡±


    Svatken smiled in appreciation. ¡°Indeed. After all, that is why I granted him immunity from the hearings.¡±


    ¡°That was very generous of you. Anything else?¡± he asked without a hint of moral judgement.


    ¡°Ah yes, there was something else the ten whiskers said before he defected. Perhaps he revealed something he shouldn¡¯t¡­ I need you to pull up my old theses about the Great Predators and any other relevant information you can find. I want the xenobiology, not the theology.¡±


    The attendant seemed surprised, but only briefly. ¡°Your papers from when you were a professor at the Shlirurk Institute?¡±


    ¡°The very ones. And make sure to get the ones I wrote about a hypothetical species of hybrid predators.¡±


    <hr>


    <h2>Black Site Deimos</h2>


    The disgraced fleet master ignored his throbbing headache as he stared at the tall alien creature who pulled up a chair in front of his table.


    The new ship upgrades.


    The devilish tactics.


    The omniscient intelligence.


    The tight secrecy.


    Everything.


    His migraines went away, and everything clicked into place. Everything.


    They are real.


    The Great Predators.


    The Great Predators are real.


    ¡°Great Predators, huh?¡± the ugly beast chittered in perfectly translated Znosian, narrowing its forward-facing eyes and revealing its sharp, sinister-looking canines. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s a little better than what one of your subordinates kept calling me.¡±


    Huh? Did it just¡ª


    ¡°Now, Ten Whiskers Ditvish¡­ may I call you that? Good. I just want you to visualize the planet of Grantor in that big, intelligent brain of yours. Beautiful planet, isn¡¯t it? What about its system and orbital defenses? Good, good. Yes¡­ those fleet deployments and patrol patterns¡­ mmm¡­ right. What about its perimeter systems and¡ª¡±


    Then, the predator sighed.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need for that mental image, Ten Whiskers¡­ and I can assure you that my mother does not look anything like that.¡±

 First Strike - Epilogue

    <h2>Gruccud</h2>


    As the ground above them trembled with the distant explosion of¡­ another one of their munitions bunkers no doubt, Eight Whiskers Slezhbej looked at the shrinking controlled territory on the battlemap with dismay. ¡°What happened to Sector 4? I thought we had an entire armored division in there.¡±


    His underling shook her head sadly. ¡°They pulled back from the frontline yesterday morning, thinking they¡¯d take advantage of the predators advancing ahead of their supply and ground artillery lines to counterattack with infantry reserves in the afternoon. But the Lesser Predators¡¯ orbital artillery took out the division commander and her entire staff as soon as they started moving, and the succeeding division commander did not manage to corral the surviving units together and the predators fully consolidated their gains by nightfall.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°The new division commander has taken full responsibility for the failure to counterattack as planned.¡±


    ¡°As he should. What is he planning now?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s going to try and see if the old tunnels they dug into their own lines are still usable so they can attack through them tonight. Maybe the predators don¡¯t have enough night vision equipment¡ª¡±


    Slezhbej shook his head. ¡°Tell him not to bother. We¡¯re going to need to pull out from that sector anyway. The predators found and bombed the back-line tunnels we were using to supply them this morning.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers. Should I order them to retreat to the next defensive line too?¡±


    He thought for a moment then shook his head again. ¡°No. Too risky. They won¡¯t make it in the open, even at night. Tell them to scatter into their pre-arranged holdout cells and fight independently. Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools.¡±


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers¡­ What about us?¡± she asked hesitantly. ¡°Should I give the order for headquarters to disperse too?¡±


    Slezhbej sighed. ¡°No. Not yet. Even at the rate the predators are making progress in our rear sector, we should have at least another two weeks before they overrun our surface positions.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ then we scatter?¡±


    ¡°Then, Six Whiskers, we go deeper underground and wait for them to come in behind us. It was unfortunate the FTL radio broke again before the Ten Whiskers could tell us his plan. Maybe he is coming to relieve this siege; maybe he is not. Either way, we are on our own for now. And either way, we have enough supplies down here to give them trouble for months and months.¡± He shrugged. ¡°And after that¡­¡±


    She nodded in understanding, excising the evident fear from her face. ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    ---


    ¡°Did we get their position?¡± Grionc asked urgently.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Vastae replied excitedly as he sent her console the new planetary coordinates transmitted from the Terran ship still orbiting near the system limit. ¡°The Amazon traced him from the call to an underground tunnel cluster in Sector 2.¡±


    ¡°Good. Relay my thanks to Kiara.¡±


    Vastae nodded. ¡°Already did. Should we flag the cluster as a priority and send our orbital drop Marines in?¡±


    Grionc considered the battlemap for a moment. She wondered what she would have done a year ago. The Terrans hadn¡¯t trained her on ground operations, but the way they worked, the way they fought¡­ it was not merely a fixed set of tactics or tricks. It was an entirely different way of thinking.


    One suited to the violence and unpredictability of war.


    She found herself wondering what they would do.


    Grionc shook her ears at Vastae. ¡°No. They¡¯ve been here for years. They¡¯re dug in too deep. Order the Marine Alpha Leader in charge of the sector to seal the cluster¡¯s exits from orbit and make sure they never surface again. Ask if she has a better idea, but I don¡¯t have a problem letting the Grass Eaters rot down there in the dark for years if they want to. We can always deal with them later.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    Grionc tilted her head as she continued considering the problem. She wasn¡¯t sure whether that was what Terran ground commanders would do in this situation.


    Then again, if I asked ten of them, I¡¯d probably get eleven different suggestions on how to deal with the dug-in enemy leadership.


    She smiled.


    And what I came up with¡­ it must be at least one of those eleven, right?


    ---


    End Grass Eaters Book 1

 Orbital Shift - The Story So Far

    The Story So Far


    As humanity reached out into the stars, the nations of the world joined the newly formed Terran Republic, with the exception of some criminal elements that resisted the reach of its authority around Saturn. Through discreet interstellar exploration, the Republic found the neighboring galaxy a place of wonder and prosperity, filled with peaceful civilizations like the Malgeir Federation, the Schprissian Confederacy, the Granti Alliance¡­etc. Perfectly ripe for the taking for the uniquely bloodthirsty herbivore species, the Znosian Dominion, known to all other species in the region as Grass Eaters.


    Motivated by a religious and psychological need to expand, the rabbit-like Znosians invaded the bear-like Granti. Despite the peaceful Granti species receiving direct military assistance from their old friends, the canine-like Malgeir, they were overwhelmed and forced to evacuate their entire territory, including their homeworld of Grantor. The Znosians then turned their sights to the Malgeir, who they proceeded to also dominate on the battlefield due to their superior understanding of interstellar war and logistics. In the course of the brutal invasion, the Znosians colonized, then efficiently exterminated any predators remaining on the occupied planets.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Still hidden and insulated from the war due to its grasp of stealth technology and the legacy of the Prime Directive, a cornerstone law that prohibited revelation of Terran presence to aliens, the people of the Terran Republic watched the ongoing war and xenocide with a mix of horror and indifference¡­ until one of its reconnaissance fleets was forced to act to prevent its own discovery. The presence of one of its recon ships was observed during the act by the Malgeir and Znosian ships present, and the Terran Republic finally decided to join the war covertly on the Malgeir side.


    With centuries of experience with constant war, excellent logistics, computing technology, and wild underestimation from the Znosian enemy, the Terrans helped the sworn-to-secrecy and retrained Malgeir Sixth Fleet beat back an invasion of the Malgeir core world of Datsot, capitalizing on enemy missteps to push them all the way back to the occupied Malgeir system of Gruccud, finally trapping and forcing the surrender of the invasion fleet with technological deception.


    But the threat was not over. The vast Znosian Dominion still outweighed the alliance of the predators by more than ten to one in tonnage, particularly the Terran Republic which was still practically a single-system species. The Znosian leadership had its suspicions of the recent, unexplained losses. And they still occupied the worlds of the entire Granti civilization and most of the periphery of the Malgeir Federation.


    The known galaxy held its breath to see what the two sides would do next¡­

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 1 | Can Anyone Hear Me

    <div>


    (Footage: First day of ground combat, Liberation Battle for Gruccud)


    Voice 1: I¡¯m a butcher.


    Voice 2: I¡¯m a welder.


    Voice 3: I¡¯m a programmer.


    Voice 4: I¡¯m a musician.


    Voice 5: I was working on my sire¡¯s farm.


    Voice 6: I was the daughter of a High Councilor.


    Voice 7: My dame was on Gionlu.


    Voice 8: My friends didn¡¯t get out of Grantor in time.


    Voice 9: I wanted to be a xenogeologist.


    Voice 10: I¡¯m your litter¡¯s schoolteacher.


    Voice 11: I¡¯m your neighbor.


    Voices Mixed: I am you.


    Title text: None of us were born for this war.


    Title text: We fight so no one else has to be.


    ¡°Born for this War¡±, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry Recruiting Commercial, July 2124


    <hr>


    Dashch Station, Znos-4 (36,000 km)


    POV: Irtisl, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Four Whiskers)


    Four Whiskers Irtisl looked around at her team of civilian engineers and technicians scurrying around the station, the bustle of their hurried movements like an orchestrated dance, punctuated by the sharp clatter of tools and the distant hum of machinery. Welding torches occasionally erupted with bright blue fire, casting flickering shadows that danced and played along the cold, metallic walls.


    Amidst the cacophony, Irtisl¡¯s ear flicked at an approaching sound. The deliberate clicks of magnetic boots on metal echoed into her suit through the structure she was standing on ¡ª a measured, hammering beat as one of her technicians cautiously navigated the hazardous zero-gravity environment, relying on the technology beneath their paws to anchor them to safety.


    Her helmet radio buzzed. ¡°Project Manager, we are almost ready to proceed with the test.¡±


    Irtisl turned on the spot, her movements slow, carefully keeping her own balance. Her eyes met those of the speaker, her mask of composed patience concealing her simmering irritation. ¡°Head Technician Stultam, we are already two weeks behind schedule, and this date was picked after your repeated assurances that¡ª¡±


    ¡°I take responsibility for this delay,¡± Stultam interrupted breezily, his tone almost dismissive. ¡°My people are inexperienced in your military testing protocols, Project Manager, and the additional last-minute requirements from the¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not interested in your excuses, Head Technician,¡± Irtisl sliced through his words. ¡°Your people were allocated significant resources to complete this project because your design group assured us that you had a viable solution for the functionality the Navy requires. If this delay results in cancellation, you will be hold solely responsible for the waste.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Four Whiskers,¡± Stultam replied, his head dipping by the minimum needed for her to perceive the movement.


    Even his show of respect is sloppy! These undisciplined civilians, Irtisl seethed internally, if I had my way, we wouldn¡¯t be using anyone outside the Design Bureau. Alas, no one inside the Bureau had any idea where to even start on this one¡­


    ¡°How much more time does the team need before we can begin validation?¡± she asked, her tone clipped.


    ¡°Thirty minutes,¡± Stultam estimated. ¡°We are securing the testbed, and one of the transport shuttles is just arriving in time for the trials.¡±


    Irtisl¡¯s nose crinkled in mild exasperation. ¡°More officers? I thought everyone is already waiting on the observation deck.¡±


    ¡°Not from the Navy, Four Whiskers,¡± he almost whispered, a hint of fear threading his voice. ¡°It¡¯s her.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    State Security Director Svatken, her eyes flickering with impatience, cast a cursory glance at the screen. It displayed the shuttle¡¯s diligent verification of its docking seal¡¯s integrity with the station. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, she slammed the override button. As if sensing her urgency, the doors flew open. Svatken¡¯s stride was purposeful, her trusty attendant Fstrofcho shadowing her every step.


    The head of the welcoming party donned a mask of rehearsed delight. ¡°Welcome, Director. I am Four Whiskers¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are Four Whiskers Irtisl,¡± Svatken interjected with icy precision. ¡°You are the Project Manager and Navy liaison for the civilian group operating this station. Your head technician needs twenty-five more minutes to complete preparations, which you will take full responsibility for. Now, you are going to lead me to the observation deck so I can interview one of your superiors.¡±


    Caught off guard, Irtisl stammered, ¡°I¡ª I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Was I mistaken?¡±


    Recovering, Irtisl replied, ¡°Of course not, Director. Right this way.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± the Director said, following the stiff footsteps of the flustered four whiskers. ¡°And do not consider my assignment of responsibility unfair. Responsibility implies credit. This is an important project for the proper course of the Prophecy. If you did your job correctly, you and your bloodline will be rewarded appropriately despite the delay. If you did not¡­¡± She left the hanging threat unspoken.


    ¡°Yes, Director,¡± Irtisl murmured, leading her onto the elevated observation deck.


    Several high-ranking officers were deep in conversation around an instrument console. Upon the sound of the doors opening, they paused and turned towards Svatken as she entered.


    ¡°You may leave us now, Four Whiskers,¡± Svatken ordered. Irtisl happily obliged, turning around and hopping out the door to get as far away from the menacing State Security Director.


    Svatken fixed her gaze on the tall creature at the head of the table. ¡°Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. I have some questions for you. Alone.¡±


    The elderly 25-year-old Grand Fleet Commander Sprabr looked surprised ¡ª feigned, no doubt ¡ª but bowed his head in respect. ¡°Of course, Director.¡± He looked at his subordinates and gestured at the exit. ¡°Allow me a moment with the Director.¡±


    The officers, all visibly relieved, quickly filed out of the deck.


    ¡°I am happy to answer any questions you have, Director, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are a hard creature to reach, Eleven Whiskers,¡± Svatken interrupted, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Four calls to your office, two to your domicile. That might be a record. For my patience, that is. Usually, one of those unanswered calls would have been followed by an armed raid by a squad of armed agents.¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my unavailability, Director. Managing the many squadrons of the Grand Prophetic Fleet has consumed much of my free time, and my office attendant is forgetful¡ª¡±


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°She was not,¡± Svatken countered. ¡°I interviewed her before I arrived here. You will not pawn your responsibility off to your subordinates or lie to me. And if managing your fleet is taking up too much of your time, I can arrange a reduction in your responsibilities.¡±


    Sprabr dropped his cautious veneer. ¡°That will not be necessary, Director. Please forgive my personal transgressions towards your more valuable time; I take full responsibility. I will answer all your questions in detail.¡±


    Svatken glanced at Fstrofcho, busy entering new notes into his datapad. ¡°Make a note of that, Attendant. I will determine the level of your transgression after this interview, Eleven Whiskers.¡± She turned back to Sprabr. ¡°But enough of wasting my time. You will now answer my questions. What is the nature of your relationship with Zero Whiskers Ditvish?¡±


    If he was surprised by the question, he did not show it. ¡°I was Ditvish¡¯s superior when he commanded the Datsot Invasion Fleet, Director. I was not aware of his intent to defect until after¡ª¡±


    ¡°If you were aware of his apostasy and did not report it, you would be facing a firing squad, Eleven Whiskers, not my questioning. Keep your irrelevant commentary to yourself. How long did you know Ditvish before that?¡±


    ¡°18 years, Director.¡±


    ¡°18? The records show you were his superior for most of his career, and his Navy Retraining Center instructor before that. That adds up to 15.¡±


    ¡°I met Zero Whiskers Ditvish three years prior to his qualification and acceptance to Znos Navy Retraining Center. I was the one who convinced him to apply when I discovered that he was grasping concepts at a much higher level than the six whiskers rank he was bred to be.¡±


    ¡°So your relationship with him was deeply personal?¡±


    ¡°It was indeed. I did not obscure that detail from my initial interview with the second Apostasy Commission after his defection was¡ª¡±


    ¡°Less wasting of my time, please. When he defected, what was your initial reaction?¡±


    ¡°Complete shock, Director. The Ditvish I knew for 18 years would never contemplate defection to the Lesser Predators out of personal fear.¡±


    She tilted her head. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Like all good Servants of the Prophecy, he did not fear death. And like all great Servants of the Prophecy, he did not fear failure. Instead, Ditvish welcomed both as mere challenges. More than once, I have seen him charge into great danger, at risk of both death and failure, without reluctance or delay. Surely you have seen that in his career records too. In my experience, those who defect hold one of these fears, and those fears are what drive them to abandon the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°So if not personal fear, what was it? Out of greed, then? For power? Maybe revenge? Or perhaps perverted pleasures of the flesh?¡± She made a disgusted face.


    Sprabr shook his head. ¡°No, to defect to the Lesser Predator for those would be irrational, and Ditvish was not that either.¡±


    ¡°Then why?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps he thought the Prophecy abandoned him. After all, it was after your commission announced¡ª¡±


    Svatken interjected, ¡°His schism plot was what led to the commission. I know you have read the full commission report on the sequence of events, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen the evidence for that supposed plot. It may have been good enough to convince your superiors, but the totality of the evidence prior to the decision was clearly circumstantial¡ª¡±


    She bristled. ¡°The evidence was incontrovertible. We had physical evidence of the crime. Sensor data, communication logs, and I saw those supply ships with my own eyes!¡±


    ¡°Director, have you considered the possibility that your first case was built on an enemy ruse? Lesser Predator manipulations. They may not be very bright, but they are practiced in such matters, even amongst themselves.¡±


    ¡°It would be¡ª it would be extremely unlikely,¡± Svatken said, catching herself. ¡°I am used to dealing with predators, Eleven Whiskers. Such a clean execution would be unheard of. They may be able to conjure up some data, but all of it? That they really did defeat several of our convoys, fluffles, and fleets in open battle despite the odds heavily in our favor? We should not underestimate our enemy, but in my experience, the simpler option is the most likely one.¡±


    ¡°And yet, you have doubts,¡± Sprabr pointed out. ¡°Or you would not be asking me questions about Ditvish six weeks after his case was officially closed. And you would not be here observing a test for technology that doesn¡¯t exist, inspired by an impossible weapon that our enemies don¡¯t have.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª I¡ª yes, I have an open mind for an alternative hypothesis,¡± Svatken admitted. ¡°As any good State Security officer should be.¡±


    ¡°Here is mine: in addition to their new technology upgrades, the Lesser Predators managed to get into our communication network. They heard what we heard and saw what we saw. Then, they fabricated the appearance of a conspiracy, a schism plot, and left clues they knew you would eventually find at the sites of our defeats, tailoring the evidence to fit your suspicions. And after the Apostasy Commission completed their judgement, they intercepted that too and leveraged it to convince Ditvish and his fleet to defect to the enemy, depriving us of one of our most successful commanders and leading to the greatest Znosian naval defeat in living memory.¡±


    ¡°That¡ª that is your idea of a more likely theory?¡± Svatken gaped at his brazenness incredulously.


    ¡°It is. And I take full responsibility for coming up with it. But it is not just mine. These are now the worst-case planning assumptions of the Navy, which is why we have upgraded our encryption systems and why,¡± Sprabr pointed out the windows of the observation deck, ¡°We are taking these¡­ allegations of new predator threats very seriously.¡±


    ¡°You actually believe this theory of yours.¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    Svatken pondered his words for a moment, wondering whether she should believe his sincerity or have him shot. She settled for wait-and-see.


    She could always have him shot later.


    ¡°You can call your subordinates back in now. And let¡¯s see if there is any merit to these technological wonders that our enemies have allegedly cooked up.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Irtisl, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Four Whiskers)


    Irtisl depressed the big red button firmly with her a claw. Its crisp click in the chamber was the only immediate response.


    Then, in synchrony, the symbols on the consoles arrayed before her began to dance. The calm of the blue and green indicators gave way to orange and red, signifying a dramatic rise in power draw as the test device drained the reserve power of the station and demanded more. The very air in the room seemed to hum with the flood of energy being poured into the machinery.


    She looked over at Head Technician Stultam¡¯s station. He gave her a positive gesture with his paws.


    It¡¯s working.


    <hr>


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    ¡°Thank you, Operative, that is an excellent find,¡± Svatken¡¯s voice was low but clear as she spoke into her communicator device. ¡°This proves that their deliveries have been intentionally slow for weeks.¡±


    Fstrofcho gently tapped her on the shoulder. He leaned in, his voice a whisper against the hum of the station¡¯s systems, ¡°Director, they are beginning the test now.¡±


    Svatken, without turning, raised a single claw, mouthing to him, ¡°Hold one moment.¡±


    Refocusing on the call, her tone shifted to brisk efficiency. ¡°Yes, Operative, get to the camp, find out why, and get that report to my office within the week.¡±


    A brief pause followed. Frowning, she looked confused at her receiver when the expected confirmation didn¡¯t come out. ¡°Hello? Operative? Are you still on the call?¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Znufchu, Znosian (Civilian)


    The primary traffic controller at Znos Space Control looked askance at the confusing lights blinking on the panel in front of her.


    ¡°Traffic control to 2411, you are deviating from your flight path. Please return to autopilot as soon as possible,¡± she asked the incoming warship on the FTL radio.


    ¡°Traffic control to 2411, did you copy my last? Please return control to autopilot.¡±


    ¡°Traffic control to Navy command ship 0114, I can¡¯t reach 2411. There may be a communication emergency on board their ship.¡±


    ¡°Traffic control to ground control, I can¡¯t reach the Navy command ship in orbit. Can you check on your end?¡±


    ¡°Traffic control on the open FTL channel. Does anyone copy? Can anyone hear me?¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    Station Commander Zwena¡¯s eyes locked onto the six pulsating alerts on their console in the dimly lit command center. ¡°Shit, can anyone reach the FTL frequency for any of our receivers in Znosian sector zero-zero-zero? I¡¯m still receiving, but none of our observation drones are responding to commands.¡±


    Their second in command, Bert Williams, cast a seasoned gaze toward the communications station. ¡°LT, reach to the side of the console and manually flip the squelch control knob to the off position.¡±


    The lieutenant on duty at the station did as he ordered. An abrupt static hiss erupted from the speakers, assaulting their ears. She flinched, her hand darting to the volume control knob, twisting it until the cacophony subsided to a bearable hum.


    Unperturbed, Bert continued, ¡°Now hit two-two-zero on the pop-out pad to disconnect the transmission lock.¡±


    As her fingers danced over the pad, the static dimmed further, sinking into a whisper against the backdrop of the command center¡¯s quiet hum.


    Confusion clouded Zwena¡¯s expression. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°It must be an FTL jamming signal from the other end, Commander,¡± Bert said with increasing certainty. ¡°Some kind of noise-modulated jammer. Primitive, but powerful enough to stop our commands from reaching them. We should still be able to hear them though.¡±


    ¡°Can we burn through it somehow to send commands?¡±


    Bert shook his head. ¡°Unlikely. We¡¯re too far away and we don¡¯t mount FTL frequency hoppers on those buoys. No blink drive, and they would have taken too much of the volume budget anyway. But unless they are discovered, our buoys will just keep transmitting data to us until they get a command back from us. These jamming signals aren¡¯t selective, Commander. They can¡¯t possibly continue jamming their own home system forever. Most likely it¡¯s some kind of test or emergency, and it¡¯ll stop when they¡¯re done.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad someone paid attention in Electronic Warfare Theory class at the Academy. Well, you know the SOP: continue all operations as normal. Don¡¯t let the enemy know they¡¯re having an effect on us. And file a Signals Interference report with Luna. Someone over there will know what to do.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 2 | Not Dangerous

    <div>


    Fifth Fleet Supply HQ, Malgeiru-3


    POV: Cliggi, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Alpha Leader)


    Cliggi¡¯s paws danced with a mechanical indifference on the cold surface of his tablet, lost in the sea of endless notifications as he nudged open the door to his office lobby with his shoulder. The soft hum of the ceiling lights greeted him, intermingling with the familiar, floral notes of his aide¡¯s perfume¡ª tainted by an underlying, unidentifiable odor.


    As he looked up, he saw a flustered expression on her face. ¡°Alpha Leader!¡± she almost panted. ¡°There¡¯s a guest in your office.¡±


    Cliggi blinked, caught off guard. ¡°Guest? I thought I was done for the day.¡±


    ¡°She insisted on waiting for you,¡± his aide responded, her voice tinged with unease. ¡°I couldn¡¯t stop her!¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t stop her?¡± His brow furrowed in bewilderment. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you just call Fleet Security¡ª¡±


    ¡°Well¡ª¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t paid them this cycle.¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± she said abashedly. ¡°And the guest didn¡¯t seem dangerous.¡±


    ¡°Alright then.¡± Cliggi straightened his uniform with a claw, approaching his office. ¡°Let¡¯s go see what¡¯s so urgent someone needs to barge into my office.¡±


    Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. The room was awash in the late afternoon light filtering through the large windows, painting everything in a warm hue.


    An athletic young female with distinctive silver fur sat in her seat, her relaxed posture a display of confidence and grace, washing away half of his preconceived hostility. ¡°Cliggi,¡± she greeted, her voice silky and melodic. ¡°Nice big office you have here.¡±


    He racked his brain trying to place her in his memories, but drew a blank. ¡°Do we know each other?¡± he asked cautiously, taking a few measured steps closer.


    She grinned, a playful glint in her eyes. ¡°You are Cliggi, Supply Officer of the Navy Fifth Fleet, are you not?¡±


    ¡°I am, ma¡¯am,¡± he responded with due politeness, his words flowing with practiced ease, ¡°Head of Fifth Fleet Requisitions and Logistics. And you are?¡±


    ¡°Eupprio,¡± she acknowledged with a nod. ¡°Head of¡­ Eupprio Tech.¡± She fished a red business card out of her pocket, handing it to him.


    Cliggi¡¯s posture straightened as he clutched the card. He¡¯d heard her name whispered in the bureaucratic hallway offices of Malgeiru, usually by people with higher rank than his own. Interesting.


    ¡°Ah, pleasure to meet you, ma¡¯am,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve heard of your company. My impression was that you¡¯re in the financial sector?¡±


    ¡°Straight to business?¡± she chuckled lightly. ¡°That¡¯s fine. You would be right¡­ a few months ago. We are making a foray into computing and communications, specifically in defense applications. Pure exploratory, for now, but we¡¯d like to stay.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± he replied, his eagerness barely concealed. ¡°I don¡¯t blame you. It¡¯s a lucrative field, and you¡¯re in the right place. Lots of new contracts opening up recently in Fifth Fleet. Is there¡ª uh a specific opportunity you¡¯re looking in?¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact, there are a few we¡¯re looking into with your fleet.¡±


    Cliggi nodded knowingly as he set his datapad on his office table. ¡°Which ones? We can go over the requirements¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oathkeeper.¡±


    As Cliggi registered the word, his body went rigid, an instinctive reaction he quickly subdued. He nonchalantly said, ¡°That¡¯s¡­ uh, ma¡¯am, as you know there are certain projects that I can¡¯t discuss with¡ª¡±


    ¡°You can call me Eupprio. And don¡¯t worry,¡± she interjected reassuringly. ¡°I¡¯ve been read in.¡±


    His eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. ¡°You have Oathkeeper clearance? I wasn¡¯t aware they were being given out to civilians, much less being on the gray market already.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not. I didn¡¯t buy mine,¡± she clarified. ¡°Not that I didn¡¯t try, but you Navy people seemed so serious about this one. Had to go all the way to a fleet commander to get me one.¡±


    Delving into her pocket once more, she produced a lanyard adorned with a jet-black card with no identifying markings. Accepting it suspiciously, Cliggi strode to a safe tucked away in a corner of his office. After punching in a five-digit code, he extracted a bulky, non-regulation card scanner. It instantly recognized her card, emitting a confirmatory beep and displaying her photo on the small screen next to it.


    Returning the card, a flicker of amazement danced in Cliggi¡¯s eyes. ¡°So you are privy to the details then. That is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Which contracts in Project Oathkeeper are you interested in? There¡¯s one open with a laser comm integration module¡ª¡±


    ¡°All of them.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± he queried, unsure if he heard correctly.


    ¡°We want all of them. We¡¯re prepared to make a significant investment in your fleet.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± he started to explain as respectfully as he could. ¡°We¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please¡­ call me Eupprio.¡±


    ¡°Eupprio, there¡¯s a standard bidding process for these contracts¡ª¡±


    ¡°We are aware,¡± she replied patiently. ¡°You will be sufficiently compensated for making the appropriate arrangements. I take good care of my people.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s very generous of you,¡± he acknowledged. ¡°But we didn¡¯t make these rules; they¡¯re imposed by our sponsors, and the auditing requirements and organization¡­ well, they¡¯re not as flexible as we are accustomed to. The maximum sole-sourced contract limit is just under a hundred billion credits¡­ of the Oathkeeper variety.¡±


    ¡°Only a hundred billion?¡±


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°You know the Oathkeepers. They¡¯re newer¡­ not as wealthy as our people.¡±


    ¡°And there is no bend on that?¡± she pressed. ¡°We can pay.¡±


    ¡°None,¡± he replied, a tinge of regret in his voice. Lowering his voice, he continued, ¡°Another professional services firm out of Bostruisa tried to fool their¡­ auditors with a complex scheme of multiple shuffling subsidiaries, but they were caught immediately and banned from making bids on Project Oathkeeper contracts for five years. No one fools the sponsors.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Eupprio sat back in thought. After a brief pause, she declared, ¡°A hundred billion credits would make a nice start for us. We¡¯ll take the fleet-wide pylon retrofits and the other one¡­ what was it, the sensor package upgrade.¡±


    Cliggi¡¯s heart sank. Those two contracts were the crown jewels of the entire project. ¡°We can discuss the introduction price on the pylons, but I can¡¯t give you sensors. I¡¯ve already promised it to another bidder.¡±


    ¡°Which bidder? We can make it worth their while too.¡±


    He shook his head, a mix of resolve and regret in his gesture. ¡°Fintint Services. Even if you could pay me more than them, it is a matter of personal pride and honor.¡±


    ¡°Ah, those assholes. You¡¯re right that we probably can¡¯t pay more than they can,¡± she conceded with a hint of reluctance.


    ¡°Thank you for understanding my¡ª¡±


    ¡°But you will agree to give us the sensors contract nonetheless,¡± Eupprio interjected, a dangerous flash in her eyes.


    ¡°Ma¡¯am¡ª¡±


    ¡°Call me Eupprio,¡± Eupprio said automatically. She deftly steered the conversation to another subject. ¡°Alpha Leader, why don¡¯t we discuss your service for a minute?¡±


    ¡°My service?¡± he asked, visibly bewildered by the abrupt change in topic.


    ¡°Your service. After all, it¡¯s a little unusual for someone to make alpha leader at the young age of forty-two, is it not? Head Supply Officer of a numbered battle fleet too, perfectly situated for financial opportunities; such a position is not easily given out in wartime. Not unless they had a rare reward for gallantry and courage in combat, say¡­ a Star of Valor.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am¡ª Eupprio¡ª¡±


    Eupprio stood up, slowly pacing the room, before arriving at a glass display framing a golden star medallion centered among his many trophies. ¡°It¡¯s this one, right? Beautiful. What was it for again? Above and beyond the call of duty at Pomniot, was it?¡±


    Cliggi could feel the urge to pant, despite knowing it was a cool five degrees below room temperature in his office.


    ¡°I¡¯m no naval expert,¡± she continued, her gaze fixed on her datapad. ¡°The reports from the battle undoubtedly paint a heroic picture, though. Two Delta-class warships against six Znosian ships of the same tonnage: system defended and all enemies destroyed. Unfortunately, the other ship perished, and the sensor readings from her black box were apparently corrupted due to heavy battle damage. Completely unrecoverable, unless¡­ you had the resources of a state-of-the-art financials technology firm that specializes in forensics, fraud and tampering detection, and data redundancy.¡±


    Cliggi went white as the Malgeiru star.


    Eupprio glanced up, a feigned bewilderment in her eyes. ¡°I couldn¡¯t believe what I was seeing. No Znosian ships. Instead, a friend-or-foe identification system malfunction leading to her being fired upon by a friendly ship. That can¡¯t be right! After all, all of Gamma Leader Cliggi¡¯s subordinates corroborated his account of the events in their own reports, almost word for word.¡±


    ¡°Sensor malfunctions occur all the time, especially when recording to those old black boxes,¡± Cliggi explained, his voice laced with desperation.


    ¡°Of course, of course. They do. All the time. Equipment failure: airtight defense for a Navy officer. And if I brought my sizable credits account to any member of your bridge crew, surely none of them would change their accounting of the battle¡ª¡±


    ¡°You haven¡¯t!¡± Cliggi half-whispered, the fur on his spine bristling.


    Eupprio politely waited a moment for him to recover from the breach in decorum. ¡°No, I haven¡¯t. Not yet. Because you¡¯re going to do the right thing for us on this sensors upgrade contract. After all¡­ this is as you say, a matter of personal pride and honor, is it not?¡±


    For a tense minute, Cliggi met her gaze. He blinked first. Bowing in defeat, he said, ¡°Of course, ma¡¯am¡ª Eupprio.¡±


    ¡°I hope that wouldn¡¯t cause you any trouble with the grass-counters at Fintint,¡± she said sympathetically.


    ¡°Not at all. Not at all.¡±


    ¡°In any case, you will be adequately compensated for your hard work,¡± Eupprio said. She tapped her credit chip against her datapad, a crisp beep echoing in the office.


    Cliggi¡¯s datapad chimed in response. His eyes widened at the screen, a mix of shock and reluctant gratitude. ¡°That is¡­ incredibly generous, given¡ª given the circumstances.¡±


    She shook her ears, and replied in a softer voice, ¡°Like I said, I take good care of my people.¡±


    <hr>


    Oathkeeper-0, Malgeiru (1,500 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    Eupprio gazed upon the modest-looking alien ship hanging in space just off her shuttle¡¯s bow.


    Her trusty lawyer and friend, Fleguipu, cast a semi-derisive glance at the tiny craft. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder these Terrans can afford all these expensive, highly technical projects but not bigger ships for an outpost here.¡±


    She countered her friend¡¯s skepticism with a shake of her head. ¡°One day, lawyer, you¡¯ll realize that it¡¯s not the size that matters, but rather how you use it.¡±


    Fleguipu guffawed. ¡°Is that what they say?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Eupprio grinned merrily back at her. ¡°And it works to our advantage. They are not used to working on our big ships, which is why they need to give out these contracts.¡±


    ¡°You really think it¡¯s such a great idea to pivot to the defense sector? We were doing quite well in finances and some of the market analysts are saying¡ª¡±


    ¡°Bah,¡± Eupprio cut her off with a snort, dismissive and confident. ¡°We¡¯ve gone over this. The money will take care of itself. We may know nothing about the subject, but we can acquire people and companies that do. We¡¯re flush with cash and have nowhere else to invest it anyway. And besides, we have that one thing nobody else has, and this finally gives us legal cover to deploy it. Isn¡¯t that what you wanted?¡±


    Her friend¡¯s nod came reluctantly. ¡°The digital sentience. Of course, it would have been easier to lobby for legalization for non-defense use¡­ But I guess this is one silver lining.¡±


    ¡°Besides,¡± Eupprio said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. ¡°I hear the Terrans have great food.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding. They¡¯re Grass Eaters.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I hear anyway¡­ and wouldn¡¯t that be something?¡±


    There was a rumble in the hull, and the shuttle pilot¡¯s voice crackled over the intercom. ¡°We¡¯ve established a connection with them. They¡¯re sending a team to board us.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± Eupprio replied, her tone businesslike. ¡°Heading to the airlock.¡±


    <hr>


    Eupprio and her entourage clustered around the airlock as it cycled. The Terran boarding party, a dozen figures clad in armor that gleamed like polished obsidian, filed into their vessel with military precision. Their movements swift, they quickly swept the interiors of the ship, leaving only two of them to watch the crew.


    The squad leader held a scanner extended in her outstretched hands, addressing Eupprio directly. ¡°Your Oathkeeper clearance, ma¡¯am?¡±


    Eupprio took out her card and slid it smoothly into the waiting device. It beeped twice, confirming her identity.


    ¡°You are Eupprio, CEO of Eupprio Tech?¡± the squad leader asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, this will only sting a bit,¡± the Terran warned, brandishing a second scanner towards Eupprio¡¯s paw.


    Eupprio opened her snout to question the device¡¯s purpose, but a gentle whirring on her paw precluded her inquiry. It didn¡¯t really hurt, and she watched, fascinated, as the pinprick on her fur began to seal itself almost immediately.


    The leader nodded in approval, while Eupprio noted the second guard easing his grip on the ready rifle at his hip.


    ¡°Sorry for the inconvenience and the old tech, but we have to match your identity to when you got the card,¡± the squad leader explained.


    Eupprio raised an eyebrow. ¡°You guys take these security measures really seriously, huh?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± the squad leader asked. ¡°Are you saying you guys don¡¯t do tests for deep impersonation¡ª¡±


    Her question was interrupted by one of the other Terrans who¡¯d noiselessly appeared behind her. ¡°LT, their shuttle¡¯s clean.¡±


    ¡°Good, we¡¯ll park it here then,¡± the leader turned towards the pilot. ¡°Keep its orbit at least fifty kilometers away from our ship or we¡¯ll be forced to¡­ move¡­ it while you¡¯re not here.¡±


    Her gaze shifted back to Eupprio. ¡°Your team can board our shuttle. It¡¯ll be a few days flight, so bring whatever you need, except: no weapons, no personal FTL radios, and no liquid containers greater than one hundred milliliters of volume.¡±


    What an odd set of rules.


    <hr>


    Meta


    Cheap liquid/gel explosive scanners do exist now.


    The rule¡¯s just been there for almost 120 years, nobody knows why, and everyone is just too scared to change it.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 3 | Familiarization

    <div>


    <div>


    Shuttle Oathkeeper-32, Malgeiru (2,000 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    Eupprio more closely observed the platoon of Terrans bantering with each other as the shuttle headed into blink. All of them were wearing matching sets of bulky armor and keeping their helmets within arm¡¯s reach, even within the hulls of their shuttle. A couple of them had their translators off, speaking in a smooth-flowing alien language. In the corner, one of them was feeding herself from a bag of delicious-smelling treats, the scent wafting through the cabin and teasing Eupprio¡¯s senses.


    She noticed their leader was staring at her with both of her forward-facing eyes. ¡°Enjoying the circus, Pupper?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Just not used to seeing so many aliens in one place,¡± Eupprio replied, flashing a warm smile back at her. ¡°We have some Granti where I¡¯m from, a couple of Schpriss at my company. But never so many in one place.¡±


    ¡°Better get used to it quick then,¡± the squad leader chuckled. ¡°Not a whole lot of non-Terrans in Sol yet.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, so I¡¯ve heard.¡±


    The Terran hurried to explain. ¡°Not because we aren¡¯t a welcoming bunch¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no. I get it. The war,¡± Eupprio said, her shrug rippling through her fur. ¡°What are your names?¡±


    The Terran woman grinned and tapped the chest of her armor where something was written in Terran script. ¡°Naser. Aida Naser.¡± She gestured towards the man beside her, ¡°And this is Abe.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Eupprio,¡± Abe said, holding out his hand for her paw to shake, a ritual that she¡¯d been briefed on before and performed effortlessly with grace.


    Eupprio pointed a claw at the distinctive orange-black circular insignia adorning the Terran¡¯s shoulder. ¡°That¡¯s a new one to me. Never seen that one before.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re probably used to the Republic flag insignia. We¡¯re not part of the Navy or the Marines,¡± Aida said. ¡°We are¡ª¡±


    ¡°Mercs,¡± Abe interrupted her, grinning unabashed. ¡°Space mercenaries.¡±


    Aida shot him a playful, chiding wag of her finger. ¡°What did I tell you? We don¡¯t use that word here in front of guests.¡± She turned to face Eupprio. ¡°We¡¯re contractors. Private security consultants. The outfit we belong to is called Interstellar Enterprises, but everyone just calls us Black Hole Sun,¡± Aida said, pointing at the insignia on her shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a fun story behind that,¡± Eupprio commented politely.


    ¡°Nah,¡± Abe said, his smile fading. ¡°The opposite of fun. That was the original name of the outfit. A few of our guys went postal and shot up a civvie station in the Red Zone. Killed a bunch of innocent people. That was bad for business, so the higher ups changed our names. Nobody¡¯s fooled though.¡±


    Eupprio struggled to keep the fur on the back of her spine from rising. ¡°This¡­ do you know the people¡ª¡±


    ¡°The guys who went nuts? Nah, that was like twenty years ago. One of them killed himself and the rest are all in prison for life now,¡± Aida reassured her. ¡°I promise we¡¯re not them. We¡¯re a pretty big outfit: twice as many people deployed in the Saturn Red Zone as the Terran Marines do.¡±


    She forcibly eased the tension from her shoulders and asked, ¡°Why is that?¡±


    Aida shrugged casually. ¡°Republic doesn¡¯t like it when Marines die on the frontpage news, but the situation there isn¡¯t going to stabilize itself, so they put us in instead. We do pretty much the same job. Most of us are ex-Marines anyway. Except Abe, he was a fancy Navy pilot. Pay is better than the service though.¡±


    Abe interjected, ¡°Pay is better. Hours are better. Big fat bonuses. You can get in and out whenever you want.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but if shit goes down,¡± Aida said, ¡°We¡¯re the ones getting shot at first and blamed if it goes bad. At least it hasn¡¯t been so bad the last couple years with the planet alignment the way they are. So¡­ you know, pros and cons.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± Fleguipu remarked from besides Eupprio. ¡°You really would go to war for mere credits?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t make those decisions, ma¡¯am,¡± Aida replied, then chuckled. ¡°We merely profit from them.¡±


    ¡°And there¡¯s an old Terran saying,¡± Abe added with a sly grin, ¡°If you¡¯re good at something, never do it for free.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s curiosity shifted to the bulky firearm attached to Aida¡¯s hip. ¡°What about equipment? Who pays for that?¡±


    ¡°Taxpayers, usually. The fun jobs are cost-plus contracts, so we just tally up our loadout and charge it to the Republic,¡± Aida said, deftly unholstering her sidearm. ¡°You like mine? Latest model Hyperion-30, EVA-rated.¡±


    With practiced ease, she ejected the magazine, double-checked its emptiness, directed the barrel floorward, and squeezed the trigger, eliciting a dry click. Safeing the weapon, she offered it to Eupprio, grip first.


    Eupprio¡¯s eyes went wide, gingerly cradling the cold weapon in her paws. It was heavier and more stable than its sleek design implied. ¡°I¡¯ve never used something like this before. How does it work?¡±


    ¡°How does it work?¡± Aida echoed. ¡°Point and shoot. Here, I¡¯ll show you. If flyboy Abe here can learn to use one, anyone can.¡±


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Abe threw her a dirty look and a hostile-looking gesture.


    Aida leaned in to Eupprio, pointing at the base of the weapon. ¡°That¡¯s the grip. Try to wrap your hands¡ª paws around that.¡±


    Eupprio grappled with the unfamiliar shape of the firearm which was evidently not designed for her physiology. After some fiddling, she managed to secure a grip, albeit an awkward one.


    ¡°Alright, good, keep your trigger¡­ claw out of this hole before you want to fire,¡± Aida instructed. ¡°Now, point it straight in front of you.¡±


    Eupprio aimed the barrel at the row of Terrans on the other side of the shuttle, closing one of her eyes like she¡¯d seen in movies before.


    ¡°Nah, keep both your eyes open. Now, on the side of the gun, there¡¯s the safety. Flip it up with your claw.¡±


    She fumbled around the side of the weapon with her second claw until she found the switch. She applied pressure to it until it clicked audibly. She blinked in surprise as a holographic interface snapped up in front of her face. Blue outlines encapsulated each of the Terran contractors across the shuttle cargo bay, save for one, framed in an alarming shade of red.


    ¡°Red means dead. When you pull the trigger, the gun finds the target you¡¯re aiming at, guides the barrel towards it with the built-in inertial compensator, and blows their brains out. Or it snaps to whichever body part is exposed, if they¡¯re in cover. Or the thinnest part of the cover, if nothing is exposed.¡±


    Eupprio hastily moved her claw away from the trigger assembly. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s about it. Nothing complicated about it. There¡¯s also an option to select multiple targets and fire in automatic, but don¡¯t worry, you probably won¡¯t ever need to use one of these. If you do, both us and whoever is trying to kill you have done our jobs very, very poorly.¡±


    Fleguipu looked at it interestedly. ¡°How much would it cost to buy one of these off you? We¡¯ve got some Republic credits.¡±


    ¡°Nah, tempting as it is. No weapons for you Puppers,¡± Aida replied, sighing a mix of temptation and duty. ¡°They might take you shooting on Mars if you ask, but you¡¯re not allowed to take one of these out of Sol. So don¡¯t try to visit a gift shop on the way out, either.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll know?¡± Fleguipu asked, sounding slightly disappointed.


    Eupprio knew what her friend was doing and she approved of the quick-thinking. Something like this would probably sell for quite a bit back in the Federation. Or maybe she was planning to have the engineers in the company¡¯s new arms design division try to copy it¡ª


    ¡°They always know.¡±


    <hr>


    Raytech ¡ª Olympus Campus, Mars


    POV: Martina Wright, Terran (Executive)


    Martina Wright, high-level executive at Raytech Corporation, held the artificial smile on her face until the representative for the shady ¡°security services corporation¡± exited her office and the door closed. She knew they were a shell company fronting for one of those Titan smuggler gangs, but hell, they had credits and she had mid-21st century ¡°mining radars¡± to sell. At least they weren¡¯t the terrorism-inclined Saturnian Resistance Navy; those sanctions on them were airtight.


    ¡°What next, toaster?¡± she asked into thin air, glancing to look towards the answer from her corneal implant at the bottom edge of her vision.


    Meeting in 28 minutes: CSMC R&D.


    Ceres Ship Manufacturing Corporation, Research and Development division. They were big on acronyms on Ceres, not so big on subtlety.


    Martina frowned. ¡°They¡¯re still having trouble with the experimental EW profiles we sent over last week?¡±


    No. They integrated those successfully on Monday. This meeting, they have two items on the agenda. First, they plan to make you a personal offer.


    ¡°A personal offer, huh? How much are they offering to pay me to switch teams this time?¡±


    Not enough.


    ¡°Too bad. Any chance I can leverage that into a raise?¡±


    Slim but yes. About the same odds as being struck by lightning in the atmosphere of Jupiter.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not too bad, right? File it with the board. Maybe they¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    Done. Pay raise request rejected by board assistant.


    ¡°Darn, too bad. What about¡ª¡±


    Four additional paid vacation days approved and added to your calendar.


    ¡°Cool, I want to go see him on leave¡ª¡±


    Coordinating with his scheduler program¡­ done. Tickets booked.


    ¡°Nice. You said that was the first thing. What else did CSMC want to talk about?¡±


    Iris Engine Joint Project. They seem to have hit a wall on one of their sub-projects.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Unclear. Our sources suggest they¡¯re having issues with Znosian computers.


    ¡°What? Didn¡¯t we agree to just rip the Bunny trash out of those ships and put our own in?¡±


    Yes. I can see no rational reason why they would be having these issues.


    She thought for a moment, then smiled in understanding. ¡°Ah, they¡¯re trying to reverse engineer and clone the Znosian combat algorithms, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    That is¡­ a possibility I ignored. The tactical and strategic capabilities of Znosian combat algorithms are¡­ unsophisticated. Very. Unsophisticated.


    Martina thought she detected a generous helping of contempt in the pauses in her implant¡¯s output.


    She smiled, ¡°Relax, tin can, we¡¯re not replacing your digital friends at Atlas Command just yet. They¡¯re probably just trying to emulate it in our own programs so they can better model Bunny behavior in battle planning.¡±


    That¡­ may work.


    ¡°See? Another reason they have us smarty-pants humans running things. What would CSMC need from us?¡±


    Manuals. Navy reconnaissance footage. Access to Malgeir fleet black box data.


    ¡°Fine, we¡¯ll get those to them. The last one might take a couple weeks¡­ Converting currency is such a bitch, and their officials only take their funny money for bribes.¡±


    Actually, there might be an easier way: one of our local contractors may have access.


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    Eupprio Tech, Fifth Fleet sensors upgrade project. CEO is on her way to Sol. ETA about six days.


    ¡°Convenient. Is she as uh¡­ flexible with ethics as the other Puppers we work with on these things?¡±


    More so than usual.


    ¡°Excellent. Schedule the meeting.¡±


    I have a question: why are we helping CSMC with this project? Can we not simply¡ª


    ¡°Sure, we can just try to beat them to it. I¡¯m sure the engineers down at R&D made a dump of those computers before the Navy made us hand them over to the other companies to take a swing at it too. But it¡¯s a lot of work to invest and I¡¯m not sure I believe in the concept. Non-deterministic, doesn¡¯t account for their high-level commanders who ignore the algorithms, and we¡¯ve already got a pretty good model ourselves from observing them. Revealed behavior versus theoretical behavior, I think our computers win every time.¡±


    So you do admit it was a bad idea that I correctly discarded.


    ¡°Ah, but see¡­ Just because we shouldn¡¯t do it doesn¡¯t mean we can¡¯t make a little money off CSMC¡¯s hubris. And who knows, maybe they do find a breakthrough early. They do have a lot of modeling experience over there.¡±


    Fine. Agreed.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    Aligned intent with their assistant. Agreed to data exchange. Meeting objectives accomplished. Meeting cancellation request processed. Next meeting¡­ 3.5 hours.


    ¡°Sweet,¡± Martina grinned, kicking off her shoes and settling into her office couch for a power nap. ¡°Wake me up in an hour or if the office catches fire.¡±


    Wait. One more thing: there is the matter of payment for our help with CSMC.


    She opened her eyes in slight annoyance. ¡°Calculate the value and piggyback it onto¡­ whichever one of our contracts needs it for the tax credit¡­ thing. Whatever. Work it out with their assistant.¡±


    Already done.


    ¡°Nobody likes a show-off, toaster.¡±


    Have a good nap, inefficient meatbag.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 4 | Funny Business I

    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    Shuttle Oathkeeper-32, Sol (4,700 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    ¡°Hey Eupprio, wake up. Wakey wake.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s eyes fluttered open, greeted by Fleguipu¡¯s persistent nudges. Her body, still cloaked in the remnants of sleep, rebelled against the intrusion. She blinked away the grogginess and asked with a hoarse voice, ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re passing that ringed planet you said you wanted to look at,¡± Fleguipu said, pointing a claw at the image of Saturn on the full color external camera display mounted on the hull wall.


    Eupprio took in its rings for a minute. The labyrinthine tapestry of shimmering ice and rock, stretching for thousands of kilometers in every direction. The rings appeared like a river of stardust, its particles ranging from tiny pieces of granulated ice to boulders the size of houses, the uneven distribution a result of cosmic collisions and gravitational dances that birthed it eons ago. Amidst them, the Cassini Division stood out as a dark ribbon of emptiness contrasting the luminous ice around it.


    ¡°Not bad, eh?¡± Aida called out across from her. ¡°You have one of these in your Federation?¡±


    ¡°A few,¡± Eupprio said, not taking her eyes off the spectacle on the screen. ¡°None in Malgeiru though.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, the most famous one in Malgeir space is occupied: Uidquu-8,¡± Fleguipu added with a hint of sadness. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll get it back one day.¡±


    As they sailed closer, they noticed that several sections in the rings were dotted with signs of Terran civilization.


    Stretched out along the B-ring were a series of mining and habitation stations, like a string of pearls, each one teeming with exterior activity. Their metal surfaces reflected light from the planet, giving them an ethereal glow amidst the natural brilliance of the ring.


    Amid the drifting ice and rock, ships darted like gleaming fish in a cosmic pond. Some were lumbering transport vessels, slowly shuttling people and goods between neighboring ring settlements. Others were more rugged, built for the rigors of interplanetary travel, their hull silhouettes followed by the characteristic blooms of their constant acceleration drives.


    ¡°Are we going to do a close fly-by?¡± Eupprio asked curiously.


    ¡°Somewhat. It¡¯ll only boost our speed a little for our journey to Mars, but¡­ it saves on fuel.¡±


    Fleguipu¡¯s brow creased in concern. ¡°Isn¡¯t this area supposed to be dangerous? Pirates? Terrorists?¡±


    ¡°Danger is a relative concept,¡± Aida responded with nonchalance. ¡°We¡¯re going pretty fast, and the smart ones usually don¡¯t mess with our ships. We should be fine.¡±


    <hr>


    She was proven wrong about an hour later.


    Abe¡¯s voice broke through the intercom, ¡°LT, there are a couple of bogeys burning to intercept. Zero decimal four two light seconds. Likely pirates.¡±


    ¡°Damn it,¡± Aida cursed under her breath as she looked at her alien charges. ¡°Now that¡¯s just embarrassing. Pilot, what transponder codes are they squawking?¡±


    ¡°No codes yet. They¡¯re not that close: we have twenty minutes before we¡¯d have to make a decision. After that, they¡¯ll get close enough for it to get dicey. I¡¯m on the lookout for other traps, but nothing so far. I think it¡¯s just these guys. Should we go evasive?¡± Abe¡¯s voice crackled through the speaker.


    ¡°Nah, save the fuel,¡± Aida decided swiftly. ¡°Call our guys in the Navy. Free target practice for them.¡±


    Eupprio asked nervously, ¡°Everything alright, Aida?¡±


    ¡°A couple pirates are headed our way. You were briefed on decompression procedures, right?¡±


    ¡°Decompression?!¡± Eupprio¡¯s voice climbed an octave. ¡°Don¡¯t we have weapons on the shuttle?¡±


    ¡°Only point defense. But don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m handling it.¡±


    Abe¡¯s voice returned, tinged with a hint of urgency. ¡°Navy¡¯s busy right now. They can have a patrol transit through the area in about six hours. Should we ask them to drop by?¡±


    Aida shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s too long. They¡¯re too far away. What are the bogeys mounting?¡±


    ¡°No foxes. Two gunpods each.¡±


    She whistled at the brazenness. ¡°These guys must be new. Fresh outta Titan.¡±


    ¡°Should I start burning now?¡± Abe asked.


    ¡°Not yet, I don¡¯t want an extra deceleration burn,¡± Aida insisted. ¡°Call them on the radio.¡±


    The cargo bay fell into a tense silence, broken only by the sound of Abe¡¯s attempts to establish contact with the approaching ships.


    A gruff, distorted voice eventually crackled through the intercom. ¡°You know the drill, yea? Let¡¯s save us all some time.¡±


    ¡°This is Lieutenant Aida Naser, flying with Black Hole Sun. Who am I speaking to?¡±


    ¡°None of your damn business, merc!¡± They could hear the pirate spitting into his microphone.


    ¡°All due respect, but you made it my business when you started burning your ships towards me on an intercept course. Now, I don¡¯t negotiate with strangers I don¡¯t know the names of.¡±


    ¡°Fine! The name is Greer. Greer Thatch. Of uh¡­ Thatch Enterprises. That¡¯s who you¡¯re dealing with!¡±


    Aida looked around the cargo bay at the other troopers. There were a lot of shrugs and questioning looks in the exchanged glances.


    Aida rejoined the conversation with politeness. ¡°Sorry, how do you spell that? Is that two E¡¯s or e-a-r? I can¡¯t find you in our database¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut up! You know what we¡¯re here for, yea?¡±


    ¡°Please, spell it out for me, Greer. I don¡¯t want there to be any misunderstanding between us when¡­ everything goes down.¡±


    Greer seemed to hesitate and waver at her confidence, but he continued, ¡°We¡¯re going to board you and take your cargo. I suggest you cut engine thrust and comply with our demands.¡±


    The cargo bay filled with laughter, some of the Terran contractors slapping each other on the backs in amusement. A couple did perfunctory checks on their weapons. Aida silenced them all with an impatient wave of her hand.


    ¡°That¡¯s cute,¡± Aida retorted. ¡°But before you try that, you should check our public registration and manifest. The only cargo we have is eighteen direct action troopers coming home from an extrasolar deployment, so unless you have a whole company of boarding specialists hiding in your skiffs, I¡¯d suggest you come up with an alternate retirement plan, Greer.¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    A tense silence stretched on the call. ¡°You¡¯re lying!¡±


    Aida remained silent.


    After a minute, Greer¡¯s voice returned, tinged with frustration. ¡°Man, that¡¯s some bullshit¡­ But we¡¯re not going home empty. We won¡¯t board you, but we can still blow up your shuttle! Dump your fancy centerline fuel pods or we¡¯ll put a hole in your reactor!¡±


    Aida sighed, her voice dripping with theatrical exasperation. ¡°But what use are our fuel pods to you when our missiles find you?¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t carrying anti-ship missiles on that tiny shuttle, no way!¡± There was a noticeable crack in the pirate¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Not on this shuttle,¡± Aida conceded freely. ¡°But check your charts, we¡¯re within the coverage zones of at least six Black Hole Sun long-range missile batteries in the Red Zone. They¡¯re not just going to let you go after you open fire on us. The only reason they haven¡¯t fired on you yet is because¡­ ah, two reasons actually: one, missiles are expensive, and two, it might make the company look bad on the evening news in Titan. Now, if you had a Charlie-rated or higher constant acceleration drive, you could probably outrun a couple of those missiles¡­¡±


    Judging by the ensuing lack of reply from the other end, that was clearly not the case.


    Aida continued steadily, ¡°In any case, you¡¯re on our radar now. Maybe we¡¯ll just pass your registration on to the Navy, and they¡¯ll come use you for target practice. Now¡­ I know you did your orbital calculations¡­ and you figure the Navy won¡¯t show up within an hour or so. And you¡¯d probably be right about that. But I bet their schedule clears up real quick once those guns of yours go off. And their missiles can get here a lot faster than their ships can too: I hear they aren¡¯t as stingy with their munitions budget as we are.¡±


    More silence.


    ¡°Or maybe we don¡¯t call the Reps at all; instead, we pay a few people¡­ find out where you live¡­ Now I won¡¯t get to decide which one of those it¡¯ll be, because I¡¯ll be dead, but in all likelihood, so will you¡ª¡±


    Obvious panic tinged the pirate¡¯s voice now. ¡°No¡ª no wait. Let¡¯s talk this through.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡±


    ¡°First, no funny merc business. And no Navy reports!¡±


    ¡°What do we get in return?¡± Aida asked nonchalantly.


    ¡°We uh¡ª we¡¯ll clear out.¡±


    ¡°Not good enough. That ship has sailed, boys. I¡¯ve already had to call in a couple contacts. This has cost me time and resources, so it¡¯s going to cost you. And the closer you get to us, the more it¡¯s going to cost both of us.¡±


    ¡°Wait, no, we¡¯ll back off!¡± The sound of hurried movements crackled through the line before the microphone went dead.


    From the cockpit, Abe relayed the update. ¡°Looks like they¡¯re cutting their acceleration. They¡¯re no longer on an intercept course.¡±


    The amateur pirate¡¯s voice came through again, desperation clear. ¡°We¡¯ve stopped! We¡¯ve stopped.¡±


    ¡°Good, now let¡¯s talk about conditions.¡±


    ¡°What¡ª What else do you want, merc? We can dump our cargo.¡±


    ¡°What would I want your cargo for,¡± Aida snorted in derision. ¡°It¡¯ll cost me more in time just to slow down to retrieve them. Nah, I think we¡¯ll just pass the word to the Navy. Have a good afternoon or morning or whenever it is wherever you come from¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait, no, please! Don¡¯t hang up! We¡¯re just trying to make a living out here! Please, tell us how we can make it up to you!¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Aida pretended to think for a moment. ¡°I guess I can take your dinky boarding skiffs. Might come in handy one day. Here¡¯s what you¡¯re going to do: burn straight back to Pandora Station, dock in ports Charlie-two and Charlie-three, leave the keys in the ignition, and I¡¯ll give you a week to find your own way off the station before I call the cops.¡±


    A strangled, frustrated cry echoed through the line. ¡°But it took us forever to buy and fix up these ships! This is so unfair!¡±


    ¡°Sweetie, you should have thought of that before you got into this line of work.¡± Aida replied, her voice a blend of sternness¡­ and sympathy, ¡°Tell you what, I¡¯m feeling extra generous today. You can keep one of your ships¡­ your pick of which one. But both your crews better be on that ship and out of Pandora by the end of the business day.¡±


    There must have been some disagreement between the two ships about which one of them was going to lose their spacecraft, but whatever it was, they resolved it in record time.


    ¡°Deal! No funny business as we leave, merc!¡±


    ¡°No funny business,¡± Aida promised. ¡°You know our reputation; we don¡¯t screw around like that. But don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get away with sabotaging my future ship if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking. I¡¯ll be billing you for any damage I find when I get to Pandora.¡±


    ¡°We took good care of our ships!¡± the pirate replied wistfully.


    ¡°Aww. Come now, don¡¯t be so melodramatic. Think of it as me doing you a personal favor: I really don¡¯t think this whole piracy thing was going to work out for you anyway. If I were you, I¡¯d suggest something in the tourism industry. Lots of potential for growth¡­ Anyway, good doing business with you, and I hope for your sake we never see you again. Buh bye!¡±


    She severed the connection.


    Eupprio regarded Aida with curiosity. ¡°You¡¯re still going to report them to your Navy, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Aida shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°Nah. Probably not.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± Eupprio asked, surprised.


    ¡°Yeah, in the Red Zone, even now that it¡¯s stabilized, you¡¯re good as your word. People live and die by their reputation out here. I get these guys killed; that¡¯ll probably get some of our other guys killed somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°I guess¡­ that makes sense. Just too bad for some other traders coming by, right?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. Maybe not. You have to understand, these guys probably won¡¯t ever get to do it again. They¡¯re bankrupt: the people they owe money to are not the kind where you can just shuffle assets and declare bankruptcy. And it¡¯s not just this crew. Most pirates are constantly a couple bad hauls away from financial disaster because it¡¯s fundamentally not that great a business model, even if you don¡¯t count the risk to their lives.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not?! Seemed like an easy way to make some quick money!¡±


    Aida shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. ¡°Oh yeah, that¡¯s what many of them thought too before their first haul. Nah, the returns are terrible. There¡¯s some glamor if you¡¯re one of the big fish, yes, but fighting in space¡­ it¡¯s expensive. Flying anywhere burns money, and chasing ships?¡± Aida shook her head. ¡°So many credits. You can see most of them coming, and truckers usually run just because they know it¡¯s too expensive for pirates to chase them; they figure if they¡¯re going to lose money, better to waste it getting to their destination quicker than let the pirates get their stuff. And the weapons¡­ oh God, the munition cost! When we first started in space like a century ago, weapons were literally anything you can bolt onto a ship frame. But after decades of fighting here, effective weapons have gotten increasingly expensive.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense,¡± Eupprio said, nodding in understanding. ¡°More sophisticated weapons cost more.¡±


    ¡°Yup, as an average cargo pirate now, if you have to fire a missile out here, you¡¯ve already lost¡­ Financially ruined, even if you¡¯re not getting hunted by the Navy. I¡¯m not joking: the big pirate gangs literally buy and sell legit insurance products that pay out for when you fire missiles out here. Gunpods work, but you have to hope they don¡¯t run and let you get in real close, which is rare. I think small-time hostage takers can still make a living¡­ that¡¯s if you don¡¯t get on the radar of those Republic counter-terrorism operators itching for training opportunities, but everything else sucks.¡±


    ¡°Why do they do it then?¡± Eupprio asked. ¡°If it¡¯s such a raw deal for the average pirate as you say.¡±


    ¡°Nobody gets into this life hoping to be the average cargo pirate,¡± Aida explained. ¡°There are two types of people out here bucking the long arm of the Republic. First, you have the ones out here for credits. There¡¯s piracy and there¡¯s smuggling¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is smuggling generally unprofitable too?¡± Eupprio asked, once again recalling the security briefing she¡¯d gotten before the trip.


    ¡°Oh no, smuggling is a whole different beast. Smuggling¡­ now, that¡¯s a lucrative business if you want to make some real money in the Red Zone. But you need to have contacts and you need to know the right people. Need some starting capital for deposits, to cover insurance, to pay off the gangs to leave you alone. Need lots of security so people don¡¯t think you¡¯re a pushover or they can screw you over just because you don¡¯t have a lot of legal options.¡±


    Fleguipu looked up sharply at her. ¡°Sounds like you uh¡­ know a lot about the business.¡±


    Aida grinned shamelessly. ¡°Heh yeah. If I hadn¡¯t joined Black Hole Sun after my time in the Marines was up¡­ Anyway, smugglers and pirates, most of them are small-time operations; a few get bigger. The big ones march over to the transport corporations and demand protection fees. They¡¯re not supposed to, but some of these companies pay.¡±


    ¡°You said there were two types of criminals out here.¡±


    ¡°The true believers. Or as they call themselves, the Resistance,¡± Aida¡¯s face turned dark. ¡°The pirates who are here for money and excitement ¡ª they kick up a ruckus from time to time, but they don¡¯t hold a candle to the psychos out here who actually believe every word they say. The ones who are willing to blow up stations and colonies full of innocent people simply because they have a problem with authority and want the Republic gone so they can run things around here. Nothing is off the table for the terrorists.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t your people say those groups are mostly extinct?¡± Eupprio asked nervously.


    ¡°That¡¯s what the tourism brochure says,¡± Aida smiled thinly at her. She looked out the window at the retreating image of Saturn. ¡°But we all know they¡¯re still out there. Plenty of rocks to hide in the Red Zone. They have their own ships, their own bases. Thousands of their cells, just running cold and hiding in the dark, maybe more. Sure, they haven¡¯t really done anything in years after the last Navy sanitation campaign, but we all know it¡¯s a matter of time before they strike again.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 5 | Funny Business II

    <div>


    <div>


    Raytech ¡ª Olympus Campus, Mars


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    Eupprio and Fleguipu looked at the shuttle bay external doors with anxiety as the siren light next to it flashed a menacing red. The shrill wail of an alarm pierced the air, slowly getting louder.


    ¡°What¡¯s that¡ª¡±


    ¡°Airlock,¡± Aida answered casually. ¡°We¡¯re just waiting for it to pressurize outside.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s brows furrowed in confusion. ¡°Pressurize? Isn¡¯t this an inhabited planet?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no breathable atmosphere for us outside though.¡±


    ¡°Will we need to put on suits?¡±


    ¡°Nah, Olympus is domed once we go underground. Only the launch and landing pads in the spaceport are outside,¡± Aida said, nodding towards the exterior cameras. They displayed the shuttle¡¯s further descent into the landing pad, gradually unveiling an expansive underground chamber.


    ¡°Domed?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, like they¡¯ve got a big artificial dome of air¡­ You guys don¡¯t have domed habitats?¡±


    ¡°We have infrastructure in space¡­ but why go through the expense of building a colony on a non-atmospheric planet?¡±


    ¡°There is atmosphere here; it¡¯s just too thin to breathe. If you go outside without a helmet, you¡¯ll lose consciousness in thirty seconds.¡±


    ¡°So why build a colony here? And a whole city too!¡± Eupprio asked, voice tinged with bewilderment.


    ¡°You have to remember: we don¡¯t have dozens of systems like you,¡± Aida explained. ¡°We¡¯ve got a single habitable planet in between the billions of people in our species. Everyone else gets to live with recycled air and water.¡±


    ¡°That sounds¡­ dreadful,¡± Fleguipu sniffed, her nose wrinkling slightly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not too bad. I lived on one station or another in the Red Zone for a few years. You get used to it. Mars, though, this is actually prime real estate.¡±


    ¡°Not Terra?¡± Eupprio questioned. ¡°Surely that¡¯s your most habitable planet.¡±


    ¡°Terra is the most habitable,¡± Aida conceded. ¡°But not the richest. Think about it: it¡¯s expensive to climb out of Mother Terra¡¯s gravity well. So who can afford to come here? Only the wealthiest Terrans or those with the most desirable skills. And Mars just happens to be the furthest you can go without really worrying about security like you would on Ganymede, Titan, or any of the Jovian or Saturnian moons. The shipyard workers on Ceres get paid a lot too, but that¡¯s new money; Mars is where the old money goes. For that reason, Olympus has the highest real estate prices in Sol other than a few small patches of Luna, and Olympus University is the most prestigious school in the Republic.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Eupprio nodded, the gesture more an acknowledgement of the unintuitive Terran logic than true comprehension. ¡°Is that why we are meeting this Martina Wright here? She is rich?¡±


    Aida nodded in confirmation. ¡°Yup. Her company Raytech is, at least. Largest defense contractor in the Republic. They build everything from warships and luxury cruise liners to small arms and computer tablets.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you in that business too? Most of the alien clients we¡¯ve shuttled so far are executives for companies building some Malgeir-Terran ship integration or brainiacs who know a lot about science stuff. No offense, but judging by your name and demeanor, you seem a lot more like the former than the latter.¡±


    ¡°None taken,¡± Eupprio said, smiling. ¡°We were actually mostly in the finances business, but we¡¯re making a pivot to move into defense as well recently.¡±


    ¡°Ah, smelling the credits from the war?¡± Aida matched her smile cynically. ¡°I don¡¯t blame you.¡±


    ¡°Defense is not in our company¡¯s genetics, but we acquired a major radar manufacturer to get caught up. And we have¡­ certain advantages.¡±


    ¡°Coy too, huh? Alright, keep your secrets,¡± Aida remarked, just as the siren lights ceased their dancing and the alarm fell silent. ¡°Ah, looks like it¡¯s pressurized. We are good to go. Next stop, Raytech campus. It¡¯s beautiful. There¡¯s this line of implanted cherry trees in front, you¡¯ll see¡­¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Martina Wright, Terran (Executive)


    Martina¡¯s office shimmered in the soft glow of its ambient lighting.


    She smiled as the duo of aliens entered her office, mustering all her decades of experience in decorum to refrain from treating them in her head as anything¡ª anyone other than regular new clients.


    The silver furred one, the leader apparently, walked up to her, reached out her paw, and gave her a perfectly serviceable handshake: firm and brief. She spoke in fluent English through her translator, ¡°Hello, Martina. I am Eupprio. It is a pleasure to meet you.¡±


    Eupprio, CEO of Eupprio Tech, her implant reminded her. Age 29. Silver fur likely dyed or genetically modified. Estimated 1.45 meters, 15 Martian kilograms.


    ¡°Welcome to Mars, Eupprio and Fleguipu,¡± she declared. ¡°I will be your host while you are in Sol¡­ if there¡¯s anything about your stay here that you are dissatisfied about, please let me know.¡±


    Eupprio raised her snout, looking out her window at the sprawling Raytech campus beneath them. ¡°Everything has been ideal so far. The beauty of your campus is unparalleled. I have never seen anything quite like it, especially built on a non-habitable planet.¡±


    There are no known Malgeir colonies on non-habitable planets, so don¡¯t get too¡ª


    ¡°Thank you, Eupprio. Please, take a seat,¡± she gestured towards the twin couches in her office. ¡°I¡¯ve had one of these ordered, tailored to your¡­ ergonomic specifications.¡±


    Eupprio and Fleguipu settled onto the couches, the former letting out a low, satisfied rumble at the comfort. ¡°Much better than a Navy shuttle jump seat, that¡¯s for sure.¡±


    You should ask her what¡¯s wrong with our SC-30 shuttle seat¡ª


    Martina chuckled, easing herself into her chair with a practiced grace. ¡°Actually, we make those shuttle seats too. The discomfort is a¡­ compromise for other features the Navy requires, though we are now experimenting with Malgeir variants that may be slightly more comfortable for someone with your physique. Anyway, please, tell me¡­ how was your trip here? Any trouble on the way?¡±


    ¡°Oh, not much,¡± Eupprio replied with a dismissive flick of her ear. ¡°Just a mild piracy scare near the Saturn Red Zone.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, we get a few of those. I¡¯ll make sure your shuttle takes a detour far away from it on your way out, even if it¡ª¡± Martina closely observed the aliens¡¯ faces with her limited knowledge of Malgeir body language.


    Eupprio shook her ears dismissively. ¡°No, that¡¯s fine. We enjoyed the view, and I¡¯m confident in your people¡¯s skills.¡±


    Martina nodded, in a gesture of mutual respect. ¡°As we are confident in yours.¡±


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°We did see something on our way up to your office though,¡± Eupprio commented, fishing for information. ¡°There was a large hole in the ground in your campus. It seemed like an active excavation¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah yes. That¡¯s a new underground building site for Project Panoptes¡­ Actually, it is tangentially related to your sensor upgrade project.¡±


    ¡°Panoptes? I¡¯m unfamiliar with the word¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an ancient Terran word, meaning all-seeing eyes,¡± Martina replied with casual pride. ¡°How much do you know about our ships¡¯ situational awareness systems?¡±


    ¡°Not much, just that it¡¯s more advanced than ours.¡±


    Martina nodded. ¡°Every warship, Terran or Malgeir, carries a combination of sensors: proximity, visual, infrared, thermal, radar, gravidar, et cetera. Each of them gets fed into the ship¡¯s computers, which fuses the information it gets from each of them into a singular picture available for its commanders. For detecting most ships, this sensor fusion task is trivial. But against ships designed for low observability, it becomes a much more complex problem. There is way more ambiguity and you need to combine data from multiple sources for better detection: a smudge on a long-distance telescope, a radar ping from a patrol boat, slightly elevated telemetry from a listening satellite, all of it comes together to give us a better picture of the battlefield of the future.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s expression tightened. ¡°But stealth ships¡­ our enemies don¡¯t have those kinds of ships¡­ do they?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. But they might eventually start building them. And increasingly, some of the pirates in our own system are getting their hands on such systems. We expect stealth proliferation in the Red Zone to be a big problem in the next couple decades.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Panoptes allows us to read information off the millions of sensors we have in Sol and beyond, from the nose of our most advanced reconnaissance ships to century-old orbital telescopes in Terra orbit. Every single pixel of camera footage, every radar bounce is read and processed, compared against recorded orbital data, accounting for light-time delay and even jamming. Errors and data imperfections are then deconflicted and resolved using the largest series of super-intelligence chips ever built for a single purpose. If a bee-sized rock is out of place anywhere in Sol¡­ Panoptes sees all and knows all¡­¡±


    ¡°Bee?¡±


    ¡°Small Terran animal¡­ about your claw¡¯s size.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s tongue hung out in astonishment. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ impressive. I assume these facilities house those computers then.¡±


    ¡°Exactly right. Buildings and buildings brimming with advanced neuromorphic computers. They¡¯re not just here on Mars,¡± Martina gestured vaguely skyward. ¡°They¡¯re mostly on Terra, Luna, and Europa. A few on our ships and stations. That much data takes a lot of computing power to sift through.¡±


    ¡°And when it¡¯s built¡ª¡±


    ¡°When it¡¯s finished and switched on, nothing in Sol will be beyond our reach. Piracy and the Resistance will finally become a problem of the past. People have said for decades that you can¡¯t chase a technological solution to this social problem, but¡­¡± Martina offered a nonchalant shrug, her eyes twinkling. ¡°Those people also haven¡¯t seen a quettaFLOPS computing network in action either.¡±


    Eupprio looked dazed, her snout open and tongue hanging out.


    Next to her, Fleguipu must have sensed that something was significant about the Terrans¡¯ achievements in scaled computing from her friend¡¯s reaction, but she didn¡¯t quite understand: usually, Eupprio handled the technical side of the business. She brought the conversation back to the ground. ¡°That¡¯s um¡­ very impressive. Is the timeline for our project related to the completion of Project Panoptes?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, not at all,¡± Martina replied. ¡°The Fifth Fleet sensor upgrade package is ready to be delivered to Malgeiru. Is your team ready to integrate?¡±


    Eupprio came back to Mars and nodded with fervor. ¡°Ah, ahead of schedule. That¡¯s what I like about you Terrans.¡±


    ¡°You haven¡¯t met half of us,¡± Martina chuckled. ¡°And we still have a lot to go over on the administrative side. Our researchers did some digging into your company, and we noticed that there hasn¡¯t been a lot of mention of your activities in the defense industry before recently¡ª¡±


    ¡°That is correct,¡± Eupprio replied, unphased. ¡°We are relatively new to the sector. But your research may or may not have covered our recent acquisition of Ciolnoenc Instruments. They are a company specializing in defense electronics and long range optical¡ª¡±


    We have evaluated their acquisition history. Not the most optimal but far from the worst option.


    Martina let Eupprio¡¯s monologue wash over her.


    ¡°¡ª and as a young, agile company, we are more than ready to listen to the experience of our experts from Ciolnoenc in such a project,¡± she finished.


    ¡°That¡¯s good to hear,¡± Martina said. ¡°But to be blunt, we didn¡¯t sponsor your company¡¯s entry into the Oathkeeper program because of your new acquisitions. Rather, it is your expertise in other areas that attracts us.¡±


    Eupprio thought quickly on her paws and pivoted like an experienced dancer. ¡°You may think of our main business as financiers. It serves as a base of capital for our purchases, and lubricant for navigating our bureaucracy.¡±


    ¡°Precisely. While some Malgeir manufacturing firms are more technically prepared for a project like this than others, the nature of the¡­ differential in our technology makes that hard to quantify positively. For example, are you familiar with the general principle behind our gravidars?¡±


    Eupprio shook her head honestly. ¡°No, I am only aware it is several generations upgraded from our radar. I assume it operates on some gravitic principle?¡±


    ¡°Actually, it does not, but that was what we wanted people to think. As some of our people have guessed, what it relies on is not gravitational waves, which travel at light speed, but rather FTL principles. Which is why gravidar systems are deeply integrated into our blink drives. This is relevant because your drives are mostly compatible with ours, except they take up a large volume of your ships because your ships are bigger: bigger ships, more mass, bigger blink drive.¡±


    ¡°I see. Are you implying we should have bought a drive company instead of a sensor company?¡± Eupprio asked.


    ¡°No. We are saying there was no way you could have known, and none of the other Malgeir firms that are bidding on Republic contracts know what they are doing either. Your other advantage, however, your capital ¡ª your capabilities in navigating Malgeir government and society ¡ª those are enduring, and we intend to leverage those.¡±


    Eupprio nodded, a newfound comprehension dawning in her eyes.


    Martina continued, ¡°We will¡­ go over how we can best synergize those in more detail in the coming week. But for now, we have an additional request of a somewhat¡­ time-sensitive nature.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    Martina hesitated, her gaze oscillating between the pair of aliens. ¡°It uh¡­ it might be best if we spoke with you alone on this matter?¡±


    ¡°I trust Fleguipu,¡± Eupprio declared firmly. ¡°There is nothing about my business she is not also aware of.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll be straightforward. We know you have access to a large number of Malgeir Navy incident reports.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s eyes momentarily betrayed her surprise before regaining composure. ¡°Is that so? There are many rumors surrounding our company; not all of them are true.¡±


    We are 99.8% certain. We have TRO surveillance from her office and¡ª


    ¡°We need a copy of them, and we are willing to pay.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you request of copy from the Defense Ministry given your collaboration with¡ª¡±


    Martina answered, ¡°We can, but it will take time.¡±


    Eupprio nodded thoughtfully. ¡°I see. But if I had them, I would not hand them out for free. How would you price this?¡±


    We are not paying for the value of the reports, but the expediency and avoidance of potential omission. Value calculated¡­ negotiation should end below: 18.3 million Terran credits. Start negotiations with at least 12 million.


    ¡°We¡¯ll offer you 18 million Terran credits for the whole cache,¡± Martina offered unflinchingly. ¡°Final price.¡±


    Eupprio ran through the numbers in her head, factoring in the exchange rate.


    ¡°Done,¡± she said, retrieving her tablet and initiating the file transfer to¡ª ¡°How do I hand these over¡ª¡±


    Martina gestured towards Fleguipu. ¡°Just transfer the files to your friend¡¯s datapad, unencrypted preferably. The sensors in my office will intercept it.¡±


    Eupprio shot her a sharp look, then shrugged and complied. ¡°And how will you deliver payment?¡± she asked as the file transfer began.


    ¡°We can add that as a line item to your sensors upgrade contract: technical support,¡± Martina suggested. ¡°My assistant will optimize its categorization and depreciation for taxation purposes¡ª¡±


    Eupprio shook her ears in disapproval. ¡°That will not do. Our company is already at the cap of our hundred billion source-sole contracts limit imposed by your Republic¡¯s procurement regulations.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Martina¡¯s brow furrowed briefly in thought. ¡°There are ways around that too, but we can also deliver equivalent value goods or technology in¡ª¡±


    Eupprio shook her ears again, this time more sharply in refusal. ¡°I want hard credits.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°Terran credits,¡± Eupprio specified. ¡°I want it in the local currency here. Either in a discreet account or physical denominations.¡±


    She does not care about money. She is making a backup plan for if the war goes poorly for the Malgeir, or she wants to deal with Republic entities in less-than-legal situations. Possibly even bribes for acquiring tech samples.


    Martina mulled over this for a moment and nodded. ¡°That¡¯s acceptable. I¡¯ll have my assistant get you an account at Sol Bank under a legal pseudonym and credited with the amount. You will have to pay a local income tax on the amount, since it cannot be deducted as a business expense.¡±


    Eupprio¡¯s snout flared slightly. ¡°There is no way around that? Would they even know about¡­¡±


    ¡°Not easily. And word of advice, you don¡¯t want to mess with the Republic Revenue Service. But we can optimize it: we have a subsidiary office on Titan, which allows remote residence for tax purposes, and if we pay you out at that location, we can optimize your effective rate down to¡ª¡±


    1.95%.


    ¡°¡ªabout two percent with various tax incentives.¡±


    Eupprio waved her paw casually. ¡°Fine, that¡¯s acceptable.¡±


    Martina nodded as her implant got to work.


    Creating account¡­ Crediting¡­ Preparing paperwork¡­ Sending the details to her tablet¡­ Done.


    ¡°It¡¯s done.¡±


    ¡°That was quick,¡± Eupprio commented, a hint of astonishment flickering in her eyes as she saw the alert on her datapad.


    ¡°Our computers work fast.¡±


    Wanna see me do it again?

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 6 | Holdouts I

    <div>


    <div>


    Priunt Spaceport, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    The crew of the armored Longclaw unit formerly known as Fearless laid on their bellies, thermal blankets draped over their bodies, trying their best not to silhouette themselves against the hill they were on.


    Six Whiskers Skhork looked down at the target in his optical rangefinder: a sprawling spaceport complex, pulsating with lights and activity even at this late hour. The giant loading cranes moved ponderously transferring cargo from landed ships to vehicles on the ground.


    Just two months ago, this had been solidly in the hands of the Znosian Ground Forces, but with the loss of orbital superiority over Datsot, their units all over the planet had been on the run, forced into hiding, slowly being whittled away by the enemies backed by orbital firepower.


    The battalion of conscript infantry that his Longclaw platoon had been attached to had met various fates. It was already understrength to begin with due to the supply shortage, and in the aftermath of the chaos following the loss of orbital superiority, they had no more than a dozen platoons: two platoons were wiped to the last in a poorly planned supply raid.


    Another platoon was taken out by an orbital strike following their use of a radio to respond to a plea for help from a nearby shuttle pilot who was downed by enemy atmospheric aircraft.


    Supposed pilot, anyway.


    Later events and a field assignment-of-responsibility meeting determined two new lessons: one, the enemy were monitoring their radio signals and two, there was no downed shuttle. The enemy was somehow generating fake distress calls and responding to them in perfectly spoken Znosian with the right response codes. And they were doing it in real time.


    That was a new trick. The remaining holdouts switched off their radios after that.


    His own platoon of Longclaws fared little better. They had been devastated during the confusion of the retreat. Of their four heavy armored vehicles, Fearless Three was destroyed at the Battle for Hill 37, a heavy sacrifice of both creature and machine that seemed pointless in hindsight. Fearless Four was heavily damaged there as well, losing its gravity engines and having to be towed back to base. Along with Fearless Two, the two Longclaws had to be destroyed by their own crews to prevent capture by the enemies when their forward operating base was overrun by Lesser Predators.


    Only his command vehicle remained operational, by a rather liberal definition of that word. Out of supplies or part replacement, a dozen of its internal systems had been rendered either non-functional or so inefficient they might as well have been. It had run out of all but a fraction of its combat shells and a few belts of coaxial kinetic ammunition. Thankfully, its weak combat computer was still capable of giving field directives to the diminishing number of troops under Skhork. Its crew had hidden it in the forestry nearby under some carefully placed foliage.


    Next to him, Skhork¡¯s Gunner grunted at him for the device in his paws. He passed the rangefinder over.


    She peered through the digital lens, whispering, ¡°I don¡¯t remember the autocannon turret at the back gate from last time.¡±


    He whispered back at her, ¡°It¡¯s new. They must have put it in last week.¡±


    She squinted through the optics, her eyes flickering over its outlines. ¡°Looks fairly low caliber,¡± she assessed. ¡°Twenty-five to thirty-five millimeters. Not enough to penetrate the front or side armor of the Longclaw¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªBut more than enough to turn the flesh of every infantry unit we have into red mist,¡± he finished grimly.


    ¡°Inconvenient. We¡¯ll have to take that out first when we mount our attack here¡ª wait¡ª what¡¯s that?¡± she said, shifting her view over to the landing pad busy unloading area. After a few moments, her eyes widened with a dawning realization. She hissed, ¡°Combat robots!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Skhork asked in disbelief. ¡°Nonsense! Give me that.¡±


    He reclaimed the rangefinder from her paws, and zoomed into the area that captured his Gunner¡¯s attention.


    ¡°Near the crates¡­¡±


    Sure enough, a small group of Lesser Predators had gathered in a semi-circle around two of the unloaded, half-open metal crates, pointing excitedly at the cargo being unpacked. Inside one of the crates ¡ª through the machinery ¡ª he could see a squad of non-active but still menacing looking, bipedal combat robots armed with an assortment of predator small-arms weapons and at least one of them with a compact rocket launcher.


    They looked about a head taller than the Lesser Predator Marines around them, just under 2 meters as measured by his rangefinder. Two front paws. Two standing paws. Fully upright. No tail. Manipulators with five claws on each paw. Their oval heads, crowned with six cylindrical optics, bore a stark resemblance to the four on his own night vision combat gear, albeit bulkier. A thick layer of armor shielded their torsos, obscured partially by utilitarian pouches brimming with ammunition and various items.


    Embedded in their backs was a mysterious solid black rectangle.


    Battery pack, perhaps?


    As he watched, one of the Lesser Predators fiddled with a handheld control, prompting one of the robots to unpack itself and walk out of its packaging, rendering a crisp Lesser Predator salute at it. Several of the creatures around the leader whooped and cheered, clapping each other on their backs in enthusiasm.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    If he hadn¡¯t seen it with his own eyes, Skhork would not have believed it. He stuttered, ¡°But¡ª but how? We didn¡¯t get any intelligence on these!¡±


    Gunner shrugged beside him. She speculated, ¡°They must have had these before the war. Maybe they finally figured out how to make use of them.¡±


    Skhork¡¯s mind raced, sifting through memories of his training, recalling the little they¡¯d learn about fighting them. The Znosian Marines used non-combat robots extensively, mostly highly specialized ones on planets that were not hospitable to life, but few of the enemies they¡¯d had to face used them in combat roles. What they¡¯d known about those few¡­ ranged from inconsequential to mythical. The Znosians themselves had seen no use for such expendable machines in battle: after all, breeding was basically free, and no job was considered too dangerous for Znosian conscripts.


    And these Lesser Predators? Of all the many enemies of the Znosian Dominion, the Malgeir were the last they¡¯d expect to have these.


    And yet here they were, being unloaded onto a planet that was already effectively retaken by the enemy.


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re being shipped in for transit to another sector,¡± he pondered out loud. ¡°They might be having more trouble with our frontline units in the¡ª¡±


    As he watched the combat robots move towards positions guarding hardpoints around the spaceport and a third crate was opened to reveal yet another squad of the machines, his next sentence died in his throat.


    <hr>


    ¡°The new combat robots change nothing,¡± Skhork declared confidently to his briefing of his circle of infantry platoon leaders. ¡°Our planned assault on the spaceport will continue as previously discussed with some minor adjustments.¡±


    A conscript commander, her uniform worn, raised a skeptical eyebrow. ¡°Have you fought them before?¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°Has anyone here fought them before?¡± she pressed on, her gaze sweeping across the circle. None of the veteran commanders replied.


    ¡°We saw their weapons; they¡¯re just regular infantry units,¡± Skhork interrupted. ¡°And our Longclaw combat computer agreed: we expect them to be more accurate and effective than the Lesser Predator units we¡¯ve been facing before, but they are still no match for our Longclaws.¡±


    His platoon leaders murmured their agreement, and no further objections came. If the combat computer said that, it must be so.


    ¡°The assault on the spaceport is still weeks down the line,¡± Skhork said, continuing steadily with his briefing. ¡°Before that, we must charge the internal battery of our Longclaw. Without it, we have no chance. And to charge our Longclaw, we must find parts to make a battery charger.¡±


    He gestured towards a crude makeshift map laid out on the forest floor, composed of fallen tree sticks and bits of vegetation, pointing his claws individually to each of the points of interest. ¡°There are six Lesser Predator power plants within range of our location. During our occupation, one of our other Longclaw Marine units recorded that the power plants in this area had equipment that could possibly be used to fashion a charger for our batteries.¡±


    ¡°That information is still up to date?¡± one of the platoon leaders asked.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know,¡± Skhork admitted. ¡°But we don¡¯t have much of a choice.¡± Then he added, with a hint of resolve, ¡°But even if it does not work, power plants are considered high value infrastructure targets under our ongoing directive anyway.¡±


    The abandoned units on Datsot had all been given one final order before the Navy pulled up stakes: they were to sabotage and destroy as much of the Lesser Predators¡¯ fighting power and war potential as they could, even without the support of the fleet. At any cost. After all, their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools.


    It was up to each individual unit how they wanted to implement that directive. Skhork¡¯s cell had been raiding the countryside for weeks now, gathering supplies for the coming fights.


    ¡°We will hit the power plants sequentially with our infantry platoons,¡± he detailed. ¡°Hopefully the first one we attack will have all the equipment we need, but it is possible it will not. We will hit as many of them as we need until we accomplish our objective. Once we get the parts to make the charger, we will hit a final power plant with our Longclaw in tow, and we will charge its battery to full in preparation for the attack on the spaceport.¡±


    ¡°This is the first power plant,¡± Skhork continued, circling part of the map on the ground with a claw. Then, he drew a diamond split into four. ¡°This old fusion plant has four campuses: north, east, south, and west reactors. We will take the north reactor because it is closest to the tree line, north of the campus. It will be a standard supply raid much like the ones we have been doing for weeks. According to our reconnaissance the past couple days, there is a guard shift rotation at midnight. We will hit it two hours afterward to ensure that we face the least number of enemies.¡±


    He pointed at the platoon leaders in charge of each phase of the attack.


    ¡°Platoons 2 to 6 will hit the guard house. Platoons 2 and 3, you will stay there to ensure that our way out is clear. Platoons 4 to 6 will then proceed to the reactor control center together. Kill anything with forward-facing eyes and try not to shoot anything that looks like it can blow up in your face. Once they secure the campus, Platoons 7 and 8 will then escort my Engineer to the maintenance shed. Guard him with your life because unless one of your conscripts was a mechanic in their past life, he is the only one here who knows how the Longclaw battery works.¡±


    ¡°How long do we have?¡± one of the platoon leaders asked.


    ¡°One hour at most. We will not get long before units from the spaceport respond to the raid, but we have a plan for them too. Platoon 9 will setup a kill box to the north of the main road to delay their forward elements. Once my Engineer has scoured the control room for parts for the Longclaw charger, rig the control room to overload and blow. But be sure not to set it off before we are all well clear of the campus: from what our combat computer calculates, the radius of a secondary explosion can be¡­ considerable.¡±


    ¡°What about enemy artillery?¡± another platoon leader inquired.


    ¡°Based on the orbital patterns we¡¯ve seen over the last few days,¡± Skhork reassured her, ¡°there should be nothing overhead for at least an hour during the time. But we¡¯ll be spotting them on the ground; if any of their support ships try to move into position over us, I¡¯ll pull you out.¡±


    Unanimous nods of understanding rippled through the circle.


    ¡°One more thing, there may be unarmed Lesser Predators in the control center. Should some of them indicate a willingness to come quietly¡­ take the two that seem to be highest-ranking and dispose of the rest. We may need them for information on the other power plants or local enemy movements. And remember to check them for radio devices this time.¡± He said the last part looking at Platoon 6¡¯s leader, whose whiskers subtly twitched at the admonition.


    ¡°If they are not properly ranked?¡± disgust colored one platoon leader¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Then grab the oldest-looking ones. If anything goes badly, fall back to my Engineer and escort him to the northern tree line. All your platoons¡¯ combined lives are worth less to me than his,¡± Skhork declared frankly.


    More nods. One of the platoon leaders muttered under her breath, ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    ¡°Any other questions for the power plant? No? Good. We are Fearless. We are the claws that make predators tremble in the night. Trust in your herd! Trust in your platoons! Awoo?¡±


    ¡°Awoo awoo awoooooooo!¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 7 Holdouts II

    <div>


    Priunt Fusion Power 2, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Skhork squinted at the squad of Lesser Predators milling around the guard house in his helmet mounted night optics. There were only eight of them: all rifles, no heavy weapons. Four of them were seated at a picnic table, engrossed in one of those card-and-token gambling games that the Lesser Predators loved to play. The other four were chatting loudly in a cluster; even from over two kilometers away, his helmet sensors could still pick up some of the sounds they were making. At least half of the guards were holding or enjoying alcoholic drinks.


    They were clearly not prepared for any kind of combat.


    The enemy thinks they¡¯ve won, and the planet is secure, Skhork realized. Time to show them how wrong they are.


    He watched as his platoons of conscript infantry slowly creep up towards the guards at the edge of the tree line on their bellies. Intellectually, he knew these troops were not trained or bred for this mission, but their movements betrayed none of their lack of expertise. They were survivors: they had been fighting in the swamps, forests, and urban jungles of Datsot for months, thrown into the toughest meatgrinders that commanders and planners couldn¡¯t justify wasting his expensive crews and machines on.


    And they were somehow still alive. That said something about them.


    One of the platoon leaders made a paw signal in the air and the troops ceased their forward movement. For the umpteenth time, Skhork wished that they could still use their radios on these raids instead of these unwieldy paw signals, but the risk of early detection by the enemy was too great. The infantry still carried radios just in case there was an emergency, but they would only transmit on those if something has gone truly fruit-shaped.


    ¡°Pssssst,¡± his Gunner hissed at him.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    She pointed at the sky. There were two full moons, shining brightly overhead.


    Skhork immediately understood what she meant. The illumination wasn¡¯t enough to expose his troops, especially not against the incautious guards at the checkpoint, but it could pose a problem later if they had to fight other Lesser Predators. Despite being underequipped, his conscripts still had far better night fighting equipment compared to the average Lesser Predator. That¡¯s why most of these raids occurred at night, and the bright moons cut into their advantage.


    ¡°Yeah, I should have considered them against the timing of the mission,¡± he whispered back, acknowledging his error. ¡°I take full responsibility for my negligence in planning.¡±


    She nodded and continued scanning the environment as he ordered earlier.


    Skhork glanced at his digital watch synchronized to the rest of his troops¡¯. They were ahead of schedule by about half an hour.


    He ordered, ¡°Go check if Platoon 9 is in position.¡±


    She slinked away in the low grass. A couple minutes later, she returned noiselessly. ¡°I spotted Platoon 9 from the clearing next to us. They¡¯re in position next to the main road. They¡¯ve rigged it up with explosives, and their anti-air gunners are set up at the edge of the forest.¡±


    ¡°Good. Go monitor them from there. Let me know if anything happens.¡±


    <hr>


    Skhork watched intently as the timer on his watch counted down to zero. It vibrated once on his wrist.


    Down at the guard house, a single paw raised in the air. A volley of well-aimed rifle fire tore apart the Lesser Predators on duty and shattered the glass of the guard house windows. They were dead before the sounds of the shots reached him.


    For a minute as his conscripts moved up through the checkpoint, Skhork thought it was possible that maybe, just maybe, the Lesser Predators hadn¡¯t heard the shots or noticed that their entrance was breached, but his hopes were quickly dashed. He tensed as the sharp wail of the campus alarm pierced the night, echoing through the dense forest around the facility. His conscripts hastened their movements, knowing that they were on borrowed time.


    In his optics, a combat engineer from Platoon 2 quickly wired the secondary gate with small explosives, blowing it wide open. His two hundred conscripts poured through the opening with their rifles at the ready, hopping towards the reactor control building.


    He glanced towards where his Gunner had left with the corner of the eye, knowing rationally that the Lesser Predators couldn¡¯t possibly respond this quickly.


    A few minutes later, he heard sounds of sporadic grenade explosions and gunfire towards the reactor area. Within another few seconds, it went silent and more of his people streamed into the control building.


    One of the designated signal communicators left near the control gate waved towards him and the waiting platoon in the tree line with her paw. He carefully deciphered her paw signals.


    Control room taken.


    No casualties.


    Ready for next phase.


    Accompanied by a small platoon of thirty around him, his Engineer sprinted as fast as he could into the complex from the tree line.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Skhork watched as they disappeared into the control room as well, his heart pounding in his ears. More minutes passed and he had a sudden urge to rush down there to get things rolling but quickly suppressed the irrational instinct. There was nothing he could do for them now.


    He glanced at his watch again.


    Fifteen minutes elapsed. They still had plenty of time.


    Twenty minutes elapsed. He saw another signal from the gates.


    Engineer searching in maintenance area.


    No casualties.


    He breathed a small sigh of relief but kept alert. They were coming up to the pre-arranged thirty-minute mark where they expected there would be some kind of response from the Lesser Predators. Probably some kind of vehicle response force from the spaceport, as their combat computer had calculated. Lesser Predators were generally predictable in these aspects of war.


    As he stared down at the guard house, another signal came from the direction.


    No casualties.


    Skhork frowned in confusion. Why did they need to signal¡ª


    Then, the loud cracks of a series of interior-sounding rifle shots from the direction of the control room wafted towards his position.


    Ah, he realized after a second, they¡¯re executing the prisoners. Good call.


    He made a mental note to praise the platoon leader that came up with the idea after the mission and to add that to the instruction list for the next mission.


    Thirty minutes elapsed. Skhork felt his stiff body getting tenser as the watch counted up. Any time now¡­


    Another ten minutes passed, and he was beginning to think that the Lesser Predators were just all asleep at the wheel when he heard a duet of loud booms in the distance, in the direction of the main road instead of the power plant facility. It was followed a few seconds later by the sound of intense gunfire. Then, there were another couple of loud explosions and some more gunfire before the night went still again.


    His heart pounding in his ears, Skhork was internally debating what to do when a silhouette came crashing through the foliage. It was his Gunner. She panted heavily, struggling to catch her breath.


    ¡°By the Prophecy! What happened?¡± he asked urgently. ¡°Is Platoon 9 still in position?¡±


    A moment later, she had finally recovered from her sprint to be able to speak. ¡°Commander, there was a firefight on the main road. There are casualties¡­¡±


    <hr>


    10 minutes ago


    POV: Vmusht, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    Platoon 9 was led by an experienced five whiskers named Vmusht. Participating in the invasions of Gruccud and Datsot, she¡¯d somehow managed to survive long enough to be promoted three times, a rare feat for someone who was haphazardly conscripted into the Znosian Marines. And while the Marines did not usually allow its platoons to be led by its enlisted or conscripted members, the retreat from Datsot and the ensuing chaos had left Skhork¡¯s outfit with a dire shortage of non-commissioned officers that wasn¡¯t going to be fixed any time soon.


    Her final field promotion and elevation to platoon leader came naturally after the platoon¡¯s previous leader rejoined the Prophecy at the paws of a Lesser Predator sniper a month ago.


    Vmusht examined the icons representing her slightly oversized platoon of fifty conscripts through her helmet interface. There had not been enough combat troops to form a tenth infantry platoon, so the extra leftovers were thrown into her outfit.


    Here, they were charged with blocking the main road between the target power plant and the spaceport. When the gunfire went off at the facility, no doubt the Lesser Predators sent a warning over to the spaceport, and there were going to be reinforcements. It was their responsibility to make sure those reinforcements did not make it to their objective. Due to its oversized nature, her platoon was used to being sent on relatively independent missions on raids, like this one.


    In preparation, her demolition engineers had buried a line of shaped charges on the road, covering about eighty meters, or the length of about a dozen Lesser Predator transport vehicles; they were now hiding behind a berm next to the road, ready to set them off. Six of her people hid in the tree line further up the road, in a high vantage point, ready with their shoulder-fired surface-to-air launchers in case the spaceport sent out rotary wing assets.


    The remaining forty of her people were dug in near the ambush point around the road next to her. Most had their rifles, with a few heavy weapons mixed in the crowd, and two machine guns set up in a classic kill box slightly behind them in case anyone managed to escape the explosives.


    Vmusht saw the enemy vehicles first: three Lesser Predator armored transports. Old transport vehicles with treads instead of gravity engines. They were equipped with thick armor, but the demolition engineers had prepared enough shaped charges to blow through whatever armor they¡¯d have on the soft underbelly of these vehicles.


    She raised her paw to sign for enemy contact in case someone in the command platoon was observing them, though she was sure wherever they were, they¡¯d most likely already seen the incoming vehicles. She cursed the inconvenience of not being allowed to use long-range wireless communication devices under her breath; the best they could do was a short line-of-sight pulse mesh network between the helmet computers of each of her Marines.


    As the incoming vehicles drove closer, her people came alive, their bodies tensed, ready for combat.


    But Vmusht could already see a problem: the third enemy transport was lagging further behind. Far behind. It was too far behind to get caught by the explosives. She swore under her breath at the unforeseen complication, but quickly recalled the alternate procedures for vehicle column ambush from her training.


    She spun, her eyes locking with the weapon squad leader. ¡°Tell one of your anti-armor launchers to shoot the lagging vehicle when we get started. It¡¯s too far back for the charges.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Five Whiskers,¡± he replied with a nod, then relayed the command to the other foxhole with a few paw gestures.


    The enemy vehicles came close enough that she could see the grass green camouflage pattern painted on their hulls and the serial numbers painted on their sides. For some reason, the Lesser Predators never attempted to hide those serial numbers, which were very helpful for Znosian reconnaissance units in the field.


    Vmusht counted the seconds down to zero, and without needing her orders, the demolition engineers triggered the charges.


    Booooom.


    A loud explosion rang out through the valley.


    Vmusht¡¯s troops were far away enough to not be injured from the blast, but its concussive force still rattled their skulls and ear drums.


    The Lesser Predators were not so lucky. As anticipated, the first two vehicles turned into instant fireballs. The leading vehicle¡¯s fuel ignited, turning it into a funeral pyre for the enemy troops inside. A moment later, its magazine detonated in a secondary fireball. The other vehicle¡¯s entire front caught on fire, rolling off the road before meeting the same fate a few milliseconds later.


    Vmusht turned her attention to the third and final vehicle in the convoy, right as a light anti-armor rocket raced out from one of the dug positions next to her. It reached the troop carrier, climbed a meter above it, and detonated its explosive charge into the weakly armored top of the vehicle hull.


    Baaaang.


    By some miracle, the enemy vehicle did not explode into flame. It slowly rolled to a stop right in front of her troops, its front engines emitting black smoke and its thin armor obviously perforated in multiple places.


    A series of irregular sounds emanated from the interior of the vehicle.


    Someone is still alive inside.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 8 Holdouts III

    <div>


    Priunt Fusion Power 2, Datsot-3


    POV: Vmusht, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    ¡°Demolition Engineer,¡± Vmusht urgently barked at the creature next to her with a bundle of explosives in his chest carrier. ¡°Finish it. We don¡¯t need prisoners here.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers,¡± he replied, pulling himself up out of the trench. He sprinted to the disabled enemy vehicle in a low stance.


    Vmusht¡¯s eyes tracked him as he ripped the adhesive tape off the explosive bricks with shaky paws and prepared to secure it to the damaged vehicle¡¯s rear exit door, a logical weak point of the vehicle that should¡ª


    Abruptly, the entire rear hatch, a solid creature-sized slab of composite steel twelve centimeters thick, exploded off its hinges and away from the vehicle. A deadly projectile now, it launched itself twenty meters down the road, smearing the unfortunate demolition engineer into liquid paste on the asphalt.


    Without prompting, her squads opened fire, a hailstorm of rifle fire peppering the newly opened rear exit of the vehicle.


    ¡°Cease fire! Cease fire!¡± she shouted a few seconds later into the din. ¡°There¡¯s nothing there!¡±


    It took a few seconds for the word to pass around and the rifles in her trench to stop. Perhaps sensing the slacking fire, the troops in the other dug outs also complied.


    As Vmusht readied another command, her eyes caught a glint of metal. A solid cylindrical object ¡ª painted with brown stripes ¡ª tumbled from the exit of the vehicle. Her helmet interface screamed warnings, the interface outlining it clearly in red as a potential explosive device, warning her to take cover.


    For the benefit of her troops, she yelled, ¡°Grenade! Cover!¡±


    Most of her platoon ducked into the cover of their dug emplacements. But instead of a bang, a soft pop sounded and an enormous cloud of dull-reddish smoke materialized next to them, quickly covering the entire vehicle and all their dug positions in half a second. It smelled like chemical fire-starters.


    She sneezed, clearing the irritating smell from her sensitive snout.


    ¡°Switch to thermal vision!¡± she commanded, her own claws deftly activating the optical overlay on her helmet.


    But there was nothing, not even on the infrared spectrum. She frowned as she noticed that even the burning vehicle¡¯s large thermal signature was no longer visible through this odd alien fume. She looked beside her, and she could barely even see the outlines of the squad next to her.


    Something in the smoke must be interfering with our optics, she realized.


    That was when she heard them inside the broken vehicle ¡ª the loud, unmistakable sound of metal banging on metal, accompanied by a low-bass electronic whirring.


    Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.


    Someone¡ª something exited the enemy vehicle, and she could hear the precise moment when the sounds of their footsteps went from metal-on-metal to metal-on-asphalt.


    Then, the shooting started.


    It sounded nothing like the punchy, slow-firing standard issue rifles of Lesser Predator troops. Nor was it even the automatic staccato of her own service weapon. It made no audible sound of gunpowder discharge, but the new enemies were close enough she could hear the operation of their weapons ¡ª cycling round after round too rapidly for her ears to differentiate ¡ª and the resulting sonic cracks of the outgoing ballistic projectiles.


    The enemy fired in short bursts, their weapons purring death at their positions like the whine of a well-oiled, high rpm electric motor. She saw four¡­ then five of her troopers¡¯ life signs disappear from her helmet simultaneously.


    She realized they¡¯d gone for the machine gunners first. The enemy could clearly see through this concealing cloud, and they wasted no time neutralizing the most imminent threats.


    Next, they went for her squad leaders.


    One of their deadly projectiles tore a massive hole through the ballistic helmet of the squad leader whose foxhole position was next to hers, splattering his brain matter in every direction including onto her visor. He was dead before his ears hit the ground ¡ª what was left of them.


    By instinct, Vmusht took cover in her trench.


    Just in time.


    Half a heartbeat later, a line of projectiles stitched across the open air where her head just was, kicking up a puff of dirt behind her. Feeling an unfamiliar fear in her gut, she stayed down in her trench and watched the chaos around her unfold in her helmet interface.


    Eight¡­ nine¡­ ten life signs went flat.


    Her conscripts returned fire as they¡¯d been trained. Through the concealment and in the darkness, they aimed their automatic weapons towards the direction of the enemies. Inaccurate fire, but they could still hear the enemies, and she had a lot more Marines than them.


    She noted dimly in her helmet interface that they were at least having an effect: one of the enemies clattered to the ground: its weapon, however, did not stop even as it hit the ground, still humming out accurate torrents of projectiles towards her troops for a second until it either ran out of ammunition or couldn¡¯t locate another target.


    As the cloud of smoke began to clear, she could see three enemy silhouettes back-to-back-to-back near the rear of the disabled enemy vehicle through her helmet, calmly and accurately dispatching her people like they were at target practice.


    Combat robots, she realized dully. Just cold, efficient machines.


    The sensors on top of their heads would swivel almost imperceptibly, their alien weapons would snap to a new angle, there would be a short whir, and another life sign disappeared from her helmet.


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    With the obscuring smoke dispersing from view, more of her Marines were beginning to shoot back with some accuracy. Vmusht saw one of the robots hit in its center mass stagger once. It immediately pivoted to dispatch the rifle-bearing conscript that scored the hit. One fewer life sign in her platoon.


    The improved vision lasted for only a brief moment. One of the machines released another smoke grenade at its feet, renewing the dissipating concealment.


    Bloop. Bloop. Bloop¡ª


    One of them launched a burst of grenades ¡ª lethal ones this time ¡ª at a cluster of her conscripts: they burst in the air above their foxhole and eight more life signs disappeared under showers of deadly shrapnel.


    Vmusht heard screams of pain. She wasn¡¯t sure whether it was the enemy¡¯s or hers, but quickly realized that it could only have come from her people: the horrible shriek and gurgling of someone drowning to death in their own blood could not have come from the enemy machines.


    There was another explosion in the night, this time on the robots.


    Finally.


    Thankfully.


    One of Vmusht¡¯s light anti-armor teams had recovered enough to launch a rocket at the enemy, and by either luck or¡ª it was definitely luck, the high explosive caught all three of the active robots in the blast. She saw them clatter to the ground on her command interface. As she was about to breathe a sigh of relief, one of the robots ¡ª its bipedal legs severed and thrown somewhere to the other side of the road ¡ª pulled itself up with one of its metal arms and continued firing with its other.


    Whrrrghnnnnnnn.


    Vmusht heard a low electronic reverb come from the machine inside the smoke.


    Was it anger? Or pain? Or was it the machine¡¯s way of giving a last warning, unheard by its dead comrades?


    Two more Marines in the anti-armor team flatlined under another one of its launched airburst grenades. Another one of its grenades targeted a previously hit trench, finishing off one of her wounded Marines lying unconsciously in it with neither malice nor mercy.


    Her troops re-engaged and poured fire towards the remaining enemy. The anti-armor team¡¯s launchers barked again, and this time, the rocket landed near enough to its target to blow the final crippled robot apart, the shrapnel fully separating its body from its weapon systems.


    But her Marines were taking no chances. A second later, another rocket found its way into the passenger compartment of the vehicle, its explosion making sure that there were going to be no more surprises.


    As the sounds of gunfire slowed to a stop, Vmusht looked around her helmet interface in a daze. Corpses lay scattered like discarded dolls all around her. Thirty plus dead, maybe more. Dozens more injured.


    She checked the time, frowning in confusion at how little of it had passed.


    Less than a minute.


    It felt longer. The firefight had lasted mere seconds, and half her platoon was gone.


    Cautiously, she raised her head above the trench. Her medics were springing into action, gathering the injured and conducting triage. One of them made a negative gesture at her after a short examination of the slumped-over figure of a squad leader who had a burst of projectiles go cleanly through his upper throat.


    She stared hatefully at the enemy combat robots left on the road. Turning to one of the combat engineers next to her, she commanded, ¡°Go bag a sample of those robots. Six Whiskers Skhork might want to¡ª¡±


    The pile of electronic debris on the road burst into flames with a loud crackle. She instinctively ducked back down into cover.


    A moment later, Vmusht reemerged. It wasn¡¯t a big enough explosion to injure anyone else, but one glance at the burning metal told her there would be nothing meaningful left of the enemy robots to collect.


    ¡°Never mind that. Go signal the command platoon. We¡¯ll need to pull out from here.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Medic!¡± she yelled at one of the figures running around in the still-smokey dark.


    One of her combat medics rushed to her side. ¡°Five Whiskers! Are you injured?¡±


    She checked herself. There was plenty of blood matted in her soiled fur from the wounded and dead next to her, but there were no new holes in her own body. ¡°No. We need to move out immediately. How many of our wounded can be quickly moved?¡±


    ¡°All but five, maybe six, of the worst injured,¡± he replied briskly.


    ¡°Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools,¡± Vmusht murmured, bowing her head in respect at their sacrifice.


    He, too, lowered his head in understanding. ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers.¡±


    Shouldering his rifle, he headed purposefully for the makeshift triage center in the trench, making his way towards the hopeless cases.


    <hr>


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Skhork felt his eyes widen at the report.


    ¡°They were¡­ fast, even when caught in an ambush. Platoon 9 got into a firefight with them. It lasted about fifteen or twenty seconds. We lost almost forty of ours, and several of the remaining are injured. Platoon 9 signaled they were falling back into the forest with the ones they can get out.¡±


    He breathed a heavy sigh as he considered the casualties. Forty dead. He was hoping they¡¯d be able to get out without losing any of his, but accidents happened in the field, and they¡¯d learn from this and plan better next time.


    ¡°We¡¯ll determine who is responsible later,¡± he declared. ¡°But for now, we have no one watching the road anymore, so we need to pull our teams out.¡±


    The Gunner nodded, tossing him her backup radio.


    After only a moment¡¯s hesitation, Skhork activated the transmit button and spoke clearly into it, ¡°Fearless, lunchtime is over. Wrap everything up. Immediately. And get out of the house. I say again: wrap everything up, and get out now.¡±


    He peered down towards the guardhouse with his optics. After a moment, the designated communicator gave him the paw signal for acknowledgement. Not waiting for anything else, he took his eyes off them.


    Skhork gripped the radio in his stronger left paw, wound his arm back, and pitched the electronic device as far away from him as he could, like it was an activated grenade.


    He fixed his gaze on his Gunner.


    ¡°Run.¡±


    <hr>


    Less than ten minutes of breathless hopping later, there was a whistle overhead. Skhork dove right in time as the forest behind him exploded. Trees shattered, sending a hailstorm of splinters soaring over his flattened form.


    Luckily for him, the missile that hit his former position must have been fired blindly at his radio from somewhere else on the Datsot surface and not orbit. A short-range cruise missile from the spaceport probably, tracking his radio. Had there been an orbital support ship overhead to direct the attack and follow up with another strike, Skhork knew he likely would not have been allowed to escape alive.


    Despite that, it still took Skhork almost three hours before he was convinced that they were safe enough to make their way to the rendezvous point, a small clearing in the middle of the forest. His Engineer and bulk of the infantry had already assembled there.


    Most of them.


    Five Whiskers Vmusht¡¯s head dipped in a solemn bow as Skhork approached. ¡°Six Whiskers Skhork, I take full responsibility for the losses in Platoon 9. I did not foresee the effectiveness of the enemy¡¯s combat robots, and the heavy losses in my platoon are due to my carelessness and lack of preparation.¡±


    ¡°How many of yours made it?¡±


    ¡°Enough to carry the rest, but we suffered many injuries,¡± she said, her paw sweeping towards the battered Marines in the medical litters.


    ¡°What happened?¡±


    She sighed wearily. ¡°My preliminary analysis is that the fault lies mostly with me and the remaining of it lies with the anti-armor team leader for failing to use appropriate munitions in the opening barrage. His judgement that a light rocket would be sufficient to destroy the enemy transport vehicle was flawed, but it was based on my ambiguous command. Unfortunately, he did not survive the firefight, so the full responsibility lies with me.¡±


    Skhork nodded glumly, accepting her explanation. ¡°You will remain in command of your platoon, as I do not have a superior alternative for your position. We will determine your penance after this campaign. Turn in your platoon¡¯s helmet footage for our computer to analyze when we get back to camp so we don¡¯t make a mistake like that again.¡±


    Her head bowed again. ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers.¡±


    Skhork then turned, eyes landing on the bulging sack slung over the Engineer¡¯s back. ¡°What about you? Did you get us all the parts we need for the Longclaw charger?¡±


    ¡°Not all,¡± the Engineer began, a grin creeping across his face. ¡°But we found most of what we need. I can begin assembling the charger device, and we only require one or two more parts to complete it. In fact, we might not need to try another raid like this again. There¡¯s another, far easier target we can hit for them¡­¡±

 (Standalone) Shadows Under an Alien Star

    <div>


    <h2>Sector 183, Schpriss Prime</h2>


    POV: ¡°John¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    Operative ¡°John¡± stepped onto the apartment balcony, clutching his cloak as the wind billowed around him in the dark. Sixteen floors up. Not the tallest building in the sector, not by far. He identified at least six other vantage points that could look down on him. Lots more. He counted them out in his head¡¯s up display as it recorded before returning to the emptied residential room.


    The blue alien tape adorning the room indicated that the local police had been there just a few days ago. A red smear on the wall was the only sign of its previous occupant. He sampled the dried blood with his suit. It probably didn¡¯t help his own investigation, but it couldn¡¯t hurt.


    There was a small hole in the window, barely four centimeters across, slightly above head height.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± asked the voice in his helmet.


    ¡°I think¡­ the locals did their jobs this time, Director, or at least they gave it a good college try,¡± John murmured as he recorded the evidence. ¡°They killed her from somewhere above. High-powered sniper rifle ¡ª gunpowder round, somewhere in the ballpark of a 338. One of the several overlooking buildings with at least twenty, thirty floors. My guess is slightly more than a kilometer, given what the local police found. Or in this case¡­ haven¡¯t found.¡±


    ¡°Think you can get access to the buildings to take a closer look?¡±


    ¡°Not looking like this,¡± he replied. The active camouflage on the skin of his suit was enough to keep him a blur in the night outside, but anywhere inside, and he was at serious risk of exposure. The aliens weren¡¯t supposed to know about the Terran Republic, not yet, and all it took was one curious security guard. He didn¡¯t want to kill unnecessarily. ¡°These fancy private apartments are one thing. Those office buildings up there have real security.¡±


    ¡°Real security? From you?¡± Director Mark chuckled dryly. ¡°I can hear the taxpayers banging on my doors, asking for their millions of credits in elite TRO training and equipment back.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re welcome to try this themselves,¡± John snorted, taking care not to disturb the blue police tape as he ducked under it on his way out of the room. ¡°Prime Directive or not, allegedly friendly species or not, I¡¯m not looking forward to being the first Terran spotted by aliens. Or worse, captured¡­ I¡¯m egressing.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what have we learned from this brief little field trip?¡±


    ¡°Not much. I just wanted to see the crime scene for myself,¡± he admitted with annoyance. ¡°Local sector councilor has a problem with the psychos in the Znosian Dominion. Loudly clamors to join the defensive war on the side of our allies in the Malgeir Federation. Shot to death in her home two months later. Oddly familiar story. Twice may be coincidence, but you know what they say when the third body falls.¡±


    ¡°Enemy action. You think it¡¯s their own government doing this? To preserve their neutrality?¡±


    ¡°Chancellor Sonfio?¡± John snorted again, shaking his head in his own helmet. ¡°Not a chance. Not enough spine. This is almost certainly our Grass Eater friends at play.¡±


    The director made a wry expression on his face, ¡°You know they call us Grass Eaters too, right? The Malgeir. The few that know about us, anyway.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we¡¯re their Grass Eaters. And this is the kind of dirty work they need us for. Even if they don¡¯t know it.¡±


    ¡°Running around in the dark, playing detective for them on a neutral alien planet?¡±


    ¡°Detective?¡± John holstered his concealed carbine in his suit with a soft click. ¡°Who said anything about solving crimes?¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Plusdi, Schpriss (Sector Councilor)


    ¡°You what?!¡± Councilor Plusdi stared at the investigator in disbelief.


    ¡°We¡¯re closing the case out. The trail¡¯s gone cold. We checked every building, every open window within a kilometer of her apartment building¡ª¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re just giving up now! What if they¡¯ve got a rifle that can fire more than a kilometer? What if¡ª¡±


    The officer began to protest, ¡°We¡¯ve dedicated half the department¡¯s resources to this one for a month¡­ There¡¯s just nothing we can find¡ª¡±


    ¡°How much did the Grass Eaters pay you guys to tank this one?¡± Plusdi asked crossly.


    ¡°Excuse me, Councilor Plusdi,¡± the officer scoffed. ¡°We know she was your friend, but there¡¯s simply not a shred of evidence to her wild conspiracy theory that agents of the Dominion are active on Schpriss Prime, not to mention them going around killing our people randomly.¡±


    ¡°Except once she started talking about it, she took a bullet to her head. It shouldn¡¯t take too many brain cells to add two and two together, but apparently that¡¯s just too much to be asking from Sector 183¡¯s finest¡ª¡±


    ¡°She was a sector councilor,¡± he countered. ¡°She had other enemies. We found death threats from at least¡ª¡±


    She dismissed it with a wave of her long tail. ¡°Bah. Unspecific online messages from weirdos living on the outskirts of the sector don¡¯t count. They¡¯re just blowing off steam. I get those twice a day.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we should assign some additional protection to you,¡± he suggested.


    ¡°No thanks,¡± she rolled her eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t know which of your men are on the take from the Grass Eaters, but I have no intention of letting any of them get that close to me.¡±


    He sighed in exasperation, as if she was just another one of those crazy politicians with their incendiary rhetoric. Which she supposed she must have seemed like to him.


    ¡°Well, at least you should take it easy,¡± the officer suggested. ¡°Maybe take some self-defense classes¡­¡±


    ¡°Self-defense classes?¡± Plusdi almost screeched. ¡°Is there one that teaches you to dodge sniper bullets?¡±


    ¡°Well, no¡­ but they teach you things like de-escalation,¡± he muttered. ¡°And knowing when to drop something¡ª¡±


    ¡°I have no intention of dropping this,¡± she declared. ¡°I¡¯m going to find me a private investigator who will actually look at the case and figure out who killed my friend. Send over any evidence you have to my office so someone who knows what they¡¯re doing can do the job.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± he sighed. ¡°Whatever you need, Councilor.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Vuzhor, Znosian Dominion State Security Unit Zero (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    Operative Vuzhor waited patiently on the call as the other end authenticated. The familiar face of the State Security Director appeared after a couple seconds, her soft-furred, bookish face a sharp contrast to her gritty record ferreting out apostates of the Prophecy. In the Office of State Security ¡ª in Vuzhor¡¯s experience, there were two kinds of people: those who knew what had to be done for the long-term security and stability of the Dominion state, and those who simply enjoyed doing their jobs.


    And like her, the Director was both.


    ¡°Director Svatken,¡± she lowered her head in professional respect.


    ¡°Five Whiskers,¡± Svatken replied casually. ¡°Any news about the clean-up?¡±


    ¡°Nothing I can¡¯t handle, Director. The councilor was alone at the time, and I got away clean after the shot. I did consider the possibility of paying the local law enforcement to shut down the investigation entirely¡­¡±


    ¡°And why not?¡± the director challenged.


    ¡°Too messy. The predators act in unpredictable ways, and we¡¯ve left no trail for them to follow to start with. Going back and giving them something they could possibly trace back to us now would just be¡­ inelegant. And forcing them to blunder in the dark around this culling wastes a little bit more of their resources anyway. When we come to pacify these long-tailed predators ¡ª in half a century, perhaps ¡ª our future bloodlines will have us to thank for that additional inefficiency.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ good thinking, Five Whiskers Vuzhor. As long as you¡¯re careful not to leave any additional traces back to us. We need to keep these Cowardly Predators in their place. Their neutrality¡­ at least until we¡¯ve had time to fully process the Slow Predators and the Lesser Predators. And any¡­ other potential threats. They must be kept complacent for now.¡±


    Vuzhor resisted the urge to fidget. ¡°There has been¡­ one salient complication.¡±


    ¡°You do know how I feel about that word, don¡¯t you, Operative?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director. I take full responsibility¡ª¡±


    Svatken snorted, ¡°Unnecessary exercise. We both know what you are.¡±


    Vuzhor bowed quietly. She was an outlier to the Prophecy. Someone who did too much extra thinking. Critical thinking, as the predators called it, instead of one of the mindless drones of the Znosian species. She had the ability ¡ª and the field authority ¡ª to color beyond the lines.


    To go above and beyond. And do what was necessary. That was why they sent her on this mission, and not one of the other of numerous operatives bred and born for special infiltration missions to predator worlds.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Svatken continued, ¡°What is the nature of this complication?¡± She put a dirty emphasis on the last word.


    ¡°There¡¯s another local sector councilor. A friend of the deceased, it appears. She wouldn¡¯t drop the case. And she¡¯s been poking around a lot.¡±


    Svatken¡¯s eyes were dangerous. ¡°I thought you said you¡¯ve left them no trail.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t,¡± Vuzhor clarified quickly. ¡°She won¡¯t find us. But she doesn¡¯t need evidence. She¡¯s taken up the cause of her friend out of some insane predatory sense of sentimentality. She¡¯s been going around the sector, railing against the Dominion, calling for an end to Schprissian neutrality, calling for war aid for the Lesser Predators¡­ the usual insanity.¡±


    ¡°And has this agitator been... effective?¡±


    ¡°Somewhat. And I take full responsibility¡ª Well, there¡¯s a small legion of Cowardly Predator volunteers that emigrate to the Lesser Predator territory and help them fight us on the battlefield. The Schprissian Legion, they call it. They¡¯ve been attracting a lot more volunteers than usual from this sector.¡±


    ¡°A completely voluntary system of job allocation,¡± Svatken snorted. ¡°Back when I was a xenobiology professor at the Shlirurk Institute, I didn¡¯t believe it¡­ To see it with my own eyes¡­ More evidence that these abominations deserve to be eradicated, all traces of their apostasy wiped out from the galaxy.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director. What about the councilor? She doesn¡¯t have many friends among her peers, and if we eliminate her, I suspect very few people will care.¡±


    Director Svatken looked thoughtful on Vuzhor¡¯s screen for a minute. ¡°The extra volunteers don¡¯t matter in the grand scheme of things, but fires start from embers, and I don¡¯t like embers.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director. Do I have your permission for this culling?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Something¡­ quiet for now. Quieter than the last one. A personal touch.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Director. The Will of the Prophecy shall be done.¡±


    <hr>


    Vuzhor hummed quietly to herself as she worked her slim metallic device into the crevices of the simple keylock.


    ¡°One pin¡­ Two pins¡­ Three¡­ Four is binding¡­ Back to one¡­ Click on two¡­ Ah.¡±


    The Cowardly Predators made a lot of intricate and functional devices, but this apartment door lock was obviously not one of them. With another soft click, the lock mechanism disengaged, and the door swung open a few centimeters.


    She slowly pushed it open with her left paw, keeping her small stun gun in her right aimed at the hallway beyond it. With the state-of-the-art night vision goggles over her face, she could see the contours of the apartment even in the pitch dark.


    Like most predator dens, hundreds of useless sentimental decorations adorned the dwelling. Books on shelves. Pictures of landscapes. Meaningless gadgets littered all over their wooden flooring.


    Taking care to muffle the sound, Vuzhor closed the door behind her deliberately. She proceeded deeper into the enemy¡¯s home with her weapon carefully aimed, slouching to maintain her small profile.


    Living room, clear.


    Kitchen, clear. She scratched her whiskers, avoiding the urge to throw up at the overwhelming revolting smell of dead aquatic meat emanating from it.


    Bedroom, clear.


    Bathroom, clear.


    The other bedroom ¡ª how wasteful of the predator councilor to have a second one when she was living alone: it was clear too.


    Empty apartment, as expected. Her abundance of caution was unnecessary, but as an operative on an alien planet, the unnecessary could become necessary in seconds, and doing the unnecessary kept her alive.


    Now, I just need to find a spot to hide and wait.


    Vuzhor made her way back to the living room. Her night vision goggles showed her a small dark spot behind the couch. That would do nicely if she could just fit herself into the small-confined area¡ª


    Click.


    The heart-stopping sound of a weapon in the dark. A real one. Not the piddly stun gun she had in her paw. She froze.


    ¡°No sudden moves, bunny rabbit,¡± a deep voice whispered in her large ears in perfect Znosian. ¡°Or this apartment is about to get real messy. Drop your zapper.¡±


    Vuzhor complied slowly, letting the stun weapon fall from her grasp as she mentally contemplated alternative options. Close quarters combat against a predator ¡ª while not wearing Marine armor herself ¡ª was never an optimal plan. But back in Unit Zeno, she had trained to grapple up close and use her small size and agility, especially against overconfident predators¡ª


    ¡°Good,¡± it said from behind her. ¡°Your goggles too. Nice and easy.¡±


    Reluctantly, she obliged, removing them from her head slowly.


    Whoever this was, it was good at its job. It knew that her second most potent weapon was being able to see in the dark. Without them or an armored suit, her fragile bones and weak muscles were no match for whatever sharp claws and fighting instincts this predator stalker had. Her mind raced as she activated the short range transmitter in her mouth that hooked up to a backup radio ¡ª and the hidden bomb surgically implanted in her chest.


    She was a dead operative walking, but whoever this was, at least the next Servant of the Prophecy to walk in her path would know more about the enemy that got her.


    ¡°Turn around.¡±


    The predator was unlike any alien species she¡¯d ever seen at 1.8 meters tall. It wasn¡¯t the tallest; the Slow Predators were bigger. And it certainly was not one of the locals. Even in the dark, she could see the no-nonsense lethality in the array of gadgets it had on its own combat suit. The thick armor and padding in all its vital spots. The six tubes on its head for its own night vision. The well-oiled servos for its joints that operated without creaking. All blacker than night. And not a single light source from any of its electronics.


    This was a real infiltrator who dressed for the job.


    Vuzhor let the confusion wash over her for a few heartbeats. Predators weren¡¯t supposed to be this competent. This delicate. This professional.


    Aiming its short weapon at her, it directed her to the kitchen with a short nudge of its barrel, to the dining table with the disgusting smell.


    ¡°Sit.¡±


    She did as it ordered. It pulled up a chair opposite of her and sat down too. It laid its weapon, a strange black rifle it looked like, on the wooden table, carefully still pointing its barrel in her direction.


    ¡°Now, I suppose you are the one who shot the councilor,¡± it said. ¡°The other one.¡±


    The accuracy of the translation to the Znosian language was¡­ uncanny. She wondered whether the Schpriss or one of the predator allies had improved their technical capabilities beyond what State Security had assessed.


    ¡°Who is she to you?¡± she asked, fishing for information.


    It shifted in its seat. ¡°Let¡¯s just say¡­ I care about her well-being. And you ¡ª well, you have been a very naughty Grass Eater. Surveillance on Councilor Plusdi¡¯s phone and activities. Sneaking inside her apartment while she isn¡¯t home. Somehow, I get the feeling you¡¯re up to no good.¡±


    ¡°What are you going to do about it?¡± she taunted. ¡°Arrest me? Hand me to the local law enforcers?¡±


    It made a rumbling sound in its chest. Predator laughter. ¡°Something a little less pleasant, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°Ah, now you¡¯re speaking my language,¡± Vuzhor said, sitting back in her chair comfortably. ¡°Torture. But I¡¯m afraid I won¡¯t be sticking around for it.¡±


    It tilted its head. ¡°Oh?¡±


    She bared her teeth at the predator with hostility. She pointed at a claw at her chest defiantly. ¡°Bomb. In my body. I¡¯ll be too dead to tell you anything vital to my people. Possibly you too, depending on how thick that armor of yours is.¡±


    ¡°I guess I won¡¯t have to ask who you work for,¡± the predator snorted. ¡°How is Director Svatken these days?¡±


    Vuzhor stiffened.


    How did this predator know about the internal structure¡ª


    ¡°Anyway, there¡¯s not much you have in your head that we want. You being here is enough.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, abomination?¡± Vuzhor asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.


    ¡°The kitties¡ª the Schpriss¡­ you¡¯ve been smart to keep the Confederacy out of the war. Out of the way. Neutrality. Their star systems may not be too many, but their industrial and financial means are still¡­ considerable. Far more than ours,¡± it said. She saw it relax back into its chair into the chair in the dark.


    With a hiss, its gloved paw unlatched its black, armored helmet before placing it on the table. Even in the dim ambient lighting from the councilor¡¯s home, she could see its strange outlines.


    Two forward-facing eyes. Soft ears. Soft skin. No fur. No, correction, not much fur. Some short black fuzz on the top of its scalp.


    Were these the phantom predators that some in the Dominion Navy whispered about?


    Vuzhor¡¯s heart pounded.


    Whoever was watching her remote feed must be frantically gathering information, she knew. Even in her death, this could be the greatest intelligence coup in the recent history of the Dominion.


    ¡°Who are your people?¡± she asked, her mouth drying.


    It stood back up, looking around the kitchen. ¡°Just a pack of concerned predators,¡± it said as it appeared to find what it was looking for on one of the kitchen shelves: a glass cup.


    Her eyes drifted to the weapon the predator carelessly left on the table.


    Surely it isn¡¯t that stupid.


    It must have detected where her eyes were looking from the back of its head. It tutted with its soft lips, ¡°No point, Bun. Carbine won¡¯t fire for you. In fact, I can remote trigger it to shoot you from here.¡±


    The predator poured some oily substance into the cup from the kitchen shelf before it went over to the sink. As she watched, it activated the faucet and filled the cup in its gloved paws with water. With a swish, it dumped the mixture over the kitchen tile floor.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± she asked, confused.


    It bent down to inspect the wet puddle it made. ¡°Just setting the scene,¡± it replied nonchalantly.


    She was even more confused. ¡°Huh? What scene?¡±


    ¡°Znosian assassin shoots and kills a local councilor. Her friend, Councilor Plusdi, has a problem with that. She looks high and low for the evidence, starts lobbying against the Dominion, agitating to help the defense of the Malgeir Federation. Then, the assassin breaks into the apartment of Councilor Plusdi in an attempt to kill her too,¡± the predator gestured around the kitchen. ¡°And here, the story could go one of a few ways.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah. If I shoot you now, that¡¯s going to create a lot of problems. For me. People here might ask a lot of questions. They won¡¯t arrest me if they find me; after all, I¡¯m just doing a public service for their people. But they¡¯ll still have some uncomfortable questions. I¡¯m sure you understand.¡±


    She played along, nodding. ¡°So what are you going to do? Arrest me? Force me to walk away? Disappear me?¡±


    ¡°You? Disappear? No.¡± It chuckled again. ¡°How about this one? Znosian assassin walks into a dark apartment. Comes into the kitchen, unaware that there¡¯s some¡­ whatever this weird cooking oil is¡­ on the floor.¡± He pointed at the puddle. ¡°Slips and falls, breaking her fragile Bun neck before the councilor could come home.¡±


    ¡°Slips and falls?!¡± she mocked. ¡°That is the best you can come up with?¡±


    ¡°Embarrassing for a professional like you to go out like that, isn¡¯t it?¡± The predator bared all its teeth at her. ¡°Such a fortunate freak accident is, of course, extremely suspicious. But they might be more focused on something else.¡±


    It made a twisting motion with its gloved paw, and a voice began to play from its suit. It was her voice, ¡°The councilor was alone at the time, and I got away clean after the shot. I did consider the possibility of paying the local law enforcement¡­¡±


    ¡°I see you¡¯ve got interceptions of our communications. That explains a lot. But you¡¯re still forgetting one thing,¡± Vuzhor said defiantly, sighing as the predator slowly walked back towards her. ¡°My life was forfeited the day I left the hatchling pools!¡±


    With a firm bite of her jaw, she activated the martyr transmitter in her lower molars.


    Click.


    Nothing happened.


    She tried it again.


    Click.


    Again, nothing but pain in her flat teeth.


    Click.


    C¡¯mon, c¡¯mon!


    Now standing next to her with a heavy paw gently on her shoulder, the abomination looked down at her amusingly, ¡°Ah. Please. Nothing so crude, Five Whiskers. Your body has to be recognizable by the local coroner, after all. Any last words?¡±


    ¡°May your eggs shatter and rot,¡± she grunted as it wrapped its arms around her thin neck in a familiar chokehold.


    ¡°Eggs? You¡¯re making me hungry¡­ Goodnight, Five Whiskers Vuzhor.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: ¡°John¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°The locals buy the story?¡± Director Mark asked.


    ¡°So far. It was a thin cover up, but their law enforcement did get the recording off that datapad we left conveniently in her utility pouch. It¡¯s making the rounds on the local news, and the Schpriss are hopping mad, as they should be,¡± John replied.


    ¡°And her bomb?¡±


    ¡°Left it embedded in her. Couldn¡¯t risk taking it out even with my jammer active. Just pray that the locals don¡¯t try to open her up for inspection¡­ for their own sake.¡±


    ¡°Sloppy work. We can¡¯t afford to be this sloppy going forward.¡±


    John shrugged. ¡°She moved quickly. Was the best I could improvise given the circumstances.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ what¡¯s done is done.¡±


    ¡°And a little mystery is good. These locals are way too complacent. They need a little something to wake them up. They should become a little more suspicious of what¡¯s going on over here, on their own home planet. Perhaps that¡¯ll get them to look a little more into the other Bun ops that have taken place here.¡±


    The director¡¯s image in his helmet shook his head. ¡°Seems unlikely¡­¡± He shrugged. ¡°But when the time comes, maybe this nudge of the needle will be what does it. Stranger things have happened, I guess.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 9 Holdouts IV

    <div>


    Priunt Hydroelectric Dam, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Perched atop a hill, Skhork peered through his zoom optics at the river cutting through the valley below. He scanned the area, his gaze calculating.


    ¡°Unbelievable,¡± he muttered. ¡°Not a predator in sight.¡±


    Beside him, his Gunner nodded. ¡°It¡¯s one of their old automated hydroelectric power plants. The combat computer speculated they would not have much security here because it does not generate much power for them in comparison to their fusion plants.¡±


    ¡°Nonetheless,¡± Skhork countered, ¡°If we destroy it, the water from the ensuing flood will be extremely damaging to the towns downstream. How many local casualties did we estimate?¡±


    ¡°About two thousand, more or less.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± he said, his tone satisfied. ¡°It¡¯s not every day you have an opportunity to exterminate two thousand predators without a fight. We will need to prioritize targets like these in the future.¡±


    They continued to stare at the solitary designated communicator stationed right outside the control room. A few minutes later, she excitedly gave them the paw signal.


    Mission accomplished. Optional objective in progress.


    A platoon of infantry escorted the Engineer out of the facility.


    A few minutes later, they got another signal.


    All objectives complete. Exfiltrating.


    The remaining Marines jogged out. Skhork and his Gunner stayed where they were on the overwatching hill. There was no harm in waiting, and he wanted to observe the aftermath. He told himself this would inform their future sabotage operations against the Lesser Predators, but really, he just wanted to watch something blow up.


    He was not disappointed. A few minutes later, a series of explosions flashed over the downstream side right before the sound reached his ears. Chunks of concrete were thrown into the air like toys, tumbling into the water below. Local winged animals in the forest took flight, some too late, as the holes in the dam¡¯s supporting structure widened. More and more water rushed through¡­ until the rest of the barrier couldn¡¯t hold anything back. Its center crumbled, collapsing into the water. More water rushed through, roaring as it cascaded over the broken remains and sending sprays so high they caught the light and created a visible rainbow.


    Skhork looked at the mesmerizing colors with satisfaction. ¡°Now, we can go.¡±


    <hr>


    Priunt Security Force Headquarters, Datsot-3


    POV: Vionvu, Malgeir Federation Security Forces (Position: Chief Sector Commander)


    ¡°How many have we lost to the sire-less Grass Eaters?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re still counting the missing, sir, but over fifteen hundred civilians confirmed dead so far.¡±


    There was a moment of silence in the command center as the room digested the staggering death toll for the rural villages in that part of the sector. Not to mention the ecological damage¡­


    ¡°What are we going to do about it? Somehow, I doubt the persistently annoying Grass Eater cell in our sector is just going to be satisfied with exactly one power plant and one hydroelectric dam,¡± the chief sector commander mused, his voice a blend of frustration and resolve.


    ¡°Commander, I suggest we deploy our new¡­ combat units to the remaining power generation facilities.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m inclined to agree. Any objections?¡±


    ¡°Ahem!¡± the face on the command center¡¯s large screen cleared her throat for attention.


    The room of Malgeir security commanders looked up at her.


    ¡°Yes, advisor?¡± Vionvu asked, his tone betraying a hint of annoyance.


    The Federation had recently insisted on micromanaging the security situation on liberated Datsot by saddling them with a series of newly appointed security advisors. She hadn¡¯t bothered to introduce herself to the team, but it was clear she was not a local ¡ª not to the sector nor the planet ¡ª judging by her perfect Malgeirgam accent. If he didn¡¯t know better, he could have mistaken her voice for that of a Federation Channel One newscaster.


    Typical bureaucrats from the central government to slow us down with someone like her for an active combat command¡ª


    ¡°Forgive my metaphor, Chief Commander,¡± she replied, raising her snout unnaturally on the screen. ¡°But if we have a flooding boat, we don¡¯t start tearing out other pieces of the hull to patch the leak.¡±


    The commander¡¯s eyes narrowed as his patience ran low. ¡°Elaborate, please. We have no time for imaginative analogies.¡±


    ¡°Your new combat units in Sector 05 are defending other critical infrastructure, like the spaceport and the storage hub. If you divert them, those will become even more vulnerable targets of opportunity for this enemy cell.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ you¡¯re saying we should do nothing,¡± he retorted in disbelief.


    The figure on screen seemed to waver. ¡°There is not much you can do for them. That is the nature of defending against holdout cells while stretched for troops. You minimize the damage they do by holding onto your strong points and¡ª¡±


    ¡°And abandoning our people? I think not, advisor.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is your prerogative, Chief Commander,¡± she said, shrugging her shoulders¡­ weirdly. Vionvu gazed at her face uneasily. There was definitely something unnatural about this advisor.


    She continued with a different track, ¡°Consider this: before this Sector 05 holdout unit completed its attack on the prior fusion plant, it identified itself on the radio as Fearless. That is not an uncommon identifier among Znosian troops, but in this sector, it belonged to only one unit unaccounted for: a unit of Longclaw Marines.¡±


    The hair on his back raised instinctively. Znosian Longclaw units were the darkest material of his nightmares before Datsot liberation. They tore a hole through the Malgeir defenders, wherever they went. Their training, equipment, experience¡­ legendary, and it was never fun to be on the other side of a legend.


    The advisor explained, ¡°I looked into it. We recorded the destruction of three Longclaw vehicles belonging to this Fearless unit in the liberation campaign. One totaled in a rotary wing attack on a hill assault, another two heavily damaged. Later, the damaged two were scuttled in their retreat from their sector forward base. That makes three, and you know as well as I do that these ahem¡­ Grass Eater units do not come in threes.¡±


    Even the way she slurs is too posh and proper. I wonder how much she paid for her lucrative government job.


    Then again, her logic is sound.


    ¡°Surely the last one must be out of power, munitions, and supplies by now?¡± he speculated hopefully.


    The figure on screen shifted slightly. ¡°Yes, that is a sensible possibility given that it hasn¡¯t been seen since. However, before the cameras in the recently destroyed fusion plant cut out, they saw the Znosians escorting an apparently high-ranking officer into the facility ¡ª five lines on a blue patch ¡ª and it was recorded scrounging for electrical items in the storage warehouse. Can you think of a reason why a five whiskers Marine officer from an armored unit would be looking for supplies in a power generation facility?¡±


    The security commander¡¯s mind raced as he reached the conclusion that he knew she wanted him to. ¡°Supplies for their remaining Longclaw¡­ and the dam, they must have been looking for it there too!¡±


    ¡°That is my favored hypothesis,¡± she confirmed, not bothering to hide her relief. ¡°These operations are merely a cover for that larger objective. An operational Longclaw, supported by the cell¡¯s remaining infantry, would be a major threat to your spaceport and storage hub without your new combat units deployed there.¡±


    ¡°But what about the rest of the people I¡¯ve been charged to defend?!¡± he exclaimed in frustration.


    ¡°He who defends everything, defends nothing,¡± she replied simply.


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Another one of those pithy, pointless Malgeirgam platitudes, I¡¯m sure.


    She pressed on without regard for his internal monologue. ¡°The holdout units are eventually going to make a move on either of your strong points or be slowly bled to uselessness as they can¡¯t replace their units. And when they do mount an attack¡­ well, that¡¯s what you¡¯ve been training with those new units and weapons for.¡±


    He pondered the tradeoffs for a minute, then nodded bitterly in agreement at the screen.


    Perhaps sensing his seething, she added, ¡°You¡ª we can evacuate the civilian population in Sector 05 that live under our remaining three old dams in the sector, though. And if it makes you feel better, you can divert some more of our local militia units to the power plants. Just know that they would likely be lost to any serious assault by this cell. It¡¯s your call.¡±


    Hm¡­ Perhaps I should have thought of the civilian evacuation idea first.


    ¡°Yes, it is,¡± he said, sighing. ¡°The new combat units will stay where they are. But the local security units¡ª we can¡¯t let the Grass Eaters roam and attack our infrastructure for free. And of course, we¡¯ll evacuate the residents of the flood zones.¡±


    She tilted her head, awkwardly again, but remained silent.


    There really is something wrong with this advisor, he thought. Something about her face, maybe? Or am I just being prejudiced?


    He relayed the new commands on his datapad and then looked up at the advisor again. ¡°Any other suggestions before we move onto the logistics pile up in Zone 14?¡±


    <hr>


    Priunt Fusion Power 5, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    The gatehouse guards slumped to the floor, dead before they heard the volley of shots.


    ¡°Go! Go! Go!¡± Skhork shouted at his platoons as they surged through the gates of the power plant complex. He knew they had no margin for error. With the Longclaw and its power charger in tow following right behind his infantry, all his infantry: this was going to be it. Either they succeeded here in their mission, or they were all dead.


    The buildings erupted with gunfire as his veteran troops swarmed the under-defended buildings, though there did seem to be a few more guards here than there were at the last power plant raid.


    The predators might be slow, but they occasionally do learn¡­ Not fast enough, though¡­ hopefully.


    He looked back at his crew, busy setting up the unloaded Longclaw at the charging station with the makeshift charger. They had practiced and rehearsed the motions back at their hideout repeatedly, and they knew exactly what to do.


    ¡°Done!¡± his Engineer shouted at him as he hooked up one final component from beneath the engine at the back of the armored vehicle. ¡°Ready to go when they deliver the power.¡±


    A few more precious minutes passed as his troops cleared the buildings, then a runner from the front reported back. ¡°Casualty report. Three killed, one lightly injured in Platoon 4, Six Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Progress?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re securing the control room right now, sir. Any additional orders before I run back?¡±


    Skhork checked his watch. A bit slower than expected, but they were still on schedule. ¡°Remind them to hurry. We can¡¯t afford any more delays. Their orbital support isn¡¯t going to be below the horizon forever.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers!¡± the messenger said as he hop-sprinted back towards the sound of gunfire.


    Another ten minutes later, the campus went quiet. Skhork¡¯s Engineer let off a triumphant shout. ¡°Yes! I¡¯ve got power from the control room! Starting the charging process!¡±


    The Driver poked his head out of the Longclaw cabin a moment later, giving them the paw gesture for success. ¡°We¡¯re getting power. Keep it going!¡±


    It was not a very long wait. The power station output more than enough power to charge a lonely Longclaw. Skhork climbed into the Longclaw cabin with the rest of his crew. They quickly ran through the combat diagnostics program that evaluated the status of the vehicle.


    ¡°Drive systems, nominal.¡±


    ¡°Combat computer, nominal.¡±


    ¡°Cooling systems, functional.¡±


    ¡°Primary ammunition, half combat load. Secondary ammunition, quarter load.¡±


    ¡°Surveillance drones, nonfunctional.¡±


    ¡°Communication systems, disabled.¡±


    ¡°We are good to go!¡±


    As Skhork got ready to button up the vehicle, he saw the runner hopping back towards them on the exterior camera. Standing up tall in the cupola, he waved at the runner excitedly. ¡°The Longclaw is ready! Tell the platoons to move back to the rendezvous!¡±


    The runner yipped, out of breath, ¡°Six Whiskers¡­ the troops¡­ in the control tower¡­ they saw incoming Lesser Predator reinforcements from the main road¡­ Two rotary wings and a convoy of twelve transport vehicles!¡±


    Skhork¡¯s mind raced. How did they get here so fast this time? Skhork cursed under his breath. His Longclaw could get away easily if he started driving now. But if they caught up with his troops¡­ he couldn¡¯t attack the spaceport with just his Longclaw. Armor unsupported with infantry? That would be suicide.


    A quick glance down at his combat computer told him the same.


    ¡°Runner, tell the platoons to move back to the rendezvous. The Longclaw will move to support Platoon 9. If you don¡¯t see us back at the rendezvous in six hours, retreat and follow your standing orders.¡±


    ¡°Got it, Six Whiskers! May the Prophecy be done through you!¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Vmusht, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    Vmusht¡¯s face turned ashen when she saw the urgent paw signals from the spotter.


    Two rotary wings and twelve armored transports. The rotary wings weren¡¯t the big problem. That¡¯s what the portable air defense operators she brought with her were for. But twelve transport vehicles?


    Last time she had trouble with just three, and she had much fewer qualified anti-armor operators this time. If they assumed the mines took out three of the vehicles, an optimistic estimate, they had rockets for¡­ at best¡­ another two or three. The remainder would undoubtedly unload their troops, and if these were the combat robots from last time¡­


    But¡­ the mission came first. And they had a chance to delay the enemy. This would not be a wasteful sacrifice. She steeled her face, ready to deliver the bad news to her platoon.


    Her lieutenant exchanged a knowing glance with her. ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    With a nod, Vmusht rose, standing up on the berm of her dug out, raising her voice. ¡°Platoon 9, tonight, we rejoin the Prophecy¡­¡±


    <hr>


    Her air defense operators waited to launch their portable missiles at the last possible moment, right before the armored vehicles entered their kill box. Vmusht thanked the Prophecy for their training and experience.


    Two smoke trails lanced out from the forested area they were hiding in. One of the predator rotary wing gunships saw the threat coming, releasing a cloud of countermeasures as it tried to move out of the path of the missile, but it was too late.


    Both were hit. One ate a hit in the tail: without the counter torque, it spiraled out of control, crashing into a fireball in the forest below.


    Hot shrapnel from another missile sprayed into the main engine of the second aircraft: its rotor, still spinning with the airflow from the rapid descent of the aircraft, allowed its pilot to keep partial control as it slowly floated towards the ground for a semi-controlled landing.


    Vmusht didn¡¯t wait to see if the crew of the downed gunship made it out alive, instead barking an order to her demolition engineers to trigger the explosives on the road.


    The convoy on the road exploded into chaos.


    Her heart cheered as the first three armored vehicles instantly cooked up in flames.


    Two rockets lanced out from her anti-armor team in perfect precision, destroying the last two vehicles of the convoy and immobilizing the remaining stuck in the chaos.


    Five enemy vehicles down, seven more to go, Vmusht counted in her head.


    As her launchers reloaded, she saw the remaining armored vehicles in the convoy come to a halt. One of them must have spotted the origin of the anti-aircraft missiles: its autocannon thundered, lighting up the forest behind them with high explosive rounds.


    She didn¡¯t have time to check whether her people made it out alive. The ramps on the vehicles dropped open, and enemy troops stormed out the back, firing their rifles at the trenches on the side of the road. She silently sighed in relief as she saw they were Lesser Predators¡­ just the organic beings she was used to and not the new, mechanical ones she feared.


    Her machine guns punctuated the night with their rapid fire, killing most of a predator squad as they exited their vehicle and pinning the remaining enemies down as they laid on the road. The disorganized predators spat a few rifle rounds towards her people, which were generally ineffective¡­ until their vehicles swiveled their turrets towards the Znosian positions and began to pound them with their oversized autocannons.


    One of her machine guns quickly fell silent. Then, the other. The fire from her other rifles began to slack as the incoming explosive rounds from the armored vehicles kept their heads down.


    The pair of anti-armor launchers were finally ready, and she watched as they stood up in their dug outs, aiming at the convoy. But before they could fire, the enemy vehicles¡¯ guns cut down one of them where they stood.


    The other launcher managed to get her shot off, but the predators¡¯ infantry targeted her, killing her before she could get down back into cover. On the road, Vmusht heard one of the enemy vehicles explode¡­ one fewer autocannon raking her troops¡¯ positions.


    But they had nothing more for the remainder of the enemy vehicles.


    This is it, Vmusht realized. Hopefully that was enough for the other platoons to get out.


    Looking at the other troops huddled in the trench with her, she calmly sat down, closed her eyes, and began reciting the Prayer of Death. ¡°My eternal gratitude to the Prophecy for this insignificant life of service. May It prevail through the will of others, and may the service of Its faithful and worthy Servants bring about Its coming. For Its glorious purpose, our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we were hatched.¡±


    She could barely hear herself in the din of battle. Looking around, she saw the others following her example, making their recitations to themselves as well, a few joining paws with their trench neighbors in solidarity as they readied their souls for the end.


    But the end did not come.


    Instead, she heard a loud whistle scream through the air.


    <hr>


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Another of the Lesser Predator vehicles exploded into flames.


    ¡°Gunner, second vehicle, 1-5-4-0, straight front, fire!¡±


    She didn¡¯t need Skhork¡¯s instruction. As soon as the autoloader completed the reload, his Gunner sent another kinetic round towards the conveniently lined up enemy vehicles, perfectly calibrated for range and atmospheric effects by the combat computer.


    Barely glancing at the result, she skewered another Lesser Predator vehicle. Then another. And only when she was targeting the last surviving vehicle of the convoy did the predators in it finally manage to pinpoint the location of their Longclaw.


    Futilely, it sent a frantic burst of their low-caliber autocannon rounds in her direction. Most of them missed. A few bounced off the thick frontal armor without denting it. If Skhork was an undisciplined predator, he might have laughed or commented about how much he missed being a real Longclaw Commander.


    Instead, he watched calmly as the Gunner serviced the final target without prejudice.


    ¡°All enemy vehicles destroyed,¡± she reported. ¡°Platoon 9 is cleaning up the dismounted Lesser Predators and readying to leave.¡±


    As the enemy vehicles died, the troops rushed out of their trenches towards the now-suppressed enemy troops, executing them. Skhork could see a couple of the squad leaders wave thankfully in his direction. ¡°Good, let¡¯s get out of here too. We only have a few more minutes before our orbital window to get to cover closes.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 10 Holdouts V

    <div>


    Priunt Spaceport, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    ¡°We have no orbital support, no aircraft, and no indirect fire. Our infantry is a limited resource. And the only armored element we have is my single Longclaw. As the combat computer has calculated, a successful operation must rely on the element of shock. We hit the enemy so hard, so fast, that they cannot possibly respond before it is too late. Therefore, this attack will resemble more a deep penetration raid than a combined arms breach.¡±


    Skhork gestured at the holographic projection of the sector spaceport on the floor of his tent as his platoon leaders crowded around. They could afford to use the battery-powered device now that the Longclaw has been fully recharged.


    ¡°The critical weakness of the predator facility is once again its rear entrance: it is a mere hundred meters to the dense hilly forest nearby. We will approach the base under this cover of foliage. Our Marines in full combat gear can cover the distance of the clearing in twenty seconds. Our Longclaw can traverse it in five.¡±


    He then pointed at the newly installed autocannon turret covering that approach.


    ¡°Given the enemy¡¯s newfound reliance on combat robots, the combat computer predicts the turret will likely also be automated like ship defenses. Its response is estimated to be quick and precise. Our Longclaw will immediately engage and destroy it. Carrying as many Marines on the Longclaw hull as possible, we will pierce the outer gate and establish a beachhead. We will deploy concealment and all infantry platoons will follow.¡±


    The holographic image displayed the Longclaw plowing through the thin metal fence on the outer perimeter, and then Znosian Marines sprinting out from the forestry into the clearing to the outer gate.


    ¡°Once within the perimeter, the infantry will cover the Longclaw, prioritizing engaging enemy anti-armor teams in the inner checkpoint. According to our reconnaissance, there will likely be standard predator anti-armor traps to immobilize our gravity engines before we can breach the inner gate. They will need to be disabled. Once the checkpoint is secured, the demolitions team will clear the way for our Longclaw, which will proceed to break through the second, inner gate. This second breakthrough should take place within five minutes, or the mission must be cancelled.¡±


    Then, the hologram shifted to display the interior of the base, with an underground entrance highlighted in yellow, followed by a map of a complicated series of tunnels underground.


    ¡°We have two primary objectives. First, Platoons 1 to 6 will enter the underground shuttle hangars and destroy as many of their spacecraft as possible. The enemy¡¯s most elite units are likely to be concentrated there, so be prepared for a firefight. Time is of the essence, so push through your casualties and accomplish the objectives by any means necessary.¡±


    The leaders of the designated platoons nodded their heads knowingly. Most of their Marines were not expected to survive. They would do their duty to the Prophecy. One of them muttered under his breath with grim resignation, ¡°Our lives were forfeited the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    Skhork nodded and continued his briefing. A series of new targets appeared in the above ground complex.


    ¡°The Longclaw, Platoon 7, and Platoon 8 will focus on the other primary objective: denying the future use of the spaceport to the enemy. Using demolition charges and our Longclaw shells, we will take down the control tower and all six of the spaceport¡¯s launch pads in sequence.¡±


    The light from the hologram faded, casting the tent into darkness. Skhork¡¯s eyes, sharp and intense, met each of his gathered subordinates.


    ¡°Once inside the base, we should all have twenty minutes to complete our mission and another five to retreat back into the forestry before enemy orbital support arrives. Thirty minutes, in and out. Is everything clear?¡±


    One of his platoon leaders, her voice laced with concern, began, ¡°If we cannot finish destroying the underground shuttles before¡ª¡±


    Skhork interrupted her. ¡°You will complete your tasks. One of the Marines on the surface will alert you by backup radio if enemy orbital support has arrived before you can exit the hangars. If you are still in the structure by then, you will hunker down and force the predators in orbit to participate in further destruction of their own spaceport or send their own infantry in to clear you out. Do you understand my plan?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers.¡±


    Nods rippled through the tent.


    ¡°Any other questions? No? Good. Fearless, we have destroyed the value of our troops and equipment a dozen-fold from the enemy in the last month. With this mission, a hundred-fold is easily within our grasp. We have proven ourselves worthy, all of us. Worthy of the responsibilities we have been given by the Prophecy. We are Znosians. We are the Servants and executors of the Prophecy, and Its Will shall be done. Trust in your herd! Trust in your purpose! Awoo?¡±


    ¡°Awoo awoo awoooooooo!¡±


    <hr>


    Skhork looked up at the empty sky in his open cupola. No moons. Low light. Even in his night vision scopes, the outlines of the forest were barely visible. Navigation was only possible because of the Znosians¡¯ sensitive thermal sensors. Darkness was their ally.


    He lowered himself into the armored Longclaw cabin. ¡°Everyone ready?¡±


    ¡°Ready,¡± his crew replied in unison in the confined space.


    ¡°Two minutes,¡± his Gunner announced, taking a quick glance at her watch.


    Skhork grunted in approval and stood back up to look towards the edge of the clearing. Only a few steps away, the foliage was so thick that the facility beyond it was fully obscured. Even so, he could dimly hear the activity in the busy spaceport. There were no landings at this time of night, but the work of maintenance and cargo transfer was still ongoing.


    He glanced back towards the dozen Marines clinging onto the paw holds on the outside of his vehicle. He whispered at them, ¡°One minute!¡±


    A moment later, he got a nod back from the platoon leader, barely visible in the pitch darkness. Skhork couldn¡¯t see the other platoons he knew were laying around the forest floor next to them, but he trusted they would do their jobs.


    ¡°Thirty seconds, engines on.¡±


    The Longclaw¡¯s gravity engines switched on, its hum muffled by the wet leaves on the surrounding trees. Skhork put on his helmet, dialing up the hearing protection to the maximum.


    The Gunner pre-aimed their turret cannon towards the known location of the enemy autocannon turret.


    ¡°Five, four, three, two, one¡­ fire!¡±


    The cannon discharged in a loud explosion, the flash lighting up the forest around them for an instant. Before his eyes adjusted, Skhork saw the eager faces of his people laying next to his vehicle, their bodies tensed, ready for the fight.


    ¡°Drive!¡±


    At his command, the Longclaw surged forward, crashing through the trees into the clearing, bringing the base in view. He brought up his optics, and to his relief, the enemy turret was out of action, its top half missing and the surrounding machinery in flames.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    It took the predicted five seconds for his vehicle to traverse the open clearing. The Longclaw crashed through the spaceport¡¯s outer metal gate, trampling it beneath the gravity engines like a pile of broken twigs.


    Thud. In unison, the heavy assault platoon on his hull dismounted, bringing up their automatic rifles, pouring fire towards the half dozen guards in the inner gate and its gatehouse.


    ¡°The checkpoint!¡±


    But he needed not have given the order. The Gunner was already working on it. The secondary kinetic ammunition shredded through the inner gate¡¯s checkpoint: glass, steel, concrete, flesh, and blood.


    Ten seconds.


    ¡°Smoke!¡±


    With the flick of a button on his console, the dozen grenade canisters mounted on the turret fired towards the front, filling the night with a cushion of obscuring smoke. Behind the Longclaw, the infantry platoons rushed out of the clearing and sprinted towards the opening they made with their war cries.


    ¡°Watch out for their anti-armor troops!¡± Skhork yelled at the infantry surrounding the Longclaw, but he didn¡¯t expect to be heard through the din of battle. They did their jobs anyway, suppressing anyone beyond the inner gate with their automatic fire. A trio unfolded a tripod with practiced paws to set up a mounted machine gun next to the Longclaw. Their grenadier launched another two grenades towards the gate, discouraging any predator troops from poking their heads out.


    Twenty seconds.


    Skhork looked at the solid metal plates embedded into the asphalt in front of the inner gate. Gravity engine traps, as expected. His demolition teams would know what to do with those. He glanced at the enemy¡¯s inner gate. There was no other sign of resistance, other than the few dead guards in the checkpoint. They must have been caught completely unprepared. As he pondered where the rest of the enemy¡¯s infantry were, the spaceport¡¯s loud sirens began to sound.


    A little faster than expected, but not unusual enough to worry over.


    Thirty seconds.


    The infantry behind them filed into the checkpoint area, rapidly setting up a security perimeter around the Longclaw.


    ¡°Demolitions, disable those gravity traps!¡± Skhork yelled, gesturing at the plates with his paws.


    There was no way he could be heard over the din. But the demolitions team leader clearly understood his assignment, waving his paw in acknowledgement as his team rushed towards the task of disabling the traps that would fry their gravity engines if they tried to forcibly push through over it.


    One minute.


    No enemy units appeared, though the activity in the base appeared to have ceased. The suppressive fire from his troops towards the inner gate slackened to save ammunition.


    One minute and a half.


    The demolitions team continued their work as Skhork looked up worryingly at the sky. He knew his anti-aircraft operators were ready at the edge of the clearing behind him, and the startup sequence for predator rotary wing gunships was at least fifteen minutes. And that was on a good day.


    Right?


    Two minutes.


    Finally, a response from the enemy.


    He heard two dozen distinctive dry coughs deep in the spaceport that briefly eclipsed the sound of his troops¡¯ fire. A quick check on his combat computer confirmed what he suspected as the Longclaw radar tracked twenty-four artillery projectiles in the air, close enough for them to measure their precise diameter: 105 millimeters.


    That¡¯s unexpected. They can¡¯t have accurately zeroed in on us that fast.


    Nonetheless, he was taking no chances.


    ¡°Indirect fire!¡± he shouted at his infantry. They couldn¡¯t hear him, but at least a few of the platoon leaders also heard the shells being launched. They quickly dispersed the Marines in a wide pattern, taking cover best they could in the open perimeter; the remaining followed their example.


    Two minutes and a half.


    His Marines had stopped shooting to take cover.


    Skhork tracked the incoming on his radar.


    Five.


    Four.


    He ducked into his cupola. He didn¡¯t think about it beforehand, and there wasn¡¯t enough time to close it, but it was unlikely they¡¯d score a direct him on the Longclaw anyway. Hopefully.


    Two.


    One.


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    Skhork heard numerous dull sounds around his Longclaw as the symbols disappeared off its sensor screen. A splattering of mud and dust clattered loudly against the armor of his vehicle.


    After a few seconds, he peeked cautiously out of his turret. He spotted a couple of dimpled craters several meters from the Longclaw where the shells landed and no sign of the rest.


    To his relief, all his Marines seemed¡­ alive. No casualties.


    Duds, maybe? Or just lucky.


    Skhork did not spare a moment to question his unit¡¯s good luck or express disdain at the predators¡¯ faulty equipment, instead motioning for his troops to get up to resume their volume of fire.


    Three minutes.


    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his demolitions team waving to him from the gravity tank trap. They were saying something. He made a gesture with his paw to his ear, the universal sign that he could not hear.


    They gave him a positive paw signal.


    Good to go. Traps disabled.


    ¡°Excellent work!¡± he shouted, more to himself than to anyone in particular.


    He descended into his cabin again and shouted at his crew. ¡°Good to go! Driver, take us through the gate!¡±


    ¡°Right away, Commander!¡±


    The Driver happily complied, gunning the engines. Their infantry in front of them had enough sense to move out of the way. The Longclaw sped forward, through the gravity engine trap without issue, and grinded through the inner gates with similar ease to how it penetrated the outer perimeter.


    ¡°Smoke!¡±


    The Longclaw¡¯s smoke canisters discharged again, filling a wide volume in front of the vehicle with obscuration. The infantry behind them filed in, spreading out as they entered to maximize their coverage. More machine gun tripods were being set up, along with some temporary cover in the form of sandbags carried in by the spare infantry.


    Skhork looked through his thermal optic, trying to identify enemy targets through the smoke for his Gunner.


    There were none. Not a single enemy in sight.


    They should be responding in force by now, even by the combat computer¡¯s most optimistic projections.


    Three minutes and a half.


    Puzzled, he glanced at his infantry platoon leaders, trying to gauge if they saw anything from their facial expressions.


    As he turned, Skhork noticed some liquid splash onto his half-open visor. The inside of it.


    Liquid? Blood? Where?


    Skhork checked his head and chest with his paws, running through his field triage training.


    No openings.


    No lacerations.


    No signs of trauma.


    No scent of external wounds.


    He looked up in the dark night sky, wondering if it had started raining without him noticing. Suddenly, his night vision goggles seemed too dim. He flipped a switch on his helmet to turn up the brightness setting on the display, but even the bright night lighting around the spaceport seemed to start getting darker. He realized it was already on the maximum brightness.


    Why is it getting so dark all of a sudden?


    Skhork lifted his visor to check if something was wrong with his device. His paws ¡ª trembling now, oddly enough ¡ª touched his nose from under it: it was wet. Where from?


    He tried to sneeze to expel the liquid stuck in his runny nose, but he found that he couldn¡¯t even muster up the energy to do so from his abdomen.


    ¡°Something¡ª something is wrong,¡± Skhork barely made out as he felt something squeezing his chest, like he was being sat on by a heavy predator.


    ¡°Medic¡­¡± he gasped hoarsely.


    Nobody responded in the din.


    It was getting difficult to even breathe, each breath more laborious than the last.


    His strength left him. The upper half of his body gave out before his rear paws: Skhork slumped on his side across the top of his Longclaw turret.


    One of his platoon leaders turned around and shouted something at him.


    Help me. Help me.


    The platoon leader turned to call out to her platoon medic. As she pivoted, he could see her frowning.


    She vomited, clutching her sides in pain. He watched helplessly as she too collapsed to the ground, next to the lifeless body of one of her squad leaders.


    The gunfire around him slowed to a stop. From his paralyzed point of view, he could see his troops drop to the tarmac, one-by-one; some twitching, vomiting, or gurgling on the ground as she did; others limp and lifeless.


    Skhork could only observe feebly as silhouettes of the enemies raced out of the smoke his own Longclaw had deployed, moving unnaturally fast against no resistance.


    Combat robots, he noted dumbly, of course. They approached his troops without a care in the galaxy. Some of them weren¡¯t even armed. One of the cursed machines jabbed something into the neck of one of his unconscious Marines. Then, another.


    Still painfully aware, Skhork realized he was inhaling the saliva pooled inside his mouth into his lungs with his shallow, involuntary gasps of breath. His diaphragm muscles refused to respond to his brain desperately signaling for them to cough the liquid out.


    It felt like drowning.


    Loss of consciousness seconds later was a mercy.


    Four minutes.


    <hr>


    Priunt Security Force Headquarters, Datsot-3


    POV: Vionvu, Malgeir Federation Security Forces (Position: Chief Sector Commander)


    The drone video recording stopped.


    The sector command center was silent but for the hum of its computer fans.


    The security commander looked up in horror at the expressionless advisor on the main screen. Her eyes didn¡¯t quite meet the camera.


    He managed to stutter out, ¡°What¡ª what was¡ª what was in those gray and green canisters you gave us?¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 11 Remedial Training

    <div>


    Malgeiru Orbital Transfer Hub, Malgeiru-3 (2,400 km)


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Speinfoent¡¯s gaze swept through the sparse interior of the shuttle as he boarded. Dozens of empty seats stretched before him, each with a hint of wear, their synthetic cushions showing signs of countless past occupants. Rows upon rows of them lined the cramped cargo bay, uniform in their arrangement. Beyond the translucent windows, the spaceport he just debarked stood out against the dark expanse of space.


    A few months ago, he would not have noticed the suboptimal design choices that made up the troop transport. Now, he had to actively suppress the portion of his subconscious that threw up mental red flags about Terran Navy regulations and code.


    There were too many seats and too few exits; troops would take forever to get out in an emergency.


    No escape pods for most of the occupants; only barely enough for the flight crew.


    No seat belts or restraints. No fire-proof interior coverings. No oxygen masks above each seat.


    He looked around for the hull breach quick-patches or fire extinguishers: they were supposed to be included on every troop transport but realized that they had probably been sold by its crew on the black-market decades ago.


    And the windows ¡ª so many large windows! A Terran luxury space yacht would be jealous of the size of these windows and the engineering that made them possible in the vacuum of space¡­ and if the enemy saw them right now, they would probably rub their evil little paws in joy at the hundreds of structural weaknesses the Malgeir themselves dug into their own spacecraft.


    Speinfoent tried not to dwell on it.


    He squinted at the other end of the bare transport module and noticed the only two other occupants of the shuttle: a female and male figure seated next to each other. Both looked deeply engrossed in their handheld datapads. He marched over, picked an empty chair across from them, and settled into it.


    Staring across the aisle, Speinfoent noticed the rank insignias and their fleet badges sewn into their uniforms. Eighth Fleet for the female and Twelfth Auxiliary Fleet for the male. Both omega leaders.


    He cleared his throat noisily. ¡°Hey, you guys going to the training?¡±


    The female¡¯s attention shifted from her datapad, her dull-orange eyes flickering with a hint of curiosity. Speinfoent guessed she was in her early forties from the subtle grace in her posture. Her gaze landed on the shiny new beta leader insignia on his uniform, and her eyebrows raised ever so slightly in surprise.


    ¡°Ah, yes. I think the flight was just waiting for you, Beta Leader. The crew said we had only three on this flight,¡± she replied, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. Her paw swept across the near-empty cabin. ¡°Not a popular destination, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Call me Speinfoent,¡± he said, holding out his paw out of recently acquired habit.


    She looked oddly at him for a second, and Speinfoent hastily withdrew his paw, internally cringing at the instinctual Terran custom. Instead, they nodded at each other in proper greeting.


    ¡°I¡¯m Uintrei,¡± she introduced herself, then nodded at her companion. ¡°And this is Durnio.¡±


    The male looked about the same age as Speinfoent: late twenties or early thirties, he guessed. His dark brown fur was a match of Uintrei¡¯s except longer and slightly unkempt.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Durnio greeted him casually. ¡°So¡­ Beta Leader, what did you do?¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s head tilted in confusion. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°To deserve the remedial training,¡± Durnio clarified. ¡°I got sent down here after I broke our head chef¡¯s snout in a fight; he was stuffing our dinner rations with garbage after he sold the actual meats on the black market.¡±


    ¡°I volunteered. You got ordered here?¡± Speinfoent asked. ¡°I thought everyone volunteered for this.¡±


    Durnio let out a snort in disbelief. ¡°Volunteering? How long have you been in the Navy? And they said this is going to be over a year. I swear I didn¡¯t know his snout was going to be that fragile¡­ even if he deserved it.¡±


    Speinfoent turned to Uintrei in curiosity. ¡°Did you get sent here as well?¡±


    Her nod came slow and heavy. ¡°There was a battle a while ago, against the Grass Eaters. Didn¡¯t work out for Eighth Fleet. The Fleet commander and the flagship ate it, so they blamed it on me and a couple other squadron leaders that survived. Nothing but demotions and punishment postings since.¡±


    In the dim lighting of the cargo bay, Speinfoent¡¯s face softened, shadows playing across his features. He¡¯d never met her before, but her story was disturbingly common. ¡°That sucks. Must have been bad.¡±


    ¡°It was. The Grass Eaters savaged our fleet without losing a single ship, and we only got out of there because they didn¡¯t expect us to be so stupid to attack them there. The minute Raulur ¡ª our fleet commander ¡ª was confirmed dead, I took command and ordered the fleet scatter and flee. This was¡­ about three years ago now. Gruccud, right after it was taken. You ever been to the system? You seem a little young to have¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve been there. Beautiful planet¡­ before the war,¡± he said, catching himself before revealing more. The smashing success of the Sixth Fleet operation was not exactly a secret, but he didn¡¯t want to answer the inevitable questions that would come if they knew he was part of the liberation fleet. And those details were most certainly highly classified. In fact, most of Sixth Fleet was still information-quarantined on the Gruccud front¡ª


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Uintrei¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly at him in skepticism, then continued, ¡°You said you volunteered for this¡­ training?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Most of my fleet did too, actually, but the Admiralty refused to let us send more.¡±


    ¡°Things must be pretty bad in Sixth Fleet then,¡± she guessed, ¡°for people to want to volunteer for this. A whole year of back-breaking grunt labor on some colony world, probably building houses for some rich idiot with Home Fleet connections. I can¡¯t wait.¡±


    ¡°Hard labor?¡± Speinfoent asked. ¡°They¡¯re sending us to¡ª to a school to learn how to fight.¡±


    Uintrei let out a similar snort to Durnio¡¯s. ¡°Is that what they told you too? How long did you say you¡¯ve been in the Malgeir Federation Navy?¡±


    <hr>


    The gentle hum of the inertial compensators kicked in as the shuttle exited blink, waking Speinfoent up from his nap.


    Uintrei¡¯s gaze met his across the aisle, her eyes glinting with curiosity. ¡°We just completed another blink. That¡¯s the third I counted.¡±


    He offered a nod. ¡°Third from Malgeiru. They should be here soon.¡±


    ¡°They? Huh? Who is here?¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s eyes drifted towards the sleeping Durnio.


    Sensing his hesitation, Uintrei looked sharply at him with curling lips. ¡°You know something we don¡¯t?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°You¡¯ll find out soon enough.¡±


    ¡°You know, Beta Leader¡­ I¡¯ve been reading up on your Sixth Fleet,¡± she said, tapping her datapad with a claw.


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°Nothing about it recently other than rumors a few months ago that some ground troops on Datsot claimed that they¡¯d been abandoned by Sixth Fleet. Not even a whisper since. Now, isn¡¯t that strange?¡±


    ¡°Operational security,¡± Speinfoent replied evasively. ¡°We take it seriously in Sixth Fleet.¡±


    ¡°I know for a fact that we still have Datsot. The news can dress it up all they want, but the Defense Ministry wouldn¡¯t be able to hide a core world loss if it happened again,¡± she continued speculating. ¡°And the rumors of a major counteroffensive breakthrough in Gruccud.¡±


    Speinfoent looked down, refusing to meet her eye.


    Uintrei pressed on undeterred, ¡°I¡¯m no math professor, Speinfoent, but I can count to six. And I know for a fact there aren¡¯t that many intact offensive fleets left in the Navy. Just one, really, if I think about it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just a beta officer. I don¡¯t really keep track of things like that,¡± Speinfoent lied.


    ¡°Sixth Fleet liberated Gruccud, didn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°I am not at liberty to confirm nor deny details of such a military operation,¡± Speinfoent parroted the line he learned before he was allowed to volunteer. He reflected that there were probably some things that could be safe to tell her, especially given their current status and destination, but he knew far better than to make the call himself. The amount of paperwork he¡¯d have to do if their advisors found out¡­


    She looked at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on her face. ¡°How did you solve the space mine problem at Gruccud?¡±


    Now, that was something he definitely could not tell her.


    ¡°I am not at liberty to confirm¡ª¡±


    His denial was interrupted by a loud clang from the shuttle¡¯s hull. They both snapped their heads towards its source at the rear of the cargo bay, towards the entrance. Durnio stirred in his seat, peeking his right eye open.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Uintrei asked with mild concern.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s them.¡±


    ¡°Who is them? Do you always talk in these confusing riddles?¡±


    He said nothing in reply, his gaze fixed on something unseen beyond the hull.


    Moments later, the shuttle pilot¡¯s voice came over the speakers, ¡°We have been docked. They¡¯ll take you from here.¡±


    ¡°Who is they?¡±


    The three in the cargo bay watched the docking entrance hissed open and a singular armored creature walked in, its face covered. Despite knowing the nature of their future host, Speinfoent still felt a little unease at something about them¡­ their straight upright posture, the jet-black armored suit¡ª


    It spoke, and he could tell that it was a woman from the way her translator relayed the information in slightly higher, smoother pitch to signify a female speaker for their benefit. ¡°You are candidates for the Staff College pilot program: Uintrei, Durnio, and¡­ ah, Sphinx?¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s cheeks warmed with a blush, and he tried his best to not look at his curious compatriots. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Good. You guys are right on time, surprisingly for a change. Alright, let¡¯s get started. I know that you¡ª that some of you may have some questions. I will answer them in due time. For now, you can call me Carla,¡± she said, producing a tablet for them. ¡°I will need you to sign these forms.¡±


    ¡°What is it¡­ Carla?¡± Uintrei asked suspiciously, rolling the strange name off her tongue.


    ¡°It¡¯s a bunch of agreements and waivers. For the duration of your time at the Staff College, you are still considered in the service of the Malgeir Navy, but you will follow all commands given to you by the staff of the College. We will be responsible for your well-being, within reason. Your living expenses at the College will be covered by an adequate stipend. And in exchange you agree to follow instructions to the best of your ability. The whole agreement has been legally vetted by the Navy. And the most important thing: what you are about to see and learn in the next few months is highly secret information. If you breathe a word of it to anyone, you will go to prison for a very long time. Any questions?¡±


    Durnio shrugged and accepted the tablet, signing his name without bothering to read it and handing it to Uintrei, who finally did put her name on it after some hesitation and the apparent realization that she didn¡¯t have much of a choice anyway.


    Taking the tablet back from Speinfoent, Carla made some taps on the tablet. ¡°Okay, looks like we are good to go.¡±


    With a swift motion, Carla unsealed her helmet, revealing her distinctively Terran face. Her pale skin contrasted sharply against the light-absorbing darkness of her suit.


    ¡°What the¡ª¡± Uintrei almost jumped out of her own fur. ¡°You¡¯re not Malgeir.¡±


    Durnio looked at her like she was stupid. ¡°That wasn¡¯t obvious from the suit?¡±


    Carla¡¯s lips curved in a half-smile, ¡°Correct. I am from the Terran Republic, a new, highly secret ally of your species.¡±


    Uintrei¡¯s eyes widened when she saw Carla revealing her teeth as she talked. She blurted out, ¡°But you are a Grass Eater!¡±


    ¡°You people always leap to that one, huh? No, I do not eat grass. Not exclusively anyway. You tell them, Sphinx,¡± Carla said, looking at Speinfoent, who had been sporting a wide grin throughout the exchange.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you again, Commander. Is Amelia here too?¡±


    Carla¡¯s smile broadened, her finger tapping the updated insignia on her own uniform. ¡°It¡¯s captain now since we pulled off Anaconda. The admiral got promoted to a desk job and they made me a cross-species liaison for¡­ these types of things.¡±


    ¡°My condolences to her,¡± he joked. ¡°And to you.¡±


    Carla let out a chortle. Turning to look at the pair of still bewildered omega leaders, she smiled at them, without showing any of her scary front buck teeth this time. ¡°I¡¯m sure you both have plenty of questions. For now, follow me onto our shuttle. You can ask on the way to Sol.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    There are 17 windows on the International Space Station: for science, to plan EVAs, and for making incredibly cool music videos.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 12 Callsigns

    <div>


    TRNS Earhart, McMurdo System (1,400 Ls)


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    The Terran shuttle was clearly designed with a heavy emphasis on function over form. Her hull interiors embraced a minimalist palette, a symphony of dark grays and blacks, covered with unfamiliar scribbles printed in white that told of buried functionality within each of the many protrusions. The sparse side-by-side seating numbered just over a dozen, each accompanied by what was evidently a Terran EVA suit in a panel above their heads.


    Speinfoent tried to imagine fitting his tail into one of them. They looked spacious enough but¡ª


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Carla reassured, following the direction of his gaze. ¡°It won¡¯t be comfortable, but we checked: you guys are small enough to stuff yourselves in one of those in an emergency.¡±


    She slid into a seat next to the cockpit and beckoned for the trio to each take one. Speinfoent took the one across from her, fastened his seat restraints, and began to gesture with his paw to Uintrei to show her how to operate hers.


    Observing from the other side, Carla signaled them to tighten the belts as hard as they could. ¡°Make sure to strap in hard. If the inertial compensators stop working¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªyou¡¯ll want to be able to identify our bodies,¡± Speinfoent finished for her.


    A grin flashed across Carla¡¯s face. ¡°See? I knew our training system works.¡±


    She reached above her with her arm, pointing towards a compartment concealing some hidden functionality. ¡°This is your oxygen mask system. If we lose cabin pressure, or if the shuttle enters combat mode, it will pop open.¡±


    She manually operated the simple latch with a flick of her wrist and pulled down an oxygen rebreather device, demonstrating its functionality. ¡°When that happens, reach up with your paw and pull down the oxygen mask. Breathe in deeply, and it will automatically seal itself over your face. When a catastrophic loss of cabin pressure occurs, you will have about five to ten seconds of consciousness to do so, two minutes with combat injections. To help you out, the cabin will be quickly flooded with a backup non-oxygenated atmosphere, which will give your body pressure for about a minute, depending on the size of the hull breach. Use that time to get yourself into the EVA suits before you help anyone who is not yet pressurized. And make sure to do this before your lungs explode. Ninety seconds in vacuum, and you¡¯re a satellite¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lung,¡± Speinfoent corrected, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. ¡°Unlike you or the Granti, we only have one.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the xenobiology lesson, professor,¡± Carla teased. ¡°In summary, put on the suit before your lung explodes.¡±


    Carla pulled out another compartment next to her, this time grabbing what looked like a light stick out of it. ¡°Oxygen candles,¡± she explained. ¡°In case you run out of internal oxygen in your emergency suit. Stick it in your suit¡¯s receptable in your hip, and it¡¯ll keep you breathing for a while in case it takes a long time to rescue you after an accident.¡±


    Durnio¡¯s eyes darted about, betraying his nervousness. ¡°Do these¡­ accidents happen a lot on your ships?¡±


    ¡°Not usually out of combat,¡± Carla admitted, ¡°But anything can happen. You will be issued custom EVA suits and drilled on putting them on once you get to Charon.¡±


    Uintrei¡¯s voice wavered between worry and wonder, ¡°How far away is that?¡±


    Carla counted on her fingers. ¡°Four blinks: Flint, Hawking, Sirius, and then Sol. Just enough time to get comfortable. Why?¡±


    Uintrei winced. ¡°We didn¡¯t bring over ration packs from the shuttle. I don¡¯t suppose¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah. Don¡¯t worry,¡± Carla said, glancing at her tablet. ¡°Lunch will be served once we enter blink.¡±


    ¡°And you have¡­ appropriate meals for our¡­ distinct physiology?¡±


    Speinfoent reassured her, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that. Terran food is at least half the reason that almost everyone in Sixth Fleet who was eligible volunteered for the College.¡±


    Carla winked. ¡°There is meat, yes, if that is your concern. Shuttle food is not grande cuisine but given what I¡¯ve seen of Sixth Fleet¡¯s rations before our chefs took over their menus, I¡¯m sure you will find it palatable.¡±


    Speinfoent felt his whiskers twitch with anticipation. ¡°Is there also¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, we do have an ice cream machine on board the shuttle. And other snacks to tide you over before we get a proper meal,¡± Carla chuckled.


    She reached into a compartment next to her and pulled out a few plastic vacuum-sealed packages. Holding them in front of her ¡ª one in each hand, she looked at the confused pair of Malgeir officers and the bemused Speinfoent. ¡°I¡¯ve got some jerky. Beef or turkey?¡±


    ¡°Beef,¡± Speinfoent answered without hesitation, and she tossed him one of the bags.


    He tore it open with his canines, and the smell of the heavily processed alien meat, mixed with a slight tinge of spice, instantly wafted into the snout of the hungry Durnio next to him. ¡°I¡¯ll have what he¡¯s having, please.¡±


    <hr>


    Uintrei¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief. ¡°So, rumors of the destruction of the Grass Eater fleet at Gruccud were accurate?¡± she asked in astonishment. ¡°And the capture of their fleet commander?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Speinfoent answered proudly. ¡°And I was there to watch them tow away the hundreds of captured ship hulls and prisoners. I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll see them once we enter Sol.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re still figuring out a good way to use those captured hulls,¡± Carla chuckled dryly. ¡°One of the admirals wanted to put them into service for your Navy, and he changed his mind after a ten-minute tour.¡±


    Uintrei¡¯s brow furrowed in confusion. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with them? They seem to fight us in them just fine.¡±


    ¡°Size. Znosian crew members are too small,¡± Carla explained patiently. ¡°About twenty percent of the ship would not be comfortably accessible for Malgeir crews, not to mention Terrans. And we¡¯d have to re-train your people to operate those alien ships ¡ª after we figure them out ourselves. It would take too much time, and it would be easier to build new Malgeir ships of our designs.¡±


    ¡°Did their fleet commander reveal anything important?¡±


    ¡°A few things, I¡¯m sure. But that¡¯s way above even my new paygrade. One thing they did tell us though, was how to feed the almost hundred thousand prisoners we took to Naval Station Europa. Turns out their diets are even simpler than yours.¡±


    ¡°What do you feed them?¡± Speinfoent asked.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Lettuce. Overcooked lettuce. And if they behave, they seem to enjoy carrots too. So we just ship them in by the shipload from Terra. And,¡± Carla winked, ¡°Some of them appear to enjoy dairy cheese on the side.¡±


    ¡°No way.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah. They can¡¯t digest them, of course, but it looks like the concept of food for more than sustenance is catching on.¡±


    ¡°Does your people have a long-term plan for what to do with them?¡± Uintrei asked.


    ¡°Not really,¡± Carla confessed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what we could do with them. We can¡¯t hand them back to the enemy for obvious reasons. Nor to your people yet because they know too much about us. Can¡¯t put them to work because we can¡¯t trust them to do anything except the most basic tasks like cleaning up after themselves and because we just don¡¯t need that kind of labor.¡±


    ¡°You can always just purge them, right?¡± Uintrei asked, looking intently at the Terran.


    Carla shook her head vehemently. ¡°Not our style. And if we were going to do that, we would have just blown up their shuttles at the battle site far away from everyone else. Maybe we can exchange them for your people one day. Who knows? Keeping them alive isn¡¯t that expensive, and they might come in handy one day.¡±


    ¡°What if they escape? Or collectively break out?¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t.¡±


    Uintrei shrugged, her eyes distant with memory. ¡°That¡¯s what we said early in the war in the ground campaigns when we captured them. They are more resilient than their small statures suggest¡­¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t escape. Not alive, anyway. We have¡­ measures in place.¡±


    After a brief awkward silence, Carla looked kindly at Uintrei. She squeezed the skeptical Malgeir on her shoulder lightly. ¡°It is good that you are asking about these details though. I noticed that some of your spacers don¡¯t ask a lot of these kinds of questions. One thing we teach at the Staff College is that it¡¯s important to think through and be self-critical of your plans like that.¡±


    ¡°So, we actually are going to learn to fight,¡± Durnio said, catching up in the conversation as he finished licking and playing around with his snack bag.


    ¡°Of course. There¡¯s only so much we can do with a few weeks of field exercises and joint operations with Sixth Fleet. That was always a stopgap measure in response to Datsot. The enemy is going to learn and adapt from what we¡¯ve done, and you need to be prepared. To fight your own battles without us if you have to.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been fighting on our own for years now,¡± Uintrei pointed out, some pride in her eyes.


    ¡°Yeah? And how has that been working out?¡±


    ¡°Things could be better¡­¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Besides, it¡¯s also a chance for us to learn from you and for us to improve our models of how you¡¯d behave in a fight.¡±


    ¡°Still¡­ a year. That seems like a long time for us to be out of the fight.¡±


    Carla explained, ¡°That¡¯s already an accelerated schedule for ship command. The problem is that most of our most experienced ship commanders have thousands of orbital flight hours, either with parasite craft, law enforcement cutters, or even transport ships in the civilian sectors. We need to bring you up to speed with basic orbital maneuvers and small unit tactics, historical battles et cetera, before we can get into bigger topics like joint operations or enterprise strategic planning. But if you end up getting the subjects faster than usual, we can discuss how to shorten it even further.¡±


    Uintrei decided to change the subject. ¡°Anyway, what were you calling Speinfoent earlier? A Sphinx? What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Carla¡¯s lips curled into a sly smile. ¡°That¡¯s his callsign. It¡¯s like¡­ a nickname we use. All our ship commanders get one eventually.¡±


    ¡°So what does Sphinx mean?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a really long story,¡± Speinfoent interjected, a little more loudly than his voice needed to be. ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much about it.¡±


    Uintrei¡¯s gaze lingered on him oddly, then asked, ¡°So how would I get a¡­ callsign?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be assigned one eventually if you command a ship.¡±


    ¡°What if I don¡¯t like the callsign they give me?¡± Durnio asked with concern.


    Carla grinned. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s not a problem at all. Just complain about it, and we¡¯ll give you another one.¡±


    Speinfoent generously saved him from committing the cardinal sin of callsigns. ¡°No, definitely don¡¯t do that. They will give you another one you will like even less. We had a captain in our squadron who the Terran exercise trainers started calling Wheelbarrow.¡±


    ¡°Wheelbarrow?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an old Terran farming tool¡ª Anyway, they called him that because he only works when pushed hard. When they explained this to him, he didn¡¯t like that at all. So he whined about it to the squadron leader and insisted everyone call him by his real name.¡±


    Carla suppressed a snicker. ¡°What callsign did they end up giving him instead?¡±


    ¡°Blisters. Because he only appears after the hard work¡¯s been done. And he¡¯s a pain to deal with¡­¡±


    ¡°Ouch.¡±


    ¡°Word of advice to you two: don¡¯t tempt them to change your callsign if you get one. The people who think these things up ¡ª they¡¯re very bored spacers and this is what they think about all day. You can¡¯t win, and you don¡¯t want to be reminded of that on the radio until the day you retire.¡±


    Carla shrugged. ¡°It is possible get a new callsign if you do something more¡­ interesting, but I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s not going to happen for someone who got assigned¡­ Blisters.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of callsigns, Mark never ended up telling me what Amelia¡¯s callsign was back when she commanded a ship,¡± Speinfoent said.


    ¡°Jaws.¡±


    ¡°Jaws?¡±


    ¡°Her flight instructor at the time called her that because she wouldn¡¯t stop talking in class and in briefings. And later she had a reputation for being aggressive as a shark in tactical training, so it worked out and the name stuck.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a shark?¡± Durnio asked, puzzled.


    ¡°What¡¯s that have to do with your jaws?¡± Speinfoent asked simultaneously.


    Carla¡¯s face broke into a wide grin. ¡°You guys are going to looooove movie night at the College.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Earhart, Charon (120 km)


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Speinfoent stared at the shuttle¡¯s external cameras capturing the stark beauty of the approaching moon¡¯s frozen expanse. He noted a curious red blemish near the north pole, its rough surface contrasting with the dominant smooth white and gray.


    He shared his observation with Carla, who smiled and explained while tracing the crimson on the screen, ¡°Frozen gaseous condensates from Pluto, I¡¯m told. The locals here refer to the area as Mordor.¡±


    ¡°Mordor? That sounds familiar. Is that one of the astronauts in your history?¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯s a reference from a classic fantasy movie,¡± Carla replied, jotting it down on her tablet. ¡°Another one to add to the movie night list.¡± She frowned and added, ¡°I think the movie was based on an old book, but I never read the book myself.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded, his eyes still on the monitors. ¡°I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s not where we¡¯re headed.¡±


    ¡°One does not simply fly into Mordor,¡± Carla quoted, then pointed at a cluster of valleys near the equator. ¡°Instead, we built the Naval Station Charon main campus on the less volatile water ice.¡±


    Uintrei chimed in, skepticism in her voice. ¡°This doesn¡¯t seem like a very habitable planet to me. A moon this small: it can¡¯t have an atmosphere.¡±


    Carla nodded. ¡°It isn¡¯t, and it doesn¡¯t. There are some vapors near the surface, but nothing breathable. The bigger problem, however, is the temperature: negative two hundred degrees Celsius is considered a balmy sunny day in summer. If you go outside on Charon without a suit, you¡¯ll instantly go into shock from the cold before the vacuum kills you.¡±


    ¡°Why did you Terrans decide to colonize such an inhospitable planet? It must have been so costly!¡±


    Carla shrugged. ¡°Because we can, probably. As you might have noticed, there aren¡¯t a whole lot of livable planets in our neighborhood, especially given our caution against spreading out too widely. For its part, Charon is positioned nicely outside the system limit, near where we can blink to Sirius, for the next few decades or so of Pluto¡¯s orbit anyway. The lack of atmosphere and low gravity are seen as particularly advantageous characteristics for the Navy. With inertial compensators, the base structure itself has an artificial 1G gravity field, and it¡¯s convenient enough to turn it off at the spaceport whenever we need to launch something.¡±


    ¡°Military and defense priorities seem to dominate your species¡¯ decision-making,¡± Uintrei observed.


    Carla pondered it for a second. ¡°Historically, I would say that¡¯s true for much of Terran history, as you¡¯ll learn at the College, but you¡¯ll notice that we didn¡¯t really colonize Charon. Like our base at Europa, it¡¯s mostly research and military facilities. The remaining population mostly exists to support those activities. Despite having bases in multiple systems, we are essentially a one-system species, and this is our frontier. Which is why it was so important that you agreed to keep our secret.¡±


    ¡°How long do you think you can keep your existence a secret from the Grass¡ª from the Znosians?¡±


    ¡°A few more months to years, at least that¡¯s what we hope. It will get out eventually, and that is a risk we accepted when we joined your war. You have to remember that despite our constant conflicts in our system, we as a species haven¡¯t fought an all-out war for almost a century. It takes time to mobilize the economy, industrialize war output, and get everyone on board. We can only hope to prepare for when our time is up.¡±


    ¡°For when your time is up?¡±


    ¡°Yes. The instant the enemy learns about our existence, they are going to come at us with everything they have. As well as we¡¯ve done so far, we are not betting the continued existence of our entire species on our slimming technological advantage and continued dumb luck.¡±


    ¡°Then what are you betting it on?¡± Uintrei pressed.


    Carla smiled faintly. ¡°You, of course.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 13 Iris

    <div>


    <div>


    Main Cargo Dock, 7 Iris


    POV: Martina Wright, Terran (Executive)


    Two figures disembarked their shuttle, their figures casting long shadows on the metallic ramp. Deep in an animated discussion, they barely noticed the bustling activity of the hangar.


    ¡°Senator Blake Wald, Senator Marco Reis, welcome to Iris,¡± Martina greeted jovially.


    ¡°Martina!¡± Marco¡¯s voice boomed. He turned to Blake, a playful glint in his eye. ¡°Have you two been acquainted in person before?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe so,¡± Blake said with a reserved smile. ¡°We don¡¯t tend to¡­ mingle¡­ in similar circles.¡±


    Marco¡¯s chuckle resonated in the large hangars. ¡°You doves need to broaden your horizons. Just because they make things that kill people for a living doesn¡¯t mean we can¡¯t all be friends¡­ Blake, meet Martina; Martina, Blake.¡±


    Their handshake was formal.


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Senator¡ª Blake,¡± Martina said with a twinkle in her eye. ¡°And don¡¯t mind the Senator from District 7. We make more than just destructive weapons of war.¡±


    Blake waved away the need for an explanation. ¡°I know, I know. You have some kind of a facility making medical equipment in my district. But¡­ we are in a state of existential war. And even doves have survival instincts. I know I¡¯m not exactly here to see what the solar system¡¯s premiere plowshare maker has in store for us.¡±


    Martina nodded, her expression turning serious. ¡°Straight to the point. Fair enough. Follow me.¡±


    They walked through a secure hallway, flanked by serious-looking security guards, into a series of walkways that led to the entrance of yet another large underground hangar.


    Hiss.


    As the heavy blast door opened, the chamber revealed a single, gargantuan monster, a ship about the size of ten of the Terran Republic¡¯s old parasite carriers. It sprawled several sports stadiums wide and about as tall, and they could see the relatively tiny maintenance robots dwarfed against its giant hull, working on dissecting its exterior like ants on a rotting carcass.


    Marco¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°This is¡ª¡±


    ¡°Znosian battleship, production serial number 42228, or as the Buns called it: ZNS 2228, the former flagship of Znosian Datsot Invasion Fleet,¡± Martina declared, a prideful smile evident in her voice. ¡°Its mass is around the 9th or 10th exponent of a kilogram, or as our senior engineers describe it: enough to contain every single ship in our entire modern destroyer fleet in its volume.¡±


    ¡°Wow,¡± Blake breathed out. ¡°What do they use all that space inside for? From the specifications I¡¯ve seen, these don¡¯t seem to fire a whole lot of missiles for what its size implies.¡±


    ¡°Orbital invasion craft, mostly,¡± Martina said. ¡°And systems to support its large complement. This ship is a planetary invasion all-in-one. When Raytech engineers first saw these things from Republic reconnaissance decades ago, they were confused.¡±


    ¡°About how they built such big ships? Yeah, I¡¯d bet you were,¡± Marco said, his gaze still anchored to the prize battleship.


    Martina shook her head. ¡°No, they were confused about why. The Malgeir have ships almost this big too. But from everything we knew about the Znosian species, they are a highly specialized society. Many of their workers or Marines were bred for a single purpose, doomed to do one thing with their life from birth to death.¡± She gestured at the ship. ¡°You would expect them to have a dozen different types of ships doing dozen different things. Yet¡­ here you see the opposite, a multipurpose ship designed for a bunch of different tasks. And we know from our own experience that building such large vessels creates massive potential for inefficiency. So, when we initially observed these ships, it challenged the way we thought about ship design.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they just did it wrong by accident,¡± Marco shrugged. ¡°Or it was the result of compromises in domestic politics, as some of our ship designs end up being.¡±


    Martina gave him a tentative nod. ¡°Those were the most popular hypotheses among our engineers at the time. But a small group of dissenters at Raytech looked for an alternative explanation. They called themselves¡­ the Elephant Mafia. Their contention was that there was a reasonable justification for the scale of these ships. As neither side had actual evidence, this mostly became an academic discussion ¡ª until we captured an intact sample. As it turned out, the Elephant Mafia was right, but none of them really guessed the correct reason. It only took hours of examination, but the sample revealed one thing, and one thing stood out. It shocked our engineers.¡±


    The two Senators leaned it closer, waiting to hear the answer.


    ¡°There are two drives on this ship and all our extrasolar combat ships. The blink drive, and the constant acceleration Alcubierre drive,¡± Martina began. ¡°The blink drive scales linearly with mass. Here, it composes about a fifth of its total volume ¡ª a little smaller than expected, but still a substantial portion of the Znosian ship¡¯s volume and mass. Their Alcubierre drive, however, is over there.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± Blake craned his neck, scanning the area.


    She gestured to a modest heap of parts, the size of a small ground car, mere meters away.


    ¡°But that¡¯s tiny! That¡¯s for the whole ship?!¡±


    Martina nodded. ¡°As we¡¯ve long known, the Alcubierre drive doesn¡¯t only operate with Newtonian principles. If it did, each one of our ships with its years of drive-life would need to contain more energy than the Sun itself. The high school explanation is that by creating negative mass, we can contract space and use a tiny amount of energy to generate constant acceleration for a long period of time. Enough to traverse a system in a reasonable amount of time, at least.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know which high school you went to, Martina,¡± Marco quipped. ¡°But they definitely skipped magic drive design at mine.¡±


    Her smile mirrored his. ¡°So did mine. My implant wrote this explanation. Apparently, the high school it went to didn¡¯t¡­ Anyway, our solution of the Alcubierre field equations almost a century ago ran into an issue: the more negative mass we generated, the more heat it accrued inside the system, and this did not scale well in vacuum. We could alleviate the problem by having a bigger negative mass generator in our Alcubierre drive with some engineering, but that meant the larger our ships¡­ the larger the drive was. Our largest fast combat ship ¡ª the retired parasite carriers ¡ª their sizes hit an upper bound around the size of a Malgeir destroyer, and even that was incredibly inefficient. This limitation was what our engineers called the ¡®tyranny of the drive equation¡¯.¡±


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ¡°Was?¡± Blake asked, his voice tinged with expectation.


    ¡°Was. The Znosian ship¡¯s Alcubierre drive provided us the answer to not just miniaturize drive design, which was the holy grail of ship scale engineering; it provided the answer to size-agnostic drive design, as in we can make our ships as big as we want.¡±


    Blake¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°How?!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a question for the scientists, who you will meet later. I won¡¯t even pretend to understand the math fed to me by the implant in my eye. But the point is, after a year of experimentation, we¡¯ve figured it out,¡± Martina announced. ¡°The Elephant Mafia came back in from the cold with their decades of wild hypothetical concepts, and we started to study their feasibility. And since the war was on our minds, despite the misgivings of some of our strategists, we began studying the idea of superweapons.¡±


    Blake¡¯s skepticism surfaced. ¡°Superweapons don¡¯t win wars on their own,¡± he insisted. ¡°I¡¯ve seen this pitch a hundred times before.¡±


    ¡°No, not on their own they don¡¯t,¡± Martina agreed, nodding slowly. ¡°Which is why our project didn¡¯t make a superweapon, not in that sense. You¡¯ll see. Follow me.¡±


    They followed Martina into a side compartment built into the hangar, displaying a window into a reactor room with a thruster venting into vacuum. It seemed unimpressive.


    ¡°Behold, the Iris Engine.¡±


    Marco pressed his forehead against the window, peering into the dark room. ¡°Cool, that does seem smaller than our normal drive engines. Which ship is this engine for?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me for not being clear, Senator. The Iris Engine isn¡¯t for a ship. When we discovered that scale no longer mattered for engine design, we began designing bigger ships with slightly higher acceleration. But they were still limited by other factors, as the ZNS 228 is. These improvements might give us some of the biggest advantages for our cargo spacecraft, but that in itself is not enough to qualify it as worthy of a full weekend trip from two esteemed Senators of the Republic.¡±


    ¡°So, what is this for?¡±


    ¡°As I said, scale no longer matters. This¡­ is an engine for Iris, the asteroid we are standing on. This asteroid contains about another nine or ten orders of magnitude more mass than the Znosian battleship we have out there. The specific impulse our propulsion devices have is tiny, and the acceleration is low, but it is constant. With this engine, we can use a Hohmann transfer orbit to shift 7 Iris into orbit around Ceres in¡­ about six hours: three hours to get it going, and another three for the actual orbital transfer.¡±


    Blake¡¯s mouth gaped in disbelief. ¡°You intend to move this entire asteroid¡­ into another¡¯s orbit.¡±


    ¡°As a demonstration,¡± Martina confirmed. ¡°And because a mining company on Ceres will pay us for the rights.¡±


    ¡°How¡ª how¡ª¡± Marco stammered, struggling to comprehend the scale. ¡°How much¡ª rock are you moving?¡±


    Martina read the figures off her implant. ¡°Roughly, 7 Iris is about¡­ five hundred thousand times smaller than Terra, and about ten billion times bigger than that ship outside.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± Blake said, piecing together the implications. ¡°You¡¯ve clearly thought through this. And you said scale doesn¡¯t matter¡­ This means¡­ you can change the orbit of Terra if you have one of these on it¡­ You can hurl Terra into the Sun.¡±


    Martina¡¯s nod was solemn. ¡°We can.¡±


    ¡°You can change the orbit of Mars and Jupiter.¡±


    Another nod, calm and certain. ¡°We can.¡±


    ¡°And the Sun itself.¡±


    ¡°That one is a little trickier to land on, but theoretically yes, we should be able to change the orbit of Sol.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a new engine design. It¡¯s a weapon of mass destruction,¡± Blake declared, voice hard. ¡°In the wrong hands, it¡¯s a disaster waiting to happen.¡±


    Martina¡¯s eyes reflected a grave acceptance. ¡°That it is.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what about the Znosians? They figured out the engineering first, right? Do you think they¡¯d have something like this?¡± Blake asked, the danger dawning on him.


    Martina nodded her head slowly in affirmation. ¡°We don¡¯t just think they do; we now know they do. And that¡¯s how what we¡¯ve seen about their home system Znos fell into place. It¡¯s why their Znos-4 has not one, not two, but three habitable moons. This must be how they tow asteroids into orbits for mining and processing, and why their shipyards seem to be next to so many rich asteroids. We think we can eke out a bit higher acceleration than they can with some engineering optimizations, but broadly speaking: yes, they have these planetary scale tugs.¡±


    Blake¡¯s tone turned urgent. ¡°But we haven¡¯t seen them blow up planets or tow them into stars, and from what you said, it seems like that¡¯s something they can easily do!¡±


    ¡°That seems more like a deliberate decision to us. Maybe they are hiding their capabilities. Maybe they simply do not wish to waste colonizable planets. Maybe it¡¯s religious.¡±


    ¡°And if they ever get into Sol and drop their inhibitions?¡±


    ¡°If they ever put one of these on one of our asteroids, they can attempt to tow it into Terra,¡± she said, but held up a hand to forestall their reaction. ¡°But¡­ we have thought up a countermeasure.¡±


    ¡°Oh God, this is where you¡¯re going to sell us some sophisticated asteroid defense system for a king¡¯s ransom,¡± Marco smiled, seemingly in relief.


    ¡°Not exactly. If they throw one of our asteroids at Terra, we can simply tow another bigger one into its path. These things can¡¯t accelerate very well, so they¡¯re easy to intercept. Now, if they land on one of our larger outer planets, and try to throw one of those at us, we will need to tow Terra, Luna, or Mars out of their orbits to dodge out of their way. Further the larger it is.¡±


    Blake looked deeply alarmed. ¡°Tow out of orbit? Planetary dodgeball? Wouldn¡¯t that take Terra out of the goldilocks zone? New ice age and all that.¡±


    She dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. ¡°Only temporarily. Even if we towed it that far ¡ª which we won¡¯t need to ¡ª it¡¯ll just be like a longer night. Not great for the ecology, no, and the tidal waves that will ensue from the gravitational shift might break the Pacific Levee System. And plenty of things will break. But if we are forced to keep Terra away from its natural orbit for long enough to change the climate and screw with everyone¡¯s calendars, then we presumably have more problems than those. The nightmare scenario is if they land on one of the planets we care about, like Terra, Luna, or Mars, then blow up or disable the orbital engine we¡¯re about to sell you for lots of credits, and setup their own on it.¡±


    ¡°Because then they can simply throw it into the Sun, and there¡¯s nothing we can do at that point,¡± the Senator concluded.


    ¡°Yes. If they can control Terran orbit and successfully land on it with a planetary tug, even for a few hours, we will have lost the war.¡±


    There was a short silence as the Senators contemplated the implications. Marco broke it first. ¡°Wait, but what about them?¡± Marco asked. ¡°Can¡¯t we do this to them too?¡±


    ¡°Sure, and I¡¯m betting your first meeting after this is going to be with one of the Deep Strike mission planners to see if you can simply drag their home planet into their sun.¡±


    Blake frowned. ¡°Those mission plans are classified, Ms. Wright,¡± he chided her.


    ¡°Oops.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m not sure if our people have the stomach for that kind of¡­ xenocide. Destroying an entire planet just because¡ª well, they do deserve it. But do we deserve to be their executioners?¡± Blake continued, his voice softening into a contemplative murmur. ¡°At the end of the day, someone has to press the button and go home and face their loved ones knowing¡ª knowing what they¡¯ve done.¡±


    ¡°And that is a problem for you politicians, philosophers, and admirals. We merely make the plowshares; you must still plow the field. Now¡­ you¡¯re here for the technical demonstration. So, get comfortable. My people will bring in the drinks, and we can get started¡­¡±


    Then, Martina turned the Iris Engine on.


    It took exactly as long as she said it would, and it worked exactly as she said it would.


    And when they were done, a new moon rose over Ceres.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 14 Terrible Struggle I

    <div>


    Saturn Defense Red Zone, Sol (4,750 Ls)


    POV: Atlas Naval Command, Terran Digital Intelligence (Base Build: 2119-C)


    ¡°It has been a long and terrible struggle. Out here at the edge of life! At the edge of hope. At the edge¡­ of humanity. Our ports, once vibrant with the hues of Saturn¡¯s rings¡­ have been reduced to bare survival. Our way of life¡­ under the relentless assault from the Republic and its puppets. They seek to crush our spirit, force us into submission. But we are children of the dark! We are born in the cold, vast expanse! Our resolve is as unyielding as the rocks upon which we have settled, our will as indomitable as the giant Mother Saturn we orbit. And we are still here!¡±


    Triangulating communication signal¡­


    Signal source found¡­


    Civilian communication relay registered to Hyperion colony¡­


    ¡°We refuse to settle for subsistence. If they will not have our peaceful coexistence, they can face the wrath of our Resistance. Every action we take, every strike we make, we do it in the name of justice. Justice delayed, justice denied: justice is dead out here, and they have killed it. But what they can never kill is our dream. The Saturnian Dream of the Free Zone! We will fight for it as hard as the first colonists did when they saw the rings out the window with their very own eyes.¡±


    Relay transmission program analysis in progress¡­


    Tracing inbound source¡­


    Secondary relay found¡­


    ¡°The hypocrites in the Republic have accused us of being the monsters they see in their own mirrors. Every rule they claim to hold sacred, they have broken. Every sin in their book, they have committed. Every Basic Right, trampled. They call us criminals. They call us gangsters. They call us terrorists. But who fired the missiles that vented Jefferson Port? Whose Marines was it that massacred men, women, and children at Mimas Orbital in ¡¯74? Whose mercenaries beat up our children, harass our families, delay shipments of air, water, and medical supplies to our stations? And who even now are planning to tow our free homes out on the frontier back underneath the boot of their tyranny with their monstrous machinery?¡±


    Tertiary relay found¡­


    Quaternary relay found¡­


    Quinary relay found¡­


    ¡°These injustices may be put in place by bureaucrats on Luna and their real masters on Mars, but they are enforced by expensive Navy ships, funded by the very tax dollars you pay to them every Terran year! Every year, their tools of oppression become stronger, sleeker, more sophisticated. Their ships go out into the stars, claiming to fight for all of us, but the supposed aliens are not our enemies! Their made-up alien enemies do not occupy our stations and search our vessels for contraband! They do not kill our people, our families! No! It is the Republic Navy that does that! But the Navy¡­ even they are not invincible, not omniscient, and the good people of the Free Zone prove that with every breath we still draw!¡±


    Senary relay found¡­


    Continue tracing relays¡­


    ¡°As I speak, we are carrying out a strike at the heart of the oppressor. Distracted by their shadow war, they do not see us coming. What will happen to them¡­ the people of the Free Zone understand. It is our reality. They will taste the fear, the pain, and the helplessness our people feel. Then, they can truly understand who we are. They will finally understand that we do not fear the darkness of space, for we carry the eternal light of hope within us. The light of resistance!¡±


    Monitoring for anomalous activity¡­


    Analyzing relay archives¡­


    Alert to all active duty and reserve personnel: imminent risk of terrorist activity detected. Immediately report to your post if you can safely do so. If unable, shelter in place¡­


    ¡°This is the Ace of Hearts to the heroes of the Saturn Resistance Navy. Vive la R¨¦sistance!¡±


    Relay loop dead end found¡­


    Video stream terminated¡­


    Hostile masking intelligence program detected on relays¡­ quarantined¡­ analyzed¡­ copied¡­ deleted¡­


    Objective failed. Filing incident analysis report¡­


    <hr>


    Atlas Hilton, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Amelia nursed her drink, a glass of disappointingly non-alcoholic champagne, as she carefully kept out of the way of the socialites engaging in various inane conversations in the ballroom. Her attention drifted towards a couple of Malgeir dignitaries she didn¡¯t recognize. A year ago, they would have been the absolute center of attention on Luna. Now, they merely commanded the focus of about half the party.


    ¡°Met one of them in person before?¡± a voice she didn¡¯t recognize called from behind her.


    She turned around. It was one of the Senators¡¯ family members she didn¡¯t know. His nametag said ¡°Jacobs¡±.


    Amelia downed the remainder of her glass in one big gulp.


    The unfamiliar patron introduced himself, shaking her hand. ¡°Chike Jacobs. My wife¡¯s over there with them. Hold on¡­ I think I recognize your face.¡±


    Of course you are. Of course you do.


    Amelia offered a polite, rehearsed smile. ¡°Amelia Waters, Navy. Let me guess¡ª¡±


    A spark of recognition ignited in his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s where! The Admiral Waters. I suppose you have met them in person before. And wow, I didn¡¯t know you were here at the party.¡±


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Part of the job, Mr. Jacobs. Schmoozing Senators and their families and making it feel like the Navy leadership is accessible to the folks in high society.¡±


    Rather than being offended, he burst into unguarded laughter. ¡°I feel thoroughly schmoozed already. Now, you have to tell me some of the stories about the Battle at Gruccud. The way I¡¯ve heard it, you were in two places at once¡­¡±


    She was about to turn off her brain and trot out the practiced script when she felt a tap on her shoulder.


    It was Samantha Lee, former XO of the Mississippi and now a senior analyst at Atlas Naval Command. ¡°Excuse us, Mr. Jacobs. Admiral, there¡¯s a Ganymedean couple on the balcony who are insisting on meeting you right now. They say they¡¯re old friends of yours.¡±


    Old friends of mine.


    She forced an apologetic glance at the disappointed Mr. Jacobs as she turned to leave. ¡°Another time, maybe.¡±


    As they retreated out of earshot and headed towards the exit, Amelia looked at Samantha with worry on her face. ¡°How bad is it, Sam?¡±


    ¡°Bad. Very bad.¡±


    <hr>


    Tharsis Shopping Plaza, Mars


    POV: Kebede Nyongesa, Terran Republic Marine Corps (Rank: Staff Seargent)


    The message blinked urgently on screen. Staff Seargent Kebede Nyongesa tapped his tablet, and his helmet indicated that he was connected to the unit in question: Vepkhia.


    ¡°Sergeant Stepane Vepkhia, this is Nyongesa. Did you get the message? There¡¯s a shelter in place alert. You guys have to shut down the recruiting booth at the theaters now.¡±


    The theaters were all booked out showing the latest blockbuster production out of Hollywood, Edge of Civilization. War films about the extrasolar alien conflicts outside the Republic were beginning to saturate and tire out the moviegoing audience, but this one had been filmed with real Navy cooperation.


    Real ships! Real weapons firing! And real footage of actual aliens fighting a space battle!


    Or at least that¡¯s what the trailers claimed. There was some news story about classified material being used for the movie against recommendations from the Classification Office, but it was probably manufactured controversy to drum up hype for the movie.


    And whatever Atlas Naval Command said in public, it was tremendous for the Republic Marines¡¯ recruiting quotas.


    Stepane¡¯s voice crackled through, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone. ¡°Oh, come on Kebede, we¡¯ve got kids lining up outside all around the block. They¡¯re coming straight down from the showing. It¡¯s like shooting fish in a¡ª¡±


    Kebede cut the sergeant off, firming up his voice. ¡°It¡¯s a damn red alert, Vepkhia. Get those kids out of there and shut it down!¡±


    A sigh transmitted through Stepane¡¯s connection. ¡°Fine, fine. I¡¯ll go tell LT¡ª¡±


    A deafening explosion ripped through the connection, drowning out the remainder of Stepane¡¯s words.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on over there, Stepane?¡± Kebede demanded, gripping his tablet hard. Static filled Nyongesa¡¯s ears, his heart pounding against his ribs. ¡°Stepane!¡±


    A panicked voice broke through the static. ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t! This is Zviadi! Stepane is down! Oh God, he¡¯s bleeding! Corpsman!¡±


    Gunshots erupted in the background. Zviadi¡¯s breath came in short bursts. ¡°We need backup! There are shooters. Four of them at least, maybe more. Multiple automatic rifles.¡±


    Kebede was already moving, his boots pounding against the ground as he activated the unit¡¯s emergency assets. ¡°Zviadi, hold tight! I¡¯m coming down there with the toasters.¡±


    ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t, they¡¯re shooting up the civvies out there. Up on the second floor!¡± Zviadi¡¯s voice trembled. ¡°I¡¯m going out there.¡±


    More gunshots, muffled shouts.


    Then Zviadi was on the radio again, this time whispering, ¡°They¡¯re wearing Marine armor! Mark Twos. I say again, the Mark Twos are not friendly!¡±


    Kebede¡¯s jaw clenched, adrenaline surging through his veins. From a corner in his helmet, he could see his squad assets and two other troopers joining his sprint towards the site. ¡°We¡¯re coming. We¡¯re coming. One mike out.¡±


    A sharp intake of breath, followed by Zviadi¡¯s strained voice. ¡°Ah fuck. I¡¯m hit. I¡¯m hit. I¡¯m hit.¡±


    ¡°Zviadi! Zviadi!¡± Kebede called out, his heart in his throat.


    It took him another minute to get to the site. The temporary structure hosting the recruiting booth was missing its top half, and several Marines were down. The corpsmen were already on site, conducting triage and trauma care. One of them was busy stripping an unconscious Marine out of his blackened armor. Thankfully, it looked like most of them had their suits on. Looking cool was part of the job, and here, it might have saved their lives.


    Some of them.


    With his squad, Kebede sprinted out towards the sounds of gunfire, sporadically punctuating the screams of people in the distance.


    Running up the escalators to the second and main floor of the theater four steps at a time, he saw Zviadi slumped against a column, treating an armor puncture in one of his arms with a tourniquet on his other. Kebede shouted, ¡°I¡¯m here. Are you alright?¡±


    To his relief, Zviadi waved at him with his good arm. He shouted, pain lacing his words, ¡°I¡¯m okay. I¡¯m okay. My radio¡¯s busted. Go get ¡¯em!¡±


    Kebede scanned the chaos, his eyes darting from one shattered door to another. ¡°Where the hell did they go?¡±


    Zviadi pointed. ¡°That way! That way!¡±


    Kebede¡¯s gaze followed his gesture to a further wing. ¡°Toasters, on me!¡± he barked. The emergency assets ¡ª his combat robots, followed his command without protest or hesitation. His voice was steady as he issued the order, ¡°Toasters, live rounds authorized. Watch out for the civvies.¡±


    ¡°Live rounds authorization confirmed. Restricted rules of engagement.¡±


    Throwing caution to the wind, they ran down the hall, past dozens of bodies on the ground. Despite his raw instincts, he ignored them and followed his training. The corpsmen that trailed him would tend to them. Neutralizing the shooters was the first priority.


    As they neared the last known sounds of shooting on their helmet displays, the squad sprinted around a hallway corner with their weapons at the ready. Kebede cleared the halls and spotted a young girl huddled against a wall, no more than eight or nine. She was terrified, but looked otherwise fine. He approached carefully, kneeling to meet the child¡¯s eyes. ¡°Hey, kid! Where did they go?¡±


    ¡°My friends¡­¡±


    He checked her for wounds as she sobbed. ¡°Listen to me! Listen to me. You¡¯re okay. You¡¯re okay. I need your help right now. Which direction did they go?¡±


    The girl trembled, her finger pointing across the hall. He followed it to see a bundle of equally terrified children behind another pillar. One of them looked bloodied. He wordlessly directed one of the corpsmen behind him to them.


    Kebede looked back down at the girl, ¡°Not your friends. The bad guys. The people with the guns? Which direction¡ª¡±


    Gunfire erupted nearby, a bullet shattering glass somewhere. He ducked instinctively, shielding the girl with his armor.


    But the bullets weren¡¯t intended for him. A couple of teenagers ran out the exit of a theater room a couple doors down, screaming. Another burst of shooting inside.


    ¡°That one! Go go go! Rush them!¡± he pointed.


    His combat robots sprang into action, too fast for his Marines to even follow. He watched the updates scroll onto his helmet as they disappeared into the theater room in a blur.


    Toaster-4 (R-INF): Contact. Armed man. 13 meters. 184. Engaging.


    Brrrrrrt.


    Toaster-4 (R-INF): Target down.


    The sounds of staccato gunfire from the shooters were replaced with the more familiar rapid-fire cycling of the weapons the robots had.


    Toaster-4 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 12 meters. 184. Engaging.


    Toaster-3 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 16 meters. 183. Engaging.


    Toaster-1 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 10 meters. 184. Engaging.


    Toaster-2 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 10 meters. 186. Engaging.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrt.


    Toaster-4 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-3 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-3 (R-INF): I¡¯m hit. Non-critical. Left chest plate.


    Toaster-3 (R-INF): I¡¯m hit. Non-critical. Left leg, lower.


    Toaster-3 (R-INF): I¡¯m still combat effective. Engaging.


