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.¡±
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.
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
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¡¡±
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?¡±
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
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.¡±
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.
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 literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see 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.
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.¡±
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
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?
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
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!¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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?¡±
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.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
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.
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.¡±
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.
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.
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.
Meta
Hamlet meant it ironically. Atlas Command did not.
Orbital Shift - Chapter 66 Priorities
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.¡±
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.¡±
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?¡±
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.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
¡°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.¡±
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¡¡±
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.
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.
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.
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
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!¡±
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!¡±
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!¡±
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!¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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!¡±
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
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?¡±
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?¡±
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.
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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.
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!¡±
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¡¡±
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.
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.
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.
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
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¡±
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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!¡±
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.
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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
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.
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.
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.¡±
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¡°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.¡±
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.
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
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?¡±
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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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.
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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
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.¡±
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report 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.¡±
¡°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.¡±
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.
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
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¡°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¡¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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?¡±
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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?!¡±
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.¡±
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
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?!¡±
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¡°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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.
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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
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?¡±
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.
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¡°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.¡±
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
Content Warning
Chapter includes depiction of self-harm that could be disturbing to some people.
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.¡±
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.¡±
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, 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.
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.
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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
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.¡±
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?¡±
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¡°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.¡±
¡°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
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.¡±
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¡°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.¡±
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.
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
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.¡±
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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.¡±
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.
¡°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.
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
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.¡±
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¡
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¡°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.
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.
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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¡
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.¡±
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!¡±
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¡±
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¡°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?¡±
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!¡±
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
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?¡±
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¡°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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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 narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
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
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 text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
¡°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.¡±
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?¡±
¡°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
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?¡±
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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.
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
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.¡±
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.
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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
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?!¡±
¡°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¡±
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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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.
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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
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.¡±
¡°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.¡±
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.¡±
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¡°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¡¡±
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.
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
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.¡±
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 story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
¡°Good. Burn us towards them.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
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.¡±
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?¡±
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
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.¡±
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?!¡±
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
¡°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.¡±
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¡
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
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!¡±
¡°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!¡±
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.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
¡°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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.¡±
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
¡°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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.
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¡
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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.¡±
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?¡±
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
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.¡±
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.
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.
¡°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
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!¡±
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.¡±
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
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.¡±
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.
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
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.¡±
¡°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
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?¡±
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
¡°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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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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.¡±
¡°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
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.¡±
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.¡±
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¡°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
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-
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?¡±
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¡°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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.
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¡°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!¡±
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
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.
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 could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
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
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.¡±
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
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.
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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.
Stolen story; please report.
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
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.¡±
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
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.¡±
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.
¡°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?¡±
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
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?¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
¡°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¡±
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.¡±
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.¡±
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
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.¡±
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¡°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?¡±
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
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.¡±
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¡¡±
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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
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)
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)
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)
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
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
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
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¡
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¡°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)
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
S.12156 Restrictions on Neural Implantation Devices Act 2068
Status: Failed to Pass (135-151-14)
S.13563 Restrictions on Neural Implantation Devices Act 2069
Status: Failed to Pass (84-183-33)
S.17945 Sensible Regulation of Deadly Neural Implantation Devices Act 2072
Status: Failed to Pass (54-205-41)
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
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
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.¡±
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
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.
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.
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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.
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.¡±
On Every Front - Chapter 48 Ascent
State Security Munitions Base 4, Grantor
POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office
Click click click click click.
The Geiger counter in his suit clicked urgently as Mark scanned the internal contents of the opened storage box. About a dozen large, enclosed warheads were stacked on top of each other, each about the size of a small Znosian, labeled with colorful alien symbols on the side.
Kara looked at one of the bomb casings with alarm. Is that¡
Yup. This is not a place of honor. Nothing of value is here, Mark quoted.
This must be what they plan to use to sterilize the planet on their way out. We knew this place was important, but¡ wow.
Mark glanced around at the dozens of identically stacked crates around the room. Doing a quick count, there was enough down here to start a new ice age on Grantor. In fact, if his quick math was right, there were about as many warheads down here as Republic intelligence thought was on the entire planet.
I suspect¡ given what¡¯s stored here, it¡¯ll be a little harder to get out than when we came in. How do they even get these in and out? I didn¡¯t see a cargo elevator on our way down.
Kara pointed up towards where the ceiling of the hangar should be. Instead, there was a dark shaft leading up hundreds of meters into the blackness. That way, probably. My guess is they lower stuff down here with choppers.
Mark stared at it for a few seconds. On his sensors, he could see the circular opening was covered by a thick, heavy-looking vertical door. Huh. This must be that big hole in the ground up there that we thought was the vent. Think we can go out that way?
Kara rummaged in her backpack for a second before taking out the explosives they¡¯d brought on the mission. She looked around the cargo hangar for the concrete pillars. I¡¯m not sure if we brought enough to bring down this whole chamber, much less blow open whatever that is up there.
And they¡¯ll just dig this up afterward if we don¡¯t blow them, Mark speculated. Maybe we can¡ª
The answer is right in front of us, she pointed at the stack of warheads. She bent down to one of the warheads and pulled off her combat gloves.
Is it¡ª is it possible to detonate these in place? he asked skeptically. I don¡¯t know¡
With a few deft presses, the maintenance panel popped off the casing with a click. Kara nudged her head back to the hangar entrance. Go take care of the entrance and buy some time. This might take me a while.
A while? he clarified in his thoughts.
A few hours. My suit is going to have to reverse engineer the whole Bunny nuclear weapons program. We only need to blow one; that should take care of the rest.
Mark considered it for a few more seconds, then nodded reluctantly. Do what you have to do.
There were sounds of gunfire, this time from far away. Mark could barely hear it, even with his implants. He directed his attention to the combat robot¡¯s cameras up in the base facilities above, only to see a mess of dead Znosians at its mechanical feet.
I took care of one of their squads up here, but my position is untenable in the long term, Flowers messaged.
Understood, Flowers. Fall back down to us.
Roger. On my way.
Taking the rappelling cables they¡¯d used, Flowers descended into the elevator shaft, reaching the bottom in seconds. Luckily, the enemies had cleared out of the staircase and Flowers made its way to the bottom floor where the squad of operators was in no time.
Go clear and watch the staircase, Flowers.
Yes, Director.
It backtracked up the staircase, aiming its gun up through the railing gaps.
Another notification popped up in Mark¡¯s vision.
What is it? John asked.
Their QRFs. Our overhead cover just found one of them.
Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3
POV: Krelnos, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Administrator)
Krelnos stared at her pawheld radio set in uncontained rage. ¡°Where did you guys hop off to?¡±
The sound in the background of the other end could only be described as pitiful. Several Znosians groaned and shouted in panic. ¡°Station Director, we¡¯ve been delayed! I take full responsibility¡ª¡±
¡°Where are you, Six Whiskers?!¡± she demanded.
¡°Our convoy is twelve kilometers from the base coordinates we were given¡ I think? I can¡¯t find it on our maps. I take¡ª¡±
¡°That¡¯s because it¡¯s not supposed to be on your maps, you stupid defect!¡± she screamed. ¡°Twelve kilometers?! That¡¯s only a ten-minute drive! What are you waiting for? Get in there and stop the Great Predators from doing¡ whatever it is they¡¯re in there for.¡±
She could only imagine what they were doing down there right now with her precious weapons.
¡°Yes, Station Director,¡± he huffed. ¡°But their flying machines took out our vehicles. Several of our platoon have rejoined the Prophecy, and the rest of us are hopping there now. My spotter says there are still a few of their flying machines just flying around above the target area¡ª¡±
¡°Just get in there!¡±
¡°Yes, Station Director, it will take us a few hours, so I recommend¡¡± his words trailed off into static.
¡°What now?!¡± Krelnos shouted as she looked around the room wildly. Her attendant was cowering behind his desk, giving her every appearance of working as hard as he could. ¡°Where did they go?!¡±
The attendant typed commands and query inputs into his console for all he was worth. ¡°Station Director, the Digital Guide says they¡¯re being locally jammed by the Great Predators. We can¡¯t re-establish connection and get a message out to them!¡±
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
¡°Useless! Where¡¯s our other quick response forces? I thought we specifically changed our procedures to prevent this from happening after that idiot Navy fleet commander almost got himself captured last time!¡±
¡°Two are on their way, ma¡¯am. Another three are still mustering up.¡±
¡°Useless,¡± she repeated. ¡°Swarm the critters! And get me Marine aviation on the line! The hardline!¡±
State Security Munitions Base 4, Grantor
POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office
Their stock of Coyote drones overhead depleting rapidly as additional Znosian response units converged on their location, Mark could only watch as more and more vehicles drove up to the base, unloading their infantry around and into the building they knew their enemies were holed up in.
There were the pawsteps of Znosian Marines as they stepped down the staircase. This time, the stepping of their boots was more organized, more confident.
Defending low ground was never easy, but Flowers could see the paws of the Znosians coming down the stairs before they could see the top of its head. And while the Znosians had grenades and rockets, the confined space and their uncertainty about their targets made it harder for them to employ those. Flowers had no such issues. Its computer-precise grenades chewed through squads and squads of enemy infantry trying to fight their way to the bottom where the operators it was protecting were.
When it ran out of grenades, it used its gun. And when its own ammunition ran dry, it picked up one of the many Znosian rifles left lying around all over the place. The good news was they weren¡¯t going to run out of ammo to scavenge anytime soon. The bad news was there were a lot of Znosian Marines.
Rat-at-at-at. Rat-at-at-at. Rat-at-at-at-at.
The sounds of dueling gunfire in the staircase echoed into the cargo module.
How much longer? Mark asked impatiently.
Kara gritted her teeth, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. My suit intelligence says it¡¯s going to take another few minutes. It¡¯s now analyzing and reverse engineering the control module code. They¡¯ve got some kind of State Security tamper-resistance module thing we¡¯re still working through¡ª
That¡¯s what it said like half an hour ago!
¡°Would you like to try instead?¡± she snapped and asked audibly.
Flowers can¡¯t hold them forever!
As if to emphasize his point, there was a fresh burst of gunfire in the staircase.
Still with us, Flowers? Mark asked in the lull after.
Still operational, it messaged back. Total cumulative damage: 2 hits to chest plate, 2 to right arm. Right arm inoperable. Remaining essential combat systems operational. Low on ammunition. Collecting additional ammunition from enemy¡ Setting grenade trap¡
See? It¡¯s doing just fine, Kara added absentmindedly. Almost there¡
John, get ready to move.
John tapped into the few remaining Coyote drones overhead, designating high priority targets on his implants. Which of their vehicles are we taking for the egress?
Whichever ones can fit our fat asses. Have you seen how small their¡ª
The transport truck it is, John decided, picking out a blue cargo carrier among the mess of vehicles upstairs. It looked like it could carry half a platoon of Znosian Marines, or just enough to fit the trio.