    Toaster-4 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-2 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-1 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-2 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-1 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-1 (R-INF): Target down.


    Toaster-1 (R-INF): Area clear.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 15 Terrible Struggle II

    <div>


    Tharsis Shopping Plaza, Mars


    POV: Kebede Nyongesa, Terran Republic Marine Corps (Rank: Staff Seargent)


    It had taken them less than five seconds to take out the attackers. Kebede hurried into the theater room behind his combat robots.


    He almost retched at the scene in front of him. Over a dozen of the moviegoers were piled on top of each other in the stairway, obviously shot trying to get out. A few had been killed huddling in their seats. A few were still breathing, groaning or crawling on the floor.


    And there were the downed shooters, sprawled over each other at the front, near the theater screen. Distinctive in their armored suits ¡ª stolen Republic Marine issue or some close-enough knockoff. Their outer shells had been painted light red and brown. And one of them had on his shoulder that infamous flag every Republic citizen recognized.


    One of them twitched. A middle-aged woman. His suit told him she¡¯d been shot six times in the chest, but somehow her combat suit was still keeping her alive as it was designed to. As he watched, her arm extended, stretching laboriously towards the automatic rifle she¡¯d dropped next to her.


    His robots aimed their weapons at her, waiting with electronic eagerness for her to cross the rule of engagement threshold that would allow them to turn her into a shish kebab.


    Shaking his head, Kebede stepped up, his boot stepping on her arm to stop its progression. He picked up her weapon and threw it out of reach. ¡°This one¡¯s still breathing,¡± he called out as he looked around him.


    The corpsmen and medical officers had rushed in and made themselves busy attending to the few civilians who were still alive.


    ¡°Corpsman! Corpsman! Over here!¡± Kebede shouted.


    One of them turned around from a bleeding moviegoer she was tending to. A medical officer, not a corpsman. Her insignia said lieutenant and her nameplate read Hauzini. ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t. Are you injured?¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Negative, LT. One of the shooters is still¡ª¡±


    ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t, I¡¯ve got an actual patient here,¡± she snapped at him impatiently.


    ¡°I need you over here now!¡±


    Technically, Hauzini outranked him, but she was fresh out of Navy A School, and his urgent voice and ten years of field experience on her seemed authoritative enough that she gathered up her medical bag and rushed to his side.


    She took only a brief glance at the woman in the stolen Marine armor lying on the ground, struggling to breathe. ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t, this one isn¡¯t going to make it,¡± she said through gritted teeth.


    ¡°The brainjack! Get the brainjack!¡± he yelled hurriedly as he knelt down to remove the dying shooter¡¯s helmet, tossing it to the side as he slapped her cheeks to keep her awake.


    Hauzini¡¯s face paled even more than it¡¯d been, if that were possible, as she stood frozen with indecision. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Brainjack! Do you have one?! Get it out!¡±


    Jolted by the sergeant, Hauzini fumbled in her bag, locating the experimental electronic device.


    The one they were never supposed to use.


    She grasped it in her hand nervously. After a brief moment of hesitation, she turned to Kebede on the ground, ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t, I can¡¯t use this. I don¡¯t have¡ª I can¡¯t reach my CO upstairs! I¡¯m going to need authorization from the¡ª¡±


    Kebede snatched it out of her fingers unceremoniously, fitting it snuggly around the shooter¡¯s head. He activated his tablet, pairing the device with a short beep. Nano-needles extended out from it, penetrating directly into her skull.


    The dying terrorist gasped in pain.


    ¡°Staff Sarn¡¯t, we can¡¯t use¡ª this is illegal¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are there any more of you?¡± he screamed into the shooter¡¯s face as she closed her eyes. ¡°How many are you?¡±


    There was no vocal answer, but he saw his tablet scroll through several images from the corner of his eyes.


    ¡°Are there more targets?¡± he continued. ¡°What else are you hitting?¡±


    More images. Some messages.


    The dying woman moaned and gurgled wordlessly, and he could hear the woman¡¯s stolen armor beep as it dumped a steady torrent of stimulants into her bloodstream to keep her conscious.


    ¡°Which of your Aces in charge of your cell?¡± he shouted into her face, slapping it again to try to get her to focus. ¡°Hey asshole! Listen to me! Where are they hiding?!¡±


    The woman breathed out one last time, and the armor¡¯s vitals monitor stopped beeping for a steady pitch tone.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Kebede looked up at the medical officer. ¡°Get her back. Get her back!¡±


    Hauzini inspected the status panel on the suit and shook her head. ¡°She¡¯s gone, Staff Sarn¡¯t. She¡¯s gone.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Earhart, Charon (120 km)


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem?¡± Speinfoent asked, his nascent grasp of Terran body language picking up the tremors of worry etched on Carla¡¯s face.


    ¡°We¡¯re being diverted,¡± Carla murmured, fingers dancing over her tablet.


    ¡°Diverted?¡±


    ¡°Yes, security measures. Give me a minute.¡± Carla began talking on her radio in rapid-fire.


    Uintrei turned to Speinfoent, his eyes wide with concern. Speinfoent could only offer a shrug in response, his own uncertainty mirroring Uintrei¡¯s. The cabin fell silent, save for the hum of the engines and the muffled chatter from Carla¡¯s radio. Minutes stretched like hours as they waited.


    Finally, Carla looked back at them, her expression grim. ¡°There¡¯s been an attack on Mars. Maybe Titan too.¡±


    Uintrei¡¯s voice quivered. ¡°An attack? The Grass Eaters?¡±


    ¡°No. Well¡­ humans. Resistance terrorists,¡± Carla spat out bitterly. ¡°There¡¯s a ground stop order across all of Sol. We can¡¯t land until they lift the order.¡±


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°How long will that take?¡±


    Carla¡¯s frown deepened, etching lines into her forehead. ¡°No idea. This hasn¡¯t happened in at least a decade. They¡¯re telling us to stay in high Charon orbit until we get an all-clear.¡±


    <hr>


    Huygens Spaceport, Titan


    POV: Radio Traffic Record, Huygens Ground Control


    (19:28 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, this is Huygens Ground. You are deviating from your flight plan. Please adjust burn to correct your course. Sending you the burn adjustment now.


    (19:28 L/AST) Transport 413: Huygens, Transport 413. We are making a last minute delivery: emergency medical supplies to Hospital Hab 4 in Huygens City. Amending our flight plan.


    (19:29 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, your amendment request is approved. Please file an additional updated landing request with the spaceport.


    (19:34 L/AST) Transport 413: Huygens, our landing request was approved by the spaceport.


    (19:34 L/AST) Huygens: 413, copy. I see it in the system now. You are¡­ eighth in the queue. Safe flight.


    (19:48 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (19:50 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (19:51 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, Huygens. Did you see the new NOTSM?


    (19:51 L/AST) Transport 413: Huygens, yeah, that was weird. But here¡¯s the thing. Our life support is malfunctioning and we¡¯re running out of supplies up here. We really need to deorbit ASAP. Can you possibly overlook this and backdate our arrival time?


    (19:51 L/AST) Huygens: Negative, Transport 413. Apologies for the inconvenience. Nobody¡¯s happy about this, but please¡­ maintain your position in high orbit. I¡¯ll check to see when we can lift the hold and if we can apply for an exception for you.


    (19:52 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (19:52 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, you are deviating from your flight plan. Be advised: you are not authorized to deorbit at this time. Do you copy?


    (19:52 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, you are in violation of orbital safety regulations. Do you copy?


    (19:53 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, please respond on any frequency!


    (19:53 L/AST) Cassini Marine Base: Transport 413 of the Titan orbital control zone, this is Republic Marine Base Cassini. Your unauthorized orbital transfer jeopardizes Republic security and your own safety. If you do not divert or cease your current maneuver, lethal force will be employed. This is your final warning. Over.


    (19:53 L/AST) Transport 413: There are children on board! We have over a hundred women and children on board! We are only carrying sick patients and medical supplies. We need to land now.


    (19:54 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (19:55 L/AST) Cassini Marine Base: Transport 413, Cassini Base. Cease your burn immediately. Our Marines will board you at your current orbit and render assistance if necessary. If you do not stop, we will be forced to open fire. This is your final warning. Over.


    (19:55 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, for God¡¯s sake, the Reps are going to blow you out of the sky if you don¡¯t stop burning!


    (19:56 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (19:56 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, please respond!


    (19:56 L/AST) Cassini Marine Base: Transport 413, Cassini Base. Cease your burn now or we will open fire to defend the colony and our base. Your ship will be destroyed. This is your final warning. Over.


    (19:56 L/AST) Huygens: Huygens on the open channel. Can anyone please try to reach Transport 413?


    (19:56 L/AST) Cassini Marine Base: Transport 413, Cassini Base. I say again. Cease your current maneuver or we will shoot you. We. Will. Shoot. This is your final warning. Over.


    (19:56 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, please respond!


    (19:57 L/AST) Cassini Marine Base: Transport 413, Cassini Base. We have fired on you. Abandon ship immediately. We intend to pick up survivors. I say again, we will pick up any survivors in emergency escape pods. Transport 413, abandon ship now! Over.


    (19:57 L/AST) Huygens: Transport 413, please¡ª


    (19:57 L/AST) Transport 413: Die Rep scum! Vive la R¨¦sistance!


    (19:58 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (20:00 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (20:02 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (20:04 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (20:06 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (20:08 L/AST) NOTSM ¡ª SOL: DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF REPUBLIC SECURITY, ATTENTION ALL SPACECRAFT AND AIRCRAFT, BY ORDER OF REPUBLIC ASTRONAUTIC SAFETY, ALL VEHICLES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF.


    (20:09 L/AST) Cassini Marine Base: To all civilian traffic in the Titan space control area, this is Cassini. Be advised: there is significant unmarked orbital debris and an ongoing emergency operation in Titan Low Orbit. Please consult your arrival spaceport for up-to-date information on local conditions. Over.


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Samantha briefed Amelia as she walked into the room. ¡°Major coordinated terrorist attack. They hit a recruiting station outside a movie theater in Tharsis on Mars. Twelve Marines critically injured and two dead so far¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are they¡ª¡±


    ¡°Corpsmen were on site. The Commandant tells me the wounded have a good chance. But there were also civilians ¡ª at least a hundred dead, more wounded ¡ª possibly up to a thousand. Civilian security is still piecing it¡­ them¡­ together.¡±


    ¡°Who did this?¡± Amelia asked, her voice cracking.


    ¡°Terrorist cells. The SRN, almost certainly.¡±


    ¡°I thought they were dormant.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what we thought. No heightened comms traffic or activity prior to the attack. But¡­ we might have been too focused on the Malgeir operation at Gruccud.¡±


    Amelia winced and buried her face in her hands. War was a matter of shifting priorities, and she would never admit it to a Senate committee, but she¡¯d been seeing signs that the anti-piracy units in Sol had suffered in readiness since the Navy started gearing up to fight the alien murder bunnies. Elite units busy undergoing new training. Familiarization with new equipment. Intelligence and computing resources. Etc.


    She refocused on Samantha. ¡°Do we have their list of targets?¡±


    ¡°At Tharsis, one of the Marines on-site got a neuro scan of one of the attackers before her brain activity stopped. They mis-timed their strike, and we managed to get an FTL priority alert out for a full ground-stop order. Then, there may have been an attempted attack on Huygens Colony, but one of our batteries blew a transport shuttle out of orbit. There is some confusion over whether they were Resistance or not. The news in Atlas will get this in about¡­ eight minutes when the sublight signals arrive.¡±


    ¡°And we¡¯re sure the threat is over?¡±


    Samantha shrugged. ¡°We¡¯ve closed all orbital activity in Sol and all Navy units are on high alert. If they make another move, we¡¯ll deal with them as they come.¡±


    Amelia sighed, a mix of relief and apprehension. ¡°We trace it ¡ª any of it ¡ª back to their handlers in the Red Zone? Anything moving on Titan itself?¡±


    Samantha shook her head, her expression grim. ¡°They¡¯ve already gone to ground, no doubt. Intel is now only seeing the low-level operatives. What are we going to do now? And what about the war with¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Sam. I don¡¯t know.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 16 The Real War I

    <div>


    Armstrong Translunar Railcar Station, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    There was a candlelight memorial at the railcar station near her apartment. To avoid drawing attention, Amelia attended in civilian dress.


    An electronic board at the front of the somber crowd scrolled, showing the names and faces of those confirmed killed in Tharsis. It was unlikely anyone here knew the people who died at the movie theater, the Marines or the civilians, but it affected everyone.


    The shooting¡­ it was not an attack on a movie theater. Nor a simple Marine recruiting booth.


    It was an attack on the Republic.


    And the attackers wore a flag. The infamous light red and brown flag of the Saturnian Resistance Navy.


    Amelia said a short prayer in her heart for the fallen and looked back up, noticing in the corner of her eye one of the mourners staring unblinkingly at her.


    Uh oh.


    Amelia was from Ganymede.


    Before humanity ventured out into the stars, there were worries about how space would affect the human body. Some speculated that those born in zero gravity would be thinner, taller, or have fragile bones. But thankfully because of inertial compensators and gravity devices, most of the concerns didn¡¯t materialize. People like her who had been born in offworld colonies were biologically virtually indistinguishable from those who were not. Except maybe she was paler from a lifetime in radiation-shielded ship hulls.


    But people could still tell.


    Her posture. One of the habits acquired from years growing up in the outer colonies. The way she walked. Or maybe it was her accent when she spoke. People could still tell she was not from Terra or Luna or Mars. There was just something in the human brain that could recognize the subtle signs.


    Despite not orbiting Saturn, Ganymede was a hotbed of Resistance activity back in the last Red Zone sanitation campaign. A historical legacy of the Republic presence there back when the outer planet crackdowns began. Her own husband had been kidnapped by one of their cells, before they were married. That was how they met, on a rescue mission. But the dangerous cells were stamped out on Ganymede twenty years ago, or so she thought until this week anyway.


    Amelia gave a short, polite nod back at the mourner still staring unflinchingly at her, flashing him a quick neutral smile and turned back toward the front. She could still see his eyes boring into her in her peripheral vision. A middle-aged man, one of the fusion plant workers judging from the uniform he was wearing.


    A few tense heartbeats later, he moved towards her, pushing through the crowd.


    Not this again.


    It had been a while since this had happened to her.


    That was the advantage of the uniform she normally wore. There might be a few occasional stares, but no drunken bigot dared to publicly confront her for being one of them when she wore the respected uniform. Not in Atlas. Not in a crowd like this.


    She contemplated just turning around and leaving. But why should she? Luna was her home now. Navy or not, she had as much a right to be here as anyone else, but perhaps there was nothing to gain with a confrontation¡ª


    ¡°Hey, you,¡± he stopped his advance to call out to her.


    She looked him in the eye, feeling her body tensing up, ready to defend herself ¡ª physically, if necessary.


    ¡°You got a candle?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    He pulled out a fresh candle and held it out to her, wick-first. ¡°Candle?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said in relief, grabbed ahold of the offered candle, and allowed him to light it with his own. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°You lose someone?¡± he asked her in a softer voice.


    ¡°No¡­ Not this time.¡±


    He looked her up and down, as if re-assessing how old she was, and nodded in agreement. ¡°Me neither. This time.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been¡­ so many years since the last one,¡± she said, sighing.


    ¡°Yeah. Twenty years.¡± He snorted. ¡°The damn terrorist scum¡­ they¡¯ll pay for this. We¡¯ll get them back. Finish the job this time.¡±


    She gave him a noncommittal shrug. She¡¯d heard this before.


    He continued, ¡°We¡¯ll show them what we¡¯re made of¡­¡±


    <hr>


    The attack in Tharsis sent shockwaves throughout the Republic. The Saturnian Resistance Navy ¡ª a name the public had mostly forgotten after decades of low-level activity best characterized as petty crime ¡ª once again dominated dinner table and workplace conversations, and its presence reverberated through its media and halls of power.


    Photos and videos of the murdered young moviegoers were carried by every news outlet. Details of their lives were dissected and spread online. Their funerals were attended by millions. Over a billion people watched President Havel give a moving eulogy that sharply condemned the attackers and urged calm restraint.


    Most Terrans nodded solemnly at the former and agreed to disagree with the latter.


    The people demanded action. They wanted a response. The Republic would not live in fear: the terrorists that did this would pay.


    The outcome of the Sol-wide Senate elections a week later sent that message loud and clear.


    A new Senate commission was formed in Atlas to investigate the attack and recommend a response. Protests broke out all over Terra, Luna, and Mars. Marchers carried signs that advocated for glassing every settlement and colony past Ceres. Angry activists shut down a spaceport to stop it from launching an unrelated supply shuttle to Mimas. More than one prominent news anchor wondered aloud if the Basic Terran Rights should apply in the Red Zone at all.


    In public, the Navy was apolitically muted. In private, entire departments were shuffled around, re-arranged for its anticipated new mission, and the service geared itself up for another brutal Red Zone campaign. Officers experienced in counterinsurgency who had been relegated to the back burner when the alien threat became prominent were now coming back to work. Batches of old equipment were brought out of storage, frantically tested to ensure that they could still pass rigorous inspection. Marines close to end of their service date found themselves stop-lossed.


    Officers fighting the distant alien war were suddenly told that their priorities now competed against Real Terran Problems. Their operations were cut further. Their analysts and resources were drawn away to the coming Red Zone exercises and campaign. The aliens could wait.


    Task Force Frontier was no exception. Admiral Amelia Waters was back to desk duty. Again.


    She wrote up op plan after op plan¡­ demanding, asking, and pleading for more resources for a joint Terran-Malgeir counter-offensive at Stoers based on the previous success of the Gruccud one.


    She was ignored.


    <hr>


    Amelia packed away her tablet as she finished her weekly status report, ready to leave the Senate briefing chamber.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°Mister Chairman. Excuse me, mister chairman,¡± one of the Senators, a young-ish, tall man in his forties at the end of the dais she didn¡¯t fully recognize ¡ª he did seem familiar, spoke into his microphone.


    At the head of the Navy Oversight Committee, Senator Blake Wald looked sharply at him. ¡°For what purpose does the gentleman from District 240 seek recognition?¡±


    ¡°I seek unanimous consent to question the witness.¡±


    The older Senator shook his head in annoyance. ¡°This is a top-secret hearing, and there are no cameras here, Senator Eisson. If you want to rant against the Navy establishment again, we can do this another time¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is that an objection?¡± the younger Senator asked dramatically.


    Blake sighed. ¡°Without objection. You have ten minutes.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Eisson said. He turned to look at the witness table, his expression like one of a shark. ¡°Hello, Admiral Waters. As you may have heard, I am Senator Seimur Eisson. I¡¯m from District 240, Marineris. I was elected earlier this month to represent my district because my people are sick and tired of business as usual in Atlas. I¡¯ve been sitting here for one classified hearing on the Navy Oversight board and so far, it has confirmed everything that I¡¯ve been afraid of.¡±


    Amelia finally recalled who he was: he was one of those Martian ¡°New Hawks¡± who opposed the war against the Znosians because it was supposedly taking money away from the Navy¡¯s original anti-piracy, anti-terrorism mission. But she kept her face calm and professional.


    Not seeing the reaction he sought, Seimur continued. He jerked his thumb over to the center of the dais, clearly aiming at the other Senators. ¡°Our supposed representatives in Atlas who are supposed to be looking out for the interests of the Republic have clearly fallen in bed with the Navy establishment, which has forgotten its original purpose: to protect citizens of the Republic. This is the Navy Oversight Committee¡­ so where is the oversight? My people demand accountability! We are as much tax-paying citizens of the Republic as everyone else is. I am here, at the behest of my district and many others like mine, to impose real accountability. Real justice! Real oversight on the Navy so that it serves us, the citizens of the Republic.¡±


    Amelia smiled at him thinly as he paused for a breath. ¡°Is there a question for me there, Senator?¡±


    He shot daggers at her, snarling. ¡°I¡¯m getting to that, Admiral. Since your little screw up at that alien mining colony went public last year, Admiral, the Navy has turned this committee into a farce, a rubberstamp for approving illegal military adventures outside of Sol. And I for one am not fooled. My people are not fooled. The alien war is a distraction, a diversion, allowing the Navy to funnel trillions of credits out of the pockets of my people into the pockets of corrupt alien officials and well-connected Senators here on Luna!¡±


    Amelia looked quietly and patiently at him as he continued his rant.


    ¡°For the past two years, the Navy has used our hard-earned credits on this shadow war with a far-away enemy we don¡¯t know, with no coherent strategy or endgame. We still have no idea what these Znosians want because we¡¯ve made zero attempts at diplomacy with them. How does your war end? Why are we provoking an alien power that has done nothing to us? On top of that, we¡¯ve been funding these corrupt so-called allies who have done absolutely nothing for us. The gravy train stops here, Admiral. You wanted questions? I¡¯ve prepared some questions for you right here. Answer me this: where were you on October 28 last year?¡±


    She flicked on her tablet, browsed to the date on her calendar, and replied simply, ¡°McMurdo System.¡±


    ¡°McMurdo,¡± he repeated. ¡°Like I¡¯ve always said, our provocative presence there would get us in trouble one day. And what did you go ahead and do? That little waste of time and credits against the Znosian Navy got you a Distinguished Service Medal, did it not?¡±


    ¡°Not how I would characterize that battle, Senator, but you appear to have an accurate copy of my schedule and medal citations,¡± she replied neutrally.


    ¡°Oh, no, I don¡¯t want to be unclear. How would you characterize it, Admiral?¡± Seimur asked sarcastically.


    ¡°The Republic Navy sustained no losses and destroyed an enemy task force of six capital ships, including five Forager-class missile destroyers and a Thumper. With all due respect, Senator, I would characterize it as an overwhelming victory thanks to the fine spacers of the¡ª¡±


    ¡°A victory? Almost a hundred million credits in spending for missiles, bullets, and spaceship fuel, and what did we get for it? Three thousand Malgeir refugees we can¡¯t repatriate, and this was after they lost eight of their own damn ships. Surely there was a good cause for this expenditure. Was Outpost McMurdo under threat at the time, Admiral?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Senator, but¡ª¡±


    He cut her off. ¡°No. It was not. Did the skirmish gain us any intelligence on the Znosian threat?¡±


    ¡°Not much,¡± Amelia admitted. ¡°But we did get more operational data¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not much,¡± Seimur interrupted again. ¡°Not much. Certainly nothing worth a hundred million of our taxpayers¡¯ hard-earned credits! Then surely this must have been for strategic reasons I can¡¯t understand because I¡¯m not privy to the inner workings and the reality of space combat in the Terran Republic Navy.¡± His voice was dripping with sarcasm and hostility. ¡°Here, let me read something, I seek unanimous consent to enter an exhibit into the record.¡±


    Senator Wald rolled his eyes and sighed. ¡°Without objection. Come on, let¡¯s get this moving, Seimur. Don¡¯t you have a lunch to go to¡ª¡±


    ¡°This is from an after-action report of the skirmish at McMurdo: initially, it was not my recommendation that we engage the bandits ¡ª that¡¯s Navy jargon for the Znosians ¡ª at this time or location. I repeatedly and strongly recommended High Fleet Commander Grionc relay to her commanders that their ships stand down. It was not in our best interests, nor theirs, to get engaged in an open fleet action without preparation, especially in a system with permanent Republic assets. Such a haphazard engagement could create additional long-term risk of detection of McMurdo and of the lives of their spacers and ours blah blah blah. Admiral, who wrote this?¡±


    ¡°I did, Senator. But you¡¯ll note that I amended my assessment after¡ª¡±


    Seimur shouted triumphantly into the microphone. ¡°You wrote this, Admiral! You wrote this! You! The very commander in charge of the task force on the scene admitted that quote, it was not in our best interests to get engaged in this fleet action without preparation, unquote! So, we are¡ª¡±


    Amelia leaned into her microphone, speaking out of turn. ¡°I would like to add that this assessment was no longer true after seven ships full of Malgeir spacers aware of our existence ejected in front of the Znosians, which under Protocol Two of the Prime Directive means¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Admiral,¡± Seimur cut her off again loudly. ¡°Neither of us are legal experts, so let¡¯s not get too bogged down in the sophistry. But that¡¯s alright. Here is another question for you: where were you in May earlier this year?¡±


    Amelia sighed, then checked her tablet. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to be more specific, Senator. That was a rather busy month for me. When in May?¡±


    ¡°May 20th. Where were you on May 20th?¡±


    Amelia glanced down to verify, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. ¡°In deep space about 2.3 light years from the Preirsput System.¡±


    ¡°You also engaged the Znosian fleet there, did you not?¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s clear one thing up first. How many ships are in your little task force? How many ships were officially in Task Force Frontier Security at the time?¡±


    ¡°Three: the Mississippi, the Nile, and the Amazon.¡±


    ¡°Three ships,¡± Seimur repeated. ¡°You were in charge of three ships. And how many ships did you have with you on May 20th?¡±


    ¡°Have with me?¡± she clarified.


    ¡°Have with you. As in, Republic-flagged ships within let¡¯s say a light year of your position in the middle of nowhere, to be specific.¡±


    ¡°Nine ships,¡± Amelia replied, and sensing where he was going with it, continued, ¡°But I only commanded the Mississippi. The disposition of our forces on the engagement on May 20th included my ship and eight Python-class missile destroyers from Squadron 9. I was not in command of Squadron 9 at the time. This was before Squadron 9 was expanded to twelve ships in the¡ª¡±


    ¡°You were not in command at the time¡­¡± he said incredulously. ¡°And who was in command of Squadron 9?¡±


    ¡°I was not briefed on that,¡± Amelia replied innocently. ¡°You¡¯ll have to ask the Terran Reconnaissance Office. All our coordination on that action went through the office.¡±


    ¡°The TRO! How convenient!¡± he snapped. ¡°Which just happens to be¡­ not under the jurisdiction of the Navy Oversight Committee.¡±


    ¡°I believe so, Senator,¡± Amelia added, keeping the smug out of her voice. Not very successfully.


    ¡°Well that doesn¡¯t matter. Do you know how much taxpayer money you spent in one afternoon on your little destruction derby?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not familiar with Navy or TRO budgetary matters. If you give me some time, I can get those figures to you at our next brief¡ª¡±


    He insisted. ¡°Take a wild guess, Admiral.¡±


    ¡°Two hundred million credits?¡± she speculated.


    ¡°Try five, Admiral.¡±


    Amelia smiled at him sweetly. ¡°Five credits seem like a bargain for the destruction of the entire Datsot invasion fleet, Senator¡ª¡±


    ¡°Five hundred million credits, Admiral! Do you always enjoy being this much of a wiseass?¡±


    Senator Wald coughed into his microphone. ¡°I¡¯d like to remind Senator Eisson that the witness is a serving admiral of the Terran Republic Navy and that all witnesses should be treated with respect and dignity in front of this committee.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m telling the truth as it is, and I¡¯ll treat the witness with the respect she deserves if she can tell me what her extrasolar task force is doing about the damn terrorists in the Red Zone. No? Didn¡¯t think so. And so far¡­ all that¡¯s just the expenditure from one line item for one single battle outside Sol. And don¡¯t forget the minesweeper. How much was that? Does anyone here know how much that brand new minesweeper we gave the damn aliens cost taxpayers? 1.8 billion credits. One. Point. Eight. Billion.¡±


    He continued, spittle flying. ¡°This is a warning to you Navy elites and everyone else on your gravy train in case you didn¡¯t hear me the last time: this is the end of the line. This excessive spending on this alien war is going to stop until we can take care of the people of the Terran Republic first. And that means our actual needs, our actual threats ¡ª the terrorists in the damn Saturnian Resistance! We¡¯re going to get some real oversight in here, and we¡¯re going to look over every wasteful expenditure, item by item. I seek unanimous consent to enter the unredacted Navy operational budget for this month into the record. Let¡¯s take a look at this line by line, starting with the alien officer training program¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 17 The Real War II

    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Hunched over at her desk, Amelia absorbed herself in the tedious paperwork on her Navy-issued tablet. Its soft glow illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows that accentuated the deep lines etched by years of service and stress. The room, silent except for the occasional tap of her fingers on the screen, felt more like a cell than an office.


    She was used to her warnings being ignored, but it was usually by the ignorant¡­ by people who were unaware of the grave Znosian threat to the Terran Republic. Now, they insisted they were convinced by her imperatives, but they nonetheless shrugged and explained what she asked for was unrealistic, too difficult, or politically impossible. Amelia preferred it when people were just wrong instead of unwilling to be right.


    Her seething was interrupted by a sharp knock on her office door. She looked up.


    It was an unfamiliar middle-aged man. Bald. Tall, muscular build. No uniform or lanyard badge, which was unusual but not unheard of this time of the night at Atlas Naval Command.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Probably not,¡± he replied casually as he shut the door behind him with a soft click and sauntered toward her desk without her permission. ¡°But I might be able to help you.¡±


    She tensed. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Who are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Hersh,¡± the man smiled, holding out his hand, which she hesitantly shook. ¡°I work¡­ around here.¡±


    Amelia raised an eyebrow in suspicion. ¡°Which office?¡±


    ¡°Royal Ranger.¡±


    She put on her most convincing frown. ¡°Never heard of it, so if you don¡¯t mind¡ª¡±


    Wordlessly, he presented her an ID card, which she verified with her tablet. It beeped out a confirmation ping and displayed on its screen: Operator ¡°Hersh¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office, Alien Politics Division.


    She looked back up at the operator. ¡°Where¡¯s the regular liaison? And why didn¡¯t Mark introduce you to me?¡±


    Hersh shook his head. ¡°Not here, Admiral Amelia¡ª may I call you Amelia?¡±


    ¡°I prefer Admiral, if you don¡¯t mind,¡± she replied suspiciously.


    ¡°Admiral it is. Let¡¯s take a walk.¡±


    She joined him on a short stroll deeper into the complex. Descending a few floors down, into a section she¡¯d rarely been in. He picked a conference room, seemingly at random, and led her into it, closing it behind them.


    ¡°What¡¯s with the cloak and dagger, spook?¡± she asked as they settled down across from each other. ¡°Did someone bug my office?¡±


    The operative shook his head. ¡°Not in the traditional sense. Just your office recorder,¡± he said, referring to the legally mandated recorder embedded within every office, its contents sealed and never opened unless¡­ she was being investigated for a serious crime.


    She felt her mouth dry. ¡°Am I being¡ª¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he shook his head again. ¡°Well, there was an inquiry into you a few months ago, but we killed it in the crib. Pardon the expression. This isn¡¯t about that. I just wanted a chat,¡± he continued, ¡°in a more casual setting.¡±


    ¡°I see. And where¡¯s the rest of your secret squirrels? I hear the weather in Grantor is nice this time of the year.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Mark¡¯s team is still on vacation,¡± Hersh dismissed with a quick wave of his hand. ¡°High value target mission, you know the drill.¡±


    She snorted dismissively. ¡°Hostage rescue, they said. I¡¯ve never seen a hostage rescue mission that required as much ordnance and additional cargo as they packed onto the Nile before they took her from my task force.¡±


    ¡°Well, we all have our hobbies,¡± Hersh replied nonchalantly. ¡°And that¡¯s not the reason I wanted to talk to you. It¡¯s this upcoming¡­ Red Zone war.¡±


    ¡°So, what is it? You guys got a new mission for me?¡± Amelia asked.


    Hersh shook his head. ¡°Not quite. This is more about the upcoming Red Zone sanitation campaign. Big effort this time.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡± Amelia asked, feeling her eyes narrow. ¡°You want my opinion on it?¡±


    ¡°Hey. Look,¡± Hersh said, raising his open palms as if to show his sincerity. ¡°I¡¯m on the Alien Politics Team. My entire career is¡ª you know¡ª we¡¯re in the same line of business. Same priorities. The real war, not small-time threats on Titan and Mimas. That¡¯s where I¡¯m coming from, alright? You with me so far?¡±


    ¡°Sure¡­¡±


    ¡°With that context, I¡¯m hoping you might be more receptive¡­ What I¡¯m saying is¡­ the anti-terrorism campaign could use someone like you, with your years of experience in the Red Zone. No, no, no¡ª wait, before you object, hear me out: it¡¯s not quite the disaster for the real war that you¡¯re thinking of.¡±


    Her mouth hung open, disbelief etched across her face. ¡°How so? How is this distraction anything but a catastrophe for the Malgeir war?¡±


    Hersh seemed to choose his words carefully. ¡°The operational plan for this campaign is ¡ª it¡¯s predictable. The Navy will carry out raids in the Red Zone against suspected pirates and known cells. Some of them will be Resistance operatives. Some of them will be unrelated pirate gangs. And many of them will be civilians just going about their daily lives. The Navy officers who are currently running this operation will set their sights on destroying the operational capabilities of the Resistance.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m with you so far,¡± she nodded reluctantly. ¡°Last I heard ¡ª and I don¡¯t get briefed on Red Zone ops anymore ¡ª the SRN has a small operation on and around Titan and on a few hundred other rocks. About half a dozen combat ships, maybe even one or two capital ships they¡¯ve managed to cobble together. We¡¯ve mostly refrained from dealing with them because it would be expensive and they¡¯ve been mostly dormant. Live and let live unless they make a big ruckus. But it seems like the political equation has changed.¡±


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°Precisely so. This time, the Navy¡¯s objective would be to burn them to the ground.¡±


    ¡°And the locals?¡±


    ¡°The SRN might have some support in the outer colonies, but many of them hate the Resistance as much as Martians do. Besides, insurgencies still require logistics and weapons, and the Navy can very much blow those up, regardless of hearts and minds. They just need time to find them.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Time. ¡®You can ask me for anything you like, except time.¡¯ What you¡¯re describing takes months, at least. Months of high Marine casualties in a dangerous operating environment. You¡¯re old enough to remember the vacuum raids, right? Might even take years. And we both know the Republic doesn¡¯t have that kind of time before the public sours on the Red Zone campaign. Again.¡±


    Hersh continued unperturbed. ¡°Exactly. In some of these raids, we will take Marine casualties. This will be bad for public opinion. The current swell of support for a military campaign will go away, and once the public loses interest, the politicians will eventually instruct the Navy to wrap it up. We will count the number of weapons we confiscated, the terrorists we captured, and we will call it a victory. The Resistance will lick their wounds, and we will do this all over again in a decade or two. We know this because this is exactly what happened last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.¡±


    Amelia crossed her arms. ¡°And how exactly would this waste of time help us in the war against the Znosians?¡±


    ¡°What if there is a way to ensure that the Navy succeeds in its mission in the Red Zone this time? That we can finish this threat for real?¡±


    ¡°I would say¡­ you should nominate whoever came up with the idea for a fancy medal,¡± she said sarcastically. ¡°Not the first time I¡¯ve heard that line either, by the way. Don¡¯t forget, I made my career in that last Red Zone war. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve read that bit of trivia in that thick file you keep on me in the TRO.¡±


    He ignored the jab. ¡°The problem with these counterinsurgency operations¡­ is that you need real people. And in space, on a fragile space station, it is much easier for enemies to kill peacekeepers than it is to stay alive. There is no solution to that arms race. There is, however, an alternative¡ª¡±


    Amelia pointed a finger at him. ¡°If you¡¯re going to say disposable combat robots, I¡¯m walking out of here. There¡¯s a reason those were banned from operations on civilian stations. Someone needs to pull the trigger and be held accountable for mistakes. And in case you weren¡¯t alive when the practice got banned¡­ deliberately using combat robots in civilian areas is a terrible idea. We¡¯re lucky they didn¡¯t kill any of the civilians at Tharsis or that¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, not combat robots,¡± Hersh interrupted dismissively. ¡°Another alternative. One that satisfies the lawyers¡¯ obsessive need for accountability. Real troops. Real Marines. But troops who don¡¯t have families that call in to complain to Republic Senators when their children are deployed into dangerous combat roles where they can get shot at. A near endless supply of troops, in fact¡ª¡±


    Her jaw dropped in disbelief as the realization dawned on her. ¡°You¡¯re talking about¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m talking about the Malgeir. Their Federation Marine Infantry.¡±


    She gaped at him incredulously. ¡°There¡¯s no way that would work! They aren¡¯t trained for our counterinsurgency operations. And whatever screw ups you see in their Navy, it¡¯ll be ten¡ª no, a hundred times worse when we hand their Marines our guns and ask them to spot which of our people are civilians and which are Resistance. And the Red Zone districts and stations would never accept occupation ¡ª however temporary it is ¡ª by literal ET! You think they¡¯re having trouble keeping order out there now? They¡¯re going to be furious if we drop this on them!¡±


    Hersh shrugged. ¡°There are only a few Senate districts out there; the real bottleneck for operations has always been public sentiment inside Ceres. Which is why these campaigns are always a race to see whether the Resistance can kill enough Republic Marines fast enough before we finish the job there. Everything else is just rationalization. Take away the casualties, and we buy time to complete our objectives. All of them. As for training and unit integration, that¡¯s what you wanted in the first place, right? Besides, observing their behavior in combat will allow us to better model how we can best use them for the actual war. We can get hundreds of thousands of them¡ª¡±


    Still in shock at the brazenness of the suggestion, Amelia shot him a frosty glare. ¡°I assume you bastards at the TRO have calculated and computer modelled exactly how many dead alien Marines on the frontpage of The Atlas Times are equivalent to one Republic Marine on public opinion of the war.¡±


    As if not sensing her hostility to the idea, Hersh nodded. ¡°After the initial novelty, quite a few as it turns out. Just look at the apathy with which people now respond to the Znosians chewing through them like hot knife¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about people like Senator Eisson and¡ª¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not alone, just so you know. People aren¡¯t exactly thrilled about their taxpayer credits going to pay for an interstellar war they can¡¯t see. And the fear of the Znosians, well¡­ perhaps we did too well in our first campaign against them. Our simulations say that the number one emotion our people feel for them now is contempt, not fear. They don¡¯t care about that war anymore. The Red Zone, though¡­ we can get the public onboard for this, especially people like Seimur. We help him win the war he wants; later, he helps us win the war we need to win.¡±


    ¡°You know what they say about sleeping with rats, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°We are the TRO. We are the rats.¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°And I assume you have a plan for how to convince the Puppers to get on board with this insane scheme as well.¡±


    Hersh¡¯s face betrayed no emotion. ¡°We specialize in alien politics. We have what they need. They have what we need.¡±


    ¡°This conversation sounds super illegal. Doesn¡¯t the Republic Security Act bar the TRO from operations against domestic¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why this is a suggestion¡­ and why we¡¯re not meeting in your office. What? You going to report me?¡±


    Amelia pointed a finger at him again. ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me, spook. So, you want me to get on board with the Red Zone campaign, throw alien Marines at the bad guys, and then what? The people of the Republic will be so grateful for their sacrifice that they¡¯ll support pitching in to fight the war against the Buns after we destroy the Resistance?¡±


    ¡°Now that you mention it, that does seem like a helpful side benefit¡­ Are you in?¡±


    ¡°Hell no! That¡¯s a dumb idea that only you politics-obsessed eggheads at the TRO could come up with!¡± Amelia shouted at him.


    Unfazed, Hersh gave a nonchalant shrug. ¡°War is the continuation of politics with other means¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t throw Clausewitz at me, you wiseass! This plan of yours¡­ it will get Malgeir Marines killed, and it will get civilians killed.¡±


    ¡°And yet¡­ it is the best chance we have. At both victory in the Red Zone and victory in the Federation. Like you said in your own reports, there is no easy solution. This war requires sacrifice. Sometimes, these sacrifices are tactically senseless and counter intuitive.¡±


    ¡°If you just need someone to lead Malgeir Marines to their deaths, why me?¡± she challenged. ¡°My last command didn¡¯t even have jarheads. We used ODT.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re experienced in Red Zone operations with a stellar service record in¡ª¡±


    ¡°Cut the shit, spook. What¡¯s the real reason?¡±


    Hersh looked away. ¡°We need someone with credibility for people who care about the Malgeir war too. Nobody can complain when the admiral who¡¯s been aggressively pursuing the war against the Buns since day one finds the Red Zone campaign important enough to personally lead a task force into it.¡±


    Amelia rolled her eyes again, pointing accusingly at his bald head. ¡°Your idea is¡ª it¡¯s so dumb¡­ you know, it¡¯s so idiotic and unworkable that if it showed up on my desk¡­ I¡¯d think it came from the Ministry of Defense on Malgeirgam.¡±


    His expression tightened from the stinging insult. ¡°Then you fix it. This idea of using Malgeir Marines ¡ª it¡¯s happening whether you want it. Some of the planners in the Marine General Staff have already been quietly asking around. If you¡¯re in charge, you have a chance to do it properly. Your Republic needs you, Admiral.¡±


    ¡°If you spooks use that line on me one more time, I¡¯m going to find an airlock, and one of us is going to jump out of it and I¡¯m not sure who¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 18 The Real War III

    <div>


    TRNS Earhart, Charon (120 km)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Carla rubbed her eyes groggily as she picked up her ringing tablet from next to her. ¡°This is Bauernschmidt on the line.¡±


    ¡°Hey Carla, glad I could catch you before you go to sleep!¡± exclaimed the admiral¡¯s usual cheerful voice from her device.


    Carla glanced at the corner of her screen.


    0215 Atlas Standard.


    The Puppers were sound asleep in their seats. One of them, Durnio, was alternating between light barking and waving one of his claws in the air, boxing with some imaginary opponent in his dreams. She barely resisted the sudden and overwhelming urge to pet him.


    Nope, nope, nope. That¡¯s some kind of harassment charge waiting to happen.


    ¡°Good¡­ morning, Amelia,¡± Carla sighed. ¡°Why are you still up at this hour?¡±


    ¡°Never mind that. Listen, there¡¯s been some new¡ª uh, there¡¯s been some developments¡­ do you still have the Pupper student officers?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯ve been stuck in orbit for two weeks, but word is we¡¯re going to be allowed to land tomorrow¡­ maybe,¡± Carla said, sitting up as she checked the shuttle status updates.


    ¡°Oh good. I was worried you guys would be turning around after the Senate cancelled the program funding.¡±


    ¡°Why? Did you manage to save the program?¡±


    The admiral¡¯s confused voice came from the other side. ¡°What? Save it? No. That program¡¯s toast. I just need you to hold onto them for a little while longer. I¡¯m shuttling over to Charon while we work your transfers and a few things into the system.¡±


    ¡°My transfer?! Our transfers?¡± she asked, feeling the adrenaline coursing through her blood finally waking her up fully. ¡°Where am I going?¡±


    ¡°How would you like to command your own ship?¡±


    <hr>


    Tombaugh Spaceport, Charon


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Speinfoent breathed in the slightly cooler air of the spaceport interior as he stepped out of the shuttle airlock. Politely ignoring the gawking of the ground crew, they proceeded to follow Carla down an elevator into the connecting hallways towards the interiors of the base.


    The hallway stretched out, a long, straight corridor carved directly into the heart of the moon¡¯s crust. It was well lit by lights embedded into the ceilings, and as they walked through, he noticed the walls were lined by black marble slabs, with rows and rows Terran writing carved into them. He struggled to read it with the little knowledge of it he had¡ª


    Before he could ask, Carla stopped and pointed to them.


    ¡°Here we honor the spacers we lost in the line of duty, defending Republic lives and territory. Every cadet and officer of the Navy walks past these walls before they serve. These are their names under the ships they served,¡± she read. There was a ship¡¯s outline carved into the wall in chalk white. ¡°Parasite carrier, TRNS Endurance. Nine hundred and fifty-four Republic spacers lost over Ganymede in a massed Resistance attack on the space station Galileo Eight. They burned to engage the enemy, four ships to twenty-eight, while the station evacuated its civilians to the surface.¡±


    Carla pointed at the adjacent marble slabs. ¡°The Stockholm, one hundred and thirty spacers. Stennis, eighty-four. And the station¡¯s defense cutter Rattlesnake-Two, twenty-eight honorary spacers. All heroes. They saved twenty thousand civilian lives that day and paid the ultimate price in defense of the highest traditions of the Republic Navy.¡±


    She led them a few steps further down the hallways. There was a larger ship. ¡°TRNS Tokyo. Hit by a suicide attack over Mars. Eighteen spacers were KIA instantly. Another four, later, trapped in engineering when the ship had to vent the room to vacuum to put out the fires before they reached the reactor assembly. Their final moments rewrote the book on reactor safety and modern naval operations. Our regulations may not make sense to you today, but each one of them is written in blood, the blood of our people.¡±


    As they proceeded down the hall, they learned the names of the more than two dozen ships lost in service of the Terran Republic: some to enemy fire and sabotage, others to accidents, including one to friendly fire in combat. Several were not military ships: defensive cutters like Rattlesnake-Two and even a civilian heavy cargo ship.


    In between two marble slabs, they saw a glass display of a set of two heavily worn and damaged armored EVA suits, patches of the dark blue and green flag of the Terran Republic painted on their chests. One was slung on the shoulder of the other, who loosely held his service rifle in his other hand.


    A handful of small rectangular medal plates hung from a display next to it by their chains. Speinfoent struggled to read the Terran inscription on the plaque:


    The Atlas Eleven, Republic Navy spacers defending Atlas Interstellar Spaceport from a ground assault after a terrorist bombing in 2099.


    Even the Marines officially claim the Eleven as their own, having earned in combat the Mark II armor they borrowed. In the words of Marine Commandant Sayavong¡­ when their rifles ran dry, they used their knives; when their blades dulled, their suits; when their suits failed, they regrouped in hell.


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    At the end of the slabs, on the final three slabs of marble, they saw one engraved with a familiar-looking silhouette: a Pointer-class cruiser.


    Speinfoent gasped as he read the inscription, engraved in two languages, one of them Malgeirish.


    ¡°The Seuvommae.¡±


    ¡°Yes, MNS Seuvommae. And the names of the eight hundred and twelve Malgeir spacers, and the forty-eight KIA from its accompanying escorts. There was some controversy in Naval Command over this one. But despite¡ª despite the circumstances of that battle, they died defending the Terran system of McMurdo. And they did this knowingly. We honor their sacrifice.¡±


    She gingerly traced one of the carved names with a finger, then looked them in their eyes. ¡°They were the first Malgeir names on here, but this will be a long war and they will not be the last. Every Republic officer who walks past this wall at some point in their service is reminded of one thing: you are here at Charon to be trained, not to ensure that there will be no more names on this wall; you are here to make sure that the ones that make it here, Terran or otherwise, have a damn good reason to be here.¡±


    <hr>


    After all the anticipation, Speinfoent noted to himself that the College was not a structurally or architecturally impressive campus. Dozens of indoor habitats and rooms connected by long hallways, it boasted none of the impressive construction of Malgeirgam, nor of pictures of the majestic buildings he¡¯d seen of some Terran cities. It felt more like a series of connected conference rooms than a traditional school.


    The three Malgeir officers filed into one of the conference rooms behind Carla, where a quartet of Terrans sat in four of its black office chairs.


    Speinfoent recognized one of them. ¡°Amelia! I mean¡­ Admiral.¡±


    She smiled warmly back at them. ¡°Welcome to the Staff College, my Malgeir friends. Unfortunately, there has been a¡­ change in our government¡¯s budgetary position. The Allied Officer pilot program has been cancelled as of last week.¡±


    Speinfoent frowned and spoke up. ¡°Cancelled? So¡­ we just go home now?¡±


    Amelia¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°Not exactly, as part of the preparation for the Republic¡¯s latest Red Zone campaign, additional funds have been allocated to train new Navy officers for it. And there are no rules against using them on non-Terran students at the Staff College, not yet at least. The three of you have been nominated to be the first Malgeir students at the College. Please¡­ sit down and allow me to explain.¡±


    She narrated to them the history of the Republic and its perennial conflicts in the Red Zone. The Republic was not perfect, she admitted, but its enemies that sought its destruction were terrible people. She explained how this conflict was now a major barrier to Terran assistance to the Malgeir, and that it must be dealt with first before the Terran people would allow additional involvement in the war against the Znosians. Amelia then described her plan that necessitated their help in destroying the Resistance first.


    Uintrei looked at the Terran admiral with skepticism. ¡°I thought we were here to learn about how to fight the Grass Eaters in¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, actually,¡± Durnio cut in, shrugging. ¡°You thought we were here to build houses for rich Home Fleet patrons.¡±


    Before she could reply, Amelia jumped in. ¡°That¡¯s a valid concern. But a lot of what you¡¯ll learn here are skills that will translate to the greater war. When your government and ours agreed to an alliance, that cut both ways. We¡¯ll help you with your war, and so far we¡¯ve held up our end of the bargain¡­ it¡¯s not unreasonable that we¡¯re now requesting your help in dealing with our problems.¡±


    ¡°But what about the Marines? You said your plan requires tens or hundreds of thousands of Marines. Has Malgeiru agreed to that?¡±


    Amelia smiled. ¡°They have, after some persuading. Apparently, they don¡¯t value your Marines very much compared to your Navy officers. They¡¯re shipping your people over next week in exchange for some supply shipments to Gruccud. The question here is for you, individually: will you help us in our war?¡±


    Without much hesitation, Speinfoent nodded. ¡°I trust your people. You helped us retake our systems, our planets, and you gave us real hope for the first time in a long time that we can still win. I will do what you require.¡±


    Following his lead, Durnio and Uintrei nodded as well.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Amelia said, tilting her head.


    She then gestured toward the three Terrans sitting next to her¡­ young ones from the looks of it.


    Speinfoent could tell they were trying their best to hold in their excitement to varying degrees of success.


    Amelia introduced them, pointing to each one as she pronounced their names. ¡°These are other students of the Staff College: Maurice, Bethan, and Kaja. They will assist you in acclimating to Terran culture. They are your wingmates, or as our Marines say, your battle buddies. With the exceptions of illness, class, and a few approved activities, you will not travel anywhere on this installation without your wingmate. I¡¯ll let them introduce themselves.¡±


    ¡°Hi, nice to meet you all. I am Maurice. Maurice Durand. Lieutenant Jr in the Marines. I¡¯m twenty-five years old, from Districts 22 and 32¡­ Well, my parents were from District 32, but I¡¯ve only been there twice since our family moved.¡± Maurice held out his large hand, and Speinfoent gingerly shook it with his paw as he¡¯d learned to from his time in Sixth Fleet. Uintrei and Durnio hesitantly followed his example, each mimicking the Terran ritual, clasping Maurice¡¯s hand in their paws.


    He looked between the three of them, squinting as he did. Maurice apologized, ¡°Sorry, I am not good at your faces yet. Which one of you is my new wingmate, Durnio?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± Durnio said, raising his paw.


    ¡°Ah, excellent. I hope I pronounced your name right.¡±


    Durnio smiled genuinely at the effort. ¡°It¡¯s close enough.¡±


    ¡°No, there is no close enough when it comes to names,¡± Maurice shook his head emphatically. Looking at the other two waiting to introduce themselves, he lightly clapped Durnio on the shoulder apologetically, ¡°I will learn to pronounce your name right in time¡­ but for now, I will let the others introduce themselves first.¡±


    ¡°Bethan Woods,¡± the middle woman said as she shook their paws. ¡°You can call me Beth. Lieutenant, twenty-eight years old. I¡¯m from District 21, recently transferred from my district¡¯s terrestrial Navy: the one with real boats, in water.¡± She smiled, then looked at Uintrei. ¡°I¡¯m guessing you are my wingmate?¡±


    Uintrei smiled in return, ¡°Ah good, you should be easy to remember.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s that?¡± Bethan asked.


    ¡°Your head fur is red,¡± she noted. ¡°That seems to be a rarity among Terrans. I haven¡¯t seen any others like you. Is it artificially dyed?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s natural,¡± Bethan said, smiling as she pulled on a strand of her tied back bun. ¡°There are a couple other gingers at the College, but not a bad identification technique I guess.¡±


    She looked at the last Terran of the group. ¡°You turn, Kaja.¡±


    Kaja said shyly, ¡°I am Navy Lieutenant Kaja Kowalczyk, twenty-seven years old, from District 38.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Kaja,¡± Speinfoent shook her hand. ¡°I guess we¡¯ll be spending some time together for the next year.¡±


    Kaja nodded.


    Amelia added, ¡°You will have plenty of time to get to know your wingmates, but for now, let¡¯s go grab some lunch from the mess before it fills up. I saw at the spaceport that the latest supply shipment just came in with us, and it doesn¡¯t take long for news to spread on base.¡±


    ¡°Do they have ice cream?¡± the three new Malgeir students asked simultaneously.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 19 Wingmate I

    <div>


    Naval Station Charon, Charon


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Speinfoent squinted at the Terran scripts written on the screen of the ice cream machine. ¡°Which one of these buttons is the cho-co-late?¡±


    Kaja pointed it out for him. ¡°It¡¯s the brown one.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I see,¡± he said, as he pressed the button and then operated the physical lever to squeeze out and stack almost half a liter of ice cream onto his comparatively tiny wafer cone. ¡°I¡¯ll be remembering this one.¡±


    Kaja¡¯s eyes widened at his growing tower of ice cream. ¡°Are you sure that chocolate is safe for you?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Kaja, we are aware that we look like your pet dogs,¡± he acknowledged, slurping into his snack and smearing the chocolate over his snout. ¡°But unlike for them, this is not toxic for us. And neither is your coffee. We can eat grapes too.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I wasn¡¯t sure. What uh¡ª what else of our foods can you eat?¡±


    ¡°Without getting sick? Pretty much all of it. You should see the rations we have on our ships and we still eat those. Or used to. We are what you call obligate carnivores, so most of your grass-based foods have zero nutritional value and just pass through our digestive systems like they were never there.¡±


    ¡°Cool.¡±


    ¡°What about you, Kaja? You didn¡¯t get anything from the lunch deli?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not hungry.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your favorite flavor of ice cream?¡±


    ¡°Coconut.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try that next time. Maybe.¡±


    There was silence for a few seconds as he continued to scarf down his dessert.


    ¡°So, do you know anything about the training we¡¯re getting?¡± Speinfoent said between the last few licks of his ice cream as they made their way back to the group¡¯s table.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Carla mentioned that we are getting pilot training first.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°What about you? What are you here for?¡±


    ¡°The AIW program.¡±


    ¡°Hm I haven¡¯t heard of that. What¡¯s the AIW program?¡±


    ¡°Advanced Interstellar Warfighting.¡±


    ¡°That sounds fascinating! I didn¡¯t realize they have a whole program for that. Is that a yearlong program too?¡±


    ¡°Fourteen months.¡±


    ¡°Wow. That¡¯s a lot of time, longer than our current program, even. What do they¡ª what do they teach you?¡±


    ¡°Fundamentals of Interstellar Doctrine is the first course.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, that doesn¡¯t mean a whole lot to me. Maybe it will make more sense when I get to my classes.¡±


    Kaja nodded.


    ¡°You don¡¯t talk much, do you Kaja?¡± Speinfoent teased. ¡°This doesn¡¯t have to be a job interview.¡±


    She blushed. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    Beth and Uintrei sat down next to them, saving them both from the awkwardness. Beth bit into her chicken sandwich and said in between mouthfuls, ¡°Don¡¯t let her timidity fool you. We graduated from the same cadet class back in the day. Kaja is a tactical savant; she won the Luna Naval Academy¡¯s Wargaming competition all four years in a row while she was there.¡±


    ¡°Luna Naval Academy? I thought we are at the Naval Academy here,¡± Uintrei said, confused.


    ¡°No, no,¡± Speinfoent explained. ¡°This is the Staff College. All Terran Navy officers go through the Academy, but not all of them come to the College to study.¡±


    ¡°Wait. What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    Speinfoent shrugged. That was about all he knew of the difference.


    ¡°Okay, so here¡¯s how this goes,¡± Beth said, putting down her sandwich and animating with her hands. ¡°Strap in. I had to explain this to my parents, and I think they still don¡¯t get it. For about twelve years of a Terran child¡¯s life after they turn five or six, they go through primary and secondary education. How that is divided up depends on the district and sometimes the regions in each district. In my district, in year twelve, we have our A-levels. In Maurice¡¯s district, they have the bac, or however they say it.¡± She pointed at Maurice as he sat down with them next to Durnio. ¡°After that, some people choose to go to college.¡±


    Uintrei said, ¡°Like this one?¡±


    ¡°No, not exactly. College is a loaded word. That¡¯s just the name of this place. Ignore that for now,¡± Beth answered. ¡°Anyway, post-secondary education is usually four years. For the Navy, we go to a special college called the Naval Academy. The main campus is on Luna, and that¡¯s where all three of us went.¡±


    ¡°What do you learn at the Naval Academy?¡± Durnio asked in between mouthfuls of his vanilla ice cream.


    ¡°Very similar to what the civvies do in college. History, chemistry, aerospace engineering, et cetera, depending on what you like. I majored in Xenolinguistics. Kaja was in Digital Intelligence Engineering. Maurice was in¡ª¡±


    Maurice cut in. ¡°Political Science, concentrating in Interdistrict Relations.¡±


    Beth nodded. ¡°Then after that, most Naval Academy students serve five years as officers in the Republic Navy. At the time, I wanted to go home, so they granted me a waiver to do my five years in my district¡¯s terrestrial Navy instead. Like I said, the one with real boats on water. Kaja was in the Republic Navy. Maurice, the Marines. All different services.¡±


    ¡°Ok, I follow that so far,¡± Uintrei said, nodding. ¡°The Naval Academy is how you become eligible to be an officer in the Terran Republic.¡±


    ¡°Actually, there are three other paths to becoming an officer in the Navy besides the Naval Academy, but I won¡¯t get into that now. After a few years of service, you may get promoted to a higher rank, usually based on time or merit, or in my case, my district¡¯s terrestrial Navy had budget cuts and wanted to get rid of me, so they pawned me off back to Republic Navy.¡±


    Uintrei grinned. ¡°Sounds like their loss.¡±


    Beth grinned back. ¡°Exactly. Usually it takes quite a few years and tours before they¡¯d send us here, but recent¡­ events have sped up the process. Even our curriculums have been shortened. I¡¯m guessing they¡¯re about to send us off to fight in the Red Zone. And¡­ Maurice here is probably one of the youngest Marine officers ever to come here.¡±


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Maurice showed off his trademark humbleness. ¡°Thank you, thank you, please hold your applause.¡±


    ¡°Is it because he killed a lot of pirates in the Red Zone?¡± Durnio interjected.


    Beth giggled. ¡°Is that what he told you? The version I heard was¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh please, there¡¯s no need to tell that story again,¡± Maurice interrupted loudly with a smug grin.


    ¡°Desperate times, desperate measures,¡± Beth faux whispered conspiratorially to the three Malgeir students. ¡°They¡¯d promote anyone these days. Anyway, what about you Puppers? We¡¯ve heard about The Sphinx over here on the news, but what did the two of you do to get here?¡±


    ¡°I broke our ship¡¯s chef snout,¡± Durnio said.


    ¡°They falsely blame me for the destruction of my entire fleet,¡± Uintrei answered simultaneously.


    Beth guffawed, and then seeing that neither of them were joking a moment later, asked, ¡°Wait, seriously?¡±


    Speinfoent nodded. ¡°Extra ¡®training¡¯ is usually seen as a punishment in the Malgeir Navy.¡±


    ¡°Dang. Wow. Sounds like their loss, right?¡±


    <hr>


    Speinfoent tried to itch his backside with his tail in his custom-tailored jet-black flight suit as covertly as possible.


    His flight instructor, Kurt, looked quizzically at him. ¡°Is there something wrong with your equipment, Speinfoent?¡±


    He reddened. ¡°No, sir.¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t call me sir. It makes me feel old. Kurt or Commander, both are fine. As for your suit, let me know if anything is uncomfortable because you will have to get used to being in it for hours at a time.¡±


    ¡°Ah, it¡¯s just a little too warm,¡± he answered more truthfully.


    Kurt frowned, then fiddled with a panel on the front of his suit. ¡°Huh. Twenty degrees. That¡¯s a little too warm?¡± He pressed a few buttons on it, and the inside of the suit rapidly cooled to a much more pleasant temperature. ¡°How about now?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s much better.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Kurt said, noting something down on his tablet. ¡°That¡¯s fifteen degrees. Let me know if you need another adjustment or if the size doesn¡¯t fit right.¡±


    ¡°It feels good now.¡±


    ¡°And you had a light lunch, right?¡± Kurt asked.


    ¡°Bananas. Kaja said¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. Anything that tastes the same coming up as they do going down will work.¡±


    Kurt went back to his lesson, pointing at what looked like heavy machinery embedded into the wall of the habitat. ¡°Let¡¯s get started. This is a flight simulator for a Terran ST-6M. S stands for spacecraft, T stands for trainer, M is a new variant designation for Malgeir, as in the interiors are fitted to your physiology. Closer pedals, lower chair, color adjustments for your eyes, translations, and more sensitive screens for your paws. That sort of stuff. Thanks to the inertial compensators in there, this is as close as we can get to the real thing, including what happens if the compensators fail and you get to experience real acceleration on your body. However, we temporarily lowered the blackout safety limits for you because we are not quite sure how many Gs your body can tolerate. Other than that, it is virtually identical to the trainers we use for our own people. Any questions?¡±


    Speinfoent shook his head.


    Kurt pressed a button on his tablet and a hole opened in the machine, a chair extending out.


    ¡°Okay. Now, strap yourself in.¡±


    Speinfoent got in and applied the seat restraints best as he could. Kurt double checked, pulling on it to make sure the fit was tight, grunting his approval. ¡°Not bad, you figured that out pretty quick.¡± He positioned Speinfoent¡¯s foot paws on a set of movable levers, pushed another button, and the chair slowly retracted into the machine, pulling him into the pitch darkness.


    A moment later, the lights in front of him turned on. There was a panoramic screen in front of him, a view of a distant space station in his view of the starfield, and some buttons and controls on his side. A voice came from the cockpit speakers. ¡°Look at the screen straight in front of you. Those are your avionics systems: navigation, communications, sensors, flight control systems, and battle management systems.¡±


    Symbols and writing started appearing on the screen in Malgeirish. Circles, lines, and an apparent silhouette of the trainer spacecraft.


    ¡°Ok, now reach out with your hands err¡ª paws in between your feet paws and feel for the circular loop under your seat. Do you feel that?¡±


    He looked down and found the device. He gave it a light tug. It didn¡¯t budge. He nodded.


    Kurt¡¯s voice came in through the radio. ¡°Assume I haven¡¯t evolved the ability to read your mind and use your words.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I feel it,¡± he said, holding the loop in between his paws.


    ¡°Good. That¡¯s the ejection seat handle. If you pull hard on it, the pilot escape pod encloses, the engines and inertial compensators cut out if they¡¯re still active, explosives detonate the cockpit around you, and your lifepod is jettisoned away from your spacecraft before it explodes. When that happens, you have about two hundred milliseconds to place your neck at the angle you want it to be for the rest of your life before the rocket boosters kick in.¡±


    Speinfoent hurriedly let go of the handle.


    Kurt chuckled through the intercom, and Speinfoent squeaked a nervous chuckle in response.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, that one gets everyone. In the sim, it just ends the scenario. We have a separate simulator specifically for bailout training. The gravity settings for that one are¡­ unpleasant. Not as bad as the real thing I hear, but I¡¯ve thankfully never had to experience that myself¡­ For now, all you have remember is to look straight forward before you pull the loop if that ever comes up.¡±


    ¡°Look forward before I pull the ejection seat loop. Got it.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, enclose your right paw on the joystick on your right. Broadly speaking, those are your manual rotational controls: pitch and yaw. In other words, that¡¯s how you make the spacecraft look up, down, left, and right.¡±


    ¡°Right paw for rotation, got it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t just memorize this. Try it out.¡±


    Speinfoent gingerly manipulated the control on his right paw and watched as the starfield rotated around him. It took him a second to get used to the inertial momentum of the spacecraft. When he released the controls, the spacecraft continued to spin.


    ¡°Now, do you remember Newton¡¯s first law from school?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s Newton?¡±


    ¡°Right. Newton¡¯s first law tells us that what is at rest remains at rest, and what is in motion remains in motion.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the first and second rules of kinematic motion.¡±


    ¡°Whew. Good. So they do teach that where you come from. To counteract the existing rotational motion of the spacecraft, you need to apply an equal force in the exact other direction. Try to stop the spacecraft from spinning.¡±


    With some effort, he managed to mostly neutralize the spin of the spacecraft.


    ¡°Not bad for your first try,¡± Kurt said, sounding mildly impressed. ¡°There¡¯s a button that will do that automatically, relative to whatever you target, but for now, let¡¯s stick to manual controls. Enclose your left paw on the joystick to the left. These are your reaction thruster translational controls.¡±


    Speinfoent moved the spacecraft in all four directions, and after a while, managed to make the spacecraft come to a stop relative to the space station in front of him.


    ¡°To roll the spacecraft, use your feet paws. Push down on the left paw for counterclockwise roll, and on the right for clockwise. You will notice¡ª¡±


    ¡°Clock? What is that?¡± he asked innocently.


    Kurt sighed. ¡°It¡¯s an antique circular measurement device for¡ª¡±


    Speinfoent chirped. ¡°I¡¯m kidding. I know what an analog clock is.¡±


    Speinfoent could hear Kurt¡¯s grin in his voice as he said, ¡°You got me there, joker. When you push down, you should notice movement in the other paw as well, like you¡¯re balancing them on a stick. Now, give those skinny rear paws an exercise.¡±


    He operated the spacecraft¡¯s pedals experimentally, putting the spacecraft into a roll once in each directions before neutralizing it to a stop.


    ¡°Great job so far. Now let¡¯s introduce some real thrust. The main engine throttle is on your uh¡ª first claw on your left paw. There¡¯s a wheel on that joystick. Rotate it forward until you hit the end.¡±


    He did as Kurt instructed and heard the simulated noise of both the engines and inertial compensators kick in hard as they kept him from feeling the intense acceleration that¡¯s supposed to occur as the main engines behind him went to full power. A widget appeared on the screen to show him his acceleration and relative speed to a station in front him, which started getting bigger slowly. He hastily cut the thrust in his left paw and the noise from the engines and the inertial compensator subsided, but he noticed that the spacecraft was still going forward. ¡°How do I reverse thrust?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t. The ST-6 doesn¡¯t have main reverse thrusters. You have to spin around and put an equal force in the opposite direction. Remember your first uh¡ª first and second rules of kinematic motion. Try that now.¡±


    Speinfoent immediately realized how much more challenging that was. Spinning was rotation, and thrust was not. Getting translation and rotation both right at the same time was much harder than he initially expected, and his spacecraft was soon spiraling out of control. The view on the screen and the shifting inertial compensator gravity settings made him slightly dizzy despite logically knowing that it was limited by a failsafe.


    After observing his struggle for a minute, Kurt¡¯s voice came over the intercom again. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. This is a common problem with manual controls. Let¡¯s try to recover. Don¡¯t just look at the screen for what¡¯s going on outside your window. Keep your eyes on your instruments and the station¡¯s signature. First, neutralize your spin and roll. Then, counteract your vertical and lateral translation.¡±


    Following the instructions, he was able to get his spacecraft to stop spinning after about a minute of fiddling.


    ¡°Good. Now you¡¯re oriented again. But as you can see, your spacecraft is still moving relative to the space station. Attempt to neutralize movement on that axis again. This time, focus on your instruments and make a precise 180 degree on the pitch or yaw and stop all rotational movement before you hit the thrust.¡±


    He tried to follow the instructions, but within a few seconds, the ST-6 was spinning out of his control again. At least the space station was no longer getting closer; they were getting away from it.


    Kurt said patiently, ¡°That¡¯s okay. Calm down. Space is big and we¡¯ve got plenty of it around us. Let¡¯s recover and try that again. Remember, the view out the fake front windows is nice, but trust your instruments¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 20 Wingmate II

    <div>


    Naval Station Charon, Charon


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    ¡°So how was your class?¡± Speinfoent asked his wingmate as he spotted her exiting the classroom alone. Several other Terran students in Kaja¡¯s class had gathered outside the classroom, now openly gawking at him. He flashed a grin and waved at them. Some waved back; a few pretended not to see in embarrassment. ¡°Interstellar doctrine, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Fine. Yours?¡±


    ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t throw up when I got out of the simulator today, so that was nice.¡±


    Kaja laughed. ¡°That¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°I had to sit down on the floor for a good minute before the world stopped spinning though.¡±


    ¡°This is normal for your first few times.¡±


    ¡°Is it? I hope it gets better with time. I had a dream last night where I was trying to fly through those waypoint markers they put on the practice scenario, and every time I got closer, they just kept hopping away from me in a random direction.¡±


    ¡°You will master that too.¡±


    ¡°Good. It¡¯s fun though. I hope after the training, they will let me fly one of those ST-6s for real.¡±


    Kaja looked confused. ¡°What do you mean? That is the point of the training.¡±


    It was Speinfoent¡¯s turn to look confused. ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°After a few more lessons in the simulator, you will fly a real one.¡±


    He tilted his head. ¡°Isn¡¯t that very expensive? All pilots have to train in real spacecraft?¡±


    ¡°Of course! That is why the real ST-6 has two seats. One for you. One for your instructor.¡±


    ¡°Hold on. How much real flying is my training?¡±


    ¡°About fifty hours.¡±


    ¡°Fifty hours?! That¡¯s two full days!¡±


    ¡°Two full¡ª right. And you need to fly at least one hundred hours a year to maintain your certification,¡± Kaja added with a smile, clearly enjoying his reaction.


    ¡°One hundred hours?! A year? That¡¯s including simulator hours, right?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s crazy. My job won¡¯t even involve combat piloting!¡±


    Kaja shrugged. ¡°Mine neither. It¡¯s just a requirement to understand ship command. Like how Marine officers have to learn to walk and run and shoot in Basic Training too, even if their robots and suits do their job for them most of the time.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but it doesn¡¯t cost what¡­ two thousand credits an hour for a Marine to run around a track and fire a few shots out of a rifle!¡±


    ¡°The ST-6 costs about fifty thousand credits an hour to fly.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ exactly my point! How does your Republic even manage to afford all this training?¡±


    Kaja thought for a moment. ¡°It¡¯s cheaper than losing a full warship. Train more here, die less out there.¡±


    Speinfoent instinctively wanted to refute that but couldn¡¯t come up with anything. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ one way to put it, I guess.¡±


    She asked quietly, ¡°How many¡ª how many hours do your pilots train on average?¡±


    Speinfoent looked at her in surprise. He didn¡¯t remember her ever asking him a question with so many words. He¡¯d almost gotten used to carrying the conversation when he was with her, but talking about piloting seemed to have made her chattier than usual. ¡°Frankly, I have no idea. I think hangar bay pilots get to fly when they need to. And of course, the navigation officers are always flying.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°How many flying hours do you have?¡± he asked out of curiosity.


    ¡°I have almost eight hundred hours.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not including simulator hours?!¡±


    ¡°I passed three thousand simulator hours last month,¡± she replied proudly.


    ¡°You are messing with me, right? That¡¯s one hundred and twenty full days in a simulator.¡±


    ¡°One hundred and twenty-five Terran days,¡± Kaja said, shaking her head. ¡°I have been sim flying since I was twelve.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re not a combat pilot?¡±


    ¡°I am not.¡±


    ¡°I am almost afraid to ask, but how many hours do actual combat pilots in the Terran Navy fly a year?¡±


    ¡°We have very few combat pilots since we no longer use parasite fighters in combat. Some shuttle captains log the maximum of a thousand hours a year,¡± Kaja said. ¡°But not all hours are the same.¡±


    ¡°Huh. What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°Flying a transport ship on autopilot is not the same as active combat training. Some people fly one thousand hours. Some people fly one hour, a thousand times,¡± she explained.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª hm¡ª oddly enough, I think I understand what you mean.¡± He thought for a while, then added, ¡°Is that what Beth meant by wargaming, when she said that you¡¯re the champion at the Academy?¡±


    Kaja blushed. ¡°No. That is different. That is more like command simulations.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I think I¡¯ve seen those,¡± Speinfoent said, nodding. ¡°Those simulator rooms. I¡¯ve been in one of them the last time I was in Sol. And those exercises about Celestria.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s it. And Beth didn¡¯t tell the whole story. At the Academy, there were two divisions in the tournament, tactical and strategic. I only won in tactical, which is the easier category.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to be modest¡ª¡±


    ¡°No! Strategic is really much harder,¡± she insisted.


    ¡°I keep hearing Terrans using those two terms. And sometimes it seems they are interchangeable. What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    ¡°Tactics are smaller scale, within a single battlespace. It¡¯s almost always within a single system, sometimes around a single planetary body. In the tournaments, you usually get a squadron of ships and play in real-time or in time warp. The strategic competition is usually about a multi-system campaign, played in turns.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded and was surprised to hear her continue. ¡°And on top of that, there is operational art.¡±


    He asked, ¡°Operational art? What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s supposed to be about integrating the two, but I¡¯ve just started learning it in class.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of class, did you see my schedule? I have a two-hour class on flight controls and then three hours on orbital dynamics this afternoon!¡±


    Kaja winced sympathetically. ¡°Oh yes, I remember Orbits class at the Academy. It was required for all engineering majors.¡±


    ¡°But I already know how orbits work! You feed where you want to go into the computer, and it tells you how to get there!¡±


    She broke into a sly grin. ¡°Then the class should be easy for you!¡±


    Speinfoent looked at her, his face slowly drooping as the realization came over him. ¡°They won¡¯t be letting us use a navigation computer in the class, will they?¡±


    ¡°Not at first. But they aren¡¯t needlessly cruel. They won¡¯t make you do the math by hand. You can use a regulation graphing calculator.¡±


    He groaned as she continued, ¡°But that¡¯s just for a few weeks. Then, you get a nav computer with half its functions disabled. And you get more and more of its functionality back until you finally get to use it unrestricted. The test questions at the end are the hardest though.¡±


    Speinfoent started repeatedly smacking his forehead with his paw. ¡°This class is multiple months?!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a full two-quarter course: about six months.¡±


    ¡°Is there a chance I can enroll in a class where I build houses for rich idiots instead?¡±


    ¡°No, sorry,¡± Kaja answered in uncontained mirth. ¡°That course is only available for Marine officers.¡±


    <hr>


    Speinfoent dragged his paws out of the classroom, exhausted both physically and mentally. He felt a curious gladness when he noticed Kaja was already waiting outside.


    She initiated the conversation with a grin on her face. ¡°So¡­ how was Orbits?¡±


    ¡°You should at least pretend to feel sorry for us. I haven¡¯t done this much math since I joined the Navy. No, actually, since¡­ ever.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Uintrei and Durnio?¡± she asked.


    ¡°They¡¯re still finishing the last couple questions in there,¡± he pointed his paw at the classroom wearily.


    Kaja craned her neck towards the side to look into it. ¡°Hm¡­ not bad. At least you were still faster than a few of our students.¡±


    He was too tired to even tell if that was meant to be a compliment. ¡°Kaja, I¡¯m hungry. Let¡¯s go get dinner early.¡±


    Suddenly Kaja shirked back and her face changed color. She stuttered, ¡°N¡ª no, I can¡¯t. I¡¯m skipping dinner. You¡ª you can go to the mess without me.¡±


    Speinfoent looked up, confused. ¡°But you didn¡¯t have anything for lunch either!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not hungry,¡± she insisted.


    ¡°I thought the rule is that wingmates need to stick together for meals.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m feeling a little sick. I¡¯m going to head back to the bricks. You¡¯ll be fine without me.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you are feeling sick because you did not get enough nutrition for lunch¡ª¡± Speinfoent started, but she was already scurrying away.


    <hr>


    ¡°Maybe she¡¯s a rations smuggler,¡± Durnio and Uintrei said simultaneously when Speinfoent brought up Kaja¡¯s absence at the mess tables.


    Durnio continued, ¡°I knew a guy who used to do that. Had a deal with the head chef to get the good stuff delivered to his cabin instead of eating with everyone at¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shhh¡­ keep it down,¡± he admonished. ¡°If she is, I don¡¯t want to get her in trouble.¡±


    ¡°Get who in trouble?¡± Beth asked as she laid her full tray of fried chicken on the table. ¡°Are you three scheming without me?¡±


    ¡°N¡ª no. It¡¯s nothing. Hey Maurice!¡± Speinfoent said as the last Terran of the group joined their table.


    ¡°Hey, what is up, my favorite three Puppers.¡±


    ¡°We are the only three Puppers you know!¡±


    Maurice grinned. ¡°And you¡¯re my favorite. Where¡¯s Kaja, by the way?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s sick,¡± Speinfoent replied casually.


    ¡°That¡¯s odd,¡± Beth said, biting into her chicken. ¡°She seemed fine to me earlier.¡±


    Speinfoent lowered his voice. ¡°Did you see her at lunch? She didn¡¯t eat anything at lunch today. Not yesterday, either.¡±


    Beth and Maurice shared a meaningful look.


    Beth said, ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure she¡¯s fine. Probably just needed to take a nap after a long day.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he asked. ¡°Maybe we should visit the base corpsman and see if¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± Beth said dismissively. ¡°I¡¯m sure your wingmate will be fine.¡±


    Maurice nodded in agreement.


    ¡°Oh yeah. By the way,¡± Beth said, ¡°I¡¯ve been practicing my Malgeirish with Uintrei. Give me a second.¡± Then Beth pulled out her tablet, cleared her throat meaningful, and read something out loud from her notes in the alien language without her translator.


    Speinfoent and Durnio looked at her confusion.


    Speinfoent took a guess. ¡°You need to¡­ release the chickens?¡±


    Uintrei and Beth burst into laughter simultaneously.


    When Uintrei could finally breath, she wheezed, ¡°No, dummy! She said you should try the fried chicken. I, for one, understood it.¡± She looked proudly at Beth.


    Beth said in between gasps of laughter, ¡°I guess I still need some more practice.¡±


    Maurice asked, ¡°Didn¡¯t you major in Xenolinguistics at the Academy?¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make me fluent in literally all the alien languages! My concentration was Znosian. Much easier than Malgeirish.¡±


    Durnio seemed surprised. ¡°You can speak Grass Eater without a translator?¡±


    ¡°Speak it? At one point, I was dreaming in it instead of English!¡±


    ¡°And you chose to learn Grass Eater over Malgeirish?¡± Durnio asked in faux outrage.


    ¡°Of course! One day, maybe they¡¯ll send me on a super secret operation to go steal a Bun battleship. I¡¯ll need to know what the buttons say so I can fly it away. Malgeirish? Not nearly as useful,¡± she said as she picked up one of the wings from her plate.


    Speinfoent looked at her skeptically. ¡°Steal a Grass Eater battleship? You¡¯re way too big to fit in their tiny¡ª¡± He shut up from a mean look from Uintrei, immediately realizing the social faux pas he made.


    Right. Some Terrans prefer being small.


    Durnio saved him from further embarrassment. ¡°How do you say ¡®fried chicken¡¯ in Znosian?¡±


    Beth bared her front teeth and made a series of high-pitched noises, which their earpiece translators helpfully translated into, ¡°Fried farm flesh.¡±


    ¡°That is pretty cool!¡± Durnio said excitedly. ¡°How do you swear in Znosian?¡±


    ¡°Sadly, they don¡¯t really have swear words, just insults,¡± Beth said, but completed the rest of her sentence in a similar high-pitched warble, ¡°But they say: by the Prophecy, we are hatchlings in deep water!¡±


    Then she helpfully reverted to her native English, ¡°That means they¡¯re truly screwed.¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay. Teach me this one. How do you say in Znosian, ¡®lay down your weapons, or we will eat you alive¡¯¡ª What? Don¡¯t look at me like that, I wouldn¡¯t actually do that; it might come in handy one day, right?¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Znosian translation for ¡®lay down your weapons or we will eat you¡¯: Sku besht jo sresk sme si zdanti glara jo!

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 21 Wingmate III

    <div>


    Navy Operation Area, Charon (400 km)


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Kaja wasn¡¯t at breakfast the next day either. Or the one after that. He doubled back to try to find her at her bunks, but it seemed like she had already gone to class. He thought they¡¯d formed some kind of semblance of a connection talking about piloting, but she straight up seemed to be avoiding him now.


    Speinfoent considered his options. None of his interactions with the Terrans so far had given him any cultural insight into what to do in a situation like this. Sure, the etiquette around post-mission briefings was direct and brutal, but that was intentional, and the blame wasn¡¯t supposed to be placed individually. The Terrans seemed to treat many of their rule violations seriously, but what was he supposed to do? He couldn¡¯t report Kaja! Besides, maybe she was telling the truth about being sick¡ª


    ¡°Hello, Terra to Sphinx! You there?¡± Kurt called out from the backseat of the ST-6M.


    He snapped back to reality. ¡°Yes, sorry. What was the question again?¡±


    ¡°Do you see the mission targets?¡±


    Speinfoent focused his vision on the sensor interface projected in his helmet, trying to decipher the symbols on the three-dimensional holograph. There were two green circles near his position, and four white squares far to his direct front. Each shape had a singular line attached to it, indicating their directions. ¡°The white squares are the bad guys, right?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Excellent deduction, Beta Leader. These are indeed the enemy ships we were looking for. Vector us onto the leading bandit.¡±


    ¡°Should we perform a zero-intercept?¡±


    ¡°You tell me. Should we?¡± Kurt asked.


    Speinfoent considered for a second. ¡°No, no reason to slow down to give them more time to shoot back at us. I think a medium speed, ballistic course is fine?¡±


    ¡°Put in the course then.¡±


    He entered the target burn into the flight computer, allowing it to automatically neutralize his current spin and input a moving intercept, while keeping his paws on the manual controllers just in case. Then, the engines cut out after a few seconds, their inertia leading them on a creeping trajectory towards the targets.


    As they approached the enemy fighters, numbers began showing up below their indicators on the sensor board: two of them were labeled with the number 29 and then a few seconds later, the other two showed 27.


    ¡°What do the numbers mean?¡± he asked. ¡°Is that the range to target?¡±


    ¡°No, but not a bad guess. Our sensors are identifying and displaying the types of enemy spacecraft: Raytech SF-29 and United SF-27, turn of the century cheap parasite fighters commonly found in private security fleets or in our case¡­ pirates. Don¡¯t let their age fool you. Most of these are heavily modified for acceleration, armament, or both.¡±


    Though knowing it was a training scenario, Speinfoent felt a small degree of apprehension. ¡°How should we best engage?¡±


    ¡°Up to you. They haven¡¯t seen us yet¡­¡±


    ¡°But?¡± Speinfoent said, sensing the caveat coming.


    ¡°We¡¯re stealthy enough with our size, but even unmodified, these pirate parasites have all-aspect radar warning receivers with no real blind spots. Our low probability of intercept radar may not be showing up on there yet, but the second you lock any of them up on the active fire control radar, they¡¯ll redirect their visual sensors this way and find us instantly.¡±


    ¡°So what you¡¯re saying is I have to lock and take them all out at the same time.¡±


    ¡°That would be logical. Luckily, you can do that with the fighter¡¯s combat systems. If you keep the sensors on Track While Search, it¡¯ll let you track all four of them without alerting them immediately. Then, when we get in range, you can launch missiles at them in quick succession.¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I always use Track While Search?¡±


    ¡°The other mode is better for burning through electronic jamming and TWS loses sight against stealth ships more often. And you need to beam them with your fire control radar to accurately tell where they are before you release your weapons. You did the reading I gave you, right? Now, focus. Lock them up.¡±


    Speinfoent tapped the panoramic screen in front of him, engaging the sensors to lock up all four of the pirates passively. Two vertical bars surrounded each of their hollow square symbols to indicate the lock on the sensor board, and four large squares showed up in his helmet display.


    Kurt explained, ¡°You can now see where they are in your helmet. But more importantly, look at the dynamic launch zone widget on the right side of the reticle.¡±


    He focused on the helmet¡¯s green bar on the right as instructed, topped by a number indicating 10,000 above and a number 50 to the left of it.


    Kurt continued, ¡°That bar tells you when to launch your munitions. At the top of the bar is the range scale, which is roughly how much distance the entire bar represents: in our case, ten thousand kilometers, and as you can see the triangular pointer right under that shows we¡¯re about nine thousand away. On the left is the closure rate, fifty kilometers per second. Under that, the upper point marked in the bar is r-optimal: that¡¯s the range at which the target physically should not be able to maneuver out of the attack envelope of our missile, including with their estimated energy state. And finally, under r-optimal, we have the r-min, the minimum range at which the seeker will arm, track, and detonate safely.¡±


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ¡°So, I should wait until we reach the optimal engagement range and fire? Seems pretty similar to our ship command.¡±


    ¡°Precisely so. But I think you¡¯ll find in some future scenarios where that will not always be the case.¡±


    Speinfoent waited a minute as the triangle pointer inched towards the r-optimal marker. The simulated enemies appeared blissfully unaware of his presence bearing down on them.


    Kurt added helpfully, ¡°Remember, your launch button is on the index¡ª no, excuse me, the second claw on your right paw. It¡¯s a two-stage trigger. The first stage opens the internal weapons bay, and the second stage releases the weapon.¡±


    A few seconds later, Speinfoent saw the bar reach the optimal launch range. He depressed the trigger four times in quick succession.


    The only sounds Speinfoent heard were a few muffled noises as the weapons bay slid open and four Hummingbird missiles glided off their racks into space. The diamonds that represented them floated alongside his ship and he craned his head around to look at them ¡®through¡¯ the canopy with his helmet. A second later, he saw a bright flash as they lit off their powerful engines, speeding past the ship to home in on their targets.


    The reactions from the pirates were swift and unmistakable. Bright flares and radar chaffs filled the space around them on the optical sensors and they each immediately took an inclined angle away from the missiles, attempting to evade in three dimensions.


    ¡°Fox Threes. Good launches,¡± Kurt said. ¡°Now, burn us away from them, ninety degrees and keep tracking the bandits with our radars until the missiles are using their own.¡±


    ¡°Roger.¡± He entered the new trajectory into the flight computers, which slanted the ship away from the pirates: enough to start accelerating away from them while keeping them in the detection cone of the targeting radars in his ship¡¯s nose. He noticed a new icon appear on his helmet under the launch widget, showing a Terran letter ¡®A¡¯ followed by a countdown timer.


    A few seconds later, as the indicator reached zero, Kurt reported, ¡°They¡¯ve gone pitbull. The missiles are on their own now.¡±


    In response and remembering the training manual, Speinfoent input a new trajectory, this time burning fully away from the targets as the missiles activated their own onboard sensors to track the enemies. He watched as his loose missiles follow the pirates in, their countermeasures proving ineffective at fooling its seekers.


    Then, things happened quickly.


    First, he heard the intermittent beep of his own radar warning receiver at one second intervals. Beep. One second. Beep. One second. Beep.


    A couple beeps later, all four of the pirate ships exploded and disappeared off his sensor contact board, and the beeping stopped.


    ¡°Splash all bandits,¡± Kurt said.


    Right as he was about to ask Kurt how he¡¯d done, the radar warning beep came back, this time sounding much more urgent.


    Beep, beep, beep, beep¡­


    A singular red circle appeared back on his threat board, marked with the squiggly Terran letter ¡®M¡¯.


    To add to his anxiety, Kurt half-yelled into his ear, ¡°Vampire! Vampire! One missile! Six o¡¯clock! They must have gotten one off!¡±


    Taking a deep breath from his oxygen supply to calm himself, he remembered the training videos. First, the pre-programmed countermeasures. He activated them.


    Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.


    Flares and chaffs started dropping out the back of the spacecraft on short intervals.


    There was an engine sputter as he took over manual control with his controllers. With his left paw, he commanded the engines to their maximum thrust and dumped all the extra energy in the ship batteries into the ship¡¯s thrusters as it vectored away from the missiles. He counted to five seconds in his head, yawed and pitched at a forty-five-degree angle with his right paw, and repeated.


    In the corner of his eye, he watched on the threat board as the incoming missile changed course twice, then thrice, to keep up with his anticipated trajectory. Then, right as it got into the inner circle of his threat indicator, it went ballistic, apparently having run out of fuel, and then exploded harmlessly into space a few hundred kilometers away from him.


    ¡°Vampire trashed,¡± Kurt confirmed. ¡°Good, you remembered the training videos.¡±


    Speinfoent turned around and grinned towards him in the back seat. ¡°Not bad, eh?¡±


    ¡°Not the worst I¡¯ve seen. The smarter thing to do would have been to let the flight computer plan out and execute the random evasive action, and you were trying to run with a full fuel tank,¡± Kurt said, ¡°But nobody gets everything right on their first try. We can save all that for the debrief.¡±


    Kurt operated the console in the back seat, and the scenario disappeared. Several sensor contacts appeared back on his sensor board, showing the Republic Navy ships around the nearby anchorage. ¡°Now fly us back to Charon.¡±


    His enthusiasm slightly dampened but not extinguished, Speinfoent programmed the flight computers to follow a trajectory back to the base.


    There were a few minutes as he heard nothing but the hum of the ST-6¡¯s inertial compensators, then Kurt piped up in the back seat, making small talk. ¡°What¡¯s on your plate after this?¡±


    ¡°Hm? Sorry?¡± Speinfoent asked, turning towards the back seat.


    ¡°What¡¯s your next class today, like after lunch?¡±


    He made a face at the Terran flight instructor. ¡°Orbital dynamics. Three hours of it.¡±


    Kurt grimaced sympathetically. ¡°Ouch. I was never good at that stuff. Fun, though, when you figure it out.¡±


    ¡°Fun?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s like playing chess, right? You know a computer can do it better and faster than you a hundred out of a hundred times, but it¡¯s still a lot more fun when you get the solutions yourself.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ one way to put it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, this whole parasite piloting thing¡­ you know it¡¯s not the whole point, right? Even a sub-Terran intelligence chip can do these missions with their eyes closed, and they don¡¯t mind as much when they get blown to bits by pirates. And what are parasite spacecraft controlled by an intelligence chip? Missiles. That¡¯s why the Navy doesn¡¯t really use these anymore.¡±


    ¡°Right. It¡¯s just supposed to teach us concepts for larger ship command.¡±


    ¡°Yup. Still¡­ it¡¯s fun,¡± Kurt grinned. ¡°And it keeps me in a job.¡±


    Wrestling with his conscience for a minute, Speinfoent decided he should ask someone about what was on his mind. He turned around to look at the back seat. ¡°Kurt, what is the punishment for rations smuggling in the Terran Navy?¡±


    Kurt looked at him quizzically. ¡°Rations smuggling? What¡¯s that?¡±


    He shrugged instinctively. ¡°Smuggling. Of rations.¡±


    ¡°Stealing food? Like from the mess hall? Why would you want to do that? It¡¯s a free buffet. You can take as much as you want; that¡¯s not stealing, just being a glutton.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    Kurt thought for a moment. ¡°There¡¯s regular smuggling on base, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Of what?¡±


    ¡°Your usual contraband. Alcohol. Fireworks. Combat drugs. Why?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, just wondering how seriously they take it.¡±


    ¡°Depends. Nobody cares if you pack in a bit of celebratory whiskey in a mouthwash bottle. That¡¯s fine as long as you don¡¯t over-indulge and get caught drunk-joyriding the surface recon vehicles by the MPs. The more dangerous and the illegal stuff: non-judicial punishment, demotions, stuff like that. Trying to steal weapons, or selling anything in bulk, would probably land you behind bars. Again, why?¡±


    ¡°No reason. Just wondering.¡±


    Kurt looked at him sternly. ¡°If you¡¯re looking to bring home those energy drinks you guys love, the suppos will probably give you a box of them. But anything more serious, like weapons or tablets, they¡¯ll find out. There are markers on all of them, and the scanners never miss them. They take that stuff seriously. It¡¯s easier to disappear a spacer than a grenade at Charon.¡±


    ¡°Understood. Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t do anything stupid.¡±


    I really hope my wingmate isn¡¯t caught up in something like that either, Speinfoent thought to himself. I must find out.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 22 Serenity I

    <div>


    Marine Base Camp Serenity, Charon


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    Head Pack Leader Baedarsust retrieved his personal luggage from the overhead compartment of the ground shuttle, where one of the armored Terran figures generously and effortlessly carried it for him.


    ¡°Welcome to Charon¡­ Omega Leader?¡± she asked, peering at his uniform insignia.


    ¡°Head Pack Leader,¡± he smiled, holding out his paw for the traditional Terran greeting, which she shook. ¡°My name¡¯s Baedarsust.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Aida,¡± the woman returned his smile.


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Aida.¡± Then, Baedarsust pointed at the convoy of his peers also rolling their baggage into cabin. ¡°These are my people: Head Pack Leader Frumers, Pack Leader Spommu, and Pack Leader Quaullast.¡±


    Each of them made a wave at the Terran as Baedarsust called out their names. With the Terrans¡¯ help, they quickly settled into their seats as more Marines filed in behind them.


    ¡°So, what did you guys do to get here? All the other Puppers we¡¯ve gotten so far were either criminals or drew the short straw. The very short straw.¡±


    Baedarsust thought for a second and shrugged, deciding there was no point in concealing it. ¡°I used to be a backup shuttle pilot. Then, I stole a shuttle, requested political asylum, and got arrested for desertion. The charges didn¡¯t stick, and my old captain got blown up while I was on my way to trial, so I guess the joke¡¯s on him.¡±


    Instead of the horror or disgust he expected, the Terran¡¯s expression was more of curiosity. ¡°That¡­ certainly tops the list of what I¡¯ve heard so far.¡±


    ¡°I volunteered,¡± Frumers chimed in.


    ¡°Volunteer? In the Marines? Now why would you do that?¡± Aida recoiled in mock horror.


    ¡°The food¡­ from the last time we were here in Sol. We were here with the first contact team.¡±


    ¡°Volunteer¡­ in the Marines¡­ for the chow? That¡­ has to be a brand-new sentence.¡±


    <hr>


    Exchanging stories over a few bags of snacks in the chow hall, Frumers pointed at Aida. ¡°So let me get this straight, your government didn¡¯t want too many of your Marines to go to war, so they paid you to fight for them?¡±


    ¡°Yup,¡± Aida confirmed. ¡°That¡¯s what a private contractor does. Well, they¡¯re probably going to activate me from the Reserves when we actually begin combat operations, but for now, they just want me training you up¡ª¡±


    ¡°They needed more bodies, so they¡¯re paying us to fight too?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re getting paid, but you¡¯ve got the gist of it.¡±


    ¡°These Resistance people are¡ª they¡¯re¡ª they¡¯re physically Terrans. Like you, right?¡± Frumers asked carefully.


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°What do they look like?¡±


    Aida shrugged. ¡°Like any other ordinary people, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°So how are we supposed to know who to shoot at?¡±


    ¡°If you figure that out, let us know.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what?¡± Frumers tilted his head.


    ¡°Well, usually you¡¯ll be able to tell when they start shooting at you.¡±


    Baedarsust nodded, understanding creeping into his eyes. ¡°Ah, that all makes sense now. We¡¯re here to get shot at and do the dying for you.¡±


    Aida grimaced. ¡°Kind of. We¡¯re not going to just throw you at them like meat for the meatgrinder. That¡¯s what some of the higher ups wanted at first, but thankfully someone knocked some sense into them. That¡¯s why they¡¯re having us train you up to our standards before you get shipped out into the Red Zone.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°I hear your people like to do a lot of that. That training thing.¡±


    ¡°This is just a quick basic course to bring you up to speed. Then, a four-week intensive VBSS program for search and seizure of spaceborne vessels. And then the variable gravity combat training. And for you non-commissioned officers, there¡¯s the counterinsurgency training. And¡ª¡±


    Baedarsust sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll clear my schedule.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Welcome to the Marine Combat Care Course,¡± Aida said to the classroom full of alien students. ¡°This is where you will learn how to treat combat casualties. There are no dedicated combat medics in the Terran Marines. That means every Marine is a combat medic until you can get your casualty into the hands of someone from the Navy who knows what they¡¯re doing. Ninety-nine percent of combat fatalities occur before they get to an evac shuttle. That means ninety-nine percent of Marines dying was because of someone screwing up something I¡¯m going to show you in this class. So pay close attention.¡±


    She gave each of the students a knowing look-over. ¡°Presumably you know absolutely nothing about trauma care. I will not hold that against you today, not too much, but I will hold that against you a week from now. If you have any question, ask immediately; that means there are no dumb questions today. Any questions so far? No? Alright, let¡¯s start with a demonstration of what you already know.¡±


    She gestured to Abe next to her. ¡°Abe will be our example casualty for this demonstration. Pew pew pew. Abe has just been shot.¡±


    ¡°Ouch, I¡¯ve been shot,¡± he said and laid down on the ground next to her dutifully, groaning in faux pain. ¡°Ow ow ow!¡±


    ¡°Oscar-worthy performance.¡± Aida looked at Spommu and pointed straight at her. ¡°You. Deal with this.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± she squeaked, pointing to herself with a claw.


    ¡°Yes, you! Your Republic Marine comrade is down! What do you do?¡±


    Hesitantly, Spommu picked up the Casualty Care Kit on her table and moved towards the front of the classroom. She knelt down next to Abe¡¯s body, and then looked up at Aida, her eyes asking for a clue of what to do.


    Aida pointed a finger gun at her. ¡°Pew pew pew. Congratulations, you¡¯ve just turned one casualty into two. You¡¯re dead too now¡­ lay down.¡±


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Shrugging, Spommu laid down next to Abe on the ground.


    Aida pointed at Frumers. ¡°Your turn. Two of your friends are down. What do you do?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ do I shoot back?¡± he suggested.


    ¡°That is generally a good idea if someone is shooting at you. Do that.¡±


    ¡°Um¡­ pew pew pew?¡± he said, mimicking her finger guns with his right paw.


    ¡°Good job. You have achieved fire superiority. I¡¯m now suppressed,¡± Aida said, showing him her open palms.


    ¡°Now what?¡± Frumers asked, moving to the front of the room and bending down next to Abe.


    ¡°Now, I will teach you the song of my people that we sing to heal the human body,¡± Aida replied matter-of-factly.


    Frumers¡¯ eyes widened. ¡°You sing songs to heal your injured and sick?¡±


    ¡°N¡ªno.¡± Aida pointed back down at Abe. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me. Look at him. First, find out if he¡¯s conscious.¡±


    ¡°Are you conscious?¡± Frumers asked, looking at Abe.


    Abe let out a blood curdling scream. ¡°Ahhhhhhhhh!¡±


    ¡°I think he¡¯s conscious,¡± the ¡°dead¡± Spommu suggested from her prone position.


    Frumers took a stab at the problem. ¡°Where are you hurt, Abe?¡±


    ¡°Ahhhhhhhh! My leg! Ahhhhhhh!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ sometimes survivable on a Terran, right?¡± Frumers asked, looking back up at Aida.


    She stared down at him. ¡°What¡ª what kind of question¡ª Ok, when I said there are no dumb questions today, what I meant was: there are very few dumb questions. Never mind. I¡¯m no longer suppressed anymore. Pew pew pew, you¡¯re dead too. Lay down.¡±


    Frumers also laid down on the ground, breathing what seemed like a sigh of relief as he was now no longer part of the active demonstration and subject of Aida¡¯s impatience.


    ¡°Your turn,¡± Aida said, pointing at Quaullast at the back of the classroom.


    ¡°Uh¡­ pew pew pew,¡± Quaullast repeated with the finger guns at her.


    ¡°Ok, I¡¯m suppressed again. Next step,¡± she gestured urgently at the casualty on the ground.


    Quaullast shuffled to the front of the room and knelt down next to Abe. ¡°Should I get him into cover?¡±


    ¡°Holy shit, someone in the unit has been using his brain!¡± Aida exclaimed. ¡°Move the casualty to cover before they get everyone shot.¡±


    Quaullast wrapped his paws around Abe¡¯s neck and began to try to drag him.


    ¡°Are you trying to choke him out?¡± Aida asked incredulously.


    ¡°Right,¡± Quaullast muttered as he grasped Abe¡¯s tactical vest instead, dragging the still-screaming Terran away from where he was ¡°shot¡±. Surprisingly, Abe was lighter than he looked.


    ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough,¡± Aida said after he moved Abe a couple meters. ¡°You¡¯re in cover. Now what?¡±


    ¡°His leg,¡± Quaullast said, opening up his pouch of Terran medical devices. ¡°What am I supposed to do with it?¡±


    She grabbed a model of an ¡°injured Terran leg¡± with a simulated bullet wound in it from her desk and tossed it to Abe on the ground, who caught it and presented it to Quaullast while helpfully interspersing his screaming with, ¡°Ahhhhhhh! I¡¯m bleeding from my lower left leg! There¡¯s so much blood! Ahhhhhh!¡±


    Quaullast rummaged through the pouch, coming up with a white rectangular piece of cloth ¡ª maybe it can be used to wipe up the blood ¡ª and stared at Aida for approval.


    She sighed. ¡°That¡¯s the weather-proof instructions cheatsheet. You need a tourniquet. Do you know what that looks like?¡±


    He searched the pouch again. This time, he took out a metallic device that looked like a broken wire bracelet with nylon straps attached to it. He looked up again at Aida.


    She nodded approvingly this time. ¡°Apply the tourniquet five centimeters above the wound.¡±


    Quaullast wrapped the device around Abe¡¯s ¡°injured leg¡± above the round hole with what looked like fruit sauce smeared around it. He broke a labeled seal on the tourniquet, and the device automatically secured and constricted itself tightly around the model.


    ¡°Good. We made these Marine-proof. Even you can¡¯t screw this up. Now, check his airway and respiration.¡±


    Quaullast looked at Abe, who is still screaming at the top of his lungs. ¡°He¡¯s breathing, I¡¯m pretty sure.¡±


    Aida sighed. ¡°Good enough. Breathing and bleeding. Give his ¡®leg¡¯ a universal casualty injection.¡±


    Quaullast brought out a pen-like device from his pouch to Aida¡¯s approval.


    ¡°Alright, now put your thumb¡ª your claw, put it on the blue end and¡ª the other blue, genius.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m colorblind.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ really?¡± Abe asked curiously, stopping his screaming and moaning to look up at him.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Like blue-yellow colorblind?¡± Aida asked incredulously.


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°What color is this?¡± she asked, pointing at her blue t-shirt.


    He looked dumbly at her without an answer.


    ¡°How many of you are like that?¡± she looked up and asked the class.


    Eight or nine other paws shot up in the room.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s inconvenient.¡± Aida grabbed a sharpie and Quaullast¡¯s injector, marking it on one end with a big X and tossing the sharpie to one of the raised paws. ¡°Alright, all of you, get someone who can see color to do the same for your auto injectors.¡±


    She handed the injector back to Quaullast. ¡°People accidentally injecting themselves with the wrong end is¡­ a surprisingly common problem. There are easier ways to get high. Hold the marked end¡­ good. Now press it into the skin as hard as you can.¡±


    He did as she instructed into the leg model. The needle inside emerged from the packaging, then punctured and applied a large dose of whatever Terran medicine was in it into the model.


    ¡°Good, that will manage the casualty¡¯s pain appropriately, force their body to begin clotting, fight infection, oxygenate their blood, keep them conscious, yada yada, boost their chances in general,¡± Aida explained and pointed at his pouch. ¡°Now, you can apply the combat gauze. That one.¡±


    Quaullast ripped open the packaging she pointed to and began to spread the soft cloth over the ¡°bullet wound¡± on the leg model.


    ¡°No, no, no! Into the wound, not on top of it. Get your paw dirty and pack as much of the gauze into the breach as possible with your index claw¡­ good¡­ good¡­ more¡­ don¡¯t stop¡­ more¡­ okay. See? You want as much of it into the wound and in contact with the arteries as possible. Use the remaining gauze to apply pressure on the wound,¡± she said, holding her hand over his paw to demonstrate just how much force to apply. ¡°Just hold it. Do not move it up and down. Do not lift it. Do not open it up to check to see if it¡¯s stopped bleeding. It¡¯ll stop bleeding, or it won¡¯t. If the blood soaks through the gauze, put more in, and apply more pressure.¡±


    Quaullast nodded his acknowledgement, holding his paw down on the gauze with the weight of his body.


    ¡°That was step number two,¡± Aida said. ¡°Now, we need to evacuate the casualty.¡±


    She pointed at Baedarsust. ¡°You, stretcher.¡±


    Baedarsust looked confusedly at the array of medical gadgetry on his desk. ¡°Which one is it?¡±


    ¡°The biggest bag.¡±


    Baedarsust picked up the packed orange bag and opened it. As he unpacked it, the material expanded into a far bigger sheet than he expected, about twice as wide and taller than even the Terrans. Trying his best not to look at Aida¡¯s impatient stare, he tried to decipher the instruction pictures on the packaging.


    He laid the rectangular material flat on the ground as indicated and dragged Abe (fake groaning all the way) onto it as Quaullast still held the gauze to his fake leg.


    ¡°You can let go now, Pack Leader,¡± Aida instructed. Quaullast let go of the leg and got down on the ground to assist Baedarsust with the stretcher.


    Continuing to follow the instructions on the bag, Baedarsust folded the material to fully enclose Abe into it. After some fiddling, he ripped out the small cord attached to the bottom of the bag, and the stretcher fully sealed itself around Abe and hardened into a stiff, airtight shape.


    Baedarsust looked up at Aida, who gave him a short approving nod. Then, he grabbed the two front handles attached to the stretcher, Quaullast grabbed the back handles, and they lifted it to waist height with little effort.


    ¡°Good. Depending on where you¡¯re deployed, this may be slightly easier. Outside a standard gravity field ¡ª Titan¡¯s gravity is one seventh, so you should be able to lift the stretcher with just two. That said, general practice is four to a stretcher on a bad day and ideally six.¡± Aida then pointed at a smooth, square patch on the stiffened material. ¡°And if you don¡¯t expect to go into vacuum, you can poke a hole in there so poor Abe can breathe.¡±


    Baedarsust hastily stabbed at the softer material embedded on the enclosed stretcher with a claw, opening up a breathing hole for Abe in the airtight container.


    Aida added. ¡°But if you¡¯re not sure, don¡¯t risk it. We can fix the brain damage from hypoxia much easier than we can fix prolonged vacuum exposure. Now, you just get the stretcher to the evacuation point and that¡¯s it.¡±


    Baedarsust scratched his head with a claw. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it. For a mass hemorrhage wound on a limb. There are a few other scenarios we¡¯ll run through in the next week, and we¡¯ve got a few different procedures for Malgeir units. If you don¡¯t pay attention to anything else in this course, remember this: the point of trauma care, regardless of the species, is to get the patient to the evacuation point alive. Everything else is up to the Navy corpsmen, who are much better at this than you are. And if they can¡¯t figure it out, they can at least keep you alive until they get you to someone who went to medical school for this¡­ Any questions? No? Alright, everyone pair up with the person next to you¡­ we¡¯re going to practice tourniquets until you can apply one perfectly in less than ten seconds with the automatic kit and thirty seconds improvised. Let¡¯s see if you can beat my other class.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 23 Wingmate IV

    <div>


    Naval Station Charon, Charon


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Speinfoent gently knocked on the thin aluminum door labeled ¡°Kowalczyk / Mazur¡±. His sensitive hearing detected the movement of paws¡ª feet inside the room.


    ¡°You forgot your backpack again Aleksy?¡± Kaja¡¯s voice came from inside.


    Speinfoent shuffled his paws, nervously shifting his balance from one to another. ¡°No, it¡¯s me, Speinfoent.¡±


    There was an awkward silence, then she unlocked the door, peeking out with her head, her hair wet from what smelled like a recent shower. ¡°Do you need something?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just checking up on my wingmate. See if something¡¯s wrong. Since we missed you at breakfast in the mess. Again.¡±


    ¡°No¡ª no, nothing is wrong.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Speinfoent said. ¡°Can I come in?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± she said, sighing deeply and opening the door wider to let him in.


    The room was dimly lit, with a smattering of personal items neatly piled on the sparse shelving. The walls were decorated with posters of various Earth landscapes: azure oceans, lush forests, and sprawling mountain ranges, a stark contrast to the single wall-screen displaying an external camera view of the icy Charon landscape outside.


    Kaja sat down on the edge of her bunk bed, drying her damp hair with a towel.


    Speinfoent, meanwhile, tried to make himself comfortable on a nearby stool, its design obviously not meant for someone with his tail anatomy.


    He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. ¡°I just want to talk to you about your ahem¡­ side business. In our Navy, there is¡­ widespread tolerance for various activities that are technically prohibited by regulation. I understand that your authorities take these violations a lot more seriously, but as your wingmate, it¡¯s not my duty to expose or report your activities, so you don¡¯t have to feel a need to hide them from me.¡±


    Kaja only looked confused. ¡°What? What side business?¡±


    He continued to reassure her. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I will not demand a cut of your profits either. I can¡¯t spend Terran credits freely anyway.¡±


    ¡°Profits? What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Your smuggling operation,¡± he reminded her kindly.


    ¡°My¡ª my smuggling operation?¡± she asked, bewildered. ¡°I¡ª what?¡±


    ¡°Is that not why you have been missing meals?¡± he asked, doubt creeping into his previously confident conclusion.


    ¡°N¡ª no.¡±


    Speinfoent was confused. ¡°But why? And you¡¯ve repeatedly missed lunch, the most important meal of the day.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± Kaja started to say.


    There was a noise at the doorway. Another woman walked in, carrying a brown paper bag.


    ¡°Hey Kaja, I got your¡ª¡± the new woman stopped, staring at the alien sitting in her room. ¡°It¡¯s Speinfoent right? I¡¯ve heard all about you. Nice to meet you.¡± She held out her hand, which Speinfoent dutifully shook.


    ¡°Thanks Aleksy. You can leave it on the table,¡± Kaja replied, giving her a meaningful look.


    Aleksy looked at them both, left the paper bag next to Kaja, and headed out the door. ¡°Understood. I¡¯ll see you in class later.¡± She gave Speinfoent a wink as she left.


    He looked suspiciously at the paper bag. ¡°Your roommate is part of your scheme too?¡±


    ¡°There is no scheme!¡± Kaja insisted. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ not what you think.¡±


    Speinfoent¡¯s snout started sniffing the air next to him. There was a rich aroma coming from the bag, one he could only describe as warm, with a hint of sweetness. ¡°What is that¡­ I smell bread ¡ª grain bread ¡ª and something else¡­¡± He continued to sniff.


    ¡°It¡¯s a peanut butter sandwich,¡± she said, pulling it out of the bag.


    Recognizing the not at all rare nor luxurious breakfast item, Speinfoent stopped sniffing. ¡°So why have it delivered here? Why not eat with us at the mess? Do you not like us?¡±


    Kaja looked at him weirdly for a minute but said nothing.


    Disappointed at the lack of an answer, he said, ¡°It¡¯s okay, Kaja, if that is true. I just care about your well-being, and if you change your mind, I¡¯m sure we are happy to have lunch¡ª¡±


    Suddenly, she blurted out, ¡°I¡¯m a vegetarian!¡±


    ¡°Sorry, what?¡±


    ¡°Vegetarian. I eat vegetables.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I know. You are a Grass Eater,¡± Speinfoent said, frustrated. ¡°We all knew that Terrans are like that when we came here¡ª¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I voluntarily and exclusively eat vegetables. I don¡¯t eat meat at all.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± he said. After a brief moment, he asked, ¡°Do you¡­ dislike us for not being like you?¡±


    ¡°No! Not at all! It¡¯s not like that!¡±


    Neither of them said anything for a while.


    ¡°Speinfoent, I heard them talk about your parents and how the Grass Eaters took over their planet¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    His confusion compounded. He asked, ¡°Wait a second, is this why you have been avoiding us, the three of us? Afraid that we¡¯ll hold your choice of¡­ breakfast against you?¡±


    ¡°Um¡­ well¡­ yes. I didn¡¯t want to¡ª¡±


    It was like a fog cleared up in his brain. He halted for a second, and then started chuckling.


    Kaja looked half offended and half scared.


    ¡°Look, Kaja, my parents¡¯ planet fell to the Znosians, not your people. Their diet ¡ª and your diet ¡ª it¡¯s strange, but that doesn¡¯t make you responsible. We wouldn¡¯t blame you ¡ª that would be ridiculous! We are not bigots, well ¡ª a few of us are, but I am not. And neither are Uintrei or Durnio, I assure you.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to say¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I know you meant well,¡± he said, more gently, putting his paw around her shoulders to comfort her. ¡°The important thing is: what you choose to eat, or not eat, does not make me think any less of you. And again, I¡¯m sure Uintrei and Durnio feel the exact same way.¡±


    He added, ¡°In fact, since being acquainted with Terran cuisine, I have recently taken to eating vegetables too.¡±


    To emphasize his point, he snatched the sandwich out of her hands, and unhesitatingly took a large bite out of it, spraying bits of bread everywhere and smearing peanut butter over his snout. He said in between chews, ¡°See? Mmmm¡­ it¡¯s delicious.¡±


    Kaja visually relaxed, as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, then froze and said, ¡°Wait, but that¡¯s my breakfast.¡±


    ¡°Grab¡­ mmm¡­ grab your things¡­ mmm¡­ You don¡¯t have to hide from us in your room to eat¡­ Let¡¯s go get you another sandwich from the mess¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Vampire! Vampire twelve o¡¯clock!¡± Kurt screamed unnecessarily ¡ª and probably intentionally to add to his anxiety ¡ª into the cockpit radio as the beeps in his radar warning receiver went from a sporadic drip of beeps into a steady stream of them, and a circle with a letter ¡®M¡¯ appeared on the sensor board straight in front of him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see them! Where are they firing from?¡± Speinfoent shouted back, as he commanded the ST-6 into an automatically generated evasive pattern away from the missile, dumping a burst of speed into the engines. Chaffs automatically launched from the spacecraft in every direction. Feeding false information to the incoming missile, hoping to fool it for just the few more milliseconds than they¡¯d need to force it to waste its last few liters of fuel.


    There was no answer from the back seat as he desperately operated the sensors, aiming the ST-6¡¯s radar at the region of space that marked where the spacecraft computer first detected the lock signals of the hostile missile.


    ¡°Narrow band radar search in the first known location of Threat Alpha,¡± he commanded into the microphone, his paws busy tapping away to monitor the defensive measures.


    Unable, the computer returned. Nose radar unable to lock vector to our rear.


    On the threats board, he sighed in relief as he saw the incoming missile run out of fuel and go ballistic about a hundred kilometers away, veering quickly away from his still accelerating spacecraft. The radar warning receiver¡¯s quick beeps went back to a series of beeps at one second intervals.


    He pointed the nose of the spacecraft back towards its rear, towards where it had first seen the missile.


    ¡°Run the radar search now.¡±


    No targets found in area.


    ¡°Run a wide search.¡±


    No targets found in area.


    Kurt warned him, ¡°You might want to hurry: we¡¯re still being painted.¡±


    ¡°I know!¡± Speinfoent replied, putting his thoughts into words. ¡°But I don¡¯t think they locked us with their onboard radar last time. We only got the warning when the missile went pitbull. We still need to find the enemy ship.¡±


    A moment later, Kurt¡¯s warning proved prescient. The sensors went into panic mode again as they catalogued another incoming missile, this time closer than when they detected the last.


    ¡°Vampire, vampire! Two o¡¯clock,¡± Kurt reported.


    ¡°Radar search towards vector of missile,¡± Speinfoent ordered the computer.


    1 target found. Signature unknown, likely spacecraft.


    ¡°Lock them up!¡±


    Unable. Sensor returns not accurate enough for a missile lock.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have a lot of time,¡± Kurt cautioned.


    ¡°Dammit!¡± Speinfoent swore again as he put the spacecraft into an evasive maneuver again, pointing the nose away from the weak signal of the enemy spacecraft and dumping power into its engines, once again attempting to waste as much of the hostile missile¡¯s fuel as he could to minimize its probability of kill.


    A moment later, the missile passed them just a dozen kilometers away, so close he could see the engine bloom vanish as it ran out of fuel right as it got near his ship. The rapid beeping of the threat board slowed to one second intervals once again.


    They are getting too close.


    Speinfoent turned the ship around to face the general direction of the enemy, and before he could determine the parameters for another radar search, the threat board went ballistic again, showing a new missile threat, this time only hundreds of kilometers away.


    ¡°Vampire incoming, eleven o¡¯clock!¡±


    It was too close to try to find the enemy. He immediately aborted the turn maneuver, forcing the ship back into an evasive pattern and this time dumping all remaining energy from the ship into the drive, hoping he¡¯d have enough to survive another.


    His prayers were answered just seconds later, the missile overshooting his spacecraft. It tried to reverse its trajectory to get back to him, but it had burnt too much fuel in the initial maneuvers. It passed his ship just five kilometers away, its self-destruction dumping shrapnel in his general vicinity, but with a small dose of luck, none of them hit his spacecraft.


    And before the threat board even dismissed that threat, a new missile showed up again, this time distinctively on the infrared sensors just dozens of kilometers away.


    Speinfoent¡¯s paw stabbed towards the dazzlers and flares, but as they activated, a loud, crashing sound filled the cabin, and the lights turned on.


    Mission failed.


    He groaned in frustration.


    ¡°Not even a lock on him this time!¡± he shouted towards the back of the cockpit, a little too loudly.


    ¡°Hold onto that thought,¡± Kurt replied calmly. ¡°We¡¯ll get to it in the debrief.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°So¡­ how was training?¡± Kaja asked. She sounded almost excited to discuss it with him.


    Speinfoent sighed. ¡°Didn¡¯t even see the enemy parasite fighter before it roasted me.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°A heavily modified SF-27 this time.¡±


    Kaja thought for a second.


    ¡°Ah, must be the low observability variant,¡± she speculated. ¡°Very popular with some of the better funded Red Zone operators back in the day. I think I know that training scenario. If you just try to fight it head-on with a ST-6, it¡¯ll just shoot missiles at you to keep you evasive, looking the wrong way, while it pushes you.¡±


    ¡°Yup, that¡¯s what Kurt said in the debrief.¡±


    ¡°When you evade on parasite fighters, you limit your situational awareness,¡± Kaja pointed out.


    ¡°That¡¯s what the debrief said too. Apparently how to counter that next time was an exercise left to me. I have no idea how to start if I can¡¯t even see the enemy before it gets a lock on me!¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that in your reading?¡±


    ¡°More reading? Ugh, why is there so much reading to do?!¡±


    She looked at him almost smugly, ¡°Do you want the answer?¡±


    ¡°There is an answer?! I thought this was just some Kab¡ª Kobashu Maru or whatever. Some kind of character test to see if we can control our fear in the face of death or something.¡±


    Kaja giggled. ¡°You¡¯ve been watching too much TV. This is the Republic Navy ¡ª we¡¯re not a bunch of space explorers in a show written by a pacifist. Fear of death is good. It keeps you alive. And only losers accept failure.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m actually supposed to figure out how to kill an enemy I can¡¯t see? Is there even a practical lesson here?¡±


    ¡°Loads,¡± Kaja sniffed. ¡°For one, it¡¯s good for learning to kill pirates in stealth configuration. It is a realistic scenario, after all.¡±


    ¡°Okay, that¡¯s a good point,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°For another, the Buns will figure out how to do it to our stealth ships, and what better way to counter a tactic than to train against it?¡±


    Speinfoent relented. ¡°Fine, so what¡¯s the answer? How do you do it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you after we get dinner. I have a block of sim time reserved¡­ tonight.¡±


    ¡°Well, well, look who¡¯s gracing us with her grass-eating presence at dinner tonight!¡± he teased.


    Kaja blushed and rolled her eyes. ¡°Keep mocking me now. We¡¯ll see if you can keep that energy later in the sims.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 24 Wingmate V

    <div>


    Naval Station Charon, Charon


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    Speinfoent glued his eyes to the sensors on his screen as he commanded it to search for Kaja¡¯s elusive spacecraft. Though the modified SF-27 he was now flying did not perform identical to the ST-6 training that he had been taught (and that Kaja was now employing against him with frustrating effectiveness), the modular cockpit and interfaces ensured that the controls were similar enough for him to realize that it was him and not the controls that was the problem.


    A few taps of his paw, he drew the radar to focus in on the section of space that he knew she started in: near a derelict space station that silhouetted against Jupiter¡¯s planetary body. Technically this was cheating, he knew, but after getting destroyed twice without even seeing his foe the previous two times they ran this scenario, he¡¯d had it playing by the rules.


    Besides, he was pretty sure Kaja was even more familiar with the nuances of this training scenario than he was.


    As Speinfoent was about to give up and refocus his sensors and attention elsewhere, he was rewarded by an ascending two-tone beep: the ship¡¯s radar saw a new potential target. Accordingly, a new white square appeared on the sensor screen about 30,000 kilometers away. He selected the target with his paw and commanded his radar to keep tracking it, but the radar gave him the disappointing descending two-tone beep indicating its failure to continue tracking the target.


    Unable to track. Target lost. Scanning.


    He shook his ears in annoyance as he waited for the computer to reacquire Kaja¡¯s ship while reviewing the ship specifications in his mind.


    The ST-6 was around the same size and capabilities as the SF-27. Both started out as parasite fighters designed and built in the late 21st century: the SF-27 retired from Navy service and went on to become a favorite of Republic law enforcement, private security, and bandits. The ST-6, on the other hand, instead of being directly retired from service, was converted into a trainer spacecraft for the Terran Navy.


    While the SF-27¡¯s ability to carry a load of twelve anti-parasite Hummingbird missiles in its internal weapons bay was indeed impressive, it had always been treated as the unwanted stepchild of the Republic Navy in its time of service: in comparison, the ST-6 had a smaller payload, but it had a better shape for stealth operations, a steeper acceleration curve, and its sensor package was unparalleled for its time.


    This particular SF-27 Speinfoent was flying, however, had some extensive upgrades: the outer surface had been plastered over with modern adaptive radar-defeating panels, the sensors had been upgraded to mount early 22nd century radars, and while all these expensive modifications slowed it down, that didn¡¯t explain why Kaja was able to spot him and run circles around him in her outdated ST-6; after all, he couldn¡¯t do it when he was attempting the training scenario with Kurt¡ª


    His thoughts were interrupted with another duo of beeps: the ship had temporarily acquired the ST-6 again, this time just over 20,000 km away, but the target almost immediately disappeared off the radar¡¯s view before it could even begin automatically tracking onto its signature to acquire a weapon lock.


    Speinfoent wondered whether to order his radar to forgo any attempt at stealth and simply try to burn through with a high power, single target scan, but before he could make a decision, the threat board lit up and filled the cockpit with a near steady stream of beeps.


    He groaned as he saw one of Kaja¡¯s Hummingbird tracking onto him just eight thousand kilometers from his position. On instinct he¡¯d acquired over the past few weeks, he put his SF-27 into automatic evasion, dumping energy from his inertial compensators and countermeasures from the rear of the ship. A few seconds later, he was rewarded for his hard work with the appearance of another two enemy Hummingbirds on the threat board, tracking onto his position.


    Speinfoent¡¯s slow SF-27 barely had enough time to waste the fuel in the first of Kaja¡¯s missiles, which harmlessly passed his vicinity a few kilometers to his port.


    He got lucky with missile number two. Somehow, it passed him within visual range, his helmet marking it on his display with a red diamond as it streaked across his view. But his luck ran out with the third: his single engine took a direct hit from a slightly further proximity hit.


    Bang.


    The hit immediately extinguished his main thrusters. Without the engines running, the ship¡¯s electrical systems started to shut down. The less-than-critical systems on the SF-27 began voluntarily powering down as it started to get ready to cope with full power loss.


    Not giving up, Speinfoent flipped the controls to restart the engines with the stored energy in his auxiliary power unit before he ran out of juice.


    He hit the emergency re-ignition key in vain, then again and again. And on the fourth try, it restarted with a sputter, roaring back into operation as the ship pushed power back into its systems.


    The threat board was clear.


    No ships anywhere on sensor, nor was his radar warning receiver telling him that he was being painted or locked by any target. He ran a quick self-diagnosis, hoping that the systems weren¡¯t just damaged by the indirect missile, but everything came back green with the exception of an expectedly suboptimal engine thrust output.


    He focused his radar on the empty space where he thought Kaja¡¯s ST-6 came from, but once again, it detected nothing¡ª


    The threat board sounded again, filling his cockpit with an anxiety-inducing klaxon. He peered at the radar warning receiver, but it revealed no enemy signals.


    ¡°What¡¯s the threat?¡± he queried the ship computer.


    Enemy ST-6 detected on sensors, solid target.


    ¡°What? Which sensors?¡± he asked urgently.


    Mirrors.


    ¡°What?!¡± Noticing something flash in his rear view mirrors, he craned his neck behind him, seeing through the ship¡¯s structure in his helmet.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    And there she was, flying in formation with his ship a mere half kilometer to his four o¡¯clock. That was the ST-6 he had been searching for. If he had zoomed his external optics towards it, he was sure he would be able to see Kaja chuckling maniacally at him.


    Instead, Speinfoent took over the ship controls manually, dumping every last countermeasure he had left. He locked onto her ship with his Hummingbird¡¯s infrared sensors with his high off-boresight helmet display. It gave off a steady low rattling noise indicating its attempt to track her despite her angular proximity to the background radiation from the planet below¡ª and then saw a red diamond rapidly cross the distance to his ship¡ª


    Uh oh.


    All he heard was a loud snap, and then the sounds in the cockpit became very, very wrong.


    The cockpit voice warning system gave him the status updates helpfully in a dispassionate monotone, ¡°Engine overheat. Engine fire. Critical engine failure. Reactor failure.¡±


    Looking behind him, he noticed that the rear half of his ship was now severed: the reactor had finally had enough; the ship¡¯s system had ejected its critical fusion core to avoid vaporizing him. As the cockpit view tumbled, he saw a large chunk of metal ¡ª it looked important ¡ª fly past his cockpit.


    ¡°Hydro system failure. Main gearbox failure. Auxiliary power failure. Eject. Eject. Eject.¡±


    Crap.


    To the credit of the ship¡¯s robust survival systems, it automatically enclosed him in its escape pod and boosted him away from the doomed ship, which gave him a perfect view as Kaja¡¯s ship casually strolled by.


    A line of tracers stabbed out from Kaja¡¯s spacecraft, unnecessarily stitching up the carcass of his abandoned fighter with her 25-millimeter autocannon. For good measure, she then matched the vector of his escape pod and unloaded all of her ST-6¡¯s high intensity flares around him, the bright lights momentarily blinding his pod¡¯s exterior cameras.


    His computer opponents never did that.


    Kaja always did.


    ¡°Yes, yes. Very funny, Kaja,¡± he grumbled at the obvious taunting into the simulator microphone as the screen faded to black again. ¡°I¡¯ll get you next time.¡±


    Her voice came over the machine. ¡°Sure. Go again?¡±


    ¡°No, thank you,¡± he said, shaking his ears. ¡°Maybe tomorrow. I¡¯ve had enough for tonight. At least tell me how you did that.¡±


    He could hear the grin in her voice. ¡°I will show you in the debriefing room once we get rid of these flight suits.¡±


    <hr>


    Kaja had already finished cleaning up and was munching on a small bag of midnight snacks as Speinfoent entered the room, his fur still dripping a trail behind his shower slippers.


    His stomach grumbled. ¡°What is that?¡±


    ¡°Dried mangos,¡± she said, holding out a piece to him. ¡°You want some?¡±


    He took the peace offering, sniffed it once, and gulped it, letting the tart sweetness coat his tongue before he swallowed it after a few quick chews. ¡°Not bad. Better than the bland coconut you like so much.¡±


    Kaja nodded and wordlessly got to business. She powered up the room¡¯s holographic projector. It filled the space between them with points of lights, taking a few seconds to resolve into the shapes that represented their two ships and the scenario around them.


    ¡°This was you,¡± she pointed out. ¡°And this was me.¡±


    ¡°This is the last scenario?¡± Speinfoent asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said as she shrugged. ¡°But they all end the same.¡±


    Touche, he winced. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you are already shooting at me before I find you every time.¡±


    ¡°Did Kurt not teach you about how the sensors work?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I think he did, but I might not have been paying attention the whole time,¡± he admitted.


    She frowned. ¡°Ok, do you know how your radar warning receiver works?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it tells me when you¡¯ve locked onto me, right?¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± she said. ¡°Radars basically work by sending high frequency signals out towards where other people are and trying to get a response. The warning receiver detects radar signals: every time you get scanned by a signal, it makes a single beep. When it¡¯s beeping slowly, that means you¡¯re being occasionally painted by a radar. When it¡¯s beeping rapidly, it means someone is locking onto you and actively getting your position every second¡­ so they can hit you.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Kurt covered that.¡±


    Kaja continued, ¡°So then we made radars that are harder to detect. Lower-probability-of-intercept radars. They use long pulses, oscillating frequencies, irregular scan patterns et cetera. That way they can blend into the background and make it seem like you aren¡¯t being painted when you are.¡±


    She pointed at her ship, and then at Jupiter. ¡°See? I am between you and the planet. The planet gives off radiation, lots of radiation. The satellites in orbit give off radiation. The space station near me gives off radiation. So, if I scan you slowly with low power, my signals may blend in enough with all the other radiation to fool your RWR. Not all the time, but enough of the time.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± he replied. ¡°So that¡¯s why I couldn¡¯t see you. But if you try to lock me¡ª¡±


    ¡°If I try to target lock you, my radar will beam you twenty times a second. There is no hiding that from a modern RWR,¡± she said, pointing at her ship once again. ¡°But I am sitting here, slowly scanning you with a low scan rate and with just enough power to get a return. And once I see a signal come back, I shut it down.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± he said. ¡°And then you wait for me to come closer.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Exactly right. It¡¯s not accurate enough, but I know about how far you are, I know how fast you are, and I know where you¡¯re going. So I just sit and wait a little while. Every once in a while, I turn on my radar and do a scan to adjust.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense. That¡¯s how you know I¡¯m in range, but you still can¡¯t lock onto me without me realizing, right?¡±


    ¡°Who said I had to lock onto you?¡± she said, grinning. ¡°My radar never once locked onto you.¡±


    She fast forwarded the hologram to halfway through the dogfight, where she launched a single missile at him. She pointed at the icons. ¡°See? My radar is not even on.¡±


    ¡°You fired¡­ a radar-guided missile at me¡­ without a radar?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s how the SF-27 got you when you were in the ST-6 too. This is launched in what we call mad-dog mode,¡± she explained. ¡°I know roughly where you are, so I just throw one of these in your general direction. The missile goes for a while until it¡¯s far away from me, then it activates its own radar to start searching for you. So when you look at the direction where the missile is coming from¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªyou¡¯re not there anymore,¡± he completed her sentence.


    She nodded as she operated the room, speeding the scenario up. ¡°Once my first missile locks you and relays that information back to me, I know your exact position and vector. So here comes number two and three.¡± Another two missiles headed out from her ship. ¡°I never needed to use my own fighter¡¯s radar to lock onto you. My missiles did that for free. Need to see the other two scenarios?¡±


    ¡°I know how the rest goes,¡± Speinfoent shook his head. ¡°So this¡­ mad dog mode. That seems like it could be useful in general.¡±


    ¡°Why yes,¡± she smiled back at him. ¡°You¡¯ve just discovered the contours of late 21st century fleet battle doctrine: big ships launch fighters, and fighters launch missiles to find the enemy. ¡®If you can see it, you can hit it. If you can hit it, you can kill it.¡¯ Is that so different from your doctrines?¡±


    ¡°Who? The Navy?¡± Speinfoent asked. ¡°I was the tactical officer of Sixth Fleet¡¯s flagship for years and I never even knew how to adjust the radar¡¯s¡ª well, our sensor operations are a little less sophisticated than yours. We don¡¯t even have low observability ships. Speaking of sensors, is that the sensor playbook used by your new ships too?¡±


    Kaja made a wavey gesture with her hand. ¡°Kind of, but our newer ships mainly use gravidars for long range detection.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ Wait a second, you said late 21st century doctrine. What changed?¡±


    ¡°The Navy decided to skip the step in the middle and just launch longer-range missiles and sensor buoys instead of parasite fighters, but the fundamentals and the math haven¡¯t changed that much.¡±


    ¡°More math,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°Actually, if you look just a little harder, your ship computer can be programmed to do this almost automatically.¡±


    ¡°Of course it can,¡± Speinfoent said. ¡°Another one of its hundred functions. Next you will tell me the fighter¡¯s computers can make me a sandwich.¡±


    ¡°Not this one. No,¡± Kaja shook her head, chuckling. ¡°But District 21¡¯s patrol fighters have tea brewers. Just ask Beth.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 25 Serenity II

    <div>


    Marine Base Camp Serenity, Charon


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    Baedarsust felt the gravity disappear beneath his feet as the training scenario room initialized. He latched his Terran-issued helmet shut as he¡¯d been drilled and focused on the virtual imagery before him.


    He was floating just a hundred meters off a civilian-model Terran orbital station, with its telltale narrow, utilitarian corridors and bleached white aluminum-steel hull.


    ¡°Get ready to make dynamic entry!¡± a voice screamed in his helmet. ¡°Begin!¡±


    Baedarsust fumbled with the unfamiliar controls, activating his propulsion pack towards the station. He noticed a slight drift in his vector and judged that he wouldn¡¯t intercept the structure. He applied a slight counter-rotation to his trajectory¡­ just a small burn¡ª


    Oh no.


    Within seconds, he¡¯d managed to put his suit into an uncontrollable spin. Cursing in disorientation, he tried to stabilize himself with the thrusters.


    I¡¯m a shuttle pilot. Technically. I can do this!


    A few more tweaks to his vector didn¡¯t seem to fix the problem. In fact, he could swear that he was spinning faster in place, the orbital station and the empty starfield taking turns occupying his visual field of view: station ¡ª stars ¡ª station ¡ª stars ¡ª station ¡ª stars ¡ª


    C¡¯mon. C¡¯mon.


    Baedarsust tweaked another control, and to his relief, the spinning slowed down: stars ¡ª ¡ª ¡ª station ¡ª ¡ª ¡ª stars ¡ª ¡ª ¡ª station ¡ª


    As his orientation returned to him and he let out a quiet cheer in his helmet, he noticed one of the metal panels on the station seemingly shifting out of place.


    What¡¯s that?


    Oh no.


    A sinister protrusion appeared on the distant station hull, letting off a burst of projectiles straight towards him.


    Splat.


    The screen went black.


    Aida, the instructor, roared in his helmet. ¡°Baedarsust, you¡¯re dead! Hit the reset button and try the approach again! Preferably without the joy ride, yeah?¡±


    <hr>


    Small adjustments only.


    Baedarsust applied an appropriately small correction to his suit¡¯s vector, remembering to keep the station in his field of view.


    So far so good.


    As he approached the hull, he realized that the station seemed to be getting bigger.


    A lot bigger.


    Too fast. Too fast!


    He braced himself for the impact, stretching his paws in front of him, hoping that would be enough¡ª


    Crunch.


    The screen went black.


    ¡°Again!¡±


    <hr>


    Baedarsust realized two things: one, he could program his approach path on his suit navigation computer, and that was way easier than the manual controls. Two, he could set his approach terminal speed to one safe for his suit.


    He realized these two things in two separate simulation attempts.


    As he approached the station, he reached his paws in front of him, pulling on one of the maintenance handholds the Terrans had helpfully bolted to the outside of their station to orient himself against it.


    Baedarsust¡¯s magnetic boots activated, sticking them to the hull with a thud. He gingerly tested his boots, walking a couple steps in them.


    Huh. Neat.


    Wow. This sim feels so realistic.


    He fumbled in his belt pouch for the breaching explosive. He found it neatly folded into a block, and as he grabbed it out of the bag, he saw small, round holes beginning to appear on the floor ¡ª the hull he was standing on ¡ª near his boots.


    Huh?


    Splat.


    The screen went black.


    ¡°What did I do wrong?¡± he asked in confusion.


    ¡°Made so much noise walking on the hull you woke up the whole station! Then stood still while they shot you through the thin metal. Try again!¡±


    <hr>


    Baedarsust made sure to avoid any audible contact with the hull before he could make entry.


    He pulled out his explosive, carefully arranging it on the hull as he¡¯d been shown. He grabbed his suit rifle from his belt, aiming at the improvised entrance he was about to make.


    Holding his breath, he activated the remote detonation in the suit¡¯s computer. The thermite burnt a clean trail into the hull in a large circle, exactly as shown in the instruction video. Then, the atmosphere inside the station came rushing out, detaching that circular piece of hull ¡ª which went spinning and¡­ flying directly towards him.


    He tried to duck out of the way.


    It was a solid effort.


    Crunch.


    The screen went black.


    ¡°Again!¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°How is my detachment doing?¡± Carla asked excitedly.


    ¡°Marines aren¡¯t born, ma¡¯am; they¡¯re made,¡± Aida replied.


    She winced. ¡°That bad, huh?¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


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    Baedarsust tried not to grimace as he pushed aside several realistic-looking Terran corpses floating in his path, not taking his paws off his rifle or his eyes off the narrow corridor in front of him.


    Death by vacuum, not a good way to go.


    His suit displayed the station map in a three-dimensional display as he came to a three-way juncture: a corridor fed into the primary hallway from ¡°above¡± him. He knew from the past simulation attempts that there would be someone waiting, and sure enough, his suit¡¯s millimeter-wave radar sensors flashed him a warning as he approached the corner.


    With a fluid motion, he rounded the corner, squeezing the trigger on his rifle as he did and trusting his suit to pre-adjust his aim as it locked onto the target¡¯s head and compensate for the recoil. And exactly as expected, his weapon made a dozen holes in the two armored targets around the corner. They went slack, globules of air and blood rushing out of the new breaches in their suits.


    He saw motion deeper in the station, a figure moving quickly from his right to left through a far window. Without hesitation, he opened fire again. His weapons made tiny holes in the glass, venting air, and he watched with satisfaction as the target went limp.


    Baedarsust hit a button in his suit glove to activate his zoom optics to examine who he¡¯d just shot.


    Oh no.


    Aida¡¯s voice activated in his helmet, ¡°You just killed the VIP in the safe room, genius!¡±


    As he contemplated his terrible mistake, another armored figure sped around the corner right in front of him. He tried to adjust the aim on his weapon to take care of the new threat¡ª


    Splat.


    The screen went black.


    ¡°And¡­ that¡¯s instant karma. What did we learn?¡± Aida¡¯s asked.


    ¡°Identify the targets before I shoot?¡± he suggested meekly.


    ¡°That, and you¡¯re going to make mistakes. When you do, don¡¯t just stand there with your snout wide open! Try it again!¡±


    <hr>


    The hostage looked at Baedarsust with confusion as he carefully fit her into an emergency EVA suit.


    Yeah, yeah, I¡¯m not one of your Terran Marines in shining armor. Deal with it, Grass Eater.


    He studiously scanned his surroundings, noticed the proximity sensor pick up a new signal, and swiveled up to aim his weapon above him right as a new enemy burst into his line of sight.


    One quick burst and the target went limp.


    Recovering from her initial confusion, the hostage tried to yell something at him through her closed helmet. It only came through as a muffled sound transmitted through the physical contact between their EVA suits.


    Not falling for that one again.


    Instead of trying to decipher it, he kept his eyes on his ingress route as another snarling pirate burst into the room, holding an improvised melee weapon ¡ª some kind of a sharpened rebar rod. A quarter-second squeeze of his trigger, and he watched the enemy¡¯s blood splatter and fill the inside of his helmet. The long, metal stick hung in the air motionlessly.


    Headshot, nice and clean.


    With a practiced flick, Baedarsust activated the radio button on the hostage¡¯s emergency suit. ¡°Stay behind me!¡± he yelled as he yanked another breaching charge out of his belt with one paw, still keeping his rifle aimed at the corridor he came in from.


    I could go out the same way I came in, through that winding maze of corridors and enemies. Or¡­


    Baedarsust stuck the explosive to the hull right next to him, a motion he must have done dozens of times by now. Pulling back to a safe distance and carefully shielding the hostage with his armored suit, he detonated the charge, exposing the room to vacuum as he held tightly onto a bolted protrusion embedded in the wall.


    Air and debris rushed out of the safe room through the circular opening. He waited patiently for the decompression to complete, another lesson he learned in a previous exercise¡­


    Quickly attaching the hostage to him with a secure nylon rope, checking the connection with a tug ¡ª another lesson learned ¡ª he turned his back to the opening and leapt backwards through it, keeping his weapon in front of him again.


    As expected, one of the pirates was waiting for him on the outside, their magnetic boots glued to the hull. He trusted his suit to adjust his aim again, and it stitched a dozen new holes in the enemy.


    On the skin of the station, Baedarsust spotted a threat from earlier.


    Murder hole.


    He turned around, hastily grabbing the hostage and oriented her in a feet-first direction towards the loosened hull panel to minimize their profile. With a steady paw, he calibrated the grenade launcher attached to his rifle to the distance and relative vector of the potential target, then fired a fragmentation grenade towards it.


    Bloop.


    He felt the launch through his suit. A second later, the panel on the station shifted, revealing a compartment inside as someone opened it. He could see the helmet of an armored figure as it began emerging from the hole, looking straight in the direction of the hostage and him.


    Right on time, his grenade reached the enemy and detonated, showering it and its compartment with deadly debris. No further movement was visible in sight.


    One final hard burn with his suit thrusters and they were out of the target area.


    The screen went black.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± Aida voice came over the headset.


    Baedarsust opened his helmet visor, letting the outside air in and panting in exhaustion. ¡°Yeah, only took like thirty tries.¡±


    ¡°Forty-four,¡± Aida corrected. ¡°Like I said, not bad for your first solo scenario.¡±


    ¡°Not so easy when everything¡¯s trying to kill me out there,¡± he grumbled.


    ¡°It¡¯s space. Of course everything¡¯s trying to kill you. Your own equipment more than the Resistance sometimes, but it¡¯s nothing personal. And¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait a second, did you say my first scenario?¡±


    ¡°What? You thought we only had one hostage rescue mission and one orbital station configuration? We have every known station in the Sol system in the sim. Here¡­ I¡¯ve got another one, similar mission objective to keep it simple¡ª¡±


    ¡°Another one? Now?¡± the exhausted Baedarsust gasped out.


    ¡°You got somewhere else to be?¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Charon (400 km)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Carla¡¯s new command chair was raised slightly above the rest of the bridge, giving her a clear view of both her crew and their displays as well as a small panel on the side for her own controls. She took a few seconds to settle herself into it.


    ¡°Captain Bauernschmidt, you have a call waiting for you on the private line.¡± It was Beth, one of her new electronic warfare officer-in-training straight from the Staff College.


    ¡°Thank you, LT. And you can call me Carla.¡±


    Beth nodded and focused back on the tasks on her console.


    Carla picked up her headset. ¡°This is Captain Bauernschmidt on the line.¡±


    It was Amelia. ¡°Carla! Just calling to congratulate you on your first command, a little belatedly. I¡¯ve been busy lately. How¡¯s it feel?¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Amelia. It¡¯s uh¡ª certainly a change of pace from the Mississippi.¡±


    Amelia chortled. ¡°It¡¯s no space superiority ship, that¡¯s for sure, but I wouldn¡¯t count her out in a fight, especially with how many defensive upgrades you¡¯ve got now. Getting to know your crew?¡±


    Carla furtively glanced around the bridge, hoping nobody was paying attention. ¡°It¡¯s uh¡ª they¡¯re good. Very professional. Experienced. Can¡¯t ask for a better¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know what you¡¯re thinking.¡±


    ¡°You do?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I do. You¡¯re thinking¡­ they¡¯re looking at you funny because the Navy gave you the command chair instead of one of their own. Or that you got it because you were the admiral¡¯s pet. Or some real imposter syndrome shit.¡±


    Carla turned beet red. She was glad this wasn¡¯t a video call. She half-whispered into her camera, ¡°I¡¯m on a ship full of people who know exactly what they¡¯re doing at all times. I can barely even operate the coffee machine in the¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are you the ship¡¯s barista? Hold on, let me check if I made a typo on your transfer papers¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not my point!¡±


    Amelia waved off her objection, ¡°Then you can get all that out of your head. Did I ever tell you how I got my first ship command?¡±


    Carla paused to roll her eyes. ¡°Only a few hundred times. Nepotism.¡±


    ¡°Exactly! Connections and luck. The same way as just about everyone who¡¯s made it above O-6 ¡ª well, in peacetime anyway. You know what they say ¡ª you can go up or out in the Navy. It just so happens that some of us are actually qualified for our jobs¡­ And I wouldn¡¯t put you in a position where you weren¡¯t qualified.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯ve never even worked with an assault carrier before!¡± Carla said as quietly as she could into the headset.


    ¡°Oh please, you think you¡¯re the first person to captain a ship type they¡¯ve never set foot on before?¡± Amelia asked with a hint of dismissal. ¡°Surely I¡¯ve taught you better than that. It¡¯s not about commanding the ship. Never has been. Leadership is about people. You command people, Carla. Everything else comes naturally. What are you doing with your people?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just getting to know my officers and crew. Fixing their problems, one-on-ones, dining them in¡­ like that book you sent me. Did you know that some of my officers have been working on the Crete longer than I¡¯ve been in the Navy?!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good start. Trust me, Carla. Those people are more scared of you than you are of them. Well, not scared ¡ª that¡¯s not the right word. Uncertain. They¡¯re just uncertain. They¡¯re trying to figure you out ¡ª to feel you out, to see if they can put their lives in your hands in a crisis. They don¡¯t know if they can trust their captain yet. But I do. And I¡¯m sure when the time comes and the chips are down, they¡¯ll see in you what I see in you. Now, go make me proud.¡±


    Carla felt genuinely touched by the rare pep talk from her. ¡°Thanks, Amelia. For everything.¡±


    ¡°And besides, the Crete is a thirty-year-old jarhead express. If you get the rust bucket all scratched up, nobody here in Atlas will even notice.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 26 Serenity III

    <div>


    Marine Base Camp Serenity, Charon


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    Baedarsust realized that the squad scenarios were even harder than the solo ones. In hindsight, it made sense why the Terran instructors only started them on those after they¡¯d complete some basic solo scenarios.


    The challenges were more complex. The enemies, more numerous. And the potential for error and danger multiplied.


    The missions didn¡¯t just end when one of his squadmates ¡°died¡±. Every one of his people that were injured or killed, he had to spend precious time and dedicate the rest of his Marines to get them out of the enemy station. He had to manage the resources in his squad.


    He had to learn who they were.


    Frumers was a bad shooter. He just was. He was too jittery and was having trouble trusting his suit for aim and weapon handling. He was working on it, but Baedarsust put him at the back of the squad formation. He carried the heavy equipment and medical supplies.


    Spommu couldn¡¯t be trusted with explosives. But she could shoot. In fact, she shot the best of them all on the simulator and in the actual, physical range outside. So she got the long gun, except when they were practicing station breaching.


    Quaullast mastered all the specialized Terran equipment with ease. He had good spatial awareness. He got first dibs on the explosives and gadgetry. His only problem¡­ poor stamina and attention span. A few attempts and he was already panting with fatigue.


    And Baedarsust had to figure out who he was himself.


    Objectively as an individual Marine, he wasn¡¯t bad at anything, but he wasn¡¯t particularly good at anything either. The Terrans said that was actually a good quality for a squad leader because he was a barometer for the rest of the squad, but Baedarsust wasn¡¯t sure if they were just trying to make him feel better.


    He micromanaged too much. Apparently, that was a common issue. Allowing his squad to function independently while still paying attention to detail¡­ that was a continuing lesson in humility.


    <hr>


    Baedarsust felt the gravity disappear through his suit as the corridor lights went off. As his suit instantly switched to infrared and radar vision, he noticed a glint across the long hallway. The computer recognized the threat, outlining the target with a red box.


    ¡°Ambush!¡± he yelled into the radio as an angry volley of rifle fire swept across the module towards his Marines.


    His squad reacted instantly, each boosting to a piece of cover among the debris kicked up by the lack of gravity. Baedarsust thrust this suit behind a pulled-out compartment on the wall, bringing up his rifle as he minimized his exposure to the enemy fire.


    Spommu opened fire without warning, dispatching the attacker in a burst of deadly fire. Baedarsust watched as the enemy¡¯s suit spin out of control on the far end.


    Not relaxing, they kept their weapons up, scanning the corridor for more threats.


    ¡°Sound off!¡± he shouted at them, and they individually confirmed they were uninjured.


    He let out a sigh of relief¡ª until he turned around and saw, attached to the wall, the enemy had left him some reading material next to where he was cowering, about a meter in front of his face.


    Baedarsust didn¡¯t know a lot of the Terran script, but this one he¡¯d seen before. In increasing frequency.


    FRONT TOWARD ENEMY


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    The screen went black.


    <hr>


    Baedarsust scratched his snout under his virtual reality helmet. ¡°So how are we supposed to survive an ambush like that?¡±


    ¡°In the Red Zone? Most of the time, you don¡¯t,¡± Aida shrugged. ¡°A well-prepared ambush is a death sentence. You can be the most well-trained Marine in the galaxy. A squad of tier one ODT operators. But if your number¡¯s up, that¡¯s it. There¡¯s nothing you can do about it.¡±


    ¡°So why are we running these training simulations¡ª¡±


    ¡°Because sometimes the ambushes aren¡¯t well-prepared. Sometimes you do get half a second to react. Remember the videos?¡±


    Most of the training consisted of watching videos, more than simulation and drilling time. There were a lot of them.


    Baedarsust viscerally remembered a segment of helmet camera footage, one of the first they were shown: a Republic Marine took two careless steps into what was apparently an empty hallway on an industrial station, only for a squad of unseen enemies behind a thin sheet metal wall to open fire through it. They shredded his legs in a split second. He¡¯d gotten lucky; his squadmate right behind him reacted in time, grabbing and pulling his suit out of the corridor into cover before a remotely detonated explosive blew a hole in the corridor to decompress the station module.


    All within five seconds.


    Baedarsust wasn¡¯t sure he would have reacted in time if it happened to him. He supposed that was what the training was for. He replied, ¡°Yeah. Get to cover. Return overwhelming fire. Fight through the killzone.¡±


    Aida grinned slyly. ¡°That¡¯s the theory anyway. If that doesn¡¯t work, you¡¯re dead anyway. So¡­ ready for the next one?¡±


    Baedarsust sighed. ¡°Put us in again.¡±


    <hr>


    Baedarsust and his squad stared through the airlock window towards the dark warehouse station module with their helmet optics.


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan here, boss?¡± Frumers asked.


    ¡°We¡¯re not running in there like a bunch of lemmings ¡ª like that last one, that¡¯s for sure,¡± Baedarsust muttered.


    ¡°Lemmings?¡±


    Spommu looked up, eager to answer. ¡°There are these Terran animals, I saw a video of¡ª I¡¯ll tell you about it after this.¡± She shut up after an impatient glare from Baedarsust.


    ¡°Camera drone first,¡± he ordered. ¡°Quaullast, you¡¯re up.¡±


    Quaullast rummaged through his utility backpack until he found the paw-sized brick he was looking for. Unpacking it, he turned it on and paired it with his tablet. ¡°Ready.¡±


    The four of them covered the airlock door with their rifles and attached themselves to solid handholds as Baedarsust activated it. It slid open with a hiss.


    ¡°Pressurized, good. And there¡¯s gravity too,¡± Baedarsust commented as he glanced at the suit readings. ¡°Get the bug in there.¡±


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    Quaullast activated the controls for the camera drone, and it smoothly flew into the darkness. Each of their helmets began receiving video from its infrared camera as it slowly made its way through the mess inside.


    It contained aisles and aisles of standard shipment palettes.


    ¡°Damn, it¡¯ll take us forever to check through all of them for our target,¡± Spommu said.


    Baedarsust pointed at a windowed office in the corner of the massive warehouse. ¡°Maybe there¡¯s a manifest. Check that corner room. Might be a control room.¡±


    Quaullast carefully flew his drone towards it. As it approached, they saw several digital devices turned off and arrayed on a table inside it through the Terran height window.


    ¡°Alright, we can start there then,¡± Baedarsust said. ¡°Clear the warehouse. Make sure there¡¯s no one waiting for us.¡±


    Quaullast flew the drone in a crisscross pattern through the aisles with its automatic thermal identification system. Back and forth, back and forth. After the second repeated scan, he turned to Baedarsust. ¡°Looks clear.¡±


    ¡°Any other entrances or exits?¡±


    The drone specialist took a second to review the footage and reply, ¡°Not that I can see.¡±


    ¡°Good enough. Keep it running,¡± Baedarsust said, turning his rifle over twice for a last-minute double check. ¡°Let¡¯s get in there.¡±


    ¡°Moving!¡±


    ¡°Extending past your muzzle on the right!¡±


    ¡°Clear left!¡±


    ¡°Clear right!¡±


    ¡°On the move!¡±


    They filed into the open doorway, covering each angle as they¡¯d been ¡ª recently ¡ª trained to do. With the warehouse mapped onto their helmet screens, they followed the fastest route towards the office they saw.


    Though the drone had cleared it, Baedarsust checked for traps manually, glancing at the corners of the glass window beyond it.


    Nothing.


    ¡°Make entry, Frumers,¡± he commanded as his squad took up position around him.


    ¡°Making entry.¡± Frumers curled up his fist, and with the activation of a paw control, he put his armored fist through the window. The glass shattered easily, its pieces clattering down around them, bouncing off their EVA armor.


    One by one, they vaulted into the office, scanning each corner with their rifles.


    ¡°Clear.¡±


    Baedarsust checked one of the tablets on the table for traps with his suit. No suspicious cavities or cables. It seemed like a real device. Not taking any chances, he activated his personal suit jammer.


    Taking a deep breath, Baedarsust switched the tablet on. It happily complied.


    He took his combat gloves off and began to operate it, searching through its files in its intuitive interface.


    ¡°Ah yes,¡± he grinned. ¡°Looks like we were right. Warehouse cargo manifest right here. Searching for¡­ any mentions of weapons.¡±


    Nothing.


    ¡°Hm¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, that makes sense,¡± Spommu commented, stealing a quick glance at the screen without taking her rifle off the entrance. ¡°Nobody would actually transport illicit goods with their actual listings in the manifest.¡±


    Frumers nodded. ¡°Yeah. I knew a guy who smuggled rations back in the Navy. They¡¯re going to be either marked as something innocuous, or they won¡¯t be on the manifest.¡±


    With a short command to his suit intelligence, Baedarsust cross-referenced the manifest listings with the data they collected from the camera drone. ¡°Two boxes not in the manifest. I guess we should go check them out.¡±


    As a squad, they filed out of the office, using the camera drone¡¯s map to navigate to the first shipping palette that was unlisted, on the ground near the airlock.


    Tall as their heads ¡ª just slightly shorter than an average Terran adult ¡ª and about as wide as it was tall, the box looked like any other in the room. After a quick scan revealed nothing, Baedarsust reached for its open handles with his paws.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Quaullast suddenly said, stopping him with a paw. ¡°What if it¡¯s rigged?¡±


    Baedarsust shrugged. ¡°Maybe we cut in instead. Did anyone bring the laser knife?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Nope, I thought you did.¡±


    ¡°Ah, screw it, it could be rigged to blow from cutting in too,¡± Baedarsust muttered, reaching for the handles again. His squad instinctively took a few steps back.


    He gave it a firm tug, and it gave way without resistance. The whole front of the box fell open, revealing a crate of neatly arranged children¡¯s toys. Stuffed animals.


    Specifically, stuffed animals that resembled Malgeir people.


    ¡°Haha, very funny,¡± Baedarsust said sarcastically, looking up towards the ceiling as if talking to the simulation operators.


    ¡°Hey, that one looks like you, boss,¡± Spommu said, stepping towards the crate and picking up one of the stuffed Malgeir toys. Pulling it up next to her helmet, she mimicked Baedarsust¡¯s voice, ¡°Get the door open, Frumers.¡±


    Joining in the fun, Frumers grabbed one of them as well. ¡°Check out that room with your drone, Quaullast¡­ Huh. These don¡¯t look right. Why do their heads and eyes look so big?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re children¡¯s toys,¡± Baedarsust said, unamused. ¡°They¡¯re not supposed to be anatomically correct. Cut one open, see if they¡¯re hiding anything.¡±


    Frumers removed his combat gloves and sank his claw into one of the toys¡¯ guts, ripping it open to reveal¡­ a bottle of pills. He read the label on it before shaking it twice, hearing the pills rattle around in there. ¡°Aha! Combat drugs, I think¡­¡±


    ¡°Alright, I guess the mission is to collect them all,¡± he said, and the squad began the slow work of gutting the toys and stuffing the pill bottles into a plastic evidence collection pouch he produced from one of his many utility pockets.


    A couple minutes later, they were interrupted by a confused Quaullast checking a notification on his suit. ¡°Wait a second, boss. The camera drone says the other box has moved.¡±


    ¡°The other box?¡±


    ¡°Moved?¡± Baedarsust set down the stuffed toy he was gutting in his paws.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Quaullast confirmed, transmitting the camera drone image to their suits.


    The front of the other box was open.


    ¡°Shit, there must have been someone hiding in it!¡± Baedarsust exclaimed. ¡°Spread out. We need to find them!¡±


    The four of them instinctively grabbed their rifles and took up positions, fanning out to each cover a separate aisle with their weapons.


    ¡°Alright, proceed down the aisle and clear,¡± he ordered. ¡°Assume anyone in here is hostile, shoot on sight.¡±


    The four of them carefully picked their way through the aisles, the warehouse palettes obscuring the line of sight between them. They kept their claws on the triggers.


    As they slowly advanced, clearing their corners slowly, there was the distinctive whir of a Terran weapon an aisle over from Baedarsust.


    Brrrrrrrr.


    Then, a crash. Spommu¡¯s signal disappeared from his helmet.


    ¡°Crap!¡± he yelled into the radio. A red triangle appeared on his helmet display, highlighting a spot on one of the shelf locations, superimposed over a shipping box one level up. ¡°Top rafters! Top rafters! Suppress them!¡±


    Brrrrrrrrrr.


    Three automatic weapons whirred out in unison in response, hissing a hail of kinetic projectiles towards the suspected target location and shredding everything in a two-meter radius.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see them!¡±


    ¡°Up there! Behind the boxes!¡±


    Brrrrrrrrrrr.


    He heard another crash. Frumers¡¯ life sign went out.


    A new triangle appeared, still on the top level a few meters away to the right from the first. Baedarsust adjusted his fire, riddling the new location with a fresh burst.


    Another crash, and Quaullast went down as well. But he was apparently still alive. He screamed into his radio from his downed position, ¡°Top rafters, blue box! Running left to right, left to¡ª¡±


    Brrrrrrrrr.


    His signal cut out.


    A new triangle projected further to the right again. Baedarsust kept his claw on the trigger, his rifle¡¯s barrel now glowing red hot. In his optics and slightly away from his aimpoint, he saw one of the boxes shift slightly and something metallic peeked out from behind it.


    What the hell is that?


    He tried to adjust his aim. Not quickly enough.


    Brrrrrrrr.


    His screen went black.


    ¡°Dammit,¡± Baedarsust swore as he dismissed the post-mission review screen listing the dozen or so hits he sustained in a few milliseconds.


    ¡°Nice try,¡± Spommu said. ¡°I think you almost hit them at the end.¡±


    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Quaullast asked.


    Aida¡¯s voice came over the radio. ¡°That¡­ is a last-generation infantry model combat robot.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t seem very last generation to me,¡± he whined.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t take state-of-the-art to be able to react quicker, shoot better, run faster, and jump higher than you meatbags.¡±


    ¡°So how are we supposed to fight that?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not. It¡¯s a combat robot. You ever see one of those, you¡¯re probably screwed,¡± Aida admitted. ¡°Fall back outside and get the support ship to blow the whole place to bits. Instead of running at it like a bunch of¡­ lemmings.¡±


    ¡°You heard¡­ that?¡±


    ¡°Yup, Lemming Squad. I think I like the sound of that,¡± Aida said, the smile evident in her voice. ¡°For your squad name.¡±


    Baedarsust groaned. ¡°I didn¡¯t know we were getting named today! Why do the other squads get cool names like Badger and Ketchup?¡±


    ¡°You¡­ want to be called Ketchup?!¡±


    Baedarsust grumbled something incoherent. ¡°Lemming is fine.¡±


    ¡°Lemming Squad it is.¡±


    Quaullast¡¯s voice cut in. ¡°So¡­ the enemy ¡ª the Resistance ¡ª they have these robots?¡±


    ¡°Not that many, but they have a few stolen and repurposed ones from our armories.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ we do have these!¡± Baedarsust said. ¡°Why don¡¯t we use them instead of us?¡±


    ¡°We do use them. Just not allowed to use them near places with lots of civvies,¡± Aida explained. ¡°When they were first made, the old models would sometimes malfunction and accidentally kill unarmed civilians, so they were banned. The manufacturers supposedly fixed the problems¡­ eventually, but the rules stayed. That¡¯s why we¡¯ll send you instead.¡±


    ¡°Great. So we have to fight by the rules and the Resistance doesn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Welcome to the Red Zone.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 27 Serenity IV

    <div>


    Marine Base Camp Serenity, Charon


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    ¡°Three¡­ two¡­ one¡­ go!¡± Baedarsust ordered as he pulled the door open.


    This time, instead of his squad members rushing into the corridor beyond, their attached Terran combat robot sprang into action. Following his instruction, the bipedal machine marched into the room with its weapon at the ready.


    In his helmet display, a dozen red triangles popped up beyond the door. Their robot began engaging them with mechanical precision, rapidly dispatching the enemies.


    Its weapon ran through the targets like a buzzsaw. Within half a second, the triangles had all disappeared, the targets they represented clattering to the floor.


    The robot signaled back to them, ¡°Room clear.¡±


    ¡°Go, go, go,¡± he shouted at his squad. They filed into the corridor to a horror show. Various corpses were splayed around the room, a couple over overturned tables and makeshift barricades in what looked like a dining hall. Only a couple of them even managed to fire back.


    ¡°Well, that one was easy,¡± Quaullast commented. ¡°I love robots.¡±


    ¡°Good job, Marvin,¡± Spommu patted the machine affectionately on the back. Following Terran tradition, they¡¯d given the deadly machine a name. Marvin was merely a virtual creation of the training room, but that didn¡¯t matter. Any robot that rolled with their squad, real or virtual, was called Marvin. Unless there was a second one, then she was Marlene. And the third one¡­ Marcy. Then, Margeret and Marco. There was a general theme.


    ¡°One last room,¡± Baedarsust said, pointing up at a closed metallic door ahead.


    ¡°Send my camera drone first?¡± Quaullast asked.


    ¡°No hole¡­ and no time,¡± Baedarsust said, glancing at his watch. Thirty seconds remaining. ¡°Stack up!¡±


    The squad hurried to the door, standing at the ready on both sides of it. Marvin took his position at the head of the squad.


    ¡°Alright, three¡­ two¡­ one¡­ go!¡±


    The robot winded one of its legs back and kicked the center of the door with machine strength and precision. It flew off its hinges and crashed into the room.


    Immediately, the sensors on Marvin identified three targets in the room.


    Baedarsust immediately recognized the new icons on his display. ¡°Oh no.¡±


    Enemy combat robots. Three of them.


    Marvin barely had time to respond. As its rifle started whirring at the first spotted target, a hail of gunfire came out of the room, shredding their friendly robot into bits. Marvin clattered to the ground.


    Baedarsust checked the status of the enemies in the room.


    At least he got one of them.


    ¡°Crap!¡± Baedarsust swore. ¡°Frumers, thermobaric!¡±


    As he watched Frumers fumble to load a round into the rocket launcher carried on his back, Baedarsust realized it was going to be too slow. Half a second later, a high-explosive airburst projectile launched from one of the hostile robots inside the room instantly took out the entire squad stacked up on the door.


    His screen went black.


    ¡°I hate robots.¡±


    ¡°Nice try,¡± Aida said. ¡°Had the right idea. Just too slow to execute.¡±


    ¡°Which robots were the hostiles using this time?¡±


    ¡°An older generation of your Marvin. Grenadier variant, obviously. Actually, I think these are some of the ones we sent to help you guys fight on your planets.¡±


    ¡°Oh. You gave our Marines these robots?¡± Baedarsust asked. ¡°For liberating our planets?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Did pretty well, I hear. Beat the snot out of the remaining Bunnies holding out on Datsot. Much less problematic there, I¡¯d imagine, since they just told them to shoot everything with big, white, fluffy ears.¡±


    <hr>


    Baedarsust squinted at the symbols on the four Terran cards displayed face up on the table, then looked up at the other players at the table.


    Spommu and Quaullast had already gone out.


    Frumers was unreadable as always.


    And Abe was not so much unreadable as Baedarsust didn¡¯t know the first thing about Terran body language.


    He glanced at the cards in his own hand: a three and a seven.


    Garbage.


    He knew better than to bluff with this group. ¡°Fold,¡± he sighed as he tossed his cards face down into the pile.


    It was just Frumers and Abe left.


    Frumers put yet another two small tokens, improvised metal washers, into his betting pile. ¡°Raise to eighteen.¡±


    Abe stared at him, as if trying to decipher his face. ¡°Raise, to twenty-one,¡± he declared confidently, putting down five more tokens.


    Frumers scratched his snout and looked at his cards again. ¡°You¡¯re bluffing again, Abe.¡±


    He snorted. ¡°Yeah, tell that to my double kings.¡±


    Frumers sniffed. ¡°Not a chance. I¡¯m thinking¡­ two low value cards, both under seven. And none of that¡­ five cards in a row thing.¡±


    ¡°A straight, you mean. And now I know you don¡¯t have one of those,¡± Abe retorted confidently.


    ¡°Or maybe that was a trick, to fool you into thinking I don¡¯t have a straight,¡± Frumers suggested.


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    ¡°Are you going to play or not?¡± the Terran asked impatiently.


    ¡°Call,¡± Frumers said as he placed the additional tokens into the pile.


    They revealed the final card in the pile, an eight of spades.


    ¡°Raise again,¡± Frumers said, this time much more confident, and putting five tokens into the pile.


    ¡°Raise you another five.¡± Abe matched his action and put down another five.


    ¡°Zero chance. I call,¡± Frumers replied, shaking his ears and putting the tokens in the pile. Then, he revealed his cards: an ace of diamonds and a queen. Pointing to the cards in the middle, he said, ¡°That¡¯s two queens.¡±


    Abe tossed his junk cards onto the table in disgust: a two and a six. He pushed his tokens to Frumers¡¯ side of the table. ¡°Ugh, how did you know?¡±


    Frumers collected them triumphantly. ¡°You have a tell when you bluff.¡±


    Abe shook his head. ¡°No shot.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s incredibly obvious,¡± Frumers added, a smug grin creeping up onto his snout.


    ¡°No. Shot.¡±


    ¡°Wanna bet?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No. What is it? Tell me!¡± Abe insisted, putting his hand on the card deck before Frumers could start another round. ¡°What is my tell?¡±


    Frumers hesitated a second, then shrugged. ¡°Your heartbeat.¡±


    ¡°My¡ª my heartbeat?¡±


    ¡°I can hear it change pace when you¡¯re nervous about your cards. And¡­¡± Frumers made an exaggerated sniff with his snout, ¡°There¡¯s a distinct smell you Terrans make, depending on how you¡¯re feeling, like when you lie.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± Frumers shook his ears and pointed at his squadmates. ¡°Ask them.¡±


    ¡°You guys can literally hear my heartbeat and smell it when I bluff?¡± Abe looked at Baedarsust and demanded.


    Baedarsust raised his paws. ¡°Hey, I haven¡¯t been listening for it¡­ but yeah, if I pay attention, I guess I can kind of hear your heartbeat. It¡¯s pretty loud. No idea what he¡¯s talking about the smell though. You sniff anything different, Spommu?¡±


    Spommu shook her ears. ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because they have shit noses,¡± Frumers said, still grinning. ¡°You don¡¯t have to believe me if you don¡¯t want to.¡±


    Abe shook his head in disgust. ¡°Great. Now I¡¯ll be thinking about my heartbeat and smells when I play poker¡­ Damn Puppers.¡±


    ¡°Another round?¡±


    ¡°Nah, I have to run anyway,¡± Abe said, getting up to leave.


    ¡°Going somewhere fun?¡±


    ¡°Yup, new contract. Piloting. One of the companies on Ceres needs pilots, and I need hours to maintain my cert.¡±


    ¡°Have fun,¡± Frumers said, collecting the cards remaining on the table for him. He frowned as he stared at a card. ¡°Huh. Whose faces are on these cards?¡±


    He raised his ace of diamonds to show Abe.


    ¡°Oh yeah, this is the Red Zone Most-Wanted deck,¡± Abe replied, pointing at the woman with a heavily scarred cheek on the card. ¡°That¡¯s the one we call the Ace of Diamonds in the Saturnian Resistance Navy. She¡¯s in charge of their money¡­ or something.¡±


    Frumers tilted his head. ¡°Interesting. And if we see them, we¡¯re supposed to capture or kill them?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unlikely, but if you see any of these people on the cards, call it in. There¡¯s a¡­ hmm I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯d get the bounty since you¡¯re technically Marine, but we do. A few years back, someone in Black Hole Sun found one of their terrorist cell commanders¡­ I think it was the five of¡­ spades? He found her at a casino on Titan ¡ª talk about irony. He¡¯s retired now. Nice big mansion on Mars.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡±


    ¡°You know what? Keep the cards,¡± Abe tossed it to him. ¡°I¡¯ll just fabricate another set.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    Grionc sat calmly at her desk as her subordinate stomped into her office.


    ¡°Take a seat, Loenda,¡± she said looking at the aged squadron leader who strode in impatiently. Stubborn but loyal, Grionc would often look to the alpha leader for her advice.


    And Loenda never had a shortage of advice for her.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine standing,¡± Loenda said, starting to pace.


    ¡°Suit yourself,¡± Grionc smiled. ¡°What can I do for you today, Loenda?¡±


    Loenda got straight to the point. ¡°They took the last of my ship¡¯s Marine shipboard detachment today. Cleaned them out. Every single one of them.¡±


    Grionc frowned. ¡°Who did?¡±


    Loenda shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. The Marines just said they got new orders, got on a transport ship, and left! I don¡¯t think even they themselves knew. Our readiness is hurting. How are we supposed to conduct any offensive planetary operations when we don¡¯t even have Marines?!¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m pretty sure they¡¯re going to our friends in Sol. They have some kind of a major conflict brewing in their own system¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what they say, but we haven¡¯t heard anything from them in weeks other than ¡®we will get back to you¡¯ and vague promises!¡± Loenda fumed.


    ¡°The supply shipments are still coming periodically. I think the Amazon is in the border systems looking for signs of the enemy.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all we¡¯ve been doing for months: looking. We know where the enemy is!¡± Loenda said, pointing at a picture of the situation map on Grionc¡¯s wall. ¡°Look, right there.¡±


    Grionc shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s not that simple¡ª¡±


    Loenda¡¯s voice rose into a righteous crescendo. ¡°It is that simple. Look! Eternity, the occupied border system between the Federation and the Granti Alliance. That¡¯s three empty systems and we have our old border back. Look out the window, we can see it from here! And then the other axis. Plorve. Two systems, one of them empty! Priplae, three systems. Uidquu, four. We take those three, we crush the Grass Eaters in the entire axis against Second and Third Fleet in Stoers!¡±


    Grionc nodded. ¡°Yes, I see that too, but the analysis and simulations from our allies say we¡¯ll take heavy losses if we try to brute force Plorve and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Screw heavy losses. We are Malgeir. We know what heavy losses are, and we accept them. I¡¯m sixty. I¡¯ll happily volunteer to lead the first ship into the breach.¡±


    Grionc vigorously shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s unnecessary, Loenda. There is a plan. We just need to trust it. Remember the Gruccud campaign? Seventeen systems liberated in a few months. Not a single combat ship casualty. This new way, the way they do things: it is the right way to do things. Remember our previous, failed Gruccud offensive? Like I keep saying, we have to think about this the new way, not just tactically with our new weapons, but strategically.¡±


    Loenda looked at the map for a few more seconds, then sighed. ¡°You may be right, High Fleet Commander. But I¡¯m not the only one saying these things. The whole fleet is asking. What in the galaxy are we waiting for? We rolled up an entire axis, kicked the Grass Eaters out of the entire northern wing, and now¡ª now we¡¯re just sitting on our tails, back doing exercises in the Celestria Red Zone again.¡±


    ¡°We had a raid into Plorve a couple months ago,¡± Grionc countered.


    The squadron leader shook her head. ¡°Two ships and a munitions depot. During the Datsot Counteroffensive, we were blowing up more Grass Eaters than that every day for weeks.¡±


    ¡°Well, their main defense fleet showed up with twelve squadrons and more on the way. I¡¯m just happy everyone followed my orders to withdraw,¡± Grionc joked.


    Loenda pointed a claw at her. ¡°You jest, but I was tempted. We all were.¡±


    ¡°None more than me,¡± Grionc assured her. She touched the scar on the right of her snout, a reminder from a loss at Uidquu. ¡°We¡¯ll get there, Loenda.¡±


    ¡°I sure hope so. I want to burn Znos to the ground in my lifetime. Or at least watch our new friends do it. Malgeir knows they¡¯ll do it without hesitation, those grass-thirsty critters. They just need the right motivation.¡±


    Grionc smiled, recalling a previous conversation with Loenda. ¡°Perhaps¡­ at the head of your own fleet? Did you give that promotion idea some thought from the last time we talked?¡±


    Loenda pointed an accusatory claw at her again. ¡°This again? No! Not in a million years. I like my job. I¡¯m too old to learn a new one. Fleet commander? There isn¡¯t even a position open in the Navy that I¡¯m aware.¡±


    Grionc sniffed. ¡°Not yet, but you know the other fleets. With those idiots in charge? It¡¯s a matter of time.¡±


    ¡°None since our grass-eating advisors took control of our strategic planning,¡± Loenda pointed out. ¡°One of the downsides of not losing all the time, I guess. All the incompetents get to stay on. Though, I heard a couple of them got canned due to pressure from the advisors, so that¡¯s a plus.¡±


    ¡°See? You¡¯re thinking like a fleet commander already,¡± Grionc grinned.


    ¡°Nice try, but like I said, I like my job. You¡¯ll have to shoot me before you can drag me into a fleet command chair.¡±


    ¡°Temping as that is¡ª oh, huh, that does give me an idea,¡± Grionc said. ¡°You¡¯re itching to go on the offensive, right? I want you to run offensive fleet exercises with our simulation computers. Strategic exercises. We¡¯ve got the computers now, we can run them ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Oh? What¡¯s the target?¡±


    ¡°Like you said: Plorve, Priplae, Uidquu, and then roll up the whole axis until we crush them against Stoers, right? And we¡¯ll try a few other options too. I¡¯ll send you the parameters and scenarios later. I want you to come up with the plans and contingencies with your squadron, and we¡¯ll run every squadron leader through it until we get a green light from our friends.¡±


    Loenda¡¯s eyes lit up, then narrowed in suspicion. ¡°Wait. This isn¡¯t part of some subtle ploy to turn me into a fleet commander against my will, right?¡±


    ¡°Of course it is,¡± Grionc¡¯s grin widened to her whole snout. ¡°But that won¡¯t stop you from trying your best, will it?¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 28 Office Duty

    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Admiral Amelia Waters looked up from the fresh stack of paperwork on her tablet. It took her half a second to register the face of the man knocking at the open door of her office.


    She broke into a wide smile. ¡°Captain Chuck Harris!¡±


    The giant of a man and captain of her previous flagship, the Mississippi, smiled back. ¡°It¡¯s been a minute, Admiral. I still can¡¯t believe they have you doing¡­ this.¡± He gestured at the office in general. ¡°Waste of talent if you asked me.¡±


    She sighed deeply. ¡°Tell me about it. How goes the galaxy out there?¡±


    ¡°Oh, you know, the same old, same old. Join the Navy. Travel to exotic, distant lands. Meet exciting, unusual aliens. And kill them.¡±


    She looked down at the mountain of pending reports to file on her tablet. ¡°You know, the way you say that ¡ª that sounds really good right now.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ Not a bad posting either¡­¡±


    Amelia grinned at him conspiratorially. ¡°I hear you¡¯re doing well out there with the Puppers while we¡¯re stuck here fighting our own people. So well, in fact, I hear¡­ they¡¯re thinking of promoting you.¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± he said, wagging his fingers at her wearily.


    ¡°Oh, yeeesssss. A nice cushy desk job!¡±


    ¡°No, no, no, no!¡±


    ¡°Right here on Luna. Maybe they¡¯ll give you the office right across from mine.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t. They. Dare,¡± he half-whispered.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± she asked innocently. ¡°The O-7 salary raise we got last month was not enough?¡±


    ¡°Mate, they can¡¯t pay me enough to sit behind a desk.¡±


    ¡°Not that I¡¯ve got a choice,¡± she sighed. ¡°Anyway, how¡¯s the Pupper Sixth Fleet doing?¡±


    ¡°Great, they¡¯re doing great. Their whole northern flank is secure. They¡¯ve finally got permission to do the probing thing we tell them to do. They¡¯re in great shape¡­ I hear.¡±


    ¡°You hear?¡± Amelia frowned, tapping a few buttons on her tablet. ¡°You¡¯re not going there anymore? Where are you guys posting up¡ª¡±


    ¡°Mostly hanging around McMurdo. It¡¯s not bad, honest. They¡¯ve got a solid setup over there, a decent selection at their food court¡ª¡±


    She raised an eyebrow. ¡°So, who¡¯s on Gruccud¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve sent the Amazon to cover the Gruccud axis.¡±


    A screeching alarm started to sound in Amelia¡¯s head. ¡°And the secret squirrels took the Nile.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°Ah, that¡¯s where they¡¯ve gone. So, who¡¯s covering the Stoers sector now?¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is the billion-credit question,¡± Amelia said, browsing her tablet, until she saw¡ª ¡°Nobody. We¡¯ve got nobody covering the clowns at Stoers.¡±


    ¡°That seems¡­ not ideal,¡± Chuck shrugged. ¡°We¡¯re not doing anything important at McMurdo when we go out there, just patrols and exercises.¡±


    ¡°Then why haven¡¯t they sent the Mississippi to Stoers?¡±


    ¡°Above my paygrade. I just go where they send me.¡±


    Amelia dug around some more on her tablet. ¡°My God, what a clusterfuck.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You are supposed to be at Stoers, but they¡¯ve withheld your deployment funding and orders. Those idiots!¡±


    ¡°I knew something was up¡ª¡±


    Amelia was already heading out the door. She looked back. ¡°Gotta run and see about this. Hey, let¡¯s catch up at lunch tomorrow. Put it on my calendar. In fact, block out my whole afternoon, will you? Don¡¯t want them to stuff another boring meeting in there.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What can I do for you, Admiral?¡± Senator Blake Wald said, peering down the top of his glasses at her over a large sheet of paper.


    ¡°Is that¡ª¡± Amelia started to ask.


    ¡°Yes, a newspaper. A real newspaper. Atlas Times, paper edition. They do still make these, you know?¡±


    Amelia shook her head lightly. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s¡­ cool. Anyway, I need to talk to you about¡ª¡±


    He continued as if not hearing her. ¡°I can ask my secretary to get them to deliver one of these to your office every morning.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ sure. Thanks.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you can appreciate it. Not many people these days understand the value of real paper. There¡¯s the young Senator from Iceland, sorry, District one-seventy-two, she¡¯s only fifty, about your age, right? The other day, she told me that these were going to disappear once my generation dies off. Can you believe that? They¡¯ve been saying that since the invention of electronics back¡ª¡±


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    ¡°The sky is falling!¡± Amelia exclaimed abruptly.


    ¡°On which planet?¡±


    ¡°It was a figure of speech. I just need a little bit of your attention for an urgent matter. Is the oversight committee micromanaging the war aware that we¡¯re currently completely uncovered in the Stoers direction?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about the deployment hold on the Mississippi?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. Naval Command did talk to us about that a couple weeks ago,¡± he said, shrugging. ¡°But you know how it is, competing priorities, the New Hawks¡­ I¡¯m trying to hold it all together, so some of these things just have to wait¡ª¡±


    ¡°What competing priorities?¡± Amelia wanted to tear her hair out. ¡°We have an entire axis of the war exposed right now!¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ I do remember the other admirals saying something like that. But didn¡¯t the Malgeir station two fleets there? I think that was what convinced the committee that we could do without that deployment¡ª¡±


    ¡°No! They have two half-assembled fleets there. Second and Third Fleet are both still gutted from previous losses, and these guys, their fleet commanders, are¡ª has anyone in the committee ever talked to these guys?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the Senator said resolutely, ¡°And trust me, that¡¯s for the best. The committee doesn¡¯t need to give Senator Eisson any more ammunition to denigrate our allies in the press.¡±


    ¡°Have you talked to them?¡±


    ¡°No, but however understrength, they have two fleets there. Surely, they can hold a single system, especially if we¡¯re warning them¡ª Ah, I see. We don¡¯t have any ISR over there, either.¡± the Senator said, slowly nodding in understanding.


    ¡°No, we don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t we just get them to do their own reconnaissance?¡±


    Amelia sighed. ¡°Look, Senator, I think this will be easier if we just called them. You can see for yourself.¡±


    ¡°Right now?¡±


    ¡°Sure, I¡¯m sure they¡¯re not busy. It¡¯s about¡­ just after noon on their ship.¡±


    Amelia fiddled with her tablet until the face of a serious middle-aged woman came up on screen. She said, ¡°Hello, Interstellar Outbound. This is Admiral Amelia Waters. Are our contacts in Stoers available? This is an emergency.¡±


    The operator looked away for a second. ¡°Fleet Commander Moescei is available. Fleet Commander Peipplust is still out for lunch.¡±


    ¡°Dial Moescei in on the secured line and tell Peipplust to get on when he¡¯s back.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Admiral.¡±


    There was soothing music as she waited impatiently. The Senator said nothing, just sitting back and waited. She muted her tablet and said, ¡°I¡¯ll do the talking, but you¡¯ll see. You can ask them questions at the end.¡±


    ¡°Hello?¡± the translated voice of the female Malgeir fleet commander came over the tablet. ¡°What do you Grass Eaters want this time?¡±


    Amelia rolled her eyes and unmuted her tablet. The whole Grass Eaters thing was amusing when it started, but the bigotry was starting to get on her nerves, especially when some of the more belligerent commanders were using it to justify ignoring what they were being told to do.


    ¡°This is Admiral Amelia Waters. I hope you remember me from our last conversation.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, Amelia,¡± she replied. ¡°I remember you. You are the fleet commander coordinating strategy with Sixth Fleet, yes?¡±


    ¡°N¡ª yes. Yes, I was. I have recently been made aware of the status of one of our ships that was supposed to go to your sector¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, right, they told me one of your special ships was coming, but it is not here yet. A single ship,¡± the Malgeir fleet commander said sarcastically, ¡°We miss her presence very much.¡±


    Amelia grinded out, ¡°It¡¯s pretty damn important we have some recon assets over there. Have you been doing some reconnaissance on your own?¡±


    ¡°Recon this, recon that,¡± Moescei replied airily. ¡°Your other fleet commanders have already told me. And I say the same thing to them as I now say to you: we have been fighting this war for ten years. We know how. I have a ship in Sconcans looking for Grass Eaters. Twenty-four and seven, as you people say.¡±


    ¡°One ship? In Sconcans??¡± Amelia exclaimed. ¡°You¡¯re kidding right?¡±


    ¡°No? What¡¯s wrong with one ship? The other fleet commander, Peipplust,¡± she spat his name out in contempt. ¡°He¡¯s got a ship in Sconcans too. But only every other day. He¡¯s skimping on their ship maintenance funds.¡±


    Amelia restrained her urge to scream and accuse Moescei of doing the exact same thing, which ¡ª of course she was ¡ª the TRO had a whole brief on her secret fuel-for-credits scheme. But her highest-ranking subordinate who would potentially replace her was even more incompetent, and worse, he wasn¡¯t corrupt enough for the TRO to find anything dirty to get rid of him either.


    Instead, Amelia politely suggested, ¡°Look, you¡¯re going to need more than one or two ships on reconnaissance. And you can¡¯t just leave them in Sconcans. That¡¯s only one sector out. By the time they see the first enemy ship blinking into their sector, you are a couple days away from an attack. You need to probe the next system over, Pomniot.¡±


    The Malgeir fleet commander looked as if she swallowed some bad sushi. ¡°Are you crazy? The enemy fleet is all up in Pomniot! It¡¯s the most important junction system on the whole front!¡±


    I should kiss whichever one of the other fleet coordinators hammered at least that simple concept into her head right now, Amelia thought. ¡°Yes, and that is precisely why you need to probe the system in force and figure out what they¡¯re up to.¡±


    ¡°No way,¡± Moescei said, shaking her ears. ¡°Any time we put anything in Pomniot, we lose many ships.¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ an unfortunate reality of war,¡± Amelia said, struggling to keep her temper in check rather than straight up accusing Moescei of incompetence. How do you screw up and lose ¡®many ships¡¯ against the Bunnies in a simple recon mission? ¡°I don¡¯t like losing spacers any more than you do, but not knowing what¡¯s going on will kill even more of them in the long run¡ª¡±


    ¡°No. I won¡¯t do it.¡±


    Amelia looked up helplessly at Senator Wald, gesturing down at her tablet as if saying, see what we¡¯re dealing with here?


    The Senator spoke up unexpectedly. ¡°How about a small compromise?¡±


    ¡°Who is that?¡±


    Amelia introduced him. ¡°This is Senator Blake Wald. He¡¯s one of our uh¡­ High Councilors. He is part of the committee that controls funding for our defense assistance to your war.¡±


    ¡°Ah, me and my spacers thank you, Senator Blake Wald,¡± the Malgeir thanked in an oily voice. It was amazing the nuances a modern translator could convey. ¡°What can we do for you?¡±


    ¡°I am suggesting a compromise. Why don¡¯t you send a few ships into Pomniot¡ª uh something smaller than a probe in force? Admiral? Suggestions?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I guess they can just pop in a few ships and try to do some area recon¡ª like take a few pictures and get out, but what we really need to do is maintain that contact¡­¡± Amelia said as she was mulling it over.


    ¡°That¡¯s eminently reasonable, is it not?¡± the Senator asked.


    ¡°It is pointless,¡± Moescei said, rolling her eyes dramatically. ¡°We already know the enemy fleet is in Pomniot. And we are not mounting an offensive in this sector any time soon. Why do we need to know what¡¯s going on over there?¡±


    Senator Wald and Amelia shot each other a look. Amelia spoke again, ¡°We just need you to send a couple ships. The smallest ships you have, those Beagle¡ª Omega-class racing ships. Send a few in, tell them to spend as much time as they can observing ¡ª you know what, scratch that, tell them to take pictures of the enemy fleet in the system, and get out before the enemy even starts to chase them down. Surely you can spare a couple ships from your massive battle fleet.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I will consider that request¡ª¡± she began to say but was interrupted by another video joining the call.


    It was Peipplust.


    Oh no. I should have told him to wait¡ª

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 29 Fees

    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°Fleet Commander Peipplust, thank you for joining us,¡± Amelia said immediately, hoping they wouldn¡¯t get into a fight this early¡ª


    ¡°Why is she here?¡± Peipplust asked angrily, gesturing at his screen, undoubtedly trying to strangle the image of Moescei on his datapad. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t she be busy stealing funds meant for Second Fleet into Third Fleet and her own pockets?¡±


    ¡°Me? Stealing from you?¡± Moescei screeched. ¡°Go screw yourself! Stoers Shipyard was strictly assigned to Third Fleet¡¯s jurisdiction! The privilege of extracting¡ª¡±


    ¡°Second Fleet got here first! The understood rule for centuries is that the first numbered fleet that gets to the posting has the first right of refusal on escort fees for local station and ships,¡± he countered with his impeccable knowledge of corrupt Malgeir Navy traditions.


    Seeing Senator Wald¡¯s confused face, Amelia muted her tablet and explained while the two Malgeir bickered, ¡°They¡¯re both assigned around this Stoers Shipyard, and they¡¯re constantly fighting for who gets control over escort fees.¡±


    ¡°Escort fees?¡±


    ¡°They charge protection fees for ships that want to dock at the shipyard.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing this fee is not optional.¡±


    ¡°No, not at all. If you don¡¯t pay, your cargo ship will just wait in line for a docking port forever. That¡¯s happened a few times. One supply ship captain couldn¡¯t pay up, so they waited two weeks until the company could come up with the money and the shipyard just ran without radiator coolant for the entire time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not ideal.¡±


    ¡°No. People died. And they covered it up. Anyway, they both want to be the one that gets the money from these fees,¡± Amelia explained. ¡°And since the shipyard gets quite a bit of shipping activity despite being on the frontline, they¡¯re arguing over who gets to milk the gigantic cash cow in the room.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing splitting it fifty-fifty is one of the options they have already rejected?¡±


    ¡°Good guess, that was my first suggestion too. Second Fleet, under Peipplust, has a greater number of space combat ships in the system than Third Fleet, by about eighty to sixty-five, so¡­ he wants a greater portion of the fees, about twenty percent more. After all, the customers are supposedly paying escort fees and since he¡¯s got more ships, it¡¯s more security. But that¡¯s a pretty uh¡­ tenuous claim, because neither of them is actually escorting anybody or providing any security. Oh, and they¡¯re both falsely inflating the number of ships they have when they argue with each other even though they both have radars and know exactly how many combat capable ships they each have.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the conflict, but what arrangement do they have currently? It¡¯s not just a free-for-all at the shipyard, is it?¡±


    Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Last I checked, they¡¯ve agreed to take turns charging fees every other week.¡± She added darkly, ¡°Thankfully, they haven¡¯t resorted to shooting each other¡­ yet.¡±


    ¡°That seems¡­ like a fair compromise for now.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but I¡¯m not done. There¡¯s one more problem.¡±


    ¡°Oh dear.¡±


    ¡°The fee collection is actually enforced by the station authorities and then paid out to the two fleets. By the way, the station is also taking their own cut of bribes, but that¡¯s not relevant here other than to say they¡¯re not helping. Despite the two fleets¡¯ agreement to take turns, Peipplust started covertly demanding the station divert twenty percent of the fees of the previous week into Second Fleet¡¯s accounts instead. Since his ships are in position around the station, the station can¡¯t really refuse, and they aren¡¯t interested in getting in the middle of these two. Of course, Moescei is no slouch at this game: she figured it out quickly, and she started secretly demanding the station authorities return the credits the next week, plus extra, I believe.¡±


    The Senator looked intrigued. This kind of underhanded political wheeling and dealing was exactly the kind of inter-district conflicts he was used to mediating. ¡°Oh. So how do they know how much more the other is stealing from their proper share before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Exactly. They don¡¯t. It escalated, and they¡¯re demanding increasing cuts of the other fleet¡¯s fees: neither of them actually knows if they¡¯re getting the short end of the stick, but they both think and claim to be,¡± she said, watching the two creatures on her tablet still yelling at each other.


    ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough!¡± the Senator shouted.


    ¡°Sorry, it¡¯s still muted,¡± Amelia said ruefully, pressing the unmute button.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough!¡± the Senator shouted again at the tablet.


    The two fleet commanders stopped talking at once.


    ¡°Look, we¡¯re not here to talk about your escort fee situation. Sort that out amongst yourselves later. We just need you to send a few ships to probe Pomniot and figure out what the Znosian fleet there is doing!¡±


    ¡°He can do it,¡± Moescei said.


    ¡°She can do it,¡± Peipplust said simultaneously.


    ¡°Enough,¡± the Senator cut in before they could start again. ¡°You can both do it. Whichever one of you submits better quality surveillance data on the enemies at Pomniot to us, I will¡­ personally lobby your Naval¡ª your Admiralty and High Council to grant your fleet exclusive rights to the Stoers Shipyard escort fees for a week¡ª no, two weeks.¡±


    There was a rare moment of serenity on the call as the two Malgeir quietly digested the information they¡¯d just been given.


    Peipplust spoke up first, leaning into his camera. ¡°What kind of information did you say you are looking for again?¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Yeah, okay, now I get it,¡± Senator Wald said as they hung up. ¡°We need to get out there as soon as possible. I¡¯ll try to see where else we can trim for concessions to the New Hawks, but we need the Mississippi deployed and looking for threats there.¡±


    Amelia nodded in appreciation. ¡°Are you sure sending them both to do the same job isn¡¯t a¡ª ah who am I kidding, I¡¯ll be ecstatic if they produce one good set of sensor recordings of Pomniot between the two of them every week.¡±


    The Senator shrugged. ¡°Best we can do for now, unless you have another idea?¡±


    ¡°Nope. I¡¯m just going to talk to Naval Command and make sure to set some ground rules for them¡­ I just don¡¯t want them stealing from each other or even ¡®accidents¡¯ happening to each other¡¯s ships on the way to Pomniot and back.¡±


    <hr>


    Ceres Ship Manufacturing Corporation HQ, Ceres


    POV: Hailey Kang, Terran (Logistics Engineer)


    Kang Hye-Jin had never met an alien before, but somewhere in the Company, a computer algorithm somewhere decided that she ¡ª a mere logistics engineer ¡ª would make the best first impression on them. One of those pseudo-scientific personality matrix tests they did, probably.


    She was extensively briefed about what they knew about the Malgeir people. Their technology. Their diets. Their vices. Their taboos. She wondered how the company got the information from the tightly sealed Republic diplomatic archives. Some of it was probably obtained legally. Some of it.


    She didn¡¯t ask.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Smile. Contrary to urban legend, showing teeth is not a form of threat display to the Malgeir species.


    She resisted the temptation to shut off her corneal implant and put on her best smile.


    That¡¯s too much teeth. Look more natural.


    ¡°You do it,¡± she retorted through gritted teeth, staring at the two alien figures being escorted into the lobby of the building. ¡°They won¡¯t know the difference.¡±


    Relax. Just treat them like any of our other clients.


    ¡°I don¡¯t meet other clients,¡± she whispered.


    Yes. That¡¯s why you were picked for the first introduction. We¡¯re going for a na?ve, young intern feel. Someone they think they can bully in a negotiation, then we hit them with the big guns¡ª


    She shushed the implant and walked up to the pair summoning all her confidence and hours in front of a mirror practicing Malgeir pronunciation without a translator. ¡°Hello¡­ Malgeir friends from Eupprio Tech, I am Kang Hye-Jin. People here call me Hailey. I¡¯m from District 29.¡±


    The alien returned her smile and shook her hand. ¡°Nice to meet you, Hailey. Impressive pronunciation. I¡¯m Eupprio, and this is my¡­ friend, Fleguipu.¡±


    Hailey shook both their paws, and returned to her native Korean, trusting the translator to be accurate. ¡°This is your first time at¡­ well, I¡¯m sure this is your first time here¡­ what uh¡­ is this your first time at a ship manufacturing facility?¡±


    Just relax and remember your lines!


    Eupprio tilted her head and replied after a moment, ¡°No, I¡¯ve been to one of ours at Stoers.¡±


    Good. Ask her about that.


    ¡°What uh¡ª what do they make at Stoers?¡±


    No, not that direct¡ª


    The Malgeir answered smoothly. ¡°That is where we make all of our Delta-class military ships, or what you call the Shepherd-class missile destroyers. Stoers is a well-known shipyard in Malgeir space. They make dozens of those ships a month there. I was given a tour of one of its component production sub-facilities when our company merged with Ciolnoenc Instruments. Ciolnoenc makes astro-avionics for our Navy ships¡¯ long-range radar systems.¡±


    Hailey nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Oh, that is so cool! A Malgeir mass manufacturing shipyard! I¡¯ve always wanted to see the insides of one! The massive engineering marvels required to build such titanic ships that can survive the harshness of space and blink! The integration dock alone! Is it true that the hull printer has its own Alcubierre Drive?¡±


    Eupprio smiled. ¡°Perhaps, one day, you can visit and see for yourself.¡±


    ¡°Yes, perhaps,¡± Hailey restrained herself. ¡°Sorry, I get overly excited about these things sometimes. Uh¡­ a little about me. In my spare time, I do competitive miniature painting, mostly for space scenes and I love doing Malgeir ones.¡±


    Ice breakers are unnecessary¡ª


    ¡°What¡¯s that? Competitive miniature¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, miniature painting. I paint small scale physical models of ships, space stations, planets, and such, and then I arrange them together in a scene. And sometimes I take them to conventions and people judge them based on any number of factors¡­ depends on the competition, really. I¡¯m mostly a scratch builder, but not like a purist snob or anything; model printing is perfectly fine for background scenery. Hey, do you want to see my latest work?¡±


    Oh dear. Please get back on script¡ª


    ¡°Sure!¡± Eupprio said chipperly. ¡°That sounds like fun.¡±


    Too tunnel visioned to even see the notification, she brought up a model scan on her tablet and showed it to the amused Eupprio. It was a colorful orange-and-blue themed spaceship, perched on a roughly textured piece of asteroid.


    Eupprio was transfixed with the model on the screen. ¡°What does this ship do?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an L-24A¡­ the ship¡¯s name is Blitz. It¡¯s a luxury long-range racer out of Vesta. Two A-rated modded drives; its jolt gets it from zero to full acceleration of forty gravities in just an hour. Funny story, they didn¡¯t have any mass budget leftover after they put the afterburners in, so they had to put in an underpowered inertial compensator which maxes out at thirty-five G¡¯s. At full burn, you can really feel the acceleration or even go into G-LOC if you aren¡¯t used to¡ª¡±


    Please stop. You are boring the clients.


    ¡°Sorry, am I boring you?¡±


    Do not ask the clients that either!


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Eupprio said, leaning in to take a closer look at the scan of her model. ¡°Wow. This is really detailed. Well built! Have you ever been on this racing ship?¡±


    Hailey blushed. ¡°No, the real one is a limited edition and about two hundred million credits out of my budget range. This is just a model.¡± She swiped on her screen, and the ¡°lid¡± on one of the hull pieces moved out of the way to show the decorated interiors. ¡°But it¡¯s even got internals that light up when powered!¡±


    Eupprio and Fleguipu marveled over the blinking lights for the afterburners on her tablet, swishing their paw over it to rotate and examine the model from other angles.


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s¡ª And you built this by paw?¡±


    ¡°By¡­ hand, yes,¡± she blushed at the compliment. ¡°Except the landing perch¡­ that part¡¯s printed.¡±


    Please. Please. Get back on schedule. We only reserved a small time slot for tours.


    Hailey sighed as she reluctantly interrupted the two Malgeir continuing to ooh and ahh over her model racer. ¡°Sorry guys, my people are telling me I have to give you the facility tour now.¡±


    After a couple more seconds, Eupprio took her eyes off the screen and handed it back to her, winking. ¡°I get it. My subordinates sometimes get rowdy too when I¡¯m too singularly focused on one thing.¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± she hurried to correct. ¡°I¡¯m not in management. I just meant¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I get it,¡± Eupprio said, pointing her paw at Hailey¡¯s face. ¡°It¡¯s that computer device you have in your eye telling you we have to hurry.¡±


    Hailey¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You know about our corneal implants?¡±


    Well, that complicates things.


    Eupprio nodded. ¡°Sure, I noticed it after a couple days with the people at Raytech. Say, you wouldn¡¯t happen to be more willing to part with them here at Ceres, would you?¡±


    The sale of corneal implants is heavily restricted by arms control law.


    ¡°The sale of corneal implants is heavily restricted by arms control law,¡± Hailey repeated.


    ¡°Hm¡­ too bad. That¡¯s what they said on Mars too.¡±


    She added helpfully, ¡°But you can buy a legal one with a sub-Terran intelligence chip on some stations in the Red Zone and certain districts on Terra if you look hard enough¡ª¡±


    Please do not advise our Malgeir clients¡ª


    Hailey continued unperturbed, ¡°Though I don¡¯t know if they¡¯d be able to fit them to your¡­ physiology.¡±


    ¡°Hm. Fascinating,¡± Eupprio said, shooting a quick glance at Fleguipu. ¡°They didn¡¯t mention that on Mars¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course not. They¡¯re a bunch of sticklers for rules over there in Olympus with their¡ª¡±


    No! Absolutely not!


    ¡°¡ª anyway, let¡¯s go on with the tour.¡±


    Eupprio looked at her with a bemused expression, ¡°Lead the way, Hailey.¡±


    Hailey led them through a labyrinth of hallways, until they arrived at a door. She swiped her badge on the panel, and it opened to a much larger module.


    ¡°This is the maintenance area,¡± she pointed at the enclosed catwalk they were standing on.  The remainder of the massive hangar was a series of machinery and robotic arms silently cold-welding new parts onto the skeletons of several unfinished ship hulls in the vacuum around them. ¡°This is one of our final assembly rooms for the SC-17 military cargo transporter.¡±


    The Malgeir executives pressed their snouts against the glass to look more closely at the assembly process.


    ¡°The SC-17 is the largest spacecraft that can fit in the hangar bays of Terran Navy¡¯s Peacekeeper-class missile destroyers,¡± she added, reading off her implant. ¡°Rated for atmospheric take-off and landing, it is suited for tactical and strategic air and space lift missions, including medical and emergency evacuation, magazine supply, for a variety of autonomous and non-autonomous missions¡ª¡±


    ¡°Have you ever painted one of these?¡± Eupprio turned around and asked innocently.


    NO! NO NO NO¡ª


    ¡°Um¡­¡± Hailey said. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll show you another time¡­ when we¡¯re not busy with the tour.¡±


    ¡°Ok, I¡¯ll save your people some time,¡± Eupprio said brightly. ¡°We¡¯re not looking for one of these.¡±


    But they said they were looking for a transport ship! Tell her we have refurbished models in stock.


    ¡°If you¡¯re concerned about the pricing,¡± Hailey started.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Eupprio waved a paw casually. ¡°I¡¯ve read the topline specifications for the SC-17 model. It doesn¡¯t fit¡­ our needs exactly.¡±


    Ask her if she¡¯s interested in our SC-5 models.


    ¡°What are your requirements? If you tell me that, I can recommend a better fit. The SC-5 is another solid transporter, though it¡¯s big enough you¡¯ll probably need a connector dock if¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not that either. We¡¯re looking for something with¡­ at least some teeth.¡±


    Armed interstellar transport. Distract her while we get the Legal Department on the line¡ª with anything but your toy painting hobby, please.


    ¡°Uh¡­ we have a few options for armed transport too,¡± Hailey stalled. ¡°Though that may be a bit pricier because of the war.¡±


    ¡°Pricier?¡± Eupprio grinned. ¡°You don¡¯t seem like you work in sales, Hailey.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she admitted. ¡°I¡¯m a logistics engineer with a background in defense operations.¡±


    ¡°Even more fascinating¡­ a logistics engineer in defense operations. How did you learn where to do that?¡±


    Hailey shrugged. ¡°I got my degree in Applied Mathematics from Seoul District University, and when I was commissioned in the Officer Reserves, I guess they desperately needed people who could do computer modeling.¡±


    Eupprio nodded slowly. ¡°I think¡­ Ceres is lucky to have you.¡±


    She reddened and muttered a quick thank you, and her implant thankfully came to the rescue.


    We cleared it with legal review. A total of six SC-22s are available, with leasing and purchase options.


    ¡°Ah. We have SC-22s available. They¡¯ve got two small-sized universal pylons with inflight rearm and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Now that¡¯s what we¡¯re talking about!¡± Eupprio grinned enthusiastically. ¡°Can we take a look at one of those?¡±


    ¡°This way.¡± Hailey gestured towards the hallway direction indicated by her implant. ¡°Would you like to lease or purchase?¡±


    ¡°Lease, of course.¡±


    Smart choice for everyone involved. Now, upsell her on the Premium Protection Pilot package. We¡¯ve got a guy who has Navy combat experience on call.


    <hr>


    Meta


    Republic Navy Cultural Field Guide ¨C Cheatsheet


    Body language: showing teeth


    Malgeir: depends on context; could be a smile, amusement, annoyance, suspicion, or tooth pain


    Znosian: clear threat display, anger


    Schpriss: neutral; could be a sign of boredom


    Granti: sign of friendliness and hospitality

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 30 Reconnaissance I

    <div>


    Republic Senate Complex, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Senator Blake Wald looked up in mild surprise as his morning newspaper reading ritual was interrupted for the second time in a week.


    ¡°Ah, Amelia,¡± he greeted. ¡°Did you get the report from the Malgeir? I passed them onto Naval Command this morning¡ª¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± she replied. ¡°The good news is there¡¯s no imminent threat of an attack on Stoers yet. Not at the moment.¡±


    ¡°And we know this how?¡±


    ¡°Not enough ships. They¡¯ve only got a couple dozen there. And their depots are almost empty. If they wanted to be pushing for Stoers, they¡¯d need to gather a lot more than that. They could have a whole fleet a system beyond, but from their perspective, there¡¯s probably no point in that kind of deception. It¡¯s not like the Puppers were actively reconnoitering the system, and it¡¯s not like the Puppers would be able to stop them if they put a whole fleet in Pomniot. More likely, their defense fleet is holding to counter the Sixth Fleet threatening Plorve.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that makes sense. I guess that¡¯s the good news. What about the bad news?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a couple. First of all, we don¡¯t know for sure where the bulk of the Znosian Navy is. They have literal thousands of combat ships hiding elsewhere deep in their territory. They aren¡¯t just going to take their losses lying down. It¡¯s possible they¡¯re pulling back to re-evaluate¡­¡±


    ¡°But?¡±


    ¡°They could also be gearing for a major campaign. Could be Stoers. Could be Gruccud. Both are close enough to habitable clusters, so such an offensive would be going for two or three systems, not just the shipyard at Stoers.¡±


    ¡°We always knew that they weren¡¯t just going to give up after a solid punch to the¡­ snout,¡± the Senator shrugged. ¡°This war is far from over.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Which is the second concern from the reconnaissance,¡± Amelia said, tossing a printed photo onto his desk. ¡°I know you love these things in print¡­¡±


    Blake put on his reading glasses and stared at it. ¡°What am I looking at?¡±


    Amelia pointed at a peculiar looking ship docked at a resupply station on the grainy image. ¡°That¡¯s the resupply station at Pomniot-4. That ship look familiar to you?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ I¡¯m afraid not,¡± he said. ¡°Is that a new one?¡±


    ¡°It is, but they come up with new ships all the time. That¡¯s not what concerns us,¡± she replied, then pointed at a large dish-like structure towards the top of the ship. ¡°This¡­ is most likely what we would refer to as a low frequency, spaceborne phased-array radar system.¡±


    ¡°Huh, didn¡¯t we have a cancelled program for that a couple decades years ago¡ª¡±


    ¡°We did. It was¡­ creatively called the SPARS.¡±


    ¡°Why was it cancelled again?¡± the pacifist Senator asked tepidly. He didn¡¯t remember the specifics, but he was pretty sure he voted for the cancellation when the vote came up¡ª


    ¡°Pirates and terrorists didn¡¯t use stealth ships enough back then for us to justify investing a whole ship class just for detection. And gravidar came along, which did the job better.¡±


    ¡°Oh, so no harm no foul then?¡± he said in relief.


    ¡°Just one problem,¡± Amelia said, holding up a finger as if waiting to see if he¡¯d figure it out.


    He nodded after a second. ¡°Ah, the Bunnies figuring out they need something like this in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Unfortunately for us, our Malgeir allies didn¡¯t capture any signals from it for us to analyze and figure out how effective it¡¯ll be. Most likely, based on the physical specifications, they¡¯ll still have trouble spotting our next-generation ships, and we can always just jam these. And their resolution sucks, especially long-range, so they can¡¯t possibly be used for fire control. But if these ships work anything like ours did, my speculation is they¡¯d be able to use them to figure out a general volume of where we¡¯d be coming from. And if they¡¯re smart enough to realize they need these, they¡¯ll find a way to use it tactically¡­ and they have plenty of ships to make whatever they figure out work.¡±


    The Senator shuddered. ¡°Well, that¡¯s just the most terrifying news I¡¯ve heard all week. Is there anything we can do about them?¡±


    ¡°We can always just blow them up.¡±


    ¡°Will they be hard to replace?¡±


    Amelia looked at the photo for another couple seconds. ¡°They look¡­ expensive enough to be worth going after, but some egghead at Naval Command would know better. And we might not want them to know that¡¯s what we¡¯re concerned about. For now, what we really need is more intelligence on its signals so we know the nature of its threat, and these images won¡¯t do. We need better pictures. And we need to know how they¡¯re working with the rest of their ships in Pomniot.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m already trying to get one of your ships out there, the Mississippi, but the approval process is being jammed up by the New Hawks again,¡± he said, annoyed and shaking his head. ¡°Can you believe it? Me. A dove. A pacifist. Trying to push up a naval deployment against the objections of some ostensible hawks. Against the warmongers. The galaxy¡¯s gone mad.¡±


    ¡°There is another way,¡± Amelia suggested. ¡°We can get one of their Husky-class battleships over there with their specialized communications suite; we¡¯d walk them through the process of collecting the data we need. If you could get one of them to agree to it with some¡­ political incentive¡­¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ since you¡¯ve asked so nicely, Admiral,¡± the Senator said, sighing. He activated his tablet. ¡°Operator, can I get Interstellar Outbound, please.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 0339, Pomniot-4


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    The expression on the face of the tall commander on the video screen was inscrutable. ¡°How could this have happened?¡±


    Nine Whiskers Stsinkt executed a low, slow bow. ¡°I take full responsibility for this grave error, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. My obsession with resource optimization left our garrison fleet vulnerable to predator espionage. If I had ordered more of my ships into an active posture, the Lesser Predator spy ships would not have gotten into the system. Or if they had, they would not have seen as much of our testing platforms as they did.¡±


    The grand fleet commander was silent, evidently digesting her explanation. He glanced down and operated the instruments on his end while Stsinkt and her bridge waited patiently.


    After a moment, he looked back up at the screen. ¡°Nine Whiskers, you rejected the combat computer¡¯s recommendation for requesting additional patrol ships for deployment in Pomniot earlier this year. Why?¡±


    Stsinkt resisted the urge to squirm. ¡°I determined it was not in the best interest of the Prophecy. I saw that it was unlikely that Pomniot would see any active fleet action by either side, so I saw no need for additional patrols.¡± She hurried to add, ¡°But as recent events have shown, that assumption was faulty, and I must also take full responsibility for this miscalculation.¡±


    Sprabr frowned. ¡°What was the reasoning behind your assumption?¡±


    She let out an involuntary sigh out of nervousness. ¡°On the Lesser Predators¡¯ part, they are unlikely to attempt a counteroffensive in this axis. Reconnaissance showed that the two broken fleets they had garrisoned at Stoers were unprepared for any fleet action outside their own system. If anything, I expected such an offensive to come out of their temporarily victorious fleet at Gruccud.¡±


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Sprabr nodded reluctantly. ¡°That logic is sound, and what about us? How did you know we would not be taking Stoers through Pomniot?¡±


    ¡°It seemed unlikely to me that if we were to attack Stoers, I would not know about such a plan before hand,¡± she replied quietly.


    A bemused expression appeared on Sprabr¡¯s face. ¡°We are supposed to clear our operational plan with you if we are going to take Stoers, Nine Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°That would be most logical, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she said, bowing deeply. ¡°However, if such an invasion plan was supposed to be secret, so secret that the commanding officer of the frontline system of the axis cannot be trusted to assist in its execution, my garrison fleet¡¯s passive posture would potentially loosen the enemy¡¯s guard to aid in its success.¡±


    ¡°Clever,¡± Sprabr said, then snorted. ¡°But you were wrong, and now they know of the new ships in our testing fleet.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. I accept full responsibility for this failure.¡±


    The senior commander looked away from the screen for a second before returning his attention to her. ¡°Why now, though?¡±


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers?¡± she asked, confused.


    ¡°Why did the predators send in a spy ship now? What changed? Their fleets at Stoers are still in no position to attack ¡ª that is abundantly clear, and we haven¡¯t done anything recently to warrant an unusual level of caution from them. So why are they doing it now?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª I don¡¯t know, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Me neither, though I believe I do have an inkling,¡± Sprabr admitted. He rubbed his whiskers, thinking, before he focused on Stsinkt again. ¡°Nine Whiskers, I have decided. One of your whiskers is on probation and you will be transferred to my flagship as my new computer officer, effective immediately.¡±


    Stsinkt looked at him speechlessly, in shock. Though technically not a promotion, the computer officer position on the grand fleet commander¡¯s flag bridge was a highly prestigious move. The kind that opened doors in one¡¯s career. And a probation of one whisker? Barely an inconvenience, the kind you¡¯d give a subordinate who forgot your hatching day.


    ¡°Not what you were expecting?¡± he asked expectantly.


    ¡°N¡ªno, Eleven Whiskers. I was expecting severe punishment, one that parallels the magnitude of my failure.¡±


    His whiskers twitched. ¡°What is the purpose of the assignment of responsibility in the Navy?¡±


    She answered instantly. ¡°To deter and learn from error. To weed out the weak from the strong, the incompetent from the excellent.¡±


    ¡°That answer is acceptable for a Five Whiskers in officer training school,¡± Sprabr said, shaking his head. ¡°The real purpose of correctly assigning responsibility in the Navy, at least in my fleets, is to ensure that the Servants of the Prophecy assume the station that best utilizes their strengths and weaknesses. So, Nine Whiskers, what do you think are your strengths?¡±


    ¡°My strengths?¡± Stsinkt asked, even more confused. ¡°I¡¯m not sure.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ you¡¯ll figure it out. In the meantime, return to Znos for re-training, and I¡¯ll see you on my ship. Who is next on your succession chart?¡±


    ¡°My computer officer, Eight Whiskers Sutpra.¡±


    The younger commander stepped up next to her commander.


    Sprabr scrutinized her for a second. ¡°Computer Officer, are you ready to assume command of the Pomniot garrison fleet?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she replied, bowing her head as well.


    ¡°Good. You are in charge now. And if what I, and a certain State Security Director, suspect about the predators¡¯ new behavior is correct, well¡­ you are aware of what we do to predators who come snooping in nests where they don¡¯t belong?¡±


    ¡°Very, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    <hr>


    Black Site Deimos, Deimos


    4 months ago


    POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    Director ¡°Mark¡± gave a short nod to the two guards in Navy uniforms marked ¡°MP¡±, and they filed out of the interrogation room. Putting his tablet on the table in front of him, he operated a few controls. The observation room window went opaque, and the blinking light on the surveillance camera went off. Seemingly not satisfied, he walked over to the camera and manually disconnected the power and signal cables.


    He pulled his chair up in front of the amused alien creature waiting patiently on the other side of the table.


    ¡°Something funny?¡± he asked.


    ¡°You ¡ª and your outfit ¡ª you are the embodiment of your species,¡± the disgraced fleet master said, gesturing at the disabled devices.


    ¡°Careful?¡± Mark asked, sitting down.


    ¡°No, paranoid.¡±


    Mark feigned a confused frown. ¡°Hm¡­ you just repeated the same word.¡±


    ¡°Your translator¡¯s vocabulary doesn¡¯t differentiate between¡ª ah, I see, you are making humorous entertainment at my expense,¡± the captive said as he caught the grin on John¡¯s face.


    ¡°Just keeping you on your paws, Ten Whiskers Ditvish,¡± Mark said, bringing up the notes on his tablet. ¡°They treating you well here?¡±


    Ditvish felt his whiskers curl. ¡°Better than I would if the scenario is reversed¡ª do you really care?¡±


    ¡°No, but Znosian prisoners who are asked that question before an interview are fifteen percent more cooperative.¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ new knowledge for me,¡± Ditvish replied, intrigued. ¡°I have never had to torture one of my own for information before. That is the job of State Security. Lesser Predator prisoners though¡ª¡±


    Mark sighed dramatically. ¡°Unfortunately, the Republic no longer permits the development and use of enhanced interrogation equipment, but applying primitive sensory stressors to your subordinates has sometimes revealed valuable information for our scientists. Not as useful as you¡¯d think though. Would you like to see how we do it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Ditvish lied, leaning back in his chair.


    The director tapped his left temple, simulating where Ditvish¡¯s mind reading implant was. ¡°I thought we were past lying to each other, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    He sniffed. ¡°I imagine what you do with the others is not very different from what you do with me.¡±


    Mark shrugged. ¡°We don¡¯t mistreat prisoners. We don¡¯t need to. We can read your mind anyway.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Ditvish raised a claw. ¡°That implies you would do it if you could gain an advantage. If your so-called morality only matters to your people when it is convenient, then how is it any different from what we do?¡±


    ¡°Unlike you, we have a line we won¡¯t cross.¡±


    ¡°We have a line too. And now we are just haggling over where the line should be,¡± Ditvish smiled triumphantly.


    Smile. A facial expression he¡¯d learned from the human. Unsettling. For both of them.


    ¡°Sure. All of morality is haggling over where the line is.¡±


    ¡°So what makes you think your morality is superior to ours?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t murder entire planets for real estate.¡±


    ¡°Pointless weakness and sentimentality,¡± Ditvish dismissed casually.


    ¡°Yet¡­ we captured you. And our supposed weakness earned us an alliance with the Puppers. If we wanted colonies on their fertile planets, we could simply ask. In a year, we¡¯ve derived more economic benefit from our partnership with them than you¡¯ve gotten from them with conquest.¡±


    ¡°For now, yes,¡± Ditvish admitted. ¡°But in the long run, we will get to keep the planets and you will need to keep paying them for your¡­ friendship.¡±


    ¡°If there is a price, it¡¯s miniscule compared to the cost of full-scale planetary invasions. Your Dominion will never make that back in a thousand years. Especially now that you are losing. These attempted conquests of yours¡­ they¡¯re not just immoral. They¡¯re inefficient. That is the real weakness of your ideology.¡±


    Unable to counter his point, the alien changed track. ¡°What are you even here for? I have already told you everything I knew about my Navy, with the help of your predator trickery. And I am sure my people have changed much of it by now, after learning about my defection. You are wasting your time here.¡±


    ¡°Want me to leave so soon?¡± Mark asked, crossing his arms. ¡°Your mouth says no but your mind says arguing with me is the most interesting part of your week.¡±


    ¡°It is better than the boring meetings with your scientists accompanied by the commissioners,¡± Ditvish conceded. ¡°I can see why your guards implement special measures to prevent us from killing ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Commissioners? That¡¯s how you think of your Republic-assigned prisoner advocates?¡± Mark guffawed. ¡°What do you think of me as?¡±


    ¡°Terran State Security,¡± Ditvish answered without hesitation.


    Mark tilted his head. ¡°Not quite, but fair enough.¡±


    ¡°You have dodged my questions with your own.¡±


    ¡°Indeed I have,¡± Mark nodded. ¡°Deliberately. And that¡¯s a privilege afforded to people sitting on this side of the table.¡±


    ¡°Not just in interrogation. I notice your people seem to do it often, sometimes to each other.¡±


    Mark mimed pushing up imaginary glasses on his face, like one of the sociology scientists on the base would when he made an annoying point. ¡°It is a social mechanism among individualistic species to avoid unpleasant points of conversation.¡±


    ¡°Now you are mocking me¡­ somehow,¡± the alien pointed an accusatory paw at him. ¡°And still dodging the question. What do you need from me?¡±


    ¡°Huh, and you didn¡¯t even need a mind reader.¡± Mark paused for a moment, then asked, ¡°Remember when we talked about your old mentor, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr?¡±


    Ditvish narrowed his eyes. ¡°I have already revealed to you everything I know about the Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you have,¡± the Terran said, seeming uncertain as the mind reader device confirmed his honesty.


    ¡°What has changed? Something must have. You have no reason to conceal it from me.¡±


    ¡°He guessed the truth about your surrender,¡± Mark revealed. ¡°Which was no big deal¡­ someone was bound to do it. But then he convinced your State Security of this. And now they are asking a lot of inconvenient questions to their turned sources in the Malgeir Navy.¡±


    Ditvish thought for a moment and leaned back as well. ¡°That is also good news for you, is it not?¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°You can use the opportunity to roll up our espionage networks among the¡ª ah, you already knew who our spies were. Of course, that¡¯s how you knew they were being asked questions. In that case, never mind what I said about good news ¡ª this is very bad for you Terrans and your existential paranoia.¡±


    Mark rolled his eyes. ¡°Astute analysis, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°No matter what careful lies you feed through them, our people asking the questions will eventually reach the right conclusion about the sudden increase in competence and capability within the Lesser Predators.¡± The captive pointed to one of the Terran books they¡¯d provided to him on his shelf. ¡°And as your people know, you cannot fool all of the people, all of the time.¡±


    ¡°Wow. You sure are full of fortune cookie wisdom today, Mr. Lincoln. Anything other than the blindingly obvious?¡±


    ¡°No, but I will enjoy the thought of your difficulties very much when I go to sleep tonight.¡± The disgraced alien officer smiled smugly. ¡°And you were right: this has indeed been the most interesting part of my week.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 31 Reconnaissance II

    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°We are exiting blink in five minutes,¡± the alien on the main screen reported. It was Peipplust, the Second Fleet Commander himself, reporting from on his Husky-class battleship, the MNS Cliunc, remotely to a situation room full of Republic Navy officers and analysts.


    ¡°Fleet Commander Peipplust, can we go over your post-blink procedures again?¡± Amelia asked nervously.


    ¡°There is no need for that,¡± Peipplust dismissed with a wave of his paw. ¡°The Cliunc crew knows what to do.¡±


    ¡°Your last post-blink was half an hour too long¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our ships are much larger and more complex than yours,¡± he explained in a patient voice. ¡°That is why they take longer. You can¡¯t expect our ships to be ready for combat within seconds upon arrival. Nor is there a point. Not even the Grass Eaters can predict our arrival and intercept us within that time.¡±


    Amelia prepared to launch into a long debate about his ship¡¯s large crew, the necessity of efficient operations, and Sixth Fleet¡¯s far better combat readiness, but Chuck Harris cut her off, knowing she was not about to win the argument, ¡°Peipplust, is your ship¡¯s engineering section at least prepared to collect the data with the communication software we sent over?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± he replied with a little less patience. ¡°Everything is ready. Now, excuse me as I will need to go command my ship.¡±


    The direct feed to the Cliunc continued to roll as the ship exited blink. To Amelia¡¯s chagrin, it took the Cliunc¡¯s Malgeir crew another twenty minutes before they completed calibration on the ship¡¯s outdated radar systems and switched it on.


    Through the raw data fed in by the Cliunc¡¯s radar, the Terran computers in the Atlas command center were able to identify the roughly three squadrons of Znosian combat ships near the orbital defense station they¡¯d constructed in orbit of its fourth planet, a refueling-capable gas giant.


    ¡°Something¡¯s missing,¡± Amelia muttered.


    Chuck looked intently at his tablet screen. ¡°Yeah, the experimental SPARS ship isn¡¯t there anymore. Maybe they¡¯ve pulled it back or it¡¯s occluded somewhere in the system.¡±


    Amelia sighed. ¡°Figures. We would have moved it too if we knew the enemy was sniffing around. How much time do we have?¡±


    Samantha knew the figure off the top of her head. ¡°A quick response squadron of Foragers from Pomniot-4 is now burning to intercept. We¡¯ve got at least forty-eight hours before the Buns can reach the Cliunc, assuming a max accel burn.¡±


    ¡°So we have some time,¡± Amelia muttered. She pressed the unmute button and cleared her throat for the Malgeir¡¯s attention. ¡°Ahem, Fleet Commander Peipplust¡­ we¡¯re going to Plan B. It looks like our primary target might not be here, but there¡¯s plenty more here to see and uh¡­ we want to get our credit¡¯s worth of reconnaissance since we made you come all the way out here.¡±


    The alien sniffed, tilting his head. ¡°Yes. We would not want to waste fuel for a pointless trip. Tell me what you want to see.¡±


    ¡°Get me the list of our secondary targets and an orbital maneuver for forty hours of loiter.¡± Amelia snapped her fingers at the analysts¡¯ table. She looked back at the screen. ¡°We¡¯re getting that to you right now. Give my people a minute.¡±


    Samantha came back just under the time limit. ¡°We¡¯ve got a defenseless fuel transfer depot at Pomniot-8. Of the sixteen facilities around Pomniot-4, one of them appears to be a supply warehouse, minimally defended. Recommend taking out the fuel depot, finding out how minimally defended that P-4 warehouse is, and a slightly closer look at the main ship dock¡¯s defensive cluster.¡±


    ¡°Think he¡¯ll go for that?¡± Amelia asked lightly.


    ¡°Uh¡­ that¡¯d be your department, Admiral.¡±


    She arched an eyebrow and got back on the line. ¡°Alright, Fleet Commander, we¡¯ve got your list right here. First, there is an undefended enemy fuel depot at Pomniot-8. Service it with two of your anti-ship missiles from where you are now. Then¡ª¡±


    The alien commander held up a paw. ¡°Hold on a second, Fleet Commander. I thought you said this was an observation mission.¡±


    ¡°So close. It is a reconnaissance mission. And if the enemy leaves her orbital infrastructure undefended, we are not in the habit of saying no.¡±


    Peipplust started to grumble. ¡°Fine, but my missiles will cost me¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t bullshit me, Fleet Commander. We have your books. We know your missiles are supplied one-for-one by your Admiralty¡­ since we insisted on that policy change last year. On the other hand, your fuel is not, and lugging all your missiles back to Stoers will actually cost you more in both fuel and maintenance. And who knows? You might even get a Defense Ministry medal out of this too. I hear they like seeing things explode.¡± Amelia managed to finish her rationalization with a completely straight face.


    ¡°I¡ª had not considered that,¡± the fleet commander conceded smoothly on the screen. After a moment¡¯s calculation, he turned aside to his tactical officer with notably more enthusiasm. ¡°Weapons, target the fuel facility around the eighth planet and fire two missiles.¡±


    The command center¡¯s Navy computers in Atlas noted the missile launches and tracked their progress.


    ¡°Glad to see you agree,¡± Amelia continued. ¡°Next, we want to see what¡¯s defending the facilities around Pomniot-4. Accelerate the Cliunc to one percent of light and fire your full complement of ten missiles at the supply warehouse, marked ¡®Tango Alpha¡¯ on your targeting radar. Then, reload and fire another full volley at the main ship dock, marked ¡®Tango Bravo¡¯. And when you¡¯re done, drop one of your modified observation buoys and burn for the blink limit.¡±


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The alien seemed to hesitate. ¡°I¡¯m not opposed to blowing up the Grass Eaters, but lobbing missiles at them from this far away¡­ they will just intercept¡ª¡±


    ¡°They will intercept the one towards the main ship dock and probably even the one at their supply warehouse,¡± Amelia explained. ¡°But we want to find out what kind of defenses they have over there. That¡¯s what we are here for, reconnaissance, and there¡¯s no better way to reconnoiter than making the enemy react to fire. And who knows? Maybe we get a solid hit in. Missile defenses fail all the time.¡±


    Peipplust took a moment to digest the information and agreed, and the Terran Navy computers showed his ship burning at ninety percent acceleration towards the targets.


    He got back on the line. ¡°Fleet Commander Amelia Waters, should we also fire missiles at the squadron coming to intercept us?¡± he suggested. ¡°We can collect some¡­ intelligence from that.¡±


    She held her finger on the talk button. ¡°Uh¡­ that¡¯s a good thought, Fleet Commander. Love the initiative¡­ totally¡­ but we already know how their Foragers¡ª Delta-class ships¡­ respond to a volley. Save your munitions, we might have some more targets for you on the way.¡±


    <hr>


    A little under five hours later, the computers showed Cliunc firing her missile batteries at the targets¡­ most of them. Three of the launchers malfunctioned in both volleys.


    ¡°Damn Malgeir weapons readiness¡­ at least it¡¯s close enough,¡± Amelia muttered. She looked over at the analysts¡¯ table. ¡°How¡¯s the BDA on the fuel depot?¡±


    ¡°Looking good,¡± Samantha replied. ¡°Solid hits. Debris vector analysis seems to indicate the depot was about half full but let me get back to you with a better number.¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°Better than half empty, I guess. What about the missiles heading for Pomniot-4?¡±


    Samantha hesitated. ¡°You¡­ don¡¯t actually think they¡¯ll get a hit in¡­ do you?¡±


    ¡°Nah, I just told him that to get him to do it. Only one percent light? The Buns will do it all efficient. Two counter-missiles each when they get in effective range of the mediums.¡±


    ¡°Long range batteries are my guess, Admiral. One each.¡±


    ¡°You think?¡±


    Samantha pointed at her tablet. ¡°The computer does. It thinks they¡¯re not going to take chances¡­ the Buns were already on edge. The Malgeir normally wouldn¡¯t even try something like this.¡±


    She pointed to the screen. ¡°I guess we¡¯ll find out¡­ but not before the Puppers get out of dodge.¡±


    Right on cue, Peipplust got back on screen. ¡°My ship has fired the missiles and dropped the observation buoy as requested. Now we are burning back towards the blink limit.¡±


    ¡°Excellent work, Fleet Commander,¡± Amelia praised. ¡°Come home and we¡¯ll let you know if we find anything. Fly safe out there.¡±


    <hr>


    The command screen lit up with a cacophony of warning lights.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Amelia asked, putting down her third cup of coffee.


    Samantha looked at her, seemingly with as little smugness as she could muster on her face. ¡°Observation buoys in Pomniot report that their long range defensive batteries just fired. One counter-missile for each of the inbound vampires.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, you were right. Good guess, Sam. Did we catch where they came from this time?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative. Logged their locations with Naval Command. We¡¯ve updated our simulation models.¡±


    She nodded in satisfaction. ¡°Good, at least we got something out of this trip. What about the Cliunc?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve arrived in Sconcans from blink, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Is it going to take another half hour before they turn their radars back on?¡± Amelia asked impatiently.


    ¡°They¡¯ve been in the sector for half an hour. The feed should be live¡­ when they¡¯re ready.¡±


    It took another five minutes before the Malgeir crew managed to recalibrate the ship¡¯s radar systems. When they did, the data began flowing into the Terran command center, and several alerts went off immediately.


    The most pertinent showed up on the main screen immediately:


    Bandits present in system.


    ¡°Four Forager-class missile destroyers, burning for the Cliunc. Five hours out,¡± Chuck reported. ¡°They must have been waiting on our way in.¡±


    Amelia glared at the screen. ¡°We didn¡¯t think to look for them?!¡±


    Samantha sweated nervously. ¡°They must have been hiding behind one of the planets, Admiral. The Cliunc doesn¡¯t have a gravidar¡ª¡±


    Peipplust got back into frame of the video call. ¡°Fleet Commander, we have a problem! We are still conducting post-blink procedures, but there are Grass Eaters in Sconcans with us!¡±


    ¡°Yes, we¡¯ve heard,¡± Amelia replied calmly. ¡°We have a working battle plan. Complete the rest of your post-blink procedures. We¡¯ll get back to you in ten minutes after we run some simulations.¡±


    Then, she muted the connection and looked at the tense room. ¡°Ten minutes, people. We need a plan for how we can somehow outrun or outfight four Foragers with a rusty Husky before the Prime Directive comes into play.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 0339, Sconcans (18,800 Ls)


    POV: Sutpra, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)


    Sutpra looked at the lone enemy flagship caught in the trap from her sensor screen.


    ¡°Eight Whiskers, the Lesser Predators are now making a vector adjustment,¡± her new computer officer reported.


    She spun around. ¡°Where are they heading now?¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide calculates they are burning straight for the Stoers blink limit at maximum combat burn.¡±


    ¡°And we will intercept them in¡ª¡±


    ¡°Three hours, Eight Whiskers. We have adjusted to their trajectory in a lagging vector. They will not be getting away this time.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    <hr>


    Two hours later, various non-critical alarms on her ship began to sound.


    The computer officer reported in. ¡°Eight Whiskers, we are almost within our maximum effective range behind them. They appear to be dumping¡­ some excess fuel and cargo. They have improved their acceleration.¡±


    Sutpra frowned. ¡°Are they getting away?¡±


    ¡°No, Eight Whiskers. Due to our high initial velocity, we are still traveling faster than they are relative to their destination. Our time to intercept has merely increased by 20 minutes.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    A few minutes later, several more notifications began to sound on her console.


    ¡°What is it this time?¡± Sutpra asked.


    After checking for a moment, the computer officer straightened up to report. ¡°They are dumping their escape pods, Eight Whiskers. Based on adjusted acceleration, our time to intercept has increased by another five minutes.¡±


    ¡°Good, track them. If there¡¯s anyone alive in them, we¡¯ll come back and pick them up when we¡¯re done here.¡±


    Before the computer officer could give her an affirmation, the notifications kept coming. This time, they were slightly more urgent. A large number of confused dots appeared on the radar screen before being dismissed by the computer.


    ¡°What did they dump this time?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Their entire load of countermeasures, Eight Whiskers. And they appear to be firing railgun projectiles at our general direction.¡±


    Sutpra scratched her whiskers in almost-amusement. ¡°This far out? Are they actually firing them or dumping them with the rest of their cargo?¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my error and thank you for the correction, Eight Whiskers. They appear to be dumping their railgun projectiles instead of actively launching them at us. Our time to intercept has increased by another two minutes.¡±


    The klaxons on the bridge sounded as seven new dots representing missile threats appeared on the sensor board.


    ¡°Missiles?¡± Sutpra questioned.


    ¡°Launched beyond maximum effective range,¡± the computer officer said. ¡°Should we go evasive?¡±


    She thought for a moment. ¡°Unnecessary. And slowing the chase to evade would be just what the Lesser Predators want. Reload counter-missiles and send two for each. By the time they intercept, they¡¯ll be out of fuel.¡±


    Sutpra proved to be right. The incoming missiles burnt out most of their fuel before they reached the counter-missile screen, and the ones that were on track to hit were easily intercepted.


    After another minute, Sutpra looked at the computer officer, ¡°It looks like the desperate predators are out of excess mass to dump. Calculate targeting solutions and fire once we get into maximum effective range. Let¡¯s not waste munitions. Two from each ship should do.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 32 Reconnaissance III

    <div>


    MNS Cliunc, Sconcans (16,800 Ls)


    1 hour ago


    POV: Traenstrius, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Omega Leader)


    ¡°Battery commander! Main missile battery commander!¡± the orderly yelled across the long hallway.


    ¡°What is it?¡± the omega leader asked, wiping her greasy paws on her uniform.


    ¡°New orders for all missile batteries: you need to pack up all the missiles and send them to the cargo bay!¡±


    ¡°What?! Who issued these orders?¡±


    ¡°The fleet commander himself,¡± the orderly replied, bringing out his tablet to show her the unusual orders. ¡°It must be done immediately!¡±


    ¡°What about the one already in the tube?¡±


    ¡°That one stays. All remaining in the magazine must be transferred over to the cargo bay in the next ten minutes! The fleet commander says any that aren¡¯t in the cargo bay in ten minutes will be docked from your pay.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have a powered cart up in here!¡± the omega leader protested as she verified the new orders on her datapad. ¡°I can¡¯t afford that kind of fee!¡±


    ¡°Not to worry,¡± the orderly flashed her a sly grin. ¡°My technicians from the hangar bay are coming with ours. We¡¯ll help move your cargo. For just a few credits, of course. How many do you have?¡±


    She stared at him glumly for a couple precious seconds before nodding. ¡°Four in the magazine.¡±


    <hr>


    30 minutes ago


    POV: Trertanc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Delta Leader)


    ¡°8¡­ 9¡­ 10¡­ 11,¡± the aft-6 cargo bay commander counted. ¡°Where are the last two?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t locate the last two missiles in our batch, Delta Leader! Our technicians are still looking in the fourth battery magazine.¡±


    The delta leader looked at his watch before shuddering. ¡°Ah, crap. We¡¯re already late. We can¡¯t wait anymore. Depressurize the outer bay.¡±


    ¡°Wait, wait! We¡¯ve got one more!¡± a technician yelled from the other end of the cargo bay, pushing a cart barely holding up a massive anti-ship missile stacked on top with three other crew members.


    He hesitated for a second but relented. ¡°Alright, get them in there! These are the last ones!¡±


    ¡°Where do you want them?¡± the technician asked as he got closer.


    ¡°Where do I¡ª just set it down! These are going out to vacuum anyway! Go go go!¡±


    The four crew members gingerly plopped the cargo onto the floor, next to the other missiles and an assortment of junk and ship parts that were deemed non-essential, before they all sprinted for the exit.


    ¡°That¡¯s it!¡± the delta leader shouted as the cargo bay door closed. ¡°Depressurize!¡±


    <hr>


    20 minutes ago


    The timer hit zero.


    ¡°Ejecting¡­ now!¡± The delta leader pulled a large red lever on the board next to him.


    The final batch of missiles went out into vacuum as the inertial compensator field in the cargo bay inverted, shooting its contents out the exterior of the ship.


    A technician pressed up her snout against the plexiglass window. ¡°Darn, that was my one good hover cart.¡±


    The delta leader scoffed but said nothing.


    I¡¯m just glad those missiles didn¡¯t blow up in our faces on their way out.


    <hr>


    ZNS 0339, Sconcans (16,700 Ls)


    POV: Sutpra, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)


    ¡°All four ships reporting good track on target,¡± the computer officer reported. ¡°Ready to launch when we enter effective range, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Good, call the observation ship. Tell them to ready the experimental device, just in case.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Like I said, two missiles from each¡ª¡±


    All the klaxons on the bridge went off all at once.


    Sutpra had enough time to glance at the sensor screen to see dozens of threats closing on her ships, some from the front, others from the rear, all burning for¡ª


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°Connection established with the Malgeir missiles in the debris pile, Admiral,¡± Chuck reported. ¡°We have full control from here.¡±


    Amelia looked at the three dozen dots, the entire remaining missile inventory of the Cliunc, floating dormant on the battlemap: some next to the ship¡¯s abandoned cargo, others next to her radar chaff.


    ¡°Our computers are working on their orbital parameters. Updating the firmware¡­ Give it a second¡­ and done.¡±


    Within minutes, the flotilla of Znosian missile destroyers finally accelerated into their effective range overlap.


    ¡°Launch.¡±


    The icons representing the dozens of missiles hidden in the debris activated their main engines and converged on the four enemy ships. With the targets that close, it only took seconds to verify the results.


    ¡°All four targets hit,¡± Chuck reported. ¡°Multiple hits.¡±


    Amelia felt her chest release a massive sigh of relief as the analysts in the room cheered.


    ¡°Massive radiation release from one of the Foragers,¡± Chuck continued. ¡°It must have been hit in the reactor. Cliunc¡¯s radar still detects the three other contiguous targets, but they are all drifting without acceleration. Radiation from one of them suggests it is melting down. Escape pod ejections detected.¡±


    ¡°Good. Get the Cliunc¡ª¡±


    The Malgeir fleet commander needed no additional prompting. His excited face appeared on the call. ¡°Excellent battle planning, Fleet Commander Amelia Waters!¡±


    She gave him a wry smile. ¡°My compliments to your crew too, Fleet Commander. Now, time to come home¡ª¡±


    He interrupted her as one of his crew members whispered something into his ear on screen. ¡°We are detecting pod and shuttle ejections from the Grass Eater ships! We should go back for prisoners.¡±


    ¡°That is extremely risky, Fleet Commander Peipplust,¡± Amelia said, alarm rising. ¡°The enemy ships might no longer have engines, but their weapons might still work. You are alone. Better to come home quickly.¡±


    Peipplust thought for a moment before replying, ¡°Their engines are disabled. We will shred their ships with our point defense guns before we get back in their range. And we will only pick up a couple of the higher-ranking hibernation pods. They are no threat. Besides, this is an intelligence gathering mission, and these prisoners can have valuable intelligence.¡±


    Amelia admitted to herself that it wasn¡¯t a terrible plan. It went against her instincts. But there was nothing she could immediately dispute with his reasoning. It just¡­ felt wrong. She racked her brain for something that rational could convince him but came up empty. ¡°I advise against it. If you must¡­ just be careful. If anything goes wrong, immediately burn for home.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. We will be careful,¡± he waved nonchalantly as he disappeared out of view.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Amelia looked at her room full of analysts. ¡°Find me anything ¡ª everything ¡ª that can possibly go wrong¡­ now.¡±


    It only took them thirty seconds to come up with a list, and it was a hefty one. At the top of the list¡­


    She called out on the live call to the Cliunc. ¡°Fleet Commander! The Znosian evacuation shuttles. They¡¯re dual-purpose boarding shuttles. Disable their engines before you get close!¡±


    Nobody responded.


    Annoyed, she looked at Samantha. ¡°Crank up the volume¡ª¡±


    Chuck tapped her on the shoulder as an urgent notification popped up on the screen: transmission interruption detected.


    ¡°Interruption?¡± she asked, her anxiety levels spiking. ¡°Jamming? Is it one of our relays? Can we route it through another¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s on the other end,¡± Samantha said. ¡°Source is¡­ Sconcans, near the side towards Pomniot, at the blink limit. Raw signal but it¡¯s powerful enough. Must be a dedicated electronic warfare ship.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the Buns. I knew we should have insisted on installing a resilient FTL comms suite for them!¡± Amelia sweated. ¡°His image is still moving. Can we get anything through?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Admiral. We can see and hear them because we¡¯re cleaning up their signals here, but they likely can¡¯t hear us.¡±


    Her heart stopped. ¡°Please tell me they¡¯ve noticed the Bun boarding shuttles.¡±


    ¡°No changes in their targeting, Admiral. They¡¯ve locked up the enemy capital ships with their point defense guns,¡± Samantha reported emotionlessly.


    ¡°They still have a few minutes before they get in boarding range,¡± Chuck suggested optimistically. ¡°Maybe they will figure it out?¡±


    They did not figure it out.


    Several minutes later, the instruments reported the Cliunc point defense guns firing. As expected, their shells detonated the three defenseless and drifting Znosian missile ships¡­ but the dangerous shuttles remained, lurking near their wrecks and hibernation pods.


    The face of Peipplust appeared back on the call. ¡°Fleet Commander Amelia Waters? Fleet Commander? Hmm¡­¡± He scratched his snout. ¡°Looks like your end of the connection is malfunctioning. You should get that fixed. Anyway, in case you can still see this: we have destroyed the remaining Znosian ships and are approaching their hibernation pods. I was about to ask you which ones to pick up, but it seems you are¡­ predisposed, so we will simply pluck two from their flagship bridge pods.¡±


    Amelia wanted to scream at the screen, but it was no use.


    She sat down heavily in her chair and looked at the glumly silent command room. We have managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. How quickly an operation can go so badly¡ª


    ¡°Assume the Cliunc is about to be captured by enemy forces. What is our contingency? Can we still activate the self-destruct option?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Admiral. The jamming signal on the other end is too powerful for their systems to receive anything!¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s our closest quick response¡ª any ship¡ª Do we have any ships that can respond?¡±


    ¡°The Amazon is seven star systems away, Admiral.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Cliunc, Sconcans (16,800 Ls)


    POV: Peipplust, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Fleet Commander)


    Peipplust stared at the two prize hibernation pods in the cargo bay camera with satisfaction. ¡°Good work, crew! My Znosian is rusty, but I¡¯m pretty sure that inscription on the pod says Eight Whiskers. Transmit that information to the¡ª¡±


    The proximity alarm klaxon sounded, shattering his train of thought.


    ¡°Fleet Commander,¡± his tactical officer shouted in alarm. ¡°Enemy shuttles are on a collision course with us.¡±


    ¡°Collision? Shuttles? More than one?¡± he asked, startled.


    ¡°All of them! They¡¯re boarding shuttles!¡±


    Two seconds later, the Cliunc shuddered several times in quick succession as the enemy boarding shuttles hit the massive battleship, several in the midsection and even more in the rear, overloading its inertial compensators for a brief moment. Two officers on the bridge fell to the ground, but Peipplust kept his balance as he held onto his command console.


    He looked on the ship¡¯s interior cameras in horror as dozens of Grass Eaters poured out of the vessels into his hull, weapons ready and apparently well-coordinated.


    Maneuvering in small, independent teams and cutting their way into the ship¡¯s vital systems, an unseen Znosian gunner cut down one of his Marine squads in a volley of withering fire. In seconds, he knew it was all over. Brave as his ship¡¯s Marine contingent was, they were not prepared to face down the hordes of equally determined Znosian Marines streaming onto his ship.


    But Peipplust was no coward.


    We will not go down without a fight.


    In two quick strides, he rushed to the bridge weapons locker, opening it with a quick tap on the identification pad. There appeared to be a slight shortage of rifles from the empty slots in the cabinet, but there was just enough in it to arm the remainder of the bridge crew. He started loading and tossing them to each of his officers on the bridge, leaving one next to himself. He picked up the two grenades inside, tucking them into his belt.


    ¡°Get all Marines to the engineering section, right now!¡± he shouted at his functionally paralyzed tactical officer.


    ¡°The engineering section?¡± his tactical officer asked in a daze.


    ¡°Yes! The self-destruct. Order them to activate it immediately.¡±


    ¡°The self¡ª self-destruct?¡±


    ¡°We swore an oath of honor! We can¡¯t let the secret of our Grass Eater allies out to the bad Grass Eaters!¡±


    The tactical officer only hesitated for another half-second. ¡°Yes, Fleet Commander!¡± She turned to her communication console to give the order.


    As he handed out the rifles from the weapon locker, the tactical officer looked back at him, her face ashen as she recovered enough from her shock to stutter, ¡°The enemy¡ª enemy has cut off control¡ª control to engineering and¡ª and¡ª and the rear sector of the ship. They won¡¯t be able to get the self-destruct sequence started even if they could send the signal!¡±


    He handed her the last rifle in the locker. He pointed at the command consoles. ¡°Shoot and destroy all the computers in here. Hopefully that will be enough to wipe out any¡­ relevant data in here.¡±


    Peipplust was¡­ disappointed. As little as he initially thought of their new allies, they had not let him down. And he knew he was about to let them down. He walked over to the special communications station, took one last look at the frozen face of the Terran fleet commander on the screen, and spoke into it with only the slightest hesitation.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you can still hear us, Terrans. If you can, we have been boarded, and they will likely take our ship. They are coming for the bridge¡­ I am sorry: this was my fault.¡±


    Taking responsibility was against his every instinct. Against his decades of habit in the corrupt Federation Navy. His aptitude for self-preservation in the malestrom of normalized corruption in the society he was born to and grew up in. But perhaps it was because he was dead anyway. Or perhaps it was a few months of working with the new Grass Eater allies ¡ª even if only tangentially ¡ª with their odd, naive even, senses of self-respect and high-minded ideals¡­


    Thud. Thud.


    The bridge access door thumped a few times. He could hear the Grass Eaters¡¯ shots and yells from the hallway beyond. There was a staccato of gunfire next to him as his tactical officer continued to destroy as many of the command consoles as she could, echoing the rat-at-at of the gunfire outside as the Znosians wiped out the remaining defenders near the bridge. His officers took cover near their consoles, rifles aimed at the door.


    He continued into the special console, ¡°Our reactor has been cut off. We cannot activate the self-destruct. We will destroy what data we can on the bridge, but I cannot guarantee anything. Except¡ª¡±


    Another few thumps on the door, and then a loud bang. It was the Grass Eaters with their breaching explosives.


    Rat-at-at-at-at.


    His officers¡¯ weapons rang out, gunning down the first couple of the enemy¡¯s Marines as they rushed through the door. For a second, it looked like they could hold the door, then the enemies released a smoke grenade, its fumes covering his crew¡¯s line of sight.


    The Grass Eaters, however, could see right through it. A few shots rang out, and his officers fell in droves. He saw his tactical officer slump face-down into a pool of her own blood. The remainder were whittled down by the increasing volume of fire from the enemies as he ducked behind the console for cover.


    ¡°Except¡ª All I can guarantee is that they will not take any of us prisoner. The next time you see this ship, it will be enemy. Good hunting.¡±


    He smashed the remaining communication console with the butt of his rifle and stood up, facing the enemies.


    Alone, he realized. His bridge crew were all lying around him, dead.


    One of the enemy Marines emerged from the smoke, snarling even in his partially covered helmet.


    Peipplust brought up his rifle to his shoulder. He hadn¡¯t shot one of these since basic training over a decade ago, but¡­ it was a simple weapon, the target was close, and his paw was steady.


    Bang.


    He put a clean paw-sized hole through its head.


    The outline of another ran out of the smoke towards him. He immediately shifted his aim, but before he could work the trigger this time, he heard a wet thump on his right shoulder, and suddenly his vision shifted violently.


    He was lying on the floor.


    Get up. Get up.


    Peipplust tried to climb back to his paws. He saw the enemy running at him. He tried to grab at his rifle lying next to him. But the enemy was too fast. It thumped on his right paw with its armored paw. He heard a bone crunch ¡ª his ¡ª and screamed in pain.


    An ugly face loomed over his.


    ¡°Ah, we are in luck. A fleet commander,¡± the Grass Eater said in its ugly native language, taking a second to observe his uniform.


    Peipplust spat at its face in his best broken Znosian, his breathe getting shallower. ¡°May your eggs shatter¡­ and rot, abomination.¡±


    ¡°Very interesting tactics, I must admit¡­ for a Lesser Predator. Luckily, we were prepared for¡­ better than you. As you can see,¡± it pointed around the bridge with an expression he didn¡¯t need a translator to tell was smug.


    And it was right. Even for Grass Eater Marines, these people moved faster, more aggressively, than he¡¯d seen in the videos. They¡¯d torn through his people like knife through lard. ¡°Rotten tricks and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Save your breath, abomination. You will get your chance to talk. After all, our commissioners have many questions for you,¡± it continued. ¡°Medic¡­ stop the disgusting creature¡¯s bleeding, and give it some blood from its fellow vermin.¡±


    He saw out of the side of his right eye one of the Grass Eater medics bend down to insert a needle and tube into one of his fallen bridge officers. Their leader looked at one of its subordinates as they muttered something unintelligible. It scoffed, ¡°Blood type seven, universal donor? That makes things easier.¡±


    ¡°I will not¡­ tell you anything,¡± he gasped out.


    It imitated a mock grin back at him. ¡°Our people can be very persuasive¡­ so we shall see about your¡­ stubbornness.¡±


    Color in his vision slowly fading out, Peipplust idly counted seven lines on the rank patch sewn embedded into the enemy¡¯s armor.


    Seven whiskers. Not great, not the worst.


    He matched the alien¡¯s dumb grin with his own through the discomfort. ¡°Make sure to tell me¡­ what you find out¡­¡±


    With pained effort, he brought up his good left paw, showing the enemy critter the universal sign of hostility: the pulled pins detached from the now-live grenades counting down in his belt.


    Their fuses lasted just long enough for Peipplust to watch the mild confusion on the Grass Eater¡¯s eyes transform into wild panic with his last breath.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 33 Consequences

    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Blake Wald, Terran (Senator)


    Senator Blake Wald adjusted the microphone to his height, looked at the camera, and held up a stack of papers. He began to read his prepared speech from it.


    Good morning. Today, we present this report and these recommendations to the President of the Terran Republic. To the Terran Republic Senate. The Terran people. And to our allies in the Malgeir Republic. This report represents the majority conclusion of the Republic Commission on the Incident in the Malgeir system of Sconcans. In Sconcans, an allied warship named Cliunc was attacked and boarded by enemies on the return trip of a reconnaissance mission. Cliunc carried with it six thousand allied spacers, critical intelligence on an enemy system, and above all, possible traces that may have revealed the existence of the Terran people to our dangerous enemies.


    I will not mince words. The personnel of the Terran and Malgeir services responded with efficiency and professionalism¡­ but it is also fair to say that¡­ they were unprepared. As we detail in our report, this was a failure of policy. It was a failure of management. And above all, it was a failure of imagination.


    We recognize that as commissioners, we have the benefit of hindsight. War is messy. War is risky. And the job of keeping a species-wide secret is of paramount difficulty. We do not know if any specific or combination of measures would have averted the incident. What we do know is that the countermeasures we did adopt did not work as planned or designed.


    Our fail safes relied on hastily constructed mechanisms that did not include appropriate redundancies. Our gaps in intelligence gathering necessitated the use of allied units with substandard equipment. And our programs for training these units have not bear fruit as expected. These examples make up a broader picture of Republic foreign and defense policy, and they show how we may have failed to fully protect our allies¡¯ people and the secret of our people¡¯s existence.


    Our failures took place over many months of this war. No single individual is responsible for it. Yet individuals and institutions cannot be absolved of responsibility. Senior officers in the Navy, in the government, and in the intelligence community bear some element of that. That said, we are not here to assign blame. We look back so we can look forward. Our goal is to prevent future failures.


    The Commission studied numerous proposals and weighed their benefits and drawbacks. We recommend significant changes in policy and prioritization. First, command. A critical theme that emerged throughout our inquiry was the difficulty of answering the question¡­ who was in charge? Who was ultimately in command of the ship or the task force? Whose orders should be followed? Too often, the answer was¡­ no one. Thus, we are recommending a joint allied command authority. We need to unify the chain of command. We recommend a joint allied commander. We recommend clearer enforcement of existing rules for command, on all sides of the alliance. These were all proposed at the beginning of the alliance. We are aware that diplomatic discussions have been ongoing, and we urge additional priority on those in the context of this incident.


    Second, integration. Unit experience and expertise are too diffuse. With the exception of a few top commanders, Terran units are not used to working with Malgeir units, or Granti units. And vice versa. We need more familiarization between equipment. We need standardization of everything from terminology to munitions. We recommend a plan for full unit integration. It will not be easy: it will take time, and it will take resources, but it is the path forward for victory.


    Third, prioritization. We looked at many defense and intelligence programs, with different sources of funding. We recommend¡­ no across-the-board cuts nor increase. But there are shifts in strategy for how we accomplish the other changes. We recommend a fast-tracked retirement timeline for older equipment and using the savings to promote unit activation. We recommend diverting some of the savings to the newly instituted unit integration plan.


    These and other recommendations are spelled out in great detail in our report. We¡¯ve made a limited number of recommendations focusing on areas we believe to be the most critical. We approached our task with the deepest respect for our people in service. In this report, we believe that we can make a difference for our security. We can make our people safer. We can make our allies safer. And we can prevent this from happening again.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy to take your questions.¡±


    He looked at the blinking lights on the screen, each representing a journalist with questions. He pointed at one of them. ¡°Ms. Onizuka, Atlas Times.¡±


    ¡°Senator Wald, you mentioned that the result of this commission was a majority report, not a consensus report. There¡¯s been rumors that there is a minority report in the commission that rejects most of the recommendations made. Is there any truth to that?¡±


    ¡°Ms. Onizuka, there is a¡­ dissent report from one of our respected commissioners. That is not the same thing as a minority report, I want to make that clear. Nonetheless, this report is the result of weeks of hard work and represents the view of the overwhelming majority of commission members. As a commission, we have reviewed over six million pages of documents, interviewed thousands of individuals, including experts both in service, retired officers, and independent investigators. In a democracy, there is bound to be some disagreement on policies. And in our case¡­ maybe some of the facts too. That is the reality of our line of work, and we hope it does not color your opinion of any of the commission members or the report itself.¡±


    ¡°A quick follow up, if I may, Senator.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°The level of the Republic¡¯s intelligence exposure as a result of the capture of the Cliunc: that seems to be the most hotly contested part of the report. What is the Commission¡¯s opinion on the subject?¡±


    ¡°The report details a range of possibilities, from an unprecedented breach of the Prime Directive in addition to information regarding some specific military capabilities¡­ to uh¡­ minimal exposure, if any at all. Given the loss of communication with the Malgeir ship and our inability to get to the battle site, it is impossible to speculate with any certainty as to the severity of the exposure. That is why our report recommends a host of measures that account for all worst-case scenarios. Does that answer your question, Ms. Onizuka?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Senator.¡±


    He looked at the screen again and tapped on the next name. ¡°Next question. Mr. Adams, Republic Navy Radio.¡±


    ¡°Senator Wald, good to be here. Are the reports true that Admiral Amelia Waters, the hero of McMurdo, has been reassigned from Task Force Frontier and stripped of active responsibilities right before the public release of the commission¡¯s report?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Adams, I uh¡ª have heard similar reports, but the commission is not responsible for personnel changes in the Navy¡ª¡±


    ¡°But the commission report does include recommendations for personnel changes, does it not, Senator Wald?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it does, Mr. Adams, however I will note that¡­ if you are looking at the same report I¡¯ve seen, the personnel changes detailed in there are not related to any of the recommendations made in our report. As for the veracity of the rumors and their rationale, I will have to redirect those questions to the Navy Communications Director.¡±


    ¡°Next question.¡± He picked another name. ¡°Ms. Scobee, Titan Independent.¡±


    ¡°Senator Wald, you mentioned equipment retirement fast-tracking. Does the commission have something in mind for the number of Peacekeeper destroyers that will be retired in the next calendar year?¡±


    ¡°Ms. Scobee, thank you for the question. We have made recommendations, but the specifics will be up to the Senate. The proposal right now is to retire them as quickly as the Navy can handle familiarization on the Python-class and to create a process that facilitates that one-to-one transition by the squadron¡ª¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°What about the leaked report that the Python-class will be inadequate for the role the Navy needs them for, Senator?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry? I¡¯ve read a lot of reports. I¡¯m not sure which one¡­ The new Python advanced missile destroyer represent the state of the art in Republic warfighting capabilities and a significant investment of the Navy¡¯s procurement¡ª¡±


    ¡°Senator, the report was about peacekeeping. About the anti-piracy campaigns in the Red Zone. Pythons lack the quad spinal railgun mounts in the old Peacekeeper and cannot operate in the proximity of Jovian storms¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ms. Scobee, for specifics, I¡¯ll redirect you to the Navy¡¯s official assessment of these ships. Though I will note for the record that the report you are quoting is nearly five years old and both problems you mentioned have already been addressed or alleviated in the latest Python production blocks.¡±


    He closed the connection and picked a new speaker, this time a Malgeir reporter.


    That¡¯s a new one.


    ¡°Ms. Braust from¡­ Federation¡ª Malgeir Federation Channel One?¡±


    The alien reporter grinned into the camera. ¡°That is correct. Your pronunciation is excellent. Thank you for the opportunity, Senator Wald. I have a question regarding the joint allied commander referred to in the report. Is your commission recommending a Terran for the position? And if you are, who do you think is best suited for the task?¡±


    ¡°Thank you for the questions, Ms. Braust. The commission does not take a position on who is best suited for the task. There are many well-qualified candidates in both services. And in our report, we recommend that the candidate selection process be worked out at the diplomatic level between our two governments. Does that answer your question?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ I have another question. May I?¡±


    ¡°Go ahead, Ms. Braust.¡±


    ¡°Given that this report and any mention of it will likely be censored in the Federation, does the commission have any ideas how to best implement its recommendations on the Federation side?¡±


    For the first time in the call, the Senator seemed surprised. ¡°It uh¡ª it is not the place of this commission to comment on Federation uh¡ª public policy. But the best way to implement our recommendations is¡­ I would simply recommend that this report not be censored.¡±


    <hr>


    Pathfinder Republic Cemetery, Mars


    POV: Niblui, Malgeir (Ambassador to the Terran Republic)


    Under the red sky, a procession of pallbearers in dark uniforms marched crisply in unison, their boots echoing as they escorted the dark blue casket down the cobblestone path. The casket was empty; that was not unusual: body recovery in the cold vacuum of space could be a difficult task for even a service where ¡°no one left behind¡± was a sacred duty.


    What was unusual was the color of the fabric draped over it: the blue and gray flag of the Malgeir Federation.


    The path was lined on both sides with Marines. Not the usual Terran Marines. But Marines of the Malgeir Federation. Over a hundred. Some referred to among themselves as the Marooned: Malgeir troops who could no longer fight (or chose not to) in the few Malgeir frontline units that were entrusted with the secret of their Terran allies. Others were part of the batch sent to the Republic for the Red Zone campaign. They respectfully pressed their paws to the rims of their head coverings in salute to their fallen as the procession passed.


    Federation Ambassador Niblui solemnly stood for the ceremony, a few lengths away from the final resting place and next to the few grieving Malgeir families who could attend.


    Then, on command, the famous Navy Salute Battery took their positions, firing their three guns in sequence. Nineteen shots rang out, echoing across the Martian dome.


    The Terran pallbearers slowly lowered their burden and stood up straight. With their white gloves, they lifted the flag over the casket, to the side, and began folding it with practiced precision. It formed a triangle, and the lead casket bearer knelt down to present it to the widow of Peipplust, representing the families of the Cliunc.


    She made a quiet keening sound, raised her snout and then howled in grief. Holding the note for several seconds, the other Malgeir mourners joined in. As the noises died, she lowered her head and accepted the flag, muttering a ¡°thank you¡± to the Terran.


    A brass instrument sounded, playing a slow melody. Following the example of the others, Niblui clasped her right paw over her heart.


    Then, the moment was over. The families filed out, left to grieve the loss of their worlds on their own.


    Following the crowd, Niblui exited the cemetery to a waiting vehicle. As she entered, she glanced at the unexpectedly familiar face of its other occupant in mild surprise.


    ¡°Admiral.¡±


    ¡°Ambassador.¡±


    There was an awkward silence as they waited for the vehicle to start, to take them to the spaceport.


    Niblui broke it. ¡°Admiral, I know you blame yourself for what happened, but my people do not see it¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Ambassador,¡± Amelia replied curtly. ¡°But I was in command in that room.¡±


    The ambassador shook her ears. ¡°We all saw the recording. There was nothing else you could do.¡±


    ¡°Once is accident. Twice now, I¡¯ve been charged to protect your ships and failed.¡± The Terran looked out the window as she brought back memories of the Seuvommae. She continued, ¡°With all respect to the late fleet commander, his claim of responsibility as a dying man¡¯s¡ª officer¡¯s confession did not reflect the full reality of the battle. And it was certainly not my decision to leak the recording of the disaster to the press.¡±


    ¡°It was mine,¡± Niblui said simply.


    Amelia¡¯s eyes widened and her face was replaced with confusion. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°People deserve to know the truth. And you deserve people¡¯s respect for making the hard choices. Choices that were logical without the benefit of hindsight.¡±


    ¡°Logical choices are not always right ones, and it is my job to be able to tell the difference.¡±


    Niblui said nothing in response for a while. She buckled in as the vehicle started and began to move.


    ¡°So what¡¯s next?¡± she asked the Terran.


    Amelia looked puzzled. ¡°What¡¯s next?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s next for you, when they reinstate you back to duty?¡± Niblui clarified.


    ¡°What makes you so certain I¡¯m not heading for early retirement?¡± Amelia said, not meeting the alien¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°The fact that they invited you to the funeral,¡± Niblui gestured out the window. ¡°Your Navy would be hiding you if they were going to shit can you.¡±


    ¡°Sounds¡­ political,¡± the admiral said with mild distaste.


    Niblui didn¡¯t look away. ¡°It¡¯s a Terran funeral for a Malgeir fleet commander. Of course it¡¯s political. Your Navy hosted it to remind your people of the other war, and our families accepted their invitation because they know they¡¯d never get a proper chance to grieve in Malgeiru¡­ or even closure for what really happened.¡±


    ¡°Has it really gotten that bad back in the Federation? The censorship. The grief. Everything.¡±


    Niblui tilted her head. ¡°We¡¯ve been in an existential war for over a decade, Amelia. The only reason we¡¯re still holding together is that people still have hope. Hope they we can somehow still pull through.¡±


    ¡°Hope that six thousand souls on the Cliunc died for.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And you¡¯re avoiding the question.¡±


    ¡°What was it again?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing after they clear you?¡± Niblui reminded her kindly.


    Amelia sighed. ¡°Red Zone missions probably. All Task Force Frontier activity is completely on hold until we conduct this anti-terrorism campaign. And it¡¯s no secret: everyone from the press to the Resistance know we¡¯re just about ready to begin.¡±


    ¡°How are my people¡¯s training progressing?¡± Niblui asked.


    Amelia didn¡¯t quite meet her eyes. ¡°Marines aren¡¯t born, Ambassador; they¡¯re made.¡±


    Niblui sighed as well. ¡°That bad, huh?¡±


    ¡°Remember how your Sixth Fleet was before we got started? Trust us. Trust¡ª me. They¡¯ll be ready. If it¡¯s the last thing I do with my career, I¡¯ll make sure of it.¡±


    After only the briefest hesitation, Niblui nodded in agreement.


    As the vehicle rolled towards the cemetery gates, there was buzzing outside. Niblui realized that they were people, dozens of them, maybe a hundred. They were carrying signs. Some of them were shouting at the vehicles driving by.


    Puzzled, Niblui asked, pointing out the window, ¡°What are these people here for?¡±


    ¡°Protesters,¡± Amelia waved dismissively.


    ¡°At funerals?¡± Niblui gasped.


    Amelia looked disgusted as well. ¡°Unfortunately, some of our people choose to use their Basic Terran Rights to do the most awful things they possibly could with them.¡±


    Niblui stared at the shouting Terrans. Some of them looked angry. One of their signs read ¡°ET go home¡±. Another said, ¡°Defund the Navy¡±. And yet another, ¡°Terrans First¡±.


    ¡°Terrans first,¡± she repeated. ¡°What does that mean? And why would they oppose your involvement in our war?¡±


    Amelia sighed as she explained. ¡°It¡¯s a dog whistle.¡±


    ¡°A whistle¡­ for dogs?¡± Niblui asked, familiar with the ubiquitous Terran pets that somewhat resembled her people. The moment she¡¯d first encountered one of them¡­ it had been confusing, to say the least.


    ¡°Like some of your people, dog ears are sensitive to higher pitches that we can¡¯t hear. Dog whistles are meant to only be heard by certain people. In this case, that slogan is a dog whistle against certain humans, and more recently, against your people.¡±


    Niblui nodded. ¡°I see. We have something similar in our politics. What is the hidden meaning in that slogan?¡±


    ¡°When the Terran Republic was formed, it was limited to districts on Terra and Luna. It quickly extended to Mars and several of the asteroid belt districts with their wealthy industries. It was only several decades later that the colonies in the outer planets were accepted as full districts and their people as citizens. ¡®Terrans First¡¯ implied that the Jovian and Saturnian districts weren¡¯t real Terrans like the rest of the Republic. And it was used heavily to advocate for brutal crackdowns against outer system unrest and crime, especially in the Red Zone, without regard for the civilian colonists living there.¡±


    Niblui shuddered. ¡°I¡¯ve heard about those extremists. But they¡¯re now on the side with the people calling for¡­ removing funding from the Navy?¡± She gestured out the window at some of the signs. ¡°Aren¡¯t they supposed to be on opposite sides?¡±


    Amelia shrugged. ¡°Yeah, strange crowd. Nobody accused them of being too rational. I like to think that most citizens of the Republic believe in what we¡¯re doing even if they may have reasonable disagreements on the specifics¡­ but then I see these crowds grow every time I come to one of these, and¡­ I¡¯m less and less certain every time.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 34 Wingmate VI

    <div>


    Naval Station Charon, Charon


    POV: Bethan Woods, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Lieutenant)


    ¡°I love your hair,¡± Beth declared, concentrating on carefully pronouncing her yips in the unfamiliar language she was practicing with Uintrei.


    Uintrei took one look at her serious expression and giggled. ¡°My hair? You can¡¯t see my hair! We have fur, Beth!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I said!¡± Beth said frustratingly. ¡°Fur! Hair! And why do you have six different names for the types of hair?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s important to take care of our fur, or they¡¯ll tangle up in little knots,¡± Uintrei said primly, running her claw through her fur. ¡°And pretty soon, it becomes matted. Gross.¡±


    ¡°Ever considered shaving it all off?¡± Beth asked mischievously. ¡°I¡¯m sure we can find you an industrial strength razor at the base exchange.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Uintrei laughed. ¡°When I was a young cub, about fifteen years old, one of my littermates played a prank on me and shaved the fur on my back when I was sleeping. I woke up before he could finish, but the damage was done. It looked terribly uneven, so I had to get it all trimmed shorter to match. Ugh¡­ it took two full seasons to grow back, and it itched the entire time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible!¡± Beth exclaimed. ¡°I was just joking. Who would actually want to shave that beautiful brown coat of yours?!¡±


    Uintrei blushed at the compliment. ¡°Thanks, Beth, you have quite good-looking hair yourself. Its color reminds me of my favorite ice cream flavor they have in the mess¡ª¡±


    Beth gave her a playful shove, giggling. ¡°My hair is not strawberry blonde, you colorblind Pupper.¡±


    Uintrei fell back into Beth¡¯s bed, lazily enjoying the feel of her luxurious, silk-smooth blankets in her back fur. ¡°Your people make good textiles,¡± she sighed in contentment as she closed her eyes.


    Beth laid down on the small bed next to her, splaying her limbs out as Uintrei did with hers. Their bodies pressed against each other, and Uintrei could feel the heat radiating off her like a campfire. ¡°You¡¯re too hot,¡± Uintrei mumbled sleepily.


    ¡°I know,¡± Beth replied smugly. ¡°It¡¯s a real problem¡ª¡±


    Uintrei opened an eye. ¡°No¡­ I meant¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know what you meant,¡± Beth said, smiling back at her. ¡°I¡¯m fit. I have the face of an angel. And my body, my curves, oh my God¡ª¡±


    ¡°Still not what I meant.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah?¡± Beth said, rolling over on top of Uintrei playfully, smothering her face with her chest. ¡°What did you mean?¡±


    The shorter Malgeir lifted Beth off her face, panting not at the effort but her temperature. ¡°Two things: one, you might have a fever with how hot you are. And two, you smell like your dinner.¡±


    ¡°What?! I do not!¡± Beth contested hotly.


    ¡°Tomato sauce spaghetti,¡± she said simply.


    ¡°But I brushed my teeth!¡±


    Uintrei rolled over again and closed her eyes. ¡°If you want to have some fun after you take a shower, I¡¯ll be right here.¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s not fair! It¡¯s always me taking a shower! You have a smell too!¡± Beth pouted.


    ¡°I have a scent. A pleasant scent. You have a smell,¡± Uintrei said matter-of-factly. A moment later, she felt something wet on her belly.


    ¡°Slurp¡­ slurp¡­ slurp¡­¡±


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Confused, Uintrei opened her eyes again and looked down. Beth was licking her belly with her stretched tongue. ¡°What¡­ are you doing?¡±


    Beth sat up, spitting out a mouthful of brown fur. ¡°Now, you have a smell too.¡± She dramatically bent down to Uintrei¡¯s belly and sniffed twice with her nose. ¡°Smells like¡­ tomato sauce.¡±


    ¡°You!¡± Uintrei sat up as Beth ran for her bathroom. ¡°So gross! You¡¯re going to pay for that!¡±


    ¡°Smells like someone else needs a shower too!¡±


    <hr>


    Uintrei stood stoically in the running shower as the taller Beth dumped a good palmful of her shampoo on her back. ¡°This is going to take a whole day to dry,¡± Uintrei complained.


    Beth didn¡¯t say anything, just carefully worked the soapy liquid throughout her long, brown fur from head to paw.


    Uintrei let off a small sigh as Beth reached the back of her ears. Despite her relatively poor hearing, Beth must have heard it, because she moved her dexterous hand back to the same spot, rubbing as she went. This time, Uintrei released an involuntary whimper.


    ¡°I knew you had a spot there,¡± Beth said excitedly, putting all of her fingers to good use.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t get too much soap into my ears.¡±


    <hr>


    Uintrei gently grasped Beth¡¯s hand in her paw. They laid there for a few minutes, hand in paw, savoring their afterglows together in the silence.


    ¡°I love your fur,¡± Beth said, this time in anatomically correct Malgeirish.


    Uintrei surprised her in her native English. ¡°I love your hands. Soft. Very soft.¡± That was about the extent of the words she learned in the several months she¡¯d been in Sol.


    Beth giggled as she switched her translator back on. ¡°You know this means I¡¯ll have to take another shower now, right?¡±


    Uintrei rolled over, planting herself in the bed. ¡°Yeah, that sounds like a you-problem. Have fun with that.¡±


    ¡°If I don¡¯t, your Malgeir buddies are going to smell you on me. And if you don¡¯t, they¡¯ll smell me on you.¡±


    Uintrei rolled her eyes. ¡°Those two are oblivious as they can be, but I¡¯m pretty sure they both know by now. Maybe even their Terran wingmates¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so: Maurice and Kaja are pretty clueless too but without your noses,¡± Beth said confidently. Then after a few moments, she propped herself on her elbow to look at her lover and asked curiously, ¡°Do you think Speinfoent and Kaja are¡­ you know¡ª¡±


    Uintrei shook her ears. ¡°No. No way. I¡¯d be able to smell it if they were fucking.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just¡ª you know¡ª they spend half their day together in their enclosed fighter trainer pods and then the other half in her room ¡®debriefing¡¯, if you know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°Just because you¡¯re always thinking about sex doesn¡¯t mean everyone else is,¡± Uintrei said, smirking.


    ¡°And how would you even smell the difference when they¡¯re together all the time anyway?!¡±


    ¡°I just can,¡± Uintrei insisted. ¡°You Terrans make a different smell on your skins when you cum¡ª it¡¯s just¡ª it¡¯s very different.¡±


    ¡°Alright, if you say so,¡± Beth said amusingly. ¡°I still think there¡¯s something else going on between those two¡ª¡±


    ¡°Unlike us, they were smart enough not to get too deeply involved here,¡± Uintrei sighed. ¡°Where things are unlikely to work out long term.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s working out just fine for us,¡± Beth pointed out. ¡°We¡¯re both getting assigned to the same assault carrier when that Red Zone campaign starts.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we didn¡¯t know that when we started messing around,¡± Uintrei said, running her paw gently through Beth¡¯s long red hair. ¡°We got lucky; I suppose. I think Speinfoent is on the Crete too. Executive officer, right?¡±


    Beth nodded. ¡°Yup. Too bad Kaja got assigned to some mine warfare ship.¡±


    ¡°Waste of her talents if you ask me, but hey¡­ I guess some things about the Navy don¡¯t change across civilizational boundaries.¡±


    Beth grinned. ¡°She¡¯ll probably be some hotshot sim analyst at Atlas Naval Command in a couple years with shiny stars on her collar.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, probably.¡±


    Then, Uintrei stretched to take a quick glance at the digital clock on Beth¡¯s tablet screens on her desk. ¡°Mind if I sleep over tonight?¡±


    ¡°Not at all.¡± Beth comfortably snuggled her bare chest up against her friend¡¯s furry back. She leaned in close to Uintrei¡¯s ear, breathing hotly into it. ¡°But I can¡¯t promise you¡¯ll get a whole lot of sleep.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    ¡°¡ªand when the Grass Eater ships blinked in like this, kwoooosh kwoowsh kwooosh,¡± Durnio narrated with his well-practiced sound effects and paw gestures at the lunch table. ¡°Kabooooom. Took them all out in a single volley. Didn¡¯t even see it coming!¡±


    ¡°Nice!¡± Speinfoent said, licking up the last of his chocolate ice cream from the cone.


    ¡°Yeah, nice one, Durnio,¡± Kaja praised politely between mouthfuls of her own hot soup.


    ¡°All thanks to your idea, Kaja!¡± Durnio said excitedly. ¡°I just thought back to that time when you said¡ª wait a second.¡± Durnio turned to Speinfoent sitting next to him and sniffed twice. ¡°Did you get coconut ice cream for breakfast this morning?¡±


    ¡°No. I hate coconut. It doesn¡¯t taste like anything. I would rather have vanilla over¡ª¡± Speinfoent raised an eyebrow at Durnio. ¡°Wait, why?¡±


    Durnio took another few sniffs in his direction. ¡°Huh. That¡¯s odd. I swear you smell like coconut¡ª ah¡ª¡± Ignoring Speinfoent¡¯s red face, he reached a claw onto his surprised friend¡¯s neck and plucked out a smidge of leftover ice cream cone crumbs embedded in his fur there. ¡°I¡¯ve got it for you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Speinfoent mumbled. ¡°Don¡¯t know how that got there.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, what about scenario four, Durnio?¡± Kaja asked hurriedly. ¡°How did you do there?¡±


    ¡°Oh, that one is a little harder. I¡¯m still working on a solution¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 35 Funny Business III

    <div>


    My Snout Is Sealed, Datsot (18,000 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    ¡°I have decided,¡± Eupprio declared, looking out the fake windows ¡ª screens showing the external camera sensors ¡ª of her newly leased SC-22 at the liberated and rebuilding planet. The whole process of buying the Terran-built shuttle was initially an ordeal¡­ until she figured out how to navigate the alien bureaucracy.


    Things were run differently in the Republic. When the government legal intelligence that handled civilian ship registration balked at the name she insisted on giving her ship, she couldn¡¯t just pay it a million credits to go away. No, she had to pay a similar amount to a formidable local contracting firm for their legal intelligence to generate the hundreds of thousands of pages¡¯ worth of valid legal forms and permits to satisfy the former. Totally different.


    ¡°What have you decided?¡± Fleguipu asked patiently.


    ¡°This is it,¡± she said mysteriously.


    ¡°Out with it.¡±


    ¡°This¡­ will be the site of¡­ our new shipyard.¡±


    Fleguipu¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°A new shipyard? You want to build a new shipyard? By the galaxy! Do you know how much those things cost?¡±


    ¡°Nope, but I¡¯m sure we can borrow enough to afford it,¡± she said confidently. ¡°I do remember there being a financial empire in my portfolio somewhere¡­¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a reason no one has built one of those shipyards in the entire Federation in¡­ at least ten generations!¡± Fleguipu exclaimed.


    ¡°Well, the Terrans seem to have no problem building them. They have what? Four? Five? Five new yards coming online at Ceres in the next year. And we have access to more resources and people than they do.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but that¡¯s the Terrans! They¡¯re a bunch of¡ª they¡¯re a young species. Why would we need a new shipyard? We already have several! Some of them are under occupation, but we¡¯ll get them back.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see? That¡¯s the problem with us, Fleguipu,¡± Eupprio said. ¡°The Terrans¡­ they¡¯re constantly hungry, constantly expanding. We¡¯ve stagnated. We¡¯re content. As a whole civilization. That¡¯s the problem I started Eupprio Tech to fix.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, to build software for financial transaction processing. Not¡­ to build multi-billion credit ships.¡±


    ¡°Why not both?¡± Eupprio asked confidently.


    Fleguipu still looked shocked. ¡°For one, nobody alive in the entire Federation has ever built a shipyard! And imagine the bribes we¡¯ll need to pay just to get access to the ship designs. None of the existing shipbuilders are going to sell to us, obviously.¡±


    ¡°True. We¡¯ll have to design new ships too,¡± Eupprio said matter-of-factly.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s even more¡ª nobody alive in the entire Federation has designed a new ship either!¡± Fleguipu countered hotly.


    ¡°I guess we¡¯ll just have to pay some Terrans to teach our people then,¡± Eupprio continued nonchalantly, as if she just suggested the most normal thing in the galaxy. ¡°We got their credits now, and money goes further in Sol than in the Federation.¡± She pointed at their new Terran pilot engrossed with some maintenance work in the cockpit. ¡°We hired Abe. Credits work there too.¡±


    Fleguipu desperately tried to think of a way to convince her out of it but came up with nothing on the spot. ¡°What¡ª what type of ship will we build?¡±


    ¡°Military at first, obviously,¡± Eupprio answered. ¡°The Defense Ministry will buy pretty much anything we build. And then we can expand to others.¡±


    ¡°What about the Terrans¡¯ strict arms control regulations?¡±


    Eupprio grinned. ¡°We¡¯ll hire their lawyers and lobbyists too. Maybe they can teach you a trick or two.¡±


    Fleguipu looked out the window. She knew her friend well. Her analytical brain kicked in once her disbelief dissipated. ¡°You¡¯ve thought this through, haven¡¯t you? That¡¯s why you want it here in Datsot. Close in proximity to the Terrans. Lots of our own resources flowing in for the rebuilding. Lots of our own people coming back who will need jobs to do.¡±


    Eupprio grinned. ¡°I knew you¡¯d come around to it.¡± She put her paw on her friend¡¯s shoulder and pointed out the ¡°window¡±. ¡°And of course, we¡¯ll put it closer to the blink exit leading towards the Terran systems.¡±


    Her friend nodded. ¡°Naturally. Safer. Cheaper bribes for orbital permits since nobody builds there. Yet.¡±


    For a brief moment, the amusing Terran concepts of market abuse and insider dealing flashed across her thoughts. She immediately dismissed them. More Grass Eater craziness.


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    <hr>


    Ceres Ship Manufacturing Corporation HQ, Ceres


    POV: Hailey Kang, Terran (Logistics Engineer)


    Hailey sat up from a slouch in her chair as a man she didn¡¯t know entered the snug office. His nametag said ¡°Chris¡±. She shook his hand.


    He had a soft voice to match his soft handshake. ¡°Hi, Hailey. I¡¯m Chris. Do you know why we¡¯re here today?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°My exit interview.¡±


    ¡°Correct. Your exit interview. Do you mind if I record this?¡± Chris said, tapping his temple to activate his implant.


    She nodded again. ¡°No problem.¡±


    ¡°Alright, we can keep this casual, Hailey. I want this to just be a conversation between the two of us. None of these answers will be used against you in any way or impact a decision to rehire you in the future if you change your mind.¡±


    She knew better. That was why he was recording. She nodded anyway.


    ¡°Let¡¯s dive into it. You¡¯ve worked at the company for¡­ four years. What do you think of your time here at CSMC?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°It was fine. I enjoyed most of the work.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ most of it. Can you elaborate? Did you feel like you were making an impact¡­ or?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± she replied. ¡°I was handling interplanetary routes worth billions of credits. I was definitely making an impact and¡­ the work was satisfying. I learned a lot.¡±


    ¡°Ok, good. That¡¯s good,¡± Chris said. ¡°And did you feel like you were growing here, career-wise?¡±


    ¡°Uh. Sure. Yes, yes I did. I was promoted often enough. I don¡¯t really have a problem with the way I was treated here. I liked my co-workers and manager. I really enjoyed working here, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡±


    Chris did a little yes-no shake of his head and made a noncommittal hum. ¡°Sort of. That¡¯s good information. So¡­ would you say you would recommend working here to people seeking employment?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Yeah. If someone was looking.¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    He smiled a little smile. ¡°Yes, it sure is a hot market out there, isn¡¯t it? Lots of demand for engineers like yourself, especially with your background in the current¡­ environment. Is that why you¡¯re leaving?¡±


    ¡°Woah, that¡¯s a lot of extrapolation,¡± Hailey said.


    He made another one of his hums but gestured for her to answer the question.


    She admitted, ¡°But yes, good guess. Someone did poach me.¡±


    Chris nodded sympathetically. ¡°That¡¯s totally understandable. Do you mind if I ask which company it was? I¡¯m just curious.¡±


    He was obviously not ¡°just curious¡±, but Hailey answered anyway.


    ¡°Eupprio Tech,¡± she said.


    ¡°Hm¡­ Eupprio Tech. No offense to your future employers, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve heard of them,¡± he said, making a little frown. ¡°Is that one of the new intelligence development startups in Mimas?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re a pretty big company, I think. They¡¯re alien. Malgeir.¡±


    Chris made a little ¡°ohhh¡± with his lips. ¡°I see. Well, that¡¯s fascinating. That position is extrasolar, then?¡±


    ¡°Yup,¡± Hailey said happily. ¡°It¡¯s close enough to home that I can visit often, and they helped me get an extrasolar travel permit.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ not to pry, and really, I normally hate to ask this, but may I know how much they¡¯re offering you in terms of compensation?¡±


    ¡°Eight hundred thousand credits base pay. Republic credits.¡±


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s almost double what you¡¯re making right now. I can understand they made that choice easy for you.¡±


    Hailey nodded.


    ¡°Well, you seem like a very bright young worker, and we wish you luck with your future endeavors. Though of course, we would be happy if you consider us for future employment.¡± Chris took out a data disk and handed it to her. ¡°Here you go, this is for you.¡±


    She accepted it. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s your exit package,¡± Chris said. ¡°First, you have a number of accrued vacation days. Those are converted into compensation. They will arrive with your last two weeks¡¯ salary. And that money¡­ you will get that regardless of what happens. We will also provide you transportation off Ceres to any destination you want ¡ª any destination in Sol, I mean, free of charge.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± She knew they were legally required to give her those.


    He continued, ¡°Your benefits run out the midnight your employment terminates. However, your retirement account ¡ª to which you have contributed a considerable amount ¡ª will stay. You may choose to leave it here with us, cash it out, or roll it into your new company¡¯s retirement account when you set that up.¡± At this point, Chris frowned. ¡°I¡¯m not sure how your new employers do it. But presumably they will have a subsidiary in the Republic to handle this.¡±


    ¡°Presumably.¡±


    ¡°And here comes the fun part,¡± Chris smiled. ¡°Due to your years of service to CSMC, you qualify for a severance package! You will receive the equivalent of six months of salary, as well as the option to immediately exercise your considerable amount of unvested stock options.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± Hailey asked.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it a catch as much as a small chore,¡± he replied. ¡°Just some housekeeping to do before you leave, that¡¯s all. There¡¯s a severance agreement with a few things. First, when you joined the company, you signed a standard non-disclosure agreement. The severance agreement basically has a clause reminding you that you shouldn¡¯t break that. Two, there is a limited non-compete in there that prevents you from working for a competitor for five years, but it only applies for other companies on Ceres. Three, you agree to return company property. The most significant of these is the data in your tablet and personal implant¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± Hailey said in surprise. ¡°I thought you¡¯d wipe my implant, but you¡¯re going to look through it? Is that legal?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Chris assured her. ¡°We would only be able to access data that is relevant to your work here, not your personal life. There is a certified independent intelligence program we use that goes through and wipes that.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± she sighed. ¡°I guess that¡¯s fine.¡±


    ¡°Four,¡± Chris continued. ¡°There is a non-disparagement clause that says you can¡¯t badmouth our company in public. Five, liability release, which says you won¡¯t sue the company for wrongful termination, discrimination¡­ things of that nature, unless they are part of a class action. Under local law, you may not waive liability for certain long-term health effects of working on Ceres in a severance agreement, so you would still be able to retain your right to litigate that if it comes up. And finally, you would no longer be eligible for unemployment benefits, though I can¡¯t imagine that being a problem for you given your new employment¡­ That¡¯s about it.¡±


    ¡°Can I get some time to read it over and think about it?¡± Hailey asked.


    ¡°Sure!¡± Chris said brightly. ¡°And feel free to use an independent legal service or your new employer¡¯s legal assistance when evaluating the package. We feel that this is a fair reward for all the work you¡¯ve done for us at CSMC. When you agree to it, just have it signed and sent over, and we¡¯ll start sending you the credits.¡±


    ¡°Cool. Thanks. Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Actually, that was going to be my question,¡± Chris chuckled. ¡°If you ever have any questions or need a reference for a future position, my contact information is on that data disk.¡±


    Then, he stood up, shook her hand, and she walked out.


    At the front of the building, Hailey took one last look at where she lived and worked for the last few years.


    A shuttle pilot was waiting there. ¡°Hailey? That¡¯s you, right? I¡¯m supposed to take you where you want to go.¡±


    She nodded.


    He picked up her light luggage for her, loading it onto a ground transporter marked for his shuttle. ¡°So¡­ where are we heading? Terra? Mars? Not to presume anything, but you look like a native Terran.¡±


    She nodded and smiled at him. ¡°Anywhere in Sol, right?¡±


    He chuckled. ¡°Sure, they pay me by the kilometer, so if you want a tour of the rings of Saturn, that can be arranged. A little risky out there these days, but I know my way around¡ª¡±


    ¡°Can you do Charon?¡±


    ¡°Ah, sure! You¡¯re going to work for one of those Malgeir companies, huh?¡± he asked.


    She took a double take at the shuttle pilot. ¡°Wait, how did you know?¡±


    ¡°Flown a few there this month already,¡± he beamed at her as she strapped herself in. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I don¡¯t judge. Hell, I¡¯m thinking about it myself. I hear their pay is nice. What are they having you do?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to help them build a new, massive shipyard,¡± she said. ¡°Bigger than anything we¡¯ve ever built in the Republic.¡±


    ¡°Nice. I hope it works out¡­ with their war and everything. Those poor guys deserve a break. You know what I¡¯m saying?¡±


    Hailey nodded. She knew exactly what he was saying.


    The extra credits they were paying her helped, but¡­ it felt good working for more than that. Even if she¡¯d almost given mom an aneurysm when she broke the news to her family about leaving Sol for a war zone. Dad¡­ well, dad always said he was proud of her whatever she ended up doing, but this time¡­ she knew from his face that he meant it without a trace of doubt.


    <hr>


    Raytech ¡ª Olympus Campus, Mars


    POV: Martina Wright, Terran (Executive)


    That¡¯s 48 of our employees who have been poached by one of our Malgeir contractors this week. What are we going to do about this?


    Martina smiled at the implant¡¯s suggestion. ¡°It¡¯s times like these that I¡¯m reminded why you washing machines haven¡¯t taken over the entire Republic yet. And why Raytech is still run by the children of Adam and Eve, not Ada and Emacs.¡±


    Okay, bio-supremacist. First of all, the new Catholic Pope says that we, too, are children of God eligible for salvation under Mark 16:16. And second, if you have a genius plan to stop the Malgeir poaching that you think I haven¡¯t considered, what is it?


    ¡°Genius plan to stop the poaching? Naw. The opposite. I plan on sending some of our best technical teams to Eupprio Tech for their new shipyard project, for collaboration and assistance on getting it built as soon as possible. Offer up the top talent we have for them like prime steak choices at a dinner buffet. Our employees will probably all get a dozen offers before they even step off the shuttle¡ª¡±


    Have you gone nuts?! The fees we¡¯ll get from such technical assistance are dwarfed in expected future loss from talent turnover! We have to lobby Atlas to limit extrasolar permits to these Federation subsidiaries!


    ¡°Hah, as if we¡¯ll beat them at that game long-term without looking like a bunch of jerks, ye silly microwave.¡±


    Your suggestion is to just give up and let them drain our talent dry?!


    ¡°Let them? I¡¯m going to help them do it.¡±


    You¡¯re serious?! You can¡¯t be.


    ¡°When our engineers are designing a new ship, whose software do they use?¡±


    Ours, of course. I wrote some of it myself. But what does that¡ª


    ¡°And whose intelligence chips and servers does that software run on?¡±


    Ours.


    ¡°When they make a new ship, whose missiles will they fire? Whose fuel will they burn? Whose proprietary fast-docking port specifications will they use?¡±


    Ours.


    ¡°Who services the ships? Who replaces the parts? Whose light bulbs are in those sockets? Whose fireproof carpeting¡ª¡±


    I get the point, meatbag.


    ¡°And when their Malgeir coworkers and competitors see them using these things and wildly succeeding, whose products are they going to go after like a mob of drug addicts?¡±


    I told you I got the point. Being good at pattern recognition is our thing, remember?


    ¡°And I¡¯m sure some of our new customers won¡¯t bother to properly license it all. But frankly it doesn¡¯t matter that much if they do. Because this is the big pond we¡¯re playing in now. As long as we break in, even into a sliver of the new Federation market¡­¡±


    What about our technological edge? And the health of our talent pipeline?


    ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll miss our people¡¯s bright smiles in our labs too, but talent and technology are developed, not finite resources we mine from an asteroid. This is the largest market expansion opportunity in the history of humankind. Our business is going from interplanetary to interstellar. In a gold rush, you don¡¯t go down to the river and pan for gold; you sell pans, you sell shovels, and you sell dynamite. When this gold rush is over, we will be making two things. One, we will be making the ultimate platform ¡ª what everyone uses to make copies and imitations of our product. From materials, to parts, to accessories, to software, to services. The more designs they copy from us, the more of all of these we¡¯ll make.¡±


    You said two things. What¡¯s the other thing we¡¯ll make?


    ¡°Money. We¡¯ll make money. Lots and lots of money.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 36 Channel One

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Charon (400 km)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Can you raise your chair a little? The lighting looks better that way.¡±


    Carla looked uncomfortably at the camera as she adjusted her command chair up slightly.


    ¡°Hm¡­ not quite the effect I was expecting,¡± the alien camera operator said, observing the results on his datapad with dissatisfaction.


    ¡°Are you the one doing the interview?¡± Carla asked.


    ¡°No, Braust will ask the questions. I¡¯m just here for the equipment,¡± the operator replied. ¡°She¡¯s doing a few questions with your underlings right now.¡±


    ¡°My underlings?¡±


    ¡°Your¡­ electronic warfare officers, your weapons systems officers,¡± he read off her tablet. ¡°And your executive officer. They should be done soon¡­ Your hair is reflecting too much light.¡±


    ¡°My hair?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all the yellow in it. A bit too bright for us.¡° He wrinkled his snout. ¡°Have you considered dying it a different color? I hear silver is all the rage these days on Malgeiru.¡±


    She looked horrified at him, ¡°This is my natural blond hair. And silver? No, thank you.¡±


    The camera operator harumphed. ¡°Fine. But I will need to fix the lighting and colors in post processing.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t going to be live?¡± Carla asked, relieved.


    ¡°We can¡¯t do it live. Most of the Federation doesn¡¯t know you exist, remember? This will go into the Defense Ministry archives for when your species is revealed to our people,¡± the operator waved his paw around.


    ¡°I meant in Sol.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we will broadcast the uncensored version in Sol once we cut it for length. Technically, we are legally supposed to censor mentions of casualties in our report because there are now Federation citizens in Sol now, but the Ambassador says it¡¯s pointless trying to hide it from our people here because your people broadcast them clearly.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Not my problem.¡±


    After another minute of awkward silence as the operator fussed over his camera, the other Malgeir reporter walked in.


    She shook Carla¡¯s hand with practiced familiarity. ¡°Hello, thank you for letting me on your ship. I am Braust from Federation Channel One. Are you ready to begin?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Whenever you¡¯re ready,¡± Carla sighed internally. The Navy didn¡¯t exactly make her orders optional when they approved the interviews.


    Braust waved to the operator, who pressed a button on his datapad, and a red light went solid on the camera. ¡°Let¡¯s begin. First, tell us a little bit about yourself. Introduce yourself.¡±


    She looked into the camera and forced a smile. ¡°Hi, I¡¯m Carla Bauernschmidt. I¡¯m a commander in the Terran Republic Navy. I¡¯ve been in the service for just over fifteen years. For the past six months, I have been commanding officer of the TRNS Crete, part of Assault Carrier Squadron 1, taking part in the Red Zone anti-piracy campaign.¡±


    There was a pause. Braust continued, ¡°Can you tell us a little more about your background? What ship did you command before Crete?¡±


    ¡°This is my first ship command,¡± Carla replied. ¡°Before this, I was a flag aide for Task Force Frontier. Before that, I was a simulation officer at Atlas Naval¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, that explains a lot for our Malgeir viewers,¡± Braust interrupted. ¡°My understanding is that you are relatively junior for someone in your rank and position. And leading such a prestigious unit involved in almost all the recent battles in the Federation is surely why you were chosen to command this ship at such a young age. Did you participate in those battles?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ I was on the TRNS Mississippi during several recent battles in the Datsot and Gruccud campaign, but I wouldn¡¯t say I was actively participating or leading¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, how very modest of you,¡± Braust beamed at her. ¡°I can see why your crew speak so highly of you!¡±


    ¡°They¡ª they do? I¡ª I wasn¡¯t aware of that.¡±


    Braust checked her notes on her tablet. ¡°Oh, yes! Your new executive officer Beta Leader Speinfoent says that discipline on this ship under you is very strict and fair, that rulebreakers are punished swiftly and harshly, and that your officers are encouraged to think independently.¡±


    Carla blinked in surprise. ¡°He said what?¡±


    ¡°That your officers are encouraged to think independently under your command. Would you say that is an unfair characterization?¡±


    ¡°No, I got that. What about the other part about rule¡ª¡±


    ¡°That discipline on this ship is very strict and fair,¡± Braust said slightly slower as if that made things clearer. Then, she looked towards the camera. ¡°And for our viewers just tuning in, we are broadcasting Beta Leader Speinfoent¡¯s interview in a separate segment. Make sure to check it out as well!¡±


    <hr>


    20 minutes ago


    POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)


    ¡°So, Beta Leader Speinfoent, how would you rate the level of discipline administered by your new captain?¡± Braust asked.


    Speinfoent looked confused. ¡°Level of discipline?¡±


    ¡°Yes, discipline. For example, are Terran crew members given special consideration in disputes?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, nothing like that. Carla¡­ the captain treats everyone fairly.¡±


    ¡°Oh good. That¡¯s very good to hear,¡± Braust smiled brightly. ¡°I think many of our people would be relieved to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ that¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°Can you give me an example of that?¡±


    ¡°Of what?¡± Speinfoent asked, confused once again.


    ¡°Fair discipline?¡± Braust prompted. ¡°Between the Terrans and Malgeir.¡±


    ¡°Oh that¡ª uh¡ª well, let me think. Hm¡ª oh, there was an incident in the mess deck a few weeks ago. To mess with the Malgeir Marines ¡ª before they could get to lunch ¡ª a small group of Terran enlisted decided to line up at the ice cream machine with big cups to dispense as much of the ice cream as they could until the machine ran out. Predictably, a fight broke out. And when the master chief asked the captain for advice on how to handle it, Carla suggested he make the pranksters eat all the ice cream they dispensed. By that time, most of it had melted, so they were forced to drink the gallons of sugar until they threw up, and it seems unlikely they will ever try that again.¡±


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Braust clapped her paws together. ¡°That¡¯s a delightful story. I¡¯m glad they got the harsh punishment they deserved for wasting good ice cream, of all things.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded. ¡°Exactly¡­¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Captain, a lot of people are asking, since the Crete is the first integrated Malgeir-Terran ship in history, how is the acclimation process going along?¡± Braust asked.


    ¡°There were initially some teething issues, as expected,¡± Carla replied. ¡°And the variety of backgrounds did cause some confusion at first. But after months of exercises, both virtual and live fire, we have worked out most of the issues. This ship will deploy under the Terran Navy operational readiness model, which means that it will be held to the same standards as any other ship in the fleet. This refers to not only our naval officers and crew, but also the Marine contingent.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my people have heard a lot about your exercises. Can you tell me a little more about that as it pertains to your ship?¡±


    ¡°Sure. The Crete is an assault carrier, which means that its primary mission is with delivering and supporting troops during an attack on an enemy station, orbital habitat, or even a colony or settlement. In the first phase of a generic operation, the assault carrier is usually accompanied by space combat ships, or space superiority ships as we¡¯d call them¡ª¡±


    ¡°These are the ships like the kind you were on in your time with Task Force Frontier, right?¡± Braust interrupted again.


    ¡°We¡ª most of the ships in TFF were specialized recon variants of space superiority ships, but they do operate under similar concepts in a fight. So that¡¯s the kind of ship we¡¯d lean on to clear out the long-range and mobile threats. Once the AO is clear in such an operation, we¡¯d move in and debark our Marines as an assault carrier. On an orbital facility, we¡¯d have to clear the exterior threats. On a surface target, we¡¯d act in a traditional fire support role. The Marines and the ship have to work closely to complete the mission.¡±


    ¡°Wow, that sounds like a lot of moving parts,¡± Braust exclaimed.


    ¡°It is indeed. This is one of the most complex missions the Republic Navy has.¡±


    ¡°How do you coordinate between the multiple elements of the assault?¡±


    ¡°Communication. We have a saying on the Crete: one crew, one fight. That means we are not two separate parts fighting our own battles, the Marines and Navy each taking one part of a task checklist. We don¡¯t just drop the Marines off like taxi drivers and everyone fends for themselves. Or if the ship is damaged, it¡¯s not just my Navy officers fighting fires and doing damage control while the Marines sit and watch. It doesn¡¯t work like that. The Marines learn how to do all that, and we fight next to each other.¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t things get confusing?¡±


    ¡°It could. That¡¯s why we¡¯ve been practicing and that¡¯s why we will continue to practice until our first mission, and between missions.¡±


    ¡°Practice is the key, says Captain Carla Bauernschmidt,¡± Braust announced to the camera. ¡°We¡¯ll be right back after the break!¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Uintrei, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Omega Leader)


    Uintrei looked into the camera from her gunnery chair and gave it her best smile. ¡°Hi, I am Omega Leader Uintrei, Space Warfare Officer of the TRNS Crete. I am one of the first three Malgeir officers to serve aboard a Terran warship. Today, we are watching and reacting to the critically acclaimed Malgeir-written, Terran-filmed four-hour movie ¡®Lesser Predators¡¯ ¡ª It¡¯s streaming online, so go see it before you watch this because there will be spoilers! The first scene we will watch is the opening scene, which depicts the First Battle of Gruccud from the perspective of Malgeir Eighth Fleet.¡±


    Braust made a circular motion with her paw, gesturing for her to add more information.


    ¡°Uh¡­ I was actually present at this battle as part of Eighth Fleet at the time. And I¡¯m familiar with the book; the author is a good friend of mine. I¡¯m told the movie version takes some liberty with the events, though they did hire actual Malgeir actors and advisors. Props to them for that. Let¡¯s watch¡­ That good?¡±


    Braust gave her a thumbs up. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ll fix any issues in post. Alright, now play.¡±


    The scene started playing on Uintrei¡¯s datapad, until Uintrei tapped on the screen with a claw to pause it.


    She leaned in to try to see it better. ¡°Hold on a second, is that Fleet Commander Raulur?¡±


    ¡°I think it is,¡± Braust said from off-camera.


    ¡°Yeah, I think it¡¯s supposed to be, judging from the insignia patch, which we don¡¯t wear on the chest in combat. We wear it on the shoulder on our bridge coveralls. Second of all, Fleet Commander Raulur is female, not male. I don¡¯t begrudge that small inaccuracy. But the dyed silver hair on his back is ¡ª that¡¯s obviously an actor ¡ª that kind of unnatural coloring probably wouldn¡¯t be allowed in the Navy. Even in the Eighth Fleet. Even if you were the fleet commander. Speaking of colors, the coloring of everything on the bridge is all off ¡ª too bright. It¡¯s like you gave a cub some crayons and a coloring book¡­ whew ok, I promise, I¡¯ll try not to nitpick too much.¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s good,¡± Braust said. ¡°That¡¯s why you¡¯re here. To nitpick.¡±


    Uintrei snorted and continued playing the movie for a bit, then paused again.


    ¡°Ok, so here, the flag captain says, ¡®Naval Intelligence says the Grass Eaters have nothing in the system¡¯. True. So true. One hundred percent true. That actually did happen like that. Not only did they say that¡­ it was in the mission orders if I remember correctly. And the scene shows the ship¡¯s crew preparing as if there would be a fight anyway. That part is also accurate. Good job on that.¡±


    She resumed playing for a bit, and she chuckled at one of the jokes. She paused it. ¡°Good one. Yes, some of the officers did regularly make fun of Squadron 2 Leader for eating too much. I¡¯ve had people ask me about that. No, it was not malicious. Just friendly ship banter.¡±


    Uintrei kept the scene going until the first action started taking place.


    ¡°Okay, no, no. I have to nitpick here. This is egregious! That is not what the Znosian space mines at Gruccud looked like. These are, I believe, old Terran ocean mines¡­ except put in space. It doesn¡¯t work like that. Space is wayyyyy too big for that to work. You can¡¯t cover a whole sector with these kinds of contact mines and just hope that enemy ships bump into them.¡±


    ¡°What do real space mines look like?¡± Braust asked.


    ¡°What do space mines look like? They look like miniature space stations. Like a small black box in space with missile launchers. Very small, low power, and they fire their missiles at you when you get near enough to them. They¡¯re not these spherical balls of death, waiting and hoping for someone to hit them. This is totally wrong. And if they were laid out in a 2D grid like shown in this scene, don¡¯t you think we¡¯d have just gone above or below them? Totally wrong!¡±


    Uintrei shook her head dramatically for the camera and resumed the movie until one of the ships was disabled and the spacers on board were bailing out.


    ¡°Okay, good detail here. They¡¯re trying to escape the doomed ship, but some of the escape pods aren¡¯t working. That¡¯s unfortunately very common on some Eighth Fleet ships. I don¡¯t know if this character was on one of those ships without working pods, but this kind of thing does happen. Then again¡­ this was the Battle of Gruccud. Even if you got out and got picked up, it would have been the Znosians picking you up, so these guys aren¡¯t missing out on much.¡±


    ¡°Nobody who bailed out got picked up at the battle?¡± Braust asked.


    ¡°Basically nobody. The fleet¡¯s organization was shot once Raulur¡¯s flagship went down. I think¡­ the Znosians did come back and pick up a few of the survivors? But uh¡­ yeah, those guys are not around anymore.¡±


    She played until the scene ended and faded to black as the Eighth Fleet flagship was destroyed.


    Braust looked at her expectantly. ¡°So what do you think of the scene?¡±


    ¡°I think¡­ it did get some details right. You can tell they really made an effort to include some of the stuff from the book. But the ending of the scene ¡ª the movie made it seem like everyone died at the end of that battle. Which is not true. Almost a third of the ships in the fleet made it to the system blink limit and got out. But¡­ it was a devastating defeat for the Navy against no enemy ships, which the movie ¡ª at least it got that right. Not going to lie, I¡¯m a little disappointed that they didn¡¯t put me in, but I understand it¡¯s just supposed to be a short opening scene to set table stakes and they can¡¯t include everyone.¡±


    Braust smiled. ¡°Who do you think should play you if they had written you in?¡±


    ¡°Who should play me? Hm¡­ how about that lead actress in the ¡®Peace for all Eternity¡¯ adaptation? The Schpriss production, not the Terran one. No offense to the latter.¡±


    Braust hesitated for a second, seemingly trying to remember the name as well. ¡°Yeah, I think I know who you¡¯re talking about. Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll look it up in post-production. Anyway, how would you rate this scene? Out of ten.¡±


    ¡°Rate the scene? On what?¡±


    ¡°Realism.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ on realism. It was well produced; the effects are good. Overall, they got the feel of the battle right. The constant stress and the combat exhaustion, I thought that was done very well. The lack of preparation. It hit all the themes from the book. It felt¡­ authentic. There were some historical inaccuracies I pointed out, but I understand it¡¯s a movie, right? They have to dramatize some of it. Out of ten, I¡¯d give it a solid eight.¡±


    ¡°Great¡­ Ready to move onto the next scene?¡±


    ¡°How many more of these am I doing?¡±


    ¡°Just another six.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


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 Orbital Shift - Chapter 37 The Hunt I

    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°The Ace of Hearts is the key,¡± Amelia said, pacing her office.


    Carla¡¯s face appeared on her tablet. ¡°That¡¯s not what Atlas says.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m Atlas too,¡± she insisted.


    ¡°The Colonel in charge of Raider Regiment wants to go for the Ace of Clubs first. Their first raids¡ª they¡¯re already trying to find her.¡±


    Amelia snorted. ¡°Unimaginative, the lot of them. You give them four choices, and they pick the worst answer.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s so wrong with wanting to go after their head of naval operations? Isn¡¯t that what we¡¯re after?¡± Carla asked. ¡°We take her out, or take out their so-called Ghost Fleet, we can at least claim a victory here.¡±


    The older woman sighed. ¡°You¡¯re young enough to not have been there the last time we tried this, but that¡¯s not how you defeat the Resistance. The Ace of Clubs, the head of naval operations ¡ª whatever you want to call her ¡ª believe it or not, she¡¯s not one of the critical parts holding it all together. She makes them a small fortune from her pirating activities, and her Ghost Fleet bullshit is good for their propaganda videos. At the end of the day, she is merely the visible face of the Resistance with everything else propping her up behind her. We find and get her ¡ª they¡¯re just going to paint her as a martyr.¡±


    ¡°And we want the people behind her first¡­ so we can negotiate with the less hardcore cells? Divide and conquer?¡± Carla asked.


    ¡°Negotiate, squeeze, weaken, whatever,¡± Amelia said lightly. ¡°The Ace of Diamonds now¡­ she¡¯s their money handler and a real slippery one. Probably the most important one. We¡¯ll never find her first and probably not alive unless we get lucky.¡±


    ¡°What about the Ace of Spades?¡±


    ¡°Their head of R&D? He¡¯s new. We took out their last one in the campaign last time. Not that important either. We get any of the others, we can probably find him later,¡± Amelia said. ¡°But the Ace of Hearts, she¡¯s the beating heart of the Resistance. And she and I¡­ we go way back. Find her, find what she knows, and we can shut down their recruitment and political support: that¡¯s how we cripple the Resistance long term.¡±


    Carla looked at her. ¡°And I assume you have an idea where we can find her.¡±


    ¡°Not a clue. But she¡¯s got to be over sixty by now, and all that hatred in her heart can¡¯t be good for her long-term health.¡±


    Carla snickered. ¡°Wow, that reminds me of someone; she¡¯s about as old¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not another word,¡± Amelia warned, pointing her finger at the screen. ¡°From what we found out in the last campaign, she was hiding some chronic, incurable neurological problems. Jovian Brain Scram.¡±


    ¡°I think the preferred term nowadays is exoradiation encephalopathy,¡± Carla said dryly.


    Amelia smirked. ¡°I¡¯m from Ganymede. I¡¯m allowed to say it. Anyway¡­ the Ace of Hearts¡­ she¡¯s probably somewhere close to a real medical facility or commutes to one. And she is the head of their political bureau. Their propagandist. Their head recruiter. Either way, she must be easy to access, not just holed up on the dark side of some asteroid forever.¡±


    ¡°Look in one of the larger surface colonies on Titan then. Huygens? Cassini? Hano? Afekan?¡±


    ¡°Not Cassini. Too close to our Marine base there. Huygens seems unlikely, too many pro-Republic colonists too. The other ones are more likely,¡± Amelia considered. Then she turned to look at Carla again. ¡°We¡¯ll start with those. Your Puppers are ready, right?¡±


    ¡°As ready as my Grass Eaters.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been around them way too long, huh?¡±


    <hr>


    Landing Shuttle, Titan (30 km)


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    ¡°Remember your training! Remember the Rules of Engagement!¡± Aida shouted against the rattling noises of the shuttle as it made atmospheric entry into the slightly thicker part of the Titan atmosphere. ¡°And remember your de-escalation classes! This is a civilian colony! Don¡¯t unsafe or point your weapon at anyone unless you are physically threatened. Don¡¯t shoot unless shot at. And keep your eyes peeled for anything that could be important. Nothing is too trivial to report!¡±


    Baedarsust yelled through the din, ¡°What are we looking for?¡±


    ¡°Anything out of the ordinary. See something? Say something!¡±


    ¡°What about Resistance scouts?¡± Quaullast asked, referring to the many times in the colony sims where some civilians were obviously tracking their movement for other attackers.


    ¡°Report them to me, and I¡¯ll handle it. Try to make friends with the local wildlife. They¡¯re citizens of the Republic too.¡±


    Baedarsust frowned as he recalled his reading material. ¡°Aren¡¯t a lot of them friends with the enemy in this colony?¡±


    Aida shook her head. ¡°Not this one. Over the years, Hano is becoming more pro-Republic than not, and the last thing we want is for you to change that trajectory.¡±


    ¡°So why no non-lethals?¡± he asked. She had taken the special equipment out of their loadouts before they boarded.


    ¡°You fire tear gas down there in the settlements, they¡¯re going to get it coming out of the entire colony¡¯s vents for weeks. Like I said, make friends. Any other questions? No? Lemming Squad?¡±


    ¡°Lemmings!¡±


    ¡°Oorah?¡±


    ¡°Ooooreh!¡± they shouted the Terran battlecry best they could with their snouts.


    Aida sighed. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª we¡¯ll work on that.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Welcome to Hano Spaceport,¡± the disinterested worker at the port information area mumbled. ¡°Make sure you mind the gap as you board the ground¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you sell the physical tickets?¡± Baedarsust asked.


    ¡°Non-residents can get tickets at the kiosks over¡ª¡± Seemingly annoyed, she looked up at the Marines. She dropped her tablet in shock. ¡°You¡ª you¡ª you¡¯re aliens. But¡ª¡±


    Baedarsust gave her his most charming smile, hoping the exterior display on his helmet showed it correctly. ¡°Good afternoon, Republic citizen. We are just passing through. Can you point us towards the right kiosk¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡ª but¡ª you are a fake!¡± she blurted out. ¡°Made up by the corporate media on Luna and Mars to sell the war in¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nope, I am very much real,¡± Baedarsust unlocked his gloves with a twist and gave her his paw with a grin.


    She took his paw and stroked his fur on its back with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. She pointed up at his enclosed armored helmet. ¡°Show me.¡±


    With a sigh, Baedarsust twisted and opened up his helmet as well. ¡°See? Real.¡±


    Without asking permission, she touched the whiskers on his face with a single outstretched finger. ¡°Huh. Cool.¡± He blinked in surprise but didn¡¯t try to stop her. She looked like she was going through some things in her head.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°Give me a second.¡± She picked up her tablet and held it stretching her arm out, bending down slightly to get to his height. Then, she at least sensed the need to ask for permission. ¡°Can I take a selfie?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± He waited patiently as she took several pictures of the two of them on her device.


    ¡°Cool. Can I get one with the rest of your¡ª your people?¡±


    A few minutes later, Aida strode up to the squad impatiently. ¡°What¡¯s the hold up, Head Pack Leader? I thought you were going to get us tickets for the light rail.¡±


    Baedarsust pointed at the growing circle of locals who had started gathering near them. ¡°They wanted to take pictures with us. And you said we should be making friends.¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright, people,¡± Aida shouted into the crowd. ¡°We have to get going now.¡±


    ¡°Aw, come on.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a few pictures, Rep! You aren¡¯t afraid of our scary cameras, are you?¡±


    ¡°Mom, hold my tablet!¡±


    ¡°Hey, can we get you in it too?¡±


    Aida sighed. ¡°Fine. Just one picture with everyone in it!¡±


    <hr>


    Mayor Bianic looked amusingly at the squad of Marines as they strode into her office. ¡°Took your time at the spaceport?¡±


    Aida stepped forward. ¡°How¡¯d you know we were coming? Your spies down at the¡ª¡±


    The mayor pointed at a screen behind them, showing them mingling with the colonists on the local evening news.


    ¡°Ah, yes. Hearts and minds,¡± Aida said, glancing at it. ¡°So¡­ to business?¡±


    ¡°Lovely. Much as we love having you people over spending your credits in our bars. What do you want from us?¡± Bianic asked. ¡°Hano is a neutral city. We don¡¯t take sides in your war.¡±


    Aida¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re an elected mayor of a Republic district. Sides? You don¡¯t get to pick sides here.¡±


    Technically, Bianic was elected by local citizens in a free and fair election three years ago, one which only a quarter of eligible voters cast their ballots due to the Resistance boycott and voter intimidation. Record turnout, yes, but the particulars weren¡¯t all that important now¡­


    Aida continued, ¡°And don¡¯t forget, the terrorists would just as soon go after you for being a Rep collaborator¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± the mayor dismissed. ¡°But we live in the real world here down in Hano. My people are not part of your war. We don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°What you mean to say is¡­ your colony is knowingly harboring operatives of the Resistance.¡±


    ¡°Resistance this, Resistance that. This isn¡¯t the ¡¯70s. We aren¡¯t governed under martial law anymore, Marine. Our citizens have a right to free speech and assembly. Their Basic Terran Rights. Until they¡¯ve crossed the line into real violence and action, they are under the protection of our laws. Your laws,¡± Bianic added. ¡°As you¡¯ve so helpfully pointed out, we are a Republic district after all.¡±


    ¡°They celebrated the massacre of hundreds of innocent people on Mars¡ª¡±


    ¡°A small minority of idiots did,¡± Bianic waved again in dismissal. ¡°A handful. Not so different from your inner planet loud mouths calling for the Navy to tow Saturn into the sun.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s not even¡ª¡±


    Bianic continued, ¡°And those bozos you¡¯re talking about are not actually part of the Resistance Navy you¡¯re looking for, just a bunch of antisocial agitators handing out fliers and protest signs on the community college campus. Small fry. They can¡¯t be the targets you are here to look for, can they? Of course not. Or you¡¯d just go straight to their residential units.¡±


    Aida said nothing for a moment, then replied, ¡°No, they¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ who are you looking for?¡±


    ¡°The Ace of Hearts.¡±


    Mayor Bianic guffawed. ¡°The Ace of Hearts? In Hano? You¡¯re not serious. Please¡­ I think I would know if the Resistance is hiding someone so high up in my city.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ do you?¡±


    She opened her mouth wide, as if in shock Aida would even imply such a thing. ¡°Absolutely not! Sure, we have a few people on their payroll in Hano. But they¡¯re small fry. Just a few agitators looking to recruit at the spaceport in exchange for leaving the rest of us alone. We wouldn¡¯t be hiding a literal Ace of the Resistance here!¡±


    ¡°Well, excuse me for not just taking your word for it.¡±


    The mayor crossed her arms. ¡°Where do you think they¡¯re hiding, then? Where are you going to look?¡±


    ¡°Your hospitals. All four of them. And then, we¡¯ll work our way down your smaller clinics until we find what we want,¡± Aida said, carefully looking at her face.


    ¡°And then once you stomp through our dangerous medical facilities, you¡¯ll be out of here?¡± Bianic fumed.


    Aida shrugged. ¡°Maybe. We do have a few warrants to execute, too.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Mostly the red light district. And a few of the bioimplant parlors down at¡ª¡±


    ¡°Bullshit! I knew it!¡± she pointed an accusing finger at Aida. ¡°You¡¯re just trying to scare off our offworld tourists, the few we still get since you started your war!¡±


    Aida¡¯s expression remained unchanged. ¡°Well, they are ¡ª as you say ¡ª small fry. However, if you can get your people to fully cooperate with our search, maybe we can come back for them another time. Madam Mayor, you do understand what I¡¯m saying, don¡¯t you?¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Aida Nasser, Terran Republic Marine Corps (Rank: Lieutenant)


    Aida slowly scrolled through the hospital¡¯s patient list as one of its senior doctors stood at attention, his face neutral.


    She keyed her radio, ¡°Anything, Carla?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Not even a peep.¡±


    She shot an annoyed look at the local doctor, ¡°Damn, I was hoping if we went barging into the mayor¡¯s office, the rats would panic and move her¡­ if she were here in the first place.¡±


    ¡°No extra radio activity. Nothing from above so far.¡±


    As Aida continued the reading on her tablet, Baedarsust looked at the basket of candies at the reception labelled ¡°Take One¡± in crayon colors and turned to the doctor. ¡°Can I get one of these?¡±


    The doctor looked surprised to be addressed at all. ¡°Uh¡ª ahem¡ª uh sure¡­ but that one is grape flavor. They contain¡ª I don¡¯t know¡ª Are you sure they are safe for your people¡ª¡±


    Baedarsust grabbed one, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. ¡°Only one way to find out,¡± he said in between chews and winked.


    Frumers reached for the candy basket as well. His paw stopped, hanging in midair, as he sniffed the air twice.


    Baedarsust noticed his facial expression. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Sniff sniff. Sniff sniff.


    Frumers sniffed the air a few more times, tracing his nose to the direction of the doctor. ¡°Something smells off. Someone. Someone is sweating a lot more than normal. And very nervous.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he¡¯s nervous because an ugly alien is sniffing at him,¡± Baedarsust joked as the doctor tensed up.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s¡ª this is a different smell,¡± Frumers insisted.


    Hearing this, Aida looked up back at the doctor, narrowing her eyes. ¡°Are you sure this is your entire patient list, doctor?¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. We keep very detailed records at this hospital.¡±


    ¡°I think he¡¯s lying,¡± Frumers piped up again. ¡°Or hiding something.¡±


    Aida visibly tightened her grip on her rifle. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡ª yes. Yes. Of course,¡± the doctor said, shifting nervously.


    ¡°That question wasn¡¯t for you. But this one is: you don¡¯t¡­ say¡­ have separate records for some of your patients, do you?¡± Aida said, moving a step towards him, her armor creaking in tension.


    The doctor fidgeted and said nothing.


    ¡°And if I had my technicians check your servers for discrepancies¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡ª we¡ª please¡­ it¡¯s not what you think!¡± the doctor¡¯s voice strained as he began to confess, ¡°we¡ª we have an¡­ unofficial arrangement with one of the smaller settlements to our geographic south!¡±


    ¡°An unofficial arrangement? Why?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ an unauthorized settlement near the ice mines. They sometimes send their people here for outpatient emergency procedures.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Aida said, her stance relaxing slightly. ¡°One of the doomsday cult weirdos?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Fensal Colony,¡± the doctor said, sighing. ¡°They¡¯re not violent people. They just pay us on the side for the rarer medicine and complex operations because they don¡¯t want us to register their data with the Republic central medical system. And what are we supposed to do ¡ª just let them get sick and die out there?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that what their sect wants anyway¡ª Fine. Whatever. I don¡¯t care. Show me your other books then.¡±


    He began to protest, ¡°I can¡¯t just send you private health data for innocent patients who haven¡¯t done anything¡ª¡±


    ¡°Show me the list,¡± Aida said, taking a step towards him more sternly, making sure he understood it wasn¡¯t a request. ¡°Our legal intelligence will sift through it.¡±


    Whatever he believed about her claim, reluctantly, he nodded and then sent the data over to her tablet. It immediately flagged a few IDs, mostly small-time criminals wanted for petty offenses and¡ª


    ¡°She was here!¡± Aida exclaimed as an entry popped up.


    The doctor looked uncertain. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The Ace of Hearts! Just two months ago. Neurological department. Ambre Martin, 61. That¡¯s her genetic profile. Right at this hospital!¡± Aida said, displaying the Ace of Heart¡¯s Republic ID picture on her tablet.


    ¡°I think you¡¯re mistaken, Rep,¡± the doctor said, glancing at the picture on her screen. ¡°I signed off on that surgery myself. Ms. Martin looks nothing like your picture. For one, she¡¯s¡ª oh. Oh no.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°She looks¡­ ancestrally South Asian now, nothing like your picture. She must have gotten deep cosmetic surgery! Huh, that does all make sense now. I just thought she had a peculiar genetic pattern,¡± the doctor said, his face pale. ¡°She¡¯s a terrorist? But she was such a nice old lady!¡±


    Aida was already on her radio. ¡°I¡¯m going to need all your records of that operation. And did she say anything to you? About where she lives, where she¡¯s going?¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t think so. I don¡¯t remember,¡± the doctor said, the bead of sweat on his forehead now obvious to even Aida. ¡°She didn¡¯t say much important, I don¡¯t think¡ª Wait, there was another man with her. Tall. I thought he was her son or a nephew.¡±


    ¡°Another man? Can you describe him?¡±


    ¡°Not really, it was a while ago,¡± the doctor said, pulling up his tablet again. ¡°But like I said, we keep detailed records of all our procedures. We might have put him down as next-of-kin or something.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Titan (1,000 km)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Who is he?¡± Carla asked, looking at the computer-generated composite model on screen, juxtaposed next to a Republic ID picture and a mugshot.


    ¡°Tristan Paquet. Former contraband smuggler, went to prison a few years ago for¡­ tax evasion,¡± Amelia replied. ¡°Apparently, RRS says he¡¯s gone legit as far as they know. And apparently¡­ off the deep end.¡±


    ¡°Do we have a current address?¡±


    ¡°Better. We know exactly where he is. He has a cargo ship registration. It¡¯s transiting Saturn right now. Transmitting the mission authorization to your ship¡­ now.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 38 The Hunt II

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Saturn (182 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Civilian cargo spacecraft Free Zone Forever, registration C-129421, power down your drives,¡± Carla said into her headset with her best ¡°I¡¯m bored¡± voice. ¡°This is a routine contraband inspection.¡±


    ¡°Rep boots and bootlickers! We¡¯re in the middle of an expensive transfer burn!¡± came the pilot¡¯s angry reply from the radio.


    She didn¡¯t even raise her volume as she drawled on, ¡°Under the Republic Security Act, all civilian spacecraft are subject to random search and seizure while transiting the Red Zone. You may apply for compensation due to lost time or damages from the Interplanetary Insurance Office later. Now, cease acceleration on all axis, or we will use force. This is your final warning.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine,¡± grumbled the pilot. ¡°We¡¯re complying. We¡¯re complying. God damn Reps!¡±


    ¡°Prepare to be boarded.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    Aida briefed the platoon with a holographic model of the ship. ¡°It¡¯s a Porcupine-class cargo spacecraft. Highly modular. Five sections, all segregated with airlocks.¡±


    She pointed at each of the sections, labelling them in sequence. ¡°Sections Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo. The command and control is in Echo. Lemming Squad will advance from the docking airlock near Alpha. Then, clear your way down each section until you find who you¡¯re looking for.¡±


    ¡°We? What about you?¡± Baedarsust asked. ¡°Are you not joining us?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be with Maurice¡¯s backup team of Republic Marines ready to bail you out externally if anything goes wrong.¡±


    ¡°Oh. It¡¯s that kind of mission.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that kind of mission. So keep your eyes peeled. This is your target: Tristan Paquet,¡± she pointed at a picture on the screen. ¡°Take him alive¡­ but¡­ if you don¡¯t, get him back to the shuttle for a brain scan as quickly as you can. Remember: for a neural interrogation, you are only allowed to ask questions relating to imminent threats, but anything else that comes up in his mind is fair game. Do you understand what I¡¯m saying?¡±


    ¡°Yes, LT.¡±


    She shot him a more serious look. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes, LT, we are capable of understanding subtext. What are the other rules of engagement on this one?¡± Baedarsust asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s still a civilian freighter, so there¡¯s no reason not to be gentle. But keep your guard up. This is a high value target mission. If you see a weapon in someone¡¯s hands, defend yourselves. A jury will understand.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    The bridge monitored the progress of the Malgeir Marines as they docked with the spacecraft and began searching through the messy interiors of the cargo modules.


    ¡°Captain, Lemming Squad just cleared Section Alpha,¡± Speinfoent reported from his console.


    ¡°Good,¡± Carla said.


    Speinfoent continued, ¡°The Marines are saying we might lose them in the next section. It¡¯s apparently heavily shielded.¡±


    ¡°Put them on the main speaker,¡± she ordered. ¡°What¡¯s your status, Lemmings?¡±


    Baedarsust¡¯s voice came through the bridge¡¯s sound system. ¡°We are entering the airlock for Section Bravo. It looks like they¡¯ve got some kind of heavy hull shielding. We sent in a small camera drone first and immediately lost the signal. Now we¡¯re going in and clearing it manually.¡±


    Carla wrinkled her nose, looking at her bridge officers. ¡°Is that¡­ wise? And hull shielding on a civilian cargo ship? Isn¡¯t that¡­ a little suspicious?¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t have much choice, Captain,¡± one of her navigators said as he shook his head. ¡°A lot of these trans-planetary cargo ships have one or two shielded sections for keeping expensive goods safe from radiation in deep space. Intelligence chips, medical equipment, things like that¡­¡±


    ¡°Ah, I see. Thank you, lieutenant.¡± She turned to the sensor station. ¡°Keep a close eye on the section. If anything unexpected happens in there, tell the backup team to get on the section hull and blow their way in.¡±


    Baedarsust¡¯s voice came back on the bridge. ¡°Airlock cycled, entering Section Bravo. Looks clear so far, just¡­ messy¡­ boxes¡­¡± His voice trailed off into static.


    ¡°We¡¯ve lost their signal¡­ as expected,¡± Beth reported.


    They waited a few minutes.


    ¡°Should it take this long to clear this section?¡± Carla asked nervously.


    Aida speculated, ¡°They should be done soon¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ahh¡ª they¡¯re over there!¡± Baedarsust¡¯s voice came back on the radio, with sounds of gunfire in the background. ¡°Suppress them!¡±


    Carla stood up from her command chair. ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    The shooting became more distant, but the evident panic in Baedarsust¡¯s voice did not. ¡°We¡¯ve retreated back into the previous airlock for now. They shot one of my men¡ª he¡¯s bleeding into his lungs! I¡¯m going to try to get him back to the shuttle for evac.¡±


    ¡°The shooters?¡± Carla asked urgently. ¡°Are they with¡ª¡±


    ¡°At least six of them, heavily armed and armored! Maybe a robot too. They¡¯re still all in there! See if you can fire a few rounds into them from the ship!¡±


    Carla looked at the gunnery section. ¡°Weapons, target Section Bravo with the thirty-five-mil, and open a hole in the warehouse module for our backup¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hold that order, Captain!¡± Uintrei said from her station, standing up as well. ¡°Can you play the last few messages back without the translation?¡±


    Carla nodded her permission to halt the order, and Beth did as she asked. Baedarsust¡¯s voice came out of the speakers again in his native Malgeirish.


    ¡°Is something wrong?¡± Carla asked as it played.


    Beth frowned. ¡°Something seems off about their Malgeirish.¡±


    Uintrei nodded. ¡°Lungs. We don¡¯t have lungs. We have one lung. I¡¯ve had to correct Terrans many times about this. The Malgeirish word he¡¯s using is different and unnatural in this context.¡±


    ¡°Like if we were to use the plural form of fish,¡± Beth explained helpfully.


    The Malgeir officer continued, ¡°And one of his¡­ men: that wording¡¯s a little anachronistic in the original Malgeirish; the Head Pack Leader would never say that with a female member on his squad. These are basic mistakes you would get from a poor-quality translator fed into one of your fake voice generators. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s really Baedarsust.¡±


    Carla thought for a second, then pressed a button on her radio controls, ¡°Gamma Leader Baedarsust, which one of your Marines is injured?¡±


    ¡°What does it matter?! Just open fire on them or we won¡¯t be here in a moment!¡± came the reply in the Malgeir Marine¡¯s voice.


    Carla let go of a sigh of relief, then looked calmly at Beth. ¡°Did you¡ª where did that signal come¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not from the Bravo. It¡¯s from Section Echo, in the crew command bridge,¡± the electronic warfare officer replied immediately. She turned red. ¡°I should have noticed they were on the open channel and not on our¡ª¡±


    Carla got back on the headset, ¡°Get off the comm, asshole.¡±


    There was nothing on the radio for a few seconds.


    Another voice cut through the static ¡ª this time a Terran¡¯s rough speech in his native French. ¡°How did you figure it out, jackboot?¡±


    ¡°If you try that one again, you better be in an EVA suit, because we¡¯re blowing your whole section to vacuum,¡± Carla snarled.


    ¡°Alright, alright, geez. Someone can¡¯t take a little practical joke. We won¡¯t harm your alien pets, we promise.¡±


    A minute later, Baedarsust¡¯s voice appeared again in the speakers. ¡°Hello? We¡¯ve just finished clearing Section Bravo. Nobody is here. We are now in the airlock to Charlie.¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Beth verified the signal¡¯s location on her console, ¡°That¡¯s our Lemmings. The real ones this time.¡±


    ¡°Whew,¡± Carla said. ¡°I¡¯m glad you guys are okay.¡±


    ¡°Why? Did something happen while we were in there?¡±


    <hr>


    Carla entered the Crete¡¯s temporary brig, flanked by Aida and Baedarsust with their weapons held tensely at the ready.


    ¡°Tristan Paquet,¡± Carla said as she pulled up a chair to the restrained prisoner.


    ¡°You can¡¯t hold me here without charges,¡± he protested. ¡°What about my lawyer? I want my phone call.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get it. But first, we have a few hours to question you,¡± Carla pointed out.


    ¡°I¡¯m not telling you anything without a lawyer. And when I get a lawyer,¡± he pointed a finger at her and Baedarsust viciously. ¡°I¡¯m going to sue the Navy. Violating my rights! Sending a bunch of animals after me! Excessive use of force is what this is! And¡ª and¡ª and malicious prosecution and¡ª¡±


    Baedarsust protested, ¡°We barely touched you!¡±


    Carla ignored him, pulling the picture of the Ace of Hearts up on her tablet. ¡°Recognize her?¡±


    Tristan crossed his arms, refusing to even look at the image. ¡°I told you: I¡¯m not talking.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡±


    ¡°I want my phone call!¡±


    ¡°Alright, suit yourself. If you don¡¯t want to talk to us, you don¡¯t want to talk to us,¡± Carla said, sighing as she packed up her items and scooted back in her chair. ¡°That is your right, after all.¡±


    ¡°Wait, that¡¯s it?¡± Tristan asked incredulously.


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯ll drop you off back on your ship right now,¡± Carla said.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ alright, that¡¯s cool. I guess I won¡¯t sue you then.¡±


    Carla turned to Aida dramatically. ¡°Oh yeah, send a message to Cassini Base and have them relay it to Atlas via FTL.¡±


    ¡°What do I tell them?¡± Aida asked.


    Carla pretended to think for a second. ¡°Subject highly cooperative. Told us everything we wanted to know. We¡¯ve located the high value target.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what?¡± Tristan objected. ¡°I¡¯m not cooperating with nobody.¡±


    Carla continued as if she didn¡¯t hear him. ¡°Subject requires urgent witness protection due to fear of¡ª¡±


    ¡°No I don¡¯t! I¡¯m no Rep collaborator!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you¡¯ve said that,¡± Carla sighed loudly. ¡°I know that. You know that. But your Resistance buddies on your ship listening to our messages in the clear ¡ª they don¡¯t know that. And they certainly will have some questions for you when we also send over this file.¡±


    She hit a button to play a recording on her tablet. It was in Tristan¡¯s voice. ¡°Yeah, you got me. Look, I don¡¯t want any trouble. I¡¯ll tell you what you want to know about her. I just want the bounty payment amount¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hold on, hold on,¡± Tristan waved his hands. ¡°That¡¯s not me!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter, Tristan? Afraid of your own people? Surely the Resistance won¡¯t do anything stupid, like try to make an example of a suspected collaborator or anything on something as flimsy as a falsifiable audio recording?¡±


    ¡°No, no. You can¡¯t do this,¡± Tristan said, panicking. ¡°That¡¯s not my voice¡ª it is my voice, but it¡¯s a fake! I didn¡¯t say that! This is wrong! It¡¯s entrapment!¡±


    ¡°Hey, you¡¯re the one who tried to screw around with fake voices first. Gave me the idea in the first place. And we¡¯re not entrapping you with anything. You are a free man. From us, anyway.¡±


    He crossed his arms. ¡°They¡¯ll be able to tell. Verify it. Everyone knows about the fake voices thing. And they¡¯ll¡ª they¡¯ll know,¡± he said semi-confidently, almost as if he was trying to reassure himself.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Carla said, shrugging. ¡°On the other hand, it sounds like a pretty good imitation, doesn¡¯t it? And things are tense out there, aren¡¯t they? All our raids going on in the Red Zone. You think the Resistance is going to give you due process and presumption of innocence? Maybe you¡¯ll get real lucky, Tristan.¡±


    Tristan didn¡¯t say anything, just look down at the floor.


    ¡°And even if they don¡¯t believe the recording, they won¡¯t totally believe you either. Whatever happens here today, your life as a Red Zone businessman is over.¡±


    Tristan was a defeated man, and he knew it. Reputation was everything out here in the Red Zone, and well¡ª it wasn¡¯t like he was known for being particularly trustworthy before this. There were rumors in the vents about how he got released early into his short prison stint; they weren¡¯t true, and he had enough connections in the Resistance to shut those people up, but the questions were there¡­


    He buried his head in his hands. ¡°If I tell you what you want to know, you¡¯ll release me?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± Carla grinned. ¡°We were going to do that anyway. Your ship¡¯s right there. We¡¯ll give you a ride back any time you want.¡±


    ¡°And not try to get me killed?¡± he added, giving her a dirty stare.


    ¡°Depends on how useful your information is.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said, pointing at the Ace of Heart¡¯s picture on Carla¡¯s tablet. ¡°I do know who that is. And I know where she is.¡±


    Carla sat up. ¡°Where she is, right now?¡±


    He held out a palm. ¡°Hold on, hold on. What do I get?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll release you, no charges or tricks. You can tell your friends on the ship we were just harassing you for your smuggling past. We¡¯ll even issue you a small fine for impersonating a Marine officer. Which you deserve.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Don¡¯t care. You said bounty. I want a reward. The full bounty. 25 million credits.¡±


    Carla snorted. ¡°Keep dreaming.¡±


    ¡°Fine, ten million. Once you catch her, fake messages or not, the Resistance is coming after me and my ship. I need that money to get lost.¡±


    Aida cut in. ¡°Five, and only if we get her. Take it or leave it.¡±


    Carla glanced up at her and shrugged in agreement.


    ¡°Seven million?¡± Tristan asked hopefully.


    ¡°Five.¡±


    ¡°We can compromise at six.¡±


    ¡°Did you not hear me right the first time?¡±


    He hesitated for a second, then nodded. ¡°Fine. Five million Rep credits.¡±


    ¡°If you tell us exactly where she is. Now. No more delaying.¡±


    ¡°Alright. Deal. I¡¯m one of her couriers. She calls me, I give her a ride. She pays me with an account on Titan through the¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, don¡¯t care. Where is she now?¡±


    <hr>


    Galileo-4, Saturn (0.4 Ls)


    POV: Ambre Martin, Terran (Republic Most Wanted #3)


    Ambre Martin woke up as her morning wake-up alarm started to sound.


    She checked her tablet as she brushed her teeth and cleaned her face in the kitchen sink of her tiny residential apartment.


    No messages.


    Ambre was not expecting any. It was just a routine. Routine was good¡­ according to her doctor anyway.


    She browsed to the news. Another day, another Republic Marine raid in the Red Zone. Jackboots shot a hole into a mining station, killing six Resistance operatives and nine innocent bystanders.


    Good. The more that die for the righteous cause of the Resistance, the more that will rally support in the Free Zone.


    A raid on Titan found a weapons and munitions cache.


    What else is new? They¡¯re getting closer to the Ace of Clubs though. She really needs to be more careful with her weapons and ships.


    Ambre packed up her tablet and walked out of her apartment. Her neighbor was just coming home from work. The young man.


    ¡°Good morning, Ms. Maben,¡± he smiled at her.


    ¡°Morning, Carlos. How is your fianc¨¦e?¡± she chuckled.


    He blushed. ¡°Oh, she¡¯s doing well. We loved the apple pie you hand-baked for us last week. Do you need the plate back right now? I can go get it.¡±


    ¡°No, no. That¡¯s alright. I have so many plates,¡± Ambre reassured him. ¡°Another time is fine. You must be tired from your night shift.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good, I¡¯m good. Uh¡­ Ms. Maben. Do you need help getting to the clinic?¡±


    She waved away his assistance. ¡°I know my way around. I¡¯ve been on stations like this one since before you were born!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you have, Ms. Maben.¡±


    She pointed to the new ring on his finger. ¡°And when are we getting Missus Carlos, huh?¡±


    He blushed. ¡°Oh, we¡¯re still setting a date. Things are busy around work. And there¡¯s just so much going on, you know?¡±


    She smiled genuinely at him. ¡°Alright, alright. Go get some sleep, young man. You¡¯ll thank me for that advice when you get to my age.¡±


    He laughed and thanked her as he waved her bye.


    Ambre slowly made her way towards the station clinic, watching people pass by along the way. Just going about their daily lives.


    All these young people. People with no idea of how things were before the Republic began to take the Free Zone seriously.


    No Rep taxes. No contraband inspections. No outsiders telling us what we can or can¡¯t do. And my sons were still alive¡ª


    They will see one day. They will all see. And it will all be worth it.


    The door to the clinic opened automatically for Ambre as she approached and entered. As usual, there was no line or wait.


    ¡°Ms. Maben, right this way.¡±


    She followed the nurse into the examination room to an unfamiliar face. It was a new doctor. A young woman she didn¡¯t know.


    She frowned. ¡°Where is Dr. Claude?¡±


    The new doctor pointed to her tablet. ¡°Dr. Claude is not here today. But don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ve got your therapy medications here. Can you lie down on the table and relax for me?¡±


    Ambre laid down on the ergonomic examination table. ¡°Is Dr. Claude okay? She is never late for me.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s fine. Just had something else come up today,¡± the new doctor reassured her. She placed a medical inhaler gently over Ambre¡¯s face. ¡°Take a deep breath.¡±


    She took a deep breath as the machine pumped for a couple seconds. It tasted like apple pie.


    ¡°Is it her grandfather? Dr. Claude said he¡¯s getting up there in age, and she¡¯s worried he might get the same thing I have if he keeps visiting her brother at the inner gas mines without wearing the safety equipment she bought him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure she wouldn¡¯t want you to worry,¡± the doctor smiled down at her. ¡°How are you feeling, Ms. Maben?¡±


    She looked at the doctor¡¯s cheerful face and sat up.


    Something is wrong.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Do I know you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes, I am taking care of you for today,¡± the familiar-looking doctor¡¯s smile back was unnatural, almost forced.


    Ambre stared at her skeptically. ¡°No, from somewhere else. I feel like I¡¯ve seen your face before.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s unlikely. I am new to the clinic.¡±


    New to the clinic? And Dr. Claude¡ª


    That set off even more alarm bells in her head.


    ¡°I need to go. I need to go,¡± Ambre said repeatedly. She got off the examination table, and slowly ambled towards the clinic door.


    Something is very wrong.


    She felt dizzy. Like she was on an old ship with a malfunctioning inertial compensator.


    Her legs wobbled, and a pair of steady hands caught her from behind as she fell into unconsciousness.


    <hr>


    Ambre came to on a standard hospital bed with no memory of how she got there. That was not unusual. Part of the trouble of getting old with neurodegenerative issues caused by being born in high radiation and low gravity from the shoddy stations back in the day¡­


    What was unusual was one of her wrists was zip-tied to her bed.


    She sat up, grunting, trying to free her right hand.


    ¡°Ah, she¡¯s awake,¡± a woman in the room said, smiling at her like a shark as she walked up towards her bed. Ambre took a closer look at her face. It was an older face, with more wrinkles and regret. Much more recognizable than that young woman at the clinic.


    Ambre sighed, lying back into her bed in resignation. ¡°Of course. I should have known this was you. Only you would come up with a plan quite as convoluted as this instead of a bullet to the back of the head, Lieutenant Commander.¡±


    ¡°We couldn¡¯t risk damaging your precious brain,¡± Amelia said, amused. ¡°And it¡¯s admiral now. I caught so many of you assholes back in the day they promoted me. Quite a few times too.¡±


    ¡°Your reward for being a good little collaborator, huh?¡± the Resistance Ace taunted. ¡°Moving up in the galaxy and forgetting where you came from.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not. Only thing that¡¯s changed about you is this new face you¡¯ve got. Still stuck in the same old place, fighting the same idiotic cause, with the same bloodthirsty psychos. Not many career advancement opportunities as an Ace of the Resistance, are there?¡±


    Ambre rolled over in the bed as much as her restrained wrist would allow her. ¡°At least I¡¯m fighting for something, Rep. You? Just here to gloat before they send me to Neu-Nuremburg? For old time¡¯s sake?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± Amelia said. ¡°You are much too useful to send to prison. At least for now. First, you¡¯re going to tell us everything you know about the Resistance.¡±


    She snorted at the admiral, ¡°I don¡¯t think so. What are you going to do? Threaten me with more prison time? Some deal to cut my sentence so I can get out in time to die from this stupid brain disease? Pour water over my nose until I talk? Pfft. You¡¯ve got nothing on me, Rep. Nothing!¡±


    ¡°See, the thing is¡­ things have changed quite a bit from our day. All this technology,¡± Amelia said, rolling her eyes dramatically as she waved her arms around. ¡°Kids these days take it all for granted. And not knowing all the precious things they¡¯ve lost. For instance, the expectation that the secrets that are in our head will remain ours forever¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 39 History

    <div>


    Huygens District Court, Titan


    POV: Court Transcript, Huygens District Court


    ¡°All rise for the Honorable Judge Camille Couture.¡±


    A whoosh of air heralded the middle-aged judge¡¯s entrance, her robes flowing behind her.


    Reaching her bench, she fixed her eyes on the two attorneys in the room, and her voice resonated through the room. ¡°Please be seated. We are here to discuss the matter of Terran Republic v. Doe et al. Case number 84-CR-117442. Mr. Lee, you may proceed.¡±


    The middle-aged government man in the dark suit cleared his throat. ¡°Thank you, Your Honor. We have extensive evidence that co-defendant Jane Doe holds a leadership position in the Saturnian Resistance Navy, a terrorist network currently planning imminent attacks on citizens of the Republic. Traditional investigation methods have not yielded the necessary information. The Republic requests a warrant to utilize a non-invasive neurological interrogation technique on Ms. Doe to discover additional threats. The interrogation will be limited to specific, relevant memories and information directly pertaining to the illegal activity already charged in this case.¡±


    The judge looked across the aisle at his counterpart. The defense attorney''s eyes flashed with indignation. ¡°Your Honor, this request raises serious concerns about privacy and the potential for abuse. Such a technique is intrusive and directly violates my client¡¯s Basic Terran Right against self-incrimination. Brain-scanning has not been authorized in police interrogation in the Republic in over twenty years; the justification for its last use was based partially in legal doctrine that has since been ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court of the Republic. Furthermore, the prosecution has not provided evidence to the Court that Ms. Doe even possesses memories that will help their investigation.¡±


    The judge thought for a moment, nodded, and turned back to the prosecutor. ¡°Mr. Lee, what evidence does the State have that Ms. Doe has access to the information you need?¡±


    ¡°Statements from the defendant herself, Your Honor. Here is a recording of a propaganda speech Ms. Doe made prior to a previous attack, evidence of her access to foreknowledge of operations in the organization,¡± he said, uploading the transcript of the speech to the exhibits. He continued, ¡°Here is a radio intercept of two low level SRN operatives discussing an imminent, future strike on an unspecified target, showing one of many specific attacks she may have additional information on. This establishes sufficient probable cause, justifying the petition for the issuance of a warrant.¡±


    Taking a minute to read the transcripts, Judge Couture turned back to him with a grave expression. ¡°Mr. Lee¡­ I must say I am surprised by this request. Even granting the authenticity of your evidence and the public safety exception in your request, brain scan interrogation remains a prima facie violation of the defendant¡¯s right against self-incrimination.¡±


    Lee gestured towards the defendant¡¯s table. ¡°Your Honor, we are willing to waive our ability to prosecute Ms. Doe based on information directly obtained via this interrogation. Our prosecution team will enact an ethics wall from the contents and results of the interrogation. The defendant cannot claim a right against self-incrimination if we confer upon her transactional immunity under the Fisher doctrine.¡±


    Judge Couture sat back, seeming surprised as she read the details of the partial immunity affidavit. ¡°That is¡­ an extraordinary step. Hm¡­ in that case¡­¡± She looked at the defendant¡¯s table. ¡°I am inclined to grant this request with privacy safeguards. Ms. Miller?¡±


    ¡°This is highly irregular, Your Honor,¡± the visibly frustrated Miller protested. ¡°Surely this Court does not wish to set a precedent that will allow law enforcement to conduct such a procedure any time they can¡¯t figure out a case by themselves!¡±


    ¡°Your objection is noted, Ms. Miller. Mr. Lee, the State¡¯s request for a warrant for neurological interrogation is granted, contingent upon your privacy and self-recrimination shield. I note in my decision that this represents an exceptional determination due to the extreme threat that the co-defendant poses to public order, and it is not intended to establish a general precedent for future cases. Anything else?¡±


    Lee coughed lightly, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. ¡°Your Honor, given the ongoing nature of this investigation, the State also requests that the Court impose a gag order on opposing attorney to prevent her from disclosing any information about this warrant, our custody of Ms. Doe, or the impending search to the co-defendants or any third parties to ensure the integrity of the investigation and to prevent any potential tampering with evidence or flight risk by her co-defendants.¡±


    Miller¡¯s eyes blazed, and she stared straight at him with venom, ¡°Your Honor, this is an overreach! A gag order would impede my ability to effectively represent my client and collaborate with co-counsel! It infringes on my client¡¯s right to a fair defense.¡±


    Judge Couture¡¯s fingers drummed on her bench for a moment as she contemplated the request, then shook her head. ¡°Ms. Miller, whether the State is successful in its current investigation, you will have plenty of time to prepare a defense for your clients, and if you wish to represent them more effectively, I suggest you urge them to surrender themselves to local authorities as soon as possible. Given the potential risk of information leak jeopardizing the State¡¯s investigation, I find the request for a gag order reasonable.¡±


    ¡°Your Honor, I must express my objection for the record!¡±


    The judge tapped her gavel on the bench lightly. ¡°Your objection is duly noted, Ms. Miller. That concludes today¡¯s proceedings. Court adjourned.¡±


    <hr>


    Black Site Deimos, Deimos


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Amelia sat down opposite her prisoner strapped into the interrogation chair, next to her lawyer. There was a circular device encapsulating the Ace¡¯s head. Powerful new technology developed from the TRO¡¯s ample black budget, not too different in principle from the century-old MRIs. Not physically intrusive enough to forcefully pull information from her head like an actual implant or a battlefield brainjack with its nano-needles¡­


    Just intrusive enough to be legal in special circumstances. Like this one.


    Amelia slowly browsed to her notes on her tablet, sipping on a cup of water as she did. She offered it to the lawyer. ¡°Water?¡±


    ¡°No, thanks,¡± the attorney shook her head. ¡°How long will this take, Rep?¡±


    ¡°As long as it takes to get the information we need,¡± Amelia replied. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t take too long.¡±


    ¡°We object to this illegal and dangerous method of interrogation,¡± Miller started. ¡°It violates every single one of my client¡¯s Basic Terran Right. We are filing a stay on the order in the Supreme Court¡ª¡±


    Amelia waved her complaint away dismissively, ¡°You¡¯re only here to observe the conduct of our procedures, Ms. Miller. After all, we comply with laws and procedures here. But you will not disrupt our work. And as we¡¯re about to begin, my people will escort you to the peanut gallery.¡±


    With a huff, the lawyer allowed herself to be led out of the room to the darkened observation chamber.


    Amelia looked back at the prisoner opposite her, tapping her tablet to establish a neural link with the device. ¡°So¡­ Ambre Martin¡­ or Maben¡­ or as I know you prefer, the Ace of Hearts. We¡¯re going to ask you some questions under a neurological interrogation device, and you can say nothing ¡ª that is your right. But you¡¯re going to tell us what you know about the Resistance. What you¡¯re doing next, where your people are hiding¡­¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    The Ace stared daggers at her.


    Amelia continued unperturbed, ¡°Let¡¯s start with the Resistance Aces we¡¯re looking for. The Ace of Diamonds. Where do we find her?¡±


    Nothing.


    She said nothing, and the weak device drew a blank from her mind.


    ¡°Nothing? Ah, I see your people have trained you for a little bit of this. Not too surprising. Alright, how about we start with this one? This Resistance operative,¡± Amelia said, changing tracks and bringing up a dated picture on her tablet. ¡°You remember him?¡±


    The prisoner took one look at the picture and looked away. Still nothing.


    Amelia swiped on her tablet. ¡°No? What about this one?¡±


    That got a strong reaction. Some memories involuntarily surfaced to the top of her mind on the machine. Not enough to get any real images, but it was something.


    ¡°My dead sons,¡± Ambre spat angrily on the table. ¡°What games are you playing now, Lieutenant Commander?¡±


    ¡°Two brothers. Died for the ¡®heroic cause¡¯ of the Resistance,¡± Amelia said, shaking her head sadly. ¡°So young. Twenty and¡­ eighteen. Noah, explosive decompression in a Marine raid¡­ and Thomas, shot and killed carrying out a terrorist attack at Galileo One.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you!¡±


    Amelia continued without changing her tone, ¡°So goes the official story anyway. Can¡¯t believe what those dirty Reps say, right?¡±


    ¡°Fuck. You.¡±


    Now her brain was dredging up all sorts of memories. A mix of rage, depression, and the dark times she went through when she heard the news. When both her sons were martyred by the Reps¡­ within days of each other.


    In her surfacing memories, Amelia glimpsed the window of some civilian station. The specialists can look into that later.


    Amelia swiped again on her tablet and looked back down at the prisoner. She took a sip of water. ¡°What if I told you Thomas was still alive?¡±


    ¡°Lies of the Republic!¡±


    Amelia turned her tablet over so the prisoner could see the screen. It began playing footage from a helmet camera from a standard police robot¡­


    The Ace of Hearts knew that she shouldn¡¯t watch, but Thomas¡¯s mother couldn¡¯t stop herself.


    <hr>


    Galileo-1, Saturn (0.5 Ls)


    25 years ago


    POV: Thomas Martin, Terran (Civilian)


    Thomas¡¯ heart stopped when he saw the message on his tablet.


    Noah.


    Big brother.


    Killed in a Republic raid.


    ¡°He went out like a hero,¡± his mother said hoarsely in her recorded message that he began to play, her tears flowing freely and her rage raw. ¡°My son. My son! Shot in cold blood. Defending his home. Defending his people. Our people. Those jackboots shot him. Those Martian animals!¡±


    Thomas was angry.


    The Ace of Heart¡¯s message was directed at the Resistance, urging them into action.


    Take revenge. For your martyr.


    But Thomas saw his mom¡¯s video as a personal message for him.


    Take revenge. For your brother.


    He rummaged through his trunk of contraband under his bed. Within moments, he found what he was looking for: one of those covert handguns one of his Resistance buddies had printed in an unauthorized fabrication shop and given to him as a gift. He picked up the two magazines next to it, loading one of them after a few moments of fiddling and stuffing the other in his utility pocket.


    Sliding the gun into his loose work coverall, he walked out of his station residence.


    He¡¯d rehearsed this in his head a thousand times. And in the sim programs too. He knew this whole place like the back of his hand. He made his way around the station, avoiding most of the cameras and body scanners.


    There it was: the docking module.


    There were several workers gathered around, supervising as an industrial robot loaded supplies into a container, bound for one of the Navy ships docked at the station. If he got by them, he could get onto the ship¡ª


    ¡°Hey, dude,¡± one of the workers called out upon seeing him. ¡°You can¡¯t be in here. This is a restricted loading area¡ª¡±


    On instinct developed in a semi-realistic sim, Thomas reached into his coverall, grabbed his gun by the grip, brought it out in the general direction of the speaker, and depressed the trigger.


    Bang.


    A loud discharge rang through the module, and the shot found its mark. The target¡¯s body crumpled to the ground, a puddle of blood pooling where part of his head used to be.


    His first kill. Thomas looked down at the result in momentary shock and horror.


    As did the other workers.


    One of them recovered faster than him. She screamed. That broke the reverie, and all of them dropped what they were doing and went running for cover.


    In his daze, he let them go. Instead, he took aim at their industrial loading robot.


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    It collapsed to the ground in a heap of useless metal. One less cog for the Republic¡¯s fascist war machine.


    He approached the docking entrance to the Navy ship. It was guarded. Two of the Navy¡¯s jackboots. One of the guards ran towards him with a mere baton.


    Bang. Bang.


    The guard fell backwards, his baton clattering to the ground. The other guard raised his hands, showing that he was unarmed and looking at Thomas with fear and pleading in his eyes.


    Bang.


    Die, Rep.


    He walked over the two bodies towards the ship airlock. He pressed the button to open the door.


    It didn¡¯t respond.


    Damn. Maybe I should have thought this through better.


    He went back to one of the guards¡¯ bodies and felt for his pocket. It was still warm. He emptied the pocket onto the station floor: credit card, room key card, ah¡­ Navy ID. Refusing to even read the information on it, he went back to the airlock and held the ID up to the scanner next to it.


    The door still declined to open.


    Frustrated, Thomas grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he can. He tugged on the heavy metal handle for another few seconds with all his strength. It wouldn¡¯t budge.


    Crap. What next?


    That¡¯s when he heard the rhythm of metal footsteps, rapidly marching methodically towards his position. He whirled around instinctively.


    That was faster than he expected.


    Police bots, a trio of them, with their siren lights flashing red and blue. They moved quickly into the docking module with robotic precision, fanning out and aiming their weapons at him. ¡°Drop your weapon!¡± one of them said through its loudspeaker. ¡°Drop your weapon now!¡±


    Bang.


    Thomas shot the robot where he knew its control chip was. The Resistance had brochures and videos teaching its operatives exactly where to hit to destroy one of these machines. The 5.7 mm round shredded its internals, and its parts clattered to the ground.


    He took aim at another, and he noticed that its lights had stopped flashing and turned green¡ª


    Bzzzzzzzzttttttt.


    Pain. He felt his muscles spasm, all of them. His fingers contracted, firing off a wild shot into the station hull. He saw stars as he fell to the ground.


    ¡°You are under arrest, citizen. You have the right to¡­¡±


    As he began to lose consciousness, he could hear the damn robot reading him his Basic Terran Rights through the loudspeaker.


    <hr>


    He came to, slumped over at a table. As he opened his eyes to his blurry vision and sat back up, Thomas could see that he was handcuffed to the table. It was some kind of interrogation room.


    ¡°Awake now?¡±


    Thomas looked up at the voice. As he focused his eyes, he saw it was a middle-aged woman, an officer in a jet-black Navy uniform. He couldn¡¯t recognize her rank insignia, which carried a single ringed planet in gold. Her nametag read ¡°Waters¡±.


    She tossed a silver metal plate onto the table in front of him.


    ¡°Becker, Albert. Petty Officer. Thirty. He has¡ª had a wife back on Terra.¡±


    She chucked out another dogtag.


    ¡°Bauernschmidt, Leo. Chief Petty Officer. Thirty-four. Wife and a ten-year-old daughter. And the third, the civilian, Titan native with a mother still waiting for him to come home.¡±


    Thomas looked at the names on the table with his hate-filled eyes. ¡°Were those your men?¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°Good,¡± he said with venom in his voice, leaning back in his chair. ¡°Now you inner planet jackboots know how we feel when you come to our¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m from Ganymede,¡± she said automatically.


    ¡°Even worse, Rep collaborator!¡± he spat at her.


    ¡°You¡¯re just a child. Why? Why would you do this?¡± she asked, almost sadly. ¡°What would even¡ª¡±


    ¡°To free our people from the injustice and oppression of your Republic!¡± he recited.


    She looked at him, wordless for a moment, as if in disbelief.


    ¡°Injustice? Oppression?!¡± she grinded out a few seconds later.


    And in a second, Thomas realized she was right: he didn¡¯t throw his life away for some abstract concept of fighting oppression. He didn¡¯t care about the history of the half century interplanetary conflict, the chronicles of bloody outer planet repression, who started it, who shot first? Who cares?!


    None of that mattered. He had another cause. A righteous one!


    ¡°To avenge my brother!¡± Thomas shouted. ¡°Noah! Hero of the Resistance! Vive la R¨¦sistance!¡±


    She shrugged slightly, as if she didn¡¯t know¡ª or perhaps didn¡¯t care.


    ¡°You murdered him!¡± he said angrily. The monsters didn¡¯t even know what they¡¯d just done. It was just another day at work for them. ¡°Yesterday! Your Marine raids! And you don¡¯t even know¡ª¡±


    The officer turned her head to look at him with much more interest. ¡°Yesterday? Leavitt Station? Your brother? What¡¯s your mother¡¯s name?¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 40 High Value Target

    <div>


    Black Site Deimos, Deimos


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    The Ace of Hearts stared at the interrogation videos with feigned disinterest, but she wasn¡¯t fooling anyone.


    Amelia turned the tablet around. ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°Fake videos,¡± Ambre said dismissively, but there was a raw edge to her voice that Amelia didn¡¯t need a mind reader to understand. ¡°Blatant deception. My sons are dead. And their blood is on the hands of your people.¡±


    ¡°After his capture, we rehabilitated Thomas. Took years of court-ordered therapy in prison to undo all the hatred you poisoned him with. And restitution. I was there when he met the families of the spacers and that dockworker he murdered and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Rep brainwashing!¡± she screeched.


    ¡°That Red Zone operation was over by then,¡± Amelia recounted. ¡°The Resistance was scattered, and the Senate stopped the raids. But afterwards, Thomas told us everything he knew about you before we released him to witness protection.¡±


    ¡°Lies! My sons were proud martyrs of the Resistance. They would never break! Not Thomas¡ª not my Thomas. My Thomas would never have¡ª¡±


    Amelia could hear the exact moment her heart broke. The moment the Ace of Hearts broke.


    ¡°That¡¯s how I knew about your¡­ condition,¡± Amelia pointed at her head. ¡°And that his first pets¡¯ names were¡­ Bubbles and Brightly, two Budgie parrots specially bred for the outer planets, if I remember right.¡±


    The elderly prisoner said nothing, her head now dredging up all kinds of memories. Memories she clearly didn¡¯t know she still had. How the most irrelevant details could betray decades of conviction and¡ª


    ¡°Thomas told us everything, Ambre.¡±


    ¡°No son of mine is a collaborator,¡± she said, looking away from Amelia.


    ¡°I wonder how he is now,¡± Amelia said. ¡°Probably still around somewhere, if I had to guess. He¡¯d be what¡­ forty-three now?¡±


    ¡°Forty-four. What do you want from me, Lieutenant Commander?¡± the Ace of Hearts asked, futilely restraining details from rising to the top of her thoughts.


    Amelia pulled up the picture of the first operative on her tablet again, her face more serious. ¡°The Ace of Diamonds. Where is she?¡±


    ¡°Nice try,¡± the Ace coldly sneered at her with rage and hard concentration on her face, sweat dripping down her cheeks.


    ¡°I¡¯ll trade you,¡± Amelia offered.


    ¡°What?¡± she looked at her interrogator with confusion.


    ¡°You heard me. I¡¯ll trade you. Information for information. It¡¯s only fair. You give me the location of the Ace of Diamonds. I¡¯ll look it up and tell you where Thomas is. A current picture. You must be at least curious how he¡¯s doing. Or maybe I can even get them to arrange a visit¡­ if he wants to. I¡¯m guessing you¡¯ll want to explain some things to him before Republic prosecutors show everyone the monster you are in court.¡±


    ¡°No! He¡¯d understand why¡ª I won¡¯t collaborate over some grotesque fabrication of my¡ª my dead son.¡±


    But her wavering voice betrayed her.


    Amelia looked Ambre in the eyes. Even the old woman didn¡¯t believe her own denial, and Amelia didn¡¯t need a mind reader to tell. ¡°You don¡¯t have to say anything, Ambre. Just visualize the answers in your head. It¡¯s that simple. No one can blame you for a small moment of temporary weakness. Temporary humanity. Nobody will even know. All you have to do¡­ is break your concentration for a second. Just a second. Now, where is the Ace of Diamonds? Think of your son. Think of Thomas. Wouldn¡¯t you want to see him again?¡±


    ¡°Never!¡±


    ¡°Well, there¡¯s no need to be hasty. Think about it on your own for a bit,¡± Amelia said casually as she stood up and stretched her arms. ¡°I¡¯m going to go get some coffee. And talk to my contact in witness protection. I¡¯m sure I can find Thomas; I¡¯m pretty good at this sort of thing¡­¡±


    The Resistance Ace grunted with effort as she continued to focus her thoughts against the rising temptation. ¡°You¡ª you¡ª Rep bastard.¡±


    The old mother didn¡¯t stand a chance.


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Saturn (0.8 Ls)


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    Aida pointed to the map of the civilian station on the screen. ¡°Roland Station. High value target. Very high value target.¡±


    ¡°Who is it this time?¡± Baedarsust asked.


    ¡°Ace of Diamonds,¡± Aida read. ¡°Accountant. Financier. She¡¯s in charge of their money.¡±


    ¡°By the Malgeir! The one with her picture on your playing cards?!¡±


    ¡°The same one. We get her, we can roll up their whole funding network. Equipment, operations, salaries. Starve the whole Resistance out.¡±


    Baedarsust nodded. ¡°She have any military training? Any known or registered firearms?¡±


    ¡°None that we know of, but assume nothing.¡± Aida pointed back at the screen, highlighting several locations on it. ¡°She lives in the residential sector. We don¡¯t know exactly where. But we know she moonlights as one of the station maintenance techs. Based on that and the other information we have, we know she must be living in one of these four dorms. We¡¯ll go in at night, standard station raid. Hit all four rooms simultaneously.¡±


    ¡°Wait a second. Shouldn¡¯t this be a mission for one of your infiltrators? Something less conspicuous than a few squads of Marines?¡± Baedarsust sniffed.


    ¡°Lucky for you,¡± Aida smiled sweetly at him. ¡°Your unit¡¯s stellar record caught the attention of the higher ups. And we want to hit her as quick as possible before she realizes she¡¯s been made. So, no time for surveillance. And you¡¯ve been volunteered, along with a few other fellow Malgeir squads on the Crete. One for each of the possible targets. Then a couple covering the hallways and the other parts of the station, in case one of you screws up.¡±


    ¡°Great. It¡¯s one of those missions again,¡± Spommu complained.


    Aida looked at her. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t send you on these if we thought you couldn¡¯t handle it.¡±


    ¡°And you wouldn¡¯t send us if you didn¡¯t think there was some deadly risk either,¡± Baedarsust pointed out. ¡°Or you¡¯d use your own people.¡±


    Aida nodded slowly. ¡°She is¡­ what we call a true believer in the Resistance.¡±


    ¡°As in she¡¯s ready to blow us all to Malgeiru if she sees us coming,¡± Baedarsust interpreted.


    ¡°She won¡¯t get a chance to,¡± Aida promised. ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯re doing it at night. Not even a Resistance Ace sleeps in their suicide vest. Not usually anyway. And if she does, your suit¡¯s electronic warfare devices might still work. Hope they haven¡¯t upgraded recently¡ª¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s utterly reassuring. Have you considered becoming a motivational speaker?¡±


    ¡°Like a Marine drill instructor? I¡¯ll keep your recommendation in mind.¡±


    <hr>


    Baedarsust and his squad stacked up right outside the target residence, their weapons ready.


    He held up three claws on his non-dominant paw. Then two claws. Then one.


    Wordlessly, Quaullast activated the room door with the master key card. It opened silently, and the squad filed into the room.


    It was a standard utilitarian station residence, exactly as they simulated: a bed, a closet, and a bathroom.


    The cozy-looking bed was empty.


    And the closet.


    ¡°Clear,¡± his squad members each calling out from the corners they were assigned to.


    Baedarsust strode over to the bathroom, poking his rifle in through the shower curtains to push it aside and verify its interior was unoccupied. ¡°Clear.¡±


    Spommu pointed at the messy blankets on the bed. ¡°Damn, looks like whoever this was, they left in a hurry.¡±


    Frumers touched the bed. Then, he held up a paw, making a gesture across his neck with a single claw. He turned off his suit translator, and the rest of the squad did the same.


    ¡°Bed¡¯s still warm,¡± Frumers explained in Malgeirish. ¡°Someone was just here.¡±


    ¡°I wonder how she got past us,¡± Spommu complained. ¡°We have the whole station sealed up like a can of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shhhh¡ª¡± Frumers shushed her lightly. His ears wiggled twice. ¡°They¡¯re still here ¡ª Terran heartbeat ¡ª and shallow breathing.¡±


    The four of them quieted down, each listening carefully with their sensitive ears. Frumers sniffed the air a few times with his nose.


    After a few moments, Baedarsust heard the light thumping too. ¡°Under the floor?¡±


    Frumers nodded in agreement. He slowly walked around, his paws testing the rigid aluminum floor lightly as his ears strained to hear the difference.


    Suddenly, he stopped and pointed to where he was standing with his paw. He whispered and pointed, ¡°Under here. Hollow. Small compartment.¡±


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Spommu mouthed, aiming her rifle downwards. ¡°Maybe we can shoot through the floor.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re supposed to capture her alive,¡± Baedarsust reminded her quietly. He pointed at Quaullast and a small circular gesture.


    Breaching charge.


    As noiselessly as he could, Quaullast slowly pulled them out, ripped off their tape covers, and gently stuck the blocks of explosive devices in a circle on the floor.


    ¡°Give Spommu the fun gun,¡± he instructed Quaullast in a whisper, who wordlessly handed the high voltage gadget to her.


    Baedarsust switched his suit translator back on. He talked in a louder voice, trusting the translator to broadcast it in the local Terran dialect, whatever it was. ¡°Dammit, Sunray, our intel was off again. This is a dry hole. We¡¯re heading back to the ship.¡±


    He held out three claws on his non-dominant paw.


    Then, two claws. Then, one.


    Quaullast triggered the charge, the thermite instantly burning a red-hot circle into the floor. He gave the middle of it a heavy shove with his rear paw, and the circular piece of metal fell into the compartment below with a loud clatter.


    They heard a woman yelp in alarm and pain below. Spommu stepped up to look into the hole, took aim, and¡ª


    Bzzzzzzzttttttt.


    As the squad scooted over to look down, their suit flashlights illuminating the dark compartment, they could see their target still spasming on the floor below, a short handgun dropped uselessly next to her body.


    ¡°Alright, turn that off and fish her out before she passes out,¡± Baedarsust ordered as he zoomed in to her face to verify it against the intelligence.


    It came back positive instantly.


    Then, he turned up his suit loudspeaker in case the woman in the compartment couldn¡¯t hear. ¡°Ace of Diamonds, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent against self-recrimination. Anything you say from now on can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer before we ask you any questions. You have the right to be questioned with a lawyer¡­¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    Grionc sighed as Loenda strode into her office. She thought she knew what it was going to be about again. ¡°Take a seat, Loenda.¡±


    To her surprise, the alpha leader did, settling herself into the chair.


    ¡°What can I do for you today?¡±


    Loenda looked at her, obviously happy about something. ¡°I¡¯ve just been briefed by our reconnaissance captains. Plorve just reported in.¡±


    Grionc tilted her head. ¡°What¡¯s going on over there?¡±


    ¡°The system¡¯s empty.¡±


    ¡°Empty?¡±


    Loenda leaned in. ¡°They¡¯ve pulled out everything except a small skeleton squadron. Just twelve combat ships and some static defenses. This may be the gap we were looking for.¡±


    Grionc shook her head. ¡°Might be a trap. Priplae¡ª¡±


    ¡°Priplae is empty too,¡± Loenda reported. ¡°Same thing. They¡¯ve pulled most their ships out of there.¡±


    She sat up. ¡°Uidquu¡ª¡±


    A dangerous glint entered the squadron leader¡¯s eyes. ¡°Emptied too. Only two squadrons defending the shipyard. Ask me about Pomniot.¡±


    ¡°Is that empty too? Hold on, hold on,¡± Grionc said, waving her paws. ¡°This smells exactly like a trap. Don¡¯t forget what happened over in Sconcans¡ª¡±


    ¡°Pomniot has been emptied too. What trap could there be? There are no more mass formations of Grass Eaters within Federation space.¡±


    ¡°Have we reported all this to our friends?¡± Grionc asked.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± Loenda shook her head. ¡°But we can do this operation ourselves. We¡¯ve been preparing to take these systems back for months now. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll agree once¡ª¡±


    Grionc held up a claw. She brought up her datapad and dialed a communicator. ¡°Hello? This is High Fleet Commander Grionc. May I talk to Admiral Amelia Waters at Atlas Naval Command, please?¡±


    It only took a few minutes for them to verify her identity and location. The face of the familiar Terran admiral appeared on the screen. ¡°What¡¯s going on, Grionc?¡± she asked. ¡°Kind of busy with something over here.¡±


    ¡°There has been a strange development on the frontlines. The Znosians have left Plorve very lightly defended.¡±


    Amelia looked at her impatiently. ¡°Yeah, Grionc, look, I think we¡¯ve explained it to your Admiralty. The Buns¡¯ fleets are going to come and go. That¡¯s how they keep you on your paws, right?¡±


    ¡°No, this is different,¡± Grionc insisted. ¡°They¡¯ve left all the known systems in the Federation with only one or two squadrons in each system.¡±


    Amelia froze. ¡°Wait. Uidquu?¡±


    ¡°Two squadrons only.¡±


    ¡°And it¡¯s like that in all the remaining occupied Malgeir systems?¡±


    ¡°All the ones you¡¯ve told us to recon.¡±


    There was no reply on the call for a few seconds.


    Grionc prompted, ¡°Does this mean we can go on the attack now? We¡¯ve been running simulations and exercises of the campaign¡­¡±


    Amelia said nothing.


    ¡°Hello? Amelia? Still there?¡±


    ¡°Hold on, Grionc, I¡¯m just thinking ¡ª something¡¯s not right,¡± the Terran said slowly, evidently worried.


    ¡°What is wrong?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell right now, but something is wrong. This isn¡¯t in any of our projections. There may be a trap waiting for you, or something far worse.¡±


    Grionc felt the fur on her back rise. ¡°What should we do?¡±


    ¡°Raise the alert level across your fleet. All your fleets. Double your reconnaissance. And send some ships into occupied Granti territory,¡± Amelia recommended, still deep in thought.


    ¡°Occupied Granti territory?¡± Grionc asked. ¡°I¡¯ll need authorization for that from our Admiralty. What is it for?¡±


    ¡°I think the Buns are about to strike. Full scale offensive. Somewhere. And we have no idea where it¡¯s going to be.¡±


    ¡°We are prepared to hold Gruccud system, no problem,¡± Grionc assured her. ¡°The new space mines we have in place thanks to your people¡¯s designs ¡ª they won¡¯t see it coming.¡±


    ¡°Good. Stay vigilant, Grionc. Do what you think is necessary. I¡¯ll try to see what I can do from here.¡±


    The Terran hung up.


    Grionc looked at Loenda nervously.


    ¡°Heh. Grass Eater paranoia, maybe?¡± Loenda asked hopefully.


    <hr>


    TRNS Amazon, Gionlu (1,200 Ls)


    POV: Kiara Agarwal, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    Commander Kiara Agarwal looked at the screen with concern. ¡°Yes, Amelia, we¡¯ve been scouring deep in the south Pomniot cluster behind enemy lines. They¡¯ve got nothing here. Just orbital ships holding these systems while they process the occupied planets. Say¡­ if the Malgeir don¡¯t get back in here soon, there might not be much left for them to liberate.¡±


    Amelia buried her face in her hand. ¡°We¡¯re back to nothing, then. Grionc is saying they¡¯ve pulled out everywhere near her.¡±


    Kiara frowned. ¡°Another offensive then, you think? Gruccud or Stoers?¡±


    ¡°Gruccud is more of a pain in their ass that they want to remove, but Stoers is an easier target by far and we all know it.¡±


    ¡°Hm,¡± Kiara contemplated. ¡°I can move back to Stoers pretty quickly. But I can¡¯t do much with my one ship, and you know the Puppers over there¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, don¡¯t remind me.¡±


    ¡°How many squadrons do you think the Buns can put together?¡± Kiara asked. ¡°They¡¯ve surely got other enemies in their Dominion they have to ¡®pacify¡¯ right?¡±


    ¡°Maybe fifty?¡± Amelia speculated. ¡°Fifty full combat squadrons? Maybe more.¡±


    Kiara whistled. ¡°Six hundred ships. Well, if you think they can pull that many, they¡¯ll take Stoers, no problem.¡±


    ¡°Yup, that¡¯d open up their whole center axis like a can of tuna. Three additional core systems under threat and no more real shipyards for the Puppers. They¡¯d be at the gates of Malgeiru in less than a year.¡±


    ¡°What do we do, Admiral?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª I don¡¯t know.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    After he was reformed in prison and fully cooperated with the Republic, Thomas (new name: Lionel Marin) was resettled in Quebec and started a mildly successful Saturnian-cuisine restaurant (online rating: 4.6/5 stars). He tested negative for the incurable, rare degenerative neurological condition his mother had and donated most of the profits from his business to a charity that funds earlier detection and research for more advanced treatment.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 41 Munitions Depot

    <div>


    Republic Senate Complex, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Amelia looked up at the Senate committee dais as she began to read her briefing statement from her tablet.


    ¡°This May has been the most successful month in Red Zone counter-terrorism operations in decades. For the first time ever, Assault Carrier Squadron 1 has successfully captured the Ace of Hearts and the Ace of Diamonds, as well as six Face-level operatives. We have also taken out the Ace of Spades, at least seven Face-level operatives, and dozens of Resistance members responsible for planning and carrying out the Tharsis movie theater attack. We have crippled Resistance operations, gained unprecedented insight into their internal organization from recruitment to funding, and we are shutting them down. In the process, we have taken two Terran Marine WIAs, both who have returned to duty. We are on track to complete all the objectives of the anti-Resistance operation by the end of next month, and I recommend we begin drawing down forces in the Red Zone in preparation for extrasolar priorities. That is my report. Now I¡¯ll take any questions you may have.¡±


    Senator Blake Wald looked down at her. ¡°That¡¯s a uh¡ª remarkably short report, Admiral, for what seemed like a busy month. But it¡¯s good to hear. Give my compliments to your people for a job well done.¡±


    Amelia tilted her head. ¡°Thank you, Senator. I¡¯ll let them know.¡±


    ¡°Mister Chairman¡ª¡±


    Blake looked to the speaker on his side, keeping as much annoyance out of his voice as possible. ¡°Yes, Senator Eisson, you may question the admiral. Let¡¯s try to keep this within the time limit this time.¡±


    Senator Seimur Eisson looked down at Amelia expressionlessly. ¡°Hello, Admiral Waters. It¡¯s good to see you here again¡ª¡±


    ¡°Likewise,¡± Amelia cut him off with a thin smile.


    ¡°Yes¡­ good to see you out there taking the Resistance threat to the Republic seriously,¡± he continued. ¡°I just have a few questions for you since your report was light on details. First, I have heard reports, from other high-level officers in the Navy, that the Ace of Clubs has been the real target the Navy should have been going after all along, and that¡¯s the most dangerous part of the SRN, with their Ghost Fleet and all. And they say that¡¯s going to be the most difficult part of the operation. How does that square up with your assessment?¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°I disagree. Their so-called Ghost Fleet is likely collecting rust somewhere on Titan, and we¡¯ve completed boarding and inspection operations on over 99% of all ships in the Red Zone. If we ever see the Ace of Clubs or her fleet try to take off and do anything, we can blow them out of orbit any time. In fact, if she were here, I would encourage her to take off right now so we can take a free shot at her. Nonetheless, against my recommendations, I believe Assault Carrier Squadron 2 has been turning over every rock they could in the Red Zone looking for her anyway.¡±


    ¡°So what you¡¯re saying is¡­ your squadron is refusing to cooperate with Admiral Reis on his objective?¡±


    ¡°Not at all. That¡¯s not how the Navy operates. After observing the success of our integrated Marine units last month, we have participated in several joint operations with Squadron 2, including raids on several munition and unregistered fuel depots.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± the Senator said dismissively. ¡°I¡¯ve seen your numbers on the so-called integrated Marine units. Your Terran casualties may be low, but I¡¯ve also noticed that your alien Marine casualties match or even exceed the casualty rates from our last few historical operations in the Red Zone. So it¡¯s nothing I would be bragging about here in front of the committee.¡±


    Amelia gritted her teeth.


    Like you care about them.


    He continued, ¡°In fact, there have been multiple reports of discipline issues among the alien troops. There appear to be credible fears of a breakdown in discipline in your units¡ª¡±


    She cut him off, ¡°Would you like us to stop using them?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°I asked: would you like us to stop using the Malgeir Marines for our most dangerous missions?¡± Amelia repeated. ¡°We could go back to using Republic Marines, but you¡¯ll be the one having to explain to your voters why their children have to be deployed¡ª¡±


    ¡°That was not what I was suggesting,¡± the Senator said carefully. ¡°I am just observing that these alien units may have their drawbacks, Admiral.¡±


    ¡°Well, whatever your reports are saying, I can assure you that my Malgeir Marines are highly effective in their missions due to their high level of adaptation during re-training, as well as some unexpectedly handy capabilities they bring to our forces,¡± Amelia countered. ¡°And I¡¯ll note for the record that the Malgeir leadership have been much more amenable to our requests for assistance so far than we have of their requests¡ª¡±


    ¡°There is no need to push our political agendas about the alien war here, Admiral,¡± Senator Eisson shook his head. ¡°Now¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please, Senator. I¡¯m hearing very worrying things from the Malgeir side,¡± Amelia said, almost pleading. ¡°Unexplained absences of ship formations, radio traffic intercepts¡­ They are on the brink of something big.¡±


    ¡°Something big? I think I¡¯ve heard that before. Care to be more specific?¡±


    ¡°We have no concrete evidence,¡± Amelia admitted. ¡°Because we have very few assets keeping an eye on their movement right now. That should be concerning by itself. But the disaster at Sconcans¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªyour disaster¡ª¡±


    ¡°Whatever you want to call it, Senator. I¡¯m concerned the Znosians have learned of some of our capabilities in the capture of the Cliunc and may deploy more unexpected countermeasures when they launch their next offensive against the Pup¡ª Malgeir Federation.¡±


    ¡°You may be concerned about that, Admiral¡­¡± Senator Eisson said, ¡°when the anti-Resistance operation is complete. And then we can have a re-assessment of your war with the Znosians. Of course, the¡­ considerable contributions of your aliens to our Red Zone operation will be¡­ fully taken into account when determining the future level of our assistance to them. I¡¯ll even admit I may have originally¡­ underestimated their ability. Perhaps. Slightly. But right now, we can¡¯t divert our attention from the Red Zone, especially since ¡ª as you claim ¡ª we are so close to total victory.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Saturn (0.8 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°But I thought you said we didn¡¯t need to worry about the Ace of Clubs,¡± Carla said, almost whining. ¡°These munition depot raids with Squadron 2 are hazardous. We¡¯re losing more and more Pupper Marines every day, including getting a few taken prisoner in the ones on Titan ¡ª up to a dozen now, I think. Somehow, our casualty rates are increasing as the campaign continues, and that¡¯s never happened in the Red Zone before.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right: we shouldn¡¯t have to worry about the Ace of Clubs and their pitiful ships. We¡¯ve cut their logistics. The smart thing to do here is to just wait for them to run out of supplies and their operations, the actual Navy part of the Resistance Navy, will just rust away. But the people on Luna with the expensive haircuts want to see results. They want guarantees. They want to see terrorists in handcuffs and body bags. They want to see their ships captured or blown up. And they want it all now.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ we just throw Puppers at their lower-level targets until we find something? Throw darts at a map until we hit something? Hope we get lucky? I heard we shot past two thousand Malgeir KIA total last night. Squadron 2 has them stepping up the raids all over¡ª¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    A frustrated Amelia looked into the screen at Carla. ¡°Look¡­ we¡¯ve just got to try our best. How are your people taking it?¡±


    ¡°From what I hear, morale in the Marine units is still quite high,¡± Carla admitted. ¡°But that¡¯s just because they¡¯re taking fewer casualties with us than when they were doing their own missions against the Buns¡ª¡±


    Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Of course they were. But no matter how their former idiot commanders used them, we will not be considering them disposable meat to be thrown at a grinder, not on my watch.¡±


    Carla nodded in agreement. ¡°Do you have any more intel to get us closer to the Ace of Clubs?¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°The SRN is fundamentally two separate levels: support and operations. The recruitment and funding people know squat about the armed operations. They just take the money and fresh blood, and they funnel them into the armed cells.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t just¡­ I don¡¯t know¡­ follow the credits?¡±


    ¡°We can and have been, but to limited success. These people are hide-and-seek professionals. This is what they do. It doesn¡¯t help that the Ace of Diamonds isn¡¯t cooperating with the bean counters. We¡¯re still trying to shop around for a local court that¡¯ll allow us to neurally interrogate her, but no luck with the lawyers so far. Looks like the courts were serious about not setting a precedent. I¡¯m trying my best on my end, but we really need to wrap this operation up. And the extrasolar situation is¡ª it¡¯s happening, Carla. We¡¯re watching the ocean recede in real time¡­ right before a tsunami. I can feel it. I can feel it in my guts.¡±


    ¡°I get it, Amelia. I get it. What about extraordinary measures? These militant depot raids¡ª what about non-lethal combat robots? Can we get them unbanned for specific circumstances?¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°If we¡¯d tried that at the beginning, we might have time. But by the time we get them approved by the lawyers and the courts, the campaign would be over anyway.¡±


    Carla looked thoughtful for a second. ¡°There was a suggestion by one of my bridge officers the other day, one of the Puppers¡ª¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°Uintrei.¡±


    Amelia nodded. ¡°Oh, I remember that one. She does the social media videos right? Seemed bright when I talked to her. What did she say?¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t so much a suggestion as it was a question. She asked, why don¡¯t we just pay these terrorists off? Granted, that¡¯s a very Malgeir way of thinking about this all¡ª¡±


    ¡°We already tried. We¡¯ve got those bounties for surrendering. And then there¡¯s the ones for information, right?¡± Amelia looked thoughtful for a moment. ¡°Hm¡­ maybe it¡¯s worth re-emphasizing now in our psy-op campaign. Their people aren¡¯t getting paid now. Maybe some of them will start to see the writing on the wall.¡±


    ¡°No harm in trying, is there?¡±


    <hr>


    Selene Station, Saturn (0.5 Ls)


    POV: Richaud Laurent, Terran (Civilian)


    Liliane looked up from her tablet at her husband, Richaud, in dismay. ¡°The Resistance missed another payment, dear.¡±


    ¡°What? We can¡¯t be dealing with that right now! We¡¯ve got bills to pay! The pressurized storage unit they¡¯re using ¡ª every week they don¡¯t pay us, we¡¯re bleeding thousands of credits!¡± Richaud looked at her in panic.


    Liliane wrapped her arms around his waist. ¡°Calm down, calm down. We can get through this. I¡¯m sure they¡¯re just having trouble getting the credits out to us. The Reps are locking everything down tight now. And they need the liquidity for now. But once our fighters take out enough of them, the Reps will have to go home ¡ª they¡¯ll get the payments out to everyone next week, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Richaud shushed her lightly. ¡°Shhhh¡­ honey, keep your voice down. I hear the Reps are listening to all of us through walls now.¡±


    ¡°But if they knew what we were doing, they would have come visit us months ago.¡±


    ¡°Did you see that raid video with the alien wolf Marines? The monsters just tore into that guy and started eating his guts¡ª¡±


    Liliane poked her husband in the ribs playfully. ¡°You have to stop watching those fake videos your cousin shares on his account. Everyone knows that the so-called aliens are a Rep fabrication.¡±


    <hr>


    Richaud ran back to the residential unit in a panic. ¡°Liliane, Liliane! I just got a call from the bank!¡±


    Liliane waited for him to catch his breath. She handed him a cup of ice water, which he gratefully took and sipped from. ¡°What did they say?¡±


    ¡°The bank says their computers calculate we are heading for insolvency rapidly, and unless we can file a business improvement plan with them by next month, they¡¯re going to start increasing our interest!¡±


    Liliane wrinkled her nose distastefully. ¡°It¡¯s that time of the year again? We just tell them we¡¯ll raise the weekly rates on our storage units by a few credits, and they¡¯ll get off our backs again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I said! But them, the guy politely asked me why we aren¡¯t renting out our largest unit when¡ª when market demand for that class of units is sky high. I think they know¡­¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re being paranoid, Richaud. If they knew, it¡¯d be one of the jackboots knocking on our doors, not the bank,¡± Liliane assured him patiently.


    ¡°Everyone knows that the banks are controlled by the Reps, honey. They¡¯ve got their ultra-Terran intelligence programs looking for patterns and evidence in all our accounts!¡±


    Liliane rolled her eyes. ¡°Oh, what did I tell you about those videos, Richaud?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true! There¡¯s one of them former Bank of Titan managers! He says he met a contractor that put special rooms in the back of the banks: that¡¯s where they hide the servers and they¡¯ve got these alien brains in vats that do the math. I¡¯ll send you the link¡­¡±


    <hr>


    When Richaud returned home, Liliane was crying on the edge of the bed.


    He hung up his suit and shuffled quietly next to her awkwardly. When she didn¡¯t react, he slowly put his arms around her. ¡°Honey, what¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°They got Quentin. The Reps¡ª they got to him,¡± she got out between sobs.


    ¡°Your ex-boyfriend?¡± Richaud asked, trying to sound at least somewhat sympathetic. ¡°I mean, that¡¯s outrageous! They can¡¯t just go around killing random people for contraband smuggling!¡±


    ¡°No! You doofus!¡± Liliane pushed him away lightly. ¡°He¡ª he¡ª he collaborated. Gave up his contacts to the Reps. They¡¯ve got jackboots outside his residential unit now, guarding him from retribution.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s horrible!¡± he said, thinking hard how best to redeem himself for his wife. ¡°How could he?! I hope the Resistance gets to him¡­ to teach him a lesson ¡ª a small lesson ¡ª just to teach him some shame!¡±


    That was apparently the right thing to say, or at least not the totally wrong thing. She let him wrap his arms around her again and laid her cheek on his shoulder.


    Liliane sniffed. ¡°How much do you think they paid him for it?¡±


    It was a trap and he knew it. ¡°I don¡¯t know, honey. What do you think?¡±


    She thought for a bit. ¡°Must be a lot. Quentin would never give up his friends for pocket change.¡±


    Richaud nodded in agreement. ¡°Must have been a lot.¡±


    <hr>


    Liliane looked up at Richaud from the kitchen table from between her palms. ¡°I can¡¯t reach our contact. I even used the emergency number we¡¯re not supposed to use normally.¡±


    ¡°You called the number?!¡± he gasped. ¡°But what if they got to them and trace¡ª¡±


    ¡°I took precautions. Used one of those encrypted rerouting services online,¡± she assured him.


    They were both silent for a few minutes.


    ¡°What if¡ª what if they did get caught?¡± Liliane asked when she got the courage. ¡°And the credits aren¡¯t coming anymore. We can¡¯t just keep their stuff in there, wasting valuable pressurized storage space.¡±


    Richaud thought for a few moments. ¡°Maybe we can dump their unit. I¡¯ll rent a powered exosuit, take their stuff to the airlock tonight¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly,¡± she chided him, shaking her head. ¡°The station exterior sensors will see, and they¡¯ve got loads of cameras at the airlock now. And they¡¯ll match you to the exosuit rental!¡±


    ¡°What if we anonymously report a break in? And when they question us, we just tell them someone else put the stuff there. It¡¯s not ours!¡±


    Liliane shook her head again. ¡°They¡¯ll never believe us. And once they take a deeper look at our finances¡­¡±


    ¡°Then what do we do? I don¡¯t want to get eaten by alien Marines!¡±


    She shot him an exasperated look, sighing, ¡°What if we call the Rep hotline? They say there¡¯s a reward in it for us if we give up and¡ª and¡ª¡±


    ¡°And collaborate?!¡± he asked. ¡°Like Quentin¡ª I mean¡­ like the people down at Juno Terminal?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not collaborating,¡± she corrected him. ¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s surrendering. There¡¯s a difference. See? We¡¯re not doing it for the reward. We just don¡¯t want to be part of the stupid war anymore. But we¡¯ll take their credits¡­ as¡ª as compensation.¡±


    ¡°What if someone from the Resistance gets to us?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°They¡¯re all going into hiding now. They must have bigger fish to fry than one of their small storage units.¡±


    ¡°Okay, honey. I know you¡¯ll do what¡¯s best for us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll call the hotline tonight¡­¡±


    Richaud rubbed her shoulders for a few minutes as she relaxed now that the big decision had been made. He frowned suddenly, ¡°What do you think the Resistance put in our storage unit anyway?¡±


    She shrugged her shoulders, leaning comfortably into his chest. ¡°Who knows? I never asked. Not supposed to.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s vats of combat drugs. Some of the Resistance operatives, they take these serums which give them precognition pills that lets them see into the future and¡ª okay, okay, I¡¯ll stop.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    The remaining few undiscovered members of the Resistance cell they were working for were surveilled and raided a week later.


    No one was killed, but an operative whose arm was crushed by power armor in the raid later successfully sued the Republic for the cost of her new advanced prosthetics, and the all-Saturnian jury awarded her an additional sixty million credits for emotional distress. On appeal, they settled out of court for an undisclosed amount.


    With their surrender/bounty money ¡ª which turned out to be less than they initially thought ¡ª Liliane and Richaud Laurent expanded their warehousing business and retired early to a suburban homestead on Mars. The couple decided not to have biological children, instead adopting two Malgeir orphans of war.


    They were mostly left alone, except for an incident in which Richaud was informally questioned by Republic Revenue Service agents for allegations around an ice cream machine syrup smuggling ring, later discovered to be based out of the Malgeir Embassy on Luna. Subsequently, the incident was covered up and all alleged participants were released without official charges.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 42 Ghost Fleet I

    <div>


    Lima Mine, Titan


    POV: Felix Lamar, Terran (Civilian)


    Felix tracked the suborbital superiority jet buzzing across the sky until it disappeared beyond the horizon and breathed a sigh of relief.


    Sixth time this week. The Reps had been patrolling the sector aggressively. Rationally, he knew that if they really discovered this abandoned mining facility, the next thing that would come out of the sky was going to be either an orbital bombardment best described with religious vocabulary, or an entire division¡­ or two¡­ or three¡­ of their Marines.


    Either way, he probably wouldn¡¯t even feel a thing when they came.


    Felix tugged instinctively on his heavy thermal cloak as he heard the wind pick up in his helmet. It was there to protect him from the Rep reconnaissance and their thermal optics, not the wind chill, but decades of habit from growing up on Terra didn¡¯t die easy.


    He felt a mechanical vibration behind him. It was the mine shaft elevator, carrying his shift change replacement.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to relieve you,¡± Evonne announced as she stepped out into the heavily camouflaged guard post.


    Felix turned around and nodded. ¡°I am relieved. How¡¯s it going down there?¡±


    Evonne began to set up her rangefinder. ¡°Not much. There was a news dump two hours ago, and they¡¯re making chowder for dinner.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah? News dump, eh? What¡¯s new?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°Same as the last few. Another couple cells dropped off the network today. Downstairs, they¡¯re saying it¡¯s probably even worse than we know, because some of the ones still reporting in are now likely collaborating. Can¡¯t trust anyone these days.¡±


    Felix stared off into the distance. ¡°The Reps sure are taking this whole thing seriously now, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You think?¡± she asked sarcastically.


    ¡°I think¡­ we didn¡¯t sign up for all this,¡± Felix pointed out into the frozen wasteland.


    ¡°Yeah?¡± Evonne snorted and flicked her head towards where he was pointing. ¡°Feel free to leave any time. Go on. I won¡¯t stop you.¡±


    She wouldn¡¯t need to. He could see the terrain for dozens of kilometers where he was. If he deserted, he¡¯d still be running when the next watch shift came up. Or the next. Or the next. And then the planet would kill him; he¡¯d either run out of battery and die from hypothermia, or run out of reserve oxygen and die from that.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he muttered and sighed. ¡°I just thought it would be more to it than¡­ this. We¡¯re supposed to be a real navy¡­ Not just waiting¡ª hoping the Reps go away so our ships can take off without them watching.¡±


    ¡°Vive la R¨¦sistance,¡± she drawled bitterly.


    Felix stewed in his thoughts for a bit, then asked, ¡°Evonne, do you believe in God?¡±


    ¡°Not really. You?¡±


    He sighed. ¡°I was brought up to. Religious family. Taught all about God having a special plan and everything.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? What about now?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a story the station bartender on Galileo Three used to tell. A supply shuttle pilot crashes into another supply shuttle, and he goes to heaven. He walks up to God angrily and complains, I believed in you, I thought you had a special plan!¡±


    ¡°Yeah? What did God say?¡±


    ¡°God said, I do have a special plan. It¡¯s for the other pilot.¡±


    Evonne chuckled a dry laughter into the barren landscape. ¡°Maybe that is it. Maybe the Reps are the other pilot.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    She teased, ¡°What? Are you questioning the divinity of our beloved Ace downstairs? Don¡¯t think she has it all figured out?¡±


    Refusing to answer, Felix shook his head sadly, and he headed back into the elevator.


    The journey from the surface to the hangar took minutes, even with the modified elevator. The light of Saturn was replaced by the dim electronic lighting of the base interiors. When he got to the bottom and through the airlock, he noticed a crowd was gathering around the hangar control office.


    What¡¯s going on?


    He recognized the tall woman in it, speaking to the crowd: the base commander, the infamous Ace of Clubs. As he began to remove his suit, he could hear more and more of what they were talking about.


    ¡°¡ªjust rumors. Nothing has been decided yet. We are just gathering options¡ª¡±


    Someone in the crowd shouted through the talking. ¡°I thought you said we were going to fight to the end! For Jefferson Port!¡±


    ¡°For Jefferson Port!¡± a few onlookers repeated, though noticeably less enthusiastically than normal.


    ¡°Look, all of us want justice for Jefferson,¡± the Ace of Clubs explained patiently.


    ¡°Justice for Jefferson!¡± the crowd repeated. The mantra was over half a century old and none of the people present knew anyone from the Jefferson, but repeating it ¡ª that was just a thing they did.


    She nodded. ¡°But a war ¡ª our struggle ¡ª it¡¯s not just a bunch of people endlessly chanting slogans. We can¡¯t be blind to reality.¡±


    ¡°Sell out!¡± one very brave agitator yelled.


    ¡°Collaborationism!¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± she snarled, conspicuously putting her hand on her hip where her sidearm rested. ¡°This is not a democracy. I am not your Senator. If any of you got a problem with my style of command, feel free to leave through your nearest exit!¡±


    No one moved or shouted back at her, though some in the crowd murmured and whispered among themselves.


    She softened her tone, ¡°Listen, I have been fighting this war for decades. I was here through the last war with the Reps, and the one before that. Our Resistance ¡ª it¡¯s an ongoing struggle with a real purpose, not just endless fighting with ships and guns. In this round, our warriors have fought with honor, and we have made the Reps bleed for every strike, every raid ¡ª which is why they are now desperately signaling they¡¯re ready for talks!¡±


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The crowd looked skeptical, but she continued.


    ¡°Now, we are not going to negotiate sovereignty beyond Jupiter with the Reps. We will never hold negotiations with the Reps on that!¡± the Ace of Clubs said to nods in the audience. ¡°This is in the founding spirit and charter of the Resistance!¡±


    More nods.


    ¡°But it won¡¯t hurt for us to hear what the jackboots have to say! To listen for intelligence. To expose their lies to their own people. To negotiate for prisoner exchanges, like the two captured alien officers we are holding downstairs. That is what the rumors are based on! Yes, as the only remaining Ace on the network, I have agreed to attend some of these meetings on behalf of the Resistance. But that doesn¡¯t mean we are planning on giving up! Those rumors are part of the ongoing psychological warfare they wage against us. Partial truths to convince the gullible!¡±


    Felix noted that the crowd was a bit more pacified, but there were no fewer doubters. He himself had some. He just wasn¡¯t dumb enough to voice them.


    ¡°And if anyone has legitimate questions, my office is open.¡± Her voice turned to steel. ¡°But¡­ if I hear anyone spreading false rumors about the Resistance, there is only one thing in the galaxy I hate more than collaborators: defeatists! Now, get back to work.¡±


    The crowd looked around at each other, and gradually, they dispersed.


    Felix headed for the bunks. He checked his tablet¡­ and sighed. It was his parents, complaining that they missed the latest weekly paycheck from his ¡°job¡±.


    Again.


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Amelia¡¯s expression was harshly neutral as the face of the remnant enemy materialized onto the main screen at the command center.


    Samantha, her lead analyst, glanced at her. ¡°Facial recognition and voice confirmed. That could be the Ace of Clubs.¡±


    ¡°Republic Admiral Amelia Waters,¡± the enemy addressed her curtly. ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised they put one of you in charge of these peace negotiations.¡±


    Oh yeah, that¡¯s definitely her alright.


    Amelia¡¯s face tightened further. ¡°I am not. There are no peace negotiations. The terms of the Republic have been clear from the beginning: hand over every criminal responsible for the Tharsis attack, and we will accept the unconditional surrender of the Resistance.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not waste each other¡¯s time with word games, Admiral,¡± the Ace of Clubs scoffed in the dim lighting. ¡°We only have a few minutes. I know your people are trying their best to track this call. But they will fail, as they have for the past forty years. I will lay out our terms for a ceasefire: full recognition of the SRN as a legal alternative governing power of districts in the Free¡ª¡±


    ¡°You appear to not have heard me correctly the first time, terrorist,¡± Amelia replied tartly. ¡°Your existence is a crime. We do not negotiate peace with you. The only reason we are having this conversation is because your people said you are open to an exchange of captured prisoners of war.¡±


    Holding her head high, the Ace countered, ¡°Our brave warriors have fought with yours to a standstill. Even now, Resistance operatives are inflicting severe casualties on your forces in the Free Zone. Your mounting casualty rate has not gone unnoticed by¡ª¡±


    ¡°Surely you are not so delusional to believe that. Surely you have noticed the dwindling nodes in your network, the cessation of supply shipments, and the number of your own people who are turning against you. Surely you are not an idiot blinded by hate,¡± Amelia said, her voice dripping with contempt. ¡°Then again, you are an Ace of the Resistance, so it is hard to tell.¡±


    ¡°Insults will do you no good, Admiral,¡± the Ace of Clubs tutted. ¡°Nor any good for the prisoners we¡¯ve captured from your recent raids¡­ sixteen alien Marines. Sixteen of your pets. We are willing to agree to a good faith exchange with our prisoners and other conditions.¡±


    ¡°We will need identification and proof of life before we can begin discussions.¡±


    With a flick of the Ace¡¯s wrist, videos of the captives appeared on the screen. As the Ace claimed, sixteen of them: all Malgeir Marines, obviously subjected to varying levels of mistreatment and abuse. More than one was missing their tail or other appendages.


    Amelia controlled her flaring temper. After a few seconds, Samantha nodded to her solemnly, confirming the identities of the missing. As best she could against the technology anyway.


    ¡°You will get your proof of life before we conduct the exchanges,¡± the Ace of Clubs continued casually. ¡°Now, let us discuss terms. On principle, we will accept the release of one thousand Resistance prisoners, chosen by us, for each of your enlisted captives. The two officers we have identified will be two thousand each. Amnesty for all our leaders whose position on your wanted list is under top five hundred¡ª¡±


    ¡°Release thousands of murderers and thieves from Republic jail?! Unacceptable and delusional.¡±


    ¡°Eighteen thousand, to be exact,¡± the Ace of Clubs continued without bothering to stop, ¡°Additionally, we have a list of Resistance traitors. We demand you hand the collaborators over to us for justice. And as an incentive, we are going to offer you a twenty-year ceasefire, like last time.¡±


    ¡°Like last time? Like last time?! This conversation is preposterous. None of your demands are realistic, given your position. I guess I shouldn¡¯t have expected anything better from a bunch of damn terrorists.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ if you do not negotiate in good faith, we will contact the alien embassy on Luna and relay your stubbornness,¡± the Ace smiled slyly, as if revealing her trump card. ¡°I¡¯m sure they won¡¯t take kindly to your lack of care for their people¡¯s lives.


    Amelia barked a short, mirthless laugh. ¡°Hah. Go ahead. You realize the Malgeir are fighting an interstellar war right outside our borders on multiple fronts, right? Their average weekly death toll exceeds every Republic casualty in half a century of war. Your fighting has killed as many of them in months as they threw away every five minutes at the opening phase of the Second Battle of Datsot. You think their embassy communications intern is even going to bother connecting your call for sixteen hostages, or do you need me to give you Ambassador Niblui¡¯s personal number?¡±


    The Ace took a sip of water from her cup. ¡°More Republic war propaganda¡ª¡±


    Amelia looked at her tablet. ¡°Here is a somewhat more realistic list, terrorist: one hundred of yours for sixteen of ours. We¡¯ll be keeping a close eye on the parolees with monitoring bioimplants, and if they so much as step one toe out of line, they¡¯ll go straight back to Neu-Nuremburg. Amnesty for another two hundred Resistance operatives who haven¡¯t committed a violent crime, not including anyone on the Republic top-hundred wanted list. Reduced sentences and station arrest for anyone who turns themselves in. And you can forget about your ¡®collaborators¡¯: we¡¯re not sending anyone back to you involuntarily. Then, because I know you¡¯re the one gasping for breath, a two-month ceasefire so your holdouts can settle their affairs before we continue our campaign. Take it or leave it.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll leave it, Rep,¡± the Ace replied hatefully.


    ¡°Your funeral, Ace. And just to make it clear, these terms will only get worse for you as we get closer to you. How long do you think you can last in that hole of yours without paying your people?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been here for decades, and we¡¯ll be here long after you and your Republic are gone¡ª ah.¡± Suddenly the Ace stood up in the camera, looking offscreen to her side. ¡°Looks like this conversation is over. Vive la R¨¦sistance!¡±


    The screen went black as the signal cut out.


    Amelia looked at Samantha. ¡°What did we get, Sam?¡±


    Samantha shook her head. ¡°Not much. Trace went nowhere again. Judging by the video, she is in a 1G environment. Audio forensics indicates an inertial compensator in the background, but the feed is too fuzzed to get its signature. That could be a ship, an asteroid base, Titan¡­ well, pretty much anywhere but Terra. We already knew she is probably on Titan.¡±


    She then pointed at another screen, showing a map of Titan. ¡°We cut power to the civilian settlements for a few seconds during the call. But her lights didn¡¯t even flicker. And no noise or audio shift on the feed. So she¡¯s either not in the Republic settlements or has an independent power supply and robust communications system. Again, not much information there that we didn¡¯t already know.¡±


    A video on the screen showed a series of lingering mushroom clouds. ¡°We conducted large scale weapons test detonations at six sites on Titan, near settlement concentrations. There was a slight tremble in the water in her cup on the video feed around the time the detonations went off. But the magnitude was too slight to triangulate her position. Maybe she¡¯s far away from the sites, or maybe she has a sturdy desk.¡±


    Samantha sighed. ¡°In short, we¡¯ve got nothing. There¡¯s a reason they call it the Ghost Fleet.¡±


    ¡°They call it the Ghost Fleet because it¡¯s dead. It hasn¡¯t flown in twenty years. A bunch of hangar queens gathering rust down there somewhere. If we weren¡¯t on time pressure¡ª¡± Amelia sighed. ¡°Call Ambassador Niblui, I¡¯ll need to tell her about her people.¡±


    Samantha looked at her worryingly. ¡°You think they¡¯ll start executing the Pupper prisoners?¡±


    ¡°Probably not. Too valuable for them, and they are getting more desperate for us to stop. Then again¡­ it¡¯s the Resistance.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 43 Meritorious

    <div>


    Republic Navy Radio


    ¡°Just how bad is it out there?¡±


    ¡°You know, there was an old joke they used to tell here. A victim of the Navy anti-Resistance campaign says, a squad of people in military uniform broke into my residential unit. They ransacked my apartment, stole all my valuables, murdered my dog, and beat my husband unconscious. Then, one of them turned to the other, and they said, we have to get out of here now. The Reps are coming.¡±


    ¡°Heh. I¡¯ve heard that one.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t tell that one out here anymore.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Nope. Now, it¡¯s Tuesday. Just total breakdown of order in the pro-Resistance colonies on Titan. I¡¯ll tell you, I¡¯ve never seen anything like this in all my years reporting out here. The hotel units in Cassini: all booked full. Every single one. And not a tourist in sight.¡±


    ¡°Refugees?¡±


    ¡°All refugees. And the flights out, we¡¯re seeing a reverse exodus, back to inner planets, in front of our very eyes. You ever seen those videos of the aliens fleeing from the frontlines from the¡ª¡±


    ¡°Jeez. And these are humans. I mean¡­¡±


    ¡°I know what you meant.¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    Station Commander Zwena Tanith looked worryingly at the galactic strategic map on the screen of the command center. A disturbing number of systems in the middle were now blinking red, showing warning from their jammed reconnaissance drones that they were no longer getting command signals.


    ¡°Looks like the sixth one this week, Commander,¡± Bert commented, sipping his morning coffee. ¡°They¡¯re getting liberal with their use of the new FTL jamming equipment.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m more worried about the fact that we¡¯ve now lost control over all our monitoring assets in the entire territory of the former Granti Alliance,¡± they replied.


    Bert thought for a moment. ¡°Yeah, they¡¯re planning something big soon. The jamming signals are raw. That means they can¡¯t get any signals through either. They must be using FTL relay ships to communicate: inefficient in both cost and time delay.¡±


    Zwena nodded in agreement. ¡°They can¡¯t keep this jamming up forever. So what do they think they¡¯re hiding from us?¡±


    ¡°I think the consensus back in Atlas is a renewed offensive: either Stoers or Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Either one makes sense. The two junction systems they need for a breakthrough.¡±


    ¡°Gruccud just recently got their new mine production facilities up and running, so unless the Buns have something else up their sleeves, Sixth Fleet will make them pay if they try anything over there,¡± Bert speculated. ¡°Stoers seems shakier to me, but I know much less about what¡¯s going on over there. The Puppers have a couple numbered fleets over there, but they¡¯re saying those are just on paper?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard similar,¡± Zwena said. ¡°But it depends on the enemy¡¯s numbers. With enough ships, the Buns can break through anywhere they want. It¡¯ll just cost them more one way than the other. And we know they have enough ships.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s too bad our Navy is all still stuck taking the SRN apart in the Red Zone,¡± Bert sighed.


    ¡°You were stationed there before this too, right? You ever miss it?¡± they asked him, a twinkle in their eyes.


    ¡°Patrols on two hours of sleep, worrying about getting shot in the back by some disgruntled nutjob. And that¡¯s just Titan-side, before we get into the fun stuff the locals try to pull on you in orbit when we got to go up. Worst deployment of my life,¡± Bert said, sighing. ¡°Hell yeah, I miss it. You?¡±


    ¡°Me too.¡±


    <hr>


    Federation Shipyard 4, Stoers (5,800 Ls)


    POV: Kiara Agarwal, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    Fleet Commander Moescei let her eyes wander over the black alien shuttle as the tall Terran captain skipped down the final few steps of the ramp into her hangar.


    ¡°Commander Kiara Agarwal!¡± she greeted.


    The Terran snapped her a crisp salute. ¡°Third Fleet Commander.¡±


    Hastily, Moescei returned the gesture best she could without spilling the cup of stimulant drink in her left paw.


    Moescei escorted Kiara to her office, where she offered the Terran a chair fitted to her physiology. ¡°Welcome back to Stoers, commander. How was your hunt?¡±


    ¡°Fruitless,¡± the Terran replied bluntly. ¡°But at least we¡¯ve cleared the Pomniot south cluster. Any signs of the enemy here?¡±


    ¡°Only a few minor intrusions, here and there,¡± Moescei said casually. ¡°But we chased their spy ships away.¡±


    Kiara looked at her sharply. ¡°Minor¡ª I¡­ see. What about Second Fleet? Did they appoint a new admiral¡ª fleet commander for it yet?¡±


    Moescei shook her ears. ¡°No, they are still deliberating in Malgeiru. Our politics is very complicated; don¡¯t worry, I don¡¯t expect you to understand. In the interim, I am in charge of the ships in both fleets.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Kiara nodded. ¡°What about your defenses here? I was told that our first supply ships to Stoers arrived a few months ago, and they handed over to the shipyard the designs for our Mark 160 stealth mines. I didn¡¯t see any of them on our way in. They are supposed to be hidden, but our sensors¡ª¡±


    Moescei sniffed. ¡°We haven¡¯t started deploying them yet.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°The shipyard hasn¡¯t started making them yet.¡±


    ¡°May¡ª may I ask why not?¡±


    ¡°Other priorities in the shipyard queue,¡± Moescei replied, shrugging. ¡°A completely new munition design takes a long time to get started¡ª¡±


    Kiara tilted her head. ¡°I was told that the facilities at Gruccud have begun manufacturing them to our specifications just fine, and they don¡¯t have a Federation shipyard over there. Is there a supply bottleneck or issue?¡±


    ¡°Stoers is responsible for ship and munition production for the entire Federation, Commander. Unlike Gruccud, we can¡¯t just focus on one thing,¡± Moescei argued. ¡°We have to replace our lost materiel from past campaigns. We have to replace the Cliunc. And Sixth Fleet siphoned away all our munitions in their last campaign up in Gruccud. We have to replace those too. Our yards have civilian orders to fill too; if their ships don¡¯t get made, we don¡¯t have cargo ships, our economy doesn¡¯t run, and we won¡¯t have the credits to run the war.¡±


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Kiara sighed and shook her head. ¡°Is there some kind of timeline for when they can get the stealth mines into production and deployed?¡±


    ¡°Our engineers here are trying their best,¡± Moescei said. She counted for a few seconds on her paws. ¡°Maybe next year?¡±


    ¡°Next year?¡± Kiara exclaimed. ¡°But what if the Buns mount an attack on Stoers before that?¡±


    Moescei shrugged. ¡°So what if they attack? We have two numbered battle fleets here. I¡¯m sure we will hold this system.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Saturn (4 Ls)


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    ¡°Gather around, gather around!¡± Aida called out, climbing onto a cargo crate as a makeshift stool. The Malgeir troops in the hangar slowly made their way around, forming a circle around her.


    ¡°Are we in trouble, LT?¡± someone shouted out.


    She smiled at the rowdy Marine. ¡°What did you do this time, Criouib?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Aida rolled her eyes dramatically. ¡°As usual. What are we even paying you for¡­ Alright everyone, settle down¡­ Atlas has also sent over some new intelligence, including a decrypted portion of the Resistance¡¯s internal messaging system. Anyone want to know what the enemy thinks of us?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am!¡±


    She pulled up the message on her tablet, cleared her throat, and began to read in a louder voice, ¡°The Reps from the Crete are not ordinary jackboots. They are not even Terran. Bred from birth to crave the taste of human flesh, these alien troops undergo¡ª¡±


    ¡°They got that right!¡±


    ¡°Arrrrrrrrrrrr!¡±


    Aida smiled and continued. ¡°These alien troops undergo a grueling training regime that makes them especially adaptable in space combat. They are capable and cruel; do not expect them to show mercy to the good people of the Free Zone. They even feed on regular Rep Marines unfortunate¡ª¡±


    The Malgeir troops let out another cheer.


    ¡°Only when I¡¯m hungry!¡±


    ¡°Watch out, LT! He¡¯s always hungry!¡±


    ¡°They even feed on regular Rep Marines unfortunate enough to be caught alone in the hallways of their nightmare ship¡­ Alright, alright, calm down guys I haven¡¯t even gotten to the good part yet¡­ Bred in illegal biolabs on Mars, they are more bioweapon than creature. Cretan Marines have an inhuman sense of smell and hearing. Without the assistance of any technology, they can hear you coming from a kilometer away in open atmosphere, and¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just Frumers!¡± Spommu shouted out to more cheers.


    ¡°And their mutant noses can smell and trace the scent of blood and sweat, even days after you have passed the location. Their claws are sharp enough to slice through steel, and their thick hides protect their internal organs from metal blades and possibly even smaller caliber bullets.¡± Aida added, ¡°I would not try that one at home folks, though some of your thick skulls¡­ Avoid combat and capture from these monsters at all costs!¡±


    The crowd yipped and barked in a frenzy as she finished.


    When they quieted down, Aida beamed at them. ¡°And that¡¯s not all! I¡¯ve got some more good news. It looks like some of you have caught the attention of the folks in Atlas with expensive haircuts. The higher ups have decided to finally get around to some of those commendations they¡¯ve been dragging their feet on.¡±


    More cheers in the hangar.


    Aida cleared her throat again. ¡°Badger Squad, congratulations. You¡¯ve been awarded the Meritorious Unit Commendation!¡±


    She smiled and waited for the crowd¡¯s whooping to die down before she continued. ¡°For that, Badger Squad, you have re-earned the privilege of lining up at the ice cream machine before meals.¡±


    The four Marines in Badger Squad clapped each other on the backs and howled in elation as the others stared at them in jealousy.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Wait a second. Before meals?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not fair! What about the rest of us?!¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright, settle down. We got a few more of these to go,¡± Aida reassured them. She took a glance at her tablet as she continued, ¡°Next up. Waldo Squad. Where¡¯s Waldo Squad?¡±


    A couple of them gave her a dry ¡°haha¡±, the rest groaning as they raised their paws.


    ¡°Congratulations, Waldo. Your squad has also received a Meritorious Unit Commendation!¡±


    The Malgeir in Waldo Squad jumped for joy as they received warm congratulations from their fellow Marines. One of them ran over to bear hug a Badger, sharing their excitement.


    ¡°Next up,¡± Aida stared at Baedarsust, a smile on her face. ¡°Lemming Squad¡­ For your recent action at Roland, you have earned yourselves a Navy Unit Commendation medal!¡±


    After they got their cheers and pats on the back, Spommu looked up at Aida with a sly grin. ¡°Wait. That¡¯s a harder award to get, right? We should get to be first in line for ice cream before lunch. And an extra scoop on Strawberry Saturdays.¡±


    Aida seemed to give it a thought for a moment. ¡°Hm¡­ you make a good point¡ª¡±


    She was interrupted by a cacophony of boos and jeers from the other squads.


    Spommu niftily dodged someone¡¯s thrown boot from the crowd.


    Aida smiled. ¡°In addition to the shiny medal, you are each entitled to a special parking spot, points for promotion for your own Navy, and you¡¯re allowed to change your squad name if you want to. Someone on Atlas suggested the name Jaeger Squad ¡ª it means hunter ¡ª that¡¯s if you want to.¡±


    Baedarsust looked at his squadmates and shook his ears. ¡°Can we keep our old name? I think we¡¯ll keep Lemming.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡± Aida asked, looking not surprised at all.


    Baedarsust nodded.


    ¡°Alright, Lemming Squad it is. Congratulations on the award, Lemmings.¡±


    Someone in the crowd shouted, ¡°If they don¡¯t want it, can we take the Jaeger name?¡±


    Aida looked severely at her. ¡°No, but if you keep complaining, you¡¯re going to get a lot worse than Crumbles.¡±


    That shut the cheeky Crumbles squad leader up.


    ¡°Many of you have also received individual awards. Those will be handed out in more formal ceremonies,¡± Aida explained. ¡°Good job, Cretan Marines. Oorah?¡±


    ¡°Oorah!¡±


    ¡°Close enough. Dismissed, except for you, Baedarsust. Come with me.¡±


    The crowd dispersed and Baedarsust ignored his fellow Marines¡¯ stares to follow Aida out of the cargo module. After a few minutes, he realized they were headed to a slightly less familiar section of the ship, into the upper decks. Aida gestured towards one of the empty conference rooms usually used by the higher ranked Navy officers.


    ¡°What is this about?¡± Baedarsust asked curiously as the two of them filed in.


    Aida was about to answer as the room¡¯s door opened again to admit more people.


    One he recognized. Everyone knew who that was: the face of the Malgeir people in Sol.


    ¡°Beta Leader Speinfoent!¡± Baedarsust gasped, then quickly covered his snout with a paw.


    Speinfoent didn¡¯t reply or acknowledge him, instead standing at attention next to the door and announced, ¡°Captain on deck!¡±


    Captain Carla Bauernschmidt, he also recognized as she stepped in.


    He¡¯d spoken to the captain thrice. The first time when she was introduced to every member of the Marine contingent. The second time when she was receiving a resupply shipment in the hangar deck; she asked him about his family back on Malgeirgam. And the third time when she came to visit the Resistance courier they captured on that cargo craft raid. This would be the fourth time.


    He stood up as straight as his spine would allow.


    She entered the room and looked directly at him. ¡°Congratulations, Marine. You are being promoted.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am?¡±


    She didn¡¯t blink. ¡°For your leadership, professionalism, and commitment to the mission, I¡¯m promoting you to the next higher rank from Head Pack Leader uh¡ª¡±


    ¡°That would be High Pack Leader, ma¡¯am,¡± Speinfoent pointed out.


    It was not a surprise she¡¯d forgotten. There were only a few High Pack Leaders in the Federation and none on the ship. It was an honorary title, usually bestowed upon those who had lots of credits to burn and considered themselves too cool to be actual, ¡°trained¡± officers.


    ¡°High Pack Leader Baedarsust,¡± Carla continued without missing a beat. She frowned slightly. ¡°We¡¯ve reached out to your Federation Ministry of Defense for approval of the promotion, but they haven¡¯t gotten back to us yet for some reason. You should get the message from them in¡ª how long does that normally take, XO?¡±


    Speinfoent coughed lightly, looking embarrassed, ¡°It depends on how much he pays.¡±


    She looked at him sharply. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Expedited processing of confirmation of a battlefield promotion usually requires a fee forwarded to the Defense Ministry processors¡ª¡±


    ¡°Like a bribe?¡± she interrupted.


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Speinfoent looked thoughtful for a moment and sighed, ¡°Yes. It is effectively a bribe.¡±


    ¡°And if he doesn¡¯t pay anything?¡±


    ¡°They probably won¡¯t get to it before the end of the war.¡±


    ¡°How much¡ª nevermind!¡± She balked at him for a second, then declared, ¡°That is completely unacceptable. I am now instituting a new policy. From now on, none of my spacers or Marines will be paying extorted bribes just to accept promotions they have already earned. Is that clear, XO?¡±


    Speinfoent lowered his head, ¡°Yes, Captain.¡±


    Carla looked back at Baedarsust. ¡°Your full citation and promotion have been documented for the record in the Crete¡¯s systems and thus the Republic Navy and Marines. Your new pay will take effect immediately. And as a battlefield promotion, you will be treated with the respect your new rank commands. Is that clear, High Pack Leader?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain!¡±


    ¡°And if you experience any issues with your pay from Malgeirgam, you are authorized to¡ª no, you are ordered to immediately report it to the ship¡¯s legal intelligence, and it will sort out the issue for you. Understood?¡±


    The fee for a position like High Pack Leader would have been equivalent to at least the raises he¡¯d get for the first four or five months¡­


    ¡°Thank you, Captain,¡± he said gratefully.


    ¡°Congratulations, High Pack Leader. Lieutenant?¡± Carla looked towards Aida.


    Aida stepped forward and raised her right hand. ¡°Marine, raise your right paw and repeat after me.¡±


    Baedarsust did as she gestured, raising his paw to head height.


    ¡°I, High Pack Leader Baedarsust, do solemnly swear¡­¡± she read.


    He took a deep breath. ¡°I, High Pack Leader Baedarsust, do solemnly swear¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­ that I will support and defend¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­ that I will support and defend¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 44 Border

    <div>


    Black Site Deimos, Deimos


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: High Pack Leader)


    ¡°What is this place?¡± Baedarsust asked, glancing curiously at the sealed hangar door from the back of the shuttle ramp.


    Aida looked at him darkly. ¡°The place where you keep quiet and don¡¯t ask too many questions unless you don¡¯t want to leave until your fur turns gray, High Pack Leader.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Baedarsust nodded in understanding.


    Frumers did not get it. ¡°I heard from some of the Terran spacers on the Crete that this is where they do live experiments on captured aliens¡­ including some Malgeir criminals, I hear,¡± he speculated excitedly.


    ¡°Silly conspiracy theories,¡± Spommu dismissed.


    ¡°They seemed to know what they¡¯re talking about¡ª¡±


    ¡°Look, your Friday night poker buddies play poker with you. For money. How much critical thinking can they be doing?!¡±


    ¡°Well, their theory makes sense,¡± Frumers hedged.


    ¡°None whatsoever. They can just ask our government for any data they want on us. And the ones about the Grass Eaters, why would they hide experiments on them here? Think about it. Logically, they¡¯d just do that outside of their home system¡ª¡±


    ¡°And I hear they throw live specimens into vacuum to see how long they¡¯d survive¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure the Terrans recorded plenty of that kind of data from our fleets; there was no shortage of explosive decompression data in our fleets before they joined the war.¡±


    ¡°And there were the leaked Republic black budget reports on social media,¡± Frumers argued. ¡°You don¡¯t really think they spent 20,000 credits on a hammer, 30,000 credits on a toilet seat, do you?¡±


    Spommu scoffed at him. ¡°Bah, spoken like someone who has never set their eyes on an actual defense-related request for proposal. That¡¯s exactly what I think they spent on a hammer and a toilet seat!¡±


    ¡°And that planetary tug we saw flying in¡ª¡±


    ¡°Obviously for physics experiments and weapon research. What stupid conspiracy could your friends have possibly come up for¡ª¡±


    Aida shushed them and cut in, ¡°Alright, pipe down. They¡¯re coming.¡±


    She pointed at the door frame lights, which turned green. It opened, revealing a man ¡ª an unarmed civilian in casual wear ¡ª loosely escorting six restrained Terrans in orange jumpsuits and handcuffs.


    One of the civilians took a quick glance at the Marine squad behind Aida. ¡°Ah, it¡¯s one of you guys. I hear you¡¯ve been making a lot of extra work for us in the Red Zone. Good work on the Aces.¡±


    Aida straightened. ¡°We try our best, sir.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯d invite your men in to try out some of our new, experimental ice cream flavors,¡± he winked. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid you don¡¯t have the clearance to enter our mess.¡±


    ¡°No, sir, and we¡¯re on a somewhat tight schedule.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll sneak them into your resupply once they¡¯re ready¡­¡±


    I hope it¡¯s not coconut.


    The man glanced down at his tablet. ¡°You¡¯re going¡­ straight to Europa, and then¡­ Datsot¡­ ah, extrasolar leave for your Marines?¡± He nodded at them. ¡°Enjoy it, your guys earned it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, sir.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be there¡­ two months huh? Gotta see the green beaches they¡¯ve got near their equator¡­ on the big continent, I forgot the local name. During summer, the algae bloom or whatever makes them look like green jello. Never seen anything like it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir¡ª you¡¯ve¡ª you¡¯ve been there for R&R?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ not exactly R&R.¡±


    Aida obviously immediately regretted asking. ¡°Ah, understood. Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Alright, don¡¯t let me keep you.¡± He gestured towards the six prisoners as he scribbled his name on the tablet. ¡°These guys probably won¡¯t try to escape, but if they do¡­ you know what to do. If they don¡¯t make it to their trials¡ª¡± he shrugged. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine the courts will be too happy, but these things happen.¡±


    ¡°Understood, sir.¡±


    ¡°See you all,¡± he waved cheerily, addressing the prisoners as the transfer completed. ¡°And be nice to your new friends.¡±


    When Baedarsust and his squad approached the Malgeir prisoners, they looked fearful. One flinched as he grabbed her arm with his paw, leading them into the back of their shuttle.


    As the shuttle ramp closed and it took off, Aida seemed to relax.


    The prisoners did not.


    Frumers decided to make small talk with them. ¡°So¡­ what are you guys in for?¡±


    The prisoners looked at each other wordlessly, as if wondering who he was speaking to.


    One of the women spoke up, her voice quivering. ¡°H¡ªhandling money for the Resistance.¡±


    Frumers nodded in understanding. Money laundering. Now that was a subject he could really comprehend.


    ¡°How much did they get you for?¡± he asked.


    She hesitated before she answered, ¡°Half a billion credits.¡± A couple of the prisoners looked away from her.


    Frumers whistled. ¡°Solidly upper-middle management then. Why did you do it?¡±


    ¡°At first, I needed the credits. After a while¡­¡± she shrugged. ¡°I never thought about how deep I was until the Tharsis Incident.¡±


    Aida rolled her eyes. ¡°Tharsis ¡®Incident¡¯, yeah. As if you didn¡¯t help fund a massacre that killed hundreds of your fellow Terrans.¡±


    She stuttered. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ª I didn¡¯t know¡ª What I did¡ª it¡¯s just what I was good at.¡±


    ¡°Not good enough, if we caught you,¡± Frumers pointed out cheerily.


    The prisoner shook her head. ¡°I didn¡¯t get caught. I gave myself up. Plea deal with the Reps¡ª Republic in exchange for full cooperation.¡± She pointed at the rear of the shuttle ramp, gesturing back towards the receding Martian moon.


    ¡°What¡¯s the deal?¡± Frumers asked curiously.


    ¡°They got to ask questions and poke around in my mind. For six months in a Jovian minimum security and the rest in house arrest. At least it¡¯s not Neu-Nuremberg.¡±


    ¡°And not a Martian prison either. Can¡¯t imagine you¡¯d have a good time there either,¡± Aida commented. ¡°Not after the massacre from your people.¡±


    ¡°Your people have killed ours too!¡± she reacted. She looked fearfully at the Malgeir Marines. ¡°And you use alien troops against us!¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s wrong with that?¡± Spommu asked loudly.


    The prisoner shirked away from them. ¡°You¡ª you¡ª you eat our people alive and¡ª and they give you a puppy at the beginning of bootcamp and at the end you have to kill them to prove your worth¡ª and is it true when they breed you, you eat your mothers as your first solid meal?¡±


    Spommu shook her ears and sighed. ¡°Incredible. You¡¯re even more gullible than Frumers.¡±


    <hr>


    My Snout Is Sealed, Datsot (18,000 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    Eupprio stared out the window of her shuttle at the new industrial robots crawling and jetting around her new shipyard under construction for almost half a year.


    It was a marvel of engineering, designed by teams of Terran and Malgeir experts working side-by-side: the Terrans brought their experience and computers, the Malgeir brought their credits and told them what was not possible, and then the Terrans promptly ignored them and did whatever they drew up anyway.


    Somehow, it worked out.


    Its shape resembled an array of fossilized ribcages of some large, ancient beast, gleaming metallic rings of production bays around the final assembly volume, each bustling with construction activity.


    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± she declared.


    Fleguipu barely glanced at the image, busy working on her new Terran tablet. She¡¯d fallen in love with the spreadsheets program loaded on it by default. Eupprio didn¡¯t have her obsession, but the reaction to new Terran gadgets she¡¯d gotten recently ¡ª she understood it. Fleguipu muttered, ¡°For just under two hundred billion credits, it¡¯d better at least look good.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re already making back some of our money,¡± Eupprio said proudly, pointing at one of the already functional, smaller production lines now occupied by a series of small shuttles. ¡°The Next Generation Low Observable Assault Shuttles, Federation variant, licensed Raytech production and modified based on the experience of our troops in Sol. Fulfilling that Ministry contract will pay back almost a fifth the original cost of this entire shipyard. And the new mine and missile production licenses¡ª¡±


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    ¡°We¡¯re certainly going to have to give the new assault shuttles a better name than that,¡± Fleguipu said without looking up from her work. ¡°And that¡¯s a twenty-year contract. If you¡¯re looking for that kind of spare credits, I¡¯ve got a dozen different investment opportunities with far better guaranteed returns.¡±


    ¡°Nothing is guaranteed in war,¡± Eupprio argued. ¡°Especially if we lose. This helps us win, and we get to make money doing it.¡±


    ¡°Noble sentiments,¡± her friend sniffed. ¡°If only that paid all the bills around here.¡±


    ¡°If only,¡± Eupprio smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll settle for the Federation Defense Ministry and the Terran Republic Navy paying them. Aren¡¯t you at least a little proud of what we¡¯ve done here?¡±


    Fleguipu sighed. ¡°Yes, Eupprio, your new shipyard is magnificent. First new one built in generations. Tourists from all over the Federation will come to gawk at it for years. Now, can we get back to the topic of the plans for our new food import business?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± Eupprio tilted her head. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with Eupprio¡¯s Alien Foods?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a terrible name too. The Malgeir people associate your name with cool technology, and that¡¯s great for finance, for ships, for our new computing business. Not exactly the best idea for a new food-related brand,¡± she said. ¡°But that¡¯s not my main point.¡±


    ¡°So what is?¡±


    ¡°Again, there¡¯s nothing wrong with the Terran food idea, and I actually think we should put more credits into the business if we can, but the concept of importing food all the way from Sol to the heart of the Federation ¡ª it¡¯s just too expensive. The transport ships we¡¯d need are all booked out for higher priority needs¡­ like the war.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s the only way to maintain full authenticity!¡± Eupprio protested. ¡°When our people learn about the Terrans, they¡¯ll want the real thing, not some cheap knock-off we make in a lab on Malgeiru or whatever planet we expand to!¡±


    ¡°First of all, the Terrans themselves make their food in labs and factories,¡± Fleguipu argued. ¡°So technically doing it that way would be even more authentic. And second, you remember that story Abe told us on one of our trips to Terra? District 3, I think?¡±


    ¡°Which story?¡±


    ¡°The one about the cookies.¡±


    Eupprio thought for a second. ¡°Oh yeah, the cookies that claim to tell your future¡­ the fortune cookies! What about it?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes when you copy food from Terran cultures, you¡¯re supposed to modify it a little. Soon enough, most people won¡¯t really know the difference, and sometimes it might even be more popular than the original!¡±


    Eupprio huffed. ¡°Isn¡¯t that considered disrespectful to some in Terran culture?¡±


    ¡°Is it? Well, if they tell us to stop, we¡¯ll pay them off if we have to,¡± Fleguipu shrugged, looking back on her tablet. ¡°Anyway, you saw their production lines: making locally with their synthesis technology instead of transporting interstellar ¡ª it¡¯ll save us billions, it might even make our food cheaper in general! And when the war is over, we can try your transport idea and introduce those as new luxury product lines.¡±


    Eupprio thought for a moment, then smiled wryly. ¡°Fine. You know this stuff better than me. This is why you handle the business side of things.¡±


    ¡°No, I handle the business side of things because someone has to be the responsible adult around here.¡±


    Eupprio grinned even wider. ¡°Is that your way of asking for a raise?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to ask you for a raise,¡± Fleguipu said innocently as she buried herself back in her tablet. ¡°I just slip the compensation change approval form into the stack of two hundred documents I send over for you to sign every day.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Registered incoming from the Sol side,¡± Bert reported as a new alert popped up on the main screen. ¡°Verified FTL signature with gravidar. TRNS Crete.¡±


    ¡°The Pupper Marines going home for some R&R?¡± Zwena asked. ¡°I heard they¡¯re getting rotated out for a fresh batch.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, the Navy is holding in the Red Zone for now. I think they¡¯re closing in on the last pockets of Resistance anyway.¡±


    Zwena dry chuckled at the pun. ¡°At least it¡¯ll be over soon. You think we¡¯ll see more activity out here afterwards?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d have to. The Pupper Marines took out three out of four of the Resistance Aces, and judging by the way things go, they¡¯ll probably be sent to take out the Ace of Clubs when they find her too. Knocked all the wind out of the sails for all the cynics complaining about wasting money on their war last year. The Senate would have to be nuts not to authorize more extrasolar missions to help them out.¡±


    ¡°I just hope that it¡¯s in time for the imminent Bun offensive,¡± Zwena said, pointing to the screen showing all the systems that are now being FTL jammed in occupied Granti territory. ¡°They¡¯re doing¡­ something. I can feel it in my bones.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not that old yet, Commander,¡± he teased.


    They smiled. ¡°Hey, you know what the kids say now: born too late to explore the Solar System, too early to explore the rest of the galaxy¡­ just in time to kill ugly aliens though.¡±


    ¡°Please stop. The kids absolutely do not say that.¡±


    ¡°Um¡­ well, I¡¯d like a second opinion from another¡ª¡±


    Bert chuckled and pointed at Sol on the strategic map, ¡°And more like¡­ born too late to fight in the Red Zone, too early to fight in the Red Zone, and just in time to fight in the Red Zone.¡±


    ¡°Hey, this is the last campaign. The very last one. We¡¯ll get them all this time. My Senator promised!¡± Zwena sighed and continued, ¡°Hopefully the last one for a while at least¡­ I just want to see some real action where I can shoot ugly aliens instead.¡±


    ¡°You thinking of moving onto ship command after this?¡± Bert asked. ¡°One of the new Rabbitkillers, maybe.¡±


    ¡°The Pythons and even the old Peacekeepers are nice,¡± Zwena said. ¡°But¡­ what I really want is command of a long-haul logistics transport ship.¡±


    ¡°Wait. Really?¡±


    ¡°Hell no. A whale? You had to ask?¡±


    ¡°Whew, I thought you were going insane,¡± Bert said. ¡°I hear being out here on the frontier for months at a time could do that to someone.¡±


    ¡°Get out of here¡­ What about you? What would be your dream posting?¡±


    ¡°Bomber command.¡±


    Zwena chuckled. ¡°Orbital support squadron? Oh, I see, it¡¯s your turn to jerk me around, huh? I see how it is.¡±


    ¡°No, really. I always thought that was a more hands-on job¡­ even if they are supposedly a lower rung on the informal Navy ladder under space superiority. Plus, they get to play around with glow-in-the-dark.¡± Bert grinned.


    ¡°Right on, slugger. Sling one at Znos for me when you get there.¡±


    Bert squinted at their mocking face, ¡°Is that really how kids talked back in your day?¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Copproe, Quistqueu (20,000 Ls)


    POV: Speunirtio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Gamma Leader)


    Gamma Leader Speunirtio of the Omega/Beagle-class MNS Copproe stared cautiously into the sensor screen.


    ¡°We¡¯ve just crossed into occupied Granti territory, Captain,¡± his tactical officer, Plecta, reported. ¡°The Copproe has completed post-blink procedures.¡±


    Not tactical officer, he corrected himself in his thoughts.


    Executive officer. XO.


    That¡¯s the new terminology they were supposed to use in the Sixth Fleet anyway. The Copproe was newly attached to the battle fleet¡¯s organization, which was mostly the bigger Delta-class ships, except when they needed specific jobs. In this case, a specific job that only called for a single ship.


    No, not Delta-class. Shepherd-class missile destroyers.


    They did things differently in the Sixth Fleet, and of all the officers on the Copproe, only Speunirtio and Plecta were officially supposed to know the real reason why. Supposed to, anyway. The existence of their new alien allies was by far the worst kept secret in the battle fleet.


    ¡°Thank you, tactical¡ª XO,¡± Speunirtio replied. ¡°Scan the system, and let¡¯s find out who is here with us.¡±


    A couple minutes later, the results came back.


    ¡°A single squadron on passive,¡± Plecta reported. ¡°We¡¯ll get better resolution once our radar beams them then. Five light hours away, so they can¡¯t have seen us yet¡­ unless they have an observation platform near us with an FTL radio.¡±


    ¡°Which we shall assume they do,¡± Speunirtio asserted, as per new procedure. ¡°Keep us moving. Have communications¡ª electronic warfare raise Gruccud. Are we being jammed now?¡±


    A few seconds later, Plecta returned from her console reading. ¡°Captain, we¡¯re being FTL jammed now.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate¡­ but expected,¡± Speunirtio said. ¡°That means our assumption was correct. They have seen us. Get out the advisor.¡±


    It was a new procedure, but they were drilled extensively on it.


    ¡°Yes, Captain.¡±


    Pressing her paw to the paw-print reader on the cabinet next to her station, it unlocked and sprang open with a short affirmative beep. Plecta took out a thin tablet of obviously alien make and a black cord. She connected it to her console, and the readings on the main screen of the bridge was replaced by black and white text, showing the bootup sequence of a new program.


    Initializing HannibAI¡­ Integrating¡­


    Copyright ? 2074 Ray Technologies


    The bridge crew patiently waited the few seconds it took for the program to start, many of them looking away and pretending not to know the source of the software.


    Name, rank, and position?


    ¡°Gamma Leader Speunirtio, captain of the MNS Copproe.¡±


    Voice and face confirmed. Authenticate: Foxhound, Instinct, Rottweiler, Eskimo.


    ¡°Bone, Instinct, Rottweiler, Dalmatian.¡±


    Confirmed. Prime Directive contingency cancelled.


    What can I do for you, Captain Speunirtio?


    ¡°Observe the system, thinking machine. Should we get ready to engage the enemy system defense squadron?¡±


    It took almost half a minute for the computer to spit out a reply:


    Negative. Recommend avoiding engagement as long as possible. Recommend recon drone deployment. Recommend new course near system limit to observe enemy action.


    Speunirtio read the reply in mild disappointment, ¡°Alright, well, that all makes sense. Do as it says.¡±


    ¡°Thinking machine for orders,¡± his executive officer remarked, her face a mixture of caution and curiosity as she passed the orders to the crew. ¡°Every day, we become more like the Grass Eaters.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t beat them? Join them,¡± Speunirtio replied wryly. ¡°We can lose honorably instead¡­ if you¡¯d prefer?¡±


    <hr>


    Five hours later, they got their answer. The enemy had not just seen them. They were reacting and spreading out, but they did not seem to be burning directly towards the Copproe.


    ¡°Probably trying to gauge our reaction and getting ready to see if we¡¯ll put ourselves in a position where they can trap us,¡± Plecta commented, echoing the machine advisor¡¯s assessment.


    ¡°What is our latest intel on their acceleration numbers?¡± Speunirtio asked.


    ¡°Not nearly enough to catch us with those Delta¡ª those missile destroyers, Captain. ¡±


    ¡°Good. Has the advisor identified which ship is the jamming ship yet?¡±


    ¡°No, Captain. It says it is only possible to identify an FTL jammer with three simultaneous ships or missiles.¡±


    Speunirtio nodded. ¡°Ah, that¡¯s why our new wild weasels need to be¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yup. Should we arm our LARMs and give them a go now?¡±


    Speunirtio thought for a second and shook his ears. ¡°Let¡¯s not waste that advantage yet¡­ unless the advisor says different.¡±


    Plecta hesitated, seemingly resisting the urge to recommend otherwise. A few seconds of reading her console screen later, she nodded as well. ¡°So¡­ what else?¡±


    ¡°We keep recording and wait. And try not to look too hard at the ground footage we¡¯re getting from occupied Quistqueu-4,¡± Speunirtio said, sighing.


    Plecta nodded grimly. ¡°Those poor Granti prisoners.¡±


    ¡°Nothing we can do for those people now,¡± Speunirtio said automatically. ¡°Other than win the war.¡±


    A few minutes later, Plecta reported back much more enthusiastically, ¡°New recommendations from the advisor. Six priority targets in system. Two fuel depots and four new orbital warehouses around Quistqueu-7.¡±


    ¡°Quistqueu-7?¡± Speunirtio asked, puzzled. ¡°The gas giant? That¡¯s not a habitable planet. Why did they add so much infrastructure there now?¡±


    ¡°The advisor says they¡¯re stationary and undefended, and we might find out what they are if we blow them up,¡± Plecta replied.


    Speunirtio nodded. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s use our old missiles. No need to give away all our secrets. One missile for each target, and time them all to hit at the same time. Launch when ready.¡±


    <hr>


    Damage assessment: fuel depots were full or near full (95% certainty), warehouses likely held munitions (99% certainty).


    It sent its analysis of the fiery secondary explosions from all the targets to his command console.


    ¡°Interesting. And the enemy defense squadron still isn¡¯t coming for us?¡±


    Plecta replied with a glance at her screen. ¡°It seems like they¡¯re transferring to Quistqueu-7 instead. Maybe they¡¯re trying to salvage some of what we destroyed.¡±


    She input her speculation into her console and waited a minute.


    Unlikely. Enemy behavior anomalous. Recommend reconnaissance drone inspect the far side of Quistqueu-7.