That driver¡¯s seat will be a tight fit though.
Another burst of gunfire sounded in the staircase, around the fourth floor if Mark¡¯s auditory implants were accurate. (They were.)
Rat-at-at. Rat-at-at.
With a deliberate thought, Flowers¡¯ view appeared on his helmet interface. It effortlessly took out two enemy Znosians hopping down the stairs at him with its machine reflexes.
A third Znosian came flying towards Flowers, and oddly enough, she looked¡ª
Ah, shit.
It wasn¡¯t the first time Mark had seen the tactic. Not by far. He was surprised it took the Buns this long to figure this one out.
The Red Zone Special.
The third Znosian Marine was apparently unarmed, which added an additional half millisecond to Flowers¡¯ reaction time as it observed and assessed whether the target should be apprehended before its TRO aftermarket programming shut down that irrelevant query. She might not be carrying any weapons, but she was wearing a thick coat and a small backpack. And that half millisecond hesitation was just enough of a delay for her legs to leap at Flowers.
The combat robot identified the threat and urgently unloaded its weapon at her chest, and she was dead before she left the floor.
The fragmentation explosives concealed around her waist and in her backpack, however, mostly survived the bullets.
Rat-at-at-at-at-ka-boooooooooom.
Flowers!
There was no reply for a second.
¡°Flowers!¡± Mark yelled into his helmet radio. ¡°Status?¡±
I am now combat ineffective and irrecoverable, Flowers messaged. Self-destruct activating¡ Goodbye, team.
There was a smaller secondary explosion from the staircase as the remains of the robot self-destructed.
Crap! We just lost Flowers! Kara, we have to go¡ª
I¡¯ve got it! she yelled back in her head as she collected the array of gear she¡¯d spread around the work site. Timer set!
About time. Let¡¯s get out of here, Mark thought as the trio half jogged to the staircase. He looked up at the ninety flights of stairs above him, the sound of enemy boots descending echoing through the confined space. I¡¯ll take point. Watch the doors.
Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3
POV: Krelnos, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Administrator)
¡°Station Director, the Marines on site have finally set up the laser communications system.¡±
Krelnos snatched the radio from her attendant¡¯s outstretched paws. ¡°What in the Prophecy is going on?!¡±
¡°They¡¯re still coming, Station Director!¡±
¡°Who is this?¡± she seethed angrily at the voice.
¡°Station Director, I am Company Leader Five Whiskers¡ª¡±
¡°Never mind that. I don¡¯t know why I even asked. I don¡¯t care. What is still coming?¡±
¡°The Great Predators! They¡¯ve chewed through the entire company we sent down to get them, and now they¡¯re coming back up towards us! They¡¯ve already taken out my Platoons Angora, Binky, and Cottontail! Last platoon reported they were only fifteen floors down from the surface¡ª¡±
¡°You incompetent idiots! It¡¯s three predators! How can you not deal with this?¡±
¡°Station Director, my Digital Guide recommends we withdraw our remaining troops and call-in air support to bomb the structure to seal them down there¡ª¡±
¡°Shut up, Five Whiskers!¡± she raged at him. ¡°Those munitions down there are worth more than your entire division combined! Send the rest of your people down there. If they prove inadequate, our other forces are closing¡ª¡±
To her astonishment, the idiot actually dared to interrupt her. ¡°Hold on! There¡¯s something going on at the structure entrance¡ª Oh, by the Prophecy, it¡¯s them! Four Whiskers, let the Skyfangs know¡ª Over there! Get it! It¡¯s right there!¡±
There was a burst of gunfire in the background¡ then radio static.
Krelnos¡¯ attendant huddled at his console, busy with¡ª whatever it was on his screen.
She fixed her frosty glare on him. ¡°Where are the Marine aviation assets?¡±
¡°Three of them are on station, and another should be entering the airspace shortly.¡±
State Security Munitions Base 4, Grantor
POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office
Mark couldn¡¯t see the trio of enemy choppers hovering low over the base surface with even his neural implants ¡ª out of his line of sight, but the Coyote drones had no such problems. The last of them ¡ª saved for this exact situation, dove down on the helos. The sounds of their simultaneous explosions echoed to his ears a few heartbeats later.
Director, let¡¯s go!
He held onto John¡¯s shoulder, grimacing as he did.
You have been shot. Evacuate to a safe place or medical facility immediately, his suit warned him again.
Mark looked down at his stomach. He¡¯d taken several hits on the way up the staircase. The layers of ceramic plates that made up his body armor were cracked, useless. And at least four of those hits were penetrations around his vitals. His suit sealed the open wounds to stem the bleeding and keep him combat effective, but even in his heavily modified state, it was taking a toll on his mobility.
He gave his neural implant permission to cut off pain to the damaged body parts.
Did you get their truck unlocked? he asked, gritting his teeth as the odd sensation of the nerve painkillers propagated through his spine.
Kara didn¡¯t reply. She didn¡¯t have to. The blue Znosian transport truck roared to life. Get in!
Mark watched her try to squeeze her body into the Znosian-sized front cabin. That¡¯s a tight fit, he noted dryly. Are you going to be able to¡ª
John half-threw him into the back. I¡¯ll take care of it. He pulled out his laser cutter, and within seconds of field remodeling ¡ª bits of scrap metal flying off, the alien truck cabin became a convertible with an exposed roof. Not the best thing for the vehicle¡¯s structural integrity, but it¡¯d have to do. Kara slid into the driver¡¯s seat with some more fiddling.
Good enough. Drive!