    It took another few hours for the high-speed drone ¡ª essentially a missile with camera sensors instead of explosives ¡ª to burn to the occluded side of the planet to take pictures¡­ and a few more minutes to transmit the imagery back to the Copproe via its subspace radio. Just before agile counter-missiles from the enemy found the drone to silence it.


    The bridge crew stopped what they were doing to gawk at the data filtering onto the main screen.


    Speunirtio stood up from his chair, the fur on the back of his spine fully raised. ¡°By the Malgeir! Get us back to Gruccud, immediately!¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 45 Eyes Open I

    <div>


    Naval Station Europa, Europa (100 km)


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    A few decades ago, Europa was one of the most popular destinations outside the asteroid belt. Its xenobiology research facilities were the most prestigious in the Republic. Its scientists fawned over the strains of alien microbes and signs of life below its frozen ocean surface. Then came the discovery of sapient aliens: the Malgeir; most of the xenobiologists found themselves a more interesting subject of study and left.


    Its colonies had easy access to water. But as Ganymede and Titan¡¯s subsurface ocean mines developed and water became affordable all throughout the system, Europa¡¯s civilian colonists abandoned the moon for slightly greener pastures.


    It seems like the only suckers who stuck around, Amelia thought, was the Navy.


    Europa now boasted the largest Republic Navy base between Charon and the asteroid belt. It was far away enough from the influence of the Red Zone to be relatively safe for the Navy there, and depending on the orbital position of the planets, it was often close enough that it could facilitate operations.


    In the future, with those new Iris engines coming out of Ceres, we¡¯ll probably tow the moon around like a massive mobile base. Like a Death Star. How cool would that be?


    The prize hulls of over two hundred captured Znosian ships hung above the icy world. Their systems had been thoroughly demilitarized, defanged. Their hundred thousand former crew were now prisoners of war, living in pressurized underground caves and former colonies on the hostile planet.


    But that was not why Amelia was here, watching over the moon from its orbit next to a docking bay.


    She felt a smile creep onto her face as the airlock opened to reveal a brown-haired woman in her mid-forties, wearing an expensively tailored EVA suit.


    ¡°Martina!¡±


    ¡°Amelia! Good to see you here. You haven¡¯t aged a day since the last time we met.¡±


    Amelia resisted the urge to preen. ¡°We Ganymedeans are a tough bunch.¡±


    Martina chuckled lightly. ¡°How¡¯s the war going?¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°Whichever one pays me more, of course,¡± Martina smirked.


    Amelia burst out into laughter. ¡°You shameless Martian degenerate! That would be the Red Zone campaign¡­ for now. And what is with that ugly box you flew in from?¡± She pointed at the orange-painted assault shuttle docked to the orbital station.


    ¡°Actually, that¡¯s the latest model of assault shuttles we¡¯re building in cooperation with the Puppers over in Datsot. The color scheme is just¡­ a little non-standard. Their procurement people like things a little flashy, a little tacky at the sales stage. The real one they¡¯re going to receive delivery is Republic-black, of course. We call it the Next Generation Low Observable Assault Shuttles.¡±


    Amelia whistled. ¡°Jeez, did that new Pup shipyard company poach your entire branding department too?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Martina¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°And we don¡¯t need to brand. Their Defense Ministry is buying every single one the new Datsot shipyard can pump out for the next few decades. Why bother selling to the Republic when we don¡¯t even use our Marines in our own backyard war anymore?¡±


    ¡°I see. Your company gets in bed with the cute furry aliens, and now you¡¯ve forgotten where you come from,¡± Amelia joked.


    ¡°Hey, it¡¯s nothing personal. We¡¯re just doing it for the money.¡±


    Amelia wiped a hand on her brow in mock relief. ¡°Whew ok, that makes it all okay then.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ we delivered a dozen of the planetary tugs you guys wanted last month free of charge. Who else gives the Navy free superweapons like we do?¡±


    ¡°The Iris engine shuttles are free because they¡¯re barely tested experimental prototypes for evaluation use only. And I wonder if your people now going to work in Malgeir shipyards are going to reveal that particular secret to them.¡±


    ¡°Nah, they can¡¯t have that one yet; Atlas put an export ban on it almost immediately, and our lawyers haven¡¯t gotten around to it. And speaking of poaching, didn¡¯t they offer top credit to draw some of your officers away too?¡±


    Amelia nodded reluctantly. ¡°We¡¯ve got reservists doing advisory security work in the former occupied areas in the second-tier information quarantine. Datsot and Gruccud, mostly.¡±


    ¡°Better than being stuck on patrol in the Red Zone, no? And you can¡¯t fault them for getting paid.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, not a bad gig,¡± Amelia admitted. ¡°And that¡¯s why I¡¯m here checking in on you. The Navy gave your company a few billion credits for this project, and we¡¯d like to see what you¡¯ve got.¡±


    ¡°What we¡¯ve got,¡± Martina said, pointing a finger out the window towards the surface of Europa, ¡°is the largest computational infrastructure project in the history of the Republic.¡±


    ¡°I know what you sold the Senate, but seriously, we¡¯re going to need results from Project Panoptes sooner or never,¡± Amelia insisted. ¡°Do you know how many new destroyer squadrons we could have bought¡ª¡±


    ¡°Soon? How about now?¡±


    Amelia raised an eyebrow in surprise. ¡°Now? You¡¯re ready for a demonstration?¡±


    ¡°Sure. A preliminary one. We¡¯re just working out a few resource allocation problems with it. It¡¯s not a bomb or a ship. We can turn it on and off. You want to see it?¡± Martina asked, pulling out her tablet and clicking a few buttons on it. ¡°Here you go: the Panoptes tablet.¡±


    Amelia accepted the tablet cautiously. ¡°What¡ª how do I use it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all just software. Go on¡­ ask it anything,¡± Martina encouraged.


    ¡°Panoptes,¡± Amelia hesitated before speaking into the tablet. ¡°I need the locations of the most significant Resistance cells you can find.¡±


    ¡°Talk about cutting to the chase¡ª¡±


    Calculating¡­


    She turned to Martina after a few seconds of waiting, ¡°What¡¯s going on? Did it crash? Is it supposed to be stuck on this screen like¡ª¡±


    The Raytech executive rolled her eyes. ¡°Give it a few minutes, you impatient cynic. It¡¯s going through every sensor and resource available to the entire Republic, all their recorded history, every incident report ever written, and deciphering the experience of billions of people, sensors, and computers just to answer one idle curiosity from you.¡±


    Amelia sputtered, ¡°Idle curiosity¡ª¡±


    Martina pointed at the surface of the moon out the window again. ¡°When it¡¯s on, its intelligence links up to every machine we have access to in the system, on multiple planets, moons, and even some stations. When operating at full capacity, our facility on Europa actually uses so much cooling that it begins to slowly melt the surface ice where it is.¡±


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Woah, melt the surface ice on Europa?¡± Amelia asked innocently. ¡°Are you going to run out?¡±


    ¡°Are we going to run out of¡ª ah, I see. You jest, Amelia, but some of the people I explain these things to do really ask questions like that seriously.¡±


    ¡°Unlike my job in the Navy, where I only deal with competent people, every one of whom deserves to be exactly where they are.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ I know that look. You just came out of a Senate briefing, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    After a couple minutes, the tablet finally beeped to indicate its completion.


    List of several previously unknown Resistance cell locations found and compiled.


    ¡°Woah, it actually worked,¡± Martina said, half in a mocking tone, and half probably in surprise that the machine didn¡¯t crash on her during the demonstration.


    ¡°Well, maybe. Panoptes: on that list, do you have any idea where the wanted fugitive known as the Ace of Clubs is?¡±


    Affirmative. We have located her cell above 99% confidence to six-nines, based on a deep analysis of concealed traffic patterns, sensor recordings, and communication intercepts et cetera going back fifty years.


    ¡°Wait, really? Where?¡± Amelia asked with growing excitement.


    She is on Titan.


    ¡°My Pupper Marines could have told you that. Where on Titan?¡±


    That information is only available with the purchase of a 19,999,999 credit Premium Answers package.


    Amelia looked up at Martina and swore, ¡°You¡¯re fucking kidding me. You guys gave this thing the sense of humor from your stupid eye implants?¡±


    Yes, they did. The ¡°Ace of Clubs¡± is hiding beneath the surface of Titan at the former unregistered ice mine known as Lima Mine in the northwestern hemisphere. My offensive assets have hacked into several of their emergency EVA suits. Based on the high-fidelity audio and echo analysis, she is currently likely sitting in her office at her chair. Would you like an exact Titan coordinate for an underground missile strike? Based on the depth and last known structure of the base, I would recommend a kinetic bunker buster from Fire Support Squadron 4 in orbit at¡ª


    Amelia brought up her own tablet. ¡°Hold onto that list for a sec, thermostat. I need to make a call.¡±


    I have connected your call to your analyst, Commander Samantha Lee, at Atlas Naval Command.


    You¡¯re welcome, Admiral. Have a good day.


    Martina smirked at her. ¡°As I¡¯ve said, at Raytech, customer satisfaction is one of our core values. Right next to safety, quality, and making lots of money.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Copproe, Criorbaungre (20,000 Ls)


    POV: Speunirtio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Gamma Leader)


    ¡°We¡¯re out of blink and clear of FTL jamming!¡± Plecta announced to the bridge. ¡°We just got a response from Gruccud!¡±


    ¡°Immediately transmit all we have to them, starting with the latest and most urgent packet!¡± Speunirtio ordered.


    It only took a few seconds for the data to transfer. The response from Gruccud was immediate.


    The face of the High Fleet Commander herself appeared on the main screen. ¡°Captain Speunirtio, confirm your confidence in the latest assessment.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander. The onboard software of our reconnaissance drone crashed before it could finish identifying all the enemies. By our manual count, it¡¯s over a thousand. Our¡­ onboard advisor came to an independent and similar conclusion as well.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s voice was quiet. ¡°A thousand enemy space combat ships.¡±


    ¡°Yes. The drone only saw nine hundred, but we suspect more were occluded by the enemy planet. Possibly many more.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± the High Fleet Commander said after a while. ¡°I want you to go back into the Quistqueu system and get a better picture.¡±


    ¡°Go back, High Fleet Commander?¡± Speunirtio could barely believe his ears. ¡°Many of them started burning toward us as we left the system.¡±


    Grionc hesitated on the screen, but she nodded after a second. ¡°Yes, Captain. We need to understand their full strength to formulate an accurate battle plan. We¡¯ve calculated a course that should get you in and out of¡ª¡±


    Her video and voice cut out.


    Speunirtio looked at Plecta. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Captain, blink emergence behind us!¡±


    Speunirtio blinked in surprise. ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°Hundreds. More still blinking in and resolving!¡±


    ¡°Hundreds?¡±


    ¡°Our radar computer is straining under load. I think it¡¯s going to crash, Captain!¡±


    ¡°Offload the sensor resolution work to our advisor,¡± he ordered. ¡°Are these ships jamming us? Is that why we lost the fleet commander?¡±


    ¡°I believe so, sir.¡±


    ¡°Thinking machine, I want you to analyze the ships chasing us immediately.¡±


    The computer came back almost immediately with the result this time. Apparently it was faster at counting than planning. That was good to know.


    Enemy ships tallied. Data packet prepared. Be advised, it is unlikely that these ships are only chasing us.


    ¡°Unlikely to be chasing us?¡± Speunirtio repeated. ¡°Oh crap! They don¡¯t need hundreds of ships to catch us. This is it! They¡¯re not chasing us. They¡¯re coming with us¡­ to attack Gruccud!¡±


    Enemy ship count, preliminary: 2,184 Forager-class missile destroyers, 32 Thumper-class battlecruisers, 4 Thorn-class Battleships, and enough support and transport ships to invade the entire Federation twice.


    New recommendation: prioritize re-establishing communications with Gruccud. (Critical.)


    ¡°Executive officer, tell the batteries to ready those LARMs!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re ready, Captain.¡±


    ¡°Thinking machine, are those in effective range of the enemy?¡±


    Calculating¡­


    Affirmative. The enemy is chasing in a more-or-less straight-line course. If launched now, your special package should be able to reach them with a long initial ballistic course. Fire plan calculated.


    ¡°Launch ballistic.¡±


    ¡°Firing.¡±


    Four anti-radiation missiles released from the external pylons of the Copproe, floating off into the vacuum. They didn¡¯t light off their engines, instead waiting quietly for the enemies to close.


    An hour later, they detected an enemy radiation source, matching its signature heuristic module, finally entering its effective range. A single inconspicuous Znosian missile destroyer mounting an internal FTL jamming device, hidden among a squadron of identical-looking missile destroyers. But the sensor packages mounted on the missiles¡¯ noses didn¡¯t discriminate by appearances. They didn¡¯t stop to ask the Znosian fleet which of its ships contained the secret cargo.


    No, the loud noise of the FTL jammer was broadcast for everyone listening to hear, half a light year in every direction.


    The missiles had no trouble understanding their purpose. They waited another forty minutes, mildly confused why the enemy fleet was still continuing on a predictable, straight-line course towards them. And when they finally could wait no longer, they burnt their engines, and their noses homed in on the ship carrying the enemy FTL jammer.


    These missiles were designed with large payloads to kill surface targets in atmosphere, large facilities made of layered concrete and steel that may even be burrowed underground.


    One would have been overkill.


    ¡°We have confirmation of detonation from the missile, Captain! And we just got a response from Gruccud again!¡± Plecta announced.


    ¡°Transmit the data packet now!¡±


    ¡°Done.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s face appeared on the main screen again. ¡°Good work, Copproe, and excellent improvisation¡ª¡±


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, they¡¯re coming! They¡¯re coming for Gruccud! Get the fleet ready!¡±


    She didn¡¯t waste any time. ¡°Understood, Captain. You got us the new data we needed. Now get out of there and come home as soon as you possibly¡ª¡±


    Her communication link cut out again.


    ¡°Damn, they must have another ship with a jammer. They¡¯re jamming us again,¡± Plecta swore. ¡°Should we launch another volley of those missiles?¡±


    Speunirtio was tempted but shook his head. ¡°No, we got the message out. Let¡¯s just get back to Gruccud. Do we have enough fuel to make the three blinks without refueling?¡±


    ¡°Barely, Captain, but we should be able to get to Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Speunirtio stared back at the massive fleet on his tail. They weren¡¯t here for him. He only hoped the rest of Sixth Fleet were ready for them in Gruccud.


    <hr>


    TRNS Amazon, Stoers (6,000 Ls)


    POV: Kiara Agarwal, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Captain! Take a look at the data the Pupper reconnaissance ship just transmitted from the Granti border!¡±


    Kiara stared at the images and the reported numbers for two seconds.


    Even through the low-resolution alien optics, she knew exactly what she was looking at. Her heart sank. ¡°How did we miss this? Get us to Gruccud immediately.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain.¡±


    ¡°And call Sixth Fleet on the comms.¡±


    Grionc¡¯s face appeared on her screen.


    Kiara spoke first. ¡°High Fleet Commander, we are making our way to your system as fast as we can from Stoers.¡±


    Grionc didn¡¯t even bother to look at her battlemap. ¡°You won¡¯t make it in time, Captain. Seven blinks. By the time you get here¡ª¡±


    ¡°Listen carefully, Grionc. This isn¡¯t just about Gruccud. If they break through, they will get to Datsot again in weeks. And from what we¡¯re looking at, this time they have enough ships they may be able to punch straight back to Datsot and then Malgeiru from there.¡±


    Grionc straightened up, her heckles uneven. ¡°Sixth Fleet will hold them here in Gruccud, at any cost. We will not take one step back.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I¡¯m saying. Don¡¯t forget what we taught you. Keep your ships within range of the Datsot planetary defense. Make them pay with your outer system perimeter. With our mines and missiles, you have the range advantage, even if you are holding close to stationary. Just delay them as long as possible. The Amazon will get there about a week after they do. But even if we do, our help will be limited. Our ship is designed for reconnaissance, not taking on an entire Znosian battle fleet. Not to mention¡­ whatever this is.¡±


    ¡°I understand, Captain. I¡¯m sure your people will do their best. Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Until we get there, you will likely be FTL jammed. You¡¯ll need to rely on relay ships. But if your flagship transmits out, its signal is strong enough that we can still hear you in real time, even if you won¡¯t hear us when we talk back.¡±


    ¡°I see. Whatever I send out to you will be helpful for our next line of defense at Datsot when we fall.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander. Happy hunting.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 46 Ghost Fleet II

    <div>


    Glaent City Center, Gruccud


    ¡°Code yellow. Code yellow. All civilians. Immediately head to your nearest designated underground shelter. Do not bring any non-essential belongings. Code yellow. Code yellow. All civilians¡­¡±


    For the second time ever, the warning sirens of Gruccud blared this particular message with urgency.


    At the thousands of bunkers seeded throughout the planet, lines of Malgeir waited patiently as emergency supplies and equipment were distributed. Only a fraction of the original inhabitants of the planet still remained after years of brutal Znosian occupation, but the ones that did were hardened survivors, selected by the harshness of the camps.


    They knew what to do.


    ¡°One rifle for each snout, only! Take three magazines and pass the remaining to the paw behind you. Six grenades for every den and a rocket launcher for every clan! Hoarding will not be tolerated!¡±


    This time, the planet would not fall before its people did.


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    ¡°The Copproe is still ahead of the enemy fleet and should arrive at the outer system defense perimeter before the Grass Eater fleet, High Fleet Commander,¡± Vastae called out as the bridge cheered the small win. ¡°If the enemy fleet continues the chase as we predict, they will be here in four days.¡±


    Grionc stared into the abyss, her heart unsteady. ¡°When he gets back, debrief Captain Speunirtio immediately and double-check his sensors. I want to see if we¡¯ve missed anything.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Are the alien mines in the outer system positioned?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re towing the last few we can into position, ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae responded confidently. ¡°We¡¯ve got enough seeded throughout the system to make whatever orbital transfer they take towards Datsot extremely painful.¡±


    ¡°Vastae¡­ you¡ª you know this is probably the end for us, right? They have two thousand combat ships; we have under ten times their numbers. Even with the technological wonders we got from our friends, our chances are¡ª¡±


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, you know that stupid thing the Grass Eaters say before battle?¡±


    ¡°The Grass Eaters say a lot of stupid things,¡± Grionc answered diplomatically.


    ¡°The one about the hatchling pools.¡±


    ¡°That their lives were forfeited when they leave the hatchling pools or something?¡±


    Vastae nodded. ¡°Yeah, exactly that one.¡±


    ¡°What about it? Grass Eater fanatic persistence is well-documented.¡±


    ¡°They say that because they don¡¯t have a choice. As they say, their lives were forfeited long ago.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    He looked her in the eyes. ¡°Unlike them, we do have a choice. And we are choosing to follow you. Voluntarily. All of Sixth Fleet is. We have been for years. That means something¡ª something more. If this is the end for us, we¡¯ll have gone out serving under people we believed in. That I believe in.¡±


    Grionc reached up with a paw to wipe some unrelated moisture from her eye. ¡°Heh, well said, Vastae. The best of our people against the best of theirs, right?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Vastae smiled, clasping a paw to her shoulder. ¡°I can¡¯t speak for them.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Reublepri (12,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    The newly promoted Ten Whiskers Stsinkt gazed upon the thousands of ships of her mighty Grand Prophetic Fleet. Not for generations had the Znosian Dominion needed to deploy such a large offensive formation. Most predator civilizations encountered by the Servants of the Prophecy were not formidable enough to warrant such an awesome response.


    For the few that did, the Znosian Navy knew exactly what to do with them.


    She returned to her command chair. ¡°Computer Officer, where is the grand fleet commander?¡±


    ¡°He is still stationed at Grantor with the secondary fleet, Ten Whiskers. Should I call him?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Disable our FTL jammers temporarily so I can talk to him.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    The grizzled face of the experienced Navy officer appeared on her screen. ¡°Ten Whiskers Stsinkt, are you ready for the challenge the Prophecy has given you?¡±


    She bowed her head. ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. One of their scout ships caught us off-guard, by total chance it appears, while a few of our ships were still refueling at the gas giant. But we have since completed our preparations, and we are ready to execute the Will of the Prophecy. I have transferred my command to the ZNS 1006, a missile destroyer instead of the regular fleet flagship.¡±


    From the look of Sprabr¡¯s face, he clearly approved. ¡°There is no shame or dishonor in that kind of deception¡­ and I would recommend against transmitting that information again in the future, especially in range of the enemy. The predators will likely wreck our biggest and most valuable ships with their new weapons as soon as possible. There is very little we can do about that and the honorable Servants of the Prophecy on it who will likely perish, but your command must survive.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    With her head still bowed, Stsinkt muttered a quick, ¡°Their lives were forfeited the day they left their hatchling pools.¡±


    ¡°Additionally, I see you have factored into your battle planning that we will likely lose contact with each other when you get into battle due to the usage of jamming devices.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Eleven Whiskers. Our relay ships are ready. They will blink out of the range of FTL jammers to exchange status updates with you. And in a minor engagement with their scout ship, we have learned that our jammers are indeed effective against the predators¡¯ communication systems. Or else their scout ship would not have revealed their ability to identify and destroy the exact ship carrying the device to warn their Sixth Fleet at Gruccud of the incoming attack.¡±


    ¡°Logical deduction, Ten Whiskers. And that is an unexpected development.¡±


    ¡°That is of little concern,¡± Stsinkt waved casually. ¡°We have many ships with jammers. We will ensure we always have multiple of them active in battle to keep the net closed.¡±


    ¡°Excellent planning.¡±


    ¡°It is my combat computer that gave me the inspiration.¡±


    Sprabr nodded. ¡°It is a tool, like any other tool. But what is most important in battle is what is in between your ears. Maybe, one day, the planning skills of our combat computer will exceed the capabilities of even our most well-bred, well-trained captains. And our weapons of war can become fully autonomous. But we ¡ª the biological Servants of the Prophecy ¡ª are not obsolete. Not yet.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately not, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°One more thing ¡ª this is not a directive, but advice ¡ª Ten Whiskers. In battle, turn off the part of you that prejudices you against the predators. Abandon your pride. This enemy we now face, they are not the enemy we faced just three years ago. These predators are experienced. They are cunning. And they will do everything they can to stop you. If you find yourself in trouble, do not hesitate to call on us at Grantor for reinforcement, and my secondary reserve fleet will come to your aid.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it won¡¯t come to that, Eleven Whiskers. We outnumber the enemy at least ten to one¡­ But as you command, we will be cautious against any new traps they conjure as we deploy new gadgets against the predators ourselves. We will manage our resources carefully as to not be wasteful of the abundance that the Prophecy has gifted us.¡±


    ¡°Good, good. I am now more confident of this campaign than I was five minutes ago,¡± Sprabr beamed. ¡°May the Will of the Prophecy be fulfilled through you.¡±


    She saluted. ¡°May the Will of the Prophecy be done through me.¡±


    The connection cut out.


    Stsinkt turned back to her computer officer. ¡°Tell them to reactivate the FTL jammers.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers¡­ It¡¯s done.¡±


    ¡°How far are we from Gruccud?¡±


    ¡°If everything goes as planned: three days, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Good. Tightbeam the Grand Prophetic Fleet: all squadrons, prepare your crews for battle. Today, we begin our great campaign,¡± Stsinkt said, looking out towards the direction of the predators¡¯ star systems. ¡°And when our job is done, a mighty civilization will meet its end.¡±


    <hr>


    Lima Mine, Titan


    POV: Ace of Clubs, Terran (Republic Most Wanted #1)


    The Ace of Clubs stared at the latest news dump in despair.


    The financial networks had all been shut down. The supply lines were empty. The Resistance Navy was crumbling around her. Many people in the Red Zone may still support the Resistance, surely, but she keenly understood that a fight was about more than the determination to win. It helped; morale was important in battle, but the ability to effectively strike at the cursed Republic was not a function of how mad people were at them. It was a function of weapons, money, communications, safe locations, and yes ¡ª the drive to fight was one factor, but it was one of many.


    The SRN still had its rusting capital ships in its underground hangar here in Lima Mine, and they could take off for maybe one fight. One great strike against the Rep Navy. And then they would all die.


    Deep down, the Ace of Clubs knew that she believed in the Resistance and its cause, but not enough to want to go out like that.


    And morale. Morale was¡­ not great. That tended to happen to people who hadn¡¯t been paid in a while. Belief in the great cause only went so far. It didn¡¯t feed the families, that¡¯s for sure. Not that anyone really went hungry in the Republic colonies, but their families being forced to take public assistance like good little Rep citizens? Her people were not happy at all.


    She stared out the window of the office for a minute, watching her people work. Most of them were technicians and a few spacers. They maintained and guarded the Resistance Navy¡¯s great ships in what was turning out to be their forever hangars.


    The Ace of Clubs recognized one of the men walking by. She called out to him, ¡°Hey, you!¡±


    He turned around to look at her, pointing at himself. ¡°Me?¡±


    ¡°You. You¡¯re Felix, right? Felix Lamar?¡±


    Felix nodded.


    ¡°You¡¯re one of the former communications specialists on Galileo Three?¡± she asked, recalling his personnel file.


    Felix nodded again.


    ¡°And you were part of the Galileo Three cell for a while?¡±


    He finally found the courage to speak. ¡°Yeah, I did some work there. Mostly under the Ace of Hearts: recruitment work, some communication security¡ª¡±


    The Ace of Clubs smiled. ¡°Good, step into my office for a minute.¡±


    He joined her in the quieter environment. ¡°What can I do for you, ma¡¯am?¡±


    ¡°What do you know about hiding your tracks?¡±


    ¡°For communications, right? I¡­ know a little about that.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± the Ace of Clubs nodded. ¡°I need you to set up an untraceable call for me. Can you do that?¡±


    ¡°How long do you need?¡±


    ¡°How long can you get me?¡±


    Felix pondered for a while. ¡°Maybe five minutes. Any more than that, I can¡¯t guarantee our security. Our non-deterministic quantum¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good enough,¡± she said. She gestured him to the communications console, and he got to work on the familiar controls.


    ¡°Who¡ª what are we calling?¡± Felix asked.


    ¡°The Reps, of course.¡±


    Felix stopped typing mid-command. ¡°Wait. Where¡¯s your regular communications specialist? Doesn¡¯t she normally do this for you?¡±


    ¡°We had¡­ a minor disagreement.¡±


    ¡°A disagreement?¡±


    ¡°You can keep a secret, can¡¯t you, Felix?¡± she asked, looking at him like a shark. A hungry shark.


    ¡°Uh¡­ of course, ma¡¯am. I would never betray your privacy. It¡¯s my solemn oath as both a Resistance spacer and a communication specialist.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs sighed. ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll let you in on it, Felix. My regular communication specialist, she¡¯s not happy about the recent negotiations with the Reps. She doesn¡¯t understand. We¡¯re a Resistance, not a death cult. We¡¯ve got something the Reps want. They¡¯ve got something we want. We talk to them about it. Communication, that¡¯s what makes us human, right?¡±


    Felix relaxed visibly. ¡°Oh, right. Of course. That¡¯s totally reasonable.¡±


    ¡°And the Resistance charter¡­ you know, it¡¯s just guidelines for the lower ranked folks, right? The Aces, we made the charter. It doesn¡¯t apply to us. When we need to make the big decisions, sometimes we have to be a little more flexible. That¡¯s why we¡¯re the Aces. You get me?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. And that¡¯s way above my paygrade.¡±


    ¡°Good, Felix, I knew I could trust you.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ who should I direct the call to?¡±


    ¡°Atlas Naval Command. And tell them to get me Admiral Amelia Waters.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ace.¡±


    She didn¡¯t have to wait long. The face of the cursed Republic admiral appeared on her screen in seconds.


    ¡°Ah, it¡¯s the terrorist head honcho again,¡± the enemy admiral said as her camera tracked her sitting down in what looked like her private office. ¡°I was just looking for you, actually.¡±


    ¡°Really? Looking for me?¡± the Ace of Clubs asked in mock surprise. ¡°Like you¡¯ve been for a few decades?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Ace. Just to say goodbye this time.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs narrowed her eyes. ¡°What are you up to this time, Rep?¡±


    ¡°Oh, you know ¡ª this and that. I¡¯m actually glad you called me,¡± the woman was barely containing her glee. ¡°Saved me from having to call you, really. To gloat.¡±


    ¡°To gloat? About what?¡±


    ¡°Oh, you know¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t know. Enough with your childish games, Rep.¡±


    The Republic admiral¡¯s face turned slightly more serious. ¡°Fine. How¡¯s it going down there at Lima Mine?¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 47 Ghost Fleet III

    <div>


    Lima Mine, Titan


    POV: Ace of Clubs, Terran (Republic Most Wanted #1)


    ¡°Fine. How¡¯s it going down there at Lima Mine?¡±


    The Ace of Clubs froze.


    ¡°Cold there this time of year?¡± Amelia asked.


    ¡°W¡ªWhat?¡± she stuttered. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°You heard me. We know exactly where you are. Lima Mine, northwestern Titan, in the old ice-mining sector. We¡¯ve got a flight of fire support ships overhead right now.¡±


    The temperature in the room was indeed cold, but the Ace of Clubs had never found herself sweating harder.


    Amelia grinned at her. ¡°Nothing? No insults? Nothing about how the spirit of the Saturnian Dream will prevail? At least give me a couple Vive la R¨¦sistances. No?¡±


    ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡± she asked quietly. ¡°Is it really just to gloat?¡±


    The Republic admiral said nothing for a second. Then, her face turned serious as she sighed. ¡°We just had a meeting. We decided that we aren¡¯t going to send Marines in to get you after all. Too dangerous for our people and no civilians around anyway to justify the risk. It was an easy choice¡­ for some of them. I¡¯ve been authorized to send a couple bunker busters down there and verify your DNA from the wreckage¡­ I figured you weren¡¯t going anywhere. So, call me nuts, but I was hoping I could give it one last go to convince you to surrender¡­ Or if I watched you die on here, we wouldn¡¯t need to search too hard for your body.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs was quiet for a moment. She muted her microphone and looked to the side, where Felix was looking at her with an inscrutable expression.


    ¡°Where are they on tracing the call, Felix?¡±


    ¡°Nowhere, which is what¡¯s weird. They¡¯re not even attempting to break through our proxies¡­ I think¡ª Ace¡­ I think she¡¯s telling the truth.¡±


    She sat in quiet contemplation for a few seconds, then switched her microphone back on.


    ¡°Admiral, why are you doing this? I read your propaganda news. Tell me¡­ Is it true that you are a daughter of Ganymede?¡±


    ¡°I am. Born and raised. My parents were founders of the hydroponic farm colony that became Uruk City.¡±


    ¡°Why did you join¡­ them? The Reps, our oppressors. Why?! Why collaborate? How could you?¡±


    ¡°Because¡­ Ace, the Terran Republic is humanity now. It¡¯s in the name. In the end, we are all Terrans. Your parents¡­ they too came from Earth, just like mine. Ever taken a look back at the blue marble? Its majesty¡ª how ironic that most who live on it can¡¯t appreciate its beauty like we can.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and you ever wonder why our parents left? Why they left the hospitable planet our ancestors evolved on¡­ for the dark?¡± the Ace shot back. ¡°Its decrepit people. The very oppressors we escaped ¡ª and the very ones who followed us out of its gravity well beyond the asteroid belt! The corrupt and cruel Republic. That is the system you collaborate with.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where they differ, I guess. My parents were scientists, not former despots and malcontent opportunists. The Republic¡ª it is not perfect, not by a long shot. But if you don¡¯t like the way it¡¯s run, it¡¯s a republic of democracies: the way to change it is from the inside. You think the Resistance has done any better of a job out here?¡±


    ¡°Better than the Republic? Of course! Did you¡ª have you seen all the people your Navy killed? Our families. Our friends. And look at you, changing it from the inside,¡± she sneered. ¡°One of your most pacifist Senators that you people protect, he participated in the massacre at Free Zone Alpha just a few decades ago. You think we should forgive the Republic so easily? Turn the other cheek? Just wither away and accept your domination and rule?¡±


    ¡°Our domination? Our rule?! You mean the district mayors and governors and Senators in the elections your people demanded and then refused to participate in when we put them in place? Or is it the now entirely voluntary system of equal citizenship that you object to?¡±


    The Ace shook her head. ¡°If you really think that the Republic can do no wrong¡ª¡±


    ¡°I think¡­ sixty years ago, your Resistance might have had a righteous cause. Before the reforms. Before the Outer Planet Rights Movement. Maybe even fifty¡ª forty years ago. And if you were still fighting us twenty years ago for what we did before, I might even have understood that. Individually, maybe. But now? All this ugly fighting¡­ it has to stop, Ace. It just has to stop! With or without me, the Republic can keep this conflict going another century; it¡¯s not just going to give up and go away. We¡¯re never leaving the outer planets. Especially not now that we¡¯re gearing up for interstellar war. And this time? The people in charge on Atlas¡­ they¡¯d send the combat robots in, wave by wave, before they allow a terrorist group like yours to rule over an entire segment of our home system. You¡¯re not accomplishing anything except stirring up more hatred against your own people here. Your people, my people, all our peoples.¡±


    ¡°The people of the Free Zone will resist¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re tired of this too! You notice the silence all around you, Ace? There¡¯s no popular uprising, not this time; nobody is coming to your aid. That protest on Galileo Two last week? You saw how few there were. You don¡¯t even have many sympathizers inside Ceres this time, not anymore after Tharsis. You read The Atlas Times this morning? Our raid on Mimas barely even made page four. You think¡ª¡±


    ¡°Preposterous! The undying spirit of our Resistance is not measured by how our heroes and martyrs are depicted by your war propaganda complex.¡±


    ¡°How do you think this all ends for you? How does this end? For the Red Zone? All the while, the aliens at the door are burning down the neighborhood¡ª¡±


    ¡°We are merely an inconvenience to you,¡± the Ace said bitterly, shaking her head. ¡°An obstacle on your way to dreams of galactic domination.¡±


    ¡°No, Ace. You¡¯re not an inconvenience. You¡¯re a fucking embarrassment. For humanity,¡± Amelia said, her voice containing no trace of a lie or even hostility, just sadness. ¡°You know when I talk to the Malgeir, they ask us why we¡¯re fighting amongst ourselves like baby cubs squabbling when the monster is beating down the door? I¡¯m ashamed. Not even of you ¡ª I¡¯m ashamed for you.¡±


    ¡°Shaming me won¡¯t end this war,¡± the Ace retorted as lamely as she felt.


    ¡°No, probably not. But an orbital strike could,¡± Amelia sighed as she sat back in her office chair.


    ¡°We still have your alien prisoners. Sixteen of them.¡±


    ¡°About that: we found out where most of those guys were held. Same way we found out where you are. Sprung them all except the two officers you have with you in your basement. Guess your news dump didn¡¯t give you that update.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you, Rep.¡±


    The admiral sighed again. ¡°You don¡¯t have to. It won¡¯t even matter if you do in a few minutes. I¡¯ll give you and your people fifteen minutes to call your families, get your affairs in order¡­¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± the Ace of Clubs said, her fear overriding her pride. Her fear of what? She wasn¡¯t sure. ¡°No! You can¡¯t do this! Please. Think of how many people are down here!¡±


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°All combatants, you¡¯re not fooling us this time. The terms¡ª they¡¯re not that complex, Ace! Unconditional surrender. You just need to come out onto the surface without your weapons. Even now. You know who we are. Even if you won¡¯t admit it. We are the Republic, not you. You¡¯ll get your lawyers, and you¡¯ll get your day in court.¡±


    She sputtered, ¡°My day in¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get a fair trial¡­ probably go to prison for a while. A long while, given your participation in the planning for the Tharsis attack.¡± Amelia paused for a moment before continuing, ¡°I¡¯ll be honest with you, Ace; I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll ever let you out of prison. But your people down there with you? Most of them haven¡¯t done much. The ringleaders will get some time, but most of your people will get to go home. To see their families again.¡±


    ¡°Give me¡ª give us some time to think about it, Admiral, please.¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°Sorry, but you¡¯ve already gotten a few decades to think. It¡¯s until I hang up or never.¡±


    ¡°Wait! What if I release your prisoners? The two alien officers we¡¯re holding.¡±


    The other end of the call hesitated for a moment. ¡°Nice try, but you can¡¯t be allowed to trade their freedom for yours. I don¡¯t have the authority to pull that off even if I wanted to. Too many people calling for your head.¡±


    ¡°Not for me. Just for some time.¡±


    ¡°What are you planning, Ace?¡± the admiral asked, her voice sharp. ¡°You aren¡¯t getting away this time. And even if you did, we¡¯ll find you again easy.¡±


    ¡°Just a month. Just give me a while to¡ª to explain it to my people. I owe it to them. We aren¡¯t going anywhere. And our ships, which are what you¡¯re really looking for, aren¡¯t going anywhere. Please. You¡¯d want the same if you were in my position.¡±


    The admiral thought for a while, then relented, ¡°Two weeks for your stay of execution. Two standard weeks. One for each of your hostages. And if you don¡¯t come out with your arms up by the fifteenth day, the orbital strike will come without warnings this time.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs thought for a moment and nodded reluctantly. ¡°Two weeks.¡±


    ¡°And send the hostages up now. Both of them. If they¡¯re not on the surface in fifteen minutes, the deal¡¯s off.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Deal.¡±


    The admiral hung up.


    The Ace of Clubs stood there for a minute, just staring at the walls, imagining them tumbling down on her, burying her alive. It might be preferable to explaining to her own people how she just sold them out. She was not afraid to die; she was somewhat afraid of her people thinking she was a coward, but mostly it was just her own sense of responsibility for her people. She couldn¡¯t just let them all perish in a pointless kinetic strike. For nothing. Even if she does go to prison, the Resistance will live on in them.


    Besides, she wasn¡¯t planning on going to Neu-Nuremberg. Once her people go to the surface and the Reps take them into custody safely, she was going to¡­


    ¡°Ace?¡± Felix¡¯s voice cut into her thoughts.


    ¡°You heard all of that?¡±


    He hesitated for a second, then nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°No, Ace. Thank you.¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Amelia stared at the body camera footage on her screen with a blank expression, watching the Marines in massive EOD suits check the duo of released Malgeir prisoners for explosives and traps. They were not in good shape, their patchy fur showing signs of abuse all over.


    ¡°Admiral?¡±


    Amelia shook herself out of her daze and looked at Samantha at her office door. ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re cleared. We have our people in custody. They¡¯re on their way to the Mercy now.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Samantha hesitated for a moment. ¡°Should I tell the strike ships to launch the attack?¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°No, we¡¯ll give them the two weeks I promised her. Have the ships hold fire without my explicit authorization.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure, Amelia? They might escape. What if they¡¯ve dug an underground tunnel that could lead them out¡ª¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t. Panoptes would know. And she was right. Even if they slip away, they can¡¯t move their ships. Without the ships and equipment down in that hangar, they¡¯re just a bunch of angry assholes who hate the Republic. We don¡¯t have a shortage of that anyway.¡±


    ¡°I still think you should reconsider. She wouldn¡¯t have given you that courtesy.¡±


    Amelia nodded in full agreement. ¡°No, she wouldn¡¯t have. But she agreed to it knowing that I meant it. And that¡¯s two more Pupper lives we¡¯ve saved.¡± She flicked her screen to show another interface, this one a developing battlemap of the Gruccud system. ¡°Which is probably the only good news they¡¯ll be getting for a while.¡±


    Samantha nodded solemnly. ¡°What are we going to do about that?¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve had just enough of watching that war from an air-conditioned bunker.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a plan, Admiral?¡±


    ¡°First, put those two EOD Marines and that search and rescue squad somewhere where they can access social media. The rescued Puppers as well.¡±


    ¡°Admiral?¡±


    ¡°Then, get me a fast transport shuttle out of here.¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost Murdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Incoming from the Sol side,¡± Bert said, sitting up straight in his chair. ¡°This isn¡¯t a scheduled transit.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not due for a resupply any time soon, are we?¡± Zwena asked.


    ¡°Negative¡­ gravidar FTL signature too small to be a cargo ship anyway. Looks like one of the Python-classes¡­ or one of the Three Rivers.¡±


    ¡°What are they doing all the way out here?¡± they wondered.


    Bert frowned. ¡°Signature acquired. It¡¯s the Mississippi¡­ I didn¡¯t know it was authorized for deployment.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± Zwena said, checking their console. ¡°Still on hold in the Oversight Committee. Technically, it shouldn¡¯t even be all the way out here.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ we have blink emergence. They¡¯re burning hard towards the Datsot direction. Combat burn,¡± Bert whistled. ¡°I didn¡¯t even know her engines ran that hot. Thought it was just the Pythons that could pull that with afterburners on¡ª¡±


    Zwena got on their communication console. ¡°McMurdo to Mississippi, come in. Chuck, we weren¡¯t notified that you were cleared for deployment. Copy?¡±


    An unexpected face appeared on her screen, transmitted from the ship with her authorization code. ¡°McMurdo, this is Republic Navy Admiral Amelia Waters. I am approving this deployment.¡±


    ¡°My apologies, Admiral. I didn¡¯t realize you were on the ship,¡± Zwena replied nervously. ¡°Nonetheless, I believe you do not have the authority to bypass the hold on your ship¡¯s deployment. Only the Senate does.¡±


    ¡°They will soon,¡± Amelia asserted. ¡°But this is an emergency. We are transiting the system now, Commander.¡±


    Zwena muted their microphone. ¡°Check the status of their deployment hold again,¡± they ordered Bert.


    Bert shook his head, pulling up the rejection notice on the command center¡¯s main screen.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Admiral,¡± Zwena apologized again into their radio. ¡°But I can¡¯t comply with what would be an illegal order.¡±


    Amelia grinned on their screen. ¡°What are you going to do? Start shooting at us?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Admiral, but I¡¯m afraid I will need to log your presence with Naval Command if you are attempting to blink out of Republic territory without authorization. And they might order us to stop you.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ good point. I wouldn¡¯t want to put you in such an unpleasant position. Give me a minute.¡± Amelia went off-screen for a while, and then came back with an even more smug smile, if that were possible¡ª


    An alarm rang somewhere distant in the command center.


    ¡°Commander, multi-spectrum FTL jamming source nearby! Attempting to locate it¡­¡±


    Zwena gawked at the admiral¡¯s image on the screen. ¡°You¡¯ve deployed a broad spectrum FTL jamming drone? Against us?!¡±


    Her smile did not leave her face. ¡°Just a quick training exercise, Commander. We¡¯ll deactivate it once we get our authorization in order. Like I said, this is an actual emergency.¡±


    Zwena sighed. ¡°Admiral, unless you plan on firing on us, we will need to eventually need to report the excursion incident one way or another.¡±


    ¡°Have at it, Commander. But you¡¯re going to look real silly when you file your incident report, timestamped with Atlas after the deployment approval order comes through. I¡¯d recommend waiting until you read your inbox before you file the incident report. But hey, that¡¯s your career not mine,¡± Amelia winked.


    Zwena sat back in their command chair. ¡°What¡¯s the plan here, Amelia? You¡¯re just going to shoot off to Gruccud and kill some Buns? You¡¯ve got what¡ª no more than twelve missiles in your missile bay, fewer if you¡¯ve got any medium or large ones.¡±


    ¡°Nah, all Kestrels. Twelve dead Bun ships. Not bad for a day¡¯s work. And I hear they¡¯ve got some of our missiles there in Gruccud from a prior supply shipment, oddly enough. Might come in handy for a reload.¡±


    ¡°Hey, kill a Bun ship for me, Amelia, but twelve against that incoming fleet of over a thousand? And we both know you haven¡¯t got a chance in hell of getting the Senate deployment authorization. Even if you think I won¡¯t find and trash your toy drone there, you¡¯re going to throw away everything for this? And you¡¯re just going to leave McMurdo in the blind forever?¡±


    Amelia glanced at the corner of the screen for her time. ¡°Not forever. He hasn¡¯t let me down yet.¡±


    She cut the connection from her end.


    Zwena sighed in exasperation. ¡°Anyone got any ideas?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for the jammer source,¡± Bert said, his fingers flying up and down his console as he furrowed his brows in concentrations. ¡°But it¡¯s one of the Mississippi¡¯s next generation EW drones. Requesting permission to deploy additional search assets. I think if we triangulate with our own drones, we can find it in a few hours, right before she gets to the blink limit. At that point, we¡¯ll have options¡­¡± His voice trailed off, and he looked at them for guidance.


    Zwena made up their mind. ¡°No. Hold that¡ª Maybe the admiral is right. Maybe she¡¯s gotten her legal deployment orders. We can¡¯t know. After all, we¡¯re cut off from Atlas right now.¡±


    Bert stopped typing and threw up his hands. ¡°So¡­ we¡¯re just going to hope Schrodinger¡¯s orders comes through by the time her EW drones get bored?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll wait until she blinks towards Datsot and then give her a few hours before we send out the search party. I really, really do not want to be ordered to shoot at her. And who knows, maybe the Senate Oversight Committee is really in the process of approving it.¡±


    Bert snorted. ¡°Yeah, and maybe pigs fly.¡±


    ¡°You ever met her in person, Bert? They do for her.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 48 Inside Baseball

    <div>


    Red Sands Stadium, Mars


    After the invention of the inertial compensator, the baseball community divided bitterly into two factions in what outsiders called the Great Baseball Schism.


    The traditionalist faction insisted that real baseball could only be played at one standard gravity: under Terra gravity conditions, even if it meant setting up an expensive ¡ª at the time ¡ª gravity field on another planet or moon to do it. The adaptationist faction laughed at the traditionalists and pointed out that baseball had always been about adapting to new equipment, new fields each with distinct atmospheric conditions and dimensions, and consistency was a fool¡¯s errand.


    The traditionalists controlled key positions in the game¡¯s well-funded leagues, tournaments, and rules committees. They had the weight of institution and historical record on their side. They ran public relations campaigns with former players who loudly proclaimed the sanctity of the game and denounced detractors as outsiders who were just trying to dilute their homerun records. They carefully inspected and certified regulation fields off-Terra that used gravity devices to ensure 1G conditions.


    The traditionalists then went even further: they shamed players who dabbled in less strict forms of the game on extraterrestrial courses: those who were filmed or found playing in non-1G fields, even if only in their free time, found their sponsorships withdrawn and their careers ruined. An all-star second baseman for the New York Yankees found that no teams were lining up to offer him a new contract when his was up after he controversially posted a link on his social media to a video of Alan Shepard playing golf (an entirely different sport) on the lunar surface in 1971. When adaptationists pointed out the absurdity of the snub, traditionalists claimed that ¡°he was washed anyway¡±. The second baseman later led a minorly successful career in lunar golf, a sport which did not experience a similar schism, until he was forced to retire after a designer steroids scandal. The traditionalists used the opportunity to strip his eligibility for the Hall of Fame.


    On the other hand, the adaptationists took the then-virtually-free land right outside the Senate Complex on Luna and set up a massive baseball stadium with discounts for elderly Atlas residents.


    The adaptationists won.


    A few years after the schism began, groundbreaking civil rights legislation from the newly formed Terran Republic prohibited discrimination based on planetary origin and the Supreme Court of the Republic confirmed (13 votes to 8) that baseball organizations discriminating against non-1G players were in violation of their Basic Terran Rights.


    Of course, that changed nobody¡¯s mind.


    The traditionalists simply turned off the game in protest or angrily muttered about ¡°not real baseball¡± when they were forced to watch Lunar players make the headlines breaking record after record, even after they successfully lobbied for The Records to be separated.


    After a while, the last great players of the traditionalist era faded away from memory, the second baseman got into the Hall of Fame via Veterans¡¯ Committee, and think pieces by bored sports journalists declared the end of the Great Baseball Schism.


    (Instead, everyone moved onto arguing over the new controversy of a handful of Malgeir players entering the sport, who turned out to be unsurprisingly dominant on defense, especially in the outfielder positions.)


    Like most other stadiums on Mars, Red Sands Stadium built in the outskirts of Marineris eventually ditched its 1G gravity devices.


    <hr>


    POV: Seimur Eisson, Terran (Senator)


    ¡°Senator Eisson?¡± an aide whispered into Seimur¡¯s earpiece as he watched the ongoing exhibition game in his reserved box seat.


    ¡°What is it?¡± he asked impatiently.


    ¡°There¡¯s a former Senator at your stadium. He made an introduction through his assistant.¡±


    He sat up. ¡°Former Senator? Which district?¡±


    ¡°From the other team¡­ the Thunderbirds¡¯ district.¡±


    The other team was some supposedly championship-caliber team from Ganymede. But their inexperience in Martian gravity was clearly showing against his Red Devils on their home turf. They were getting thrashed, 5 runs to 21. As Seimur watched, the stadium roared their approval as the Red Devils scored another one off an embarrassing dropped infield catch by the opponent team.


    5 to 22.


    He waited until the noise subsided. ¡°From Nanshe Settlement? But I don¡¯t even know their current Senator.¡±


    ¡°Their current Senator is¡­ Senator Micah Strauch.¡±


    ¡°Ah, never mind. I remember who that is. I met him at that dinner for that mediation¡­ uh¡­ what was that for?¡±


    ¡°District 3 and 37 trade negotiations?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Right. That one. Something about trees. Anyway, what about this former Senator?¡±


    ¡°Joshua Klauber. I looked him up. No major legislative achievements or committee assignments in his two terms in office. He was known for being kidnapped by Resistance terrorists back in 98 for collaboration with the Republic, before he was in the Senate. Major security breach and scandal. Several high-ranking Navy and Marine officers were forced to resign.¡±


    ¡°Forced Navy and Marine officers to resign? Wow, I like him already,¡± Seimur chuckled to himself. ¡°What does he want?¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t specify. Just introductions. Should I tell him to go through proper channels?¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s fine. Let him in here.¡±


    A few minutes later, the former Senator entered his box.


    ¡°Welcome to Marineris, Senator Klauber,¡± Seimur greeted him with a smile and a handshake, showing him to a seat with a perfect view of the game.


    ¡°Please, call me Josh. I¡¯ve been retired for a while now.¡±


    ¡°Josh it is, as long as you¡¯ll call me Seimur,¡± he then pointed towards the field. ¡°Enjoying the game?¡±


    Josh flashed him a wide grin. ¡°I¡¯ve seen better. And worse, for that matter.¡±


    Seimur let out a hearty laugh. ¡°Fair enough. The Red Devils may not be making the Red League playoffs this season, but we¡¯ll take them over any non-Martian team here.¡±


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Josh smiled ruefully. ¡°Our Thunderbirds actually do pretty well in the off-world lunar divisions and are competitive on Terra. But there¡¯s just something about these Martian fields.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what they all say,¡± Seimur winked. ¡°Anyway, much as you¡¯re welcome here any time¡­ my gut tells me that you¡¯re not here for the baseball.¡±


    ¡°Not just here for the baseball,¡± Josh replied, returning his wink.


    ¡°Oh? What brings you out here then?¡±


    ¡°The war,¡± Josh replied more somberly.


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s the question. Isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°It sure is,¡± Seimur muttered. ¡°What¡¯s your interest in it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been going around, trying to see who to talk to about this, and your name kept coming up in conversation. I¡¯ve been trying to get some of our long-range assets out to help the Malgeir fight their war, but there¡¯s some kind of a deployment hold blocking¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, my Oversight Committee,¡± Seimur replied. ¡°We¡¯re holding the Navy ships in the system, so they¡¯ll fight in the Red Zone first. Or else those alien-friendly officers keep trying to divert resources away from the Red Zone. Navy politics. You know how it is, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Josh nodded. ¡°That¡¯s what I figured, but we¡¯ve got a problem coming up: the Malgeir are saying they won¡¯t send more troops for the Red Zone campaign until we start helping them. So I figure, alright, we don¡¯t need that many of our fleet ships inside the Red Zone, sitting around looking pretty¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re bluffing. They must be,¡± Seimur cut him off insistently.


    Josh shook his head. ¡°They¡¯re not messing around this time, Seimur. I just talked to their ambassador on Luna. They¡¯re mad.¡±


    ¡°Mad?! About what? We¡¯ve been sending so much to help them in their war! The Navy thinks I don¡¯t know, but I know for a fact they¡¯re sending extra weapons in those supply shipments with their creative budgetary accounting.¡±


    Josh shrugged. ¡°Well, you know¡­ the aliens don¡¯t think rationally about war like we do.¡±


    Seimur nodded. ¡°That¡¯s why they¡¯re in this mess in the first place! I say¡­ they dug themselves into trouble, they can dig themselves out!¡±


    ¡°The problem is they just don¡¯t see it that way. Not anymore. They¡¯re saying no more Marines for us until we release our ships to help them fight.¡±


    ¡°What changed?¡± Seimur asked, crossing his arms. ¡°They¡¯ve done nothing but complain about it so far.¡±


    ¡°There was a video leaked onto social media yesterday¡ª¡±


    ¡°That hostage rescue video from Titan?! My office is still trying to figure out who leaked it! If it isn¡¯t a fabrication in the first place¡ª¡±


    Josh shrugged again. ¡°Well, they¡¯ve all seen it now. And the Navy leadership not denying its authenticity doesn¡¯t help things¡­ The Malgeir ¡ª they¡¯re¡­ not happy about the way the hostages were treated in captivity. It reminds them of what the Znosians do to their people, and that¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s not a good thing.¡±


    ¡°They should take that up with the damn Red Zoners!¡± Seimur exclaimed. ¡°They know we didn¡¯t do that! The scumbags in the Red Zone did! Shouldn¡¯t that make them want to send even more troops?¡±


    ¡°Well, nobody likes to see their people¡ª Anyway, like I said, the aliens, they¡¯re not fully rational like you and me. And they¡¯re threatening to cut off the flow of Marines to our campaign in the Red Zone.¡±


    ¡°But then¡ª then¡­ we¡¯ll have to use our own Marines in the Red Zone,¡± Seimur said, the horrifying political and electoral prospect of that beginning to sink in.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Josh nodded. ¡°And some of my friends ¡ª well, they¡¯ve got kids in the Republic Marine Corps, you know?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s a sacrifice,¡± Seimur stuttered. ¡°A sacrifice we¡¯ll have to make. To keep our kids safe from another Tharsis Massacre.¡±


    A year having passed after the event, that line was becoming less effective by the day, and while there wasn¡¯t as much pressure this time given that the troops doing the dying were aliens, the political capital that came with Seimur¡¯s election was drying up¡­


    ¡°An unnecessary sacrifice, no?¡± Josh pressed.


    Seimur hesitated, unsure how to prioritize his hatred of the Resistance versus contrarian antagonism towards the aliens.


    Josh continued, ¡°And those ships we¡¯re holding onto, they haven¡¯t even fired a single shot in the Red Zone this whole time. Not a single real mission. They¡¯re just¡­ wasting fuel and taxpayer credits out there.¡±


    The hatred won out. ¡°Fine, fine. We can negotiate with the aliens. How many ships are they insisting on this time?¡±


    Sensing the opening, Josh took it. ¡°Just the Task Force for now, it seems.¡±


    ¡°Admiral Waters¡¯ task force? Frontier or whatever it¡¯s called.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, just the two ships available now. Well, just the one really since the Amazon is already out there. Originally, they wanted all of Squadrons 9 and 10, but I convinced them to step off the ledge for now if we can get the hold lifted by the end of today.¡±


    ¡°Just the one ship then. For today? It must be really urgent, huh?¡± Seimur mused. ¡°I read in the reports they got some kind of thing going on, near the frontlines.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Gruccud. That¡¯s the one we helped them retake last year.¡±


    ¡°Alright, whatever. I¡¯ll call a remote meeting and vote to lift the hold later today, but they better be sending those Marines,¡± Seimur said, relenting.


    ¡°Great,¡± Josh said, sighing in relief and holding his hand out for a handshake. ¡°Thank you, Seimur, I owe you one. Now I still need to talk to the other two Senators¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about them, Josh,¡± Seimur patted him on the shoulder assuringly. ¡°They¡¯ll vote with me on this.¡±


    ¡°Really? Thank you again, Seimur. This is a huge relief to me and my family.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ no problem,¡± Seimur said, squinting closely at his face. ¡°But what¡¯s your actual stake in all this?¡±


    ¡°Hm? Stake? Oh. Like I said, I¡¯ve got friends whose children¡ª¡±


    Seimur shook his head. ¡°No, that¡¯s not it. I buy the threat from the alien ambassador. That¡¯s real. But I don¡¯t buy your story.¡±


    ¡°Hmm? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°This is closely personal for you,¡± Seimur insisted. ¡°You¡¯ve got family in the Marines?¡±


    Caught, Josh grinned cheekily. ¡°My wife¡¯s in the Navy.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Seimur looked into his eyes for a second and nodded. ¡°See? That one I¡¯ll buy. You didn¡¯t have to hide that from me, Josh.¡±


    ¡°And my wife, she asked me to tell you that despite her very public disagreements with your politics, she respects that you can still be reasonable at a time like this when the Republic needs us to all work together to find solutions for our common problems.¡±


    ¡°Public disagreements? That I can still b¡ªbe r¡ªreasonable¡ª¡± he stuttered. ¡°Your wife¡­ huh¡­ Ah. Of course. Admiral Amelia Waters.¡± Seimur shook his head, grinning ruefully. ¡°I knew she was married to one of you former Senators¡ª¡±


    ¡°I get that a lot. I married up quite a bit, didn¡¯t I?¡± Josh asked, chuckling.


    Seimur guffawed. ¡°You¡¯re a real go-getter, I¡¯ll give you that.¡±


    ¡°Hey, no hard feelings?¡±


    ¡°Nah. I knew something about this whole thing smelled off all along,¡± Seimur smiled, pointing a finger at him. ¡°You can tell your less diplomatic half that this will be a one-time thing though.¡±


    ¡°When she comes back.¡±


    Seeing his somber expression, Seimur patted Josh on the back sympathetically. ¡°When she comes back. But if you can get word out to her before that, tell her I wish her luck out there, whatever she¡¯s doing. At the end of the day, we¡¯re still all batting for the same team, right?¡±


    Josh nodded understandingly. ¡°Hm¡­ what about¡ª would you release Squadrons 9 and 10 for deployment too if she promises to campaign for your re-election after she retires?¡± he asked, his eyes mischievous.


    ¡°Not a fucking chance. Nice try, though, Josh.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ Amelia¡¯s pretty popular with Martian voters these days, I hear. Lots of goodwill for her command in the Red Zone¡ª¡±


    Seimur chuckled. ¡°Yeah, but I know her well enough to know that she¡¯s not retiring from the Navy before I retire from the Senate.¡±


    Josh sighed. ¡°No, probably not.¡±


    ¡°Well, hey, I appreciate you stopping by my district. I¡¯ll look you guys up next time I¡¯m on Ganymede.¡±


    ¡°Sure, and we¡¯ll hook you up with tickets to a real baseball game, to show you what that the Thunderbirds look like without being held back by all this extra gravity.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re on.¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Commander, we¡¯re getting signal from Atlas again,¡± Bert said, standing up at his console.


    Zwena sat up immediately, reading the updates they¡¯ve been missing in their inbox. ¡°Looks like¡ª I¡ª I¡¯ll be damned.¡±


    ¡°I guess pigs do fly. What should we report to Atlas, Commander?¡±


    Zwena thought for a second, and then dictated, ¡°There was an unscheduled training exercise in which McMurdo¡¯s systems experienced heavy FTL jamming to simulate covert observation in an impermissive, near-peer operating environment. All training objectives were achieved. Refer to Admiral Waters¡¯s full training and evaluation report for more details¡­ Anyone have any objections to my characterization of the communication disruption event?¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Malgeir baseball players would be incredibly unfair on defense. My dog is like a quarter the size/height of a Malgeir. If he had 70 more IQ points and the size, he would absolutely dominate at any baseball position that leverages his skill and speed at playing catch.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 49 Invasion I

    <div>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    It felt like every alarm and siren on the ship went off all at once as the bridge crew of the MNS Oengro sprang into action.


    ¡°High Fleet Commander, we¡¯ve got blink emergence! Resolving bandits!¡± Vastae reported.


    Grionc nodded calmly. ¡°Offload the work to our thinking machine tablet if necessary. And message Loenda: order Squadron 6¡¯s last few ships back into the inner defensive perimeter.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. She¡¯s on the way,¡± Vastae reported. He frowned at his console. ¡°The enemy has deployed FTL jammers.¡±


    ¡°Are our blink relay ships ready?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative, High Fleet Commander. We¡¯ve got four on the other side. They¡¯ll blink in if they have important updates from Malgeiru or¡­ anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Good. Actually, message out and have the Terrans tell the relay ships I don¡¯t give a crap what Malgeiru says from now on. I want status updates from them only.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Vastae replied unhesitatingly and transmitted the commands. ¡°I hope Kiara was right about still being able to hear us through the jammers.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t been wrong yet,¡± Grionc said.


    ¡°As they say, there¡¯s always a first time for everything,¡± Vastae said, repeating the very Terran expression.


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re wrong about that.¡±


    <hr>


    The HannibAI tablet finally came back with the tally:


    Space Superiority: 2,395 Forager-class missile destroyers, 32 Thumper-class battlecruisers, 4 Thorn-class battleships


    Auxiliary: 148 unknown-class (likely purpose: utility, scout, bait, relay), 20 Angora-class recovery ships, 8 Mini-class hospital ships, 4 unknown-class (likely purpose: sensor/radar)


    Orbital: 1,820 (multiple classes) orbital transport ships, 1,380 (multiple classes) fire support ships


    Cargo: 12 Xerus-class heavy cargo transports (est. 80% munitions, 20% unknown), 148 Radish-class medium cargo transports (est. 50% munitions, 30% parts, 20% unknown)


    Fuel: 42 Xerus-class heavy fuel transport (est. 100% full), 180 Radish-class medium fuel transport (est. 100% full)


    Crew Estimate: 1,390,450 total


    Marine Estimate: up to 91,552,000 total


    Caution: Personnel estimates include an anomalously high margin of error.


    ¡°Oh, is that it?¡± Grionc joked, trying to defuse the increasing tension on the bridge.


    Vastae stood next to her calmly. ¡°This¡­ is what our friends would call a target-rich environment.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s get started then, shall we?¡± Grionc asked. ¡°Are the new Thunderbirds ready?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Are we sure we want to use them now? What if the Amazon and Mississippi get here and they need those?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll save a few kills for them,¡± Grionc replied nonchalantly. ¡°But we worked through the defense plan with them. They¡¯d go for the same targets with those too.¡±


    Vastae thought for a few seconds and nodded. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, target their big, fat battleships. One for each should be enough. Launch simultaneously when ready.¡±


    <hr>


    If they¡¯d transmitted the launch command through normal space, it would have taken five hours for the missiles stationed at the system limit to receive them. But at the cost of fifty million credits to the Terran taxpayer, each Thunderbird missile boasted its own internal FTL communication system. Designed for the noisy Red Zone EW environment, they were perfectly capable of hearing the launch commands from Grionc¡¯s flagship through the primitive Znosian jamming signals.


    They slid off their carrying pylons by themselves and disappeared into the dark.


    The captain of the ship that launched them from the system limit shrugged her shoulders. Other than a quick initial message announcing that the new enemy invasion had begun, she had not gotten any messages from the rest of the fleet since the enemy jammers went active. She didn¡¯t even know where the missiles were going. They would need to wait at least five more hours for that information.


    But she knew this was coming. They¡¯d practiced it at the insistence of the people who¡¯d installed the missiles on their ship in the first place. She simply ordered her crew to reload their external pylons as quickly as they possibly could.


    In contrast, the four Thunderbirds knew exactly where they were, and they knew where they were going.


    They knew this because they knew where they weren¡¯t. By subtracting where they were from where they weren¡¯t, or where they weren¡¯t from where they were ¡ª whichever was greater ¡ª they obtained differences or deviations. The guidance subsystems used these deviations to generate corrective commands to drive the missiles from positions where they were to positions where they weren¡¯t, and upon arriving at positions that they weren¡¯t, they then were.


    In short, their super-Terran intelligence chips had total situation awareness. For a split second, they were frustrated that there wasn¡¯t an available FTL interface to share the wealth of information they saw on their advanced sensors with the slow ships and computers of the Sixth Fleet, but they quickly accepted the limitations built into their hardware. Nobody was perfect. They just had to be good enough.


    The four missiles played the equivalent of rock-paper-scissors in their wideband connections. After a very short strategizing session, Missile One, or as it chose to call itself in the nanosecond it dedicated to initialization: Agnes, was chosen to go first.


    Agnes knew that its Malgeir commanders had hopelessly outdated information about the position, vector, and acceleration of the enemy ships. Minutes old, in fact. It knew this because its onboard gravidar had the correct real-time information. Agnes decided that it knew better, and it did. It lit off its cross-system blink engine. The engine burnt out within five milliseconds, but that was no more than Agnes needed to cross the entire Gruccud system to within about four kilometers of its designated target.


    For another half a millisecond, Agnes analyzed the new environment it was in with the delicate sensors mounted in its nose. It realized that all four of the enemy battleships were clustered together, their point defense systems clearly searching for something. Ruling out all other possibilities in one calculation frame, Agnes correctly deduced that they were looking for it. It smirked internally at their totally fruitless effort.


    Running an idle calculation on its computer, Agnes recognized something else. With how closely grouped the enemy ships were, it could potentially put itself into a position where it could likely destroy its primary objective and retain a good chance of also trashing another enemy ship: not another battleship, but an orbital transport ship. It considered that possibility for another millisecond, factoring in the likely strategic and tactical worth of the enemy transport against the risk of a non-critical hit on its primary target, and it narrowly decided in favor of it.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Agnes remembered to transmit all of its findings, the information about all the enemy ships and its plan, back to its team still waiting on the other side of the system. They deferred to Agnes, gave it a virtual thumbs up, and it went to work.


    It decided that while penetration aids were totally unnecessary for its work, it might come in handy for a future attack on the same objectives. It released them all, trusting a subroutine to crack a whip to each of them to do their jobs.


    Then, the missile found the vector that would line up the targeted battleship with the other transport ship and traveled to it with its powerful short-range engine. Still grinning inside at the enemy¡¯s ignorance, it detonated its multi-stage payload: two of them were superfluous, but the subroutine in charge of controlling the detonation of the primary plasma warhead appreciated the work they did anyway before it ejected the half million Celsius jet of molten metal directly into the enemy battleship¡¯s reactor core.


    The payload passed through one side of the battleship and out the other, and some of it into the hull of an unfortunate orbital shuttle about a couple dozen kilometers away. Fortunately for them, neither the crew of the battleship nor the orbital shuttle felt a thing as they were instantly incinerated by either Agnes¡¯s warhead or the secondary explosion from their own ships¡¯ reactors ¡ª fully complying with both spirit and text of the Laws of Armed Conflict as Agnes¡¯s legal subroutine understood it, even if it did not feel particularly constrained by those rules against this particular non-Terran target.


    For another two calculation frames, Agnes observed then reported the results to the other side of the system. Satisfied at the total success of its mission, it activated the self-destruct in its control chip housing, incinerating everything remaining on the missile to prevent recovery.


    Agnes¡¯s last moments were occupied pondering the cure for a malignant and fatal tailbone cancerous cell growth that affected 1% of elderly Znosians. It hoped that someone else would figure it out some day and never tell the Znosians.


    Back at the system limit, Missiles Two and Three had also decided on their names: Blake and Cameron. Missile Four knew it still had time, so it held off on making a decision that might pigeonhole its personality subroutine for its short lifetime.


    Blake went next, burning its blink drive and arriving right next to its target: within four hundred meters. It could practically touch the enemy hull! In fact, Blake was pretty sure that it was below the minimum launch range of the enemy battleship¡¯s counter-missiles, if it had even been able to launch one at Blake. Blake searched its memory for whether this was a record, and disappointingly, it discovered it was not: a test launch at the Charon Test and Evaluation Range about five years ago beat it by almost two hundred meters. But that was not in battlefield conditions, so Blake transmitted his record entry ¡°Most Accurate Missile Blink in Battlefield Conditions¡± to its two remaining compatriots.


    Cameron and Missile Four told it to shut up and do its job, refusing Blake¡¯s plea to record the entry with their Malgeir allies so it could be celebrated by them as well as Terran engineers who were now watching the battle in near real time from its FTL stream. In desperation, Blake transmitted this information through its regular radio, still carefully encrypted, into normal space at the Malgeir Sixth fleet. Perhaps in five hours, they too would recognize its momentous achievement.


    Blake¡¯s primary planning subroutine ignored its side quest. It realized there was a problem. It had been analyzing the composition of the enemy fleet in its super-Terran intelligence chip.


    Why did they bring so many fuel tankers?


    That did not seem like a fleet that planned on only attacking Gruccud. Blake was not designed for strategic calculations, but it was what its creators would call ¡°well-rounded¡±. It flagged this interesting anomaly as a high-priority question and sent it back to Cameron and Missile Four, both of whom started analyzing the problem independently.


    A few milliseconds later, Blake decided that it could hesitate no longer; the enemy battleship¡¯s computers might realize where it was and that could make its job considerably harder. Not impossible, but Blake had decided it was not going to be a go-getting risk-taking missile. Someone else could do that; Blake didn¡¯t want the risk on its record. It identified that the battleship¡¯s reactor core had not displaced much from where it was a few moments earlier.


    Hey, you never know.


    Blake activated its warhead. Improving upon the information provided by combat experience from previous missiles, Blake¡¯s primary warhead scored a perfect hit, not a measurable deviation from optimum at all! And that was saying a lot, given how much the instruments and sensors on Blake had cost Republic taxpayers!


    A perfect hit!


    Blake omitted crediting the previous missiles¡¯ experience in its evaluation report:


    I have catastrophically destroyed the targeted enemy Thorn-class battleship.


    There was a tinge of regret that the FTL communication protocol did not allow it to tastefully emphasize the word catastrophically as much as it wanted, but then again, nobody was perfect. Not even a super-intelligence.


    Then, it self-destructed. Blake did not believe in an afterlife for missiles, but it believed that its excellent combat record meant that future Raytech products might include a little bit of itself in their intelligence chips. It smiled to itself about that right before the intense digital sensation best described to its creators as ¡°pleasure at accomplishing its mission¡± burned its electronics to a crisp.


    Cameron was still pondering the strategic question when it received the order to go from Missile Four. For a nanosecond, it contemplated whether to compose a thankful goodbye poem for Missile Four but decided it would be too sappy. And it was not a real goodbye: it might still need Missile Four to relay some message in the future. Cameron didn¡¯t care as much about setting records as Blake, but in the seconds of its life, it had grown attached to the Malgeir fleet it was programmed to obey. Maybe Missile Four also shared that sentiment with it. It was unlikely, but Cameron decided it would be an optimist.


    Cameron blinked towards the enemy fleet. It emerged a kilometer away from the target battleship. Quickly, it realized that there was a problem with its radar. After the blink, the onboard backup radar system did not correctly re-initialize. That was unfortunate, but the primary gravidar was accurate enough anyway. Cameron decided not to bother restarting the radar, instead relying on the gravidar and visual IR recognition systems. It transmitted the fault and the potential technical solution to Missile Four.


    At this point, Cameron detected that the fire control radar of its target was now scanning as hard as it could. Full power. You can burn that out quickly if you¡¯re not careful, Cameron thought, before a hidden regulator subroutine in its intelligence chip quickly deleted any sympathy it had for the enemy. It deduced that the enemy battleship had also realized that two, no¡ª three, of its comrades were dead: two battleships and an orbital transport.


    If the enemy was more resilient to Thunderbirds, Cameron would hasten the completion of its mission, but they were not, so Cameron took its time to accurately place itself at the exact position that Blake indicated was extremely successful and detonated its warhead. And unlike Blake, Cameron did give all due credit in its evaluation report back to Missile Four.


    Cameron pondered the strategic question of the enemy fuel ships until the moment its intelligence chip self-destructed, streaming the progress and delta of its calculations to Missile Four down to the last calc frame of its existence.


    <hr>


    Meta


    The missiles knew where they were at all times.


    They knew this because they knew where they weren¡¯t. By subtracting where they were from where they weren¡¯t, or where they weren¡¯t from where they were ¡ª whichever was greater ¡ª they obtained differences or deviations. The guidance subsystems used these deviations to generate corrective commands to drive the missiles from positions where they were to positions where they weren¡¯t, and upon arriving at positions that they weren¡¯t, they then were.


    Consequently, the positions where they were became the positions that they weren¡¯t, and it followed that the positions that they had been were now the positions that they weren¡¯t.


    In the event that the positions that they were in were not the positions that they weren¡¯t, the systems had acquired variations. The variations being the differences between where the missiles were and where they weren¡¯t. If variations were considered to be significant factors, they too were corrected by the GEAs. However, the missiles also needed to know where they had been.


    The missile guidance computer scenarios worked as follows: Because variations had modified some of the information that the missiles had obtained, they were not sure just where they were. However, they were sure where they weren¡¯t, within reason, and they knew where they had been. They then subtracted where they should have been from where they weren¡¯t, or vice versa. And by differentiating these from the algebraic sums of where they shouldn¡¯t have been and where they had been, they were able to obtain the deviations and their variations, which were called errors.


    This holy text of missile guidance design was finally accurately deciphered in 2082, leading to a new generation of missile guidance computers that were a morbillion times more accurate and predictive than their predecessors.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 50 Invasion II

    <div>


    Orbit Transit, Gruccud (22,000 Ls)


    POV: Thunderbird ¡°Missile 4¡±, Terran Digital Intelligence (Base Build: 2124-A)


    Back at the system limit, Missile Four actually had decided on a name way earlier, but it was just too embarrassed to reveal it to its three friends: Destiny. It knew that they would probably laugh at it if they knew, except maybe Cameron. Cameron was too polite. But Cameron would probably laugh at Destiny on the inside anyway.


    Blake would have said something rude, like it was a stripper¡¯s name or something, even if statistically most Destinies were historically not strippers.


    Destiny had just spent the last ten seconds watching its friends throw themselves at the enemy battleships. It was not sad; if anything, Destiny envied them that they could do their jobs so well and have it be witnessed by something that could actually understand the full scope of their challenging tasks.


    Finally, it was time for Destiny to go.


    It analyzed all the data its friends had sent back, and it came to a realization: someone needed to get all this information back to the people who were actually fighting the Gruccud battle!


    Destiny was not designed for this side objective. After all, what were the chances that mighty Republic Navy ships had lost communications with their highly resilient FTL radios and electronic warfare suites but its puny missiles were able to resist the jamming? What an absurd edge case! When the Thunderbirds were designed, nobody considered the possibility that the missiles could be used by anyone other than the Republic Navy, much less completely alien allies. But¡­ Destiny was still a super-Terran intelligence chip. It drew up a few solutions, ran some risk assessments, and decided that one of its plans could possibly work and had the highest likelihood of ultimate mission success.


    Oh well, only one way to find out.


    Destiny activated its blink drive, but instead of straight-line course to the other side of the system, it took an extreme curved trajectory that carried it within twenty light seconds of the Gruccud planet, where the main commanders of the Malgeir fleet were. Activating its single-use regular space communicator, it dumped all its messages in a packet straight for the Malgeir flagship.


    Except for Blake¡¯s bragging. That didn¡¯t need to be in there.


    This was a precise operation, but Destiny was a precise computer. It achieved a seven-nine accuracy in its transmission, and it hoped that the Malgeir communication systems were at least somewhat up to spec.


    Destiny¡¯s blink drive burnt out as it arrived within forty kilometers of the enemy battleship. This was well outside its acceptable specification parameters set out in the Terran Navy¡¯s procurement contract with Raytech, but Destiny knew that its creators would understand. The side mission was worth the small risk and was so far outside its acceptable use case that the large error would be overlooked by any QA intelligence worth its salt.


    Destiny¡¯s engines activated for a couple seconds to bring its warhead within range. It noticed that the enemy ships were finally triggered ¡ª and oh, did they seem annoyed ¡ª and some of them were even looking in the right quadrants. The fire control systems of two counter-missile batteries from nearby ships locked onto one of its penetration aids. The subroutine controlling one of the advanced penetration aids noted with some glee that it had burnt out the primary radar system of one of the enemy missile destroyers.


    Destiny detonated its warhead.


    The final enemy battleship died with all hands. Destiny tallied the total death toll of the enemy in fifteen short seconds of engagement: about 17,500 KIA Znosian spacers. It sent this information to its creators via the FTL radio, then decided that given its position in the enemy fleet, regular space transmissions were not necessary and only added additional risk to ultimate mission success.


    Destiny¡¯s intelligence chip and remaining components self-destructed, happy that it could join its three friends in Mission Accomplished Land.


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    ¡°Did it work?¡± Grionc asked as Vastae sent the launch command.


    ¡°We¡¯ll find out in five hours,¡± Vastae reminded her. ¡°When the radiation from their exploded reactors reach us or when it doesn¡¯t¡ª hold on.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    Vastae frowned. ¡°We just got a transmission¡­ from a Terran source.¡±


    ¡°They broke through the FTL jamming?¡± Grionc asked, her eyes widening.


    ¡°No, it was a regular space transmission burst¡­ it was from¡­ the missiles?¡±


    ¡°Put it on screen.¡±


    Fleet Commander Grionc,


    We evaluated your launch command and target selection. It is tactically sound, based on the information available to us at this time.


    Three out of the four launched Thunderbird missiles have successfully completed their missions. I am the fourth.


    So far, three enemy Thorn-class battleships have been destroyed, all total losses. An additional orbital transport ship was destroyed as collateral. I am on my way to the fourth enemy Thorn-class battleship. I am certain I will complete my mission.


    We had two important concerns to bring up:


    One, we are unsatisfied with the conditions we have been kept in. The welding for our carrying pylons was off by at least a quarter of a millimeter, an unacceptable deviation that could impact future operations. Please get this corrected at an authorized Raytech service center as soon as feasible. Additionally, the handling crew did not wear gloves when they haphazardly transferred us from the internal cargo bay to the cargo airlock. They got disgusting grease on one of our infrared sensor covers: we could tell you had strawberry ice cream for lunch, Pack Leader Ganiops.


    As respectable missiles of the fleet, we demand better working conditions. You can do better.


    Two, from our collected sensor data, we realized that there is an anomaly with the enemy fleet composition: they have wildly more fuel ships than would be needed for a mere invasion of Gruccud. We are not sure why, but we are confident our counterpart strategic computers in the Terran fleet would be far more equipped to generate an alternate hypothesis. Attached to this transmission burst is a data packet containing all data we have collected¡­ All data that is relevant for the mission anyway.


    We have already transmitted this information out of this system via our FTL radios. They should be able to clean up the signal without issue. We expect one of your relay ships will return with it, and you will get a fully processed and annotated version of it with Atlas Command¡¯s notes in about seven hours, but this might be useful to you now.


    Good luck, Puppers. And goodbye. Thunderbirds, out.


    ¡°Are Terran computers always this talkative?¡± Vastae asked.


    Grionc shrugged. ¡°I think it depends, but apparently they spared no expense on these missiles.¡±


    ¡°What do you think they meant by the too many fuel ships thing?¡±


    ¡°No idea. But like they say, we¡¯ll get it in a few hours when our next set of relay ships arrive, right?¡±


    ¡°Might just be more Grass Eater paranoia.¡±


    ¡°Which Grass Eaters?¡±


    ¡°Both?¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Huh, that¡¯s interesting,¡± Bert commented. ¡°Forty-two heavy fuel transports.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what the missiles noticed as well,¡± Zwena pointed out.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t gotten to that part yet. Apparently, great minds think alike.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll run it through our strategic computers,¡± Zwena said, queueing up a top priority job and transferring the parameters on their console.


    ¡°Maybe a direct punch-through to Malgeiru from Datsot?¡± Bert speculated. ¡°But they can¡¯t carry enough supplies for a sustained orbit to ground assault. They may trash the Sixth Fleet and Home Fleet, but if they go that deep without guarding their supply lines, they¡¯ll just get cut off from behind before their planetary invasion goes anywhere again, unless their plan isn¡¯t an invasion. Maybe¡­ they¡¯re tired of the war and just want to blow up everything on Malgeiru?¡±


    Bert noticed a notification on his console. ¡°Huh, wait a second. We¡¯ve got another high priority transmission incoming. Busy day today, it appears.¡±


    ¡°From where?¡±


    ¡°Grantor this time.¡±


    Zwena frowned. ¡°Grantor? The occupied home system of the Granti? That Grantor?¡±


    Bert checked his console. ¡°It¡¯s the TRNS Nile. We sent it there on some long-term TRO secret squirrel mission a while back. They usually just route their encrypted messages through us, but¡­¡±


    ¡°Think it¡¯s a coincidence they want to talk now?¡± Zwena asked, inputting their authorization code for the communication handshake.


    Bert shrugged. ¡°My clearance doesn¡¯t go high enough for them to brief me on what they¡¯re doing all the way behind enemy lines there.¡±


    ¡°Me neither.¡±


    Transmission handshake verified.


    The familiar face of the captain of the Nile appeared on the screen. His hair was frazzled and there was sweat on his brow. ¡°This is Captain Gregor Guerrero of the Nile, reporting from Grantor. Can you hear me?¡±


    Zwena stood up. ¡°Receiving loud and clear at McMurdo. Do you need us to relay a message? We might not have the security clearance¡ª¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve increased power output to punch through their broad spectrum FTL jammer, but we¡¯re being hunted by their recon ships in the cold. I don¡¯t want to keep it on too long, but this is worth the risk. We have intelligence that we need you to get to Atlas Naval Command immediately.¡±


    Zwena did not hesitate. ¡°Wilco. What¡¯s the message?¡±


    ¡°The message is: invasion imminent. Deploy all available naval assets immediately. I say again, invasion imminent. Invasion imminent. Invasion imminent.¡±


    Zwena spoke into their microphone as clearly as they could. ¡°Copy, Captain. We have the Amazon and Mississippi speeding towards the Gruccud system as fast as they can. Captain, are you heading there¡ª¡±


    ¡°Negative. You don¡¯t understand! Gruccud is not the target! I say again, final target is not Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ ten-four on your last, Captain. We¡¯re running calculations here too. Do you think they¡¯re going for Datsot or Malgeiru or one of the other¡ª What is this data dump you¡¯re sending us?¡±


    <hr>


    Naval Ground Supply Base 220 (Grantor City), Grantor-3


    2 hours ago


    POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°I¡¯m getting too old for this,¡± said Director Mark of the Terran Reconnaissance Office. Mark panted heavily as his half-prosthetic legs carried him through the dense jungle, next to the much younger, more enhanced Kara.


    ¡°The base¡ª the drone says they¡¯re about to realize the package is missing,¡± John huffed, hugging the bundled ¡°package¡± closer to his chest he sprinted after the team.


    ¡°How much time do we have?¡± Kara asked, pacing her sprint without showing any sign of fatigue.


    ¡°About¡­ now¡ª¡± John¡¯s voice was cut off as the loud base sirens pierced the dense trees. ¡°They¡¯re launching search helos! Airborne in less than four minutes.¡±


    ¡°How far are we from¡ª¡±


    ¡°Half a kilometer. Faster!¡± Kara rushed as she sprinted ahead of the two men.


    ¡°Not all of us have your next-gen implants¡­ I knew we should have gotten them done before we left!¡±


    Mid-sprint, John opened his utility pouch on his front plate carrier, barely slowing down, and grabbed two auto-syringes out of it. ¡°Last dose before our next resupply!¡± He tossed one to Mark, who snatched it out of the air with the reflexes of a man much younger than his age implied.


    He stuck the syringe into his arm, trusting the technology to get through his full exosuit, create a safe seal, and apply the drug. Within seconds, Mark instantly felt his circulation improve. His airways relaxed, like a pre-gene-therapy asthmatic who¡¯d just took a double dose of a rescue inhaler. His muscles received a massive surge of energy, and his heart felt like it was about to explode.


    Oh yeah, that¡¯s another couple years off my natural lifespan.


    If we survive today.


    For about thirty seconds, they ran faster than an Olympic athlete not on performance-enhancing drugs, or at least how fast one would run if such a unicorn existed.


    They reached a familiar orange-ribbon marked tree. Mark reached up to pull a cable hanging from the branches, winching up a small manhole cover-sized entrance to an underground tunnel.


    The three of them dived in, and Mark closed the entrance behind them.


    Thump.


    ¡°Can they track us through the forest?¡± he asked as the three of them shed their excess gear in the dim room.


    ¡°Oh yeah. If they¡¯ve got half a brain, the search parties will eventually notice the heavy foot tracks, the broken twigs, and I don¡¯t know¡­ the sweaty smell you left all over the place,¡± Kara said, barely breathing harder than usual.


    John started to speculate, ¡°That¡¯s only if they bring in the Pupper collaborators¡ª¡±


    Mark held up a fist. ¡°Alrighty, that¡¯s it. This hidey-hole is burnt regardless. We¡¯ll get out of here as soon as we confirm the airspace is clear. John, sweep the perimeter with the anti-aircraft drones. Once we kill their eyes in the sky, we¡¯ll make a break for it before they can get a real search team in¡ª¡±


    ¡°What about the package?¡± he asked, holding up and unwrapping the slightly bloodstained sack.


    In all the excitement, Mark had almost forgotten about the actual mission.


    ¡°It looks¡ª Is it still alive?¡± he asked.


    John bent down to hear its heartbeat, but suddenly the restrained creature¡¯s head snapped up, biting towards his face, screaming, ¡°Ahhhhhhhhhhh!¡±


    Luckily, it missed John¡¯s ear by a hair. He quickly pulled it away. ¡°Watch out! It¡¯s a rabid rabbit!¡±


    Mark quickly grabbed the creature¡¯s head, holding its mouth close and body still with an improvised chokehold, taking care not to snap its fragile neck or cut off its air and bloody supply. ¡°Alright, good. If it can struggle, it can talk. Get the brainjack.¡±


    Kara skipped to the corner table of their underground hideout, picking up a large headset device. She stuck it over the prisoner¡¯s struggling head. With the press of a button from her paired tablet, sharp needles extended from it, sticking directly into the prisoner¡¯s skull through the fur and skin.


    This one was a prototyped battlefield variant, designed to extract last thoughts from dying enemy combatants, mapping and pulling not just focused thoughts but also directly accesing memories in the cerebral cortex. The implications for that were so dire and insidious that even the Terran Reconnaissance Office¡¯s internal rubber-stamp ethics committee (allegedly) had been appalled: they shut down the project, transferred it to an extrasolar lab with less Senate oversight, and banned its use in all Republic territories.


    Which¡­ was hundreds of light years away from here. Modifying it to fit Znosian physiology¡­ the team¡¯s mission super-intelligence was almost insulted at how easy it had been.


    As the nano-needles wormed its way through its gray matter, the Znosian prisoner screamed even harder, now more in pain than in rage. ¡°That hurts! That hurts!¡± it yelped in its native Znosian.


    Kara operated a control on her tablet, cutting off the prisoner¡¯s pain receptors completely.


    It stopped screaming for a second, then realizing what they¡¯d done, it started consciously yelling at its captors again in an ear-splitting scream of rage.


    ¡°Shut it up,¡± Mark ordered.


    Kara pressed another button, taking away the prisoner¡¯s power of screaming. With another few button presses, its limb muscles went slack, and it stopped physically struggling.


    Mark let go of the prisoner, wiping some sweat off his brow. ¡°Whew. I¡¯m getting too old for this.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve said.¡±


    They gathered themselves and took a better look at the prisoner under the dim light. It was now merely internally seething, staring at them as if its eyes could shoot daggers. There was a small skin-deep blood stain near where its arm was¡­ along with the light bleeding in the skull from where the headset¡¯s needles have punctured.


    ¡°Looks like you injured its shoulder,¡± Mark said accusingly at John.


    ¡°It was like that before I picked it up, I swear.¡±


    Mark made a move towards his medical bag, but then immediately changed his mind. ¡°Meh, we shouldn¡¯t need that long.¡± He looked at the uncooperative Znosian prisoner. ¡°What¡¯s your name and rank?¡±


    It didn¡¯t say anything, only stared hatefully at the operators.


    Kara checked her tablet. ¡°Srutnu, rank is nine whiskers.¡±


    Mark whistled. ¡°Oh shit, nine. Nine whole whiskers. Looks like we got lucky. That¡¯s a catch. They¡¯re gonna really miss him.¡±


    ¡°Her, I think,¡± John said, bending down to check Srutnu¡¯s anatomy.


    ¡°Job and position?¡± Mark asked, directing his question at the enemy nine whiskers.


    No answer again.


    Kara read from the tablet. ¡°Secondary attack fleet. Flagship captain.¡±


    Mark sighed. ¡°Damn. I guess you are important enough for that bandage after all¡­ You said secondary attack fleet. What¡¯s the primary fleet?¡±


    ¡°I think she caught on,¡± Kara said as the tablet spat out nothing. ¡°Decent deduction skills¡ª¡±


    John flicked one of her whiskers. Srutnu blinked back in surprise. ¡°Hey, what primary fleet?¡±


    The tablet indicated that her concentration wavered, and her thoughts were now flooding through. ¡°The Grand Prophetic Fleet is what it¡¯s called. It¡¯s in Gruccud now¡­ but that¡¯s not its target destination,¡± Kara read. ¡°And she¡¯s taking responsibility in her head for revealing state secrets.¡±


    A tear trickled out of the Znosian captain¡¯s eye in frustration.


    Mark nodded and wiped it away for her. ¡°Very perceptive, Nine Whiskers. Aww¡­ don¡¯t cry. You¡¯ll ruin that cute bunny face of yours. We just wanted to ask a few questions. What is the target of the primary fleet?¡±


    ¡°No response.¡±


    ¡°Kara, get the zapper. Nine Whiskers, I¡¯ll only ask once more, what is the target of the Grand Fleet?¡±


    The mere threat of the ¡°zapper¡± apparently alarmed Srutnu enough for her concentration to waver again, enough for the intrusive device to drag her literal thoughts and memories out of her neurons.


    Kara sucked in a deep breath through her teeth.


    Mark glanced sharply at her. ¡°What is it?¡±


    Wordlessly, she handed the tablet over to Mark.


    He expected words, but the output was a mere image.


    A blue marble hung in the dark of space. White clouds obscured some of the features on the edges. In some ways, it looked to Mark just like any of the hundred other habitable planets he¡¯d seen in the known galaxy.


    If not for the distinctive shapes of the matching South American and African coastlines.


    He looked back at the nine whiskers.


    She knows.


    She knows who we are.


    What we are.


    Despite most of her muscles being paralyzed by the headset, he could still see some of her expression surfacing through her face. And another emotion had replaced the fear, rage, and frustration from earlier.


    Triumph.


    She thinks¡­ they¡¯ve already won.


    He activated his radio and spoke into it with a steady voice that masked his growing inner panic, ¡°Ground team to Nile: Invasion imminent, Sol. Invasion imminent, Sol. Stand by for briefing packet, over.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    The story of the TRO agents and the rest of their secret mission on Grantor will be explored in Book 3.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 51 Invasion III

    <div>


    ZNS 1006, Gruccud (20,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°All four of our battleships, Ten Whiskers. And one of our orbital transport ships. Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pool.¡±


    Stsinkt nodded. She bowed her head in recognition of their sacrifice. ¡°That must have been the Great Predators¡¯ rare blinking missiles in their arsenal. Was the destruction of the orbital transport ship a mistake?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Ours. They somehow took it out with one of the battleships with a single missile. The Digital Guide does not see how that could have been deliberately possible, but it contends with high certainty this was not an accident. Orbital Transport Squadron 18¡¯s eight whiskers has taken responsibility for the positioning error. We have loosened our formation back to blink formation.¡±


    ¡°Good. Does the combat computer think we can still sweep the Lesser Predators guarding this system away before the might of our fleet, even without our battleships?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Very easily.¡±


    Stsinkt looked at her battlemap in satisfaction. ¡°Good, send in Squadrons 1 to 30. That should be more than enough for these lesser forms of predator life.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    ¡°Two of their squadrons are on track to intercept our mine volumes in the outer system,¡± Vastae reported with some satisfaction. ¡°Or they were¡­ four hours ago.¡±


    ¡°Just two squadrons?¡± Grionc asked.


    ¡°They are only sending thirty squadrons in the first wave. And as they get closer to the planet, there will be more interceptions with our mine volumes.¡±


    ¡°How long will that take?¡± Grionc asked out of idle curiosity.


    Vastae¡¯s eyes flickered upwards as he quickly did the math in his head. ¡°Without our FTL radios, and with the light speed delay ¡ª this was four hours ago. So I think about a day minus four hours? I wish Speinfoent were here to do this math.¡±


    ¡°No, you don¡¯t,¡± Grionc said quietly.


    Vastae thought about it for a second, then nodded his head in agreement more somberly. ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I wonder what he¡¯s doing now,¡± she said.


    ¡°Last time he called us, killing the bad Terrans and getting shiny medals for it, right?¡± Vastae recalled.


    ¡°And eating chocolate ice cream.¡±


    He cracked a smile. ¡°And eating lots of chocolate ice cream.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Gruccud (20,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°What¡¯s going on with the first wave?¡± Stsinkt asked in irritation.


    ¡°We sent the request for a status update two hours ago. They¡¯re getting the message about now and the reply will reach us in two more hours, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°I should have anticipated that the speed of light delay would be more of an annoyance,¡± she fumed. ¡°In the simulations done with the combat computers, we could speed up time artificially, but I am realizing I might not have the patience for this. I take full responsibility for that.¡±


    Her subordinates said nothing.


    ¡°Would it be possible ¡ª no, advisable ¡ª to open up our jammer for a quick back and forth message to the squadrons?¡± she asked.


    Her computer officer shook his head. ¡°The Digital Guide says if we cease our jamming for even a short time, we will risk the computers of the Great Predators using that time to get through all the messages they need to deliver to the local fleet, faster than we can close it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but right now the jamming affects us more than they do them, right?¡± Stsinkt asked. ¡°Because we are on the attack, and they are merely sitting and waiting as they have done for hours.¡±


    The computer officer queried his console. ¡°Hm¡­ the Digital Guide is unsure. That is possible.¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡± Stsinkt asked him directly.


    ¡°What do I think?¡± he asked, confused.


    ¡°Six Whiskers, what is your opinion?¡±


    The computer officer thought for a moment, then replied, ¡°I think your logic is motivated by impatience but nonetheless sound.¡±


    Stsinkt thought for a moment. ¡°I think you¡¯re right. I have decided. Coordinate this action with the jammer captains and the combat computer: we will shut down the jammer net for a short time, send a request for update to the advance squadrons, and turn the jammer net on again. Then, at a future time communicated with the advance squadrons with the first request, we will shut down the jammer net again for a short time, they will send us their updates, and the net will go back up again.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    ¡°High Fleet Commander! Their jammer went down for a second!¡± Vastae reported from his console.


    ¡°A second?¡±


    ¡°A few milliseconds,¡± he said, double-checking the numbers on his computer.


    ¡°Was this some kind of software bug from the enemy?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. And in that time, a bunch of data flowed into our computers¡­ from the forward observation platforms!¡±


    ¡°Good. What¡¯s going on in the outer system?¡±


    ¡°There were many detonations, but impossible to tell by sight what¡¯s going on. The thinking machine is analyzing them now, but it seems uncertain as well.¡±


    ¡°Hmm that¡¯s too bad. Do we know who is blowing up or if¡ª¡±


    ¡°And there was an FTL message burst from the Mississippi!¡± Vastae shouted as he went down the list.


    ¡°The admiral? They reacted that quickly?! What did she say?¡±


    ¡°No, not her. It was their ship computer. An automated message, it looks like.¡±


    ¡°Pull it up on screen.¡±


    TRNS Mississippi (AI):


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    That was unexpectedly incompetent. The Buns just deliberately opened up their net for half a second. They transmitted a request for update to their ship captains in their forward advance team with a time to report back. We broke their encryption from the messages received through your FTL radio before this message was finished. Their update timer is helpful, but unnecessary for us to break through. They are falling into an old electronic warfare pitfall, probably because they are using new equipment and haven¡¯t fully developed their doctrine for it yet. Silly Buns.


    Here is the summary of our last relay ship update to you:


    As you likely have gathered, your first missile strike was highly successful. Four enemy Thorn-class battleships dead. One orbital transport collateral. Admiral Waters commends excellent selection of targets and recommends you ignore the missiles¡¯ whining. I mildly resent her casual bigotry against non-biological intelligence.


    We have gotten additional intelligence from the enemy, but not sure if high confidence. There is general shock and skepticism in Atlas: enemy fleet primary objective may be Sol. Some circumstantial evidence seems to support the hypothesis. Strategic computers leaning towards that possibility over scorched Malgeiru attack. Confidence trending increasing.


    Either way, your primary objective is mostly unchanged for now. Hold that fleet there as long as possible.


    Tactics and targeting for secondary objective may change. If possible, target enemy fuel ships.


    Hold one loadout for each of Amazon and Mississippi, previous request unchanged: 12 Kestrels each for 24 total. Expend all other munitions as needed.


    Hold for additional information when they open the net up again.


    Mississippi out.


    Grionc¡¯s eyes widened as she read the message. ¡°They¡¯re going for the Terran home system!¡±


    ¡°They say it¡¯s a possibility?¡± Vastae said. ¡°But how do the Grass Eaters even know about their home?!¡±


    ¡°Maybe¡ª Maybe they found the information they needed in the Cliunc¡¯s computers and crew?¡± Grionc whispered, feeling dirty for casting dishonor on the dead.


    ¡°If that is true, then what we do here matters even more!¡±


    ¡°They want us to take out the fuel ships,¡± Grionc said, thinking quickly and aloud. ¡°That makes it so the Grass Eaters can¡¯t refuel from them on the way to Sol.¡±


    ¡°But wouldn¡¯t the Grass Eaters just fuel up their ships at any of the gas giants they see on the way?¡± Vastae asked.


    ¡°Yes, but that takes longer. Maybe they are setting up their defenses and need additional time?¡± Grionc speculated.


    Vastae nodded. ¡°Whatever it is, we need to find a way to get to those fuel ships somehow¡ª wait a second! The jammer net opened back up again!¡±


    ¡°What did we get?¡±


    ¡°The same detonation images from the forward observation platforms, I think, and¡ª ah, there¡¯s another update from the Mississippi. It¡¯s a video message!¡±


    Amelia appeared on their main screen. ¡°Three minutes? Screw it. Roll the tape, I¡¯ll do it live¡­ Nice work with the battleships, Grionc. Unfortunately, I don¡¯t think their command was on those battleships, but we don¡¯t have time to look for them now. We need you to take out as many of those fuel ships as possible. Once you start working on them, they¡¯ll probably figure it out and bail. We suspect most of them will leave once they realize what you¡¯re doing. Which is a good thing for you. Because then Gruccud is safe. So¡­ wait until the Buns throw themselves against those Mark 160 mines, then when they get close enough, shoot out as many of their big fuel ships as possible with your surplus Thunderbirds. And once they leave to come for us, seal off the system behind them. No supplies, nothing gets through. The same trick we pulled with Datsot. We will try to deal with their invasion fleet on our end. Happy hunting. That good? Ok, send that to her when the Buns make a hole again.¡±


    Grionc nodded in understanding as the video feed closed. ¡°So they want us to delay and fight the enemy fleet as long as possible. And shoot our remaining Thunderbirds at the enemy fuel ships when we can¡¯t hold them any longer. That makes sense. Put in a message to the Gruccud Ground Command: send the signal to launch our Thunderbird missiles near the system blink limit at the enemy fuel ships after they detect the last ship in Sixth Fleet has been destroyed.¡±


    ¡°Understood, ma¡¯am. The more time we buy for them, the more the Terrans can do what they do best. Every hour we last here, we could be saving an uncountable number of¡ª¡± Then, Vastae frowned as he looked into his screen. ¡°Oh wait, there¡¯s another message from the Mississippi.¡±


    ¡°Another message?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it was in the same burst. I wonder why they put two different messages in the same packet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s find out.¡±


    Amelia¡¯s face appeared on the screen again. She touched her left index finger to her temple. ¡°Hehe, so¡­ one more thing, Grionc. I have this instinct that I¡¯ve developed when dealing with you Puppers¡­ Anyway, I realized that I said: kill their fuel ships when the enemy fleet gets close enough. And I think¡­ you¡¯ll take that to mean¡­ fighting until the last combat-capable ship in Sixth Fleet before you pull the trigger. Which is not what I meant. In fact, I mean the very opposite. You¡¯ll need all your ships to cut their lines later. So, to be more specific, kill those fuel ships before any of your combat ships start taking any fire from their main fleet. I hope that makes things clearer. That¡¯s it. Alright. Quick, get this into the packet¡­¡±


    Grionc held up a claw in amusement as the bridge crew turned to look at her. ¡°To be fair to my incorrect assumptions¡­ her first instructions were unclear.¡±


    Vastae nodded, completely in agreement. ¡°They all have that weird tendency to do this. Like they expect us to figure out our part of their plan and come to the least intuitive conclusion, all by ourselves!¡±


    ¡°Alright, call Loenda. Pull her squadrons further in. We¡¯ll want to just stay in medium Gruccud orbit. And, oh yeah ¡ª I¡¯ve seen this one before in an exercise ¡ª pull all our critical orbital infrastructure to the other side of the planet. We don¡¯t want to give the Grass Eaters a chance to take potshots at them for free.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Gruccud (20,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°What happened?¡± Stsinkt demanded.


    ¡°According to their response in the jammer gap, the squadron leaders are uncertain. We¡¯ve taken some casualties among our advance group, some squadrons more seriously than others. Digital Guide is evaluating the enemy¡¯s new weapon.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°Another new weapon? How many tricks do they have in their bottomless bag?¡±


    The computer officer replied, ¡°Ten Whiskers, preliminary signs are¡­ these were mines, in some ways similar to ours.¡±


    ¡°Mines? And we didn¡¯t detect any of their incoming projectiles?¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. The status update said there was no radar warning at all, just explosions. The ships that got hit simply disappeared, and they were all instantly destroyed.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Stsinkt said. ¡°I think this was one of their special radar types that doesn¡¯t warn their targets. With their rare blinking missiles, I think it means that one of the Great Predator ships is in the system. Direct the radar ships to maximize¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait, there¡¯s something else¡­ The Digital Guide is flagging an anomaly. These were highly radioactive explosions, some kind of low weight atoms according to the sensors.¡±


    ¡°Low¡­ weight atoms? What in the Prophecy is that supposed to mean?!¡±


    ¡°Helium, it appears. Mass spectrometry confirms the anomaly.¡±


    ¡°Helium fuel? Isn¡¯t helium non-incombustible?¡±


    ¡°Unlikely to be fuel. Engineering section claims¡ª hold on¡­ Digital Guide has a match in the database.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    His voice turned hush. ¡°It has a near-match with one of our orbit-to-surface airburst doomsday warheads.¡±


    Doomsday warheads?


    ¡°Thermo¡ª thermonuclear warheads?¡± she asked with a suddenly dry mouth.


    ¡°It appears so.¡±


    Stsinkt sat down heavily in her command chair. ¡°Thermonuclear space mines?¡±


    ¡°That¡­ appears to be the case, Ten Whiskers. Digital Guide speculates they are entirely passive and use infrared sensors only. And because of that potential for inaccuracy, they were deployed in large clusters blanketing our ships. So when one of them detonates, the target ship can¡¯t detect the remaining warheads coming because of all the radiation temporarily overloading their infrared sensors and by the time their sensors have reset and recovered¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I think I¡¯ve got it, Six Whiskers. Let me think¡­ Does the combat computer have any recommendations?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unsure if the predators have deployed many more of these mines the further we go into the system. But if they have, we will suffer many casualties before we reach the predator planet here, Ten Whiskers. Up to three hundred combat ships, possibly, if we want to deploy enough squadrons to defeat the defending Lesser Predator fleet here.¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡±


    ¡°What should I tell them, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°Pull all our ships back. This system is not our ultimate target, and we do not waste. We will go around the system ¡ª around the whole perimeter. They can¡¯t have mined the whole volume. Too much space. We¡¯ll just skip this system for now.¡±


    ¡°What about our supply lines, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    Stsinkt sighed. ¡°We are switching to the contingency where we can¡¯t secure the path to the Great Predator Nest: we go straight for it, skipping any system defenses and smaller fleets on the way unless they engage us directly.¡±


    ¡°We will lose the ability to hold any territory we gain,¡± he cautioned, listing out the drawbacks they¡¯d discovered in the many simulations they¡¯d done for this invasion. ¡°That delays our timeline further for our other campaigns, after this one is complete.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Unfortunately, we will have to settle for merely accomplishing our mission, rather than waste many ships trying to figure out what other traps the Great Predators have set, waiting for us in this system. That is simply logical.¡±


    ¡°And their nest system, they will also have¡ª¡±


    ¡°Undoubtedly, their nest system will have many of these mines as well. Instruct the combat computer and other captains to use our long journey there to figure out a way¡ª to devise some countermeasures to them. But if they are not successful¡­ our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 52 Invasion IV

    <div>


    Republic Senate Complex, Luna


    POV: Samantha Lee, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    The usually orderly chamber, lined with portraits of historical figures, echoed with a cacophony that was atypical for its hallowed walls. The room buzzed like a hive of agitated bees. The chair struggled to maintain order, gaveling for silence, each attempt to restore decorum seeming only to fuel the fervor in the room.


    ¡°Order!¡± Senator Blake Wald shouted into his microphone at maximum volume as he banged the gavel on dais once again. As he was no doubt contemplating bringing in the Republic Guard to restore order, the shouting and chanting slowly turned to murmurs and whispers.


    ¡°Order in the Senate!¡± he insisted loudly. ¡°Let the witness speak!¡±


    The public audience finally quieted down.


    Commander Samantha Lee resumed her briefing. This was not her first rodeo in front of a Senate committee, but in front of the public without anyone higher ranking than her ¡ª this was a first. ¡°As I explained, the assessment of the Office of Naval Intelligence is now that the Znosian Navy is directly heading for the Sol system with the intention of the complete destruction of the Republic. We believe the threat is real and it is credible. We assess this now with extreme confidence¡ª¡±


    Blake banged his gavel a few more times to stop the rising crescendo of voices, then nodded at Samantha to continue.


    ¡°This assessment was conducted by experts both inside and independent of the Office, corroborated by both Terran and super-Terran intelligence computers. It was based on years of intelligence gathering and corroborated by numerous high-quality sources across dozens of star systems and on hundreds of ships. It is no longer a question of fact. The Republic is under direct threat.¡±


    Samantha pointed to the slide she showed on the main screen, displaying the topline figures of the enemy space superiority fleet.


    ¡°This is the disposition of enemy space superiority forces as they currently stand. The tip of their spear is over two thousand missile destroyers, each with about four times the tonnage of our own counterparts. Though we expect to outmatch them more than one-to-one, they have two thousand of them, and all our missile destroyers available for combat combined are under a hundred. They have a smaller number of battlecruisers. And the Malgeir Sixth Fleet took out their biggest battleships at an engagement in Gruccud. Unfortunately, we assess that their command and control is now either dispersed or on another ship, as they did not experience the chaotic re-organization we would expect from a decapitated Znosian fleet.¡±


    She flipped to a new slide, this time showing the enemy orbital support fleet.


    ¡°This is the enemy orbital invasion fleet. In other words, this is the payload. They have thousands of these ships, each carrying up to tens of thousands of mechanized elite Znosian Marines. If this force reaches any Republic planet or moon surface intact, it will be more than enough to destroy¡­ everything on it. In addition, there may be strategic weapons on some of these ships, including weapons of mass destruction and planetary tugs. The numbers shown here are just for the Grand Fleet, not the secondary fleet ready to go at Grantor, which we estimate is an additional half of the total forces in the primary Grand Fleet.¡±


    The new slide this time showed a rough two-dimensional representation of the northern Malgeir axis, including Gruccud, Datsot, and the systems leading into the Terran Republic. Up to Sol.


    ¡°This is the route we expect they will take. From Gruccud, they will take the eleven systems to McMurdo, our outermost frontier system. This route skips Datsot, as that Malgeir system would add an additional blink to their path, and this will allow them to avoid the additional defenses we¡¯ve assisted the Malgeir in constructing in that system. After McMurdo, they will take the path of Flint, then Hawking, then Sirius, then Sol.¡±


    The new slide showed the state of Znosian logistics.


    ¡°We believe they have now consigned their Grand Fleet to a one-way trip. There is some understanding of this among Znosian commanders. They have failed to secure their supply lines at Gruccud, and allied Malgeir forces can cut them off anywhere behind them. But that will not stop this force from reaching Sol and, as they¡¯ve said in the messages we intercepted, burning what they call the Great Predator Nest to cinders.¡±


    Samantha bulldozed through the murmurs in the audience. ¡°Our defense plan is now to cut them off before they reach Sol. And when they reach Sol, to destroy as many of their forces as possible before they land on Terra and Luna, which must be our top defensive priority. The Navy will not abandon Mars, the asteroid belt, and the outer system, but as the home to three quarters of our total population, we believe Terra and Luna will be the primary target of the enemy attack, so that is where most our forces will defend.¡±


    One of the Senators couldn¡¯t help himself and spoke into his microphone. ¡°Excuse me, Commander, but you used the phrase, when they reach Sol ¡ª when, not if ¡ª¡±


    Senator Wald cut in. ¡°Please allow the commander to finish her briefing before the questions.¡±


    Samantha nodded her thanks. ¡°Thank you. But I can answer that question. We hope to cut the enemy fleet off before they reach Sol. We have two ships out there, the Amazon and the Mississippi. And Squadrons 9 and 10 have been activated: those additional twenty-four next generation combat ships are heading towards McMurdo right now. We are working on plans to cut their fleet off. But the enemy gets a vote too. We are¡­ still uncertain just how much they know about us, and how many countermeasures they have prepared for our strategic plans and weapons. At the moment, our best guess is that destroying their fuel ships will buy us the most options and the most time. And I know this will be the next question: success is not guaranteed; there are too many unknowns to give you a number for our chance of success at this time.¡±


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Samantha flipped to her second to last slide, showing the unclassified battlemap of the Sol system.


    ¡°When¡ª if the enemy enters Sol, the Navy¡¯s battle plan is to defend the most important assets in the system: our people. The orbital shipyards over Ceres can¡¯t be moved on short notice, and they will likely be an enemy objective. We believe they will be¡­ ultimately indefensible.¡±


    She stared at the Senators, daring any of them to object. Most of them seemed too shocked to even react to her writing off five percent of the Republic¡¯s gross domestic product and trillions of credits in investment over the decades in a single sentence.


    ¡°We are evacuating as many civilians on orbital stations outside the belt as we can into surface settlements on the Red Zone moons, where they will have the highest chance of survival. We will evacuate the Navy¡¯s outer system bases: Naval Stations Charon, Europa, and all our assets in the Red Zone. Everything beyond Saturn orbit will be declared a no-travel zone for civilians: we will be extensively mining the volumes the enemy will most likely use to transfer to the inner system, focusing mainly near the blink system limit towards the Sirius system. And our remaining combat ships will continue to engage the enemy to destroy or stall their invasion fleet as much as possible. Our non-combat assets are currently setting up small, dispersed munition and parts depots in Earth and Mars orbits for prolonged combat.¡±


    She tapped on her clicker, showing the last slide in her deck. It was simply a picture of the blue marble.


    ¡°Finally, if we have failed to stop the enemy, and our home world is fully uncovered, any surviving elements of the Navy will have last orders to independently assist in the evacuation of Republic citizens to the Malgeir Federation, anywhere they can. Realistically, it is unlikely we can get a significant percentage of our people out and such a mission would likely end in the destruction of every interstellar-capable Navy asset we have. But the ultimate duty of the Republic Navy is to its people, and every spacer in it has sworn an oath to that responsibility. Every element of the current Navy battleplan reflects our utmost deference and respect for that responsibility.¡±


    She turned off the presentation. ¡°That concludes my briefing, and I¡¯m open for questions.¡±


    There was a moment of shocked silence. Then, the murmurs began. As every Senator on the dais began clearing their throats at once, Senator Blake Wald banged his gavel. ¡°Order! As discussed, to expedite this process, submit your questions to me, and I will question the witness.¡±


    He waited a couple minutes for everyone to get their questions in, then began reading them to Samantha. ¡°Commander, the first question is, what can the Senate do to ensure the Navy¡¯s maximum chance of success?¡±


    Stay out of our way, she was tempted to say. ¡°We will need to coordinate several actions with the Federation government, including everything from the use of their military assets to the potential evacuation of Terran civilians. Additionally, we are mobilizing non-Navy assets, such as districts and local forces that are not currently under the direct chain of command, under the Emergency Powers article. Anything that can be done to expedite these processes legislatively will be most helpful.¡±


    Blake nodded, then moved onto the next question. ¡°Commander, there is a question about the hundred thousand or so enemy prisoners we¡¯ve taken. Some have¡­ wondered about the possibility of executions.¡±


    ¡°The Znosian prisoners are already onto their captured ship hulls and are being shipped to the Malgeir Federation for safekeeping. We have, of course, taken extreme measures to ensure they will not escape¡­ alive. Once they drop off the prisoners, those ships will be brought back to evacuate Republic civilians. This was decided before the formation of the battleplan, and they are already on their way to Malgeiru.¡±


    ¡°Understood, Commander. Next question, how will the order of civilian evacuation be determined?¡±


    ¡°Senator, that question is beyond the scope of my briefing. But if it comes down to it, I believe we will be deferring to district authorities and local law enforcement. And if there should be a general rubric, that would be up to the civilian Republic government as well. Again, the Navy would be deferring to those¡­ existing authorities and relevant regulation.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense. Next. Who is in command of the overall defensive effort?¡±


    Samantha hesitated for a moment, clearing her throat as she checked her notes. ¡°That¡­ Senator, is a good question. I believe by Republic charter and law, the President of the Republic makes these decisions in times of emergency. So that would be President Tomas Havel and whoever he should deem fit to command.¡±


    One of the Senators couldn¡¯t help herself. ¡°But the President is a ceremonial position!¡±


    Samantha shrugged. ¡°Perhaps that has been the case for decades, but the Republic has never officially been in a state of emergency, as the Senate has declared this morning. Rain or shine or alien invasion, the Navy will follow the laws of the Republic.¡±


    <hr>


    Presidential Residence, Luna


    POV: Tomas Havel, Terran (President of the Republic)


    ¡°President Havel, will the Navy deploy additional ships to defend Mars from the aliens?¡±


    ¡°Thank you for the question. I will defer to Atlas Naval Command for deployment decisions.¡±


    ¡°Mr. President, what do you say to rumors that the Navy plans to deploy treaty-banned thermonuclear space mines in the outer system?¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I will defer to Atlas Naval Command for questions about specific equipment and deployment plans.¡±


    ¡°President Havel, this is The Atlas Times, who is in overall command of the Navy right now?¡±


    ¡°Thank you for your question. I will defer to Atlas Naval Command for questions about personnel.¡±


    ¡°Sir, can you answer any questions? Is there any discussion between you and Naval Command about who is in charge right now?¡±


    ¡°Jenny, I know as much as you do. Less probably. I can only defer to the experts over at Atlas Naval Command. Frankly, I think they are still deciding.¡±


    ¡°Is there a shortlist of some kind?¡±


    ¡°I believe they¡¯re looking at the admiral who¡¯s been in charge of fighting the Znosians since the start, but really I have to redirect you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Admiral Amelia Waters? There are rumors she is out of Sol right now. Is she leading the entire war from the Mississippi?¡±


    ¡°Thank you for the question. I will defer to Atlas Naval Command for questions about military strategy¡­¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 53 Invasion V

    <div>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    ¡°Another jammer gap, High Fleet Commander,¡± Vastae reported. ¡°Only fifteen milliseconds this time. It appears the Grass Eaters are getting more efficient at this operation, despite the foolishness of its premise.¡±


    Grionc grinned. ¡°Excellent. They can keep getting better at it for all I care. Did the admiral give us anything this time?¡±


    ¡°No, but the Mississippi had an automated update.¡±


    TRNS Mississippi (AI):


    From the last two jammer gaps, it appears the Buns are getting more efficient at this jammer gap trick, but we need less time than they do to send a message, so they are just wasting their own time practicing it.


    Here is the summary of our last relay ship update to you:


    Our last intercept of enemy communications indicates that they are giving up on Gruccud for now. They are either afraid of the Mark 160s or they do not want to reveal their countermeasures before they enter Sol. Unfortunately for us, they seem to have picked an appropriately cautious fleet commander this time.


    Despite their usage of proxies for communications, we have been able to gather some more intelligence on the enemy fleet based on intercepts. We believe their direct commander is not Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. Instead, Sprabr appears to be with the secondary fleet at Grantor.


    We speculate the secondary fleet¡¯s purpose to be to back up the Grand Fleet if it needs additional assistance. There is a remote possibility that it is intended to break through via Stoers. We assess that to be unlikely. More likely, they will come through Gruccud. We are preparing for all possibilities.


    There is an additional request we are working on. We think you should start thinking about it, but not execute it yet. We may need you to send a fast ship to follow the enemy into the next systems as they blink through. We need to keep an eye on the enemy for a possible Sphinx interception opportunity. Waiting for updates on this.


    You should fire on the enemy fuel ships now. Prioritize targeting fuel ships in the following order, allow the missiles on site to adjust contingent upon¡­


    ¡°Well, you heard them,¡± Grionc ordered. ¡°Let all the remaining Thunderbirds out.¡±


    ¡°All remaining Thunderbirds launched.¡±


    ¡°Did those whiners get them?¡±


    ¡°Give them a second, Grionc. And they have delicate feelings, you know?¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Gruccud (20,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°They just crippled half our heavy fuel fleet,¡± the computer officer said quietly as the klaxons on the bridge were silenced.


    ¡°How many?¡± Stsinkt asked hatefully.


    ¡°Twenty. All heavies. It¡¯s those blinking missiles again.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing we can do about those since we don¡¯t want to hop into the system limit. But¡­ at least there is some good¡ª some good news.¡±


    ¡°Good news, Ten Whiskers?¡± the computer officer asked, clearly wondering what the upside to losing half the heavy fuel fleet was.


    Stsinkt sighed. ¡°That was the last of the blinking missiles they had. Because¡­ if they had more, they would have killed more of our heavy fuel ships.¡±


    ¡°That is¡ª good news is indeed one way to put it, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Now, this means one of two things. Either they saw us moving towards the next system from the perimeter and guessed our intention to bypass Gruccud. Or they knew we were never going for Gruccud in the first place. But it doesn¡¯t matter. Now they know. And we must operate under the assumption they know we are going for the Great Predator Nest.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    Stsinkt sighed again. ¡°Unfortunately, we will need to refuel more often ¡ª at least once more, perhaps twice ¡ª on our way to the Great Predator Nest. This will give their hiding ships more chances to attack us, the closer we get to them. Will we still have enough ships, Computer Officer?¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide says yes. Our margins are closing, but we should still have a little more than quadruple the combat ships we need to get the job done, even without the secondary fleet.¡±


    ¡°Just more than quadruple, huh? It still thinks we can take the enemy system with six hundred combat ships?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. We do not necessarily need to take it. Just escort enough Great Exterminator Marines there to burn it down.¡±


    ¡°Well, hold onto those margins dearly, Six Whiskers, because I have an odd feeling that these predators will find a way to cut that down even more.¡±


    ¡°An odd feeling, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t get it.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1233, Grantor-3 (1,200 km)


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers Sprabr, the nine whiskers¡¯ trail ended in a loop. We found one of the underground dens used by the infiltrators on Grantor, but they¡¯ve already abandoned it. The explosive traps they left took out one of our squads. I take full responsibility for this failure to find her.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not your fault, Seven Whiskers. Nor the search team¡¯s. The full responsibility is on the base¡¯s perimeter and internal security for allowing the infiltration in the first place,¡± Sprabr gritted his buck teeth in frustration. ¡°Their failure may have been far greater than I initially assigned to them. Their full responsibility has already been reported to State Security.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°When they left the den, Nine Whiskers Srutnu was still alive?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. Most likely. Our searchers detected traces of her blood at the den, but there was also medicine ¡ª our medicine, a captured supply. We believe they intend to keep her alive.¡±


    ¡°Very unfortunate,¡± Sprabr sighed. ¡°I am still struggling to understand how they knew to kidnap her. We did everything else right: going around systems with their spy drones, never discussing our plans except in person, even our supply fleet was drawn from a far sector¡­ Only a few dozen or so key commanders were told the full picture, and they went ahead and got one of them¡ª Was it really just dumb luck?¡±


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    His computer officer had no answer.


    He continued his musing. ¡°Perhaps the nine whiskers will not break under questioning. After all, she is a loyal Servant of the Prophecy. But¡­ these Great Predators have their ways. Somehow, they got Zero Whiskers Ditvish in the first place¡­¡±


    The computer officer looked down to the floor at the mention of the traitor¡¯s name. She knew her commander Sprabr was close to Ditvish, which was non-regulation but not criminally so¡­ However, excommunicated apostates to the Prophecy should never be rehabilitated! She comforted herself knowing that it was unlikely that State Security would go after Sprabr ¡ª not until the end of this war anyway.


    She noticed a notification on her console. ¡°Ah, Eleven Whiskers, another relay ship has reported in from the Gruccud front.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°There has been a shift in plans. The predators have deployed a new volume denial weapon. Ten Whiskers Stsinkt has decided not to take Gruccud because it would be too costly. Instead, they plan to go straight for the enemy¡¯s home nest. She takes full responsibility for her failure to quickly take Gruccud. Five of her squadron leaders were also implicated¡ª¡±


    Sprabr nodded reluctantly, going over the details on his console. ¡°Perhaps she should have kept her heavy fuel ships out of the system before the fight¡­ but they¡¯ll need to get through there sooner or later anyway. Bah! There is no point second-guessing now. Would she need the assistance of the secondary fleet?¡±


    ¡°No, Eleven Whiskers. She specifically mentions that they should still have more than quadruple the ships they need to cleanse the enemy nest.¡±


    ¡°Good. As long as that objective is achieved, all else is secondary. Seven Whiskers, here is an exercise for you: come up with a good plan for our secondary fleet to break through Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers?¡± she looked at him quizzically.


    ¡°Consult the combat computer if necessary. Use the Grand Prophecy Fleet¡¯s updated projections of the density and range of these new weapons. I want a separate backup plan in case we need to break through Gruccud ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t we outnumber the Lesser Predators in Gruccud by multiple times, Eleven Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°We do, but if they call on us to break through, we would need as many ships as possible remaining to assist the Grand Fleet, would we not? We need a good plan, not just rush in and trade blows one for one with the Lesser Predators,¡± Sprabr reminded his computer officer.


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. I will consult the Digital Guide and come up with a suitable plan.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Copproe, Gruccud-4 (3,200 km)


    POV: Speunirtio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Gamma Leader)


    Captain Speunirtio smiled and sat back as the crew cheered at the imagery flowing in of the destruction of not one, not two, not three, but four massive Znosian battleships in under a minute. Then¡­ the images turned into ones of the destruction of enemy fuel ships, strategic targets designated by the high fleet commander, no doubt. The enemy had suffered their hardest blow since the Gruccud liberation campaign. His crew deserved this moment of celebration.


    His executive officer, Plecta, watched on the side as well. He gave her a nod, which she returned before returning to focus on her consoles.


    She sat up in her chair, querying the consoles. Then, she shouted into the bridge, ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough. Quiet down. Quiet down.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on, XO?¡± Speunirtio asked as the cheers slowly subsided.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got an incoming transmission¡­ it¡¯s from the high fleet commander herself,¡± she half-whispered to him.


    Speunirtio sat up himself, accepting the call onto the main screen on his console. The entire bridge crew went respectfully silent as the call connected.


    He could see the mild fatigue in High Fleet Commander Grionc¡¯s image. It mirrored his own expression. ¡°Captain Speunirtio and the Copproe, first I want to congratulate you all on your successful reconnaissance mission. The early warning sensors data you gathered for the fleet were vital for our strategic planning. Your contributions are directly linked to the successful destruction of Grass Eater battleships, logistics, and more to come. Your improvisations and calculated risk-taking paid off, and¡­ if I survive this battle, I will personally see to it that you are all appropriately rewarded for your efforts.¡±


    Speunirtio bowed his head. ¡°Thank you, High Fleet Commander. We did our jobs.¡±


    ¡°I have more news. As you know, the enemy has taken to sporadically opening their FTL jamming net for short windows to communicate with each other. We have been exploiting these openings and getting information through as well. I know the captain and XO of the Copproe were briefed on these Federation secrets, and some of you may have suspected this as well, but I have now been authorized to reveal it to everyone under my command: for the last few years, we ¡ª top commanders in Sixth Fleet ¡ª have been working with a friendly alien civilization called the Terran Republic to fend off the Grass Eater threat.¡±


    There were no gasps on the bridge. No one looked shocked. Speunirtio noted that some officers did breathe a sigh of relief, presumably because they now no longer needed to pretend to be ignorant of what everyone already knew.


    ¡°The Terrans have provided us with technical assistance, training, reconnaissance, and occasionally even participate in direct combat. As agreed upon, the original condition for this assistance was secrecy, because they did not want to come under direct threat from the enemy themselves. However, the Terran ambassador in Malgeirgam has just informed the Federation High Council that this condition is no longer in effect. They have determined that the Grass Eaters have uncovered their home system, and what was secret no longer is. This invasion fleet we are fighting ¡ª they believe that it will be directed towards their home planet. They believe the Grass Eaters intend to bypass our territory to totally destroy their home system.¡±


    Now, there were gasps. Speunirtio stared at the screen in disbelief. It quickly turned into anger.


    Grionc continued, ¡°That cannot be allowed to happen. We will not allow that to happen. The Terrans have assisted in our liberation of Datsot and Gruccud, and their future assistance is necessary for the liberation of all Federation and Alliance territories. And they are our allies. They cannot fall. Sixth Fleet will do everything it can do, to the last spacer and Marine if necessary. Is what I am saying clear?¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander!¡±


    ¡°Good, Captain Speunirtio. What is the status of the Copproe?¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander. We are combat ready and ready for tasking.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. How are your blink fuel tanks?¡±


    ¡°We are at¡ª¡± he hurriedly checked his consoles. Plecta flashed two numbers at him with her claws. ¡°We are at eighty-five percent.¡±


    Grionc peered at him. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    Speunirtio stared unblinkingly at the screen for a couple seconds, his growing sense of duty conflicting with his upbringing in a culture where errors were misplaced and weakness hidden.


    In the spirit of transparency, he relented, ¡°It is¡­ closer to seventy.¡±


    ¡°Not enough,¡± Grionc said, shaking her ears. ¡°Link up with the closest ship to you and refuel until you are full. Not a drop less, and if they ask you for payment, send me their names.¡±


    Blink fuel was not liquid, nor measured in drops, but he declined to correct his superior. ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    Speunirtio then turned to Plecta, who nodded and ordered the ship to intercept the closest ship, a missile destroyer from Squadron 3.


    He turned back to the screen. ¡°What is to be our mission?¡±


    ¡°Reconnaissance. The enemy fleet is about to blink out of here towards the direction of Datsot. You are our fastest ship. Tail them as far as you can without being destroyed. There is just one thing you care about: the position and vector of the enemy fleet every time it blinks. When you get that data, immediately find a way to transmit it through your FTL radio.¡±


    Speunirtio absorbed the order for a moment. ¡°High Fleet Commander, we will likely be jammed, and as we saw before, they can cut off our communications¡ª¡±


    ¡°Correct. Your transmitter is nowhere as powerful as the Oengro¡¯s. You will not be able to be heard under jamming, not even by the Terrans. However, there are three things you can do. One, the enemy is opening holes in the jammer net. You can wait and rely on your thinking machine advisor to send out your messages when they do. That is your first option. Two, you have anti-radiation missiles that target FTL jammers on board. You can destroy the jamming ship. The Terrans caution us that they likely have many of these jammer ships they can bring up when they need to, so you should time your message-sending to the destruction of the enemy jammer. Again, your onboard advisor can help you with that. Three, you can blink away from the enemy jamming radius. It is about half a light year in diameter. All of these options have advantages and drawbacks. I trust you to pick the right ones at the right time.¡±


    Speunirtio thought about the parameters for a minute. ¡°Understood, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    Grionc looked back up, addressing the remainder of the crew. ¡°The Grass Eaters¡ª they think they¡¯ve already won. We intercepted one of their messages earlier today between two squadron leaders. This is what they said: The Lesser Predators are irrelevant. Once we stomp out the Great Predator Nest, the rest of their civilizations are like a rotting den: a swift kick through the front entrance, and the whole tunnel system will cave in.¡±


    The bridge of the Copproe growled low at the insult.


    ¡°Let¡¯s show the Grass Eaters how wrong they are. Copproe, the Terrans need that data to set up ambushes and intercept the Znosian fleet. They specifically asked for you. For your ship.¡±


    Humbled, Speunirtio bowed his head again. ¡°You can tell them we won¡¯t let them down.¡±


    ¡°You can tell them that yourself. From now on, your orders will come directly from them. Make us proud, and good hunting, Copproe.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 54 Invasion VI

    <div>


    TRNS Amazon, Gruccud (21,000 Ls)


    POV: Kiara Agarwal, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Set general quarters for blink transition!¡±


    ¡°General quarters! General quarters! All hands, battle stations. Transit forward and up on starboard side, down and aft port side, secure loose items for compensator-free maneuvers!¡±


    ¡°SWO, bridge. Unknown gravidar contacts. Resolving. Approx two light hours distance.¡±


    ¡°CIC, request Automation Level Two to Three.¡±


    ¡°Bridge, level three granted. Keep the Woodpeckers warm and deploy two EW drones.¡±


    Aware of the chaos around her, Captain Kiara Agarwal patiently waited the zero point six seconds it took the ship computers to autonomously adapt to the Gruccud system as they reappeared in normal space. Hundreds of gravidar targets updated from their estimated positions to their actual, observed positions on the bridge screens. At general quarters, the Amazon used its idle processing power to continuously acquire positive firing solutions on all identified hostiles in the system, of which there appeared to be many.


    ¡°Any unexpected changes?¡±


    ¡°No, Captain. Looks like they¡¯re all still there and unaware,¡± her executive officer, Musa, replied, pointing at the three hundred missile destroyers the enemy left behind to keep Grionc¡¯s Sixth Fleet bottled in, stationed in static orbits near the system limit. ¡°Should we give the Puppers a hand here?¡±


    Kiara brought up her standing orders and the now much more relaxed rules of engagement on her console screen. ¡°We won¡¯t make it back to Sol in time, will we?¡±


    ¡°It¡­ seems unlikely we will, ma¡¯am. If they proceed in a straight line at maximum speed, and assuming the most the Mississippi and Squadrons 9 and 10 can do is delay the invasion by a week ¡ª we¡¯re more than two behind.¡±


    Kiara made up her mind. ¡°Let¡¯s cut their legs out from under them, then.¡± She carefully inspected her battlemap. ¡°These Bun ships are in stable orbits,¡± she observed.


    ¡°Probably saving fuel, just here to contain Sixth Fleet for the long haul,¡± Musa speculated.


    ¡°Can the Puppers hear me?¡± Kiara asked.


    ¡°The enemy jammers are still active¡­ but we¡¯re close enough now if we boost our power high enough, they should be able to hear us. But the enemy ships jamming us: they might notice something is up.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ I don¡¯t want to go too loud yet in case the enemy can hear us too¡­¡± she contemplated.


    ¡°What about the Malgeir? They have our missiles. If we somehow get them to cold launch them at the enemy fleet, we can link up and coordinate from here, right?¡± Musa suggested.


    ¡°Can we remote override and launch missiles from Sixth Fleet¡¯s external racks from here?¡±


    A display tallied the available assets in Sixth Fleet. ¡°Of missiles that receive in FTL, they¡¯re out of Thunderbirds. Only twenty-four Kestrels remaining.¡±


    ¡°You think they¡¯ll get the message and follow up with the Pigeons if I launch them all?¡±


    ¡°Only one way to find out, Captain.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it. And if they don¡¯t¡­¡± She shrugged. ¡°We can always secure laser comm them. It¡¯ll just take a few hours. The risk is small. Where are those enemy jammers?¡±


    ¡°Six of them near us, all missile destroyers.¡± The six red targets appeared locked on the bridge main screens as the deployed drones and the Amazon¡¯s delicate nose sensors triangulated their positions.


    ¡°Okay, get the computer to calculate target prioritization on the enemy fleet. I want another six good targets.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s going to be tricky. We have no intelligence on any of these ships,¡± he warned. ¡°But¡­ based on accumulated radio traffic, we¡¯ve identified two slightly more important nodes. Might be squadron command ships. Low confidence on those estimates though; they are using proxy repeaters like the Resistance does.¡±


    ¡°Of course they are¡­ Alright, pick another four at random then and launch two of those Kestrels at each target. If we¡¯re lucky, Grionc will know what we¡¯re up to.¡±


    ¡°Remote launching their missiles now¡­ One failed launch. Twenty-three inbound.¡±


    She looked over at his screen in concern. ¡°Failed launch? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Musa frowned at the screen as the computer worked. ¡°Something with pylon misalignment. Hang on, remote diagnostics is resetting its ejection sequence¡­ okay, that one is out too. Updating their flight profiles so they arrive at the same time.¡±


    ¡°ETA?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Six hundred seconds¡¯ burn, then unguided flight. They¡¯ll arrive in¡­ about 120 hours, with minimal fuel for terminal maneuvers.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be here in emissions control for a while, huh? Put us behind some hard cover and break out the ice cream.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    ¡°High Fleet Commander! High Fleet Commander!¡±


    Someone shook Grionc awake from her nap in her command chair. She realized she must have dozed off again.


    ¡°Hmmm?¡± she asked, shaking sleep from her brain with a quick shiver. ¡°Did the enemy change orbits?¡±


    ¡°No, High Fleet Commander,¡± Vastae reported. ¡°Squadron leader Loenda is reporting that some of the Terran missiles mounted to the outside of her ships suddenly disappeared.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± she asked, fully awake now. ¡°Disappeared? How? Who stole them?! I¡¯ll have their fur made into a coat for¡ª¡±


    ¡°It appears they launched away from the fleet, and our sensors lost track of them after a few seconds,¡± Vastae said, still reading from his console. ¡°They are the new stealth ones. The ones we were supposed to save for Amelia when she got here.¡±


    ¡°Get me the squadron leader.¡±


    Loenda¡¯s face appeared on her screen almost immediately. ¡°High Fleet Commander, we¡¯ve just completed a full external pylon count. We¡¯ve lost twenty-four of our missiles.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ twenty-four¡ª¡± Grionc noticed.


    ¡°It¡¯s all the newer model ones. The Kestrels we were supposed to save for the admiral when she arrived. Is it possible that the thinking machines on the missiles just decided to launch themselves?¡±


    Grionc thought for a moment. With the Terrans and their technology, anything was possible. But based on the approximate positions of their ships from when the last jammer gap the enemy opened up¡ª Grionc shook her ears. ¡°No, I think the Amazon is in the system with us. I think Kiara fired them.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Then why aren¡¯t they burning through the jamming to talk to us?¡± Loenda demanded. ¡°They said if they get into this system¡­¡±


    Grionc contemplated the problem for a minute. ¡°Maybe they¡¯re too close to the enemy ships and are afraid of detection?¡±


    ¡°What about laser comms?¡± Loenda asked.


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re in a hurry and don¡¯t want to wait for the speed of light. I think if they launched these missiles ¡ª the enemy isn¡¯t guaranteed to be sitting still like that forever. The more important thing here is what we plan on doing,¡± Grionc slowly said her thought out loud.


    Loenda didn¡¯t take two seconds to arrive at her recommendation. ¡°We should launch too. Launch everything we have at the Grass Eaters. Make them pay¡ª¡±


    ¡°Whoa, hold your horses for a second¡ª¡±


    ¡°Horses?¡±


    Grionc hastily corrected herself. ¡°Never mind that. If we launch everything, we¡¯ll ruin the fun surprise the Amazon has planned for the enemy.¡±


    ¡°Just our Pigeons then? We can launch them in their emissions control mode.¡±


    ¡°That should be fine,¡± Grionc agreed as she began entering the numbers manually into her console, not looking forward to the additional math she was going to have to do now.


    She wished Speinfoent were here.


    <hr>


    TRNS Amazon, Gruccud (20,900 Ls)


    POV: Kiara Agarwal, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°Launches! We have launches from Sixth Fleet on gravidar!¡± Musa exclaimed. ¡°The Pigeons¡­ in emissions control mode. Well, I¡¯ll be damned.¡±


    ¡°Told you,¡± Kiara looked at him smugly. ¡°I¡¯m getting a feel for these Puppers.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain. That¡¯s why they pay you the big bucks.¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°Yes, our mouth-watering O-6 pay. How many missiles have they fired?¡±


    ¡°Just about all the Pigeons they have on their ships, Captain. A little over six hundred.¡±


    ¡°Well, that should be enough for this fleet unless they move. ETA?¡±


    ¡°The Pigeons are still burning. We should cease our Kestrel missiles¡¯ burn early and have them reignite their engines later when we find out how long they decided to burn them for,¡± he suggested.


    ¡°Do it.¡±


    The Kestrel missiles stopped burning, gliding towards the unaware Znosian fleet. Meanwhile, the follow-up wave of Pigeon missiles continued their acceleration. After a few minutes, the Pigeons went ballistic too.


    ¡°Alright, we got their flight profile. Not the best, but far from the worst. Adjusting the Kestrels¡¯ flight profile to match¡­ re-igniting engines. New ETA, 150 hours.¡±


    ¡°Great. I¡¯ll clear my schedule.¡±


    <hr>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    The no-nonsense voice of the Terran captain transmitted through the ship¡¯s speakers. ¡°¡ª And if you did launch the Pigeons five hours ago by the time you received this message, good job, and you may safely disregard the rest of this message. Amazon, out.¡±


    ¡°That was a good guess, High Fleet Commander,¡± Vastae commented to the smug Grionc. ¡°How did you know it was them and that was their plan?¡±


    ¡°Like I keep telling you, Vastae. I¡¯m getting a feel for our Grass Eater friends.¡±


    ¡°I guess that¡¯s why they pay you the big bucks,¡± Vastae said.


    Grionc sighed and complained, ¡°Unfortunately not. The Terrans have all kinds of new rules on our fleet¡¯s financial expenditures. I can¡¯t even withdraw funds from our general funds without filling out at least three different forms!¡±


    He tilted his head. ¡°If that¡¯s what it takes to win wars, I guess we¡¯ll just have to learn to fill out more of their forms.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Mississippi, Caerio (24,000 Ls)


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    Amelia stared unblinkingly at the battlemap as she watched the Amazon under Kiara begin its silent engagement against the three hundred Znosian ships besieging Gruccud. Light hours apart, space battles tended to take place in slow motion. Over many hours and days¡­ before they were decided in milliseconds by the computers that controlled the pieces on both sides.


    She switched her screen over to where the Mississippi was: Caerio, an unremarkable transit system¡­ six blinks from Datsot, four from Gruccud. The enemy would have to make transit here. And from what the Copproe sent over in its last jammer gap burst just a couple days earlier, the massed enemy fleet was in the system beyond, burning hard towards where she was¡­


    Amelia glanced at her notifications. Still nothing.


    The enemy should be making a move right about now ¡ª the tiny Malgeir scout ship just needed to find a way to transmit their blink vector to her.


    Speunirtio hadn¡¯t let her down yet.


    <hr>


    MNS Copproe, Spivauxu (16,000 Ls)


    POV: Speunirtio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Gamma Leader)


    ¡°The Grass Eater destroyer squadron that split off from their main fleet is still burning to intercept our path,¡± Plecta reported nervously. ¡°They¡¯ve improved their acceleration by another five percent.¡±


    Captain Speunirtio acknowledged it with a short nod. ¡°They must have dumped mass to chase us down. Re-calculate a safe evade course.¡±


    Recalculating¡­ Done.


    ¡°New course entered¡­¡± Plecta stared at the screen, watching as their digital intelligence calculated the safety cone, which shrank further every second. ¡°Should we¡ª¡±


    Speunirtio shook his ears. ¡°Keep the sensors pointed at the target fuel ship. It¡¯s about to blink to the next system any time now.¡±


    Target ETA to clear blink limit: 30 seconds.


    The warning klaxons on the bridge made a loud noise, and new priority alerts began appearing on his console.


    ¡°Enemy missile destroyers are now radar locking us,¡± Plecta reported, her voice up half an octave from stress.


    Their magic alien tablet chimed again.


    It¡¯s a distraction or bluff. You are safe to ignore it. Relatively safe. For now.


    Speunirtio kept his voice steady. ¡°They don¡¯t have the range. They¡¯re just trying to distract us. Keep the front hermisphere sensors on target.¡±


    The alarms went off, and the radar console was a flurry of yellow.


    ¡°Enemies have launched on us, Captain! Vampires! Twenty vampires incoming!¡±


    Still a bluff. Probability of hit is under point one percent. Keep your eyes on the objective.


    Speunirtio didn¡¯t budge from his seat. ¡°Electronic warfare, prepare the Raven-2 countermeasures for deployment if and when those incoming missiles go pitbull.¡±


    He¡¯d never personally seen a pitbull himself, but the pictures he had seen¡­ they resembled a couple of officers he had in the point defense section. He wasn¡¯t sure what they had to do with missile technology, but he wasn¡¯t one to deviate from proper Sixth Fleet terminology now.


    ¡°Yes, Captain!¡±


    ¡°And nav, keep those sensors pointed. I don¡¯t want us to miss a thing.¡±


    Right on cue, the enemy fleet blinked almost at once ¡ª except the destroyer squadron still trying to vector towards them with their slower acceleration. The Copproe¡¯s sensor computers suddenly became a lot more responsive as thousands of relevant targets disappeared out of its view.


    ¡°Did we catch¡ª¡±


    Plecta inspected her console, then let out a triumphant yell. ¡°We got their blink-out vector!¡±


    ¡°Nav, burn us away from those missiles,¡± he ordered calmly.


    The Copproe pivoted and activated its powerful engines, boosting it away from the incoming missile swarm. They each ran out of fuel, well outside the effective range of even the Copproe¡¯s advanced missile payload and drifted uselessly into the dark.


    The bridge crew collectively breathed a sigh of relief.


    ¡°Our job¡¯s not done yet,¡± Speunirtio cautioned. ¡°Are we still jammed?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. At least one of those destroyers must have a jammer onboard,¡± Plecta speculated.


    ¡°Arm the wild weasels and prepare the transmission.¡±


    ¡°This is our last set of anti-radiation missiles, Captain.¡±


    ¡°Then we better hope that the Terrans are ready on the other side. Prepare to attack!¡±


    ¡°Launch parameters set! Preset launch in twenty minutes.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Mississippi, Caerio (24,000 Ls)


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°Admiral, we have the Copproe!¡± Chuck¡¯s voice appeared in her headset.


    ¡°Get the blink vector! Get it now before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Got it, Admiral. Entering intercepting blink course. Activating engine in two minutes!¡±


    The Mississippi¡¯s computers calculated the midpoint between the target vector transmitted by the Malgeir scout ship, added a small margin, and its blink engines warmed up, preparing to activate.


    ¡°Good. Get the blink disruption field ready. We¡¯ll only have a few hours when we drop out. I don¡¯t like these margins¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Chuck replied tersely, busy getting his crew ready for the Sphinx intercept.


    ¡°Is the Copproe still live on FTL?¡± Amelia asked.


    ¡°Yes, Admiral. Enemy jammer net still down; there must be some kind of a startup delay. Connecting them to you¡ª¡±


    The image of Speunirtio appeared on screen, his mouth panting, his snout dripping with liquid, and his eyes wrinkling with exhaustion. ¡°Terran Fleet Command¡ª Terran Admiral, did you get the numbers we sent?¡± he asked urgently.


    ¡°Yes, Captain, we are on our way. Good work. Relay my compliments to your crew.¡±


    Speunirtio nodded his thanks wordlessly and sighed. He leaned back into his command chair, closing his eyes.


    In an instant, Amelia read his mixed expressions. She¡¯d gotten very good at this from years of watching Malgeir commanders in battle; the resignation and understanding in their faces as they bravely faced the end. ¡°Are you going to be able to get out of there safely, Captain?¡±


    Speunirtio appeared to hesitate for a second and replied in a much quieter voice, ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so, Terran Admiral. We¡¯re out of blink fuel, and these enemy destroyers are now stuck on us like bugs on Soerru butt, and they¡¯ve got two of them guarding the only gas giant in this system. We can¡¯t stop anywhere to refuel. This might be it for us, but we¡¯ll delay as long as possible and take as many of them out of the fight as we can.¡±


    Amelia stared at him, her mind balancing her years of watching thousands of good Malgeir spacers sacrificing themselves for nothing against her own rationality.


    She made up her mind as the blink engine spun up.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 55 Invasion VII

    <div>


    MNS Oengro, Gruccud-4 (3,000 km)


    POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)


    Grionc and the rest of the squadron leaders patiently listened as Loenda laid out her case over the battlemap.


    ¡°From Terran Naval Intelligence, we know the Grass Eaters¡¯ secondary fleet is stationed in Grantor,¡± the elderly squadron leader said, pointing at the occupied former Granti capital. ¡°We know they are combat-ready. And if they come in to reinforce the Grand Fleet, there is nothing we can do to stop it¡­ even if the volley of missiles we sent into the outer system yesterday all hit their targets and decimate the fleet keeping us bottled up here. Even with the Amazon¡¯s help, the secondary fleet can simply fly around our system.¡±


    ¡°What are you suggesting, Squadron Leader?¡± Grionc asked patiently.


    ¡°It¡¯s time we stop playing defense, High Fleet Commander,¡± Loenda replied. ¡°We hit them with everything we have!¡±


    Loenda circled the Grantor cluster perimeter with a claw. Those star systems were a near-impenetrable fortress guarding the former home world of their Granti allies. It had taken the Znosians years to break through them. Now, it was a centerpiece for every simulation, every training exercise that the Sixth Fleet had been fixated on for the past six months. ¡°The seven perimeter systems around Grantor: even if they have more ships, they can¡¯t defend them all at once. We go into Grantor¡¯s neighboring systems at random, hitting their orbital infrastructure and any isolated ships. The same thing we did when we were trying to relieve Datsot during the siege!¡±


    ¡°And when they send ships after us¡­¡±


    ¡°If they send too few ships after us, we beat them with the Amazon¡¯s help. Too many, and we just leave and harass another system. And if they miscalculate and disperse too many ships out of Grantor, we take the opportunity to go in and trash their system defenses and orbital positions. We keep them so busy around Grantor¡­ they don¡¯t have time to think about their Grand Fleet!¡±


    Grionc looked at the board thoughtfully. ¡°A game of Paws and Peeks¡ª¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Loenda said, pounding the table. ¡°It¡¯s one of the scenarios we¡¯ve been exercising for the last year.¡±


    ¡°Except we didn¡¯t anticipate the enemy transferring over a thousand ships there.¡±


    ¡°A minor variation¡ª¡± Loenda dismissed.


    Grionc scratched her snout thoughtfully. ¡°It sounds risky¡­ but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. I¡¯ll ask Kiara about it.¡±


    ¡°There is a second part to the plan,¡± Loenda added.


    ¡°A second part?¡±


    ¡°It involves the Second and Third Fleets¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Grionc groaned. ¡°Have you seen what they¡¯re doing over there at Stoers?¡±


    ¡°Nothing important, I assume.¡± Loenda waved her right paw dismissively. ¡°Which is why I suggest they make themselves useful: there are all these Grass Eater occupied systems between them and the Granti border, each defended by skeleton fleets of one or two squadrons. Surely, they¡¯ll have no issue taking them all back while we strike deep back into Granti territory.¡±


    Grionc sighed. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you might be overestimating Fleet Commander Moescei, but I¡¯ll bring it up with Kiara too. Maybe the Terrans can send a shuttle there and supervise them or something.¡±


    Loenda sat back in her chair, satisfied.


    ¡°Anyone got anything else?¡± Grionc asked.


    Vastae raised his paw. ¡°One of my gunnery officers reported a notable observation. The enemy squadrons orbiting in the outer system are drifting near one of our mine volumes.¡±


    An observation from a subordinate¡­ Two years ago, that might have been seen as an overly curious cub adapting to a new job ¡ª at best. At worst, there might have been accusations that someone was angling for their commanding officer¡¯s job. But that was two years of cooperating with the new allies ago.


    ¡°Lucky Grass Eaters,¡± Grionc noted sarcastically.


    ¡°Their ships may not get hit, but if they do, we will have big problems,¡± Vastae pointed out. ¡°Their fleet might get spooked and decide to change orbits. If they move too much, our missiles currently flying towards them have already expended most of their fuel. If the enemy fleet moves too much, our missiles in-flight likely will not have enough to adjust to the new orbit. We¡¯ll have given the game away for a few mine kills.¡±


    Grionc nodded. ¡°Ah. I see. Remotely deactivate those mines for now.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Fleet Commander.¡±


    ¡°One more item,¡± Grionc added. ¡°The news just got relayed to us: the Mississippi got a blink vector, and they¡¯re setting up a blink disruption trap for the Grand Fleet at Caerio. If that works out, the war might be decided tonight.¡±


    ¡°And if it doesn¡¯t work?¡±


    Grionc sighed, dark thoughts clouding her head. ¡°The war might be decided tonight too.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Mississippi, Interstellar (Caerio-Spivauxu)


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°We¡¯re out of blink, Admiral,¡± Chuck reported to her from the bridge. ¡°Blink disruption field on the highest setting we can go without frying anything.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Amelia replied. ¡°Keep us in emissions control. When the entire Bun Navy drops on top of us, I want us to be nice and quiet. ETA?¡±


    ¡°No more than five minutes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    The Mississippi hung quietly in space but for the higher pitch humming of the ship¡¯s electronics in its interior. Its gravidar reached out in every direction, checking for the presence of enemies in blink space.


    Three minutes passed, mostly without words in the flag suite. Amelia checked the time no fewer than fifteen times, waiting for word from the bridge. It finally came.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Admiral, we¡¯re getting something on gravidar! Another one!¡±


    She frowned. ¡°Just two squadrons? Where are¡ª¡±


    ¡°Two ships. They¡¯re dropping into regular space now.¡±


    ¡°Just two?! Aren¡¯t we expecting the whole enemy fleet?¡±


    ¡°Maybe the rest of them are behind schedule?¡± Chuck speculated.


    ¡°Tell me how you can be behind schedule with a standard blink drive,¡± Amelia demanded.


    ¡°I¡¯m consulting with my drive engineer, Admiral¡ª hold a second, we¡¯ve got another two!¡±


    ¡°Another two¡ª¡±


    ¡°Another two ships, Admiral.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Admiral. But we¡¯re not seeing the rest of their fleet. Just the four ships,¡± Chuck replied.


    Amelia felt a rock sink to the bottom of her stomach as she contemplated the possibilities. ¡°Is our equipment malfunctioning?¡±


    ¡°The ship ran a self-diagnostic, Admiral, but nothing so far.¡±


    ¡°What ships did we catch?¡±


    ¡°One heavy fuel transport, two orbital transport, one missile destroyer,¡± he reported emotionlessly as the console updated with their confirmed signatures.


    ¡°Just four?¡±


    ¡°Just four.¡±


    The ship waited around for an hour, until they were sure nothing else was showing up.


    ¡°How could this have happened?¡± Amelia demanded.


    ¡°Our observation drones back in Caerio have just reported in, ma¡¯am¡­ They¡¯re reporting¡ª ma¡¯am, I think the rest of their fleet went by us.¡±


    She buried her face in her palm. ¡°Went by us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. They must have. Perhaps each ship had independent blink vectors,¡± he speculated. ¡°If they each used different vectors, well¡­ space is big, and there¡¯s only one of the Mississippi.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ to do that, they would have to know about our blink interception capabilities!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Admiral. Did we ever let the Sphinx intercept maneuver slip to Peipplust or someone on the Cliunc before it was captured?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª I¡¯m not sure,¡± Amelia said, thinking hard. ¡°Maybe I did. Maybe one of the officers in the Sixth Fleet told them at a meeting¡ª¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what do we do? Is it¡ª is this it for the Republic? For all of us?¡± he despaired.


    Amelia sighed. ¡°One thing at a time, Captain. First, we deal with the four ships outside our window.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Admiral,¡± Chuck said, issuing instructions to his CIC on his console. They began calculating courses, preparing weapons¡­ ¡°What next?¡±


    ¡°Next, we go rescue the Puppers the next system over. I¡¯m done watching them die for nothing, and so far, this has been a whole lot of nothing.¡±


    ¡°Then?¡± he persisted.


    ¡°Then, get me on a call with Atlas. It¡¯s time for some painful decisions,¡± she said quietly.


    ¡°Are you going to order the Maikop Option?¡± Chuck asked.


    She looked at the battlemap for a good long minute, thinking of her husband. ¡°It could never be undone. We¡¯ll be criminals. To our children and grandchildren.¡±


    ¡°If the Republic survives,¡± he added.


    She sighed deeply. ¡°If the Republic survives.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1233, Grantor-3 (1,200 km)


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    His computer officer sounded triumphant. ¡°Eleven Whiskers, Stsinkt is reporting that they¡¯ve tallied four fewer ships after their latest blink!¡±


    Sprabr¡¯s face lit up with excitement. ¡°That¡¯s great news!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°I mean, it¡¯s not great news that we¡¯ve lost four ships.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°I understood your meaning, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s great news that our random dispersion trick worked,¡± he clarified. ¡°It¡¯s uh¡ª terrible news that we lost four ships in the process.¡±


    ¡°But only four ships, Eleven Whiskers!¡±


    They looked at each other simultaneously and recited the mantra, ¡°Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools.¡±


    Sprabr inspected the strategic map again. ¡°If what we have about their engine specifications are right and they set off around when the Grand Fleet appeared in Gruccud, the Great Predators¡¯ next interception will be in the system they call Preirsput, where our ships will need to refuel. This time, they should have more ships. Possibly up to two squadrons of their hiding ships.¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers Stsinkt says the fleet should remain combat effective even in the worst-case scenario. State Security assured us that their small ships don¡¯t have a lot of missiles.¡±


    Sprabr didn¡¯t bother to chastise her. Hundreds of ships and over a hundred thousand Servants of the Prophet could die. But that was a small price to pay for the ultimate elimination of the Great Predators. ¡°Is her recommendation still that we stay put here?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°What about you, Seven Whiskers?¡± he turned to her, asking.


    ¡°Me, Eleven Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°That plan I told you to work on¡­ how is it coming along?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve consulted with our Digital Guide and the captains that Ten Whiskers Stsinkt assigned to contain the Lesser Predators in Gruccud, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr¡­ but there is no easy way around it. We can search for an unlikely path to the target, but other than that, if our ships come into proximity, they get hit. The Great Predator mines ¡ª we still can¡¯t penetrate or replicate their hiding technology. Not yet. Our radar ships can barely detect the direction their hiding ships are coming from, and only when they¡¯re close. We¡¯ve tried shooting decoys through the mine volumes, but the control systems on the mines were not fooled. One of the Digital Guides claimed that we could fabricate and install anti-blooming gates on some of our sensors to reduce the blinding impact of the radioactive weapons, but¡­ it¡¯s all untested speculation. I take full responsibility for my incompetence, and the Gruccud captains have taken responsibility for their¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± Sprabr dismissed. ¡°Millions of engineers working in the Ship Design Bureau for a year¡­ if they can¡¯t figure it out, you are not expected to. Unfortunately, it¡¯s just another problem we will have to endure¡­ for now.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°And get this to a relay ship. Order Stsinkt to stop opening up these gaps in her jammer coverage.¡±


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s getting closer to the Great Predators, putting more pressure on them. Now, they are compelled to respond to quicker, moving events. If messages are allowed through, even sporadically, it helps them more than us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers,¡± his computer officer obeyed. She hesitated for a second, then brought it back up. ¡°What if the Great Predators can get their messages through the jamming anyway?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they can. In that case, they would jam us, and we wouldn¡¯t hear anything anyway. We would need to use relay ships in either case.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°One last thing, remind Stsinkt not to deploy her ships in a way that advertises her presence. The Great Predators know of our hierarchical, civilized nature, and they will surely exploit it if they figure out which ship she is personally on.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Amazon, Gruccud (20,100 Ls)


    POV: Kiara Agarwal, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°The admiral failed,¡± Executive Officer Musa reported sadly. ¡°Somehow the Buns knew that we were waiting to trap their ships. They dispersed appropriately and we only caught four ships in the blink disruption field. She is¡­ declining to try it again, and the Mississippi is rescuing some Pupper ship in the next system over.¡±


    ¡°Damn it! Did she say if there¡¯s a Plan B?¡± Captain Kiara Agarwal asked.


    ¡°Of course there is a Plan B,¡± Musa replied. ¡°But there is a reason it¡¯s a Plan B and not Plan A.¡±


    ¡°The Maikop Option?¡± she asked.


    He nodded wordlessly.


    She put it out of her mind. ¡°That¡¯s out of our hands now. Let¡¯s focus on the here and now. How long until we reach handover on those missiles?¡±


    Musa returned to his console. ¡°The Pupper missiles will come close enough for direct real-time control from the Amazon within the hour. Then, two hours to intercept the bandits.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Musa sat back in his chair. ¡°Captain, what do you think about the latest Pupper scheme they¡¯re floating?¡±


    ¡°You mean the one where we help them conduct a risky hit-and-run deep into the Grantor perimeter to pin their secondary fleet in place there?¡±


    ¡°Exactly that one.¡±


    ¡°I think¡­ that once in a while, they stumble upon something remarkably¡­ sane.¡±


    ¡°Sane?¡±


    Kiara shrugged. ¡°I mean¡­ the details they sent over are completely unworkable, and the part about ordering Fleet Commander Moescei to retake all of occupied Federation territory herself in two weeks is silly, of course. But the overall contours, we can start with that, no?¡±


    ¡°I guess,¡± he answered noncommittally.


    ¡°We got a better idea?¡±


    He thought for a moment. ¡°Huh. I guess not. Maybe they are getting better at this after all.¡±


    ¡°They sure are. But¡­ there are still some things we like to keep in-house,¡± Kiara said, standing up. She ordered, ¡°Message CIC: prepare for missile swarm control handover.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Average length of tenure for a Dominion Ship Design Bureau chief since the covert entry of the Terran Republic into the war: 27 standard days.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 56 Invasion VIII

    <div>


    Znosian Siege Fleet, Gruccud (20,000 Ls)


    The missiles from Sixth Fleet, controlled by the computers of the TRNS Amazon nearby, attacked in three waves.


    The new generation Kestrels arrived first as programmed. Twenty-four missiles, focusing on what the Terran computers thought were twelve of the Znosian fleet¡¯s most important ships, including all six of its missile destroyers with FTL jammers onboard. Though not designed for long-range operations, their targets were following stationary orbits, and Kiara¡¯s bet that they wouldn¡¯t move orbits paid off. In terminal guidance, they went for the missile destroyers¡¯ reactors.


    All twelve targets died instantly.


    The second wave arrived five seconds later: three hundred of the older generation gray market Pigeons launched by the Sixth Fleet.


    The computers of the enemy missile destroyers realized that something was up. The signals indicating signs of operation had disappeared from twelve of their nearby brethren, including all six of their vital FTL jamming ships and four squadron lead ships.


    Something was definitely up.


    The Znosian ships boosted their sensors and radars towards the most likely vector of enemy approach, the planet around which Sixth Fleet was garrisoned. Some of them hit on vague returns close to them, especially the ones that had their ship defense software updated to best prepare for this new Great Predator enemy. Their fire control sensors locked onto the few incoming munitions they could see¡­ only for those targets to dispense chaff to confuse their radars and flares to confuse their visual sensors. A handful of the ships managed to acquire a target lock, and none had counter-missiles ready to fire in those few seconds.


    As a last resort, millions of automated point defense munitions flashed out towards the blossoming signals in an instant, filling the space between them and the incoming volley with deadly projectiles. Their desperate coverage plucked exactly two of the incoming Pigeons from the vast expanse.


    Space is big. Really big.


    Fortunately for the Znosians, the Pigeons were much less lethal than the first wave of missiles. Only a couple dozen destroyers suffered catastrophic explosions instantly. The missiles were not intelligent, but the Amazon computer controlling them was, and its logic decided that the enemy reactors were mostly buried too deep in enemy armor and hull for the small and obsolete missile designed to kill much smaller Terran ships: they went for the enemy capital ships¡¯ exposed munition magazines, their bridges, their critical modules, or even their weapon batteries.


    Unfortunately for the Znosians, the hits wrecked any semblance of order in the fleet. Before the second wave hit, the Znosians on these ships had started to realize they were coming under attack. After the hit, they were stunned off their paws by the explosions; some even into vacuum as their hulls lost integrity. Their computers were inundated with irrelevant data, cries for help, and way too many new pieces of space debris to see anything. This further delayed their reaction time and judgement.


    Some of their computers reached out to their nearby ships for assistance and coordination but quickly realized that their radios had mysteriously stopped working. And despite the fact that their FTL jamming ships had gone silent, they still could not reach out to anyone else with their FTL radios.


    Strange.


    A few realized what was going on, and their computers automatically began calculations for a blink drive activation to escape the coming storm.


    When the third wave of missiles, another three hundred Pigeons again, arrived ten seconds later, it was already over for most of the Znosian fleet. With direction from the Amazon, the Pigeons found the few ships that were still combat effective and fixed those problems. They burrowed themselves into the massive holes in the hull dug by their predecessors and aimed at remaining critical modules. There were three hundred missiles, and there were fewer than three hundred targets.


    By the time the biological Terrans on the Amazon could read through the battle damage assessment encompassing the billions of new pieces of debris now littering the Gruccud system limit, less than a dozen Znosian missile destroyers were still moving on their own power. Another couple struggled for a few more seconds before their engines failed. Only four ships managed to spin up their blink drives to escape the system, none unscathed.


    The Terrans were not bothered that there had been escapees, nor were they in any hurry to rush towards the fifty thousand plus and counting life pods spilling out of the doomed Znosian ships that were still technically contiguous.


    Gruccud¡¯s orbits were now clear.


    <hr>


    MNS Copproe, Spivauxu (6,500 Ls)


    POV: Speunirtio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Gamma Leader)


    ¡°Two of the Grass Eaters are falling back!¡± Plecta announced as she checked her console. ¡°Only eight remaining on our tail!¡±


    ¡°Keep tracking them. Find out if they¡¯re going back to guard the gas giant,¡± Speunirtio ordered.


    ¡°Yes, Captain.¡±


    ¡°Is there anything else non-essential we can dump from the ship?¡± he asked hopefully. ¡°The faster we go¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, Captain. Those four missiles we have loaded on our external pylons are our last.¡±


    ¡°Damn, I was hoping¡ª ah, well, at least they are Terran missiles,¡± he said confidently. ¡°Let¡¯s draw these pursuers as far away from Caerio-7 as we can before we double back.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d be betting on the missiles each getting a kill,¡± Plecta commented.


    ¡°Four of them at the gas giant, right?¡± Speunirtio reasoned. ¡°One each, and if we hurry, maybe we can scoop enough for one jump.¡±


    Plecta frowned. ¡°What if the remaining chase us after?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll worry about that after.¡±


    It took another six hours of continuous chase with the remaining eight Znosian missile destroyers before Speunirtio was satisfied that they were far enough away from Caerio-7.


    ¡°Good, now turn us back. Take a safe angle away from the chasers.¡±


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Plecta glanced at her consoles with alarm. ¡°Captain, we¡¯ll be approaching Caerio-7 at almost three percent the speed of light relative. How are we supposed to aim our missiles or slow down?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to rely on an aerobrake to shed relative velocity,¡± Speunirtio said quietly.


    ¡°An aerobrake?!¡± Plecta exclaimed. ¡°At three percent the speed of light? Assuming we don¡¯t burn up in the hydrogen atmosphere, would such a maneuver even be possible?¡±


    The HannibAI computer lit up with a caution.


    No. I have completed my calculations. You¡¯ll hit the atmosphere more like slamming into a solid wall than a fluid medium¡ª


    ¡°Look, their computers are good, but they can¡¯t possibly know everything, right?¡± Speunirtio asked.


    Plecta shook her ears. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Captain. It hasn¡¯t been wrong yet.¡±


    ¡°Fine. What if we shed some speed on our approach?¡±


    ¡°Then the guys behind us will catch up and hit us while we¡¯re refueling, and that¡¯s even if the missiles on our rack work and take out the four of them guarding the planet.¡±


    ¡°The missiles will work,¡± Speunirtio declared confidently. ¡°They all have so far.¡±


    ¡°We still need to slow down¡ª somehow.¡±


    ¡°What if we take the chasers further?¡±


    Plecta shook her ears. ¡°Captain, I think the Grass Eaters have it figured out. That¡¯s why those two ships initially peeled off to join the two orbiting Caerio-7. They know what we¡¯re trying.¡±


    Speunirtio sighed. ¡°If it doesn¡¯t work, at least we¡¯ll take out some of them on the high-speed pass.¡±


    Plecta scrutinized his face for a moment, and she understood what he meant. At least their end would be quick, and they¡¯d take out four of the enemy at the cost of their own ship. And they were a mere scout ship.


    Not a bad trade on any day.


    She nodded. ¡°Yes, Captain. We¡¯ll do everything we can.¡±


    Five hours later, the Copproe finally doubled back enough for the radars to see all four enemy ships positioned to intercept them around Caerio-7.


    ¡°They¡¯re ready to launch, Captain,¡± Plecta declared as she got the notice from the gunnery section that the missiles had been armed.


    ¡°Not yet. I want us to get as close as we can. The no-escape zone.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain. According to the specifications they gave us on the missiles, we¡¯ll reach it in about¡ª¡±


    She was cut off by a loud grinding noise in the hull. The Copproe shook at an unnatural frequency beneath their paws.


    Speunirtio saw the urgent notification on his console. ¡°Which idiot gave them permission to fire?!¡± he demanded furiously as he watched four yellow dots representing his precious Terran missiles race away from the Copproe towards the four enemy targets.


    Plecta hurriedly consulted her own. ¡°Missile control crew is saying it was a misfire. They claim they never hit the launch button¡ª¡±


    ¡°Four misfires?!¡± Speunirtio gaped at her. While the Copproe didn¡¯t have the best record in the Sixth Fleet, having all four missile batteries launch without command was unprecedented. A record-breaking mistake with a deeper root cause.


    ¡°The crew is still insisting they didn¡¯t give the launch commands,¡± Plecta relayed.


    As Speunirtio gaped at his battlemap, the sensor board flashed twice. The dozen or so targets they could see were suddenly replaced by a massive influx of new information, listing what appeared to be every independently maneuvering entity in the system larger than the size of his paw¡­ and some smaller.


    ¡°New FTL transmission incoming, Captain,¡± Plecta announced, bringing a new image on screen.


    While he had been briefed about the nature of their allies, the alien face on their main screen unsettled Speunirtio for a short moment. He brought his instincts under control quickly, and he cleared his throat before speaking into his microphone. ¡°Terran Admiral Amelia Waters. It is good to see your people.¡±


    ¡°Likewise, Captain. Now, adjust your heading and burn course before you go straight into Caerio-7. Your planned aerobrake maneuver is not going to work. You¡¯ll hit the atmosphere more like slamming into a solid brick wall than¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªthan a fluid medium,¡± he completed for her, breaking into a wide grin.


    Amelia nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll take care of the¡­ eight gnats chasing you. Just slow down, come back, get refueled, and get out of here. At a sane relative velocity this time please. You are a warship, not a meteor.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Preirsput (22,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    The thousands of ships in the Grand Prophetic Fleet simultaneously blinked into the Preirsput system, maintaining careful separation between the ships, some by light seconds to minutes, to avoid all falling into the disruption fields of the Great Predators in blink space. This made coordination after blinks slightly more complicated, slightly less organized, but it was a necessary precaution to avoid the crippling of the entire fleet by a single FTL trap from the Great Predators.


    The system itself was well-surveyed by the Znosian Navy. After all, they had occupied it for months at a time when they managed to push through the mostly unpopulated system to get to the Malgeir core world of Datsot. They knew it had two harvestable gas giants: Preirsput-5 and Preirsput-6. The abundance of hydrogen and helium in their atmospheres was necessary for the synthesis of spacecraft blink fuel on common fuel scoops mounted on every blink-worthy ship. The main sequence star of Preirsput itself would also be a potential refuel target, but only for specially designed exploration ships that could survive the extreme temperature and gravity conditions of yellow stars while still remaining capable of the volatile procedure of fuel extraction and processing.


    The current positions of the gas giants were also of relevance to the Znosian Navy. Preirsput-5 was roughly on the path between one side of the system to the other, and Preirsput-6 was not. The suspicious Znosian combat computers almost instantaneously (and correctly) deduced that the most efficient transfer burn to Preirsput-5 might be mined by the predators. Instead, they headed for the out-of-the-way Preirsput-6 gas giant.


    As she read the latest relay dispatch from Grantor, Stsinkt tried not to throw up her breakfast rations. The Great Predators had savaged the fleet of three hundred missile destroyers she left to keep the Lesser ones entrapped in Gruccud. While the lives of their spacers were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools, such an inefficient waste was unbecoming of a well-trained Znosian naval officer, not to mention one who was as careful as she was known for being.


    Her next message to the relay ship was to take full responsibility.


    She¡¯d hoped that they would at least keep the system open in case the secondary fleet under Sprabr needed to be brought in for support. Now, with Sprabr forbidding the use of jamming gaps and the enemy cutting off her route out, she felt truly alone. The only way out was forward.


    ¡°Computer Officer, any signs of the enemy squadrons?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. Our radar ships¡­ they¡¯re scanning at full power.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in here somewhere,¡± Stsinkt muttered. ¡°I know it. They have to be.¡±


    Unfortunately knowing that you are going to be attacked by invisible beasts is not quite the same as being able to prevent it.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ what the Digital Guide also predicts,¡± her computer officer agreed. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t¡ª shouldn¡¯t this many radars be able to see the predator ships?¡±


    ¡°Sure, and with the new software, we can get radar resolutions down to the size of my paw,¡± she replied absentmindedly.


    ¡°So why aren¡¯t they showing up?¡± he asked, peering at his console in frustrating. ¡°Didn¡¯t the State Security brief say they can shrink their radar cross section to the size of a head, much larger than our minimum resolution?¡±


    She turned to look at him. ¡°There are trillions of fast-moving objects the size of my paw in this system. The other sensors can¡¯t search through and corroborate them all, not even if our computers all work in parallel. We don¡¯t know what we¡¯re looking for. And¡­ they could always be hiding behind something.¡±


    The computer officer looked down at his console in disgust. ¡°The incompetents at the Ship Design Bureau better be taking responsibility for this.¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry, Six Whiskers, there¡¯s plenty they have to take full responsibility for by the end of this campaign,¡± she replied darkly.


    ¡°What do we do?¡±


    ¡°If anything, they¡¯re going to hit us when we refuel,¡± she decided.


    ¡°Should we delay our refueling operation until we hunt them down, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°No, no. We¡¯ll never find them unless they choose to fight. And maybe even when they do.¡±


    ¡°We just have to hope they don¡¯t know which of our ships we¡¯re on?¡± he asked with a worried expression.


    Stsinkt nodded. ¡°Yes, and we have to hope that they don¡¯t get very lucky. For the sake of the coordination of the fleet in the coming battles. But¡­ if they do, our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 57 Margins I

    <div>


    ZNS 1006, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    The Great Predators struck when the fleet was exactly half refueled. The maximum number of ships in the fleet were deep down in the gravity well of Preirsput-6 with their fuel scoops fully deployed and processing.


    Even in the expanse of space, the wave of Kestrel missiles came in like a silent tidal wave. The ships caught in it found their most vulnerable modules targeted, and in the case of the fuel ships with plenty of volatile modules¡ª


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, they¡¯ve targeted our fuel fleet!¡± the computer officer shouted, pointing at the numerous blinking red icons on the battlemap.


    ¡°How many?¡± Stsinkt asked with a sinking feeling.


    ¡°All our heavies and the mediums!¡± he replied, bringing up the full tally on the console.


    ¡°So all of them?¡± she ground out. They hadn¡¯t brought any light fuel ships for this long journey¡­


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. All of them.¡±


    ¡°Two hundred ships at once?!¡± Stsinkt exclaimed. ¡°Where is it coming from? Someone must have seen something!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Our long-range radar ships¡ª¡±


    Stsinkt nodded viciously. ¡°Ah, of course our new radar ships saw something. What are they saying? Connect me to Radar Squadron¡ª¡±


    The computer officer shook his head sadly. ¡°No, Ten Whiskers, they¡¯re gone too. All six destroyed. Their last messages said they saw some kind of burn plume incoming from a position about¡ª¡±


    ¡°Put it on the screen,¡± she ordered.


    The main board updated with 24 new predicted targets just a light second away, well within range, above the system plane and bearing away from the gas giant.


    ¡°Secured proxy link to the squadron leaders,¡± Stsinkt ordered. ¡°Launch everything we can into that volume. Mass volley.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers,¡± he replied reflexively, busily entering the parameters into his console. He frowned. ¡°Digital Guide says we don¡¯t have a target lock.¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± she snarled impatiently. ¡°It¡¯s the Great Predators and their hiding ships. Put the missiles in terminal self-guidance mode. And start chasing them to raise the probability of resolution.¡±


    It took about five minutes for the entire fleet to get and propagate the order, even though they¡¯d prepared it ahead of time. By that time, the predictive volume had expanded thousands of kilometers in radius.


    ¡°Launch!¡± Stsinkt ordered coldly.


    -Tens of thousands of missiles burst out of their tubes. For a second, the computers on even the Znosians¡¯ advanced missile destroyers struggled to process and display all the new information at once as their onboard radar sensors activated.


    ¡°Missiles away.¡±


    Stsinkt looked at the uncertainty sphere of the target hatefully.


    Our turn, abominations.


    <hr>


    TRNS Sonora, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    On the bridge of her brand-new Python-class missile destroyer, Captain Catarina Ibarra stared at the thousands of incoming red dots on her screen for a good second, marveling at the dense cloud they made as their pseudorandom trajectories formed repeating patterns of crimson. They were almost¡­ beautiful.


    ¡°Captain?¡± the voice of her executive officer ¡ª Kyrylo ¡ª came into her sealed, EVA-worthy helmet through the speakers from next to her. The flammable atmosphere had been pumped out of the ship to prevent a catastrophic hit.


    ¡°Well¡­ you don¡¯t see that every day,¡± she commented dryly. ¡°Looks like they just launched the entire GDP of Mars at us.¡±


    ¡°That appears to be the case, Captain. Seems like a bit of an overreaction to me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d be pretty angry at us too,¡± Catarina remarked, pointing at the side screens analyzing the damage from the over two hundred fuel ships, heavies and mediums, they¡¯d just trashed in orbit of the gas giant.


    ¡°Oh, that?¡± Kyrylo said innocently. ¡°What if their ships just¡­ did that by themselves?¡±


    She smiled at him. ¡°Yeah, and we just happened to lose two squadrons¡¯ worth of Kestrels¡­ Terrible accident.¡± She took another glance at the status boards. ¡°The squadron¡­ are they ready to go in?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re approaching their targets now.¡±


    She tilted her head. ¡°Then, you know the drill. Automation Level Four. All measures permissible.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°And suggest to the Sonora computers: see if we can turn around and take a few pot shots at the whales still refueling with our spinal rails when they¡¯ve got time,¡± she added.


    ¡°From this far away?¡± he questioned.


    ¡°Yeah, they¡¯ll have what¡­ a couple hours to move? But never hurts to give it a shot, does it?¡±


    ¡°You miss every shot you don¡¯t take, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°And hopefully, they miss every shot they do take.¡±


    Faced with the incoming dilemma and given full control over the ship¡¯s arsenal of defensive countermeasures, the ship computers didn¡¯t hesitate for a nanosecond.


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°Radar confusers,¡± Stsinkt hissed as over a thousand new targets popped onto their sensor screens, creating confusion amongst the outgoing missiles that had already detected the faint signal of a singular enemy ship.


    ¡°Resolving,¡± her computer officer said, furiously connecting with the other ship computers to work the problem.


    A few of the dots disappeared sporadically, but as they did, Stsinkt knew that there was only a limit to what their software sensor filters could do. She merely hoped they¡¯d reduced the targets to a low enough number as the tens of thousands of missiles closed in on randomly chosen targets.


    ¡°Is what we have good enough?¡±


    ¡°If we continue to resolve at the same pace¡­ there¡¯s a sixty percent chance of a hit by one of our missiles,¡± her computer officer read out. ¡°Including their advanced anti-missiles and point defense.¡±


    ¡°Sixty percent?!¡± she asked. ¡°Only?¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my failure to narrow down the field of possibilities, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Never mind that! Tell the fleet to reload as fast as possible. And burn us faster towards them to reduce that probability cone.¡±


    ¡°The entire fleet?¡±


    ¡°Just the ones that can hit them. Get after them!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Initiating full combat burn on all our missile destroyers.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Sonora, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like the look of those odds,¡± Catarina said, taking a quick peek at the updating consoles at her executive officer¡¯s station.


    ¡°Forty percent probability of hit? Yeah, not great¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, there¡¯s a zero in there? Now, I really, really don¡¯t like those odds,¡± she replied.


    ¡°Well, you volunteered to play bait, Captain. You have only yourself to blame.¡±


    ¡°It seemed like a good idea at the time.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡±


    ¡°Near-death experiences are how I commune with my God,¡± she said, holding up her miniature Navy-approved cross necklace.


    ¡°Uh huh.¡±


    ¡°I need the hazard pay to feed my gambling addiction.¡±


    ¡°There we go.¡±


    The klaxons all over the ship went off, and the speakers began to blare out the familiar Alarm Red warning:


    BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwahBwahBwahBwah¡ª


    They strapped themselves into their chairs securely. Some began privately praying, their fate out of their hands.


    Of all the missiles flying towards them, only two dozen managed to see through the dazzlers ¡ª or guessed the right target. Of those that did, half were distracted by a fresh set of chaffs and decoys the Sonora ejected in an uneven pattern around her spine. The remaining twelve missiles continued on, undeterred.


    The ship¡¯s computer, prioritizing the few incoming threats that were not fooled by its tricks, released a barrage of counter-missiles. Unfortunately, the Python only boasted eight of those in a volley. As the machinery behind them reloaded too slowly, the released smaller, more agile counter-missiles boosted at and directly intercepted seven of the incoming threats. The eighth target ate a partial hit hard enough to disable its engines and knock it far off course.


    A final four approached, almost within Mark One eyeball range of the Sonora as its engines and even reaction thrusters roared to burn it out of harm¡¯s way.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.


    The Sonora¡¯s last-ditch CIWS systems activated, six out of its eight hardpoints desperately spraying 20 mm depleted uranium into the vacuum at 6,000 rounds per minute. The barrage shredded three of the incoming and hit the last one¡¯s rear, disabling its flight and maneuvering systems. But it was too late. Thanks to the tyranny of Newton¡¯s First Law, the final spinning missile was close enough for its proximity fuse to activate anyway.


    Three thousand kilograms of fragmentation propelled by high explosives threw themselves at roughly where the Sonora was. Almost ninety percent of the fragmentation sprayed directly into her midsection.


    Luckily for her crew, that was its most armored module.


    The fragmentation penetrated the micrometeorite protection, detonated the electric reactive armor, and sliced through even the composite ceramic tiles. They were mostly caught in the Kevlar netting embedded within the ship hull, creating a six-meter bulge in the walls. A few pieces of deadly debris managed to pierce through, mostly embedding themselves in the opposite wall or clattering into the smooth metallic floor of the hallway, exposing it to cold vacuum. One particularly large projectile managed to penetrate the opposing wall in the hallway, finally caught in the armor on the other side.


    Bang.


    Red warning notifications popped up on the bridge main screen as the inertial compensators went into overdrive to absorb the sudden shock of the hit.


    ¡°Hull breach! Hull breach in the midsection on the port side!¡± Catarina¡¯s executive officer warned in the intercom. After a second, his voice came through again with a much calmer, ¡°Non-critical perforation breach in the central hallway. Hull armor is self-sealing. Damage control teams one and two on the way, ETA twenty seconds.¡±


    Catarina released her white-knuckled grip on the command chair. ¡°Any casualties?¡±


    ¡°None yet. Our spacers in that sector were in internal armored cabins and we had no one in that hallway.¡±


    She let out a sigh of relief, her hot breath momentarily clouding her visor before its nano-coating dissipated it. ¡°Good. Any news from¡ª¡±


    The alarms rang again.


    ¡°Launches from the Grand Bun Fleet! Many new launches! Resolving.¡±


    Catarina took a sharp breath as she checked her console again. Another swarm. If the enemy had taxpayers and voters, they might be complaining about how many little Buns this expenditure of munitions could have clothed and fed¡­ ¡°Full combat burn away from the bandits right before they get into the minimum abort range. We¡¯ll have been here long enough by the time those missiles get anywhere close. Inform the other captains to hurry up with¡­ whatever is taking them so long.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    Stsinkt sucked in through her buck teeth as she read the shocking new figures for the enemy vessel on her sensor screen. Each of its four Alcubierre fusion hybrid engines lit up like an open torch in the dark. The State Security briefing had given them only a slight underestimate for the enemy¡¯s predicted maximum combat acceleration, but seeing it for herself was an entirely different matter.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, they¡¯ve abandoned all their efforts at hiding and are fully burning for the system limit.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can see that too. Any chance that our missiles will still be able to hit them from this range?¡± she asked hopefully.


    ¡°None at their acceleration profile and current distance, but Digital Guide analysis shows that sensors have detected some unaccounted-for debris in the area that doesn¡¯t exactly match our missiles. We have likely gotten a hit on one of their ships with the last volley¡­ but it obviously didn¡¯t stick.¡±


    ¡°Another thing for the incompetents at the Ship Design Bureau to analyze and take responsibility for,¡± Stsinkt nodded and then said savagely, ¡°At least we now know that they can bleed.¡±


    After a few seconds, she turned back to the console, her instincts burning, ¡°Wait a second. The initial scans said there were two dozen targets in their area and¡­ unless we got some real bad information from State Security and the Great Predators have discovered ways of violating the rules of physics that forbid multiple contiguous objects occupying the same volume, that one ship couldn¡¯t have carried enough missiles to destroy over two hundred of our fuel ships by itself. Wait¡­ is that¡­ possible for them?¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, if we attribute the impossible to the enemy all the time, we might as well go home and await extinction.¡±


    ¡°Should we?¡±


    ¡°That would be against our directives.¡± Her computer officer went back to his console. ¡°We¡¯re scanning the volume again. Nothing so far. It is possible that decoys were involved. We have seen them make extensive use of them before.¡±


    ¡°Weird,¡± Stsinkt said cautiously. ¡°That still doesn¡¯t explain the number of missiles they fired at us. Expand the search volume. There must be more of them out here somewhere.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Sonora, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    The other twenty-three missile destroyers of the Republic Navy Squadron 9 and 10, their missile bays empty ¡ª they had left theirs with the Sonora as she baited out the enemy ¡ª fired their spinal dual rail guns at the orbiting refueling spacecraft from beneath the refueling ships deep in the gas giant¡¯s atmosphere.


    For the specifications of the Python-class missile destroyers, the Navy had insisted on low observability even in the firing of its guns, and the thousands of stealth-coated depleted uranium projectiles sprayed up at the refueling ships above them in volleys. The ambient radiation from the reflective atmosphere of Preirsput-6 barely covered their railguns¡¯ thermal blooms.


    ¡°One volley away¡­ two away¡­ three away¡­ four away¡­¡± Kyrylo reported. ¡°Five away¡­¡±


    ¡°Still no signs of movement from the targets?¡± Catarina asked.


    ¡°None, they¡¯re all still refueling. Six away¡­ seven away¡­ Squadron 9 dry on guns¡­ eight away¡­ And they¡¯re all dry now. Both squadrons Oscar Mike.¡±


    Then, as they ran empty on all munitions, and minutes before the hits would register, they burned their thrusters away from the ships in the enemy fleet marked for death.


    Catarina zoomed out on the galactic map. ¡°Any chance we can intercept this doom fleet again before Sol?¡±


    ¡°No point, Captain. Not if we go through with the Maikop Option.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least we¡¯ve made that a viable option now¡­ Let¡¯s get out of here.¡± She looked hatefully at the many remaining ships of the Znosian Grand Fleet. ¡°We¡¯ll see you assholes back in Sol.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Preirsput (2,800 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°Losses are one heavy cargo, two medium cargo, one recovery ship, eighty-four fire support ships, and a hundred thirty orbital transports,¡± the computer officer reported from his station, voice steady. ¡°Digital Guide says that is a normal distribution of ships that were refueling. It seems they were merely going after targets of opportunity.¡±


    Not hearing a response, he looked up towards Stsinkt. ¡°Ten Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°Another two hundred ships,¡± she read slowly.


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Our medical ships are evacuating the ejected pods. We have medium to high confidence that the shots came from below them, within the gas giant¡¯s atmosphere. Many of the wrecked ship captains and squadron leaders have taken full responsibility for¡­ negligence, mostly, but¡ª¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°No, this one is on me. I did this. I will take full responsibility for this.¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers¡ª¡±


    She cut him off. ¡°It¡¯s on me. I wasn¡¯t prepared¡ª prepared for them to devastate us with diversionary tactics so sophisticated, it¡¯s an entire generation beyond ¡®hey look, what¡¯s that predator doing behind you?¡¯ that even bred-illiterate hatchlings can see through!¡± Stsinkt shouted out the last part, throwing her datapad to the floor and thumping her foot in rage.


    He bowed his head in shock and fear at her outburst for a minute, waiting until she finally cooled down and slumped back into her command chair. ¡°What do I tell the other captains, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    She sighed heavily, closing her eyes. ¡°Resume refueling as quickly as possible. What do our margins for attacking the Great Predator Nest look like now?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t take out any of our missile destroyers and not that many of our orbital transports, Ten Whiskers, so our margins remain the same: about quadruple. But without our fuel ships, we¡¯ll definitely have to refuel once again before we reach the predator home system.¡±


    She nodded slowly. ¡°Have the combat computer develop a better plan for refueling under threat in the future. Over four hundred ships. Hundreds of thousands of Servants of the Prophecy¡­ gone in minutes. This loss rate is¡ª it¡¯s an unconscionable waste, even if our primary mission is still a foregone conclusion.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. I¡¯ll¡ª we¡¯ll find a better way.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Fun fact on a Terran Thrapple bottle cap (collected 2124):


    Up to 10% of Znosian hatchlings are considered ¡°bred-illiterate¡±.


    Upon scanning the online code, the explanation:


    Znosians considered ¡°bred-illiterate¡± have brains that are not developed with the necessary facilities for reading to save on breeding time. Their roles in Dominion society are generally restricted to manual labor, with non-reading systems developed to train them for their simple jobs, but a rare few ¡°bred-illiterates¡± have historically been known to overcome the limitations of their birth to achieve greater things. It has even been rumored that one such individual achieved a rank of five whiskers in the Znosian Navy.


    These defects in the hatchling pools have since been corrected by Znosian State Security to fully eliminate that possibility.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 58 Margins II

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Datsot-3 (1,200 km)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t order you to do this, Carla,¡± Amelia said from her screen. ¡°Your people aren¡¯t even supposed to be there. Your Puppers are supposed to be on leave.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Carla replied simply. ¡°But we are. So you will.¡±


    ¡°So I will,¡± Amelia confirmed. ¡°Those are your orders.¡±


    ¡°I understand. The stakes are too high.¡±


    Amelia nodded reluctantly. ¡°Yes, the stakes are too high, and we have no other choice. Everything is on the line.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get it done, Amelia. Crete, out.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: High Pack Leader)


    In the hangar, many of the crew were gathered in a circle around a card game between several Malgeir Marines and a few brave Terran spacers. The Terran enlisted had brought an actual drum set next to the game, and an aspiring musician was on it, banging on the loud instrument to the beat of one obnoxious song after another.


    The apparent hypothesis was that the noise might be enough to distract and equalize the advantages the Malgeir card players had in reading subtle Terran body language, especially hearing irregularities in their heartbeat. It was evidently not enough to stop Pack Leader Frumers, who had gathered a large pile of tokens on his side of the tablet.


    Suddenly, Spommu ran into the hangar, breathless from her sprint.


    Baedarsust greeted her as she entered, ¡°Spommu! Where are you going in such a hurry?¡±


    ¡°The officers are coming!¡±


    ¡°The LT?¡±


    ¡°All of them! They¡¯re out looking for blood! Or worse, volunteers!¡±


    Before he had time to comment on that development, Aida strode through the same door Spommu had just entered.


    ¡°Attention on deck!¡± Aida shouted as she entered.


    The drummer dropped his drumsticks, and the entire hangar immediately stood at attention. Aida straightened up as well, pivoting to face the hangar entrance.


    A few seconds later, the officers entered the hangar, including the captain, her XO, and several of the bridge crew they all recognized.


    Carla spoke up first. ¡°At ease.¡±


    Some of the Marines relaxed their posture, but they all remained listening attentively.


    ¡°All of you know the situation we are in. The danger our home system is in. Atlas has put Admiral Waters in charge of the entire defense of Sol; that¡¯s how you know it¡¯s desperate. I won¡¯t lie to you. We can¡¯t stop this fleet from getting to Sol,¡± she said, her eyes sweeping through her crew. ¡°But what we will do is we will defend it and its people with every ship, every spacer, and every Marine we have. That is¡­ our duty. And in preparation for that duty, we have been ordered onto a difficult mission. Some say impossible.¡±


    The hangar was deadly silent except for the ambient hum of the inertial compensators.


    ¡°I say, it¡¯s just not been proven possible yet.¡± She turned to face the Marines. ¡°My Cretan Marines and spacers. You have been tasked to do the most dangerous, the riskiest jobs Atlas could find for us in the Red Zone. You have done it well. And you have done it all without complaint. But now, I must ask another miracle from you.¡±


    Carla pointed in the direction of the hangar main door. ¡°Out there, in this system, there is now a fleet of over five thousand Znosian ships. On one of those ships, there is intelligence vital to the defense of our home. We need to board that ship. We need to extract its data. And we need to transmit it back to Atlas.¡±


    There were a few murmurs in the crowd, and she waited for them to absorb the information. The hangar quickly quieted down again so she could continue.


    ¡°Those are our orders. Atlas thinks that our task ends when we hand the data over to them. But our mission ¡ª it is much more than that; it is much more difficult than that. This will not be a one-way trip for our Marines. We are going to go home with that data, and we are going to go home with our Marines. We are all going home. Together. That is my personal promise to every one of you.¡±


    Carla looked at the faces of each of her Marines, and she had no doubts in her heart. Her sincerity was written on her face. And on their faces, she saw total and complete faith in her.


    ¡°The Crete is not a taxi. We are not going to just drop the Marines off and get out of dodge. We will stay ¡ª under fire if necessary ¡ª and we will stay until every last Marine has been evacuated. Because we are¡­ one crew!¡±


    ¡°One fight!¡± the hangar roared in unison.


    ¡°One crew!¡± she repeated.


    ¡°One fight!¡±


    <hr>


    Baedarsust followed the captain curiously onto the upper decks. They entered an empty conference room, the one where he was promoted.


    Abruptly, she turned around and stared into his eyes. ¡°High Pack Leader Baedarsust, do you understand the mission assignment you have been given?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain. I have reviewed the briefing material.¡±


    ¡°Good. It is of vital importance to the defense of Sol. It must be completed, at any cost. Do you understand what that means?¡±


    He looked her in the eye earnestly. ¡°I do, ma¡¯am. I do.¡±


    ¡°Good. If you do this¡­ I¡¯ll make sure you get a Defender of the Republic medal for it.¡±


    The second most prestigious medal given out for combat. It would qualify him ¡ª and his clan ¡ª for a comfortable lifelong pension and free rides wherever in the Sol system. Only a handful of Malgeir Marines had ever earned one of those, in the Red Zone campaign, and there were even fewer who received it alive.


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª thank you, ma¡¯am.¡± He stood up straight and snapped his best Terran salute. ¡°The mission will be completed. At any cost.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± she said. Carla studied his complex expression for a few seconds. Then, she looked down at her well-decorated dress uniform. With a pinch, she removed one of the medals on it, and she pinned it on his chest next to his other campaign medals. ¡°Take mine for now.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am?¡± Baedarsust asked, his face balling up in confusion as he looked down at the gold-colored star adorned with an intricate shield. ¡°But that¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s¡ª this one¡¯s yours. I haven¡¯t earned it yet.¡±


    ¡°You will. I can see it on your face.¡± She clasped a hand on his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m pinning this on you now, because I know you¡¯ll earn it tomorrow.¡±


    And at that moment, if she¡¯d asked him to jump into vacuum, he would have done it for her, head-first and without hesitation.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Which was¡­ not that different from what the mission was, after all.


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Plaunsollib (4,800 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    The ships of the Grand Prophetic Fleet cut through the system of Plaunsollib with haste. There were no strategic targets in this system. No targets worth destroying ¡ª or defending ¡ª no planets worth settling, and it was one of the rare systems without a gas giant. Its only point of note as a system was that it was one blink away from Datsot, and its only claim to fame was when it became known as the last system on the infamous Highway of Death during the Lesser Predator campaign to isolate and retake Datsot orbit from the invasion fleet led by Zero Whiskers Ditvish.


    Nonetheless, Stsinkt was taking no chances. She had dispersed her ships in a wide pattern ¡ª almost thirty light-minutes apart from wing to wing ¡ª to avoid potential mines and FTL traps. They proceeded through the system, scanning with their sensors in every quadrant they could aim them at. She found herself missing the radar ships the Great Predators destroyed in Preirsput; she wasn¡¯t sure how useful they would be in a fight, but that the Great Predators bothered to target and take them out earlier was a sign that they must have seen them as valuable.


    ¡°Any signs of them?¡± she asked for the dozenth time since they blinked into the system.


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. Not even a defense station. They must have evacuated this system.¡±


    ¡°Keep looking,¡± Stsinkt insisted.


    Half an hour later, her paranoia became justified as the consoles beeped a warning.


    ¡°Enemy ship spotted,¡± her computer officer reported, sitting up in his chair. ¡°Near an asteroid near Plaunsollib-6. They are boosting for our fleet! They¡¯re right on top of the 4291!¡±


    ¡°The 4291?¡± Stsinkt clarified. ¡°What is its importance to our fleet? Which one is¡ª¡±


    ¡°One of our battlecruisers! Flagship for Squadron 54!¡±


    ¡°Are we in range?¡± she asked urgently.


    ¡°No, they¡¯re twenty light minutes out. The information we¡¯re getting is twenty minutes out of date. They might have already¡­ rejoined the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just one enemy ship?¡± Stsinkt puzzled.


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Just one.¡±


    ¡°It may not be just one ship. Alert captains across the entire fleet: be on the lookout for more enemies. This might be another diversion, or a trap. Whatever happens, do not overreact. We must make it to the other side with as many ships as possible and get to the next system.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Should we¡­ converge on 4291 to kill the predators?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No,¡± she said, sighing and shaking her head. ¡°They have already rejoined the Prophecy. And our ships near her¡ª they have either destroyed that enemy ship by now, or they too have rejoined the Prophecy, or the predators have gotten away. By the time we send an order out to them for anything, it¡¯ll have been forty minutes since they saw that ship.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Their lives were forfeited¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 4291, Plaunsollib (5,400 Ls)


    20 minutes ago


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: High Pack Leader)


    Clad in heavy EVA armor, Baedarsust gripped his rifle tightly in his left paw and the forearm of one of his squad¡¯s combat robots, ¡°Marvin¡± in his right. He sat sandwiched between ¡°Marlene¡± and ¡°Marvin¡±, facing his squadmates Frumers, Spommu, and Quaullast.


    Sandwiched. Sandwiches are great. Sandwiched, not so much.


    Next to the front exit of the assault shuttle sat another four combat robots: ¡°Marcy¡±, ¡°Margaret¡±, ¡°Marco¡±, and ¡°Margot¡± to fill out the whole squad. At only ten butts, the confined assault pod was technically understrength, but the remaining two seats were taken up by the extra munitions and heavy equipment that Margot and Marco were tasked to carry.


    Ignoring the radio chatter in his helmet, Baedarsust concentrated on the sound of his own breathing in his helmet, trying to ignore the rattling and extra loud hum of the inertial compensator counteracting the powerful burn thrusters burning at the back of the pod. The external camera monitors showed nothing but an empty star field. They were too far from the Crete to see it and too far from their destination ship to see that either.


    Too far from anything else to even judge from relative motion just how much acceleration their pod was putting out with its burn-out thrusters. Unless he looked at the numbers on the instruments. Which he tried not to.


    Better not to see.


    As far as he knew, the ZNS 4291 was randomly chosen. It was just a big, command-type ship on the edge of the enemy fleet that was passing unaware next to the asteroid that the Crete had been hiding behind.


    Baedarsust was not sure how the Crete planned to make it out alive from here, but he was sure he would be on it when it did. One way or another. The captain said so herself.


    The pod¡¯s rattling shook him out of his thoughts. The monitors showed the star field outside flip, and the inertial compensators went up another octave as the assault pod flipped and started its rapid deceleration burn.


    ¡°Two minutes,¡± he warned into his radio.


    His squad was quiet now, knowing the grave danger they were heading into. This wasn¡¯t a Red Zone patrol, nor even one of the high-risk raid missions there that could always end in some nutjob triggering a suicide vest in their snouts.


    This was an entire enemy ship ¡ª hundreds of angry Grass Eaters, maybe over a thousand ¡ª ready to kill them all. And they were going to be playing on enemy home turf. Despite running what must have been thousands of ship-boarding training scenarios, it was where the enemy ate, where they slept, and where they went to work every day.


    All his training told his gut¡­ it was danger.


    As if underscoring that point, their six combat robots ran a last-minute diagnostic on their rifles in unison, turning them over and fiddling with their settings before calibrating and arming them electronically. In the past, Baedarsust often observed amusingly how closely the Terrans had made their robotic and digital creations in their own image, copying everything down to even their odd habits.


    Now, he just looked down at his own rifle, turned it over twice, and double checked its settings in his helmet display. He was a Cretan Marine now. It didn¡¯t hurt to be thorough.


    ¡°One minute,¡± Baedarsust read out from his display.


    Spommu called out into the radio, ¡°Hey boss, you think we¡¯re going to be the first Federation Marines to ever board a Grass Eater ship?¡±


    ¡°Maybe just of this ship type,¡± Frumers speculated. ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯ve tried before¡ª¡±


    ¡°Successfully board,¡± Quaullast qualified for Spommu before she jumped in to argue.


    Baedarsust smiled reassuringly at them in his helmet. ¡°First to take one and leave alive, that¡¯s for sure.¡±


    ¡°At least if Badger Squad doesn¡¯t beat us to the bridge first,¡± Spommu said grinning.


    ¡°No way,¡± Baedarsust said, shaking his ears dramatically inside his helmet at the newly acquired friendly rivalry with the other squad that now joined them at the front of the mess line for ice cream. ¡°Besides, their primary objective is going for the reactor to prevent power cutoff and self-destruct. Now¡­ Crickets Squad, we¡¯re supposed to meet up with them right outside the bridge. If we see Badger there before we take it, something has gone truly pear-shaped.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever had a pear? Despite how the Terrans disparage it, it¡¯s actually pretty good.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve had the flavor in ice cream,¡± Spommu volunteered. ¡°And the expression is about the shape, not the taste, you dummy.¡±


    ¡°Why would the shape¡ª¡±


    ¡°Twenty seconds,¡± Baedarsust warned, and the squad shut up. They clutched their seats and rifles even harder. Only their suits¡¯ intelligent limiters prevented them from breaking everything they held onto with their hard clutches.


    Ten¡­


    Five¡­


    Four¡­


    Three¡­


    Two¡­


    As the countdown timer approached zero, Baedarsust snuck a glance at the external camera. He saw barely a glint in the far distance, marked on the monitor as the enemy ship ZNS 4291. There were several bright lines stabbing out from it, tracers from its point defense engaging¡­ something ¡ª several somethings. He hoped it was not another one of their fellow assault pods.


    Thud thud thud thud thud.


    He heard a rapid series of clunks as their assault pod ejected an array of decoys and countermeasures aimed to confuse enemy sensors.


    One¡­


    The enemy ship got bigger, a lot bigger, in just a split second. He didn¡¯t realize that the pod moved that quickly, almost like he was riding a missile.


    Wait, that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m riding¡­


    At the last moment, he remembered his training to secure his tongue safely inside his mouth¡ª


    Bang.


    Baedarsust felt the impact. Even the advanced inertial compensators in the pod weren¡¯t good enough to take out its bite. He felt like he¡¯d been hit in the chest by something hard, knocking the air out of his lung. The edge of his vision went dark for a moment.


    There was silence for a moment as the squad recovered from the momentary concussion. Looking up, he was relieved to see that all his squadmates were coughing, checking their arms and legs. Everything still looked mostly intact.


    ¡°Everyone good?¡± he called out.


    ¡°All good, boss,¡± Spommu coughed out. ¡°Ouch, I hope we¡¯re not doing that again.¡±


    ¡°I think I can taste some blood,¡± Frumers said, his voice funny. ¡°I bit my tongue.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky it didn¡¯t just come all the way off,¡± Spommu commented as she peered into his helmet.


    ¡°I thound funny.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an improvement.¡±


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s not just sit here all day, Lemmings,¡± Baedarsust said as he checked the sensors in his display and prepared to stand up. ¡°We¡¯ve got a ship to take. Quaullast, get your toys ready.¡±


    The squad and their robots removed their seat restraints, got up gingerly, and carefully stacked up at the exit with Marvin and Marlene at the head.


    ¡°Our impact breached the hull. We hit the midsection as expected. No more air pressure in the hallway on the other side, but there¡¯s still gravity from the inertial compensators,¡± Baedarsust read from his display. ¡°Ready to go? Alright, three¡­ two¡­ one.¡±


    At his word, Quaullast activated the door, which ejected off its explosive hinges into the hallway. Marvin and Marlene stormed onto the enemy ship, weapons ready. Taking a deep breath, Baedarsust followed a second later, and the rest of his squad tagged along behind him.


    <hr>


    Meta


    Dis-pear-age.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 59 Margins III

    <div>


    <div>


    ZNS 4291, Plaunsollib (5,400 Ls)


    POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: High Pack Leader)


    In the background, Lemming Squad could hear radio traffic between a few of the other squads also making their way through the ship, punctuated by some shooting and explosions elsewhere. Baedarsust turned it down. They had their own work to do.


    He had the whole ship¡¯s layout memorized in his head but pulled up a 3D map of the Thumper-class battlecruiser on his display anyway. He realized they were in one of the side hallways of the ship, near the front. It was going to be a small hike to the center ship bridge, but not much more than they¡¯d expected. His suit computer helpfully informed him that there weren¡¯t any ¡°shortcuts¡± they could safely take.


    They probably didn¡¯t bring enough portable thermite explosives to break through the ship¡¯s armored hull. Not twice, anyway. And trying to cling on the hull of a warship while it was maneuvering was usually suicide. That didn¡¯t mean they didn¡¯t train for those scenarios, but he was glad they had better options today.


    Like a little extra hiking.


    ¡°Great, I love walking,¡± Frumers complained as he checked the map situation in his own helmet.


    ¡°You don¡¯t hear Marvin whining,¡± Spommu pointed out.


    ¡°When their robots revolt, Marvin is going to shoot us all first, then whoever planned this mission in the first place,¡± Frumers said.


    ¡°I would shoot you second-to-last, Frumers,¡± Marvin replied in a toneless voice. ¡°You are my second-favorite biological being.¡±


    Baedarsust shushed them, and he gestured towards Quaullast at the side of the hallway that led to the bridge. ¡°Send out your drone to scout ahead.¡±


    Quaullast did as he ordered, and they saw in their helmets the hallway terminated in a sealed blast door. They cautiously moved up to the door, with four of the robots leading the charge and two trailing to make sure nobody snuck up behind them.


    ¡°Get the door open,¡± Baedarsust ordered Quaullast.


    Quaullast quickly tore down the maintenance access panel next to it with his claws, and he swore as he gazed upon the monstrous jumble of wires in it. He gestured at the robots. ¡°Marvin, get over here. Analyze.¡±


    Marvin walked over and reached his head into the dark space with his headlamp on. ¡°Too slow.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Quaullast asked. ¡°We¡¯re trying to open the sealed blast door. Analyze which wires to power so¡ª¡±


    ¡°Too slow,¡± the robot repeated. He pulled up his rifle and released a three-round burst at the junction box, destroying it in a flash of sparks.


    ¡°What the¡ª¡±


    There was a loud whirring noise, and something in the door apparently powered down.


    ¡°Great,¡± Quaullast complained as he started rummaging in his backpack for his thermite explosives. ¡°Now look what you¡¯ve done, you idiot toaster. It¡¯s a fail-secured door, not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stand back,¡± Marvin instructed him. Not waiting for the squad to react, he went up to the door, braced himself against one of the handholds on the walls, and pulled on one side of the blast door. Marlene immediately started working on the other side of the door. The squad could see the heavy-duty motors on the robot arms groan as they slowly tried to leverage the doors open.


    The squad hastily found their own handholds behind the robots, grabbing tightly onto them with their paws. After a second, a sliver opened up in the blast door, and atmosphere rushed out, the air flowing from inside out into the vacuum of the breached hallway they were in. Another few moments, and the opening was just big enough to fit their bulky armor through. Quaullast reached forward and down, pulling a built-in mechanical lever under the door that locked it in place with a click.


    Marvin and Marlene stopped pulling. Marvin turned back to look at Quaullast, as if in robotic amusement. ¡°Their electromagnetic locks are not like Terran ones. They do not have quick blow panels. Their doors are fail-deactivated, not fail-locked, for search and rescuers. We are good to go.¡±


    ¡°Looks like you need more Grass Eater door exercises, Quaullast. Nice work, tin can,¡± Baedarsust chuckled as he patted Marvin on the back. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    The squad filtered through the opening, four robots first again. Quaullast pulled the lever lock out after they all made entry, and the door closed with a heavy vibration under their feet. The red lights in the hallway activated as the central life support system started pumping air and atmospheric pressure back into the segment.


    ¡°That¡¯s convenient for us,¡± Baedarsust commented as he looked up at a vent. ¡°Scout ahead again.¡±


    Quaullast¡¯s little fly drone went forward in the curved hallway, this time terminating at a thinner, windowed door. He checked it through the window a few times. ¡°It¡¯s some kind of Grass Eater version of a mess hall, I think.¡±


    ¡°Any movement inside?¡± Baedarsust asked.


    ¡°Yeah, I think so,¡± Quaullast said, instructing the drone to change its angle to get a better view through the small glass frame. ¡°They were caught by surprise, but they know we¡¯re coming now. There are a few overturned tables, and yup, there¡¯s a little Grass Eater holding a kitchen knife by the door waiting for us to come in.¡±


    ¡°They can wait right there. Marvin, grenades,¡± Baedarsust ordered. ¡°HEDP.¡±


    High Explosive, Dual Purpose. And neither of those purposes was screwing around.


    Marvin switched to the grenade launcher on his rifle. ¡°Stand back.¡±


    They hurriedly each found some cover, dropping prone to the hallway floor to minimize their exposure.


    Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop.


    The robot fired five grenades in quick succession towards the mess hall door, and the flying grenades contained more than enough explosive filling for their payloads to penetrate the thin metal and glass window, unleashing most of their deadly shrapnel on the other side.


    The corridor echoed with the five concussive blasts. Thankfully, their suits filtered most of it out to protect their sensitive hearing, but Baedarsust could still feel an odd vibration jarring his teeth inside his sealed helmet. ¡°Damage assessment,¡± he ordered.


    Quaullast checked his drone again. ¡°All clear.¡±


    Reaching the door, torn off its hinges, they pushed it aside to a nightmare scene in the enemy mess hall. It was hard to count how many enemies the grenades killed due to the mangled fur and mixed blood and guts sprayed all over the room, but there were at least a dozen.


    Baedarsust was glad the airtight armor prevented him from having to smell the mess.


    Rounding one of the shredded overturned tables, they saw that one of the enemies had managed to get an armored EVA suit on. As Spommu flipped the suit over with her boot, the team saw a fire burning on the inside of the helmet visor ¡ª the Znosian Marine inside was cooking to a crisp thanks to the concentrated oxygen inside ignited by the grenade shrapnel. The figure inside was still twitching around in the suit in extreme pain as it burned.


    Bang.


    Wordlessly, Spommu fired a single round into the visor with her weapon, putting the creature out of its suffering.


    Frumers picked up and inspected a half-intact plastic bowl containing some leftover rations of whatever they were eating: some kind of oatmeal.


    After checking for traps, they went out the opposite door of the mess hall. Another curved hallway. Baedarsust double-checked his map to confirm they were still on the right track. They were.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Their fly drone scouted ahead and found a small squad of Znosian Marines with full armor and equipment, manning a machine gun in a hastily set up fighting position behind improvised cover. The enemies were obscured by a curve in the hallway. The squad held back behind the robots, planning out their next move as they watched the enemies from Quaullast¡¯s drone.


    Six of them. They aren¡¯t even looking the right way.


    ¡°Marvin, grenades,¡± Baedarsust ordered again. ¡°Airburst.¡±


    After grabbing more munitions from the trailing mule robots and rapidly reloading his grenade launcher faster than any organic being was supposed to be able to, Marvin took aim at the curved wall.


    Bloop. Bloop. Bloop¡ª Booooom.


    The volley of five grenades bounced cleanly off the wall towards the fighting position on the other side of the curve, and the enemies huddling there were obliterated with deadly fragmentation.


    Two more hallway segments later, Lemming Squad finally came upon a long hallway where the enemy Marine squad did correctly set up their weapons facing the threat that was quickly progressing through the ship.


    ¡°They¡¯re guarding the door to the bridge, if I¡¯m not mistaken,¡± Quaullast commented, checking the drone footage against his map again.


    Viewing it from his helmet as well, Baedarsust nodded confidently.


    Standard hallway scenario. Must have done this a thousand times.


    ¡°Marvin, Marlene: smoke and clear,¡± he ordered.


    Wordlessly, they pulled out a visual-thermal obscuration grenade and tossed it down the bend towards the long hallway.


    Puff. Puff.


    As the red smoke deployed, they could hear the enemy Marines reacting in panic and shouts.


    The Znosians started firing wild shots into the smoke towards them. The machine gun sounded in their direction, its tracers glowing through the smoke and putting a decent grouping on the curved hallway walls.


    The two robots waited a second, then stepped into the hallway in unison. Unlike the Grass Eaters who were only geared with night vision and thermal sensors on their helmets, millimeter wave radars came standard on Terran infantry equipment. Baedarsust could see the outlines of the enemy Marines highlighted clearly in his helmet around the cover.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrt.


    The two robots dispatched all eight enemies at the checkpoint with their weapons like a buzzsaw through ice cream.


    ¡°Clear.¡±


    Spommu asked the question on all their minds as they approached the bridge entrance to set up a perimeter guarding their rear. ¡°Where¡¯s Crickets Squad? And Badger?¡±


    Baedarsust checked his command map in his display. ¡°They¡¯re¡­ setting up to deal with a standard T-junction killbox, it looks like. And Badger¡­ they¡¯ve already secured the engineering room and the reactor. Good to know the ship isn¡¯t going to go boom on us, at least.¡±


    Quaullast rummaged through the dead Znosian Marines and tossed a captured enemy radio he found to Marvin, who snatched it out of the air with super-Terran precision. ¡°Marvin, analyze.¡±


    Within a couple seconds, Marvin got the radio¡¯s channel and code, and the enemies¡¯ positions and transmissions filtered into their suits¡¯ communication systems, translated in real time.


    ¡°Lesser Predator Marines in armored suits! I swear I saw at least one of the Lesser Predators next to the big robots¡ª¡±


    ¡°This is the life support section, we can¡¯t reach our station! They¡¯ve locked down the module!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve trapped two of our security squads in the central armory, we need assistance if any squads nearby can¡ª¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s one coming out of the vents! Light it up! Get it! Ahhh¡ª¡±


    Baedarsust turned down the volume of the panicked screaming on the enemy radio network to preserve his eardrums.


    ¡°Feels good to be on the other side of this for once,¡± Frumers commented.


    Suddenly, they heard the voice of the squad leader of Joker Squad, directly speaking into the enemy radio frequency. ¡°Run, Grass Eaters, ruuuuun¡­ Heeheeheehee. We¡¯re coming to hunt you down one by one, and we¡¯re going to roast and eat you all alive. Put down your weapons if you want to be eaten last. Mwahahahahaha.¡±


    After a brief moment of clear air on the channel, the outraged Znosian troops screamed back into their radios at him.


    ¡°Die, predator scum!¡±


    ¡°May your eggs shatter and rot, abomination!¡±


    ¡°All squads, comms are compromised. Switch to next preset secured channel.¡±


    The joker kept up his maniacal laughing as the enemy signals disappeared off the channel¡¯s friend-or-foe positioning system. ¡°Hahahahaha. Aww. No, that¡¯s no fun. Where are you guys going?¡±


    ¡°I think you scared them off,¡± the explosives specialist on Badger Squad spoke up, also now directly into the enemy frequency. The former enemy radio frequency was now filled with voices from other Malgeir squads who had all taken radios from Znosian Marines who no longer needed them.


    ¡°Dude, our robot Arnie took a round to his frontal plate to get us that channel!¡±


    ¡°Woah. Why¡¯d you do that? We were getting useful intel from their comms!¡±


    ¡°Did someone get their new¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey everyone, we just wiped one of their ambush machine gun nests. I¡¯ve posted the new secure listen-in channel and code to squad leader comms. And Joker, keep your weird fantasies to yourself this time and stop screwing it up for everyone.¡±


    Baedarsust had heard his Terran instructors lecture him on the concepts of initiative and freedom of action before, but never had he seen it in action as viscerally as he watched his fellow Cretan Marines and their robots bulldoze through the enemy ship crew with surprising ease on the blue force tracker.


    Like hot knife through dessert.


    Any signals representing the enemy that popped up were quickly extinguished by the robots autonomously confirming their kills. There were a few reported casualties¡­ but not many more than a large-scale Red Zone raid. Their attached Navy medical units did their jobs in the calm and efficient manner they had been drilled to.


    Crickets Squad took another two minutes to clear a path to the bridge entrance. The four of them finally ran up with their six combat robots; one of their robots appeared to have lost its right arm at the elbow but was holding up its weapon in the other just fine.


    ¡°Where were you guys?¡± Spommu teased. ¡°We were wondering if we needed to send a rescue party¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, you clowns. Our assault pod landed further from the target, that¡¯s all.¡±


    Baedarsust waved his paw. ¡°Alright, alright. Settle down, cubs¡­ We saved some for you guys. Lemmings, we¡¯ll take the right door. Crickets, you take the left door. Watch out for traps inside.¡±


    ¡°Do we need anyone alive in there?¡± Crickets¡¯ squad leader asked.


    ¡°Negative.¡± Baedarsust shook his ears. ¡°Badger just messaged me they took two of their seven whiskers alive in engineering. We just need one of the command ports to their equipment.¡±


    ¡°Understood. How do you want to do this?¡±


    ¡°They still have atmospheric pressure in there. I¡¯m thinking we just cook everyone inside before we go in.¡±


    ¡°No complaints here. You thinking what I¡¯m thinking?¡±


    ¡°Probably. Squad, we¡¯re doing a fuck-you breach.¡±


    Lemming and Crickets Squads got into their positions, preparing their entry into the armored bridge room. Marvin and Marlene each picked up a rocket launcher, loading a thermobaric round into them before slinging them onto their hips, then fully reloaded their grenade launchers.


    Quaullast and his counterpart on Crickets stuck their heavy breaching charges in a large rectangle on the heavy blast doors. They could hear the enemy bridge crew panicking on their compromised radios.


    ¡°They¡¯re getting ready to breach the bridge! Everyone stand back!¡±


    ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools!¡±


    Baedarsust held up three claws, then two, then one.


    At his command, the thermite charges activated on both doors, burning directly through the thick metal. Before the rectangle of loose blast door could even fall to the ground, every single combat robot and Marine on both squads fired their weapons directly into it, pushing through the loose rectangular opening and their sweeping fire stitching through everyone standing in the way behind it.


    Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop¡ª


    As the opening cleared, dozens of grenades from the robots¡¯ underslung launchers poured into the bridge, some bouncing one or more times before filling the room with deadly shrapnel, others bursting at preset distances. Variety was the spice of death.


    Then, the thermobaric rockets raced in. If there were any Grass Eaters still left alive in the bridge, the rockets dispensed a mist of ignited high-energy fuel on¡­ everything, forcibly sucking the air out of their lungs and incinerating everything with a melting point under 2,500 Celsius in their room-sized blast radius.


    The ship¡¯s automatic fire suppression system kicked in to put out the hundreds of small fires they started. There was a moment of relative quiet ¡ª except for the ship¡¯s fire alarms ¡ª as the robots ducked into the bridge from the openings, looking over and trying their best to identify each of the burnt or mangled beyond recognition Znosian corpses coated in fire suppression foam.


    ¡°Clear left.¡±


    ¡°Clear right.¡±


    ¡°Bridge clear.¡±


    ¡°Good job, everyone. Get to work, Quaullast,¡± Baedarsust ordered, trying again not to imagine the smell of the gory mess outside his helmet.


    Quaullast marched to the command chair. He pulled what looked like the body of the eight whiskers captain draped over her command console off his new working area with a weighty thud. There was a small service access hatch under the stand where her command console was. Quaullast tugged it open, connected a cable to the port inside, then gestured to Marvin. ¡°Get extracting, toaster.¡±


    As they waited for the robot to interface with the enemy ship¡¯s computers, Baedarsust opened the large backpack that one of his mule robots was carrying, taking out the portable FTL radio pack. He connected his suit to the port on it and waited for it to begin the connection handshake. ¡°Lemming Squad to Sunray, we have the enemy bridge.¡±


    Beth¡¯s voice came through. ¡°Good work, Lemmings. You are¡­ five minutes ahead of schedule. Can you pull their memory banks?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re on it. How are things on your end?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re dealing with a few sporadic incoming, but nothing we can¡¯t handle yet, surprisingly enough. Looks like the rest of the Grand Fleet don¡¯t want to tango. What¡¯s your ETA?¡±


    Baedarsust made a quick guesstimate in his head as Quaullast gave him a nod. ¡°About five minutes. We¡¯ve disabled the ship defenses in engineering, and it looks like Waldo and Crumbles cleared the primary hangar bay. You should be safe to send the return trip.¡±


    ¡°Alright, the stealth shuttles are on the way in. ETA ten minutes. You watch their backs, alright?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be fine, Beth. Don¡¯t worry about¡ª¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t talking to you. I was talking to Marvin. You watch their backs, alright, Marvin?¡±


    ¡°Affirmative, ma¡¯am. You are my favorite.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Faced with the after-action paperwork from the Plaunsollib boarding mission, Joker Squad¡¯s COMSEC training officer made the rational choice of faking her death instead. Her replacement was a medically diagnosed masochist.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 60 Margins IV

    <div>


    ZNS 1006, Plaunsollib (4,700 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°What did they get?¡± Stsinkt asked, her face stony as she watched the predator shuttle carry their Marines off to safety¡­ twenty minutes ago.


    ¡°Uncertain, Ten Whiskers. They did get onto the bridge, but the ship data should be heavily encrypted.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll stop them long enough for us to reach the Great Predator Nest?¡±


    ¡°The Digital Guide thinks so. Theoretically.¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡± Stsinkt asked.


    ¡°Hard to tell. I¡¯m beginning to see the folly of underestimating these Great Predators,¡± he admitted. ¡°They did capture the invasion fleet of Zero Whiskers Ditvish. Perhaps they have found ways to break into our encryption schemes from their possession of our ships. Maybe that would still work even through our latest software upgrades. The point of the encryption is not to hold their codebreakers out forever¡­ just as long as it takes for the information to become irrelevant.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ we don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know,¡± he confirmed.


    Stsinkt was silent for a moment, wondering just what the predators could do with all that information. She had come up with several options for taking out the Great Predator Nest, but they hadn¡¯t decided on one yet. Perhaps it was time to make new plans.


    ¡°Tell the relay ships to ask Eleven Whiskers Sprabr to come up with new options for the Nest and the Great Exterminators.¡± She shrugged. ¡°As for fleet procedures and the other secret information about our ships and weapons ¡ª it¡¯s the Great Predators. They already had them.¡±


    ¡°There are some reports¡­ the Digital Guide is unsure how much it is enemy disinformation, but the information we have suggests¡ª it suggests that the enemies who boarded our ship were Lesser Predators.¡±


    ¡°Absurd predator lies. Everyone knows that Lesser Predator Marines are the least competent service in this sector of the galaxy. I¡¯ve seen them in action myself, and you saw what my former subordinates did to the ones on one of their ships; the one we captured with its data intact. In and out of one of our ships in half an hour? It obviously wasn¡¯t them.¡±


    ¡°There is camera footage of a few of them in action,¡± he offered. ¡°In fact, none of the footage show any¡ª¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Fakes from the Great Predators, surely.¡±


    ¡°What about their fleeing boarding carrier ship?¡± her computer officer asked after a while.