Are you alright back there? Kara asked as she gunned the accelerator. That shoulder wound looks painful.
Just get us out of the open and back into the city! We¡¯ll lose them in there!
On Every Front - Chapter 49 Close Air III
Grantor City School for Gifted Hatchlings, Grantor-3
POV: Spisme, Znosian (Teacher)
¡°¡ then you see another hatchling being teased and pushed around by another. Do you¡ one, join in because other people are doing it; two, ignore it and walk away; three, report it to the local security official; four, try to stop¡ª¡±
¡°If she¡¯s being pushed around, she is probably a defective anyway, Teacher Spisme. I think it¡¯s just natural¡ª¡±
Whack.
¡°Ow!¡± the little hatchling yelped, clutching his ear in pain where Spisme smacked it with a thin, wooden stick as a couple of other hatchlings covered their snickers. ¡°I was just making¡ª¡±
¡°We don¡¯t use that word around here¡ anymore!¡± She bent down to an appropriate height to scream into the hatchling¡¯s face. ¡°Do you understand?!¡±
Whack.
¡°Ow!¡±
She stared at the hatchling ¡ª he was nursing his ears ¡ª severely. ¡°I asked you: do you understand?!¡±
¡°Yes, Teacher Spisme! I understand!¡± he answered hastily. ¡°I understand!¡±
¡°Good,¡± she said, stealing a quick glance at Torsad and Insunt ¡ª observing intently at the back of the classroom. ¡°Now¡ answer the original question.¡±
¡°I¡ª I report¡ª report the incident,¡± he stuttered nervously, stealing a not-so-subtle glance backwards at the Granti rebels himself.
Spisme nodded sagely, flipped her datapad to the answer key, and then frowned. ¡°Hmm, wait a second¡¡±
Whack.
¡°Ow!¡±
¡°Wrong answer!¡±
¡°Ahem! Ahhhhemmmm.¡±
Spisme looked up at the source of the deliberate throat-clearing. ¡°Yes, Department Leader Torsad?¡±
¡°Would you care to join me in the hallway, Teacher Spisme?¡± Torsad asked.
¡°Of course¡ All hatchlings, continue your reading until the end of the chapter.¡±
¡°Yes, Teacher Spisme,¡± they replied in unison.
Spisme followed the Granti operative to the hallway. ¡°Is there something dissatisfactory with my hatchlings?¡± she asked nervously.
¡°No¡ª not really. When I was a teacher¡ª never mind. Do you really have to¡ hit them like that?¡± Torsad gestured at her own ear.
Spisme looked at her for a second, contemplating the question, then her eye lit up. ¡°Ah, of course, Department Leader, I can hit them a little harder next time ¡ª on the nose, perhaps? ¡ª if you think my method of discipline is inadequate?¡±
¡°Harder?!¡± Torsad shook her head strongly. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª not what I meant. Why hit them at all?¡±
¡°So they learn appropriately,¡± she answered matter-of-factly. ¡°In time for you to administer their end-of-training assessment.¡±
¡°And you can think of no¡ª no other way? Other than applying pain? Isn¡¯t that a little¡ª a little too much for such minor mistakes? And they¡¯re¡ª they¡¯re so small.¡±
Spisme narrowed her eyes at the massive predator towering over her. ¡°I can think of several other ways. I am an experienced hatchling teacher, after all. But this is the fastest and most efficient method available to me. Have you given my request the other week more thought?¡±
¡°We are not going to give you a zapper for you to use on your hatchlings!¡± Insunt cut in.
If Torsad hadn¡¯t seen how Znosian teachers educated their hatchlings in other settings, she might have suspected it was merely a ruse to get her paws on a weapon¡
Spisme shrugged. ¡°A zapper would be significantly more efficient. The latest model from Znos has two additional settings for¡ª¡±
¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s outright hatchling abuse!¡± Torsad countered. ¡°I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m saying this¡ª What if they learn better another way?!¡±
¡°Then they are probably defect¡ª I mean, below baseline intelligence. You have been sending more and more of these¡ substandard hatchlings to my school the past few months,¡± she complained. ¡°So many behavioral issues! I have to pay extra attention to them because I don¡¯t want them to all fail their tests and get recycled by you. Again.¡±
¡°Ahem,¡± Torsad covered up a cough. ¡°Of course not. Uh¡ª carry on with your good work, Teacher Spisme. I look forward to your positive results.¡±
POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)
They watched the hatchling teacher get back to her class and resume screaming at her hatchlings again.
Insunt turned to Torsad, ¡°If we tell her the truth about the other ones¡ª¡±
¡°¡ª It would not help,¡± Torsad shook her head firmly. ¡°She is trying her best. There¡¯s no need to add unnecessary complications to her job.¡±
¡°Did you see that hatchling though?¡± Insunt asked, thoughtful.
¡°Which one?¡±
¡°The one that said the naughty word. The last one.¡±
Torsad snorted, ¡°Ah, that one. Yeah. Spisme must have accidentally used that word where they can hear it. Probably called them that herself. It¡¯s¡ whatever. Just look at her; I¡¯m sure it¡¯s not intentional or¡ª¡±
¡°No, that¡¯s not what he meant. I¡ª I could have sworn he was just joking or something,¡± Insunt said.
¡°Intentional humor? From a Grass Eater hatchling? Perhaps you¡¯ve been reading too many of the Terran books¡ which I didn¡¯t think was possible. The Znosians don¡¯t do that; everyone knows that.¡±
¡°Well¡ maybe it was mimicking us¡ Maybe I¡¯m imagining things¡¡± his voice trailed off.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Buzz.