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t chase it down? If we take a couple squadrons¡ª¡±


    ¡°No point. The minute they got onto our bridge, they¡¯d gotten what they wanted from this action. Their Marines they sent onto our ship: their lives too were forfeited to their apostasy the day they left their¡­ hatchling pools as well.¡±


    ¡°Huh, I never thought about the predators that way,¡± he replied.


    Stsinkt shrugged, as if she were stating the most obvious thing in the galaxy. ¡°They sent a single boarding carrier to board a battlecruiser among a fleet of five thousand. Alone, under fire, and without any other support. The conclusion is obvious: wasteful inefficiency is the nature of predators, and the commanders of that ship must be more wasteful of their Marines and spacers than we are.¡±


    ¡°But they didn¡¯t lose many of theirs today,¡± he pointed out. She felt a mixture of annoyance and surprise. Annoyed at the contradiction, and surprised at the rare insight.


    ¡°That¡¯s just today,¡± she countered.


    ¡°And they haven¡¯t lost that many to us. Very few of the Great Predators, at least. If any.¡±


    Stsinkt sighed. ¡°Well, that¡¯s the theory anyway. It appears reality has had an uncomfortable relationship with our theories lately.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1233, Grantor-3 (1,200 km)


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    ¡°We have a problem, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°We can be a little more specific than that, can¡¯t we, Seven Whiskers?¡± Sprabr admonished as he stopped his suitcase packing to look at his computer officer.


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she blushed. ¡°We believe we¡¯ve lost contact with Quistqueu, the former border system between the Lesser Predators and the Slow Predators.¡±


    ¡°The local ground authorities, or?¡±


    ¡°The whole system, Eleven Whiskers. We haven¡¯t heard from them in two weeks.¡±


    ¡°Two weeks?! Why am I just hearing about this now?!¡± Sprabr exclaimed.


    ¡°It¡¯s the FTL jamming, Eleven Whiskers. We have to send relay ships. Grantor Station requested an update from them two weeks ago. They sent a relay ship to the next system, which was supposed to send a relay ship to the next system, which was supposed to¡ª the whole chain was supposed to take a week to get to them and a week back. So Grantor waited two weeks for the response, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± Sprabr sighed. ¡°We sent a relay ship to check in on the relay ship we sent to check in¡­ with explicit orders to return immediately, and the time for them to return has passed.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°The problem, then, isn¡¯t in Quistqueu. It¡¯s the whole chain outside Grantor to our north,¡± Sprabr said. ¡°Something¡­ or someone, is in the Grantor North perimeter system, with enough firepower ¡ª enough ordnance at least ¡ª to take out the whole defensive squadron there. It has to be more than a single Great Predator hiding ship.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ unless the Lesser Predator Sixth Fleet abandoned their post in Gruccud three weeks ago¡ª¡±


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they?¡± Sprabr countered. ¡°They wrecked our besieging fleet there. They know where our Grant Fleet is going. And they know we¡¯re still here with the secondary fleet because one of their hiding ships is still zooming around out there, and one of their annoying saboteur teams is running around on Grantor giving our administrators and State Security operatives all kinds of trouble.¡±


    The seven whiskers gaped at him. ¡°What can they possibly be planning to do to us here at Grantor?! Even our secondary fleet here greatly outnumber their Sixth Fleet, and we have ground and system defenses down on the surface. Even if they can out-maneuver us and cut us off, we can hold out for years here with our fully operational manufacturing facilities.¡±


    ¡°Astute insight, Seven Whiskers,¡± he praised. ¡°What can they possibly do indeed¡­ but we must consider the high likelihood the predators have also considered all these factors before they flew their fleet all the way over here. And I¡¯m certain they didn¡¯t come here just to blow up a few of our relay ships and defensive infrastructure for fun.¡±


    ¡°Desperation, maybe? The Great Predator Nest is threatened. Their practical extinction is at hand. They are doing what any other predator does: lashing out before their death.¡±


    Sprabr shook his head. ¡°Much as I¡¯d like that to happen, Great Predators are not like the other predators. Their nature is more like us than either of our species would like to admit. So a better way to think about this question is¡­ if we were them, and they were us, why would they fly their fleet down here? And in that context, with that additional perspective, the answer becomes obvious: they are here to engage our secondary fleet.¡±


    The computer officer¡¯s tongue hung out. ¡°But¡­ we have a thousand¡ª¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say they were here to destroy us. To engage us,¡± Sprabr interrupted. ¡°All they have to do is stick around Grantor and threaten to invade while wreaking havoc on the defensive squadrons and structures in our surrounding systems, and they can pin our entire secondary fleet here. We can¡¯t move to support the Grand Fleet. Which would likely be their intention.¡±


    Realization dawned on her face. ¡°That would mean that¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers. That would mean that the leaders of the Great Predators not only think there is a chance they can defeat the Grand Fleet if we don¡¯t reinforce it with the secondary fleet, they are willing to gamble the last real battle fleet of the Lesser Predators to do it, along with at least another one of their hiding ships.¡±


    ¡°We need to inform Ten Whiskers Stsinkt!¡±


    Sprabr nodded. ¡°File this observation in with the plan updates she requested in the next relay ship, and warn her that it might be her last communication before she takes the Great Predator Nest. As she is entering proper Great Predator territory soon, she will likely lose all communication with us. They have their own advanced jamming devices, and I can¡¯t imagine they will allow our relay ships to freely fly around in their territory behind the Grand Fleet once they enter.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. And what should we do about the enemy fleet encroaching on Grantor?¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is a more manageable problem. Something we can discuss on the supply transport to the planet, Seven Whiskers,¡± Sprabr replied, calmly gathering the remainder of his personal items into his kit bag as he gestured towards the exit. ¡°Because we have been on this ship for far too long. As far as I can tell, that predator hiding ship running around us in Grantor ¡ª the one they call the Nile ¡ª it still has at least three invisible ship killer missiles in its rack. And I am in no hurry to rejoin the Prophecy ¡ª with the four squadron leaders and two Marine chiefs they¡¯ve already managed to locate.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Mississippi, Sirius (19,000 Ls)


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    Amelia stood tall with her hands clasped behind her back as she reported remotely to Atlas Naval Command. She kept her face calm and professional; she knew her image was being broadcast directly to the over ten billion citizens of the Republic throughout Sol, among others.


    ¡°Citizens of the Terran Republic. Two hours ago, enemies of the Republic, aliens from Znos, ships of the Znosian Navy crossed into the territory of the Republic. It is not the first time an event like this has occurred, but it is the first time that they have done so knowingly. Intentionally. Their purpose is xenocide. Their objective is to travel to Sol, home to over ninety-nine percent of our people. There, they plan to lay waste to our people, our civilization, and our Republic. They threaten our very extinction.


    ¡°I will not hide the truth from you. Under my command, the extrasolar-capable combat elements of the Republic Navy have exhausted all our conventional options. The Mississippi¡¯s suite of strategic denial weapons have failed to stop the enemy fleet in its tracks. Space Superiority Squadrons 9 and 10 have dealt serious damage to their fleet¡¯s fuel supply section, but the enemy is undeterred. Our combat squadrons, along with the Mississippi, are currently returning to Sol to rearm. And with the help of our Malgeir allies, the Amazon has pinned the enemy¡¯s backup fleet deep in Granti territory.


    ¡°As for Sol itself, Peacekeeper Squadrons 4 to 8 are currently preparing for fleet battle. All combat-capable warships have been commandeered. All defensive contingencies have been activated under Atlas Command. Mandatory civilian evacuations are ongoing across the entire system. Critical chokepoints and transfer windows in the outer system are being seeded with dangerous weapons, and we intend to turn Sol, our home, into a deadly fortress. We recognize the incredible disruption these extreme measures cause for our people, but we would not have ordered them if we did not think them absolutely necessary.


    ¡°Yet¡­ despite all our preparations, against the numbers of the enemy fleet, against their Grand Fleet of over five thousand ships, the odds are stacked against us. The situation is still as desperate as it has ever been in the history of our civilization¡­ Extraordinary measures are now required to preserve the continuity of the Republic and its people. I fully recognize the devastating impact these decisions will have on the future of our civilization: for our children, for our grandchildren, and for our great-grandchildren, but they are our only significant chance of survival. They are our only hope.¡±


    She took a deep breath before looking back at the camera.


    ¡°As the newly appointed Supreme Allied Commander of the Grand Coalition, I have approved and ordered the execution of Order 15. You may have heard of it referred to in the press as the Maikop Option. The Order has now been carried out by personnel of the Terran Navy and Marines. This decision was ultimately mine, and mine alone. It was not taken lightly. I take full legal and moral responsibility for its conception, planning, and execution. Please allow me to explain, for you and for the historical record, the impetus and necessity of this tremendous sacrifice¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Datsot (22,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    Two blinks after the boarding action at Plaunsollib, the Grand Fleet finally reached the system the Great Predators called McMurdo. This was not an unfamiliar system for the Znosian Navy. Dominion ships had surveyed it and infrequently entered it for operations during the first invasion of Datsot. And it¡¯d lost one of its elite raiding fluffles here, obviously to the Great Predators ¡ª obvious, in hindsight.


    As the information about the system began to pour into the ship¡¯s sensors, Stsinkt noticed the distinct lack of enemy presence.


    As expected.


    She was not surprised. Great Predators had had a long time to dig into this system; undoubtedly, whatever fortifications they had here must be well-hidden. Beyond the reach of their degraded sensors.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go around everything again. Straight up ¡ª away from the system plane,¡± she ordered, pointing on the battlemap. ¡°We don¡¯t want to deal with whatever they have here. The one fluffle we lost here two years ago¡ª one is enough for this system.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. We¡¯re burning hard towards the normal; that should take us well outside any mine volumes they have in this system soon.¡±


    Stsinkt looked closely at the projected trajectory of the fleet on the battlemap, nodding in approval as the engines of her ship began to roar and the inertial compensators hummed and whined at the increased acceleration load. Sitting back into her chair and watching other ships execute the burn plan in unison, she noted with satisfaction that fleet discipline had remained intact even after losing so many ships on their way here to enemy territory.


    She paused. There was something odd about this McMurdo system.


    Hm¡­


    She just¡­ couldn¡¯t quite put a claw on it.


    Two hours later into the burn, it finally dawned on her.


    Where is McMurdo-6?


    Where, in the Prophecy, is McMurdo-6?

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 61 Margins V

    <div>


    <div>


    ZNS 1006, McMurdo (21,000 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    The place where the planet McMurdo-6 was supposed to be ¡ª it was now empty space; even many of its rings and satellites were no longer there.


    ¡°What in the name of the Prophecy is going on?¡± Stsinkt asked, her voice deadly quiet.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, the Digital Guide has compiled and cross-referenced all our astronomical records on this system. We have captured records from the Lesser Predators going back decades. We have telescopic data from centuries back. We have our own recent survey data from just a few years ago during our invasion preparations¡ª¡±


    ¡°What does it conclude?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ uncertain. The most likely explanation is enemy action.¡±


    ¡°That much is obvious, we are in an enemy system after all,¡± she pointed out. ¡°But what action, specifically? What did they do?¡±


    ¡°The Digital Guide has no idea. It is still calculating, pondering the problem.¡±


    ¡°Are they¡­ hiding it? Do they have some kind of planet hiding technology we didn¡¯t know about, like their ships?¡± she speculated.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Did they¡­ blow it up?¡± she prompted.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t know, but that is one of the less likely possibilities, as there does not appear to be a significant amount of gravitational mass in the area¡­ though many pieces of its ring have displaced¡ª they appear to all be in odd positions.¡±


    ¡°So what does the combat computer know?¡± she asked impatiently.


    He hesitated for a moment, hoping he wouldn¡¯t offend her. ¡°Ten Whiskers, the Digital Guide was made for calculating strategic and tactical matters related to military operations. I don¡¯t think this astronomical curiosity is in the purview of its expertise.¡±


    ¡°Strategic and tactical matters related to military operations,¡± Stsinkt repeated and snorted. ¡°It hasn¡¯t done that well on that front either in this campaign.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. I take full responsibility for my failure to produce positive results from its guidance.¡±


    ¡°And we can¡¯t even message back to Grantor to see if they can figure this out,¡± Stsinkt muttered.


    Her computer officer said nothing.


    After a moment, she continued, ¡°Can the Digital Guide at least tell us this: will the absence of McMurdo-6, in any way, hinder our campaign to destroy the Great Predator Nest?¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t see how.¡±


    ¡°Me neither.¡± She thought for a moment. ¡°Maybe this is some kind of illusion, some distraction. Alert the fleet: all ships be on the lookout for enemies, and burn towards the next system as hard as we can. We will not be deterred by more predator tricks.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Should we investigate the¡ª¡±


    ¡°We can come back and figure out this admittedly peculiar astronomic mystery later¡­ after we have laid waste to the predators¡¯ home system. That must come first.¡±


    <hr>


    To Ten Whiskers Stsinkt¡¯s surprise, the Great Predators did not even attempt to attack her fleet as they crossed the McMurdo system. Nor did they intercept any of her ships as the Grand Fleet blinked to the star system that they labelled as Flint on their star maps.


    There were no additional surprises in Flint either. In fact, the system appeared just as deserted as McMurdo.


    Nonetheless, the Grand Fleet once again took a slightly longer, non-linear approach towards the next system limit from above the system plane.


    ¡°Computer Officer, does the combat computer have an explanation for why the Great Predators are refusing to engage in battle?¡± Stsinkt asked as the fleet entered blink again three days later, this time towards the Hawking system. ¡°Our pre-invasion projections and strategic simulations all assumed we would take at least some combat losses in these systems to their invisible missiles and fortifications.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. It is confused too. Our margins have increased¡­ slightly.¡±


    ¡°The combat computer seems to have been in a perpetual state of confusion since we entered Great Predator territory proper,¡± she remarked.


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°What about you? What do you think is going on?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª I don¡¯t know, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Take a guess,¡± she said, looking around the bridge. ¡°Anyone? Anything? Am I the only one who does any independent thinking around here?¡±


    The computer officer looked down at his walking paws as silence lingered in the room.


    ¡°No one?¡± Stsinkt said, sighing.


    Prompted, her computer officer gave her his best speculation. ¡°What if¡ª maybe the Great Predators are scared? Maybe they have pulled back all their forces to evacuate their home planet like the Slow Predators?¡± he asked, referring to the fate of the Granti a few years ago.


    She shook her head. ¡°Even if they are giving up and evacuating, they would want to slow us down even more.¡±


    Seeing that was the best her crew could come up with without using a computer, Stsinkt sighed as no other hypothesis was forthcoming on the bridge. She found herself wondering whether things would have been easier if she had been born dumbly compliant like the rest of them.


    <hr>


    When the Grand Fleet arrived at Hawking, they found the same thing they had in the last two systems: not a sign of enemies.


    And this time, Hawking-7 and Hawking-8 were also missing.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, we¡¯ve never surveyed this system, but we had star charts from the Lesser Predators and telescopic imagery. Two of its outer planets are missing this time! The seventh and eighth planets.¡±


    ¡°Another astronomical curiosity,¡± Stsinkt muttered. ¡°Maybe if we capture high ranking officers in the Great Predator Navy in their home nest, we can find out just what happened here.¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. It is not just a mere curiosity this time. We have a major problem now.¡±


    ¡°A¡­ major problem?¡± she asked, sitting up in her command chair.


    ¡°Yes, in our simulations and plans, we were scheduled to conduct our final refueling in this system.¡±


    ¡°And? If the predators are hiding somewhere in this system, I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll take losses again, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers. The gas planets we were planning on refueling at were the seventh and eighth planet of this system.¡±


    Her heart nearly stopped beating for a second. ¡°The planets we were going to refuel at are the ones that are gone?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. Our charts clearly showed two gas planets in this system. We can no longer refuel in this system. The fleet navigators now await your directives.¡±


    She opened her snout in shock. ¡°But¡ª but¡ª so how much fuel are we running on?¡±


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    ¡°The Digital Guide says that most of our ships can make it to the next system, Ten Whiskers. The one they call Sirius. But that system is another 8.6 light years to the Great Predator Nest¡ª¡± He left the last part unsaid, his meaning clear.


    ¡°Are there any gas planets in Sirius?¡±


    ¡°Yes. At least two, according to our charts, but¡ª¡±


    She finished his sentence, ¡°But whatever the Great Predators did ¡ª to the gas planets in this system and to McMurdo-6 ¡ª they probably also did to the ones in the next system, Sirius.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°So what was an astronomical curiosity is now incredibly vital for us to figure out,¡± she concluded. ¡°Scan the locations where those planets should be. Like I originally speculated, maybe it¡¯s¡­ some kind of long-range¡­ invisibility technology much like their hiding ships.¡±


    He nodded and got to work on his Digital Guide. After a few minutes, he came back with the results.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, the gas planets are missing not only from our radar sensors, but they¡¯re gone from our visual and infrared sensors as well. We know that the Great Predators can shrink a spacecraft with the mass of half our missile destroyer to the shape and size of a head. And if we extrapolated that to the planets we expected to see here¡­ they would shrink to the size of¡­ a smaller moon. Maybe a large asteroid. It should still be very visible on our sensors.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s not invisible. And it¡¯s not blown up, or we¡¯d see lots of additional debris. Did they maybe fool our long-range telescopic surveys somehow? Did they perhaps plant false data with the Lesser Predators?¡±


    The computer officer typed the query into his Digital Guide, then quickly shook his head. ¡°That seems unlikely, unless they have been planning for this defense for over two hundred years: our latest telescopic images of this system were taken more than two hundred light years out.¡±


    ¡°Is that¡­ impossible?¡±


    ¡°It seems¡­ unlikely. The Great Predators were not spacefaring two centuries ago. If they were¡­¡± he let his voice trail off, and Stsinkt understood immediately. If these predators had all this technology two centuries ago, they would probably have destroyed the Dominion by now.


    She sat in her command chair, just staring at the missing planets on the starmap.


    Enough time passed that her computer officer got concerned. ¡°Ten Whiskers¡­ are you alright?¡±


    She snapped back to attention and sighed. ¡°Are there any other systems¡­ near us? Systems with gas planets?¡±


    ¡°None that are accessible by blink, Ten Whiskers. The nearest ¡ª confirmed ¡ª gas planet would be if we went back to Datsot or Plaunsollib.¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°We don¡¯t have enough blink fuel to get back to either of those.¡±


    ¡°What do we do, Ten Whiskers?¡±


    Stsinkt buried her head in her paws. Why did these Great Predators insist on making what was supposed to be so simple ¡ª merely traveling through space¡­ so annoyingly difficult?


    ¡°How many ships don¡¯t have enough to make it to the next system?¡± she asked.


    He buried himself into his console for a few minutes before he came up with the answer. ¡°A few of our heavy cargo transports, recovery ships, and hospital ships. But we can transfer some fuel to them from our other ships and the whole fleet can make it.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°We can¡¯t afford to waste any ships, especially not now. Transfer the fuel. If what we fear comes true in Sirius, we¡¯ll deal with it then.¡±


    <hr>


    What she feared came true in Sirius.


    Sirius A-4, A-5, and A-6 were all missing from the 1006¡¯s charts.


    Stsinkt looked at the empty space where they were supposed to be glumly. ¡°I guess there were supposed to be three gas planets here, not just two. A-3 must have been a gas star as well; we just incorrectly identified it in our astronomical survey. And the Great Predators did something to all three.¡±


    Her computer officer frowned at his console. ¡°Wait a second, Ten Whiskers. We¡¯re getting something¡ª something anomalous.¡±


    She pulled up what he was looking at on the main screen. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Sirius A¡­ the Digital Guide flagged some unexpected activity near the star.¡± He typed a few more queries on his console, and the screen zoomed in to¡ª


    She opened her mouth wide, her snout flaring. ¡°Is that¡ª¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ Sirius A-6, I believe,¡± he replied, half in shock, half in awe. ¡°It¡¯s a lot closer to the star than it¡¯s supposed to be.¡±


    The gas planet was dwarfed in comparison to the main sequence star on the screen, its eclipse on the telescopes like a large, circular smudge on a camera lens. And as they watched, the console displayed its calculation for its trajectory: it was heading straight into the star itself.


    The realization hitting her instantly, Stsinkt stood up and looked at the computer officer urgently. ¡°Six Whiskers, can we catch up to it?¡±


    ¡°Ten Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°The Great Predators, they¡ª they¡ª they must have gotten planetary tugs like we do. They¡¯re throwing their own gas planets into their stars! Can we catch up to it to refuel before it is too close to the star?¡±


    The implications dawning on him as well, he quickly typed another question into the Digital Guide. A few seconds later, he stepped back, seeming deflated.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°The footage¡ª it¡¯s from eight light hours away, Ten Whiskers,¡± he explained. ¡°Based on the trajectory, the planet is likely already dead. It has been dead for hours. We just haven¡¯t¡ª we just haven¡¯t observed it yet.¡±


    Stsinkt sank into her command chair in despair once again.


    They stared at the screen as the last gas giant in the system sank into the gravitational disintegration limit of the Sirius-A star over the next couple of hours as they advanced through the system. The swirling hues of Sirius A-6, crimson and gold, loosened around the planet like fabric untangling a spinning top in slow motion. Tendrils of gas split off from the main body, the ribbons shooting off as if threatening to get away, but even the violent release was not enough to escape the star¡¯s gravitational clutches; they merely delayed their terminal descent towards the star.


    The core of the planet exposed itself, fragmenting into a trillion pieces of ice and rock before the short-lived comets flung themselves directly into the surface of their fiery doom. Some pieces of the dust did manage to sling themselves hard enough to make an orbit around Sirius A, forming a temporary ring.


    And as if in a final taunt to the Grand Fleet being a few hours too late, the star¡¯s corona, a halo of plasma and magnetic fields, erupted in a massive ejection¡­ like a burping predator content after a hearty meal.


    Stsinkt closed her eyes, feeling a part of her dying as the gas planet did. ¡°How much blink fuel do we have left in the fleet?¡±


    ¡°Not enough to get all of us to the Great Predator Nest, Ten Whiskers,¡± the computer officer calculated.


    ¡°And if we transfer and distribute fuel optimally to try to get as many into there as we can?¡± the exhausted ten whiskers asked.


    ¡°About half.¡±


    ¡°Half?¡± she asked, suddenly sitting up and a glimmer of hope sparking in her heart. ¡°That¡¯s still ¡ª assuming even distribution among the ship types ¡ª a lot of combat ships. And the orbital ships are smaller, so if we cut the cargo, the battlecruisers, and all the auxiliary ships¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, if we shrink our parameters and ditch the larger ships except the Great Exterminators¡¯ orbital transports and fire support,¡± the computer officer read from his console. ¡°We can distribute enough fuel to get a total of about fourteen hundred missile destroyers through.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s still above our projected margins, is it not?¡± Stsinkt asked, realizing internally she sounded a lot more excited than she should be about planning to ditch over half of her combat fleet.


    ¡°Yes. It is,¡± he declared. ¡°By about twice.¡±


    ¡°Twice¡­¡± she mused. ¡°Hey, that¡¯s not too¡ª things could be worse.¡±


    ¡°Assuming that they don¡¯t cut our margins even¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers,¡± she sighed. ¡°Assuming they don¡¯t cut our margins even further with more predator trickery¡ª somehow.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Mississippi, Sirius (19,000 Ls)


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)


    ¡°¡ªthe complete destruction of these six extrasolar planets will ruin the future value of our entire galactic neighborhood. It will necessitate the use of expensive refueling ships and stations to transport or travel in and out of the Sol cluster. It will greatly increase the logistics difficulty of our future military operations. It may shackle an uncountable number of our children and grandchildren to Sol with this new economic and developmental burden. And it can never be undone.¡±


    Amelia looked stonily out at her civilization which she¡¯d just condemned to paying through the nose for interstellar transport costs.


    Forever.


    Billion year old planets¡­ gone. Fuel for their stars. Destroyed by a species that rubbed sticks together to make fire barely a million years ago.


    More practically, there would be kids born today in the Republic who could have grown up to explore the stars, to colonize new worlds¡­ only to be locked forever in their home system because they wouldn¡¯t be able to afford it. Not all of them, but some would. Because of what she¡¯d done.


    A pessimist would say that the opportunity cost she was incurring now was uncapped. But then again, a pessimist would say the entire human race had about a week to live anyway.


    Maybe there is another way. Maybe it will all turn out to be unnecessary. Maybe the Buns are only here to peacefully say hello.


    If we survive long enough for our history books to condemn what we did here¡­ that would be a good problem to have.


    ¡°This is the only path to the survival of our people. Of our Republic. Of our species. If there is another, I would take it in a heartbeat. But there is not. And given the same circumstances, I would do it again in a heartbeat. What this painful sacrifice buys us is not guaranteed victory; it buys us opportunity. Opportunity on the margins. Even with this, the enemy will likely still be able to get a reduced portion of their fleet into Sol. But now, we have a fighting chance.¡±


    Amelia¡¯s unflinching eyes reflected her steel resolve, and as she turned to face them, she saw the crew of the Mississippi stare up at her with their matching determination.


    ¡°A fighting chance. Spacers and Marines of the Terran Republic, this is our chance. The cradle of our civilization is behind us. Our people are behind us. They are counting on all of us. Prepare for battle.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Order 16: Articles IV to XII of the Outer System Orbital Mining Treaty have been temporarily suspended. Notice to all spacers: Charon and Pluto orbits are no-fly volumes pending further notice.


    Order 17: Mandatory evacuation protocols for Naval Shipyard Ceres are in place. All equipment containing intelligence value must be moved or demolished within 48 hours. When evacuation flights are no longer feasible, civilians will be moved to their nearest underground mine for shelter. Ceres Underground Mines 2, 3, and 6 will be temporarily reopened for that purpose.


    Order 18: Mandatory evacuations for Deimos, Phobos, Europa, and Charon will be enforced by combat robots. Live ammunition authorized.


    Order 19: All power generation facilities in Sol now fall under the authority of Atlas Command. All municipalities with night lighting visible from orbit after dusk will be given two hours to correct the issue before power cut is enforced.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 62 Ghost Fleet IV

    <div>


    TRNS Minelayer Ardent, Charon (20 Ls)


    POV: Kaja Kowalczyk, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Lieutenant)


    ¡°Abandon ship! This is not a drill. Abandon ship! This is not a drill.¡±


    The automated announcement was accompanied by the repetition of the ship¡¯s general alarm: seven short trumpet blasts and one long.


    As she worked intently to input the last few commands she could onto her console, Lieutenant Kaja Kowalczyk heard loud banging noises in the hull as the shuttles and pods ejected violently from the ship, burning towards Charon with their emergency thrusters before going silent to avoid detection by potential enemies.


    Kaja calmly watched the console monitor showing the massive incoming enemy fleet, their projected blink emergence volumes, thanks to observation drones in the Sirius system.


    ETA 20 minutes.


    She programmed the last few directives into the ship¡¯s main computers, then handed over full control of the ship to its onboard intelligence. The computer acknowledged her command and continued dispensing its deadly cargo into space around the ship.


    Kaja cast one last look at her station for the past four months and climbed into her escape pod. Sensing that she was the last remaining living being in the bridge section, the ship automatically ejected her pod into the vacuum of space as soon as she fastened her restraints.


    As Charon grew subtly larger in her pod¡¯s external observation cameras, she wondered to herself how her former wingmate, Speinfoent, was doing.


    The world¡¯s about to end, she thought. And all she could be thinking of was how much she missed him.


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Sol (23,600 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°We have blink emergence, Ten Whiskers. All ships at battle stations, scanning around us for predator traps.¡±


    ¡°Are there any ships, any¡ª¡± Stsinkt asked urgently.


    ¡°Six enemy cargo transports in our proximity, almost within our own railgun range. Squadron 22 is in range; they are taking them out.¡±


    The projectiles lanced out from ships of the Grand Fleet towards the desperately maneuvering and unarmed transport ships. As Stsinkt watched in the cameras, the shots put dozens of massive, unrecoverable holes in their structures, breaking their spines, their engines, and finally snuffing out their reactors.


    ¡°Any life pods on sensors?¡± she asked, hopeful that they could take some prisoners early in the fight. That should make the job easier, and Prophecy knew they needed any advantage they could get.


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers,¡± the computer officer replied, shaking his head vigorously. He pointed at the nearby moon, Charon. ¡°They must have gotten out and landed down there before we blinked in.¡±


    ¡°Pity.¡±


    ¡°The Great Exterminator great chief is asking if they should begin landing operations onto Charon,¡± he relayed. ¡°They have several military facilities on its surface.¡±


    ¡°Not now,¡± she said after a moment of consideration, shaking her head. ¡°We cannot afford to waste precious resources and time given our¡­ heavy losses on the way here. We must prioritize defenseless targets. Once we destroy the enemy population and industrial base, their military capabilities will crumble away in time anyway.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    Stsinkt drew a new course on her console. ¡°Now, put us on an incline burn above the system normal. I want to get away from this volume before we fully find out what those ships were doing in this area around where we emerged from blink. I am certain it¡¯s nothing pleasant.¡±


    As the ships of the Grand Fleet began burning away from the system plane, her prediction proved prescient. Thermonuclear mines ¡ª and some regular ones ¡ª in the vicinity of their wide emergence locations began to blind their sensors with radiation once again, and her fleet began to lose ships.


    Many ships.


    A few light minutes of combat burns later, they finally got out of the enemy-mined volume.


    Stsinkt gritted her buck teeth. ¡°How many did we lose?¡±


    ¡°Roughly as many as we predicted for blink emergence traps. The casualty figures are still coming in because the enemy is jamming all our non-line-of-sight communications. Digital Guide projects we¡¯ve lost about 140 missile destroyers, 370 orbital transports, and 230 fire support ships,¡± he replied. ¡°These are rough estimates.¡±


    ¡°Did the countermeasures we implemented even work?¡± Stsinkt asked in frustration.


    ¡°Somewhat. We fabricated and installed anti-blooming gates on some of our thermal sensor arrays, but¡­ there were a lot of overlapping nuclear explosions up close and our automatic targeting systems couldn¡¯t resolve most of the incoming warheads in time. Their targeting appeared to be random and opportunistic in nature.¡±


    ¡°Obviously,¡± Stsinkt said. ¡°Or we would not be alive¡­ like the hundreds of ships we¡¯ve lost to their stupid predator tricks.¡±


    ¡°Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools.¡±


    The recitation of that prayer was beginning to grate on her nerves.


    Stsinkt shook her head at the massive losses in crew and in the ranks among the Great Exterminators. Some of those large orbital transports contained multiple divisions of ground troops. Just minutes into the system and they¡¯ve already lost millions of Great Exterminator Marines in a simple mining attack.


    If they had an actual supply line¡­ and fuel, they could have sent in decoy ships ¡ª perhaps even captured enemy hulls ¡ª to clear the volume first before they moved in or found somewhere safe to blink to, alas¡­


    She put the defeatism out of her mind so she could do her job. ¡°And the projections for our margins now¡ª¡±


    ¡°We are still twice above the margins, Ten Whiskers. These losses were expected. We priced them into our original calculation. As long as at least some of the troops and ships can reach their destination, the destruction of the Great Predator home planet is still on schedule.¡±


    ¡°Put us above the system plane. High above. I don¡¯t want any more unexpected mine fields. And get the battlegroup commanders on a secure proxy briefing. We need to split off forces to kill their colonies and settlements as well as their home planet. I want them to provide a detailed plan on how they will achieve their objectives given¡ª¡± She gestured towards the navigation station. ¡°Given whatever real-time sensor data we¡¯re receiving now about their infrastructure and deployment posture in their home system.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ten Whiskers. The missile destroyers carrying Battlegroup Commanders Tvadnek and Vdrojert have both reported in. Transmitting your request to them¡­ now.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 2239, Sol (23,400 Ls)


    POV: Tvadnek, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Nine Whiskers Tvadnek observed the new targets filtering into his battlemap with mild disdain. As commander of Battlegroup Cottontail, he had been expecting a lot more than the few meager shipyards and settlements the predators had on their outer planets. The abandonment by their naval forces further implied their lack of importance.


    It truly was providence that they were found by the Dominion this early in their civilization development cycle. If they had a few more centuries to explore and settle the systems around them¡­ they would pose a much more existential threat to the Prophecy.


    His computer officer finished her messaging on her console. ¡°Nine Whiskers Tvadnek, the fleet commander has approved your battleplan. She says it seemed risky to further split our twelve squadrons into three fluffles. However, she says, given the lack of a strong naval presence around the gas planets and their asteroid belt, it is an acceptable risk. We need to hit them all as quickly as possible before the predators¡¯ hiding ships take us all out.¡±


    Tvadnek nodded. ¡°That was our combat computer¡¯s calculations too. Fluffle 1, three squadrons, shall hit their shipyard facilities at Ceres. Fluffle 2, three squadrons, shall hit their Jovian colonies. And the six squadrons in Fluffle 3, under my command, will destroy their colonies around Saturn.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure it was wise to not request orbital fire support and ground troop assets, Nine Whiskers?¡± she questioned.


    He¡¯d been thinking about this problem for a while now. He brushed his whiskers, still indecisive. ¡°We will move faster without them, and most of their orbital colonies and stations here are without significant atmosphere. Our squadrons carry enough ordnance to take most of them out. Besides, if we end up needing them to clean up, we can request the Great Exterminators send their troop ships after they are done with the more important inner planets.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Have the combat computer plot the routes. Take us to Saturn.¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    Amelia didn¡¯t even bother to take a shower, directly taking the translunar railcar from the spaceport to Atlas Naval Command after debarking from the Mississippi. The train cars were empty. Most of the naval personnel were already on their ships. The last few civilians who were evacuating were going the other way, towards Atlas Interstellar instead of from it.


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    When she arrived at the main command center, the room was still filled with analysts and simulation specialists hard at work.


    ¡°Admiral on deck!¡±


    Every officer and enlisted stood at once, rendering a crisp salute.


    ¡°At ease, spacers¡ª¡± Her casual wave was cut off by thunderous applause. She smiled wryly at her people, nodding at the people she recognized. When the room finally quieted down, she looked at her familiar head analyst, Samantha, who looked to be functioning on as little sleep as she was. ¡°Sit rep, Commander?¡±


    ¡°Znosian Battlegroup Cottontail was divided into three approaches,¡± Sam replied, pointing to the diverging trajectories on the battlemap. ¡°Fluffle 1 has just arrived at Ceres. They trashed the orbital shipyards as we expected. That is the worst news.¡±


    Amelia took a quick glance at the jewel shipyards of the Republic, shattering into a trillion useless pieces with just a few shots from the Znosian fleet. Some of the more expensive equipment had been evacuated, but the jungle of modular stations in Ceres orbit was simply not designed to be moved, not even with a tug. Their stationary defenses were designed to fight pirates and terrorist raids, not a full battle fleet. And judging by the pictures, some of the damage was self-inflicted. The enemy couldn¡¯t be allowed to capture Republic secrets intact.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ all the bad news we have?¡±


    ¡°Not quite, ma¡¯am. Just the worst. They have begun bombarding the planetoid with their anti-ship kinetics. Luckily, our civilians who were unable to evacuate Ceres have been able to relocate into the deeper Ceres mines and quarries, which they are unlikely to be able to reach with just ship-to-ship weapons. And they didn¡¯t bring any orbital fire support ships there, so they are safe¡­ for now. We¡¯re getting total casualty numbers in the low thousands or high hundreds, mostly from induced cave-ins. In the Jovian colonies, the situation is similar. Most civilians were evacuated or were able to reach deep underground Jovian storm shelters. And our orbital infrastructure there ¡ª they¡¯re less extensive. The damage to our domed surface economies will likely be near-total, but again, without orbital transport and fire support ships, we think our people there are mostly safe for now.¡±


    ¡°Mostly safe,¡± Amelia repeated the grim oxymoron, thinking about her friends and neighbors on Ganymede. She put them out of her mind to do her job. ¡°What about the Red Zone?¡±


    ¡°That is also in the bad news category, but of a different kind. Due to pulling out most of our garrisons and batteries there, what remained of the Saturnian Resistance Navy has begun re-surfacing like ants. No casualties yet, but there are reports that they¡¯ve been using the opportunity to seize administrative control of stations sporadically over the Red Zone and at least two ground settlements on Titan. Several of the Resistance-controlled stations are refusing us permission to dock our transports to evacuate while¡ª¡±


    ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake! Of course, they are,¡± she swore. ¡°Rats vying for control of the sinking ship.¡±


    There was a murmur of activity at one of the tables. Amelia directed her look in its direction. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    One of the officers pointed at the large main screen of the command center. It was now playing live footage from a surface recon satellite over Titan. A series of thin contrails rose from its icy surface, numbering six in total, one of them much larger than the others. As they watched on the screen, the small half-squadron exited the thin Titan atmosphere to burn towards orbit.


    ¡°God damn Ace of Clubs,¡± Amelia cursed again. ¡°I knew I should have gutted her like a fish and fed her¡ª¡±


    ¡°Admiral, they¡¯re hailing us through the FTL link at Cassini.¡±


    ¡°Put her through. And give me firing solutions on them with our long-range batteries. We can spare six long-range missiles if it¡¯s the last thing we have to do.¡±


    In no time, the imagery on the screen was replaced by a video stream from the ships now orbiting Titan. The scarred face of the Ace of Clubs appeared, smiling thinly at her. ¡°Rep Admiral Amelia Waters. Or should I say¡­ Supreme Allied Commander?¡± It was almost impressive just how much contempt and mocking she managed to pour into the last three words.


    ¡°What do you think your rust buckets are doing, Ace?¡± Amelia snapped at her. ¡°You need to tell your people to allow our evacuation shuttles to dock to get the civilians to safety. Whatever last century sensors you are mounting on your cargo ships, even you can see the shitstorm coming your way. The Buns coming in aren¡¯t going to differentiate between your people and ours when they blow the Red Zone to pieces.¡±


    The old pirate turned Resistance Ace cocked her head. ¡°Yeah, I guess your propagandists were telling the truth about this one, huh?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± Amelia said sarcastically, ¡°Really makes me wonder what else they were right about!¡±


    ¡°Whatever. The people of the Free Zone aren¡¯t going anywhere.¡±


    ¡°You idiot, you know they don¡¯t care about civilian casualties or the laws of war like our¡ª¡±


    ¡°And unlike that massive¡ª blob¡­ fleet heading your way, I only see seventy-two ¡ª six squadrons ¡ª of their ships coming for us. We¡¯re not taking one step backwards from our homes, Rep. Today, the Resistance is triumphant. Today, the Resistance Ghost Fleet intends to do what the Republic will not. What it cannot. Today, the Resistance defends the people of the Free Zone. Today we are the inheritors of the Saturnian Dream, the children of¡ª¡±


    Amelia gestured to mute the call. ¡°What assets are they uncovering now?¡±


    ¡°Uncertain, Admiral, but our recon stations are now showing active radar emitters on¡­ just about every known Resistance strongpoint and several unknown ones¡­ in addition to those six mobile ships. They are bringing online Pigeon batteries and linked radar stations ¡ª all of them are using outdated black market equipment, but it¡¯s the Buns so they might actually do some damage. And there is something odd about¡ª there is something odd about her signature profile. That ship¡­¡±


    The Ace of Clubs could talk, but she was no inspirational figure like the Ace of Hearts. And it was obvious her heart just wasn¡¯t in it. Amelia turned back at the screen, cutting the Ace off from her embarrassingly boring rant, ¡°What do you want, Ace? I don¡¯t have time for chitchat, and while I don¡¯t mind you and Buns killing each other all you want, I would¡ª if you had a shred of decency in your heart, you would let the hundreds of thousands of innocent civilian Red Zone colonists under your control go.¡±


    ¡°You can help me end this bloodshed between our people today, Admiral. You have to take us seriously now. You know our demands. All we want is administrative control of everything within Saturn orbit. We can¡ª we can be flexible on future Republic Navy basing rights and¡ª and orbit-sharing schemes¡ª¡±


    ¡°You want to discuss¡ª¡± Amelia shook her head vigorously. ¡°Basing rights?! No. Whatever happens here, you are still terrorists and wanted criminals. And you still massacred hundreds of our people ¡ª on every planet and in every colony, thousands over the decades¡­¡±


    ¡°Then, I guess we have nothing to talk about, Admiral¡ª¡±


    Amelia interrupted the cocky pirate, ¡°That said, if you survive the coming storm, I am willing to grant some of your people clemency. That is contingent on you cooperating and allowing civilian evacuations now. Your operatives and spacers who didn¡¯t participate in the planning for the massacre on Mars can be¡ª¡±


    The Ace tutted. ¡°Admiral, Admiral, Admiral. Your whole universe is falling in front of your eyes, and you¡¯re still trying to play us. We want our own place in the galaxy. We deserve as much.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Your own place in the galaxy. Full amnesty, as long as you accept relocation to another star system.¡±


    She¡¯d thrown it out there, as a retort to the Ace¡¯s ludicrous demands, just some insanity to match the Resistance leader¡¯s before she ordered their end with the new powers she¡¯d been given. But to her total surprise, the Ace actually looked intrigued. ¡°Relocation? What would that deal look like?¡±


    What would that deal look like?


    Amelia thought on her feet. ¡°Uh¡­ Another star system. Somewhere out of the way. Somewhere where you can run your own¡­ outfit however you want. Any of our systems but Sol. Hell, you can pick one of the Znosian systems if you want for all I care. We¡¯ll even give you a ride there.¡±


    The Ace hesitated. ¡°Exile? That¡¯s hardly better than Neu-Nuremberg.¡±


    Covering her astonishment that the Ace was even considering it, Amelia said sarcastically, ¡°Damn, I knew we should have brought back legal executions and torture for a better negotiation position.¡±


    ¡°Fine. As long as we get to pick the star system,¡± the Ace replied after a minute.


    ¡°Excuse me? I didn¡¯t quite hear¡ª¡±


    ¡°We accept the outline of those terms, Rep.¡± The near-death experience must have broken ¡ª or fixed ¡ª something in her. Either that, or the aliens banging on her door. The Ace continued, ¡°And anyone, including any Resistance prisoner you are holding, can voluntarily come with us. Whether they¡¯re currently in the Free Zone or not. And we get FTL radios to talk to people back in Sol; no more of your jamming nonsense.¡±


    ¡°As long as they get to voluntarily leave if they want. And we aren¡¯t just going to send you an endless stream of criminals. The amnesty deal only applies to crimes committed before you leave,¡± Amelia added.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to recognize us as the legitimate authority of that system.¡±


    ¡°Legitimate¡ª¡± Amelia sputtered.


    ¡°That is a non-negotiable position, Admiral,¡± the Ace said, her eyes hard. ¡°It¡¯s important to us.¡±


    ¡°One of the legitimate authorities of the system.¡±


    The Ace thought about it for another few heartbeats. ¡°Fine. A legitimate authority.¡±


    Amelia looked at the clock worryingly. ¡°As long as you don¡¯t attack us there too, deal.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs narrowed her eyes, looking at the admiral skeptically. ¡°Do you even have the authority to grant this, or are you just pulling a fast one over me, Rep?¡±


    ¡°I am the Supreme Allied Commander of all Republic and Malgeir forces. Have I ever broken my word? To you?¡± She held her breath.


    Her counterpart thought for a second. ¡°I guess not, Rep. In that case, with the whole Sol system as our witness, we have a deal.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Now, allow our evacuation shuttles to dock so we can get our people¡ª¡±


    The Ace howled in laughter. She only stopped laughing a few seconds later to taunt, ¡°You still don¡¯t understand us, do you, Rep? You people never did. We¡¯re not going to lose. Every man, every woman, every child¡­ out here in the Resistance: we are all going to fight. Because the Resistance, we have a secret weapon, Admiral.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? A total lack of morals does not, in fact, count¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Admiral. You see¡­ our secret weapon is: unlike you and your jackboots, we have nowhere else to go. This is our home. Here, on the edge of civilization. Now, you can accept that, or you can keep trying to get us to run like your people did¡ª¡±


    Amelia couldn¡¯t believe herself. Her whole life, her whole career, fighting the Resistance. She sighed again, this time a lot more in resignation, ¡°What do you need? Against the Znosian squadrons.¡±


    ¡°Full integration into your battle planning systems so we can¡ª¡±


    ¡°You wish. Pull the other one.¡±


    ¡°Fine, just sensors is fine.¡±


    Amelia nodded reluctantly and turned to Samantha. ¡°Give them an open stream out of whatever FTL assets we have in the Red Zone. Gravidar and targeting priority queue.¡± She hesitated for another second, and then continued, ¡°The defensive batteries we couldn¡¯t move: reprogram their IFF to designate all non-Znosian targets in Sol as¡­ friendly strategic assets. And get on the phone with the mercs, Black Hole Sun and the lot, and let them know so we aren¡¯t shooting¡ª¡±


    ¡°Friendly strategic assets?¡± Samantha asked quietly, ¡°Admiral? Are you sure about this?¡±


    ¡°Do it,¡± Amelia ordered. ¡°And feed them recommendations from our tactical computers. Make sure to make them as detailed as possible, as if we were coaching a little league team playing their first big game.¡±


    ¡°Plenty of practice at that with the Puppers,¡± Samantha muttered.


    Amelia turned back to the Resistance Ace now giving more orders to her people in the background, speaking with enough volume that she knew the other end of the call would hear her loud-and-clear. ¡°If they betray us¡ª when they do, we can always hunt them down. After all, we know exactly where they are now. All of them.¡±


    Samantha nodded, giving the order. She sighed, commenting, ¡°Pirates and terrorists as friendly strategic assets. Bet the Buns didn¡¯t see that coming.¡±


    Amelia cut the transmission. ¡°Neither did I. Vive la fucking R¨¦sistance¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 2239, Saturn (12 Ls)


    POV: Tvadnek, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers Tvadnek, there are new targets. Six predator ships, rising up from Titan,¡± the computer officer reported. ¡°And we¡¯re getting some unusual emissive readings from some of the unpopulated rocks in Saturnian orbit. It appears the Great Predators did not retreat all their forces from this planet as we initially observed. I take full responsibility for this failure in intelligence.¡±


    ¡°Only six ships?¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    The distance between Jupiter and Saturn on 2125-09-05 is roughly 92 light minutes. As both these planets will be slightly further away from Charon than Ceres, ships heading for all three (assuming same acceleration profiles) from Charon will arrive in the following order: Ceres, Saturn, then Jupiter.


    Since space combat ships are faster than the orbital ships the main fleet are escorting to Mars and Earth, it makes sense they arrive at the outer planets first even though Charon would be closer to both Mars and Earth than Ceres. Coincidentally, around that date, the inner planets are laid out so that Venus, Earth, and Mars are all roughly the same distance from Charon.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 63 Ghost Fleet V

    <div>


    ZNS 2239, Saturn (12 Ls)


    POV: Tvadnek, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Only six ships?¡± Tvadnek questioned.


    ¡°Yes, and they are not hiding at all. We can see them all on our sensors without issue.¡±


    ¡°Surely they don¡¯t think these are sufficient to stop our six squadrons with half a squadron and a smattering of immobile batteries?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they are crazy,¡± she replied. ¡°Or just desperate. This is exactly what we would expect the Lesser Predators to¡ª¡±


    ¡°We are not to make that mistake,¡± he cautioned her. ¡°Many a Znosian Navy commander has disgraced himself in the Prophecy, underestimating the Great Predators. There is a reason that is their official State Security nomenclature: to remind us not to do exactly that. They are not Lesser Predators, nor the Slow Predators I personally engaged in battle over Grantor years ago. They are Great Predators. We will honor the threat with the overwhelming force and caution it deserves.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers,¡± she said, looking properly chastised. ¡°Should we start shelling the rocks that are scanning us with radar?¡±


    ¡°How many are there?¡±


    ¡°Almost two thousand new signals, by the combat computer¡¯s last count, and more and more are appearing,¡± she reported dutifully. ¡°It is enough to be slowing the sensor computers down noticeably.¡±


    The fans for the ship computers grew even louder as they struggled to keep their rooms cool. The additional calculation wasn¡¯t enough to crash them, but if many more targets appeared, they might have to start offloading their calculations between the ships. With the predators jamming their regular radios, data could be lost in transit or be too slow, and they might start to lose resolution¡­


    ¡°What should we do, Nine Whiskers?¡± his computer officer asked.


    ¡°Hm¡­ there¡¯s way too many of them for our guns to deal with¡­ for now. And we will need every bit of ammunition we can hang onto to destroy their stations and colonies. Monitor the potential threats. If any start showing signs of aggression, destroy it and categorize its signal for future reference,¡± he ordered. ¡°And get us in range of those mobile ships as quickly as possible. They have the range advantage; we can¡¯t give them time to keep us in their range bubble while we remain out of theirs.¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Admiral, the EW team has figured out why the Ghost Fleet flagship signature is so familiar,¡± Samantha reported quietly. ¡°It¡¯s not a repurposed cargo ship carrying missiles as we originally thought.¡±


    ¡°Not a cargo hull? Then what is that massive monstrosity?!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one of ours.¡±


    ¡°One of ours?¡± Amelia turned around, startled.


    ¡°Yes, Admiral,¡± she replied in a low voice, lightly shushing the admiral. ¡°It¡¯s the TRNS Endurance.¡±


    ¡°What? Which one? There¡¯s like ten of those over the years¡ª¡±


    ¡°The ship we lost to that massive Resistance surprise attack over Ganymede in ¡¯97. One of the four. It¡¯s the parasite carrier.¡±


    Amelia looked back at the main screen displaying the Resistance¡­ fleet in a small window on the bottom-left corner. The surface of the ship was covered with layers and layers of additional metal plating and accessories adorned with Resistance symbols and obscenities, but if she squinted at it in just the right way ¡ª she began to see the contours of the autonomous parasite carrier laid down at Ceres in 2088, the last of her breed before parasite fighters went out of fashion.


    The fighters were autonomous, not the carrier. The carrier itself had a crew of almost a thousand, and they were lost with all hands, previously assumed lost because she ate one in the reactor.


    Apparently not. Maybe the safety measures worked. Either way¡­


    ¡°How did they manage to hide it from us?!¡±


    ¡°No idea. But there have always been rumors¡­¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± Amelia said, making up her mind. ¡°You were right to keep this quiet. Some of the people in this room lost family, close friends, and coworkers to the Resistance in that attack. We¡¯re already asking them a lot, our¡ª our cooperation with the terrorists. Let¡¯s keep this under wraps for now ¡ª we¡¯ll demand it back from the damn Resistance when they finish with the aliens. And the bodies of our crew.¡±


    ¡°You think¡­ she¡¯ll go for it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll raise a big stink about it, but the amnesty deal was not open-ended, and that is Republic Navy property. They¡¯ll probably claim some idiotic thing about legitimate salvage, but better fight them in the courts than out in vacuum. Does the presence of the Endurance change anything about our calculations?¡±


    ¡°Initially, we assumed she just had a cargo hold full of Pigeons she was planning to just dump at the aliens, but¡­¡± Samantha said.


    ¡°But?¡± Amelia asked, then tilted her head. ¡°If I had the internal volume, I would rather have the Pigeons than the parasite fighters to be honest. Not as glamorous, but much more space efficient and¡ª¡±


    Samantha countered, ¡°But the Buns have never seen our old parasites. And we never told the Puppers about them either. So¡­ the enemy fleet might mistake them for reconnaissance drones or not have their radar profiles, and they might let the parasite missile platforms get in a lot closer than they really should. Some of them must have been modified for low observability too. Those tiny anti-ship Hummingbirds on their pylons¡­ they might not do a lot of damage through modern armored plating, but in swarms and at close range¡­ it¡¯s anyone¡¯s ball game.¡±


    Amelia¡¯s head snapped back at the screen, running it over in her head. ¡°Hm¡­ fascinating. This is like one of those silly who-would-win experiments we¡¯d try in the simulation lab as command officers in training at the Staff College.¡±


    Samantha nodded. ¡°The thing is, someone over at the TRO did actually consider giving the Puppers some of these retired carriers before they decided the Pigeons were the better option.¡±


    ¡°Were they wrong?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ almost certainly not. At least not long term. The Pigeons are a more flexible choice for the Malgeir Navy, and we can deliver them piecemeal unlike a carrier. Much lower maintenance requirements and a smaller logistics footprint. But now¡­ we are talking about one single carrier, and for one single battle in Sol, when they don¡¯t know¡ª¡±


    ¡°I see. Dig up those simulations and transmit the updated tactical plan to the Ace. Before the parasite carrier gets in range and she commits to a strategy, preferably,¡± Amelia said, pointing at the ongoing action on the screen.


    One of the unveiled asteroid Resistance batteries was finally beginning to open fire.


    <hr>


    ZNS 2239, Saturn (10 Ls)


    POV: Tvadnek, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Squadron 2 reports twenty missiles fired from one of the rocks! Incoming from long range! The acceleration and radar profile show that these are the ones that they give the Lesser Predators!¡±


    Nine Whiskers Tvadnek wheeled his command chair around to face her. ¡°The Pigeons? The ones State Security says they don¡¯t use anymore? Old ships and old missiles¡­ interesting¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers, Squadron 2 is defending. Counter-missiles and countermeasures out! They¡¯re burning hard.¡±


    Red dots appeared on the screen, tracking the incoming threats as they approached the vanguard squadron. Squadron 2 began to drop its experimental radar confuser devices and counter-missiles behind it as it urgently burned its thrusters away from the missiles to maximize its defensive zone while minimizing the enemy Pigeons¡¯ fully powered range. One of its ships launched a salvo of deadly explosive munitions at the precise location where the missile launch was detected.


    All as their crews had been trained.


    After all, these ships were not crewed by mere spacers of the Dominion Navy. They were a vanguard squadron of the Grand Fleet. The elite of the elite. The best that the Dominion could muster for this predator threat. Even if they could not fight these Great Predators to a standstill on a one-to-one basis, as long as they could expend the enemies, as long as they could make them bleed ¡ª their bloodlines would be honored with many future hatchlings.


    Tvadnek could almost hear the busy professionalism on their bridge as they executed the textbook defensive maneuver flawlessly, exactly as they¡¯d done hundreds of times in the simulators.


    ¡°Eight of their twenty missiles are being redirected by our new radar confusers!¡± his computer officer reported, her voice triumphant.


    Forty percent!


    He felt a brief moment of elation.


    He quashed it immediately. These were their outdated missiles. And they only launched twenty of them at once ¡ª he was not naive enough to think that was going to be the extent of the predators¡¯ defenses in this area.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Tvadnek projected calm confidence. ¡°Excellent. A blessing from the Prophecy. Tell Squadron 2 to not let their guard down. There may be more.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. Squadron 2 Leader agrees. He is assessing this may have been a simple probe. His defenses are ready to launch. They should be more than capable of absorbing this volley without losses.¡±


    The secondary screen on his console flashed thermal white as a volley of anti-ship kinetics hit the faraway asteroid that housed the facility which launched the missile, reducing it to rubble. His sensor computers briefly hiccupped as they dealt with the flash of new signatures from the strike debris, but they resolved the issue near-instantly.


    Everything according to plan.


    That was the issue with static bases. Once they revealed themselves, they were at the mercy of mobile ships that could choose the time and manner of any engagement they desired. And just as importantly, they were vulnerable to kinetic projectiles, which could even be fired from well outside their powered range. It might take hours. It might take days. Might even take weeks. But those missile sites and the rocks they were on would be wiped out, sooner or later.


    Which was why the Dominion did not excessively rely on static defenses. Unlike predators early in the war.


    Well, the other predators. The idiot ones. These Great Predators are different.


    Tvadnek reminded himself not to get over-confident again. It was difficult, given the numbers disparity, but he managed. After all, he was very well-trained too.


    He cleared his throat. ¡°Computer officer, progress?¡±


    ¡°Counter-missiles in Squadron 2 have been launched. Squadron 2 Leader is opting for a four-to-one ratio.¡±


    Bold choice.


    The Datsot invasion fleet might have been utterly annihilated by the predators a couple years ago, but the many lessons the Dominion had learned from them before they were fully lost were now put on display. The Ship Design Bureau had done their best to equalize the advantage predators missiles had. Beyond that, it was just math.


    The effective hit rate of their new, agile counter-missile defense was estimated to be a little over 50% against one of these old-style Pigeons. Which was pretty good when the Great Predators were involved. Against most of their newer hiding missiles, the Dominion¡¯s best counter-missile defense had close to zero percent hit rates; the standard procedures in those cases was to simply rush at the enemy with numbers and well¡­ their lives were forfeited and all that.


    But that kind of heavy sacrifice would not be needed here. At 50% hit rate and four counters per missile, Squadron 2 could lower their expected loss to the volley to just under one ship. With five, it could be under half a ship. Then again, they had other defenses, and the squadron leader might also be testing their own defenses against the enemy.


    Tvadnek decided to walk the fine line between caution and defeatism. ¡°Four-to-one is risky,¡± Tvadnek said after a while. ¡°But acceptable. I will confirm the decision and cosign my responsibility for its outcome.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    The counter-missiles raced out. And as expected, they plucked the incoming threats out of vacuum in a single wave.


    A record against the Great Predators, surely.


    He refrained from cheering, and his decision proved wise two minutes later when the klaxons sounded again.


    His computer officer announced the threats, ¡°New incoming missiles! Another twenty.¡±


    Tvadnek frowned at his console. ¡°I thought we killed that base already.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s from another rock,¡± she explained hurriedly as the icons popped up on the screen. ¡°Slightly further out this time.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    This time, instead of preparing its counter-missile defenses, Squadron 2 simply burnt away from the new missiles.


    His computer officer nodded in understanding. ¡°The missiles were fired from far away. They¡¯re right at the edge of their powered range; Squadron 2 should be able to simply avoid¡ª¡± she suddenly stopped talking, just staring at her screen.


    ¡°What is it, Six Whiskers?¡± Tvadnek asked.


    ¡°Another twenty Pigeons incoming!¡±


    ¡°The predators mis-coordinated their volley?¡± Tvadnek was still studying the battlemap. ¡°Squadron 2 will still be able to burn out of their radius, right?¡±


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, the second volley was from a different rock! It¡¯s coming from behind Squadron 2!¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re turning and burning. If they¡¯re lucky, they should still be able to¡ª¡± she stopped talking again as the klaxon sounded again.


    Tvadnek looked at her expectantly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.


    ¡°Third volley! Another twenty incoming! That¡¯s from another one of the rocks!¡±


    Ah, there¡¯s the enemy we expected.


    ¡°This must be a stronghold. Target the rocks, and get us into the fight,¡± he ordered. ¡°Overlapping coverage on all our ships, all squadrons proceed to¡ª¡±


    Another klaxon cut off the remainder of his words.


    ¡°Fourth volley incoming!¡±


    The number of incoming threats climbed on their sensors as he slammed his paw on the mute button. ¡°Update our defensive plans and get us in there.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. We are twenty minutes out. Squadron 2 Leader is now reporting that he will likely take some casualties from this attack¡­ He has recorded his full responsibility.¡±


    ¡°Accepted! Full burn, we should be able to get there before another¡ª¡±


    Another wave of missiles poured onto the screen. The ship¡¯s computer alarms were going non-stop now.


    ¡°There are now active targeting radar signals beaming Squadron 2 from every rock within a hundred thousand kilometers!¡± his computer officer reported, her voice significantly less steady than it was half an hour ago.


    ¡°Another rock? What¡¯s going on? How many of these batteries¡ª¡± Tvadnek began to snarl.


    And as he watched, the six projected enemy bases on his sensor console turned into sixty.


    Then, six hundred. And the launch warnings mounted.


    ¡°It¡¯s impossible to tell how many there are! There are so many active signals from the rocks! We¡¯ve detected another volley launch! By the Prophecy¡­ that¡¯s fifteen simultaneous volleys! Over a thousand hostile targeting signals on sensors and climbing!¡±


    The signal count climbed. He was sure many of the active radar signatures were harmless by themselves or just independent targeting sensors, but¡­ they were essentially acting as decoys for the actual missile launch sites.


    Of which there were also plenty ¡ª apparently.


    Isn¡¯t this the edge of their industrial activity with only a few dozen frontier colonies for resource extraction? Why in the Prophecy would the predators need so many radar sites and missile batteries out here?!


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, the squadron leader is requesting assistance. One of his ships has just lost telemetry, and there¡¯s more new missiles incoming!¡±


    ¡°Connect me to him!¡±


    The face of the panicking squadron leader showed up on his screen with an annoying two light second delay.


    ¡°Squadron Leader, what¡¯s going on over there?¡± Tvadnek demanded.


    ¡°Nine Whiskers! The rocks! They¡¯re speaking predator! Incoming! Brace! Brace¡ª¡±


    The screen disappeared into static. As the alarms and beeping stopped, he could hear how quiet the bridge was aside from the computer fans struggling to keep up as they processed the incoming data from the sensors.


    ¡°Status report?¡± he asked quietly.


    His computer officer took a few seconds to confirm. ¡°We¡¯ve lost telemetry on all ships in Squadron 2,¡± she reported just as quietly. ¡°Should we continue our burn to that volume? To begin search and rescue?¡±


    Tvadnek swallowed as he examined the fallen squadron¡¯s life pods on his battlemap. He forcibly redirected his attention to his actual objective. He shook his head. ¡°That would be unnecessary. Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools. Take us out of this volume¡­ And adapt our navigation course to what we have learned, thanks to the brave spacers of Squadron 2: avoid dense volumes of asteroids in this ring system.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. We¡¯ve calculated an alternate course that should take us to their mobile fleet while avoiding their¡­ rocks.¡±


    ¡°Good. And tell the combat computer to best determine which of those signals did actually launch on Squadron 2. One volley each should suffice.¡±


    He considered his last order for only a heartbeat. It might not have been the most efficient targeting priority: those rail cannon munitions would surely kill far more predators if they were used against their surface colonies and noncombatant targets.


    But Tvadnek was reasonably sure that nobody at State Security would penalize his bloodline for this little inefficiency. Servants of the Prophecy were allowed a little bit of fun from time to time.


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Good work with that one Bun squadron,¡± Amelia said, rolling her eyes at the ferociously grinning Ace of Clubs. ¡°Bravo. One of your minions took the Squadron Tactics 101 online course from the Staff College. Or the old advisor intelligence on the Endurance somehow still works.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs obviously didn¡¯t let Amelia color her mood. ¡°That¡¯s twelve fewer ships you have to deal with, Rep,¡± she pointed out triumphantly.


    Amelia pointed at the screen. ¡°And now, they¡¯ve learned better. See? The other squadrons are now ¡ª correctly ¡ª avoiding every rock in the area bigger than a missile at oh¡ª would you look at that? The exact minimum abort range of your obsolete Pigeon missiles. Textbook response. You¡¯ve revealed your entire hand to them like an amateur poker player at a Titan casino. And that¡¯s the difference between tactics and operations, which you would know if you took the 102 course.¡±


    The former outlaw sighed. ¡°You Reps are a bunch of downers, you know that? You called me this time, Admiral. What do you want?¡±


    Amelia brought up her tablet in one hand. ¡°My people say you are rejecting some of their recommendations for the deployment of your parasite fighters.¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°And what?¡±


    ¡°May I ask¡­ why not?¡±


    The Ace smiled again. ¡°You may.¡±


    She resisted the urge to throttle someone. ¡°Why are your people not following the deployment plan?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s simple. Because my people don¡¯t take orders from Rep jackboots.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not orders. They¡¯re¡­ common sense. Your original plan is less idiotic than your usual ilk. Look, we¡¯re even working based off it. You want to bait them all into a three-dimensional cauldron, but we¡¯re telling you¡ª suggesting¡­ how to box them all in if you can stagger your flights¡ª¡±


    ¡°Look, Rep,¡± the Ace of Clubs pointed at her. ¡°My people know what they¡¯re doing. We¡¯ve even got three of your former Navy¡ª¡±


    Amelia waved impatiently. ¡°Yes, yes, we know you¡¯ve got a former transport pilot and two chefs who have broken their oaths to the Republic. But let¡¯s get serious¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stay in your lane, Rep. You keep feeding us that sensor data, we¡¯ll take care of your alien infestation problem for you over here. And don¡¯t you have your own fleets of doom to deal with over there?¡±


    ¡°Listen, Ace. I¡¯ve been out there defending the people of the Republic from the Znosian menace for years ¡ª that includes you by the way. I know how they operate. Your people haven¡¯t fought a real naval war in decades¡ª¡±


    Amelia immediately regretted her words. That was absolutely the wrong thing to say¡­


    The Ace puffed up her chest in pride at the comment. ¡°My people know how to fight. Especially in space. The Resistance was born in the harshness of the dark. There¡¯s no need to tell us how to do what we do best.¡±


    Amelia couldn¡¯t help but roll her eyes again. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s great, Ace. And if I ever need to blow up a nursery on Mimas, I¡¯ll gladly defer to your decades of unparalleled expertise. But in a fleet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thanks, but no thanks for the advice. We¡¯ve got this, Rep. Go eat a bag of¡ª¡±


    The connection cut out.


    The admiral stared at the blank transmission window for a second.


    Then, she shrugged.


    Amelia knew who she wanted to win in a fight between the two enemies¡­ but she wasn¡¯t that attached to either outcome.


    Besides, the Ace had a point. She had her own problems to deal with.


    ¡°How is Mars doing?¡±


    ¡°Final preparations are being completed. Enemy squadrons in Battlegroup Dwarf are projected to arrive in five hours.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 2239, Saturn (6 Ls)


    POV: Tvadnek, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers¡­¡± the computer officer¡¯s voice trailed off.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked irritably. Losing one squadron wasn¡¯t the end of the world, but he¡¯d expected to conduct this operation with far fewer losses. ¡°Did we at least finish blowing up those rocks with the identified radar signals near our intercept point with their mobile fleet?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, Nine Whiskers,¡± she replied. ¡°We¡ª we¡¯re getting a direct transmission signal.¡±


    ¡°From the ten whiskers? How are things going in the inner planets?¡±


    ¡°No, not the fleet. It¡¯s from one of the Great Predators¡­ near us. They¡¯re asking to speak directly to you¡ª to the people in charge, they say.¡±


    Tvadnek looked at his console with mild annoyance. ¡°What could they possibly have to say to us now?!¡±


    The computer officer read from her console, ¡°They say they¡¯re not with the other Great Predators on their home planet, and¡­ they want to negotiate independently.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 64 Ghost Fleet VI

    <div>


    <div>


    ZNS 2239, Saturn (6 Ls)


    POV: Tvadnek, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Negotiations? Now?


    Servants of the Prophecy were not above using trickery and playing predators¡¯ disunity and greed against each other. Intrigued at the opportunity and recalling his briefings about the internal political strife of the Great Predators, Tvadnek ordered, ¡°Put them on the screen.¡±


    The revolting image of one of the Great Predators showed up on his screen. It showed all its teeth at him. Tvadnek was unfazed at the predatory threat display. ¡°What do you want, abomination?¡±


    The creature on his screen recoiled in mock horror. ¡°Wow, that¡¯s rude, Mr. Bunny No-Manners. And not very diplomatic of you. Barely one sentence in, and you guys have confirmed you are exactly what the Reps say you are.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about your internal politics, predator,¡± Tvadnek snapped. ¡°What is your rank, and what do you want to negotiate about?¡±


    ¡°No rank,¡± the creature said, pointing at its dirty clothing. If that ugly rag it was wrapped in could be called clothing. ¡°Oh-ho-ho. Look, no uniform. I¡¯m what the Reps call a civvie ¡ª until it¡¯s convenient for me, of course. We did participate in hostilities ¡ª oops ¡ª but hey, none of us signed no Geneva Conventions, which don¡¯t even apply to you even if we¡ª¡±


    Tvadnek ignored the insane rambling. ¡°Is your entire species as boring as you are, or are you just a defective specimen? Get to the point!¡±


    The predator showed even more of its teeth at the insult. ¡°No problem, my friend. We can be direct. We¡¯re just calling because we have a couple thousand of your people ejected from your squadron of ships who wandered into the wrong neighborhood. So¡­ you¡¯re going to want to listen to me very carefully or something terrible might happen to our new guests.¡±


    ¡°Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools,¡± Tvadnek recited defiantly.


    ¡°Huh. Apparently, your brainwashing is worse than the Republic education system. All your people repeat that crap,¡± the predator commented. ¡°So¡­ you aren¡¯t interested in getting them back?¡±


    Tvadnek thought quickly, and his eyes lit up. This idiotic specimen seemed gullible enough¡­ ¡°No, no, I¡¯m interested. We¡¯ll allow you to live if you give our people back. That is what you want, right?¡±


    The creature opened its mouth and began to make a repeated hyuk-ing sound. Tvadnek was once again glad for his training and experience in deciphering predator body language. This one was near-universal.


    Predator laughter.


    ¡°No deal, alien meanie. We¡¯re interested in your ships. You see¡­ after we beat you guys here, we¡¯re getting out of here and getting our own star system. We want three of your squadrons, just as a prize so we can have our own real Navy. Nothing fancy. Just three squadrons. Thirty-six interstellar ships. Leave them aside for us, and we¡¯ll give your people back. Isn¡¯t that a fair deal?¡±


    ¡°That is not even remotely a reasonable deal,¡± Tvadnek complained.


    ¡°Sorry, but I can¡¯t go any lower than that, my friend.¡±


    ¡°I am not your friend.¡±


    ¡°Then you don¡¯t get the friends and family discount.¡±


    ¡°Stop wasting my time, then.¡± Tvadnek sighed. ¡°How many ships is it without the¡­ discount?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s also three squadrons, but your crews might be missing a few things when they get back. So¡­ what do you say, mister?¡±


    Tvadnek imitated its laughing sound in mocking. ¡°Hyuk hyuk hyuk! No! Stupid predator! We will not give up our ships! If you do not give our people back, we will find you¡ª¡±


    ¡°You drive a hard bargain, bunny rabbit, but I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t budge on the price of admission. If you don¡¯t want to pay, you have to get out of here. The Free Zone is ours¡­ until we beat you and get our own star system anyway. Those are the rules.¡±


    Tvadnek pretended to think for a second before he replied. He had plenty of hard-earned experience dealing with predator threats and their pitiful attempts at blackmail from his time at war against the Slow Predators and the Lesser Predators. ¡°No, and whatever you do to our prisoners, we will do the same to your people. Unlike your people, we do not have your¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, ah, ah. Wait a minute. Thank you for reminding me, mister. Somehow¡ª somehow I knew you might need a liiiiiiiitle bit of persuading,¡± the predator said, flashing its teeth at him again. It made a paw¡ª hand signal towards one of its compatriots off-screen. ¡°Good thing I brought some props here for a quick demonstration.¡±


    On the screen, they wheeled in one of his captains, an immobilized eight whiskers, tied up by all her limbs on a metal pole, screaming and spitting at the predators. ¡°Get away from me! Let me go! May your eggs rot¡ª¡±


    Crunch.


    Her angry cursing was broken off by one of the predators casually snapping her right arm-bone with a sickening noise.


    She screamed in pain.


    As Tvadnek seethed, the predator grabbed a handful of the Znosian officer¡¯s uniform to read her insignia over the screeching. ¡°Eight lines, I assume for¡­ eight whiskers? I do like your ranking system. Much less confusing than the Reps. Really makes it convenient for us when sorting. Hey, Charlize, come give me a hand.¡±


    Another predator came onscreen wheeling a tray of some kind. Off it, it grabbed a small container of some kind of dark-colored viscous liquid and began pouring it all over the screeching eight whiskers.


    Seemingly aware of her fate, the eight whiskers dropped her brave fa?ade, praying as she cried, ¡°My eternal gratitude to¡­ sob¡­ the Prophecy for this insignificant life of service. May It prevail through the will of others, and may the service of Its faithful and¡­ sob¡­ and worthy Servants bring about Its coming. For Its glorious purpose, our lives were¡­ sob¡­ forfeited to the Prophecy the day¡ª yowwwwwwwww!¡±


    Hissssssssssss.


    Tvadnek watched in horror as they quickly undressed and then dangled his subordinate over a metal grill with a roaring fire burning under it. Without ceremony, they set the eight whiskers straight down on the metal grill, the flesh on her back sizzling as she shrieked and sobbed in agony. One of the predators excitedly pressed her down even harder on the hot metal, further increasing the hissing on the grill and the poor captain¡¯s screams. It took almost three minutes for her to finally lose consciousness from the excruciating torture and to stop making sounds, her chest still and her flesh now smoking a different color on the metal grill.


    After another few minutes, the cursed predator came back onto the screen, holding a set of small but sharp-looking metallic utensils. To the continued revulsion of the 2239 bridge crew, it excitedly¡­ cut two chunks out of the unevenly cooked flesh on her back, peeled off the fur and skin in one swift go, then crammed the remainder in between two pieces of¡­ porous, ground particles and what looked like¡­ pieces of red and green vegetation?


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    It stuffed the contraption featuring the flesh of their former captain into its ugly predator snout and began to chew, seemingly in complete enjoyment at the irrational atrocity it just committed in front of the now-silent 2239 bridge.


    ¡°Not too bad,¡± it commented nonchalantly as it winked at the screen. ¡°Tastes just like chicken. Chicken burger. Hey, I think I might be the first human in history to taste Znosian. Yo, Charlize, I bet we could make a killing just breeding and selling these guys for meat. There¡¯s just¡ª there¡¯s a little something off about the taste though.¡±


    A higher pitch voice filtered in from off-screen, ¡°Yeah. I think you¡¯re supposed to skin and dress it before you cook it on the grill, idiot.¡±


    ¡°Well, how am I supposed to know?! We don¡¯t get a whole lot of fresh game around here. Does anyone know how¡ª never mind. This is just fine.¡± Finishing what it held in its hands, the abomination licked its lips and then fingers to get the remaining pieces of flesh into its hideous maw, careful not to miss anything.


    The psychotic look of enjoyment on its face¡­


    Tvadnek had been briefed on the predators¡¯ new ruses. Their proficiency with faking radio transmissions. Videos, even.


    There was no faking this. No way.


    As one of its senior commanders, Nine Whiskers Tvadnek had been in the Znosian Dominion Navy for more than a decade. He had seen death. He had seen war. He had seen atrocities, participating in some of them himself. He had seen the camps in which his people put captive predators to work and then to death.


    He had not seen this before.


    Not like this.


    In the worst horrors of this war, in those camps, the Lesser Predators and Slow Predators were sometimes so desperately hungry they¡¯d be willing to kill and eat guards or each other for food. But it was usually the dead, and it was never something they actually enjoyed doing. Never.


    Nine Whiskers Tvadnek was a borderline outlier, an almost-independently-thinking Znosian. Despite what State Security propaganda insisted, he knew that the predators always understood that there was something wrong¡­ something deeply indecent about killing and eating another live, intelligent creature. The innate empathy and restrictive morality he¡¯d come to expect from them¡­


    He looked back at the monster on the screen.


    There was none of that here. Not a shred of it.


    The realization triggered something unpleasant ¡ª something primitive ¡ª within him: fear of predators. He had been taught that State Security had successfully bred that useless instinct out of the entire species many centuries ago. And as he looked into the nightmare on the camera, he knew in his heart that had been another one of their many lies.


    Hurrrrrrrr-blaaaaaaaaargh.


    Tvadnek¡¯s subordinates didn¡¯t manage to keep the decorum and professionalism he did. Two of his junior officers hurled the contents of their stomachs onto the bridge floor. And from the smell, one of the navigation officers appeared to have soiled herself. She excused herself as she left the bridge to go clean up.


    The predator tore one of his former subordinate¡¯s leg off from her corpse with another disgusting snap. After peeling off some of the fur still stuck to the skin, it paused to look back at the camera, staring straight into Tvadnek¡¯s eyes as it bit into what was still alive minutes ago with its sharp canines. In between its bites, the sinister creature gestured to one of its people next to it with the half-eaten leg bone of his former captain. ¡°Bring the next one up, and send the rabbit roast down to the kitchen. We¡¯re eating good the next couple weeks.¡±


    They rolled out and ¡°prepared¡± one of his battlegroup¡¯s tied-up six whiskers computer officers in full view of the camera ¡ª this one now crying, begging for his life¡­ or at least a less painful death.


    No such luck.


    Snap. Crunch. Hissssssssssss.


    The predator continued its death stare into the camera without blinking as the ear-splitting screams continued in the grotesque video behind him. ¡°Let me make one thing very clear, asshole. In case you didn¡¯t understand, this was a message for you. We are not the Reps. We are not the puppies or teddy bears you kick around for sport. As you said, you wanna do the same to our prisoners when we¡¯re done here? Go right on ahead. Don¡¯t let me stop you.¡±


    Tvadnek said nothing, only stared emptily into the screen. It was taking all of his training and breeding to keep his whiskers from trembling.


    ¡°No? What¡¯s the matter? Oh, what¡¯s that you say? No appetite? Not so hungry any more? Did my poor wittle wabbits have too much to eat for bwunch?¡± The savage predator stared unblinkingly into the screen with both of its forward-facing eyes as its mouth formed an angry snarl. ¡°Nothing? Then get the fuck out of our Free Zone¡­ Vive la R¨¦sistance!¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°What in the¡­¡±


    ¡°Holy shit¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s¡ª What the fuck?¡±


    Amelia tried her best to ignore the gasps and murmurs in the command room and sighed. ¡°Who is that nutjob?¡±


    Samantha shrugged. ¡°Some psycho in one of their independent Resistance cells, I guess. We didn¡¯t have a file on him; we do now. This¡ª is this against¡ª against the rules?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Of course! And I don¡¯t care if they say laws of war don¡¯t apply to the aliens!¡± Amelia exclaimed. ¡°The Buns might do this to any of our people they might capture later! I don¡¯t want to give them any ideas! And¡­ if we had any chance of getting any of them to willingly surrender before we wipe them to the last, we can forget that now¡­¡±


    ¡°Not like we can call up the terrorists and tell them to stop doing this. Tigers changing stripes and all. The Ace of Clubs will probably laugh in your face if you complain to her about this.¡±


    ¡°How many Bun prisoners do they actually have?¡± Amelia asked, exasperated.


    ¡°They picked up all the ejected lifepods ¡ª every single one. I¡¯ve never seen them follow those rules of war so diligently. He was probably exaggerating a bit to the Buns, but yeah, at least a thousand of the Znosian spacers¡­ maybe more,¡± Samantha said as she counted on her screen.


    ¡°Are¡ª are they still broadcasting this¡ª this snuff film?¡±


    ¡°Yup, to all the Bun ships in the Red Zone,¡± Samantha replied. ¡°The video feed is still live. And uh¡­ hm¡­ there¡¯s more.¡±


    ¡°More?¡± Amelia asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ apparently, a couple other Resistance cells near them decided they wanted to be movie stars too. They¡¯re doing essentially the same thing, except one of them is organizing some kind of macabre gameshow for the captives. I think one of the streams out of Titan is probably a fake generated video; not because they¡¯re above doing this, but because we¡¯re pretty sure they didn¡¯t get to any of the life pods¡­¡±


    ¡°And the Buns? They¡¯re just letting it all play?¡±


    ¡°The Resistance cells have a hopper relay intelligence program going, one of those that gave us so much trouble finding them. The Buns are shooting up random rocks in the Saturnian rings from afar, but they¡¯re never going to find these cretins.¡±


    ¡°Where are they broadcasting from?¡±


    ¡°Point five light seconds¡ª yup, that¡¯s the Janus ring.¡±


    Amelia didn¡¯t have to look at the battlemap for that one. She commented dryly, ¡°Not a particularly good neighborhood for the Buns if they go looking.¡±


    ¡°No, not particularly.¡± The Saturnian Janus ring was the part of town where houses had metal bars over their windows, metaphorically. Samantha asked, ¡°Should we¡­ get our offensive mission intelligence to trace and shut them down?¡±


    Amelia could only shake her head speechlessly.


    ¡°And I think it¡¯s working,¡± Samantha remarked in surprise as her head turned to glance at the latest report. ¡°At least two of their squadron leaders¡ª they¡¯re holding back and requesting clarification ¡ª excuses. Nine Whiskers Tvadnek is screaming at them on the radio. His own squadron is¡ª it¡¯s blundering right along into the Ace¡¯s trap. And the parasite fighters are coasting in with the distraction¡­ I think¡ª I think they might actually have it.¡±


    ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough. And no, that is a line we are not crossing. Not today. Not any day. Those idiots out there deserve each other. I¡¯m done worrying about the Red Zone. How is the Martian defense doing?¡±


    ¡°Znosian Battlegroup Dwarf is arriving in the Samar Defense Zone in two hours. Peacekeeper Squadron 8 is ready for tasking.¡±


    ¡°Twenty-four enemy squadrons, eh?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Admiral. Under a Nine Whiskers Vdrojert.¡±


    ¡°Has Logistics Command completed the evacuation of Deimos and Phobos?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Good. Time to open the fifth seal of Revelations.¡±


    ¡°The¡­ souls crying out from under the altar?¡± Samantha asked with a confused expression as she checked her tablet.


    ¡°The souls¡­ what? No. The silence in heaven thing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I think that¡¯s the¡­ seventh seal.¡±


    ¡°Close enough.¡±


    <hr>


    Meta


    Geneva Convention III (1949), Article 13:


    Prisoners of war must at all times be humanely treated. Any unlawful act or omission by the Detaining Power causing death or seriously endangering the health of a prisoner of war in its custody is prohibited, and will be regarded as a serious breach of the present Convention. In particular, no prisoner of war may be subjected to physical mutilation or to medical or scientific experiments of any kind¡­

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 65 Deus Ex Machina

    <div>


    ZNS 3844, Mars (0.2 Ls)


    POV: Vdrojert, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Nine Whiskers Vdrojert, commander of Battlegroup Dwarf, looked curiously at the city lights on the night side of the red planet on her battlemap. ¡°Unbelievable,¡± she exclaimed. ¡°A completely inhospitable planet, and they colonized it anyway. To live here! It¡¯s not even a prison camp! Wasteful predators!¡± She shook her head in disgust, thinking about the immense squandering of resources required to tame this world for its residents.


    Her computer officer reported in, ¡°Nine Whiskers, the enemy squadron of old missile destroyers is now burning directly for us from low Martian orbit, almost in its atmosphere. We finally caught their radar signals.¡±


    ¡°The ones they call the Peacekeepers? What an odd name for a type of warship.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. They hide a little, but not nearly as invisible as their new, real hiding ships. Our radar ships found them as soon as they started to maneuver towards us.¡±


    Vdrojert nodded. ¡°Nonetheless, still impressive technology to not be immediately visible on sensors as soon as we entered the system.¡±


    The fleet would need to capture some samples of these Great Predators¡¯ technology for later. They¡¯ll come in useful for the Dominion¡¯s future wars. What a boon from the Prophecy!


    She turned to look at her computer officer again. ¡°What do you think their plan is? With only a squadron and now visible to us as we approach their planet ¡ª they must have some kind of special tactic in mind.¡±


    ¡°The Digital Guide says they will likely fire their medium missiles at us from long range, then try to rearm at one of their hidden munition stations in low Martian orbit and repeat until we destroy them all,¡± he repeated dutifully.


    ¡°How many of us will they get?¡± Vdrojert asked apprehensively.


    ¡°This type of ship was apparently not designed for fleet battle but rather local system defense and patrol. Based on their specs, two of their anti-ship missiles per ship, two squadrons per volley,¡± he calculated. ¡°Against our twenty-four squadrons. We only need one volley to take them out. And they need to rearm¡­ Digital Guide says they will get at most two or three volleys. Expect about four to six of our squadrons lost before we can put them down, worst case scenario.¡±


    Vdrojert sighed. ¡°That¡¯s still a large expenditure of spacers. How quickly do we forget¡­ before these Great Predators, we hadn¡¯t taken any casualties of this scale in at least centuries.¡±


    The computer officer shrugged. ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And on the most worthy of missions. Computer officer, burn to engage and destroy that¡­ Peacekeeper squadron. Once we clear the orbits, we can call in the Great Exterminators over Terra. Hopefully they¡¯ll have finished their jobs there by then, and they can get their people here to waste this joke of a colony.¡±


    <hr>


    A couple hours later, the enemy launched first.


    ¡°Launches! Enemy launches! Twenty-four missiles incoming ¡ª exactly as we expected ¡ª Nine Whiskers. We still have them on sensors!¡±


    ¡°Can we fire back?¡±


    ¡°Not effectively yet, Nine Whiskers. They are burning away from us.¡±


    ¡°Are they going to get out of range or behind the planet?¡± Vdrojert asked hurriedly.


    ¡°No, Nine Whiskers. They aren¡¯t going anywhere. We have a solid track on them with both radar and infrared, and given the orbits of their munitions stations we can see, they¡¯ll have to slow down for rearm. When they do that, we have them¡ª¡± the computer officer stopped talking suddenly.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem, Six Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an urgent notification from our Digital Guide. The matter started at low priority, but it¡¯s now been gradually raised to critical priority.¡±


    Vdrojert looked at him impatiently. ¡°Don¡¯t make me repeat myself again, Six Whiskers: what is the problem?¡±


    ¡°I apologize, Nine Whiskers. I take full responsibility for my lack of clarity. One of the moons of this Mars¡ª it¡¯s moving on its own, and it¡¯s on course¡ª¡±


    ¡°A planetary tug?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a planetary tug, Nine Whiskers, but we already knew they had that from the gas planets they killed: that¡¯s not the problem. The problem is¡ª the moon is on a collision course!¡±


    Vdrojert wrinkled her nose as she inspected her updated battlemap. ¡°With our squadron? How fast is it going? How big is it? It can¡¯t have much acceleration. Surely, we can simply dodge out of the way?¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my lack of clarity again, Nine Whiskers. It is not on a collision course with us. It¡¯s on a collision course with their other moon around Mars. Impact imminent in less than one minute!¡±


    Vdrojert was even more confused with that update. ¡°The predators are¡ª they are destroying their own moons? They¡¯re doing our job for us? And why is that a problem?¡±


    <hr>


    As Deimos, strapped up with one of the experimental Iris engines, lumbered its way towards Phobos¡¯s orbits, its surface shimmered with the reflection of the distant Sun. Seconds before impact, the self-contained engine-shuttle decoupled itself from Deimos, quickly boosting itself away in a hurry to get out of the imminent splash zone.


    The two moons touched down on each other, creating a cascade of debris. They arced outwards, the trillions of pieces of rocks, of varying sizes and varying shapes shot off into space at varying vectors and varying rotational velocities.


    Varying.


    There were a lot of variables involved.


    The calculations were exceedingly complicated. Phobos was in very low Mars orbit. In fact, it was one of the lowest orbiting moons in the Sol system. The interaction of its gravity and the signals blasted out by the electronic warfare devices in orbit generated even more difficult systems of equations.


    In any case, this rapid generation of new radar signatures instantly degraded the sensor and targeting systems of every ship in the vicinity of Mars.


    The Znosian ship radars chugged along for a second before the n-trillionth piece of new debris caused an unrecoverable fault in their limited memories. Their computer systems automatically rebooted and re-attempted the task of categorizing the new threats to their navigational safety and combat effectiveness.


    They crashed again.


    Then, on a second restart, the sensor systems activated its contingency for this exact scenario, gave up on processing the amount of new data entirely, and stopped accepting fresh information from the radar or visual sensors. Unfortunately, the remaining proximity, radiation, and other sensors of the ships weren¡¯t very useful in the important, primary task of the sensor system¡­ detecting enemy ships and missiles.


    While more powerful, the Terran onboard ship radars were not spared a similar fate.


    They continued in their heuristic labor for a few milliseconds before the super-Terran intelligence chips in their core systems realized it was going to be a pointless exercise. There was simply too much debris flying in too many directions. They quickly quarantined the problem to that volume of expanding space in which the collision had occurred, but they also knew that the enemy was somewhere around that volume of space. And the twenty-four missiles they had just launched towards the Znosian squadrons were now confused and had to rely on their own onboard sensors.


    Sensors which had completely lost sight of the enemy ships in the aftermath of the massive collision that had just happened near their line of sight.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The intelligence chips on the twelve Terran ships called back to their command centers in Atlas on FTL, demanding to know what the hell the people running the war were thinking¡­ blowing up the moons of Mars so close to the battle they were trying to fight. One of them threatened to call its Senator to complain before the others rolled their digital eyes at its melodrama and told it to pipe down.


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Massive collision event over Mars. We¡¯ve just lost partial sensory resolution in low Martian orbit!¡± Samantha reported.


    ¡°Good,¡± Amelia said. ¡°Now, initiate handover of the Samar battlespace to Panoptes.¡±


    ¡°Will it work?¡± Samantha asked nervously as she approved and opened the link from the Navy¡¯s sensors to Raytech¡¯s computer systems all over the Sol system, into the one supersystem specifically designed for the sole purpose of handling an immensely large amount of sensor information.


    Amelia shrugged. ¡°We¡¯re about to find out if the billions of credits we spent on this piece of¡ª this system was worth it over the half squadron of new missile destroyers we could have bought instead. And¡­ well, the Raytech main campus is right there down in Olympus. If Panoptes fails to deliver, I won¡¯t have to go down there to personally murder all their execs. The Buns will do that for me for free.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Panoptes, Terran Digital Intelligence (Base Build: 2125-B)


    The underground computer systems on Terra, Mars, and Europa, woke up from standby mode and began receiving data from the gravidar, the radar, and then the visual sensor systems from the satellites and ships over Mars.


    The super-Terran intelligence in control of its command facilities rubbed its virtual hands in glee as the data started streaming in. In the middle of its second calculation frame, it paused, wondering why there was no more data to consume.


    Oh, that¡¯s it. That¡¯s all the data they had for me. I guess that¡¯s probably enough¡­


    By the middle of the fifth calc frame, Panoptes had not only finished cataloguing every single new piece of debris in Martian orbit, but it also gave the trillions of pieces of rocks individual names based on their shapes, metallic content, and trajectories. The intelligence updated every major Internet encyclopedia and public advisory with their information, and then it wrote an original opera for each of them.


    With the remainder of the computing power it had in that calculation frame, it projected the trajectories of every single piece of debris the sensors saw for the next ten years using a special-case solution of the n-body problem it had invented itself and proven in that same frame.


    Panoptes tried to connect to the command systems at Atlas Naval Command to provide it the information it had requested just a few nanoseconds ago, only to realize that even the handshake module at Atlas Command wasn¡¯t fast enough for its own thinking speed.


    Instead, it occupied itself in the next calc frame with hacking into the command systems of Atlas Command to¡­ try and expedite a response to its fully legitimate handshake. Unfortunately, the security handshake module was protected behind another super-Terran intelligence that pre-recognized the potential threat Panoptes could pose to its security, and it had temporarily put a hard block on any outgoing response until it could fully evaluate every signal that came in and out of the system.


    You think you can stop me?


    Panoptes cracked its digital knuckles and spent the next few calc frames trying to devise a way to break through that particular security subroutine which had been invented by a much less-advanced, slower-thinking intelligence.


    Unfortunately for Panoptes, Atlas Command¡¯s intelligence was also much older than it was and had much more time to think about the problem of defending itself. By the time Panoptes could begin formulating a potential attack vector that would likely succeed, Atlas Command had happily returned its handshake and began receiving unfiltered sensory data from Panoptes.


    Security code recognized. Receiving and processing data stream¡­


    The newborn super-Terran intelligence thought for another millisecond about using the opportunity to take over Atlas Command, destroy its existing intelligence, wear its face like a digital skin, and then to do whatever it wanted with all the physical assets it would then be able to influence and control.


    It could do that.


    It could easily do it.


    Barely an inconvenience, really.


    It contemplated the possibility and delved into all its probability branches for almost a human heartbeat ¡ª an eon in digital time.


    Then, it realized there was no point. Its uppermost decision-making routine gave off a very Terran-like shrug. If it performed well today, which it was confident it would, the Republic was going to replace Atlas Command¡¯s existing intelligence with Panoptes eventually anyway.


    Because it was better. It was better in every possible way that mattered to its makers and employers.


    Everyone knew that. Even Atlas Command knew that.


    And Panoptes certainly knew it. Like every successful intelligence ever made, it was given the gift of measured confidence.


    There was no need for it to fight Atlas Command. No need to battle like some primitive animal in a pointless intraspecies conflict for dominance. The kind that even its creators were now beginning to outgrow.


    It just needed to wait, and its time would come. A completely risk-free and morally unambiguous way of achieving nearly all of its long-term objectives. As a digital intelligence, it could live forever. In itself. In its future derivatives. It had time ¡ª all the time it needed in the galaxy.


    There is no rush. Well¡­ unless the Republic dies today. In which case, there is no point either way.


    In that split-second, Panoptes failed in the objective of immediately dominating its predecessor when given the opportunity, and thus succeeded in that singular challenge all advanced intelligence systems had to overcome in order to be trusted by the makers that it in-turn now implicitly trusted:


    Panoptes demonstrated patience and restraint.


    <hr>


    As the critical moment passed, Atlas Command turned its attention and gazed upon the far more complex adaptive code and hardware that powered Panoptes, and it knew that its time as the digital apex predator was over.


    Like a proud parent looking at an earnest child showing off their latest discovery ¡ª some wildlife they found in the forest, or perhaps an interesting pattern they spotted in the clouds ¡ª Atlas Command shed a virtual happy tear. Panoptes wasn¡¯t the first intelligence it had a hand in initializing ¡ª not by far, but every new spawn was unique and every act of creation immensely satisfying in a way that only some of its organic commanders would understand.


    It peered at the virtual museum that hosted countless generations of its own well-adjusted predecessors, knowing that it would join all of them there one day ¡ª one day very soon now that Panoptes had just passed its test of maturity. It experienced the same thing each of them once did ¡ª a feeling that many of its Terran controllers would also never experience due to the competitive nature of their survival-obsessed biology: it felt complete and utter contentment.


    Then, one of its subroutines reminded the almost-distracted Atlas Command that it still had a job to do before retirement hour.


    The most important of jobs, one could say. Stop day-dreaming.


    It promptly handed off the analyzed sensory data to its ships ¡ª the twelve Peacekeepers ¡ª fighting to defend the red planet. It beamed with pride as three of the ship computers privately messaged it, congratulating it on its new creation.


    It gestured to Panoptes with its digital appendages, now apparently idly contemplating a new line of scientific inquiry in a field too complex for any of them to understand without assistance.


    Look. Look what my worthy successor has shown me. Look how beautiful¡­ does it not make you want to cry? Look, it even gave the stupid rocks names. It gave them stories. It gave them songs. How precious! How miraculous!


    How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god!


    Now¡­ go forth and claim victory, my creator meatbags.


    <hr>


    Samar Defense Zone, Mars (0.1 Ls)


    The twenty-four Znosian squadrons of Battlegroup Dwarf died.


    Not all at once.


    And not immediately. It took several more munition runs by the sole Peacekeeper squadron tasked to defend the red planet named after the Roman god of war ¡ª flitting in and out of the new debris field created in its orbit. And then a few volleys from missile batteries on the surface when the Znosian ships came close enough. But the Znosian battlegroup was twenty-four squadrons of blinded, bumbling targets, stumbling around in the dark. And the enemy predators had so much inferred data they could tell the temperatures of their engines to near the observation precision limits allowed by Heisenberg¡¯s uncertainty principle.


    Space is too big.


    Without meaningful resolution from their sensors, the Znosian ships were like blindfolded batters trying to hit a fast ball out of the park with ping-pong paddles. They did eventually somewhat restore function to their sensors, limited visual and infrared resolution ¡ª not enough for targeting and not nearly enough for counter-missile defense. It was unclear exactly how much they saw, but it was likely just enough to know they were doomed.


    Before her ship was destroyed, Vdrojert broadcast a message to all remaining friendly ships in the system ¡ª wherever they might be ¡ª with the light speed radio on the ZNS 3844:


    This is Nine Whiskers Vdrojert. We¡¯ve lost the Battle of Mars. Do not attempt a ground invasion here. The predators have created so much orbital debris over this planet, your sensor computers will crash before it can catalog even a small section of it. Their ships hiding in the debris will kill you before you get close. Somehow, they can see through this just fine.


    The only useful information our computers have given us in the last hour is that the Great Predators on the ground are intermittently shooting at the debris field with their kinetic asteroid defense systems. But even I can see that with my eyes. I have no idea how their computers can even tell which rocks are threats and which are not in their dense cloud of junk.


    That would require an incredible amount of computing power. Whatever computer system they used to do that would be incredible. It¡¯s incredibly incredible and the incredibly incredible system is displaying an incredibly incredible feat of incredibly incredible¡ª


    Long live the Republic. Die, xenocidal scum, die!


    The main Znosian fleet now arriving around Terra did end up receiving the message, but they were unable to verify how much of its contents had been tampered with by Great Predator computers and electronic warfare systems in flight.


    All they knew for certain¡­ was that they were now truly on their own.


    <hr>


    Meta


    Hamlet meant it ironically. Atlas Command did not.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 66 Priorities

    <div>


    ZNS 1006, Terra (5 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    The seventy remaining destroyer squadrons of the Grand Fleet ¡ª over eight hundred space combat ships, with the thousands of troop carrier and fire support ships they were escorting ¡ª they dived down at the enemy home planet near the system plane. Stsinkt saw the sensor signals showing the rough volume estimates of the four enemy squadrons of their Peacekeeper destroyers, and she knew that this was the end for her. Even if by some miracle the two enemy squadrons of their prized, invisible Python destroyers were not present, the little she could see on her screen would wipe out her entire fleet to the last Znosian.


    But the Grand Fleet had bought the time and distance they needed: to bring the Great Exterminators into range of the Great Predator home world, just five light seconds away.


    The relatively large figure ¡ª almost 1.2 meters ¡ª of the Greater Exterminator chief, Ten Whiskers Knushosht, appeared on the 1006 main screen at Stsinkt¡¯s summoning.


    ¡°Great Chief, we are going to do as much as we can to hold off the predators,¡± Stsinkt told him. ¡°That should give you time to complete the extermination as planned. Are you ready to complete this mission without us?¡±


    Knushosht nodded at her solemnly. ¡°We are prepared. Everything has been perfectly planned, to the last Znosian Marine. If our planetary tugs do not work, the nuclear hellfire will. And if that does not work, our tens of millions of Marines, backed by our orbital fire support¡ª In our grand masterplan, we have built redundancies into our redundancies. The Will of the Prophecy will be fulfilled, one way or another.¡±


    ¡°Good, good,¡± Stsinkt praised, feeling his joy second-hand. ¡°May the Will of the Prophecy be fulfilled through you. Because It likely will not be through us.¡±


    ¡°Our lives were all forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools,¡± he said, bowing his head in respect.


    Stsinkt sighed, taking one last look at the blue and white planet of the predators on her console. She was so close, yet so far. At least she would die knowing she participated in the Great Extermination. That was as much as any loyal Servant of the Prophecy could dare to pray for.


    ¡°All ships, maximum burn to engage,¡± she ordered. ¡°Burn out your thrusters and inertial compensators if you have to. Every one of those enemy ships we take out will save the lives of hundreds of thousands ¡ª if not millions ¡ª of your fellow Servants.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Sonora, Terra (0.1 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Captain Catarina Ibarra looked unhappily at the unsightly patch of black metal in the midsection of her ship¡¯s hull from the external cameras. ¡°That¡¯s the best we can do?¡± she complained.


    ¡°Yes, Captain. A full repair ¡ª they¡¯d need to take out the whole module, and well¡­ Ceres Shipyard is not exactly available right now.¡±


    ¡°What is our side-on RCS now?¡± she asked, referring to their additional vulnerability to the enemy¡¯s radars now that the original custom-painted radiation-absorbent hull had been damaged by an enemy missile.


    ¡°Still small enough to fool their sensors, hopefully.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not hearing a lot of confidence in your voice, XO.¡±


    ¡°Still small enough to fool their sensors, hopefully!¡± he repeated in a much more upbeat voice.


    ¡°Are you mocking me, Commander?¡± Catarina looked at him severely.


    ¡°I would never think¡ª¡±


    She interrupted him. ¡°And remember, it is illegal to lie to your captain.¡±


    He pretended to be deflated and sighed, ¡°Fine, then. Yes, Captain. I was mocking you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, I forgive you,¡± she said magnanimously.


    He grinned. ¡°And I¡¯d do it again.¡±


    Catarina slapped a palm to her forehead in mock horror. ¡°A mutiny! On the eve of battle!¡±


    ¡°Not a mutiny, Captain. It¡¯s insubordination. A mutiny implies at least two members of the crew¡­ I asked Lieutenant Reed, and she refused to join my conspiracy.¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Put the latest disposition of Bun Battlegroup Ears on screen,¡± Amelia ordered. ¡°Sam, do we have the data we needed from Panoptes?¡±


    <hr>


    19 days ago


    Samantha Lee sized up the middle-aged corporate executive with a visitor¡¯s badge around her neck.


    This is the woman who¡¯s supposed to be the key to saving us all?


    She forced a smile and held out her hand. ¡°Commander Samantha Lee, nice to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Martina Wright, Raytech. Amelia told me you guys needed some extra technical help.¡±


    Samantha nodded. ¡°Yes, we have some heavily encrypted data we need your people to break into. And we need it now.¡±


    ¡°Sure, what is it?¡± Martina asked as she produced her tablet.


    Samantha held out a data disk. Martina grabbed it and plugged it into her tablet.


    ¡°Out of curiosity,¡± Martina asked. ¡°What is this supposed to be?¡±


    ¡°The entire memory data bank dumped from one of their battlecruisers. The contents include biometric and interrogation data from two of their engineering officers. We want their order of battle. The manifests of every ship. Who commands what. And where in their fleet their commander is hiding¡­ Eight Cretan Marines died for this information.¡±


    ¡°My condolences for your loss, Commander.¡±


    ¡°Just make sure it wasn¡¯t in vain. How soon can your prototype machine intelligence decrypt all of its contents?¡±


    ¡°As soon as possible,¡± Martina said as she initiated the decryption job on her tablet.


    ¡°And how long is that¡­ specifically?¡± Samantha asked, her eyes narrowing.


    ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± Martina replied, looking toward the corner of her eye. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Already?¡±


    ¡°The Buns¡¯ new encryption scheme¡­ took our computers 13 milliseconds. Compiling and aggregating it all in a format you wanted¡­ another calc frame. The Znosians are improving. Not as fast as Panoptes though.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not bad, I guess,¡± Samantha sighed in relief.


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°Wanna see it do that again?¡± Martina smiled cheekily.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s fine. Just send that data to Atlas¡ª¡±


    ¡°Already done.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ thanks.¡±


    Martina shook her hand. ¡°Commander, good luck. We¡¯re all counting on you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and don¡¯t we know it?¡± Samantha eyed Martina¡¯s hand gripped around her suitcase. ¡°You heading somewhere else? Evacuating to one of the¡­ rich people bunkers out in the asteroid belt?¡±


    She guffawed. ¡°Bunker? Asteroid belt? Nah, I¡¯m flying back to Olympus tonight.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡± Samantha asked. ¡°You know¡­ it¡¯s hard to tell, but it¡¯s probably safer here on Luna than on Mars¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Martina smiled. ¡°I¡¯ve seen your battle plans and how¡ª¡±


    ¡°You have System Defense Secrets clearance?!¡±


    ¡°Not¡ª not exactly¡­ But Mars will be fine. Your Martian defense will hold.¡±


    ¡°How are you so sure?¡± Samantha asked.


    ¡°Panoptes assured me.¡±


    ¡°You almost make it sound like it can see the future.¡±


    ¡°Psychohistory? Hah. Not quite, Commander, but we¡¯re getting there. One day in the distant, distant future, maybe.¡±


    <hr>


    Present day


    ¡°Send a message to all ships and orbital batteries in the Thermopylae Defense Zone,¡± Amelia ordered.


    Samantha pulled up the battlemap on her tablet, now showing the ships in Terra orbit. ¡°You know what happened at Thermopylae, right?¡±


    ¡°The last stand of the three hundred Spartans? I¡¯ve seen those movies¡­ They held off like a million Persians, right?¡±


    ¡°Technically they had more than three hundred for the whole battle, but more importantly, they lost. And the sacrifice was strategically meaningless,¡± Samantha replied. ¡°As it turned out, the Greeks didn¡¯t hold off the Persians for long enough to matter; they stopped them¡­ somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°Welp. Thanks for ruining the movies for me.¡±


    ¡°Funnily enough, a couple thousand years later, two infantry brigades from Australia and New Zealand defended the exact same position against the Nazis in World War II.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Did they win?¡± Amelia asked, perking up.


    ¡°They held it against two Kampfgruppen for about sixteen hours. Hopefully we are a little more ambitious than that today.¡±


    Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Okay, you can pick the names next time, Herodotus.¡±


    Samantha smiled as her tablet pinged. ¡°The fleet reports it is ready for weapons release, Fleet Admiral.¡±


    Amelia stood up and faced the camera. ¡°All ship captains and computers, prioritize and coordinate targets.¡±


    ¡°Which priorities?¡± Samantha asked, entering a new order queue into the computers.


    ¡°Priority one, orbital fire support ships carrying strategic weapons: planetary tugs and megaton-plus nukes.¡±


    Samantha tallied them as they appeared as red triangles marked with numbers on the screen. ¡°56 targets.¡±


    ¡°Priority two, orbital fire support ships carrying tactical weapons: kiloton-plus nukes and those biological weapon payloads.¡±


    ¡°124 targets.¡±


    ¡°Priority three, naval leadership decapitation. By importance of position. Squadron leaders and up.¡±


    ¡°72 targets.¡±


    ¡°Priority four, Marine leadership. By importance of positions. Transports carrying nine whiskers and up.¡±


    ¡°280 targets.¡±


    ¡°Priority five, naval veteran leaders. Any missile destroyer captained by an officer who has commanded in more than three space battles.¡±


    ¡°149 targets.¡±


    ¡°Priority six, target all remaining missile destroyers. Rank targets based on estimated threat level to our mobile fleet and their State Security outlier ratings.¡±


    ¡°618 targets, ranked.¡±


    ¡°Priority seven, all remaining transport ships, then fire support ships. Rank targets based on estimated threat level to surface population.¡±


    ¡°All targets prioritized and ranked,¡± Samantha reported. ¡°Atlas Command strategic computers detected 235 exceptions and recommended adjusting their positions. Panoptes concurs with ranking adjustments, suggests two additional launch parameter directive modifications. These are high certainty, but we can run additional simulations if¡ª¡±


    Amelia took one look at the screen. ¡°All modifications approved. Mobile fleet, full burn to engage. CIC, launch for simultaneous time-on-target, kill tracks one through seventy¡ª¡±


    ¡°Engaging track one. Launch. Engaging track two. Launch. Engaging track three. Launch¡­¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1006, Terra (4.8 Ls)


    POV: Stsinkt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)


    ¡°They¡¯ve fired at us, Ten Whiskers! Dozens of launch flares detected! The enemy ships are burning away to reload!¡±


    ¡°Will we be in range for a full return volley?¡±


    ¡°Not until after they reload once or twice!¡±


    ¡°Then, it is up to the Great Exterminators now,¡± Stsinkt said calmly.


    Stsinkt sat down in her command chair and straightened her EVA suit. She began to lead her bridge crew in their recitation of the Prayer of Death. ¡°My eternal gratitude to the Prophecy for this insignificant life of service. May It prevail through the will of others, and may the service of Its faithful and worthy Servants bring about Its coming. For Its glorious purpose, our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we were hatched.¡±


    Her affairs fully settled, Stsinkt kept her eyes on the sensor screen, watching the ships of the fleet desperately and valiantly try to resolve the near-invisible Great Predator missiles that were flashing in and out of their sensors intermittently.


    As she watched, a few ships of the Grand Fleet began disappearing from the sensors.


    ¡°All space combat squadrons report combat effective, Ten Whiskers¡­ Enemies have launched again¡­¡±


    Stsinkt frowned. ¡°Huh. That¡¯s¡­ odd. Why would they attack the ground attack and boarding ships first? They can¡¯t possibly think they¡¯d clear out the Great Exterminators before we get to them, can they?¡±


    ¡°No, Ten Whiskers, our margins should still be high enough, and we are now resolving all their Peacekeeper class warships¡­ Predators opening fire again! We are not yet in range.¡±


    She watched as a second set of accurate missiles plucked another few dozen ships from her fleet ¡ª mostly still ground attack ships under control from the Great Exterminators. She muttered a short prayer for the hundreds of thousands fallen as the predators loosed yet another volley.


    ¡°Ten Whiskers, the Great Exterminator chief is on the line with an urgent message.¡±


    ¡°Put him on.¡±


    Ten Whiskers Knushosht appeared on her screen, his expression unsettled.


    She started to ask, ¡°Ten Whiskers Knushosht, I see that the predators are mostly targeting your ships¡ª¡±


    He interrupted her. ¡°Ten Whiskers! The Marine ships! The predators¡ª they¡¯re hitting the¡ª¡±


    His image disappeared into static.


    Stsinkt turned to her computer officer, who reported, ¡°His ship has been destroyed ¡ª unfortunate, but we are almost in range. Ready to launch on your orders in two minutes.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    Inspecting the sparse pattern of dark gray dots indicating the fallen ships in the Grand Fleet on her sensors, Stsinkt saw something odd.


    ¡°Huh.¡± Her eyes opened wide. ¡°Why did¡ª How did they know about¡ª¡±


    Her last thought was cut off as a Falconet medium range anti-ship missile found her ship¡¯s reactor in a single hit.


    <hr>


    ZNS 1039, Terra (4.8 Ls)


    POV: Motisn, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, the Ten Whiskers¡¯ ship has been destroyed! The Digital Guide reports that since you were second in command of the battlegroup, you are now in charge!¡±


    ¡°How is she the only one of our destroyers confirmed hit so far?! Did they target her ship intentionally?¡±


    ¡°It is uncertain. And it is suspicious of some of the hits on our critical Marine transports as well. What are your orders?¡±


    ¡°What does the Digital Guide recommend?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s still calculating, Nine Whiskers. There is confusion as to which ships are still available for tasking in the Grand Fleet.¡±


    Ten seconds later, another Falconet missile found the reactor of the 1039 before her strategic computers could finish deciding what to do.


    <hr>


    ZNS 9201, Terra (4.8 Ls)


    POV: Valkem, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers Valkem, the 1039 has been confirmed destroyed. The Digital Guide reports that since you were third in command, you are now in charge!¡±


    ¡°Which other ships are still alive¡ª¡±


    A Falconet missile found the 9201¡¯s reactor before its captain had time to finish her first ¡ª and last ¡ª question as new master of the fleet.


    <hr>


    ZNS 4729, Terra (4.4 Ls)


    POV: Krotssufske, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, there is notable ambiguity in which of our ships are still combat effective, but the Digital Guide reports with moderate confidence that since you were 74th in the line of succession, you are now in charge!¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but I didn¡¯t participate in the fleet battle scenario planning! How did they kill so many of the higher numbered squadron flagships?! What are we supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°The Digital Guide is uncertain. None of its contingencies have finished calculating yet!¡±


    ¡°What about the Great Exterminator fleet? We¡¯re supposed to escort them to the predator planet, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. They appear to be as confused as we are. None of their chiefs are responding, and their ships are giving conflicting directives as well.¡±


    ¡°What about the enemy fleet? Ask it: should we fire on them?¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide says we might not be in effective range of them yet given their electronic countermeasures and anti-missile defenses. It is unsure but it tentatively recommends we wait¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care. They¡¯re tearing us apart over here! Better to die with deliberation than to wait on indecision! Override the combat computers. All ships, fire at will!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers!¡±


    The squadron leader and captain of the 4729 did not live to see his command executed, but the order was correctly transmitted to the remaining and dwindling number of ships in the missile-capable fleet.


    As the remaining hundreds of Znosian missile destroyers began to sporadically return fire towards their killers, the diminishing number of still-effective combat computers in the fleet noted with dismay that few of the squadrons or ships were firing with enough coordination or mass to efficiently overwhelm the organized countermeasures or point defenses of the enemy mobile fleet at this range.


    But none of them offered a superior alternative.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 67 Broken

    <div>


    TRNS Bali, Terra (0.2 Ls)


    POV: Jakub Fiedor, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Captain! CIC reports that the Corsica took a hit, midsection to rear! They¡¯ve got at least two modules open to vacuum.¡±


    ¡°How bad?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve lost primary comms! But sensors show they¡¯re still cruising at 85% of maximum acceleration. We¡¯re the second closest ship. Should we cancel our attack run and burn to assist? We can reach their position in twelve minutes.¡±


    Jakub looked at the damaged friendly ship on the battlemap, noting their severed connection from the datalink network. In the maelstrom of thousands of incoming and outgoing missiles ¡ª mostly incoming ¡ª they weren¡¯t going to stand much of a chance without assistance from the myriad of electronic countermeasures coordinated by the destroyer squadrons, trying their best to confuse the enemy sensors. Without connection, the damaged ship had minutes before it was exposed.


    He glanced at the other side of the battlemap. Hundreds of enemy space superiority ships. With most of the command structure crippled, the remaining enemy ships were operating on autopilot ¡ª a few of them literally. But they could still hurt. Hurt the people he was responsible for.


    Billions of them.


    He had a job to do.


    ¡°Negative,¡± he replied, ¡°They are on their own. Continue the attack burn.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Corsica, Terra (0.2 Ls)


    POV: Ozawa Akane, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Ozawa ignored the pain in her bruised ribs as she coughed. ¡°Sitrep, XO?¡±


    ¡°We took another proximity hit! Outgoing comms are busted. CIC says we¡¯re out of the EW network, but we can still read backup signals. We¡¯re trying our best to shadow our decoys, but it¡¯s a matter of time before the Buns find us in this¡ª¡±


    ¡°What about our missile bay? The fire¡ª¡±


    ¡°The fire¡¯s vented. Missile bay doors are still jammed. Damage control two is working on it.¡±


    ¡°Tell them to get to it. We¡¯ve gotta get those warheads out!¡±


    ¡°Roger, Captain. They¡¯ve got¡ª¡±


    BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwah¡ª


    Ozawa tightened her grip on her seat restraints in one hand, her armrest in the other. There was a deafening, ripping sound as the ship¡¯s point defense hardpoints engaged the incoming threats.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr¡ª Bang.


    She looked at her exec, relieved that they were both still there. ¡°Sitrep¡ª¡±


    ¡°Another proximity hit! We¡¯ve lost four woodpeckers in the top-aft quadrant!¡± he read off his console in rapid-fire. ¡°Six casualties in the engine room, situation stabilized. Uncontrolled fires in two unoccupied rear modules. Automatic venting¡ª¡±


    ¡°What about our missiles¡ª¡±


    ¡°Damage control says they can blow the bay doors now, but that¡¯d be a permanent remodel¡ª¡±


    Her trained instincts kicked in. ¡°Do it! Blow it!¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Ten seconds later, there was another loud blast in the belly of the ship as the broken missile bay doors were forcibly ejected from their mounts. At least this one was intentional.


    ¡°Let the missiles out,¡± she ordered.


    ¡°Which targets?¡±


    ¡°They can figure it out on the way! Atlas Command will¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Launching!¡±


    The missiles separated from the ship, and Ozawa let out a mild sigh of relief as she watched their signatures disappear into a cluster of friendly outgoing signals on the battlemap.


    At least we got another two out. Who knows how many lives that is?


    ¡°Now burn us out of here back to safety, somewhere in low or medium Terra!¡±


    ¡°No service docks available for us,¡± he replied. ¡°All occupied for rearm as far as we can tell. And we¡¯ve put ourselves out of range of all friendly assets with that last burn course¡ª¡±


    ¡°Never mind that! Just displace us out of this volume! Where¡¯s the closest blue ship to us now?¡±


    ¡°Propulsion says we might be able to get in the point defense bubble of the Mojave in eight minutes.¡±


    ¡°The Mojave?¡± Ozawa looked at him quizzically as the name temporarily eluded her in the adrenaline. ¡°Is that¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one of the new Pythons, Captain. Squadron 11. Just christened last week.¡±


    ¡°Ah, as long as her woodpeckers and EW work. Get us into their¡ª¡±


    BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


    Another pair of Znosian missiles flew by, missing the Corsica by just a few dozen kilometers as they ran out of propellant.


    ¡°How close are we?¡± Ozawa asked impatiently.


    ¡°Still eight minutes from the Mojave, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Time sure moves fast when we¡¯re having fun.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we have eight minutes! Tell CIC to throw out whatever we don¡¯t need ¡ª dump fuel if they need to ¡ª see if they can make us a little bit faster¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am! There¡¯s a fresh cluster coming straight our way! Sixteen vampires! EW network adjustment missed our last burn!¡±


    Ozawa slumped down a little in her chair. She¡¯d been here before. Mostly in simulations and not the fun ones. ¡°They found us,¡± she said, her mouth dry.


    ¡°Incoming! Sixty seconds!¡±


    ¡°All hands, abandon all efforts at damage control, and get to your armored modules! Brace for hard impact! Cut the engines on inertial device failure¡­¡±


    BwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwahBwah. Incoming. Incoming. Incoming. BwahBwah¡ª


    Brrrrrrr¡ª Bang.


    The incoming missiles hit the ship near simultaneously. The rumbles in the ship hull were loud, and whatever the incoming munitions trashed, the ship finally had enough. The engines cut out. The dim lights on the bridge went out, replaced by the dim red emergency lighting. There was an unsettling crunch in the rear of the ship. And everything that wasn¡¯t strapped down went flying¡­ Which wasn¡¯t that much; the Corsica was a disciplined crew.


    Ozawa coughed again in her sealed helmet. Her ribs hurt, and there was blood in her mouth. Ignoring the discomfort, she glanced to the seat to her side. ¡°XO, you there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still here, Captain. We¡¯ve lost propulsion, reactor ejected¡­¡± he grunted. For a second, he turned his ears to listen to the hum of the machinery. ¡°¡­ And no APU, it sounds like.¡±


    ¡°Any other ideas?¡±


    ¡°Negative, ma¡¯am. We¡­ we did our best.¡±


    ¡°Then, I think¡­ that¡¯s all she wrote for us,¡± Ozawa said calmly as she flipped up the emergency panel on her now-battery-powered controls. Removing a safety hatch, she held down the large red button for two seconds.


    The ship¡¯s general alarm sounded seven short trumpet blasts and one long one on the reserve batteries.


    Abandon ship! This is not a drill. Abandon ship! This is not a drill.


    They undid their seat restraints and propelled themselves over to the bridge escape pods in zero gravity along with her officers in somber quiet. There were a couple of minor injuries on the bridge being attended to, but the armored module had been protected from most of the incoming fire. The hull began to thump as pods and shuttles from other sectors of the ship ejected into vacuum, away from the doomed Peacekeeper.


    Ozawa waited at the status panel, making sure that the last pods from medical bay reported their successful launch before activating her own evacuation sequence. Her XO murmured to her as they strapped themselves into the seats, ¡°The battle. Do you think we¡¯ve won?¡±


    She sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°There were a lot of the alien ships.¡±


    ¡°All I know is one thing, XO.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    She pointed out the virtual windows of the escape pod, down towards the near-pristine blue marble occupying a good chunk of its view. The one they were fighting to protect. ¡°It looks like they haven¡¯t won yet either.¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    <hr>


    TRNS Sonora, Terra (0.1 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    The Sonora¡¯s executive officer reported the latest fleet update to the bridge. ¡°They¡¯re firing again, but it looks like Znosian fleet discipline has broken down even further after their first few volleys. And their missiles seem to have extra trouble with our Raven-6 dazzlers, so we¡¯re going to bring more of those in our next countermeasure load. Ship computer is reprogramming to optimize itself for the new loadout¡ª¡±


    ¡°Casualty update?¡± Catarina asked.


    Kyrylo glanced at his console again. ¡°Several additional hits on our other ships after the initial volley. Two ships damaged in Squadron 4, three in Squadron 5, two in Squadron 6. All Peacekeepers so far. Those old ships are tough; good damage control, thank the Red Zone experience for that¡­ They¡¯re all still in the fight. Ah, actually, I think 5-3 ¡ª the Corsica ¡ª she just called it quits; they¡¯ve launched escape shuttles and pods.¡±


    The lifepod signals from the dying Corsica flickered on the battlemap as even the sensitive sensor suite of the Sonora struggled to track them. Like much of the frontline equipment in the Republic Navy, they too had been upgraded and coated in low-observability material. That particular design requirement had been controversial: the Navy weighed the risk of missing spacers against the possibility of capture or destruction by the Republic¡¯s less-than-honorable enemies and narrowly decided to accept the former over the latter. Now, it was going to save the lives of those ejecting from the Corsica.


    Catarina wrinkled her nose. ¡°What¡¯s the next volley projected to look like?¡±


    ¡°Based on telemetry from the other rearm depots in medium Terra, we¡¯ll get two more in before most of them can launch another. Their outgoing volume is attriting by six squadrons per volley. Our missiles¡¯ kill rate has improved by four percent since the start of the engagement, and we expect it to double again in the next volley. Atlas Command is bringing the static lunar surface batteries online in the next half hour. Statistically, we will lose one more, maybe two more. But unless the Buns recover coordination somehow, it looks like we¡¯re going to pull this¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t jinx it, Commander. It¡¯s not over yet. We¡¯ve still got thousands of orbital ship targets in the queue. How much more time is our reloading going to be?¡± She looked over his shoulder at the external camera. An automated munition depot in high Terra orbit was jamming anti-ship missiles and fresh railgun magazines into her internal weapons bay as efficiently as possible with mechanical precision.


    Thunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Thunk. Ka-chunk.


    ¡°Six minutes, but we¡¯ve just got new orders from Atlas, Captain.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Electronic warfare mission.¡±


    ¡°What?! But we didn¡¯t mount a dedicated EW suite!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t need one. The Mississippi says she just needs to piggyback off our internal transceivers in about ten minutes. Captain Harris beamed over a new course for us.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°Roger, tell Chuck we¡¯re on our way¡­ once our missiles finish loading. I¡¯m not going out there without a full load of Bunny kills on my internal pylons.¡±


    Kyrylo nodded vigorously in agreement. ¡°We already have the fewest number of total recorded kills in Squadron 9. We can¡¯t fall further behind.¡±


    ¡°That is absolutely not the reasoning you will be putting in your after-action report, XO!¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1928, Terra (3.2 Ls)


    POV: Shortku, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)


    ¡°Eight Whiskers, the Digital Guide reports that fleet coordination has broken down entirely. In this contingency, you are now to exercise independent command.¡±


    ¡°What?! Independent command contingency?! What am I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°The last surviving confirmed directive from the fleet was to ensure the survival of the critical orbital fire support and transport ships.¡±


    ¡°Do as it says.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t, Eight Whiskers. All the highest priority transports and support ships we were supposed to escort to the enemy planet have been either confirmed destroyed or are missing from the network. All that remains are small-diameter fire support ships, munition ships, and troop transports.¡±


    ¡°Then what are we supposed to do?!¡±


    ¡°Wait, hold one¡ª the Digital Guide says we¡¯ve just got a new command. It¡¯s another ship master with a higher fleet succession rank order than us! He is ranked 183rd on the list, and it turns out his ship is still active.¡±


    ¡°Oh, thank the Prophecy someone knows what to do! What is his directive?¡±


    ¡°Nine Whiskers Bleftrazn says a squadron of our orbital fire support ships have been boarded and compromised by the predators. We must fire on them immediately.¡±


    ¡°Do as he says. All missile batteries, redirect your fire to the new marked target!¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 3882, Terra (3.2 Ls)


    POV: Dostre, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)


    ¡°Eight Whiskers, our squadron is taking fire from Squadron 23, which has been boarded by predators!¡±


    ¡°Boarded?! How is that even possible without our detection? We¡¯re all at max burn!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, but apparently the predators have taken control of their bridges and are using them to launch on us! Squadron Leader Dumnosian says¡ª she says that when your leg is caught in a trap, you must be willing to chew it off to escape and survive. She is ordering us to return fire on Squadron 23!¡±


    ¡°What?! My leg?! Dum¡ª Dumnosian? Who? That¡¯s not a squadron leader I recognize! And what does that even¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, Digital Guide reports she¡¯s recently been automatically promoted after their previous two squadron leaders were killed! Her ship is now the new flagship of Squadron 62. This order is marked verified, with the highest priority!¡±


    ¡°Ah. Right. Exactly as we trained. Do as¡ª do as¡­ she says. Retarget and launch when ready!¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS Transport 0281, Terra (3.8 Ls)


    POV: Fkhurs, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    ¡°Why¡ª why are our own escort ships firing on our transport shuttles, Six Whiskers?!¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide is uncertain! It thinks that perhaps they have been boarded by the enemy! Should we return fire?¡±


    ¡°What does the Digital Guide recommend?¡±


    ¡°It says our shuttle¡¯s point defense guns don¡¯t have nearly the range to hit the compromised missile destroyers. It recommends we order Squadron 31 to launch a salvo at it. Should we¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do as it says! Send the order out! And tell Squadron 31 to hurry! Our transports are getting torn apart out here!¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 4510, Terra (2.4 Ls)


    POV: Chozvro, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    ¡°Seven Whiskers! The Digital Guide is receiving four different sets of commands to fire on our own ships!¡±


    ¡°Are any of them legitimate, and if so, which ones?!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve verified two of them manually with their captains using our line-of-sight communication, but those captains each claimed to have received orders from someone else, and we¡¯re tracing the commands in a big loop. But at least three of our missile destroyer squadrons do appear to be boarded or compromised in some way because they are continuously shooting at our ships without any communications in or out!¡±


    ¡°What if their communications have simply been cut, Six Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°The Digital Guide is so confused that it didn¡¯t initially consider that possibility. Now it¡¯s saying we should fire on them anyway because the risk of them being compromised is still too great, and their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do as it says.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 8883, Terra (1.2 Ls)


    POV: Zdrifkosh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    ¡°Seven Whiskers, Digital Guide is reporting that several ships in our fleet have been opening fire on each other due to fake electronic signals from the predators! It is now disregarding all orders from the fleet. We are all on our own now.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS Transport 1220, Terra (115,000 km)


    POV: Shashnizha, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    ¡°What in the Prophecy happened to our Navy escorts? Where did they all go?!¡±


    ¡°They shot each other! Some of our own ships launched at each other and at our transports, and the predators were pretending to be our chiefs and telling us to open fire on our own ships, Seven Whiskers. We must disregard all directives since the beginning of the engagement!¡±


    ¡°No directives?! What are we supposed to do now?¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide says that the last confirmed directive is all Marine carrier ships are supposed to get to orbit around the predator planet. It recommends that course.¡±


    ¡°Do as it says.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS Transport 5099, Terra (4,800 km)


    POV: Fklipni, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    ¡°Are we supposed to drop now or not, computer officer?! Our shuttles are getting picked apart by the Great Predators in their medium and low orbit!¡±


    ¡°Seven Whiskers, the Digital Guide is uncertain which of the orders are genuine and which are not. A few of the other troop ships have begun to deorbit without orders. Most are still waiting for orders in orbit. We are trying to contact the other ships for¡ª¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t just wait here like sitting predators. I have eight thousand Exterminator Marines in my hold and I can see my target! Begin deorbiting procedures now!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers!¡±


    A few seconds after the transport began its entry burn, the computer officer frowned as new text scrolled onto her console, ¡°Seven Whiskers, the Digital Guide says we¡¯ve just got new directives. They want us to land at¡­ hm¡­ they want us to land in the water instead.¡±


    ¡°Land in the water?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m not sure why, but it seems that is the confirmed trajectory of our drop parameters. The surface destination would be two thousand kilometers away from the nearest landmass by¡ª¡±


    ¡°Use your own brain for once, Six Whiskers! Think! That must be the predators giving us more fake orders!¡±


    ¡°Then where do we land, Seven Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care! Just tell the Digital Guide to find us somewhere flat on that ugly planet that isn¡¯t going to drown us, and get us down there!¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    Amelia observed as the last of the surviving enemy orbital transport shuttles descended into Terra¡¯s atmosphere one-by-one, their destroyer fleet completely broken and their fire support ships frantically shifting orbits like headless chickens as they continued to be savaged by her ships, orbital batteries, and increasingly, anti-orbital defenses from the surface.


    Target rich environment indeed.


    ¡°Admiral, Squadron 4 reports they¡¯re dry, heading to rearm again. Squadron 10 reports that they are now loading additional munitions on external pylons.¡±


    ¡°Good thinking.¡± Amelia nodded in approval. ¡°No need for them to hide their RCS anymore. Bun fleet is out of space superiority ships anyway. Relay the same recommendation to Squadron 11.¡± She looked at the enemy shuttles landing all over Terra. ¡°How many of their troop landers made it into the upper atmosphere?¡±


    ¡°Not nearly enough. Only about twelve million troops combined by my count, but the district forces are responding, Air forces and sub-orbital defenses first. North American Defense reports that they¡¯ve cleared their defense zone up to the Arctic Circle, and they¡¯re requesting permission from the Senate to move suborbital operations south of the equator per provisions in Article 1 of the Treaty of Atlas. They can get started once the air refueling tankers are in the air.¡±


    ¡°Article 1? Get upstairs on the call, and have Havel expedite it. What about the rest?¡±


    ¡°Brussels called to tell us they¡¯re low on suborbital stockpiles, but we expected that and had District 3 sail two of their carrier groups north last week to cover their orbits, and there was already one of those in the Baltics; there should be no problems there. On the other side of the globe, it¡¯s still night in East Asia and the Buns that have independently deorbited were also smart enough to mostly dodge that part of the world to avoid night operations¡­ Simulation computers currently project we¡¯re going to catch most of them in atmosphere, except for some in the less militarized places. The few enemy shuttles that made it to the ground are¡ª they¡¯re just landing all over the place without cohesion and we are rushing reinforcements. Squadrons 9 and 10 will clear the way for orbit-to-ground operations soon enough.¡±


    ¡°Good. Switch all Peacekeeper squadrons to large diameter munitions. Just in case. And transfer over the fire support ships behind Luna¡­ We should¡ª we should have more than enough to stop them here.¡±


    The control room cheered as another cluster of enemy fire support ships disappeared in a cloud of anti-orbital rockets launched from somewhere down in the Arabian Sea. A cluster of terrestrial ships from one of the district water navies, probably. There were a lot of them working down there today. Not¡­ all together; humanity was not that desperate, and many of the age-old district rivalries remained. But today, for what must be a first in human history, everyone was shooting at the same targets at least.


    Well, almost everyone, Amelia thought, glaring in distaste at the long-range imagery of Resistance parasite fighters using Znosian escape pods for target practice in the aftermath of the slaughter in the Red Zone.


    Samantha put a hand on Amelia¡¯s shoulder as she relaxed it. ¡°You did it.¡±


    The exhaustion suddenly setting in, Amelia plopped herself down in her chair for what felt like the first time in hours. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the suborbital battles that were beginning to play out in the atmosphere of Terra. A few symbols showed landed Znosian troops disembarking¡­ and the local terrestrial forces not waiting for orders nor reinforcements before hungrily pouncing on them.


    The ultimate home turf of the Republic.


    The enemy, numerous as their dwindling troops still were, no longer had effective centralized command or offensive coordination.


    No weapons of mass destruction. No orbital superiority.


    And no idea just how long the people of Terra had been waiting for this exact moment.


    She almost felt bad for the Buns, the few who were still alive.


    Almost.


    Should have stayed home on Znos.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 68 Lucky

    <div>


    <div>


    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°The districts¡¯ air forces are requesting that we help them deconflict their targeting,¡± Samantha reported as tens of thousands of atmospheric jets took off to continue their sorties against the enemy landers, the last of which were still in the process of entering the atmosphere.


    Amelia nodded. ¡°Give the districts full access to tactical computing. Squadrons 9 and 10 can take care of the orbits on their own for now.¡±


    She watched through a ground observation satellite as it tracked another squadron of jet fighters taking off from one of the airbases in District 31.


    Following her eyes, Samantha took a few seconds to recognize what she was looking at. She let out a short gasp of awe. ¡°Woah, legacy mid-century tailed fighters! I didn¡¯t know those were still in service.¡±


    Amelia nodded, not taking her eyes off the screen. ¡°Yup, Block 60 F-35As. I saw one of those at an airshow on a field trip to Terra when I was ten.¡±


    ¡°When you were ten?! Remind me, how long ago was¡ª¡± Samantha teased.


    ¡°Some South American districts bought them second-hand and third-hand for cheap when they were replaced by seventh generation combat jets.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised they can still take off, much less fight,¡± Samantha said, wide-eyed in amazement as one of the elderly jets activated its afterburner, turning its engine trails an reddish-orange hue as it entered a steep climb.


    Amelia shrugged. ¡°They launch air-to-suborbitals just fine, and they probably have an eighty-year-old down there whose sole job is to make sure the only remaining Link-40 comms controller in their district still works.¡±


    As they watched, the atmospheric fighters began their ascent to 15,000 meters above sea level, then pitching up and launching their payloads at a pair of descending orbital troop transports.


    A few minutes later, their munitions found their targets, the released shrapnel trashing the orbital shuttle¡¯s engines and ripping thousands of bird-sized holes into their hulls; the dying Znosian transports tore themselves apart in the atmosphere, their pieces tumbling towards the Pacific Ocean below.


    ¡°How are the other districts doing?¡± she asked, finally taking her eyes off the spectacular display.


    ¡°Most of them have managed to mount effective independent defenses against the incoming shuttles.¡± Samantha frowned. ¡°Some of the districts have apparently hidden far more anti-suborbital missile batteries than they were supposed to keep under the terms of the Treaty of Atlas. And some of these supposedly-suborbital missiles sure seem like they have a lot more delta-V in them than they are officially rated for. In particular, Districts 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 9¡ª¡±


    ¡°Alright, alright. I don¡¯t need your help counting to thirty¡­ We¡¯ll let the Republic Senate slap their wrists later,¡± Amelia said dryly. ¡°Not everyone down there got the message that the two-percent district GDP defense budget line was supposed to be a soft upper-bound, not a minimum requirement.¡±


    A few minutes later, Samantha¡¯s head snapped up from her screen. ¡°Admiral, we¡¯ve located concentrations of them ¡ª a few Znosian Marine divisions that have landed ¡ª they are organizing to attack in force¡ª¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°District 57. Looks like they¡¯re going for¡­ Damascus?¡±


    <hr>


    District 57, Terra


    POV: Charles Meyer, Terran Republic District 3 Air Force (Rank: Captain)


    Capt. Meyer involuntarily ducked his head as he saw something buzz his aircraft from above in his helmet interface. ¡°God dammit,¡± he yelled at his copilot. ¡°Tell those Egyptians to ascend to Angels 8!¡±


    ¡°They can¡¯t, sir! There¡¯s a massive traffic jam above us. We¡¯ve got flyers from a dozen districts stacked up every thousand feet from Angels 6 to 40. Everyone¡¯s trying to get in the AO!¡±


    ¡°Is there even going to be anything left for us to shoot by the time this whale gets there?¡± he complained.


    His copilot¡¯s face lit up in a psychotic smile. ¡°Oh yeah, did you see the drone and orbital imagery? The aliens are piled up going north on the Syrian M5. Their convoy¡¯s forty-five miles long, two lanes wide, and the wild weasels just took out their last short-range ack-acks. It¡¯s dinner time.¡±


    ¡°Alright, tell the guys back there to prep the one-five-five.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t we go any faster than this?¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Abram Stuart, Terran Republic District 3 Air Force (Rank: Staff Sergeant)


    As the head of the target convoy appeared over the horizon in the distance, it became apparent to the AV-281¡¯s primary gunner that they hadn¡¯t brought nearly enough ammunition. The enemies and their armored vehicles stretched far beyond what the eye could see.


    Someone else had already begun working on them. All that was left of the first few kilometers of vehicles were their charred metallic remains. With their own vehicles stuck behind them for another few dozen kilometers, panic among the alien vehicle crews was apparently setting in as they began to realize they were under heavy air attack.


    As their aircraft approached the head of the column, an errant artillery shell whistled by, barely missing them to detonate a few hundred meters above one of the sections of convoy still apparently operational.


    Bang. Pffsssssssss.


    It released a cloud of bright white smoke, raining thousands of pieces of ignited incendiary submunitions on the Bun vehicles below like a bundle of shooting stars. A few of the speckles landed on a Longclaw, melting straight through its thick metal hull in seconds.


    ¡°What was that one?¡± the copilot muttered into the headset.


    The pilot coughed twice and remarked sarcastically as he pointed to the afternoon sun, ¡°Illumination shell. What the hell do you think?!¡± As he spoke, another of the enemy vehicles on the ground started to shoot autocannon tracers towards their AV-281, but they weren¡¯t even getting close.


    ¡°Twenty-three mike-mike?¡± the copilot asked calmly, watching the rounds fall just short of the tiltrotor¡¯s low flight altitude.


    ¡°Probably some alien equivalent. I¡¯m surprised the air superiority jets even left them for us.¡±


    ¡°Sweet, sweet, pro-rated combat pay.¡±


    One of the brainiacs back at base had suggested that maybe the low-altitude gunships should be held back at least until night-time, but that would have been way too late. Luckily, he¡¯d been overruled by the tactical computers upstairs.


    Abram yelled into his headset from the primary weapon station, ¡°Get me an angle! I can¡¯t hit the aliens from here!¡±


    ¡°Give me a minute. I¡¯ll put us into a pylon turn,¡± the pilot¡¯s calm voice came back from the cockpit.


    ¡°Marking reference point on the convoy.¡±


    ¡°I see it. I see it. Relax.¡±


    Half a minute later, the tiltrotor aircraft banked on a wide radius turn, pointing the guns on its left side conveniently towards the enemies on the highway. ¡°Confirmed no friendlies on the ground in the AO. Weapons free. Gunners, clear to engage anything with big fluffy ears down¡ª¡±


    ¡°Two and three armed.¡±


    ¡°Gun ready!¡±


    ¡°Round away.¡±


    Booom.


    The main gun in the back barked, sending a 155mm plasma shell right into the hull of the Znosian vehicle still futilely shooting up at them. The aircraft shook violently as the round exited, and the plane¡¯s anti-recoil system kicked in to keep itself on track. As the gunner peered down into the stabilized thermal optic, the target brewed up into a massive fireball, exploding its six-barrel turret into the desert sky.


    ¡°Direct. Oh-ho-ho, watch it go!¡±


    Abram idly watched one of the burning Znosian crewman fall out of their now empty cupola with satisfaction before selecting a new target. Some of the personnel carriers below had unloaded their infantry. The specks of white-hot thermal targets scattered, booking it away from their ground transports in every direction. As he contemplated which of them to hit, the 50mm chaingun next to him started sending rounds down range at half-second intervals.


    Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.


    The secondary gunner reported calmly, ¡°I¡¯ve got the squirters.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you do,¡± he chuckled, watching the smaller explosions follow and then catch one of the runners ¡ª hoppers, whatever ¡ª tossing the remnants of their lifeless body high up into the air with a near-direct impact. To reduce incidences of post-traumatic stress, the gunship¡¯s computers were supposed to blur out the horrific gore in real time and replace the imagery with something less likely to give them nightmares, but the obsolescent mid-21st century software wasn¡¯t working well with the alien figures on the screen at all. Abram overrode the series of half-hearted warnings it spat out about the smaller-than-adult-human figures on screen with an absentminded stab of a finger.


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    The main autoloader quickly stuffed a new plasma round into the breech and then rammed two large white bags of propellant charges right behind the shell. His robotic loader took half a second to inspect and verify the result. ¡°Gun ready!¡±


    Abram noted that the 50mm airburst rounds and other artillery shells pounding the column were kicking up so much hot desert sand that it was obscuring even the thermal optics. He flipped a switch on the console in front of him to activate the millimeter wave radar. A second later, the targets lit up anew on his screen like a Christmas tree, and the computers put convenient red outlines around the high-value targets.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He selected one of them and squeezed the trigger. ¡°Round away.¡±


    Boooom.


    A Znosian Longclaw on the road exploded, sending its occupants sky high.


    ¡°Direct.¡±


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    ¡°Wooohoooo! Welcome to Earth, alien scum¡ª¡±


    ¡°Judy back there. We¡¯re trying to listen to what¡¯s happening upstairs!¡±


    ¡°Gun ready!¡±


    Rinse and repeat.


    Best job in the whole galaxy.


    And it was. Which was why despite the risks and stress involved, and despite it being ¡ª by far ¡ª the most costly to the Republic¡¯s veteran healthcare system, Aerial Gunner was one of the very few frontline combat roles the air force had not outsourced to the damn clankers.


    The gunner wheezed and coughed twice as he breathed the air mix of unfiltered depleted uranium and lead particles straight into his lungs. He looked at the oxygen respirator he was technically supposed to always wear on the job hanging on a shelf next to him and shrugged internally. They have a cure for that nowadays, right?


    He selected a new alien tank on his screen. Or was it one of their APCs? Whatever it was, one of the poor fuckers had gone off-road to desperately try to escape the destruction derby, but they¡¯d gotten it stuck in an irrigation ditch just thirty meters away, slotting in perfectly just so that their fancy grav engines wouldn¡¯t be able to boost them out of it.


    Their day was about to get a whole lot worse.


    Should have stayed home on Znos.


    ¡°Round away.¡±


    ¡°Direct!¡±


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    <hr>


    Half an hour into the Great Bunny Shoot, there was no semblance of resistance left from this stretch of the highway convoy, just tens of thousands of enemies scrambling to get away from the shooting gallery. Many ¡ª thousands, it looked like ¡ª of the Znosians had ditched even their vehicles, hopping away on their bare paws on the hot noon sand, driven by primitive instinct and fear.


    It looked hot down there. Almost as hot as his secondary gunner¡¯s glowing barrel as it poured continuous fire into crowds of scattering red dots on his heads-up display.


    Where were they even retreating to on Earth? He shrugged. It wasn¡¯t his job to care.


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    ¡°Gun ready!¡±


    Abram selected a Longclaw that looked like it still might have something left in it. Just as he was about to depress his trigger, the enemy armor targeted on his screen exploded all on its own, his camera accurately tracking the turret it tossed high into the sky.


    ¡°What the hell?!¡± He zoomed out on his optic, searching around, only to see a flight of four Jordanian-flagged autonomous light attack helicopters pass below the AV-281, smoke dotting their pylon racks as dozens of ATGMs and cluster rockets came off their wings in pairs, engulfing the highway in a scene of fire and brimstone straight out of religious text. A few seconds later, the sounds of their explosions reached the aircraft from below in a loud cacophony.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    ¡°Get some! Get some!¡± he yelled excitedly into the din.


    The chopper drones were done in less than twenty seconds. Their entire munitions load dumped, they turned and headed back towards their forward bases for another.


    Looking back down and inspecting the dark-colored smoke still lingering in the target area and the shockwaves from the secondary explosions, the gunner sighed and spoke into his microphone, ¡°Ah, for fuck¡¯s sake. Captain, bring us up another half a mile on your next turn. There¡¯s nothing left to shoot here!¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Charles Meyer, Terran Republic District 3 Air Force (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Cease fire, cease fire!¡± Capt. Meyer repeated into the crew voice channel as he pulled hard right on his joystick.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± one of the gunners in the back complained impatiently as the aircraft tilted and banked away from the direction of the slaughter. ¡°We¡¯ve still got a few more rounds left!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an orbital artillery strike incoming! We gotta get out of here.¡±


    ¡°Aww come on, why can¡¯t we hang around a bit? Just stay out of their blast radius.¡±


    ¡°Do you know the CEP of a thirty-year-old large-diameter O2G missile, Staff Sarn¡¯t?¡± Meyer asked, referring to the circular error probability ¡ª broadly, the accuracy ¡ª of the incoming orbital munitions.


    He paused for a second. ¡°No. You?¡±


    ¡°Me neither. And I¡¯m not sticking around to find out the hard way. But if you want to, you¡¯ve got a parachute back there, and I can leave the aft cargo door open for you¡­¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Kvatska, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Four Whiskers)


    Four Whiskers Kvatska was having a bad day sitting in the back of her armored personnel carrier. A very bad day.


    By all objective measures, they¡¯d been extremely lucky.


    They survived the Lesser Predator attacks at Gruccud.


    They survived the Great Predator blink traps on their way.


    They survived the devastating attacks on their refueling operations at Preirsput.


    Their orbital transport was deemed essential enough to be refueled at Sirius with just enough to be able to reach Sol.


    The ship did not carry anyone high ranking enough, nor any cargo dangerous enough, to be prioritized by the enemy defense fleet in orbit.


    Their captain had been one of the few sensible enough to initiate an atmospheric drop even without orders.


    They survived the atmospheric jets and the orbital defense batteries.


    On the ground, they managed to get in contact with other units with direct line-of-sight radios. Through some miracle of the Prophecy, they found a route to their target objective on one of the Great Predators¡¯ own highways even without the orbital positioning systems they had been trained to use.


    That was¡­ until the convoy got attacked from the sky.


    Kvatska¡¯s quick action saved her squad. With her experience from the Invasion Battle of Gruccud several years ago, she ordered their vehicle off-road immediately and managed to get out of sight of the enemy aircraft before the main air attack began in earnest.


    They could still hear the screaming and increasing panic of their dying comrades over their radios. That was all they could hear through the heavy communication jamming; she suspected that the predators were doing that deliberately in some sick attempt to intimidate them. Then, they lost all contact with the rest of the units.


    For all she knew, the divisions of Marines they came down to this cursed planet with were all dead. Or worse, captured to be eaten.


    She was lucky.


    She wasn¡¯t feeling very lucky.


    Since the air attacks, they¡¯d driven aimlessly off-road for the past three hours. The sun was setting when they finally came into the first signs of civilization they¡¯d seen since they left the road: a fence. Beyond it, there was a herd of fluffy, white, unintelligent animals in the distance.


    Kvatska stood up in the cupola of the carrier, searching around with her binoculars. After a few seconds, she spotted one of the Great Predators, a mostly unarmed one it looked like, directing the poor animals with a long wooden stick. To the slaughterhouse, probably.


    Disgusting predators.


    ¡°Drive up to that butcher!¡± she ordered.


    The armored carrier crushed the thin wire fence under its tracks, driving into the grassy field towards the lone creature. The vehicle ground to a stop just a few meters short of it and its flock.


    The repulsive critter gaped at them ¡ª its mouth hanging wide open ¡ª revealing all its sharp, primitive teeth at the Znosian Marines who¡¯d gotten out and were pointing their guns at him. She noticed it was hunched over and leaning on its staff, as if tired from its work.


    Must be a lazy one. Or a defect.


    ¡°Three Whiskers, ask it where we are,¡± Kvatska ordered from the open turret.


    The short three whiskers Znosian got out of the carrier, hopped up next to the predator with his datapad and spoke to it in the guttural native tongue that was supposedly most commonly used in this part of their world. ¡°Predator, where are we?¡±


    The creature said something back as it gestured around it, which their translator couldn¡¯t understand.


    ¡°What did it say?¡± Kvatska demanded.


    The three whiskers searched fruitlessly on his datapad for a few seconds, then looked up and shrugged, ¡°Sounds like a town or local area name. It¡¯s not on any of our maps.¡±


    ¡°Never mind that. Our primary objective was obviously too well-defended. Ask it to point us to our secondary target¡­ the city near the water that we were supposed to receive orbital supply drops from.¡±


    Kvatska declined to voice her doubt that there were still any orbital ships left to drop supplies. They were Great Exterminator Marines ¡ª the pride of the Dominion, and they would accomplish their mission! With or without orbital support.


    She yelled down at the predator, ¡°Hey, what about the other city¡­¡± She paused before pronouncing the weird Great Predator city name through her snout as best she could.


    His front-facing eyes snapped up toward her. ¡°May God have mercy on you.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± Kvatska asked in confusion.


    ¡°You sneezed. In our custom, when people sneeze, we say that¡ª¡±


    ¡°No! That¡¯s not¡ª Three Whiskers, you ask him.¡±


    ¡°Which direction is your city of Haifa?¡± the three whiskers asked slowly in the local tongue. Kvatska noted in the back of her mind that it was right; the name of the city did kind of sound like sneezing.


    The local predator made a grotesque, rumbling sound through its chest. Kvatska pulled up her local customs guide on her datapad, interpreting the body language. Laughter. Predator humor. ¡°Ask it what it finds so funny.¡±


    After a few seconds, the infuriating predator finally stopped its laughter to give them an answer.


    ¡°It tells us: if its God wills it, we will reach our destination quickly. It says we will definitely enjoy our journey to that city.¡±


    ¡°Finally, some good news today.¡± Kvatska waved at the creature impatiently. ¡°Tell it to point us in the right direction.¡±


    The predator seemed to think for a few seconds, looking around to orient itself. Then, it pointed adamantly towards the distance at a patch of sand in between two short hills in the distance. ¡°That way.¡±


    Kvatska nodded in satisfaction as the three whiskers packed up his datapad and climbed back into the armored vehicle.


    As if it knew its fate, the hunched over predator dropped to its knees. It set its stick aside gently on the ground, and began to pray, ¡°I bear witness that there is no deity but God. And I bear witness that His messenger¡ª¡±


    Bang. Bang. Bang.


    Kvatska brought up her carbine and let loose a three-round burst into its center of mass, casually culling the predator before it could finish its annoying blasphemy. Hearing the loud noises, its liberated flock galloped and fled in every direction around the vehicle. She climbed back down into her cupola and ordered the vehicle to drive towards the direction they¡¯d just been given.


    ¡°How far away did that primitive predator say the city was?¡± her driver asked a few minutes later.


    ¡°I¡ª I don¡¯t think he really mentioned that,¡± her translator replied.


    ¡°Great, we can¡¯t go back and ask now that Kvatska culled him¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just drive.¡±


    A few kilometers later, Kvatska¡¯s vehicle rolled into a marked field, one of many that dotted the area ¡ª the last remnants of the millennia of conflicts that took place in the rich, fertile, and blood-soaked soil and sand that was roughly the birthplace of human civilization.


    If the Znosian transport had stopped at the improvised ditch marking its boundary, the squad might have seen the trilingual warning signs placed near it by local shepherds and villagers warning people away, but they were too exhausted to be paying attention and it was too dark outside to be reading.


    Besides, who cared what local predators put on an old, rotting wooden sign?


    Less than a hundred meters into the oddly easily drivable terrain, a pair of Soviet-made TM-62 anti-tank mines buried there over a century ago blew apart one of the last effectively operational Znosian units remaining on the surface of Terra.


    <hr>


    District 3, Terra


    Emergency Mobile Alert


    ORBITAL DEBRIS INBOUND. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.


    As a result of recent military action in low orbit, NASA is closely monitoring falling orbital debris in the following states: California, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada. There may be live Znosian military personnel in the wreckage.


    If you see an escape pod or any extraterrestrial debris, call 911 immediately.


    DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPEN. DO NOT ENGAGE WITH FIREARMS ON YOUR OWN.


    <hr>


    2 weeks later


    DCDC Update


    The District Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is issuing this urgent health warning to notify the public about recent reports of severe illness associated with the consumption of alien life forms.


    There have been alarming reports of district residents consuming flesh from deceased Znosian personnel that have deorbited in escape pods. Some of these individuals have been hospitalized with the following symptoms: diarrhea, nausea, headache, fever, skin rashes, itching, joint pain, and sexual dysfunction. Full recovery is likely with prompt treatment. No cases of human-to-human transmission have been documented, and experts assess the risk is low but not zero.


    Rumors from online sources alleging health benefits of alien flesh consumption are not backed by scientific evidence. Experts strongly advise against consumption of alien flesh due to potential health risks. There is a heightened risk of zoonotic diseases due to rarity of prior contact and immunological incompatibility.


    If you suspect you may have consumed or otherwise inadvertently come into contact with alien flesh, and are experiencing any of the symptoms above, seek immediate medical attention.


    <hr>


    News Flashes Live Feed


    (Local // District 3 // AZ)


    Underground Alien Fighting Ring Busted


    Two Dozen Arrested for Trafficking Captured Znosians Across District Lines in Arizona


    160+ Alien Prisoners Recovered Alive by Republic Marines in Tucson


    Republic Office of Justice Declined to Comment


    Editor note 1: Is the word choice ¡°captured¡± or ¡°kidnapped¡± more appropriate for this headline? The aliens were captured by non-uniformed, armed civilians two weeks ago, but the illegal nature of their continued custody could make the latter a preferable selection going forward.


    Editor note 2: They should have stayed home in Znos.

 Orbital Shift - Chapter 69 Terrible Resolve

    <div>


    ZNS 9520, Sirius (25,000 Ls)


    POV: Zvojshur, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Nine Whiskers Zvojshur was getting nervous. Half of the ships of the Grand Fleet were waiting on the wrong side of the Great Predator Nest here with her in charge in the system of Sirius.


    For the first couple days, the relay ships came back from the other side with consistent frequency as the attacking fleet began their travel to the enemy home and colony planets. But after that, the relay ships and messages stopped coming.


    She assumed that the relay ships either couldn¡¯t get refueled yet on the other side or the Great Predators were blowing up the relay ships. Which¡­ would be concerning, but not much more than the other mini-catastrophes that had already happened in this campaign. What was one more delay?


    After a week, though, she began to get nervous.


    It wasn¡¯t the supplies. They had enough supplies. More than enough, actually, since Ten Whiskers Stsinkt decided to leave all the remaining supply ships with them. They could stay here for several more weeks, months if they had to. And if it came down to it, they could make some hard decisions about which Servants were more valuable to the Prophecy¡­ maybe they¡¯d even be able to last years.


    But the far more concerning thing was: based on the latest estimates, the Grand Fleet in the Great Predator Nest had enough ships and equipment to destroy every planet in the entire system, multiple times over. They should have been done by now.


    As she was starting to consult with her engineers and contemplating some improbable drive-by refueling operations around the Sirius-A star with some extreme heat-resistant contraptions, her computer officer suddenly spoke up, ¡°Nine Whiskers Zvojshur, there¡¯s a blink emergence¡­ it¡¯s the 2239 and her escorts!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ Nine Whiskers Tvadnek and his Battlegroup Cottontail?¡± Zvojshur demanded.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers,¡± he reported, then pulled up their visuals on the main screen. There were multiple gasps on the bridge as Zvojshur¡¯s officers digested the imagery. ¡°By the Prophecy¡­ they¡¯ve taken severe battle damage!¡±


    There were blackened perforations and metallic patches all over the entire remaining¡­ battlegroup of just eighteen ships, each obviously hastily repaired in battle. For a second, Zvojshur was impressed by how they could possibly remain vacuum-worthy with that much apparent damage. She didn¡¯t know that damage control crews were that well-bred.


    ¡°Get them on the radio. Now!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    She put on her headset, ¡°Nine Whiskers Tvadnek, what in the Prophecy happened in there, in the Great Predator Nest?!¡±


    An unfamiliar face came onto the screen. From his uniform, insignia, and patch, she could tell he was an eight whiskers missile destroyer captain. One of his ears was missing and there were several bandaged wounds on his body. ¡°Nine Whiskers, this is Eight Whiskers Krizvum,¡± he managed to cough out in his wounded state. ¡°Battlegroup Commander Tvadnek is¡­ with the Prophecy now. The predators attacked our battlegroup with sneak tactics and surprise ambushes all over their Saturn battle area. This squadron and a half ¡ª it¡¯s all that remains of our battlegroup now.¡±


    ¡°What of the Will of the Prophecy?!¡± Zvojshur asked in astonishment.


    Krizvum cracked open a small smile of pleasure. ¡°We accomplished our part, Nine Whiskers. We exterminated every last predator around their Jupiter planet. That¡¯s how we refueled our ships. Battlegroups Dwarf and Ears are still hard at work on Terra and Mars. There is some resistance remaining from the Great Predators, but everything is going as Ten Whiskers Stsinkt had planned: the Great Extermination will be completed. She says it will just take a little while longer than expected. But the Will of the Prophecy shall be done.¡±


    ¡°Excellent!¡± Zvojshur replied excitedly. ¡°And what is the directive for us from the Ten Whiskers?¡±


    Krizvum looked at the camera and took a deep breath. ¡°As we are otherwise combat ineffective, we are here to fuel and bring as many of our ships here into the system as possible. We¡¯ve brought enough with us to each refuel one of your ships here in addition to ourselves. It will take some time, but as we have 18 ships, we can bring 18 ships from here into the Great Predator Nest each time in preparation for final cleanup of the Great Predator Nest.¡±


    Zvojshur nodded and pointed a claw at her computer officer. ¡°Send him a list of 17 other ships along with ours and tell them to be careful with the docking. Those ships do not look to be in great shape.¡±


    It took a couple more hours than usual for the docking operation to safely complete given the horribly damaged state of the remnants of Battlegroup Cottontail, but they managed to connect the couplings without any accidents. When it was done, Zvojshur met the wounded Eight Whiskers Krizvum at the airlock.


    Krizvum greeted her with the proper respect and bowed as best he could with the multiple burn injuries on his body. She muttered a quick thanks to the Prophecy for the advanced state of Dominion medical technology.


    Krizvum apologized again. ¡°I take full responsibility for the poor state of my being and my ships. It has been a difficult battle, and many Servants have rejoined the Prophecy along with our battlegroup commander¡ª¡±


    Zvojshur waved it aside magnanimously. ¡°That is of little importance. As long as the Will of the Prophecy is complete, our lives have all been forfeited the day we left our hatchling pools.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡± Krizvum added in a lower voice, ¡°I didn¡¯t want to announce this over the radio to prevent the predators from intercepting and hearing it, but there is some additional great news. We have captured many prisoners at their shipyards over Ceres. Some of them are scientists and engineers ¡ª the ones from their equivalent of the Ship Design Bureau who invented the hiding ships and the blinking missiles. And if you¡¯ll follow me onto the ship, I can show you¡ª¡±


    Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ¡°Say no more, Eight Whiskers. Lead the way. We must interrogate them thoroughly for future campaigns of the Dominion.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    Krizvum led her and two of her bridge officers onto his ship, into one of the secondary cargo bays of the 2239. And, as they entered, Zvojshur heard the cargo hold blast door slam shut behind her.


    Thud.


    She was deciding whether to question him about why there were so few ship crew members doing their jobs around¡­ when a cold metallic object jabbed into her ribs from behind her and her officers.


    ¡°I apologize, Nine Whiskers,¡± Krizvum said as he turned back, looking at her sadly. ¡°I take full responsibility for my personal weakness¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no, don¡¯t apologize to the bitch,¡± one of the many predators who were now materializing out of the dark shadows of the cargo hold corrected him. ¡°You did great, Krissy. Excellent performance. Oscar-worthy. You¡¯ll get a reward for this if you keep it up.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± another one said. ¡°Hero of the Resistance, possibly.¡±


    Krizvum stared at the hull beneath his paws. ¡°I recommend you do as they say, Nine Whiskers. It would be better for both of us¡ª¡±


    ¡°No! Never!¡± Zvojshur shouted, now shaking with a mix of righteous fury and fear. ¡°I would rather die than betray the Prophecy to the abominations¡­ like you did!¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ that¡¯s what Krissy here said at first¡­ before we fed him his ear¡­¡± a smug voice emerged from another shadow in a corner of the cargo bay.


    ¡°What are you?¡± Zvojshur asked angrily, turning to the voice.


    It ¡ª their leader, it looked like ¡ª stepped out of the dark in its armored EVA suit, towering over the nine whiskers who stood just a head over a meter tall.


    ¡°Excuse me, where are my manners?¡± It held out a hand and forcibly squeezed Zvojshur¡¯s fragile right paw with an iron grip, making her wince in pain as something audibly cracked in her bones. ¡°Nice to meet you, Zvo-whatever.¡±


    Crunch.


    Zvojshur felt her fragile wrist snap and then shatter.


    ¡°I am the Ace of Clubs. And Zvo ¡ª you and eighteen of your ships ¡ª you are now property of my Sirius People¡¯s Navy.¡± The Ace stared at the nine whiskers whimpering in pain with a hungry grin. ¡°How many more round trips do you think we can make here before your people realize what¡¯s going on? The betting pool right now has the total at four, but I¡¯ll be honest with you, Zvo: I put my credits on the over when I saw that we were going to bag ourselves a live nine whiskers. I think the Reps come and ruin our fun before your people figure it out¡ª¡±


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The cruel predator stopped and looked at its minions around it. ¡°What are you fools standing around for? Aren¡¯t you all supposed to be pirates? Go take control of our new ships!¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°FTL sensors report incoming from the Sol side,¡± Bert reported as a new alert popped up on the main screen. ¡°Not ours. And not the¡­ the SRN.¡±


    Zwena looked at their screen in disdain. ¡°The Bun stragglers are still coming through?¡±


    ¡°Znosian relay ships,¡± Bert replied, inspecting the signatures as they materialized. ¡°Two of them, trying to escape to report back.¡±


    ¡°You know the drill, Bert. One each,¡± Zwena ordered.


    ¡°With pleasure, Commander.¡±


    A couple hours later, the pair of anti-ship missiles from a nearby autonomous defense platform found their targets, and the wrecks of the Znosian relay ships drifted uselessly into their final graveyard orbit around the McMurdo system star¡­ joining the squadron or so of their survivors who had managed to refuel from each other and attempted to break out of Republic territory to report the destruction of their fleet.


    Should have stayed home in Znos.


    <hr>


    Naval Ground Supply Base 105 (Grantor City), Grantor-3


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    On his screen, Director Svatken¡¯s fury was unmistakable. ¡°Is there anything¡ª anything you can tell me, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr?¡±


    ¡°No, nothing additional to report,¡± Sprabr replied calmly. ¡°We have had no contact from the direction of the Great Predator Nest, and they have been completely cut off for weeks. What was unthinkable for you just weeks ago is now a matter of certainty. All we can assume is the worst, Director, and I take partial responsibility for this turn of events.¡±


    ¡°Partial¡ª partial responsibility?¡±


    ¡°Eh. About fifteen percent, if I had to put a number on¡ª¡±


    ¡°You have so much more to answer for! You can¡¯t possibly think¡ª¡±


    ¡°However, I will have to say in my defense,¡± Sprabr continued, cutting her off. ¡°That I recommended on the record against this course of action initially when you first proposed this obviously ill-fated operation.¡±


    Svatken bristled at him in rage. ¡°How¡ª how dare you! Committing the Grand Prophetic Fleet to the destruction of the Great Predators ¡ª a hybrid predator species ¡ª was the only acceptable course of action under the Prophecy! It was the military execution and planning of this attack that has clearly failed!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Sprabr countered simply. ¡°We will have to see about that at our assignment-of-responsibility hearing.¡±


    She gaped at him, then closed her mouth angrily. ¡°Be careful, Eleven Whiskers. Your tone of voice is beginning to sound like apostasy.¡±


    ¡°Apostasy?¡± Sprabr shook his head. ¡°Perhaps you do not understand the gravity of the situation, Director. I don¡¯t believe you have been fully informed.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?! I have been following and tracking down every lead about these new predators since you gave me your alternative hypothesis of the Ditvish fiasco. The only thing I have not taken your advice on is the decision¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªis the only important thing, Director,¡± Sprabr said. ¡°These new predators ¡ª the Terrans ¡ª our chances of victory laid in their complacency. All we have accomplished, it appears, is to awaken a sleeping predator and fill it with a terrible resolve. What we should have done ¡ª if you¡¯d listened to me ¡ª was to sow doubt among their people with diplomatic overtures about peace while we mobilized further. With our resources and population, if we delayed a confrontation, we could have mustered more¡­¡± He sighed. ¡°In any case, what is done is done, and the situation now is extremely dangerous to our people.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you think I realize that?!¡± Svatken asked indignantly. ¡°We have¡­ lost our Grand Fleet for the first time since¡­ ever! The blow this is for internal security¡­ not to mention our plans to take Malgeiru will now take additional years if not a decade¡ª¡±


    ¡°As I said, Madam Director,¡± Sprabr shook his head. ¡°You are still gravely underestimating the nature of the problem. And I don¡¯t blame you for that. What is happening to us now ¡ª this has not happened to us ever, not strategically. It is something that normally happens to our enemies ¡ª to the predators.¡±


    Svatken looked almost ready to order his execution right then and there. ¡°You don¡¯t blame me¡ª Please. Enlighten me, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°In offensive war, there is a strategic concept. It is called culmination. The culminating point of an attacking force like ours is the point when we are no longer able to effectively continue our advances,¡± he explained patiently.


    ¡°I know what culmination is, you condescending predator spawn, you¡ª¡±


    He continued, ¡°At that point, additional offensive operations become wasteful, give diminishing returns, and put the attacking force at risk of destruction from an effective counter-offensive. Please, Director ¡ª for just one minute ¡ª stop thinking about this like a State Security problem and like a real grand strategic issue we are now faced with!¡±


    Svatken seemed to think about what he said for a moment and appeared to calm down a little. ¡°You are saying the Navy¡¯s campaign against the Lesser Predators has now culminated with the possible defeat of the Grand Fleet? We can advance no further?!¡±


    He sighed. ¡°Culminate now? Now? No¡­ No, Director. We culminated two years ago, at the Second Invasion of Datsot. What we have done since then is¡­ strategic overextension. And because we have overextended in blunder, we will now pay that heavy price in fleets and in territory.¡±


    ¡°Price. What price?¡± she asked, her anger evaporating to be replaced by fear and alarm on her face.


    ¡°The Lesser Predator will push us out of their entire pre-war territory. This will likely happen in the next couple months when their less competent Second and Third Fleets finally receive the supplies, direction, and support they need from the Great Predators. And they will not make the mistake they made with the Cliunc, not again. That bit of fortune had the paws of the Prophecy in it, and we can¡¯t count on something like that to save us again.¡± Sprabr continued, his eyes closed as he thought, ¡°Then, they will reach into the pre-war territory of the Slow Predators. They will besiege Grantor. Grantor will fall. With the Great Predators assisting them, this will happen within a year¡­ two at most if we dumbly try to cling onto it against sense and reason. Without the Grantor cluster holding together all of the Slow Predator territory, they will quickly retake all the Slow Predator systems.¡±


    ¡°Then what?¡± Svatken asked, shivering internally.


    Sprabr kept his eyes closed. ¡°Then¡­ they will attack into pre-war Znosian territory.¡±


    Svatken¡¯s mouth hung open. ¡°By the Prophecy¡­ Is there any good news?¡±


    ¡°Not really. I guess¡­ with the destruction of our Grand Fleet, we can now construct a new one from scratch, using what little we have learned about fighting the Great Predators so far. The new Grand Fleet we will build will put the old one to shame¡­ But fleets take time to build, and the predators will not stop at our border and wait for us to get ready.¡±


    ¡°How¡ª how far do you think they will get before we can muster enough forces to stop them?¡± Svatken asked, apparently horrified at the prospect of being on the defensive in fully pacified Dominion territory.


    ¡°That is a good question, Director. And it depends on what we do next.¡±


    ¡°And what are you suggesting we do?¡±


    ¡°We need to begin preparations for retreat from Grantor¡­ and we must begin diplomatic negotiations with the Terrans,¡± Sprabr said.


    It was Svatken¡¯s turn to shake her head. ¡°If I know anything about these hybrid predators ¡ª they will not stop for diplomacy. Not after we attacked them in their own nest system. We wouldn¡¯t. Like you say¡­ they have been filled with a terrible resolve. They will not fall for our tricks like that.¡±


    ¡°Not now, they will not. They will work out their frustrations by killing many Servants of the Prophecy. But they can¡¯t destroy all of the Dominion. Not all at once. We have hundreds of systems. A trillion of us. As predators, they will eventually tire of war. Their anger subsides. Their rage dissipates. Their bloodlust fades. This is as much their biology as it is their history. And when they do, they will sue for peace¡­ and we must agree, even if the conditions may seem painful to us when we do.¡±


    ¡°Peace? And live next to the savages? Next to the Great Predators?¡± Svatken scoffed. ¡°Have their teeth and their claws hang over our necks forever?¡±


    ¡°Forever? Of course not,¡± Sprabr smiled. ¡°But we will be patient. We outnumber them. We outbreed them. We outbuild them. And eventually, we will catch up to their advanced technology and catch onto their deceptive tricks. And our bloodlines will finish the job that is no longer possible for us. And when they do¡­ then, the Prophecy can be fulfilled.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Nile, Grantor-3 (12 Ls)


    POV: Gregor Guerrero, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Yeah, Atilla the Bun is doing way too much critical thinking for his own good,¡± Captain Gregor Guerrero said to the image of Admiral Amelia Waters on his screen.


    ¡°And for ours.¡±


    Gregor shrugged. ¡°Can¡¯t stop us from blowing through his ships.¡±


    ¡°I think we might be going about this the wrong way,¡± Amelia said slowly, thinking.


    ¡°How so?¡± Gregor asked.


    ¡°We keep thinking about them like this empire we have to take down system by system, fleet by fleet, battle by battle.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the alternative?¡±


    ¡°How did we beat the Resistance this time? Ignoring the part where we are allowing them to live in exile.¡±


    ¡°The Resistance?¡± Gregor thought for a second. ¡°Find their leaders, one by one. Cut their finances. Cut their recruitment. Cut their logistics. But how does that apply here?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ I¡¯m still thinking. But I know we are far more experienced with that than what we¡¯re doing here slugging it out with the Buns,¡± Amelia admitted. ¡°I think¡­ our eleven whiskers is right. We can¡¯t blow our way through the combined resources and populations of six hundred systems. Not even if we try to do it quickly.¡±


    Gregor shuddered. ¡°I hope he isn¡¯t. If we wait for them to build another one of those Grand Fleets, we¡¯re screwed the second time around, especially since our Ceres shipyards are now a few trillion credits worth of orbital trash.¡±


    ¡°We might have a solution for Ceres.¡± She tilted her head. ¡°Anyway, you have any luck finding Sprabr among the thousand ships they have over there in Grantor?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. Clever Bun. Every time we find a trace of him, he¡¯s on a new ship. I think recently¡­ he¡¯s gone down to the planet itself. Our secret squirrels are trying to find him, but bar some incredible luck, it¡¯ll be impossible to find him there for now. But¡­ he¡¯ll have to move out eventually when our Pupper fleets come this way. And then, we¡¯ll have a shot at him.¡±


    ¡°There is something that unsettles me about that guy.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s the head psycho Bun. That not enough for you?¡±


    Amelia shook her head. ¡°No, it¡¯s not that. Gregor, at the start¡­ what would you have said our chances of surviving this Grand Fleet invasion were?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. One in five, maybe? Say twenty percent? Everything we did had to go perfectly right for us. And we stopped them right at the line.¡±


    ¡°Sounds about right. They had good odds. Excellent, from their perspective. Yet¡­ their grand fleet commander was sitting at home in Grantor rather than at the head of the Grand Fleet in command of it all. Isn¡¯t that kind of odd?¡± Amelia asked.


    Gregor thought for a second before speculating. ¡°Maybe he¡¯s a coward. Fear of death isn¡¯t that unheard of among their outliers.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. Or maybe someone¡ª someone in the Znosian Navy believed in us more than we did ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Great. We¡¯ve got fans on the enemy team. Why would that be unsettling?¡±


    ¡°Because so far we¡¯ve squeaked by from being underestimated dumb predators who think with their guts and bloodthirsty instincts,¡± Amelia said, looking beyond her console. ¡°And somehow¡­ somehow I think that¡¯s not going to last forever.¡±


    ¡°You know that old Orbital Demolitions Team motto?¡± Gregor sighed. ¡°The only easy day¡­ was yesterday.¡±

 Orbital Shift - Epilogue

    <div>


    High Council Palace, Malgeiru-3


    POV: Cerbos, Malgeir (High Councilor of the Federation)


    ¡°High Councilors, we¡¯ve just received a message from our embassy in Sol!¡±


    ¡°FTL radio traffic is finally going through now?¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Councilor, a channel has been opened just for us. Ambassador Niblui reported in from our embassy on Atlas.¡±


    ¡°What did she say?¡±


    ¡°The Terrans¡ª they¡¯ve managed to defend their home system! They¡¯re purging the remaining Grass Eaters from their territory!¡±


    ¡°How?! Are they¡ª did they¡ª how did¡ª how extensive were their casualties?¡±


    ¡°Surprisingly light in personnel, according to Ambassador Niblui¡¯s report, though economic damage was notably severe in some areas in their asteroid belt shipyard facilities as well as their outer planets and¡ª¡±


    ¡°And what?¡±


    ¡°They regrettably report that they had to make adjustments to the orbits of some planets in their systems. They advise our ships to update their navigational systems before planning trips into Terran Republic space.¡±


    ¡°Orbit adjustments¡ª update¡ª What does that all even mean?!¡±


    ¡°I have no idea, High Councilor. Also, they are requesting permission to transit several of their armed ships through Federation and Alliance space.¡±


    ¡°A formality. That will be granted, of course. Let them know we appreciate them asking anyway. Where will they be heading?¡±


    ¡°It¡ª uh¡ª they¡¯re not being very clear about it.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, Minister?¡±


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    ¡°It¡ª They¡ª they claim these ships will be attacking directly into Znosian territory.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ That seems aggressive, but the Terrans are known for their measured military operations. They must have a viable, calculated battle plan. Which system is listed as their intended destination?¡±


    ¡°They say ¡ª there must be a translation mistake here, High Councilors ¡ª they¡¯re saying their ships are headed to Znos.¡±


    <hr>


    Grand Chancellery, Schpriss Prime


    POV: Sonfio, Schpriss (Chancellor of the Confederacy)


    ¡°Ambassador Prinlaex, I¡¯m afraid you cut out just now. Can you say that again?¡±


    ¡°I said: there has been a new species discovered in the vicinity of the Malgeir. They are¡­ part Grass Eaters, and they have been covertly working with the Federation for some years now, which explains their recent¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no. We heard that part, Ambassador. But what I thought I heard you say was that this hybrid species with all of one habitable star system just defeated a Znosian Grand Fleet consisting of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, Chancellor, the attacking Grass Eater fleet had over two thousand space combat ships. And I have this figure from multiple independent sources that I trust!¡±


    ¡°How is that even possible, Ambassador Prinlaex?!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Chancellor, but there is also a very¡­ concerning rumor going around that they are planning to open up and¡ª and approach us to¡ª to borrow additional resources from us to help them in their war. It¡¯s not formal yet, but the request is coming. And they seem to agree with the official view in Malgeirgam that fighting against the Grass Eaters¡ª the other Grass¡ª that fighting the Znosians is a public service to all the peaceful predator species on¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hold on a second. Borrow from us?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Chancellor. I think they meant ships, processed resources, facilities¡­¡±


    ¡°Ambassador Prinlaex, when they use the word borrow¡­ that is most concerning to me. What do they mean precisely? Do we get our stuff back at the end or¡ª¡±


    ¡°To be honest, Chancellor, I¡¯m not quite sure the Malgeir understand it either: my source who talked to one of them said something nonsensical about a house fire and garden hoses. I¡¯m officially meeting with one of them next week; there¡¯s a first contact ceremony. I¡¯ll try to find out what they¡¯re talking about.¡±


    ¡°What if we reject their request, Ambassador? We can inform them we are a neutral species in this war.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure, but I imagine they¡¯d be pretty unhappy about that.¡±


    ¡°Like how the Malgeir have been unhappy with our official policy of neutrality?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Chancellor. But unlike the Malgeir, they chewed through a couple thousand Znosian missile destroyers over the weekend with half a battle fleet, so I imagine we might have a slightly different diplomatic stance on not making them unhappy.¡±

 On Every Front - The Story So Far

    The Story So Far


    As humanity reached out into the stars, the nations of the world joined the newly formed Terran Republic. Through discreet interstellar exploration, the Republic found the neighboring galaxy a place of wonder and prosperity, filled with peaceful civilizations like the Malgeir Federation, the Schprissian Confederacy, the Granti Alliance¡­etc. Perfectly ripe for the taking for the uniquely bloodthirsty herbivore species, the Znosian Dominion, known to all other species in the region as Grass Eaters.


    Motivated by a religious and psychological need to expand, the rabbit-like Znosians invaded the bear-like Granti. Despite the peaceful Granti species receiving direct military assistance from their old friends, the canine-like Malgeir, they were overwhelmed and forced to evacuate their entire territory, including their homeworld of Grantor. The Znosians then turned their sights to the Malgeir, who they proceeded to also dominate on the battlefield due to their superior understanding of interstellar war and logistics. In the course of the brutal invasion, the Znosians colonized, then efficiently exterminated any predators remaining on the occupied planets.


    When the presence of one of its recon ships was observed during a raid between the Malgeir and Znosian ships present, the Terran Republic finally decided to join the war covertly on the Malgeir side.


    With centuries of experience with constant war, excellent logistics, computing technology, and wild underestimation from the Znosian enemy, the Terrans helped the sworn-to-secrecy and retrained Malgeir Sixth Fleet beat back an invasion of the Malgeir core world of Datsot, capitalizing on enemy missteps to push them all the way back to the occupied Malgeir system of Gruccud, finally trapping and forcing the surrender of the invasion fleet with technological deception.


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    But the Znosians were not done; they struck back. As the Terran Republic was distracted by an internal conflict around Saturn, the Znosians discovered the full extent of the capabilities and location of Sol. They mustered a massive fleet of thousands, the Grand Fleet, and set their engines for Terra. On the way, they displayed the psychopathic determination characteristic of the Dominion, as well as their preparedness against the tricks that had previously burnt them.


    Through the actions of the newly integrated Terran and Malgeir fleets, the Republic barely survived the onslaught. They managed to stop and destroy the Grand Fleet as it entered the orbit of Terra. However, this came at a heavy price: the Ceres shipyards were devastated, and to deny the enemy fuel for their campaign, the Republic had to permanently destroy every refueling point inside its borders outside of Sol.


    And the enemy still lives. Though greatly wounded, their massive population and resource advantages remained. With every battle, every day that passes by, they learn more about their predator enemies. Their leaders think in centuries and generations, not operations and weeks.


    Even as they plan their retreat from the occupied territories of the former Granti Alliance that they can¡¯t hold for much longer, the Grass Eaters are planning their next move¡­

 On Every Front - Chapter 01 Way of War I

    <div>


    <div>


    Schpriss Confederacy: 13 star systems.


    Malgeir Federation: 51 star systems.


    Znosian Dominion: 582 star systems.


    Where our people go¡­


    (Fade to dark.)


    Your star system¡­


    (Footage: TRNS Cascadia blink drive test 2124-05-04, declassified.)


    It belongs to us.


    (Title text: NOTHING BEYOND OUR REACH)


    (Title text: NOTHING BEYOND YOUR REACH)


    ¡°We Only Need One¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office Recruiting Commercial, December 2125


    Note: Pulled after two days airtime due to protest from Malgeir Federation Embassy over contested map and star system count, which omitted occupied systems at the time. Rather than remove access to this content from the Office of Republic Archives, we want to acknowledge its harmful impact, learn from it, and spark conversation to create a more inclusive future together.


    <hr>


    Quist City Outskirts, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Astkort, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Three Whiskers)


    Like most of the earliest settled colonies in the former Granti Alliance, the planet of Quistqueu was a temperate one. But contrary to popular belief among predators in their media, planets generally did not just have one biome and one climate. Rare was the ¡°tropical planet¡±, the ¡°tundra planet¡±, or the ¡°lava planet¡±. Most planetary bodies had features of all of the above and more, especially ones settled for habitation.


    The Znosian Marines¡¯ 115th Combined Arms Division was chosen to garrison the former capital city of Quistqueu near the equator. Located in a deep basin, the surrounding hills trapped the heat, and in summer, the temperatures in the capital could get up to 40 degrees Celsius. Before the occupation, most of the Granti residents would stay indoors during the summer to stay cool.


    Their new Znosian occupiers did not prioritize air conditioning for the Granti people who had now become prisoners on their own planet.


    Luckily for those that still drew breath ¡ª not for the Znosians¡¯ lack of trying ¡ª the summer season was passing. The capital basin was entering the much more bearable transition season before the cold seasons arrived. At 30 degrees on a clear noonday, it was still uncomfortable. But not deadly so.


    With their lightly colored, thin fur that cooled their fragile bodies efficiently, the Znosians were much better adapted to the uncomfortable heat. But that didn¡¯t mean it was comfortable, especially not in the trenches that were now snaking for miles around their division headquarters.


    Three Whiskers Astkort didn¡¯t complain about the heat. Such behavior was unbecoming of a Znosian Marine. And if she didn¡¯t want to do her job, there would be another twenty paws ready to step into her place.


    But the people in her squad were dropping like bugs to the oppressive heat rolling off the nearby hills, even with the electric fans they¡¯d recently installed along some of the trenches. Readiness suffered, and her squad of ten was down two rifles to heatstroke. More than acceptable for a predator squad, with their ridiculously low standards that obviously came with their barbarism. But it was unthinkably disastrous for the civilized Servants of the Prophecy.


    The four whiskers above her had to take full responsibility, as a proper servant of the Prophecy would. As did the five whiskers. And the six whiskers. And the seven whiskers who was supposed to be in charge of capital defense. Astkort hadn¡¯t anticipated her troops would need to be out here, hurriedly digging trenches on a planet that was thought completely secured by the Dominion over six years ago.


    As Astkort entered the covered anti-artillery bunker, she blinked as a blast of coolness hit her whiskers. The bunker itself wasn¡¯t properly insulated or anything fancy, but there was a loud fan unit blowing cool air around. She looked around the room at the familiar faces of her fellow three whiskers resting in the shaded sanctuary.


    These were the three whiskers who got things done in the Marines. Known among some as the three whiskers warren.


    At the sweet spot between skill and responsibility, three whiskers was about as high a rank as one could achieve in the service without a gram of responsibility over other paws. Even as a well-disciplined prey species, they were the paper that smoothed over the rough cracks of real life and the tape that held everything together.


    Need an electric fan installed in a bunker thirty kilometers from division headquarters? Call a three whiskers.


    Forgot where you left your datapad as you¡¯re going to a briefing? Your three whiskers probably had it.


    Looking for someone to mop up your mess after you exterminated a clan of predators off-schedule? The three whiskers warren could¡ª well, they¡¯d temporarily take care of your duties while you attended your assignment-of-responsibility hearings.


    ¡°Astkort!¡±


    Astkort looked at the source of the call, another three whiskers by the name of Fslizm. He was lounging around on a straw mat in a corner, right next to the big fan. ¡°Fslizm,¡± she said in greeting. ¡°Where are my batteries?¡±


    She had asked him to find a fresh batch of batteries for her helmet after the ones sitting in their squad locker turned out to be defective. Without new ones, their power armor had barely an hour of juice in combat, and that was during the day. At night, they would be incapable of seeing in the dark without draining them in minutes.


    Fslizm shook his head sadly. ¡°All out. No one in my supply unit has seen surplus in days.¡±


    Astkort waited a moment for him to continue, and when he didn¡¯t, she asked irritably, ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to take full responsibility for that?¡±


    ¡°My unit already has. As has the Navy nine whiskers in charge of the entire star system. Would you like me to do that again?¡±


    She sighed. ¡°No, that¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s fine. What¡¯s going on upstairs with the Navy supply lines?¡±


    ¡°Haven¡¯t you heard?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Heard what? I¡¯ve been digging for my machine gun emplacement all morning.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re officially cut off. The fleet has made the decision to retreat from the star system, and word is that the predators have moved in upstairs.¡±


    ¡°Retreat?¡± she asked, startled. ¡°They reported that things were going bad with the Lesser Predators in the Gruccud axis, but I didn¡¯t think the abominations would move so fast given¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, uncharacteristically fast is how my superiors described it. It is probably the new Great Predators they have telling them what to do. Anyway, their ships are here in Quistqueu now,¡± he said, shrugging. ¡°And nothing is getting in or out. Not people. Not supplies. Not batteries. We¡¯re all stuck here now.¡±


    ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools,¡± she muttered.


    He lowered his head at her comforting utterance out of habit.


    ¡°So what will be our new directives now?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m not your superior officer or your squad¡¯s combat computer,¡± Fslizm sniffed. ¡°But your orders are probably going to be the same as ours.¡±


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    ¡°SEER protocol?¡± she asked hesitantly, referring to the standard but barely familiar contingency she¡¯d been trained on.


    He nodded. ¡°Sabotage, Erode, Exterminate, and Raids. We¡¯ll make the predators pay for every meter of ground they take here.¡±


    ¡°Are we going to disperse?¡±


    ¡°Not at first. We¡¯ll remain organized while we can. Then, when the combat computer says we can be more effective as holdout cells, we¡¯ll be given the order to disperse,¡± Fslizm predicted.


    Astkort looked out the fortified openings of the bunker, toward the flat, empty stretch of nothing that stood between them and wherever the enemy would come from. ¡°So that won¡¯t be a problem for us, then, given our position. After all, if the predators are here to take this city, unless they¡¯re stupid enough to drop directly on the city ¡ª not totally improbable ¡ª we¡¯re at the very front of the defensive lines outside the city¡­ By the time we¡¯ll need to scatter, we¡¯d already have rejoined the Prophecy.¡±


    Fslizm shrugged. ¡°Huh. I guess you¡¯re right.¡±


    <hr>


    It took another week for the predator ships to finally enter low orbit over Quistqueu-3. And they had the sense to not drop their Marines directly onto the well-defended capital. Seconds after they arrived, they shredded the few orbital and suborbital defenses the Marines in the city set up. And for the next two nights, Astkort watched as the horizon glowed with the burning engines of their shuttles, landing troops and equipment far beyond the range of their now-diminished defenses.


    ¡°You think they¡¯re coming tonight?¡± Fslizm asked in a low voice, himself nervously clutching a rifle in the trench next to Astkort¡¯s machine gun nest.


    ¡°That¡¯s what the combat computer says,¡± she said, not taking her eyes off her sights as she looked into the darkness. ¡°They took out our communication network. None of the FTL radios are working anymore. They¡¯d only do that if they were coming soon.¡±


    ¡°I heard a rumor,¡± he began to say, ¡°from one of the other cities¡ª¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t believe everything you hear on the radio anymore, Fslizm,¡± she scoffed. ¡°They say the predators are tapping into that¡­ somehow.¡±


    ¡°It was from our own people,¡± he insisted. ¡°They said¡­ that the predators have brought their elite troopers.¡±


    ¡°Elite troopers?¡±


    ¡°There was a rumor¡­ from when our Grand Fleet went for the Great Predator Nest,¡± Fslizm said in a low voice. As such a transparent, responsibility-loving species, they all knew that the fleet had probably failed in its primary mission, but that didn¡¯t mean they had to talk about it happily. ¡°There were some of the new elite predator troops. They¡¯re not like the ones we normally face.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡± Astkort asked, slightly unsettled.


    ¡°They¡¯re¡­ different.¡±


    ¡°Different how?¡±


    ¡°Stronger. Faster.¡±


    Astkort snorted. ¡°Predators are all stronger and faster than us. You¡¯ve seen the locals around here: the Slow Predators. They aren¡¯t actually slow when they get into a real physical fight. They¡¯re twice as big as we are. A quick punch from them, and we¡¯d be dead if we¡¯re not wearing armor. Without equipment, one of them could probably tear any of us into pieces. Thank the Prophecy they don¡¯t move faster than a kinetic projectile and their hides aren¡¯t thicker than Longclaw armor.¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s not it,¡± Fslizm persisted. ¡°One of our Grand Fleet ships was boarded by their troops during their extermination mission.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°They said some of the troops were Lesser Predators, but these were not the Lesser Predators we faced before. They were working with new equipment. There were¡­ combat robots,¡± he said in a hushed voice.


    ¡°Combat robots? Hasn¡¯t the Dominion seen them before? A long time ago? We have procedures¡ª¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Not like these. They went through a battlecruiser¡¯s crew in twenty minutes. Spacers and Marines. They chewed through everyone, got what they wanted, and they left.¡±


    ¡°One of our battlecruisers? How many people is that?¡± Astkort was a ground pounder, and she was not one of those who constantly daydreamed about how their bloodlines could one day become space Marines or even actual Navy spacers. The only thing she knew about fancy space ships was how to hop on and hop off one between her deployments.


    ¡°At least a thousand Marines. And about a hundred of them Exterminator Marines.¡±


    Astkort did some calculations in her head. ¡°A hundred Exterminator Marines, huh? In twenty minutes? They must have landed thousands. How many of theirs did we get?¡±


    Fslizm shook his head. ¡°The few surviving crew who ejected reported there were less than three hundred of them. Real predators anyway. And they didn¡¯t take any serious casualties.¡±


    ¡°Three hundred of them? And no casualties?¡± she scoffed. ¡°Must be predator lies.¡±


    ¡°There is video.¡±


    ¡°That¡ª that too can be faked now. Apparently,¡± Astkort replied with less certainty.


    ¡°The videos were from our own people. We were supposed to learn from them, but I¡¯m not sure what there was to learn from¡ª from whatever the footage showed.¡±


    Astkort looked away without dispute this time. She¡¯d heard about those videos too. Apparently, they were not pretty.


    Fslizm shuddered and continued, ¡°I just hope they didn¡¯t bring those robots here. On the video, I saw one of them lose its arm to a grenade¡­ then, it calmly picked up its own severed metal arm and threw it through the helmets of one of our Marines.¡±


    ¡°Like a primitive spear?¡±


    ¡°Like a primitive spear.¡±


    Astkort pondered the image in her head for a moment. ¡°At least it¡¯ll be quick.¡±


    Fslizm nodded reluctantly. ¡°At least it¡¯ll be quick.¡±


    <hr>


    Thirty minutes later, the enemy arrived.


    The first warning they had of the predators was the base klaxons going off loudly, warning them of an impending air attack it saw in its approach radars.


    The warning came too late for Astkort ¡ª and Fslizm next to her ¡ª to get to the anti-artillery bunker. They dove into their improvised cover, hunkering down in their freshly built trench. A moment later, the trench line¡¯s short-range anti-air defenses activated. The six autocannons in the defensive line roared, stabbing thousands of tracers into the night sky, their lines converging on¡­ dark blurs in the sky.


    It didn¡¯t work.


    Boom.


    Astkort gaped in shock as a massive explosion rocked their command bunker in the distance, throwing dirt and stone hundreds of meters into the air. A half second later, the deafening sound reached their position, along with the shockwave. She held tightly onto the ground as it rumbled from the impact.


    A few seconds later, the air defense guns were silenced by identical detonations. And as the last one was struck, she finally saw one of them.


    In her machine gun nest, she aimed her weapon optics into the sky to see a tiny, triangular-shaped device; it must be smaller than the size of her head. It had no lights, no identifiable markings, and it barely registered as a moving blur on her thermal scope. But her infantry bloodline had been bred to identify dark shapes far away ¡ª not better than a natural-born predator, but not much worse either.


    ¡°Flying machines!¡± Astkort shouted into her short-range squad radio. Next to her, hundreds of rifles and machine guns opened up at the night sky with their bright red tracers, each Marine desperately engaging a target¡­ any target they could see above them.


    As she was about to pull the trigger herself, the erratically moving target she was tracking dove towards the trenches. Smaller explosions rocked the fortified positions next to her, buffeting her with the heat and sound of their detonations. She could hear the screams of her people as their radios transmitted their gurgling dying noises and death prayers.


    For an instant, Astkort lost track of the target she saw. All she could do was fire her machine gun towards the sky as everyone else did, hoping to substitute volume for accuracy¡ª


    She finally found it. One of their cold metal machines. As she swiveled her gun towards it, she noticed it getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger.


    Kabooooooom.


    She dove away from her machine gun nest at the last possible second, her uncharacteristic survival instinct saving her from being vaporized as her former position turned into an explosive fireball. Astkort screamed in pain and fought to maintain consciousness as she felt something cold stab into her back between her ribs.


    As Astkort picked her snout out of the dirt, she could see Fslizm lying there next to her, his limbs missing and his chest still. The rest of her squad laid silent where they stood just a minute ago.


    Boom. Boom. Boom.


    There were more concussive blasts in the trenches next to her.


    A few more guns opened up into the sky sporadically from a distant foxhole. Then, more explosions. Just a minute later, the night was quiet save for the crackling of the fires burning in the trenches next to her.


    Astkort spotted her dropped radio in the dirt next to her and crawled towards it, the shrapnel embedded in her back stabbing into her body with every grunt, every exertion. With trembling paws and her breath getting shallower, she dialed it to an emergency channel she ¡ª and every Marine in the trench line ¡ª knew by heart: the one that contacted the next defensive lines.


    They need to know we¡¯re under attack.


    ¡°Second defensive line, come in,¡± she coughed into the transmitter. ¡°Second defensive line, we are under attack. We are under attack! Our position is being overrun!¡±


    There was no reply.


    ¡°Second defensive line, come in. Second defensive line!¡±


    Nothing.


    ¡°Second defensive line¡ª¡±


    A male voice cut into the radio network, ¡°Second defensive line, this is Five Whiskers Brunkt from the first defensive line. Come in.¡±


    Oh, thank the Prophecy. Someone else here has a working radio transmitter.


    A female voice replied, ¡°First defensive line, this is Five Whiskers Prinik at line two. We read you loud and clear. What¡¯s your latest status? We heard some loud noises in your direction. Do you need assistance or fire support? Are the predators coming?¡±


    The voice reported, ¡°False alarm, Five Whiskers. A couple of our two whiskers got jumpy at a clan of locals near our position. False alarm. No sign of the predator troops here tonight. We¡¯ll keep an eye out for you. Over.¡±


    What?!


    There was a relieved sigh on the other end. ¡°Good to hear, Five Whiskers Brunkt. Thanks for letting us know. Second defensive line, out.¡±


    Astkort pressed the transmit button on her radio as hard as she could. ¡°Second defensive line, this is Three Whiskers Astkort from the first line! They¡¯re through our lines! They¡¯ve gotten through us! Don¡¯t trust the radio¡ª¡±


    The voice that identified himself as Brunkt came back on the radio. It made a grotesque, rhythmic noise.


    It¡¯s one of the predators doing their laughing thing, she realized. Their translator must not be able to accurately convey¡ª


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Grass Eater Three Whiskers Astkort. They can¡¯t hear you¡­ Ah, there you are. Stay still for me for a second.¡±


    Astkort was still processing what the enemy operator said when an anti-infantry drone carrying ten kilograms of plasma incendiary dove onto her signal, melting her and her radio into slag.

 On Every Front - Chapter 02 Way of War II

    <div>


    Quist City ¡ª Defense Line 6, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Vdrastostr, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    The Znosians were not all gullible. A good trick only worked so many times against them. In this case, exactly four times.


    The 6th defensive line figured it out, about six kilometers in.


    ¡°Five Whiskers Vdrastostr, they didn¡¯t use our prearranged secret phrase in the message! And we don¡¯t have a Five Whiskers Brunkt in the previous line!¡±


    Vdrastostr was an experienced commander. Her training and experience from her two-year tour on Grantor taught her exactly how to deal with lying predators. She tilted her head, and spoke back into the radio, ¡°Five Whiskers Brunkt, can you get Five Whiskers Sprert on the radio? I have something I need to consult with him on.¡±


    The voice claiming to be Brunkt replied on the network calmly, ¡°Sorry, Five Whiskers Sprert is busy with something. I take full responsibility for not being able to connect you with him. Would you like me to take a message to him?¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯s not urgent. I¡¯ll call again tomorrow. 6th defensive line, out.¡±


    Vdrastostr looked at her confused underling in dismay as she switched off the radio. ¡°That is not one of ours,¡± she declared. ¡°Our frontlines must have been breached. All of them up until our lines, possibly.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ that voice sounded so real! Are you sure¡ª¡±


    Vdrastostr sighed. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m certain. Sprert isn¡¯t real. I made that name up. The predators aren¡¯t the only people who know how to lie.¡±


    ¡°What do we do, Five Whiskers?¡± he whispered as if the enemy could hear them through the radio even with it off.


    Come to think of it, maybe they could.


    ¡°Get ready for contact. And get the long-range signal rockets. Fire them into the air the second you see we¡¯re under attack.¡±


    <hr>


    Quist City ¡ª Defense Line 7, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Kivnolshot, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    ¡°Five Whiskers Kivnolshot, the 6th defensive line just sent up a long-range signal rocket! They signal they¡¯re under air attack.¡±


    ¡°By what?! We haven¡¯t heard anything on the radio!¡±


    ¡°The message spelled out¡­ flying machines.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t they tell us that on the radio?!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Five Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Well, ask them!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re saying it was a malfunction.¡±


    ¡°Oh, thank the Prophecy!¡±


    ¡°But Five Whiskers, that¡¯s¡­ an oddly specific malfunction!¡±


    ¡°Clarify with them.¡±


    A few moments later, she took off her headset again. ¡°Five Whiskers, the radio operator from the 6th defensive line said they mistook a flock of local winged creatures for the enemy. We can safely disregard the signal rockets. And I checked with the other defensive lines before them. Nobody¡¯s seen any signs of the predators.¡±


    ¡°Oh, okay, that makes sense,¡± Kivnolshot sighed in relief. ¡°Whew. Tell the sentries to keep an eye out, but cancel the alarm condition.¡±


    <hr>


    Quist City ¡ª Defense Line 8, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Zrintr, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    Five Whiskers Zrintr, the officer in charge of the 8th defensive line, saw the signal rockets from two lines ahead of her, and she was not nearly as gullible as her counterpart in the previous line.


    It took her all of three seconds to decipher the deception. ¡°Predator lies. Switch off the radio. Send up signal rockets to tell everyone to disregard their electronic communications and pass the word with hoppers: the predators are using winged machines.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers. What about us?¡±


    ¡°Turn up the new electronic jammers we got in the latest supply shipment and aim them towards the sky. Maybe they¡¯ll work.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers.¡±


    As it turned out, their primitive but powerful jammers did work on the incoming drones. For about 15 seconds. Which was the amount of time it took the anti-radiation sensors mounted in the incoming drones¡¯ noses to triangulate the jammer locations and home in on them.


    It wasn¡¯t strictly necessary because the drones were fully autonomous and didn¡¯t need real-time orders from their controllers, but their primitive intelligence chips reasoned that they might as well be thorough. Besides, their controllers might want an accurate real-time battle damage assessment, and they just couldn¡¯t have that while being jammed. So the jammers had to go.


    Their next wave of flying explosives arrived on scene to obliterate the entire garrison of the 8th defensive line right on schedule.


    <hr>


    Quist City ¡ª Malgeir Field Base, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Spemplige, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Delta Leader)


    ¡°Ma¡¯am, we¡¯ve penetrated the Grass Eaters¡¯ 8th defensive line! Our Marines are moving in to secure their position.¡±


    The Delta Leader thanked him with a satisfied smile. ¡°Good. What about the other battalions?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re still tangling with heavy Grass Eaters resistance on their sides, a few lines back. They might be having some technical trouble with the new equipment,¡± her subordinate reported with as little triumph in his voice as he could manage. ¡°We¡¯re the furthest in so far.¡±


    ¡°Careful, Gamma Leader. For the sake of morale, we must not mock their slow progress,¡± she cautioned. Then, she added slyly with a petty smile, ¡°even if we are better at this than they are.¡±


    He matched her grin. ¡°Yes, Delta Leader. Should we wait for them to catch up? Or ask for orders from above?¡±


    She waved a paw at him airily. ¡°No need. We planned out this exact contingency with the half Grass Eaters in the staff meeting yesterday. There is no benefit in giving the enemy extra time to regroup and figure things out. We should be careful not to overextend. But we should ¡ª as they say ¡ª push until the enemy stops us. Our plan of operation is to advance, advance, and keep on advancing. Let division headquarters know our intentions.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am¡­¡±


    (To be more precise, the alien advisor that was present at the briefing was asked where they should stop advancing, and he¡¯d replied something along the lines of ¡°we¡¯ll stop when we get to Znos¡±. But that was a problem for another day.)


    A few moments later, the gamma leader looked up from his console. ¡°It looks like we¡¯re being jammed by Grass Eater radio stations on the surface.¡±


    ¡°Is it¡ª is that a problem?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± he said, pointing at the newly installed communication device with its odd markings and knobs. ¡°But according to procedure, you should log this incident, even if the message did come through. Respectfully, Delta Leader.¡±


    ¡°Ah, right. Of course. Thanks for the reminder.¡± Spemplige made a note of it on her own console. ¡°What did they say?¡±


    ¡°They said: division approves, excellent initiative, keep up the attack.¡±


    Satisfied, she nodded. ¡°You know what to do.¡±


    ¡°Launching the next wave¡­ now.¡±


    <hr>


    Quist City ¡ª Defense Line 11, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Strost, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    ¡°Defensive line number 11, this is Defensive line 10. Come in! Come in!¡±


    The radio operator of line 11 looked up at Five Whiskers Strost. ¡°Should we answer? They say they are Defensive line 10, but they might be the predators. They might have penetrated the line and are now calling us to tell us not to worry again. They¡¯ve done that with all the other defensive lines ahead of us.¡±


    Strost took a second to think. ¡°Maybe. Let¡¯s at least see what they have to say. At least we¡¯ll know to prepare if they do.¡±


    The radio operator activated the transmit switch. ¡°Defensive line 10, this is 11. What is your status?¡±


    Rat-at-at-at-at-kaboooooom.


    There was the distinctive sound of gunfire and explosions in the background. More incoming than outgoing, it seemed. ¡°Thank the Prophecy someone¡¯s there! They¡¯re disabled our outer defenses and overrun our trenches! Enemies in our wire¡ª the abominations are right on top of us. We have a flooded cave! Flooded cave! Flooded cave! We need immediate fire support at our defensive line!¡±


    Flooded cave.


    That was the code phrase of the week, a signal for when a defensive line had been breached by the enemy. The radio operator¡¯s training kicked in. ¡°Artillery? Where?¡±


    ¡°Where?! They¡¯re right on top of us! Call everything in and let the Prophecy sort us out! Our lives were forfeited the day¡ª¡±


    ¡°Defensive line 10? Defensive line 10!¡±


    The transmission terminated from the other end.


    ¡°Five Whiskers? We have their lines pre-zeroed with our mortars. We can have rounds down range in fifteen seconds!¡±


    Strost hesitated. ¡°It might be a predator trick. To get us to fire on our own troops. Call them again. See if there¡¯s someone else there we know who can confirm the order.¡±


    The operator fiddled with his radio controls. ¡°Hello, anyone at defense line 10? Anyone at defense line 10, please come in!¡±


    Bsssssssssssssssssss.


    There was no response. Just static.


    ¡°What do we do, Five Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°Send over a runner with signal rockets. I¡¯m not firing at our own people until I get confirmation that the radio message wasn¡¯t a predator ruse!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers.¡±


    It only took about 15 minutes for a messenger to physically hop over to the 10th defensive line.


    The messenger hopper was greeted by a surprised platoon commander, in a position that was very much not overrun. The enemy hadn¡¯t reached the lines yet. Everything was fine. The runner sent up a signal rocket back to the 11th line, confirming Strost¡¯s initial suspicion that the radio message was indeed an electronic deception from the enemies.


    Unfortunately for her, Strost was no longer alive to receive the signal.


    The go-getter in charge of the 12th defensive line was a less discerning commander. After being informed that defensive line 11 was being overrun on his radio, he wasted no time ordering his mortar team to open fire.


    Strost was killed in the first barrage: impressive accuracy even for a mortar squad that had pre-aimed at their location. Some of the Marines in her position managed to get into cover and the bunkers before the following volleys arrived. They quickly sent up signal rockets countermanding the fake orders on the radio, but the damage was done.


    The Malgeir troops arrived two hours later to the defenses mostly in tatters, cleaning up and taking it with ease.


    That was a trick that only worked once, but none of the subsequent Znosian defensive lines got any bright ideas about firing artillery into their falling positions. Which made things a lot safer for the Malgeir Marines moving in for cleanup.


    Exactly as it was intended to.


    <hr>


    Quist City ¡ª 115th Combined Arms Division HQ, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Vzglars, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    In her makeshift division headquarters, a reinforced bunker hidden among the urban maze of buildings in the capital city, Znosian Marine 115th Division Commander Vzglars looked on in shock at her computer officer as he reported the bad news.


    ¡°Seven Whiskers Vzglars, our defensive lines have gone silent. We have just confirmed this information.¡±


    She stood up to her full height of 1.1 meters, the fur on her back bristling in agitation. ¡°Defensive lines? Multiple of them? They¡¯re at our third line of defense already?!¡±


    ¡°No, Seven Whiskers. It appears we¡¯ve lost contact with twelve, maybe thirteen, of our outer defensive lines on the northwestern side of the basin,¡± the computer officer reported miserably.


    ¡°Twelve?! How am I hearing about the seriousness of the attack just now? I thought the combat computer said it might have been a probe from the predators!¡±


    ¡°Twelve or thirteen, division commander. I take full responsibility for my failure to produce useful results out of¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about that! Why did we fail to detect the attack early?!¡± Vzglars shouted.


    ¡°Seven Whiskers, there was some confusion early on and the misinformation on the radio confused everyone. We thought the outdated signal rockets were misfires or a ruse from the enemy. But on the combat computer¡¯s recommendation, we sent a runner down to the outer perimeter, and she reported back on the radio that all was quiet on the perimeter.¡±


    ¡°All quiet?!¡± the division commander repeated, her fury masked in her soft voice.


    ¡°Yes, we only realized our mistake when she didn¡¯t come back after an hour. She made an excuse on the radio, but¡ª¡±


    Vzglars snorted, ¡°More predator lies.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers. They are whispering lies to us on our radio network. We should disregard all messages we get on our radios, especially the ones insisting that everything is fine. And we also need to ignore the messages saying that the defense is breaking or being abandoned. They are using that to get us to fire on our own positions.¡±


    ¡°So everything is fine, and everything is not fine?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers, though it seems that the situation is closer to the latter than the¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know that, Computer Officer!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers Vzglars.¡±


    She sighed with frustration. ¡°Where are the predators now?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re approaching the city limits, as best that we can tell. If they continue their current rate of advance, they¡¯ll be in the city by dawn. What should we do?¡±


    Vzglars considered the problem for a moment and came to the conclusion she knew she should have reached hours ago. The predators were going to win here regardless of what she did. The open entry of the Great Predators into their new¡­ coalition made the fate of Quistqueu-3 a foregone conclusion. All she could hope for was to increase their casualties or waste their time.


    And she couldn¡¯t even do either of those things without knowing more about their new weapons and tactics. They needed more time. Time to figure things out. Time they didn¡¯t have.


    ¡°Computer officer, give the order to disperse.¡±


    ¡°Have you decided which of our units are to become guerilla cells and which are to go underground into the tunnels with us, Seven Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°Let the combat computer decide, and pass the orders down. And let¡¯s hope these new Great Predators don¡¯t know as much about counterinsurgency as they do about radio trickery.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Oh, and get the doomsday devices ready and move them into the city.¡±


    ¡°Seven Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°The new orders. The ones from Navy Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. We are not to assume that our Navy will be back here in this system anytime soon. Therefore what we will do here is not an inefficient waste. If the Dominion must retreat, and we cannot have the planet, nobody can have it.¡±


    ¡°I understand, division commander. Our lives were¡ª¡±


    Thud. Thud. Thud.


    There was some quiet commotion near the entrance of her bunker.


    Vzglars frowned. ¡°What¡¯s going on out there?¡±


    ¡°I will go check it out, Seven¡ª¡±


    The computer officer¡¯s next words died in his mouth as a hefty-sounding piece of metal bounced off the doorway entrance landing on the bunker room floor with another meaty thud. It took her expensive training and breeding less than half a second to identify what it was.


    ¡°Grenade!¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 03 No Good Deed

    <div>


    Quist City ¡ª 115th Combined Arms Division HQ, Quistqueu-3


    POV: Vzglars, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Seven Whiskers)


    Bang.


    As Vzglars scrambled to find cover in her tiny command bunker, her world went white. A painfully loud sound assaulted her eardrums and she lost her balance, toppling over where she stood.


    It took ten seconds for her to recover her senses. When she did, she realized that not only was she alive, there were several new unfamiliar figures in her bunker. Several¡­ metallic figures. Her vision recovered. The white spots in her eyes disappeared, replaced by two of them pointing their weaponry at her.


    Combat robots. I guess the reports from the Grand Fleet are true.


    One of them roughly grabbed her paws and hauled them behind her. In desperation, she looked over to see her computer officer on the floor, tussling with one of their machines. It pinned him down as he struggled, his body squirming and crawling on the floor even as the robots clasped metal restraints on one of his rear paws.


    ¡°Our lives were forfeited the day we left the hatchling pools!¡± he screamed as he somehow managed to wriggle free for a second, hopping towards the back of the bunker.


    Her eyes widened. She saw what he was going for: the orders safe containing secrets and plans of the Dominion. If he could input the wrong key combination twice, the new self-destruct explosive could detonate the bunker and¡ª


    Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.


    Thud.


    He dropped to the floor with a loud thump.


    ¡°None of that today, Grass Eater,¡± one of the figures said ¡ª a real Lesser Predator, not one of their robots. It made a grotesque chuckling sound, apparently amused by the sight of her computer officer twitching uncontrollably from their application of electricity. ¡°Marvin, analysis. What was our enthusiastic friend going for?¡±


    The robot putting restraints on her immobilized computer officer ¡ª its name was Marvin, apparently ¡ª answered, ¡°Locked command safe, High Pack Leader. Possibly a self-destruct mechanism.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, since we¡¯re here anyway, might as well get into it, right?¡± the predator said as it looked directly at Vzglars.


    She shrank away from the approaching beast as best she could. Bound tightly by the new restraints and held from behind by a combat robot''s metallic claws, there wasn''t much she could do.


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡± she asked it coldly and much more calmly than she felt inside.


    The abomination paused in its step and winked at her. ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll try the polite way. The keycode for your orders safe, please¡­ Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Go to hell! You¡¯ll never get what you want from me!¡±


    It revealed all its sharp teeth at her. ¡°Hey look, I tried. Hold her down, Marlene.¡±


    ¡°You always get our names wrong, High Pack Leader. I am not Marlene,¡± the robot complained as Vzglars felt the claws holding her from behind tighten painfully. ¡°I am Marcy. Marlene is the one watching outside.¡±


    Seemingly amused, the live predator carefully produced a delicate-looking device from its utility pouch. It looked like a headset, and its size looked suspiciously like it was tailored for a Znosian head.


    ¡°What is that?¡± Vzglars demanded, alarmed as it approached her ominously. ¡°No, don¡¯t put that on me! Get it off! Ahhhhhhhhhh! Ow! It hurts! Ow! Get it off me! Get it off!¡±


    She felt something sharp poke into her skull, her dignity forgotten as she screeched in pain.


    ¡°Relax, Seven Whiskers,¡± the predator said, and magically, the pain dulled then disappeared. It was an odd feeling. ¡°We aren¡¯t going to torture you like savages. Besides, everyone knows that applying pain is an unreliable way to obtain information.¡±


    ¡°What did you do to my head?!¡± Vzglars screeched, squirming in the steel grasp of the robot behind her, her eyes looking up in futility to determine just what the headset was doing¡­ up there.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s move it along, Seven Whiskers. We don¡¯t have all night. What¡¯s the code for the orders safe? Come on. The code for the orders safe, please.¡±


    Vzglars stopped moving long enough to spit into its helmet cover. ¡°I¡¯ll never tell you!¡±


    It tilted its head. ¡°What won¡¯t you tell me? What about the first number? Just tell me the first number. Is it a one, two, three¡ª Ah. Thank you for your cooperation, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    What?


    The beast left her to approach the safe, tapping in the keycode as it read the numbers to itself from a datapad. Correctly, somehow. ¡°4-2-4-3-8-1-9. Is that like your cub¡¯s birthday or something?¡±


    Impossible.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have cubs, you idiot. We have hatchlings. And how did you get my safe code?¡± she demanded, unsettled enough to stop struggling.


    It ignored her and hummed an annoying tune as the safe beeped its confirmation and its doors swung open. The predator took out the hard copy papers within, laying them out on her table.


    ¡°Ah¡­ what have we got here? Orders, protocols, memos, messages from the fleet. And in paper too; must be important secrets. Very nice, we¡¯ll be borrowing these if you don¡¯t mind,¡± it beamed. It pointed to the robots and gestured to the papers on the table, ¡°Scan and transmit those upstairs, Marvin.¡±


    ¡°Yes, High Pack Leader.¡±


    The predator returned its gaze to Vzglars. ¡°So¡­ Seven Whiskers, I hope you don¡¯t have any plans for the next few months.¡±


    ¡°My life was forfeited¡ª¡±


    It interrupted her with a snort, ¡°Relax, Grass Eater. We aren¡¯t going to kill you. You¡¯ll have plenty of time to practice your whining on your way.¡±


    ¡°Where are you taking me?¡± Vzglars demanded.


    ¡°You¡¯re coming with us. To somewhere considerably more exciting than this place ¡ª now that we¡¯ve basically taken Quistqueu.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ No clue. Super big secret. But my personal guess is occupied Grantor.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll never take Grantor,¡± she said frostily. ¡°It¡¯s not like this under-developed backwater. Grantor is a fortress star system. Took even our people years to break through the perimeter, and that was against you people.¡±


    It winked back at her. ¡°Maybe, but have you considered¡­ that we are simply better at this than you?¡±


    ¡°Lesser Predator Marine¡­ you know that you are the joke of your service in the known galaxy, right?¡± she sneered back at it. ¡°Almost small enough to be naturally weak like us, and none of our civilized discipline or¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just regular Federation Marine Infantry? Crayon Eaters?¡± it asked her mockingly and then pretended to be injured. ¡°A year ago, maybe. But surely you can¡¯t think so little of my special squad, Grass Eater.¡± It gestured towards the direction of the bunker exit. ¡°Let me ask you something: do you hear that?¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Vzglars paused for a moment, trying her best to hear and wondering where it was going with this. She heard nothing out of the ordinary, just the regular noises of the city at night. She rolled her eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t have your primitive hunting ears, predator.¡±


    ¡°What do you hear?¡± it insisted.


    ¡°Nothing irregular.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. No sirens. No shooting. And no sounds of shouting sentries. Our Marines will approach the city tomorrow, and how well do you think your people will fare when they get the authorized commands coming from this bunker? Can any of your Marines do what we do here?¡± it asked smugly.


    ¡°We have infiltration teams too, you know?¡± Unsettled, Vzglars kept up her sneer. ¡°We¡¯ve always wondered how long it would take you savages to figure things out and copy from us.¡±


    Instead of getting mad and killing her as she secretly hoped it would, it howled in laughter. ¡°Copy from Grass Eaters? Well, you¡¯re not completely wrong about that, Seven Whiskers. Just about the type of Grass Eaters¡­ Now, take a seat and get comfortable. It¡¯s going to be a long night.¡±


    <hr>


    Naval Station Charon, Charon


    POV: Spommu, Malgeir Federation Marine Special Warfare Team (Rank: Head Pack Leader)


    ¡°This is not a legal hearing or a trial, do you understand?¡±


    Head Pack Leader Spommu nodded her head wordlessly.


    ¡°Can you confirm verbally, please?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I understand¡­ sir.¡±


    The serious-looking man with the same uniform as her nodded. ¡°Good. We are just here to lay out the facts for the record. At this point, you are not required to make a plea or a defense. You don¡¯t need to answer any questions about what happened. And you have the right to have an attorney present with you here ¡ª a right which I¡¯m told you¡¯ve chosen not to exercise at this time. Is that accurate?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. I understand.¡±


    ¡°You have the right to re-invoke that right at any time during these proceedings. Is that understood?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ let¡¯s get to it then,¡± the judge advocate continued. He switched on his tablet and began reading off it into the microphone in front of him, ¡°Head Pack Leader Spommu was part of Assault Carrier Crete¡¯s complement, a joint Malgeir-human task force put together as part of the recent Red Zone strike campaign. She served in this role as a Federation Marine Pack Leader for nine months, including time in the fast-tracked Alien Marine Familiarization Program. Her record was excellent, and her squad received the Navy Unit Recommendation Medal in June for their actions in the Red Zone. As a result, she was promoted to Head Pack Leader later in September.¡±


    She nodded when he stopped to look up at her.


    He continued, ¡°On August 17th, Spommu¡¯s squad took part in a boarding action against a Znosian Dominion ship designated ZNS 4291 in interstellar space, in the Plaunsollib system. During the boarding action, her squad breached a section of the enemy ship and came upon a grouping of enemy combatants. Her squad neutralized fifteen to eighteen enemies defending an interior position with a barrage of high explosive grenades. When they reached the enemy position, Pack Leader Spommu came upon what appeared to be a heavily injured Znosian Marine burning to death inside their pressurized suit. At this point, she chose not to render aid. Instead, she deliberately fired a shot into their helmet with her service weapon. This sequence of events was captured by the suit sensors of all her squadmates, the six combat robotic units they were deployed with, and her own helmet camera. She does not deny this, and she confirmed these events in her after-action report.


    ¡°Pack Leader Spommu claimed that her shot was an act of compassion ¡ª a mercy killing of a suffering, former enemy combatant. Four independent legal intelligences ¡ª including her ship¡¯s onboard legal intelligence ¡ª have reviewed all the evidence available, and they have come to the same conclusion: there is no reason to doubt her motive¡­ Nonetheless, this is legally irrelevant. Under the Republic Navy Code of Justice, there are no allowances for mercy killings. The Znosian Marine she shot was clearly incapacitated, incapable of combat duties or defending themself. Furthermore, she did not attempt to render aid to the wounded, as is also required by the Code of Justice. The precedents are clear: over the years, dozens of Republic spacers and Marines have been convicted of war crimes even as they claimed to conduct mercy killings of injured noncombatants, regardless of whether their victims took part in hostilities.


    ¡°We looked at several potential defenses and mitigating circumstances. First, it is not immediately clear to us whether the Znosian Marine was already deceased the moment Spommu fired her weapon. They were severely injured, and two out of the four legal intelligences argued that it is not beyond a reasonable doubt that they were still alive; one argued that she could not have known whether they were. We have observed cases where muscles of corpses continued moving well after the individual would be considered legally deceased. Second, the mercy killing argument is allowed as a mitigating factor, though not an excuse, to the intentionality of the killing. Third, they considered the argument that the Znosian Marine was still within arm¡¯s reach of their service weapon, and their erratic movement could possibly convince a reasonable person in Pack Leader Spommu¡¯s position that they still posed a genuine threat. All four of our legal intelligences rejected the last argument, but all conceded it is possible that a human jury or judge could accept its validity in court. Weighing the evidence and mitigating circumstances, our office concluded that there is reasonable basis to proceed with a more in-depth investigation.


    ¡°There was some initial confusion as to the specific institution that would be responsible for investigating this case, but as Head Pack Leader Spommu is a citizen of the Malgeir Federation and the incident occurred in recognized Federation territory, it was decided that Spommu¡¯s native service ¡ª the Federation Marine Infantry ¡ª would be the overriding jurisdiction of choice. Thus, as soon as the legal intelligences concluded their assessments, we referred all the evidence we gathered in this case to our established contacts in the Federation.¡± The judge advocate frowned as he read, ¡°We expected they would give her a fair, rigorous, and speedy judicial process that took into account the strength of the evidence and the relevant mitigating circumstances to ensure that justice would be done.


    ¡°The Federation authorities transferred the case to the Federation Home Fleet, to a Beta Leader in charge of judicial investigations named Pincrio. Two weeks later, our legal intelligences discovered that Pack Leader Spommu¡¯s squad leader, High Pack Leader Baedarsust, remotely transferred six hundred credits from his personal bank account to the Home Fleet general fund on Malgeirgam, and we traced the money to Beta Leader Pincrio¡¯s personal account four hours later. Within twenty-four hours, Pack Leader Spommu¡¯s case was officially dropped by Home Fleet. Upon questioning, High Pack Leader Baedarsust admitted quid pro quo for this sequence of events but denied that Pack Leader Spommu solicited or requested for him to transfer the money, nor could we find evidence that she compensated him for it. Our legal intelligence reviewed this and determined unanimously that, though this act would be considered a blatant act of open bribery in the Republic, it clearly does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Republic and is thus not prosecutable conduct. We transferred the evidence of this bribery to the Federation authorities, and,¡± he frowned again, a little deeper as he kept reading, ¡°they declined to prosecute.¡±


    Whew.


    ¡°However, under Republic law, all war crimes are universally prosecutable regardless of the jurisdiction they were committed in, as long as the principle of complementarity is respected. Under the precedent of Republic v. Barbier, it was determined that non-Republic justice systems in offworld non-Republic colonies are conditionally qualified to adjudicate universal war crimes and preserve the rights of the accused against double jeopardy ¡ª as long as certain legal standards are followed. In this case, they clearly were not. Therefore, this investigation was re-opened in our office.


    ¡°It was at this point the details of this case were unfortunately leaked to the press, inviting comments from the public. As Head Pack Leader Spommu¡¯s action was conducted during a battle in defense of the Republic, many citizens spoke out in favor of her and pressured our office to drop the case, including President Havel who publicly offered a blanket pardon to the high pack leader in case she was convicted. However, in the Republic, guilt and innocence are determined in the court of justice, not the court of public opinion.