Torsad glanced down at her radio, its indicator light blinking yellow. She picked it up. ¡°Hello? Nexus here.¡±
¡°Department Leader!¡± the slightly garbled other end of the call sounded excited. Then again, most of her operatives were easily excitable people. ¡°Department Leader! There¡¯s something going on!¡±
Torsad rolled her eyes. She had to remind herself that these people were not all properly trained in radio procedure like herself. ¡°Yes, yes. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s very important. But surely you can report your status in slightly more specific terms?¡±
¡°Yes, Department Leader. Our high-rise lookouts at the eastern edge of the city say they¡¯re seeing a lot of activity around the occupier Marine bases. They¡¯re drawing a bunch of troops out of their barracks¡ª¡±
¡°Where are they going?¡± Torsad asked sharply as Insunt prepared their vehicle. ¡°I¡¯m heading that way right now.¡±
¡°That¡¯s the thing¡ it¡¯s not any of the bases we have on the map we have. And there are so many of them! I¡¯m talking entire forward bases just being emptied¡ Here, I¡¯ll transmit the coordinates we have to you.¡±
As Insunt drove, Torsad got on her radio.
Her other radio.
She tried the pre-arranged urgent channel. There was no response.
In just a few minutes, they arrived at one of their many hidden checkpoints at the edge of the city.
¡°Who¡¯s in charge here?¡± Torsad asked as she almost jumped out of the back of her moving truck.
A scruffy-looking youth stepped forward, gesturing at his company of a couple dozen people and their two well-camouflaged vehicles in a covered net. ¡°I am. This is my action cell, Department Leader.¡±
¡°Get your weapons and your vehicles. Let¡¯s go.¡±
¡°Where are we going, Department Leader?¡± he asked excitedly. ¡°We weren¡¯t told where we¡¯re going, only that we¡¯re needed for an urgent mission¡ª¡±
There was a flash from outside the city. A bright flash.
Far brighter than the rising Grantor star.
¡°Uh¡ yeah. That way.¡±
Grantor City Outskirts, Grantor-3
POV: Bertel, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)
Five Whiskers Bertel gasped in surprise and shielded her eyes with her paw instinctively as the horizon flashed and erupted in a blinding blaze of light. A few seconds later, her Skyfang shuddered violently as the shockwave from the nuclear explosion raced across the landscape below. Glancing back at her pilot, she saw Sminski struggling to maintain control, their main rotors groaning under the sudden pressure.
And just as quickly as it arrived, the danger passed.
She looked out the window to the front. A large orange mushroom cloud rose ominously in the distance, a towering inferno of radioactive ash and heat¡ She didn¡¯t need to check her orbital positioning unit to know that was the target location they were supposed to provide air support to.
Bertel dialed her radio to her new command frequency. ¡°Zigzag Aviation, this is Skyfang Floppy-4. What is going on?¡±
To her surprise, there was a response, albeit not a helpful one. ¡°Floppy-4, this is Zigzag. Hold one, please. We¡¯re trying to figure out what¡¯s going on. There¡ª we¡¯ve been having problems pinpointing the detonation¡ª¡±
¡°It¡¯s at the base we were supposed to respond to!¡± she provided back to the radio.
¡°Uh¡ Floppy-4, we don¡¯t have the coordinates. We¡¯re trying to get confirmation from our supervisor¡ª¡±
Useless.
She shut off the radio and activated her radar and sensor systems. Which, also to her surprise, were still functional, albeit at a degraded state because of the amount of radiation in the air and the soot now raining down near the base. It scanned the area in a narrow arc in front of them, and a few seconds later, it returned a moving target. A friendly transport vehicle.
Moving away from the detonation.
She frowned.
That is odd. Aren¡¯t the ground troops supposed to be swarming¡ª
She panned the thermal optic view to the target, and what she saw erased all questions from her mind. ¡°Sminski, that vehicle! It¡¯s hostile! That¡¯s the Great Predators! Get me a shot!¡±
¡°Holding steady!¡± he said after a few seconds of adjustments to their tilt and collective.
¡°Launching!¡±
POV: ¡°Mark¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office
Mark had been tracking the chopper in his enhanced vision ¡ª hoping it didn¡¯t notice them. Then, he saw the air-launched missile leave its pylons in a puff of smoke.
John saw it coming too. ¡°Incoming! Get out!¡± he screamed both audibly and in his mind as he leaped out of the moving truck.
Kara reacted half a second later. Her feet caught on the undersized vehicle¡¯s steering wheels. She grunted as she tried desperately to free herself from the vehicle.
At just over a kilometer, Mark calculated he had less than four seconds to act.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Kara¡¯s shoulder with both hands. Leveraging his taller position behind her, he swiftly flung her out of the cabin like a ragdoll, propelling her away from the truck with all his strength and adrenaline. Half of the vehicle¡¯s dashboard went flying with her, including a chunk of the steering wheel.
The truck immediately swerved and toppled off the road. As it did, Mark lost his balance and fell back into the truck bed. He struggled to get back up¡ª
Boom.
POV: Bertel, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Five Whiskers)
¡°Hit!¡± Bertel screamed excitedly. ¡°Target destroyed!¡±
Sminski¡¯s voice in her ear was skeptical. ¡°The Great Predators? We got them?! Are you sure?¡±
The doubt echoing her own in the back of her mind; she double-checked in her thermal sensors. The fire and smoke in the area were obscuring its vision, but the truck was clearly overturned and burning a trail of black smoke into the sky above it. As she watched, two figures picked themselves up from right next to the wreck and started moving again.
¡°They¡¯re still alive!¡± she yelled. ¡°Line us up again! Switching to autocannon!¡±
¡°Lining us up¡ª wait a second.¡±
Every indicator light on their dashboard lit up, screaming a dozen warnings at them.
She could hear Sminski hit a series of buttons and controls in the back seat as he screamed, ¡°Incoming surface-to¡ª¡±
Bang.
A loud crack emitted from under the Skyfang reverberated through the cabin, and the rotary wing tilted roughly to the right.
¡°We¡¯ve been hit!¡± Bertel screamed as she checked the status panels. ¡°We¡¯re hit! Main engine loss! Can you get us to land, Sminski? I see a patch down to our right¡ª¡±
Not getting a response, she turned to the back seat to a gruesome image. The shrapnel from the surface-to-air missile had made pulp out of her pilot, smearing his remains across the perforated back seat. Half his dashboard was missing, and there was a large hole in the cockpit glass.
She gulped.
Remembering her training, Bertel placed her neck in a perfectly upright position, reached her paws over her shoulders, and pulled hard on the ejection loops.
POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Department Leader)
Torsad watched as her Talon swat the enemy choppers out of the sky with satisfaction. She leaned forward to her driver. ¡°Target destroyed. Get us to where they were shooting at.¡±
POV: ¡°Kara¡±, Terran Reconnaissance Office
John examined the suit still containing the badly mangled body of the TRO director and shook his head at Kara as she approached, limping.
¡°He¡¯s gone,¡± he said out loud, sounding as if half in shock and the other half still operating on the inertia of combat instinct.
She bent down to the suit, activating the quick release and shedding it as quickly as she could with a broken bone in her left arm.
John grabbed her shoulder. Kara, he¡¯s gone!
¡°Help me get him out of there,¡± she snapped back.
What? He¡¯s gone. We don¡¯t have¡ª
¡°We need to recover his implants and destroy the suit in place.¡± Returning to their shared implant thoughts, she replied coldly, Standard procedure. Can¡¯t let them capture our tech or bodies.
He stared at her for a heartbeat, then nodded as he bent down to try to pry Mark¡¯s helmet off him. Right.
A second of fruitless struggling later, Kara shook her head as she pulled out her laser cutter. No time to go digging in his head for everything. I¡¯m going to sever it at the neck.
¡°Are¡ª are you sure?¡±
Get out his explosives for the suit and body, Kara ordered as she made the quick cut.
Sssssssssss-snip.
Mark¡¯s entire head came off surprisingly easily with the laser cutter. Carefully wrapping the fallen director¡¯s decapitated head ¡ª blood half-spurting, half-cauterized ¡ª in a roll of bandage, she packed it all into her backpack.
Hurry, she commanded, as John primed the explosives for the rest of Mark¡¯s suit. Judging from that Talon hit, I think our Teddy friends are coming for us, but there¡¯s no way to know. Move quick.
¡°Torsad. Thanks for coming for us,¡± Kara said stiffly as she mounted the oversized Granti vehicle.
¡°Kara! What is going on? Why was there¡ª the massive explosion¡ª was that you guys?¡±
¡°Yes. Let¡¯s get out of here before more of them arrive.¡±
¡°Where is¡ª¡± Torsad glanced at the other Granti operatives near them, and lowered her voice. ¡°Where is the director?¡±
Kara sat down in the truck bed. She made sure her helmet tint was still active as she hugged her backpack close. ¡°He¡¯s gone, Torsad. He¡¯s gone.¡±
On Every Front - Chapter 50 White Flag I
ZNS 2040, Vdrajma (1.2 LY)
POV: Khluti, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Seven Whiskers)
The hull of ZNS 2040 echoed with the sound of buckling metal, groaning as the ship¡¯s exterior cameras showed the return of coherent starlight.
At least four hours before it was supposed to.
As captain of one of the Forager-class missile destroyers that patrolled the perimeter systems around the populated regional capital of Vdrajma, Khluti was neither an idiot nor a defect.
Her eyes flitted to her status panels, which told her exactly what she knew they would. ¡°This is the Great Predators. They have used their blink interception weapon against us. This far into the Dominion, somehow. Communications?¡±
¡°Jammed, as expected,¡± her computer officer replied just as competently. ¡°All communications, non-responsive. We are sending out light-speed signals in every direction in the hope that a ship will stop by near here, but it seems likely they are jamming that too.¡±
¡°Understood,¡± Khluti said, nodding her head. ¡°We are to activate our contingency plans for such a scenario. Begin preparations.¡±
¡°Are you sure, Seven Whiskers?¡± he asked.
¡°Yes. The enemy is out there somewhere. We can¡¯t hit what we can¡¯t see. And we can¡¯t kill what we can¡¯t hit. If they intend to kill us, we will die. If they intend to board us, they will take over our ships. It is time for a different approach.¡±
¡°Yes, Seven Whiskers.¡±
¡°Record and transmit this, Computer Officer.¡± Khluti calmly picked up her headset. ¡°This is Seven Whiskers Khluti of the Dominion Navy to any Great Predator vessel in our vicinity. I am ordering my ship to stand down. Our weapons and their targeting sensors are offline. Our drives are disabled. Our reactor is functioning at the bare minimum necessary to sustain life support. Our hangar bay is open. We are defenseless; we pose no threat to you. And we are no longer a military target. We are surrendering to you.¡±
¡°You think they¡¯ll buy that?¡± her computer officer asked.