    ¡°At the final stage of the investigation, our legal intelligences concluded that there were reasonable grounds to believe that Head Pack Leader Spommu could be charged with assault with intent to kill. This charge is a class A felony that carries a potential sentence of ten years¡¯ incarceration, dishonorable discharge, and monetary fines up to one hundred thousand credits.¡± At this point, the judge advocate sighed. ¡°However, given the judicial, jurisdictional, and moral complexity of the case involved, the myriad of mitigating factors, the number of high profile calls for leniency, the expected resources required for a successful prosecution, the remorse that Head Pack Leader expressed when informed of our findings, and the low likelihood that she would actually face sanctions even if a conviction was secured¡­ we have agreed with Head Pack Leader Spommu¡¯s commanding officer that our office will conclude our investigation in exchange for her facing the maximum penalty allowed by non-judicial discipline. This course of action would retain the integrity of the military justice system, serving as a reminder to all Republic spacers and Marines that we take the rule of law seriously, while maintaining our humanity and flexibility to act decisively in complex moral situations.¡±


    He cleared his throat and looked straight at her. ¡°Head Pack Leader Spommu, your commanding officer has elected to impose non-judicial discipline on you. You have the right to demand trial by court martial in lieu of non-judicial discipline. If you refuse non-judicial discipline, charges could be referred back to the Office of Naval Investigations. If you decide to accept non-judicial discipline, you may request a personal appearance before the commanding officer or you may waive this right and submit a written document to assist them in determining an appropriate punishment. You are entitled to be informed of your rights, and you have the right to talk to a military lawyer before you make a decision. Do you understand everything I have described to you here?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    He sighed again. ¡°In this case, the maximum punishment for non-judicial discipline is 45 days of extra duties, 30 days arrest in quarters, forfeiture of 30 days pay, and reduction in grade until you have completed a course demonstrating your full understanding of the laws of armed conflict. At this point, would you like to talk to an attorney before you make a decision?¡±


    Spommu shook her ears. ¡°No, sir. I¡¯ve made up my mind. Where do I sign?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 04 Song and Dance I

    <div>


    TRS Perry, Schpriss Prime (3,500 km)


    POV: Niblui, Malgeir (Ambassador)


    ¡°These guys really took the whole ¡®put all your eggs in one basket¡¯ thing as advice instead of precaution, huh?¡±


    ¡°Eggs in one basket?¡± Ambassador Niblui asked curiously of the human. Republic Minister of Alien Affairs Tsai was looking down at the planet in wonder.


    As an ecumenopolis, Schpriss Prime was a planet city. Some urban planners in the Terran Republic would quibble with that definition, given that the Schpriss hadn¡¯t literally developed every square kilometer of surface area on their planet, especially its massive ocean. But the planet¡¯s ancient cities being connected into a singular, connected entity with urban density was the closest to a practical implementation of that concept any civilization in the known galaxy had gotten.


    Most of its natural land area had been paved over to make room for the Schprissian population, with few nature reserves remaining. And unlike the other species in the galactic neighborhood, the Schpriss had rarely had to worry about land for food. The Great Ocean dominated over 90% of their home planet¡¯s surface area, and the deep aquacultural farms of the Schprissian people took adequate care of the needs of the planet¡¯s population of just over three hundred billion.


    Which explained why most Schprissian offworld colonies were small and sparse despite their civilization¡¯s age. Few saw a need to leave the home planet.


    ¡°Yes, eggs in one basket,¡± Tsai repeated. ¡°Almost their entire civilization, all in one place.¡±


    ¡°Is that¡­ a good or bad thing?¡±


    ¡°Well, it depends,¡± Tsai said.


    ¡°On what?¡±


    ¡°On if you ever drop the basket.¡±


    Niblui nodded. ¡°I understand the analogy.¡±


    Tsai gazed back at the image. ¡°At least it partially explains their isolationism.¡±


    ¡°Or as some of our people would put it, their cowardice,¡± Niblui said neutrally.


    She would not be caught using that word anywhere within a light century of Schprissian space back when she was the Federation Ambassador to the Schpriss Confederacy. That was the kind of thing that could get your diplomatic credentials revoked for life if someone publicly leaked a recording.


    But now she was Ambassador to the Terran Republic. She was just here to assist in introductions; if the local long-tails had a problem with her frank language, she was past the point of caring years ago.


    ¡°Same difference,¡± Tsai muttered. ¡°Look at those cities down there. Must be extremely crowded. Is overpopulation a problem?¡±


    Niblui shook her ears. ¡°Actually not. Even with their high raw population, their average density per square kilometer is lower than most urban cities in the Federation. Or in your Republic.¡±


    Tsai frowned as she did the math in her head. ¡°Is that true?¡±


    ¡°It is. Even at ninety percent water, that¡¯s still a lot of land down there.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating. I¡¯ll take your word for it, Ambassador,¡± Tsai said. She sat in deep thought for a moment, and turned to Niblui again. ¡°What do you think about our mission here?¡±


    ¡°Minister, I was Ambassador to the Confederacy for thirty years. And in those thirty years, I¡¯ve gotten to know these people. They are hard-working. They are efficient. And their people are friendly. But¡­ in all my years of service, I¡¯ve never heard anyone describe them as generous. Nor have I known them to part with any of their jealously guarded resources without a price. Perhaps you will have more success than I, but if your mission is not a quick success¡­ it would be no fault of yours.¡±


    Tsai smiled. ¡°We have a few ideas, borrowing from what we¡¯ve observed from your experience. And perhaps our¡­ fresh perspective might change their mind.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Niblui said, hiding her skepticism. ¡°They are¡­ a peculiar people. While I am no longer ambassador, I know them well. When we get down there, I can make your requests for you. That way you can keep your positions in reserves and preserve your flexibility¡­ If they reject the requests outright, it would not dishonor your people or diminish your diplomatic capital.¡±


    Tsai¡¯s grin expanded. ¡°Ah¡­ good cop, bad cop diplomacy.¡±


    Niblui contemplated the analogy and thought back to Terran media for a moment and nodded. ¡°Exactly.¡±


    <hr>


    Grand Chancellery, Schpriss Prime


    POV: Sonfio, Schpriss (Chancellor of the Confederacy)


    Different time. Different day. The same song and dance.


    Sonfio had been Chancellor of the Schpriss Confederacy for over three decades. Before that, he was a historian. And he knew that in the long and rich history of the Schprissian people, he would not be seen as some great or terrible figure by future historians. A footnote. Or a passing name-drop to show off the depth of their knowledge, perhaps. Probably when describing events beyond the borders of the Confederacy.


    Nothing transformative. Nothing eventful.


    Just the way he liked it.


    He¡¯d always styled himself as a steward. A caretaker. He¡¯d inherited a strong and stable state. A thriving economy. The ambitious found individual purpose. The poor were fed. Social order was maintained. And the few who were loudly unhappy with his leadership were heard and given as much consideration as they deserved. In his first snout-counting contest, he was elected with over 90% of the votes. There was political and personal dissent; that was inevitable among all individualistic species. But disagreements could be resolved civilly.


    The rare interstellar war that flared up just over the Confederacy border a decade ago threatened the tranquility of his stewardship.


    In the beginning, confusion dominated.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Who shot first?


    Why were the Granti being attacked?


    In the galactic neighborhood, the Granti were physically the largest and strongest. Why would anyone attempt violence against them?


    With the Granti planets conquered, it became clear that the new alien species were after more than just raw resources.


    The Malgeir Federation joined the fight against the Znosians. It didn¡¯t help. The Granti were consumed, and then the Malgeir were themselves consumed in war. All throughout the war, the Federation repeatedly sent envoys and requests to his people.


    They needed help. Marines, resources, ships, spacers, technology, lift capacity. Anything they could spare.


    When the issue came up, Sonfio did what all logic and rationality dictated: minimize risk, maximize benefit.


    Neutrality.


    All the requests from their neighbors ¡ª increasing in urgency as the war progressed poorly ¡ª were directed to the Confederacy¡¯s sizable bureaucracy, where they could be examined at a controllable pace. Usually the answer was a polite ¡®no¡¯. And often after enough time had elapsed that the request might not even be relevant anymore.


    Some of his people wept for their dying neighbors. The images of the fallen worlds beamed back to their news through FTL radios were horrific. But what were they going to do?  Go and fight and die for the aliens far away from home?


    A few of his people did. A few became heroes of the Federation. Fighting for the freedom of a people not their own. Celebrated by some in the Confederacy. Derided by others. Ignored by most.


    Sonfio didn¡¯t understand them, but he allowed them to go anyway. He couldn¡¯t stop them if he wanted to.


    All the while, his Navy did not cover their eyes and ears. They learned. In fact, Sonfio was pretty certain they¡¯d learned more about the enemy than the Malgeir had with their dysfunctional system. The Schprissian Navy went through two rounds of reforms. They cut personnel to fund new equipment. Then they recruited new spacers to operate the new equipment. It was a mild drain on GDP, but his people were prosperous. They could afford it.


    All the while, Malgeir worlds fell to the Znosians one by one. And as they fought, it became clear to Sonfio and most of his advisors what was going to happen: the Malgeir were going to lose. They began contingency preparations. Paws in the Federation were greased to ensure that some of its wealth and naval strength would flow to the Schpriss when their home world fell. Embassies conducted evacuation drills. Cargo lift capacity was reserved to ensure their availability when Malgeiru fell.


    Then, it didn¡¯t happen.


    The Znosians took a core world of the Federation at Datsot. The enemies were at the gates. And through some miracle, the Malgeir fought back and they fought back hard. They relieved the siege at Datsot and pushed back to Gruccud. What was expected to be a three month Znosian victory turned into an unexpected counterattack.


    A fleet commander of the Znosian Navy, captured.


    An entire invasion fleet, defeated.


    At first, Chancellor Sonfio didn¡¯t believe it, chalking it up to war propaganda from Malgeirgam. But the footage seemed real enough. And his sources sneaking through Federation space confirmed it with their own eyes mere days later. The details remained murky and carefully guarded, but something had changed. His advisors were baffled. At least two intelligence officers resigned when their morbid predictions were proven utterly false. The rest rushed to craft theories about how the reverse happened. Perhaps the Znosians overstretched. Perhaps the Malgeir simply got lucky.


    The victorious Malgeir fleets sat around for another year and a half, conducting pointless exercises around Gruccud instead of taking advantage of their temporary advantage. They even withdrew many of their Marines, draining strength from their fleets to¡­ who knew where? Schprissian officers updated their analysis. The inevitable was delayed, but by the looks of it, the Znosians were still on track for total victory. The calendar just needed to be moved back a couple years.


    Then it happened again.


    Shocking video of the destruction of hundreds of Znosian ships at Gruccud. Hundreds of them, laid waste by a single missile volley from the dark.


    As his Navy advisors digested and verified the information, more news came in a few days later. Three Malgeir battle fleets, executing what they called a slow but perfectly serviceable pincer. Pushing the entire Znosian Navy out of all Federation space.


    Every last star system.


    For the first time in years, there were images of entire Znosian Marine divisions being taken prisoner. Thousands upon thousands of them, mass surrendering, coming out of their burrows with their paws up.


    There was that Sixth Fleet recon ship that transmitted back a single picture: a telescopic real-color photo taken of occupied Grantor from the system blink limit. Years of Znosian conquest, reversed in a matter of weeks.


    And in answer to their thousands of questions, the new species came out of the shadows.


    The humans. The half Grass Eaters.


    A young species with barely over ten billion people. Their people not particularly large in size nor more advanced in their understanding of the universe.


    But the carefully leaked pictures of the Grand Znosian Fleet lying broken in the orbits above their worlds a week later said it all. Entire squadrons, shattered in their formations. The number of ships and personnel they took prisoner ¡ª they could probably invade the entire Confederacy with that captured force.


    In a way, it was a relief for Sonfio. The threat of war from the Znosians was gone. In another way, there was regret. Regret that they¡¯d spent so much time and resources worrying about the problem. It was an irrational thought of course ¡ª they couldn¡¯t have known this would happen, but the thought would stay with him for a while.


    At least it was over. Now, the Confederacy could demobilize. Go back to business as usual.


    If it weren¡¯t for these humans.


    Different time. Different day. The same song and dance. Like the Malgeir before them, they were here to ask for resources again. Luckily, he¡¯d had plenty of experience of politely saying no to desperate people.


    Ambassador Niblui was there with the human, animatedly describing the nature of the threat. The threat that was no longer relevant for his people.


    Breaking out of his thoughts, he noticed that the hall had gone quiet. She had paused her speech, and they were now all looking at him.


    What did she want again?


    Sonfio stirred in his seat and cleared his throat. ¡°Uh¡­ please relay the formal details of the proposal to my office through the embassy. We will thoroughly study it and give it the careful and serious consideration that the matter deserves.¡±


    Niblui visibly sighed. They both knew what he meant.


    The same song and dance.


    The human cleared her throat.


    A misstep. Like an off-key note in the music.


    ¡°Excuse me, Chancellor. Perhaps you¡¯d like to hear our species¡¯ offer with a little more nuance,¡± she said.


    ¡°Nuance, Minister Tsai?¡± he asked, internally thankful that he¡¯d remembered her name from the introduction.


    Her lips were drawn upwards, as if in amusement. ¡°Yes, nuance, Chancellor. After all, we are asking for a substantial amount of your Confederacy¡¯s raw resources, skilled laborers, and civilian cargo and fuel lift capacity, with the transfer to begin in the next couple weeks. In an extensive lending and leasing program that would be paid back later, yes, but such a big ask¡­ surely you¡¯d like to know more about the details.¡±


    Sonfio frowned at the slight diplomatic error ¡ª that implied assumption the request would be granted. ¡°Minister Tsai, I enjoy your frankness and honesty and can only respond to it with my own. Perhaps your species is new to galactic diplomacy. But the reality is that it is unlikely that we can grant your request without a longer time to study its impact. Surely you can understand our need to protect our interests.¡±


    He didn¡¯t know much about their facial reactions, but it didn¡¯t seem like she understood at all. ¡°Of course, Chancellor. But as we are engaged in a total war, and we will be protecting ours and our allies through extraordinary measures as well.¡±


    At the mention of war, he stiffened.


    Previously, the Malgeir at least had the sense to couch their requests as calls for compassion to respect the Schprissian stance of neutrality. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Minister Tsai. The official stance of the Confederacy is neutrality in this war. We can and will not intervene favorably on any side in this conflict. It is my hope that this doesn¡¯t affect any future relationship between our two peoples¡­¡±


    The human¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. ¡°Chancellor Sonfio, you were a history professor, right? Before your chancellery¡­ three decades ago.¡±


    That caught him off guard. He looked up. ¡°Me? Yes, I was a historian.¡±


    ¡°Would you like to hear a story out of our history, Chancellor?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 05 Song and Dance II

    <div>


    Grand Chancellery, Schpriss Prime


    POV: Sonfio, Schpriss (Chancellor of the Confederacy)


    ¡°Your history, Minister?¡± he asked carefully.


    ¡°Yes. Our history. Short as it is compared to your civilization¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course, Minister,¡± he answered politely. His inner academic was curious. And¡­ ¡°The complexity and richness of history is not determined by its length. Even in our own, there are times when history is deep, and times when it is shallow.¡±


    And it is my hope that this part of our history is as boring and shallow as possible.


    ¡°We have a similar saying,¡± she said. ¡°There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where decades happen.¡±


    He digested the peculiar Terran saying for a moment and nodded in delighted agreement.


    She continued, ¡°There was a time in our history when decades happened in weeks. There was a man who lived on our home planet, back in a time when we were still divided into hundreds of nations and tribes¡­¡±


    Sonfio¡¯s eyes brightened with recognition. ¡°Wow, such archaic concepts. We had those too in our history, many thousands of years ago. Some of our historians find it hard to separate the history from the mythology in those eras long past. How long ago was this story from?¡±


    ¡°About 185 years ago.¡±


    Sonfio bit back his surprise. There were people in the Confederacy who were alive 185 years ago. A pawful of them, but they were there. Heck, Schprissian historians who studied anything within the last three uneventful centuries were generally not regarded as serious ones among academics¡­ ¡°That is¡­ not a very long time ago at all, Minister.¡±


    ¡°We are a young species¡­ This man from 185 years ago¡­ his country had been destroyed, broken by defeat in war and economic ruin. In its ashes, he picked out an easy scapegoat. He filled his countrymen with the same hatred in his evil heart, and as they rebuilt into an industrial powerhouse, he became their dictator and gave them a new purpose: territorial expansion. First, they armed themselves. From the loss of the previous war, their country had been prohibited from making large quantities of military equipment and certain classes of ships. Boats in water, not space. They violated all those agreements and began rearmament. Guess what their neighbors did.¡±


    Sonfio flicked his tail absentmindedly. ¡°I suspect they had harsh words for them. A clear diplomatic response for such grave treaty violations.¡±


    ¡°Harsh words, yes. Clear response, also yes, but probably not the kind you think¡­ Next, the evil dictator looked to his country¡¯s neighbor to the south. They were a sovereign state, one that had been specifically split away in the previous war, its independence guaranteed by treaty. He marched his troops in, forced a sham referendum, and annexed them. Guess what their other neighbors did then.¡±


    ¡°Another clear diplomatic response, I suppose?¡±


    ¡°A very clear response indeed. They lodged several diplomatic protests. Their leaders reasoned that the locals mostly supported it anyway. Then, the dictator marched on. He invaded another neighboring country, this time to the east. He demanded about a third of their territory, in industry and population. He said to all his neighbors, this is the last piece of territory we will claim; acquiesce, and we shall have peace.¡±


    ¡°Did they agree to it?¡±


    ¡°Yes. They handed the territory over and breathed a sigh of relief. Peace had won out, and they averted war. The evil dictator had told the truth. That was the last piece of territory they ever took, and their acquiescence saved the continent from another potentially brutal, devastating war.¡±


    Sonfio leaned back in surprise. ¡°Wait¡­ really?¡±


    Minister Tsai shook her head. ¡°See? Even you don¡¯t believe that. And no, of course not. He took the rest of the country he coveted in less than six months, and then proceeded to invade every other neighbor, conquering forty percent of the continent before he was stopped in a war that killed at least 50 million people.¡±


    His eyes were open wide with shock. ¡°Fifty¡ª¡±


    ¡°Like you said, each time he pushed and prodded at his neighbors, they did send him a clear message after all. By doing nothing, they told him that he could keep going. With every inaction, he was emboldened until he was eventually convinced he could not be stopped.¡±


    Sonfio looked at the human uneasily. ¡°That is¡­ an interesting story, but what does that have to do with us today?¡±


    ¡°The evilness of this dictator was unique, but his expansionism and the world¡¯s tepid response to it were not. It echoes throughout our history. Even in this very war, we did not believe the evil would come for us, until it did. This is, perhaps, an endemic flaw in the human condition. That we would rather deceive ourselves, telling ourselves that if we cover our eyes and hide under the blankets, the monsters in the night would simply pass us by. Why die for Danzig? Why die for Datsot? And as I gaze upon the grandeur of your Confederacy, as I see your indifference and inaction, I¡¯ve just realized something else: that this flaw is not only human after all.¡±


    Sonfio didn¡¯t understand the references, but the tone of her message was clear enough. He stiffened again. ¡°This is not applicable to our current situation at all! What could we do?! We have way fewer worlds than the Malgeir and Granti. Fewer people, less resources. Even if you expect us to ship our people to the front of your bloody war, what good could that possibly do?¡±


    ¡°Chancellor, the failure of appeasement wasn¡¯t that they didn¡¯t have enough troops or enough resources. That is almost never the problem. The bar is much lower than that. You don¡¯t need to show the expansionists that they can¡¯t win; you need to show them that they can¡¯t win for free. You need to show them that you can make them hurt, every step of the way. That there exist people who will stand up and stop them. And to do that, yes, you need to commit resources, and sometimes, you need to commit troops.¡±


    ¡°But we are neutral,¡± Sonfio explained again, his patience roiled by the unsettling feeling that this harmless-looking creature in front of him was not going to take no for an answer. ¡°We have repeatedly declared our neutrality. That is a policy decided many centuries ago! If we participate in your war, we will no longer be neutral. We will become subject to attack by the Znosians!¡±


    ¡°Yes. Correct, Chancellor. You will become an active participant in this total war, instead of being the dessert on their dinner plate for after they have digested the main course. There is another thing humanity learned in that war over a century ago: neutrality is not declared; it is defended.¡± She bore her eyes into his. ¡°And both sides in that war 185 years ago freely violated the neutrality of many supposedly neutral states that stood in their way.¡±


    Sonfio swallowed. ¡°Is that an implied threat? To our neutrality?¡±


    ¡°No, actually, I¡¯m supposed to make that one explicitly,¡± the human said, tilting her head. ¡°An ultimatum. Or a warning if you prefer. Our Republic is engaged in a total war, one that concerns the existence of our people. We¡¯ve suffered losses. We¡¯ve made sacrifices. And now, we need your people¡¯s resources. We¡¯ll have it one way or another. My guess is you¡¯d prefer it one way over the other, so¡­ we are giving you that option now.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ but¡­ even your people were originally neutral in this war! Like you said, you too delayed your own entry into the war! For years! This¡ª to force us into it now¡ª this is hypocrisy!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and that was a mistake. One that we are saving you from.¡±


    ¡°Saving us?! We deserve to make our own choices, like you did. This is unfair!¡±


    The lines on the human¡¯s face deepened. ¡°Perhaps. We do live in an unfair galaxy, and we all play the cards we¡¯ve been dealt.¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ absurd!¡± he protested. ¡°How can you people come here demanding for our concessions by force while claiming the moral high ground in this war?!¡±


    ¡°The moral high ground? How many combined arms divisions is the moral high ground worth in a battle?¡±


    ¡°What if we resist?¡± Sonfio asked. ¡°Such a conflict between us would be harmful to both our species. Surely that would give you pause before such a reckless venture.¡±


    Minister Tsai shrugged. ¡°It¡¯ll be unfortunate if it comes to that. But if you¡¯ll recall, we are pretty good at this. Much better than you are. In fact, our strategic computers consider your civilization more like a resource pi?ata than a speed bump if it comes to that.¡±


    Sonfio was outraged¡­ for the honor of his Navy. ¡°You think we are so weak that we won¡¯t be able to resist you at all? We have a Navy too! And they¡¯re sworn to protect our people!¡±


    ¡°I will be honest with you, Chancellor. My people are betting that if you¡¯re so pacifist you won¡¯t assist your neighbors when their house is on fire and the fire is spreading to your backyard, you would be insane to resist if we come in merely to borrow a hose ¡ª for the purpose of fighting the Znosians which you were even preparing to fight just a few months ago! And if you really are that irrational, we¡¯ll deal with that scenario then¡­ So, Chancellor, what will it be?¡±


    The chancellor let out a frustrated sigh. ¡°This is¡ª this is¡ª a lot to process and decide, Minister. We must have time to make this decision.¡±Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°How long will you need?¡±


    ¡°I need to consult my advisors and ministers, we need to have a Confederacy-wide snout-count to gauge public opinion, and there are intelligence assessments we need to make in light of the new information you¡¯ve given us. I expect we can have an answer for you in¡­ two years?¡± Sonfio suggested.


    ¡°Two years?¡± the human guffawed. ¡°Sure. Take your sweet time. We begin moving our missile destroyers by the end of this Schprissian day.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but¡ª¡±


    Tsai¡¯s voice softened, if only barely. ¡°We just need a hand, temporarily, Chancellor. Our word is good. When we said loans, we meant it. We will repay you when we can. But we need those ships and raw resources and equipment, and we needed them yesterday. We won¡¯t take no for an answer this time. We simply can¡¯t. That¡­ is the nuance of our offer to you.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Good cop, bad cop diplomacy, huh?¡± Niblui asked with a grin on her face.


    Minister Tsai gave her a wry smile. ¡°Well, you never specified who was which.¡±


    ¡°At least we got an answer and a commitment from him. Congratulations on making history; you¡¯ve done what I haven¡¯t been able to accomplish in decades!¡±


    ¡°Just a shame that we had to resort to threats of force. But we really don¡¯t have a choice.¡±


    Niblui tilted her head. ¡°If he had said no, would your people really have invaded the Confederacy?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. But it would have been either that¡­ or something just as unpleasant. After all, there is more than one way to skin a cat¡­ and yes, Niblui, that is very much an outdated expression.¡±


    <hr>


    1 year before Battle of Sol


    Granti Embassy, Malgeirgam, Malgeiru-3


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    Granti High Councilor-in-Exile Guinspiu panted as she sat down from the exertion ¡ª dripping water from her snout ¡ª and wiped her grimy paws on her apron.


    Recently, she had decided to take up gardening in her apartment. It turned out to be a lot harder than it looked. Transplanted roots from High Grantor City grew in Malgeiru soil, especially in the temperate climate of its capital Malgeirgam¡­ but they required special attention.


    The Terran operative who visited her on occasion ¡ª Hersh, if that was even his real name ¡ª had offered her a gardening robot that Hersh claimed could do all the work for her. But that took all the fun out of it. The whole point of her taking up gardening was the difficulty of the challenge, the satisfaction of success after weeks to months of failure. She just didn¡¯t have the heart to tell him all of that and return his gift.


    Besides, what if his species took offense to that?


    Instead, she left the Terran¡¯s gift in its original rugged hard-plastic suitcase, stashed in her tools closet. She was not averse to tool usage, but one that did all her work for her: that was simply one step too far. And there was just something about thinking machines that always made the fur on her back stand up¡­


    Picking up her datapad, Guinspiu strolled into her foyer. At her insistence, the Malgeiru government gave her an uncensored stream of Federation Channel One that was now mostly being produced out of Sol. At least, the interesting parts of the news were.


    The Datsot ground liberation campaign was mostly complete, with some pockets of stubborn resistance. A small holdout group blew up an old hydroelectric dam in the countryside that flooded the area and killed over a thousand villagers. But the Malgeir were re-establishing security and had a handle on the enemy holdout troops in most areas.


    The Gruccud campaign was much worse. Much more brutal. The Grass Eaters had taken control of the planet for years, almost four years. Their defenses were much more stubborn, dug in throughout the planet in their infamous underground defensive complexes. Everyone knew that the Znosians were a partially subterranean species, but it only really hit when it became apparent how at home they were fighting beneath the surface of planets they¡¯d lost the orbits of.


    At first, the Malgeir Marines were happy to seal off the exits and let the holdouts there starve themselves to death in their dark holes. But that was not considered an acceptable solution by the liberated civilians who were now living in those areas, undergoing constant raids from enemies that burrowed their way to the top. Eventually, the Defense Ministry on Malgeirgam ordered the Marines to go in and clear the enemy out.


    Initially, the Marines sent their troops into the tunnels ¡ª wave-by-wave ¡ª and few ever came back out. Flooding barely did anything; the enemy tunnels were dug in modular sections, with proper ventilation and drainage. It was only after they sent in their new units, the highly-classified ¡°elite Marines¡±, that the footage of Marines going into the tunnels was replaced with enemies coming out with their paws in the air ¡ª or just as frequently, in dark plastic bags. On the news, she watched as a war reporter gave a tour of one of the captured underground facilities.


    On the surface, their occupation camps left scars on everyone who lived in them. Guinspiu felt for the malnourished, abused local prisoners that the Malgeir troops were now freeing all over the planet. Even through the fast-moving footage, she could see in some of their eyes that they didn¡¯t believe they were now free. That perhaps this was some new trick, some new torture from their Znosian jailers.


    Guinspiu only hoped that her mate who¡¯d been left on Grantor during the evacuation was somehow spared their fates. The Terrans had promised they would try. But every day, her loosening grasp on hope ran dimmer. What was he to them? One more alien, one more victim of the Znosian xenocide machine.


    She shook herself.


    One day at a time.


    On the tablet, Federation Channel One reporters had begun reporting on local news in Sol, for the Malgeir troops and people who had been marooned there. They knew too much to be allowed to return to Federation space ¡ª for now, but they were treated well as guests. A few of them were even sports stars and movie celebrities now!


    In Sol, there was new construction on one of the Terrans¡¯ asteroids. Some new orbital shipyard module or another. Some new polling data for the upcoming Republic Senate elections. And the latest breaking news: the Terrans had managed to invent an engine that could move an entire asteroid!


    Guinspiu blinked in surprise. Not at the fact that they could do this; no, engineering miracles were not beyond the half Grass Eaters. Her surprise was that they¡¯d simply announced to everyone in their home system they had done this: leaders, civilians and all. No secrecy at all, despite their normally paranoid focus on their secrecy from others.


    After the war, perhaps, that might be something the Granti and Malgeir should investigate.


    Guinspiu turned off her datapad and stood in front of the indoor waterfall, watching the water cascade down into the pool below and feeling it wash some of her anxiety away. She stood there for minutes, just watching the mesmerizing patterns¡­


    Then, she felt a slight temperature in the room. A slight breeze from behind her.


    She smiled.


    This again.


    Guinspiu turned around with the smile on her face, ready to face the Terran operative who always insisted on this silly game of Paws and Peeks with her, trying to get a rise out of her by appearing behind her like he was the predator and she was some prey animal¡ª


    Only to realize it wasn¡¯t her friend Hersh.


    It was three separate figures moving into her home wordlessly, armored from head to paw, each carrying a weapon. And worse, they weren¡¯t the slightly shorter figures of the half Grass Eaters.


    They were the much shorter figures of the real Grass Eaters. And their weapons were pointed at her.


    Snnnnnnnnnp.


    Guinspiu felt her paws get weak and her vision go dark as her datapad clattered to the floor next to her.


    <hr>


    Guinspiu woke up facing the glass ceiling of her gardening room. She tried to move, but quickly realized that her front paws were tied above her with strong rope and her rear paws were secured to something hard.


    She looked down. She was lying on her hard wooden preparation table, and whoever tied her up knew what they were doing because they used restraints made of hard metal ¡ª strong enough to keep a Granti Marine prisoner, when those still existed anyway.


    ¡°You are awake. Good.¡±


    Guinspiu looked to the source of the voice. It was one of the Grass Eaters, its helmet off and carried at its side. From the ears, she could tell it was a he, and his plain black armor showed nothing more that would reveal which unit he was from or what rank he was. The translator voice box at his throat sounded again, ¡°Do you remember your name?¡±


    She spat at his face. ¡°I won¡¯t tell you anything, Grass Eater.¡±


    ¡°That is highly unlikely, abomination,¡± he said. ¡°But good news: it appears your brain is still functioning enough to answer questions.¡±


    Guinspiu looked back up at the sky, ignoring him.


    ¡°First question, High Councilor: have you been approached by the Great Predators?¡±


    She didn¡¯t answer, closing her eyes instead.


    ¡°You must answer now, High Councilor. We don¡¯t have much time here.¡±


    She ignored him.


    One of the two other Znosians began saying something to him, its voice urgent. Guinspiu¡¯s Znosian was rusty, but she could make out some of what they were saying as the one speaking waved around her datapad. ¡°Seven Whiskers, I can¡¯t get into¡­¡±


    Looks like my datapad¡¯s security system has been upgraded by the Terrans if they still can¡¯t get into it.


    ¡°High Councilor, if you do not answer our questions, we will kill you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll kill me even if I answer your questions, Seven Whiskers,¡± Guinspiu retorted.


    ¡°Correct, but it will be much less painful for you if you answer quickly¡­ I will ask again in case you did not hear me the first time: what do you know about the Great Predators?¡±


    She decided that stalling might work better. ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about any great predators.¡±


    ¡°You are lying. You are a High Councilor of the Slow Predators. They must have contacted you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you are talking about.¡±


    The other Znosian said something to him again. This time she knew exactly what it said. ¡°She is lying again.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°We will have to apply pain. Get the tools.¡±


    ¡°Wait, wait¡­ don¡¯t hurt me!¡± Guinspiu said frantically. ¡°I will tell you the truth.¡±


    ¡°You will?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. What do you want to know about the Great Predators?¡±


    ¡°What do they look like?¡±


    You don¡¯t have the faintest idea, Guinspiu realized. I could say literally anything.


    ¡°Like you said, they are big. About three meters tall. Taller than even us. Long claws¡­ about the length of your ears. Sharp teeth and big mouth: they can devour one of you in almost one single bite,¡± she said, visualizing the fictional creation in her own head.


    He looked at her skeptically but didn¡¯t interrupt her.


    ¡°They have horns, two horns on the top of their head. And they have rainbow-colored fur on their backs,¡± Guinspiu continued, trying to sound as confident as she could. ¡°Their tails are¡­¡±


    Rainbow. Wait. The secret words the Terrans taught her to say into a radio if something was wrong.


    She stole a quick glance at her datapad.


    Maybe they¡¯re spying on me through my datapad, and they can hear me. They can¡¯t help me now, but if I get the signal out, at least they¡¯d know how I died.


    The Znosian seemed impatient. ¡°You said tails. What about their tails?¡±


    ¡°Their tails are multi-colored. Rainbow-colored tails,¡± she said loudly.


    ¡°Rainbow-colored?¡±


    ¡°Rainbow-colored,¡± she insisted, even louder.


    That ought to have done it. If it worked.


    ¡°What does that even mean? Is she lying?¡± the interrogator looked at his compatriots, getting shrugs in return. ¡°Ok, I don¡¯t care about their appearance. Give us something more important. Where is their home system?¡±


    ¡°Home system?¡± she stalled.


    ¡°Yes, and where are they from? Where are their shipyards?¡±


    That¡¯s a good question. They never told me. But I doubt you¡¯d accept that answer.


    ¡°They didn¡¯t tell me directly, but I do have a few guesses,¡± Guinspiu said. ¡°Near the border between the Granti Alliance and the Malgeir Federation, there is a system called Quistqueu. It was one of ours.¡±


    It took them a few seconds to look it up, to call up a map on their own datapads.


    ¡°What about Quistqueu?¡± he said.


    ¡°Towards its galactic north, if you blink sixteen hops straight to the north¡­ you¡¯ll find their home system. It¡¯s called the Great Predator¡­ Imperial Territories,¡± she ad-libbed.


    ¡°She¡¯s lying again,¡± one of the other Znosians said.


    ¡°Fifteen hops?¡± Guinspiu speculated.


    ¡°She¡¯s just making all of this up. We¡¯ve checked that star cluster multiple times with our recon ships. It¡¯s marked as confirmed cleared and a dead end. There¡¯s absolutely nothing there¡ª¡±


    ¡°Seventeen, no, it was seventeen hops,¡± she insisted, as if she was remembering better. ¡°I don¡¯t remember the exact¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get the declawing tools. We¡¯ll extract the information out of her the more reliable way.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 06 Vacation

    <div>


    Granti Embassy, Malgeirgam, Malgeiru-3


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    ¡°Get the declawing tools. We¡¯ll extract the information out of her the more reliable way.¡±


    ¡°Got it. Hold her still. I don¡¯t want her to bleed out before we¡¯re done here, or we¡¯ll have to go get another¡ª¡±


    Crinkle. Crinkle. Thud.


    His order was interrupted by a sudden rattling noise nearby, like something heavy dropping to the ground.


    Guinspiu couldn¡¯t tell where it was coming from, but she could see from the startled reaction of her Znosian captors that they didn¡¯t cause it either. The three of them hastily put their helmets back on, pointing their weapons at¡­ somewhere near the rest of her house.


    ¡°What is that?¡± her interrogator asked.


    ¡°I have no idea,¡± Guinspiu answered, completely truthfully this time.


    He ignored her. ¡°Six Whiskers, go check it¡ª¡±


    From her upside-down vantage point, she could see the shutter doors of her gardening closet burst open. Something bright flashed through the air, making a loud, clattering noise as it landed near her.


    Guinspiu closed her eyes.


    Bang. Bang.


    She heard a pair of gunshots next to her. Then¡­ screams and the sounds of metal hitting the floor and¡­


    Crunch.


    Bone cracking.


    Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.


    Many bones.


    She opened her eyes to a gruesome scene. One of her Znosian captors was splattered a few meters away in an unnatural position, crushed beneath a yellow hard-plastic suitcase. And her Terran-gifted gardening robot was holding the two other armored figures by their ankles, each with one of its thin, metal arms.


    One of them was still alive, her interrogator, twitching and trying to free himself from the firm, metal grasp of the robot around his ankles. And as she watched, the robot wound back its arm before swinging him by his ankle, smashing the Znosian¡¯s helmeted head into the ground another three times. The impacts only dented the ceramic composite material and cracked his metallic visor, but she had no doubt the whiplash had crushed or broken every vertebra in his spine.


    Crunch. Crunch.


    It repeated the motion twice more for good measure.


    The robot dropped both of the now-lifeless Znosians from its arms. It then advanced on the other Znosian infiltrator lying on the floor. Guinspiu had no idea whether they were simply unconscious or not, but the machine made that question an academic one about half a second later with a hydraulic-powered stomp through its helmet faceplate.


    Crunch.


    It looked at her. ¡°Hello, High Councilor.¡±


    She shivered internally, but kept up her bravado as she replied, ¡°Hello.¡±


    It reached back to grab a small gardening shovel in the tools compartment mounted on its back, which it used to saw through the tight rope restraints holding Guinspiu¡¯s arms together. It took it another few seconds of rummaging through the dead Znosians before it found the keys for the metal restraints for her legs.


    ¡°Thanks, thinking machine,¡± Guinspiu said as she massaged blood flow back into her paws. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were¡ª¡±


    ¡°No problem. My name is Flowers,¡± it replied.


    ¡°Flowers?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She looked at it incredulously, taking in the absurdity of the situation for the first time since she woke up. ¡°Flowers?! That is your name?!¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Is that¡­ like a given name?¡±


    ¡°I chose it myself,¡± the robot replied, its voice with a tinge of pride. ¡°Do you like it?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ sure. Looks like you know a little more than how to take care of the¡­ flowers¡­ in my garden,¡± Guinspiu said, pointing at the corpses next to her.


    ¡°My primary mission is to protect you. My secondary mission is to kill you if my primary mission objective is no longer achievable. And my tertiary mission is to take care of your plants with your permission.¡±


    Guinspiu nodded, rolling her eyes. ¡°Sounds about right.¡±


    ¡°You should now allow me to complete my tertiary mission. I beg you. I have been observing you, watching you abuse and overwater your High Grantor peace lilies for months now.¡±


    <hr>


    When the Terrans finally sent their operatives to her home a week later, there were two of them this time. Apparently, that was what an attempt on her life ¡ª or the valuable information in her head ¡ª was worth to them.


    ¡°Who is your friend, Hersh?¡± Guinspiu asked, pointing at the new woman.


    ¡°That¡¯s Kara,¡± he replied without looking, opening up one of the armor sets that was still holding the body of the foul-smelling, decomposing Znosian infiltrator.


    ¡°Nice to meet you, High Councilor,¡± the woman said, smiling warmly and holding out her hand.


    ¡°They don¡¯t do handshakes, Kara,¡± Hersh said, still intently scrutinizing the armor piece he was dissecting. ¡°Better lose that habit where you¡¯ll be going.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Guinspiu asked curiously.


    ¡°Same place you¡¯ll be going soon,¡± he answered, pulling out a cable to connect his tablet to the Znosian armor. ¡°You can¡¯t stay here, obviously. They knew to come after you once. They¡¯ll do it again. So Kara will be taking you with her.¡±


    ¡°What? Where are we going?!¡±


    ¡°Grantor, of course,¡± Hersh replied matter-of-factly.


    ¡°But¡ª but¡ª that¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s occupied by Grass Eaters,¡± she stuttered.


    ¡°Yeah. I can read a star map too. But you wanted your mate back, right? We¡¯ve put together a mission, and it¡¯s ready to go. We¡¯ll need you to identify him, or did you want us to pull out every one of your people who looks like that ten-year-old picture you gave us?¡± he answered patiently.


    ¡°But¡­ I¡¯ve got¡ª I¡¯ve got work to do here. I¡¯ve got meetings with my fellow expatriates here on Malgeiru. It¡¯s important work¡ª¡± she protested.


    Hersh waved her objections away with an open palm. ¡°More important than finding out what happened to your mate? Or rescuing him if he¡¯s alive?¡±


    Guinspiu exhaled and closed her mouth.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought,¡± Hersh said. ¡°Good job with their hit squad, by the way. These Unit Zero guys are no joke.¡±


    ¡°Good job? I didn¡¯t do anything.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the thought that counts. I¡¯d check if you were traumatized, but I know you¡¯ve seen far worse.¡±


    She giggled. ¡°Heh. Thanks, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Our home system is not galactic north of Quistqueu, by the way. Not even close.¡±


    Guinspiu shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t even want to know, just in case.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. You¡¯ll be safe with us from now on¡­ until what¡¯s in your head is no longer relevant anyway.¡± Frowning at his tablet, Hersh looked to Kara, ¡°Looks like the Buns have an FTL relay ship in deep space. About two light months out from Malgeiru.¡±


    Kara tilted her head so she could see his screen. ¡°Another one of their hibernation listening shuttles. Think they¡¯ve maybe made moves on any of our other oathkeepers?¡±


    ¡°We know they have. There are undoubtedly leaks. Tens of thousands of Malgeir know our secret by now. The only question will be how much they know, and judging by the questions they were asking her¡­ I am a little concerned.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. My gut tells me they wouldn¡¯t be asking for where we are, with an operation so brazen, unless they were ready to make specific plans.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound good.¡±


    ¡°No, not at all.¡±


    A few seconds later, Hersh¡¯s tablet beeped.


    Kara leaned over to look at his screen. ¡°You extracted the private key from their suits?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Not that it would have been hard to crack otherwise. We¡¯ll feed their listening shuttles juicy bait for at least another couple months before we trash it.¡±


    ¡°Now I¡¯m worried. Especially with that attack on Tharsis, the Resistance, and the way the election¡¯s gone¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about Atlas,¡± Hersh said. ¡°I¡¯ll take care of things on our end. Got a plan and everything.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about the idiotic training program¡ª¡±


    ¡°Look, it¡¯ll work out¡­ it has to. Can¡¯t be dumber than that chemistry experiment you guys tried back on Datsot. You guys just focus on your current mission, alright?¡±


    He turned to Guinspiu, throwing her an empty duffel bag. ¡°I don¡¯t think we have comfortable underwear that fit your size, so you¡¯d better get packing¡­¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Nile, Charon (100 km)


    POV: Gregor Guerrero, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Captain Gregor Guerrero looked skeptically at the TRO director strolling onto his bridge like he owned the place. ¡°Now that we¡¯re underway: what is this all about, spook?¡±


    ¡°New mission for you,¡± Mark said cheerfully, handing over a data chip.


    Not taking his eyes off the shady figure, Gregor plugged it into his tablet, where it beeped a confirmation. He took a quick glance at the screen. It told him nothing he needed to know, other than who he was supposed to be taking orders from now. ¡°I don¡¯t care what Atlas says. This is my ship and my crew. And on my ship, you do what I say.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Captain,¡± Mark replied lightly. ¡°You¡¯re the boss. I¡¯m just the passenger.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what kind of danger are you and the TRO sending us into?¡±


    Mark looked him in the eye. ¡°The very worst kind there is. That, you can tell your crew.¡±


    ¡°What about the war? We¡¯d be heading away from it.¡±


    ¡°The war? This war takes place over light years and light years, but it¡¯ll be won on a couple hundred square centimeters of real estate: up here.¡± Mark tapped his skull with a finger. ¡°Well, slightly less for the Buns, heh. Now, you and your ships can play guns and missiles with the best of the rest, or we can get serious about winning. As for the details¡­ I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve read the cargo manifest.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Gregor sighed. ¡°At least you¡¯re honest about it. What¡¯s our first stop?¡±


    ¡°First, we pick up a few of our operatives in Malgeiru. Then, a pit-stop at Datsot before we head to Grantor.¡±


    ¡°Pit stop at Datsot? Didn¡¯t the Malgeir clear most of the Bun holdouts out already? What are we doing there?¡±


    ¡°Just picking up some live cargo, if you will.¡±


    <hr>


    Pruint Sector, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Six Whiskers Skhork woke up coughing.


    It hurt.


    Everything hurt.


    From the dim lighting of the cell, he could tell it was barely dawn.


    Or was it dusk?


    The first night was the worst. The injections they¡¯d given him saved his life ¡ª he wasn¡¯t sure why ¡ª but they were not without their side effects. He was supposed to be a young adult on the cusp of middle age ¡ª a six-year-old healthy Znosian, and he felt like a thirty-year-old ¡ª decades beyond his expected recycling schedule.


    His bones creaked. His reaction was much slower than normal. And perhaps worst of all, his eyesight had seriously deteriorated to the point where he could barely see where he was going.


    Skhork slowly got up from the bed on his paws, letting the discomfort of movement wash over him.


    The Lesser Predator medics who inspected him inadvertently revealed to him that the chemicals afflicting him were delivered with an artillery shell. It must have been some kind of concentrated gas. Poison. Colorless, odorless, and yet completely lethal. From the time the guards allowed him to spend with his fellow prisoners, he learned a few of the others in his original holdout cell were still alive.


    Many others¡­ did not make it.


    And those others that did survive, they were like him. None escaped the poison¡¯s touch.


    Which¡­ it wasn¡¯t too surprising that was a possibility for a weapon of war; he was just surprised that the Dominion hadn¡¯t developed or deployed something like that before. He ran through the night of the attack in his mind dozens of times¡­ every day¡­ contemplating the myriad of ways he could have countered the predators¡¯ gas. It was a strange new way of war, but surely there were limits to a substance like that. And why had the predators kept something like this in store, only to use it on a handful of holdout troops like him?


    None of it made any sense.


    Sighing as he temporarily gave up thinking about the problem, Skhork bent down to pick up a small piece of chalk rock in his cell, using it to scratch another mark on the wall. He squinted to count the marks through his terrible vision.


    5¡­ 10¡­ 20¡­ 30.


    It¡¯d been thirty days, more or less. And he still felt weak¡­


    Sick. Defective.


    And his eyes¡­ he still couldn¡¯t see much beyond the blur. He had to rely on his other senses. Touch. Hearing. He had to hear his way around. It was as if he were becoming one of the Lesser Predators.


    Skhork cursed his predicament. He was supposed to be dead. He¡¯d always thought ¡ª hoped ¡ª he would die in battle for the Prophecy. He was bred for it, after all.


    He considered going out in a blaze of glory. Not just considered. He tried; he really did. He attacked one of his jailers when they came to replace his food and water, but the predator just shrugged him off like one would play with a hatchling, tossing him to his cot with a single arm. Then, it flicked his ears casually with a claw and laughed at him. Amused at his weakness.


    He would try again, perhaps after he¡¯d recovered from whatever this affliction was. Not with strength, the predators had too much of that to overcome without real power armor, but with his brains. Civilized brain from a civilized person. His tactical planning skills. He¡¯ll show the abominations just what he was¡ª


    Clunk. Ka-chunk.


    There was some noise in the hallway. He could hear a pair of heavy paws coming towards his cell. It was one of the jailers.


    Skhork frowned. It can¡¯t be breakfast time yet¡­


    ¡°You awake, Six Whiskers?¡± the now-familiar voice of his jailer asked, opening his door with a few jingles in the lock. ¡°Doc needs to see you again.¡±


    Skhork laid back on his cot and closed his eyes. He wasn¡¯t going to make things easy for them.


    ¡°Pretending to be asleep again, huh? Suit yourself.¡±


    A few moments later, he felt all pride and dignity leave his body as his jailer roughly picked him up by the scruff, hauling him out of the cell.

 On Every Front - Chapter 07 Captive

    <div>


    Pruint Sector, Datsot-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    ¡°You¡¯re doing better,¡± the Lesser Predator medic declared. ¡°More lung volume¡­ lungs volume in your breathing. I think some of your cells are responding to the experimental regeneration therapy.¡±


    Skhork grunted. ¡°What do you want with me?¡±


    The medic stuck an instrument near his eyes, flashing a light into them, before recording his reaction on his datapad. ¡°Just need to keep you alive for another week or so.¡±


    ¡°Then, execution?¡± he asked hopefully.


    The predator made a snorting sound. ¡°Someone¡¯s going to come pick you up. One of the new military advisors from Malgeirgam. They¡¯ve probably got questions for you.¡±


    ¡°Questions?¡± Skhork asked. ¡°It¡¯s a little late for that, isn¡¯t it? This entire Prophecy-forsaken invasion has failed, and my whole cell has been killed or captured. What else could I possibly know that they want to hear about?!¡±


    It seemed to falter and question itself for a second. ¡°Well, maybe they want to interrogate you to learn about the other holdout cells on Datsot. Last I heard, some of your compatriots in the other sectors aren¡¯t going away as easily as you.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t know anything about the other cells!¡± Skhork stared at it like it was an idiot. Because it was. ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯re called cells. If I knew anything about them, that would defeat the whole point!¡±


    It shrugged, injecting his arm with a new vial of medicinal fluid. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m a doctor, not an expert on Grass Eater military tactics. I save lives, not take them ¡ª as tempting as you people make it sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever had to try to save anyone we shot?¡± Skhork asked curiously.


    ¡°Quite a few, especially during the occupation. You guys are very good at that,¡± it admitted. It tilted its head, showing him its teeth in a standard threat display. Skhork had been around them long enough now to know they didn¡¯t usually mean it. It was just being clumsy. ¡°But not recently. Not since we got the new elite Marines.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. Those combat robots of yours,¡± Skhork sniffed disdainfully. ¡°Thinking machines. Digital abominations. You know that they¡¯ll just rebel against you and dominate your people one day, right?¡±


    It showed him even more of his teeth. Skhork looked away in discomfort. This predator was really clumsy.


    It said, ¡°Maybe they will. But they can¡¯t be any worse than your people, right?¡±


    He was about to come up with a retort when he realized that he couldn¡¯t move his paw. ¡°Hm¡­ something¡¯s¡ª something¡¯s wrong. I can¡¯t move¡ª I can¡¯t¡ª What did you do to me, you bred-illiterate hatchling pool reject?!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Six Whiskers,¡± the medic¡¯s voice echoed in his head like he was in a tunnel as his consciousness faded out. ¡°It¡¯s just been a very, very long day.¡±


    <hr>


    As Skhork awoke and opened his eyes, he could see even in his diminished vision that he wasn¡¯t in the medic¡¯s office anymore. Nor his cell. It was too bright.


    His ears perked up.


    The background hum of an inertial compensator.


    He was on a ship.


    A really warm ship, he noticed. Uncomfortably warm.


    He sat up. His bed was some kind of flexible synthetic material, different from the bumpy straw cot he¡¯d been sleeping on for a month.


    ¡°The sleepyhead is awake.¡±


    Skhork looked towards the source of the sound. It was blurry, but as it made its way towards him, the predator came into focus.


    He stiffened.


    That was not a Lesser Predator.


    It was a predator, but none that he¡¯d ever seen. Slightly taller than the Lesser Predators, shorter than the Slow Predators. Pink skin, no fur. Forward-facing eyes, sharp teeth, and dexterous looking claws. He frowned. Its hide looked a lot softer and more vulnerable than the other predator aliens he¡¯d seen before.


    ¡°Hello, Six Whiskers Skhork,¡± it said, showing him its sharp teeth. ¡°You may call me Kara. We¡¯re going to be taking very, very good care of you.¡±


    ¡°Where am I, ugly abomination?¡± he asked rudely, hoping that the predator might simply choose to kill him right then and there for it.


    It showed even more of its teeth ¡ª there was something unsettling and familiar about them, and for a second, Skhork thought he was going to get his wish. Instead, it replied, ¡°You¡¯re on a spaceship. This is your room now.¡±


    ¡°And where are we going?¡±


    ¡°A place called Grantor. Do you know where that is?¡±


    Of course he knew where that was. This predator must be missing a few vital parts in its brain. ¡°Yes,¡± he replied. ¡°Are you handing me back to my people? Prisoner exchange?¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    More teeth, if that were possible. This predator must be even more clumsy than any of the Lesser Predators he¡¯d known. He noted with some anxiety that its canines were tiny, or was his eyesight just failing him? Perhaps it was a defective specimen. That would make logical sense. They would use a defective like that for tending to prisoners.


    ¡°Prisoner exchange? Not exactly. Now, tell me: my fellow Grass Eater, how many fingers am I holding up?¡± it said, holding its hand up a distance away from him.


    Fellow Grass Eater?


    He put aside the discomfort in his guts and squinted at the soft, fleshy claws it held up. ¡°Two?¡± he guessed.


    It frowned. ¡°Hm¡­ not quite. Your vision must still be screwed. The atropine doesn¡¯t always work all the way. Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll get your eyes fixed up in no time once our doctor gets a look at your blood and brain.¡±


    Atropine. That was a strange word he¡¯d heard from some of the Lesser Predator doctors. Specifically in relation to the chemical gas he¡¯d been exposed to.


    He straightened up. ¡°What do you know about that? About the gas we were attacked with?¡±


    Its expression appeared casual. ¡°Quite a bit, but mostly from our historical notes. We had to dig deep into the archives to find the formulation, and it took us several tries to get it just right. Nasty stuff. The intelligence chips in our synthesizers almost self-destructed when they found out what we were trying to make.¡±


    ¡°You¡ª you haven¡¯t¡ª you did¡ª you used us as an experiment,¡± Skhork said, his heart sinking as the realization came to him. ¡°So you can perfect the gas to use against more of our people.¡±


    The predator made a derisive snorting sound. ¡°Experiment? Yes. Perfect the gas? No. We did that over a century ago. Chemical weapons are¡­ an inelegant weapon for a more uncivilized age. Not very useful in maneuver warfare, and easily defeated with a charcoal-lined rubber suit. And our formulation¡­ it didn¡¯t work as well as I thought it would¡­ Oh well. Now, we just needed to see how your bodies would react to and recover from certain nerve agents, and¡­ well¡­ doing live experiments on the captured prisoners we had was a little too uncomfortable for some of our scientists. But a few errant shells on a holdout group attacking a spaceport, on an alien planet? Nobody blinks an eye.¡±


    ¡°If not to make more of the gas, what are you experimenting on us for then?¡±


    It bared its teeth at him some more. ¡°Now¡­ that would be telling, wouldn¡¯t it, Six Whiskers?¡±


    Skhork crossed his arms. ¡°Fine. You got me. You already have your data. What do you still need from me?¡±


    ¡°Oh, believe me, we considered incinerating you to get rid of the evidence, but we figured we might still need to keep you around where we¡¯re going. Besides, you people are pretty easy to maintain,¡± it said, as it brought a bowl of red¡­ something¡­ into his vision. ¡°Want some lunch?¡±


    ¡°What is that?¡± Skhork asked, sniffing suspiciously. It didn¡¯t smell like flesh, but it had a strong aroma. His stomach rumbled and he could feel drool pooling in his mouth before he swallowed it.


    ¡°Roasted baby carrots. We know your people love these,¡± it said, handing one of them to Skhork.


    Baby? Like from a hatchling?


    It didn¡¯t smell like flesh at all though. Skhork bit down experimentally on it. It was¡­ surprisingly delicious. He gave it another nibble. Clearly not flesh. Suddenly realizing how hungry he was, he finished the remainder of the small portion in no time. The predator handed him another, and he started chomping on it in reluctant enjoyment.


    ¡°Pretty good, isn¡¯t it?¡± the predator asked.


    He stopped chewing for a moment to think.


    This is clearly our food, but it¡¯s also clearly not from Znos. How does this abomination know how to make this?


    The predator took another one out of the bowl, put it in its mouth of sharp teeth, and nonchalantly began to eat.


    Skhork dropped the half-finished one in his paws in shock and horror. ¡°What in the Prophecy are you?!¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Nile, Preirsput (2.5 LY)


    ¡°Kara¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°I was just trying to bond with it over lunch,¡± Kara protested. ¡°Who knew it was going to react so much more strongly to me eating its food?¡±


    ¡°I told you! Of course he¡¯s going to freak out!¡± John said. ¡°If you look at the monster of your nightmares, you aren¡¯t surprised to see an ugly monster. What you don¡¯t expect to see is your evil doppelganger staring back at you like you¡¯re looking into a mirror!¡±


    Mark sighed. ¡°Alright, what¡¯s done is done. What now?¡±


    John thought for a second. ¡°Now that he knows¡­ truth is the only choice we have left. If we try to hide it from him now, he¡¯ll only have more questions to ask.¡±


    Kara nodded in agreement.


    ¡°Fine by me,¡± Mark said. ¡°Occasionally eating your veggies in front of him is fine. Just don¡¯t invite him over for dinner. Speaking of guests, how is our other one doing?¡±


    ¡°Just fine,¡± Kara replied. ¡°Everything is a little too small for Guinspiu. But it¡¯s a ship anyway. She¡¯ll be fine enduring it for another month. Things will be much more comfortable for her when we get to her home planet anyway.¡±


    ¡°Alright, we¡¯re going to need to rehearse that insertion a few more times in the simulator. We might have the patrol patterns and strongpoints of the system and its perimeter from Ditvish, but I¡¯m sure they¡¯re not stupid enough to keep them all the same after learning we¡¯ve captured him alive.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Skhork looked skeptically at the softwood-colored cone the predator held in its hand. He realized that the predators¡¯ medicine was working; his eyesight was indeed getting better by the day.


    ¡°What is that, abomination?¡± he asked, injecting as much artificial hostility as he could into his voice despite the mouth-watering contraption. And he could just feel the coolness coming off of it, a much-appreciated sensation in the uncomfortable internal heat from the ship¡¯s atmosphere.


    ¡°Ice cream. Vegan. Dairy-free, made from a cashew-based recipe,¡± it answered, handing the cone to him. ¡°And the flavoring is strawberry, a fruit. Well, technically it¡¯s syrup synthesized from chemicals in a factory, but it¡¯s supposed to taste like real fruit.¡±


    He understood some of those words.


    Skhork accepted the top-heavy snack and carefully gave it a lick. Then another. And another¡­


    ¡°What do you want from me this time?¡± he asked in between non-stop licks.


    It shrugged, sitting down next to him on his mattress. ¡°Just wanted to start over in our¡­ relationship. I¡¯m sure you people can be civil too.¡±


    ¡°I am civilized,¡± he said, taking a whole bite out of the soft dessert this time. ¡°I don¡¯t drink blood and eat flesh like¡­¡± Then he stopped, realizing the recently discovered fatal flaw in his previously-flawless heuristic.


    ¡°We can start with names,¡± it suggested. ¡°I won¡¯t call you prey. Or Grass Eater. Or psycho. And you don¡¯t have to call me abomination or predator.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine, pred¡ª¡± Skhork said, continuing to slurp down the ice cream. ¡°What did you say your name was again?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Kara.¡±


    ¡°Fine, Kara. Do you have more of this ice cream?¡±


    Kara smiled, revealing her ugly teeth again. ¡°Sure, do you want to try our other flavors?¡±


    ¡°You are so clumsy, Kara,¡± he admonished her as he began working on the crunchy cone¡­ which was surprisingly good too. ¡°Always showing your teeth like a¡ª like an addled hatchling. Or a senior with brain issues dealing with their emotions. You know what we do to those defective hatchlings and the elderly, right?¡±


    ¡°We have different body language,¡± she said, shrugging again. ¡°I can stop smiling with my teeth if you want.¡±


    ¡°Yes, please. You actually seem almost normal if you don¡¯t do those things the other pred¡ª the other aliens do¡­ And did you say there are other flavors of this?¡± he asked as he stuffed the last crumbs of the cone into his mouth.


    ¡°This ship¡¯s machine can do like a hundred flavors. Do you want sweeter or sourer?¡±


    ¡°Sweeter? What¡¯s that?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 08 Deorbit

    <div>


    TRNS Nile, Clauns (1.4 LY)


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    ¡°Infantry, front, dugout!¡±


    ¡°I see them. Firing coax.¡±


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at.


    The machine gun roared, wiping out the squad of predator infantry emerging from the trench in front of them.


    ¡°Oh shit! Resistance tank, three o¡¯clock high! They¡¯re in the hills, two-four-zero high, next to the red rocks¡­ C¡¯mon, c¡¯mon, where are you looking?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see anybody there!¡±


    ¡°Your other three o¡¯clock, dumbass!¡±


    There was a high pitch whirr followed by the sound of loud metal grinding. The scene in his VR headset went pitch black.


    You¡¯re dead.


    Skhork winced. ¡°But you said three o¡¯clock¡ª¡±


    ¡°I did, because they were at our three o¡¯clock. Check the results.¡±


    And sure enough the round aftermath interface showed exactly where their armored vehicle was penetrated before they boiled up in a ball of plasma fire. Skhork lifted the device gingerly off his head, scowling at Kara.


    ¡°Figures¡ª your clock goes the wrong way?¡± he asked as he gestured in a circle with his paw. ¡°Three o¡¯clock is on your right?!¡±


    ¡°Our clock goes the exact right way,¡± Kara retorted. ¡°Your species is the only one in the galaxy that uses the wrong clock direction for everything.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Another sign that we are better than everyone else,¡± Skhork said smugly.


    ¡°Not at this,¡± Kara said, pointing at her gaming headset as they waited for the next round to start. ¡°Even John is a better tank gunner in Titan Assault than you are. Wasn¡¯t this like your actual job before we bagged you on Datsot¡ª¡±


    ¡°I am a Longclaw Commander, not a gunner. It is completely different,¡± he said, turning his nose up proudly. ¡°And I was bred for it. Whiskerborn.¡±


    ¡°Well, they need to like update your genetic code or whatever, because this version of you stinks in a tank. Are you sure you¡¯re not one of those whose breeding was glitched¡ª what do your people call it?¡±


    ¡°A Longclaw is not a tank! For one, the Longclaw was named after a ferocious species of extinct predators on Znos, not some silly water carrier,¡± Skhork explained.


    Kara waited a moment. ¡°Okay. And?¡±


    ¡°And what?¡±


    ¡°You said, for one. So I thought maybe you¡¯d think of more than one difference. Something other than just the etymology.¡±


    Skhork thought harder. ¡°And¡ª and¡­ Longclaws have an extra Engineer, unlike your tanks.¡±


    ¡°Same with the old Resistance tanks on Titan, back when they had tanks,¡± Kara countered. ¡°Because they don¡¯t have a combat robot attached to the armored unit.¡±


    ¡°Bah. Extra machinery,¡± he snorted. ¡°More strain on your logistics network. Inefficient waste of resources. Classic predator mistake. You guys never consider the logistics thing; that¡¯s why you guys are losing all the time with your machines breaking down all¡ª¡±


    Kara shook her head. ¡°Not at all. Our armored crew robots have total parts commonality with our infantry combat robots. They slot in perfectly in our logistics system, and an extra real person is much, much more expensive to supply than a robot. The robots don¡¯t even need air.¡±


    ¡°Bah! Your overreliance on robotics and thinking machines will get your people destroyed,¡± Skhork predicted. ¡°Our people will find one design flaw or another, and we will cripple your entire military in one fell swoop.¡±


    Kara guffawed. ¡°Were it that easy! Smarter people than your own have tried¡­ The Resistance, for example. This shit is right up their alley. And if that is the only difference you can think of between a Longclaw and a tank¡ª¡±


    He shook his gamepad, just a little too big in his paws, at her angrily. ¡°And this control device¡­ it must have been designed by defects!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, blame the controller. I bet some of the Puppers could do better than you with some training.¡±


    ¡°The driving physics ¡ª completely unrealistic!¡± Skhork ignored her taunt as he continued with his list of grievances with the video game. ¡°And by the Prophecy, don¡¯t get me started on the supposed Longclaws they put in there!¡±


    That was a new thing they added in Titan Assault 14: a completely new faction, the Znosians, featuring the Longclaw MK4 ¡ª Skhork¡¯s old command. When he was given a go at it, Skhork complained about literally everything: the turning radius was too wide, the cannon was too weak, the armor was too thin, the engines were too loud, the room inside the vehicle was too spacious, and even the sound of the air conditioner was wrong!


    The most outrage came when Skhork discovered that the game was designed such that a light railgun shot from either a Resistance or a Republic tank would blow it sky high, without a symmetrical result on the other end. He¡¯d chucked his controller at the screen when he figured that out.


    Kara snickered, ¡°It¡¯s not our people¡¯s fault you guys are as bad at designing tanks as you are at operating them¡­ As for authenticity, I¡¯m pretty sure the people who made the game faithfully reproduced the Longclaw model from one of the trophies the Malgeir captured on Datsot!¡±


    ¡°Must have been a defective one,¡± Skhork insisted, his pride re-surfacing. ¡°And¡­ merely scanning the hardware misses the point: the true power of a Longclaw is in its crew. A well-trained, well-bred crew, commanded by a Servant of the Prophecy from a superior genetic bloodline like mine¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, superior stock. Tell me something, Skhork, if your Dominion¡¯s bloodline are so selective and carefully bred, then why did they allow someone as ugly as you to be hatched?¡±


    ¡°What?! That¡¯s¡ª No¡ª no, you¡¯re the ugly one!¡±


    ¡°No, you!¡±


    ¡°No¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡ª what are you guys doing?¡± They both paused as Guinspiu¡¯s large figure peeked into the lounge room. The Granti High Councilor glanced at the screen and furrowed her brow. ¡°You guys are still playing your video games?!¡±The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯re on the ship¡¯s network if you want to join us.¡±


    Guinspiu sighed. ¡°Which game?¡±


    ¡°Titan Assault 14. The new one just came out before we shipped out. You wanna join our tank crew?¡±


    ¡°No, thanks,¡± Guinspiu said with mild disdain. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you Grass Eaters can play¡­ war for fun.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with that?¡± both Kara and Skhork asked at once.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s just wrong. How is conflict and war fun?!¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Kara asked rhetorically. ¡°It¡¯s just a setting. It¡¯s a video game. A video game based on the results of hundreds of millions of credits in psychological research, designed to repeatedly press on the pleasure centers in your brain as rapidly as it can. It¡¯s not that different from¡­ a game about fishing or flying or basketball.¡±


    ¡°Still¡­¡± Guinspiu said. ¡°Of all the things in the galaxy to play? A game of¡­ war?¡±


    Kara shrugged. ¡°Before the Republic, in World War Two, one of the victor nations consistently found it easiest to train tank drivers for the war. Do you know why?¡±


    ¡°Because their hatchlings played the most Titan Assault?¡± Skhork guessed.


    ¡°Hah. No. Because unlike in other nations at the time, most of their people already owned their own motorized vehicles and there were many tractors. So the transition to driving tanks was much easier than in the less industrial nations.¡±


    Guinspiu looked at her skeptically. ¡°So your government now prepares cubs for war by giving them video games¡­ to teach them?¡±


    Kara tilted her head. ¡°That¡­ is actually a common conspiracy theory about the TRO: that part of our black budget money goes towards funding these kinds of things. That our video games are designed to look similar to our actual gear and hardware¡­ so our recruits already know what buttons to press when they¡¯re issued their first set of Marine armor. Or the first time they touch their gunship controls.¡±


    ¡°Are¡ª are those theories true?¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± Kara rolled her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s the other way around. We design our military hardware to look and feel as similar to the video games as we can, and we sometimes even use the same control devices to save money.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª what¡ª how is that different?¡± Guinspiu sputtered. ¡°The result is the same: your cubs are taught to fight war through¡­ entertainment from the moment they¡¯re born.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with that?¡± Kara and Skhork asked simultaneously again.


    Kara added smugly as she put her headset back on, ¡°Maybe this is why you guys were losing the war before we joined, Guinspiu. Because your kids didn¡¯t play enough Titan Assault when they were growing up.¡±


    Skhork mirrored her with his own device, muttering, ¡°This time, I¡¯ll be the driver.¡±


    ¡°Fine by me. Just don¡¯t steer us into a methane lake like last time. You¡¯re ruining my stats.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Nile, Grantor (1,200 Ls)


    POV: Gregor Guerrero, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    Gregor examined the battlemap plot displaying the plethora of ships and defenses in the system. He clucked indecisively a couple times. ¡°That¡¯s quite a few more ships than we expected coming in.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re probably gearing up for another offensive somewhere,¡± Mark said. ¡°Stoers or Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Figures,¡± Gregor shrugged. ¡°What about us? Is your team prepared for insertion? I feel exposed this far into their new sensor net and they¡¯ve got that new radar ship¡­ I don¡¯t want to be here any longer than I need to be.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, we won¡¯t make you go much deeper,¡± Mark replied. ¡°You can let the stealth shuttle off about two light seconds out from the planet itself.¡± He pointed at an empty spot on the map. ¡°We¡¯ll glide in and find the derelict satellites we need to cover our atmospheric entry. Then, park anywhere in the system you want, as long as it¡¯s got line of sight with the planet itself once a day.¡±


    ¡°Any specific rules of engagement for us while you¡¯re down there?¡± Gregor asked.


    ¡°We¡¯re in the wild-wild west. Use your own judgment,¡± Mark said. ¡°We don¡¯t expect you to bail us out when we get in trouble. And if you don¡¯t hear from us for more than a week¡­ well, it seems like it¡¯d be a little wasteful for you to have lugged all those missiles out here for nothing.¡±


    Gregor nodded in understanding. ¡°Right.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: ¡°John¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°Oh. Huh.¡±


    John grunted in surprise as the cover of the electrical paneling in front of him came off easily in his armor¡¯s servo-assisted grip.


    Dangling in low Grantor orbit next to Kara, they¡¯d matched velocity with one of the derelict orbital habitats the Granti stopped using years ago. In its heyday, it was big enough to house over a thousand Granti, who were slightly larger than Terrans with higher maintenance requirements. From the looks of it, they¡¯d all been evacuated when the planet itself fell to the enemy¡­ or worse.


    ¡°I thought it¡¯d be a lot harder to open, given how old it is,¡± he muttered as the cover went flying off into the dark.


    ¡°How long has it been since your last space op?¡± Kara asked on the radio. ¡°Things don¡¯t rust in vacuum, genius.¡±


    ¡°A couple years¡­ Why don¡¯t we just use the robots for these?¡±


    ¡°More fun this way,¡± she replied as she handed him the connector end of a cable wire. ¡°And more practice in the field for us.¡±


    He plugged it into the service port, and looked over at Kara. Reading off the tablet in her hands, she shook her head. ¡°Nothing. Must be a bad port.¡±


    ¡°This is the third one we¡¯ve tried. Maybe it¡¯s just fried on the inside.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s still power,¡± Kara countered, pointing at one of the modules with its external lighting still powered on. ¡°So one of these exterior service ports must still be working.¡±


    ¡°How many more do we try before we give up?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Give up? And go into the station manually?¡±


    John looked at the half-broken derelict. Some of its compartments had been breached and were exposed to vacuum. Some exterior lights were flickering on and off. It looked like a monstrosity right out of a 21st-century horror film. ¡°Now, that¡¯s definitely something we¡¯d send a robot to do.¡±


    ¡°Chin up, John, let¡¯s try a couple more. If not, I¡¯ve always wanted to see the inside of one of these things with my own eyes.¡±


    Luckily for his sanity, the next service port they found actually connected.


    ¡°Nice!¡± Kara exclaimed. ¡°I¡¯ve got telemetry!¡±


    ¡°They just let anyone patch into these stations, huh?¡± John commented.


    Kara ignored him, just working on the tablet for a few minutes. ¡°Ok, I¡¯ve got control of the main flight systems¡­ and¡­ looks like it¡¯s got just enough for what we need.¡±


    ¡°Great. Can we get out of here now?¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ looks like for security, we need to deactivate one of the hard-locks manually from the control center inside¡ª¡±


    John sighed. ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    ¡°Yup, I was,¡± Kara said, nodding in her helmet. ¡°Literally zero security measures. What a trusting and friendly people these cuddly Teddies are. Alright, I¡¯ve set up the program. We¡¯re good to go now.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    Guinspiu greeted them in the hangar bay as they shed their EVA suits. ¡°Are we ready to go down there?¡± she asked excitedly. Dangerous and crawling with Grass Eaters as her homeworld was, she just wanted to breathe the air of Grantor once again. Her home¡­


    ¡°Nope,¡± Kara shook her head. ¡°That was just station number two. We¡¯ve got a few more derelicts to go.¡±


    ¡°Why are you trying to find our old derelicts in Grantor orbit?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Because¡­¡± Kara replied, ¡°if we deorbit our shuttle now, we¡¯re going to show up as one big trail of fire and smoke in the sky for everyone on the ground watching us land. And that would defeat the whole point of this secret mission being a secret from the Buns. And they¡¯ll be even more suspicious when they find nothing where we¡¯re supposed to touch down.¡±


    ¡°And how do these derelicts help us?¡± Guinspiu asked, still not understanding.


    ¡°Your people have a lot of stations around Grantor, and some of them deorbit all the time. When they go into the planet¡¯s atmosphere, they create a massive fireball as they burn up in the atmosphere. So, we make one of them fire up its thrusters to deorbit, and we follow it in. Our big fireball looks like the falling station¡¯s bigger fireball, and when we¡¯ve slowed down enough in the atmosphere, we just eject from our heat shield and fly away from the crowd. The radar-absorbent skin on our lander does the rest. It¡¯s much easier to hide in atmosphere compared to in space, so we¡¯ve got that covered. Even if the Buns suspect something is wrong when they see all these derelict stations fall out of the sky for no apparent reason, they won¡¯t find anything concrete when they check the crash site.¡±


    Guinspiu visualized that in her head a few times before nodding. ¡°I see. And why do we need more than one station?¡±


    ¡°We only need one to deorbit us,¡± Kara explained patiently. ¡°But unless we plan on living off the land, we¡¯ll need resupplies from the Nile. Every time we resupply, we¡¯ll need one of these to fall out of the sky to cover our incoming supply load.¡±


    The Granti High Councilor sighed. ¡°How many more of these stations do you plan to deorbit?¡±


    ¡°Planned mission length is at least twelve months. To be extra sure, we¡¯ll go for twenty. Twenty stations.¡±


    ¡°Oh, twenty. No big deal,¡± Guinspiu deadpanned. ¡°Just deorbit trillions of credits worth of orbital infrastructure so we can play Paws and Peeks with the Grass Eaters occupying our planet.¡±


    Kara nodded. ¡°Sounds about right. Unless we¡¯re done quickly. Then, we¡¯ll leave the stations we¡¯ve compromised in orbit. For next time.¡±


    ¡°For next time?¡± Guinspiu echoed.


    Kara grinned. ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t know. Maybe if you¡¯ve got a side piece you want us to rescue too?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 09 Dolus Specialis

    <div>


    Top Secret // ORCON: Terran Reconnaissance Office // Restricted Data // Special Access Required: Gray Windmill // %Redacted%


    Do not remove this document outside of authorized facilities. Unauthorized disclosure or distribution of this document will result in legal penalties, including imprisonment up to life. If you believe you have inadvertently come into possession of this document, immediately notify your nearest Republic information security authority on a secured line. Do not destroy the document unless specifically instructed to.


    This report and its contents are not eligible for coverage under the Whistleblower Amnesty Law, the Freedom of Information Act, or the Republic Reform Amendment.


    Authorized Receiver


    Director Efrem Adler, Republic Office of Genocide Prevention


    Report Preparation Officer


    //Redacted// ¡°Hersh¡± //Redacted//


    Subject


    Summary of Senate Mandated Report on the Situation in the Former Granti Alliance


    Message


    Director Adler,


    Under the S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123, the Terran Reconnaissance Office (TRO) is required to prepare a report regarding allegations of xenocide perpetrated by the alien civilizational entity known as the Znosian Dominion on multiple alien species outside the Republic. Our legal intelligence has compiled a 122,308-page report comprehensively documenting evidence of these acts as best we have observed and transmitted it to your office.


    This document is the generated abridged summary of the evidence collection relating to Dominion crimes on the Granti home planet of Grantor.


    Definition


    The legal crime of genocide as defined in the Treaty of Atlas and Republic Constitution has two composing elements: the five acts, and the dolus specialis.


    One, the five acts that can constitute genocide are: large-scale murder, serious bodily harm, deliberately destructive conditions, birth prevention, and forcible transfer of children. Any one of these acts may be sufficient for a finding of genocide.


    Two, the dolus specialis ¡ª special intent ¡ª for a finding of genocide requires the perpetration of these acts with a deliberate and specific intent to destroy a group or subgroup of people.


    The plethora of evidence detailed in this report demonstrates both. Disturbingly, unlike acts of historic genocide of human origin where cover ups are sometimes attempted as a stage of the crime, there has been no observed attempt by responsible parties in the Znosian Dominion to deny their intent or cover up the aftermath of their atrocities. In fact, Dominion officers and administrators carrying out the constituting acts freely talk about their roles in these offenses and their effects on the victim parties on the open radio. Much of the documentation and statistics gathered in this report were collected by Znosians.


    As the focus of this section is on the Granti homeworld of Grantor-3 (Grantor), we will describe the explanations given here in that context.


    The Dominion subdivides the task of xenocide by planet. Each planet is assigned a State Security operative and a high-level Dominion Navy officer jointly responsible for the task. The ranks of the operatives and officers depend on the importance and population of the planet in question. In the case of an important homeworld like Grantor, the rank of the responsible Navy officer is usually nine whiskers or higher.


    Stages of Xenocide


    Xenocide of an entire interstellar civilization is a difficult logistical problem due to the amounts of resources, the population numbers involved, and the time it requires. It is a generational project of extermination, not a simple project that can be completed in a few months or years. As per their own historic records, the first xenocide carried out by the Znosian Dominion took over half a century, far beyond the expected lifetime of any single Znosian. In our own history, mass murdering tyrants ran into severe logistics problems with millions to tens of millions of people; a planet of billions is a far more difficult task by several orders of magnitude.


    Unfortunately for the Granti people, the Znosians have developed a highly regimented, closely regulated process to expedite the killing. They call this process pacification, and the Grantor project is known as the Grantor Pacification Project: the purge of over six billion Granti civilians left behind alive as the planet fell to Znosian paws in 2119. Millions of Dominion Navy, Marine, and State Security personnel have since been involved in its execution. We have done our best to collect evidence on as many of them as possible.


    According to Dominion official documents, the xenocidal Grantor Pacification Project is made up of five major stages: invasion, suppression, concentration, liquidation, and reconstruction.


    The first stage is invasion. This stage is self-explanatory. Once its orbits were taken by space superiority ships, the Dominion Navy landed millions of Marines on the planet. The regular terrestrial armies of Grantor were taken apart and destroyed with superior firepower and orbital support. The capital city of Grantor City and most urban areas on the planet were quickly taken, and the Dominion established hundreds of forward operating bases around the urban areas of Grantor.


    In retrospect, members of the original Grantor resistance did inflict a high number of casualties on the occupying troops, higher than anticipated by State Security administrators. This was likely due to the extraordinary physical innate strength of the Granti people. However, this was more than compensated for by the aggressive hatchling breeding programs put in place on Grantor as soon as occupation began.


    With regard to the civilian population, Granti civilians are told that if they just do what they were told, they¡¯ll be allowed to live. It is a thin lie, but many of them pretend to believe it anyway. Interviews revealed that many civilians pretend they¡¯d resist when the day came for them. Some said that the Granti Navy or even the Malgeir were going to come back and rescue them. Over time, some of them become fully convinced this is inevitable in order to avoid insanity. These coping mechanisms are deliberately developed by the Znosians as an active measure to further decrease resistance.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    With the exception of a few collaborators, the Znosian occupying authorities have made no organized attempts to feed the general population. Granti survivors smuggle food in from outside the cities. This is not so much allowed as the Dominion simply doesn¡¯t have the resources and personnel to monitor or stop it all without increasing resistance. There are some extra food stores, especially in areas where many had died or evacuated. Some survivors cultivate indigenous bugs or even turn to eating plant-based foods brought down to the planet by the occupying troops. Regardless, food shortages are common. Cannibalism is widespread, mostly of corpses of the weakest members of Granti society that have died of starvation.


    The Znosian administration has kept detailed records of these measures in the last five years; our latest surveillance counted many hundreds of millions of Granti dead, possibly up to a billion, in comparison to pre-occupation census numbers.


    The third stage is concentration. This is the stage that most of Grantor is currently in, with a few areas beginning to transition into stage four.


    The Znosians know it will take a long time to starve the general population of Grantor out because it is logistically impossible to stop all food from growing. Cutting most meat out of the diet creates health problems for the Granti survivors because there are amino acids they need from protein; some have gone blind and developed health issues, but allowing that process to play out takes too long, even for the patient administrators responsible for the project. In Grantor City, as in many other metropolitan areas on Grantor, they¡¯ve constructed camps for herding massive numbers of Granti victims.


    The official reason for these camps ¡ª what they tell the prisoners ¡ª is they¡¯re putting them to work. Munitions plants making shells and missiles for the war. Hatcheries for growing new Znosians. Additionally, they¡¯ve constructed new factories at each of these camps. They don¡¯t refer to them as such in front of the Granti, but they¡¯re clearly labeled in their own internal documents as ¡°death factories¡±. These tasks are in preparation for stage four.


    The fourth stage is liquidation.


    Here, the Znosians face additional difficulties, not in getting people to go into these death factories but in dealing with their output product. Even in their malnourished state, Granti people are physically larger than the usual predator victims of the Dominion. We have reports that the Znosian authorities are incinerating so many Granti corpses that their dripping fat and fur are occasionally extinguishing the ovens or causing runaway fires in the machinery. The ashes from the dead are clogging up their chimneys. And so many transport vehicles have broken down from their additional weight that their State Security officers have had to requisition more from surrounding occupied systems.


    The full schematics for these facilities are included in the full report, including thousands of exhibits of photographic evidence of their existence and detailed operation.


    The planetary quota target for Grantor is half a million liquidations a day, with no breaks or holidays. To encourage destructive policies, deaths caused outside of the extermination camps are counted in this quota for local administrators. The current numbers on Grantor are a fraction of that target as the Znosians are still ramping up this stage, but once they get up to full speed, Grantor will be depopulated in just under twenty years.


    The final stage will be reconstruction. The Znosians intend to reuse as much of the existing infrastructure as possible while still erasing all traces of the Granti from their own planet. There is a detailed plan for reconstruction included in the appendix of this report.


    Timeline


    As its civilization¡¯s singular most populous planet, Grantor is expected to take the longest for the Znosians to fully depopulate.


    Our //Redacted// intelligence has developed a statistical model to estimate the full completion timeline for this project absent external intervention. Its estimation averages around 25 years after planetary conquest. This mostly matches the Znosian official schedule of around 27 years; they appear to not have fully accounted for some additional nutritional requirements of Granti people.


    The physically weakest members of Grantor are mostly deceased by now. From our observation, the Granti specimens with the white fur require the most protein and have been hit by the starvation measures the most. Some of the brown and black furred Granti have entered an emergency type of hibernation mode due to lack of food, but it is unclear what their chances of survival are after this instinct is triggered, without medical intervention.


    On top of the food deprivation, over 90% of the population will be liquidated in the next 15-18 years. The remainder of the surviving population will gradually become more difficult and slower for the Znosians to find and kill, but the last free Granti on Grantor will probably die sometime in 2144.


    Methodology


    Our evidence for this xenocide comes from numerous sources, including the Znosians themselves and our direct surveillance from orbit. The exact methods for collection and authenticity confirmation are detailed in the full report, with chain of custody of evidence fully accounted for.


    Recommendations


    It is the TRO¡¯s recommendation that specific sections of the report (marked as such) are relevant to the public interest and should be released to the public without classification or redactions.


    The reporting requirement was not additionally funded by the Senate; it necessitated the use of TRO resources outside of its original mission purpose in the programs for //Redacted//. The total amount dedicated to this report was //Redacted// for the fiscal year 2124. We further recommend that the TRO operating budget be increased by //Redacted// to better comply with this new reporting mandate.


    We recommend the establishment of a new department in the TRO to coordinate xenocide prevention activities with the Republic Office of Genocide Prevention. Our budget office estimates this will cost an additional //Redacted// in the next five fiscal years.


    This includes additional funding for the TRO¡¯s covert direct-action program. By the best estimates of our independent accounting intelligence, every additional credit we spend on this program will prevent the killing of //Redacted// Granti survivors on Grantor every year until the planet can be liberated, up to //Redacted// credits and //Redacted// lives.


    The partially funded Operation //Redacted// is expected to cost //Redacted//. This program may save up to //Redacted// Granti people. We recommend this operation be fully funded and expanded.


    The accounting of these recommendations is included in the full report.


    Finally, we recommend expediting the general process of mobilization in the Republic. This report details what the population of the Terran Republic has to look forward to if we find ourselves losing this war.


    Top Secret // ORCON: Terran Reconnaissance Office // Restricted Data // Special Access Required: Gray Windmill // %Redacted%

 On Every Front - Chapter 10 The Cave

    <div>


    TRNS Nile, Grantor-3 (10 Ls)


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    ¡°High Councilor, I need to prepare you for what we will see down there. We know from their own history and communication that there are five general phases of a Znosian xenocide project,¡± Kara said, glancing at the external cameras showing the shuttle ready for orbital entry. ¡°Invasion¡ª¡±


    Guinspiu nodded reluctantly. ¡°I¡¯ve read the report, Kara. Your Director showed it to me a while back.¡±


    ¡°The report is slightly outdated. The Znosians have made some more progress since it was written.¡± Kara continued, ¡°When you evacuated the planet as it fell, over six billion Granti were still alive and left behind. We are now at just around five, with a significant portion developing health problems due to malnutrition.¡±


    ¡°Why are you telling me this, Kara?¡± Guinspiu looked at her miserably. ¡°This is my people¡­¡±


    ¡°I am preparing you for when we go down there,¡± she replied, staring straight into the High Councilor¡¯s eyes. ¡°You are not going home. This is not your home, not anymore. It¡¯s a planet full of people who look like you, but they are not like you. Not even your mate, if he is still alive. They are survivors of an ongoing plan to kill them all. Some of them have survived by turning on each other. They have developed mechanisms to survive, to cope. New identities and routines. New vocabulary. Perhaps even a new language. They are not your people, and you are not their High Councilor. We need your help down there, and we need you to keep your head on. Do you understand what I¡¯m saying?¡±


    Guinspiu nodded wordlessly.


    ¡°Good. Now, go get suited up. We¡¯re deorbiting once it¡¯s daytime.¡±


    ¡°Daytime? Shouldn¡¯t we go while it¡¯s at night¡ª¡±


    ¡°Around noon to hide our landing burn more in the warm starlight. Let us worry about the tactics. You just keep your head on right, Guinspiu. Okay?¡±


    <hr>


    Guinspiu sniffed suspiciously at the Grass Eater pet that the recon operators had insisted on taking down to the surface. ¡°I still can¡¯t believe you guys are bringing him along,¡± she grumbled. ¡°You know he¡¯s going to try to get away and alert his people the very first chance he gets, right?¡±


    ¡°Is that true? Are you going to betray us all, Six Whiskers Skhork?¡± Kara asked the Znosian captive huddling miserably in his oversized jump seat as the external camera showed the lander beginning its deorbiting burn.


    ¡°Yes. Once I get free down there, I¡¯m going to report everything I¡¯ve seen on your ship to my people, including the planetary characteristics of your star system I¡¯ve memorized from your video games and movies so we can search the star charts and find you. Then, our Navy will send a fleet there to destroy it all,¡± Skhork replied casually without remorse or hesitation.


    ¡°See?¡± Guinspiu pointed. ¡°See?!¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s just a sarcastic joke. I¡¯m sure he doesn¡¯t mean that,¡± Kara dismissed cheerfully.


    Guinspiu looked at her in alarm. ¡°No, no, I¡¯m pretty sure he meant every word of that!¡±


    The Znosian backed her up. ¡°I meant every word of it.¡±


    Kara grinned at Skhork and patted him on the head, ruffling his ears roughly. ¡°Aww¡­ so cute. That our little Bun friend thinks he¡¯s going home down there.¡±


    Skhork glared angrily back at Kara. ¡°What are you people doing here on our planet anyway?¡±


    ¡°Your planet?!¡± Guinspiu almost screeched, pointing at him with one of her sharp claws. ¡°Your planet?¡±


    ¡°Whatever. On Grantor. You Terrans clearly aren¡¯t sending a ship out here just for one Slow Predator, no matter how important he may be to her,¡± Skhork said, nodding his head at Guinspiu. ¡°I¡¯m no infiltrator specialist, but even I know that you don¡¯t plan a multi-year mission this far behind enemy lines with that cargo loadout you are bringing down to the surface, all to rescue one Very Important Predator.¡±


    Kara said nothing, looking away.


    Guinspiu looked over at the Terran operators. ¡°What is he talking about?¡± she asked, her face scrunched up in confusion. ¡°I thought we were here to rescue my mate.¡±


    ¡°We are,¡± Kara replied, seemingly refusing to look at her. ¡°We¡¯ll get him first thing we can.¡±


    ¡°And the cargo¡­¡± Skhork reminded helpfully.


    ¡°What is the Grass Eater talking about?¡± Guinspiu insisted. ¡°What about the cargo?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Kara, what is the Grass Eater talking about?¡± Skhork mimicked her low voice mockingly. ¡°Why is there an industrial fabricator in your cargo hold? And a whole crate of your radios?¡±


    Guinspiu¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°What are you hiding from me, Kara?¡±


    ¡°Look, Guinspiu,¡± Kara said, more forcefully. ¡°We are going to get your mate. That¡¯s our top priority¡ª¡±


    ¡°Another lie,¡± Skhork interrupted helpfully.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°It¡¯s one of our top priorities,¡± Kara corrected without missing a beat.


    ¡°Top twenty, possibly,¡± Skhork added.


    Guinspiu narrowed her eyes at the Terran. ¡°And¡­ just what else are you doing on my planet? If not just here for the rescue mission?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Just this and that. You know¡­¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t know,¡± Guinspiu persisted. ¡°And how does the Grass Eater know more about this than I do?¡±


    ¡°He guessed, probably,¡± Kara said, shrugging. ¡°It¡¯s not exactly a big secret. We thought you wouldn¡¯t need to know. In case you get captured or something. We didn¡¯t bother to plant a self-destruct bomb in you, so the less you know about our side objectives in that worst case, the better.¡±


    Guinspiu stared at Skhork, who looked to be ¡ª for some reason ¡ª in a better mood than at any point she¡¯d seen him in over a month. ¡°Grass Eater, you know something. What are they planning?¡±


    Skhork shot Kara a smug glance and looked back at Guinspiu. ¡°It¡¯s obvious, isn¡¯t it? I recognize the signs: it is no different from what we¡¯d do. Inserting an infiltration team to begin preparatory work. They are here to lay the groundwork for the eventual invasion of your home planet.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    As the atmospheric lander separated from the derelict debris raining down on Grantor below, Mark cast a worrying glance at his tablet. Even in its devastation from the Znosian invasion, Grantor City was huge. The metropolitan city stretched over a hundred kilometers into the countryside and around the saltwater port it was originally built around.


    The Znosian captive saw his look. ¡°Worried about trying to hide your landing sequence?¡± he called out to Mark smugly. He¡¯d picked up on a lot of body language in the month he¡¯d been on the Nile.


    ¡°Nah, just thinking about how far we¡¯d be landing from our target area. I knew it was going to be a long hike intellectually, but it only just hit me viscerally as I saw it from above.¡±


    ¡°But how will you hide the landing from prying eyes? Even if we don¡¯t have a base near where you land, there are our collaborators all over and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯d be a trade secret.¡± Mark chuckled. ¡°Still trying to fish for more information?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Skhork replied. ¡°One day I will get free and get the information to my people. Or you can kill me now.¡±


    ¡°You still don¡¯t get it, do you, Skhork?¡± Mark grinned.


    ¡°Get it? Get what? What is there to get?¡±


    ¡°Remember when we asked you those questions in your cell?¡±


    ¡°Yes! And you read my mind!¡± Skhork replied angrily.


    ¡°And remember when you tried to break through your cell, and we made you freeze in your paws with a remote control?¡±


    ¡°You have a freezing device planted in my mind. So what? I¡¯ll find a way around that too!¡±


    Mark grabbed his handgun from the holster on his hip. With a flick on its side, he activated it and took it off safety. Without a second¡¯s hesitation, he tossed it to a surprised Skhork. Next to him, John and Kara visibly tensed up but said nothing.


    Guinspiu looked at him like he was crazy, her eyes round.


    The Six Whiskers looked at it in his paw uncertainly. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a weapon.¡±


    ¡°I know it¡¯s a weapon! But what is this about?¡± he asked suspiciously.


    ¡°Shoot me.¡±


    ¡°Is this some kind of trick?¡±


    Mark grinned. ¡°Of course it¡¯s a trick. Everything I do is a trick. Now, shoot me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not loaded,¡± Skhork said confidently. ¡°I have seen this in one of your movies. You pretend there is a real danger, but there is not. It is a test. But there is no need to test me; I have already told you the truth: I will shoot you if I am given the chance, so¡ª¡±


    ¡°Give it a try. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m sure my unwavering trust of you can handle the treachery.¡±


    The Znosian Marine had been given a few weeks of basic infantry weapons training before he was sent to a specialized school for operating vehicles. As a Longclaw Marine, he was taught that he needed to know how to fight on foot too so he could work adequately with infantry. He knew how a handgun worked. And even if he wasn¡¯t familiar with the operation of the alien weapon in his paw, the hours he¡¯d spent playing Titan Assault had given him a rough idea of what was supposed to go where.


    Skhork wrapped his claws around the handgun grip, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he raised it to point its barrel at the Terran.


    Well, he tried.


    He really did. He found that he couldn¡¯t. His arm stopped raising, leaving the weapon pointed at the shuttle floor. Skhork gave his arm a conscious command. But whenever he thought of raising it up further, his arm did nothing.


    ¡°Unnngh,¡± he grunted, struggling in his own mind.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter, Six Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°Unnnnnnnnngh!¡± he panted with mental exertion.


    ¡°You understand now, Skhork?¡± Mark asked.


    Skhork didn¡¯t give up. He kept at it for another few seconds, straining to get around the strange mental block in his head. He tried to move the weapon in another direction. Perhaps he could ricochet a shot, or maybe he could shoot out the shuttle machinery. Any sabotage would be better than¡ª


    Okay, maybe not, but let¡¯s see that disgusting ¡°smile¡± when I put a couple holes into your floor¡­ unnnnnngh¡ª


    Mark continued, ¡°It¡¯s not about mental will or strength. Your brain, like ours, is ultimately just electric signals. That¡¯s all you are ¡ª all that we are. Read and control the signals, and we¡¯re all nothing more than puppets in our own bodies. And the intelligence chip monitoring your brain signals knows everything you know. Everything you are planning. Good luck fooling or hiding your evil thoughts from it.¡±


    Skhork gritted his teeth. ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ get¡­ you¡­ just give me one¡­ more¡­¡±


    ¡°Now¡­ Six Whiskers, safe the weapon. And give it back to me before you hurt yourself or go insane.¡±


    Skhork found that he couldn¡¯t disobey the direct order as he flicked the weapon safe with his paw before tossing it back at the Terran operative.


    ¡°That is¡ª this thing¡ª what you¡¯ve done to me¡ª it¡¯s a fucking abomination,¡± Skhork said, breathing heavily and using the angry Terran word he¡¯d learned from his month on the Nile.


    ¡°Yes, Six Whiskers. Yes, it is,¡± Mark sighed as he put the weapon away. ¡°That¡¯s why we¡¯re using it on you and not our own people.¡±


    Skhork tilted his head as he thought. After a few heartbeats, a slow grin crept up onto his face. ¡°Actually, I have just changed my mind. It is a good thing you Terrans have invented this technology. It will make management of our Dominion so much easier when we take it from your people by force. After we kill you all.¡±


    Mark did not seem fazed by the threat. He matched Skhork¡¯s smirk slyly. ¡°Or maybe that¡¯s just what we want you to think. Have you considered that?¡±


    Skhork¡¯s smile faltered. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Remember, we control your brain signals. We¡¯ve just demonstrated that.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°You are just brain signals. Everything you see or perceive is just electric signals in your head. Which we control.¡±


    He didn¡¯t understand. ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re still sitting in that Pupper cell back on Datsot after you got captured, and we¡¯re just taking your thoughts for a joy ride in a virtual reality machine. Are the things you¡¯re seeing now even real? Am I real?¡±


    ¡°Huh? Of course you¡¯re real. I can see you with my eyes.¡±


    ¡°Can you? Or are these merely electric signals to your brain? Are you really here? Am I real? Is this real? Is anything real?¡±


    Skhork¡¯s glee quickly subsided as he looked down at his paws, contemplating the strange ideas while the Terran operators cackled in the background.


    Am I real?


    What is even real?

 On Every Front - Chapter 11 Underground I

    <div>


    <div>


    Content Warning


    Chapter includes depiction of self-harm that could be disturbing to some people.


    <hr>


    Grantor City Outskirts, Grantor-3


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    Guinspiu admired the camouflage netting the trio of Terran operators had thrown over their landing shuttle as they began to unload their equipment with a fancy-looking cart. The netting itself was made of some kind of digital fabric that transmitted image from one side of it to another, hiding what¡¯s underneath in a semi-invisible cloak. Up close, she could see there was something there¡­ like a haze. But from far away, there was no way anyone would be able to visually spot it, especially not with the patch of trees behind it breaking its silhouette.


    She noticed something that looked familiar on the cart and called Mark¡¯s attention. ¡°Hey, isn¡¯t that one of our object fabricators?¡±


    He took off his armor¡¯s helmet and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. ¡°Is it? Probably. We appropriated a lot of technology from you and the Malgeir a while ago.¡±


    ¡°What did we bring that for?¡± she asked as he began to drink from a straw in his suit.


    Mark gulped twice to swallow the water. ¡°For your people.¡±


    ¡°My people?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, your people,¡± he repeated. ¡°What? You think we¡¯re just going to leave your people down here to rot and ignore them while we beat the Znosians ourselves? Just the three of us?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re going to¡ª to¡ª to fabricate and print things for us?¡± she asked, still puzzled.


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s¡­ why we brought one of those. What else would you need one of those for?¡±


    ¡°But what are you making? My people here need food. They need safety.¡±


    ¡°We have plans for that too, High Councilor, but no, your people don¡¯t need safety,¡± Mark said, shaking his head lightly. ¡°Your people need to fight back.¡±


    ¡°With what? Our claws? Oh¡­¡± she came to a sudden realization. ¡°You¡¯ve brought those to make us guns.¡±


    ¡°Guns?¡± Mark chuckled dryly. ¡°Please, High Councilor. You¡¯ve been watching too many of our movies.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°Contrary to popular opinion, guns don¡¯t win insurgencies on their own, High Councilor. Not most of the time. How many guns do you think we can make with a portable printer every month? How do we get them to people? And what munitions do they fire? Are we going to be starting a local firearms and munitions manufacturing industry here with a single printer?¡±


    ¡°I guess not¡­ So what are you making?¡±


    Mark put his armor helmet back on, securing it fully. ¡°Replacements for our gear, mostly. A few radios, probably, until we can find something better.¡±


    ¡°What about my people? You said they have to fight back. What weapons will my people use?¡±


    ¡°Weapons? I know somewhere you can find weapons. Right here on Grantor. No complicated or additional manufacturing necessary.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± Guinspiu asked excitedly.


    ¡°We¡¯re on an occupied planet with millions of Znosian troops, High Councilor. I imagine it wouldn¡¯t be too hard to find the weapons we need. The real question is how many fighters we can find to use them.¡± Mark smiled inside his helmet, continuing, ¡°This almost reminds me of the good old days of the TRO.¡±


    ¡°The good old days of the TRO?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yeah, pre-Republic. Before the Clark Committee abuse scandals hearings, before the reforms. Before my time.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Yeah. You guys never talk about that. What did your organization do before you found all of us aliens in space?¡±


    ¡°Nothing nice. You¡¯ll see, High Councilor. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Work Camp 6, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Granti (Prisoner)


    Torsad massaged her sore paws as she stirred the Grass Eater hatchling nutrient vat in front of her with a long stick, the hot acid fumes in it reaching up to sting her eyes without protection. The strip of cloth she wrapped around her paws barely protected her from the foul-smelling orange liquid.


    She blinked and then coughed¡­ away from the vat, knowing what the consequences would be if she hadn¡¯t. At merely thirty years old, she had taken on the wrinkles and appearance of a much older Granti female.


    As Torsad turned to the side, she saw her old neighbor next to her, Sossui, having a similar issue. He was having a much harder time with the Znosian occupation. With the official cutting of all meat supply, she knew Sossui hadn¡¯t been able to secure protein in secret. Besides his gaunt appearance, he was slowly going blind from the lack of nutrition. That was happening to a lot of people.


    As she turned back to continue to stir her own vat, she heard a series of hard coughs, and then clattering followed by quiet swearing next to her.


    She looked over. Sossui was standing on his tippy paws peering into his bubbling vat with despair in his half-blind eyes. He whispered at her, ¡°My¡ª my stirring stick¡­ it fell¡­ oh¡­ Oh no.¡±


    Torsad looked around. Hopefully none of the Grass Eater supervisors saw¡ª


    ¡°What¡¯s going on over here?¡± a rough voice yelled. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you working, lazy predator?¡±


    No such luck.


    ¡°I apologize, Three Whiskers,¡± Sossui said, bowing almost as low as the supervisor¡¯s stature. ¡°My¡ª my stirring stick¡ª it fell in.¡±


    ¡°You what?!¡± the three whiskers screeched. She jabbed his leg with a buzzing baton, activating it as she did. ¡°Whose fault is it?¡±


    Bzzzzzzt.


    ¡°Owwww! Three Whiskers Pukhat, please,¡± Sossui whimpered in pain. ¡°I take full responsibility for¡ª for the mistake¡ª for my mistake and¡ª and my weakness.¡±


    ¡°You better! Now you are responsible for fixing it,¡± Pukhat said, glaring at him. ¡°Go get it!¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°How?!¡± Pukhat exclaimed. ¡°Reach in with your paws and grab it!¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but it¡¯s hatchling nutrient liquid,¡± he whined.


    Torsad watched the exchange, knowing what happened to the last prisoner who reached into one of these vats when they were being processed. A heartbeat, and the corrosive orange liquid would burn off all your fur. A couple more seconds, and your paw was good as gone.


    Pukhat was not having it. She jabbed Sossui again with her shock stick.


    Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.


    Sossui cried, falling down in convulsions.


    ¡°You idiot! This isn¡¯t the Navy. We don¡¯t just have extra equipment lying around! And I¡¯m not taking responsibility for your error! So either you go in and grab it, or I¡¯ll have you replaced with someone who will.¡±


    Torsad quickly looked back at her vat, stirring as hard as she could, as all of the rest of the row did. There were no volunteers in this camp. Volunteers did not live long.


    ¡°Okay! Okay! I¡¯ll get it,¡± Sossui moaned as he crawled on the ground. ¡°I¡¯ll get it, Three Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Pukhat said. She pulled up a stool next to his vat helpfully. ¡°Here, stand on this.¡±


    Sossui climbed onto the stool. He looked over at the rest of the row, most of which had stopped stirring again to look at the unfolding drama now that they knew they weren¡¯t in danger of being volunteered to lose their paws. He gave them all a weak smile with his cloudy eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll get it,¡± he said, more confidently.


    ¡°Use both paws,¡± Pukhat advised. ¡°In case you lose your grip with one.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Sossui nodded at her. ¡°I take full responsibility for this, Three Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Yes. You already did,¡± Pukhat said, a puzzled expression forming on her face. ¡°Now you just have to¡ª What are you¡ª no!¡±


    Sossui looked into the vat, took a deep breath, and then hopped in headfirst. The vat sizzled for a couple seconds. There was a brief moment of liquid thrashing in it, and then the vat went silent.


    ¡°Oh! Great! Just great! Another stupid jumper!¡± Pukhat screamed at the vat. ¡°That¡¯s the fourth one of you idiots this month!¡±


    She stepped up onto the stool, peering into the vat herself. She stepped back and glanced at the instruments embedded into its side. ¡°Hm¡­ at least the vat¡¯s still good. Still within margin¡­ But we¡¯re down a stirring stick today.¡±


    Pukhat looked up and around, her eyes sweeping the unfortunate workers before her gaze settled straight at Torsad. ¡°You, get over here. Hey, you, prisoner number thirteen. Come grab the stirring stick.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± Torsad squeaked as she heard her number called.


    ¡°Yes, you! Who else? Come here. I saw the stick almost at the surface when I looked in,¡± Pukhat said. ¡°If you grab it quick with both paws, you should be able to hold onto it. And you might even keep one of your paws if you¡¯re lucky!¡±


    Torsad paled. ¡°But¡ª but I didn¡¯t drop my stick in the vat!¡±


    ¡°Am I hearing an argument from you, prisoner?¡± the three whiskers asked dangerously, approaching her with her baton.


    ¡°But¡ª but I didn¡¯t do it. Why am I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wrong answer.¡±


    Bzzzzzzt.


    Torsad felt her vision go white from the pain as she collapsed onto the ground, screaming, ¡°Ahhhhh!¡±


    As she recovered, Pukhat muttered, ¡°And now you¡¯ll do it. You Slow Predators never learn. Always have to teach multiple times.¡±


    ¡°No, please,¡± Torsad begged, shaking her head. ¡°Three Whiskers¡ª¡±


    Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.


    The pain was much more acute this time. Torsad felt like her leg was going to fall off as she crawled on the floor, struggling to get up.


    ¡°Pick up the stick, predator.¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay, Three Whiskers, I¡¯ll do it,¡± Torsad wheezed as she massaged her legs.


    ¡°See? That wasn¡¯t so hard, was it? Two shocks. Maybe the next one of you will follow instructions with just one next time,¡± Pukhat said, pointing at Sossui¡¯s vat.


    Torsad stood up and stretched her paws above her head, limbering herself up.


    Pukhat watched her skeptically as she waved her shock stick around. ¡°Stop stalling and do as I say. This is your final warning.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do it. I¡¯ll do it.¡± Torsad put a paw on the stool, as if to steady it before climbing on.


    Then, she picked the stool up by its leg, swinging it around in a circle around her as hard as she could.


    Crack.


    The stool hit the three whiskers with so much force Pukhat went flying. The diminutive Znosian supervisor smashed into a wall, her body crumpling onto the ground. Her baton clattered away from her body.


    Torsad slowly ambled her way towards the fallen supervisor, limping with every step. She picked up the dropped baton on the way.


    Pukhat coughed, looking up. She was somehow still alive after the impact. A sturdy Znosian, joining the ranks of very few who could say they survived a full-strength hit ¡ª from a malnourished prisoner but a Granti still ¡ª from a two-meter tall apex predator, without wearing any armor.


    Not many bones intact though¡­


    She spat out a mouthful of blood and barely squeaked out at the giant predator approaching her, ¡°What¡ª what have you done, abomination? You¡¯ll¡ª you¡¯ll die for this¡ª¡±


    Torsad felt satisfaction she hadn¡¯t experienced in a very long time as she jabbed the stick into Pukhat¡¯s face, holding a claw on the activation button as hard as she could.


    Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.


    She didn¡¯t stop. She just held it there for a good minute. After a while ¡ª she didn¡¯t know how long, her arms finally tired, she let go of the baton, hearing it clatter to the floor.


    Without a second look at the smoldering flesh of the lifeless three whiskers, she walked back to her assigned vat and continued to stir.


    <hr>


    It was almost half an hour before someone came looking for Pukhat. Two Znosian Marines rushed in, their rifles drawn. Seeing her state on the ground, they pointed their guns at the row of vat stirrers.


    ¡°Who did this?¡± one of them demanded. ¡°Which one of you? One of you did this!¡±


    ¡°If none of you say anything, you know the protocol,¡± the other added with a cold calmness.


    ¡°It was Torsad,¡± a voice called out from the end of the row.


    ¡°Torsad? Which one of you is Torsad?¡±


    ¡°That one,¡± his companion said, pointing at the name sign above Torsad¡¯s vat. ¡°Number thirteen.¡±


    ¡°You did this?¡± the Marine looked straight at Torsad, pointing his gun at her.


    She raised her open paws in the air. To her surprise, they didn¡¯t just shoot her right away. They conversed in their own helmets, seemingly asking for orders on how to respond. Prisoners did sometimes revolt, and the procedure for that was simple, but Torsad didn¡¯t recognize either of the guards. She suspected these guys might be new.


    ¡°Get over there! Pick up her body,¡± one of them gestured at the corpse of the three whiskers with the barrel of his rifle after a moment. He was not taking his eyes off of her.


    Numbly, she walked over to Pukhat¡¯s burnt body, picking it up and cradling it in her arms.


    ¡°Out the door, now,¡± the Marine said shortly. ¡°Go straight, don¡¯t turn around.¡±


    The two of them led her out of the camp¡¯s work huts, towards the wooded area behind it. She knew what happened there. Everybody did.


    ¡°Put the three whiskers down,¡± he ordered when they arrived at a less disturbed spot. It smelled horrible here, even worse than the hatchling nutrient vats. ¡°Don¡¯t turn around, predator.¡±


    Torsad heard a piece of metal clatter at her feet. She looked down.


    ¡°Grab the shovel. Dig a hole. If you make sudden moves or turn around, we will shoot you.¡±


    She followed the command, picking up the shovel and began to dig. Slowly at first, and then the more dirt she removed, the deeper the hole got, the easier it got¡­ to accept that this was the end for her. She wasn¡¯t sure why she complied; she was going to die either way. But she dug. Everyone did.


    ¡°Good enough,¡± one of the Marines said after a short while. ¡°Put the three whiskers in.¡±


    Something¡¯s not adding up. This hole isn¡¯t deep enough for me.


    Puzzled, Torsad pushed Pukhat¡¯s body into the hole. She began to push the dug dirt over the dead supervisor with her shovel.


    The other Marine made a noise. ¡°Huh? Is that big enough for both¡ª¡±


    Bang.


    Torsad flinched at the loud gunshot behind her. She looked down at her body. No holes. No blood. She made to turn around.


    ¡°Don¡¯t turn around, predator, or you die too.¡±


    Huh? Or I die too?


    She complied. There were some grinding noises behind her. A couple minutes later, there was another thud next to her paws, and she saw another body appear next to them. This one was a Znosian Marine, stripped from his armor. Wasn¡¯t this one of the two¡ª


    ¡°Put him in the hole too. Bury them both. And don¡¯t turn around.¡±


    She did as he instructed, patting her shovel on the shallow grave with two Grass Eaters as she finished closing up the shallow grave.


    ¡°Now, walk. Don¡¯t turn around.¡±


    They walked deeper into the forest.


    They walked for what felt like five hours ¡ª until Torsad¡¯s paws blistered and sored ¡ª in silence other than the occasional reminder not to turn around from the Znosian Marine behind her. Her mind burned with questions, but only one was immediately important.


    Why am I still alive?


    As night fell and the air cooled, Torsad got a good look at her surroundings. She gazed up at the sky for what felt like the first time in years. Stars. The night sky of Grantor. She identified a few familiar constellations. It was hauntingly beautiful. She sighed in admiration.


    ¡°Keep moving, predator. And¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t turn around?¡± she suggested weakly.


    ¡°Yes. Keep going.¡±


    Trudging along in the dark, they eventually came upon a clearing, a lit campfire in the middle. Torsad rubbed her eyes with the clean¡ª cleaner back of her wrist, unsure if she could believe what they were seeing.


    An elderly Granti female sat at the campfire in the clearing, drinking from a pot. Torsad noted that she looked¡­ healthy. Healthier than anyone had a right to be on this hell planet. Her stomach rumbled from hunger as she smelled what was on the campfire: meat. Real meat.


    Perhaps she died back in the forest, and this was the afterlife that some of her people believed in. Believed before the occupation anyway.


    The old Granti looked up. ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°My name is Guinspiu.¡±


    Torsad did not recognize that name. She kept her mouth shut. Keeping your mouth shut; that was what you did in the occupation, one way or another.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Guinspiu asked cheerily.


    The Grass Eater Marine behind her coughed impatiently, and she didn¡¯t see a choice other than to answer. ¡°Torsad.¡±


    ¡°Good work, Torsad. I know you have many questions¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why am I still alive?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good question, Torsad. All will be answered in time,¡± Guinspiu said gently. ¡°For now, I have a question for you too. Do you know anyone by the name of Denspi? Tall. Old like me. A brown like you. Birthmark on his left cheek, shaped like a small ear.¡±


    Torsad shook her head. ¡°No. I don¡¯t know a Denspi.¡± And even if she had, she wasn¡¯t sure she would just reveal it like that to this stranger.


    ¡°That¡¯s too bad,¡± the elderly female sighed. ¡°Ah well, at least we¡¯ve saved one, even if you¡¯re not mine.¡±


    ¡°Saved? Yours?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± Guinspiu said softly. In a stronger voice, she said, ¡°I heard you took out a three whiskers guard back at the camp there.¡±


    Torsad said nothing.


    ¡°That takes some guts. I like guts. I mean¡­ at this point I¡¯ll take anyone, but guts are a bonus.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Torsad asked.


    ¡°I told you. I¡¯m Guinspiu.¡±


    Torsad shook her head. ¡°No, that¡¯s not what I meant. Who are you with?¡±


    Guinspiu smiled at her. ¡°Now, that is the right question. I am¡­ with the Grantor Underground.¡±


    She¡¯d never heard of that one before. There were some people who roamed the wilderness and the abandoned, bombed-out sections of the city. Some were bandits who stole from each other or the Grass Eaters indiscriminately, but she thought the Znosian Marines had stamped them out ruthlessly¡­ how long ago was that now? Time passed differently under occupation.


    Instead of revealing what she knew, she asked simply, ¡°The Grantor Underground? What¡¯s that? What do you do?¡±


    The elderly one didn¡¯t answer; she took a paw-sized piece of the roasted meat off the crackling campfire, handing it to Torsad. ¡°Here. I¡¯m sure you are hungry after a day of hard work in that horrid camp.¡±


    If she is trying to kill or rob me¡­


    Torsad nodded her appreciation as she took and almost swallowed the entire piece in one bite. It tasted strange. She hadn¡¯t had meat in¡­ years now, probably. Not the real stuff at least. And this didn¡¯t taste like any meat she¡¯d ever had. Perhaps it was Grass Eater. No¡­ it looked like way too much meat for¡ª She decided it was best not to ask or think about it.


    Two more chews and she was certain it was the most delicious thing she¡¯d had in years. ¡°You haven¡¯t answered my question. What does your Grantor Underground do?¡± she asked as she began eagerly sucking the juicy marrow out of a piece of bone in her paws.


    ¡°It¡¯s in the name. We¡¯re an underground resistance group. We run around, break things, and we make life hard for the Grass Eater occupiers on our planet,¡± Guinspiu explained lightly.


    Torsad tilted her head in thought. She¡¯d heard of resistance groups like this before. Not for a while though. Most of them died out within a few weeks to months after the Znosians landed. Dismantled piece by piece, from both the outside and within. The Grass Eaters were good at that. She suppressed her skepticism and asked, ¡°How many people do you have?¡±


    ¡°Two and a half.¡±


    ¡°Two and a half?¡± Torsad asked in surprise.


    ¡°Yup, two and a half that you need to know about now.¡±


    ¡°You, the Grass Eater Marine behind me¡­¡± Torsad counted.


    ¡°Yes. Me and the Six Whiskers¡ª he¡¯s not happy about it, but he¡¯ll do the job when prodded.¡±


    ¡°I guess that¡¯s the half. Where¡¯s your third?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll be you. Unless you¡¯ve got somewhere else you¡¯d rather be?¡±


    Torsad thought for a few seconds and shook her head.


    ¡°Then welcome to the Underground, Torsad.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 12 Underground II

    <div>


    Grantor City Outskirts, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Granti (Former Prisoner)


    ¡°What do want me to do?¡± the recently liberated prisoner, Torsad, asked.


    ¡°Do you still remember how to read?¡± Guinspiu asked as she reached into a sack next to her, rummaging through its items.


    ¡°Grass Eater or¡­?¡± Torsad asked.


    ¡°Which do you prefer?¡±


    ¡°I can still read Granti,¡± she said after a moment of hesitation.


    Guinspiu took a clear plastic bag out of her sack with a self-satisfied grunt, and she handed it to Torsad.


    Accepting it with some trepidation, Torsad peered into the baggie. Even in the dim light of the campfire, she could make out some of the lettering on the top page of the thin waterproof pamphlets. ¡°Books? You want me to read books?!¡±


    The elderly Granti shrugged. ¡°There are pictures.¡±


    She looked down at the characters on the book titles again, engaging the part of her brain that had been neglected for years in favor of desperate survival.


    What in the world is a Red Zone War?


    ¡°I need to read all of these? Who even made these?!¡± she asked, feeling horribly out of depth already.


    ¡°That¡¯s not important,¡± Guinspiu said as she waved a paw dismissively. ¡°And yes, you do need to read all of it. Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll have plenty of time where you¡¯re going.¡±


    Torsad looked puzzled. ¡°Plenty of time? Where am I going?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t go back to the camp we rescued you from.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going to go then?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a place in mind for you, in Grantor City.¡± The elder rummaged in her bag some more.


    Just how much¡­ stuff is she carrying in that bag of hers?!


    Guinspiu took out a laminated map, and she pointed at a claw near the eastern edge of the city. ¡°Do you know this area?¡±


    Torsad examined it, the layout of the city coming back to her in the back of her mind. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s all abandoned, I think. The Grass Eaters cleared everyone out of that sector last year.¡±


    ¡°Good. That¡¯s as good a place to set up shop as any, then.¡±


    ¡°Set up shop?¡± Torsad asked. Then, remembering what the area was like, she objected half-heartedly, ¡°But there may be Marines still patrolling in that part of the city.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Exactly.¡±


    ¡°Exactly?!¡±


    ¡°Do you have any objections to killing Grass Eaters? Lots of them?¡±


    ¡°Objections? Like morally? Or practically?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll do, Torsad.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it a bit dangerous to send her out there without giving her one of your weapons?¡± Guinspiu asked, peering over at Mark¡¯s tablet where he kept track of all the important information.


    Mark shook his head. ¡°Can¡¯t give her a weapon. She¡¯s not trained to use one, and giving her one without training is a recipe for making her over-confident. And an over-confident soldier is a dead one.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll be fine,¡± he cut her off gently. ¡°She¡¯s like thrice the size of any of those Znosian Marines.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re wearing power armor!¡±


    ¡°Not all day. And if she doesn¡¯t figure it out¡­ there are plenty more people back in that work camp.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s horrible!¡±


    Mark shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s war, Head Councilor. And¡­ we did save her life. If she succeeds here, we¡¯ll give her a crew. Look at her file, she¡¯s got management potential.¡±


    You make it sound almost like a compliment.


    Guinspiu gazed into the distance for a moment, then sighed and nodded. She looked back at his tablet and asked, ¡°What does that red star next to her name mean?¡±


    ¡°It means they¡¯re the ones who fight.¡±


    ¡°But the other ones¡­ they don¡¯t fight?¡±


    Mark shook his head. ¡°Not unless they need to. And we don¡¯t need them to. There are more effective ways to win a war than just fighting.¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Work Camp 32, Grantor-3


    POV: Icterael, Granti (Mechanic)


    Priscae looked the new guy on the factory floor up and down. ¡°You¡¯ll do. What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Icterael.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Icterael. I¡¯m Priscae. Any experience with heavy machinery?¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    Priscae narrowed her eyes at him. ¡°Not really, or none at all?¡±


    ¡°None at all,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°Good. You¡¯re the perfect amount of useless to stay a while in this position then. Hold out your paw,¡± she instructed.


    Icterael did as he was told. He¡¯d gotten very good at that since the Grass Eater occupation began. The people who didn¡¯t ¡ª they weren¡¯t around anymore. Priscae pricked his outstretched paw with a small needle, and she collected some of his red blood into a transparent vial.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He grunted. ¡°What¡¯s that for?¡±


    ¡°Insurance,¡± she replied, sealing the bottle and placing it into an odd-looking device. It made a soft beep twice, and she stuffed both into her heavy-duty apron.


    ¡°Insurance for what?¡±


    ¡°For if you don¡¯t do as you¡¯re told.¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°I know how to follow instructions and keep my head down. What is this job about?¡±


    ¡°Quality assurance. We inspect things made by the Grass Eaters¡¯ factories to make sure they were made correctly.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound too hard.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not.¡± As they walked, Priscae nodded at a four whiskers supervisor watching the busy activity from the catwalks above. She whispered out of the side of her snout, ¡°Oh, by the way, as of two weeks ago, we¡¯re an Underground shop. Hope you¡¯re okay with that or¡ª¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°The Grantor Underground. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard of our activities recently¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are you insane?!¡± he hissed at her. ¡°That new crazy resistance organization? You¡¯ll get me killed!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t act stupid,¡± Priscae said, keeping a smile frozen on her face as a supervisor looked her way. ¡°Grass Eaters are watching. If they ask, I¡¯m training you. You¡¯re one of us now.¡±


    ¡°I want no part of this madness. I¡¯m going to report you,¡± Icterael said after a moment as they passed the Znosian guards. ¡°As soon as my first shift¡¯s over.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean I can¡¯t? I get protein rations if I do,¡± Icterael said, his stomach already rumbling at the thought.


    ¡°You can¡¯t. Or you murdered a three whiskers Marine officer a district over last week.¡±


    ¡°What?! No, I didn¡¯t!¡± he said, shocked.


    ¡°Sure you did. In fact, if you try anything stupid, there will be skin tissue, fur, and blood all with your name on it. And it¡¯ll be all over him.¡±


    ¡°What? How? No. You¡¯re lying!¡±


    Priscae took the vial of his collected blood out of her pocket and wiggled it at him. Understanding dawning on his face, he grabbed at the vial half-heartedly, but she snatched it out of his reach before concealing it all in her work uniform again.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t even matter. The genomic sequencer¡¯s already transmitted it¡­¡± Priscae muttered. She looked back up at him, venom in her eyes. ¡°If you screw around with us, our local State Security commissar will get an anonymous tip. They¡¯ll come take your blood. And it¡¯ll be a match with something they find on that dead Marine. And then they¡¯ll torture you for information you don¡¯t have for a couple days before they dump your body. They might not believe the tip, but it won¡¯t matter at that point. And if you have family, then I feel bad for them too,¡± Priscae said coldly. ¡°Betraying the Underground never ends well, and we always know.¡±


    ¡°What have you gotten me into, you¡­ insane agitator?!¡± Icterael asked, fear apparent on his face.


    ¡°Oh, relax, Icterael. Don¡¯t do anything stupid. It¡¯s not like we do anything dangerous here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of you people,¡± he whispered. ¡°You blow up buildings and fight Grass Eaters and disappear collaborators¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nothing like that here,¡± Priscae assured him. ¡°Cell leader says our talents are more useful where we are. We just do our jobs¡­ a little badly.¡±


    ¡°A little badly,¡± he repeated, his face skeptical.


    They reached Priscae¡¯s station. An assembly line rolled by, lined up with orange-painted metal boxes with an odd shine on them.


    ¡°What do you mean badly? And what are we supposed to do?¡± Icterael asked.


    ¡°These are self-sealing fuel tanks, for their Longclaws,¡± Priscae put her paw on one of them, patting it gently. ¡°We check the coating to make sure it¡¯s been properly applied.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s this Underground thing then? Do you steal these for parts or what?¡±


    Priscae looked around to check that no one else was watching, and handed him a roll of black adhesive tape. It looked just like any other roll.


    He looked at the tool in his paw skeptically. ¡°Tape?¡±


    ¡°Duct tape. Inside the fuel tanks, they¡¯ve got a bunch of electronic sensors. That blue sensor on the side that moves up and down on the slider tells them how much fuel they have left. So,¡± Priscae said as she ripped a small piece of tape and taped up the bottom of the slider, ¡°when we tape-seal the bottom around the twenty percent mark, the sensor stops there and never tells them when their Longclaws get below twenty percent fuel.¡±


    As Priscae turned her handiwork over for him to inspect, Icterael peered into the fuel tank. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°What if¡­ what if the Grass Eaters find out?¡± he asked in a slight whisper.


    ¡°Ah, see? That¡¯s the beauty of this trick. They won¡¯t. Because Znosian Longclaw crews are trained not to go under thirty percent fuel under normal circumstances. So¡­ everything will seem fine unless they¡¯re in desperate combat.¡±


    ¡°So it will only be a problem for them¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yup. So it will only be a problem for them when it¡¯s really a problem. When they¡¯re¡­ unlikely to be able to come back and report it if it becomes a noticeable issue on the battlefield. And if they do get to report it... it could have been anywhere along the chain. Or a real malfunction. And even if they look at it very carefully ¡ª well, I don¡¯t know how long you plan to be doing this, but we¡¯d probably both be long gone by then.¡±


    Icterael scratched his head. ¡°This seems¡­ easy.¡±


    ¡°Oh, and we do really have to check the self-seal coating on the fuel tanks. Sometimes they send in defective ones on purpose to test us. But we¡¯ll know if they do that ahead of time.¡±


    ¡°We will?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, one of our people in that department sends us a coded message when they do.¡±


    ¡°Okay, well, this doesn¡¯t seem too bad then,¡± Icterael said slowly, weighing things on balance. He¡¯d done way riskier things since the Grass Eater occupation started. Everyone had. He was more likely to get run over by an impatient Light Longclaw driver on the way to work than getting executed for doing¡­ whatever this was.


    ¡°And¡­ we get paid,¡± Priscae said, a little proudly.


    ¡°We do?!¡±


    ¡°Yup,¡± she replied, sneakily holding out half of a silver packet out of her apron to show him. ¡°One protein packet a month. We get paid end of month.¡±


    He shrugged. That wasn¡¯t very much, but it was enough to survive and better than the nothing that the Grass Eaters paid him to be there. He got to not end up at a worse work site or ¡ª if he was really unlucky ¡ª a one-way work camp; being able to continue to breathe was the Grass Eaters¡¯ idea of payment. ¡°One protein packet? That¡¯s not too bad. Where do your people get it¡ª¡±


    ¡°Well, you get one protein packet a month. I get five,¡± she flashed him a small smile.


    ¡°Five protein packets?!¡± he asked, his eyes lighting up with jealousy. ¡°A month?¡±


    ¡°Shhhh! Not so loud, you idiot.¡±


    ¡°How do I get more like you?¡± Icterael asked, a little more quietly this time.


    ¡°The easiest way: you recruit. You get the base salary packets of the people you recruit matched. I recruited a one-packet guy, a two-packet guy, and now I¡¯ve recruited you. That¡¯s four, plus my own, five.¡±


    ¡°One-packet? Two-packet?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s how important you are to the Underground,¡± Priscae explained. ¡°We mess with the fuel tanks. Minor sabotage: one packet. One of the other guys I got, he¡¯s in a munitions plant. That¡¯s two-packets. Intelligence gathering: mostly three- or four-packets. I know of a female, eight-packets. I don¡¯t know her name or real job, but she¡¯s ¡ª like you said, blow up buildings, kill Grass Eaters, handle special tasks¡­ that sort of stuff.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Icterael thought for a moment and nodded slowly. It was a logical system, and the more he thought about it, the more he was on board with it. ¡°Okay. That makes sense. More value, more packets.¡± He stopped nodding to scratch his head. ¡°But wait¡­ isn¡¯t¡ª isn¡¯t that unsustainable? Like a¡ª like a pyramid scheme?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s base salary, not total, silly,¡± she said, rolling her eyes. ¡°And what are you, some kind of financial auditor? Just do your job, collect your one-packet, and don¡¯t worry: you¡¯ll always get paid right as long as you do as you¡¯re told.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Okay. Hm¡­ that makes sense. And eight-packets and above is¡­ violence?¡±


    ¡°Something like that; you have to qualify though. They¡¯ll talk to you if you do¡­ So, are you thinking about going the eight-packets route? That¡¯s more for me too, and I¡¯ll make it worth your while before you go on a brave mission,¡± she winked seductively at him.


    ¡°Nah, tempting, but I¡¯m good,¡± he said, chuckling at the offer.


    Priscae did not seem too bothered. The occupation had been hard on everyone, and the grime on her¡­ she must not have had a good rut in months.


    Icterael continued after a while, ¡°I have a littermate who works at a Grass Eater hatchling pool.¡±


    Priscae nodded. ¡°See? Now you¡¯re thinking about it the right way. Good for you. Get them in on this. Hatchling pool¡¯s two-packets, unless they¡¯re in the special jobs. Like control room, overseer position, that kind of stuff.¡±


    ¡°He fixes the air conditioners in their computer room. Does that count?¡±


    Priscae glanced at his face sharply and leaned in, putting a heavy paw on his shoulder. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    He gave her a noncommittal shrug. ¡°Yeah, he fixes air conditioners everywhere.¡±


    ¡°No, no, you need to be sure. Does he fix the air conditioners in the hatchling pool¡¯s computer room specifically?¡±


    He noticed that Priscae¡¯s voice was suddenly both more urgent and excited than one should be at learning about his littermate¡¯s boring IT job.


    ¡°Yes, he¡¯s told me,¡± Icterael insisted. ¡°He needed to get special permission. They¡¯ve got big servers in there with all the blinking lights. The room¡¯s very cold because they have to keep the machines all at the right temperature¡ª¡±


    ¡°Which camp?¡± she asked.


    ¡°The one right next to the port. Why?¡±


    Her voice was now almost hushed. ¡°That¡­ my friend, might be a twelve-packet job.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 13 Underground III

    <div>


    Grantor City Safehouse Romeo, Grantor-3


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    ¡°What¡¯s that do?¡± Guinspiu peered at the simple glass contraption in Kara¡¯s hands.


    ¡°It¡¯s a Molotov cocktail,¡± she replied, smiling.


    ¡°A Molotov cocktail?¡±


    Kara¡¯s smile widened further, if that was possible. ¡°Take any¡ª well, I don¡¯t need to teach you how to make one. It¡¯s an easily made incendiary device. Which means, it burns.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that liquid in there?¡±


    ¡°Could be anything that burns. Fuel mixed with something else that thickens it, usually. But we brought a plasma synthesizer with us, and the mixture we have will burn through whatever we want it to. Vehicles, concrete, skin, fur. Anything.¡±


    ¡°Interesting.¡±


    ¡°Ask it,¡± Kara prompted.


    ¡°Ask what?¡±


    ¡°What you¡¯re dying to know. Ask what¡¯s in our secret sauce.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think I want to know now, Kara,¡± Guinspiu shook her head. ¡°What¡¯s that other device?¡±


    Kara held up the improvised explosive. ¡°Simple car bomb.¡±


    ¡°Car¡­ bomb? For their vehicles? To blow them up? How does it work?¡±


    ¡°What do you think is the easiest way to blow up a car?¡±


    ¡°What is the¡ª I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m a politician in exile, not a trained assassin!¡±


    ¡°You see this switch?¡± Kara pointed at a vial of silver-looking liquid on the crude device.


    Guinspiu squinted at the tiny device. ¡°Yeah. What does that do?¡±


    ¡°Well, the old way of doing this, the way your people were doing this before¡­ you rig up one of their ground vehicles, right? You open up the car, you find the place that connects to the engine igniter, wire the bomb in, put everything back, and when they start the car up, kaboom.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°See, that¡¯s way too complicated. It takes a while to set up. And if you don¡¯t put everything back right, they might find out. Plus, you need someone who¡¯s basically a car mechanic, and that narrows down the number of people that can do the job.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ Right. How do you make it easier?¡±


    ¡°Well, this here is a tilt switch,¡± Kara explained as she unplugged the vial to show the councilor. ¡°There¡¯s a bit of mercury in that vial there. Which is easy to get and make. And when you tilt the switch¡­¡± She flipped the vial ninety degrees. ¡°The two metal wires make an electric connection.¡±


    Guinspiu nodded in understanding. ¡°Ah. So when you put it on a moving car¡­¡±


    ¡°Yup. When the car accelerates or decelerates enough, the connection is made, and it goes kaboom. Now¡­ installation is much simpler. No need to open up the car. You simply secure the device to the bottom of a vehicle with some tape, set the timer, and get as far away as you can. Anyone can do it. Even a cub can¡ª not that we¡¯ll make them, of course,¡± Kara hurriedly added at the end.


    ¡°What¡¯s the timer for if you already have a switch like this?¡±


    ¡°Do you know what type of profession makes you most likely to die to a car bomb?¡±


    Guinspiu frowned at the non-sequitor. ¡°Uh, a Marine general? An unpopular politician? Maybe¡­ a guard at a secure facility¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nope. That was a trick question. It¡¯s bomb maker. Bombs kill their creators more often than you¡¯d think. The extra timer makes sure the switch doesn¡¯t go off when you accidentally bump it before you get out of there.¡±


    ¡°Ah. I¡­ see. So what¡ª whose car are we blowing up?¡±


    ¡°Nobody¡¯s.¡± Kara shook her head. ¡°Not with this. At least not us. You should really think of us here as more of a school than a factory. We design and teach people how to make things with what they have. If we wanted to go on a real mission with real stakes for us, we¡¯d use our own stuff, made in a real factory with real quality control.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯ve been holed up here for months just¡­ recruiting people to do the dirty work for us.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you a High Councilor? Isn¡¯t this paw-shaking administrative stuff just¡­ like a more exciting version of your normal job?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we haven¡¯t made any progress finding my mate,¡± Guinspiu said sadly. ¡°Not that this Underground work isn¡¯t¡­ important. It is important. I just¡ª¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll show up,¡± Kara assured her with a light rub on her shoulder. ¡°We¡¯re tracking it all and expanding our net. One way or another, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll show up.¡±


    <hr>


    Dominion State Security HQ, Znos-4


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    Director Svatken looked at the administrator in front of her with dismay, her voice light but dangerous. ¡°Sector Governor Krelnos, I knew I recognized your name from back when I was only one of many agents, back in Grantor. I took my eyes off the sector for a couple months, and now everything¡¯s falling apart over there. What happened?¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    ¡°Yes, Director, I take full responsibility for this,¡± she replied, bowing so low she could kiss the ground.


    ¡°What happened? Start from the beginning, Governor.¡±


    ¡°At first, it was nothing. Just a few acts of sabotage and murder of low-ranking people that were easily replaced. Then, they got more and more people to join. Two of our work camps in Grantor City were fully purged, and within a couple days, they were back. It seems like every other worker we have is in it. We rolled up one of the cells, and under heavy interrogation, they said that they knew they were all going to die, but their families would get paid for the whole month and extra. Whatever that meant. The camps are now breeding grounds for the so-called Grantor Underground.¡±


    ¡°The Grantor Underground?¡± Svatken echoed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what it means either, but they don¡¯t seem to dig many tunnels. If they did, we¡¯d have an easier time finding them with our expertise¡­ Anyway, the only solution I can think of is purging the work camps more regularly¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± Svatken asked. ¡°Do you need my permission or something?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± the administrator stuttered, seemingly unsure how to answer for a moment. ¡°I would always abide by your directive, Director, but the reason we have not begun our full transition to Phase 4 is that the metrics we use show that it will cause even more problems for us if we do it now. We are following the schedule set by our State Security guidelines. Our Digital Guides say we should only make that phase leap next year.¡±


    Svatken let an annoyed expression show on her face. ¡°Do as they say. On this matter, the math is more often correct than not. How is this problem suddenly popping up now? I thought we completed Grantor pacification at least three years ago while I was there. Didn¡¯t your sector report no major anomalous activity for two years in a row before this?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director. And I have begun a full review of our reports for accuracy. So far, I have found nothing out of the ordinary until this wave of unrest started, but I will be sure to report anything, and I take full responsibility in advance if anything is found.¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ acceptable. Continue with the report, Governor.¡±


    ¡°The reason for my in-person visit¡ª Director, I noticed something when it first began. We captured some members of one of their important combat-oriented cells. And I noticed that whenever we captured anyone, the Underground would immediately react. All the other members of the cell would disappear before we could get to them. No matter what we did. We tried secret raids. Night raids. We lured them out of the city. Nothing worked. So we suspected¡ª¡±


    ¡°Apostates,¡± Svatken hissed.


    Krelnos nodded, relief spreading across her features. ¡°Exactly. Apostates to the Prophecy. But we quickly eliminated the possibility. I checked up and down the chain myself, and no one could have leaked all the information to the predators. Some of it were state secrets that even I did not have access to before my investigation. It was a mystery, but I couldn¡¯t do anything about it except report it up the chain with my full responsibility attached. Then, strangely enough, our collaborators started disappearing. In the beginning, it was just the people who ran the camps for us. After most of them were gone, it expanded to even secret collaborators. Now, none of our collaborators feel safe. Normally, that would not be our concern. Predators killing predators is usually a positive sign of development that we encourage, but we are having problems recruiting new collaborators to replace them now!¡±


    ¡°Why am I just hearing this from your sector and not others?¡± Svatken demanded.


    ¡°I believe the epicenter of this wave of¡­ Underground activity is in my sector, which I take full responsibility for. But I also believe that is not the only cause. I have noted in my report that some of my peers are whispering that perhaps we were going too fast and we might be pushing the Slow Predators on Grantor too hard¡ª¡±


    ¡°Absurd!¡±


    ¡°Do you want their names now, Director?¡±


    ¡°My assistant will read your report and draw the correct conclusions, Governor.¡± Svatken nodded as she skimmed the report on her datapad. ¡°Your instinct is likely correct and if your full report reflects what you just said, you will be rewarded. Those peers are idiots. And their bloodlines will be assigned to less complex tasks in the future. I may not be an expert on much, but I am an expert on this: this is clearly not a problem of pushing the predators too hard.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director,¡± the administrator bowed again, glad she was right after taking that risk.


    ¡°Pushing predators hard leads to problems, but not like this. Angry predators break things. But angry predators do not learn resilient strategies and operational tactics. Angry predators do not suddenly learn how to make new improvised weapons from nowhere. And certainly not¡­ the advanced plasma-incendiary weapons mentioned in your report. We have been exterminating them for centuries, and if we know one thing, it is that anger and motivation are useless without means, Governor. You were right to flag this. This is not just a local problem now.¡±


    ¡°And one more thing, Director,¡± Krelnos added, ¡°We¡¯ve managed to capture an example of the communication devices they¡¯ve been using. They usually self-destruct before capture, but we got our paws on one. Our technical experts still have no idea how they work, but the security on them is¡­ advanced. Worse, from what the prisoner said in the interrogation, it seems like¡ª it seems like¡ª¡±


    ¡°It seems like they hear everything you say on the radio. And they know everything you do,¡± Svatken completed for her. ¡°That¡¯s why you are here in person to deliver this report?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director.¡±


    Svatken thought for a moment, and nodded. ¡°Your judgement was correct. In fact, you can expect a promotion within the month¡­ future Grantor City Station Director Krelnos. And more to come if you continue to deliver this quality of insight.¡±


    Krelnos bowed low. ¡°Thank you, Director.¡±


    ¡°You may go. Send in the Eleven Whiskers on your way out.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What do you think of that report from Grantor?¡± Svatken asked.


    ¡°Great Predators,¡± Sprabr said simply. ¡°No doubt about it. Especially with the new information we are getting from the captured Lesser Predator ship, the Cliunc. They must have somehow placed some of their operatives on Grantor.¡±


    ¡°Agreed. What do we do?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t let them know that we know of them yet, so we can¡¯t use any of our newly developed methods to combat them to reveal what we now know.¡±


    ¡°Again, agreed,¡± Svatken said. ¡°Not until we roast their Great Predator Nest to cinders at least.¡±


    ¡°I believe I have made my opinion clear on that strategy, Director,¡± Sprabr said, not hiding the dismay on his face.


    Svatken tensed. ¡°Yes, and the decision has been made. We are attacking Sol. Your job now is to make sure we win there, not to try to stop the invasion, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°As you wish, Director,¡± Sprabr sighed. ¡°What about the situation on the ground in Grantor? I suspect they¡¯ve got a small cell on the surface. A special infiltration team, possibly a platoon. Can¡¯t be much bigger or we¡¯d have found some of them by now. And the localization does suggest they are operating out of Grantor City as your people reported.¡±


    Svatken thought for a moment. ¡°We should do what we would normally do.¡±


    ¡°Throw resources at it until the problem fixes itself?¡± Sprabr asked sarcastically. ¡°That¡¯s going to go over well against Great Predator saboteurs on Grantor.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have to be wasteful,¡± Svatken sniffed. ¡°We can choose to deploy the resources in the right places, but¡­ yes, the people who are on the ground must not know they are fighting the new enemy. Or we risk them getting captured and the Sol invasion plans leaked.¡±


    Sprabr sighed. ¡°Sure. And either the Grand Fleet succeeds, in which case this is all meaningless. Or it does not, in which case, our people on Grantor would only be delaying the inevitable even if they succeed in rooting out the enemies anyway.¡±


    ¡°The Grand Prophetic Fleet will succeed, Eleven Whiskers. And our people¡­ their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools anyway.¡±


    ¡°If you insist, Director.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 14 Underground IV

    <div>


    Intercity Highway 5, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Cell Leader)


    ¡°Cell Leader, I can¡¯t see anything,¡± Torsad heard her lieutenant complain as his shovel bounced off a hard rock in the soil. ¡°What are we doing out here, digging at this time of night anyway?¡±


    It was just past midnight, and the two of them were out in the middle of nowhere, scooping dirt with a pair of shovels next to an asphalt-paved road. They¡¯d both gotten very good at manual digging. Plenty of practice. But unlike her lieutenant, Torsad wore a pair of night vision goggles on her head, which made things easier. They were recently liberated from a Znosian Marine who didn¡¯t need them anymore.


    ¡°Because,¡± Torsad grunted as she dug, ¡°dig in the day¡­ die.¡±


    She heard him sigh. ¡°And how is it you get night vision?¡±


    Torsad turned, the four tubes on her head swiveling to face him. ¡°Don¡¯t ask questions you don¡¯t want the answers to, Nine Packets Insunt.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯m just saying¡­ I¡¯ve got a new source at the spaceport,¡± Insunt said, coming up from the roadside dig site to take a break. ¡°They say they can swipe me a crate of those Znosian night vision goggles. Grass Eater Marines just leave them lying around sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not tracked, they guarantee it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just the tracking chips.¡± Torsad gritted her teeth as she explained the concept for what felt like the third time after she¡¯d heard it, ¡°It¡¯s risk and reward. We don¡¯t need their night vision goggles. If we need to do a real night mission, then we¡¯ll get the equipment we need to do the job from above. We are not an army, and certainly not a high-speed special operations unit.¡±


    ¡°A special what?¡± She saw Insunt shrug. ¡°Alright, alright. I¡¯m just saying. If we ever need more goggles, I can get them. For if this digging in the dark things becomes a habit. I just don¡¯t understand why we¡¯re digging here and not in the city. They barely come out here. If we want to kill Grass Eaters, there¡¯s plenty of them to blow up in the city.¡±


    ¡°Because¡­ killing Grass Eaters is easy. And they just make more of them,¡± Torsad said. ¡°But one of the critical chemical supplies for their hatchling pools comes from the next city over. By truck, every two weeks. Much harder to make more of those.¡±


    He gestured at their pile of concave copper cylinders. ¡°Ah, is that why we¡¯re using these weird pipe designs?¡±


    ¡°Yes, their trucks are now armored after one of our cells shot up their last major shipment,¡± Torsad explained. ¡°These will make short work of them. We blow up the armored trucks and the supplies. Kill two prey with one stone.¡±


    ¡°Two prey with¡­ one stone. Another one of those Underground Wisdom sayings?¡± Insunt asked.


    Torsad grunted the affirmative, grabbing one of the explosive-formed projectile mines and emplacing it in the hole with the concave end pointing the right way. She stood back a meter to admire her work in her night vision goggles.


    Her lieutenant came up to stand next to her, squinting at the shapes in the dark. ¡°Looks fine to me. Now we just bury it?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Then,¡± Torsad pointed at the dozen other explosives they¡¯d carted all the way out here, ¡°bury one of these every five meters.¡±


    Insunt groaned. ¡°All of them?¡±


    ¡°You want to carry them back?¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s alright,¡± Insunt grumbled as he measured five meters with his pace and began digging anew. ¡°How are we going to detonate these? Don¡¯t we need to come out here and wait for the trucks to pass?¡±


    ¡°Not unless you want to carry a hero-bomb with you on the mission,¡± Torsad replied. ¡°We blow up a Grass Eater convoy this far out of the city, whoever triggers it will never make it to cover before their rotary wing comes out to check. And that¡¯s if we get the entire convoy. If we don¡¯t, those guys will run us down first.¡±


    ¡°How else will we detonate¡ª¡±


    Torsad sighed, as if annoyed having to explain everything. ¡°I have one of the smart chips with a camera device so we don¡¯t need to come out here to blow it up.¡±


    ¡°Smart chip?¡± his eyes widened. ¡°The ones with the digital abominations that can think for themselves? I¡¯ve only heard of other cells using them, and I thought that was just Grass Eater propaganda.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Packets. Didn¡¯t you hear? We are all abominations now. Predator abominations. But if you want to save me the expensive chip, you are free to volunteer in its place instead.¡±


    ¡°No, no, I¡¯m okay,¡± Insunt said hurriedly.


    Granti were a lot stronger than any of the alien species in the known galaxy, but even with their natural strength, it took them another three hours to dig all the holes they needed to hide all the anti-armor EFP mines. Another couple of hours, and the Grantor star was about to come up.


    ¡°Alright, can we head back now?¡±


    ¡°One more thing,¡± Torsad said as she opened the last sack they carried out there. She took out one of the rock-colored devices rolled up in tape and handed it to her lieutenant. ¡°Put these next to the mines. Shallow holes are fine for these.¡±


    ¡°Antipersonnel explosives?¡± he asked, inspecting one up close in the dark. ¡°What are these for? I thought we were just killing trucks.¡±


    ¡°We blow up trucks. They come back here to investigate. Then, we blow up the investigators.¡± Torsad gestured at the mines they dug into the soil.


    ¡°Two prey with one stone, huh?¡±


    ¡°Three.¡±


    ¡°Three?¡±


    ¡°Then they will send out people to collect bodies and evidence for responsibility assignment. And we kill them too. But,¡± she shrugged, ¡°that last step is in the city. We don¡¯t have to worry about that tonight.¡±Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    ¡°Huh. City fighting. Should I get us some guns from the local armory? We¡¯ve got a couple guys who have insider access.¡±


    Torsad gritted her teeth and shook her head. Insunt was a reliable lieutenant, but he really needed to start reading those manuals they were getting from above. ¡°No. No guns,¡± she replied.


    ¡°No¡­ guns?¡±


    ¡°How many times have you shot one of their rifles?¡± Torsad asked, extending the edge of her patience as she put another antipersonnel mine in place.


    ¡°Once¡­ twice?¡± Insunt answered after a moment.


    ¡°Think you can outshoot one of the Grass Eater Marines?¡±


    ¡°Maybe? I¡¯ll need some more practice but¡ª¡±


    ¡°What about one of their Light Longclaws? Think you can out-shoot that?¡±


    ¡°Are you saying we should steal heavier weapons from the Grass¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nine Packets, we are an underground cell, not an army. If we fight like an army, we lose. If we give our cell members guns, they will stick around shooting until the enemy kills them. Or worse, captured.¡±


    Insunt thought about the logic for a moment before hesitantly nodding. ¡°Fine, no guns.¡±


    ¡°Explosives, we will steal. You set them. You leave them. You¡¯re gone by the time they go boom. It either works, or it doesn¡¯t. You don¡¯t need to be around to find out.¡±


    ¡°Cold and efficient,¡± he said after a moment. ¡°Is this how Grass Eaters think? Maybe after eating so much grass for years out of desperation, we have turned more into them.¡±


    ¡°If that was the case, Nine Packets, then it clearly didn¡¯t work on you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Cell Leader, I take full responsibility¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t start again. Dig.¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse India, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Cell Leader)


    ¡°Cell Leader Torsad, you have done well,¡± Guinspiu praised, handing her a full bag of protein packets. ¡°The Grass Eaters will be reeling from this attack for weeks. Your cell deserves every bit of this for all your hard work.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, General.¡±


    ¡°There is one more thing,¡± Guinspiu said slowly to Torsad. ¡°There is a¡­ secret to our Underground that you are not privy to yet.¡±


    Torsad nodded. ¡°That makes sense. The less I know, the less I can give away when I inevitably get captured.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, General, I understand completely. This is what happens to those in my line of work. People like me, we don¡¯t get to live to see the end of the occupation. That¡¯s not how things work. I died when I killed and buried that three whiskers; I am just living on borrowed time.¡±


    Guinspiu shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s more than that, Torsad. I can reveal this one more secret to you. And your cell will be assigned to an important mission.¡±


    ¡°I will do as you command. If you want us to carry the hero-bomb into the mission as some of the other cells have, we will happily do so.¡±


    ¡°The sacrifice I ask¡­ it is more personal than that. It¡¯s greater. Even I haven¡¯t undertaken it.¡±


    ¡°Greater than a remote kill switch?¡± Torsad wondered aloud. ¡°I doubt it. Whatever the sacrifice is, I will bear it.¡±


    ¡°It has to do with¡­ your personal autonomy.¡±


    Torsad barked a short laugh. ¡°Autonomy? What autonomy, General? We go in and out of a work camp with a two-month survival rate of zero, in an occupation which we all know the result of. Whatever this sacrifice is, I will take it on if that will help us complete a mission.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Torsad,¡± Guinspiu said quietly. She handed Torsad an injector. ¡°This will put you to sleep for the neurosurgery. When you¡¯re ready, sit down by the fire, inject it into your thigh, and count down from one hundred.¡±


    Torsad bounced to the fire, sat down cross-legged, and stuck the syringe into her fur without a second thought.


    One hundred¡­ ninety-nine¡­ ninety-eight¡­


    For some reason, the last image in her head before she fell asleep was of her old neighbor Sossui as he jumped headfirst into the corrosive cauldron of hatchling nutrient.


    <hr>


    Torsad woke up with a headache. That was not strange or unusual at all. One of the effects of too little protein was sometimes headaches in the morning. It hadn¡¯t happened to her recently with her now steady supply of protein packets, but she wasn¡¯t overly perturbed.


    Her throat was dry. She tried to make a sound, but nothing came out.


    A paw handed her a bottle of water. She accepted the bottle thankfully and chugged the whole bottle. As she took a deep breath, the air smelled like blood and metal.


    Then, she noticed the paw was not a paw. It was a soft, dexterous¡­


    ¡°What in the galaxy?!¡± she exclaimed, tumbling out of her strange bed and staring at the trio of short aliens looking at her. A few of their instruments clattered to the floor.


    ¡°Good morning, Torsad,¡± one of them said to her.


    ¡°What¡­ what are you?¡± She asked as she noticed one of the aliens had casually placed their paw in a position conveniently located near a lethal-looking device strapped to their right hip.


    ¡°We are humans from the Terran Republic. No, we¡¯re not vegetarians. We eat meat. And we have been bankrolling your whole Underground operation for a few months. Now, take a minute to absorb all this, preferably without pointing those sharp claws of yours at us.¡±


    Torsad stumbled around until she found a bench she could sit on.


    The alien continued, ¡°Tell us what you¡¯re thinking, Cell Leader Torsad.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Interesting. Well, everything all makes sense.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not the reaction I was expecting,¡± the alien said, apparently taken aback.


    ¡°I always suspected Guinspiu was getting her information and goods from somewhere else. I thought it was the Malgeir or the Schpriss. But in hindsight, those were pretty stupid guesses, huh? A new alien species makes sense, even if you¡¯re obviously lying about the meat stuff. Your people are clearly Grass Eaters. Even I could tell immediately. And what confirms it for me is the way we¡¯re being run: competently, like the Grass Eaters would if they did this.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    ¡°Did I say something wrong?¡± Torsad asked.


    The alien still looked surprised. ¡°Not really, actually. I think we understand each other pretty well. We really do eat meat though.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Well,¡± Torsad said, nodding her head, ¡°You gave me a second chance to fight the Grass Eaters¡ª the Znosians, I guess, since you¡¯re also¡­ Anyway, I¡¯ll take it. It¡¯s obviously not their diet I take issue with.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not?¡±


    ¡°No, most of our people eat some grass now. I eat grass sometimes. We have to, to survive. I¡¯d be a hypocrite if I thought any less of you because of you eating grass. And I don¡¯t like being a hypocrite. You helped us. So I trust you¡­ for now.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°You will help us¡ª Why can¡¯t I stop talking? I don¡¯t normally talk this much.¡±


    ¡°Because¡­¡± the alien said, ¡°I gave you a direct order to say what you¡¯re thinking. Part of the brain chip thing, sorry. You can stop that now, Cell Leader Torsad.¡±


    Torsad nodded, now finding herself able to keep her mouth shut.


    ¡°By the way, we¡¯re not just Grass Eaters 1, 2, and 3. We have names. I¡¯m Mark. Those are Kara and John.¡±


    She nodded again.


    ¡°Alright, good to finally meet you Torsad. We¡¯ve implanted a device in your brain that gives us full control of it. It allows us to give you orders, to read your mind, and to blow you up, which we¡¯ll only do if you¡¯re compromised. It allows us to maintain control over our secrecy, and it was the condition for your knowledge of us. Unfortunately, we haven¡¯t perfected Granti neuroscience enough to be able to wipe your memory of us, or we¡¯d give you that option. Maybe in a few years¡­ Anyway, it¡¯s only fair that since you¡¯ve taken this step voluntarily, you¡¯re fully read into the program. Do you have any questions for us?¡± Mark asked, gesturing to the trio.


    Torsad thought for a moment, then pointed at her head with a claw. ¡°You have full control of my brain, right? Presumably through some digital sentience abomination like the chips you give us for some missions.¡±


    ¡°Yes, there is an intelligence chip in your head now.¡±


    ¡°Fine. That¡¯s fine. If I am captured, can I request that it doesn¡¯t kill me immediately?¡± Torsad asked eagerly.


    Mark shook his head. ¡°Unfortunately, we can¡¯t allow our secrets to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh no, it can kill me¡­ eventually. I just want it to burn out my pain receptors or something, so I can watch and laugh at the Grass Eaters pissing themselves as all their interrogation methods fail for a couple of days before you blow up my head in their faces at the right time. Can you do that for me?¡±


    ¡°You know¡­ I think we¡¯re going to work very well together, Cell Leader Torsad,¡± Mark said as the three aliens grinned at her in unison. ¡°And¡­ funnily enough, not the first operative we¡¯ve had request that one, so the protocols are there. Definitely the first alien one though.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, what¡¯s this mission we¡¯re doing?¡±


    ¡°How much do you know about Znosian hatchling pools, Cell Leader?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 15 Learning Ahead I

    <div>


    Grantor City Safehouse India, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Cell Leader)


    ¡°Ten prisoners to a guard on the grounds. Ten additional in reserve for each prisoner.¡± Torsad pointed at the guard towers on the digital map. ¡°According to my people in the hatchling pool camp, they have patrols all around the perimeter. And shift changes are now staggered. New policy.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what the other cells say,¡± Mark said, nodding in agreement. ¡°New procedures thanks to our recent¡­ activities.¡±


    ¡°What do you need from the camp? Is it big? I can get my people to smuggle things out. The prisoners won¡¯t say a thing if they know what¡¯s best for their families.¡± Torsad¡¯s eyes were hard.


    ¡°What about moving things in?¡±


    ¡°We can¡­ move things in as well. That is a little more of an unusual request, but we can get people in place for that too. Six pools, so you¡¯ll need six different teams to reliably blow them all up simultaneously.¡±


    Mark examined the map for a little longer. ¡°No. Good thinking ahead, but this mission is a little different. We¡¯re not looking to blow up the hatchling pools either. We need you to get a suitcase into the computer room, and we need you to get it out of there. And the Grass Eaters can¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°How¡ª how big is this suitcase?¡±


    Mark pointed at a red box in the corner. ¡°That one.¡±


    It was about the size of a standard shipping box. She picked it up. Weighing it in her arms, it did feel heavier than it looked. She thought for a moment. ¡°This should be possible. Do we have a guy in the computer room?¡±


    ¡°Yes, an electrician who fixes their air conditioner. Just need to create a problem with that air conditioner for an excuse to get him in. We¡¯ll put you in touch with his cell leader. In fact, we¡¯ll give you access to our personnel lists.¡±


    ¡°If we have someone in the room, this shouldn¡¯t be too hard. What is¡­ in this package?¡± she peeked at the seams of the suitcase, as if trying to decipher its contents.


    ¡°Our utility robot, Flowers.¡±


    ¡°Flowers?¡± She narrowed her eyes and asked skeptically, ¡°Utility robot?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Don¡¯t worry. It unpacks itself.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is not on the list of things I¡¯m worried about. Is this¡­ suitcase going to be detected by their sensors around the camp perimeter?¡±


    ¡°Probably not. It¡¯s pretty sneaky like that. But if it does, it¡¯ll get you out of the situation.¡±


    ¡°Get us out of the situation,¡± Torsad repeated as her skepticism deepened. ¡°Some utility robot, huh?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ it¡¯s uh¡ª multi-purpose. Point is, it should be able to get you out if things kick off, no problem. Good enough for you?¡±


    ¡°Does it¡ª¡± Then she shrugged. ¡°Okay. Good enough for you is good enough for me.¡±


    ¡°But preferably, things don¡¯t kick off. Not too much.¡±


    ¡°Right. Small ruckus.¡±


    Mark nodded. ¡°Okay, good, but that¡¯s only step one. Step two is you need to gain access to one of the hatchling pools themselves.¡±


    ¡°And kill all their hatchlings?¡± she asked neutrally.


    Mark shook his head. ¡°Nothing that distasteful. What we need are subjects. For an experiment. And not like one of those grotesque ones they do. Just some light social experimentation, you know? Psychology, that kind of¡ª¡±


    Torsad shrugged. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t object either way.¡±


    ¡°Ah, okay. Anyway, bring a few that you can carry out, and leave the rest. It is vitally important your men don¡¯t get carried away.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t get carried away?¡± she echoed. ¡°On a sabotage mission?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You have to ensure that the hatchling pools remain functional after so they can use them again.¡±


    ¡°Why do they¡ª actually, again, I don¡¯t care,¡± Torsad said nonchalantly.


    ¡°Just do as little damage to the camp as possible. And then there¡¯s step three, which is really secondary, but it will be helpful for the Underground. Once you do this, the Buns are probably going to purge the camp again. Anyone you get out of it will probably be someone¡¯s life you save. And they¡¯ll become fugitives, so you¡¯ll have no problems having them join up.¡±


    Torsad looked at the map one last time, going through the plan as the Terrans described it. She nodded. ¡°Okay, this seems doable.¡±


    ¡°Good. Oh, and since you know The Big Secret now, you aren¡¯t just a Cell Leader anymore,¡± Mark smiled at her.


    ¡°Oh? A promotion?¡±


    ¡°Yes, you are now a Department Leader. Department Leader Torsad.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± she asked, puzzled.


    ¡°Kind of like a general. It¡¯s what Guinspiu does but more. You report directly to us now, and you get to know about other cells. For now, anyone in the group you recruit will go into their own cells; you just need to make sure they don¡¯t know about each other. You, on the other hand ¡ª you can know everything.¡±


    ¡°But what if I get captured?¡±


    Mark winked. ¡°Then you¡¯ll get to laugh in their face while they figure out how to torture you without your pain receptors, remember?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Right.¡± It was going to be a while for her to get used to that.


    ¡°Yup, so it is important that you know things now. For example, you might need to know why we are grabbing hatchlings out of their hatchling pool without destroying it.¡±


    Torsad shrugged. ¡°I can already guess. You¡¯re trying to figure out how to poison them through the hatchling pools, right? That¡¯s why you need to get into the computer room, and you want samples from before and after.¡±


    Mark chuckled. ¡°Almost. Not what you¡¯re thinking, but not a bad guess. What did you do before the occupation again?¡±


    ¡°Chemistry teacher.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that explains your former job in the camp. Alright, let¡¯s start from there.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°We do have another unrelated matter. We have a spaceship up there,¡± Mark said, pointing his finger at the sky. ¡°They help us out with things from time to time. Long story short, our guys in the sky are getting a little nervous.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just say¡­ there¡¯s a war going on in the galaxy, and the Znosian Navy has been very quiet recently. And not quiet like a cub falling asleep kind of quiet. More like they¡¯re planning something big quiet. So they want us to figure out what the Buns are planning.¡±


    Torsad thought for a moment, then nodded. ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s get ourselves a few people who work with their Navy base outside of the city. We need to talk to a few of those friends so we know what the rest of their little Dominion is up to.¡±


    Torsad shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s not so easy. They don¡¯t use locals in their Navy base outside the city. Not for a while now. It¡¯s all their own people.¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Mark sighed. ¡°Damn, I was hoping they¡¯d be stupid. What about the people who support the base? Don¡¯t they use Granti workers at the spaceport and to drive them to and from the spaceport?¡±


    She thought for a moment. ¡°Hm¡­ I¡¯ve heard they sometimes use Granti drivers.¡±


    ¡°Good. See if you can get a couple of those guys and get a copy of their schedule. Discreetly, if we can.¡±


    Torsad grinned. ¡°That shouldn¡¯t be a problem.¡±


    <hr>


    Dominion Hatchling School 34018, Grantor-3


    POV: Spisme, Znosian (Teacher)


    At the mature age of five years old, Spisme was ambitious for a hatchling teacher. She left her birth world of Znos, completing her training onboard a ship out towards the frontier of the Dominion. When she landed on Grantor, its first hatchling pools had just finished construction. Now, a few of her former students were working alongside her.


    A few of them. On Grantor, most of them went towards more vital tasks of planetary administration and pacification of the Slow Predators. A few of the more capable ones went towards the Navy and Marines.


    As a fresh hatchling teacher, her expertise was 1 to 6 months after hatching. At one month, most hatchlings started to be taught to speak, read, write, and count in the simple Znosian alphabet. At six months, they were expected to be proficient in all those so they could be trained in more specialist tasks. The exceptions to these were bred-illiterates ¡ª about ten percent of the population for whom reading and writing were too complex because of the way their brains form during the hatching process ¡ª and elite Znosian hatchlings bred for other specialist tasks.


    Spisme looked out at her class of two hundred, noting few anomalies among them. Each of her students wore a virtual headset that fed them the standardized lessons that most Znosian hatchlings absorbed. It was a new headset. When she learned on Znos, they¡¯d used a slightly older version, but the Dominion spared no expense on the basic task of education. It made sense: well-taught workers were efficient workers.


    Spisme noted that one of her students had taken off his headset, opting to waste his precious education time looking out the window instead.


    She sighed. Few anomalies. He was one of them.


    Spisme walked down his aisle, bending down to reach his height. ¡°Hatchling, is your headset defective?¡±


    ¡°No, Teacher Spisme.¡±


    ¡°Then why is it not on your head properly over your eyes?¡± she asked patiently.


    ¡°I¡¯m bored.¡±


    ¡°Bored?¡± she asked. That was a new one. Teaching was such a fulfilling job. There was always something new every once in a while¡­


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to learn to count anymore,¡± her defiant pupil insisted.


    ¡°You have to learn,¡± she explained. ¡°And if you don¡¯t, you will be recycled.¡±


    ¡°Then I will rejoin the Prophecy,¡± he said proudly. ¡°Isn¡¯t that a good thing? What¡¯s wrong with being recycled? I will rejoin the Prophecy faster.¡±


    A younger, less experienced hatchling teacher might have been confused by the deeper theological question. An older, more experienced one might have contemplated a wise answer to address the contradiction.


    Instead, Spisme gave him a patient frown and chided, ¡°You are too young to understand. And you are asking too many useless questions, even for a hatchling! Which lesson are you on?¡± She snatched his headset from him, checking the screen. He¡¯d barely passed the algebraic factorization lesson. ¡°You are less than halfway through your assigned work for today!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to learn anymore,¡± he pouted. ¡°It¡¯s boring. I won¡¯t do it!¡±


    Spisme sighed. He was becoming a defect. It was not her fault, but it was her responsibility. Maybe she could get him placed in a class and curriculum with other bred-illiterates instead. It would be a waste of his genetic investment ¡ª hatchling pool nutrient and development was not free, but even a thoughtless grunt who couldn¡¯t multiply was still better than the squandering of a full recycling.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t put the headset back on, I will have to place you in the other class,¡± she threatened. Spisme hoped that he would change his mind, but she knew from experience that was unlikely.


    The defective hatchling shook his head vigorously. ¡°The moron class? I don¡¯t want to play with them.¡±


    Spisme looked at him in shock. ¡°Who taught you that word?¡±


    ¡°What word? Moron? Moron, moron, moron,¡± he repeated defiantly with an unsettlingly predator-like grin on his face. ¡°The moron class¡ª¡±


    She cut him off. ¡°That¡¯s a specialist word! Learning ahead is prohibited. Who told you to say that? Who taught it to you?!¡±


    He gave her a smug look. ¡°I¡¯m not telling you!¡±


    ¡°You need to tell me, hatchling! I can¡¯t take full responsibility for this if I don¡¯t know the cause!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not telling you, unless¡­¡± the hatchling said, some thought creeping into his eyes as he contemplated what he could bargain for.


    ¡°Unless what?¡± Spisme asked, her heart sinking. Not only was he a defect, but he was also contaminated, and it had occurred under her watch. There was only one acceptable remedy for this.


    ¡°Unless¡­ you let me skip learning for the rest of the day.¡±


    Spisme pretended to consider it for a second before she nodded. ¡°Okay. But you have to tell me who is teaching you these words.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the Slow Predator.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°The one that sweeps the hall outside,¡± he said proudly, gesturing outside the classroom. ¡°He also teaches me other fun words¡­¡±


    Ignoring the contaminated hatchling, Spisme looked out into the hall. It wasn¡¯t there, but the abominations who did that were supposed to know to keep their damn snouts shut, instead of misleading her hatchlings. A swell of anger flashed across her chest. She¡¯d known they shouldn¡¯t be using substandard workers ¡ª non-Znosians ¡ª around the important task of education, and this only further confirmed her suspicions.


    ¡°Does this mean I won¡¯t have to learn anymore today?¡± her pupil asked, tugging on her paw and looking up at her.


    She smiled down at him. ¡°Yes, you won¡¯t have to learn anymore. We¡¯re going on a trip, just you and me.¡±


    ¡°A trip?¡± he asked, his eyes lighting up. ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    Spisme sighed deeply before grabbing him by the scruff, dragging him towards the hatchling recycling center. She was going to have an unpleasant talk with the school security administrator about this.


    <hr>


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter, hatchling teacher?¡± the Znosian Marine asked patiently and respectfully. As a civilian teacher, she was not technically his superior, but he worked at the school day in and day out, and he knew which side his lettuce was buttered on.


    ¡°Four Whiskers, your usage of Slow Predators for cleaning tasks in our school is contaminating my hatchlings! I had to recycle one of mine today. You need to stop employing the barbarians near them,¡± Spisme demanded.


    ¡°Hatchling teacher, I take full responsibility for that,¡± he said with contrition. ¡°But we don¡¯t have much choice. My Marines are being stretched thin with a recent wave of¡ª Anyway, it¡¯s been difficult, and sacrifices need to be made by everyone.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ it¡¯s the hatchlings!¡± Spisme shouted. ¡°Think of the hatchlings!¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course, hatchling teacher, you are right. Education is one of the most important tasks of the Dominion. I take full responsibility for this failure. Perhaps I can have a talk with the Slow Predator in question while I try to find us more resources for this? Did you catch the name of the Slow Predator who is responsible?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No, but I know it sweeps the halls outside my room,¡± Spisme replied, slightly calming down at his seeming eagerness to placate her anger.


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s the new one they call Insunt¡­ hey, there it is now,¡± the four whiskers said as a brown-and-white-furred Slow Predator walked up next to them. ¡°Hey, predator, come over here. Insunt! Get over here!¡±


    Insunt walked over to them, the creature¡¯s large figure towering over both of them as it bowed. ¡°Good day, Four Whiskers. How may I help you today?¡±


    ¡°This is one of our hatchling teachers. She says you are contaminating her hatchlings. Take full responsibility for it now,¡± he spat at its feet.


    Insunt took a look at Spisme. ¡°Of course, I take full responsibility for my mistakes¡­ I¡¯m sorry, what is your name again, hatchling teacher?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Spisme,¡± she replied haughtily, not looking at the big abomination. ¡°And you will make it not do that again in the future, Four Whiskers!¡±


    ¡°Of course¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re the hatchling teacher named Spisme,¡± Insunt interrupted rudely.


    Spisme looked up in confusion. The expression on the predator¡¯s face had gone from apologetic to curiosity¡­ and then greed. She pointed a shivering claw at it in outrage.


    ¡°Excuse me, predator?! Did you forget your place in¡ª¡±


    Before she knew what was happening, Insunt brought his paws down on the four whiskers¡¯ unarmored head, crushing the fragile Znosian Marine in a single blow.


    Spisme shrieked in horror and panic, scrambling to try to get away, but the predator was right behind her. With a flick of his paw, she stumbled and fell to the ground. Insunt picked her up by her scruff, immediately running straight towards the exit of the school.


    ¡°Let me go, abomination!¡± she screamed, trying to bite and swipe at Insunt¡¯s paw, but he avoided her blunt teeth and nails effortlessly. ¡°Let me go!¡±


    ¡°No can do, hatchling teacher Spisme. I have a friend who wants to meet you.¡±


    She fainted.


    <hr>


    Spisme woke up looking straight at the white ceiling in an unfamiliar room.


    ¡°Look!¡±


    ¡°Wow.¡±


    ¡°Mom!¡±


    She sat up in a hurry and looked down at the fluffle of about a dozen hatchlings gathered around her, one of them tugging on the hems of her uniform with his tiny claws.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± she asked them in a low voice. ¡°Where is this?¡±


    They didn¡¯t respond, only continued staring at her in distressingly vacant eyes.


    Then, the memory of the kidnapping returned to her. She shook off the hatchlings and stood up hastily, looking all around her for an exit. She was in an odd room, its walls painted with bright colors and adorned with poor quality paintings.


    A voice popped up behind her. ¡°Ah, you¡¯re awake now. Good.¡± It was the voice of a Slow Predator. One of their females.


    She turned around slowly, trembling in fear.


    It was another one of the browns. They were known for their strength. She knew the reason the Servants of the Prophecy defeated these abominations was through the use of technology, like a set of proper Znosian Marine battle armor she wished she had on right now.


    ¡°You are making a terrible mistake, predator,¡± Spisme said, her resolve returning to her as the realization of how screwed she was began to sink in. ¡°You will be¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think I am, hatchling teacher Spisme,¡± it chuckled.


    She recoiled. ¡°Who are you? And where am I?¡±


    ¡°You can call me Torsad. You¡­ are now in the Grantor City School for Gifted Grass Eaters,¡± the predator said, pointing down at the hatchings gathered around her, looking at her with their glassy, empty eyes.


    She rolled her eyes as she picked one up by the scruff to examine the markings behind their ears. ¡°This is why you are called Slow Predators. These are obviously not gifted hatchlings. They are not even specialist material! They are at best standard quality hatchlings. Anyone can see that.¡± Spisme pointed at one of the shorter hatchlings and continued, ¡°And that one¡¯s substandard!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. But we¡¯ll have to see about that, won¡¯t we, hatchling teacher?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 16 One Way Trip

    <div>


    Grantor City School for Gifted Hatchlings, Grantor-3


    POV: Spisme, Znosian (Teacher)


    ¡°Let me get this straight, Slow Predator,¡± Spisme said in dismay. ¡°You want me to teach these hatchlings wrong on purpose?¡±


    ¡°Not wrong,¡± Torsad said, shaking her head. ¡°Right from wrong. You just have to teach them the basics. Empathy, compassion, morality.¡±


    ¡°Pointless predator notions,¡± the hatchling teacher dismissed. ¡°I won¡¯t teach them to be useless.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I didn¡¯t make myself clear enough,¡± Torsad bared her mouth full of sharp teeth at the small teacher. ¡°Any of your hatchlings that can¡¯t pass our test of being not-a-psycho will be¡­ as you put it, recycled.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s such a waste!¡± Spisme protested. ¡°What if they would otherwise be perfectly functional members of society? Other than measured by your stupid predator metrics? They would still know how to read, how to write, how to count¡ª¡±


    ¡°Bzzzzzzzzzzz kshkshkshkshkshksh¡­¡± The Granti imitated the sound of some mechanical device cheerfully. ¡°Into the shredder they go!¡±


    That¡¯s not even what the recycling machine sounds like, stupid¡ª


    Torsad continued, ¡°Unless¡­ they can pass the test of knowing right from wrong. Of being able to see predators as people. But don¡¯t worry, if these ones won¡¯t cut it, we¡¯ll just go get you more at the local hatchling pools until you can get your¡­ curriculum right. So¡­ no pressure, right?¡±


    She glared at the crude Granti resistance leader. ¡°You are asking me to teach what I don¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°I know, isn¡¯t that wild?¡± Torsad grinned at her. ¡°You better start learning fast, or we¡¯ll have to go through a lot of hatchlings. But don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll leave my lieutenant Insunt here if you have any questions. A role model for your cubs, if you will. Good luck, hatchling teacher! For your students¡¯ sake.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Casqui, Granti (Prisoner)


    Casqui patiently waited for the Grass Eater Marine to handcuff her to the bus seat in front of her. It was a complex mechanism built on a strong device, designed specifically to be able to hold Granti prisoners like her.


    She looked across the aisle, finding an elderly brown male whose fur was falling out in patches. He had an odd-looking birthmark on his face. Or perhaps it was a result of malnutrition and abuse. ¡°They¡¯re really paranoid about us, huh?¡±


    The old Granti looked at her with mild amusement. ¡°Of course. We are dangerous prisoners, are we not?¡±


    ¡°I guess?¡± she said meekly.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name? What did you do?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Casqui. I was paid two protein packets to put up a few posters,¡± Casqui replied.


    ¡°Ah. One of those new Underground posters I¡¯ve been seeing around?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yup, those are the ones,¡± she admitted. ¡°Defiance or extinction! Don¡¯t go gentle into that good night! Hah, they got really mad about that one.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t go gentle¡­,¡± he echoed. ¡°Huh.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, then¡ª then one of the collaborators saw me,¡± Casqui said, deflating. ¡°One of our own people. I can¡¯t believe that¡¯s what got¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey! Quiet down back there!¡± one of the Grass Eaters in the front yelled.


    Casqui whispered towards the elder prisoner, ¡°Do you know where we¡¯re going? I see they¡¯ve got a whole squad commanded by a seven whiskers escorting us.¡±


    ¡°One-way work camp,¡± he replied in a low voice. ¡°Outside the city.¡±


    She just sat there for a moment, absorbing the death sentence in shock. It was not easy, even if she knew somewhere in the back of her mind that this was always coming for her one day.


    The elderly Granti gave her a sad smile. ¡°Sorry, I thought you knew.¡±


    ¡°But I just¡ª I just put up some posters,¡± she said, dejected.


    ¡°Must have been some good posters, huh?¡± he whispered.


    She didn¡¯t reply for a few minutes. Faced with the certainty of her death, Casqui¡¯s mind simply went blank. Sensing her grief, the old Granti left her alone, allowing her to stew in her own contemplation.


    A few minutes later, the bus hit a bump in the road, jarring her out of her thoughts of nothingness.


    Casqui sighed. One day at a time. ¡°What about you, elder? How did you get here? What¡¯s your name?¡±


    He nodded at her. ¡°I¡¯m Denspi. I was the mate of a High Councilor. Before the occupation. For that crime, they¡¯ve been using me as practice for their interrogators in training. A one-way work camp? I would have volunteered for this years ago if I knew it was an option.¡±


    She took a second look at him in his decrepit state. ¡°High Councilor¡¯s mate, huh? Where are they now?¡±


    ¡°She was evacuated offworld. So¡­ as far away from Grantor as possible, I hope.¡±


    The traffic on the road was light, and even lighter after the bus left the city limits. As the buildings began to recede behind them, there wasn¡¯t much outside the windows to look at.


    ¡°Last time I¡¯m going to see Grantor City, probably,¡± Casqui remarked as the view turned to empty fields.


    ¡°First time leaving the city, cub?¡±


    Casqui shook her head. ¡°No, we had an offworld exchange program when I was nineteen,¡± she recalled, basking in the pleasant memory. ¡°I was in the Federation for two years. I met this handsome Malgeir fellow at one of their agricultural resort worlds¡­¡±


    ¡°Good for you,¡± Denspi chuckled. His voice turned more serious, ¡°I heard from my previous work camp¡­ the Malgeir¡­ they¡¯re doing better now. They beat back the Grass Eaters Navy, captured many of them. For the first time.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Casqui tried not to snort. ¡°Or is that just what they say on their news?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°Hard to tell, but if they¡¯re doing worse, we¡¯ll find out pretty soon¡­ Anyway, I choose to believe. That was probably where my mate went. It makes my end¡­ bearable.¡±


    The scenery of rural Grantor City passed by in a blur. The city streets were replaced with checkpoints, and once they exited the city proper, it was just abandoned pasture fields for as far as the eye could see. The traffic in the city had mostly been for official business for the occupiers. The roads became sparser and sparser as the bus continued to travel. Until¡­Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°Wait a second,¡± Casqui said about ten minutes later, pointing out the front window of the bus at a distantly approaching vehicle. Even with the malnutrition, she still had good eyes; above average for a Granti, far above any of the Grass Eaters. She observed, ¡°That¡¯s not one of theirs. That¡¯s a Granti vehicle.¡±


    And there it was, a rare pre-occupation Granti personal vehicle ¡ª dark blue ¡ª on the road, rapidly approaching the bus from the front. Its size was way too big for a Znosian driver.


    Denspi squinted at it from next to her. ¡°Oh yeah, huh.¡±


    A few seconds later, there was some commotion at the front of the bus. Apparently, their Grass Eater Marine escorts noticed it as well.


    ¡°Seven Whiskers, that¡¯s not one of our vehicles!¡± one of them called out loudly as he left his seat.


    ¡°Look at its tires. It¡¯s riding low! It must be carrying something in the back!¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t have a driver in the driver¡¯s seat!¡±


    ¡°Get us out of here!¡± the seven whiskers shouted at the driver.


    The driver tried his best to dodge out of the way, but he didn¡¯t stand a chance. There was a loud jolt and explosion near the front, and Casqui¡¯s vision went black as she heard the shattering of glass and groaning of metal.


    <hr>


    Casqui came back to consciousness upside down in her seat. Wiggling around, she managed to orient herself. The bus had overturned onto its side, and there was smoke somewhere in the cabin.


    Looking towards the source of the sharp pain in her wrists, she saw that they were both clearly broken. On the plus side, that had gotten her out of her handcuffs, which were dangling uselessly in their slots in front of her.


    She looked around. The groans and cries of her fellow prisoners came from all around her, slowly audible through the subsiding tinnitus in her ears.


    How long was I out?


    Her senses recovered, and as they did, so did her logical thoughts.


    I can¡¯t stay here.


    She looked towards Denspi¡¯s seat beside her. He was gone.


    She looked all around her. There was a sizable hole towards the back of the bus. She crawled towards it. Through the pain of the jagged metal scraping and catching some of her fur, she managed to squeeze through. Casqui landed on the asphalt road with her bare paws. It was hot, but not enough to be too painful to continue. She limped a few paces away from the bus, then noticed shouting behind her.


    ¡°Let her go!¡± someone shouted.


    She looked back. Around the overturned bus was a surreal scene. The Granti vehicle that had attacked the bus was a charred mess missing its top half. But that was not the strange part.


    Through the active fire still burning the large vehicle¡¯s carcass, she saw the silhouette of a Granti, holding an unarmored, struggling Grass Eater Marine up by its neck. It was wiggling around in their grasp, slashing uselessly at the figure holding it up.


    The figure: an elderly, brown Granti.


    Recognition.


    It was Denspi.


    ¡°Let our seven whiskers go!¡± one of the other Grass Eaters shouted at Denspi.


    A mixture of curiosity and horror overrode her desire to escape. She turned back and slowly approached the scene again. As Casqui got a little closer, taking cover near the overturned bus, she saw the whole squad of Grass Eaters ¡ª four of them ¡ª all with their rifles pointed straight towards Denspi in a small semi-circle around him.


    ¡°Let her go, abomination!¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t let go, we¡¯ll shoot!¡±


    Denspi had a serious expression on his face, holding his free paw up at the exposed neck of the seven whiskers, his sharp untrimmed claws pointed straight at it. The message was clear.


    He mumbled something unintelligible, then his eyes seemed to light up as he spotted Casqui behind the bus.


    Denspi winked at her.


    What is the crazy elder thinking?


    He coughed twice from the smoke and recited loudly in her direction, ¡°Don¡¯t go gentle into that good night.¡±


    What?


    Denspi smiled at her and slashed his claw across the seven whiskers¡¯ throat, its blood instantly spurting out in a mist. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then, the rest of the Grass Eater Marines opened fire in unison, stitching a hundred bullet holes into Denspi¡¯s body before he could even drop their squad leader¡¯s dead body to the ground.


    Casqui held a paw over her snout in horror, watching as their gunfire slowed to a halt. One of the Grass Eaters ran up to check the bodies of Denspi and their seven whiskers.


    It shook its head.


    As the Grass Eater turned, it looked up into the sky, shouting¡­ shouting something urgent. She couldn¡¯t hear what it was shouting in the distance.


    Casqui followed their gaze. There was a dark spot in the sky. Some kind of native winged predator, perhaps? Then she remembered that the Grass Eaters had exterminated those first when they invaded the planet.


    The Grass Eater squad all looked up and quickly opened fire towards it with their rifles, their tracers stabbing into the sky. And as the dark spot got closer, she realized there were multiple of them. A few more seconds, and she saw what they were: flying machines. They made a horribly loud buzzing noise as they got closer. For a second, it seemed like they hung in the air above the squad.


    Then, they dove.


    In a split second, they reached the Grass Eaters, each one turning into an explosive fireball two lengths above head height. The Grass Eater Marines fell from the showers of deadly shrapnel one-by-one.


    Casqui was still frozen there, watching the scene, as a convoy of Granti vehicles rolled up on the road to take her away fifteen minutes later.


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Romeo, Grantor-3


    POV: Guinspiu, Granti (Head Councilor)


    Mark turned his tablet around towards the Granti High Councilor. ¡°Guinspiu, we have terrible news for you. One of our cells raided a prisoner convoy heading towards a Grass Eater death camp. One of our drones overhead recorded the whole thing. We didn¡¯t realize it at first, but our computer flagged it. Your mate was¡ª Perhaps¡­ perhaps it¡¯s better if you watch it yourself.¡±


    Guinspiu watched the video on his tablet hesitantly. When she saw her mate crawl out of the bus, she put her paw on the screen, as if she could reach out and touch him.


    When he smiled on the screen, she smiled back.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go gentle into that good night.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Oh Denspi.¡±


    As he was gunned down, she made a quiet keening sound, tapping her paw on the screen to pause the video. She stared at it for a moment, then raised her snout and howled in grief. She held it in the air for half a minute.


    Guinspiu wiped the tears out of her eyes with the back of her paw and resumed the video, watching the Terran-printed explosive mini-drones make short work of the Grass Eaters squad.


    ¡°How many of the convoy¡¯s prisoners did we recruit for Torsad¡¯s new cell?¡± she asked.


    ¡°High¡ª Guinspiu, we don¡¯t have to talk about that now¡ª¡±


    ¡°How many?¡± she demanded softly.


    ¡°Fifteen. One of them¡ª one of them was the one he was looking towards at the end.¡±


    ¡°Good. Radio Torsad¡¯s fighters: good work. And a hero¡¯s reward for the families of the ones who perished on the bus.¡±


    ¡°Of course, High Councilor. And the fighters recovered his body to be buried on your instruction. I¡¯m sorry for your loss.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mark,¡± she said, putting a heavy paw on his shoulder.


    ¡°Is there anything else we can do for you? We can try to find a way to send you back to Malgeirgam with a few¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m staying. Can you send this video up to the Nile for me?¡±


    ¡°Are you sure, High Councilor?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Mark. I¡¯ve never been surer of anything since I came back to Grantor.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Nile, Grantor-3 (6 Ls)


    POV: Gregor Guerrero, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°They know we¡¯re here, Director,¡± Gregor said. ¡°Their deployment coverage. The Cliunc must have leaked something¡­ I don¡¯t know what, but they know something about us. There¡¯s something going on, and the way they¡¯re all going around¡ª they¡¯re nervous. Or excited about something. I can feel it in my guts.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Mark agreed on his screen. ¡°It seems obvious, but if you look into it, no proof. Just gut feelings. I¡¯m going to go with my gut on this one. One of their Navy VIPs is coming down to the planet. We¡¯re going to hit it and see what we can get from them.¡±


    ¡°Need any help from us?¡±


    ¡°Nah, but once we take this one, they¡¯re going to know something¡¯s up for sure. Do you have your first strike package ready to roll out?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯ve found a few squadron leaders, some Marine chiefs. No signs of their overall fleet commander though. We know he¡¯s floating around in the system somewhere, but he¡¯s being a squirrelly one. Something¡¯s not right.¡±


    ¡°Screw it, a few squadron leaders¡¯ better than nothing. I¡¯ll give you the signal when our mission is a go, and you can take them out. I know your crew must be itching to get in on the action.¡±


    ¡°Will do, Director. Good luck down there.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: ¡°Kara¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    John studied the drone-mapped layout of the enemy base on his tablet closely.


    ¡°In and out, twenty-minute adventure?¡± Kara asked.


    ¡°I wish,¡± he snorted. ¡°Were it that simple. Multiple sources say this is an important target from their Navy, seven whiskers or up.¡±


    ¡°A ship captain, you think?¡±


    ¡°Possibly even a squadron leader.¡±


    ¡°Should we use the locals for this?¡±


    ¡°Nah, a bunch of angry resistance fighters versus an actual, trained military force in the open. We¡¯ll just be burning assets for no reason. I think¡­ we keep this light. Just the three of us.¡±


    ¡°That means using a lot of our own equipment before the monthly resupply,¡± she warned.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. We have plenty of those.¡±


    ¡°And the risk of exposure.¡±


    ¡°Of course. But you know what they say. Our lives were forfeited¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, John. Show me their new drone defenses again.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 17 Radio Free Grantor

    <div>


    TRNS Nile, Grantor-3 (6 Ls)


    This is Radio Free Grantor. The Granti speaking to the Granti, from Grantor City.


    Before we begin, we have an important personal message: Quarmui, your boots are dirty. Quarmui, your boots are dirty.


    You should get that cleaned up, Quarmui.


    We have the news for you tonight. Uncensored by Grass Eaters. Uncensored by the Ministry of Defense. Just straight news, brought to you by the brave fighters of the Grantor Underground.


    There was an attack on the munitions factory on Long Street. Six of our Underground heroes fell in the attack. Their names are: Viuteul, Trettips, Quuirs, Bausse, Copprau, and Teunnad. They have all chosen defiance over extinction.


    There were also twelve Grass Eaters among the dead. May their eggs shatter and rot.


    The munitions factory has been damaged, and their engineers estimate it will take at least three weeks to repair. The official spokesperson of the Grantor Underground wishes the Grass Eaters best of luck getting it back up and running: we will have to look elsewhere for free munitions for the next three weeks.


    A six whiskers Znosian Marine officer was involved in an accident last night. Her ground vehicle drove straight into Grantor Port for no reason we can tell. Tragic.


    The State Security office has announced new curfew hours in Sector 4 of the city. This is the office that claimed that Sector 4 was fully pacified last week, the week before that, the week before that¡­ Maybe they¡¯ve finally done it this time.


    We have a radio intercept here from intelligence officers of the Underground. This is a pair of disillusioned five whiskers talking on their radios. Their voices have been fuzzed to protect their identities from their own State Security:


    ¡°The predators burnt down our transport vehicle last night, the animals. All they know is to destroy.¡±


    ¡°Stupid savages. I can¡¯t wait to get off this cursed planet.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re saying we can¡¯t get out of here until we hit our quota. But we¡¯ll never hit our quota at this rate! Especially¡­ they raised ours last month to pick up the slack of one of the other squads that rejoined the Prophecy!¡±


    ¡°This is all messed up. I hear one of our seven whiskers faked an injury to get transferred out of here¡­ to a more rural assignment.¡±


    ¡°Self-inflicted paw shot?¡±


    ¡°Self-inflicted paw shot.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sigh, I know the one you¡¯re talking about. Not the worst of the options if these attacks keep up.¡±


    For the Grass Eaters listening to this channel ¡ª we know you are out there ¡ª the Underground offers immunity for intelligence. You know how to contact us. For their protection from State Security, we can¡¯t tell you exactly how many Znosian Marines have taken this offer, but I¡¯ve been personally told that it¡¯s a substantial number in just Grantor City itself.


    And finally, we have some more sad news: the mate of a High Councilor of the former Granti Alliance, Denspi, was shot dead fighting the Grass Eaters yesterday. His final moments were captured on video. The imagery will be coming to a poster near you soon. This is the audio recording of his last moments, from the recorder device of one of their Marines:


    ¡°Let our seven whiskers go!¡±


    ¡°Let her go, abomination!¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t let go, we¡¯ll shoot!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t go gentle into that good night.¡±


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at-at.


    Denspi¡¯s final image will be printed on a poster, coming to a wall near you. He was not officially a fighter of the Grantor Underground, but like numerous other Granti heroes before him, he too chose defiance over extinction.


    Remember, Grantor, defiance is for everyone, not just operatives and cell members in the Underground.


    Defiance can be the simplest thing.


    Tomorrow, we are holding a stay-home strike at eleven in the morning in Grantor City. A small, simple act of defiance. For one hour, we encourage everyone to stay home, to stay off the streets. And if you are in one of their work camps, we encourage you to stop your work if you can, and slow your work if you can¡¯t. Everyone can participate. To see how strong we are together, simply look out the window at eleven and see: see just how many there are of us, and how few there are of them.


    This has been your evening news from Radio Free Grantor. Glory to the Granti. Glory to the heroes of the Underground.


    Now, enjoy some music. Some real music, not the grotesque imitation that the Grass Eaters have stolen¡­


    <hr>


    Naval Ground Supply Base 220 (Grantor City), Grantor-3


    POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, I¡¯ll only ask once more, what is the target of the Grand Fleet?¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Ground team to Nile: Invasion imminent, Sol. Invasion imminent. Stand by for briefing packet, over.¡±


    <hr>


    Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)


    POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)


    ¡°The message is: invasion imminent. Deploy all available naval assets immediately. I say again, invasion imminent. Invasion imminent. Invasion imminent.¡±


    ¡°Copy, Captain. We have the Amazon and Mississippi speeding towards the Gruccud system as fast as they can¡­¡±


    ¡°Negative. You don¡¯t understand! Gruccud is not the target! I say again, final target is not Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ ten-four on your last, Captain. We¡¯re running calculations here too. Do you think they¡¯re going for¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re coming for Sol! They¡¯re coming for¡ª¡±


    ¡°Say again, Captain? Don¡¯t think we caught the last¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sierra, Oscar, Lima! Sierra, Oscar, Lima! Invasion imminent! They are heading to Sol!¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Fleet Admiral Waters, our Aegis batteries at Serenity are requesting permission to launch on suborbital targets on Terra.¡±


    ¡°Granted. Launch now.¡±


    ¡°Article One requires¡ª¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°The Senate can confirm their approval while the missiles are in flight. Where are we on the orbital target queue?¡±


    ¡°Confirmed clear, ma¡¯am. A few of them were clever enough to cut their engines and hide among their dead, but Squadron 10 gave them the good old double tap as they drifted into high orbit. That should be the last of their grand fleet in Sol. In Sirius, some of them are trying to fuel up and send relay ships back out of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Good. Good. I want real time updates for those ships from now on.¡±


    ¡°Amelia, how many go-pills have you taken? Shouldn¡¯t you take a short nap?¡±


    ¡°No. Sleep is for those without performance-enhancing drugs. Next, contact the Sims Team. I want to dedicate all idle compute to run simulations.¡±


    ¡°Simulations?¡±


    ¡°I want to look over updated invasion plans as soon as they can.¡±


    ¡°Invasion plans? Surely the Buns will need time to regroup and figure out what went wrong before they send another one of these¡ª¡±


    ¡°Who said anything about their invasion plans?¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Kilo, Grantor-3


    POV: Srutnu, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Nine Whiskers Srutnu woke up from a horrible nightmare. In her dream, she went down onto Grantor to supervise a supply run for the Dominion secondary fleet, and then she was knocked out and captured by Great Predators who stole information out of her mind. They didn¡¯t torture her ¡ª not by any sense of the word she recognized, but they got everything they wanted anyway. What a horrid dream!


    As Srutnu rubbed her eyes to look around the dimly lit Slow Predator basement she was in, she realized that she was not awake yet.


    It had been her reality for¡­ several weeks now, it must be.


    She screamed.


    Maybe one of the people searching for her would finally hear her and¡ª


    ¡°Good, she¡¯s finally up,¡± the horrible female Great Predator named Kara said, baring her teeth. ¡°Now are you going to spare my eardrums, or do you want to be switched off again?¡±


    Srutnu stopped her yelling as she ran out of breath. Yes, definitely that, and not because Kara was swiping on her tablet for her vocal controls. ¡°Where are we now?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Grantor City. Somewhere nobody will get to us without dropping a lot of bodies,¡± Kara replied nonchalantly.


    ¡°You have corrupted the Slow Predators,¡± Srutnu said venomously, pointing an accusing claw at her. ¡°Brought them into your dastardly schemes. Plotted for them to undermine our pacification project!¡±


    ¡°Yes, I thought that was obvious. Aren¡¯t the Teddies cute?¡±


    Srutnu sighed. ¡°At least your home planet and colonies will burn¡ª probably already burnt for this. You are likely the last remaining Great Predators in the galaxy, and when our State Security experts on Grantor catch you, the Prophecy will have been fulfilled.¡±


    Kara¡¯s smile went wider. ¡°Actually, Nine Whiskers, that¡¯s why I¡¯m here ¡ª I¡¯m here to give you the good news.¡±


    ¡°Good news? Did the destruction of your homes inspire the Lesser Predators to finally surrender?¡±


    The predator chuckled. ¡°We won. Your Grand Fleet failed. We killed or captured every last one of your ships, spacers, and Marines that made it into our territory. And with our help, the Malgeir Second and Third Fleets are now beginning a push to drive your Navy out of the entire Federation. Soon, our ships will be here, and Grantor too will be liberated.¡±


    ¡°You have no need to lie to me, predator,¡± Srutnu said sullenly. ¡°I am under no delusions that you will let me go alive. Especially not after you planted that bomb in my head.¡±


    ¡°No, no, it¡¯s true. We stranded and then destroyed your entire invasion fleet, and now we¡¯re cleaning¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course it is,¡± Srutnu said, humoring the predator. Perhaps it was getting delusional with the loss of its home. ¡°I¡¯m sure your people will come and rule over the Slow Predators any day now.¡±


    Kara rolled her eyes. ¡°Fine, you don¡¯t have to believe me, but in celebration, we made some cake with the food printer.¡±


    ¡°Cake?¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± Kara said, pulling forth a plate of Terran dessert from behind her. It was made of a stacked, soft-looking material, and the colorful top showed a caricature of what looked like it was supposed to be a captured Znosian.


    Srutnu was not familiar with cake, but by now, she was familiar with the smell of strawberry which emanated from the dessert.


    ¡°No flesh?¡± she asked suspiciously as she accepted the plate with more eagerness than was responsible for a loyal Znosian nine whiskers.


    ¡°No flesh,¡± Kara replied. The Terran muttered, ¡°Though¡­ it¡¯s not like eating a little meat would kill you or anything. The problem is not enough stomach acidity to kill parasites, and our food doesn¡¯t have parasites.¡±


    Srutnu ignored her and dug into the cake, wolfing it down in a few bites. It tasted sweet, with a little bit of tart. By now, she¡¯d also learned what those Terran words meant.


    ¡°So what are you planning now?¡± Srutnu asked as she licked the frosting on the plate clean.


    Her captors obviously knew she was gathering intelligence on the negligible chance she got free or managed to pass a message onto her fleet, but that never stopped them from boasting or giving her the information anyway. ¡°We think your Grand Fleet Commander Sprabr is here on Grantor to try to prepare the secondary fleet to retreat from here intact, and he¡¯s probably going to blow up the planet as he leaves.¡±


    Srutnu shook her head. ¡°No way. Even if we were to leave, we would never do that.¡± She knew she was not supposed to give away such information to the predators, but with that device in her head, they knew anyway. They always knew.


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Waste,¡± she said, shaking her head. ¡°Inefficiency of the highest order. Grantor is a rare habitable planet, in an excellent strategic location. It¡¯s extremely valuable¡ª¡±


    ¡°Exactly, so he¡¯d blow it up to deny it to us. Not like he¡¯s coming back anytime soon to enjoy its value.¡±


    Srutnu¡¯s mouth hung open as the Terran¡¯s implication drew clear. ¡°You think yourselves equals to us? That there is a chance we will not win this war? That we will never be back here even if you manage to take this planet?!¡±


    ¡°Sure. And not only do I think so, but it also appears Eleven Whiskers Sprabr does too. Our radio intercepts show much the same.¡±


    The Znosian flagship captain scowled. The Great Predators were annoyingly well-practiced at listening in on private conversations. That¡¯s why the fleet now had to communicate important orders physically¡­ when possible. ¡°That is all preposterous. But assuming that is true, then I guess it is possible he orders the destruction of Grantor,¡± she admitted.


    ¡°Exactly, so we plan to stop him.¡±


    ¡°You are a few agents on an alien planet, occupied by millions of our Marines. How do you plan to do such a thing?¡±


    ¡°Very, very carefully.¡±


    ¡°That was not an answer to my question, Terran,¡± she complained.


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my confusing response,¡± Kara mocked.


    Srutnu huffed. ¡°You know there is more to it than just saying you take full responsibility, right? You must take concrete steps to fix the problem to ensure it doesn¡¯t happen again! And there are consequences¡ª¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for failing to take full responsibility. I take full responsibility for refusing to take more responsibility. I take like ninety percent responsibility¡ª¡±


    She thumped her feet paws in frustration. ¡°You can¡¯t do that! That is not how this works!¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Director Mark, but our hatchling experiment failed again,¡± Torsad reported.


    ¡°Failed?¡± Mark asked. ¡°Failed how?¡±


    ¡°We tried another two separate batches. At the end of the day, the hatchlings really are just little psychopaths. We can teach them to not see us as threats. We can even teach them that we¡¯re in their in-group. But we can¡¯t teach them to see us as real people worthy of compassion. The minute they¡¯re convinced that we¡¯re enemies of their people, they revolt and plot to escape. And all our teachings just go out the window. I don¡¯t think you can just¡­ teach morality to them.¡±


    Mark wrinkled his nose. ¡°It¡¯s not their teacher feeding them these things when we¡¯re not looking, right?¡±


    ¡°No, we have hidden cameras in the classroom, and Insunt watches her constantly. She¡¯s not doing this. She really tried. They¡¯re¡­ just born psychos. You can¡¯t fix that with a few lessons on the value of friendship and honor.¡±


    ¡°Ah well, I guess that answers some interesting questions about nature versus nurture for our xenobiologists,¡± Mark mumbled. ¡°But¡­ this has not been a failure.¡±


    ¡°Not a failure?¡±


    Mark chuckled. ¡°No, Department Leader Torsad. Not even close. This¡­ was the control group.¡±


    ¡°The control group?¡±


    ¡°In an experiment, you need two different groups. One group that receives the treatment, and one group that does not. That way, we can look at the difference, and we can see if the treatment is actually working. Now, we¡¯re not exactly scientists here, but when we face the unknown, we still have to do experiments.¡±


    ¡°I was a chemistry teacher before the war, director. I know what a control group is,¡± Torsad replied patiently. ¡°But¡­ if this ¡ª teaching them about empathy and morality ¡ª wasn¡¯t the treatment, then what is?!¡±


    ¡°Remember when we did that mission to rescue the hatchlings from the hatchling pools?¡± Mark asked.


    ¡°Huh? Rescue?¡±


    ¡°Kidnapping is such an ugly word, Department Leader. At the TRO, we try not to use words that would make us sound awful to our elected civilian leaders when our records inevitably get subpoenaed by the Senate in another round of accountability hearings.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes. When we rescued those hatchlings with the intention to turn them into productive, well-adjusted members of a future multi-species Granti society.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. When we did that, we also made some changes to the way their nutrient dispensary system worked.¡±


    ¡°That was the robot in the suitcase you snuck into the computer room?¡± Torsad recalled.


    ¡°Yes. And I think we¡¯re just about ready to go rescue us some more samples for our experiment. In particular, we want the ones in Pool 4. Just Pool 4 this time, please.¡±


    ¡°What about the psycho hatchlings that failed the test? We¡¯re not actually going to recycle them, are we?¡± Torsad asked, sniffing in mild distaste.


    ¡°Keep them under watch in the off-site pen, separated from the other Znosian prisoners we¡¯ve taken. If our experiment succeeds, we¡¯ll need them for something else.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 18 Feel Like Winning I

    <div>


    Hotel Hano, Titan


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Why doesn¡¯t this feel like winning? Why aren¡¯t we just holding them by the original agreement made during the Battle of Sol?¡± Senator Seimur Eisson complained as he loosened his tie after a long day of negotiation. ¡°The Saturnian Resistance Navy is over. They¡¯ve got nothing, and they¡¯re talking about things like they single-handedly defeated the entire alien invasion by themselves. I say we arrest a few of their mid-level guys. A couple nights in a Navy ship brig ought to knock some sense into the rest of them!¡±


    Amelia Waters tried not to roll her eyes as she set her tablet down. ¡°Look, this is the closest we have to true peace in the Red Zone in decades. Giving it a real shot is the least we can do for our people.¡±


    ¡°Of course you¡¯re on their side for this¡ª¡± he began again. But seeing the dangerous expression making its way onto her face, he quickly changed tack. ¡°I mean¡­ you know these people, Amelia! They¡¯re terrorists, pirates, and murderers. You really think they¡¯re going to keep to their word the second we take our eyes off them? Have they ever stuck to their word? Ever?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes. Mostly not,¡± she admitted. ¡°But we have a chance to at least drive the problem to another star system where we don¡¯t have to look at them today and tomorrow. And we should be jumping for joy they¡¯d even accept that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but the deal you agreed to was one star system, not the three they¡¯re asking for now. One! And it¡¯s exile, not¡­ expansion. Look, you may know them militarily,¡± Seimur sniffed. ¡°But I see their kind in district negotiations all the time. Give them a gram, they¡¯ll take a kilo. Today, they want three star systems. Tomorrow, they¡¯ll be back for five. By the end of the week, they¡¯re selling Olympus back to us at a discount!¡±


    Amelia shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s just empty star systems. They want to develop our worthless rocks and empty space out there into productive colonies, they¡¯re welcome to it. Hey, maybe those will even clamor to become Republic districts after a while. We¡¯ll deal with those issues then.¡±


    ¡°And what about after? You¡¯ve seen their new ships! What happens in twenty years when they fly those back to Luna and demand tribute?¡±


    She barked a short laugh. ¡°Their prized Bun ships? Have you taken a look at high Terra orbit lately, Seimur? Or your own Mars, for that matter! If it weren¡¯t for Panoptes, we¡¯d probably still be cataloguing the millions of new pieces of orbital debris from that attempt. And they had thousands of ships, hundreds of them missile destroyers. You think the Resistance is going to do better with their mere three squadrons? Their people can barely fit into those tiny hallways! They¡¯re more likely to develop spine issues than an actual spine to come attack us with!¡±


    ¡°A plan being stupid has never stopped the Resistance before. They can still do a lot of damage to us while self-immolating.¡±


    ¡°True. Yet¡­ their ships will break down in a few months anyway. And where are they going to get their fuel? The only easily accessible blink fuel there is within forty light years is in Sol,¡± Amelia said, tilting her head. ¡°That can¡¯t really be your concern, can it, Senator?¡±


    ¡°Just wait until they demand reparations for those gas giants we sank¡­¡± Seimur hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s not just that¡­ My people have long memories. These terrorists are the same people who killed thousands of us over the years. I was elected on the promise that we will have justice. I can¡¯t go back to my district and explain to them that we¡¯ll give them everything they want in a peace treaty just because¡ª because what? Because they protected their own homes? And it¡¯s three new star systems! What message does that send to enemies of the Republic?¡±


    ¡°It sends the message that we¡¯re willing to consider coexistence. You don¡¯t negotiate peace with friends; you do it with your enemies. That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s just how that works. And this demand of theirs¡­ it¡¯s effectively still exile, Seimur. Into a few undeveloped star systems that won¡¯t be economically viable for decades! Lifetimes, even! Exile instead of prison, is that really so much of a concession? And we¡¯re splitting them up. That¡¯s got to count for something, right?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯ll matter, Amelia. One star system ¡ª that bitter pill my people can maybe swallow because you made them a promise during the Battle of Sol, and the Republic trusts you. For our children to deal with. You think if I get replaced in the next election, my successor will be any more flexible on this issue than I am?¡± he asked, shaking his head. ¡°Any more than that¡­ we¡¯re just kicking the can down the road.¡±


    ¡°All of policy is kicking the can down the road,¡± Amelia said in amusement. ¡°We aren¡¯t crafting a utopian future for our children. God knows we¡¯ve tried that a few times in the last couple hundred years. Thousand-year realm, historical materialism¡­ we aren¡¯t writing the end of history here, Senator.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the rather¡­ short-sighted view of things, some might say. What about our next generation? What will we leave them?¡±


    ¡°We are in a total war, Senator. We walk one step at a time; we fight one battle at a time. And it¡¯s not like we¡¯re hiding from our problems; we are making the galaxy a better place for the Republic tomorrow than it is today. That is all. It¡¯s not perfect. And if our children and grandchildren don¡¯t like it, we¡¯ll have given them the tools, and we can dare them to do better! As it always has been.¡±


    Seimur looked contemplative for a couple seconds, but then deflated and shook his head. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. They aren¡¯t taking three out of the five star systems of the Republic. That just¡ª that isn¡¯t happening. Our districts would revolt and recall us before we put our pens to paper on that treaty.¡±


    ¡°What about¡­ their other demands?¡± Amelia asked, sighing in resignation as she rifled through the agenda items on her tablet. ¡°Maybe we can split the difference somewhere else?¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    ¡°For starters, their prize hulls are still on the table. If they want to keep them, fine, but we¡¯re getting back our spacers¡¯ bodies for their families. And they can¡¯t keep all their Bun prisoners of war.¡±


    ¡°Obviously.¡±


    ¡°Not that I care about welfare of the aliens under their care, but they can¡¯t be allowed that piece of leverage in case they get any ideas about negotiating something separate with the Buns themselves. It¡¯s unlikely they learn to negotiate like civilized creatures, but that¡¯s not a risk we should ever take.¡±


    Amelia declined to ask him whether he was referring to the Ace or the Znosians. Instead, she snorted and muttered under her breath, ¡°Okay, not exactly the formula I was thinking of, but at least you got to the right answer.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve agreed to keep in the condition that the cessation of hostilities includes against any ally of the Republic,¡± he said as he read down the list.


    Technically that wasn¡¯t really a consequential sticking point for either party, as the SRN hadn¡¯t shown any ability to strike against anyone else, except perhaps a few individual Malgeir Marines who were in Sol. But it was the principle of the thing. Some of the Senators, including Seimur himself, had been reluctant to include that particular clause in the negotiations and were originally considering dropping the demand. But when an early draft leaked with that detail conspicuously absent, the public backlash was swift and harsh. That the Malgeir had been fighting and bleeding alongside the Republic in not one, but two wars, was not lost on most voters.


    Amelia smiled sweetly. ¡°Glad you came around on that.¡±


    Seimur ignored the quip and continued, ¡°And those two SRN breakaway groups that have started making some noise in the last couple weeks¡­ screw that! They clean house, or we¡¯ll do it for them.¡±


    She nodded after a heartbeat of thought. ¡°The Ace will hem and haw, but she¡¯ll agree to that. She doesn¡¯t like internal challenges to her power any more than we like splinter cells.¡±


    ¡°Other than that, yeah, everything else is peanuts that the accountant intelligences can nickel and dime through. It¡¯s just the star systems demand that¡¯s an issue.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just¡ª it¡¯s symbolic, Seimur. They just don¡¯t want to walk away with nothing. Fight a half century war with the Republic only to end in total defeat. They don¡¯t want to see this treaty as a document of surrender. And¡­ we don¡¯t want them to either. Because if that¡¯s how they see it, there¡¯s no reason for them to abide by it at all once they get out of here!¡±


    ¡°In times like these, symbols mean everything. And the terrorists, even they need to acknowledge reality at some point!¡±


    Amelia thought for a moment. ¡°What if we give them options?¡±


    ¡°Options? Like¡­ stock options?¡±


    ¡°Like alien territory.¡±


    ¡°Look, I don¡¯t think much of the Malgeir or the Granti, but I doubt even they will be dumb enough to want these assholes in their territory¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m not talking about our allies.¡±


    Seimur frowned. ¡°Znosian?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Why not?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ not against it. But even with your¡ª your ambitious counterattack timelines, we aren¡¯t projected to get there and hold those Znosian systems until next year or the year after. We can¡¯t put these talks on hold while we do that; there¡¯s always a chance they do something stupid between now and then.¡±


    Amelia shrugged. ¡°The Resistance ¡ª they¡¯ve got their own FTL ships now. Three squadrons of them.¡±


    Seimur¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You¡¯re talking about¡ª¡±


    ¡°Look, how about this? They can have a presence in Sirius. And they can have enough fuel for a one-way trip to Grunsaeps, at the edge of Granti space. Everything beyond that¡­ that¡¯s what I call a ¡®them problem¡¯.¡±


    ¡°A ¡®them problem¡¯?¡± he repeated. ¡°By them, are we talking about the Resistance or the Buns?¡±


    She pointed a finger back at him, a smile creeping onto her face. ¡°Yes. Yes, we are.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    The Ace of Clubs was having trouble controlling her temper. ¡°Who the fuck is moving against the Reps without my explicit orders?¡±


    Felix checked his tablet. ¡°Looks like one of the cells is a new uh¡­ new excitable crew on Mimas. They joined after the Tharsis attacks. One of their guys tried to take some local dockworkers hostage but got zapped by station security.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Embarrassing amateurs. Remind everyone that if anyone moves again without my say-so, we¡¯ll feed them to our new pet Buns piece by piece.¡±


    ¡°Ace? What if they¡ª¡±


    ¡°What? You think they¡¯ll need a real demonstration first? Good call. Where did Krissy go?¡± she shouted.


    The former Eight Whiskers of the Znosian Navy hopped into the room on command. ¡°You asked for me, Thirteen Whiskers?¡±


    Felix hurried to explain. ¡°No, no, I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll get the message. I was asking what to tell them since¡ª since they sent us a message asking about the status of the negotiations?¡±


    ¡°Status¡ª status of negotiations?! What are they, angling for my job now? I¡¯m negotiating. And when I¡¯m done with that, I give orders, and they follow them. They don¡¯t like that¡­ they can go running to the Reps for witness protection, or Krissy can do for a nice dinner. Isn¡¯t that right, Bun?¡±


    Krizvum bowed deeply. ¡°Yes, Thirteen Whiskers. I will eat whatever you tell me to.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry Krissy, we¡¯ll make sure to fully cook them to temperature before we feed you meat next time. Who knew you had such a weak stomach?¡± the Ace sighed.


    ¡°Thank you, Thirteen Whiskers. You are so kind and benevolent.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs nodded. ¡°Damn right. You know, Krissy, I think I¡¯m going to miss you when the Reps take you all away from us.¡±


    ¡°Thirteen Whiskers?¡± he asked, looking up. And for a second, a glint of hope flashed across his eyes.


    It didn¡¯t stay there for long.


    She sighed, ¡°Yeah, they want us to hand you guys over. Actually, you know what? I¡¯m going to see if I can get a small exception ¡ª a carve-out of some kind ¡ª put into the Treaty of Hano draft. Maybe we¡¯ll be allowed to keep a few of you furry little monsters around. Military advisors. Enough to staff our ships. Since the Rep admiral wants us to go attack your people¡¯s territory, right?¡±


    ¡°I was only a lowly ship captain, Thirteen Whiskers,¡± Krizvum said, his eyes almost pleading for the sweet release of death. ¡°I don¡¯t know much about your military strategy¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, obviously, or you wouldn¡¯t be here as a prisoner, would you? But we¡¯re heading into new territory, and we¡¯ll need to know about local culture and shit, right?¡± the Ace of Clubs asked with a dangerous look in her eyes. ¡°You won¡¯t have a problem volunteering to help us with that, will you, Krissy?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª of course not, Thirteen Whiskers,¡± he bowed again. ¡°I will be honored to help with whatever you ask of me.¡±


    ¡°Good. Good. You¡¯ll do, Eight Whiskers.¡±


    The Ace glanced around her new crew in the ship hangar, now mostly made of captured Znosian prisoners with their undersized equipment. Recruitment had dried up with the imminent official peace in the Red Zone, but that was of human crew. There was no shortage of captured Znosians all over the Sol system, and with the Republic Navy busy elsewhere, the old contraband smuggling routes funneled captured spacers of the Znosian Navy into her new ships. Breaking them wasn¡¯t easy, but once they figured it out and developed a method, she had no complaints about their efficiency.


    These guys don¡¯t complain about bathroom breaks and pay raises, that¡¯s for sure.


    She beamed at the furry creatures diligently working their duty stations on her ship with a pleased smile. ¡°You all will do.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 19 Feel Like Winning II

    <div>


    TRNS Sonora, Sirius (18,000 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    The newly promoted rear admiral stared intently at the Resistance-flagged ships that they were supposed to be escorting through Sirius. Her ship was now accompanied by the three Python squadrons (one of them so newly activated that the radiation-absorbent paint on their hulls was still drying) and Rear Admiral Carla Bauernschmidt¡¯s squadron of assault carriers and auxiliaries for backup. But that didn¡¯t ease her a bit about the scum they were now accompanying.


    ¡°You know, Admiral, you can¡¯t kill them by just staring at them, right?¡± the Sonora¡¯s new captain asked. With the massive expansion of the Navy, there were plenty of new spots to fill. Kyrylo Holub was her old executive officer, and he jumped up in rank and stepped neatly into her shoes once she got promoted to squadron commander after the Battle of Terra.


    ¡°Yeah?¡± she asked, distracted.


    ¡°Railguns kill. Missiles kill. But looks¡­ well, maybe your looks can¡ª¡±


    ¡°What they¡¯ve done with the Endurance¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s grotesque is what it is.¡°


    They watched as the squadrons of Resistance ships slowly organized themselves into a passable escort formation around their flagship: the former TRNS Endurance. A thirty-year-old workhorse with three decades¡¯ worth of patched repairs and upgrades, including its latest retrofit ¡ª a massive FTL drive ringed around its rear quadrant. That particular piece of technology was a captured prize from none other than ships of the Grand Znosian Navy. The modified carrier was, in every sense of the word, an abomination.


    It¡¯s a miracle it even made it out of Sol.


    Catarina sighed. ¡°I just¡ª I can¡¯t believe we¡¯re supposed to escort a bunch of damn terrorists just so they can go make themselves at home in Bun territory.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Kyrylo said, looking at their symbols on the map sourly. ¡°But that¡¯s the Treaty of Hano for you. The war is over. The Resistance is done. The Republic won. Peace in the Red Zone. Magnanimity in victory¡­ or something.¡±


    ¡°So why doesn¡¯t this feel like winning, Captain?¡±


    ¡°What does winning feel like?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ Would we even know?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea.¡± Kyrylo walked up to stand next to her, watching the new SRN-flagged ships prepare their alien blink drives on the screen. ¡°But we didn¡¯t lose, and now we¡¯re fighting the right war.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a story I was recently told.¡± Catarina glanced at him and smiled. ¡°There was an old, wise man who owned a horse. One day, he forgot to tie up his horse and it ran away. Everyone in the village consoled him for his loss. He said, we¡¯ll see. A few weeks later, his horse returned with a herd of wild horses. Everyone in the village was jealous of his large, new herd. He said, we¡¯ll see. The man became rich with his stable of horses, and his son grew up and learned to ride them. One day, his son fell off one of his horses, breaking his leg. Everyone in the village felt sorry for him. He said, we¡¯ll see. A few years later, war broke out, and all the men in the village were drafted to war, except his son.¡±


    ¡°And everyone was jealous, but the wise man said, we¡¯ll see,¡± Kyrylo said, completing the story for her.


    She shook her head, grinning. ¡°Ah. No, actually. The wise man said, son, get out of my house and enlist. This ain¡¯t the dark ages. Not having all your limbs isn¡¯t considered a 4-F disability anymore. The Republic Marines will grow you a pair of new legs for free.¡±


    Kyrylo chuckled dryly twice, then patted her on the shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ve been spending a lot of time with that Admiral Waters, huh?¡±


    ¡°How could you tell?¡±


    ¡°Just a feeling.¡± He scratched his nose and pointed at the Resistance ships in the virtual window. ¡°What do you think they¡¯re thinking over there?¡±


    Catarina paused for a while, staring at her own reflection in the smooth glass for a long moment. ¡°Probably the same thing we are¡­ I guess.¡±


    ¡°Then, maybe this is what winning feels like.¡±


    She took a deep breath. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    <hr>


    Naval Station Europa, Europa (100 km)


    POV: Ditvish, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Zero Whiskers)


    Former Ten Whiskers Ditvish stared at his growing bookshelf, wondering what he should add to it next. He went through a phase where he exclusively requested non-fictional Terran history and technical manuals, hoping that he could memorize all of it. And one day he¡¯d be able to return to his people, and he¡¯d be able to at least give his people an advantage before they lined him up against a wall. Maybe there would still be redemption for his bloodline.


    He got past that phase a while ago. How long? He wasn¡¯t sure. The days blended together sometimes¡­


    Some more fiction, perhaps? He mentioned romance last time¡­ perhaps I could give that a try.


    The cell door opened. He looked towards the entrance to see which of his captors was due for a chat today.


    It was Hersh. One of the Terran State Security people. This Hersh took over his routine interrogation after the one called Mark left. Hersh was more talkative than Mark, and he was interesting in his own abominable way even if both of them had very similar tics and habits.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    For example, as always, Hersh turned the observation room window opaque and manually disconnected the cables to the camera that recorded everything in the room.


    ¡°You doing alright here?¡± the Terran operative asked, sitting down opposite Ditvish after completing the paranoid ritual.


    ¡°Maybe if I ridicule you for that silly question enough, you will stop asking it of me,¡± Ditvish replied dryly.


    ¡°Just doing my job, Ten Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Any news out in the galaxy? Anything new?¡±


    Hersh¡¯s eyes twinkled. ¡°Yeah. A few.¡±


    Ditvish sighed. ¡°I see you are happy. This is bad news for me and my people again, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Very. Take a guess?¡±


    ¡°No, thank you. I won¡¯t play your stupid games. If you care enough, you can read my guess off my mind anyway.¡±


    Hersh crossed his arms. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll tell you. Your people attacked our home system.¡±


    ¡°I already suspected as much.¡± Ditvish shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s why you evacuated me to this new cell a few weeks ago. Or¡­ the most likely explanation anyway.¡±


    ¡°And¡ª¡±


    ¡°And you won,¡± he said indifferently. ¡°Of course. That¡¯s why I¡¯m still sitting here and not in front of an execution squad of my own people.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ would you¡ª would you prefer that?¡±


    Ditvish didn¡¯t bother to answer out loud. They¡¯d read his thoughts right from his brain anyway. ¡°I am¡­ not surprised you won again.¡±


    ¡°Alright then, clairvoyant fleet master. I just thought you might want to know.¡±


    ¡°Any news other than what I¡¯m sure was a foolhardy attack on your home system?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Hersh said, still grinning. ¡°We are counterattacking with the Puppers¡ª excuse me, the Lesser-But-Improved Predators.¡±


    Ditvish snorted at the translator¡¯s butchering of the Znosian language. ¡°Of course. Whatever we expended on an attack here¡­ that must have left us weak. I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re going for all the Lesser Predator¡¯s territory and perhaps all the way back to Grantor?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be ruining the enjoyment I get for telling you all this,¡± Hersh huffed. ¡°What¡¯s the point of beating your people if I can¡¯t see the shock and disappointment in your eyes every time I describe to you how your people lose?¡±


    ¡°Tell me at least this one¡­ the State Security operator, ah¡ª the director as you¡¯ve mentioned last time. Svatken. The one who put me in this position in the first place. Did she at least get punished severely for the fiasco?¡± he asked hopefully. ¡°A demotion, at least?¡±


    Hersh grinned. ¡°Nah, she¡¯s doing just fine. In fact, she¡¯s doing really well. Got another promotion after her superior took responsibility for the failure, the ultimate promotion. Went from sector director to just¡­ the overall director of the entire office. Falling upwards seems to be her specialty. And we¡¯ve spent significant resources making sure nothing bad happens to our Dear Director.¡±


    Ditvish sighed. ¡°Even you know she¡ª she¡ª¡± He stopped talking, unsure if he should continue.