¡°No idea. Where are we on wiping our Digital Guide memory?¡±
¡°It¡¯s working. It should be completed in ten minutes.¡±
¡°Good. Run someone down to the engineering section. Make sure the damage they do to our engines is permanent.¡±
TRNS Sonora, Vdrajma (1.2 LY)
POV: Catarina Ibarra, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)
¡°That is¡ª that is a new one,¡± Catarina remarked as the alien transmission message terminated.
¡°I thought we were just supposed to blow them up.¡±
Catarina nodded. ¡°Those were our orders. What do you suppose they are up to now?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. But we don¡¯t have enough troops on board to board her properly. Maybe we just leave them stranded here in the middle of nowhere?¡±
She snorted derisively. ¡°As soon as we¡¯re gone, they¡¯re going to call their friends and tell them we¡¯re coming.¡±
Kyrylo tilted his head. ¡°What if we leave one of our jammer drones here with them?¡±
Catarina thought about it for a few seconds. ¡°Can¡¯t risk them finding it and taking it out.¡±
They stood there and just watched the surrendering enemy ship on the main screen. Sure enough, its engines had turned cold and they could see from afar that even the lights in some of its exterior walkways were turning off from the power loss as its reactors powered down.
¡°It¡¯s not even moving. I don¡¯t suppose we can just¡ trash it,¡± Kyrylo said after a moment.
¡°Against our RoE and the rules of war.¡±
¡°The ones they don¡¯t follow anyway.¡±
¡°No, they don¡¯t.¡± She sighed. ¡°But we do. Open a communications channel and send them this message: This is the Republic Navy. We accept your surrender. You may leave your ship from your lifepods and unarmed shuttles ¡ª except your dual-use boarding shuttles ¡ª and get to a safe distance away from your ship. You have ten minutes to comply before we begin demolitions.¡±
As lifepods began ejecting from the Znosian ship, in ones and twos, then dozens, Kyrylo raised an eyebrow. ¡°That¡¯s a lot of them. More than the regular complement and crew. We¡¯re not going to have enough space for them all on the ship.¡±
¡°Send for the Crete to come and pick them up.¡± Catarina shook her head in annoyance.
¡°But aren¡¯t they busy preparing for¡ª¡±
¡°We¡¯ll simply have to delay our operations for this bunch. Unless you have another suggestion that our onboard legal intelligence would not outright veto?¡±
It was quiet on the bridge deck for a while.
¡°I guess not.¡±
TRNS Crete, Vdrajma (1.2 LY)
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Special Warfare Team (Rank: High Pack Leader)
Baedarsust knew that the Grass Eaters being unloaded from their shuttles had been thoroughly checked for weapons and explosives by the combat robots, but that didn¡¯t mean he was going to drop his guard. ¡°Listen up, Grass Eaters. I am High Pack Leader Baedarsust. I will process you today. Comply with all our instructions, and I promise you will not be harmed.¡±
¡°Look at that plump one. Mmmmm¡ my, you look juicy,¡± Spommu jeered at the prisoner in front of the line.
The prisoner didn¡¯t look amused. Nor particularly fearful.
¡°Shut up and let me do my job, Head Pack Leader,¡± Baedarsust said irately. He pointed a claw at the first prisoner. ¡°Name and rank?¡±
The prisoner fixed him with a cool stare. Or what he imagined a cool Znosian stare would look like. ¡°May your eggs shatter¡ª¡±
¡°Look. If you don¡¯t give me your name and rank, you may not be eligible for prisoner exchange when the time comes.¡±
Hearing of the possibility of going home one day, the prisoner¡¯s demeanor improved ¡ª if only slightly. ¡°Oh. Huh. Those are the rules?¡±
¡°Yup.¡±
¡°That¡¯s a stupid predator rule.¡±
¡°Whatever you want to think. But as you can see¡¡± Baedarsust gestured at the growing line behind the obstinate prisoner. ¡°I¡¯m a little busy here, so I¡¯m not going to ask again. Name and rank?¡±
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
¡°Sjulzulp. Five Whiskers,¡± the prisoner pointed at the simple lines on his insignia, giving Baedarsust a mocking stare. ¡°Blind predator.¡±
¡°How do you even spell¡ª nevermind. Slurp, Five Whiskers,¡± Baedarsust read out as he typed into his datapad.
¡°It¡¯s Sjulzulp!¡±
A second later, a small printer device on the table next to him beeped and spat out a warm card with the prisoner¡¯s name and rank on it. Baedarsust handed it to the prisoner. ¡°Five Whiskers Slurp it is. Next!¡±
Sjulzulp refused to move on and held out his card. ¡°What are we supposed to do with this?¡±
¡°You hold onto it. Keep it safe. It¡¯s your identity card.¡±
¡°What if I lose it?¡±
Baedarsust shrugged. ¡°Find one of us, and we¡¯ll print you another one. Move along now. You¡¯re holding up the line.¡±
Sjulzulp was that guy. He stuffed the card in a utility pocket in his uniform. ¡°Okay. I¡¯ve lost my card. Print me another.¡±
¡°Cool. I¡¯ll get back to you after I¡¯m done with everyone else. Just a word of warning though, you need to produce these to be fed at mealtimes, so if it takes me a while to print you another¡ And get out of the line, or I¡¯ll have Spommu show you to your new home¡¡± He let his voice trail off to make his implication clear.
Sjulzulp finally took the hint, slinking off grumbling something unintelligible to himself.