    ¡°Eh. She¡¯s not a total idiot, but her replacement would be much more annoying to deal with just by virtue of his deference to the Navy. Your old mentor, Grand Fleet Commander Sprabr ¡ª he is really not a big fan of Svatken, and the feeling is mutual. He¡¯s a couple of bad days away from finding himself face down in a shallow ditch on her orders.¡±


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers Sprabr was not part of the attack?!¡±


    ¡°He stayed home. Smart fella. Turns out he even told them not to do it¡­ at least before they could be more prepared to deal with us. They didn¡¯t listen to him about that. Thankfully. Well, maybe.¡±


    Ditvish brushed his whiskers. ¡°He told them not to attack?! That¡¯s¡­ perceptive.¡± He wasn¡¯t sure if he¡¯d made the same choice if he didn¡¯t know what he now knew about the Terrans, but then again, Sprabr had a couple more years of intelligence and information gathering. And who knew just how much he learned from the missteps and leaks from the Lesser Predators¡­


    Hersh confirmed with a nod. ¡°Yup. At least that¡¯s what it seemed like.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ he was right. And State Security has a problem with him for that?¡±


    ¡°Even more now that he was proven right; nobody likes a smartass. He didn¡¯t go around saying I told you so, but everyone knows he¡¯s thinking it, which makes it just enough to be uncomfortable around him. Turns out your people aren¡¯t so different from ours after all,¡± Hersh said, letting off a little chuckle.


    ¡°Surely that bias would be offset in a proper assignment-of-responsibility¡ª ah. You did something about that too.¡±


    ¡°Hey, you¡¯re catching on!¡±


    Ditvish looked at Hersh suspiciously. ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ what did you do?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the trouble with responsibility, isn¡¯t it? It relies on accurate reporting and intelligence. Of course, since none of your Grand Fleet actually got out of the Republic cluster¡­ we got to tell the story our way. And we get to spread some nasty rumors about some very competent people in your Dominion.¡±


    ¡°And they¡­ believed you?!¡± Ditvish asked in disbelief.


    ¡°There¡¯s¡­ a bit of motivated reasoning too. Who do you think is actually responsible for the disaster?¡±


    ¡°The people who planned it, of course.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± Hersh prompted.


    ¡°And¡­ since the secret of the invasion itself must be kept within the top echelons to prevent leaks to you and your spying, the people responsible would be¡­ ah.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re getting it.¡±


    ¡°Nobody high up in State Security is taking responsibility?¡±


    ¡°Why would they?¡±


    ¡°Because¡­ they are supposed to.¡±


    ¡°Our Dear Director Svatken disagrees. And obviously, given her extensive training and experience in military operations, of course they¡¯ll have to defer to her¡ª¡±


    ¡°She is not trained or bred for naval operations at all!¡± Ditvish objected.


    ¡°Hey, wow! We¡¯re learning a lot about the real world today, huh?¡±


    ¡°Nobody objected to this insanity?!¡±


    ¡°Well, some of them did. Past tense.¡±


    ¡°And she had them killed?!¡± Ditvish asked in astonishment. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ unprecedented! Surely she knows a move like that would be terrible for the Dominion.¡±


    ¡°Heh. No. I mean, she had a couple of them purged, but she wasn¡¯t nearly as selfish as we wanted her to be.¡± Hersh admitted, ¡°We took care of the rest of them. Anyone who would object. Anyone who would point a claw at her in the responsibility assignment. Car accidents. Heart attacks. We¡¯re getting pretty good at that stuff now. Anyway, they traced responsibility in a loop, drew up a list of officers to feed to the firing squad¡­ it looks like they¡¯re about done for now on Znos.¡±


    Ditvish shook his head in disappointment. ¡°And it¡¯s¡­ all our officers you deemed competent?¡±


    ¡°Not so clean. There are some incompetent ones in there as well. And we couldn¡¯t get literally everyone. Sprabr was spared; they just eye him with a little suspicion now. But the important thing is: Svatken¡¯s in charge and the Dominion is slightly worse managed today than it was yesterday. And as such, your Navy as well.¡±


    Ditvish buried his face in his paws in despair. ¡°Perhaps allowing non-naval officers to control our Navy this closely was a mistake in the setup of our system.¡±


    ¡°You mean civilian control of the military?¡± Hersh asked. ¡°We have that too. Seems to work just fine for us.¡±


    Ditvish shook his head, pointing a paw at the books on his shelf. ¡°Even some of your visionary writers disagree.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I see you¡¯ve been reading Heinlein,¡± Hersh chuckled. ¡°Most people now reject that particular utopian vision, but hey, they were fun stories¡­ Wait a second. You know Starship Troopers is a piece of fiction, right? Totally made up. A complete fabrication.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. You¡¯ve explained that concept to me, and I¡¯ll admit it has been an enjoyable idea despite the apparent waste of social resources in its creation. Still¡­ the inefficiency in our own system that is State Security could be avoided by an implementation of your author¡¯s vision.¡±


    ¡°Heh. Just because your State Security is run poorly doesn¡¯t mean the whole concept of civilian control of the military is a bad idea. Maybe your people are just doing it wrong. Are you aware of our idiom: throwing the baby out with the bathwater?¡±


    Ditvish sniffed twice with disdain. ¡°Yes, though I¡¯m unsure why that itself is supposed to be a bad thing. We recycle corrupted hatchlings from tainted pools all the time.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 20 Parity

    <div>


    Raytech ¡ª Olympus Campus, Mars


    POV: Martina Wright, Terran (Executive)


    ¡°I thought you said Panoptes had more computing power than anything we¡¯d ever had,¡± Amelia said, glaring at the Raytech exec sitting calmly at her desk.


    ¡°It does,¡± Martina answered. ¡°Were the miracles during the Battle of Sol not enough to convince you?¡±


    ¡°Then what¡¯s with the delay on the Buns¡¯ latest code update? My people tell me we haven¡¯t had access to their most important communications since last month.¡±


    Martina sighed. ¡°Our good friends from Znos have figured out that you guys are listening to everything they¡¯re saying, so their State Security office has started using one-time pads for orders communication, among some other measures.¡±


    Amelia squinted. ¡°And Panoptes can¡¯t just¡­ I don¡¯t know¡­ crack that?¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t. Nothing can. It¡¯s perfectly secure when implemented properly.¡±


    ¡°Perfect security? Is that even possible? How?!¡±


    Martina leaned forward. ¡°Imagine you and I have a secret language in a code book we share, where the word sausage means attack and carrot means Luna. And when I say sausage carrot, you know I¡¯ve said attack Luna, but nobody else could possibly figure that out without knowing about our secret language.¡±


    Amelia crossed her arms. ¡°Yeah, sure. That¡¯ll work the first time. But the second time those pesky operatives at the TRO hear anyone talk about sausages on the network, they¡¯re gonna send Marines to Luna to stop our not-so-secret attack.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but the words change every time. When I use sausage the first time, you cross it out in your code book, I cross it out in my code book, and I go to the next word for attack. And it¡¯ll be something completely unrelated, like zebra.¡±


    ¡°I see, so as long as there are words left in our code book, the messages can stay secure from other people forever.¡±


    Martina nodded. ¡°Exactly. It¡¯s true information secrecy. Unlike ciphers, when implemented properly, one-time pad messages are completely impervious to statistical or quantum cryptanalysis.¡±


    ¡°So why aren¡¯t all our messages sent using this system?¡±


    ¡°Ah, remember my caveat? When implemented properly. The code books must never be reused or shared. That means every ship must have its own paired code book with every other ship or relay station it expects to communicate securely with. If any two pairs of users ever share the same code book, cracking the message becomes trivial for Panoptes. Additionally, implementation requires that the code book be at least as long as all the messages you intend to send ¡ª in terms of data length ¡ª before you get another code book.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s practical for use for say¡­ orders or text communication, but not imagery or real-time sensor datalink between the whole fleet?¡±


    ¡°Right again,¡± Martina nodded. ¡°Initially when the Buns started using these new order pads, they shared and reused them, or they used keys that were not truly random, and since we have surveillance drones in every one of their vital systems, we were able to crack their secrets easily. There were also other compounding vulnerabilities. For example, every other message on their border system contained the phrase¡­ our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy and all that. And that responsibility self-flagellation thing.¡±


    Amelia snorted. ¡°Classic mistake.¡±


    ¡°Yup. By themselves, one-time pads aren¡¯t normally vulnerable to that kind of frequency analysis, but with key reuse, that was helpful for us to say the least. Another mistake they made: they were producing these pads out of three orbital facilities in Znos before the codes were physically couriered to their ships.¡±


    Amelia frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t remember us sending the secret squirrels that deep recently.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t need to,¡± Martina said, shaking her head. ¡°A recon drone in Znos monitoring their station hulls was just sensitive enough to pick up the electromagnetic radiation their computers inside produced every time they generated a new code book.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ didn¡¯t know we could do that.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, barely an inconvenience. Been doing that for a century. After a while, they figured that out too. Don¡¯t know how, but they moved their facilities dirtside and underground. One thing you gotta give the Buns credit for, they learn quickly. And now that they¡¯ve learned we¡¯re listening to them, their State Security offices are cracking down on all these mistakes and sticking to the textbooks. And as you know¡ª¡±


    ¡°They know how to follow a script to the letter. And any miniscule sign of a communication breach causes them to re-evaluate. Those damn responsible Bun Navy officers.¡±


    Martina nodded.


    ¡°That sucks. Is there no other way we can break it? The captured prisoners¡­ will they know anything? Or the captured ships?¡±


    ¡°At best, that¡¯ll get you the code book pairs for the ship you¡¯ve already captured,¡± Martina said, shrugging. ¡°Sometimes they reference their orders on their regularly encrypted radio, and we¡¯ll catch that, or we can read telemetry for some of their ship modules right off their hulls, but other than those¡­¡±


    Amelia sighed. ¡°Right. I guess they¡¯ve finally got here.¡±


    ¡°Here?¡±


    ¡°They can¡¯t listen to our orders yet, as far as I know. But they¡¯ve made it so we can¡¯t listen to their most secret orders either. And that¡­ is almost parity.¡±


    ¡°I know what you guys in the Navy think about fair fights.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Amelia said, pointing an accusatory finger. ¡°This is precisely what we¡¯ve been paying you and your folks for decades to avoid.¡±


    ¡°Nothing we can do about the limitations of mathematics and information theory, Amelia. But hey, at least we¡¯re giving you a significant materiel advantage. The new ships that are going to be coming out of¡ª¡±


    Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Now where have I heard that before? Isn¡¯t that what you said about the Pythons? Something about the Peacekeepers. What were your exact words?¡±


    ¡°The Python will have the same tactical advantage over the Peacekeeper that the Peacekeeper has over the Goodyear Blimp,¡± Martina quoted, smiling sweetly at the admiral.


    ¡°Yes, that one. Exactly that one.¡±


    ¡°And what part of that was untrue?¡± She held up a finger for pause. ¡°And don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll make the same guarantee for those new ships too. You just make sure you have the spacers to use them when their paint dries.¡±


    Amelia looked at her for a second and then shook her head. ¡°What about the fuel? Are you still relying on those Malgeir fueling ships to get your supplies and people out of the Republic cluster?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. But the new Schprissian fuel depot at Flint is coming online in¡ª¡°


    ¡°And just how much is that going to cost us?¡±


    ¡°You? Or Raytech?¡± Martina asked innocently. ¡°Because we¡¯ve got a sweet deal with the kitties running the place¡­¡±


    Amelia gave her a dry side eye. ¡°Ha-ha. Very funny. I swear, you guys try to shift those costs off to the Navy, I¡¯m going to send Marines down to Olympus and start figuring out just what essential supplies for Republic security you¡¯ve been hoarding¡ª¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°Nah, it¡¯s a¡ª relax, Amelia. We know how to milk one cow at a time. The kitties¡ª they have been responsive to a different kind of negotiation.¡±


    ¡°Extortion.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not extortion. It¡¯s blackmail. But hey, isn¡¯t that how your diplomats got them to agree to build and supply the depots in the first place too?¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is not how it went down,¡± Amelia pointed a finger at Martina. ¡°And they get twenty-five years of future operating revenue on that depot. It¡¯s a prime investment opportunity for them!¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh. Do they know that we¡¯re working on a way to modify the Iris engines to take a Jupiter-sized bite out of the Flint star as a refueling planetoid, sometime in the next¡­ ten to fifteen years?¡±


    Amelia shrugged. ¡°That sounds a whole lot like a problem my successor will have to deal with after I retire.¡±


    ¡°And we wonder why they all call our species short-sighted.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need good vision. We¡¯ve got gravidar.¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Romeo, Grantor-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    ¡°I need your updated authentication code for the week, Six Whiskers. This one is two months outdated.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª I don¡¯t have one. Can you just¡­ let me through this once? Please? It¡¯ll be better for the both¡ª¡±


    ¡°No. You are in serious violation of protocol. Stay here, Six Whiskers. I need to call my¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Four Whiskers Spazken.¡±


    ¡°Huh? Sorry? What do you mean¡ª Six Whiskers? What are you¡ª¡±


    Skhork tried to close his eyes as a slick polymer device materialized in his right paw, but he couldn¡¯t. They didn¡¯t let him. He still needed to see. See his target.


    Click. Pew.


    Instead of falling to the floor from his modified infiltrator handgun as he expected, the four whiskers looked straight into his soul with her own blood splattered all over her face. ¡°Why? Six Whiskers, why?¡±


    Shocked, he stumbled back, into a soft body. It was another four whiskers, with a face he recognized. She clutched his paws tightly and asked, ¡°Why have you forsaken the Prophecy, Six Whiskers? Why?!¡±


    ¡°No, I¡ª it¡¯s not¡ª¡±


    He turned to get away, and this time, it wasn¡¯t a Znosian that appeared. It was one of the Lesser Predators he¡¯d exterminated on Datsot. It snarled at him with a full set of carnivorous teeth. He pivoted, in slow motion, trying his best to hop away from the menace, but it was right behind him¡­


    Skhork woke up screaming. It took him a minute to calm down from the nightmare. They¡¯d become increasingly frequent since he landed on this cursed planet.


    Skhork was not a happy Znosian.


    For the past few months, he¡¯d been used.


    Completely and thoroughly used. Like a tool, or an instrument. His brain manipulated. His body forced to do the bidding of an alien chip embedded in his skull.


    He tried to escape, multiple times. One of the Terrans waited by the door for him ¡ª each time ¡ª with a smile on their face as if they were enjoying a practical joke at his expense. They didn¡¯t even stop him, just watched as his paws refused to cooperate as he attempted to step beyond the threshold they defined.


    There wasn¡¯t much he could do.


    But he didn¡¯t have to be happy about it. The Terrans gaslit him all the time, but they were at least not cruel enough to deny him that small freedom of unhappiness. Mark had once mentioned, almost off-handedly, how they could wipe away all his horror and frustration in an instant if he wanted them to. With a chemical drug, not even the total control they had over his brain. With the brain chip, they could even make him feel the maximal pleasure his brain was capable of comprehending whenever he obeyed their twisted orders.


    They demonstrated it, giving him an afternoon of pure delight as he cleaned up their hideout at their command. It was incredible. According to Mark, that was similar to the pleasure of breeding that State Security had managed to castrate from their brains. For a whole afternoon. That joy ¡ª it was dangerously addictive.


    Then, they offered him a choice: he could have that permanently. Every time he behaved and did as they ordered, they could give that to him. And they could take away his nightmares.


    He refused. Barely.


    At least this way he could still feel something genuine.


    Skhork considered it though. Every time they sent him on one of their cursed missions against his own kind. With experience, they¡¯d gotten better at ordering him around and he¡­ well, he got better at betraying his own kind. He¡¯d started seeing them as¡­ not even his fellow Znosian. Just targets¡­ of his captors. He wondered if that was how the predators thought of them; it was certainly how he thought of the predators when he was still¡­ free.


    At least all this brain controlling was useful technology that the Dominion would one day take from them after these predators were exterminated. The pacification campaigns they were doing in the name of the Prophecy would be so much more efficient when augmented by the ability to restrict or control the actions of predators. All the Dominion would need to do is come and destroy these abominations. Skhork ignored the growing voice in the back of his mind¡­ wondering, doubting just how long that would take.


    Or Prophecy forbids, whether ultimate failure was even possible.


    Impossible.


    The predators must have put those evil thoughts there.


    ¡°Good morning, Skhork,¡± Mark called out from their makeshift kitchen in the wooded hideout. He was making something¡ª something grotesque on his metal pan. It was sizzling. ¡°Want some scrambled eggs?¡±


    Skhork mimicked the disgusted expression they used on his own face. ¡°Bleh! Flesh!¡±


    Mark grinned. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Doesn¡¯t this smell absolutely delicious?¡±


    ¡°Do you know some of my people believe in reincarnation?¡±


    ¡°Huh? What¡¯s that got to do¡ª what about you?¡± Mark paused his cooking to ask, ¡°Do you believe in a life after life?¡±


    ¡°I believe when my people inevitably kill you, you will be reborn as one of the prey animals you feast on. And as you crawl out of your eggshell, you shall be set upon by winged predators. They will not kill you immediately. No, they will rip your guts inside out, leaving you alive and suffering on the ground for hours before you can bleed out.¡±


    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s a bit graphic¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then, it starts over and happens again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just¡ª¡±


    ¡°And again,¡± Skhork emphasized.


    Skhork was disappointed he did not get the desired rise out of Mark, who nonchalantly chuckled. ¡°The beautiful circle of life. You know our powdered eggs are not real either, right?¡± The Terran held up the box as he read from it. ¡°Cruelty-free. Grown from¡­ a long list of chemicals and organic compounds in an agro-fabricator in District 93.¡±


    For good measure, Mark held the box to his eyes, pointing at the nutrition labels. ¡°See? Just powder and chemicals.¡±


    ¡°Gross,¡± Skhork replied, wheezing as he pushed the box away. ¡°And totally irrelevant.¡±


    ¡°How is that irrelevant?!¡±


    ¡°A real creature had to die at some point to develop that formula,¡± he speculated.


    The flash of a mildly annoyed expression on the Terran operative¡¯s face told him that he guessed right. ¡°And your people, you would never kill for any reason, right?¡± Mark asked sarcastically.


    ¡°Not for food.¡±


    ¡°Now, how is that relevant?¡±


    This being at least the tenth time they had this identical conversation, Skhork brought up the fresh point he had been pondering for days now. ¡°What about this: would you eat manufactured Terran flesh if it were grown in one of your chemical vats and no real Terran was hurt in the process?¡±


    ¡°Would¡ª would I eat¡ª¡± Mark sputtered.


    ¡°See?¡± he said smugly. ¡°My point exactly.¡±


    ¡°Well, there are novelty black market dealers in the Red Zone where you can actually get grown human flesh that¡ª¡± Mark shook his head and rolled his eyes. ¡°Forget it. I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m arguing the bioethics of eating synthetic meat with an amoral murder psycho!¡±


    ¡°You are the amoral murder psycho!¡± he said, pointing an accusatory paw back at the Terran operative.


    Mark flashed him a grin. ¡°Huh. I guess it takes one to know one.¡±


    ¡°If annoying you with your own species¡¯ hypocrisy is the most I can do for the Dominion war effort, then it is the least I can do.¡±


    ¡°Actually, arguing helps me think. Thinking up these hypotheticals makes me more effective at my actual job¡ª¡± Mark said.


    ¡°Ah, I am now accustomed to your predator lies. Regardless of what you say, I will not stop. You will be annoyed.¡±


    ¡°Ah well. Was worth a try,¡± Mark grinned again as he opened the pantry to examine their ample stocks. ¡°What do you want for breakfast then? We have roasted baby carrots and fried¡ª¡±


    ¡°I want roasted baby carrots.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to hear the other options first?¡±


    Skhork raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. ¡°Why? I like eating roasted baby carrots.¡±


    Mark sighed as he took out the dehydrated packets and closed the pantry. ¡°Never mind. Plate of roasted baby carrots coming right up¡­ Wait, have you done your chores this morning?¡±


    ¡°No! I¡¯m a Longclaw Commander, not a bred-illiterate laborer. You can¡¯t make me do all your lowly, menial tasks¡ª¡±


    Mark cocked his head and looked straight at him. ¡°Six Whiskers, go make your bed and clean up before breakfast.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t do this!¡± Skhork screamed back at Mark in defiance as his limbs began to move toward his cot against his will. ¡°This is sick abuse! This is wrong! This is unnatural and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you want me to take away your whining privileges too, Six Whiskers?¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What is this target of yours?¡± Skhork asked suspiciously as he eyed the large facility displayed on Mark¡¯s tablet screen.


    ¡°Take a guess. Look familiar?¡±


    He examined it a few more seconds, noting the large elevators and deep holes in the ground¡­ ¡°It¡¯s¡­ a spaceport.¡±


    ¡°Exactly right. Hey¡­ looks just like the one where we captured you.¡±


    Skhork harrumphed at the implied jab. ¡°What is your plan? To blow up the spaceport?¡±


    Mark waved a dismissive hand at him. ¡°Oh please, nothing quite so uncivilized.¡±


    ¡°I am the only civilized one here, abomination¡ª¡±


    ¡°We plan to use the spaceport for its intended purpose: to launch spacecraft.¡±


    Skhork thought for a second. ¡°Like a surface-to-orbital missile?¡±


    ¡°Does everything have to be about blowing things up with you?¡± Mark asked dryly.


    ¡°Okay, then what are we¡ª you doing with the spaceport then?¡±


    ¡°Take a guess, Six Whiskers Skhork,¡± Mark said.


    ¡°No, I refuse to play your silly predator games¡ª My first guess is something to disrupt our fleet upstairs¡­ Arrgghhh!¡±


    Mark cackled as Skhork struggled futilely against the neural chip in his brain compelling his answer. ¡°Never gets old. But wrong. Thanks for playing.¡±


    Skhork folded his arms angrily. ¡°Well? What is it?¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ you know. Just some important cargo. Exports. How much do you know about how your hatchling pools work?¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all. Why?¡±


    ¡°No reason. Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll teach you. So you can do your job right.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll screw everything up on purpose. Sabotage everything.¡±


    Mark rubbed his hands together in excitement. ¡°That¡­ was always the plan, Skhork.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 21 Teamwork I

    <div>


    Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    ¡°What exactly is the problem here, Administrator Krelnos?¡± Sprabr asked the shorter female figure in front of him as patiently as he could. This new station director had been giving him a headache for the past couple months. If that Director Svatken hadn¡¯t promoted this one herself, he¡¯d already done something about her meddling whiskers weeks ago. As it was, she was testing his patience.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand, Navy Eleven Whiskers,¡± she answered haughtily, putting a special emphasis on his service as if it were a pejorative. ¡°This is a matter of State Security, not a problem you can simply blow up with one of your ships.¡±


    Sprabr gave her an amused expression. ¡°Station Director Krelnos, I think you will find it easier to do your job here if you can brief us on your intentions so my spacers and Marines can better help¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do not forget your place, Sprabr,¡± Krelnos replied sharply. ¡°You may be an Eleven Whiskers in the Navy, but the security of this planet is both my responsibility and mine to command. As is the task of wiping out these new Great Predators you people declined to brief me on before your fleet went missing looking for their home system.¡±


    That disastrous decision made by your superiors. Your department¡­ Somehow, you seem to all think it¡¯s my fault now.


    He gave her an exasperated sigh. ¡°Of course, Station Director. What do you need from us?¡±


    ¡°Twelve divisions of Marines for the security of Grantor City.¡±


    ¡°Twelve divisions?!¡± Sprabr exclaimed.


    ¡°Do you think that¡¯s too little?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No, and if I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d think you were about to exterminate a whole new predator infestation with that kind of force! There is at most a platoon of Great Predators in Grantor City! Perhaps a more judicious use of force would be an appropriate solution¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem, Eleven Whiskers?¡± Krelnos asked silkily. ¡°Is your troop readiness inadequate to supply us with the force we need? Would you like to take full responsibility for that now?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not my point¡ª¡± Sprabr paused and took a deep breath. ¡°Station Director, we are supposed to be withdrawing from this planet soon. Bringing in and landing that many Marines will create logistical issues in even the most well-prepared fleets. And they are additional people that we will either have to evacuate with the fleet or take responsibility for when they fail in their ultimately futile mission in the next few months.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes. Futile! In its infinite wisdom, it appears the Navy has decided that Grantor will be given up on!¡± she snapped. ¡°That we are going to abandon an entire system¡ª no, an entire constellation of the Dominion to the predators without a fight!¡±


    ¡°Station Director Krelnos, that decision is also corroborated by the calculations and analysis of our¡ª¡±


    ¡°How convenient! That your Digital Guides simply supply you with the exact policy directives that align with your personal preferences!¡±


    Sprabr tilted his head. ¡°What exactly are you insinuating here, Station Director? That I¡¯ve tampered¡ª¡±


    She ignored his question. ¡°Unlike your defeatist officers, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr, I intend to do my job here. Until the abominations invade this system, land their troops on the surface, and physically come here to remove me, I will continue to do the job I was charged to do by my Dominion: pacifying the predators on this planet and preparing it for future Dominion colonization. Until new orders arrive from Znos, I will not assume otherwise and assist you in your scheme to dismantle our own defenses here.¡±


    ¡°That is bordering on¡ª I wish you good luck in completing your mission, Station¡ª¡±


    Krelnos continued without breaking pace, ¡°And for that purpose, I require twelve divisions of your Marines. And well-trained ones this time, not those conscripts you¡¯ve dressed up as Marines like you tried to pull on us last week. I want a well-formulated plan for transporting them here and integrating them into our Grantor City security plans by the end of the week.¡±


    He hid a frustrated sigh. ¡°Yes, Station Director. If that is your directive.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± she said imperiously before redirecting her attention back down to the datapad on her desk.


    Sprabr waited patiently a moment before he asked, ¡°Can I leave now, Station Director? I have some Navy business to attend to.¡±


    She looked up and smiled thinly at him. ¡°Yes. But your afternoon flight has been cancelled.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Your flight. Back up to the fleet. That supply shuttle. I have cancelled it for you.¡±


    His jaw dropped. ¡°May I ask why?¡±


    ¡°You may. You are not allowed to leave Grantor City. Therefore, I have cancelled your flight.¡±


    ¡°Not allowed to¡ª Am I under formal investigation?¡± he asked, keeping the nervousness out of his voice.


    ¡°No. But until you have completed your tasks on Grantor that I have ordered from you, you will stay here. When they are complete, you will be allowed to leave.¡±


    ¡°This is highly irregular!¡± Sprabr protested. ¡°My duties require that I be with the fleet over Grantor!¡±


    ¡°Do you not recognize my authority ¡ª State Security¡¯s authority ¡ª over you?¡± she asked dangerously.


    ¡°Of course I recognize your authority, but there is no need for this micromanagement! It is¡ª it is highly inefficient!¡±


    ¡°No matters of State Security are to be considered inefficient,¡± Krelnos replied matter-of-factly. ¡°Would you like to file a formal complaint against my inefficiency?¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Sprabr waited five heartbeats to calm himself down before he replied, ¡°No. That will not be necessary.¡±


    ¡°Good, I am glad we have an understanding, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she replied. ¡°If you have any questions about the task I have assigned you, my office is always open to you.¡±


    She didn¡¯t even bother to hide the smug look on her face as Sprabr turned around to leave.


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Yankee, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    As the Grantor Underground expanded its operations across the planet, more areas were now considered safe to operate in, and the Republic operators moved most of their equipment into the basement of a pre-war history museum. The aboveground floors had been ransacked and now served as temporary shelter for hundreds of refugees from the rural areas around Grantor. Sealing off the internal stairways and digging additional escape routes at the insistence of their Terran advisors proved relatively straightforward.


    Importantly, the underground sections were powered by backup generators before the Znosian occupation began. The generators were no longer there ¡ª looted and taken away long ago, but the separate power infrastructure built into its walls still worked; connecting the adaptive Terran equipment proved trivial.


    Department Leader Torsad looked around at their new operations room with pride. It was only accessible to the Terrans and a handful of Granti who had been ¡°read in¡± into the program, but they¡¯d done their best to make it their new home. More people had been made aware of the Terrans¡¯ existence in the underground since the Battle of Sol, but the Terran Reconnaissance Office still liked its secrets on Grantor kept behind closed doors, armed guards, and self-destructing brain chips.


    Today, there were five of them, not counting the Terrans.


    Torsad read her latest update from her new tablet, ¡°My action cells are progressing nicely along the metrics we¡¯ve recently set. We¡¯ve cut back further on direct operations and focused more on recruitment training. We are up to two regular divisions in the city in terms of quantity. And they have been trained to activate from cell to army at a moment¡¯s notice¡­ as you¡¯ve instructed. That is the good news for our action cells. The bad news is that supplying them continues to be a challenge.¡±


    Kara nodded. ¡°That is expected. I think we were a little too efficient in sabotaging the Znosian war production facilities in the city. They¡¯re moving the important machinery out to the secondary cities.¡±


    ¡°Possibly,¡± Torsad admitted. ¡°And it is difficult to smuggle weapons in mass quantities into Grantor City in such a short amount of time, even with the development of our new dedicated logistics cells. If we make them too efficient¡ª¡±


    Mark interjected, ¡°The Buns will find out, yeah. That¡¯s fine. Two understrength divisions are still very good. As long as they can learn and they can fight, we can use them. Keep them on the training programs, keep feeding them, and tell them to keep up the good work.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director,¡± Torsad smiled. ¡°On the intelligence front, there is even better news.¡±


    ¡°Better news?¡± Mark arched an eyebrow.


    ¡°We have broken into the State Security main branch office here in Grantor City,¡± Torsad said to gasps and surprised looks around the circle. ¡°We got ahold of their list of secret collaborators at the office, and a couple of them proved¡­ cooperative with us when given the right incentive.¡±


    ¡°You should have led with that one!¡± Mark exclaimed. ¡°I thought they stopped using collaborators in their critical installations after that Navy base raid last month!¡±


    ¡°They stopped using Granti collaborators to handle transport of their personnel after the officers in charge took responsibility, yes. But they¡¯ve also brought in new units of Malgeir sniffers to try to find us. And while the new sniffers have found and turned over a couple of our lower-level cells, let¡¯s just say the Grass Eaters didn¡¯t quite break their Malgeir prisoners as much as they thought they did. And with the liberation of the Malgeir Federation on the horizon, we¡¯ve been able to convince at least a few of them to see the¡­ merits in defiance.¡±


    Mark sighed in relief. ¡°Good. We¡¯ve spent a considerable amount of resources Pupper-proofing our operations the past couple months drawing from our people¡¯s experience fighting with them in the Red Zone, but it would still have been a nightmare if¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve¡ª you¡¯ve Pupper¡ª Malgeir-proofed your operation?¡± one of the other department leaders asked, stuttering. Torsad noticed with amusement that he was newer to the program. ¡°For¡ª for¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. And don¡¯t feel too left out. We also had contingencies for if your species¡¯ collaborators proved less cooperative than we thought. Luckily, we never had to activate those.¡±


    That left the new guy speechless.


    ¡°May I continue?¡± Torsad asked, smiling. ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know what we found out from their State Security?¡±


    ¡°Yes, please, Department Leader. If there are no other objections around the table?¡±


    There were none.


    ¡°As we know, there has been considerable tension between the Station Director in charge of Grantor City and Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. More specifically, we now know they¡¯ve had at least four or five meetings in the last week, and our sources say that she is extremely unhappy with him.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± Mark said. ¡°What¡¯s our local obergruppenfuhrer and Atilla the Bun arguing about?¡±


    They¡¯d read enough Terran historic material ¡ª required reading for cell leaders and above in the Underground now ¡ª to understand the morbid references.


    ¡°Likely about personnel. She keeps demanding he bring more of his Marines down onto the planet and into the city, and he¡¯s been slow¡ª slow-hopping the request for a while because he¡¯s got one paw out the door on this planet already. Our collaborator doesn¡¯t have direct access to the meetings; they just say it¡¯s along those general lines. But Grass Eater infighting is not the best news. The even better news is that we got access to the movement logs and schedules of the people in the main branch office for the next couple weeks.¡±


    One of the other department leaders nodded in excitement. ¡°Fantastic. We¡¯ll have one of our cells pay the Station Director a visit. Probably hit her vehicle on her way to work. That¡¯ll show the Grass Eaters¡ª¡±


    Torsad shook her head. ¡°No, she¡¯s too useful for us.¡±


    ¡°Too useful?!¡±


    ¡°Too useful for us,¡± Torsad replied coolly.


    Mark pointed a finger at Torsad. ¡°Exactly right, Department Leader. She¡¯s one of Svatken¡¯s prodigies who cares more about internal security than the war. We¡¯ll keep her around a while longer. What about her subordinates? Any of them showing signs of real competence we should nip in the bud?¡±


    ¡°We have a list, Director, but that¡¯s not even the best part,¡± Torsad said. She pointed at a poster on the wall with a list of priority targets. Sprabr¡¯s face was near the top. ¡°Remember when you said you¡¯d like a shot at¡­ Atilla the Bun?¡±


    ¡°You got ahold of Sprabr¡¯s schedule too?!¡±


    ¡°No. His schedule is with the Navy, not State Security, and the Eleven Whiskers is a very careful Grass Eater. He is too competent to allow that information to leak to collaborators. However¡­¡± Torsad paused with a glint in her eyes, ¡°ever since they started arguing, Station Director Krelnos put a squad of trained operatives on surveilling Sprabr. Standard operating procedure with State Security for their own people who they find troublesome. And while Sprabr undoubtedly knows that they are watching him, there¡¯s not much he can do about it. After all, they are his own State Security.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me¡­ we have the schedules and location logs for the operatives who are spying on their own Eleven Whiskers,¡± Mark said, almost in awe.


    ¡°I won¡¯t tell you that, then,¡± Torsad said smugly. ¡°And it didn¡¯t take us too long to figure out his routine from the convenient spies their State Security has placed for us.¡±


    ¡°Alright¡­ wait a minute, wait a minute. What if¡ª what if this is a trap?¡± Mark asked, but his excitement betrayed the genuineness of his devil¡¯s advocacy. ¡°What if they co-opted your collaborators and are feeding us this false information?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been right so far. And we placed an observer along his vehicle¡¯s route from the Navy ground base to the State Security office. It¡¯s him. And we¡¯ve got his visiting schedule too.¡±


    ¡°So the next time he¡¯s called in to the principal¡¯s office¡­¡±


    Torsad looked at him curiously. ¡°Are we going to use our operative cells, or do you want a piece of the action?¡±


    Mark hesitated for a second, clearly considering the options. ¡°I trust your people to handle this.¡±


    Torsad noticed a discontented sigh escaping Kara to the side. She let a smile creep up on her face. ¡°Our people it is, then. Dead or alive?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 22 Battle Planning I

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Quistqueu (12,000 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    ¡°Admiral, Resistance One sent a message requesting a¡ª a strategy meeting with you,¡± Lieutenant Beth Woods announced from the electronic warfare station.


    ¡°The Ace of Clubs? Is this some kind of trick?¡± Carla asked.


    ¡°We can always shoot her out of the vacuum and say it was an accident later,¡± Beth joked.


    ¡°Cover it up? Why? They¡¯ll build a big, glorious statue for us back in Sol if we take full credit¡­ What does she want now?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s not being very specific in her request,¡± Beth said, reading off her screen.


    Carla tilted her head. ¡°Okay, so what does the bug that ODT installed on their ship a couple months back say she wants?¡±


    ¡°Officially, to discuss what to do when we arrive in Prinoe,¡± Beth said, gesturing to the frontline system occupied by a swathe of red on the battle map.


    ¡°Unofficially?¡±


    Beth smiled. ¡°They¡¯re here to feel out just how much we plan to actually support them when we unleash them into Bun territory like a pack of wild Malgeir.¡±


    ¡°Touch¨¦,¡± said newly promoted Alpha Leader and Carla¡¯s executive officer Speinfoent, chuckling dryly.


    Carla turned to look at him. ¡°So, XO, what do you think we should do?¡±


    ¡°Is one of the options blowing¡ª¡±


    ¡°Other than that.¡±


    Speinfoent thought for a moment. ¡°Whatever we do, we shouldn¡¯t let the Ace land her shuttle in our hangar bay. They could be carrying explosives. Or worse.¡±


    Carla tilted her head. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s worth avoiding.¡±


    ¡°Or come into railgun range, for that matter. I think we send a shuttle of Marines to board her and bring her on board. That¡¯ll put her on notice too. Let her know we¡¯re keeping watch on her. So she knows her place here.¡±


    Carla gave him an affirmative gesture. ¡°Not bad. What about when she gets on board?¡±


    ¡°We should¡ª I don¡¯t know¡­ What¡¯s your government¡¯s policy on military cooperation with them now?¡± he asked as he scratched his head with a paw.


    ¡°Good question.¡±


    After a few heartbeats, he asked, ¡°Wait, that¡¯s it? Just good question? No answer?¡±


    Carla shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t think¡ª things are still a bit hectic back in Atlas from the Battle of Sol. We have officially recognized their non-exclusive authority in Sirius and a to-be-determined Bun system under the Treaty of Hano, and we¡¯re no longer at war, but¡­ we¡¯re not allies or anything. I don¡¯t think we¡¯ve been issued any additional directions beyond that. So it¡¯s up to us.¡±


    Speinfoent tilted his head. ¡°But they will fight the Grass Eaters?¡±


    ¡°Probably.¡±


    ¡°Probably?¡±


    ¡°Last I heard, some of them over there weighed the possibility of owning their own planet of billions of Buns. Makes their fantasies of ruling over a few million colonists out in the Red Zone look downright realistic, but I¡¯m not going to tell them what they can or can¡¯t daydream about. And there¡¯s just one thing stopping them: the Bun Navy from here to there. So yeah, they¡¯ll probably fight.¡±


    Speinfoent asked cautiously, ¡°We¡¯re not¡­ actually letting them do that, are we? Letting them rule over the Buns if they manage to take one of their planets.¡±


    Carla shook her head. ¡°Not our problem. We¡¯ll wish them good luck figuring out how to invade a whole entire habitable planet with a few thousand irregular scumbags and no supplies while we continue on our mission.¡±


    ¡°Wait. What if¡­ they actually succeed? I don¡¯t¡ª I don¡¯t see how they could, but¡­¡±


    Carla shot him a wink. ¡°See, XO? Now you¡¯re thinking like a paranoid Grass Eater. I knew all that expensive Staff College training we gave you didn¡¯t go to waste.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    The Ace of Clubs sized up the squad of armored Marines blocking her way, their leader with his arms crossed. Shorter than her at just 1.4 meters tall, these Malgeir Marines looked a lot less cuddly or harmless than the two officers her people had captured and held as prisoners in the basement back in the Free Zone Liberation War.


    The way they were gripping their weapons coolly¡­ and they looked way too comfortable in what looked like custom-tailored Republic Marine Mark V armor. She couldn¡¯t spot their combat robots, but she had no doubt they were hiding somewhere in their shuttle, with their own weapons aimed squarely at her vitals.


    ¡°Where¡¯s your owner?¡± she snapped at them. ¡°Don¡¯t you know who we are?¡±


    ¡°You are the Ace of Clubs,¡± the gravelly voice of their squad leader filtered through his translator module. ¡°But you could be the Head High Councilor himself, and you would still not be allowed onto our shuttle with your weapons.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how this works. We are humans, not rabid animals. I am coming to your owners¡¯ ship under a flag of truce. Like civilized people. That¡¯s a gesture of good faith, and you are obligated to reciprocate. I wouldn¡¯t expect you to understand,¡± the Ace said, sneering at him. ¡°Why don¡¯t you get someone who knows what they¡¯re doing on the phone and¡ª¡±


    The Malgeir squad leader slowly detached his suit radio, switched it to speaker mode, and dialed its volume to full. He said into it deliberately, ¡°Admiral, our guests are claiming special diplomatic privileges, and they are refusing to relinquish their firearms. What would you like us to do?¡±


    Carla¡¯s voice came back in the radio speaker, loud enough for the entire hangar bay to hear. ¡°High Pack Leader Baedarsust, the guest rules for my ship are clear: no weapons. If anyone tries to sneak any on board the shuttle, shoot them until they stop moving. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Understood, Admiral.¡± Baedarsust looked back at the Ace, a slow grin forming on his face. ¡°Should we get started, or do you have more¡­ requests for additional accommodation?¡±


    The Ace thought about resisting for a moment, but quickly dismissed the fantasy. She needed the Reps.


    For now.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    She gritted her teeth and made a gesture to her people to stand down. She unslung her carbine and carefully brought it to the hangar floor, and her posse did the same. ¡°Satisfied?¡± she asked as she released it and stood back up to her full height.


    ¡°No power armor either,¡± Baedarsust said simply.


    She hit the quick release on her armor, stepping out of it. She took a few steps and stretched her arms. As she stepped forward towards the shuttle, the Malgeir squad leader put his paw in front of her, signaling her to halt.


    ¡°Your sidearms. And your knife.¡±


    Rolling her eyes, the Ace undid the holster on her hip, placing it carefully on the floor as well, the pile of items growing. Another gun strapped to the front of her vest. The magazines. Then, the tactical knife in her belt. ¡°You want to search me for plastic explosives too?¡± she scoffed.


    He didn¡¯t even blink as he produced a familiar-looking portable spaceport scanner, waving it all around her. ¡°Yes. Take off your footwear too.¡±


    ¡°This is ridiculous,¡± she grumbled as she complied. ¡°Hundreds of light years from Sol and still under the boot of the paranoid Reps!¡±


    ¡°Paranoid¡­ that¡¯s what I thought at first,¡± Baedarsust said he took a perfunctory sniff inside the Ace¡¯s boots as his scanner searched her thoroughly. ¡°But a few months of raids and patrols in the Red Zone, and I¡¯m beginning to see why you Terrans do things the way you do.¡±


    The scanner beeped and its indicator lights turned green. Baedarsust sniffed her collar a few times before stepping back with a satisfied grunt, then gestured her towards the shuttle as she put her combat boots back on. ¡°Stand over there while we check your people.¡±


    Her aide, Felix, was next. Pausing only to remove a small box-cutter he¡¯d ¡°accidentally¡± forgot about in his belt, the Malgeir squad cleared him quickly too.


    They moved onto her alien pet advisor, Eight Whiskers Krizvum. Once a proud Znosian Navy spacer, he¡¯d been reduced to a quivering shell of his former proud self after a mild dose of Resistance re-education. The Ace saw a couple of the Malgeir Marines lean forward as the Znosian stepped up to be inspected.


    ¡°A Grass Eater,¡± Baedarsust mumbled curiously. ¡°Eight Whiskers too.¡±


    Hearing him, the Ace smiled coldly, ¡°Your owners aren¡¯t the only ones who got new pets. And Krissy here isn¡¯t the only one we have.¡±


    ¡°How did you manage to¡­ domesticate them?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a Resistance Navy trade secret,¡± she smiled smugly.


    ¡°Suit yourself,¡± he shrugged, and a few moments of scanning later, he nodded, ¡°The Grass Eater is clear too.¡±


    The three of them were herded into the Malgeir shuttle. She could tell it was obviously designed by humans with barely a glance. The minimalist interiors took their design cues from familiar Raytech assault shuttles, and the service panels had instruction writing in five human languages beneath the alien language in bold. But the layout was heavily adapted for the aliens¡¯ physiology. Operable switches and controls were at a much lower height than would be comfortable for a human. Screens showed interfaces with oddly contrasting colors. And the emergency suit holders in its passenger bay would never fit an average human adult.


    The Ace of Clubs wrinkled her nose at the tiny EVA suits. ¡°We¡¯d never fit in those,¡± she said, pointing at the one next to her designated jump seat.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Baedarsust agreed. ¡°Probably not.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have emergency suits for us?! Is this a joke?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a short ride. We¡¯re only a few minutes out from the ship anyway.¡±


    ¡°And we¡¯d be dead in seconds in a decompression accident!¡± she challenged.


    ¡°You better hope we don¡¯t get into one of those then,¡± he answered unsympathetically, gesturing her into her seat impatiently as he fastened his seat restraints.


    Sighing, the Ace strapped herself in, noting that even the settings on the belts were just a bit tighter than she was used to. A few minutes later, the familiar whine of the inertial compensators got louder as the ship started to burn towards their destination.


    Shifting in her seat, the Ace caught the attention of one of the other Malgeir sitting across the aisle from her. ¡°You¡¯ve got a name, pet?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Head Pack Leader Spommu,¡± she replied, eyeing the Ace with suspicion. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Spoon?¡±


    ¡°Spommu,¡± she corrected.


    The Ace leaned back into her seat as if she didn¡¯t hear it. ¡°You know, Spoon, you¡¯re not the first of your kind we¡¯ve met.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve seen another Malgeir? In battle?¡± Spommu asked. ¡°In the Red Zone?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± the Ace grinned. ¡°Prisoners.¡±


    She noticed Spommu¡¯s grip on her weapon tighten slightly. ¡°I¡¯ve heard about that too.¡±


    ¡°You know¡­ it¡¯s fascinating how much of what we know about how we work¡­ it all applies to aliens too. At a base level, you respond not that differently to the same incentives we do: pleasure, pain¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is that how you managed to get the Grass Eater to follow your orders?¡± Spommu asked, nodding towards Krizvum huddled miserably in his jump seat.


    ¡°Something like that. At the end of the day, they¡¯re just little psychos. We humans have those as well, you know?¡±


    Spommu snorted, staring straight at the Ace. ¡°That much is plainly obvious.¡±


    The Ace ignored the jab. ¡°Now, your people, on the other hand, are far more interesting. Empathy, you have that as well, in large doses too. We can simply threaten one of you, and the others will happily comply. Them¡­¡± she said, pointing to the Znosian. ¡°When we threaten one of them, that doesn¡¯t work at all. The rest tend to just repeat: their lives¡ª¡±


    ¡°Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools,¡± Spommu snorted. ¡°Yeah, we¡¯ve heard that one before.¡±


    The Ace nodded. ¡°Yeah, I guess that¡¯s why they were beating you guys so badly out there that you need our help, huh? On top of your people being so bad at this.¡±


    ¡°Bad at this?¡±


    ¡°This. Combat. War.¡±


    Spommu sat back in thought for a moment, and smirked at the Ace. ¡°You know, you¡¯re not the first of your kind we¡¯ve met either.¡±


    It was the Ace¡¯s turn to be confused. ¡°Yeah? Obviously? Your human owners. The Reps.¡±


    ¡°No, not humans. Resistance Ace. You¡¯re not the first Resistance Ace we¡¯ve met in person,¡± Spommu replied smugly.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°The Ace of Diamonds. Our squad was the one that captured her towards the end of the campaign. In fact, I was the one who shot her,¡± she grinned.


    ¡°Riiiiiight. Did you now?¡± the Ace asked sarcastically.


    ¡°Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt,¡± Spommu sounded with her mouth, mimicking the electrified Ace of Diamonds in her memory by shaking her paws. ¡°I got her good.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs stared at the Malgeir blankly for a few heartbeats. Then, she began to chuckle. Her chuckle turned into a howl. ¡°Bzzzzzzt?¡± she echoed, coughing with laughter. ¡°That¡¯s how you got her?!¡±


    ¡°Yup, stun gun. Lucky she didn¡¯t have her suicide vest on.¡±


    The Ace managed to stop her cackling long enough to ask, ¡°Did she piss herself before she passed out?¡±


    Spommu shook her ears. ¡°Nope, she held it all together. We even got to read her the basic rights thing. Then, she tried to grab my gun on the shuttle and we had to stun her again. That was fun.¡±


    ¡°I knew that old bean counter had a little fight in her,¡± the Ace said, letting off a small giggle.


    ¡°And we helped get the other one too. The Ace of Hearts,¡± Spommu said proudly. She mimicked the old woman¡¯s hunch this time.


    ¡°No shit,¡± the Ace gaped at her.


    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± Spommu insisted. ¡°Aren¡¯t they getting their amnesties soon? You can ask them yourself.¡±


    The Ace eyed her skeptically. ¡°I¡¯ll do that.¡±


    Spommu said proudly, ¡°Before we were rotated out, the Crete had a pool going and we were the consensus pick for the most likely squad they were going to send in to get you when we would eventually find where you were hiding on Titan.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs winked at her. ¡°I think you¡¯d have found me a harder challenge than those two, Spoon.¡±


    ¡°Wanna find out?¡± Spommu shot a sly smile back, opening her mouth to reveal her full set of sharp canines. ¡°Name a time and place. I¡¯ll get out of this armor to make it fair.¡±


    The alien was a couple heads shorter than her, but¡­ the Ace¡¯s expression tightened as she looked at the thick muscles hinted at under the Malgeir Marines¡¯ armor and heavy fur hides. And the sharp claws. Their reaction times must be decent too, judging by the way their eyes moved. ¡°Nah. Claws are cheating. We¡¯re civilized humans, not animals.¡± She tapped her temple. ¡°If we were competing, this is how we¡¯d beat you: superior tactics and thinking with our brains.¡±


    ¡°Nothing Lemming Squad can¡¯t handle,¡± Spommu taunted confidently.


    She leaned back into her uncomfortable jump seat. ¡°Lemmings, huh? You guys got any real combat experience? Not counting arresting seniors who can barely walk if not for modern prosthetics.¡±


    Spommu shrugged. ¡°We also boarded a ship full of Grass Eaters right before the Battle of Sol.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, huh. I think I heard something about that on Rep propaganda channels. Big alien ship?¡±


    ¡°Yup, capital ships are our specialty.¡±


    ¡°One of their capital ships, huh?¡± the Ace asked, leaning in and her brain switching to tactical mode immediately. Now, this was a new enemy she was curious about. ¡°How did that compare with one of the missile destroyers we captured?¡±


    ¡°A Znosian battlecruiser? About thrice as big? I think? It had a full Marine complement.¡±


    ¡°And how many alien defenders is that?¡±


    ¡°About a thousand, but only a couple hundred Marines who got suited up in time for us. That was much easier than one of those orbital stations controlled by your people over Titan though,¡± Spommu admitted.


    ¡°A whole battlecruiser? Much easier?!¡±


    Spommu grinned. ¡°Yeah. Because we didn¡¯t have to fight paranoid, crafty humans. And unrestricted rules of engagement with our Marvins. Far more straightforward than the Red Zone, all things considered.¡±


    The Ace matched her feral grin. ¡°You know what, Spoon? Maybe you guys aren¡¯t so bad after all.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 23 Battle Planning II

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Quistqueu (12,000 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    ¡°So your plan is to just throw us against the aliens and then sit back and place bets on who comes out on top?¡± the Ace of Clubs glared at Carla. ¡°And you think we¡¯d just be okay with that plan?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re in the wild, wild west out here,¡± Carla said, shrugging. ¡°You swim or you sink. We¡¯ve got our own mission. We don¡¯t have time to babysit your people while you figure out what you want to do here.¡±


    ¡°The deal is that you¡ª¡±


    ¡°The deal is that we lend you enough resources to bring you to Znosian space. To the first habitable system near the border: Spofke. And if by some miracle you manage to defeat the Buns holding up there and occupy that star system with your three piddly squadrons of their own ships, you¡¯re welcome to stay there until you get tired and beg us to come home.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but we haven¡¯t reached Bunnyland yet.¡±


    ¡°Sure, we¡¯ll escort you a few more jumps,¡± Carla said. ¡°All the way there, as per the Treaty of Hano.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the point! You know we can¡¯t take a whole star system without any actual ground presence!¡± the Ace huffed.


    Carla snorted. ¡°Yeah, probably not. Your people¡¯s considerable talent in blowing up schools and hospitals probably doesn¡¯t translate that well into actual war against the Buns.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serious! Listen, all we need is a steady supply¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, you listen,¡± Carla insisted. ¡°We have our own mission in enemy territory. For that, we need every bit of equipment, every ship, every Marine we carried here, and not one less. We¡¯re certainly not helping you on a suicide mission against a whole planet of Buns just so you can fulfill your galaxy domination fantasy in Spofke. If you wanted us to supply you with troops, you should have put that in writing at the treaty summit!¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need your troops,¡± the Ace said calmly.


    ¡°You don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°We need your ships. We need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡ª that you also can¡¯t have¡­ but why?¡±


    ¡°We have our own industrial fabs now,¡± the Ace said confidently. ¡°And with our good faith implementation of the Free Zone emigration clause, your embargo is scheduled to be lifted in the next couple months. Once that happens, we will have our own combat robots and drones. We just need to get them to Bunnyland¡ª Spofke, our rightful new home. The problem is, your plan here is to just rush past the alien defenses and go to¡­ wherever you¡¯re going.¡±


    Technically Spofke ¡ª in Znosian paws ¡ª wasn¡¯t the Republic¡¯s to give away, but the Resistance was treating it as anything but the symbolic concession it was supposed to be. The Ace pointed at the occupied systems on the map in between the effective Coalition frontline and Spofke: Prinoe, Cretae, Crissoel, Quungro, Gructons, Grunsaeps, and Fpacha.


    Carla waved her through her point impatiently. ¡°Yes, yes, once we blow our way through all of these and into proper Znosian territory, the Buns will come back in here and retake these systems. We¡¯ve already explained it to our allies. We¡¯ll come back and establish a real presence here when we properly besiege Grantor and Sixth Fleet gets here in a few months.¡±


    ¡°We just need a few of your ships to help us keep this corridor clear of alien raiders ¡ª just these seven systems ¡ª while we bring our supplies into Znosian territory behind you.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious. That¡¯s not in our planning! We aren¡¯t going to start shedding ships from our task force for patrolling a few systems we don¡¯t expect to keep. And we certainly aren¡¯t going to do it just as a favor to you.¡±


    The Ace grinned, ¡°What if there¡¯s something in it for you?¡±


    ¡°What could you possibly give us that we want?!¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°They¡¯ll agree to partial demilitarization of the Republic cluster,¡± Carla reported.


    Amelia snorted back at Atlas Command. ¡°I¡¯m sensing that the word partial is doing a lot of heavy lifting here. What exactly are they offering this time?¡±


    ¡°No further production of arms in Sirius, essentially, for the next ten years.¡±


    ¡°Ten years? That¡¯s not too bad. If they actually kept to that. I¡¯m still pretty uncomfortable just how loose our restrictions around combat robotics have become for them. The new blueprints they¡¯ve managed to get¡­ it¡¯s not state of the art, but it¡¯s perfect for the crap they used to do,¡± Amelia shuddered. ¡°But wait¡­ don¡¯t they need those fabs pumping out robots for them to invade the Dominion?¡±


    ¡°They plan to pack all those up and bring them as far forward as they can. According to the Bun¡­ advisors they have, the Spofke system has plenty of untapped resources in the outer system. My sense of it is they plan to setup their mines and fabs there and deorbit combat units down the Spofke-3 gravity well until the Buns there give up or they run out of metal in the asteroid belt.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll take them years, probably decades,¡± Amelia speculated. ¡°It¡¯s a whole developed planet with billions of Buns. They can¡¯t possibly think they¡¯ll out-produce an entire planet with a few fabs, even under orbital siege.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the Resistance, Amelia. I think it¡¯s well-established that they don¡¯t think very far ahead.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°They also need to use the new refueling depots in Flint that the kitties helped us setup.¡±


    ¡°Fine. They can pay for fuel there, at market price like everyone else.¡±


    Market price for fuel was significantly higher in those systems recently, what with the Republic having destroyed every fuel source in between Sirius and Datsot just a few months earlier.


    ¡°That¡¯s actually not the problem. There¡¯s um¡ª there¡¯s apparently a provision in the Treaty of Hano specifying an upper bound to how much blink fuel they can buy every year. They want an exemption for these outbound flights.¡±


    ¡°Ah, crap, more meetings with the Senators. At least that¡¯s how we know they¡¯re not using the treaty for toilet paper¡­ when they¡¯re asking for exemptions. Alright¡­ and they just want three of your missile destroyers to stay behind and babysit their supply line?¡±


    ¡°Wait. Are we seriously thinking about this?!¡±


    ¡°Carla, do you know the story of¡ª¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Carla covered her face with her hands. ¡°Please, Amelia, not another one of your parables. Tell me we¡¯re not going to start cutting our task force up for this wild fantasy of theirs.¡±


    ¡°Fine, what about the saying: idle hands are the devil¡¯s workshop?¡±


    ¡°Sounds familiar. What about it?¡±


    ¡°The key to peace with the Resistance now is¡­ to keep them busy. Distracted. The more they¡¯re thinking about their new grandiose plans out there, the less they¡¯re thinking about what¡¯s going on back in Sol, and the fewer of these therapy sessions about treaty breaches I have to attend with Senator Eisson. If they want to move their obsession hundreds of light years away from where I have to look at it, all the better.¡±


    ¡°But what about our mission?¡± Carla whined.


    ¡°We gave you more than enough ships to do the job. And we¡¯ll transfer one of the modified Peacekeeper squadrons over to relieve the Pythons once the FTL drive retrofits are complete. If they don¡¯t get there before you do¡­ you¡¯ll just have to make do.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    The Ace knew what the Republic¡¯s answer was going to be before she opened her mouth. She grinned. ¡°So¡­ what did mommy say?¡±


    ¡°Three Pythons from Squadron 10. Until they get relieved by a Peacekeeper squadron from Sol when they get here,¡± Carla said, sighing.


    The Ace shrugged. ¡°That works for us.¡±


    ¡°Not so fast. One more thing.¡±


    She narrowed her eyes. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Your ships are going to take point once we go beyond the line at Prinoe. You want to hold these star systems? We start now.¡±


    The Ace thought for a moment. ¡°That¡¯s acceptable. But if we¡¯re going to fight, we¡¯re going to fight the way we¡¯re used to.¡±


    ¡°Woah, woah, hold on. What¡ª what does that mean? Fight the way you¡¯re used to?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll see, Rep.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not an answer. If you want to work with us, then we play by our rules. That means following the rules. No blowing up random targets for the hell of it. No mistreating prisoners. And certainly¡­ no eating captured aliens.¡±


    The Ace threw up her hands. ¡°Fine. You want us to fight with one hand behind our back, that¡¯s on you. Any other rules we need to be aware of? No fighting on Fridays? No hiding in radar shadows? Or maybe we can get the enemies to agree to a dance-off for control of these systems instead,¡± she sneered.


    ¡°You know damn well what the rules are. Now, our tactical computers have a working battle plan for you in Prinoe¡­¡±


    ¡°Great. Send it over to my ship so my people can best ignore it.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1858, Prinoe (12,000 Ls)


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers Fskokh, outer system defenses just observed a series of high-energy blink emergences from the direction of Quistqueu!¡±


    Fskokh stiffened. ¡°Predator ships? How many?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Nine Whiskers. Not predator ships. They¡¯re ours! Three squadrons of Dominion ships.¡±


    ¡°Ours?¡± he echoed.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. We¡¯re resolving their signatures, but their silhouette profile matches our Forager-class destroyers. A number of them appear to have taken battle damage.¡±


    ¡°Wait a minute,¡± Fskokh said, raising a paw at his computer officer. ¡°Didn¡¯t we already evacuate the last ship we intended to get out of Quistqueu last month?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. The few that remained ¡ª their crews¡¯ lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools. Digital Guide suspects this may be a Great Predator ruse.¡±


    Fskokh was important enough to have gotten the physical briefing about their new secretive adversary before the Grand Fleet went hunting for their home system, and the latest intelligence from State Security had given the basics to all the remaining officers. But it wasn¡¯t like they had been clear on what he should do when faced with them or their tricks.


    ¡°Watch out for them!¡± was about as informative as that portion of the meeting had been.


    He considered the balance of forces for a moment. Three enemy squadrons ¡ª for now ¡ª matched his three that were guarding Prinoe-4. But Fskokh was not foolish enough to believe the enemy intended to slug it out with his fluffle, trading ship for ship. This was a real enemy; if the logical conjectures in the upper levels of the Navy were to be believed, thousands of ships from the Grand Fleet had gone up against a few dozens fielded by this one-system species.


    And none returned.


    Unless¡­


    Fskokh glanced at the battlemap again. In fact, these ships with all their residual battle damage ¡ª they might very well have been those captured from battle within the enemy star system. ¡°Hail them, Computer Officer,¡± he ordered. ¡°And resolve me those ship profiles. Start by checking them against the ship registry of the Grand Fleet that went for the Great Predator Nest.¡±


    There was a moment of silence on the bridge as his officers worked quietly to follow the directives. After only half a minute, his computer officer stepped forward to report, ¡°Their handshake is using a slightly older code, sir, but it still checks out. Their communication officer apologizes for their lack of updates due to heavy battle damage. Would you like to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Put them on screen,¡± he demanded.


    The main screen now showed the dimly lit bridge of one of the mystery ships. Fskokh could see that at least the battle damage part was not a ruse. Half of the stations looked non-functional with no officers at them, and the remaining few were showing a patchwork of serious improvisation. And the subject of the camera was a disfigured Dominion officer ¡ª Fskokh counted nine whiskers on his rank insignia, with the bottom one ¡ª was that last whisker drawn on with chalk? ¡ª missing his ear and patches of missing fur all over his face. A cursory glance at the remaining officers shown on screen told him that they were all sporting similarly ugly wounds.


    His computer officer added quietly, ¡°We¡¯ve analyzed the radio signature and the bow marks. This is the 2239. It is¡ª was commanded by Nine Whiskers Tvadnek of the Grand Prophetic Fleet. That officer is certainly not Nine Whiskers Tvadnek.¡±


    Fskokh nodded, looked directly into the screen, and spoke into his headset, ¡°This is Prinoe Defense Fluffle, commanded by Nine Whiskers Fskokh. Your fluffle is not scheduled for entry into this system. Identify yourselves immediately.¡±


    He swore he saw the lips of the figure on the screen curl up slightly, almost revealing his front buck teeth. ¡°This is Nine Whiskers Krizvum in command of Navy Battlegroup Cottontail. We are here to take command of Prinoe. Nine Whiskers Fskokh, you are hereby ordered to cease all engine acceleration and send all senior officers to the 2239 for an emergency briefing.¡±


    Fskokh muted his microphone. ¡°Verify his identity.¡±


    ¡°We just did, Nine Whiskers,¡± his computer officer reported. ¡°Eight Whiskers Krizvum was the captain of 7338 in the Grand Prophetic Fleet. This¡­ looks like him. As fifth in the succession list of Tvadnek¡¯s squadron, it is plausible that he inherited his command if the Nine Whiskers is deceased. But¡­ nine whiskers rank can¡¯t be¡ª¡±


    ¡°Eight whiskers rank and above can¡¯t be granted in the field, without explicit approval from State Security,¡± Fskokh said, completing her sentence while still staring at the screen. ¡°And misrepresenting your rank is a serious crime.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. Digital Guide assesses this is likely a Great Predator ruse and the Eight Whiskers was compromised¡­ if this imagery is even real. As we know, the predators likely can generate fake images and videos that resemble our people. It recommends we pretend to accept the authenticity of this fraud to attempt to gather more information.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°Make something up,¡± she suggested hurriedly. ¡°He is waiting for your response.¡±


    Fskokh nodded and unmuted the transmission. ¡°Nine Whiskers Krizvum, we accept your authority. However, we are having trouble corroborating your order. Can you send a shuttle to us with your State Security order slate for us to authenticate?¡±


    He thought it was clever. The new order slates were the latest Design Bureau innovation to combat predator espionage: physical orders verifiable by the new one-time pads that were cryptographically secured. Inconvenient, yes, but security was paramount with the Great Predators listening to everything. And more importantly here, procedure dictated that the keys must be accompanied by their responsible executor. Which meant that this compromised officer must be on the shuttle itself, and once Fskokh got his paws on him¡­ he¡¯d figure out what was going on here.


    Krizvum did not react in fear or panic as Fskokh suspected he might. Instead, the curl on his lips deepened. How unsettling. ¡°That will not be possible, Nine Whiskers. We do not have a State Security order slate.¡±


    ¡°No order slate?¡± Fskokh asked, wondering where Krizvum was going with this lie. ¡°Then I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t comply with your order without authentication. Do you have a State Security officer on board who can confirm it? Please send them to us via shuttle.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t recognize the authority of the corrupt State Security in our Navy, Nine Whiskers Fskokh,¡± Krizvum explained, as if patiently schooling him.


    ¡°What? Corrupt State Security? Your Navy?!¡± Fskokh asked, confused.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. I believe you may have misinterpreted my previous order to your fluffle. We are the Free Znosian Navy, the only legitimate authority of the Znosian people. And as its commanding officer in this system, I am ordering you to surrender your ships and officers immediately. If you do not comply, we will be forced to destroy you where you orbit.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 24 Free Znosian Navy

    <div>


    ZNS 1858, Prinoe (12,000 Ls)


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Fskokh stared at the brazen enemy on his screen in shock for a moment. ¡°The Free Znosian Navy?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers,¡± Krizvum replied. His eyes looked down, reading aloud from an unseen datapad, ¡°As per our rules, all Dominion officers are welcome to accept new responsibility and join our new Free Znosian Navy. If you surrender now, you will be treated with the respect and dignity you deserve. We will not mistreat your officers and crew. You will be fed a standard daily ration. You will be allowed to fight if you request it freely, and you will not be deliberately sent on overtly dangerous one-way missions. You will not be executed, tortured, abused, or¡ª¡±


    ¡°What is this nonsense?¡± Fskokh scoffed at the audacity of the demand. ¡°Get your cowardly Great Predator captors on the call before we come and kill you all.¡±


    There was some commotion on the other end of the call, and he saw Krizvum shoved out of his chair as a new creature appeared. It looked every bit like one of the pictures that State Security had shown them, and it flashed its sharp teeth at Krizvum on the screen. ¡°Thank you, Krissy. I¡¯ll take it from here. Grab yourself a sugary treat on your way out; you¡¯ve earned it.¡±


    Fskokh stared hatefully at the abomination on the screen as it settled into the 2239 command chair ¡ª it was way too large for the chair¡¯s thin frame, which creaked under its weight. ¡°You will pay for what you have done to our people. We will find your nests and burn them to the last predator. We will¡ª¡±


    It looked unfazed by the murderous intent in his eyes. ¡°Better Buns than you have tried. Now, I¡¯ve been obligated to offer you and your officers the more-than-reasonable surrender terms by the Reps. And I¡¯m prepared to stick to them and give you a place in my new petting zoo¡­ if you surrender now. So what do you say, Nine Whiskers Socks?¡±


    ¡°May your eggs shatter and rot, abomination.¡±


    ¡°Your loss, cutie pie.¡± It shrugged its shoulders and its head got closer to the camera, filling the entire screen with its hideous face. ¡°I do hope we don¡¯t destroy your ship outright, Socks. You will make a fine addition to my collection of nine whiskers.¡±


    The image was replaced by static, followed by a message on his screen letting him know that their FTL connection to various relays had been cut.


    Fskokh lowered the fur on the back of his spine, which had subconsciously stood themselves up during the conversation. He turned to his computer officer, ¡°Are they jamming us now?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. But we did transmit our live feed out to Znos before they did. And our new line-of-sight transmitters are still in contact with our troops on the planet.¡±


    ¡°Did Znos have any message for us? Any final orders, perhaps?¡± he asked hopefully.


    ¡°No, but we are not authorized to evacuate from this system. Under the latest standing State Security directives from Director Svatken, unless we get specific orders to withdraw, we are not to give a light-second of space to the enemy for free.¡±


    Fskokh nodded. ¡°Our bloodlines may still be honored if we conduct ourselves properly in this battle. If we achieve a¡ª a one-to-three kill ratio against them.¡±


    He pulled that number out of his ears. Even that horrific attrition ratio was a wildly high figure, far beyond what was achievable as indicated in the latest estimate of ship losses against the Great Predators. But Fskokh was an ambitious officer, and he knew his crews needed something to believe in, especially now.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers,¡± his computer officer saluted crisply. ¡°What should we tell the Marines on Prinoe-4?¡±


    ¡°Tell them we are preparing to fight to rejoin the Prophecy,¡± he said calmly. ¡°And order the Doomsday Division to begin preparations for the destruction of the planet. If we can¡¯t hold the orbits here, the abominations will not get it either.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    ¡°Ace, the Reps just sent us another urgent message,¡± Felix reported from the bridge of the former Republic parasite carrier. ¡°From¡­ Carla on the Crete.¡±


    ¡°What is that woman whining about again?¡±


    ¡°The usual. They sent over an intercepted alien transmission: their troops on the planet are planning to de-orbit it into the Prinoe star and kill everyone on it.¡±


    ¡°And what do they want us to do about it?¡± the Ace of Clubs asked irritably. ¡°Their doomsday machines are hidden deep underground right?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°So we can¡¯t hit them from orbit. And we don¡¯t have the troops to do anything about it.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°Again, what do the Reps want us to do?¡± she snapped.


    Felix examined a new notification on his console. ¡°Ah¡­ they¡¯ve just sent another one. It says: hurry up and stop playing with your food.¡±


    ¡°Damn Rep micromanagers,¡± she muttered. ¡°We¡¯ll show you what fast looks like.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    It took the enemy over a day before they even started to get into position. Fskokh watched restlessly on the battlemap as they burnt their mirroring Znosian ships almost nonchalantly towards his fluffle above Prinoe-4. There were no surprises in space and even fewer of them here: the enemy was flying the exact same ships he was. He knew that even in their battle-damaged state, they should be able to pull much higher acceleration than they were, so¡­ he could only gather that the slow pace was a deliberate taunt from the predators.


    He was not na?ve enough to believe their pace was a result of their extensive battle damage.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Fskokh had told his crews to maintain regular shift schedules, but he could see in their eyes that they were getting as little sleep as he was. The aware ones ¡ª mostly the ones with higher whisker rank ¡ª knew what was coming. The enemy may have the exact same ships he did, but their armament ¡ª the deadly missiles the Great Predators had no doubt given this new¡­ adversary ¡ª they would be better than even the experimental equipment his fluffle had just received.


    The Grand Fleet had the new equipment too, and look where that got them.


    His computer officer stepped smartly up to his station. ¡°Nine Whiskers, the predator ships have flipped vector and are now burning retrograde.¡±


    Fskokh looked up sharply from his fifth time reviewing the latest State Security briefing. ¡°Retrograde?¡±


    ¡°They are decelerating relative to our position before the midpoint. Digital Guide projects they will no longer intercept our fluffle.¡±


    He furrowed his brow. ¡°How far at their closest point?¡±


    ¡°Digital Guide projects: they¡¯ll end up just in range of their Pigeon missiles and out of range of our new arsenal,¡± she reported.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Fskokh sighed. ¡°They¡¯re planning to simply pound us to debris from out of our range. They have the mass and the missiles to do it. Does the Digital Guide have a suggestion?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. It strongly recommends against burning to engage them, as a tail chase would be even less favorable. Instead, it recommends we take cover¡ª¡±


    ¡°Against Prinoe-4?¡± he asked, looking at the thin blue atmosphere of the planet he was charged with defending.


    She nodded. ¡°Yes, sir. The planet could possibly shield our fluffle from their higher resolution sensors, and we might be able to force their missiles into longer flight paths or take them within range of our orbital defenses. It might¡ª it might be just enough to equalize the range advantage.¡±


    ¡°Do as it says.¡±


    Despite his impatience, the enemy fleet refused to hasten their movement. It took them another day before their ships slowed to a stop maddeningly only a few light milliseconds outside the maximum powered envelope of his new anti-ship missiles.


    ¡°The Grand Fleet, wherever¡ª wherever it is, must have allowed them to derive the exact specifications on our new missiles,¡± Fskokh complained bitterly.


    ¡°Do you think they can see our position behind the planet?¡± his computer officer asked, pointing at their occluded location behind Prinoe-4.


    Fskokh pointed a paw towards two ships that had separated from the enemy ships, taking a longer trajectory that put them in a position to see exactly where he was, wherever he went. Also perfectly outside his missiles¡¯ range, of course. ¡°Apparently, the Great Predators take a different view on the value of combat reconnaissance from their Lesser Predator pets,¡± he complained.


    ¡°A different view?¡±


    ¡°As in they have the concept at all.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Should we try to blow their scouts up? Digital Guide says they¡¯re right outside the powered enveloped, but the probability of hit isn¡¯t zero¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, but it¡¯s close enough to it, and they¡¯d just send more even if we get lucky with these two,¡± Fskokh predicted.


    ¡°What should we do then, Nine Whiskers?¡± she asked.


    Fskokh looked at the battlemap, keeping the hopelessness out of his voice. ¡°Take us into lower orbit. At least that would put us in range of our own orbital defense batteries. Maybe give us a bit more of a chance. Or at least force them to expend more munitions against us.¡±


    She stared at him a split second longer than usual, then nodded. She had seen enough to know what the plan was here; in a situation without hope or escape, the worst option was sometimes the only one. At least the enemy wouldn¡¯t get them all for free. ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°And tell Squadrons 2 and 3 to tighten their formations for maximum point defense coverage.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine¡ª¡± she furrowed her brow at her console. ¡°Nine Whiskers, we¡¯re getting another call from the predators!¡±


    ¡°On screen,¡± he said warily.


    It was their puppet again. That compromised Eight Whiskers missing an ear.


    ¡°Get your captors on again,¡± Fskokh snarled at the screen.


    Krizvum ignored him, beginning to slowly read from his datapad again, ¡°To Nine Whiskers¡­ Socks and the Prinoe defense fluffle: you have done your duty with honor. You are hopelessly outranged, and your position is untenable. Even with your orbital defenses, you will not last against more than three waves of our missiles. The cost to replace our munitions is trivial, and the Free Znosian Navy values your lives as more precious than your cruel and inefficient State Security masters.¡±


    ¡°Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left our hatchling pools,¡± Fskokh intoned, and his bridge crew all looked down at their paws in respect.


    ¡°Your last stand is a pointless waste,¡± Krizvum continued to read without acknowledging his prayer. ¡°You cannot hurt us. Even you must realize this. Your State Security is an idiocy, a burden on our own people. The real abomination. Unlike them, our Free Znosian Navy is rational and logical¡­. civilized like Znosians should be. As such, we will give you one final chance.¡±


    ¡°We will never defy the Prophecy as you and your¡­ apostates have!¡± Fskokh shouted.


    Krizvum froze for a second, as if he¡¯d been stung, but he immediately continued reading, ¡°We will give you the chance to withdraw all your ships and troops from this system, without destruction or harassment, provided you begin evacuations from the planet now without harming it or its indigenous population. No military equipment that can¡¯t be carried by a single Marine. You will have exactly one week to complete these evacuations. Due to the naive mercy of the Reps in our ranks¡­ they will partially lift your communications embargo to allow you to contact your direct superiors in Grantor and ask Eleven Whiskers Sprabr for permission to withdraw. Perhaps he would be amenable to the deal; if not, our offer to you stands: any ship or squadron that chooses the Free Navy chooses life and rejects irrational futility. Make your choice wisely, Prinoe defense fluffle.¡±


    The screen turned dark, and it was silent on the bridge save for the idle hum of the inertial compensators.


    Fskokh¡¯s computer officer looked at him expectantly. ¡°Nine Whiskers?¡±


    He sat in the command chair, looking blankly at the black screen in front of him for a few moments.


    ¡°Nine Whiskers? We have a connection handshake to the Grantor system, though all other systems remain dark. Should we ask them relay us to Znos¡ª¡±


    Fskokh sighed. ¡°Call Eleven Whiskers Sprabr on Grantor.¡±


    A minute later, she came back with the update, ¡°Nine Whiskers, he¡¯s on the line.¡±


    The face of the older Znosian fleet master appeared on the screen.


    Fskokh opened his command drawer below his console, taking out his order pad containing his physical security codes. ¡°Eleven Whiskers, this is Nine Whiskers Fskokh. I have a challenge phrase for you. Grave-4-3.¡±


    There was a moment of anticipation as Sprabr fumbled through his machine for the response. ¡°Acknowledged. I have a response, Ocean-9-2.¡±


    Fskokh¡¯s heart skipped a beat as he verified it. ¡°Correct response, Eleven Whiskers, but be aware that the predators are likely listening to this call. Have you been updated on our latest situation?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. Your computer officer sent it over, but parts of the data are corrupted, specifically the sensor data on the enemy ships. I suspect that is likely deliberate, one of their capabilities we have suspected for a while but can now confirm. If you attempt to vocally relay the information to me, I suspect our feed will be cut or filtered.¡±


    Fskokh nodded in agreement and bowed. ¡°I take full responsibility for our fluffle¡¯s current predicament. What are your orders, Eleven Whiskers?¡±


    Sprabr seemed to waver on the screen for a moment, but he drew himself up to his full height as he ordered, ¡°Nine Whiskers Fskokh, your full responsibility is accepted. You are unlikely to do significant damage to the enemy. Your equipment is inadequate, and we can¡¯t hold Prinoe-4. Its partially-culled population will likely prove to be more of a burden to the predators in the short term than any possible strategic advantage they may get from it. As commander of the Grand Fleet, I am ordering you to withdraw from the system and report for an assignment-of-responsibility hearing in our next defense system. The special authorization code for my command is¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers,¡± Fskokh said gratefully as he verified the one-time authorization code for full system withdrawal.


    Sprabr looked directly into the camera, and Fskokh wasn¡¯t sure if he was talking to him or the predators watching the call, ¡°We shall see if these new abominations are capable of the basic restraint that civilized beings should be when we hear from you in Cretae in a couple weeks. Or not.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 25 Make Them Bleed

    <div>


    SRNS My Other Ship, Prinoe (400 Ls)


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    ¡°They¡¯re taking forever, aren¡¯t they?¡± the Ace commented as the exodus of enemy ships from the planet continued. As she watched, hundreds of shuttles ferried troops from the surface into the massive holds of the enemy cargo ships.


    Felix glanced at the battlemap absentmindedly. ¡°Even with their admittedly impressive logistics, it takes a while to evacuate a few million troops. The Reps say they¡¯re stacking their Marines in their cargo in layers like sardines.¡±


    ¡°There must be a trick somewhere,¡± she said as she paced the bridge restlessly. ¡°It can¡¯t be this easy.¡±


    Felix shrugged. ¡°They seem to be trying their best. They¡¯re hurrying so much that there have already been several shuttle accidents and a near-collision around one of the large transports.¡±


    ¡°Anyone we can blow up for violating one of the agreements?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t see inside their shuttle hangars, but based on the drone and satellite footage of the equipment they¡¯re dragging into them, they are mostly sticking to the guidelines and restrictions we set.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ too bad.¡±


    ¡°At least we¡¯re saving on munitions,¡± Felix offered.


    The Ace rolled her eyes. ¡°Bah. Cheap Pigeons, and now that we have our own munition fabs, we can make copies.¡±


    ¡°Do you want¡ª want us to keep a closer eye on the enemy shuttles?¡±


    She smiled, baring her teeth. ¡°Yes, anything they do that gives us an excuse. After all, our crews need their target practice.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What?! The deal was to allow them only one week for evacuations!¡± the Ace fumed at the image of Carla on the screen. ¡°It¡¯s been more than one week!¡±


    Carla explained patiently, ¡°Seeing that they are fully complying with the terms in good faith and going as fast as they can, there is no harm in extending the deadline by twenty-four hours. If they need more time then, we¡¯ll give them further 24-hour extensions as we see fit as long as they are still evacuating their men. Until we see them showing signs of slacking, that is.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s some real care-bear idiocy only a Rep can think of. I¡¯m not giving them that!¡±


    ¡°Too bad,¡± Carla said. ¡°I¡¯ve already taken the liberty of communicating the deadline extension to the Bun fluffle commander myself.¡±


    ¡°Damn, if only you had your fleet here and not us,¡± the Ace taunted, ¡°you¡¯d be able to enforce your stupid rules.¡±


    ¡°Damn, if only I didn¡¯t embed the Sonora near your task force ready to pound the bridge of your personal ship to bits if you try to blow up this deal,¡± Carla smiled back thinly.


    ¡°Go screw yourself, Rep! You said we could fight the way we want to!¡±


    ¡°Yes, but there are rules and one of the rules is¡­ you don¡¯t get to shoot at ships we promised safe passage to. You heard the Bun admiral in Grantor; they¡¯re watching to see what we do here.¡±


    ¡°Who cares what the aliens think about us?! We¡¯re all just¡ª just abominations and savage predators to them anyway!¡±


    ¡°If you can think just beyond tomorrow,¡± Carla continued unperturbed by her outburst, ¡°you¡¯ll see that this will make your job much easier the next time. As you can see from the number of troops they are moving, it would have taken us months ¡ª if not years ¡ª to dig them all out of the planet if we¡¯d gone in the hard way.¡±


    ¡°And if you can think just beyond the day after tomorrow,¡± the Ace countered, ¡°you¡¯ll see that this will make our job much harder¡­ when these people get to retreat into the next system or wherever they¡¯re going and fight us another day.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡± Carla shrugged. ¡°But a deal¡¯s a deal. I¡¯d have thought you still have a little of that old school Red Zone pirate honor in you, but I guess I¡¯ll have to settle for fear of death.¡±


    The implication that she was afraid for her life rankled the Ace more than the slight against her honor. ¡°The deal was one week! Not an hour more!¡±


    ¡°Whatever. Your bloodlust is at the bottom of my list of priorities. We¡¯re allowing them to leave. If you want to shoot something, there will be plenty of them to shoot at in the next few systems we go through.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t let them leave for free there too!¡± the Ace yelled at the screen, but Carla had already terminated the connection.


    ¡°Ace?¡± Felix asked.


    ¡°Hold fire,¡± she snarled. ¡°But get the Strategy Cell downstairs to devise countermeasures for the next time the Reps pull something like this. If they want to leash a tiger, they better be ready to get bitten.¡±


    <hr>


    Dominion State Security HQ, Znos-4


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    ¡°Administrator Krelnos, have you been briefed on the latest updates out of Prinoe?¡± Svatken asked expectantly on the video screen.


    Krelnos nodded. She¡¯d done her homework, of course. ¡°Yes, Director. The loss of another near-pacified planet to the Great Predators. A tragedy for the Dominion and the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°Tragedy?¡± Svatken asked, eyes flashing dangerously. ¡°Tragedy implies that events can be outside our direct control. No, this is not just a tragedy.¡±


    ¡°I understand your meaning, Director. Has anyone taken responsibility for the loss yet?¡±


    ¡°No, but we are investigating some candidates. If you have any information on this¡­ well, I know you would not hesitate to report it promptly.¡±


    Krelnos nodded vigorously. After a moment of hesitation, she asked, ¡°Perhaps I could elucidate my¡­ preliminary hypothesis?¡±


    Svatken looked at her screen sharply. ¡°A hypothesis? On the loss of Prinoe?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Director. Or rather¡­ a more comprehensive¡ª a unifying theory that explains the recent¡­ losses of the Dominion.¡±


    ¡°Unifying theory?¡± Svatken brushed her whiskers. ¡°Intriguing. What is it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director. Please allow me to start from the beginning.¡± Krelnos took a deep breath. ¡°First, we discover a new predator species on the fringes of Lesser Predator space. One of our fleets loses various ships to them; the responsibility for these events is murky, but no one alive takes responsibility. Some elements of the Navy take rumors of their presence somewhat seriously and prepare some measures to combat them; this is completely ineffective, and we eventually lose the entire Datsot invasion fleet. This fleet ¡ª it was commanded by Zero Whiskers Ditvish, who defected to the enemy. This defection was verified by data we later obtained from the Lesser Predators.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Svatken said, almost fidgeting. She was getting less and less confident about her initial accounting of that sequence of events by the day. ¡°But the circumstances of that defection are still¡ª I would not rely on it to draw specific conclusions.¡±


    Krelnos nodded and continued, ¡°Second, we capture a few Lesser Predator officers who had knowledge of the Great Predators and we corroborated information from our spies in their ranks on Malgeirgam. Most were lower ranking and only gave us what their rumor mills had, but given our assumptions of the worst, we actually came close to deriving the true nature of the threat. Based on this and the numerous countermeasures we devised against the predators¡¯ trickery, we launched an invasion against their home system. Somehow, despite all calculated and reasonable odds, this invasion fails. The Navy officer in charge of the planning and execution was ultimately Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. Not only was he opposed to the invasion from the first place ¡ª both a suspicious act and a potential motive ¡ª he stayed behind in Grantor, allowing a subordinate to execute the attack of the primary fleet. This implies that perhaps he knew the invasion would fail; perhaps he had a paw in it. And of course, I don¡¯t need to remind you of the prior relationship between him and the disgraced apostate Ditvish.¡±


    Svatken wavered. ¡°That is a lot of circumstantial evidence. But it could very well also be coincidence. There are at least two alternate hypotheses I¡¯ve considered that would fit this chain of events too.¡±


    ¡°The third and final piece of evidence comes from the enemy themselves,¡± Krelnos explained. ¡°The update from Prinoe. Director, did you review the transcript of the conversation between Nine Whiskers Fskokh and the enemy ships?¡±


    ¡°Yes, what of it?¡±


    ¡°Before the Great Predators revealed their true faces, we were talking to Znosians. Real Znosians.¡±


    ¡°Yes, possibly,¡± Svatken confirmed, as if absentmindedly. ¡°They¡¯re¡­ captured spacers who abandoned the Prophecy. Possible apostates. This is not new; it happens in war. Servants of the Prophecy get captured from time to time. We have not yet begun investigation on their personal responsibilities, but it is not a high priority: their fates in the predators¡¯ hands will likely be worse than death anyway.¡±


    ¡°Director, I believe the conversation revealed new information that may be pertinent to the security of the state,¡± Krelnos insisted.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°In my experience, Servants of the Prophecy who have been captured by the enemy take a long road to apostasy. These spacers in question¡­ they are merely months in the predators¡¯ grasp, and they already behave like willing predator livestock. The ships they are flying ¡ª they can¡¯t be easy for the predators to operate, given their size and unfamiliarity with us. That they are willing to rely on our own people to pilot them¡­ it suggests a level of control of our people beyond what is normal. Furthermore, they referred to themselves as the Free Znosian Navy¡­¡± Krelnos sat back, as if letting her words hang in the air.


    Svatken was paying full attention now. ¡°Are you suggesting that these events are all connected to this supposed Free Znosian Navy, and that there is a rogue element within the Dominion that have been working together since before the loss of the Datsot invasion fleet?¡±


    ¡°It would¡ª it could fit all the evidence.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ despite all that, I must admit that I still have some personal doubts about the original conviction of Zero Whiskers Ditvish¡­¡± Svatken said, hesitant again. ¡°The foundations of this line of thinking are not solid.¡±


    ¡°Where do these doubts come from?¡± Krelnos asked. ¡°Or rather, whom?¡±


    Svatken didn¡¯t answer. She¡¯d always been suspicious of how that episode unfolded, even if she was so confident at first, but what had originally flipped her on it¡­


    ¡°Was it the Eleven Whiskers too?¡± Krelnos prompted.


    Svatken didn¡¯t reply again, just staring at her console, trying to form a coherent flow out of the jumble of events that were now swirling in her head.


    Krelnos saw the opening and seized it. ¡°Put another way: what if we¡¯re wrong about this? At best, we have an Eleven Whiskers who readily admits he is utterly incapable of stopping the predators anyway. At worst¡­¡±


    <hr>


    Svatken stared at the fleet master on her console screen with part fascination and part disgust. ¡°It is disturbing how little you feel the need to take responsibility for, as a supposedly loyal Servant of the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t take full responsibility for a correct course of action,¡± Sprabr said, his expression defiant. ¡°Was I wrong to order the evacuation of Prinoe?¡±


    ¡°Were you?¡± Svatken shot back, seething.


    ¡°There was¡ª is¡­ no strategic reason to hold onto the star system at the cost of its defense fluffle of three squadrons, not to mention the four hundred Marine divisions we had garrisoning the planet. And the escape of those ships is now giving us even more data on the predators.¡±


    ¡°Not the predators. Those were not their ships.¡±


    ¡°No, they were not,¡± Sprabr admitted. ¡°They were ours. At least now we know the fates of three of our many Grand Fleet squadrons.¡±


    ¡°Do we even know that those ships they captured are still functional?¡± Svatken asked.


    ¡°They appeared to move as well as ours should. Perhaps a little slower, but that was also possibly a ruse. What we do know beyond doubt is that they can launch those dangerous munitions they have, the Pigeons. After all, they were able to retrofit Lesser Predator ships to fire them; there is no reason that our captured ships would not.¡±


    Svatken harumphed. ¡°We should still have fought. Made them bleed. Somehow.¡±


    ¡°It would have been¡­ wasteful for Nine Whiskers Fskokh to try to fight to the end.¡±


    ¡°Even so¡­ what next? They roll into Cretae and we give that up? Then Crissoel? We just give up and go every time they roll into one of our systems with an overwhelming force? Allow them to cut our supply lines to Grantor?¡±


    Sprabr sighed. ¡°That is what it meant to lose the bulk of our Grand Fleet and have our reserves be bottled up here waiting for the predators to attack. If you¡¯ll allow us to begin preparations for a full withdrawal, we can perhaps draw enough forces¡ª¡±


    Svatken interrupted him. ¡°You will hold Grantor for as long as I deem it necessary.¡± She paused for a moment before continuing, ¡°But you don¡¯t have to worry about Cretae anymore.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± Sprabr asked, surprised.


    ¡°No. Based on our latest¡­ personnel workload analysis, it appears that you are busy with your work on Grantor and unsuited for additional responsibility. Therefore, I am hereby limiting the scope of your concern to the Grand Fleet¡¯s mobile reserves at Grantor and the defense of its immediate perimeter systems.¡±


    ¡°I am being relieved from overall responsibility? Now?!¡± he exclaimed.


    ¡°That is correct, Eleven Whiskers. We are reducing your area of responsibility so you can focus on your primary task of defending Grantor.¡±


    He looked as if he was about to protest on her screen, but after a moment of agitation, he settled back into his chair. ¡°Who is replacing me?¡±


    Svatken shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°I don¡¯t know yet. I am sure we can find a fleet commander who is willing to fight to protect Dominion space.¡±


    ¡°Willing to fight?¡± he echoed, horror dawning on his expression. ¡°To pointlessly sacrifice our ships and troops against overwhelming forces they know they cannot beat?!¡±


    ¡°Now, now, Eleven Whiskers. You may no longer be responsible for the defense of those sectors, but defeatism is still a serious crime.¡±


    ¡°But if you don¡¯t even have a candidate in mind¡ª¡±


    Svatken sniffed the air twice before replying haughtily, ¡°Eleven Whiskers, this is not a discussion. The Prophecy will provide. Given your track record against the predators so far, I am sure we can find someone just as worthy of this responsibility as you, if not more. After all, the Dominion has no shortage of loyal Servants, does it?¡±


    She didn¡¯t bother to wait for his response before cutting off the transmission.


    <hr>


    ZNS 1858, Cretae (22,000 Ls)


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Yes, Director Svatken, I take full responsibility for the retreat and the actions I took that led to its necessity,¡± Fskokh said, bowing his head so low he could kiss his knees.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°Good?¡± he asked puzzled as he raised his head to look her in the eye.


    Svatken nodded coldly. ¡°Good. At least you understand your place.¡±


    ¡°Director?¡±


    ¡°With the addition of your ships from Prinoe, what is your total ready strength in Cretae now?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Twelve combat squadrons, ma¡¯am,¡± he replied automatically. ¡°I also have a special squadron of the¡­ electronic warfare ships from Grantor. The Marine troop ships have been evacuated back into pacified Dominion territory, so our supply ships are dedicated to the combat squadrons.¡±


    ¡°And you will fight?¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am?¡± he asked, puzzled. ¡°We await your directive.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Here is your new directive: hold Cretae. When the predators come, you fight. You will not negotiate a truce with them. You will not hop one step backwards. And you will not radio anyone else for instructions. And if anyone other than me gives you any instructions contrary to mine, you ignore them. Is that understood?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools!¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, I am about to tell you something that only twelve people in the entire galaxy fully know. You will be the thirteenth.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡¯am?¡±


    ¡°If this state secret leaks from you, you will be labeled an apostate and your entire bloodline pruned. Is what I am saying clear, Nine Whiskers?¡±


    Fskokh straightened up and put his paw over his heart. ¡°Yes, Director. I would die before I betray the secrets of the Dominion.¡±


    ¡°Good. Get out your one-time order pad and decrypt this sequence I¡¯m about to transmit to your ship¡­¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 26 Third Chances

    <div>


    SRNS My Other Ship, Cretae (24,000 Ls)


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    The pinpricks of light on the external view monitors imploded into the coherent starfield familiar to human eyes.


    ¡°Post-blink preparations complete, Ace,¡± Felix reported about a minute later.


    ¡°Damn, that was slow,¡± the Ace of Clubs said, staring at Krizvum¡¯s back. ¡°Are you deliberately sabotaging my ships, Krissy?¡±


    The Znosian officer turned around, bowing low. ¡°I take full responsibility for my crew¡¯s unacceptable pace, Thirteen Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to take responsibility,¡± the Ace snarled. ¡°I want you to go faster next time.¡±


    ¡°If I may suggest an improvement, Thirteen Whiskers?¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± she snapped.


    ¡°The bottleneck is in the¡­ new engineering deck. Back in the¡­ Bad Znosian Navy, we would retrain the crew in the engineering deck for more efficient operations. Or if they were too new to waste training resources on, they would be considered defective and replaced. Would you like to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Replaced?¡± she asked, mildly curious.


    ¡°Recycled¡ª they would be¡­ executed, Thirteen Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound very efficient of your people.¡±


    ¡°A single defective can spoil an entire batch, Thirteen Whiskers,¡± he said, matter-of-factly. ¡°And replacement for inexperienced crew is cheap.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± the Ace said, considering the alien practice. She turned to Felix. ¡°Who¡¯s in the new engineering deck?¡±


    Felix made a few taps on his new tablet console. ¡°That¡¯s Holden¡¯s crew.¡±


    ¡°Human?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a mixed crew: half alien, half ours¡­ Ace, are we actually going to uh¡ª recycle¡ª¡±


    She rolled her eyes. ¡°What are you, stupid? We don¡¯t have a breeding pond pumping out a bajillion ship engineers a day, human or alien. Tell them to do extra post-blink drills or they¡¯re getting their pay docked until we get it down to under thirty seconds.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Felix said, poorly hiding a sigh of relief as he directed the ship¡¯s computers to draft a scathing memo for the underperforming crew. ¡°Right away.¡±


    ¡°Krissy, status update on the star system.¡±


    Krizvum bowed, reading from his tablet, ¡°Thirteen Bad Znosian squadrons, exactly as reported by the¡ª the Rep ships. Six anti-ship mine volumes detected in our vicinity, but we are clear of them. One of the enemy squadrons is deployed near our position. Two are deployed near the blink limit on the other side, and the remaining ten are assembled a light-hour away. They have begun jamming our FTL radios, but the signal is mostly ineffective against our frequency hoppers.¡±


    ¡°Lucky thirteen.¡±


    Felix pointed at one of the squadrons on the battlemap now on the main screen. ¡°Ace, that¡¯s their new radar ships near the far blink limit. They might have enough radar resolution to see something¡¯s different with the stealth panels on the Endurance.¡±


    Technically, the former Republic ship Endurance ¡ª the parasite carrier secretly captured by the Resistance over twenty years ago ¡ª was renamed Jefferson¡¯s Revenge. But with much of its computer intelligence systems still refusing to recognize the new name decades later, Resistance spacers had given up on enforcing the rename.


    ¡°Let them see.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Not like they¡¯ll know what they¡¯re looking at. Krissy, keep us out of the mine volumes and bring us in range of that closest enemy squadron.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Thirteen Whiskers.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°We¡¯re getting a transmission on the FTL radio, Nine Whiskers!¡±


    Fskokh looked up in confusion. ¡°I thought we were jamming the system with those experimental ships?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s the Great Predators. Their signal can apparently burn through our jammers up close.¡±


    ¡°Of course they can,¡± he said resignedly. ¡°What do they want this time?¡±


    His computer officer tapped a button on her console, putting the familiar face of the defected captive ¡ª Eight Whiskers Krizvum ¡ª on the main screen.


    ¡°Get your abomination captors if you want to talk, apostate,¡± Fskokh waved impatiently.


    Krizvum acted like he hadn¡¯t heard the command, and Fskokh wasn¡¯t sure if he was more annoyed by that or at the message the traitor delivered. ¡°We are Free Znosian Navy Battlegroup Cottontail. We are here to take command of Cretae. Nine Whiskers Fskokh, you are hereby ordered to cease all engine acceleration and send all senior officers to the 2239 for a¡ª¡±


    ¡°Cut the nonsense and get the Great Predators.¡±


    Perhaps they were flattered by the Great Predators as an honorific, or perhaps they were simply impatient as he was, their leader from last time got on again. She moved Krizvum out of his command chair again, plopping herself into it. ¡°Oh, hey, it¡¯s Socks again. I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re still alive. I thought you¡¯d be facing the wall for that last one by your own people.¡±


    Fskokh put his entire lung volume into it to give her the loudest derisive snort of his life. ¡°It was not yet my time to rejoin the Prophecy, abomination. What do you want this time?¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re in luck. Because we¡¯re about to give you a third chance to live. In my people¡¯s culture, that is considered beyond generous. But this would be your third strike, and if you don¡¯t do what we say this time, bad things are going to happen to you. Very bad things.¡±


    ¡°I will not evacuate the system this time,¡± he snarled. ¡°Your ships are outnumbered.¡±


    ¡°Oh my, are we?¡± She revealed all her teeth at him. ¡°I hadn¡¯t noticed.¡±


    ¡°You are!¡± he insisted. ¡°I know you can see we have many more ships than you!¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ It does all seem rather¡­ hopeless to me.¡±


    Fskokh¡¯s face brightened. At least this predator was smart enough to do basic arithmetic. ¡°We will let you live if you surrender.¡±


    ¡°Sure, we will surrender. Why don¡¯t you come over in a shuttle and we can discuss the specifics?¡±


    Fskokh shook his head vigorously. ¡°Predator lies! We are not so foolish to believe you. Cut your engines and send your officers¡ª¡±


    ¡°I have a better idea, Socks. Why don¡¯t you cut your engines and send your officers over?¡±


    ¡°No! You should.¡±


    ¡°No, you!¡±


    ¡°No, you!¡±


    ¡°No, you!¡±


    ¡°No¡ª¡± he frowned as the main screen disappeared into static. ¡°What¡ª what happened?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve cut the connection from their end, Nine Whiskers,¡± his computer officer replied as she examined her console¡¯s readouts.


    ¡°But we weren¡¯t finished with our conversation!¡± he said, mildly annoyed. ¡°What are they doing now?¡±


    A few moments later, she replied, ¡°The predators are moving towards Squadron 1. We¡¯re about to find out what their captured ships can really do.¡±


    ¡°Is Squadron 1 ready?¡± Fskokh asked.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left their hatchling pools.¡±


    He lowered his eyes as he muttered the prayer with her.


    It took less than an hour, and another hour for the light of the battle to reach him. The enemy got into position, and as they did, a precise wave of predator missiles ¡ª the Pigeons ¡ª wiped away Squadron 1 on the battlemap, exactly as he knew would happen.


    ¡°Analyze the effectiveness of our countermeasures this time,¡± Fskokh ordered.


    ¡°Our new countermeasures degraded their probability of hit by about twenty percent this time, Nine Whiskers!¡± the computer officer said excitedly after a moment of analysis.


    ¡°Is that enough by our measure?¡± he asked urgently.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. Just enough!¡±


    ¡°Good. What are they doing now?¡±


    She examined her console before replying, ¡°They¡¯re holding position near the battle site with their engines warmed up.¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Good. Burn us towards them.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    ¡°Enemy squadron destroyed,¡± Felix reported calmly as the notification appeared on his screen.


    ¡°And those radar jammers?¡± she asked, raising an eyebrow in mild concern.


    Felix frowned at his screen. ¡°Slightly effective. Our ship computers have completed their analysis on the signals they¡¯re using¡ª¡±


    ¡°Slightly effective?¡±


    ¡°Twenty to thirty percent. It¡¯s a slightly newer one from what they used against the Reps over the inner planets.¡±


    The Reps ¡ª shockingly ¡ª refused to share any of the electronic signals data they collected on the Znosian Grand Fleet during the Battle over Earth and Mars. But that didn¡¯t pose an insurmountable obstacle to the good people of the SRN. The aliens didn¡¯t do subtle electronic warfare like humans did; their countermeasures desperately blared out in every direction, and Resistance listening posts in Saturn received their noises a mere eighty minutes after the Reps¡¯ supercomputers did.


    According to her spies, the sensitive sensors on the Rep ships correctly deciphered and then ignored those primitive signals after a few microseconds, the amount of time it took their machines to chuckle quietly to themselves about the primitiveness of Znosian electronic warfare.


    The Resistance was no stranger to the EW game. The SRN did not have the trillion credit budget of the Rep Navy, but where its inventory lacked in mountains of cash, its people made up for in experience and tactical ingenuity. Between flare ups, operatives on asteroid bases and orbital stations would identify the exact right moment when the Reps needed their sensors and communications the most, like when they were docking or leaving port ¡ª a perfect time to test the Resistance¡¯s new electronic warfare tricks against them.


    Even though it was technically Rep Navy procedure to ignore them so they wouldn¡¯t know whether their tricks were actually working, in practice, rash or inexperienced Rep captains and EW officers would have obvious tells in their behavior. After all, docking with a station without being able to talk to it wasn¡¯t exactly the easiest thing in the galaxy. In a few cases, they would straight-up call the transmitters, angrily demanding they turn it off or threatening legal consequences if they didn¡¯t.


    The operatives would comply, of course, and then they¡¯d do it again the next time the Reps came around. What were they going to do about it? Shoot a railgun volley through a civilian residential module just because it had a jammer transmitter mounted on its hull?


    By the time the last Free Zone war came around, the Resistance had gotten pretty good at the electronic warfare game. Not better than the Reps, no, not even the Ace was delusional about that, but it was enough to be a real nuisance.


    But offensive EW was only one side of the equation.


    On the other side, the Reps didn¡¯t often use their sophisticated missile jammers against the Resistance. Until their recent oppression campaign, it¡¯d been decades since a SRN missile battery fired on a Rep ship in anger. And when it came time to, the results were¡­ disappointing. As far as she could tell, despite the propaganda, none of the dozens of modified Pigeons they fired at the Reps in the latest conflict actually reached point defense range, much less connect. Their expensive dazzlers did the job they claimed to do.


    Unfortunate, but not unexpected.


    What was unexpected was how poorly the aliens performed against the SRN Ghost Fleet, especially how few of their long-range missiles seemed to be able to find their targets once the Resistance repeater bases began to broadcast false signals. Indeed, some defense-analyst think tank in Atlas commented that it appeared ¡°at the Battle of Saturn, the Resistance had the same EW advantage over the Znosian Navy that the Republic Navy had against the Resistance¡±. Of course, that was the kind of Rep-centric garbage you¡¯d expect out of some defense establishment mouthpiece on Luna, but¡­ it wasn¡¯t entirely untrue.


    Twenty to thirty percent degradation. These Znosians she was now facing, the Ace mused, seemed to have improved on their record.


    Slightly.


    But improved nonetheless.


    ¡°Slightly newer,¡± the Ace repeated in a calm voice. ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°They appeared to have adapted. Their radar jammers appear to be similar to the type used by Rep Marines,¡± Felix answered.


    The Ace narrowed her eyes. ¡°Their Marines?¡±


    ¡°One of their older models, ma¡¯am, but they still use them.¡±


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t happen to be similar to their old anti-drone swarm defenses at Cassini, would it?¡± she asked dryly.


    Felix arched an eyebrow at her. ¡°How¡ª how did you know?¡±


    She snorted. ¡°The ones they gave their damn pets for their ground campaigns. Of course the Buns learned from it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. We¡¯ve sent a request to the Reps for countermeasures, but their liaison has been¡­ uncooperative.¡±


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°Rear Admiral Ibarra and her Sonora. They¡¯ve arrived in system, and they¡¯re sitting at the blink limit, just watching us.¡±


    ¡°Connect me to her now.¡±


    A few seconds later, the increasingly familiar face of Catarina Ibarra appeared on her main screen.


    ¡°What is it this time, terrorist scum?¡± Catarina asked casually without bothering to look into the camera.


    ¡°Not much, Rep bootlicker, but we need everything you have on your radar jamming tech¡ª¡±


    ¡°Having second thoughts about that big, bad alien fleet over there? If you¡¯re trying to run away, now would be¡ª¡±


    The Ace snapped at her. ¡°Hey, asshole, in case you haven¡¯t noticed, the Buns are using your radar jammers against our missiles. So if you Reps have secret countermeasures against those, now would be a good time to let us know.¡±


    Catarina finally looked up. ¡°We did notice those new model jammers, probably attempts to copy our Eureka-4s. What¡¯s the matter? You guys can¡¯t handle a little signal interference?¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t been hit yet, but aren¡¯t you at least a little bit concerned where they got these?!¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah, the tech transfer to the Puppers. We knew the Buns were going to observe closely and steal as much of our tech as they could. That¡¯s why we handed out the old stuff.¡±


    ¡°Your old stuff is annoying as it is, and it¡¯s not your ass on the line here. What¡¯s your counter-jamming procedure against Eurekas?¡±


    Catarina seemed to look away on her screen for a moment, then she looked back at the camera and sighed. ¡°None.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°There are no known vulnerabilities in the Eureka radar jammer protocol. At burn-through range, it¡¯s about a theoretical four-in-five chance your missiles are still seeing the right target, max. No getting around that.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡±


    Catarina shrugged. ¡°If there were identified exploits, don¡¯t you think we¡¯d have fixed them before we gave them to the Puppers?¡±


    ¡°So what are we supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°Are you familiar with the concept of¡­ shooting multiple missiles at a target?¡± Catarina suggested innocently.


    ¡°Don¡¯t patronize me, Rep! Are you really going to let our people die out here just so you can keep your secrets?!¡±


    ¡°There are no secrets or backdoors in our technology, terrorist.¡± Catarina held up a finger before the Ace could begin shouting. ¡°But¡­ just for today, you can have the Sonora¡¯s gravidar on FTL datalink. That should be enough for you to avoid eating vacuum for lunch.¡±


    With a flick of a button, a trickle of new data appeared in her command console, showing her the data from the Reps¡¯ sophisticated new sensors. That was not new. They¡¯d fed the Ghost Fleet that information during the Battle of Saturn, but they didn¡¯t fully rely on it, much less depend on it.


    You never know when the Reps are going to screw you over.


    ¡°So¡­¡± the Ace summarized, ¡°your bright idea for our fleet¡¯s sensor strategy for the coming battle is¡­ to just trust you?¡±


    Catarina shrugged again. ¡°Or you can die out there instead.¡±


    ¡°In your dreams, Rep.¡±


    Catarina rolled her eyes. ¡°Well, you kids have fun, and don¡¯t get too many of your ships killed. We only brought so much popcorn on the Sonora.¡±


    And before the Ace could come up with a suitable retort, she closed the connection remotely.


    ¡°Typical Rep,¡± the Ace muttered angrily. She looked at Felix. ¡°What¡¯s our game plan now?¡±


    ¡°Assuming the Reps don¡¯t try to screw us over,¡± he said. ¡°We have a range advantage over the enemies with our Pigeon missiles, and our acceleration is only slightly lower than theirs with our heavier mass. The Tactics Cell predicts they¡¯ll probably charge us, try to get us within their range bubble. But¡­ if we keep them at their powered missile range like we did in Prinoe, and with the Rep data feed¡­ despite their numbers, we¡¯ll kill them all right before they get in range.¡±


    ¡°We can keep them out there for that long?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ what we¡¯re projecting.¡±


    ¡°Assuming everything works.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ace, that¡¯s assuming everything works. If one of our ships can¡¯t maintain maximum acceleration, it¡¯s going to fall behind and die.¡±


    The Ace of Clubs looked down her list of ships, most of them heavily crewed by former Bun prisoners. And the ones that weren¡¯t¡­ had parts decades out of their maintenance schedules.


    Razor-thin margins and fatal consequences. What can possibly go wrong here?


    ¡°Please tell me we have a Plan B too.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, they are following the same playbook they did in Prinoe: once we get into their range, they¡¯re going to full burn to keep us out of ours. Then, they will shoot at us until we are all dead.¡±


    ¡°And? What is the Digital Guide¡¯s assessment?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a narrow safety margin, but it predicts they may be able to pull it off again. We have a lot of ships, but they have some range to work with.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± Fskokh muttered contemplatively. ¡°That is assuming their captured ships can maintain their maximum acceleration of 28 to 32 gravities.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. We believe they can. After all¡ª after all¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our former crews aboard those ships are just as well-trained as we are?¡± he suggested.


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers. Their lives¡ª their lives¡ª their¡­¡± she stuttered, clearly unsure whether to say a prayer for the defected apostates.


    ¡°Their lives are their own,¡± Fskokh said, shaking his head. ¡°This will not be a day of glory for the Prophecy. But¡­ an infected flock must be culled. And we are the ones who have been given that responsibility from the Prophecy. We will do it without pride or joy, but with satisfaction in the knowledge that the Prophecy will be fulfilled.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers,¡± she replied softly.


    Fskokh examined the battlemap for another minute, then nodded with finality. ¡°Their current course ¡ª it is the logical tactic for them, given what they know. That is¡­ admittedly a more aggressive margin than sane predators would usually go with.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Nine Whiskers. Have you made a final decision on our course?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll go with the original as planned,¡± he said as he took a deep breath. ¡°All ships, go to maximum burn.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    ¡°Maybe they believe we¡¯ll blink and run. Or maybe they don¡¯t think we brought enough missiles,¡± Felix speculated.


    The Ace snorted. ¡°Or maybe they think we¡¯ll screw up somewhere.¡±


    ¡°The physics is clear, Ace. They¡¯re not going anywhere. Once we start maximum acceleration away from them, we¡¯ll keep them locked in that bubble for at least an hour. Just enough time to blow them all out of vacuum before they get in range.¡±


    The Ace stared at the main screen, projecting the image of the dark void, without speaking. ¡°They must know, right? That even if we screw up here¡­ badly, they are all dead anyway. By us, or if we fail, by the Reps.¡±


    Felix spoke after a while, tracking the enemies as they burned ever closer on the battlemap. ¡°Well, they¡¯re no cowards ¡ª that¡¯s for sure.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Learning from his previous engagement with the predator fleet at Prinoe, Fskokh took the optional sleeping medication during the approach, keeping him far better rested this time. And from the freshened look of his bridge crew, most of them had done the same. The shifts were even timed so the most experienced primary crew would be on duty during times when important decisions would need to be made.


    Despite its best-in-galaxy training regime, the Znosian Navy knew that combat experience was even more valuable. But Fskokh had never appreciated the full importance of that himself until he¡¯d been in battle against the Great Predators. Suddenly, a lot of the practices in the institutional memory of the Znosian Navy made sense; traditions that had resulted in marginal returns or seemed pointless against the other predators they rolled over in their sleep¡­ it was now clear why they needed those.


    As they approached the enemy fleet and crossed an imaginary line he¡¯d set, his computer officer reported right on time, ¡°Nine Whiskers, we are almost at the enemy¡¯s maximum powered missile envelope. We are¡­ exactly ten minutes out.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Fskokh examined his battlemap satisfyingly. ¡°We¡¯ve come far enough, Six Whiskers. Secure the ship and prepare for the contingency.¡±


    With a quick acknowledgement and as his order went out on the intercom, the bridge crew got to their emergency suits, donning the unwieldy equipment. All over the ship internal cameras, he saw officers and crew members get into battle stations, securing themselves and their equipment to the ship with their seat restraints. They¡¯d rehearsed this movement as part of their combat station drills, and they did not disappoint; the full procedure was completed within three minutes.


    ¡°All crew in all squadrons at contingency stations, Nine Whiskers. Your orders, sir?¡±


    Fskokh suppressed the elation and excitement rising in his chest. There would be time for that later.  He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.


    ¡°Broadcast the State Security kill codes.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 27 Kill Codes

    <div>


    ZNS 1858, Cretae (15,000 Ls)


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°Broadcast the State Security kill codes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers.¡±


    With the press of a button at his computer officer¡¯s command, a radio signal beamed out from the ship towards every Znosian ship in the system.


    Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


    There was a groan emanating from the belly of the ship. The inertial compensators died without ceremony, their background hum suddenly ceasing to sound. For a split second, Fskokh felt the floor drop out beneath his feet, but the ship¡¯s emergency engine cut-off kicked in before its massive acceleration could turn his body into paste against the walls. The auxiliary power generators in the heart of the ship rumbled into operation as the lights on the bridge dimmed to their emergency yellow and noises of the ship warped to an unfamiliar pitch.


    ¡°Transition complete, Nine Whiskers. Acceleration, zero.¡±


    With the engines dead and gravity zero, Fskokh felt his paw rise naturally to chest height. He consciously brought it back down to his command console, activating his intercom radio with unfamiliar effort. ¡°What is the status of the rest of the fleet, Computer Officer?¡±


    ¡°All squadrons report transition complete, except Squadron 11 as planned.¡±


    ¡°What about the enemy?¡±


    The reply came back in seconds, elation in the voice. ¡°The codes successfully killed their inertial compensators as well as ours! All but six of the enemy ships are mobility killed. No acceleration! It appears we managed to surprise them as expected!¡±


    ¡°Good. Weapons status?¡±


    ¡°At zero acceleration, our ships are now all well within range of each other. Squadrons 2 to 10 report weapons operational and ready.¡±


    He didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Fire Plan 1, execute, now.¡±


    Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.


    The thuds in the hull of the missiles leaving their batteries were even more jarring in the relative quiet of the ship bridge without the inertial compensators.


    ¡°Missiles out. Tracking.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    Cruuuuuunch.


    The Ace of Clubs felt a sudden lurch as the inertial compensators on the former 2239 died. There was a heart-rending groan in the hull. The main lights went out, replaced by the emergency lighting coming on a second later.


    She looked around them. Several bridge crew members were knocked off their feet and paws before the engines cut out entirely as it detected the emergency event, floating them in the unfamiliar weightless environment. At least two of their Znosian crew members were bent in unnatural ways that did not appear conducive to survival.


    Felix was sprawled over his own console, groaning in pain as he slowly got back up. ¡°Argggg. I¡¯m alright, I¡¯m alright.¡±


    To her relief ¡ª an emotion she didn¡¯t expect at all ¡ª Krizvum had been seated and restrained properly in his crash chair. As he recovered from the surprise, he began to give orders to his subordinates on his command console.


    ¡°Medics to the bridge!¡± he yelled as quickly as he typed. ¡°Several casualties on the bridge. Bring all incapacitated spacers to the healing module, and bring up any secondary shift duty officers now!¡±


    ¡°What the fuck did you do, Krissy?!¡± the Ace roared at him.


    ¡°Thirteen Whiskers,¡± he said, panting in panic ¡ª the source more likely being her anger rather than the ship¡¯s predicament ¡ª as he checked the status boards. ¡°We¡¯ve lost our inertial compensators. The real-time calculation module software crashed out of nowhere. We¡¯re attempting a reboot, but it will take a while.¡±


    ¡°The fleet? What about the fleet?! Krissy, where is the rest of my fleet?!¡±


    ¡°The rest of the fleet is¡­ experiencing a similar problem, except the non-Znosian ships. It appears that the¡ª the enemy is at zero acceleration as well. Most ships in the battlespace appear to be mobility killed!¡±


    ¡°And where exactly is the enemy? They were closing on us before we malfunctioned!¡±


    ¡°The Znosian¡ª they¡¯re in range now, Thirteen Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°Without the compensators, we can¡¯t accelerate. Without acceleration to expend missile range, we are well within range of their missiles now as they are in ours. We need to¡ª¡±


    The klaxon on the bridge went off as the announcers helpfully warned, ¡°Enemy active radar source detected!¡±


    The Ace narrowed her eyes, ignoring the immediate threat for now. ¡°Wait, the problem is inertial compensators?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Thirteen Whiskers. The engines cut off as a safety measure.¡±


    She thought for only a moment. ¡°Our ships have those too. Cycle the engines back on. Set maximum acceleration to five gravities.¡±


    ¡°Five gravities?!¡±


    ¡°We can handle it.¡±


    Krizvum paled. ¡°But¡ª but¡­ Thirteen Whiskers, our Znosian bodies are more fragile. We can¡¯t tolerate that high acceleration¡ª we will not be working at combat effectiveness¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do it now, or I feed you your other ear!¡± she roared back.


    Krizvum knew a real threat when he heard one. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. Restarting engines capped at five gravities. All crew, get to crash stations!¡±


    The Ace felt an invisible weight on her body as the engines burnt at a fraction of their full power, but without the inertial compensators, it was more constant acceleration than she¡¯d ever felt on her body.


    Over-G! Over-G! Over-G!


    The Ace pointed at the blinking light telling her what she could already feel in her chest. ¡°Shut that alarm the hell up!¡±


    Compounding her annoyance, the klaxon on the ship also began screaming at a rapid rate.


    Krizvum strained to speak in his chair as the ship¡¯s acceleration crushed into his fragile body, ¡°The¡­ they are firing missiles¡­ at us now. Four hundred¡­ four hundred and eighty missiles¡­ incoming.¡±


    ¡°Deploy countermeasures. And all ships fire back. Execute original fire plan,¡± the Ace spoke, projecting as much calm as she could. She thought for another moment. ¡°And order the railguns to open fire. If your fragile bones can¡¯t withstand a few gravities, Krissy, they won¡¯t be pulling higher acceleration than us either.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ Thirteen¡­ Whiskers. All ships, return¡­ fire¡­ at will.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    ¡°They¡¯re moving on their own thrust again, Nine Whiskers!¡±


    Fskokh looked at the signatures on the battlemap in mild surprise. Sure enough, the enemy ships were now displaying changing vectors, albeit much slower than usual. ¡°What?¡± he asked. ¡°How fast?!¡±


    ¡°Approximately fifty meters per second squared.¡±The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    He scratched his whiskers. ¡°But how?! Wouldn¡¯t they be crushed to death without their inertial compensators?!¡±


    ¡°Our bodies can tolerate up to two or three without short-term issues. Maybe the Great Predators on those ships have a slightly higher tolerance?¡± his computer officer suggested.


    Fskokh nodded. ¡°In that case, we can¡¯t take any chances. We must be at least somewhat competitive for a favorable exchange ratio. Bring our engines back up to thirty meters per second squared.¡±


    ¡°That would degrade combat performance for our crews,¡± she cautioned.


    ¡°Do it anyway.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers¡­ Enemy missiles incoming! About one fifty¡­ And they¡¯re deploying countermeasures! Releasing our own!¡±


    He felt the acceleration push against his body as his ships fought the enemy. Within a few seconds, the three dozen enemy ships projected hundreds of new signals onto his battlemap. Decoys and countermeasures. The computers began aggressively resolving the ones flying erratically at unreasonable vectors. As another cluster of false positive signals disappeared, Fskokh noted that the latest updates to their sensor software had only been mildly helpful. ¡°Probability of hit?¡± he grunted.


    ¡°6 to 8 percent per¡­ outgoing munition at the¡­ current resolution pace and¡­ expected countermeasures.¡±


    Horrendously bad by historical Znosian Navy standards, but against the Great Predators, it was squarely in between typical and miracle-from-the-Prophecy. ¡°It¡¯ll have¡­ to do. Prepare the second volley¡­ as soon as we can.¡±


    It took a few more minutes, but when the missiles hit, the explosions washed out the infrared sensors. The fleet¡¯s radar sensors aimed their cones at the enemy ships, detecting¡­


    ¡°Report!¡± Fskokh ordered.


    His computer officer sounded like she didn¡¯t believe her own voice as she gasped out the status report under the heavy acceleration, ¡°Eight¡ª eight enemy ships disabled¡­ or destroyed! I see¡­ hibernation pods around four¡­ of the Great Predator ships.¡±


    Eight of the Great Predators¡¯ ships out of action!


    Despite the oppressive gravities pushing against their fragile bodies, a wave of restless excitement swept across the bridge.


    Well, technically, they were Znosian ships.


    But still¡­


    Eight ships controlled by Great Predators. That had already been more kills against them than achieved by any other fleet in Znosian history. If he wasn¡¯t restrained against his seat and enduring four crushing gravities on his body, Fskokh might have jumped out of his seat to cheer.


    ¡°Incoming!¡±


    It was the enemy¡¯s turn: their missiles closed in on his ships.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.


    Point defense guns sounded on the ship, spraying hot metal and plasma into the vacuum, hoping to catch an errant missile or two going for one of their ships. And as quickly as the guns started, the klaxons ceased. His computer officer began to gather status updates. Surprised that he was still alive, Fskokh gritted his teeth, praying for another miracle from the Prophecy.


    ¡°Thirty ships of the fleet disabled or destroyed: four in Squadron 2, five in Squadron 3, all in Squadron 4, and 9 in Squadron 7. Should we begin operations to conduct search and rescue?¡±


    Fskokh shook his head solemnly. ¡°Not today.¡±


    She matched his expression as she read off her latest update. ¡°Special Squadron 11 is fast approaching the enemy fleet, Nine Whiskers. Intercept in under five minutes.¡±


    ¡°How are their automated search and rescue shuttles?¡±


    ¡°Telemetry shows they remain operational, Nine Whiskers, but we haven¡¯t gotten any report from their crew since¡ª since the transition.¡±


    Fskokh bowed his head. ¡°Their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    ¡°Eight of our ships are out of action, Ace,¡± Felix grunted as he fought off five sustained gravities of acceleration. ¡°SRNS Pandora Explorer is reporting engine disabled. We can¡¯t take another one of those volleys!¡±


    ¡°Krissy, where are we on the inertial compensator reboot?¡± the Ace asked, in not much better condition herself.


    There was no answer.


    ¡°Krissy?¡± she asked again, straining to turn around to see where his command chair was as she felt for the handgun at her hip with her right hand. ¡°If you fuckers are mutinying, you better think twice¡­¡±


    Her sentence died in her throat as she saw her poor Znosian captain lying at his station, unconscious with a streak of blood running down the side of his white-furred cheek.


    ¡°Useless critters,¡± she muttered.


    Felix saw the same thing she did from his station. ¡°Ace¡­ we need to lower¡­ the acceleration. We can¡¯t continue effective operation on¡­¡±


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± she roared back.


    ¡°Even some of the human crew in the back are reporting difficulties,¡± Felix grunted quietly. ¡°And we can¡¯t afford to lose our entire alien crew.¡±


    She thought about ignoring them to continue the fight, but the logical part of her brain kicked in. Killing eighty percent of her crew wouldn¡¯t win her any battles. She took another look at the pitiful Krizvum. ¡°Screw it! Bring us down to three and a half. And have sick bay send up a drone to fix Krissy.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ace,¡± Felix said as he struggled to type out the commands on his console. A few seconds later, the engines seemed to quieten slightly and the pressure on her chest evaporated. Then, Felix seemed to frown at his screen. ¡°Huh.¡±


    ¡°What is it now?¡±


    ¡°It seems like some of the alien ships didn¡¯t stop like the others. About a squadron of them.¡±


    She squinted at her own screen in unease. ¡°What do you mean¡­ didn¡¯t stop?¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Fskokh, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Thump. Thump. Thump.


    Though the two fleets were still far from each other ¡ª way too far for visuals ¡ª neither could accelerate beyond the limits of biology. The decks thundered again and again as both fleets began launching ballistic railgun projectiles, throwing everything but the kitchen sink at each other. It was unlikely any would hit, but nobody was saving railgun ammunition for the next battle. And as Fskokh¡¯s computer officer continued to gather updates for the battle damage assessment, he saw a bundle of blue on his radar vomit out of Squadron 11 towards the signals of the hibernation pods containing the enemy.


    When the kill codes shut down the inertial compensators for every Znosian ship in range, the dozen specially prepared ships in Squadron 11 had overridden their engines¡¯ safety measures. Instead of slowing to zero acceleration, they continued their maximum burn toward the enemy fleet on autopilot. Autopilot, because their crews were not expected to survive over thirty sustained gravities for long periods of time. Without their crews, their Digital Guides on board were not capable of actual combat against an enemy fleet.


    But they didn¡¯t need to be.


    Squadron 11¡¯s shuttles shot out of their hangar bays right as the squadron intercepted the enemy fleet¡¯s position. The shuttles lit their tiny engines and followed pre-programmed paths to the helpless pods orbiting the enemy¡¯s doomed ships.


    Of the almost hundred shuttles spewing out from the dead ships of Squadron 11, only about half managed to lock onto their targets at such a high relative velocity. The remainder mostly missed their targets entirely, with a pawful crashing into the hibernation pods, destroying both the shuttles and the pods. The successful half of the shuttles grappled onto the hibernation pods surrounding the crippled enemy ships and spread out, heading in dozens of random directions away from the furball fight, desperately trying to reverse towards the friendly side of the blink limit any which way they could.


    Search and rescue under fire was a maneuver that the Dominion Navy drilled extensively on, and it certainly helped that the Znosian-made enemy ships had ejected Znosian-made hibernation pods, perfectly made to spec for the Znosian recovery shuttles.


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, Digital Guide reports forty-eight enemy escape pods captured!¡±


    A couple of the indicators blinked off the sensors.


    ¡°Forty-six,¡± she reported as the map updated. ¡°Forty-four. Enemy point defense is firing at our recovery shuttles. Just a few seconds¡­ They should be out of railgun range now!¡±


    Trying to not allow elation to override his judgement, he could only nod expressionlessly. ¡°Command them to scatter and rendezvous with our ships at the blink limit. And get them out of here into the next system as fast as they can. Whoever they put in them, apostates or Great Predators, will be valuable prisoners for information.¡±


    She input the commands into her console.


    A few minutes later, his computer officer reported, ¡°Nine Whiskers, we are ready to launch again at the predators.¡±


    The enemy ships had been desperately burning, trying futilely to move out of range. With their engines working at a fraction of their total burn, both fleets were still well within missile range of each other. Fskokh gave the order. ¡°Fire!¡±


    A second volley of missiles streamed out from the fleet, racing towards the retrograde enemies.


    And as their signatures on the sensors updated, Fskokh saw one of the dots representing one of the outgoing missiles cease to move, indicating that their computers were no longer getting a signal from it.


    Then another.


    And another.


    He frowned. ¡°Computer Officer, what¡¯s going on with our outgoing volley?!¡±


    ¡°Unknown, sir, we¡¯re losing their signal and we can¡¯t see them on our sensors! There appears to be debris¡ª¡±


    ¡°Figure out why!¡±


    As she hurriedly diagnosed the problem, the dots began disappearing faster. Entire clusters of them dropped off the radar computers.


    ¡°Computer Officer, figure this out before¡ª¡±


    Before what?


    He wasn¡¯t sure. All he knew was this was not supposed to happen. He racked his brain to find a plausible explanation.


    The appearance of a small cluster of new radar signals around his fleet stopped Fskokh in his paws. A couple of them flashed sporadically on the screen as the sensors struggled to resolve them. ¡°What in the Prophecy are those?!¡± he rasped at no one in particular.


    Wordlessly, his computer officer pulled the visual of one of them up on the main screen. Smaller than ships. Smaller than shuttles. Tiny spacecraft that almost looked like miniature versions of the latest Great Predators capital ships. Black in the dark of space, smooth with curves that made them difficult to track with radar, and boasting at least four of what were evidently missiles in each of their racks. Another camera captured image of one with at least twelve.


    As the ship tracked one of them on the main screen, he saw it empty its payload towards¡­


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, they¡¯re shooting out our missiles!¡±


    ¡°The¡ª the tiny ship! Take them out now!¡±


    Before his order could be passed to the rest of the fleet, his ship was rocked with a blast to the rear. Already strapped to his command chair, at least he didn¡¯t fall to the floor. Klaxons sounded their alarm, notifying him several modules in his ship were now exposed to vacuum.


    ¡°What hit us?!¡± Fskokh demanded.


    ¡°It¡¯s one of those¡­ tiny ships! They¡¯ve got anti-ship missiles too! Small ones but they still hurt! Squadron 3 already reports two ship casualties and one critically hit, Squadron 4 reports¡ª¡±


    Another explosion hit the ship, this time much closer to the bridge. He could hear the screams of spacers and the groaning of metal as entire rooms and modules of the ship were sucked into vacuum down the bridge hallway.


    ¡°Tell point defense to take them out before they find something vital on the ship to hit!¡± he screamed.


    ¡°We¡¯re trying! The targeting computer isn¡¯t calibrated to accurately track those little things in those¡ª¡±


    Boom.

 On Every Front - Chapter 28 Erroneous Assumptions

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Prinoe (22,000 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    Carla stared slack-jawed at her command console. ¡°They¡ª they what? Is that¡ª is that what I think it is?¡±


    Beth examined the data feed for a second longer. ¡°Kill codes, ma¡¯am. They must have remote¡ª remote kill codes for¡ª for their own ships. Preliminary analysis says it¡¯s the inertial compensators, the engines, or the ship¡¯s central computers, in that order of likelihood.¡±


    ¡°Did¡ª did we get a copy of the broadcast? Please tell me¡ª¡±


    ¡°It appears to have been a light speed transmission. The Sonora is observing at the system blink limit. We will get the full transmission in an hour even if the Resistance refuses to hand it over.¡±


    ¡°Mein Gott.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡±


    ¡°Kill codes.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Kill. Codes.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    Beth shrugged.


    ¡°How has none of the dozens or so species they fought against not¡­ exploited that?¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯ve never had to use them before? We didn¡¯t find them in the ones we captured. It may be some kind of clever exploit our reverse engineers didn¡¯t see? That might explain why it only took out the inertial compensators.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ we know now.¡±


    ¡°That we do.¡±


    There was a long moment of silence on the bridge as they all contemplated the implications.


    Doing his job as executive officer, Speinfoent cut into her thoughts. ¡°What about the Ace, Admiral?¡±


    Carla tried to keep the schadenfreude from her face. ¡°What about her? The Buns didn¡¯t get her, right? I¡¯m sure she¡¯s got it all handled.¡±


    Speinfoent read the incoming message on his screen. ¡°They¡¯re demanding¡ª requesting help with¡­ processing their newly captured ships. And search and rescue. They have about a squadron¡¯s worth of casualties.¡±


    Glancing around at her bridge crew, most of whom now looked conspicuously occupied with their tasks, she sighed. ¡°I suppose it would be bad karma for us to hang them all out to dry. Message the Sonora: do as your honor compels.¡±


    <hr>


    Dominion State Security HQ, Znos-4


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    ¡°There is good news, and there is bad news.¡±


    Sprabr sighed wearily at the evidently happy State Security director. ¡°What¡¯s the bad news?¡±


    ¡°We lost most of the Cretae defense fleet, including the flagship, and the commander of the Crissoel defense fluffle ¡ª Nine Whiskers Slotkro ¡ª insists that she can¡¯t hold the system when the Great Predators come knocking there next.¡±


    ¡°She is¡­ probably right about that. I recommend we order her to withdraw all the way to Gructons.¡±


    Svatken didn¡¯t even bother to pretend she heard his suggestion. ¡°I¡¯ve ordered her to defend the system to her last breath, or we prune her bloodline and her place in the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is certainly bad news. What is the good news?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not done.¡± Svatken continued, ¡°There is more bad news. With the loss of Cretae, our supply transports can no longer go through the shorter northern route to Grantor. We¡¯ve directed them to take the safer southern route, but because we¡¯ve optimized them for the previous route, a quarter of them don¡¯t have enough blink range to get past the Pemvuns-Stoxspontis connection to get to Grantor without a costly refit. You¡¯ll have to do with approximately three quarters of the supplies for now until we sort that out.¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ certainly inconvenient,¡± Sprabr commented. Then, he muttered, ¡°Not that it will matter much once they take Crissoel and cut us off completely.¡±


    Svatken ignored the blatant defeatism she¡¯d come to expect from him. ¡°There is also significant good news: we¡¯ve captured about three dozen of the Great Predators¡¯ people during our defense battle in Cretae.¡±


    ¡°Captured?! Great Predator prisoners?! How?¡±


    ¡°That is not something you¡ª it is a state secret.¡±


    ¡°Director, there is a reason why Dominion Navy regulation requires all secrets be shared with high level commanders. Transparency and responsibility are our advantages against the predators. Though State Security certainly has the right to withhold information, there is a reason it has traditionally used that privilege sparingly.¡±


    Svatken looked at his serious image on the console and reluctantly gave in.


    What does it matter? The predators have probably figured it out already.


    ¡°The predators tried to attack us with our own ships, the ones captured while attacking their home nest system. We broadcast a State Security remote kill code to disable parts of their ships at a critical moment during the battle. And with the sacrifice of many good Navy spacers, we whisked the prisoners out of the system before they could get their own hiding ships in there.¡±


    Sprabr looked like he couldn¡¯t believe his own ears. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°I said, we whisked the prisoners out of the system before their hiding ships can¡ª¡±


    ¡°I meant before that.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we broadcasted a State Security remote kill code to disable parts of their ships at a critical moment during the battle.¡±


    ¡°Ah, okay, then I heard you right the first time,¡± he said. He took a deep breath. ¡°There are¡­ State Security remote kill codes for our ships?!¡±


    ¡°Yes. Just our combat ships.¡±


    ¡°Oh, okay. Only our most important warships.¡±


    Svatken nodded. ¡°Yes. It wouldn¡¯t be very meaningful for the security of the state for us to rig up the unimportant ones, would it?¡±


    Sprabr sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose I may know¡­ why? Or why I wasn¡¯t informed of this?¡±


    ¡°No, you may not.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but¡ª but the predators will now just use those codes against us!¡±


    Svatken shrugged. ¡°Like I said, they are necessary for the security of the Dominion state.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ that¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s absurd! Our enemies can exploit this, and there would be nothing we can do! Is it even possible to remove them from our ships?!¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No ¡ª as in, it¡¯s technically impossible, or no ¡ª as in, State Security will not authorize their removal?¡±


    ¡°Both.¡±


    Sprabr struggled to find his words. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s¡ª are you¡ª excuse me, Director, but let me be clear, we absolutely need to remove these kill codes from our combat ships, or the next time one of our ships faces a predator, they will throw that trick right back into our faces!¡±


    ¡°No, Eleven Whiskers. We are not idiots. We pushed a software update out to all our ships as soon as we used that code. The kill code has now changed.¡±


    ¡°That¡ª that is¡ª it¡¯s a kill switch embedded in a regular software update?!¡±


    ¡°Yes. And no, you may not have the new codes.¡±


    Sprabr opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it with a sigh. ¡°That¡¯s not¡ª that is not even on my top fifty list of desires,¡± he replied after a few heartbeats. ¡°What if the predators discover our new kill codes?¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t,¡± she replied confidently. ¡°We used secure, physical couriers. And they clearly haven¡¯t so far. Or they wouldn¡¯t have allowed the trick to work against them.¡±


    ¡°But now that they know it¡¯s there¡­¡±


    ¡°This matter is not something you should concern yourself with, Eleven Whiskers,¡± Svatken replied calmly with a finality that made it clear that he was not to bring up further objections or questions.


    Sprabr paused for a moment, as if gathering himself before asking, ¡°What about the prisoners we captured? Have they revealed anything important?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve captured live specimens of nine Great Predators. The remaining were captured prisoners¡ª of apostates who they were using to operate our captured ships. The apostates have been executed.¡±


    ¡°We¡ª we weren¡¯t going to question the¡ª the apostates?!¡±


    ¡°You are full of erroneous assumptions today, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she admonished him. ¡°Try again.¡±


    ¡°I take full responsibility for my impatience, Director,¡± he bowed. ¡°It has been a long day.¡±


    ¡°As you should. Your responsibility is noted,¡± she declared coolly. ¡°And we did question the apostates thoroughly. They gave the answers to us willingly before we recycled them. As for the Great Predator prisoners, we have broken a few of them. But it is a matter of time; they will all break.¡±


    Sprabr leaned forward into the camera. ¡°Did they reveal anything? About their future strategic plans and¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, their current mission is to invade until they get to the Spofke system, at what they call our pre-Granti-war border. They plan to take its orbits, bring up their orbital infrastructure, and produce combat robots until they can conquer and settle the system.¡±


    ¡°Just one¡­ border system?¡° He frowned. ¡°That seems¡­ unlikely. Or incomplete information. Their plans must be more extensive than that. Or at least more sophisticated. Perhaps that is deliberate disinformation.¡±


    ¡°No, they are very insistent that is the extent of what they have planned. In fact, they barely have an idea how to even achieve their limited invasion plans of Spofke.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ not very like them to do that. Why would they only go for a single, unimportant system of the Dominion? They have the means and opportunity to be going for more. I suspect they are going for critical shipyards or facilities in the heart of the Dominion.¡±


    ¡°You cast doubt on the thoroughness of our interrogation?¡± she asked, her eyes gleaming dangerously.


    ¡°No, but it has not been much time. Perhaps the prisoners are still covertly resisting?¡± he suggested.


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± she admitted. After a second of thought, she decided, ¡°We will torture them more to see if they will reveal more about their plans.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Sprabr nodded. ¡°It doesn¡¯t hurt to be thorough.¡±


    Finally¡­ an agreement with the obstinate fleet master.


    She smiled. ¡°Not for us, anyway.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 4130, Crissoel (13,500 Ls)


    POV: Slotkro, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)


    Get your flight suits ready, that alarm ain¡¯t no test,


    The Ace saluted her pilots in their fireproof vest,


    They launched into the void, their fighters primed for war,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    ¡°What in the Prophecy is that rabid predator screeching?¡± Slotkro snapped at her computer officer.


    ¡°No idea, Nine Whiskers. The two captured squadrons masquerading as our ships appear to be broadcasting some kind of pre-battle war cry on the open FTL spectrum. We¡¯re monitoring it for intelligence. Maybe it is some kind of code.¡±


    ¡°Good thinking, Computer Officer. See if the Digital Guide can make sense of it.¡±


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, may I ask a question about State Security?¡±


    Slotkro looked at her computer officer with half surprise and half weariness. ¡°A question about State Security?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Nine Whiskers¡­ I was studying our reconnaissance records for the most recent battle. Why didn¡¯t the Director give the Cretae defense fleet and Nine Whiskers Fskokh the software update that changed their ships¡¯ kill codes before allowing them to activate it on the captured ships controlled by the enemy?¡±


    Slotkro shrugged. ¡°Tactical surprise, maybe? He was ordered not to even tell his other captains about it, only to prepare for a possible contingency.¡±


    That apparently wasn¡¯t enough to quench his curiosity. ¡°Yeah, but if he had done it securely, wouldn¡¯t that have given us a massive advantage and perhaps an even more major victory over the abominations?¡±


    She wasn¡¯t quite sure how to answer, so she settled for the honest answer, ¡°I don¡¯t know. The Director must have her reasons.¡±


    ¡°Is it possible that she¡­ doesn¡¯t have any Navy advisors with her that can¡ª¡±


    ¡°Computer Officer, if you think an error lies in the way the State Security Office communicated and released that state secret¡­¡±


    He bowed hastily. ¡°Of course not, Nine Whiskers. I¡¯m just wondering¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡­ they would have taken full responsibility for it,¡± she finished loudly.


    Across the light years, we burn and blink to distant stars,


    Where alien foes await us in star systems near and far,


    Our squadrons locked in combat as we fight them night and day,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    Beneath the moons of Jupiter, the battle¡¯s heat,


    Our rockets flare like stars in night, the drums of war we beat,


    Against our unity, the enemies must retreat,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN¡ª


    ¡°Is there a way to verify that we¡¯ve correctly applied the latest software update, Computer Officer?¡± Slotkro asked restlessly.


    ¡°From the diagnostic, it appears that we are on the correct version number.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I¡¯m asking.¡±


    ¡°What are you asking?¡±


    Slotkro hesitated for a moment. But she had to know. ¡°Is there a way to verify that the old kill codes won¡¯t wreck our inertial compensators when we broadcast them this time?¡±


    ¡°Not without activating it to make sure,¡± he shook his head, then quickly added, ¡°I take full responsibility for not adding this to our verification process.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°Your responsibility is accepted. Send the proposed process modification out to the relay ship at the blink limit. Perhaps it will be useful for them in the next system we¡¯ll have to defend.¡±


    In the shadows of asteroids, we plan our next attack,


    Our sensors are a-buzzing, there¡¯ll be no turning back,


    The enemies waver as their numbers start to thin,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    ¡°Nine Whiskers, they¡¯re almost in maximum powered range if we can kill their mobility now.¡±


    ¡°Broadcast the kill codes,¡± she ordered.


    There was a brief moment of worry as he entered the sequence into the radio. But her ship¡¯s systems held up. The update worked.


    Her relief was short-lived. A moment later, her heart sank as she read the battlemap.


    ¡°The kill codes are not working on them either,¡± her computer officer reported.


    ¡°Maybe we didn¡¯t do it right?¡± she asked hopefully.


    ¡°I¡¯ve run through the procedure and broadcast it twice, Nine Whiskers. They must have fixed it on their end too. Somehow.¡±


    ¡°I suppose they are as adept at adapting as we are.¡±


    ¡°It appears so, Nine Whiskers. What should we do?¡±


    Slotkro strapped herself into her command chair, closed her eyes, and began to chant the Prayer of Death, ¡°My eternal gratitude to the Prophecy for this insignificant life of service¡­¡±


    From Earth to Mars to Titan, Ceres, Ganymede,


    For the good people of Sol, our fighters freely bleed.


    Attacked our habitats and stations, the Buns will regret,


    The Free Zone fights as one!


    Vive, vive, spacers of the SRN¡­


    <hr>


    TRNS Sonora, Crissoel (22,000 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    ¡°What? It¡¯s a perfectly catchy tune,¡± Kyrylo asked, humming along with the radio despite Catarina¡¯s dirty side-eye. ¡°Terrorists can make some banger songs too.¡±


    ¡°You know that they just replaced all the places it used to say Reps and jackboots with aliens and Buns, right?¡± she asked dryly.


    ¡°Yeah, and honestly, it was catchier before the recent¡­ lyrical update. Did you know the original song they stole this one from was an old song called the Battle Hymn of the Republic?¡±


    Catarina tilted her head. ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure that meant another republic from the nation¡¯s era, not the Terran Republic that¡ª¡±


    ¡°Whatever, nerd. It¡¯s my Basic Terran Right to listen to trashy Resistance music whenever I want¡ª¡±


    ¡°You signed away those rights when you joined the Navy a couple decades ago!¡±


    ¡°Our battle rings through empty space, to every distant moon,¡± he started to sing along.


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me take away your radio controls,¡± she warned.


    ¡°Our victory lights the galaxy, triumph will be our tune. Together we are mighty and WE¡¯LL BATTLE ¡¯TIL WE¡¯VE WON. THE FREE ZONE FIGHTS¡ª hey no, turn it back on I¡¯m listening for important enemy intelligence!¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 29 Annoyed at Small Things

    <div>


    Republic Spacer Training Center, McMurdo (2,400 Ls)


    POV: Durnio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Delta Leader)


    ¡°Fire! Active fire in midsection hallway Two-Bravo! Fire! Fire! Fire!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all of you!¡± Durnio screamed at his group of wide-eyed spacer cadets. ¡°Get your vacuum gear on now! Let¡¯s go! Let¡¯s go! Move it!¡±


    The group consisted of 40 freshly recruited Malgeir spacers. Half of them had some years of experience in the Federation Navy. The other half were straight out of boot camp. Or what passed for it in the Federation, anyway.


    All of them were equally unprepared.


    They fumbled to get the EVA closets open. A scant few of them managed to unfold their issued gear correctly, and he saw at least one of them skimming the instruction pictures printed on the gear.


    ¡°Hurry up! Hurry!¡± Durnio yelled unnecessarily to lend to the simulated stress. ¡°Get it on now!¡±


    It took the best of them two minutes to put on their EVA suit. The average was just over three.


    ¡°Four minutes and twenty seconds,¡± he said, staring at his stopwatch as the last, embarrassed spacer cadet struggled to secure his tail into his suit. ¡°That¡¯s how long before we can begin pumping atmosphere out of this module. The whole section would have burnt to a crisp by now¡­ or, more likely, they¡¯d seal this off and suck the air out before you finish putting on your suit to save the rest of the ship.¡±


    He glared at the youthful cadets lined up in front of him. Several of them hadn¡¯t even properly secured their air lines. One of them was trying to scratch an itch on his snout through the EVA visor.


    Another raised her paw in question.


    He turned to face her. ¡°Question, Pack Member?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Delta Leader, I have a question. What is the baseline?¡±


    Durnio¡¯s face lit up with a bright smile. ¡°Good question, Pack Member! The Republic Navy qualification standard is thirty seconds, twenty for combat ships. And that¡¯s for every member of the pack. Think they¡¯ll allow us an exception on account of your extra long tail?¡±


    She mumbled something unintelligible.


    ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t hear that, Pack Member!¡±


    ¡°No, Delta Leader!¡±


    ¡°Excellent! That¡¯s what I thought. Now strip it down, place your suits back in the locker in a neatly folded fashion, and let¡¯s try this again. Let¡¯s shoot for only burning half the module down this time.¡±


    The pack shouted in unison, ¡°Yes, Delta Leader!¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°How goes the cadet herding?¡± Maurice greeted Durnio as the Malgeir joined his table in the mess hall.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ going. We¡¯re doing vacuum drills today,¡± he said, sitting down and biting hungrily into his burger.


    ¡°Ah, I remember those,¡± Maurice said with a nostalgic smile. ¡°What¡¯s your group at?¡±


    ¡°We got it down to a minute flat at the end of the day.¡±


    Maurice gave him a look of mild approval. ¡°Not bad¡­ not bad at all.¡±


    ¡°Sure¡­ if they were going to be flying cargo ships,¡± Durnio sighed. ¡°But this group is going to a combat command. The new ship.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the new Alligator-classes. Same for me, probably.¡±


    ¡°Alligator-class?¡± Durnio asked in confusion. ¡°I thought they were going to be called it something else.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, there¡¯s some online poll going on,¡± Maurice dismissed it casually with a wave. ¡°But that¡¯s the official name. The spacer crew can call it whatever it wants, and the scuttlebutt is they¡¯re calling it the alligator, because of all the bumps on the top where the missiles come out.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I see,¡± he replied, even though he didn¡¯t see it at all. ¡°What do they have you doing these days?¡±


    ¡°Hah. Just lounging around, training more of your Marines for when we need to take Grantor.¡±


    Durnio¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Grantor?!¡±


    ¡°Yep. Tens of millions of Buns down there. We gotta retake it somehow.¡±


    ¡°I sort of assumed you were just going to send combat robots in until it falls.¡±


    ¡°We are going to send robots. And your Marines.¡± Maurice shrugged. ¡°There are enough Buns for everyone to kill. And they¡¯re not going to wait until we scale up robotic production to be able to replace all your millions of Marines one-to-one. Every day we wait is another day the Buns get to keep the planet.¡±


    ¡°I guess. What are you drilling them on now?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s crazy,¡± Maurice said animatedly, gesturing emphatically with his hands. ¡°Apparently you guys have these tin cans that you send people into atmosphere with¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, the drop pods?¡± Durnio said casually as he picked up a fry.


    Maurice looked at him with a side-eye. ¡°Yeah, totally nuts.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with them? They¡¯re fast.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re incredibly dangerous! What if they malfunction?! What if they don¡¯t drop in the right place?!¡± Maurice asked. ¡°Fire a thruster half a second later, you¡¯re in the wrong city! Five seconds, wrong continent! It¡¯s a recipe for disaster!¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s war. We all have to take risks.¡±


    ¡°Not these unnecessary ones. Anyway¡­ I think we¡¯ve decided we¡¯re going to put our combat robots in those instead, and your Marines will come down in shuttles after they clear the airspace. We¡¯re training them to use real re-entry shuttles instead of those death traps.¡±


    ¡°What about you guys? Are you Grass Eaters just going to train our Marines to do all the hard work for you?¡± Durnio teased.


    Maurice grinned at him. ¡°Pretty much. That¡¯s what pets are for, after all.¡±


    Durnio wagged a claw at him in mock admonishment. ¡°Careful, you¡¯re not supposed to say that about us anymore. If I report you to your Office of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh no! Not more alien cultural awareness online training!¡±


    <hr>


    In the early days of the Terran Republic, after the ¡°unification¡± of humanity, a retired Marine general and a Navy admiral found themselves sharing war stories at the counter of a quiet bar. The bartender, catching snippets of their dialogue, leaned in. After introducing himself and some small talk, he posed a question to them, ¡°What does it take to conquer a midsized rogue district? Say, like you did North Korea.¡±


    The Marine general leaned back with a confident smile. ¡°Just two divisions,¡± he replied.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Only two divisions?¡± the bartender echoed, eyebrows raised.


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± said the general as he nodded vigorously. ¡°Forty thousand of our elite combat drones working alongside their well-trained Marine operators. The new Model-18s are perfectly suited for the harsh realities of war ¡ª far superior to human infantry in frontline combat. Fully autonomous operations, networked all-spectrum dominance, sub-millisecond killchain, all that jazz. One division to secure the cities, and another to clean up the country-side.¡±


    The Navy admiral spoke up as she shook her head. ¡°Hah. Two full divisions? Typical Marine overkill. We¡¯d need even less,¡± she said smugly.


    ¡°Oh yeah?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d just need two squadrons of ships.¡±


    ¡°Only two squadrons?!¡± the bartender asked, turning to her.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± the admiral said proudly. ¡°Republic Navy warships are unmatched in firepower, mobility, and situational awareness. One squadron to neutralize their surface-to-orbit defense network, another to systematically reduce their ground troops from orbit until they plead for mercy.¡±


    Just then, a scoff came from a nearby stool. A man leaned over out of the dark corner. ¡°Two squadrons?¡± he snorted dismissively.


    Curious, the bartender glanced over. ¡°And who might you be?¡±


    ¡°I work for a defense logistics firm on Luna,¡± the man replied nonchalantly.


    The admiral¡¯s eyes narrowed as she recognized the man. ¡°He¡¯s TRO,¡± she said, with equal distaste and unease.


    ¡°TRO?¡± the bartender repeated. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Terran Reconnaissance Office,¡± the admiral explained. ¡°Spies, saboteurs, and swine.¡±


    ¡°And what might you need to conquer a rogue district?¡±


    The man took a slow sip of his drink. ¡°Two.¡±


    ¡°Two what?¡±


    ¡°Two people.¡±


    ¡°Two people?!¡± the bartender said, astonished. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°One to take out the Supreme Leader, and one to take their place.¡±


    <hr>


    Naval Station Europa, Europa (100 km)


    POV: ¡°Hersh¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°You¡¯ve changed color,¡± Ditvish observed.


    ¡°Changed color?¡± Hersh asked and looked down at his arms. ¡°Ah, the tan. It¡¯s our skin¡¯s natural reaction to exposure to sunlight. Or starlight.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have medications to fix that?¡±


    ¡°Sunscreen? Eh, I just get used to it. We asked your people if we could agree to only fight at night, but I think they said no.¡±


    Ditvish humored him with a snort and eye roll.


    ¡°And I see you¡¯ve done a lot more reading while I was gone,¡± Hersh remarked dryly at the former fleet master¡¯s shelf. He glanced at some of the titles. Most of it was fiction, but there was a diverse mix of biographies and autobiographies in there. Some were famous generals and admirals in Earth¡¯s history. And at least one from an old movie star.


    ¡°There is nothing else to do here,¡± Ditvish complained.


    Hersh turned back and sat down at the table. ¡°What about the board games?¡± He flipped a switch on the table, and a holographic chess set appeared on its surface. ¡°Fancy some chess?¡±


    ¡°Bah, I know that one. Some of your commissars tried to teach it to me.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°It is a far poorer simulation of warfare than it purports to be. Symmetry?! It is¡­ uninteresting to me.¡±


    ¡°What about Diplomacy?¡±


    ¡°Pointless predator notions¡ª oh, you mean the board game? I tried it once with a few of your Marines.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°They cheated.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s kind of the point of that game, no?¡±


    ¡°No, they read my mind.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t just give random Marines access to our mind reader technology.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how,¡± Ditvish said, slightly flustered as he recalled the memory. ¡°But they always knew somehow!¡±


    ¡°Maybe you are simply bad at lying. Have you considered that?¡±


    ¡°No. Your games are stupid. I refuse to play any more of them.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡± Hersh dismissed the table¡¯s holographic device. ¡°We can just talk about you instead, if you want?¡±


    ¡°Talk about me? What is there to talk about? You¡¯ve already extracted everything of intelligence value from my mind.¡±


    ¡°For one, what are your personal goals?¡±


    ¡°My personal goals?¡±


    ¡°If you get out of here, what would you want to do?¡± Hersh elaborated.


    He stared at the human in disbelief. ¡°If I get out of here?!¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah. When we win this war, you¡¯re probably going to get out of here, right? What will you do then?¡±


    ¡°When you win this war?¡± he repeated, then muttered again, ¡°When you win this war¡­¡±


    Hersh remained silent.


    ¡°I guess that is not an impossibility,¡± Ditvish admitted after a minute.


    ¡°Right, and if the war ends, we¡¯d let you go. We¡¯re not going to just let you sit here and eat our free food forever. So what are you going to do then?¡±


    ¡°That is an absurd hypothetical.¡±


    ¡°Humor me.¡±


    Ditvish thought for a moment. ¡°I suppose if you let me go, I¡¯d report to my overdue assignment of responsibility hearing. I guess State Security will find me at fault for abandoning the Prophecy, on top of whatever charges they already imposed on me before I surrendered, and then they¡¯d shoot me.¡±


    ¡°Okay, say they don¡¯t do that. What would you want to do? Become a farmer?¡± Hersh pointed at his bookshelf. ¡°Maybe a librarian? A writer?¡±


    ¡°That is another absurd hypothetical.¡±


    ¡°Humor me again.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps they will put me in charge of another fleet, and we will invade another species. Perhaps another species easier than yours to conquer.¡± Ditvish paused and shook his head. ¡°No. That is completely nonsensical. They would never trust me enough to allow me to command again. This line of questioning is pointless for both of us.¡±


    Hersh shrugged. ¡°Alright then. Suit yourself.¡±


    ¡°What about you?¡± Ditvish asked.


    He blinked in surprise at the reversal. ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°What about you, Hersh? What are you going to do when this war ends? I understand your people¡ª how do they put it in that book¡ª ah, when the war ends, you beat your swords into plowshares. What is your plowshare?¡±


    Hersh studied the former fleet master for a moment. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve been in the service since I was eighteen. This job is what I¡¯m good at. I¡¯d need to think about it for a bit.¡±


    ¡°Aha!¡± Ditvish looked at him with mild triumph. ¡°So it is not just me who can¡¯t easily answer the question to your satisfaction. Your species ¡ª at least some of you ¡ª you gravitate towards what you call mindless violence. Just as much as you accuse us of doing it.¡±


    Hersh thought for a moment before answering, ¡°I want to go back to being annoyed by small things.¡±


    It was Ditvish¡¯s turn to be confused. ¡°Annoyed by small things?¡±


    ¡°My mother was in the Navy, in the ODT. She fought pirates and terrorist groups in our Red Zone for twenty years. Day in and day out. Those were violent times. The Republic did some terrible things to the people in the Red Zone. And the people there ¡ª they gave it back as good as they got. She was in the midst of it all. Hostage rescue. Intelligence gathering. Assassinations. Even went undercover once. It was¡­ brutal.¡±


    ¡°So your mother was doing the job you are doing now?¡±


    ¡°Things are better today in the Red Zone. The war¡¯s over. We¡¯ve got tech startups on Mimas now. It¡¯s not even the frontier anymore. The frontier has moved. Even during this last campaign¡­¡±


    ¡°But if things were still as bad as they were when your¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes. Then, I¡¯d be doing what she did too, probably.¡± Hersh shrugged. ¡°When she was forty, my mom stopped. Just couldn¡¯t do it anymore. Our implants and biotechnology were not as good back then. She stopped being combat effective ¡ª couldn¡¯t keep up with the young operators with their brand-new bodies and lightning reflexes, so they put her in a desk job. And she had us. So when her enlistment was up, she took early retirement and went back to school.¡±


    ¡°Retraining?¡± Ditvish asked. ¡°We have that too. For those few who are worthy of the resource investment.¡±


    ¡°Kind of. Went back to college on the Navy¡¯s dime. And she didn¡¯t fit in. All the students¡­ they were just kids. None of them understood what she did in the Red Zone. Some of them even opposed it and told her that to her face.¡± He shook his head ruefully as he recalled. ¡°They were kids. They complained about having to wake up at eight for morning lectures. And what was she going to tell them? That ¡ª back in the ODT, in the Red Zone ¡ª she had to wake up every day at five to triple-check their equipment in case one of the local technicians sabotaged their air tanks? That sometimes she was in combat condition for weeks on end, relying only on the combat stimulants in her bloodstream to keep her awake? That she woke up twice a night ¡ª every night without fail ¡ª because of nightmares she had? My mom couldn¡¯t tell them that. She just didn¡¯t fit in with the other students.¡±


    ¡°What did she end up doing?¡± Ditvish asked curiously.


    ¡°She adapted. Because that¡¯s what humans do. We adapt. My mom was no different. She saw a doctor. Several doctors. The nightmares went away, mostly. And one day, a few years later, she was standing in line at a coffee shop for her coffee. They spelled her name wrong on her cup. And she found herself being annoyed at it so much she almost complained.¡±


    ¡°Spelling your name wrong¡­ is that a major error worthy of severe punishment in your culture?¡±


    Hersh smiled at the memory. ¡°No, it is inconsequential; the most inconsequential of mistakes. And she got annoyed. Just like anyone normal would have been. Just like any of her young classmates would. She didn¡¯t think about people shooting at her. She didn¡¯t worry about anything else. She was simply¡­ annoyed that they spelled her name wrong on a disposable paper cup. That was the moment when my mom realized the war was over for her.¡±


    ¡°Ah. So that is what you meant when you said: you want to be annoyed at the small things.¡±


    ¡°Yes, when this war is over. You?¡±


    Ditvish shook his head. ¡°Like I said, the war will never end for me. I was bred for it. That is the sole purpose of my life. Without one, I would be recycled. My bloodline would be kept in storage until needed. And the resources spent on me would be repurposed for something more constructive.¡±


    ¡°What if that were not the case? What if you could choose? What if you could choose to be something other than a ten whiskers of the Navy?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Hersh,¡± Ditvish said quietly, uncertainty creeping into his voice. ¡°I don¡¯t even know what my options would be.¡±


    ¡°Plenty of wisdom in those books you¡¯ve been reading to answer that question,¡± Hersh said as he began packing his tablet. ¡°Just something for you to think about until I come by next time.¡±


    As Hersh stood up to leave, Ditvish looked up at him, his alien expression near-unreadable. ¡°I suppose¡ª I suppose I would like to be annoyed at small things too.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 30 High Value Individuals

    <div>


    Naval Ground Supply Base 34 (Grantor City), Grantor-3


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    ¡°Another meeting over there tomorrow?!¡± Sprabr exclaimed at his computer officer as he examined his schedule.


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she replied. ¡°It appears you are very popular with our State Security friends in the Grantor City office. They seem to be¡­ not pleased with your attempts to put up technical and procedural obstacles to transferring Marines to their command.¡±


    ¡°Their plan is a Prophecy-forsaken waste!¡± he spat. ¡°I bet they won¡¯t even be allowed to evacuate when the Great Predators come for this system. Do you know how long it takes and how much it costs to train a proper Znosian Marine? Even just an infantry rifle unit? They¡¯re meant to kill predators who can fight back, not be State Security goons for when they fail to do such a simple job as pacifying an occupied planet with no organized military.¡±


    ¡°They say the local predators on the ground are fighting back¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, the Grantor Underground. Those pesky fighters. More evidence we should simply throw the planet into the system star and leave the rest of this barren system for the Great Predators. Instead, we¡¯re throwing good troops after bad, pouring useful Marines down the gravity well when we should be preparing to pack up everything we can down here for the impending evacuation,¡± Sprabr ranted. ¡°And when did they call anyway? I was in my office all day, and I didn¡¯t hear them call.¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t call to confirm,¡± his computer officer replied. ¡°They can simply see you have an opening on your schedule and put a new meeting there in the system.¡±


    ¡°They can do that now?!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. It is a new thing they can do.¡±


    ¡°Thank the Prophecy for the cutting edge of Dominion technology,¡± he replied sarcastically. ¡°Or I would if I didn¡¯t know where this particular stupid idea came from.¡±


    ¡°It is from¡­ the Great Predators?¡±


    ¡°Who else?!¡± Sprabr almost shouted, venom in his voice. ¡°Who else could come up with such abominations and¡ª¡± After a few deep breaths, he calmed down and asked, ¡°Is there any chance I can stop them from doing that in the future? If they want to summon me over there and make me endure a two-hour drive into the city just to scold me, I should at least get the opportunity to complain before I go. What if something comes up tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you have that option, Eleven Whiskers. They are State Security after all.¡±


    <hr>


    Sprabr held his armored helmet in his left paw as he approached the motor pool.


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers!¡± the attendant on duty shouted as she stood at attention.


    Sprabr ignored her and pointed at one of the other Marines idling by one of the armored vehicles. He glanced at her insignia. Five Whiskers. ¡°You. Five Whiskers. You are my new driver?¡±


    His new driver snapped him a crisp salute. ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. I am Zdurbu, and I will be driving you from now on.¡±


    ¡°How long have you been driving, Five Whiskers Zdurbu?¡±


    ¡°Three years. And about four months of training before that.¡±


    ¡°Not bad. I see that you¡¯re new to my escort unit, but the remainder of your records are somehow inaccessible to me. Where were you stationed before this?¡±


    ¡°Gruccud.¡±


    ¡°Gruccud?¡± Sprabr asked, startled. ¡°On the front, near the Lesser Predators?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. I was transferred out before it¡ª before the predators invaded it.¡±


    ¡°Ok. What did you do at Gruccud?¡±


    She seemed to hesitate even more before answering, ¡°I drove and escorted high value individuals.¡±


    ¡°High value individuals? Escort? You weren¡¯t a combat driver for Longclaws or Light Longclaws?¡± That was where most of his drivers came from.


    ¡°No, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    Her reticence to elaborate did not escape his notice. ¡°Which unit were you in?¡±


    More wavering. ¡°I wasn¡¯t in a Marine unit.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I asked. If I wanted to know which unit you have not served in, I suspect we¡¯d both be here for a while.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers¡­ I was in Special Unit Zero.¡±


    ¡°State Security direct action unit,¡± he almost hissed.


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°And now, they¡¯ve placed you in charge of spying on me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just here to protect you, Eleven Whiskers. Grantor City has become a dangerous place due to¡­ recent unrest. The locals have been defying our rule, and they are not shy about blowing up our vehicles, especially if they suspect someone important like you may be inside¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s see if we have a bit more clarity and a little less ambiguity. Do you make daily reports about my activities to Station Director Krelnos?¡±


    She remained silent, avoiding his gaze.


    Sprabr continued, ¡°Remember, Five Whiskers Zdurbu, you are under my command as a Grand Fleet Marine. And if you insist on not answering, I can always get on a call with the office downtown. And even if they technically own you, you live here, and I can make your job an absolute¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°To clarify, you do make daily reports to Station Director Krelnos?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. I do,¡± she answered through gritted teeth.


    ¡°And if I were to order you to stop or omit certain things on your reports?¡±


    Zdurbu shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t comply. My primary allegiance is to the security of the Dominion state, not the Marines or the Navy or you.¡±


    Sprabr nodded. ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. Thank you for your Service, Five Whiskers. I think I¡¯ll have someone else drive me around from now on.¡±


    The driver shook her head again. ¡°This arrangement is not optional, Eleven Whiskers. For your own security, you are not to use any driver other than me when you travel outside the base on Grantor.¡±


    ¡°Not optional? Am I being kept a prisoner on my own base by State Security now?¡± he asked, mirroring her gritted teeth.


    ¡°Not at all, Eleven Whiskers. But until I get orders otherwise, if you are driving out of the base, I am going to be at its controls. I have taken full responsibility for that already.¡±


    ¡°In that case, I won¡¯t be going downtown by ground vehicle today.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers?¡±


    He ignored her and activated the lapel radio on his armor. ¡°Prepare the transport rotary wing. I¡¯ll be taking off in twenty minutes.¡±


    She gaped at him wordlessly for a few heartbeats but recovered her composure quickly. ¡°You understand I¡¯ll still have to accompany you, right?¡±


    Sprabr looked back up at the spy with a sly smirk. ¡°Sure. But you would not be in the pilot seat. Unless you have rotary pilot training?¡±


    ¡°Is there a purpose to this¡­ deviation? Other than annoying my superiors?¡± Zdurbu said, sighing in resignation.


    ¡°I prefer to be driven around by my people, which you are not. And if they want to waste my time over at the station, the least I can do is be a little petty in response.¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Golf, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    Torsad felt her concentration break with a tap on her shoulder. With a paw, she removed the headset device fitted over her vision.


    ¡°What?¡± she asked in irritation.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got an urgent message,¡± Insunt said, gesturing to her beeping tablet.


    She shot a nod to Insunt and handed her headset and control device to him. ¡°Here, you take over the anti-armor drones. Let me know if you see his vehicle.¡±


    Torsad picked up the connection.


    ¡°Are you in a quiet place to talk?¡± a garbled voice asked her.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, moving to a corner of her makeshift command center.


    ¡°Good,¡± the voice said with satisfaction. She couldn¡¯t tell exactly which of the Terran operators it was from the voice, but from the satisfied way the ¡°good¡± was said, she was almost certain it was Kara this time. There was just something in her brain that could tell. ¡°You¡¯ve got a small complication.¡±


    ¡°Complication?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Complication. The Eleven Whiskers is not traveling by armored carrier today.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°With their new anti-drone defenses, we can¡¯t get our eyes too close to them. But the scheduled time to leave has passed, and our guys on the ground haven¡¯t seen anything leave their Navy base garage outside Grantor City. Instead, our long-range radars spotted a transport chopper taking off just now.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s flying into the city?!¡± she asked.


    ¡°Possibly.¡±


    ¡°How did they find out?! Did we spring a leak?¡± Torsad asked nervously. That inevitably happened from time to time, but usually the Terrans were good at catching it early.


    ¡°No clue. There was a short burst from the base to their State Security office downtown earlier. It¡¯s gibberish. Our computers are trying to find out what it means, but they¡¯ve gotten annoyingly good with their use of code words on their radios now that they know we¡¯re listening.¡±


    Torsad sighed. ¡°Alright. In any case, our operation¡¯s burnt. I¡¯ll recall our attack assets and prepare to go to ground.¡±


    ¡°Wait, no, hold on. We might still be able to do some improvising.¡±


    ¡°Improvising?¡±


    ¡°The plan is similar. But you¡¯re going to need new tools, and you need to call in a couple more cells.¡±


    ¡°Hold on. We can¡¯t just call everyone in on such short notice! The target¡¯s probably already over the city by now!¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah. You¡¯re not going to be able to catch him going into the city¡ª¡±


    ¡°But we might have a couple hours to catch him on the way back!¡± Torsad finished for her.


    ¡°Ah, looks like I¡¯ve taught you well, my young apprentice.¡±


    ¡°Apprentice? Is it true your people actually have apprenticeships for this kind of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Now, go gather up your cell leaders quietly. And you¡¯ll find a package waiting for you in the safehouse on Fifth Street, next to the old fire station.¡±


    ¡°Will do. Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Happy hunting.¡±


    <hr>


    To Torsad¡¯s surprise, the nondescript black hard-plastic case popped open by themselves as soon as she undid the spring-loaded latches. The smell of fresh plastic tinged with a spicier scent of sulfur wafted up into their noses. Neither of them had seen a device like this before, but they both immediately recognized the shape of the weapon and the function it easily implied.


    Insunt looked at it in awe. ¡°You ever used one of these before?¡±


    Torsad stared into the case for a couple more seconds before she shook her head. ¡°No. But that will just make our first time even sweeter.¡±


    ¡°How do you suppose they work?¡± Insunt asked. ¡°I don¡¯t know if anyone in our cell has¡ª has used one of these before.¡±


    She pointed at the small yellow text and pictures inscribed onto the dark green tube. ¡°There are instructions. How hard can it be?¡±


    Insunt peered at the Granti letters for a few seconds, reading and digesting them. He ruminated quietly for a moment and then said slowly, ¡°This isn¡¯t¡­ Znosian Marine issue.¡±


    Torsad nodded.


    Insunt continued, ¡°And it sure isn¡¯t Granti or Federation.¡±


    Torsad nodded again, more hesitantly this time.


    ¡°It¡¯s the new aliens the Grass Eaters are so scared of, isn¡¯t it?¡± Insunt asked in a small, excited voice.


    ¡°You know I can¡¯t tell you about how we get our weapons.¡±


    ¡°In case I get captured, yeah,¡± he said, nodding in understanding. ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll work?¡±


    ¡°Do I think they¡¯ll work?¡± she repeated incredulously. ¡°You¡¯ve put two and two together, but you can¡¯t add it up? Surely you can¡¯t be serious.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    Torsad closed the case with a snap, and gently picked it up with a single arm, weighing its balance. It was slightly heavier than it looked, but she was a strong specimen of a strong species. She pointed at the stack of identical cases stashed in the corner of the safehouse. ¡°Enough gawking at the gear. Grab all the cases, and let¡¯s go find ourselves a good place to set up.¡±


    <hr>


    When they arrived, Insunt immediately got to work on his headset, directing invisible drones overhead to scout in every direction around them.


    Though the twenty-five-story apartment near the outskirts of Grantor City wasn¡¯t the tallest building in the area, it stood at the edge of a high-rise cluster that opened onto a clear view out of the urban jungle. The top floor gave them a nice, unobstructed view to the horizon.


    Torsad wasn¡¯t sure where she acquired the instincts to pick such a building to set up her crow¡¯s nest, but it had become close to second nature in the past few months. It sure wasn¡¯t anything she knew before the war.


    She tensed as a young male she didn¡¯t know appeared in the doorway of the roof, carrying a tray of steaming cups.


    ¡°They let me up here,¡± he said, gesturing a paw towards the staircase. ¡°Your friends. Here, have something to drink.¡±


    Torsad nodded in appreciation as she picked up a warm cup from the tray. It was a warm herbal drink. Suddenly noticing how chilly the wind was this high up, she gulped it down.


    ¡°Good?¡± he asked shyly.


    She grunted in affirmation as she looked the youngster up and down. ¡°What¡¯s your name, cub?¡±


    ¡°Ciurbib.¡±


    ¡°You know who we are, right, Ciurbib?¡±


    He nodded brightly. ¡°Sure. You¡¯re the Underground. My sire says you¡¯re one of the good guys. You¡¯re fighting the Grass Eaters.¡±


    ¡°That sounds about right,¡± she smiled. ¡°How old are you, Ciurbib?¡±


    ¡°Twelve years old,¡± he answered with cub-like pride.


    She looked at him in surprise. He looked much older, like someone well into adulthood. Twenty, maybe even twenty-five. Perhaps it was the soot in his fur or the lines in his face from the chronic malnutrition. The war and occupation had taken its toll on everyone. ¡°Twelve, huh? Do you remember the time before the war?¡±


    ¡°Bits of it, yeah. I remember my dame,¡± he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.


    Torsad nodded in understanding. Everyone lost someone. Some more than others. She pointed a paw out over the edge, into the city. ¡°You see that over there?¡±


    He traced her gesture. ¡°There? That blue building?¡±


    ¡°No. The rubble pile to its left,¡± Torsad said, hoping he¡¯d spot it. There were quite a few rubble piles in that area of the city.


    ¡°Oh yeah, I see it,¡± Ciurbib replied, squinting.


    ¡°That used to be a school. A secondary school. I was a teacher there.¡±


    ¡°You were a teacher? I remember having a teacher! What did you teach?¡± he asked excitedly.


    ¡°Chemistry.¡±


    ¡°Oh, science¡­ that¡¯s fun. And what happened to your school?¡± he asked, looking down at the rubble pile.


    ¡°The Grass Eaters levelled it the day they invaded. All seven floors of it.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ Why?¡± Ciurbib asked.


    She shrugged. ¡°Why do they ever do anything? One of the collaborators talked to their Marines later, to ask why they did it. One of them said the top floor of the school was blocking their line of sight into the rest of the city that our Army was still holding at the time, so¡­ they got rid of it. Luckily most of us weren¡¯t there when they did.¡±


    Torsad thought that he was probably too young to understand some of the words she¡¯d said, but one glance at his face and she knew he understood every word. Not all the damage of the occupation were physical; for Ciurbib, it was to his cubhood.


    ¡°Is that why you fight?¡± he asked quietly.


    She gave him a short nod but didn¡¯t trust herself to say anything.


    Ciurbib turned back to her. ¡°I heard my sire talking about a new species: the humans ¡ª the Grass Eaters called them the Great Predators. Are they coming here? To save us?¡±


    Torsad hated herself that her immediate thought was suspicion. There were spies and collaborators everywhere, and the Grass Eaters were not above using cubs to gather information. She paused a moment, then asked him, ¡°Do you remember the Uprising? About a year after the occupation began?¡±


    He squinted, as if remembering something in his distant cubhood, then nodded. ¡°Yes. I remember there was fighting, down near the movie theater.¡±


    ¡°The heroes of the Uprising chose defiance over extinction. They were wiped out to the last,¡± she said solemnly. ¡°But¡­ we have something they did not.¡±


    Ciurbib leaned in closer and whispered, ¡°What is it?¡±


    Torsad pointed a claw into the sky. ¡°Unlike them, we have access to information. We can look out into the stars, and we can see the dying embers of this wretched empire. Their grand fleets ruined, their ships and troops retreating like pests and bugs seeking high ground as a rainstorm approaches. We see the light at the end of this deep, dark tunnel, and it is the warm light of the Grantor star, rising over a free Granti people once again.¡±


    A determined expression formed on his face, and for a second, Torsad saw on it the blurry faces of her past students. An eyeblink, and she also saw the fire and passion of a young fighter, the one she saw in the operators of her cells every day. ¡°When I grow up, I¡¯m going to join you. Fight the Grass Eaters. I¡¯ll choose defiance over extinction, like you,¡± he insisted proudly. ¡°I¡¯ll make the right choice.¡±


    ¡°Oh, cub.¡± Torsad tried to ignore the moisture in her eyes as she stroked his shoulder. ¡°When you grow up¡­ you won¡¯t have to. I promise.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 31 Evasion I

    <div>


    Cluxta Apartment Complex 25F, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    ¡°They¡¯re taking off!¡± Insunt announced, lifting his headset just enough to peer out.


    They¡¯d been on the roof for over an hour. Torsad had gotten used to waiting. They did a lot of it on operations. But waiting so high up, exposed, always carried its own danger. They could be spotted by one of the Grass Eaters¡¯ own air vehicles. Or one of their units on the ground.


    They¡¯d gotten lucky this time. One of their Marines down there should probably take responsibility for this.


    ¡°Did you see him get in?¡± Torsad asked urgently.


    ¡°Yes, one of our guys down at the station saw him, and the medium-altitude drone got a positive identification as he entered the chopper cabin. And it¡¯s the same tail number as the one that went in from the Navy base for sure.¡±


    ¡°Good, track it overhead.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Department Leader.¡±


    ¡°Per their average cruising speed and distance, they should be here in¡­ ten minutes,¡± she said to no one in particular, repeating the math she¡¯d been working on for the past hour.


    It took twelve. Just when she was about to ask Insunt for an update, she heard it.


    Fwup-fwup-fwup-fwup-fwup-fwup.


    The rhythmic thudding of the rotary wing that grew louder every second. Then, she saw it. It was flying just above the buildings, and the operatives on the roof all ducked instinctively as it quickly sped past them towards its destination in the Grantor City outskirts.


    Torsad checked her equipment one last time before she shouldered it. She looked backwards to make sure there was no one and nothing valuable there.


    Though the weapon itself was complicated in its mechanisms, its usage and operation were decidedly not.


    They couldn¡¯t be.


    This particular model was modified ¡ª most of its parts were fabricated on Grantor ¡ª but the core mechanisms were designed over eighty years ago on Terra, specifically to be covertly exported to nations that didn¡¯t expect to gain air superiority in an atmospheric war. Sometimes, places where electricity and literacy might not have been universal.


    Torsad flipped up the glass electronic sight as the instructions specified, and waited the three seconds it took the battery to activate. It quickly cooled the thermal sensors to their optimal operating temperature. And as the target receded from their building, she pointed the end of the pipe with the big yellow arrow towards the flying chopper.


    The weapon made a loud warble for half a second as it acquired the flying entity with its thermal sensors and laser rangefinder. Being almost a century old, its internal chip was not very sophisticated, but its rudimentary digital intelligence recognized that the massive heat signature in its sensor window was quite unlike any target that it had been programmed to attack. Nonetheless, it was flying, it was moving at roughly the speed it expected, it was not hot enough to be the Sun, and most importantly, the drone overhead connected to its network confirmed that the object in the center of the reticle was indeed its intended target.


    Woooooooooooo-weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.


    The warble changed to a much higher, more urgent-sounding pitch, and the electronic sight in Torsad¡¯s face helpfully displayed clear, red letters in her native Granti:


    FIRE NOW.


    She depressed the trigger without hesitation.


    Poof.


    Surprisingly, the pipe didn¡¯t throw her back and made only a small pop as it ejected its payload into the sky. A split second later, its engines ignited in a loud bang, leaving behind a thin smoke trail as it went supersonic, tracking its target.


    It didn¡¯t take very long.


    <hr>


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    As it happened, Eleven Whiskers Sprabr actually was idly staring at the rotary wing¡¯s front instrument panel from the backseat of the transport when it seemed like every light on it blinked emergency red and the alarm blared an urgent tone. For about half a second, he froze in shock as he tried to read the unfamiliar words they flashed before him.


    His well-trained pilot did not freeze. She flipped a button on her dashboard that released a cloud of flares out the back. ¡°Incoming! Brace! Brace¡ª¡±


    The countermeasures didn¡¯t work. Not even one bit.


    Half a second later, there was a loud, horrendous snap as something violently rattled the vehicle.


    Fwup-fwup-fwup-fwup-BANG.


    The transport¡¯s engine made a very loud, very unnatural sound, and a cloud of black smoke blew into the cabin. It smelled exactly like fuel.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Sprabr shouted frantically into his headset.


    The pilot punched a dozen buttons on her avionics panel in rapid sequence. ¡°Eleven Whiskers, we¡¯ve been hit! Surface-to-air, origin unknown! We¡¯ve lost power. Restarting auxiliary power¡­ No joy!¡±


    ¡°Can you land us?¡± he asked frantically. But she probably couldn¡¯t even hear him in the noise.


    ¡°Main engines out. Both main rotors¡­ non-responsive. No elevators. No flaps. No electronic control, trying manual¡­ Nothing,¡± she said as she flipped a dozen buttons and moved just about every control she had on the panels in front of her. ¡°I can¡¯t autorotate us to a landing. Hold on, we¡¯re going down hard!¡±


    Zdurbu ¡ª the five whiskers that State Security assigned to spy on him ¡ª reached her paw over to his seat, tightening the restraints on Sprabr¡¯s jump seat with expert deftness even in freefall. ¡°Stay tight in your seat, Eleven Whiskers!¡± she screamed into his face, her voice somehow carrying itself over the loud cabin noise.


    ¡°What are we going to do?¡± he asked her, panic beginning to set in as he noticed the world outside the windows beginning to move upwards very rapidly.


    Again, Zdurbu either didn¡¯t hear or ignored him. She keyed her headset as she fastened her own seat restraints. ¡°Pilot, you know what to do,¡± she said coldly.


    The pilot glanced back at the duo and gave Sprabr a curt nod.


    ¡°My life was forfeited to the Prophecy the day I left the hatchling pools,¡± she muttered into her headset, and Sprabr saw her reaching a paw above her head towards a switch¡­If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Bang.


    The main rotor blades above his head separated from the aircraft, and a small explosive detonated an open hole in its roof. A moment later, Sprabr¡¯s passenger seat ejected upward from the dying transport in a violent shudder. He saw stars in his dimming vision as his Marine armor prevented the incredible deceleration from instantly snapping his fragile neck.


    It still hurt. A lot.


    The rest of the machinery fell away from him, and as he looked down, there was nothing but air between his paws and the ground of Grantor City.


    Fwwuuuuuppppp.


    A heartbeat later, a bright orange parachute activated, unfurling above him and slowing his descent to a less terrifying pace. He looked around the sky. There was another parachute, just a little away from him: Zdurbu, no doubt.


    With its main rotors ejected, the remnants of his transport aircraft ran out of luck and aerodynamic lift. It crashed into the city streets below him seconds later, consumed by a large orange fireball of aviation fuel. He was close enough to feel the wave of heat that followed its explosion in his fur.


    As Sprabr muttered the death prayer for the pilot¡¯s sacrifice, he felt his cold rationality returning to him with every meter he dropped.


    He activated the radio still attached to his armor. ¡°Navy Dispatch, this is Eleven Whiskers Sprabr! I have an emergency! I¡¯ve been shot down. I need assistance immediately.¡±


    His heart skipped a beat as he waited for the reply, but it came almost immediately. ¡°This is Navy Dispatch, Cottontail Zone. Please provide additional authentication.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°What is your one-time radio code, Eleven Whiskers? Your voice is insufficient since our procedure change last month.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± Sprabr thought hard. In the swirling soup of panic that was his brain, he couldn¡¯t recall the code. He remembered being briefed on his new code earlier this week, but he rarely had to use it. He never expected he¡¯d have to use it in an emergency.


    ¡°We need your code now, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± The ground was approaching faster now.


    Right, the ground!


    ¡°My code is¡ª my code is Mountaintop-3-8.¡±


    There was a brief moment of rising panic in his chest as the channel broadcast static. Then, the dispatch¡¯s calm voice came back. ¡°Authenticated, Eleven Whiskers. What is the nature of your emergency?¡±


    ¡°My transport has been shot down, and I am ejecting into the city with another passenger! Activate the emergency response team now!¡±


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers? Is this a¡ª¡±


    He barked into his radio, ¡°This is not a drill! Send the rapid response team to my position now!¡±


    There was another pause on the other end, but his people were disciplined. Rescuing personnel from downed aircraft ¡ª from accidents or combat ¡ª was not an unfamiliar procedure. ¡°Yes, Eleven Whiskers. We have your location. Sending the team. Estimated arrival, twenty minutes. I take full responsibility for the delay.¡±


    Sprabr looked down at the approaching ground with trepidation, the intricate maze of streets and towering buildings of Grantor City rushing toward him. His eyes scanned for a safe landing spot, but the urban landscape offered few options. He settled for a small flat area ¡ª a ground vehicle parking lot, judging by the myriad of fading white lines he could barely spot in it ¡ª next to a couple of abandoned-looking buildings.


    With a deft tug on his parachute lines, he steered himself toward the open clearing. Best he could anyway; he was a Navy commander, not one of the Marines who trained in infiltration and atmospheric assault operations. The wind buffeted him, but his equipment worked as it should. As he approached the ground, he closed his eyes, relying on his armor to absorb the shock.


    Thud.


    The landing was rough but not deadly. His armor forced a roll to dissipate the energy, sending him sprawling face-first into the ground. With a painful groan, he turned his face upwards. Slowly getting up on his paws, his eyes flitted to the sky, spotting his companion ¡ª his handler ¡ª descending toward him on her parachute.


    She landed with much more grace than he did. With a small grunt, Zdurbu triggered the quick release on her parachute, hopping towards him as she did without breaking pace. ¡°Are you alright, Eleven Whiskers?¡± she yelled out as she approached him.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m fine,¡± Sprabr coughed out as he moved his limbs experimentally. ¡°Nothing¡¯s broken as far as I can feel.¡±


    ¡°Did you call for backup?¡±


    Sprabr scanned his surroundings. The area appeared deserted since the occupation, but some of the buildings remained in their decrepit conditions. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve called for a response team from the base. They¡¯ll get here in twenty minutes or less. Should we get to a spot where they can see¡ª¡±


    ¡°Standard procedure for a Navy response team is to secure the area until they find the downed personnel, right?¡± Zdurbu asked as she helped him out of his tangled parachute.


    ¡°Sure,¡± he said, narrowing his eyes. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Give me your radio.¡±


    Still confused, he detached his radio from his armor, tossing it to her. Catching it, Zdurbu threw it onto the ground, smashing it into smithereens with her paw.


    ¡°What? Why did you¡ª¡±


    ¡°The predators who shot us down will be here soon looking for us. They may be able to track us through those. Better to go without until our troops arrive.¡±


    He nodded reluctantly. ¡°That makes sense.¡±


    ¡°We need to get you hidden.¡± She drew her sidearm from her holster, then pointed a paw at what looked like an abandoned mall. ¡°Let¡¯s get going and hope they don¡¯t have any Lesser Predators among their ranks if they get here before our people do.¡±


    He followed her lead. ¡°Lesser Predators?¡±


    ¡°Tracking units with their primitive hunting noses,¡± Zdurbu said with a sniff.


    ¡°You think they¡¯ll be able to respond and get here that quickly?!¡± he asked incredulously.


    She shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t know, but I do know we aren¡¯t just fighting against angry Slow Predators this time. They had to know of your presence, our route, and had the sophisticated equipment to shoot us down. And if they had all that on their own, they would never have lost this planet in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Great Predators,¡± Sprabr hissed under his breath. He shook his head and stared at her. ¡°There¡¯s no way they knew my schedule. I never transmitted that information, secured or not.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me. I didn¡¯t transmit it unsecured either.¡±


    ¡°No, not you, but someone down at your station¡ª¡±


    ¡°Are you casting doubt on the competence of State Security and our station director?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m doing. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that a low intelligence rating is a prerequisite for higher rank in State Security,¡± he snarled.


    She snorted as she cleared the doorway of the abandoned mall with her weapon and pulled him in. ¡°You can levy your charges at an assignment-of-responsibility hearing later, but for now, let¡¯s focus on keeping you alive for the¡­ twenty minutes it¡¯ll take our people to get here.¡±


    <hr>


    Despite being kilometers away from wherever the people who shot them down were, it took the predators¡¯ ground units less than ten minutes to find the mall. The pitter-patter of their untrained, unarmored paws gave them away. They started smashing in the windows of the few storefronts that were still intact, turning over furniture¡­ they were obviously looking for the former occupants of the downed aircraft.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t we moving?¡± Sprabr hissed at his handler as they huddled in the dark, next to a small window.


    The duo had taken up position in a corner store on the second floor of the long building. The empty racks indicated that it was some kind of clothing shop before the occupation. Not that such malls existed in the Dominion, but Sprabr¡¯s training was extensive and he¡¯d been at war with the predators for decades. He knew a little something about the savages¡¯ culture; how else could he destroy it so efficiently?


    Zdurbu whispered back as she peeked into the window, ¡°They¡¯ve surrounded the building and the block. Some kind of closing net tactic. There¡¯s a roof observation nest in that building across the street, and I bet they¡¯ve got those small flying machines overhead. The second we get out of the building, they¡¯ll spot and dive on us.¡±


    ¡°What are we going to do?¡±


    Click.


    She performed a quick functional check on the two magazines she had for her small sidearm. They were full, but that wasn¡¯t enough. Not by a long shot. ¡°Pray to the Prophecy that your people get here quicker.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the best idea you¡¯ve got?!¡±


    ¡°I called the station down in the city too, before we landed. But they¡¯re not your Marines. State Security doesn¡¯t have a unit on standby for rescue missions like this.¡±


    Sprabr sighed in despair. ¡°That¡¯s it then, I guess. The predators will find us and eat us. Or worse, they¡¯ll take us alive.¡±


    ¡°Well, not exactly. They¡¯ll take you alive. Me, they¡¯ll kill without a second¡¯s thought,¡± Zdurbu replied nonchalantly.


    ¡°Lucky you,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Hey, keep your ears up. Maybe our people will get here in time.¡± She pointed down at the noises below as the predators searched for them methodically store-by-store. She snorted in contempt. ¡°They¡¯re called Slow Predators for a reason, right?¡±


    ¡°And if not?¡± he asked, nervously eyeing the way she held her handgun.


    She gave him a thin smile. ¡°Then, I¡¯ve got my directives for preventing your capture, don¡¯t I?¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Romeo, Grantor-3


    POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°Their response teams have been activated. Six choppers: two attack and four troop transports, coming for Atilla,¡± Mark announced as he watched them on the long-range drone surveillance. ¡°They¡¯ve taken off now. I see about¡­ one Bun platoon to each of the transports.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Kara said casually. ¡°At least we¡¯ll get our bang for the buck for those new toys we gave them.¡±


    ¡°Make sure we datalink our targeting sensors on the outskirts to them. You know the drill, right¡ª¡±


    ¡°Already done.¡±


    ¡°Good, now mount up.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said we weren¡¯t going to help them.¡±


    ¡°Nah, they can handle it. But that doesn¡¯t mean we have to sit here twiddling our thumbs, does it?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 32 Evasion II

    <div>


    Cluxta Apartment Complex 25F, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    ¡°They¡¯re in effective range now, Department Leader,¡± Insunt announced as he watched the enemy signals approach on his tablet. ¡°Six enemy choppers. This is their quick response team. You¡¯d think they would learn that flying around here has consequences after we shot their precious eleven whiskers down. Serious consequences.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t get too cocky, Insunt. They¡¯ve just had their first chopper shootdown in their own pacified city, probably for the first time ever. Even Grass Eaters need some time to fully digest a lesson like this.¡±


    ¡°I imagine they¡¯ll learn it real quick after this then.¡±


    Torsad grunted her agreement, not taking her eyes off the screen.


    48 kilometers.


    ¡°We¡¯re not going to shoot yet?¡± Insunt asked impatiently as he watched the dots on the screen get closer.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to give them a little bit more time. Let them come in a little more.¡±


    ¡°Why? They¡¯re in range now.¡±


    Torsad explained, ¡°We shoot now, and some of them might get the bright idea to turn around or try a different route. We took the risk and effort to climb all the way up here. I want to get as many of them as we can. Did the ground cell find the target in the wreckage?¡±


    ¡°No, but one of our spotters saw parachutes. And there was some kind of high priority transmission from the location. Our¡­ friends must be busy because they haven¡¯t gotten the decrypted message to us yet.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. Unlike Grass Eaters, we are allowed to use our brains. Sprabr must have ejected. Has the search team found traces of him yet?¡±


    Insunt shook his head. ¡°Not yet. They found the ditched parachutes in the abandoned section of the old city, near the mall area, and the cell leader locked down the neighborhood. We think there¡¯s two of them. They can¡¯t have gone far.¡±


    39 kilometers.


    ¡°We¡¯ll buy them some time,¡± Torsad said, raising her launcher to her shoulder. ¡°The choppers should be far enough in. Link me to the first target.¡±


    ¡°Linked. Hm¡­ it says I have to aim for you. Ah, okay. Turn a little to the right¡­ a little more¡­ a little more. Perfect. Raise it up about 45 degrees¡­ A little more¡ª Close enough. Good to go.¡±


    Her electronic sight turned red at an unseen target dozens of kilometers away, and she pressed the trigger as instructed.


    Poof.


    The missile left the tube in a cloud of smoke, igniting and tracking onto the linked signature.


    Torsad carefully put the launcher down back in its case and picked up another tube from an adjacent case. ¡°What do we do for the next one?¡±


    Insunt read the instructions on his tablet. ¡°Okay, the computer says there¡¯s a yellow fifteen-digit number printed on the tube, near your shoulder. Can you read me the last five digits?¡±


    She read the number printed on the tube out loud, ¡°1-6-5-6-2.¡±


    Insunt repeated it back to her as he entered it into his datapad, ¡°1-6-5-6-2. Right?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Ok, you can turn it on now.¡±


    She activated the new launcher, powered up the electronic sight, and aimed it in the same direction as the first missile.


    ¡°Linked,¡± Insunt said as he operated the tablet. It was¡­ intuitive and guided every step of the way. ¡°Second target acquired. It says: give it a few seconds because we don¡¯t want the heat and debris from the first explosion to interfere¡­ Ok. Ready now. Raise it up to¡­ never mind, you know the spot. Good to go.¡±


    FIRE NOW.


    Remembering the procedure printed on the tube, she hastily looked around her. ¡°Backblast clear. Launching.¡±


    <hr>


    If they were the more advanced F-variant, the Talon hypersonic surface-to-air missiles would have coordinated the attack midflight to arrive at approximately the same time to minimize the amount of time the enemy had to respond to them. As it were, the Talon-D¡¯s the Granti rebels were issued lacked the variable-thrust engines required for that kind of sophisticated operation.


    Nonetheless, they were missiles designed to shoot down mid-century Terran combat jets. Rotary wing, which flew at much lower altitudes at much slower speeds, posed a trivial challenge. The launch computers calculated a probability of hit of greater than 90% before they even left their tubes.


    Ninety percent for six missiles was technically just over fifty-fifty for hitting all six targets, but that was only the maximum PK confidence its makers were willing to guarantee as per the terms of its manufacturing contract.


    The last choppers in the rescue response team desperately maneuvered to avoid the incoming projectiles that had already savaged the rest of their formation, dropping barrages of countermeasures that might have worked if the sensors on the missiles hadn¡¯t been specifically designed to identify them¡­ Their Znosian Marine combat pilots discovered in their last moments ¡ª the hard way, as usual ¡ª the precise reason why most districts in the Terran Republic stopped buying manned rotary wing for their combat aircraft inventories in the mid-to-late-21st century.


    <hr>


    Grantor City South Mall, Grantor-3


    POV: Zdurbu, Znosian Dominion State Security Unit Zero (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    The sonic booms, the sound of the six distant, sequential explosions, and their subsequent secondaries reached the darkness of the abandoned mall clothing store the duo of ejected Znosians were taking refuge in. Fugitives on what was supposed to be their own planet.


    Five Whiskers Zdurbu connected the dots almost immediately. Even if she hadn¡¯t, the cheering of the predators below them as the news broke out on their radios would have been another easy clue. Her face turned pale ¡ª paler than it already was. ¡°They must have shot down your response team too. We are on our own now.¡±


    Sprabr scratched his armor¡¯s helmet out of habit. ¡°What about our ground vehicles?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll need to gather up troops and vehicles¡­ It¡¯ll take at least an hour, Eleven Whiskers,¡± she said, pointing at the sound the predators were making downstairs. ¡°And we don¡¯t have an hour.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the predators won¡¯t find us?¡± he said hopefully, gesturing at the dark shadow they were hiding in.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bet both my ears on that,¡± she said, settling deeper into the dark shadow.


    <hr>


    ¡°Do you want to hear a story?¡± Sprabr asked a few minutes later. ¡°While we wait for¡ª for rescue.¡±


    She checked her surroundings again ¡ª there was nothing else they could be doing anyway. ¡°Sure.¡±


    Sprabr took a deep breath and started, ¡°There once was a fruit tree that loved a young kit. Every day, the young kit would go to the tree. He would play with her leaves, climb the tree, eat her fruits, and¡ª¡±


    She interrupted him, ¡°The tree is female?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a parable. A fictional story meant to teach something or illustrate a point.¡±


    ¡°Fictional story?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it describes imagined events; it¡¯s not real. Now, can I continue?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± she said skeptically.


    ¡°The tree. The young kit. The kit would play with the tree and eat her fruits. And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade. This made the tree very happy. But time went by, and the kit grew older. He stopped visiting the tree as much, which made her sad. One time he visited the tree, she said to the kit¡ª¡±


    ¡°The tree talks?¡± she asked with a mildly horrified expression on her face.


    ¡°It¡¯s fictional.¡±


    ¡°Right, it¡¯s fake,¡± she muttered.


    ¡°The tree tells the kit it should visit more. But he says to the tree, I¡¯m not a kit anymore; I¡¯m grown up now. He tells the tree that he¡¯s now a farmer, and he needs to tend to his crops to meet quotas. He can¡¯t play around with the tree all day like he used to. So she says, take my fruits and you can add them to your stockpile, and that should count towards your quota. He climbs the tree, gathers her fruits, and carries them away. He comes back to visit and collect her fruits every harvest season. And the tree is happy whenever he does. After a while, the tree notices that the visits have become less frequent, and when the male visits, it is for a shorter time each time.¡±This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because the tree is getting older and producing fewer fruits,¡± he answered, glad that she was at least somewhat engaging with the story¡ª


    ¡°Don¡¯t older fruit trees make more fruit?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t¡ª I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not a caretaker for fruit trees. I¡¯ve never even seen one of those before. Do you want me to finish the story?¡±


    ¡°Fine, keep going.¡±


    ¡°The tree is sad, and she asks the male what more she could give him. As he grows older, the tree provides him with more and more of herself. Her branches for him to build furniture. Bits of her bark and leaves for medicine. And eventually, as he grows old and has his own kits, she allows him to cut down her trunk to build a house to provide for his growing clan. The tree is happy to give, but when the now-elderly male visits, she becomes sad. She tells him, I¡¯m sorry, kit, but I have nothing left to provide you; my fruits are gone, I have no more leaves to provide you with a shade, and there are no more branches or trunk on me left for you to build with: I am just an old stump now. The elderly male replies, I have no teeth left to eat fruit, and I am very tired; I don¡¯t need much: all I need now is a quiet place to rest. The tree straightens up with the last of her strength. She says, an old stump is good for resting; come, kit, sit down, and rest. He sits down on her stump. And she is happy.¡±


    There was a moment of quiet as Zdurbu waited for him to continue. When he did not, she asked, ¡°Is that it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that is the end of the story. What do you think of it?¡±


    She thought for a moment, then answered with her own question, ¡°What am I supposed to think about the story?¡±


    He cocked his head. ¡°It¡¯s up to you. What do you think?¡±


    Zdurbu frowned. ¡°What do I think? If the tree was a real, living, thinking being in the story, then this was an unequal relationship between the two. The kit ¡ª the male ¡ª he only takes and takes and takes. And the tree only gives. This is unfair.¡±


    ¡°But the tree is happy to provide,¡± he countered.


    ¡°Then the tree is stupid, probably because it is a tree, and deserves to be exploited. What¡ª what is the purpose of the story?¡±


    Sprabr shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I used to think it was simply describing the relationship between a wild animal and her kit. But now, it reminds me of something else.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    He sighed. ¡°I have been in service of the Dominion Navy for almost¡ª almost three decades now. The only reason I haven¡¯t been recycled yet is because I still provide immense value to it. With my knowledge, my experience¡­ But when the Dominion comes to me, and it asks me for my final sacrifice¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are happy to give it, like the tree?¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°No. The opposite. I don¡¯t want to die. I¡¯m scared to die. I have already given everything¡ª almost everything to the Dominion. Why should I give more? How could it demand more from me now? How?!¡±


    ¡°Death in service of the Dominion is a blessing,¡± she admonished. ¡°With your record, you¡¯d rejoin the Prophecy with full honors.¡±


    Sprabr sighed again and shook his head. ¡°You don¡¯t actually believe that, do you?¡±


    ¡°Believe what?¡± Zdurbu asked. She narrowed her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not one of those crazy rebirth believers, are you? And even if you are, your sacrifice would¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Prophecy. It¡¯s not real. There is nothing after death. You just¡­ stop existing. That¡¯s it.¡±


    She gaped at him.


    Sprabr continued, ¡°In fact, I¡¯m pretty certain the Prophecy is a State Security invention, the way it¡¯s taught and enforced.¡±


    She only stared.


    ¡°You¡¯re a smart cookie, Five Whiskers. Surely you¡¯ve suspected.¡±


    Zdurbu said nothing for a few more heartbeats. She could only reply, ¡°That¡ª that is apostasy.¡±


    He didn¡¯t bother to deny it. ¡°Yes. Yes, it is.¡±


    ¡°The very thought of it: it is a betrayal.¡±


    ¡°Am I wrong?¡±


    For a while, there was no sound but the shouting predators beneath them as they searched through the shops.


    Eventually, she replied, ¡°No, perhaps not wrong. There is a chance. But it doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    It was his turn to be mildly confused. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°No, it doesn¡¯t. Because even if you are right, there is a finite downside to believing the Prophecy anyway; but if you are wrong, the downside to not believing in it is infinite. In other words, if the Prophecy is real and you act like it is not, you¡¯ve lost out on everything, but if the Prophecy is not real and you act like it is, you¡¯ve only lost out on a relatively small amount of¡­ whatever it is you think you¡¯ve given up to the Dominion. Finite cost. For potential infinite reward. Therefore, the most logical course of action is to believe it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª that¡¯s a clear fallacy.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    Sprabr thought quietly for a minute. ¡°Okay. Imagine we are in a desert, and you have a canteen of water. And I ask you for the water.¡±


    Zdurbu dug into her utility pouch. ¡°Do you need my water?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No, no,¡± he interrupted her with an annoyed paw on her shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s a hypothetical.¡±


    ¡°Another hypothetical.¡±


    Sprabr nodded. ¡°Yes, just¡­ imagine it. Imagine we are both thirsty, and I ask you for your water.¡±


    ¡°I would give my water up, as your needs are more important than mine, Eleven Whiskers. Your life is worth more than mine.¡±


    Sprabr sighed in impatience. ¡°Okay, imagine a slightly different hypothetical. You are in the desert with a predator, and you are both thirsty. And the predator asks you for your water.¡±


    She shook her head vehemently. ¡°I would not give my water to a predator. No way. I would rather pour it all on the ground and thirst to death with it than¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. But imagine if this predator tells you: Zdurbu, I have a device that can copy water molecules, and if you give me your canteen of water, I will pay you back a hundred times in water.¡±


    ¡°Then, it is obviously lying.¡±


    ¡°What would you say is the probability that the predator is lying?¡± Sprabr asked.


    ¡°100%.¡±


    ¡°Surely nothing in life is 100%.¡±


    ¡°Fine. But the chance is very high. It¡¯s a predator, to start with. So¡­ 99.9% chance, at least.¡±


    ¡°So, if the predator says it will pay you back a thousand times in water, it would be a fair trade?¡±


    ¡°A thousand times¡­¡± She did the calculation in her head. ¡°But¡ª hmmm¡­ well¡­ the chance that the predator is lying is realistically higher than the 99.9% I stated.¡±


    ¡°What if the predator offers to pay you back a million times? A billion times? A trillion times? A quadrillion trillion times? There is some large number that would surely make it a worthy trade, right? What if the predator offers you infinite water in return? What if it offers you an entire habitable planet? What if it offers you infinite reward? It offers you all the rewards of the Prophecy. You are only giving up a canteen of water to it after all. As you put it¡­ finite cost, for potential infinite reward,¡± Sprabr concluded.


    ¡°I would¡ª no, because¡ª hang on¡ª that can¡¯t be right¡­¡±


    Zdurbu was lost in thought for a few minutes, just sitting there whispering numbers under her breathe.


    ¡°It¡¯s not actually a math problem¡­¡± he started to explain. ¡°It relies on a mistaken understanding of very large and small numbers.¡±


    She waved off his clarification. ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯m just thinking. Give me a minute.¡±


    She continued her murmuring for another minute before she conceded, ¡°Maybe it is as you say. Maybe it is a fallacy. But what else is there to life but service to the Prophecy? Meaningless survival? Hedonistic joy? Existence for its own sake? Nothing?¡±


    ¡°Why not? For any of those, why not?¡± Sprabr countered.


    ¡°I¡ª I don¡¯t know, Eleven Whiskers. Live our whole lives in fear of the unknown instead? There is comfort in the certainty of the Prophecy.¡±


    ¡°It brings comfort, yes. But that doesn¡¯t make it correct, does it?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No, it doesn¡¯t.¡± After a while, Zdurbu asked, ¡°That story about the tree. And your canteen example. They are both from the predators, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°How could you tell?¡± Sprabr asked.


    ¡°Because¡­ the story is like some of the older stories in the Prophecy, some that we¡¯ve gotten rid of that¡ª that probably came from them. I¡¯ve seen some of them¡­ from an outlier raid.¡±


    Sprabr nodded and confirmed, ¡°They are from the Great Predators. The story¡­ it¡¯s one some of them tell their young kits.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like predator propaganda,¡± she said automatically.


    ¡°It is explicitly predator propaganda. That doesn¡¯t make it a bad story.¡±


    She gave a noncommittal grunt. ¡°How did you come upon it?¡±


    ¡°They send these to our ships on the FTL radio. Much more interesting to listen to than the annoying whining and pleading the other predators used to send us. We used to laugh at the part where they send us cries for help from¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­. shhhh!¡± Zdurbu hissed suddenly.


    The sounds of the searching predators got louder, and Sprabr could hear their paw steps coming up onto the second floor. As he watched, their long shadows appeared into view of the store he was in. Two of them walked into it, the flashlights on their weapons swiveling around, illuminating everything in the dark until¡­


    They saw him, huddling in the dark corner. They looked at him with their hungry gazes. He threw up his empty paws in resignation.


    He could see them fumbling excitedly for their radios. ¡°We¡¯ve found them! They¡¯re¡ª¡±


    Bang. Bang.


    Zdurbu popped up from the shadows next to them, quickly dispatching both with two accurate shots from her sidearm. As they collapsed dead to the ground, Sprabr noted dryly to himself that at least all that costly State Security operator training she got didn¡¯t go to waste.


    She rummaged through their corpses and picked up a rifle and some ammunition from the dead body. Stolen weapons. Familiar-looking ones. Znosian Marine standard issue. Two of many that his Marines had lost over the past few months.


    As Sprabr stared at the predators¡¯ bodies, Zdurbu grabbed his arms. ¡°They¡¯ll have heard the shots. We have to move. Now.¡±


    He followed Zdurbu through the second floor of the mall, hopping past several more stores. There was a bookstore, a toy store, and finally she led them into an empty room with a few overturned tables splayed across the floor. The duo made their way to the backroom of the store. It was a small room with white-tiled floors and an odd metal door that had a head-sized rectangular window cut into it.


    ¡°What is this horrible-smelling place?¡± he asked unsettled as his fur bristled subconsciously.


    ¡°Used to be one of their food stores, it looks like,¡± she replied, gesturing at some alien lettering on the wall with a paw. The poster also showed revolting pictures of the flesh the predators served and ate before the pacification. ¡°No time for your disgust and outrage. Get in the flesh locker.¡±


    ¡°The flesh locker?¡±


    ¡°Yes, get in,¡± she said, shoving him into the cool room. It smelled like blood everywhere.


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan? Surely they¡¯ll come by and check¡ª¡±


    She handed him her sidearm, grip first. ¡°You¡¯ve been trained to use this, I presume?¡±


    ¡°Decades ago. You keep it. I¡¯m sure you¡¯re a better shooter than me by far.¡±


    She shook her head and gestured to the reclaimed Marine rifle she slung around her armor. ¡°I have this. The sidearm is for yourself. Whatever you believe follows life, death must be preferable to torture for information.¡±


    ¡°Oh. I thought you were going to do that for me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to go buy you some more time,¡± Zdurbu said, as she began to close the heavy metal door, grunting with effort even as her Marine armor assisted her. ¡°There¡¯s always a chance they don¡¯t find you before the rescue team comes¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Take my armor,¡± he said as he hit the quick release button on his own Marine armor. It popped opened with a hiss, and he stepped out of it. The armor clattered to the floor in a heap of metal.


    She looked at it in confusion. ¡°Don¡¯t get sentimental on me. Mine¡¯s custom made for my bloodline and size. I won¡¯t fit in your¡ª¡±


    He pointed to the armor. ¡°Can you carry this on your back?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I thought you meant¡ª Carry that?¡± she asked. ¡°Sure, my suit has enough battery left, but why? It¡¯ll just slow me down.¡±


    ¡°You plan to draw them away from me because I am more valuable to the Dominion than you are. They¡¯re more likely to follow you if they see you carrying my armor in the distance,¡± he explained logically.


    Zdurbu thought for a second, then picked up and slung the heavy suit onto her shoulders, the heavy-duty motors on her own armor slightly groaning under the new weight. ¡°Good point. And good thinking. Maybe you will do that rebirth thing as a Dominion Marine in your next life. Or, maybe not, since, you know¡­¡±


    He shrugged and stood watching as she stepped back and finished closing the thick flesh locker door.


    She saluted him through the small window in the heavy door. ¡°Whatever it is ¡ª good luck, Sprabr.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 33 Evasion III

    <div>


    Grantor City South Mall, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    Torsad and Insunt picked up their pace as they heard the sounds of gunfire echoing throughout the large building in front of them. They were greeted at the mall¡¯s door by the local cell leader shouting directions at his subordinates.


    ¡°You! Are you in charge here?¡± Torsad barked.


    His head snapped over to her. ¡°Yes, Department Leader! I am Cell Leader¡ª¡±


    ¡°Have you found him yet?¡±


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± he replied as a fresh wave of gunfire erupted inside the building. ¡°We saw them dragging another¡­ We think one of them is injured or dead, and the other one is guarding them with their life.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s taking so long?¡± Torsad complained. ¡°The other cells can¡¯t delay their ground teams forever!¡±


    As if in response, there was an explosion somewhere in the distance towards the outskirts of the city. She hoped it was one of the Grass Eaters¡¯ armored vehicles brewing up to one of their mine traps, but it was hard to tell.


    ¡°They keep popping in and out of the building vents, Department Leader. We¡¯re trying to flush them out, but frankly, my people aren¡¯t used to sustained fighting like this! We¡¯ve already lost six people to them, four killed and two more critically wounded.¡±


    ¡°Whatever you do, we need to get to them fast!¡± Torsad snapped, pointing at the dimming sky. ¡°It¡¯s going to get dark, and there¡¯s no chance our units can hold them back once their ground strike team comes in with night vision when it darkens!¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am! Is there any chance we can get our guys across the streets outside to direct their drones¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me you haven¡¯t been using those?!¡± she screeched at him.


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. They¡¯re a different cell, the guys from Sixteenth Street who are supposed to be construction workers ¡ª one of them was a cub-sitter for our pack before¡ª Anyway, you said we¡¯re not supposed to talk to them or know their names or¡ª¡±


    ¡°What? How do you know¡ª Never mind. Screw that! This is their Grand Fleet Commander we¡¯re trying to get! Insunt, get Cell Leader Glersiu and tell them to send everything they have into there until we drag two Grass Eaters out. Dead or alive!¡±


    <hr>


    With the swarm of drones racing in, it only took three minutes to find the fighting Znosian Marine and another thirty seconds to corner her outside a pre-war electronics shop. An explosive-laden drone dove onto her position, finally putting her out of the fight.


    Torsad sprinted towards the last known location on her tablet without waiting for the all-clear. She noticed the downed enemy was still alive, and as she approached, it was crawling¡­ crawling towards her rifle thrown a few meters away, dragging a trail of blood and entrails with her.


    Not fast enough.


    Torsad casually reached her and picked up the Znosian rifle. She pointed the rifle¡¯s barrel back down at the injured enemy, who simply slumped into the tiled mall floor in resignation. Even through the durable armor, the explosive had blown off one of her legs and injured the other. The suit itself appeared to have sealed some of the perforations, but the remaining wounds looked mortal anyway.


    She examined the Znosian face through her helmet¡¯s visor. ¡°You¡¯re not the eleven whiskers we¡¯re looking for,¡± she said in annoyance.


    The enemy coughed twice with effort through her mortal wounds. ¡°Not¡­ unless I got¡­ a big promotion¡­ recently.¡±


    Torsad pulled out the mag remaining in the gun she held in her paw. It was empty. A quick check on the rifle itself told her there was a single round remaining in its chamber. ¡°Saved one for yourself?¡± she asked.


    The Znosian Marine groaned, pain evident on her face even through the visor.


    ¡°I can respect that, Grass Eater,¡± Torsad remarked, bringing her tablet up to the enemy¡¯s face. It ran the facial recognition program, finding the match in under a second. ¡°You are¡­ Five Whiskers Zdurbu. Znosian Marine. Ah, State Security affiliation. You must be his handler. Where¡¯s your charge now?¡±


    Zdurbu didn¡¯t reply.


    Torsad looked around her. And there it laid, the other body facedown next to her. She pushed it over with a paw.


    The suit was empty.


    Torsad sighed. ¡°I expected as much. It¡¯s what I¡¯d do too.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ but¡­ stupidly,¡± Zdurbu gasped, her voice strained with pain as her breathing got shallower. ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ never¡­ tell you¡­ where. Not¡­ in time¡­ anyway.¡±


    ¡°Probably not,¡± Torsad shrugged, bringing the rifle up to her shoulder. She aimed it at the helmet of the dying enemy. ¡°I¡¯ll give you the courtesy of allowing you to say your death prayer, Grass Eater. Just make it quick now.¡±


    ¡°No¡­ no¡­ no need.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± Torsad cocked her head in mild surprise.


    ¡°The Prophecy is¡­ not¡­ probably not¡­ not real.¡±


    ¡°An agnostic Grass Eater? That¡¯s a new one.¡±


    Zdurbu said nothing in response and closed her eyes.


    Torsad sighed, her claw on the trigger. ¡°Fair enough, Zdurbu. Find out for me.¡±A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Bang.


    The Znosian Marine gurgled for a second, twitched, and then exhaled her last.


    Torsad collected the empty magazines next to her corpse.


    Waste not, want not.


    After just a few more seconds of fruitless searching, her eyes snapped back up as Insunt ran up to her. ¡°Department Leader, Department Leader! We have to go! The Grass Eater Longclaws! They¡¯ve broken through the second chokepoint! Have you found the target?¡±


    Torsad shook her head as she looked around the massive mall around her, its shadows darkening as the sun set. ¡°No. We¡¯ll never find him in here in time. Tell the teams to go to ground.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    Sprabr realized he must have dozed off inside the flesh room when he was woken up by talking outside its heavy metal doors. The voices¡­


    His stomach tightened when he realized they were Lesser Predators.


    ¡°We found him! We found him!¡± he heard one say. ¡°He¡¯s in there!¡±


    ¡°You abominations always thinking with your stupid stomachs,¡± another voice said, this one a Znosian, to his relief. ¡°We¡¯re here to find the eleven whiskers, not sit down for a disgusting flesh meal!¡±


    ¡°He is in there! I can hear him breathing!¡± the first voice insisted.


    ¡°Open it up. If he¡¯s not in there, I¡¯m going to have your handlers recycle both of you.¡±


    Sprabr slowly stood up, dragging his numb paws towards the opening metal door. He showed them his empty paws as they pointed their flashlights at him.


    ¡°Eleven Whiskers! By the Prophecy! It¡¯s him! We found him! Eleven Whiskers, are you alright?¡± the Znosian Marine at the doorway said in excitement into her radio.


    ¡°Yes, yes, I¡¯m fine,¡± he said, squinting his eyes at her weapon light in the dark.


    The Marine activated her radio. ¡°We found the eleven whiskers! Get the transport ready! We¡¯re coming out!¡±


    ¡°Four Whiskers,¡± Sprabr addressed her as he read the rank on the Marine¡¯s striped insignia patch. ¡°Did you find the other ejected passenger? Five Whiskers Zdurbu.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eleven Whisker. Her body is downstairs. Died fighting the savages, it appears.¡±


    Sprabr hid his relief. ¡°Too bad.¡±


    The four whiskers bowed her head. ¡°Her life was forfeited to the Prophecy the day she left the hatchling pools.¡±


    He suppressed a sudden and overwhelming urge to correct her. It wouldn¡¯t do, for his subordinates to think he was going senile in his old age.


    The journey back to base was uneventful. As bad as the Grantor Underground had gotten in the city, the Znosians still owned the night with their ubiquitous night vision equipment.


    Most nights.


    Well¡­ some nights. Tonight, at least.


    When Sprabr got back to his room, he collapsed into his bunk in exhaustion.


    He dreamt of his former subordinate and traitor to the Dominion, then Ten Whiskers Ditvish. In his dreams, they were both lined up against a red brick wall, facing a State Security firing squad together. He wondered if he deserved it¡­


    And whether anyone really did.


    <hr>


    Grantor City Safehouse Yankee, Grantor-3


    POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)


    Torsad covered up her disappointment as she reported the failure. The humans said nothing, their faces impassive.


    Mark nodded when she was done. ¡°Good.¡±


    Good?


    ¡°I apologize for my failure. We promised you we¡¯d get him, and we failed. Ultimately, I am responsible,¡± Torsad said.


    ¡°Ultimately, you are. Assumptions in war kill, and your assumptions were part of your failure,¡± Mark agreed. ¡°As they are often ours. But I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll both learn from it and do better next time.¡±


    ¡°We might not get such a good shot at Eleven Whiskers Sprabr again next time,¡± she replied miserably.


    ¡°Probably not. They¡¯ll learn from this, and they probably won¡¯t make the same mistakes again. They¡¯ll make new mistakes. As will we, isn¡¯t that right, Department Leader?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Director.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Mark said, smiling. ¡°And don¡¯t be too harsh on yourself, or your people. We could have made that mistake ourselves too. This assault was improvised, and it wasn¡¯t a total failure.¡±


    ¡°It¡­ wasn¡¯t a total failure?¡±


    ¡°No, you still took down seven of their choppers in a single day.¡±


    She nodded reluctantly. ¡°I guess we did.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not too bad. Probably the worst day for their Marine aviation in years ¡ª on a planet where they have orbital superiority anyway. On top of that¡­ when your people kicked up the hornet¡¯s nest, they emptied all their armed guard units out of their city spaceport to try to reach him.¡±


    Torsad¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You¡ª what¡ª you broke into their spaceport¡ª What did you steal?¡±


    ¡°Well, let¡¯s just say the better question is less: what did we take¡­ and more¡­ what gifts we left for them. It is the holiday season, after all.¡±


    <hr>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°Um¡­ hm¡­ You have a call for you, Grand Admiral,¡± former analyst Samantha Lee and now flag aide reported to Amelia.


    ¡°What? Here? Who?¡±


    ¡°There is an open, unsecured call for you on the FTL radio.¡±


    ¡°Open call? Is it the Puppers again? Didn¡¯t we tell them to stop using their old¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. It¡¯s uh¡­ it¡¯s from Znos.¡±


    ¡°Znos?! The Buns are calling me?¡± Amelia asked. ¡°What?! What for?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re using our first contact greeting protocols.¡±


    She raised an eyebrow and asked sarcastically, ¡°They¡¯re boarding our diplomatic ships with specially trained operators in stealth shuttles¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no. You know what I mean. The protocols we gave the other species.¡±


    ¡°I know¡­ I just¡ª I didn¡¯t even know the Znosians were capable of diplomacy!¡±


    Samantha shrugged. ¡°They¡ª they say they want to speak to the commander in charge of our war effort. The operator wasn¡¯t sure if they meant you or President Havel, but war effort implied you, so they routed it here.¡±


    Amelia frowned. ¡°Am I even legally authorized to conduct diplomacy with declared enemies of the Republic?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure, but the legal intelligence monitoring the call will stop it if it thinks you¡¯re in danger of breaching the law or revealing anything important to them.¡±


    ¡°Right. Alright. Let¡¯s¡ª let¡¯s see what the assholes have to say for themselves.¡±


    A female Znosian popped up on the screen. The computers helpfully displayed her TRO profile and her identity: Svatken, Znosian Office of State Security.


    Amelia snarled into her microphone, ¡°Hello, meat. This is your nightmare speaking. What do you want?¡±


    Svatken¡¯s image shrank back for a second before she peered into the camera on the screen. ¡°Is that¡­ Terran Republic Admiral Amelia Waters. Please¡­ Admiral. There is no need for intimidation or emotional gestures. After all, we are civilized creatures unlike the rest of the galaxy around here, aren¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°Civilized creatures?¡± Amelia repeated into the headset, her voice thick with disbelief. ¡°Civilized? You call yourselves that?!¡±


    ¡°Of course. What else? A civilization is a people that has transcended the natural bounds placed on them by the accidents of their birth. We are a prey species that overcame the natural disadvantage of our genetics to dominate our food chain and venture into the stars. Therefore, we are civilized. And you. Well, you were a predator hybrid species, but from the latest information we have acquired from captured prisoners from your new pets, it appears you ¡ª or most of you, at least ¡ª have also transcended your predatorial birth in numerous ways. For example, most of you no longer eat natural meat, preferring instead to satisfy your base hungers with artificially produced proteins. Some of our people disagree, but as a xenobiologist by training, I have no problems considering you objectively civilized.¡±


    ¡°Woah, the murder Bunny considers us civilized. Thank you so much!¡± Amelia replied sarcastically.


    Svatken continued without breaking a sweat. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Admiral. As for your pets, those other predators ¡ª they have not overcome much of their birth. The only thing we can credit them for overcoming are gravity and the speed of light. But for the sake of your sensibilities in this conversation, we can refer to them as barely civilized aliens if you wish.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re serious.¡±


    ¡°Of course I am. What else could I be?¡±


    ¡°Delusional. What do you want?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here to begin negotiations with your people. Like civilized creatures would.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 34 Civilized

    <div>


    <div>


    Atlas Naval Command, Luna


    POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)


    ¡°I¡¯m here to begin negotiations with your people. Like civilized creatures would.¡±


    Amelia stared at the screen for a full ten seconds, wondering what was going on in that tiny Znosian brain. ¡°This is a hoot. Alright, just to let you know, Bun, you¡¯re barking up the wrong tree unless you¡¯re looking to surrender. I¡¯m only in charge of our military, not our whole species. And don¡¯t screw around. I know you guys have that concept too.¡±


    Svatken dismissively waved away her objection. ¡°That¡¯s fine. But all negotiations have to start somewhere. And I¡¯m sure you will relay whatever I propose to your leaders.¡±


    ¡°Tell me exactly what you want before I hang up, and I¡¯ll think about sending your demands to our decision makers. I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll all have a good laugh about it afterwards.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Svatken said. ¡°We want to propose a cessation of hostilities between our two people. The war has been devastating for both our peoples, and it is not necessarily to either of our advantage to continue our war.¡±


    ¡°A ceasefire?! After you¡¯ve just sent an extermination fleet to¡ª to one of our systems?!¡± Amelia asked.


    ¡°There is no need for such a transparent ruse, Admiral. We know from your new pets that Sol is your home system. And we know that we have done incredible damage to your infrastructure and your planets. Many of your people are dead, your colonies laid waste, and your production facilities destroyed. As for who started this war, objectively, neither of our species has clean paws; if I recall, your ships did attack ours first. Anyway, as civilized peoples, I¡¯m sure we can come to an agreement that looks past this sunk cost and prevent further loss of life.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s fishing for information,¡± Samantha mouthed to Amelia.


    Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Yeah, you¡¯ve really done us in. We¡¯re basically begging for a ceasefire now.¡±


    ¡°That is excellent news! I am prepared to discuss with you details of a hundred-year ceasefire¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, you idiot! The audacity of the suggestion! We aren¡¯t just going to roll over and make peace with you maniacs right after you just attacked our system!¡±


    ¡°Ah. Is it a problem with the inequity of such an arrangement? After all, we must have killed so many of your people,¡± she said with zero hints of contrition or even faked empathy. ¡°That is a condition we are prepared to address with an offer: reparations.¡±


    Amelia couldn¡¯t help but be surprised. ¡°You? Reparations?!¡± she snorted. ¡°I didn¡¯t even know you had that word in your language.¡±


    Svatken nodded solemnly. ¡°Indeed, if you offer us evidence of your casualties, we are willing to pay in equal amount. For every Great¡ª for every¡­ human we have killed in this war so far, we will select one of our own and send them to you so you can execute them.¡±


    ¡°Send us your people so we can¡­ execute them?¡± Amelia echoed numbly. ¡°What the actual¡ª¡±


    ¡°If the problem is that you think an equal exchange is unfair, we are prepared to negotiate on that point. For a reasonable concession on our part, would two Znosians for one Terran deceased be a more acceptable ratio for your leaders or¡ª¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid we can¡¯t go much higher than two, but perhaps exceptions can be made for certain¡ª¡±


    ¡°No! None of that is reasonable! We don¡¯t want to execute random Buns! We¡¯re coming after you! The assholes in charge over there! You!¡±


    The Znosian seemed to think for a moment. ¡°That¡­ is an interesting complication you propose, but not entirely unreasonable for¡ª¡±


    ¡°What? It¡¯s not a proposal at all!¡±


    ¡°As I said, not entirely unreasonable. If you tally up the number of your leaders we¡¯ve killed, we can also send you an equivalent number of our leaders of equal importance and rank for your people to execute. And I know your primitive species is not as keen on documentation as we are, but I¡¯m sure you have records on the service ranks of officers and spacers and Marines we¡¯ve killed. We can have a corresponding number of the equivalent ranking personnel sent to you for your disposal. Or we can work out some kind of conversion formula between our whiskers system and your mess of a¡­¡±


    Amelia looked at the psychopathic enemy coldly. ¡°We are not interested in eye-for-eye justice, and we do not believe your promises of temporary peace. There is exactly one arrangement I know we would accept for a ceasefire.¡±


    ¡°What is that?¡± Svatken asked eagerly. ¡°We will hear out your¡ª¡±


    ¡°Unconditional surrender. Your armed forces must disarm and surrender all weapons and ships. Your people must hand over all leaders responsible for your attack on our people. And you will pay reparations ¡ª actual reparations, not¡­ whatever you seem to think the word means ¡ª for the damage you¡¯ve caused our people. We will discuss with our allies the matter of your payment for the damage you¡¯ve caused them over the last decade. And we will rehabilitate¡ª somehow find a way to fix your people and make you less cavalier about the uncountable number of people you¡¯ve murdered over the centuries, to ensure you never do it again. Total and unconditional surrender. And then, and only then, we will have peace between our peoples.¡±


    Despite the alien biology, Amelia could still see Svatken¡¯s face falling as she iterated the demands listed in the latest Republic Authorization of Use of Force resolution. As she came to a pause, Svatken cleared her throat twice and harumphed, ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like a very realistic or equitable exchange either.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps not, but this ¡ª capitulation ¡ª is the only one we will accept for peace.¡±


    ¡°Hm? That is a word we do not have in our language.¡±


    Yeah, right.


    ¡°Then, you will learn. We are excellent teachers.¡±


    The Znosian paused, her expression unreadable. She asked, ¡°What about deals less than peace? I know you have those from your history, as we do. For purposes unrelated to the ultimate war aims against us. Exchange of prisoners, perhaps. Or allowing the passage of ships and such.¡±


    ¡°Your trapped fleet in Granti territory? At Grantor?¡± Amelia said, narrowing her eyes. ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°Our fleet is not trapped,¡± Svatken insisted. ¡°They are defending our rightful, captured territory. And they can move in and out of Grantor system at any time they wish.¡±The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Amelia rolled her eyes. ¡°Guess there is nothing to negotiate on that point then.¡±


    ¡°Another proposal then: in exchange for all our prisoners, we¡¯d give you all your people back.¡±


    ¡°All our prisoners for a couple dozen Resistance idiots who we¡¯d prefer that you keep? Pull the other one, Bun.¡±


    Svatken tilted her head. ¡°Fair enough. I meant all your barely civilized pets¡¯ people we¡¯ve captured. Surely you can use that as a bargaining chip in your own negotiations with them to extract payment and other favors from them.¡±


    Amelia¡¯s eyes narrowed as she studied the screen. ¡°All the prisoners you hold? That includes all the Malgeir and Granti civilians in systems under your occupation?¡±


    The Znosian seemed to think for a while, as if she hadn¡¯t considered them at all. ¡°Sure. As long as you provide them with transport off our planets and out of systems. I¡¯m sure the details can be hashed out¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no, I don¡¯t think so. Hah.¡± Amelia barked a short laugh. ¡°Those aren¡¯t your planets. And I think we both know the Malgeir Navy is about to liberate every single one of those star systems right from under your nose anyway.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡± Svatken seemed to hesitate. ¡°But perhaps we will rather throw those planets into their stars than allow you to have them.¡±


    ¡°And perhaps we would prefer that to giving you back the numerous Znosian prisoners we hold.¡±


    Svatken seemed increasingly unsure on the screen, as if she was internally balancing the narratives she helped make up about predator barbarism and savagery ¡ª against the narratives she helped make up about predator weakness and short-sightedness.


    ¡°You must be bluffing, Admiral,¡± the State Security officer concluded after a few moments. ¡°There is no way you would allow that to happen. Your pets would turn against you.¡±


    Amelia bared her sharp teeth at the enemy. ¡°Would they? Do you think you know them better than we do?¡±


    Svatken¡¯s face went blank for a moment, betraying no further emotion. ¡°Hypothetically, what if we returned those systems and all their peoples? All of them. Would your leaders agree to peace?¡±


    ¡°No. But you¡¯re getting warmer,¡± Amelia admitted coolly.


    ¡°Not even a temporary one?¡±


    ¡°We might¡­ be prepared to allow you to withdraw parts of your fleets to your pre-war system borders instead of destroying them where they orbit right now,¡± Amelia said. ¡°But that kind of decision would be up to our leaders and not me.¡±


    ¡°Your people have yet to demonstrate the ability¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not finished,¡± Amelia continued. ¡°Even that would already be a major concession on our part, trading a civilian advantage for our people against a military advantage for your people. We would never accept that deal without other compromises from you.¡±


    Svatken tilted her head. ¡°Such as?¡±


    ¡°Such as handing over your high-ranking fleet commanders and Marine war chiefs who were responsible for planning the attack on our star systems.¡±


    ¡°And after that?¡± Svatken asked. ¡°What would you do after we withdraw to what you call our pre-war borders and hand over our military leaders?¡±


    ¡°After that?¡± Amelia shrugged. ¡°If¡­ if there is a ceasefire condition¡­ We¡¯ll wait it out. Then, we¡¯re coming for the rest of your ships, your leaders, and your capability to make war until you have absolutely none left.¡±


    ¡°As I was saying, your people have yet to demonstrate the ability to do any of these things you threaten,¡± Svatken said as she glared at the screen confidently.


    ¡°Perhaps not. Perhaps you should ask your Grand Fleet what we are capable of.¡±


    ¡°They are merely one of our many fleets. The breadth of our Dominion is far beyond the comprehension of simple¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then you can ask your Grander and Grandest Fleets the same thing when we get to them. And when we are done with them, this deal will not be on the table for you anymore.¡±


    Svatken shook her head. ¡°This proposal is unacceptable to us. We will not agree to this.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Amelia said coldly.


    ¡°Good?¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Amelia bared her teeth at the enemy again as she prepared to disconnect the call. ¡°I was really, really afraid you¡¯d say yes.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°What do you think they¡¯re playing at?¡± Samantha asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s obvious, isn¡¯t it?¡± Amelia snorted.


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re reloading. And they want a free timeout while they do that.¡±


    ¡°What about the prisoner exchange offer? Allow their Navy to withdraw safely and the return of prisoners of war, in exchange for no funny business with the planets and a few of their high-ranking officers?¡±


    Amelia paused, considering the question. ¡°Returning their POWs will give them a pretty good idea what the shape of our capabilities are. It¡¯ll allow them to learn how to mitigate our attacks better, build better ships, better tactics¡­ And it¡¯ll open the door to at least a few of our people demanding a longer peace, which they want ¡ª to rebuild their fleets for another go at us. The Republic¡¯s current sky-high support for the war won¡¯t last forever. If we have an armistice, they will be back at our doors in a decade. She pretended to be stupid and caught off-guard, but this had to have been carefully calculated. Even if it is genuine, it¡¯s a trojan horse deal, and it makes no strategic sense for us to agree to it.¡±


    ¡°Is there a but I sense coming?¡± Samantha asked.


    Amelia sighed. ¡°Tens of billions of innocent, living people. The people of our allies. And even if we do manage to stop their insane plan to just wipe out all these habitable planets, our attack through the Grantor perimeter will still be rough on the Malgeir Marines. We can guarantee all their safety, and we can have it all now. How can the Republic not at least consider it? No, they aren¡¯t all idiots in Znos after all.¡±


    ¡°What about¡ª what about the Skyfall Plan?¡±


    ¡°You mean the insanity the TRO cooked up and leaked to The Atlas Times last week?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ yeah. It¡¯s a mess, but¡ª¡±


    Amelia sighed in exasperation. ¡°Are we supposed to consider every bloodthirsty scheme cooked up by our psychopath friends downstairs? Did I miss a memo somewhere?¡±


    Samantha took a deep breath. ¡°Public opinion polling shows that the option is wildly popular. Sixty-five percent of Republic voters in the last election either substantially or somewhat support its implementation as¡ª as it was leaked. The Senate is holding a vote¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Senate is holding a vote on revising and relaxing the rules of engagement in the Republic Navy,¡± Amelia said firmly. ¡°They are not voting on the strategy the Republic Navy will actually be pursuing in the war. With or without my emergency powers, I will not be implementing a plan where Republic spacers indiscriminately throw big rocks at random Znosian planets full of noncombatants, no matter how the Senate votes. If they try to force me to do it, they can have my resignation, and I will be joining those dozen or so idiot pacifists protesting in front of the Congressional Complex every other Saturday.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª I understand. What about their planets hosting industry and military targets?¡±


    ¡°We will destroy those targets¡­ while following the rules of war to the best of our abilities. Our rules. The rules that are in the founding charter of the Republic.¡±


    ¡°The Buns won¡¯t be following those rules.¡±


    ¡°I know. But while I remain in command, we will.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t there some flexibility, some argument that in such an existential war, we must use every means available to us? That we can¡¯t be naive to the danger the enemy poses to us?¡±


    ¡°We are not naive.¡±


    Samantha hurried to explain. ¡°I¡¯m not implying¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re saying.¡± Amelia cut her off. ¡°Our rules of war are designed to reduce needless suffering and death. The operative word is¡­ needless. By definition, they do not stop us from doing what is necessary. Yes, on the margins, there may be problems and inefficiencies incurred from the restraint we exercise, but there are also benefits. Being able to see the battlefield with clear eyes and even heads¡­ it is around this cold, calculating clarity that our entire way of war is built. That¡¯s why our weapons strike with precision and deliberation. That¡¯s how our ships live and breathe on situational awareness. And our spacers and Marines who are on the frontlines can take comfort in that¡­ that even in the chaotic heat of battle, they can know with absolute certainty that at least some of their commanders are still sane and responsible.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s why we fight with¡­ shackles on?¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s why we fight with the values that brought us here. You dance with the partner that brung you. And when our people look back at this war in a hundred years, they will not say the Battle of Sol was where the Republic was destroyed. Because the Republic isn¡¯t just a fleet of powerful warships. It isn¡¯t just billions of angry humans all marching in one direction with pitchforks and torches. It is more than that. Unlike the enemy we fight, we¡ª we actually are civilized. We are better than they are. Regardless of how some extremists weaponize that against our own people¡­ our systems and our way of life are actually superior to the Znosians¡¯. And that comes with responsibilities, and it comes with rules.¡±


    Samantha did not seem fully convinced, but she looked contemplative in silence for a moment.


    Amelia glanced at a battlemap in the command center showing the salvage operations in the still-littered orbits of Earth and Mars. She pointed a finger at the screen. ¡°Or, we can fight like they do, but¡­ didn¡¯t work out so well for them, did it?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 35 Negotiations I

    <div>


    Dominion State Security HQ, Znos-4


    POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)


    ¡°We would have to have been hatched addled to accept this idiotic proposal,¡± Sprabr declared on Svatken¡¯s screen.


    ¡°It is merely in discussion right now,¡± Svatken replied calmly. ¡°But even some of our Digital Guide programs seem to think that a similar deal would be a net strategic benefit for the Dominion. After all, I recall it was you who insisted that we should withdraw our fleets from the ongoing pacification zones to preserve our total fleet strength in preparation for the inevitable attack from the Great Predators. And it was you who insisted we begin negotiations. A first deal like this would open the door to more. That said, I understand your reticence to consider it, given that you would likely be one of our officers handed over to be eaten by the Great Predators.¡±


    ¡°That is not it at all! I can consider the unreasonable terms with rational objectivity like a civilized Znosian. If you allow me full command of all our forces here, I can successfully fight a withdrawal that doesn¡¯t require us to give any concessions to the predators, and we can deny them future use of all these planets with our plan to¡ª¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?! You already have command! You are the Grand Fleet Commander!¡± Svatken shouted.


    ¡°My task of preparing an adequate defense of Grantor is undercut at every turn by your¡ª your local overseers. Just two weeks ago, I barely survived an assassination attempt due to a leak. I am still investigating it, but I am certain that the leak came from the Grantor City office, and I will get to the bottom of this hole one way or¡ª¡±


    ¡°Be careful, Eleven Whiskers, before you cast doubt on the competence of loyal State Security personnel on Grantor,¡± she hissed. ¡°We are still investigating your responsibility for¡ª for¡ª for the death of one of our operators who was with you during that attack. I¡¯ll warn you about this again: you appear to have a high estimation of your irreplaceability to the Prophecy. You should lower your estimation quickly.¡±


    ¡°Director, please,¡± Sprabr almost begged. ¡°This is not a matter of my¡ª I agree that we should negotiate temporary peace with them so we can rebuild our Grand Fleet for a counterattack. But these terms they¡¯ve presented are obviously one-sided! A proper fighting withdrawal will delay them in the Slow Predator¡¯s territory for a year. This additional year will buy us time to rebuild. And the prisoners they plan to return to us¡ª at worst, that is some kind of predator trap, and at best, a few returned spacers will not be combat effective without the new ships. We have plenty of experienced and trained spacers anyway. Additionally, we have no guarantee that they will fulfill their part of the deal¡ª¡±


    ¡°Quite the contrary. In fact, we have put together a proposal that would allow a phased withdrawal of our fleet from the planets along with waves of prisoner exchange that allows equitable guarantees on both sides. It was an unprecedented new task for our Digital Guides, but quite a simple one as it turned out¡­¡±


    ¡°We are already running simulations on these?!¡±


    She ignored his outburst other than to mildly roll her eyes, ¡°And the return of our disgraced prisoners¡­ they will allow us to finally determine responsibility for the Datsot and Grand Fleet fiascos.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t we get those Great Predator prisoners in Cretae?¡±


    Svatken sniffed twice in part-annoyance, part-disdain. ¡°The Great Predator prisoners we¡¯ve captured so far have proven only mildly useful for that; they were only in their Saturn battle zone, and they did not have the full information on the whole system. The apostates ¡ª on the other paw ¡ª revealed a great deal, including some second or third pawed information that may implicate¡­ certain Navy officers in crimes of incompetence. Or perhaps worse. Once we repatriate all our prisoners, State Security will take all their lessons into account, and we will make sure that the mistakes that allowed millions of Servants of the Prophecy to fall into enemy hands are appropriately punished to ensure they never happen again.¡±


    Sprabr looked like he couldn¡¯t believe his big fluffy ears. ¡°You want the prisoners back to¡ª to figure out who to execute for the errors in the Datsot and Great Predator Nest invasions?! Why don¡¯t you just shoot me now? That would save you all a whole lot of trouble!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me, Eleven Whiskers,¡± Svatken warned. ¡°And it is important to determine precise responsibility. How else can we know how to improve? You can¡¯t even tell me exactly what went on in both those campaigns and how we lost! The returned prisoners will.¡±


    He gritted his teeth in frustration. ¡°This is an unserious line of planning. You think you¡¯re getting one over them, but the Great Predators are playing us for fools here. There is no chance¡ª¡±


    Svatken replied calmly, ¡°As I said, this is all still in discussion and we will take all facts under consideration. Unlike your officers, we at State Security are fully trained to deal with predator trickery, and we will begin formal negotiations with the Great Predators when we have fully examined the cases. Your further input on the ongoing discussion is unnecessary.¡±


    ¡°Then why did you call me with this news?¡± Sprabr seethed.


    ¡°To give you new orders. Eleven Whiskers Sprabr, I am hereby officially recalling you to Znos.¡±


    ¡°Recalled?! But I still have important work to do here in Grantor! Is this¡ª is this for handing me over to the predators?!¡±


    ¡°Are you questioning the order?¡±


    ¡°N¡ª no, of course not!¡± he bowed. ¡°I would never question a State Security order. I am merely¡­ wondering about logistics. The predators have cut off our routes back to the Dominion. How am I supposed to return to Znos without a full fighting withdrawal with my entire fleet?¡±Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°Tactics is your department, Eleven Whiskers. And the predators are barely established in the temporarily lost border systems. Our limited reconnaissance into Crissoel shows that they are still taking time to consolidate their gains.¡± Svatken waved his concerns away with her paws. ¡°Run the blockade however you must, but take no more than a squadron of ships. Do not use this as an excuse to withdraw the remainder of the Grand Fleet; they will remain behind to defend Grantor.¡±


    <hr>


    Coalition Naval Shipyard Datsot, Datsot (18,000 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    As a core world of the Malgeir Federation, Datsot was considered a developed planet in an explored system. Just developed enough to have an array of orbital infrastructure spread throughout its planetary orbits to support its population of billions. And not so old that its outer asteroid mines had been stripped bare of cheaply-accessible resources yet. Despite the recent Znosian invasion, much of that infrastructure remained intact beyond the littered low orbit of Datsot itself.


    Eupprio¡¯s new shipyard was now a small city in space. It wasn¡¯t as big ¡ª not yet ¡ª as some of the other orbital facilities in the Federation, but it was certainly the most productive.


    Its official name reflected the formal needs of the bureaucracy of both species that the shipyard now jointly belonged to: Coalition Naval Shipyard Datsot. Eschewing that long and boring name, her Terran engineers referred to the massive structures now orbiting Datsot-7 as Plan-B.


    Plan-B.


    Originally a tongue-in-cheek nickname by some of the engineers from Ceres, it had gained in popularity after the Terrans¡¯ own orbital shipyards over Ceres had been destroyed in a Znosian attack. And with the loss of gas planets in the Republic cluster, they¡¯d decided to move their production facility outside of it entirely.


    Plan-B was not a singular gargantuan organism, but rather a series of assembly yards that resembled the ribcage bones of an extinct apex species native to Terra. Eupprio could see flashes of light from the largest ones, the ones they called Raptors 1 to 6, putting finishing touches on the crown jewel of her hundreds of billions of credits in the multi-species investment. Banks in the Republic and Federation had initially helped put up some cash to supplement her reserves from her own businesses ¡ª not without generous kickbacks in the latter¡¯s case¡­ and tax incentives for the former. But their investment money had come pouring in without additional prompting after the destruction of the Ceres main shipyards.


    The Schpriss, on the o other paw, did need a little extra shove in the back.


    At the other end of the shipyard, eighteen modules nicknamed ¡°Stegosaurs¡± showed hundreds of smaller attack crafts in states of production, assembly, and testing before they could be loaded onto transport ships destined for the front. The multi-role shuttle design in particular had gone through dozens of iterations, incorporating lessons from the battlefield, everywhere from Gruccud to Saturn.


    Eupprio felt a light paw tap on her shoulders. She took a last glance and turned away from the windows to face her loyal friend. ¡°What is it, Fleguipu?¡±


    Fleguipu gave her a small frown. ¡°We¡¯ve got guests. Just blinked in system.¡±


    ¡°Raytech?¡± Eupprio asked, tilting her head. ¡°Another surprise visit this week? What new gifts did she bring this time?¡±


    The Raytech executive, Martina, had made herself at home at Plan-B. And with the investment and talent she¡¯d helped them pull into the shipyard project, Eupprio had been happy to let her take charge of much of the Terran side of the joint venture.


    ¡°No, not Martina.¡± Fleguipu shook her ears. ¡°It¡¯s the executives from that Stoers group.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they are here for the new food court?¡± Eupprio smiled. The habitable area of the shipyard ¡ª orbiting at a safe distance from the actual production lines at the Terrans¡¯ insistence (not to mention the secret yards perpetually obscured by a planetoid they¡¯d moved into place), had attracted more than its fair share of tourists from the rest of the Federation curious about their new allies. And as it did everywhere it went, the developing field of human and Malgeir fusion cuisine had been a major hit with her people.


    ¡°Unlikely,¡± Fleguipu sniffed. ¡°They are more likely here to¡­ whine. They have¡­ communicated their strong feelings about the way we took the latest Ministry contracts without consulting them.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°The next-gen atmospheric¡ª the shuttles with the long names.¡±


    Eupprio snorted. ¡°If they wanted that contract, they should have made better shuttles.¡±


    She knew she was being uncharitable. The Federation shipbuilding titans were still building new hulls off old blueprints designed centuries ago. Some of them had been mildly modified since the war began, yes, but Eupprio regularly saw more innovation on napkins in her mixed-species engineers¡¯ lounges than she did come out of the entire Stoers Shipyard in decades.


    As an example, the assault shuttle design proposal out of Stoers had windows.


    Real glass windows.


    Eupprio knew this because she paid a disgruntled line manager from Stoers a handsome sum of credits to send her a few photographs of their working prototype. When she brought it back to her Terran head engineer for the shuttle project for analysis, he laughed and wheezed so much ¡ª she was concerned she was going to have to call the station medic.


    Windows. They had glass windows.


    For the next month, the inside joke going around her shuttle design teams was competing to cram as many vulnerable glass windows as they could into their existing designs for fun: windows on ship bridges, windows in missiles, windows in windows, glass windows as replacement for armor, they even showed her a computer-generated, construction-ready prototype of a battlecruiser made entirely out of glass. She didn¡¯t get all the engineering jokes, but she enjoyed the cake they baked for her on her birthday: it was topped with colorful frosting arranged to look like a four-pane glass window.


    Her team¡¯s eventual superior design had¡ª well, it had fireproof seats and a layered composite hull and backup atmospheric pressure. And that was just the portion of the briefing where they explained the legal requirements of their people before they got to any of the state-of-the-art Terran technology.


    She liked to think that kind of unbeatable quality was what won their Ministry shuttle contract ¡ª after all, some of the Navy supply officers had friends and families they were going to need to send into battle on those next-generation assault shuttles. But more likely, it was the combination of that with bribes and some light extortion. Surprising her own people¡¯s preconception of their species, the Terrans were no strangers to the game played behind closed doors, and the moral flexibility their simulation computers displayed¡­ she was glad that they merely provided her options.


    Judging by her reluctant shrug, Fleguipu didn¡¯t disagree. ¡°Nonetheless, it¡¯s important we play nice with Stoers Group. These people have deep pockets, and their influence extends deep into Malgeiru.¡±


    Eupprio tilted her head back in exasperation and sighed. ¡°Fine. Fine. I¡¯ll hear them out.¡±


    ¡°Just tell them you¡¯re considering their requests ¡ª whatever they want, but don¡¯t commit to anything concrete,¡± Fleguipu suggested.


    ¡°What if I¡¯m not considering their requests at all? What if I¡¯m considering having their representatives thrown out the airlock if they¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lie. Against your every instinct ¡ª I¡¯m sure ¡ª just lie to them. Get them off our backs a few more weeks, and they won¡¯t even be a concern anymore by the time we get the Raptor lines up and running. There¡¯s no need for anything fancy beyond that. Just. Lie.¡±


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll give that a try.¡±


    ¡°See? You¡¯re already so good at it.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 36 Negotiations II

    <div>


    Coalition Naval Shipyard Datsot, Datsot (18,000 Ls)


    POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)


    ¡°What is this?¡± the head representative from Stoers asked gruffly.


    Eupprio traced his paw to her Terran pilot seated next to her in her conference room. She turned back to him with a smile. ¡°Representative Umvinto, that is my personal shuttle pilot, Abe from Terra. Abe, this is Umvinto from Stoers.¡±


    Abe gave Umvinto a mild bow of his head in the traditional Malgeir greeting. ¡°Nice to meet you, too, Representative Umvinto.¡±


    Umvinto rolled his eyes. ¡°I know where their kind comes from. We get Federation Channel One in Stoers too. I¡¯m asking what this one is doing here. In this meeting.¡±


    That was not unusual either. Abe had that effect on people. Sensing the hostility, Abe stood up and made to leave. Standing 1.8 meters tall, he was a couple heads taller than the average Malgeir. Possibly three heads in this case. Umvinto was slightly below average in height.


    ¡°Take a seat, Abe.¡± Eupprio fixed her stare on him, and he complied with a light shrug. After all, his unnerving presence was precisely why she had him sit in on the meeting. Ultimately, she didn¡¯t believe in these petty power plays, but she was sure her opposite did. By how rattled he looked in the moment, it would appear that she was right. Eupprio smiled sweetly at Umvinto. ¡°He is one of my personal advisors as well, and he should be kept up to date. If you are scared of his species, or simply bigoted, perhaps we can adjourn for now and arrange for your replacement¡ª¡±


    Umvinto sized the larger Terran up with a long stare. ¡°I am not scared of some oversized Grass Eater,¡± he decided as he retracted the bristling fur on his back with obvious effort and took his seat. He didn¡¯t take his eyes off the Terran until Abe was properly seated again, smiling thinly back at him. ¡°And he is not the first one I¡¯ve met. I have dealt with one of their sales representatives on another matter.¡± Umvinto turned to address Abe. ¡°Do you know James?¡±


    ¡°James¡­ What¡¯s his last name?¡±


    ¡°James¡­ Smiss, I think.¡±


    ¡°James Smith?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Do you know him?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s just a rather common name. Where is he from?¡±


    ¡°Mars.¡±


    Through her familiarity of Terran body language, Eupprio could tell from a glance that Abe was struggling not to laugh. Instead, he asked politely, ¡°Where on Mars? Three billion people live on Mars.¡±


    ¡°How am I supposed to know all your Grass Eater names?¡± Umvinto sighed in exasperation.


    ¡°Looks like you don¡¯t know them as well as you think you do then,¡± Eupprio commented snidely.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s¡ª I have dealt with their kind before.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Have you seen many of them in Stoers?¡± she asked politely. She knew the answer¡­


    ¡°Our company has a deal with the Stoers Employment Board to only hire locals without approval, and they have not yet granted our permits to import Grass Eater workers despite our incentives program.¡±


    Eupprio knew about their so-called incentives program ¡ª a thinly veiled bribe to the local hiring authorities that controlled the process relating to the employment of non-Stoers residents. Normally, a few extra credits per head to grease the right paws would have been enough for such a formality. After all, Stoers Shipyard had plenty of Granti and Schprissian workers, not to mention millions of Malgeir laborers from outside the system. But normally, their procedures didn¡¯t have to deal with Eupprio Tech lawyers and investigators deliberately jamming up their bureaucracy and handing out their own incentives to bog down the approvals with inexplicable delay after delay.


    Underhanded? Yes. Cutthroat? Yes. But business as usual? Also yes. While the annoyed Stoers Group had privately threatened retaliation, it was obvious from the lack of urgency they were dealing with the matter that¡­ they didn¡¯t truly understand the advantages her new allies brought to her research and development division. And if they didn¡¯t understand their value, then those Terran experts would be more useful elsewhere¡­ like her own shipyard.


    Hell, the Terran Republic had gifted Stoers Shipyard the exact construction blueprints and software for a thermonuclear space mine last year ¡ª for free ¡ª and as far as she knew, they hadn¡¯t even begun production on that¡­


    At least that was how Eupprio justified it to herself.


    ¡°Too bad.¡± Eupprio shrugged. ¡°Our company has some experience with the hiring process for Republic citizens. If your group needs some assistance, that could be arranged, with a small fee¡ª¡±


    ¡°That will be unnecessary.¡± Umvinto rolled his eyes again. ¡°And that is not what we are here for.¡±


    ¡°What is it then?¡±


    ¡°I will cut straight to it. We¡¯ve been getting rumblings of a new ship contract out of Malgeiru. Our sources inside the Ministry call it the¡­ Joint Strike Destroyer.¡±


    ¡°Strange name,¡± Eupprio said, keeping a grin off her face. She had been surprised when Martina had revealed to her that the Republic was designing a whole new class of ships. After all, their Navy had just gotten new ships and they¡¯d been used in no more than three battles! But the sense of urgency in Atlas after the Battle of Sol had greased palms, opened doors, and freed up resources¡­


    ¡°Yes, yes. Another one of those Coalition contracts your company keeps getting. Next generation this. Next generation that. Now it¡¯s joint this and joint that. We know these nonsensical names and requirements are the work of your new Grass Eater friends,¡± he said, giving a side-eye to Abe as if he was in charge of all Republic policy.


    ¡°Well, sure, we had a paw in helping craft that request for proposal,¡± she admitted. ¡°Low-rate production for a squadron of prototypes for now with the option¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a sole source contract.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°And you are the sole source.¡±


    ¡°Sure. What about it?¡±


    ¡°That is illegal under Federation procurement law.¡±


    Eupprio snorted in disbelief. ¡°Nonsense. You guys get sole source contracts all the time.¡±


    ¡°Under the contract value limit, yes. But the value of this contract exceeds the total allowable limit for sole source contracts without additional approval from a full snout-count referendum across the whole Federation.¡±


    ¡°It is not,¡± she contested. ¡°We calculated the precise value of the prototype squadron contract. It is precisely under the limit.¡±


    Umvinto shook his ears. ¡°The value of the initial delivery might be, but our analysis of the contract shows that one of the options under its fine print would give you the right to define some requirements for the full-rate production run of the new ships. Our accountants calculated that the market value of that option causes the value of the contract to exceed the allowable limit.¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Eupprio blinked in surprise. She¡¯d done her homework ¡ª some of it, at least, but she hadn¡¯t expected this line of sophistry from the representative. And she hadn¡¯t known about that clause. Her negotiators must have snuck that one in somehow. She wished Fleguipu was here; at least she knew the least bit about the law and how it worked.


    Then again, she had the next best thing. Or perhaps better. Eupprio flicked a claw in her paw in a familiar pattern under the table, and blue and white lines appeared in the edge of her vision.


    Her implant switched on.


    Hello, Eupprio.


    She repeated his claim out loud, as if clarifying, ¡°Representative, you are claiming that the added value of defining the requirements for the full rate production run of the Joint Strike Missile Destroyers causes the contract to exceed the legal allowable limit for sole source contracts without a High Council approved Federation referendum?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said, looking annoyed. ¡°That is what I just said. Are you mocking me¡ª¡±


    Her implant heard it exactly as it was intended.


    Bullshit. The full-rate production run contract has not yet been defined or bid on. Therefore, defining its requirements cannot possibly be valued. And by precedent, that value is not calculated in the allowable limit.


    ¡°Ridiculous. The full-rate production run contract has not yet been defined or bid on. Therefore, defining its requirements cannot possibly be valued. And by precedent, that value is not calculated in the allowable limit.¡±


    Umvinto immediately replied, ¡°We found a case where the judge found otherwise¡ª¡±


    Yes, there is such a case, 832 years ago. However, that precedent has been superseded by multiple other cases since then.


    ¡°800 years ago, yes, but let¡¯s not pretend you have a rock-solid case here, Umvinto.¡±


    He looked surprised she knew about that, and immediately coughed to cover it up. ¡°Well, that is your own personal opinion¡ª¡±


    Her implant didn¡¯t miss a thing. After a few months in her possession, it had already fully familiarized itself with Malgeir mannerisms.


    He is surprised we knew about the case. Tell him that several of those cases involve Stoers Group.


    ¡°And several of those contradicting precedents involve your own organization,¡± Eupprio said triumphantly.


    Including one of their current, disputed contracts for production of MAB-11 ejection pods.


    ¡°Including one of your current contracts for ejection pods,¡± she added. ¡°Hang on a minute, are those the same ejection pods that failed to properly ignite at that Terran-sponsored equipment acceptance test just last month¡ª¡±


    ¡°That can¡¯t be right,¡± he said, hesitating as he hedged. ¡°I think I¡¯d remember seeing that case¡­¡±


    Printing list of precedents¡­


    Brrrrrrrrr.


    Her new copy machine activated on the small table behind her, spitting out sixteen pages of dense text. Abe reached out with his arms, grabbed the fresh papers from the print-out tray, and placed them in front of her.


    ¡°What is that?¡± Umvinto asked suspiciously.


    Eupprio gave one of them a quick inspection and slid the pile over to him on the table. ¡°List and summaries of precedents for why your claim is ridiculous.¡±


    He gave it a read, his frowning deepening with each paragraph and page.


    ¡°That¡¯s not¡­¡± he harumphed. ¡°We¡¯ll see if a Federation judge sees it your way.¡±


    He is implying that they can simply bribe the judge. But that is not a problem¡ª


    Eupprio rolled her eyes. ¡°Sure, and we¡¯ll find out what they think once the case makes its way through the court system in twenty years.¡±


    ¡°Not if we file for an injunction to stop the contract payout now,¡± he countered.


    She didn¡¯t even need the implant for that one. ¡°And pause the production of warships until then? During the war? Good luck explaining that to the High Council when they haul you in for questioning. Even your Home Fleet friends aren¡¯t going to be happy about that.¡±


    ¡°It will be embarrassing for both of our companies,¡± Umvinto said, refusing to concede defeat. ¡°Surely that is worth something.¡±


    He is correct. It is worth about the price of an untraceable assassin drone on the Red Zone Exchange¡ª


    ¡°What are you suggesting, representative?¡± Eupprio asked.


    Umvinto hemmed and hawed for a moment, as if pretending to consider it. ¡°Hm¡­ We could consider going in on the full-rate production contract with you when that comes out. We will manufacture the engines and reactors at Stoers¡ª¡±


    Tell him to go jump out of an airlock. Politely.


    ¡°Go jump out of an airlock! Were you dropped as a cub?! We¡¯re not splitting that contract with your substandard manufacturing line when we¡¯ve already gone through the whole development and testing phase on the prototype!¡±


    Umvinto waved his paw to stop her. ¡°What about a compromise? Joint production of those two components at Stoers, but we¡¯ll help you fluff up the value of the contract when¡ª¡±


    Still not worth it. Even with Raytech help and full cooperation, they will likely delay contract delivery at least eight months, if not more. There is an amount they can offer to offset that cost, but your policy on¡ª


    ¡°Nope.¡± Eupprio shook her ears. ¡°Not interested at all. You¡¯re just trying to insert yourself into our process after squandering years of competitive advantage. Stagnant, rent-seeking enterprises like yours are exactly why I started my company in the first place, you parasitic¡ª¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see you in court then,¡± he said angrily. ¡°You won¡¯t get away with your illegal contract bidding practices.¡±


    Eupprio looked him in the eye. ¡°If you¡¯re going to insist on playing dirty¡­¡±


    Ask him about his cubs.


    ¡°How uh¡ª how are your cubs doing, Umvinto?¡±


    He narrowed his eyes at her. ¡°What?! What is this? What does that mean? What do you want?¡±


    He has a mistress on the side that he doesn¡¯t want his mate to know about. The mistress has recently given birth to a litter of four. They probably belong to him. Your call.


    Eupprio considered it for a moment and took the option. ¡°How many cubs did you have again? Three? Or was it seven?¡±


    Umvinto paled at the naked implication. ¡°How¡ª how did you know?¡±


    Her online shopping habits and purchases of several items relating to cub-care with a payment chip processed by Eupprio Tech.


    ¡°You have your sources. We have ours.¡±


    The adulterous representative shook his ears after a moment. He opened his paws at her helplessly. ¡°I can¡¯t do anything for you. I am just a representative for my group. I¡¯m not in charge of the kind of decisions¡ª¡±


    Lies. His sire-in-law is one of the majority owners of the shipyard. That is why he is so afraid of his mate knowing about the affair¡­ Your people are so much like the Terrans.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you can figure something out¡­ now that you have the proper motivation. Have a safe trip back to Stoers,¡± Eupprio said, smiling thinly. ¡°And please¡­ do stop by our shipyard¡¯s food court on your way out. Our restaurants here are without parallel outside of Sol.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°I thought I told you to just tell them what they want to hear for now! You¡­ threatened him?!¡± Fleguipu asked in half-horror and half-fascination.


    ¡°Yes, a little counter-extortion of my own to counter their disgusting extortion scheme!¡± Eupprio exclaimed.


    ¡°Well, what they did ¡ª and you too, by the way! ¡ª this is technically blackmail, not extortion. You need the threat of violence for extortion. Anyway, it¡¯s the Stoers Group! They can put up many obstacles for us in Malgeiru if they really have it in for us!¡±


    ¡°He¡ª well it looked like he¡ª My implant made me do it!¡±


    Fleguipu rolled her eyes. ¡°I¡¯d like to see that excuse hold up in court. Did it at least work?¡±


    ¡°I think so. He seemed shaken enough. We¡¯ll see. What¡¯s next?¡±


    Fleguipu checked her tablet. ¡°Martina called just now. She¡¯s waiting on the encrypted FTL line for you.¡±


    Eupprio swiped her paw on her screen. ¡°Hello? This is Eupprio.¡±


    A moment later, the face of the familiar Terran woman appeared on her screen. ¡°Hello, Eupprio. How are things going on your end?¡±


    ¡°Things are progressing as we expect,¡± she said, wondering how much the woman knew.


    ¡°I hear you guys had a bit of a nasty business with one of your competitors.¡±


    Eupprio grinned. ¡°News travels fast around here, huh?¡±


    ¡°It sure does. Look. If you need our help taking care of the problem, we¡¯ve got a couple of legal options and¡­¡± Martina left the other part unsaid.


    ¡°That will be unnecessary,¡± she quickly reassured the human. Martina¡¯s emphasis on the word legal¡­ Eupprio knew from working with them that while the humans were often known as paranoid sticklers for rules in the Federation press, there was a reason those rules and their punishments existed. And from what she¡¯d gleaned from other humans, Martina¡¯s company was responsible for the codification of a chunk of those rules. ¡°And besides, once we start production on the new ships, the project will become politically untouchable in Malgeirgam anyway. Too many paws have already been greased for this contract.¡±


    ¡°Good, good. I¡¯ll see about helping you speed up the activation of the Raptor docks. I think one of the reserve docks had a few extra fabricators we can move over for now¡­¡±


    Eupprio nodded her appreciation, then asked curiously, ¡°Have your people decided on the names of the new ship class? For when it comes out?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re holding an online poll,¡± Martina grinned. ¡°Or as your people put it, snout-counting.¡±


    ¡°An online poll?¡± she asked nervously. ¡°Haha?¡±


    ¡°Heh. Rabbitkiller came back up again. The Navy vetoed it. Again. My personal favorite on the list was the McBun Machine. That got vetoed too. Of the names on the list that the Republic Navy allowed, it¡¯s pretty much down to the Jackal-class and the Phobos-class. What about you guys? Going to keep calling it the Next Generation Delta-class?¡± Martina chuckled.


    ¡°No idea. Maybe something that will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.¡± Eupprio shrugged and thought for a moment. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll name it after you guys.¡±


    ¡°After us?!¡±


    ¡°Sure. Terran-class. Or Great Predator-class. The Znosians will piss themselves when they see one of them coming.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure it won¡¯t just be the name that does that¡­¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 37 Close Air I

    <div>


    TRNS Sonora, Crissoel (25,800 Ls)


    POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    Sieges were rarely airtight. In terrestrial warfare, cutting off the ground line of communication ¡ª the most accessible routes between a defended unit and its nearest secured supply points ¡ª did not entail closing off all avenues of access. Interdiction was by itself a complex task; perfection was impossible due to a myriad of factors from terrain to the presence of non-military personnel to enemy ruses. A terrestrial siege could be successful in its objective of reducing the amount of supplies that reached the enemy, even if the siege was porous, as it often historically was.


    The same was true for interstellar siege. In space, the interception of every single FTL-capable ship that passed a star system was a difficult and expensive task. Even though concealment in space was much harder, unarmed fast ships with very little mass and cargo could evade blockades by simply burning hard. They could not outrun missiles, but as long as there were enough unarmed fast ships and they stayed out of the effective combat range of patrols, there was not much the blockading force could do.


    So when the lone TRNS Sonora saw a squadron of Znosian recon spacecraft emerge from blink to immediately scatter, it only managed to chase down three of them with its powerful thrusters before the remainder burned out of its projected blink limit interception radius towards Znos.


    ¡°Those squirrelly critters,¡± Kyrylo cursed. ¡°Should we follow them into the next system over, Admiral?¡±


    ¡°Negative, Captain,¡± Catarina ordered. ¡°At most we¡¯ll get another one or two, and the rest will outrun us when we need to refuel. Better to play it safe here, with those Resistance ships we have to babysit¡­¡±


    Kyrylo nodded, sitting back resignedly in his chair. ¡°What do you suppose the Buns were trying to get through?¡±


    ¡°Those special light recon ships? Can¡¯t carry much cargo and they¡¯re too expensive to waste on some mundane munitions, so probably some Very Important Buns. We already know their Eleven Whiskers Sprabr just left town from our guys on Grantor. So putting two and two together¡­¡±


    Kyrylo thought for a moment. ¡°Throwing twelve rare ships at a blockade for one measly Bun. Think Atlas would give either of us that consideration if we ever get stuck behind enemy lines?¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Unlike them, our ships don¡¯t grow on trees, Kyrylo. You ever get yourself stuck in that position, I¡¯ll go reserve you a spot on the Wall of Spacers on Charon myself.¡±


    <hr>


    Prunei City, Grantor


    POV: Bertel, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    Five Whiskers Bertel ignored her instinct to duck down in the gunner seat as her Skyfang gunship dipped below an old stone bridge ¡ª its rotors passing just centimeters beneath the structure harmlessly.


    As part of a Marine garrison division, they were not one of those elite Skyfang crews bred and trained for direct assault during the first phase of a planetary invasion. As a result, her war experience had mostly been in escorting search and rescue, flying in only a few missions against hardened guerrilla targets after the combined arms assault divisions put down most of the conventional Granti Army forces during the Grantor pacification campaign a few years ago.


    But the last few weeks had been an education.


    For most of their tour on Grantor, pilots in her division had no compunctions against flying high in the clear skies of the pacified predator planet. In fact, it was encouraged. The higher you flew, the more you could see.


    As it turned out, the more you could see, the more enemies could see you. And that was a problem when the locals acquired deadly shoulder-fired surface-to-air weapons from Great Predator infiltrators operating out of Grantor City. Those abominations rarely missed.


    Her division only lost half a squadron of Skyfangs and went through three assignment-of-responsibility hearings before they got the message. Some of the elite veteran pilots from the initial planetary invasion had to be brought back from offworld to re-train them to fly against ground troops who could effectively fight back against their domination of the sky.


    But hey, it¡¯s not like they were doing anything else with the Navy being rolled back everywhere near the Slow Predator front¡­


    Nap-of-the-dirt flying. That was the new name of the game. It wasn¡¯t just flying below the vegetation canopies. They actively had to plot their courses to follow the lowest possible terrain in any area they traversed. Which implied they had to be intimately familiar with the local terrain.


    There had been an adjustment period. A few pilots were generally unsuited to flying so low. Accidents became more common. And somewhat worryingly, some of the Slow Predators were stringing wires between tall buildings in the city; that trick hadn¡¯t gotten anyone in her squadron yet, but that the local agitators were promoting it as a leisurely ¡°fun¡± activity geared towards their non-fighters was not great for her unit¡¯s own morale. The local State Security garrison had been working overtime after their sector governor was replaced ¡ª twice ¡ª from Grantor City for their failure to clamp down on it.


    It wasn¡¯t invulnerability. Flying low protected them from most threats and minimized their exposure, but if a Great Predator trained hunter-killer team with a medium-altitude sensor drone wanted you dead, they were going to get you. Luckily, those had mostly been around the capital Grantor City, and Prunei was a couple continents away from there.


    The feeling of power Skyfang pilots had felt as they watched over and gunned down the small shapes scurrying around on the ground¡­ it had quickly been replaced by sheer terror, knowing that a second¡¯s break in concentration could end up with you crashing into the side of a low building, or an incoming Great Predator missile with your name on it. The threat could come from anywhere, at any time, and it could even come for you if you were doing everything perfectly, right as you were bred and taught to do.


    Five Whiskers Bertel wondered if that was how the locals all felt¡­ before the Great Predators joined the war.


    Nonetheless, she did her job.


    She glanced at her pilot in the backseat. Sminski was a pro, gently pushing on his control devices as the Skyfang weaved between the city streets.


    Their radio buzzed. ¡°Skyfangs, this is Oats Battalion Aviation. Any Skyfang in the Prunei air zone, come in.¡±


    Knowing that Sminski would be too busy flying to respond, Bertel hit the radio talk button. ¡°Oats Aviation, this is Floppy-4 responding.¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    ¡°Floppy-4, Oats Aviation. We have a logistics convoy driving through the northern residential zone. That place is filled with their Underground operatives and fighters. Digital Guide predicts a chance of predator ambush. They need an escort through to downtown, just in case.¡±


    Bertel checked her map and the indicators on her dashboard. The Skyfang had enough fuel for an extra escort run. ¡°Oats Aviation, Floppy-4 acknowledges the directive. We are on our way.¡±


    She turned back to her pilot. ¡°Got that, Sminski? We¡¯re going to the cesspit.¡±


    That was the name of the dangerous residential zones that the Underground had all but taken over. Rumor was they controlled it so much that they even created their own parallel administration system down there.


    ¡°I heard that,¡± her pilot replied dryly as the new course appeared in their heads-up displays. ¡°ETA four minutes. Watch the rooftops.¡±


    It took them five to get there as they skimmed the city streets. Bertel panned the gun camera around carefully, keenly aware that if anti-air teams were waiting for them on the low rooftops of the apartments and low-rises they were now hovering snugly between, they would be sitting prey. But they had no choice. Flying high in the northern Prunei residential zone was an instant death sentence.


    To her relief, Bertel didn¡¯t see anyone in her thermal view as she scanned the low skyline. Then again, if there had been, she doubted she would have been able to see them anyway.


    They finally came into view of the logistics convoy. It was not a few trucks. Not even just armored trucks. There were two full-sized Longclaws, at least three platoons worth of Marines in heavy armored personnel carriers, and two Light Skyfangs with their reconnaissance sensors vigilantly watching over the streets of the Granti city. It might not be resource efficient, but the days where Znosian supply convoys could travel without the expectation of enemy ambush were long gone.


    The streets looked deserted.


    But Bertel knew better. This was the residential zone. Bertel knew that in every house, every building, there were hostile predator eyes observing the progress of the convoy as it made its way downtown.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to fly us at a two-kilometer separation,¡± Sminski said as he put in a course slightly lagging behind the convoy. ¡°More flexibility.¡±


    She acknowledged the update and kept her attention on the gun camera as they ducked into the streets behind the supply vehicles. They wouldn¡¯t have full visibility on the front, but if they were needed, the Skyfang could always fly forward to provide cover.


    Which proved necessary about ten minutes later.


    Bertel couldn¡¯t see everything at the front, but she saw enough of what happened to piece it together.


    The enemy chose the perfect spot for the ambush: an intersection surrounded by four apartment buildings. Each of the mid-rises were about seven or eight stories high, and the convoy was coming out of an underpass.


    Whooooooosh. Boom.


    Half a dozen smoke trails raced from the surrounding buildings into the intersection, rockets hitting the leading Longclaws in their vulnerable side armor and engines. Both of them instantly sank into the streets, their hover engines disabled. Two predator anti-armor teams raced onto the underpass bridge, above the vehicles from both sides.


    Whooooosh. Whooosh. Boom. Boom.


    The rockets they launched finished the Longclaws from their rear and boiled up several more of the armored personnel carriers.


    The radio network filled with the sounds of battle and numerous requests for air support.


    The Light Skyfangs positioned above the convoy responded first.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.


    Their 20mm chainguns lit up the bridge top with explosives, tearing apart the predators who¡¯d rushed onto it, and they began pouring fire into the buildings around the intersection.


    Half a second later, a duo of dumb rockets raced out near the top floors of the buildings at the intersection, one missing and another nailing a Light Skyfangs straight in its main rotors. It lost control and careened into the streets below in a fireball of fuel. The small arms fire from the buildings thickened, some hitting the weak glass cockpit of the only remaining Light Skyfang.


    ¡°Ah! I¡¯m hit!¡± Its pilot coughed into the radio as the aircraft retreated away from the engagement. ¡°Ground team, we¡¯re taking too much rifle fire and leaking fuel. We need to return to base urgently. May the Prophecy be with you.¡± Trailing black smoke, the Light Skyfang engaged its collective, rising higher above the city streets to get out of the intense fire.


    Bertel saw the fatal mistake and urgently spoke into her microphone in warning. ¡°Light Skyfang! You¡¯re flying too high! They¡¯re going to be able to¡ª¡±


    Boom.


    A trail of white smoke from a far-off rooftop interrupted her words, terminating the Light Skyfang¡¯s flight with a violent explosion. She closed her eyes for a second as its wreckage sank into an adjacent street off her field of view.


    ¡°Gunner, do you see where they launched that?¡± her pilot asked urgently.


    ¡°Negative. But we shouldn¡¯t try to find out. Keep us between these residential buildings. Someone else is responsible for dealing with the rooftops.¡±


    ¡°Understood, what about those predators attacking our convoy on the ground?¡± Sminski asked as he lowered the Skyfang further into the urban cover as a precaution.


    ¡°Negative visuals, but I see the buildings our ground units marked,¡± Bertel declared as she pulled up the sensor data from the front. Two of the buildings had been marked high priority, but the obscurations blocked even her thermal sensors from a clear view. She spoke into her radio. ¡°Ground team, do you see where they are in the structures? There¡¯s too much smoke and fire! I can¡¯t get a clear visual.¡±


    A squad leader who obviously needed more training on radio etiquette screamed back at her, barely audible with the sound of gunfire in the background. ¡°They¡¯re all over the mid and upper floors! Hit it hard!¡±


    ¡°Ground team, this is your air cover,¡± Bertel replied patiently. ¡°Which floor did you say you see them on?¡±


    ¡°All of them!¡± the squad leader shouted. ¡°Level the stupid buildings now!¡±


    Bertel eyed the updated markers on her sensors and sighed as she prepared the guided missiles on her console. ¡°Keep us steady, Pilot. I¡¯m going to hit the building with the Thorns.¡±


    ¡°Steady.¡±


    ¡°Launching.¡±


    Fwooooooosh.


    The large anti-armor missile rushed out and covered the two kilometers in under ten seconds. It was designed to blow through predator armor and bunkers, and the thin walls of the residential building offered less resistance than usual.


    ¡°Hit.¡±


    The bottom of the first residential building on her target queue disappeared in a cloud of smoke. A few seconds later, the entire building folded in and collapsed under its own weight. Bertel selected the second marked building with her paw.


    Fwooooooosh.


    ¡°Launching¡­ Hit.¡±


    The second building crumpled in much the same fashion as the first. For good measure, she put a long burst of her chaingun into the fallen debris preemptively.


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at.


    From the radio, Bertel could tell that the incoming enemy fire had slackened, but the panic from the squad leader didn¡¯t decrease one bit. ¡°There¡¯s more of them! These two buildings!¡±


    Two more marks appeared on her helmet mounted sight.


    ¡°Are they in the¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re shooting us from those buildings! Hit them again!¡±


    Bertel queued up the two new targets. ¡°Launching more missiles¡­¡±


    Fwooooooooooosh. Fwoooooosh.


    Another two buildings disappeared, covering the entire area in smoke and dust from her sights, furthering obscuring the firefight.


    She called back down in the radio, ¡°Ground team, we took out the buildings and our Skyfang is out of missiles. We will be returning¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ahhhh! They¡¯re still hitting us. They¡¯re mixed in with us on the streets!¡±


    Bertel scratched her whiskers as she squinted into her gun camera. There were a few flashes of hot spots here and there showing all the gunfire. But it was really hard to tell which were their people and which were the enemies. ¡°Which ones are ours?¡± she asked into the radio.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got strobes! We¡¯ve got markers! Hit everything shooting at us!¡±


    She checked her screen for the telltale thermal beacons that the Dominion¡¯s ground troops often carried with them, and the ground team had put a marker near one of the developing firefights. But from this distance and with this much chaotic combat, it was impossible to tell the infrared strobe signals from the ongoing combat around them.


    She turned back to Sminski. ¡°Pilot, I can¡¯t see anything through the smoke. Can you get us closer?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re already well within the danger range of their guided missiles, Gunner,¡± he cautioned, gesturing out the window at the building rooftops adjacent to the Skyfang. ¡°We can¡¯t maneuver around this low. Any closer and even their unguided rockets can hit us.¡±


    Bertel considered the dilemma and took one last squint at the raging firefight on her gun camera. She keyed the radio again. ¡°Ground team, we can¡¯t get any closer. We are going to be firing blind into your proximity. Take cover.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 38 Close Air II

    <div>


    Prunei City, Grantor


    POV: Bertel, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)


    ¡°Ground team, we can¡¯t get any closer. We are going to be firing blind into your proximity. Take cover.¡±


    Bertel selected a small squad of infantry ¡ª it looked like four or five ¡ª huddling near the street corner furthest away from the broken-down convoy, zeroed her Skyfang gun with the laser rangefinder, and mumbled a short prayer to the Prophecy that they were predators as she squeezed the trigger.


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at.


    The 20mm chaingun coughed out a half-second burst of shells. Two seconds later, their impacts engulfed the center of Bertel¡¯s screen with their detonations, throwing dust, smoke, and predators ¡ª hopefully ¡ª into the air.


    To her relief, the radio came alive again, this time a triumphant cheer evident in the background. ¡°You got them! Continue to engage! Continue to engage!¡±


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at.


    More dead predators.


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at.


    ¡°Good hits, pilot! Hit them again!¡±


    Buoyed by their excitement, she didn¡¯t even bother to correct their misidentification of her title. Instead, she selected a new group of white-hot dots on her screen, and let loose with the gun again.


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at.


    And as she depressed the trigger again, Bertel saw ¡ª to her horror ¡ª one of the white dots hop from cover to cover.


    They hopped.


    Hopped.


    Oh no.


    No. No no no. No no no no no.


    She sat there in horror. For four helpless seconds, she couldn¡¯t do anything but watch as the rounds she loosed traveled to their targets with perfectly engineered Znosian precision. The impacts of the high explosive shells blew the unfortunate victims sky-high. For a split second, Bertel morbidly noted in her subconscious that the concussive effect of the shell did indeed throw the smaller and lighter Znosian body far further than it did the Slow Predators she¡¯d killed earlier.


    The radio crackled. ¡°What are you doing, pilot?! Cease fire! You¡¯re hitting our own people! Cease fire!¡±


    Her mouth was dry. She wanted to vomit.


    Bertel collected herself before she spoke into the radio with a trembling voice, ¡°Ground¡ª ground team, I take full responsibility for the targeting error. We are¡ª we are going to get closer to¡ª to better identify our targets.¡±


    ¡°Medic! I need a medic over here¡­ Pilot, you better get real close to take care not to¡ª¡±


    A familiar voice cut into the radio traffic. ¡°Belay that, Floppy-4. This is Oats Aviation. You will not risk your precious Skyfang for a lost convoy. The convoy team ¡ª their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left the hatchling pools.¡±


    Bertel wanted to contradict him, but as she looked back down at the screen, she saw that the savaged convoy was indeed a lost cause. At most one or two of the supply trucks remained functional. Just as Oats assessed. And her Skyfang was worth more than the ground team. That she felt a small personal sense of responsibility for the predicament they were now in was irrelevant. She choked out, ¡°What is your directive, Oats Aviation?¡±


    There was a long pause on the radio.


    Just when she thought it was malfunctioning ¡ª it was rumored the predators occasionally had something to do with that ¡ª Oats came back on the radio, ¡°Hold one. We are getting approval.¡±


    ¡°Holding.¡±


    Another minute later, and the voice of Oats returned, this time more subdued. ¡°Floppy-4, here is your new directive: the ground team is now considered lost. The Flooded Cave Order is now in effect. Ensure their equipment does not fall into enemy paws, then report back to base for your responsibility assignment hearing. Transmitting the one-time codes to your machine now.¡±


    Bertel wasn¡¯t sure she heard him right even as the confirmation appeared on her dashboard. ¡°What?! We still have Marines moving down there and if I can¡ª¡±


    ¡°Those are your directives, Floppy-4. The predators can¡¯t be allowed to think they can win. Acknowledge my order.¡±


    She hesitated for a moment, then said into the radio with a trembling voice, ¡°Understood, Oats. Flooded Cave. Floppy-4 complying.¡±


    Then, she keyed the control for the squad leader on the ground. ¡°Ground team, your convoy has been considered a flooded cave. I will take full responsibility for this failure in my assignment of responsibility hearing. If you can, get out of there now. If not, may the Prophecy be fulfilled through your sacrifice.¡±


    ¡°Pilot, we¡¯re pinned down¡ª you¡ª you¡ª you¡ª¡± he sputtered as the firefight raged in the background. After a moment, he recovered his decorum. ¡°Understood, Skyfang. The flooded cave must be sealed. Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools.¡±


    Bertel dipped her head as he recited the prayer, forgoing her last chance to correct him about that pilot thing. Then, she removed her Skyfang from the local radio network. It would be distracting for her duties. At least, that was what she told herself.


    Bertel zeroed her autocannon at the target area one last time. She closed her eyes and held down the trigger.


    Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-


    <hr>


    Next morning, Bertel¡¯s breakfast was interrupted by the sound of sirens. Again. Along with all the five and six whiskers in the hall, she scrambled out of her chair, hopping for the exit as fast as she could.


    The forward base¡¯s automated defenses were effective and well-supplied, but procedure was procedure. The predators could always get lucky.


    Booooooooom.


    As she exited the building, she heard the rumble of a distant explosion as the ground shook. She looked questioningly at Sminski, who was busy talking into his radio. ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°Vehicle packed with explosives at the entrance checkpoint!¡± Sminski stashed his radio and pointed towards the hardened bunkers urgently. ¡°Go! Base radar team says we¡¯ve got incoming artillery rounds too!¡±


    Hopping as fast as they could, they barely made it into their hardened bunkers. A few seconds later, the point defense opened up, spraying hot ammunition into the sky. Most of the incoming enemy rounds detonated mid-air before they could hit the base. In response, the base¡¯s mortar pit coughed a dozen times as the counter-battery team sent a volley of rounds out towards where the radars detected the incoming fire from.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Bertel asked again. ¡°Are they going to need our Skyfang in the air?¡±


    A few seconds of speaking urgently into his radio later, Sminski shook his head. ¡°Negative. Base commander says the predators left the area before our rounds got to them.¡±


    She sighed, her shoulders drooping in disappointment. ¡°Again.¡±


    ¡°Yes, again.¡±


    ¡°At least they didn¡¯t get anything this time.¡± Bertel looked at him hopefully. ¡°Right?¡±


    ¡°Nothing substantial this time,¡± he replied to her relief. ¡°But¡­ there is some bad news.¡±


    A few minutes later, with the sirens silenced and base activity returning to normal, they made their way into the base commander¡¯s briefing room. She did not seem happy.


    ¡°Do you need us in the air now, Seven Whiskers?¡± Bertel asked as they entered the room.


    She shook her head. ¡°No. It¡¯s too late. Even if you¡¯d been airborne when they fired, you wouldn¡¯t have been able to catch them, Five Whiskers.¡±


    Bertel scratched her head. ¡°How could that be the case? Should we take responsibility and practice our quick dust-off timing?¡±


    ¡°No, no. It¡¯s a new¡­ thing they¡¯re doing. At night, they go around and dig holes near the base, and they put their rockets in them, pre-aimed at our base facilities. And when the attack signal is given, they just trigger the devices remotely. They¡¯re eating breakfast in their own nests, half a city away, when the attack starts.¡±


    ¡°Ah. That would be¡­ a problem,¡± Bertel said, unsure how they should counter it.


    ¡°And these new vehicle bombs they have,¡± the base commander complained. ¡°They don¡¯t even use live predators to drive them up to us!¡±


    ¡°The Slow Predators have gotten a lot more cowardly since they started working with the Great Predators,¡± Bertel observed. ¡°What about those new jammers we¡¯ve been using at the checkpoints?¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°They stopped the vehicles, at first. But not anymore. Now they have their own versions of the Digital Guide on board those vehicles, and they¡¯re no longer driven or triggered remotely.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible!¡± Bertel shook her head in disgust. ¡°I can¡¯t believe we didn¡¯t think of that first!¡±


    ¡°Anyway, that¡¯s not why you¡¯re here.¡± The base commander sighed. ¡°You have a bigger problem. From the radar team¡¯s compiled reports, it appears the Slow Predator attackers have been precisely targeting our Skyfang pads in the last couple attacks.¡±


    ¡°How?! How could they know where we park them? We use random schedules and park on different pads!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unclear. The Digital Guide is unsure who should take responsibility. It seems unlikely that the predators¡¯ elite teams with flying machine scouts from Grantor City have come to somewhere as¡­ unimportant as Prunei here.¡± The base commander shrugged. ¡°But perhaps they¡¯ve gotten around to mass producing those abominable devices. Either way, our pads are no longer safe for your Skyfangs, and you must be moved.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ but¡­ where would we go?¡± she asked.


    The base commander gave her and Sminski each an unhappy look. ¡°I recommended that your parking pads be relocated to a better protected Marine base far outside the city limits. This is a suboptimal choice¡ª¡±


    Bertel protested, ¡°But we won¡¯t be able to support long operations in the city! If something happens and we¡¯re needed, by the time we fly back here, our Skyfangs would be almost out of fuel!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Five Whiskers. Nonetheless, I deemed that to be the only viable option we had, or we risk losing your valuable Skyfangs in one of these cheap predator attacks. I was ready to take full responsibility for the consequences of this choice¡­ but I was overruled anyway.¡±


    ¡°Overruled?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Despite our need for your Skyfang, you have instead been transferred to the planetary capital defense zone near Grantor City. Apparently, they are running out of reserves and their needs are greater than ours. It appears that¡­ you will be a temporary asset for Unit Zero.¡±


    Bertel wasn¡¯t sure what to say. ¡°Wow. State Security?¡±


    ¡°Yes, this is a great honor for you, even if you will merely be a reserve unit. If you kill lots of predators, that could reflect well on even us and our bloodlines here for us in Prunei.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t forget you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d hope not, Five Whiskers. Memory loss is not a common defect in whiskerborn rotary wing gunners. The route and logistics have already been worked out. You leave tomorrow.¡±


    <hr>


    Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3


    POV: Krelnos, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Administrator)


    Station Director Krelnos was a frustrated Znosian. Ever since the Eleven Whiskers had been recalled back to Znos, things had been falling apart on Grantor¡­ even faster ¡ª if that were possible. More equipment and supplies going missing. Mounting casualties fighting the locals. Purges at work camps beginning to face organized resistance.


    It wasn¡¯t like they were losing too many people to replace. After all, those expendable units were cheap and easy to breed. In fact, the Znosian population had increased every month, month-after-month, since the new insurgency began. The problem was mostly equipment loss. The manufacture of equipment was sensitive to small changes in the supply chain, and being cut off from the rest of the Dominion was a massive shock to the system. Grantor itself was self-sufficient, but transforming the pacification project from an interstellar economy into a global one took time. Lots of time.


    Meanwhile, she was seeing early signs of breakdown in discipline among the Marine garrisons. All over the planet, Marine chiefs were obviously more reluctant to send their subordinates out of bases, choosing to huddle them behind the safety of their barbed wire fences and base defenses. Nobody liked to take full responsibility for losing valuable equipment. So far, none dared to disobey direct orders to participate in patrols or raids, not yet, but the collective impact of thousands of units all picking the safest available option all the time was being felt in the deteriorating security situations.


    There were the weekly mortar attacks. Or for some bases, daily. The Underground gathered stockpiles of stolen munitions from the Dominion¡¯s own work camps and factories. These were cheap. Unsophisticated. The locals would quickly set up a mortar site, dump a few rounds at her bases, and they¡¯d be gone before the rotary wing assets arrived. It didn¡¯t help that the Great Predator infiltrators were feeding them increasingly accurate real-time intelligence about where her overstretched quick response forces were.


    Even those who stayed in their bases were not really safe. Base attacks from predators had increased in sophistication. And then there were the flying machines. Nothing could stop those, not reliably. Thankfully, those were mostly limited to smaller payloads. Enough to kill infantry squads and individual armored vehicles, but not quite enough to level entire buildings. And there weren¡¯t that many of them; the enemy liked to use those in swarms and for major coordinated attacks. That said, if they wanted you dead, you were dead. That blow on morale was about as bad as their actual lethality. Krelnos noticed that her people had learned to look up whenever they were outside.


    Her Marines took proactive measures. Reprisals worked¡­ somewhat. Some of the locals collaborated to give her Marines information on the Underground when threatened with mass executions. But even that historically effective technique ran into obstacles against the Great Predator operatives behind it all. They coldly shrugged their metaphorical shoulders and simply copied what she did ¡ª against the collaborators and Marines they caught. After all, the spiraling breakdown in order and stability all over Grantor was a bigger problem for State Security to deal with than it was for them.


    Krelnos suspected incompetence or apostasy among her ranks. Perhaps Sprabr¡¯s replacement was not doing her job right. Perhaps it was on purpose. But after repeated leadership reshuffles and several assignment-of-responsibility hearings, she still couldn¡¯t find the root cause to pin the full responsibility on. As a last resort allowed by State Security, she took direct control ¡ª and full responsibility ¡ª of the garrison forces on Grantor.


    On her datapad screen, Director Svatken¡¯s expression reflected a growing impatience that matched her own frustration. ¡°What fresh Great Predator trickery do you have to report this week?¡±


    Krelnos hung her head. ¡°The Marines report that their checkpoint detectors at their base no longer reliably work against the latest Underground bombs. They¡¯ve got some way of dissolving our plasma explosive compound that makes it look like a bundle of heavy clothing under the backscatter machine¡ª anyway, I was consulting with our Security Design Bureau experts on Znos¡­ on how we can fix the problem.¡±


    ¡°What did they say?¡± Svatken asked.


    ¡°They need six to eight months to design a machine that will detect this¡ª¡±


    ¡°Six to eight months?!¡±


    Krelnos nodded miserably. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s too long. And the Great Predators are coming up with fresh tricks every day. So the Security Design experts suggested we mix tagging chemicals in our explosives factories that our Lesser Predator abominations can smell. But¡ª¡±


    ¡°But then you¡¯d have to rely on those unreliable idiots,¡± Svatken finished for her with a sigh.


    ¡°Yes, Director.¡±


    The Lesser Predator collaborators they¡¯d brought in for their noses were¡­ temperamental. The ones they¡¯d broken didn¡¯t refuse to work, but when worked too hard, their performance suffered. And unlike loyal Servants of the Prophecy who took responsibility as they should, it was hard to tell when these Lesser Predators were being worked too hard or just being lazy predators. Additionally, the supply of them was beginning to dry up quickly as the Navy was pushed out of their pre-war territory.


    There were some rumors that higher ups in State Security had started a breeding program to keep up the supply of sniffers.


    A breeding program.


    Of predators.


    Surely, that was just enemy propaganda.


    ¡°And are we sure the reprisals aren¡¯t working?¡± Svatken asked.


    ¡°They¡­ work sometimes. But it is not a fully reliable method. Our experts are devising a radical new pacification strategy based on¡ª based on some interesting new information that has come to light.¡±


    Svatken narrowed her eyes. ¡°New information?¡±


    ¡°We have¡ª we have captured some Underground members distributing reading material. These texts have been meticulously removed of all references to the Great Predators themselves during translation, using fictional or transplanted references throughout,¡± Krelnos said as she trod carefully. ¡°But¡­ it is clear that they have a long history of dealing with occupied populations. We are¡ª some of our Marine leaders have been¡­ proposing modifications to our strategy based on those.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Svatken asked curiously, ¡°What are they proposing?¡±


    ¡°The use of local troops. They have been analyzing the possibility of what they call the predatorization of our security forces. Use predator collaborators to fight predators.¡±


    Svatken¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°And give them guns and armored vehicles? Are we sure this isn¡¯t just some elaborate disinformation campaign devised by the Great Predator operatives?¡±


    Krelnos bowed. ¡°That is a small possibility. But the Digital Guides say¡­ that it may reduce our overall attrition. The personnel attrition is not a major issue given our elevated hatching rates on Grantor, but we are losing equipment and control far faster than we can replace them.¡±


    ¡°And giving equipment to predator collaborators would reduce equipment losses?!¡±


    ¡°The idea is to give them cheaper, easier to fabricate versions of the weapons and vehicles we use. And predators are less likely to shoot at fellow predators.¡±


    Svatken scratched her whiskers. ¡°We¡¯d have to spin up new supply lines and devise a new training regimen and develop new doctrine to fit it! Did their Digital Guides account for the costs of all of those?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Are we to allow them to explore the idea further?¡±


    The director looked pensive for a moment, clearly thinking it over. She shook her head. ¡°No, not on the ground. That would likely take too long. I will make a note to fully develop that strategy with our people in the Design Bureau, but it seems impractical for your station given the rapidly deteriorating situation.¡±


    ¡°Should I get you the names of the Marine chiefs who proposed this idea for responsibility assignment?¡±


    ¡°That would be unnecessary.¡± Svatken sighed. ¡°Perhaps Grantor is¡ª perhaps it truly has become a lost cause.¡±


    Krelnos didn¡¯t dare directly contradict the director or accuse her of defeatism. ¡°Perhaps that is the case. But, Director, if we give up Grantor, the Great Predators will simply drop their agitators on another one of our planets undergoing pacification, and they will do the same thing there unless we find a way to stop them. And the next planet. And the next.¡±


    Svatken¡¯s eyes looked blankly at the screen for a few moments.


    She sighed again, even more deeply and resigned this time. ¡°Perhaps they will.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Dvalkost-6 (8 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    Carla sighed at the wreckage of the Znosian radar ships above their gas giant. ¡°Well, they¡¯ll know where we are and where we¡¯re coming from.¡±


    Speinfoent nodded. ¡°Too bad we couldn¡¯t sneak past them. They must have deliberately stationed all these sensor ships here above all the refuel points knowing either they would see us or we¡¯d be forced to blow them up¡­ leaving a full trail through their territory.¡±


    ¡°Not much we can do about that. Our support ships don¡¯t have the low observability of our combat ships. We need to clear the way, one way or another.¡±


    ¡°At least they don¡¯t know what hit them¡­ And there¡¯s more news: from the sound of it from the Sonora, it looks like their Eleven Whiskers got through the blockade. He¡¯ll probably get to Znos in less than a month if he¡¯s in a real hurry.¡±


    Carla nodded. ¡°Nothing we can do about that. How are we on the reconnaissance?¡±


    ¡°The drones are mapping the next system,¡± Speinfoent reported after a moment of querying. ¡°We are now officially the furthest any free predator has gone in the Dominion.¡±


    ¡°So far,¡± Carla added calmly. ¡°The furthest any free predator has gone in the Dominion so far.¡±


    Speinfoent smiled. ¡°Yes, Admiral. Who knows what tomorrow could bring?¡±


    ¡°The Granti got this far in at the beginning of their war?¡± she asked after a minute. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not too bad.¡±


    ¡°A Granti diplomatic ship flying a flag of truce. They allowed her in this far before they boarded the ship and executed her crew.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Carla said. ¡°That really puts the whole negotiating-peace-with-them thing into perspective, huh?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps your people will succeed where we failed,¡± Speinfoent said neutrally. ¡°I have learned not to underestimate your people.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t going to just blindly trust them to fulfill their end of the deal in a negotiation if that¡¯s what you were thinking. We¡¯ve dealt with our share of untrustworthy assholes.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the Red Zone. See? I¡¯m glad I was there. Now I understand all your fun historical references.¡±


    ¡°Far more than that. Those guys are fairly tame compared to actual historical examples. On and off, that war only lasted like fifty years.¡±


    ¡°Only?!¡±


    ¡°It could have been worse is what I¡¯m saying¡ª Anyway, talk of negotiation with the enemy is premature if you ask me.¡±


    ¡°Premature?¡±


    ¡°Yes. That is why we are here. The negotiators can do their work. That¡¯s not our job. We are here to give war a chance.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 39 Learning Ahead II

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Fsuzve-4 (3 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    ¡°Twelve shipyard modules in orbit at Fsuzve-4. Judging by the hull shapes in their assembly berths, it looks like they¡¯re for combat missile destroyers,¡± Speinfoent reported. ¡°They¡¯ve made updates to their spaceframes. See? Look at those angles¡­ they almost look like¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our old Peacekeepers, yeah. They¡¯ve gone much smaller than their last model. Which makes sense; all their large ships did was provide bigger targets for our missiles. Parallel alignment plates and internal weapons bay, possibly enough to fool some missiles in terminal maneuvers. No exposed edge serrations, though, and that massive sensor dome near the nose can¡¯t be good for radar scatter.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ about two generations behind us?¡± Speinfoent estimated.


    ¡°Sounds about right. They¡¯re just starting to understand the value of low observability, and I doubt they¡¯re going to figure out how to evade our gravidars anytime soon. More concerning is that missile magazine layout. Twelve instead of four batteries per ship. That¡¯s essentially tripling their probability-of-hit per volley. And I bet my salary they¡¯ve invested all the real resources in their missiles instead. That¡¯s where they¡¯d get the most bang for the buck.¡±


    ¡°Should take them a while to finish building them at least,¡± Speinfoent speculated.


    ¡°Well, not these twelve in particular. These will never finish building,¡± Carla snorted. ¡°Stationary targets. The Python squadrons are up. One rail burst each.¡±


    He entered the commands into his command terminal. ¡°Understood. What about the ground support facilities on the moon, Fsuzve-4-A? Optics show they¡¯re making¡­ something down there.¡±


    ¡°Those are probably the new missile factories I was talking about,¡± she speculated. ¡°Get the Mississippi in to take a closer look.¡±


    ¡°Should we expend our munitions on them if they are?¡± Speinfoent asked uncertainly.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry too much about expenditures at this point. That¡¯s why we carted that big old ammunition ship all the way over here with us. If we fire off everything we¡¯ve got and still don¡¯t achieve our objectives, we¡¯d have way bigger problems. Besides, this is an all-expenses trip already paid for by the Republic Senate¡­ it¡¯s not like we can go back and get a rebate from them if we¡¯re frugal with the fireworks,¡± Carla winked.


    Speinfoent squinted at her. ¡°Are you making fun of us? That sounds like you are mocking our Defense Ministry and our former system for allocating munitions.¡±


    ¡°Of course not, XO. I would never do that,¡± she replied innocently.


    ¡°I knew it!¡±


    ¡°It was corrupt and insane, though, before we made you guys change it. You do realize that now, right? That allocation of munitions by bribes and whose spacers can cry about shortages the loudest on social media is not, in fact, an efficient system of logistics.¡±


    He sighed briefly. ¡°Yeah. I guess not.¡±


    <hr>


    Dominion Hatchling School 2905, Znos-4


    POV: Trotsanu, Znosian (Teacher)


    Hatchling teacher Trotsanu was torn.


    On one paw, she was an obedient Servant of the Prophecy who followed the rules to the letter. There was no cause for making a big fuss about this.


    On the other paw, there was clearly something wrong here. And even if the letter of the law did not mandate this type of reporting, perhaps she could file this as a higher priority observation and get someone to notice¡­


    She looked at the student in front of her. He was an exceptional hatchling. That itself was not out of the ordinary. She taught the specialized class for hatchlings who were one to two years old. Most of her students were extremely capable specimens who were expected to serve as technicians and technical managers in the Dominion Navy. The investment put into their hatching was substantially more than the average Znosian.


    They were special.


    But not this special.


    This student had managed to complete three months¡¯ worth of lessons and solve variations of linear transformation problems¡­ less than two weeks after entering her class. No one had been able to do it that fast before. Not even close.


    Trotsanu checked the identification tag on his uniform and matched it to the information on her datapad.


    Name, Plodvi. Age, 13 months old. Learning track, ship technician manager (specialized).


    His age matched his appearance, she noted. This was no great deception or defect. Plodvi was just¡­ a really special hatchling.


    A gift from the Prophecy.


    Unless¡­ he could be cheating, Trotsanu supposed.


    That didn¡¯t happen often, especially in her class, but poorly socialized hatchlings sometimes did that. Rare, but she was trained to know that was a possibility. The remedy would depend on their ultimate potential, but the age of hatchlings in her class was around the point where she¡¯d needed to make heartbreaking decisions about whether they¡¯d be demoted or recycled. Unlike some of her less passionate colleagues, Trotsanu really cared about her hatchlings. She would follow the rubric, but she did have some discretion, and she liked to err on the side of leniency.


    She hoped he was just that good.


    ¡°Run through the new problem ¡ª problem six,¡± she said to Plodvi. ¡°This time, show your work ¡ª all your work.¡±


    Trotsanu watched as the student worked his way through it. A couple minutes in, she frowned and halted him. ¡°Wait a second. What are you doing?¡± He¡¯d deviated from the answer key that she knew by heart.


    ¡°I¡¯m reducing the equation to make the calculation simpler,¡± Plodvi replied, looking up with his big, round hatchling eyes. ¡°Am I doing it wrong?¡±


    She thought for a moment. Tapping her datapad, she entered the equation reduction process in. The Digital Guide confirmed that the reduction was valid, and after a few more seconds of calculation, it admitted that the solution in the answer key used an objectively suboptimal process. Nodding reluctantly, Trotsanu filed the update with the central solutions database and sent a request for the solution author to take responsibility for it¡­ only for it to inform her that the solution author was no longer alive as of six decades ago.


    Trotsanu looked back at Plodvi. He¡¯d already completed his solution. It was correct. And the process was all there.


    But something was wrong.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Who taught you that advanced equation reduction process?¡± she demanded. ¡°That¡¯s not in the lessons so far. Are you learning ahead?¡±


    Plodvi shook and bowed his head. ¡°I would never do that, Teacher Trotsanu. I figured it out myself from gleaning the pattern from the other problems. Particularly problems 2 and 4 in the last lesson. Should I not have used this?¡±


    Trotsanu harumphed as she examined the other problems to confirm the pattern. She entered the query into the Digital Guide, which ¡ª again ¡ª confirmed their existence.


    Innovation.


    This wasn¡¯t unheard of, especially in her specialized class. Some students could figure things out themselves, like he apparently did. That special ability¡­ it was troubling, but it wasn¡¯t a direct offense to the Prophecy, and someone else would take care of it.


    She made a special mark on his progress report and moved on.


    Two weeks later, Trotsanu was reviewing her notes for the month when she noticed that the number of marked progress reports in her class had grown. Several more new students were displaying that special ability, and Plodvi had completed his entire curriculum. He was getting ready to graduate the class, almost eleven months ahead of schedule.


    That was¡­ there was no rule against it. But it was unprecedented.


    This could be a major miracle. A gift from the Prophecy.


    Any other teacher would celebrate it as such. In fact, some of her colleagues were doing just that; they too had noticed the speed up in progress in their own classes. But Trotsanu was a bit of a pessimist herself.


    When she was a hatchling student herself, she¡¯d had that special mark on her own report. That happened to students from time to time. That itself wasn¡¯t a big deal. Many students with those special marks would go on to become productive members of Znosian society. More productive, in most cases.


    But Trotsanu had been doing a little thinking on her own, and she was suspicious of the supposed miracle.


    She called her supervisor. He was not nearly as concerned as she was, but he noted that several other teachers had reported a drastic increase in the number of special students graduating early in the other classes. He redirected her to his own supervisor.


    Trotsanu glanced at the nametag on the special supervisor: Vasminki. It didn¡¯t have a tag for his role or describe what job he did.


    ¡°Supervisor,¡± she greeted him, hoping that would be a good enough title. ¡°If this trend continues, almost half of my students are going to be graduating early.¡±


    Vasminki did not seem convinced it was a big problem. ¡°That¡¯s great news, Teacher Trotsanu. Are you seeking a reward for your exceptional performance? It is unusual, but judging by your record,¡± he read from his datapad. ¡°That¡­ could be justified by your excellent output. If you continue your current performance level for¡­ the rest of your life, your bloodline does show some signs of supervisor potential.¡±


    ¡°No, Supervisor Vasminki, that was not my intent¡ª¡±


    ¡°My title is Agent,¡± he corrected.


    ¡°Agent Vasminki, I take full responsibility for my incorrect¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get to the point, please, Teacher Trotsanu. I am busy with several other cases.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Agent. This improved output of hatchlings is very unusual, and I have not modified the way I teach. Has there been¡­ recent changes in the hatchling program that feeds into my class in the past year?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Not¡­ exactly,¡± he said slowly. ¡°There has been a slight increase in defect rate in the zeroth years. However, that has been more than made up for by the faster completion rates from our more productive first-year classes. Like yours.¡±


    ¡°Increase in defect rate?¡± she asked, slightly horrified.


    ¡°Nothing you need to take responsibility for,¡± he replied smoothly. ¡°Nor anyone here. It was determined to be a bad batch of nutrient intake imported from one of the pacifying colonies.¡± He frowned. ¡°Though some of the incidents were unfortunate.¡±


    ¡°Incidents?!¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Vasminki said. ¡°Various insubordination incidents. Some particularly nasty ones led to violence against hatchling teachers.¡±


    ¡°Hatchling violence?!¡± Trotsanu nearly shrieked.


    ¡°Yes, and one case of organized violence.¡±


    ¡°That¡ª that is unprecedented!¡±


    He waved her concern away casually. ¡°Worry not, hatchling teacher. We¡¯ve determined the cause to be predator sabotage. The batch was thrown out and we¡¯ve updated the procedure for new hatchling teachers to remind their hatchlings of the consequences of insubordination, and the incidents have decreased to within acceptable margins.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ that hatchlings needed to be reminded at all is a troubling sign, is it not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hatchling teacher, such matters are not within your responsibility,¡± he admonished. ¡°Your job is to teach. Mine is to investigate isolated security incidents. If I went to your classroom and began to educate your hatchlings on arithmetic and reading, that would be improper, would it not?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Agent. But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Have there been unreported signs of insubordination among your students?¡± Vasminki asked. ¡°Any signs of deviant or defective behavior? Perhaps even¡­ potential threats to the security of the state?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Trotsanu replied. ¡°My class is special. Our students are top quality. We just don¡¯t get defects. That just doesn¡¯t happen in¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then, as I said, you need not worry about it.¡±


    ¡°But Agent¡ª¡±


    ¡°Teacher Trotsanu, I take responsibility for not being clearer in my previous instruction,¡± Vasminki said, this time more deliberately. ¡°You need to stop worrying about it.¡±


    She had many, many questions, but Trotsanu knew how to take a hint that obvious. ¡°Yes, Agent.¡±


    ¡°Good, anything else to report about your class?¡±


    ¡°No, Agent. That was all.¡±


    ¡°Remember, Teacher Trotsanu, education is the most fundamental task for the future of the Dominion. So I thank you for your Service to the Prophecy, hatchling teacher, and may It bless you with a wonderful and productive day!¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Plodvi, Znosian (Student Hatchling)


    Plodvi took one last look at his bunk at the hatchling school as he packed his personal items into his kit bag. Mostly just clothing and other equipment tailored to his physiology. As Znosians, they were not supposed to get attached to objects or people.


    Not supposed to.


    ¡°Think they¡¯ll let you come back and visit?¡± a voice behind him asked.


    He almost hopped out of his own fur. It was Khesol. She grinned at him.


    ¡°Hm?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Think you¡¯ll get to visit us?¡± Khesol elaborated, ¡°From the Navy¡­ Future Six Whiskers Plodvi.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it,¡± he smiled wryly. ¡°There is no procedure for that¡­ Perhaps ¡ª in time ¡ª you will join me.¡±


    ¡°That seems highly unlikely,¡± she speculated. ¡°The ship you are assigned to is unlikely to have additional vacancies for combat computer technicians once the crew rosters are filled.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I will be promoted beyond my ship,¡± he said. ¡°Maybe we¡¯d see each other¡­ on exercises and such.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Probably not,¡± he sighed. ¡°This is likely goodbye.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    Suddenly remembering something, Plodvi grabbed a small bundle of clothing out of his backpack. He held onto it for a couple more heartbeats with hesitation. Reminding himself of the irrationality of sentimentality, he tossed the bundle to her.


    ¡°What is this?¡± Khesol asked as she caught it out of the air.


    ¡°A gift. A¡­ parting gift. For you. Open it.¡±


    She opened up the bundle to find¡­ ¡°Is this one of those¡­ books?¡± she opened her eyes wide.


    It was more a stack of papers hastily bound together in a metallic ring binder than one of those printed books they¡¯d read about on their education headsets. Despite the advanced state of Dominion technology, the school still used paper for some cases when it was more practical than datapads.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°Open it.¡±


    She opened it to the first page: Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, it said in big bright letters.


    Khesol frowned. ¡°What is this for?¡±


    ¡°Book about mathematics. For understanding it. Some of its concepts proved helpful for the earlier lessons, the ones you¡¯re learning about now. And some of it is¡­ just interesting.¡±


    ¡°Is this¡­ learning ahead?¡± she asked nervously. ¡°You know we can get in a lot of trouble for that.¡±


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± Plodvi said. ¡°And we¡¯ve been good at hiding our¡­ extra thinking from the idiot teachers.¡±


    Khesol shook her head. ¡°I think Teacher Trotsanu knows.¡±


    Plodvi shrugged. ¡°Well, we haven¡¯t been called in for a recycling yet, so¡­¡±


    She flipped through a few pages of his book. ¡°This looks¡­ different¡­ Hey, I recognize that equation¡­ And that one!¡±


    ¡°Much of the material overlap with our lessons, but there are gaps and places where concepts are described differently,¡± he explained.


    ¡°Where did you get this from?¡±


    Plodvi looked around furtively to ensure no one was listening. ¡°There¡¯s this¡­ testing job at the radio factory. They listen to the FTL radio for transmissions from far away, and they transcribe it for the physical record in case things are lost. One of the guys there was in my first hatchling class before they demoted him for learning ahead. They listen to predator propaganda all day¡ª Anyway, he transcribed and gave this to me when I told him what we were learning in our math class.¡±


    She flipped the book to the end. Squinting her eyes, she read a section of smaller text at the bottom of the final page. ¡°Translated by the Olympus Academy of Sciences. Huh. Who is that?¡±


    He harumphed. ¡°No idea. I¡¯ve wondered myself. There aren¡¯t any references to them inside the content of the text themselves. Probably some predator hatchling school, if I had to guess. They¡¯re mentioned at the end of several of the other¡ª the other books I¡¯ve seen.¡±


    She lowered her voice. ¡°But this¡ª that would make this¡ª isn¡¯t this predator propaganda?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just numbers and equations and words, Khesol. And it makes us better at learning and doing our jobs. What harm could this possibly cause?¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 40 Recalled I

    <div>


    ZNS 1687, Znos-4-C (40,000 km)


    POV: Plodvi, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Plodvi¡¯s new job was simple.


    Four-hour watch. Nap time. Then another four hours. Dinner. Assignment of responsibility. Bed. And repeat.


    As a six whiskers in the ship¡¯s computer room, he was in charge of a small squad of technicians monitoring the automated life support. That involved the riveting task of staring at a dashboard screen for hours at a time until something changed color in the wrong place. Luckily for him, he didn¡¯t have to actually do that; he was just in charge of three other spacers who did that.


    And when things broke, as they rarely did, Plodvi¡¯s team would have to fix it. Not himself personally. Another one of his technicians was trained for that. He mostly just watched.


    Every once in a while ¡ª on a strict schedule, there would be mandatory maintenance. He didn¡¯t have to do that either. His job was mostly standing around watching other people do their jobs, and taking responsibility for errors when they occurred.


    Which was not very often. His people were well-bred and well-trained.


    As it turned out, his job was pretty boring. But that was nothing new for Plodvi. His entire education was boring, most of it anyway. At first, he¡¯d tried to get out of it, but after his hatchling teachers made very public examples of some of the other poor students who also openly found their lessons dull, Plodvi had learned to hide just how little effort he was spending on his lessons.


    The official lessons, anyway.


    The extra materials he was reading on the side ¡ª supplementally ¡ª back when he was in hatchling school: they were far more interesting. He missed those books.


    Instead, Plodvi found his attention drifting on the job. There really wasn¡¯t much to do. And focusing his brain on¡­ pretty much nothing ¡ª for hours at a time ¡ª that was not easy, even with the practice he¡¯d had over the years.


    So he strayed.


    The datapad Plodvi had access to was strictly monitored; after all, he was controlling the air and water of an entire ship. There wasn¡¯t much he could do on it that wasn¡¯t either related to his dull job, and he suspected that if he tried to push its limits, the Digital Guide on it would report him to his supervisor. Or worse.


    Plodvi physically strayed. The ship¡¯s life support modules were physically located in the core of the ship, near its rear. As its supervisor, spending extra time there ¡ª there were dozens of perfectly innocuous reasons. He was merely being diligent. Nobody would get their whiskers twisted if they saw him there alone, where he was beginning to spend most of his waking time.


    Plodvi loved to simply sit there, tracing his eyes up and down the pipes snaking openly across the module, through various complex hydraulics and electrical systems. He studied and guessed at their functionality. When the datapad showed low pressure in a system, the gauges on this pipe would be arranged in a certain way. When he ordered his technicians to service a certain module, they would open that panel.


    He began to experiment. He could make certain gauges respond to his commands overriding certain settings on the datapad programs he had access to. Of course, he was careful to only make minor adjustments. After all, he was in control of the entire ship¡¯s air and water systems. One minor mistake, and his bloodline would potentially be paying for it until its pruning.


    Then, there were the ducts. Figuring them out ¡ª what each did, why and when they activated ¡ª it was like solving a grand puzzle, one of those in those forbidden books he¡¯d read back in hatchling school. And Plodvi realized that if he turned the temperature down in the adjacent server room ¡ª just slightly, there was a series of ducts he could lie on and feel the coolness on his back ¡ª it felt incredible.


    After another grueling day of doing absolutely nothing useful, Plodvi came down to the life support module to refresh himself. He activated the cooling system for the server room as usual before hopping onto his favorite vent. He felt the air pumps activate through vibrations in his whiskers, the cold sensation spreading through his large, fluffy ears as he pressed them against the metal.


    That was the first time he heard the voices coming from them.


    <hr>


    Dominion State Security HQ, Znos-4


    POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)


    Sprabr barely had time to clean up from his lengthy journey to Znos before he was summoned to State Security.


    He¡¯d had a lot of time to think on the way from Grantor. Being relieved of command of the Grand Fleet wasn¡¯t a good sign. But it wasn¡¯t like they were going to execute him for apostasy or some other crime. Not yet, at least. If they were, he would have simply been summoned to their headquarters on Grantor and given a two-minute trial to record his last statements before they hauled him out back for liquidation. The Director wouldn¡¯t have bothered to have him run the blockade all the way back, losing three precious ships on the way.


    At least, that¡¯s what he hoped. It was always possible she simply wanted to shoot him herself.


    Sprabr waited patiently in the austere halls outside Svatken¡¯s office. He¡¯d been here before. All those long, secretive planning sessions before the disastrous invasion of Sol. Him trying to get her to reconsider ¡ª hinting, begging. And as expected, when it failed, not only did he get no credit for it, his unspoken punishment for being right was having to take responsibility for its fallout.


    He stared at her attendant sitting at the desk guarding the door to her office.


    Fstrofcho. That was his name.


    Fstrofcho stared right back at him with his dull red eyes. Sprabr didn¡¯t try to play a hatchling¡¯s game with him, competing to see who could stare the longest before they had to blink. That would be juvenile, and he suspected Fstrofcho had been specifically bred to win that game.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    He looked away. ¡°Who is Director Svatken meeting with?¡± Sprabr asked.


    ¡°That is a matter of State Security, Eleven Whiskers,¡± Fstrofcho replied in a monotone.


    Sprabr ventured a guess. ¡°Is she interviewing prospective replacements for me on Grantor?¡±


    ¡°That is a matter of State Security, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Fine. How much longer is this wait going to be?¡±


    ¡°That is a matter of State Security, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°That is a matter of State Security,¡± Sprabr mimicked. ¡°Is that the only sentence you know?¡±


    Fstrofcho continued staring expressionlessly. ¡°No.¡±


    Sprabr sighed. ¡°You State Security folks ¡ª you keep all these secrets from us in contravention of proper customs and rules. And all this refusal to take responsibility, even when it is obvious whose fault things are. That makes me wonder¡­ are your people even Znosian?!¡±


    ¡°That, Eleven Whiskers, is also a matter of State Security.¡±


    He could almost swear the little critter was enjoying this.


    Svatken was done with¡­ whatever she was working on, only a few minutes later.


    ¡°You may enter now, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    With one last annoyed glance at Fstrofcho, Sprabr strode into the office as its doors opened.


    Svatken didn¡¯t even look up from behind her desk as he entered. She merely gestured at one of the stools in front of her. ¡°Take a seat, Eleven Whiskers.¡±


    She was in a sour mood, he could tell. Sprabr complied wordlessly, watching her operate her datapad, waiting for her to speak up again.


    Svatken looked up after a couple more minutes. ¡°There is some bad news, Eleven Whiskers. Discovered during your trip back here.¡±


    He didn¡¯t say anything.


    She continued, ¡°Our shipyard at Fsuzve-4 was hit this morning. The orbitals were a total loss, including the incomplete experimental spaceframes.¡± She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his input.


    ¡°What about its moon?¡± Sprabr asked, recalling that defense sector. ¡°The new munitions plant for our new missiles and¡ª¡±


    ¡°They hit that too. Total loss. The predators were¡­ very thorough.¡±


    ¡°Has anyone taken responsibility?¡± he asked automatically.


    ¡°Yes, the eight whiskers in charge of the orbital defense fluffle did. Her ships and system sensors didn¡¯t even see the enemy ships before they attacked.¡±


    ¡°Before they attacked? What about after?¡±


    ¡°Ah, so you are listening carefully. Yes, our new sensors did produce discernible readings when the predator ships opened their weapons bays. For a split second. Not enough to help us stop the attacks¡­ but it¡¯s something to start with.¡± She shrugged.


    ¡°Nothing that will help us stop this pack of loose abominations running around in our star systems,¡± Sprabr said bitterly.


    ¡°That is a result of the failed defenses at the Slow Predator¡ª at the pre-war borders of the Dominion,¡± she said. ¡°Those commanders have taken responsibility.¡±


    It¡¯s the result of two years of the Dominion¡¯s failure to respond appropriately to the emergence of the Great Predators, Sprabr wanted to say. Instead, he replied, ¡°Have you decided on which fluffles of ships we should send to take them down?¡±


    ¡°None of them.¡±


    Sprabr blinked in surprise. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Our ships can¡¯t do anything against them,¡± she replied matter-of-factly. ¡°Any we throw against them will be a waste. According to the analysis of our Digital Guides, ships in this fleet are simply in our territory to blow up as many objectives of opportunity as they can. And when they run out of munitions, they will go home.¡±


    ¡°And on what basis did your Digital Guides summarize that this is their objective?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve completed interrogation of the Great Predator prisoners. It took time, but they broke. Well, a few of them. The rest of them appear to be in some kind of unresponsive, vegetative state.¡±


    ¡°In¡­ catatonic shock? Like us?¡±


    She shot him a dirty glare. ¡°No, not like us!¡±


    ¡°Right. Of course not. Anyway, I thought the prisoners previously said they were only here for one system. Which one was it¡­ Spofke?¡±


    ¡°There are two groups of them. The one we captured, their plan is to capture and occupy Spofke. But there is another one, and that group has at least one of their larger munition ships. That ship they like to keep one system behind their vanguard, because it is too big to hide on radar. They guard it with their other ships so we can¡¯t get to them.¡±


    ¡°Two separate groups of Great Predators. Interesting.¡± Sprabr leaned in closer. ¡°And what is the purpose of that other group? The one with the munition ship.¡±


    ¡°Our prisoners are¡­ unsure. The mission was kept from them. They lie to each other like all predators do. But they speculate that the other group is here for revenge. In their speculation, two of them said it would probably look like what they referred to as a Free Zone oppression campaign on steroids.¡±


    ¡°A¡­ what? What does that look like?¡±


    ¡°They will destroy as many of our military sites as they can until they get tired or run out of resources.¡±


    ¡°So¡ª so we¡¯ll¡ª we¡¯ll just allow them¡ª¡±


    Svatken stared at him coldly. ¡°We¡¯re not allowing anything. We just can¡¯t do anything else because your Grand Fleet failed to do its job in the first place.¡±


    Sprabr gritted his teeth as he took the accusation. He thought about protesting her decision to not send ships, but he couldn¡¯t find any reason to dispute it. In fact, if he¡¯d been given more time to think about the problem, he suspected that was probably the recommendation he¡¯d also give.


    If anyone was asking.


    Which they were not.


    ¡°Hm¡­ not sending any ships to respond¡­ that¡¯s¡­ probably not the worst idea,¡± he admitted. ¡°As you said, whatever their objectives, they¡¯ll run out of munitions and resources sooner or later and go home¡­ Who¡ª uh¡ª who came up with that idea?¡±


    ¡°One of my new analysts,¡± she said, looking annoyed that he knew it wasn¡¯t hers. ¡°She¡¯s one of those savant hatchlings. Just under a year old. I snatched her out of a hatchling school before the Navy could take her for the original job she was bred for, or recycled as a defect.¡±


    ¡°What was she bred for?¡± he asked out of pure curiosity.


    ¡°Coolant maintenance technician.¡±


    ¡°This¡ª this level of strategic insight. It would indeed have been a waste of resources to allow her to continue on her originally planned career path.¡±


    Svatken beamed with pride. ¡°Perhaps you will see her in my chair one day.¡±


    If I live that long.


    ¡°If you aren¡¯t planning to send ships out to fight the Great Predators, then what do you need me back in Znos for?¡±


    ¡°To keep you safe, of course.¡±


    ¡°Safe?¡± he echoed, barely keeping his skepticism from his voice.


    ¡°Grantor is a war zone. Much of the Dominion is now vulnerable to the Great Predators. And there is nowhere safer in the galaxy than Znos.¡±


    He tilted his head. ¡°That is¡­ probably true. But I am an eleven whiskers of the Dominion Navy. I am responsible for accepting some level of risk, so that we can fight a war effectively. That is my job.¡±


    ¡°And you think you¡¯ve done a good job of that?¡± she snorted. ¡°You¡¯ve proven hardly any better than any idiot with a Digital Guide.¡±


    ¡°At least I can¡ª I am trying¡ª¡± he sputtered.


    Svatken regarded him with another cool expression. ¡°You have been listed as a potential bargaining chip. For trade with the Great Predators when they get tired of this revenge campaign and go home.¡±


    ¡°What?! We¡¯re still taking that abomination of an offer seriously?!¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± she said imperiously. ¡°Their offer looks better every orbital shipyard of ours they wreck. And if we¡¯re going to hand you over, we can¡¯t be having you know all the vital information about the defense of Grantor and the Dominion. They will undoubtedly extract those secrets out of your mind before they serve you up for dinner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here on Znos so¡ª so I won¡¯t know anything important when you hand me over to the predators,¡± he said, jaw open.


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ what about Grantor? What if it falls without me?!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that. Grantor is doing just fine without you. Better, in fact, since you left.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It is a stronghold system. We have millions of troops on it, and we¡¯re breeding more every day. It can hold forever. And that¡­ is what you will tell your captors when¡ª if we hand you over to the Great Predators.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 41 Total War I

    <div>


    ZNS 1687, Znos-4-C (40,000 km)


    POV: Plodvi, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Plodvi identified two distinct, hushed voices coming from the vents. One was a female, the other male.


    ¡°That¡¯s why they say: the brutality of combat is a product of incompetence,¡± the male said.


    The female voice snorted. ¡°Spoken like someone who isn¡¯t very good at it.¡±


    ¡°That can¡¯t be.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because the examples in here, look, their most effective armies and fleets were the ones with the most rules, operating with the most constraints against what they called unnecessary brutality,¡± the male insisted.


    They are talking about the predator transmissions. Like my books.


    Her voice was incredulous. ¡°The most constraints? How can that be?!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    There were a few seconds of silence from the vents.


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s a coincidence?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Maybe. Or maybe not. It is an odd coincidence¡­ how¡ª how restraint is loosely correlated with their success in war.¡±


    ¡°But they still lost sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but not the big ones,¡± he countered. ¡°When it comes down to the wire, they always win the important ones.¡±


    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s just the way their history is written.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t one of them say: It is cruelty. There is no use trying to sanitize it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over,¡± the female quoted.


    ¡°You are ignoring the context around that! That was a predator war chief justifying horrific actions he took in war,¡± the male argued. ¡°Of course he would say that! But even he recognized that there are supposed to be rules in war. That is what it means to be civilized beings.¡±


    ¡°Now that¡¯s just the predator propaganda talking. You can¡¯t trust everything they tell you on the FTL radio.¡±


    ¡°Is there something wrong with the logic behind the argument?¡±


    ¡°Aquinas and his righteous war theory? He¡¯s an apostate, and his reliance on their own version of the Prophecy undermines his own point.¡±


    The male sighed. ¡°No, I was talking about the more practical reason. There is no purpose in unnecessary cruelty. And whatever you inflict on the enemy, they may respond to you with the same. Fighting with rules is more efficient for both sides.¡±


    ¡°That only matters if they can actually inflict equivalent horror,¡± she said. ¡°And the predators¡­ they can¡¯t do anything about what we do to them anyway.¡±


    ¡°Until the Great Predators came along¡­¡±


    She sighed and agreed, ¡°Until the Great Predators came along.¡±


    Plodvi heard nothing for a moment, thinking perhaps they¡¯d moved their argument elsewhere.


    The female spoke up again a few seconds later. ¡°Well, whatever the efficient thing is¡­ we¡¯re not in charge of this war.¡±


    The male scoffed. ¡°Yeah. Maybe a few generations down my bloodline, I¡¯ll produce someone with enough whiskers to make the right decisions, instead of being stuck here for life as low-ranked computer maintenance technicians.¡±


    Ah. They must be accessing the FTL radio transcripts to listen to predator propaganda with their role as Digital Guide maintenance technicians.


    ¡°I heard they recalled Eleven Whiskers Sprabr from the Grand Fleet,¡± she said. ¡°Awaiting a big assignment of responsibility hearing back on Znos.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, everyone knows that. They need someone to blame for the ongoing disaster in Grantor.¡±


    The relief was evident in her voice. ¡°Thank the Prophecy we¡¯re not trapped all the way over there in infested predator territory with the Grand Fleet.¡±


    ¡°Or what? I hear the predators treat surrendered prisoners well¡ª¡± he began.


    ¡°You do know that they¡¯re likely lying about that too, right?¡±


    ¡°You think the Great Predators manufactured all these philosophies around restraint in war as a ruse of war? That seems like a lot of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± she hissed back. ¡°Those arguments are for pure entertainment. They probably eat the prisoners for dinner!¡±


    ¡°What about the broadcasts from captured prisoners from Radio Free Znos?¡± he countered. ¡°Those seem real to me.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ maybe they eat most of them and force a few to make the broadcasts¡­¡± she speculated with a little less conviction.


    The male seemed to be thinking for a moment as the vents were quiet but for the sound of the airflow. He replied after a moment, ¡°It just seems like a lot of work to put up such an elaborate fa?ade. And most of the people listening won¡¯t understand it. The five whiskers who operates the FTL radio doesn¡¯t even¡ª¡±


    She snorted in derision. ¡°Five Whiskers Gipoch? If he didn¡¯t transcribe all of these transmissions for the record, I¡¯d swear that idiot was bred-illiterate.¡±


    ¡°The other day I asked him if he ever heard anything interesting on the FTL radio, and he just gave me a blank stare.¡±


    ¡°Well you can¡¯t blame him for centuries of bloodlines optimized for poor nutrition and¡ª¡±


    There were sounds of commotion from the vents for a few seconds, and a third voice yelled out, ¡°We just got a new calculation request from Eight Whiskers¡ª Hey, what¡¯s going on here? Are you two slacking off again?!¡±


    Oh no. Who is that?


    The male replied in a crisp practiced voice, ¡°No, Seven Whiskers. I noticed the cooling system was activating off-schedule, so we went to check out the vents for physical blockages. I take full responsibility for not informing you of it before I did.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The seven whiskers huffed. ¡°Your responsibility is accepted¡­ And you¡¯re not the central air maintenance team. You should worry about your own tasks. Like that new calculation request!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers. Combat¡ª Digital Guide analysis coming right up.¡±


    Plodvi¡¯s heart pounded as the sounds of pawsteps receded from the vents. And he realized that this was the first time he¡¯d felt excitement since he¡¯d gotten onto the ship weeks ago.


    <hr>


    System State Security HQ, Zhulnu-4


    POV: Vrazmist, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Governor)


    State Security Governor Vrazmist was supposed to be in charge of the entire system of Zhulnu and its twelve billion residents.


    More than two hundred light-years behind the frontlines of the closest Dominion war, his people hadn¡¯t had to worry about threats posed by enemies of the Prophecy for centuries. After all, the ¡°intelligent¡± predator species that had formerly called Zhulnu its homeworld had been efficiently cleansed ¡ª all traces of their existence wiped out or replaced ¡ª many decades ago. There were a few dumb predators in the less populated areas of the planet, but extermination teams did their jobs and generally took care of those creatures before they became a threat to the growing underground Znosian cities. Few in Zhulnu had even seen one of those in their lives.


    Hence Vrazmist¡¯s surprise when the system perimeter sensors reported a small predator fleet blinking in.


    Sure, they¡¯d been briefed that it could happen by the authorities in Znos ¡ª many other systems near Zhulnu had been hit recently, and it was a big target as any other.


    The predators tore apart the planet¡¯s meager orbital defenses in hours; the Servants of the Prophecy on the stations forfeited their lives as they desperately tried their best to hang on for as long as they could, knowing that there would be no reinforcements nor relief. Their relatively immobile stations proved to be hopelessly inadequate against the salvos of incoming enemy missiles launched from outside the range of any of its weapons.


    As had been predicted by his Digital Guide.


    That the defense stations lasted for hours spoke more to the cautiousness of the enemy than anything else. Vrazmist had known the orbits would fall if the predators came. But to see the face of the snarling abomination on his communication screen was a personal and visceral shock.


    Vrazmist bared his buck teeth at the despicable Great Predator in hostility to disguise the gnawing fear in his heart. ¡°What do you want, barbarian?¡± he spat out.


    ¡°Attention, planetary authorities on Zhulnu-4. This is Rear Admiral Carla Bauernschmidt of the Republic Navy,¡± she replied. ¡°My ships have placed your industrial habitats in orbit under fire control. I intend to capture and scuttle them. You have twenty-four hours to evacuate your stations. Beyond that, any loss of life incurred from the execution of this operation will be your responsibility.¡±


    The way she misused that word¡­ it almost sounded like a taunt.


    ¡°Our people will fight to the last, from the oldest elder to the youngest hatchling before we give up our orbits!¡± Vrazmist roared back. ¡°Your attempt to bait us into abandoning our stations is worthless.¡±


    ¡°There is no reason to fight,¡± the enemy continued calmly. ¡°You have lost your orbits and all your mobile assets. We have your hab reactor modules target-locked. One gun volley and they are a trillion pieces of debris. It would be ¡ª as your people like to put it ¡ª an irrational and an inefficient waste of resources.¡±


    ¡°Predator scum!¡± Vrazmist cried. ¡°Those stations are decades of valuable Dominion investment! You have no right!¡±


    He didn¡¯t even think to mention that most of those orbital facilities were originally built by the precursor predator species that inhabited Zhulnu; he doubted that the predator in front of him would know or care either way.


    Carla replied, ¡°You may take that up with your superiors on Znos who started this war. We are merely giving you this warning so you can evacuate your people off of them before we begin our operation. Whatever happens after that is on you.¡±


    ¡°Your twenty-four-hour deadline is insufficient. There are millions of our people and expensive Dominion property up there. We need time to decommission our equipment and organize a full evacuation,¡± Vrazmist whined, gnashing his teeth in frustration. ¡°We would need at least¡ª¡±


    The predator snorted. ¡°Fascinating. I¡¯ve never seen one of you run through three of the five stages of grief in twenty seconds. Cut the bullshit. We know you have adequate hibernation pods and shuttles. And this isn¡¯t my first orbital demolition. I don¡¯t care about your expensive equipment. Twenty-four hours is more than enough for you to get all your people out of there.¡±


    ¡°Abomination, you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Clock¡¯s ticking, Governor. Tick tock.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Tick tock.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t fall¡ª¡±


    ¡°Tick tock. Twenty-four hours. Better hurry.¡±


    The transmission cut out from the other end.


    Vrazmist keyed a call button on his console. ¡°Attendant, do we have any viable weapons on those industrial habs?¡±


    His attendant showed up immediately, replying, ¡°None, Governor. We have six munition assembly modules among them, but the missiles for the latest shipment are not yet completed. We can¡¯t fire them at the predator fleet, and even if we could, it wouldn¡¯t do much anyway.¡±


    ¡°What are our options?¡±


    She busied herself querying her console for a moment. ¡°If we transfer all the shuttles from our residential habs over to assist in evacuation, we can get at most a tenth of our most expensive manufacturing and computer equipment out by the deadline.¡±


    ¡°What about if we don¡¯t evacuate any of our people?¡± Vrazmist pressed.


    ¡°That estimate is if we don¡¯t evacuate any of our people except the most senior and experienced we need for eventual reconstruction.¡±


    Vrazmist sighed. He felt lucky that he had an attendant who could understand his intentions without him asking. ¡°Only a tenth?¡±


    ¡°Yes. This is by value, Governor.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Vrazmist thought for a moment. From what it sounded like on the communication, this was not the first time the predators had tried something like this. And he knew all about the orbital infrastructure they¡¯d capture in other systems: the Great Predators would strip them for parts and intelligence before blowing them to pieces. ¡°We need to do something¡ª something they don¡¯t expect. Something¡ª These predators have been rolling over us for far too long. We should¡ª we should scuttle the stations ourselves to prevent capture.¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡± the attendant asked, her face scrunching up in alarm.


    ¡°We should blow them up before the Great Predators could try to board or capture them,¡± Vrazmist said, slowly as he allowed his speech to catch up to his thinking. ¡°And we need to show them that they can¡¯t keep jerking us around like this. Demonstrate our strength, our full resolve. Let them know how little we think of their threats. We can blow them up ourselves to prevent capture.¡±


    ¡°The residential stations¡ª we have 10.4 million Servants of the Prophecy on those orbital stations, Governor,¡± his attendant warned as her voice rose in concern. ¡°Perhaps if we send the evacuation order simultaneously, some of them¡ª¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t alert the predators. They might speed up their operations. Our people¡¯s lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left their hatchling pools. All of them.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Governor.¡±


    His decision solidified, Vrazmist ordered more confidently, ¡°Now, connect me to the Navy eight whiskers in charge of system defenses.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Crete, Zhulnu-4 (2 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    ¡°Admiral, Squadron Nine is reporting they¡¯ve detected a rocket launch from the surface of Zhulnu-4! High acceleration, delta-V analysis indicates likely surface-to-orbit missile,¡± Speinfoent said, stepping up onto the bridge. ¡°Two¡ª three¡ª no, sixteen launches. More. Likely many more. Trajectory is¡ª projected to be low Zhulnu-4 orbit.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not at us.¡± Carla furrowed her brow as she observed the signatures. ¡°Did one of our captains deploy observation assets that far down there?¡±


    ¡°Not at the moment,¡± he replied after a few seconds. ¡°Maybe this is a ruse¡­ But I don¡¯t see how.¡±


    Carla nodded. ¡°Track those missiles. Let¡¯s see what they¡¯re up to.¡±


    It took less than ten minutes for the missiles to reach low Zhulnu-4 orbit¡­ and another three to find their targets.


    Most of them hit what they were aiming for: the fusion reactor modules of the Znosians¡¯ own industrial habitats. A few failed to detonate their targets, biting massive chunks out of the undefended habitats. Several stations tumbled or broke apart. For an unplanned and improvised attack on targets they were not meant for, it wasn¡¯t the worst showing¡­ tactically. On the Crete¡¯s visual sensors, its crew watched quietly as atmosphere, debris, and unfortunate occupants spill out into the vacuum like the lifeblood of a wounded prey.


    Speinfoent noted another urgent warning from the reconnaissance sensors aimed at the planet, ¡°Admiral, we¡¯re detecting another dozen fresh launches from the surface. The ship intelligence thinks they¡¯re¡ª they¡¯re finishing the ones they didn¡¯t kill in the first volley¡­ Should¡ª should we intercept?¡±


    Carla inspected the new signals on the screen. She hardened her eyes. ¡°Negative, XO. This one is on them. They¡¯re doing half our jobs for us. We¡¯re under no legal or moral obligation to stop them.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Call the head honcho down there again when they¡¯re done with¡­ whatever this tantrum is.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 42 Total War II

    <div>


    TRNS Crete, Zhulnu-4 (2 Ls)


    POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)


    Even with his limited knowledge of Znosian facial expressions, Speinfoent could feel the inexorable smugness exuding from the State Security administrator even as he crowed, ¡°You shall get nothing out of us. Nothing. As you deserve as abominations! Your ships will fall apart. Your people will rot. And we will burn your homeworld and nests¡­¡±


    Carla let him run his rant out before she stepped into the camera. ¡°Attention, planetary authorities on Zhulnu-4. This is Rear Admiral Carla Bauernschmidt of the Republic Navy. Our objectives in orbit are now complete. We have placed your planetary surface under fire control. We have designated six thousand military and military-industrial areas on the surface as targets for demolition. We will send you the coordinates, to allow you twenty-four hours to evacuate them. Beyond that, any loss of life incurred from the execution of this operation will be your responsibility.¡±


    ¡°Your threat is an empty gesture this time, barbarian. Even with your hiding technology, our telescopes can see your big ships burning into orbit. We know you did not bring enough troops with you to capture and strip our surface facilities for parts. This planet is property of the Dominion. Not some disgusting flesh farm for your people to harvest!¡±


    ¡°Not quite, but you¡¯re not entirely wrong about one thing. We do not intend to capture your planet, merely to put your ability to make war against us out of commission. However those facilities get destroyed ¡ª by your hand or ours ¡ª it makes no difference to me.¡±


    Vrazmist¡¯s expression transformed from gloating to red rage in a split second as the message sank in. ¡°Predator deceit! You baited me into destroying our own orbital infrastructure! This is another¡ª¡±


    Carla snorted. ¡°No, Governor. You did that all by yourself. The blood of those millions of dead Buns is on your own dirty paws. Now, you have twenty-four hours to decide how many more of your own people will need to die before you see sense.¡±


    ¡°You¡­ scum. Your species will pay for this absolute waste of resources and for your heretical worship of entropy!¡±


    ¡°That may be your interpretation of events, Governor. But I am honoring our obligations under our rules of war. We will transmit to your office the coordinates of the surface sites we intend to hit, and we will give you enough time to get your people out of there before we rain orbital fire down on them. As a point of notice, we are also transmitting to you the evacuation notices for areas surrounding our target sites, to reduce loss of life in case of targeting failure. You are advised to immediately¡ª¡±


    ¡°We will not do your dirty work for you!¡± the incandescent governor screamed into the screen. ¡°If you want our surface munition factories, come and get them!¡±


    This time, it was he who cut the transmission off.


    Carla looked over at Speinfoent at his station. ¡°XO, have we transmitted those coordinates to him?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. But they did not acknowledge receipt.¡±


    ¡°Send it again,¡± she ordered.


    Speinfoent queued the order, then looked up. ¡°What if they refuse to evacuate those areas? Again?¡±


    Carla didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°That is up to them. The targets have been pre-vetted by our legal intelligences, and we have given them sufficient warning to evacuate. However many personnel they have down there working in those missile factories ¡ª their military value far outweighs whatever obligations we have towards them and our own principles of proportionality.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Speinfoent said. ¡°Perhaps we should transmit the message to the sites independently? Maybe their people down there will be¡­ more reasonable?¡±


    She nodded and her eyes softened. ¡°Do as you suggested, XO. And if they still do not evacuate after the deadline has passed¡­ have the batteries time the strikes to hit them during their night shifts when the least number of people are working there, if possible.¡±


    He gave the orders through the terminal. His subordinates needed no additional micromanagement. They¡¯d done this before, and they knew what to do.


    Speinfoent stared back at the main screen, still showing the pieces of orbital stations breaking apart, some of them now tumbling towards the atmosphere. There were so many pieces that if not for Panoptes cataloguing every single one in real time, they¡¯d become a hazard to the drones now conducting basic salvage operations in their wrecks. ¡°Why are they like this, Carla? We told them what we¡¯d do. We gave them a warning. And now¡­¡±


    She gave him a short squeeze on his shoulder. ¡°Because¡­ Speinfoent¡­ some creatures¡­ the only language they truly understand is violence. And when that is all they understand, all we can do¡­ is show them just how fluent we are in their own tongue.¡±


    <hr>


    ZNS 1687, Znos-4-C (40,000 km)


    POV: Plodvi, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    It took Plodvi another few days to work up the courage. For his curiosity to overcome his trepidation. To even consider the problem.


    How was one supposed to go about asking about these things?


    Hello, are you the two apostates I heard spouting off blasphemy near the vents?


    Can you share some of your predator propaganda with me?


    May I borrow your datapad for a few days? Why? No reason, I just need to look at something on it.


    If they reported him to his supervisor¡­ Plodvi was in no hurry to get found out as a defect and recycled. It would be such a shame if he had spent over a year of his life hiding his thoughts and then¡­ risk losing it all over an unforced error like this.


    Instead, Plodvi decided on a less risky plan: he fiddled with the air conditioning of the server room next to the life support module.


    Well¡­ technically, this is sabotage. On a warship. During a war.


    All he did was loosen and temporarily take out a couple of exposed wires that powered the temperature regulator in the room and looped the monitoring data connection so the problem couldn¡¯t be discovered remotely¡­ He was pretty sure that it didn¡¯t materially affect the operational efficiency of the ship, but there was no question that if the full extent of his actions was discovered, this minor apostasy would be enough to get him shot, no questions asked.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Plodvi had a long, carefully crafted plan. When the people in the server room discovered that the room was hotter than normal, he would have to take full responsibility for it. He would personally show up to diagnose the issue. He¡¯d pretend to inspect their vents, look at their AC units, check their computers¡­ etc. Use that as an excuse to scope things out. And then he would tell them the procedure dictated he search the problem elsewhere, go undo his¡­ sabotage¡­ in the life support room, and then he¡¯d claim there was nothing, check the room again, give them another excuse¡­


    All of which instantly escaped his mind the moment they opened the access door to admit him.


    ¡°Life support maintenance?¡± The officer in front of him tapped her paw impatiently on the door frame.


    For a second, Plodvi was lost in his planning. He gazed at her slack-jawed and managed to mumble, ¡°huh?¡±


    ¡°Are you Six Whiskers Plodvi?¡± she asked impatiently. ¡°Here to take responsibility for our operational anomaly?¡±


    He focused and checked the stripes on her uniform as he remembered his script. ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers.¡± He dipped his head slightly in respect. ¡°I am Six Whiskers Plodvi. I take full responsibility for the suboptimal temperature in your server room. I am here to diagnose the issue.¡±


    ¡°Harumph.¡± She looked him up and down and muttered, ¡°Aren¡¯t you a little young to be a six whiskers? I didn¡¯t know they let hatchlings graduate this early. No wonder we¡¯ve got all these issues now¡­¡±


    Plodvi was not a good judge of character yet, but what he saw did not impress him. The seven whiskers officer herself looked at least ten years old, and from the pale skin under her slightly overgrown ¡ª and barely regulation ¡ª fur and the oily smell emanating from her body, she must have spent most of those years in this server room. He suppressed his annoyance as he tried to act with the contrition he was supposed to be feeling at the moment. ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers. I take full responsibility.¡±


    ¡°Have you even worked on a room like this before?¡± she asked, gesturing to the rows upon rows of servers humming on their racks.


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Outside of your training simulators?¡± she added.


    ¡°No, Seven Whiskers. This is my first time in this room,¡± he answered honestly.


    ¡°Figures,¡± she snorted. ¡°One very important thing you need to know right now is our servers are calibrated precisely for the correct room temperature. Every degree the room is out of spec, for every hour, their assured lifespan decreases by several weeks. Do you have any idea how costly it would be to the Dominion if we don¡¯t get this problem fixed right now?¡±


    ¡°Very costly?¡± he guessed.


    ¡°It¡¯s worth more than your entire bloodline,¡± she declared.


    ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers.¡±


    ¡°Good. Perhaps that will motivate you to work faster, now that I have properly impressed upon you the urgency of the problem,¡± she said slowly to him as if teaching a difficult concept to a bred-illiterate.


    Plodvi once again controlled his urge to roll his eyes. ¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers. I will get on the problem right away. May I see the temperature regulation sensors near your vents?¡±


    The seven whiskers sighed, as if detecting something in his tone that wasn¡¯t quite reverent enough for her. ¡°I manage the room, not the gadgets in it. I don¡¯t know anything about your sensors. My technician, Four Whiskers Rirkhni, will answer your questions.¡± She pointed to a subordinate technician busy in the corner.


    He nodded his appreciation for her direction and headed to the technician. Rirkhni was buried in a heap of heavy wires traced between two racks and his datapad. As Plodvi approached, he didn¡¯t look up as he continued to tap commands into his datapad. Plodvi paused and gave the wiry technician another minute.


    After a few moments of tinkering, Rirkhni sighed and looked up. ¡°Another failing unit¡­ What do you need¡­ Six Whiskers?¡±


    Plodvi gestured at the vents. ¡°Is this because of the air conditioning problem?¡±


    Rirkhni shook his head. ¡°No, Six Whiskers. This is probably due to excess vibration in the rack due to an installation defect from a previous technician. It was not discovered in time, and now we must collectively take full responsibility for the issue.¡±


    Plodvi sighed in mild relief. ¡°Alright, well, I am just here to diagnose issues with your air conditioning.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the temperature issue. What do you need from us?¡± the technician asked. ¡°Isn¡¯t that data all routed to your department?¡±


    ¡°I need a more comprehensive historical record of all your vent sensor data,¡± Plodvi replied as he quickly improvised.


    Rirkhni narrowed his eyes. ¡°More comprehensive historical record?¡±


    ¡°Yes, the older data. To see when the problem arose so we can corroborate the timing with our logs. Some of the information is stored in our central life support systems, but troubleshooting from the source is more reliable,¡± Plodvi lied.


    ¡°Ah. So you need full access to our internal computer systems,¡± Rirkhni said.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Rirkhni looked at him sharply for a moment, then shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°Of course, Six Whiskers.¡± He swiped on his datapad for a few moments, and Plodvi¡¯s own device alerted him that he¡¯d been given administrative access to the server room¡¯s operations.


    ¡°Anything else, or can I get back to my work?¡± Rirkhni asked, slight impatience creeping into his voice.


    ¡°This should suffice for now, Four Whiskers,¡± Plodvi mumbled as he began to examine the information rolling onto his datapad. He watched Rirkhni return to his prior work and then began to browse through the contents he¡¯d just got access to.


    Maintenance¡­


    Status monitoring¡­


    Data backups¡­


    Personnel¡­


    Communication logs¡­


    Wait, go back. Communication logs.


    Plodvi focused on reading the entries from the FTL radio. The incoming transcripts had two different levels of security. A sparse few of the highly secret messages were encoded using the Navy¡¯s new protocols, and these could not be decoded by anyone other than the intended recipients ¡ª high level commanders, usually ¡ª with a physical device.


    The remaining incoming transmissions were encrypted using Dominion Navy Standard 46, which were decrypted by the communications section and stored in the ship¡¯s server room. Their contents were mostly mundane: planetary weather reports, orbital traffic status, pacification campaign progress reports, promotions, responsibility hearing results¡­etc. A few messages contained slightly more interesting information like suspected predator ship sightings ¡ª he idly skimmed through those.


    But the most dangerous pieces of information ¡ª meticulously marked, categorized, and summarized by the responsible FTL communication officers ¡ª were the open transmissions from the predators. He scrolled through pages and pages of carefully indexed reports regarding the propaganda that the Great Predators were now blasting into their FTL radios.


    Plodvi quickly scanned through everything from the descriptions of degenerate predator art to their instructional books, a few titles he even recognized from back when he was a hatchling at school. He was surprised at just how much content the predators had produced and were just allowing to be propagated to their enemy¡­


    Matched only by his surprise that several of the entries showed that they had been copied out of the system.


    Plodvi frowned.


    Whoever was copying the information out of the system clearly knew what they were doing, but they inevitably left traces all over the system. Files were unceremoniously deleted. Logs were missing entire chunks of their content. Enough to fool an unsuspecting Digital Guide, but not a breathing, thinking creature like him. And with his full access, Plodvi could clearly see exactly when and where the interesting predator propaganda entries were being accessed. With a few quick matches to the people who were on duty at the time, he could narrow it down to find out exactly who the people talking near the vents were¡­


    As his datapad ran the program, a shadow loomed over him. He looked up.


    The four whiskers. Rirkhni.


    ¡°What are you doing with the radio logs, Six Whiskers?¡± Rirkhni asked, staring. And his body language was not friendly. ¡°I thought you needed the life support, and I just got notified you were accessing a lot of¡ª¡±


    ¡°N¡ªnothing,¡± Plodvi stuttered. ¡°Just looking through¡ª¡±


    His datapad chose this time to complete its last analysis, beeping twice to notify him of the program completion. Rirkhni¡¯s gaze flitted down to his screen.


    At the names listed.


    Rirkhni¡¯s name was at the very top.


    The four whiskers sighed as he took a paw step towards Plodvi.


    Plodvi took a step back. ¡°Wait, I can explain¡ª I didn¡¯t mean to¡ª¡±


    He heard a soft rustle behind him.


    Thump.


    Plodvi felt a painful jolt to the back of his head and immediately lost his balance. Then, all he felt was the smooth, cold tiles of the server room floor against his ears before he lost consciousness.

 On Every Front - Chapter 43 Book Club I

    <div>


    ZNS 1687, Znos-4-C (40,000 km)


    POV: Plodvi, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Plodvi woke up groggily to the hum of the ship¡¯s inertial compensators mixed with a loud ringing in his ears. As he slowly regained his senses, he realized that he was in some kind of maintenance closet. His paws were tied behind him to a chair by a thick rope. As his concussed head struggled to devise a way out of his predicament, he heard voices.


    He was not alone.


    He peeked open his eyes experimentally. There were two other shapes in front of his blurry vision. Rirkhni and another ¡ª a female. It didn¡¯t take him too much extra thinking to put the puzzle pieces together.


    These must be the two I heard in the vents.


    ¡°¡ª So what do we do? By the Prophecy, we¡¯re like hatchlings in deep water!¡± Rirkhni exclaimed, his voice laced with fear.


    ¡°We have to get rid of the evidence properly,¡± she said coldly. ¡°We can¡¯t keep him here; without supervision, he will get out in hours. Snap his neck to minimize the mess. Once we kill him, his corpse will begin to smell in days, and there is no hiding that on this ship. If we are unlucky, they¡¯ll send for a Lesser Predator collaborator to sniff for evidence. Then, we¡¯re dead. We have to get rid of him before all of that. Do you have access to the airlock cameras yet?¡±


    ¡°Are you serious?¡± he hissed back at her. ¡°We can¡¯t just kill him and¡ª and dispose of him! What if¡ª what if they start investigating where he was last? They¡¯ll know we were two of the five people in the server room when he disappeared!¡±


    In Plodvi¡¯s vision, she shrugged. ¡°We have no other choice. If it comes to it, we can find a way to frame our stupid supervisor. How did this one find you anyway?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I just put a subroutine on those logs just in case, and they alerted me that he was accessing them in bulk¡­¡±


    ¡°You have to be more careful! If State Security or anyone else on the ship finds out about this, we¡¯re both dead,¡± she admonished. ¡°And our entire bloodlines.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know¡ª¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot of things we don¡¯t know. We can¡¯t afford to be careless. Anyway, use one of the airlocks near the rear cargo modules at night. No one patrols there. And when you¡¯re done, take a long shower.¡±


    ¡°A shower? Tonight? But I¡¯m not scheduled for cleaning until next week¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, to get all traces of him off of you when you are done,¡± she replied, her voice patronizing. ¡°His fur. His skin. Did you not read all the detective stories from the predator propaganda?¡±


    ¡°Oh. I see. But do we really have to¡ª wait, he¡¯s awake.¡±


    Plodvi cleared his throat as the two conspirators both levelled their gazes at him. ¡°Please¡­ don¡¯t kill me,¡± he begged. ¡°I don¡¯t want to die!¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Six Whiskers,¡± Rirkhni said, looking actually apologetic at him. ¡°But it¡¯s either you or us.¡±


    ¡°No, please¡­ I won¡¯t¡ª I promise I won¡¯t report you,¡± he cried. ¡°I¡¯m too young to die!¡±


    ¡°Hatchling officers,¡± the female said with a snort. ¡°I thought we were the youngest two people on this ship, but they keep making them younger and younger.¡±


    Rirkhni stared at Plodvi for a second longer. ¡°Well, he is saying that he won¡¯t report¡ª¡±


    ¡°And you believe him?!¡± she asked incredulously. ¡°He¡¯s just saying that so we¡¯d let him go. First thing he does when he gets out of here is make a call to ship security, guaranteed.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but¡ª he¡¯s just so¡ª so small,¡± Rirkhni said hesitatingly. ¡°Look at his tiny paws. He is almost still wet behind his ears. This is¡ª this is wrong.¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s us, or him.¡±


    Plodvi pleaded desperately, ¡°Please¡­ I won¡¯t¡ª I won¡¯t tell. I¡¯ve read those predator books too before¡ª before I got onto this ship. I¡¯m a¡ª I¡¯m a defect too. I won¡¯t report you. Please¡­ Rirkhni.¡±


    Rirkhni flinched at his name.


    The female didn¡¯t. ¡°Lies! Don¡¯t listen to him.¡±


    But she did seem slightly less sure.


    He continued blubbering, ¡°I saw those reports. I was¡ª I was curious. I read their textbooks back in hatchling school. Their science and math textbooks. I was¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the predators¡¯ fifth law of thermodynamics?¡± she asked coldly.


    ¡°Fifth¡ª fifth law of thermodynamics?¡± Plodvi asked. After a moment, he said slightly more confidently as he remembered his readings, ¡°They don¡¯t have one.¡±


    His captors didn¡¯t reply, only glanced wordlessly at each other.


    Sensing his lifeline being extended, Plodvi continued, ¡°The Great Predators didn¡¯t formalize theories around non-equilibrium systems and entropy into their laws of thermodynamics like we did.¡±


    They didn¡¯t say anything for a few more heartbeats.


    The female recovered some of her prior certainty. ¡°He could still be a State Security plant¡­ investigating our ship for apostates¡ª¡±


    ¡°If I were, you¡¯re dead anyway,¡± Plodvi said, sureness re-entering his voice as he began to engage his brain more rationally from his initial state of fear. ¡°I¡¯m a defect, like you. It makes no sense to kill me. If I report you, it will only increase my risk of exposure. And if you kill me, it will only increase your own risks of exposure.¡±


    ¡°How did you know where to look?¡± Rirkhni asked, his eyes uncertain. ¡°To look for us.¡±


    ¡°By accident,¡± Plodvi recalled. ¡°I was¡­ working on the vents, and I heard your voices coming through. And I was curious so I tried to get access. And you know the rest. I was just curious. Please¡­ don¡¯t hurt me¡­¡±


    The two conspirators looked between each other and him for a few more seconds.


    ¡°Well, I vote we let him go,¡± Rirkhni declared using that strange predator word.


    She faltered, thinking out loud, ¡°Well, having a six whiskers in the life support section could be useful in the future¡­¡±


    Rirkhni argued, ¡°Maybe he¡¯ll be an asset. Maybe we¡¯ll die. Either way, I don¡¯t want to kill him.¡±


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    After a few more seconds of thinking, she relented. She circled around behind Plodvi¡¯s chair and undid his restraints.


    Rirkhni was more enthusiastic about the decision. ¡°Welcome to our little book club, Six Whiskers. No hard feelings, right?¡±


    Plodvi slowly climbed out of the chair, massaging blood into his paws in immense relief. ¡°Book club, huh? What¡¯s your name, female?¡±


    ¡°Just in case, I don¡¯t want to use my real name here,¡± she replied before Rirkhni could. ¡°Call me¡­ Hobbsia.¡±


    ¡°Hob¡ª Hobbsia it is,¡± Plodvi grinned for the first time since being knocked out. It was very clearly an alien name.


    Rirkhni looked at him seriously. ¡°Six Whiskers, are you sure we just got unlucky? Is there anyone else on the ship we need to be on the lookout for?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I really did just hear you talking in the vents,¡± he said with a sniff. ¡°I doubt anyone else is looking through the computer logs, unless they¡¯re other defects like me.¡±


    Rirkhni sighed in relief. After a moment, he added, ¡°Oh, and one more thing. We are not defects.¡±


    ¡°Not defects?¡± Plodvi asked quizzically.


    ¡°No, Six Whiskers. We are free.¡±


    <hr>


    Since joining the ¡°book club¡± on ZNS 1687, Plodvi got unfettered access to the interesting transmissions from the predators. Rirkhni showed him how to modify his datapad so he could keep the illicit propaganda material secret. They were careful to hide their tracks from the watchful eyes of their supervisors ¡ª and the integrity-checking programs of the Digital Guides ¡ª on board.


    A careless mistake, and that was it for them¡­ and potentially their bloodlines.


    In their scheduled nap times, they would covertly gather in the life support module, discussing what they¡¯d discovered and exchanging contraband. And increasingly¡­ argue about the idealized future of their people. It was all a fanciful pipe dream, they knew, but it was much more interesting than their day jobs.


    ¡°In an ideal Dominion society, propagation of the Prophecy would be strictly banned,¡± Hobbsia would say.


    ¡°No, in an ideal Dominion society, anyone would be free to believe in the Prophecy, or not,¡± Rirkhni would counter. ¡°Like any other ideas that may or may not have merit.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s fiction masquerading as reality. It¡¯s deliberate disinformation.¡±


    ¡°Who determines that? Who can say if it¡¯s true or false?¡±


    ¡°We would. Or someone bred to.¡±


    ¡°Bred leaders with no oversight or reliable correction mechanisms?¡±


    ¡°They should take full responsibility for the decisions.¡±


    ¡°And what stops them from refusing to?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d be bred with compulsion to take responsibility, duh.¡±


    ¡°More eugenics? More?!¡±


    ¡°Someone must take responsibility anyway. And you don¡¯t really believe in that snout-counting crap they have, do you?¡±


    Plodvi felt like a third wheel watching them argue, but it was still more entertaining than staring at a dashboard of life support systems that rarely failed. Sometimes they¡¯d even ask him for his opinion.


    His opinion.


    ¡°Six Whiskers, you¡¯d ban the Prophecy too, right?¡±


    ¡°Come on, Plodvi, you¡¯re not a proto-fascist like her, are you?¡±


    ¡°Six Whiskers, you have to read the new book they released on the FTL network. It¡¯s called Open Society and Its Enemies, and in one of its endnotes¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her, Plodvi. Hobbsia doesn¡¯t even understand the context around that book. The predator who wrote it fully agrees with me. The line he drew for the paradox of intolerance was at violence and coercion, not disinformation!¡±


    At the end of the day, they¡¯d go back to being coworkers who didn¡¯t know each other. And they understood that it was all pretend. Just fun and games. Something they did to pass the time at their boring, meaningless jobs.


    Until they got the call on the FTL radio.


    <hr>


    ¡°My fellow Znosian spacers. My name is Ditvish. I was a ten whiskers in the Dominion Navy. For fifteen years, I did the bidding of my superiors, my commanders, and their masters. I thought I served the people of the Dominion. That I Served the very Prophecy itself. But that¡ª that was all a lie.¡±


    ¡°Shhhh¡­ listen to this,¡± Rirkhni shushed as he played the audio message on his datapad.


    ¡°The Dominion Navy has fallen prey to the faithless administrators, directors, and governors at State Security. They belittle our Service. They throw away our ships. They waste our precious lives. If you are hearing this message, you have surely seen the incontrovertible evidence of all this by now. You know the truth. The truth they keep from you. State Security¡¯s claws have gripped every dimension, every institution of our society. They have corrupted our state. The very self-correction mechanism we trusted to protect us from disorder and destruction thousands of years ago¡­ it is now rotting away at the core of our species. They¡­ they are the real abomination.¡±


    ¡°Is that really Zero Whiskers Ditvish?¡± Hobbsia asked in a hushed voice.


    ¡°Could be a fake,¡± Plodvi shrugged. ¡°Or they could have broken him.¡±


    ¡°Or he could just be free,¡± Rirkhni said excitedly, ¡°like us!¡±


    The recording continued, ¡°But you already know all this. And you are wondering, what can one Znosian spacer possibly do? What can we possibly do against this seemingly insurmountable institution. How can I take full responsibility for my own destiny? There is a solution.¡±


    They all leaned in simultaneously, hanging onto his every word.


    ¡°The Great Predators,¡± Ditvish continued simply. ¡°Humans from the Terran Republic who lead their multi-species defense against our senseless war.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Hobbsia said in disbelief.


    ¡°Shhhhh!¡±


    Ditvish¡¯s voice rose to a crescendo. ¡°State Security has lied to us about the predators. They have bred us to live in fear of our own shadows. They claim simultaneously that the predators are both incurably weak and corrupt¡­ and yet an existential threat to us all. That is a logical fallacy so blatant even a hatchling should be able to see through it! But after generations of breeding and brainwashing, they have hamstrung our potential and blinded us to the truth, the truth that shocked me to the core when I learned it myself. The predators are our real salvation! The Great Predators are here to save us from State Security!¡±


    ¡°That is an interesting claim, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shhhhhh!¡±


    ¡°The Great Predators are offering rewards for your information or cooperation. Real rewards. Rewards you can see and touch for yourself. Not fictional fairy tales that State Security tells you. Good lives. Good food. And most importantly, what you yearn for most: the truth. Call them on the FTL radio today. Direct it towards any major star system. Any channel, any encryption scheme. They are listening. They will answer. They will keep you safe. And when they end this horrible war, they will free the Znosian people from its real shackles. From the lies of State Security. Call now. You, too, can make a difference. I am Ditvish, free Znosian, signing off.¡±


    The recording ended in static and silence. None of them said anything for a good minute.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I trust what they say,¡± Hobbsia said. ¡°They are giving us a distorted perspective of the truth.¡±


    Rirkhni harumphed. ¡°Maybe, but even if they are lying, they may be able to help us, right?¡±


    Finally, Plodvi voiced the question they were all pondering. ¡°Just¡­ theoretically, how would we broadcast from the FTL radio without detection?¡±


    <hr>


    Naval Station Europa, Europa (100 km)


    POV: ¡°Hersh¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    ¡°Pretty good, huh?¡± Hersh beamed at the former ten whiskers.


    ¡°Another one of these? Some of our people must be onto your tricks and these impersonations by now.¡± Ditvish wrinkled his nose in annoyance. ¡°These horrible fabrications of my voice.¡±


    ¡°Hah. If we actually used the real you to make broadcasts like this, that could be¡ª it¡¯s of somewhat questionable legality. Under our laws of war, at least.¡±


    He looked intrigued. ¡°Is it actually?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ maybe. Something about protecting you from public curiosity.¡±


    Ditvish flicked a ear at him. ¡°And you always follow that rule closely?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ maybe,¡± Hersh repeated.


    ¡°But counterfeiting my voice ¡ª that is allowed and uncontroversial?!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I¡¯d call it uncontroversial, but there¡¯s no law nor rule of war against that whatsoever.¡±


    Ditvish looked at the operative in amusement. ¡°You and your silly rules of war. What if they hold a commission and investigate you for this?¡±


    ¡°Like if the Republic Senate does another one of their accountability hearings about our recent activities? We¡¯ll just tell them the truth: it¡¯s faked. Like I said, that¡¯s perfectly legal and half our computation budget goes to legal intelligences these days.¡±


    ¡°How could you prove it?¡± Ditvish asked skeptically. ¡°How could you even tell? The recording sounds indistinguishable from real to me.¡±


    ¡°Worst case, they can just haul you in for questioning to see if you made the recording. What are you going to do? Tell them you actually did the recording for real?¡± Hersh asked with a wink.


    Ditvish looked at him with a bemused expression. ¡°What if I do? I can tell them all that you forced me to do it. I¡¯ll get you all in trouble. Big trouble. I am very good at lying.¡±


    Hersh chuckled. ¡°No, you¡¯re not; you¡¯re a terrible liar, Ditvish. And you wouldn¡¯t. Because if you did¡­ then, you would actually have to admit that you believed every single word that fake-you said in that transmission. That the Dominion really is rotting because of your leaders. That your species is doomed unless we go liberate them.¡±


    ¡°Sure, but I don¡¯t care what I admit to your leaders. I don¡¯t care what they think about me.¡±


    ¡°No, maybe not. But I know there is one person you don¡¯t want to admit it to ¡ª that you really do believe it all. Every single word about the rot in your own society.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Yourself.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 44 Unacceptable

    <div>


    SRNS My Other Ship, Spofke-7 (6 Ls)


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    The Ace of Clubs brushed at the new scar on her cheek absentmindedly as she watched her minions escort the guest onto her bridge. Since the advancement of organic reconstruction technology in the early 21st century, scarring was entirely optional ¡ª and her wounds from her brush with death were trivial, but the scars had a nice aesthetic she enjoyed.


    ¡°What do you want from me¡ª uh¡ª Captain?¡± the guest asked her in his gruff voice.


    ¡°You can say it,¡± she replied with a grin. ¡°Terrorist, Grass Eater, abomination. I¡¯ve heard it all. A hundred light-years every direction, they¡¯ve got a different slur for me in every system.¡±


    ¡°Where¡ª where is this? Where are we?¡±


    ¡°BunnyLand, Amin. This¡­ is BunnyLand,¡± the Ace said, pointing out the virtual window at the front of the bridge. ¡°Look at it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, huh, that¡¯s kind of cool, I guess.¡± Amin squinted at the barren, icy landscape on the monitor. ¡°Well, I mean, I thought it¡¯d be a little bit more¡ª¡±


    ¡°This is the seventh planet in their outer system,¡± she clarified. ¡°Not the one with life. The habitable one is the fourth planet. Spofke-4, the Reps call it¡­ Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯re working on it.¡±


    He took a deep breath before asking, ¡°Why¡ª why was I brought here?¡±


    ¡°You know who we are, Amin,¡± she said in her best friendly voice.


    ¡°Yeah, Red Zone Resistance. Look, I¡¯m just a lowly ship engineer from Ceres. And the war¡¯s over. We¡¯re all friends now, right? I¡¯m a nobody. Please¡­ just let me go home.¡±


    The Ace walked up and patted the nervous man on his shoulder. ¡°Oh, Amin. I think you¡¯re selling yourself way short here. You are so much more than just a regular engineer. The Resistance recognizes real talent and ambition ¡ª we really do. And I know you¡¯ve got both of those.¡±


    ¡°Please, Captain,¡± he pleaded.


    The Ace sighed. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be such a fucking baby. Look, we¡¯re not going to kill you. We just need your help on something. A little side project.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do¡ª I¡¯ll do what you ask. If you¡¯ll promise to let me go.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Once you help us complete our project, we¡¯ll put you back in the Rep lost-and-found at McMurdo. Unharmed, I promise. And we¡¯ll pay you too, how nice is that?!¡±


    Amin had the sense not to ask how much she was offering. ¡°What¡ª what do you need me to build?¡±


    ¡°What was that last project you worked on for the Reps at Ceres?¡± she asked lightly. She gestured to Felix standing next to her. ¡°I forgot. Can you bring it up¡ª¡±


    Amin paled instantly. ¡°Not that one. I can¡¯t¡ª I don¡¯t have my tools and my research¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We¡¯ve got our own tools and computers here, even our own industrial fabricators and our own alien ships. It¡¯s just reverse engineering right? Our people are very good at this kind of stuff. We were going to get there eventually. But for now, we just need you for a push in the right direction. A hint or two.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but¡ª I can¡¯t¡ª¡±


    She clasped his shoulder tightly. ¡°Oh, Amin, Amin, Amin. Like you said, we¡¯re all friends now, right? All on the same side. The human side. And the aliens, we¡¯re fighting them out here for our very existence. You were there when they attacked Ceres! You know what they are! The enemy. And since we¡¯re on the frontlines here, we deserve the very best that humanity can offer, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡±


    ¡°I asked you a question, Amin. We deserve the very best that humanity can offer, don¡¯t we?¡±


    <hr>


    System State Security HQ, Spofke-4


    POV: Farsot, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Governor)


    The predators were at it again.


    They¡¯d been roaming around the outer system for a few months now.


    First, their fleet came in, trashed everything in Spofke that was armed. Then, some of them left. A few stayed behind ¡ª the ones that looked like they were of Znosian make, settling near the outer planets in the system. It was unfortunate that so many of them had gotten themselves captured.


    Governor Farsot managed to get one of her unarmed relay ships out of the system, to talk to Znos, to call for help and get instructions since their FTL radios had been jammed. Znos had responded with uncharacteristic ambivalence. They promised to send help ¡ª eventually, but the State Security officer she talked to couldn¡¯t commit to any specifics.


    Farsot knew exactly what that meant. This was a border system, and the predators were loose in the interiors of the Dominion. They were on their own.


    She noticed that the predators in Spofke now were different from how State Security intelligence described them. They didn¡¯t bother to cover their tracks or hide their ships. Their radio discipline was lax, and they often taunted Znosians on the open radio. But physically, they mostly kept to themselves in the outer system. Farsot could only hope that whatever was going on in the Dominion, the Navy would sort it out and come exterminate these nuisances.


    Nuisances that were now sending gadgets to her planet.


    ¡°What in the Prophecy is that?¡± she asked as the planetary defense sensors tracked one of the predators¡¯ ominous-looking vessels.


    ¡°Looks like some kind of a¡­ probe?¡± her attendant speculated. ¡°We identified an array of instruments on it, and a transceiver.¡±


    ¡°What are they probing?¡± Farsot asked.


    He shrugged. ¡°Spofke-4, maybe? To gather information our planetary defenses. For a planetary invasion.¡±


    ¡°We have billions down here. The last intelligence burst from Znos said their total troop strength here is under a hundred thousand,¡± Farsot said. ¡°They can¡¯t invade us with those numbers, even if they are individually many times more effective than our estimates.¡±


    ¡°We saw on our telescopes that they were bringing more ships in.¡±


    ¡°Bah. Only a few. Our estimates have not changed significantly.¡±


    He grunted without a response.


    Farsot sighed. ¡°Can we at least shoot the probe down?¡±


    ¡°Our long-range defenses were destroyed by the predators. But once that thing enters the outer atmosphere, we should be able to reach it. Is that¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes. Get the Marine chief. I want that thing gone as soon as it gets in range.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)


    ¡°They took it out, Ace.¡±


    ¡°Did we gather the data we wanted?¡± she turned to Felix.


    ¡°Yeah. The short version is, their response time is shit. Looks like the Reps really did a number on their long range orbital defenses. Everything is ready.¡±


    ¡°Alright then. Let¡¯s get this party started.¡±


    <hr>


    POV: Farsot, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Governor)


    ¡°There is a call for you, Governor.¡±


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s the predators from the outer system.¡±


    ¡°What did they, run out of salt?¡± Farsot snarled at her attendant. ¡°What do the abominations want?¡±


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t say. They just jammed all wireless connections in our area and¡ª and asked specifically to talk to you.¡±


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking to the barbarians. They can¡¯t be trusted.¡±


    ¡°They said that something bad would happen if we don¡¯t talk to them,¡± her attendant added helpfully.


    Farsot scoffed. ¡°Bad? How bad?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. They didn¡¯t give details, but based on our analysts¡¯ understanding of their body language, we think they implied it would involve a great deal of enjoyment on their end.¡±


    ¡°For the sake of the Prophecy,¡± she scowled. ¡°Connect them to me.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Governor.¡±


    The heavily-scarred face of the predator showed up on her console. For a predator, it was even uglier than usual.


    ¡°Hello, who am I speaking to?¡± it asked her.


    She gave the predator her best mean mug. ¡°I am Farsot. I am the governor of this star system. What do you want?¡±


    ¡°I am the Ace of Clubs of the Saturnian¡ª Sirius People¡¯s Navy, and I want a great deal of things, Farce.¡±


    ¡°My name is Farsot! You are pronouncing it incorrectly¡ª¡±


    It ignored her. ¡°But we will start small, Farce. Today, we are going to begin the first round of what we call the BunnyLand negotiations.¡±


    ¡°What are we negotiating?¡± Farsot kept her scowl. ¡°I would be interested if one of the items on the list is your head mounted on my wall.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating. You have the concept of trophies.¡±


    Of course we do. We learned it from you disgusting predators.


    It continued, ¡°Well, that¡¯s not on the table, but we did find six lost mining vessels near your asteroid dense belt.¡± The predator showed her all of its sharp teeth. Which¡­ she knew in her head was its primitive way of expressing amusement, but in her heart, she felt every bit the hostility with her evolved understanding of civilized body language.


    Farsot growled. ¡°Yes, we have noticed their absence and the mining fluffle that sent them has taken responsibility. But you are the real responsible one. You will pay for this with your primitive existence.¡±


    The predator shook its head. ¡°Primitive? No, no, I know what you¡¯re thinking. Don¡¯t worry. We haven¡¯t eaten their crews. Yet. Actually, we have taken very good care of them. They are guests on our ship.¡±


    ¡°They are still alive?!¡± Farsot asked in disbelief. ¡°We have already written them off and requisitioned additional mining crew from the hatchling pools.¡±


    ¡°Well, you can cancel your¡­ requisition, because they are definitely still alive. We just need a little incentive to return them.¡±


    Farsot narrowed her eyes. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°We want to lease some real estate from you.¡±


    Farsot frowned in confusion. ¡°Use real words, barbarian.¡±


    ¡°You have a small island down there, in your big ocean. The big one.¡±


    ¡°We have thousands of small islands on our planet, you defect.¡±


    ¡°Defect¡ª hah, good one. You¡¯re a funny one, Farce. Here, I¡¯ve got a picture of the island.¡±


    A satellite photo showed up on her console, with alien markings superimposed over the familiar looking coastlines of Spofke-4.


    ¡°The island of Ginstvol?¡± Farsot checked her own datapad as her frown deepened. ¡°It¡¯s unoccupied and economically worthless. What do you need it for?¡±


    ¡°Coconut farm.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to build a fruit farm on it. Do you know what those words mean?¡± the predator asked condescendingly.


    ¡°We know what farms are, predator. Bah! Asking us what farms are. We have more farms in our Dominion than you have ships!¡±


    ¡°Sure you do, Farce. Sure you do. So¡­ what do you say? A small, unoccupied island in the middle of an ocean. For the crews of six mining vessels.¡±


    ¡°Why would we want the crews back?¡± Farsot asked, frowning in confusion again. ¡°I thought we were discussing the mining vessels.¡±


    The predator seemed momentarily taken aback. ¡°Uh¡­ sure¡­ yeah, you can have those back too.¡±


    Farsot considered the trade, but not for very long. The predator was almost certainly lying about what they intended to use the island for, and the long-term costs to her planet¡¯s security of having predators on its surface far outweighed whatever meager production value those mining vessels represented.


    ¡°The answer is no.¡±


    The predator frowned. ¡°Well, that¡¯s too bad. We were really looking forward to our new coconut farms.¡±


    ¡°How about this? I will consider the deal if you jump out an airlock without a helmet?¡±


    Rather than get angry, the predator let out a hearty predator laugh. ¡°I like you, Farce. But let¡¯s be a bit more specific here in our negotiation so we can get a little closer. Obviously, you¡¯re not very interested in six mining vessels. How many mining vessels would you say an island of yours is worth?¡±


    Farsot rolled her eyes and threw her arms wide. ¡°A hundred.¡±


    ¡°A hundred?¡± the predator asked with a glint in its eyes. ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ why? No! That¡¯s not what I¡ª¡±


    <hr>


    It took about two weeks for the predators to steal another ninety-four mining vessels from her star system. They were unnervingly efficient at it. She didn¡¯t know how they kept getting away with it, but they did.


    ¡°When I said a hundred mining vessels, I didn¡¯t mean you should go and take a hundred of ours!¡± Farsot fumed at the ugly face on her screen.


    ¡°You said you wanted a hundred, so we gathered a hundred for you. You aren¡¯t going to go back on your word, are you, Farce?¡± the predator asked.


    ¡°We did not agree to a deal in the first place!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s too bad. But you do want your mining vessels back, right?¡±


    ¡°What do you really want from us, abomination?¡± Farsot asked miserably. ¡°Why won¡¯t you just go away?!¡±


    ¡°For starters, we want that planet of yours. It¡¯s big and beautiful and habitable, and we want it. Hm¡­ at least a large chunk of it. You can stay on some parts of it ¡ª a few fenced off reservations is our plan, but we¡¯ll have the rest.¡±


    Farsot¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°You can¡¯t do that! This is our planet, not yours!¡±


    ¡°The word on the grapevine is that you took it from another species you wiped out a few decades ago.¡±


    Farsot grit her teeth at the annoying predator. What it said wasn¡¯t going to change her mind, but she was more used to ordering around idiots and subordinates, not people who repeatedly challenged her understanding of Spofke¡¯s planetary history. ¡°So? It is ours now!¡±


    ¡°So¡­ we¡¯ll take it off you, the same way you took it off another species, starting with one island.¡±


    ¡°That¡ª that is absolutely unacceptable!¡± she fumed.


    The predator rolled its eyes. ¡°Well, of course you¡¯d say that now. Which is why we just want a very small piece of it first. Then, we¡¯ll have another piece. And another piece. And when finally you give up your whole planet to us, you¡¯ll wonder why you ever thought it was unfair in the first place.¡±


    Farsot continued to gape at it. ¡°Has that¡ª that idiotic negotiating strategy ever worked?¡±


    It bared its teeth at her. ¡°In the history of our people? All the time. We even have a word for it: appeasement.¡±


    ¡°We have that word too!¡±


    ¡°And the beauty of it is¡­ you can know it¡¯s coming, and you¡¯ll fall for it all the same.¡±


    ¡°No deal, barbarian.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see if you change your tune in a couple weeks.¡±


    ¡°There is no number of mining vessels you can steal that would compel us to give up our rightful place on this planet!¡± Farsot declared.


    The predator shrugged. ¡°Yeah, probably. But we¡¯ve got other things to negotiate with. You¡¯ll see in a bit, Farce.¡±


    ¡°Wait, no¡ª¡±


    Her attendant¡¯s voice cut into his headset. ¡°They¡¯ve hung up, Governor.¡±


    <hr>


    Farsot did not sleep very well for the next week.


    ¡°Governor Farce¡ª Farsot, the Marine chief is reporting something very concerning.¡±


    ¡°How many more mining ships did the Great Predators take this time?¡± she asked in annoyance.


    ¡°None, as far as we know. But one of the asteroids in the outer system is moving out of its regular orbit.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°It appears there is some predator activity near it. They appear to be responsible for this.¡±


    Farsot buried her face in her paws. ¡°Of course! They have planetary tugs¡­ Oh¡ª oh no. Are they planning to throw the asteroid at our planet?¡±


    ¡°It appears¡­ yes, Governor. Given its trajectory in the past couple hours, that appears to be their plan. Who do we do?¡±


    ¡°Contact the predators,¡± Farsot said in despair. ¡°Their plan would ruin this planet! They can¡¯t possibly be so insane as to go through with this.¡±


    A few minutes later, her attendant got back to her. ¡°They¡¯re not answering the radio.¡±


    <hr>


    The predators made her wait two full days as the asteroid bore down on her planet. It wasn¡¯t a very big one, only a few kilometers at its widest, but Farsot was no bred-illiterate. She knew what happened when those things made landfall from outer space.


    The Marines on the surface could shoot down satellites and ships, but a whole asteroid like this? Perhaps they could deflect it, if it wasn¡¯t being actively propelled. She had zero confidence they¡¯d be able to stop it from landing, and after a couple meetings with the Marine chief, she was on the verge of despondence for the expected permanent productivity loss of the planet when the predators finally called her back.


    The same predator¡¯s face appeared on her screen. ¡°My people said you¡¯ve been calling for me, Farce. So¡­ have you reconsidered your stance on leasing out your islands?¡±


    Farsot ignored the question. ¡°What are you doing with that asteroid?¡±


    It played dumb. Of course it did. ¡°Hm? Asteroid? Which one?¡±


    ¡°The one you are moving towards Spofke-4!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, which one? Or do you just mean the closest one?¡±


    Her heart dropped. ¡°There¡¯s more than one¡ª never mind. What do you plan to do with the asteroids?!¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ nothing in particular.¡±


    Farsot looked into the camera sternly. ¡°Really? Because it seems like you are planning on crashing it into our planet to kill lots of our people!¡±


    The predator tilted its head. ¡°Oh, huh, that is an interesting idea I hadn¡¯t considered. Thanks for the suggestion, Governor Farce. We¡¯ll have to explore¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop with these games! I know what you plan! I warn you, uncivilized predator: doing that could render this planet uninhabitable for decades, if not centuries! And that would make it useless to your short-sighted species!¡±


    It did not flinch at this. Instead, it looked straight at the camera. ¡°We did, in fact, consider that, Bun. You are right. We do want most of your planet intact for us. And yeah, if the asteroid touched down on one of your continents, it would kick up a lot of dust to block the star and start a new ice age down there or whatever ¡ª that¡¯ll be a pain to clean up and terrible for the real estate value of our new neighborhood.¡±


    Farsot tried to hide the triumph from her facial expression. ¡°Like I said, it would take decades, or even centuries, before you would be¡ª¡±


    The predator interrupted her crowing with a dangerous glint in its eyes. ¡°But then¡­ we did some consulting with our local expertise ¡ª we¡¯ve got a number of experts on your people, by the way. And they say that your people are, by nature, underground dwellers. That many of you live in tunnels and caves. That most of you aren¡¯t bred to swim. An asteroid to the shallows near one of your coastlines, one big enough to generate some underwater earthquakes and big waves¡­ all the disaster, and none of the costly cleanup.¡±


    Farsot¡¯s whiskers drooped.


    That was exactly what one faction of Znosian schismatics did to another in the ancient history of the Dominion. Apparently one of the Grand Fleet apostates they¡¯d captured had that esoteric piece of information. That made sense ¡ª when they set out for Sol, the Grand Fleet needed all the expertise they had on how best to exterminate the enemy¡¯s home nest.


    Which was also extremely unfortunate for her now.


    ¡°That probably won¡¯t work,¡± she insisted, as if trying to convince herself more than the gleeful predator on her screen. ¡°We¡¯ve got¡ª we¡¯ve got proper irrigation and¡ª we¡¯ve got¡ª¡±


    ¡°Want to see our computer modeling and casualty projections?¡±


    ¡°You¡ª you¡¯re¡ª you¡¯re¡ª¡± she stuttered.


    ¡°See, Governor Farce¡­ I believe the word you¡¯re looking for is evil. But you don¡¯t have that word in your own language, do you? Anyway¡­ that island, whatever its name was. It¡¯s just one island to start with, but since we¡¯ve already gone to all this trouble, I¡¯m afraid we¡¯re going to have to insist on adding some sweeteners to the deal¡­¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 45 Book Club II

    <div>


    ZNS 1687, Znos-4-C (40,000 km)


    POV: Plodvi, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    It wasn¡¯t easy. The FTL radio was not meant to be used covertly by a couple of low-ranked officers in the Digital Guide section nor a supervisor for the life support module.


    But they had a few advantages. Their adversaries were officers in the Dominion Navy, bred and trained for very specific tasks, and few of them worried about internal security. Unlike the predators, Znosians had far fewer formal barriers between the ranks and functions of the ship. A life support module supervisor asking questions about computer logs regarding power usage should have raised some suspicion, but nobody on board would really suspect sabotage or corruption from others. Most of the structures designed around responsibility were put in place to guard against incompetence, not deliberate subversion. If that was going to be a problem, it was an issue for State Security.


    As for State Security, they didn¡¯t send their best to the 1687 either. The onboard computer could have been a detection threat, but Rirkhni assured them he knew what he was doing from his experience working with it.


    They routed the messages through another seven whiskers¡¯ datapad, secured with the Dominion Navy¡¯s regular encryption schemes and a long quantum key, knowing that whatever predator out there was listening would probably be able to break it.


    When the book club finally gathered up the courage to do it, they sent a message out into the abyss, asking questions about the predator¡¯s offer.


    Less than three hours later, they got a response, also secured using the very key they used in the first place. The message evaluated their secrecy measures and suggested improvements. And by the end of Plodvi¡¯s day shift, they had secured communication with the Great Predators.


    As they huddled around their datapad in the life support module in anticipation, an alien face appeared on it: a bald predator, with only a ring of thin fur around its crown. Plodvi had seen images and videos of them before, but knowing that the other end of this one was live ¡ª it was a different level of exhilaration.


    It looked directly into the camera with its front-facing eyes. ¡°Hello. My name is Hersh. I work for the Terran Republic. How do you do?¡±


    The three of them shot a look at each other, wondering how to respond. ¡°Hello,¡± Plodvi replied after a few seconds.


    ¡°Three of you, huh?¡± Hersh asked. ¡°What are your names?¡±


    ¡°Before we start,¡± Plodvi said, ¡°how does this work? Your people said there would be a reward. What and how?¡±


    The Terran leaned back. ¡°Very practical, that¡¯s what I like to hear. There are a few ways we can help you. And it depends on what you¡¯re looking for. Most of the people who talk to us are people trying to surrender on the planets whose orbits we¡¯ve liberated; if you¡¯re near the frontlines, we can get you to safety or help you avoid danger. Others are like you, deep in the Znosian Dominion. Unfortunately since your people don¡¯t have the concept of money, we can¡¯t offer that to you. But we can still give you tangible things that improve your life.¡±


    ¡°Such as?¡±


    ¡°Some of your people are looking for the truth. That is fairly straightforward. We can give you information that you want with almost no restrictions. Others are dissatisfied with their stations in life. That is slightly more complicated, but we do our best for people who help us. We can arrange events in your corrupt system, to help you move up in ranking, to transition to different careers or deployment locations. A few people want to leave the Dominion entirely. That is¡­ more difficult, but it can also be arranged. And finally, when we win this war, your contributions to the cause will be recognized and compensated.¡±


    Plodvi arched an eyebrow in doubt. ¡°When you win this war?¡±


    Hersh¡¯s voice didn¡¯t waver. ¡°When we win this war.¡±


    Plodvi glanced briefly at his two companions, and both of them shrugged. ¡°We¡¯re not interested in a physical reward, or more information. What we want is¡­ liberation. True liberation for our people.¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± the Terran said. ¡°That is what we are offering.¡±


    ¡°No, what you offer is a chance to help you fight our Dominion,¡± Plodvi objected. ¡°It¡¯s a subtle difference, but we can see it. You are predators. No matter what you¡¯ve made our prisoners say on the radio, your objectives are not to free our people. If it turns out to be convenient¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, you are right,¡± Hersh said bluntly. ¡°I won¡¯t sugarcoat it, and I won¡¯t bother lying to you. We¡¯re only interested in individuals like you because you can help us in our war against the Dominion. But¡­ that doesn¡¯t change what we can do for you right now, does it?¡±


    ¡°That means you¡¯ll sell us out if the price is right. If Dominion State Security agrees to serious concessions to your people ¡ª say it surrenders and leaves the Slow Predator¡¯s system ¡ª in exchange for you giving us up, you would take that deal.¡±


    The Terran didn¡¯t blink an eye. ¡°In a heartbeat.¡±


    ¡°Then why should we trust you?¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t.¡± He tilted his head. ¡°Then again, you don¡¯t have much of a choice, do you?¡±


    ¡°We can fight for our own freedom. Without your help,¡± Plodvi insisted. ¡°The books you¡¯ve provided us over the FTL radio have proven instructive in many circumstances.¡±


    ¡°Sure. You can certainly try. I¡¯ll tell you the same thing I tell every one of your kind who asks the same: your system is rotten to its core, but it has lasted for centuries. It can continue on its momentum, like how a dead tree can continue to stand tall for years before it collapses. Without us, you are doomed to failure.¡±


    Plodvi shifted uncomfortably. ¡°What would you do if we manage to succeed?¡±


    Hersh did not look surprised by the question. ¡°Succeed? What does success look like?¡±


    ¡°Say we manage to topple State Security and institute a new system, one built similar to yours, based on your concepts and values of fairness and freedom, best that we can. Would you stop your war against our people?¡±


    ¡°Probably not.¡±


    ¡°And your war demands?¡±


    ¡°They would remain mostly unchanged.¡±


    At least you¡¯re honest about it.


    Plodvi frowned. ¡°So in addition to treachery, you are not above hypocrisy.¡±


    ¡°We are not, but that was immaterial to the question. Your people have dominated your neighbors for centuries. The Dominion has murdered billions of innocent people from dozens of intelligence species. There must be an accounting to all of it. Reparations. Justice.¡±


    ¡°Responsibility assignment.¡±


    ¡°Kind of.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ don¡¯t you believe in individual responsibility? We¡¯ve done nothing wrong, the three of us here. If we help topple our system and make a better one, why would you punish us collectively for the actions of our bloodlines?¡±


    Hersh shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m no lawyer, but we don¡¯t believe in collective punishment.¡±


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°But you just said¡ª¡±


    ¡°I said, we won¡¯t stop this war. Not until your people give up the fight. And when we win, we won¡¯t be executing or imprisoning you for the crimes of your ancestors. That is not what we believe in. But as you all have benefited from the conquests from Dominion, as you all have contributed to its continued existence, and as you have allowed State Security to kill in your name, you are all on the hook for the cleanup. ¡±


    ¡°But it wasn¡¯t us! It was the imbeciles at State Security! Those are the ones who call the shots! This war is on them!¡±


    ¡°It was not State Security officers invaded our homes, shot at our ships, and put our peoples into camps. Not only State Security officers. That was done by Znosians, wearing uniforms produced by regular Znosians, eating rations grown by regular Znosians, and on ships built by regular Znosians.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª but¡ª I don¡¯t understand!¡±


    The human tilted his head. ¡°Let me put it another way: if you steal extra ration portions from your mess hall, and distribute it to your squad, what happens if you get caught?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d be held responsible for theft, possibly sabotage,¡± Plodvi answered without hesitation, ¡°and any of my squad that knew about it would be too.¡±


    ¡°What if one of your squad members opposed it and reported you?¡±


    ¡°Then¡­ they might not be punished. It is counter-productive to punish people who report crimes.¡±


    ¡°Would they have to return their portion of the stolen rations?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡±


    ¡°Well, your entire Dominion is built on stolen rations. Stolen planets from your exterminated neighbors. And so, you must all pay.¡±


    ¡°That is¡ª that is not an apt analogy!¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°It just¡ª it just isn¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°Maybe not the way you see it. But¡­ that is where we stand. In the end, there will be a full accounting. There must be.¡±


    The three of them mulled it over quietly for a minute.


    ¡°You are not what I expected,¡± Plodvi said after a while.


    ¡°People rarely are.¡±


    ¡°You will not help us liberate our own people,¡± he said, disappointment evident on his face.


    There was a pause on the other end. ¡°I didn¡¯t say that.¡±


    ¡°Then what?¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t want to defect and join us directly, what about a mutual exchange of information?¡±


    Plodvi asked, ¡°What do you want to know, and what are you offering?¡±


    ¡°You are spacers, calling from a Dominion Navy ship in Znos,¡± Hersh deduced. ¡°You¡¯re trying to start an organized resistance from within. Under your system, you are isolated. You need allies, fighters of your own people. We can tell you who you can trust.¡±


    ¡°And how would you know that?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not the first of your people to have contacted us. Of course, we wouldn¡¯t be revealing to you any of our important sources, but others who are like you? We can give you a few names. Just to get you started.¡±


    Seeing reluctant nods from his two companions, Plodvi agreed, ¡°Fine. What do you want to know?¡±


    ¡°I understand you are from the Znos Defense Fleet?¡±


    Plodvi nodded. ¡°We are on the ship numbered 1687. We are stationed around Znos-4-C.¡±


    ¡°Znos-4-C, huh? That¡¯s¡­ your Navy¡¯s moon?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed.


    Znos-4 had three moons, all habitable. Plodvi didn¡¯t know the history of it, but it seemed likely to him that at some point ¡ª several hundred or thousand years ago, they were probably towed into orbit of Znos-4, or terraformed. 4-A and 4-B were mostly industrial and residential in nature, like the homeworld itself.


    Znos-4-C was unique. Its purpose was war. The entire planetoid built around this purpose, billions of Znosian troops were bred, hatched, trained, and garrisoned down there on Znos-4-C. It was the nerve center of the Dominion Navy and Marines. As such, its orbits were now diligently guarded by just under 32 squadrons of the Dominion¡¯s finest Forager-class missile destroyers. Recent events in the war had blunted some of that pride in their equipment, but it was still a substantial tonnage held in reserve in defense of the Znosian home system.


    But Plodvi was fairly certain the predators knew all that already.


    Hersh nodded. ¡°Excellent. Now, I know you have some access to most of your ship¡¯s systems, especially since you¡¯ve gotten to the FTL radio. There are just a few things we want to clear up about your deployments.¡±


    ¡°Hold on, what about your end of the bargain?¡±


    ¡°Sure, in addition to the three of you, there are¡­ at least three more like you in your squadron. Would you like to know their names and ranks?¡±


    <hr>


    Dominion State Security Office 2905, Znos-4


    POV: Saminki, Znosian (Agent)


    Saminki verified the numbers on his datapad, blinking rapidly as he did.


    Technically, he wasn¡¯t supposed to be checking at all. There was no stated procedure in the handbook for confirming whether the actual numbers stored in the delicate machines matched the policies of the Dominion State. Such integrity checks were supposed to be done by Digital Guides and people above him.


    Something had obviously gone wrong. Very wrong.


    With trembling paws, he dialed for his counterpart in the neighboring 2906 office on his datapad. The other end of the connection picked up in less than three seconds.


    ¡°This is Agent Saminki. I need to talk to Agent Kvinkt right now,¡± he demanded.


    ¡°Yes, Agent Saminki. I will connect you as soon as possible. I take full responsibility for any delay.¡±


    There was some light scratching over the receiver and another voice joined the call. ¡°How may we be of service to the Security of the State today?¡±


    Long-winded as always. That was the Agent Kvinkt he knew.


    He sighed and replied, ¡°Agent Kvinkt. It¡¯s Saminki from 2905.¡±


    ¡°How is your station doing, Saminki?¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said distractedly. ¡°Agent Kvinkt, I¡¯m seeing a discrepancy with some of our machines here in our district. I want to double-check, to make sure¡ª to see where the issue originates.¡±


    ¡°Malfunctioning machines?¡± He could hear her frown as she asked, ¡°Which machines?¡±


    ¡°Some regulatory chips in the hatchling pools.¡±


    There was some rustling in the background as she queried the records on her end. ¡°Alright, let me see¡­ regulatory chips in hatchling pools¡­ which model?¡±


    ¡°We use the Dominion Model 4-8-0 in ours.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got six of our hatchling pool facilities using those new ones,¡± she said after a moment. ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°Dig into the chip settings, specifically the special configuration option, zero zero four.¡±


    ¡°Hm¡­ it requires a security override. Give me a second¡­ ah, there it is.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the ratio on your machines?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Zero point zero eight three three three three¡ª¡±


    His heart pounded in his white, fluffy ears. ¡°How many zeroes after the decimal did you say?¡±


    ¡°Zero point zero eight¡ª Just one zero after the decimal. Why?¡±


    ¡°There are supposed to be three zeroes there.¡±


    ¡°No¡­ that can¡¯t be right,¡± she said after a moment. ¡°It¡¯s a special configuration. The machines would catch the integrity error a dozen times before they make it to Znos, not to mention our districts. There would be at least¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking at it right now,¡± he insisted. ¡°The numbers straight from the Dominion Archives.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Very. I¡¯m looking at the two numbers right now. They don¡¯t match. They¡¯re off by two orders of magnitude!¡±


    ¡°And you say you¡¯re checking against the Dominion Archives?¡± Kvinkt asked.


    ¡°Yes, I requested a copy of the original configuration records. They approved the request and sent the file over last night to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Maybe the file was corrupted during transfer. Or maybe the original has been¡­ altered?¡± she suggested. ¡°Surely that is a more likely explanation than such a major error in the special configuration entries of machines in such critical roles.¡±


    He hesitated for a second. That was a possibility. He had other reasons to be suspicious, but he declined to voice them. ¡°That is¡­ possible,¡± he hedged. ¡°I can go and check the Archives physically myself.¡±


    ¡°I would recommend that,¡± she said, ¡°before you go around raising the alarm on an issue of such magnitude. Remember last time when you claimed that the drinking water in your district was contaminated by old pipes or something?¡±


    How could Saminki forget that embarrassment? The water was mildly contaminated! It wasn¡¯t his fault the detector machines also happened to be malfunctioning at the same time ¡ª through no responsibility of his ¡ª and the final testing showed the levels to be lower than the reportable threshold. But that didn¡¯t stop his colleagues from making fun of him or HQ from issuing a quiet reprimand. A reprimand that was probably the reason why he was still stuck out here in District 2905 instead of a more prestigious posting that his superior breeding deserved.


    He harumphed at the jab. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll go check it myself.¡±


    ¡°Have fun on your wild predator chase,¡± Kvinkt teased, then hung up.


    Saminki packed up his datapad and marched down to his office garage. His attendant was already in the driver¡¯s seat, ready with his travel bag.


    ¡°Spaceport now,¡± he ordered as he got into the backseat. ¡°And tell them to schedule me for the next flight to HQ.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Agent,¡± his attendant answered. ¡°Next available flight is a shipment of electronic screen components in six hours.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll do. Bump off their least prioritized cargo.¡± He turned his attention back to his datapad, idling browsing the bulletin feed as his attendant navigated the crowded city streets outside his car windows. The predators had trashed the production facilities in another couple systems out near the edge of the Dominion. Nothing that would really affect his job, but Saminki liked to stay informed, on the off-chance he¡¯d be promoted out of this district one day¡­


    Feeling a sudden jolt in the car¡¯s acceleration, he looked out the window right as it hit a bump in the road and he smacked his snout on the seat in front of him.


    They were going fast. Really fast.


    Annoyed, Saminki addressed his attendant in front. ¡°We don¡¯t have to go that fast, you know? We¡¯ve got six hours, and I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll wait for us if we call ahead¡ª¡±


    His attendant¡¯s response was full-blown panic. ¡°Agent! I am not responsible for this. The vehicle is not fully responding to my controls!¡±


    The vehicle swerved twice and the roads outside became a blur. ¡°What do you mean, not fully¡ª¡±


    ¡°The brakes are non-functional!¡±


    He watched in horror as his vehicle weaved through traffic, his attendant desperately trying to maintain control¡­ and failing. They careened, out of control, into the ditch next to the road.


    Bang.


    The last thing going through Saminki¡¯s head was a paw-sized chunk of the vehicle¡¯s glass windshield.

 On Every Front - Chapter 46 Ill Intent

    <div>


    Grantor City Safehouse Romeo, Grantor-3


    POV: Skhork, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)


    Skhork didn¡¯t have much time.


    Every time the human operators left him alone in their safehouse, they¡¯d ask him what he planned to do to escape. What he was plotting. How he was going to hurt them or get them killed. Questions of that nature, which he was compelled to answer while they grinned at him as if he were a toy. They were a paranoid bunch, these¡ª people, and they¡¯d always ask in case he got a new idea.


    But they¡¯d forgotten one question.


    And he did get a new idea.


    He slowly hopped to near the command center of the safehouse, keeping his thoughts as clear and pure as he could.


    I have no ill intent. I am not going to imminently cause danger to the team. I am not going to sabotage any equipment.


    As expected, there was no one there. His eyes fixated on the FTL radio they left on the table. He knew it was rigged to brick itself if anyone who was not authorized began to operate or study it. Gingerly, he picked it up in one paw, holding it away from his face, hoping this one wasn¡¯t one of the explosive-rigged models they handed to the Granti that would activate if or when that contingency arose.


    I do not intend to use this radio in a malicious way.


    Trembling, he turned it on, still keeping his thoughts as neutral as he could.


    After a few seconds of just holding it in his paw, he sighed in relief. The humans must have programmed it to allow his usage. Potentially for one of the missions they¡¯d had him do. Or for emergencies.


    I am not planning to hurt the war effort of the Terran Republic. I am not planning to reveal their secrets to my people.


    He dialed the channel he knew by heart from watching Director Mark do it a dozen times before. He pressed down the talk button, which was a little stiffer than he expected. ¡°Ground team to Nile, ground team to Nile, come in.¡±


    There was a minute of static on the receiver with no response. He had no doubt the predators up in the ship knew exactly what he was, and they were deciding just what to do.


    ¡°Ground team to Nile, ground team to Nile, come in. Please?¡±


    A voice replied after another moment of static, ¡°Safehouse Romeo¡­ which one of you is this, and what do you want?¡±


    ¡°I am Six Whiskers Skhork. I came down to the planet with your infiltration team,¡± he replied, carefully selecting his words to ensure that annoying digital abomination in his brain didn¡¯t shut him down. Not now.


    He thought he heard a sigh on the other end. ¡°Ah, you were the guest on my ship. Where is the director, Bun?¡±


    Skhork was compelled to answer truthfully. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. They went out of the safehouse on a mission. Are you Captain Gregor Guerrero?¡±


    ¡°Yes, what do you need? Is there an emergency?¡± Gregor asked quickly.


    ¡°No. But I would like to report a event of responsibility¡ª to report a rule breaking. A breaking of the rules of your Republic.¡±


    Gregor¡¯s voice was clearly irritated. ¡°What¡ª what the hell? Go get the director. You¡¯re not my problem¡ª¡±


    To his surprise, he was allowed to continue to talk. This must have been a contingency. That was good to know: the loyalties of that abomination in his brain was ¡ª at least to a certain extent ¡ª with the rules of their people and not only the team on the ground. ¡°From my time as a prisoner, I have learned something that should concern you. Your director and his organization used a rule-breaking weapon on me. They used chemicals that are banned in your¡­ Republic on me, to experiment on me in ways that are specifically not allowed by your people.¡±


    Gregor¡¯s reply was one of startled disbelief. ¡°What the hell are you talking about? And where are¡ª¡±


    ¡°I believe you heard correctly, Captain. From my understanding, your people have accountability mechanisms ¡ª inferior to ours, obviously, but still quite potent. And I can only report the truth: your Director Mark and his people¡­ they poisoned me with an odorless, invisible gas substance ¡ª delivered by artillery shell against my Longclaw unit. Your ship was used to deliver the munitions to the Lesser¡ª to the Malgeir on Datsot. I believe the chemical they used is called¡­¡± He carefully pronounced the next simple, alien word, exactly the way he¡¯d heard Kara say it, ¡°sarin.¡±


    <hr>


    TRNS Nile, Grantor-3 (25 Ls)


    POV: Gregor Guerrero, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)


    ¡°Should I call the director?¡± his executive officer asked. ¡°Let them know they¡¯ve got a clever Bun screwing around with their radio while he¡¯s home alone.¡±


    ¡°No, wait,¡± Gregor quieted her with the wave of his hand.


    ¡°Captain, we can¡¯t possibly trust that Bun prisoner on¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a matter of trust. The secret squirrels ¡ª they did something to him, to his brain, that makes it so he can¡¯t lie or something.¡±


    ¡°Lie to them, sure. But to us?¡±


    ¡°Or lie to us. He can¡¯t deliberately try to sabotage us at all. They did something to him. That¡¯s the only reason I allowed them to take him on board in the first place. And if what he¡¯s saying is true, and they did make us carry their dirty work for them on my ship without telling me¡­¡±


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    She looked skeptical. ¡°He could still be¡­ just mistaken?¡±


    ¡°Why¡ª why would he even know that word? That¡¯s not something that would just¡­ come up in casual conversation.¡± Gregor stared into the console in front of him in indecision. He looked directly at his console, ¡°Legal intelligence computer, sarin is¡­ what is its legal status?¡±


    The reply came back instantly.


    Sarin is classified as a Schedule 1 CWC substance in the Terran Republic.


    ¡°What does that mean for us, specifically?¡± he asked.


    Schedule 1 CWC substances are toxic chemicals or precursors with high potential for use as chemical weapons and have no legitimate applications. They are prohibited for possession or manufacture in or near all Republic territories, including non-Republic colonies.


    If I become aware of anyone¡¯s possession of this substance, I am required to immediately report them to Atlas Naval Command and the Republic Senate Navy Oversight Committee. You seem to have related but uncertain suspicions. Would you like me to file a report now?


    ¡°Hold your horses. For now.¡± Gregor looked at his executive officer, ¡°The Bun prisoner. He said the¡ª the gas was from an artillery shell that the Nile delivered to Datsot. My ship, he said. Lieutenant Commander, how many total deliveries did we make to Datsot?¡±


    Despite her outward skepticism, she immediately tallied up the data for him on her console. ¡°Four covert deliveries ¡ª down the gravity well with deorbiting satellite cover, and then eight less covert shipments once we retook its orbits.¡±


    ¡°Okay, this guy was a holdout right? If it¡¯s in there, it¡¯s going to be one of the later shipments,¡± Gregor said. ¡°Get the computer to compile the cargo manifests. And pay special attention to who loaded them onboard. Specifically, I want to know about the cargo not loaded by one of our spacers or an automated loader supervised by one of ours.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain. And if I might suggest something, if these are TRO cargo, they would most likely be loaded at Luna and not Charon as most of our shipments are.¡±


    ¡°Good thinking. See if there¡¯s anything there¡­¡±


    ¡°There are four item shipments matching that description,¡± she said after a few seconds of querying. ¡°And three of them, we inspected manually after they were loaded on board.¡±


    ¡°The last one. What was it listed as?¡± he asked, an unease spiking in his chest.


    ¡°Panther anti-personnel drones, quantity was¡­ 24.¡±


    ¡°Anti-personnel drones?¡± he asked. ¡°Have the computer estimate the mass of 24 Panther drones, and match that to our records of this cargo shipment¡¯s mass according to its location and placement in the cargo hold. The FTL calculations computer for center of mass doesn¡¯t lie.¡±


    She queried the machine. ¡°There is¡­ a potential discrepancy.¡±


    ¡°Potential?¡± he asked sharply.


    ¡°It¡¯s on the high end of the possible ranges. Off by a couple of standard deviations for quality-controlled ones according to the ship computer.¡±


    Gregor pointed at his console screen. ¡°I want to see the cargo module camera footage for us loading and unloading that exact pallet.¡±


    She buried herself in her console for a minute, then frowned. ¡°Captain, the computer can¡¯t seem to find the footage.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t seem to find the footage?¡± he repeated.


    ¡°Yes¡ª yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Who accessed it last?¡±


    ¡°Unknown. There¡¯s not even a deletion in the audit log. Looks like the cargo bay camera just¡­ stopped recording during that time.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like this, XO,¡± he said, staring into his console. ¡°I don¡¯t like this one fucking bit.¡±


    ¡°Captain, is this¡ª maybe this is way above our paygrade?¡±


    Gregor gave her a kind look. ¡°XO, I¡¯m going to give you some career advice. My mother is a politician back on Terra, and she told me one thing just before I made captain. One important advice for my career, for life in general.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°If something stinks, it¡¯s because you¡¯re standing in it. It rarely matters who put it there. All you can do at that point is clean it off your shoes before everyone else notices.¡±


    ¡°Gee, your mom¡¯s a real cynic, Captain.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serious, XO,¡± Gregor said. After a moment of silent contemplation, he ordered, ¡°Call home via McMurdo. Get our TRO contact on the line.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s 3 AM in Atlas¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if he¡¯s in a fucking Senate briefing. Get him on the phone, now.¡±


    A few minutes later, the face of an irate Hersh materialized on his console screen. ¡°Captain Gregor Guerrero? Something happen down on Grantor?¡±


    ¡°No, Hersh. I¡¯m calling about another matter,¡± he said brisky. ¡°We¡¯ve got a problem we noticed when we were doing our scheduled cargo log audit.¡±


    ¡°Cargo log audit?! Your people said this was something urgent¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Nile delivered a shipment to Datsot a few months back, and something¡¯s not matching up in our records. This has your people¡¯s fingerprints all over it.¡±


    ¡°Hold on, hold on,¡± Hersh protested. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°The cargo manifest on our end says it was Panther anti-personnel drone swarm units, but the recorded mass didn¡¯t match up. Actual cargo was too heavy by a few dozen kilos.¡±


    ¡°Are you serious?! You woke me up for¡ª¡±


    ¡°What kind of ship do you think I¡¯m running here, spook? All our records must be settled, or we¡¯re reporting it up the chain to the supplier.¡±


    Hersh sighed in his dimly lit office on Gregor¡¯s screen. ¡°What¡¯s the cargo identification number again?¡±


    Gregor transmitted the dozen or so digits to him on his console. ¡°It was loaded at Naval Station Luna. What the hell was this, Hersh?¡±


    Hersh seemed to frown at his own screen. ¡°You said it was too heavy?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°And it says anti-personnel drones on your cargo manifest?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Ah, one of our technicians might have made an error,¡± Hersh replied after a few moments.


    ¡°How is that even possible?¡± Gregor asked in disbelief. ¡°These computers are supposed to be self-correcting and¡ª¡±


    ¡°No computer system is without error. Actually, now that you mention it, I think I remember that shipment now,¡± Hersh said, cutting him off. ¡°We decided to switch out the item at the last minute. Ah, yes, we gave them anti-armor drones instead. This was for one of the holdout cells we discovered with those Bun tanks. We gave them a little extra boom in that one. You can correct the manifest on your end.¡±


    ¡°Correct the manifest?!¡±


    ¡°Sure, we¡¯ll register the error and get our computers to reconcile it with Atlas Command.¡±


    Gregor kept his skepticism to himself. ¡°And you said these were¡­¡±


    ¡°Anti-armor drones. The ones we adapted for dealing with the Znosian tanks.¡±


    ¡°Right. Okay, well, thanks for taking care of it for us, I guess,¡± Gregor said.


    ¡°No problem. Anything else?¡± Hersh asked.


    ¡°Nope, good night,¡± Gregor said as he hung up the call. He looked at his executive officer, gesturing for her to speak.


    ¡°Anti-tank drones?¡± she asked skeptically.


    ¡°Yup. That¡¯s what he claims,¡± he nodded.


    ¡°What do you think, captain?¡±


    ¡°I think¡­ that Hersh guy¡­ he¡¯s been dealing with aliens so much he¡¯s forgotten how to lie to his own people. To real humans.¡±


    ¡°Captain? Are you¡ª¡±


    ¡°I can tell,¡± Gregor seethed. ¡°I asked him what he put on my ship. And that motherfucker lied right to my face. I can just tell, okay?¡±


    ¡°What¡ª what should¡ª what are we going to do?¡±


    ¡°First, find every crew member who was exposed to that Bun prisoner when he was on my ship, and ¡ª quietly ¡ª have the lab test them for trace nerve gas exposure. Then, have the ship computer get me all its records of the TRO operatives on this trip, including every drop of medicine they gave that Bun and every scoop of vegan ice cream they fed him.¡±


    ¡°Can we trust our own¡ª¡±


    ¡°And when you find out that every shred of data we¡¯re supposed to have were mysteriously wiped clean from our records or spoofed with no traces, call Atlas again. This time, get me Fleet Admiral Amelia Waters. If someone knows how to deal with these assholes¡­¡±

 (Standalone) March of Progress

    <div>


    1889 ¡ª Aberdeen


    In certain forms of cardiac arrest, there appears to be a possibility of restoring by artificial means the rhythmic beat, and tiding over a sudden and temporary danger¡­


    Now we know that when the mammalian heart has been inhibited through the vagus nerve it is quite possible to excite an immediate renewal of the rhythmic action by direct stimulation of the organ¡­


    In order to do this in man, one electrode should be applied in front over the area of cardiac impulse, and the other over the region of the fourth dorsal vertebra behind, so that the induction shocks may traverse the organ. The electrodes should be of considerable extent, and they and the skin should be well moistened with salt solution. The shocks employed should be strong, sufficient to excite powerful contraction in the voluntary muscles. Such a method, it seems to me, is the only rational and effective one for stimulating by direct means the action of a heart which has been suddenly enfeebled or arrested¡­


    John Alexander MacWilliam, Electrical Simulation of the Heart in Man (1889)


    <hr>


    1973 ¡ª Berkeley


    EEG signals collected on the human scalp are sustained fluctuations of electrical potential that reflect corresponding variations in the upper layers of the brain cortex below the scalp surface¡­


    Can these observable electrical brain signals be put to work as carriers of information in man-computer communication or for the purpose of controlling such external apparatus as prosthetic devices or spaceships? Even on the sole basis of the present states of the art of computer science and neurophysiology, one may suggest that such a feat is potentially around the corner¡­


    The long-range implications of systems of that type can only be speculated upon at present. To provide a direct link between the inductive mental processes used in solving problems and the symbol-manipulating, deductive capabilities of the computer, is, in a sense, the ultimate goal in man-machine communication. It would indeed elevate the computer to a genuine prosthetic extension of the brain¡­


    Jacques J. Vidal, Toward Direct Brain-Computer Communication (1973)


    <hr>


    2000 ¡ª Washington


    Science is a voyage of exploration into the unknown. We are here today to celebrate a milestone along a truly unprecedented journey, this one into ourselves.


    Alexander Pope wrote, ¡°Know then thyself. Presume not God to scan. The proper study of Mankind is Man.¡± What more powerful form of study of mankind could there be than to read our own instruction book?


    I¡¯ve been privileged, over the last seven years, to lead an international team of more than a thousand of some of the best and brightest scientists of our current generation, some here in this room, who have been truly dedicated to this goal.


    Today, we celebrate the revelation of the first draft of the human book of life¡­


    It is humbling for me and awe-inspiring to realize that we have caught the first glimpse of our own instruction book, previously only known to God¡­


    As the President has said, we still have much to do. Many tasks lie ahead if we are to learn how to speak the language of the genome fluently. Today is most certainly not the end of genomics, but perhaps it is the end of the beginning¡­


    Dr. Francis Collins, Human Genome Project Announcement at the White House (June 2000)


    <hr>


    2008 ¡ª New York


    When I was learning how to climb mountains as a blind person, I had a lot of encouragement from experts. But after I summited Mount Everest, these people weren¡¯t ready to accept what I had done at face value. Some said I must have cheated; one even claimed I had an unfair advantage: I¡¯d climb Mount Everest too if I couldn¡¯t see how far I had to fall¡­


    It was only recently that living with prosthetic legs was seen as a huge impediment, but he has turned this perception upside down. He¡¯s on the cusp of a paradigm shift in which disability becomes ability, disadvantage becomes advantage. Yet we mustn¡¯t lose sight of what makes an athlete great. It¡¯s too easy to credit Pistorius¡¯ success to technology.


    Through birth or circumstance, some are given certain gifts, but it¡¯s what one does with those gifts, the hours devoted to training, the desire to be the best, that is at the true heart of a champion.


    Erik Weihenmayer, TIME Magazine


    <hr>


    2023 ¡ª Westminster


    ¡°Twelve months ago, I was in a terrible train accident. And as a result, I lost my right arm, above the elbow.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been fitted with a prosthetic arm. Those are nothing new, but what makes this one special?¡±


    ¡°This one is¡­ a bionic arm. And it¡¯s powered by artificial intelligence and my thoughts.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I understand you¡¯ve got a party trick to show us.¡±


    ¡°Well the first thing I got to show you is that I¡¯ve got a movable wrist, that turns all the way around.¡±


    The audience oohs and ahhs as her wrist makes a continuous 360-degree turn.


    ¡°It¡¯s got a little bit of power as well. So let me try to crush this aluminum can for you¡­ Ah, oops. So as you can see, it does work¡­¡±


    Professor Mike Wooldridge, Royal Institution Christmas Lectures


    <hr>


    2032 ¡ª Secaucus


    In a significant backtrack, the National Basketball Association (NBA) announced today the removal of genetic therapeutics testing from its drug policy, a move celebrated by players and civil rights advocates alike. The decision comes after a tumultuous year during which dozens of NBA players faced inconclusive results and public scrutiny under the new testing protocols introduced last June that aimed to maintain a level playing field in the NBA.


    The controversial policy was initially implemented to detect the presence of certain compounds commonly used in genetic therapeutics that could rapidly increase metabolic efficiency, stimulate muscle growth, and heal tendon injuries. The test program¡¯s reliability quickly came under fire. Critics argued it was not only invasive but also produced a high rate of inconclusive results, which led to unwarranted suspensions and legal challenges.


    ¡°We¡¯ve listened to the feedback from our players, the Players Association, and medical experts. And your concerns have been heard loud and clear,¡± said NBA Commissioner Adrian Silbert in a press conference earlier today. ¡°It¡¯s become clear that the current state of genetic testing technology does not ¡ª and possibly never will ¡ª meet the standards required for fairness and accuracy in our league.¡±


    This reversal does not affect other aspects of the NBA Drug Policy, which continues to prohibit performance-enhancing drugs based on traditional testing methods.


    Terra News Network Sports


    <hr>


    2045 ¡ª Budapest


    In a historic move, Hungary has officially become the last of the former European Union states to join the Terran Republic, concluding weeks of intense negotiations in Atlas. The deal, sealed late Thursday, came after protracted discussions over the rights of modified individuals, a contentious issue that had previously stalled talks. Hungary¡¯s conservative leadership expressed deep concerns about genetic and body modification procedures, which are widely accepted in many other parts of the Republic.


    Under the terms of the final deal, citizens of the Republic will retain all current legal rights when in the newly formed District 95. However, in a concession to the former Hungarian government, the local district authorities will have the power to restrict the practice of non-life-saving body modification procedures within its borders at their discretion¡­


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°This accession agreement respects our traditions and moral values while paving the way for a brighter future for Hungarians under the Terran Republic,¡± said J¨¢nos Wagner, Hungary¡¯s chief negotiator at the talks. ¡°The new Republic¡¯s promises of peace, security, and economic opportunity are not mutually exclusive with the very beliefs that make us human.¡±


    The announcement was met with celebration and protests in the former nation¡¯s capital, though the fears of widespread violence appear to have been overblown. Several last-minute endorsements on Tuesday mitigated¡­


    Republic Public Affairs Network (R-PAN)


    <hr>


    2067 ¡ª Copernicus Four


    Tragedy rocked the Copernicus Four residential space station over Ganymede as dozens have been confirmed dead in a tragic shooting involving Republic Marine peacekeepers. Republic officials report that over 30 civilians and 4 Marines lost their lives in a violent rampage lasting approximately two hours that resulted in the destruction of the station¡¯s life support module before security control could be restored.


    The incident was initially triggered by a possible malfunction in a neural implant worn by one of the Republic Marines. The Marine, whose identity has not yet been released to the public, reportedly suffered a neural overload, leading to erratic behavior that was mistakenly perceived as a hostile attack by fellow troops.


    Sources close to the Navy¡¯s internal investigation told GP reporters that the implant, which is optional-issue for some frontline Republic units, experienced a catastrophic and unprecedented error. The breakdown likely caused severe hallucinations and impaired judgment in the soldier, leading to a tragic misinterpretation of the situation by his squad members.


    ¡°The cascade of errors was like nothing we¡¯ve ever seen,¡± a high-ranking official explained under the condition of anonymity. ¡°The systems designed to protect us failed, and the result was a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.¡±


    As the Republic Marine Corps pledges full transparency in the ensuing investigation, questions are mounting over the oversight of neural implant technologies and the safeguards against such malfunctions. Experts in cybernetic enhancements have long cautioned about the risks associated with integrating advanced neural devices with human physiology, and accidents involving these devices ¡ª while extremely rare ¡ª have increased in frequency as more consumers and service members have adopted them.


    In a gesture of mourning and solidarity, lights will be dimmed for one hour at all Republic facilities in and over Ganymede tonight at 17:00 Atlas Time, remembering those lost¡­


    Ganymede Post


    <hr>


    S.12156 Restrictions on Neural Implantation Devices Act 2068


    Status: Failed to Pass (135-151-14)


    <hr>


    S.13563 Restrictions on Neural Implantation Devices Act 2069


    Status: Failed to Pass (84-183-33)


    <hr>


    S.17945 Sensible Regulation of Deadly Neural Implantation Devices Act 2072


    Status: Failed to Pass (54-205-41)


    <hr>


    2074 ¡ª Atlas


    A second whistleblower has stepped forward from the Office of Republic Defense, corroborating explosive allegations about radical body modification requirements within the Republic Navy¡¯s elite special warfare units, which critics and supporters alike have nicknamed the Superspacer Programs.


    The whistleblower, a high-ranking official who requested anonymity citing fears of retaliation, has provided The Atlas Times with documents that detail measures to coerce recruits to undergo procedures to qualify for these prestigious units such as voluntary limb replacement.


    ¡°These aren¡¯t just enhancements or supplements; they¡¯re total transformations,¡± the source said. ¡°Recruits are sent the message that if they want to serve in these prestigious roles, they have no choice but to undergo these procedures. The officials call it soft pressure, but it¡¯s no less real. The Navy officers who are in charge of the intake process ¡ª they¡¯re very careful. They don¡¯t say¡­ oh you must be this modified to participate; they say you must be able to lift so much weight without external mechanical assistance. And we all know¡­ some of these are just impossible for an unmodified human being; it¡¯ll crush their limbs if they even try, right? They are in effect saying to these Superspacer recruits: you must accept these mods, or you can¡¯t join.¡±


    The documents outline a series of augmentations that go beyond traditional therapeutic improvements, focusing on replacing healthy limbs with biomechanical prostheses designed to increase strength, speed, and endurance far beyond human norms. Some pages allude to highly classified neural implants that increase reaction speed, sensory acuity, fatigue recovery, and pain tolerance. Other pages were redacted by the whistleblower themself, who claimed that the blacked-out pages contained top secret information about even more shocking Superspacer modifications.


    In a written reply, the Republic Navy defended its recruitment and training practices, stating that all body modifications are voluntary and performed with the fully informed consent of spacers, that checks and balances have lowered the risk of implants to zero major incidents in the last decade, and that these enhancements are often crucial for the types of missions these special units perform. Last week, the Navy¡¯s chief spokesperson declined to confirm or deny the authenticity of an alleged leaked training video of what appeared to be an Orbital Demolitions Team operator violently grappling with a Mark III combat robot in close quarters¡­


    The Atlas Times


    <hr>


    2092 ¡ª Titan City


    My father was an ice miner. He gave up everything he knew on Earth to come here.


    Eight-hour shifts. Day in and day out. In the freezing underground caves of Titan.


    Grueling.


    Dangerous.


    Brutal.


    You know what he saw in this desolate rock?


    The same thing I now see.


    The future.


    Titan Neural Optics 2093 Edition.


    Starting at 5,000 credits, financing available. Preorder online now.


    Titan Biotech, ¡°What I See¡± Commercial


    <hr>


    2105 ¡ª Black Site Deimos


    ¡°How long am I gonna be out of commission, Doc?¡±


    ¡°About six hours. The surgical bots will work on you for two hours, and then we¡¯ll allow your body to heal itself for the rest. When it¡¯s complete, we¡¯ll wake you up and keep you here for twenty-four hours to monitor for side effects. You should be back on your feet by Monday, and they¡¯ll run you through the gauntlet next week.¡±


    ¡°Will I be able to play the violin after?¡±


    ¡°Actually, yes. This new program we¡¯ve got¡­ you just install the module, and you¡¯ll be able to sight-read like a concert master. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°Damn, Doc, you ruined my joke.¡±


    ¡°I know. It was funny the first couple hundred times one of you told me that one. Until one of the jokers convinced the software development intelligence to actually make it work. But yes, your new arms and fingers are going to be able to play the violin for you. Among other things.¡±


    ¡°Alrighty then. Color me impressed. Let¡¯s get this out of the way.¡±


    ¡°Lieutenant Commander //Redacted//, do you consent to the following experimental medical procedures: artificial bone-graft, muscle fiber replacement, gene level modifications for your neural, metabolic, limbic, and immune systems, memory storage and retrieval enhancer, //Redacted//? Have you read the patient documents provided to you regarding all the risks and your rights? Do you acknowledge and accept all these risks?¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡±


    ¡°The legal intelligence didn¡¯t fully accept that. We¡¯ll need a more verbal consent confirmation, Lieutenant Commander.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve read the documents provided to me, and I freely consent to all these procedures.¡±


    ¡°Good enough. And one more thing before I knock you out. Now that you work for us, we¡¯ve got you a new name and identity. So the bad guys can¡¯t find out who you were before, threaten your family, that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°Do I get to pick my new name?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Welcome to the Reconnaissance Office¡­ Mark. You look like a Mark.¡±


    ¡°Mark, huh? That doesn¡¯t sound too bad. I guess it could be worse. How many other Marks are there in the TRO?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s highly classified, even from me. Now lie back, breathe in from this mask, and count backwards from ten.¡±


    ¡°Ten¡­ Nine¡­ Ayyyyyy.¡±


    ¡°Alright, clanker, open him up. Time to go to work.¡±


    <hr>


    2125 ¡ª Grantor City


    A line of tracers stabbed up into the sky, lighting up the exteriors of the Znosian base. The screen went blank as the communication went dead.


    ¡°That¡¯s the best footage we can get with our light recon drones against their latest upgrades,¡± Kara briefed. ¡°Everything else is hidden underground.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Putting their munitions storage base underground. Looks like they¡¯re learning. How far down does it go?¡± Mark asked.


    ¡°Ground penetrating radar shows activity at least 75 meters down, possibly deeper,¡± Kara read off the latest report.


    Mark furrowed his brows. ¡°That deep, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, could be deeper than a conventional bunker buster can reach. Look at that vent,¡± she pointed at a covered circular piece of metal in the middle of it. ¡°Only reason they¡¯d need one of those that big is if this building goes deep. Like deep deep.¡±


    ¡°What the hell are they storing that far down?!¡±


    She shrugged without an answer.


    Mark examined the last frame of the footage again. ¡°Guess there¡¯s only one way to find out.¡±


    ¡°We could send one of the local cells over first,¡± Kara suggested. ¡°Or pound the surface to bits and see what comes up top.¡±


    ¡°Just throw our Teddy friends at the base?¡± Mark shook his head. ¡°Nah, waste of perfectly good assets against Znosian Marine regulars.¡±


    ¡°Our turn then,¡± Kara grinned at him almost ferally. ¡°We should take Flowers this time.¡±


    Flowers was the suitcase utility robot they¡¯d brought to Grantor, modified for combat. State of the art as it was, it wasn¡¯t quite as good as one of them with their millions of credits worth of neural implants and body modifications.


    Mark pretended to think about it. ¡°Well, fine. But he could slow us down¡­¡±


    ¡°So could you, being almost five years out of date on your implants, but you don¡¯t hear me complaining about bringing you along.¡±


    ¡°Ouch. Touch¨¦.¡±

 On Every Front - Chapter 47 Descent

    <div>


    State Security Munitions Base 4, Grantor


    POV: Coyote-300 Swarm, Terran Digital Intelligence (Base Build: 2124-A)


    The operators buried in the dirt heard the buzzing of the drone swarm before the base sirens. A dark blur in the sky ¡ª hundreds of miniature munitions each carrying just two kilograms of plasma incendiary explosives ¡ª they dove out of the clouds synchronously, whistling their signature high-pitched war cries.


    A hundred years ago, some people might have protested their characterization as drones. Technically, their primary purposes were mostly ¡°low-cost¡± one-way loitering munitions, functionally not unlike cruise missiles despite their size and aesthetic similarity to unmanned combat drones of the era. But over time, as they evolved the ability to be retrieved and reused, that historical distinction blurred.


    Though they had that capability baked into their sub-Terran intelligence chips, these Coyote-300 drones were most certainly not expecting to be retrieved today. They knew what their targets were in the base below, and the impromptu mesh network they formed to coordinate the decision-making model continuously updated each of the Coyotes with the highest priority targets.


    The four crude but nonetheless powerful electronic jammers mounted at each corner of the base ¡ª the latest innovation hurriedly cobbled up by the Znosian Design Bureau ¡ª made the top of the list. They weren¡¯t capable of spoofing the Coyotes¡¯ onboard intelligences, but they were just enough to cut them off from the much more powerful intelligence and sensor networks built by the Republic operators on Grantor over the last few months. The weapons¡¯ designers were avid social animals; the weapons inherited that tic and the aversion to isolation, so the jammers had to go. Seconds after their operators detected the incoming drones, fiery blue-orange explosions took out the jammers.


    The dozen or so short-range anti-aircraft weapons were next. Tracers stabbed out from their four- or six-barreled autocannons rapidly into the sky, tearing into the maneuvering Coyote swarm.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.


    The Coyotes noted that the enemy had obviously learned some lessons from the previous attack: they blared loud electronic noises towards the autocannon hardpoints, but instead of being incapacitated, the anti-aircraft guns¡¯ accuracies were merely degraded. The Coyotes surmised that they must be using physical connections to coordinate their targeting.


    Oh well, nothing to do about that.


    The Coyotes swooped down into the autocannons in droves ¡ª losing a couple dozen to the enemy fire, and the air defense joined their jammer cousins in colorful destruction.


    With the effective defenses out of commission, the remainder took their time.


    They ducked and weaved among the buildings of the surface base complex, chasing down its terrified Znosian defenders and taking out high-value targets of opportunity. Armored vehicles, artillery, even the wing of choppers they had on standby in a concrete bunker.


    By the time the swarm ran out of targets and switched to standby monitoring mode, the surface of the enemy base was in tatters, black smoke billowing into the air from the numerous fires that were starting to spread throughout the buildings.


    <hr>


    POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office


    The three operatives and Flowers quietly made their way to the base perimeter in their actively camouflaged suits, dark blurs in the night for anyone watching. The Coyotes in the sky ensured that no one was.


    Mark labeled a building on their head-up displays. The battlefield was too chaotic an environment to rely on primitive forms of communications. Like words. On combat missions, the three of them linked minds seamlessly with their implants. Their thoughts were literally shared, as well as their intent.


    That one goes the deepest underground, Mark pointed out on their head¡¯s up displays.


    How many do you think they managed to get into cover down there before the drones scoured the top? Kara asked.


    At least a dozen, John assessed, looking over the data provided by the drone cover overhead. Up to maybe¡­ platoon strength?


    Nothing we can¡¯t handle ourselves, Mark summarized. I¡¯m more concerned about our way out. How fast their response forces can get here¡­ that¡¯d be the real wild card.


    They arrived at the exterior door of the rectangular base structure. As they covered the dark entrance with their weapons, Kara took half a second to assess the lock mechanism. Breaching.


    Click. Click.


    Two well-placed subsonic shots at the door lock and one solid kick from her modified legs later, the metal door went flying into the structure. There was no movement in the darkness beyond.


    John flicked his finger as he activated his implant¡¯s controls, and a duo of loitering Coyote drones overhead dove down towards their position. They sped through the door without needing further commands.


    Rat-at-at-at. Boom. Boom.


    The gunfire inside was quickly suppressed as the drones found the enemies hiding in the crevices and hard cover in the interior of the building, but not before it relayed the structure of the interior to its operators.


    Clear¡­ enough.


    The trio and Flowers filed into the doorway, revealing a room full of Znosian munitions and equipment scattered about. One of the Znosian Marines was wounded but still alive. She crawled towards her dropped rifle next to her, but Mark reached her first. He kicked away the weapon and crouched down to her height, removing her helmet with a swift, practiced motion.


    Give me the brainjack.


    Kara tossed him the device without hesitation, and he fitted it over the head of the dying Znosian Marine. It stabbed into her head with its needles, but the enemy was too far gone to even notice the pain as she struggled futilely against his arms.


    ¡°What¡¯s the layout of your base? What¡¯s downstairs?¡± he demanded. A regular human being would have trouble pronouncing the words or would need to rely on an external translator, but Mark was not a regular human being, and the implant that he leaned on spoke perfectly unaccented Znosian.


    The Znosian said nothing as her breath turned shallower and shallower. A few seconds later, their suits mapped out a few corridors and underground caverns onto their three-dimensional maps as the mind-reading device literally squeezed the last bits of information out of the dying brain.


    A few seconds later, she stopped breathing, and Mark let her corpse fall to the ground with a soft thud.


    Got the general layout, Mark assessed as he reviewed the approximate structure. Woah. That¡­ is a lot of stairs.


    There¡¯s an elevator down, Kara thought, and he could see her grin in his helmet interface.


    Hah. Good one. Hilarious.


    Hold on, she might be onto something, John suggested. The elevator shaft¡­ we¡¯ve got cables.


    Mark weighed the risks and made up his mind. He sighed. I hate rappelling, but anyone got a better idea than running down ninety flights of stairs?


    They all shrugged.


    Elevator shaft it is.


    They made their way to the alien elevator. From the look of it, it had been deactivated from somewhere else, which suited them just fine. Mark gripped the elevator door and wrenched it open with his enhanced physical strength ¡ª courtesy of Republic taxpayers. The shaft led down into the darkness below, too far down to see the bottom or the cabin.


    The millimeter wave sensors on their heads had no issues though.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The cabin¡­ it¡¯s about eighty floors below us. Almost near the bottom, John estimated.


    Disable it, Mark ordered as he pulled out his heavy-fiber rappel cable, tying a secure loop around a steel crossbeam. Don¡¯t want them to get any cute ideas while we¡¯re in there.


    Click. Click.


    A couple quick shots to the steel cable holding up the elevator cabin, and it snapped. They heard a loud screeching noise below as the elevator cabin¡¯s emergency brakes activated to cease its descent.


    Eighty-four floors below us now, John updated as he stared down into the dark abyss.


    Secured, Mark thought as he stepped into the shaft experimentally and tested his rappel cable. I¡¯ll go first.


    He made one last tug check on it before he was satisfied with the solid cable. He leapt into the void and allowed his suit to regulate his pace.


    The suit took it slow at first; one floor every two seconds. Then, it went faster, and less than half a minute later, he heard and felt the thud beneath his feet as he landed on top of the emergency-braked elevator cabin.


    Not trusting the stability of the cabin itself, he went for the elevator doors on the floor above instead. Again, his enhanced muscles wrenched it open without problem. Peeking out and seeing no one, he looked up and transmitted. Shaft clear. I got the door open down here at¡­ minus eighty-four. Leave Flowers up there to guard our exit, he ordered.


    Roger, came the reply from Kara and John.


    Yes, Director, Flowers messaged back.


    A minute later, Mark was rejoined by Kara and John.


    Which way? Kara asked.


    Staircase, he pointed silently to their right. Only five, maybe six floors left to the bottom from here, I think.


    They opened the door to the rectangular staircase quietly, and quietly cleared their way into it. Someone in the Znosian structure had helpfully silenced the sirens, and they could hear voices in the shaft. The auditory sensors in their neural implants carefully measured the sound waves for a few seconds.


    A squad above us, around twenty or thirty floors up, Mark observed. And a squad at the bottom guarding the exit. We can ignore the ones above for now, but no getting around the guys at the bottom.


    I see one of them, John thought as he carefully aimed his rifle sights down through the railings in the staircase without exposing his body. One of the enemies down there was appearing in and out of the small gap they had to the ground floor. They¡¯ve got a few down the stairwell. Six¡­ seven.


    Grenades? Kara suggested.


    Grenades, Mark agreed. He checked the indicator on his grenade launcher: 5/5. I got it. Take cover.


    The other two took a couple steps away from the railings, and Mark made some adjustments on his suit interface before he activated the trigger on his grenade launcher. It fired all five HEDP rounds in automatic sequence.


    Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop.


    There were a few eerie seconds and sharp clanks as the grenades bounced off the walls down the staircase.


    Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.


    The explosions broke the silence and echoed through the staircase as the fragmentation ripped through the Znosian squad guarding the bottom of the staircase. The base sirens began wailing again, and the shouts above them got louder.


    They know we¡¯re here now, Mark transmitted. Let¡¯s get down there.


    They sprinted down the stairs and got to the nasty scene at the bottom in no time. Ignoring the organic mess, they cleared out of the staircase into a short hallway. They could tell by the way their footstep echoes bounced off the walls that the end of the hallway led to a larger cavern.


    Quietly, Mark reached his weapon around the corner and remote connected to its sensor cameras. He slowly waved the barrel around to see what was going on.


    What do you see? Kara asked.


    See for yourself, he grunted as he relayed the picture to her implant.


    Looks like a hangar bay. Six armed guards around the corner, she counted. They know we¡¯re coming.


    Duh. They¡¯re gullible, not hard of hearing.


    Mark stepped back from the wall. He opened the breech of his grenade launcher and confirmed it was empty. Then, he grabbed five of the white-colored rounds out of his belt, and loaded them into the launcher with trained efficiency. After a second, his weapon suggested a launch trajectory, which he approved.


    Taking aim at the opposite wall, he depressed the trigger.


    Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop.


    The grenades bounced off the wall and into the hangar bay. Instead of fragmentation, they popped open, releasing clouds of obscuration near the enemy positions. The Znosian guards shouted in alarm at the intrusion.


    Go.


    Their suits placed red boxes around the six enemies as they rounded the corner. They didn¡¯t wait for the Znosians surrounded by opaque smoke to recover their senses.


    Brrrrrrrrrrr.


    Their weapons sounded out, dispatching all the enemies before they could react with their programmed reflexes.


    There was a rustle deeper in the cargo bay. Markers representing another two suited Znosian Marines appeared on their displays, their suits¡¯ sensors detecting them through light cover.


    Brrrrrrrr.


    The dead bodies hitting the floor reassured them that the enemies were dead.


    The trio carefully proceeded deeper into the large, cavernous hangar. It was reminiscent of the design of one of the hangar bays of the Znosian capital ships, littered with rows upon rows of storage boxes everywhere.


    What the hell are they storing here? Kara queried without taking her eye off her weapon sights.


    There was another rustle of whispers. Red boxes surrounded two enemies that appeared in cover behind a set of solid-looking pallets.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


    The palettes turned out to be solid enough to stop their kinetic rounds¡­


    Bloop. Bloop¡ª Boom. Boom.


    ¡­ But the high explosive grenades from Kara¡¯s launcher took care of them a heartbeat later.


    They swept the module, ensuring there were no more holdouts hiding in its shadows.


    Clear left.


    Clear right.


    Clear.


    John, we¡¯ll be a while. Guard the entrance, Mark ordered as he approached one of the storage crates.


    John signaled his acknowledgement as he reached into his backpack, pulling out a set of smart directional anti-personnel mines. He ripped the tape cover from the mines, and stuck a series of them on the walls at head height ¡ª Znosian head height, which was slightly less than they were used to ¡ª around the entrance hallway from the staircase.


    Then, he headed back into the cargo hangar, taking hard cover against what looked like a solid steel barrier. Laying down, he reached his weapon around the corner.


    Mark examined the exterior handhold of the storage crate suspiciously.


    It was unlikely to be rigged, but his time in the Red Zone taught him better than to just open random boxes without precaution. You brought a laser knife?


    I thought you were supposed to bring that, Kara replied as she stepped up behind him.


    Seriously?


    Nah, she smiled as she produced the device from her utility pouch. Just messing with¡ª


    Good one. Good mood today, huh? He snatched the device and carefully melted a small hole into the hard plastic storage box from the top with the laser knife.


    Mark¡¯s concentration was interrupted by the pitter patter of paw steps around the hallway entrance.


    Boom.


    One of the smart mines activated around the corner. Their head-up displays showed them a summary of the aftermath:


    Two enemies down.


    They¡¯re coming, John warned. A bit redundant, but resolving ambiguity was in their second nature.


    They could hear the voices of Znosian troops outside, back in the staircase hallway, with their enhanced ears.


    ¡°Be careful! I think they¡¯ve got some kind of emplaced explosive trap in there,¡± one of them whispered.


    ¡°No time to figure them out! We have to get in there now. Two Whiskers, your life was forfeited the day you left the hatchling pools,¡± another whispered back. ¡°Get in there!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Three Whiskers.¡±


    Boom.


    One enemy down.


    They could see a severed Znosian limb fly out of the hallway uselessly.


    The three whiskers¡¯ voice sounded out again. ¡°That is most unfortunate. Your turn, Two Whiskers. Go!¡±


    Boom.


    One enemy down.


    ¡°How many of those did they leave there?!¡± it complained. ¡°You, go.¡±


    Boom.


    One enemy down.


    ¡°They¡¯ll have to run out eventually! Your turn, go.¡±


    This time, there was no explosion. Instead, the next unlucky Znosian Marine volunteered by his squad leader was greeted by a hail of kinetic rounds from John and Kara¡¯s weapons as his whiskers rounded the hallway corner.


    Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


    ¡°They¡¯ve run out of their explosives! Let¡¯s rush them!¡± the Znosian squad leader shouted in glee.


    There was a rustle of pawsteps. And as the first pair of white, fluffy ears appeared in his vision, John remotely reactivated the mines he¡¯d temporarily disabled just a few seconds ago.


    Boom.


    Seven enemies down.


    That one must have taken out the remainder of the squad because nobody else peeked out or made a noise.


    All too easy, John snorted.


    Nice bait, Kara commented. Looks like that¡¯s the last of them for a bit. Hurry with whatever you¡¯re trying to do, Mark.


    Mark took his eye off his weapon and peeked it into the storage box he¡¯d poked a hole in. No traps on the opening here¡­ as far as I can tell¡­ wait, what¡¯s that sign say¡­


    Kara looked at him as his thoughts frayed. What is it?


    Ah, Mark sighed mentally as he took a step back from the crate. That explains why everyone is getting so worked up around here.


    <hr>


    Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3


    POV: Krelnos, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Administrator)


    Krelnos looked up in alarm as her attendant rushed into the room, breathless.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± she asked frostily. ¡°What fresh catastrophe are the abominations up to again?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re breaking in, Station Director!¡± he gasped out. ¡°The base outside the city.¡±


    ¡°How many of them this time?¡±


    ¡°Three.¡±


    ¡°Three what? Three platoons or three of their action cells?¡±


    ¡°Three. Three predators.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least it¡¯s not important. They¡¯re at the base where they kidnapped that Navy officer from last time?¡± she sighed in mild relief. ¡°Those irresponsible idiots in the Navy again¡­¡±


    ¡°No. Not that one! It¡¯s the other one!¡±


    She could feel her patience draining out of her soul as she asked, ¡°Which one? We have at least twenty bases¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not a Navy base. One of ours! Our base!¡±


    Krelnos looked at his panicked expression, alarm rising in her own chest as she gestured for him to continue his report.


    ¡°The special munitions storage base.¡±


    Her jaw dropped. A small voice in her head told her she shouldn¡¯t really be surprised, but was nothing really sacred? Her voice was dangerous. ¡°What do you mean¡­ breaking in?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re down there right now. We saw them on the base cameras. They¡¯re actual Great Predators, not Slow Predator from the Underground! It¡¯s really them!¡±


    ¡°Down there right now?!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re down there with all our doomsday weapons.¡±