¡°What an idiot,¡± Frumers muttered at the retreating five whiskers, just loud enough for everyone around to hear.
Quaullast snorted, ¡°Yeah, as if we haven¡¯t seen every one of these dumb little tricks when we were in the Red Zone for a year. These guys really think they¡¯ll come up with something more creative than human assholes?¡±
Baedarsust looked up at the next prisoner in line. ¡°Next! Name and rank?¡±
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)
¡°Admiral, the prisoner as you requested,¡± Baedarsust said, lightly shoving the Znosian officer into the conference room. He nodded in recognition at Speinfoent at her side. ¡°And Alpha Leader Speinfoent.¡±
¡°Thank you, High Pack Leader,¡± Carla smiled at him. He nodded his appreciation and left, closing the door behind him with a light click.
Carla turned to the prisoner. ¡°Seven Whiskers Khluti. Or Captain. Whichever you prefer.¡±
¡°Seven Whiskers is fine,¡± Khluti said sullenly.
¡°Seven Whiskers it is.¡± Carla gestured at one of the empty seats. ¡°Take a seat.¡±
Slowly, Khluti did as directed, awkwardly plopping herself into a seat clearly designed for much larger creatures than her. ¡°Am I here for you to gloat at me, Great Predator?¡±
¡°No, of course not.¡±
¡°Ah, torture then,¡± Khluti said, sighing in resignation. ¡°Do your worst, abomination. You won¡¯t get anything important out of me. I doubt I know what you¡¯ll want to know anyway.¡±
Carla chuckled lightly. ¡°Nothing quite so unprofessional or crude. Ah, Speinfoent, get rid of those unnecessary restraints. Surely you wouldn¡¯t try to hurt us here, right?¡±
¡°I can make no guarantees.¡±
Shrugging, Speinfoent reached behind the prisoner officer and removed the zip ties around her wrists.
¡°What is this about?¡± she said, still glaring at the Terran as she massaged blood back into her paws.
Carla ignored her question. ¡°Here, you must be hungry. Broccoli?¡± She gestured at Speinfoent, who grabbed a paper plate of stir-fried greens and plopped it on the table in front of the prisoner.
Khluti¡¯s nose sniffed twice at the plate. She looked up suspiciously at the human. ¡°No flesh?¡±
¡°No flesh.¡±
She sniffed at it hesitatingly for another couple of seconds.
¡°It¡¯s not poisoned, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking,¡± Carla added, smiling. ¡°Or drugged.¡±
¡°Besides, it wouldn¡¯t make any sense. If we wanted to drug you, it would be easy to tie you up and force-feed it to you,¡± Speinfoent muttered next to her.
Khluti glared at him. ¡°That is an utterly nonsensical statement, irrational Lesser Predator.¡±
Speinfoent wrinkled his snout. ¡°Nonsensical?!¡±
¡°It may be easy for you to force feed me, but it costs you literally nothing to lie to me,¡± she huffed. ¡°If I were in your place, I would try lying first, too. More convenient.¡±
¡°Sure,¡± Speinfoent said, breaking out into a grin and baring all his sharp canine teeth at her. ¡°But have you considered that I might really enjoy the painful process of force feeding you in your hypothetical?¡±
Khluti didn¡¯t have an answer to that. Instead, she looked at the tempting plate in front of her for a few more seconds quietly.
Sighing in exasperation, Carla reached out her long arm, grabbed one of the broccoli stems out of the plate, and popped it into her own mouth. After chewing it for a few seconds and gulping it down, she opened her mouth and made an ah-ing sound to show she¡¯d swallowed it. ¡°There, happy?¡±
Khluti shuddered at the sight of her teeth. ¡°Disgusting. Barbaric.¡±
Carla shrugged. ¡°Whatever. The plate¡¯s yours. Do with it what you want.¡±
After a few more seconds, the Znosian captive gave in to her rumbling digestive organs. She picked up the vegetables in the plate with a paw and began to chew experimentally.
Carla looked at her in amusement. ¡°How is it?¡±
¡°Terrible,¡± Khluti said, licking a speck of particularly oily broccoli off her paw as she began picking out another from the plate. ¡°Barely edible. I am doing this against my will, to survive as long as possible for¡ª for the future possibility of conducting sabotage on your ship.¡±
¡°We can feed you the ration¡ paste that your nutrient dispenser makes instead¡ª¡±
¡°That will be unnecessary.¡±
Carla guffawed. ¡°You know¡ for all your people¡¯s supposed expertise in war and ruses, you are horrible liars in person. Even compared to the Pup¡ª the Malgeir. And the Granti, I suppose.¡±
¡°Yes, we are not natural-born swindlers like you abominations,¡± Khluti admitted. ¡°There is little purpose for such deception within our people. As such, we do not practice it much amongst ourselves. It is a corruption. The very corruption that drains at your pets¡¯ societies. The Lesser Predators. That was part of why they were incapable of resisting our attacks. And the Slow Predators.¡±
¡°Until we joined the war.¡±
The captive tilted her head, and admitted, ¡°Until you joined the war.¡±
¡°Why do you think we¡¯re not susceptible to the same problem then? Our people lie to each other all the time. Sometimes, we lie even to ourselves.¡±
Khluti bit into a new broccoli head. ¡°Perhaps you succeed on the battlefield in spite of your degeneracy, not because of it.¡±
¡°Perhaps,¡± Carla said as she contemplated the possibility.
Seeing the plate in front of the Znosian captain was empty, Speinfoent grabbed it and replaced it with a new one ¡ª this one celery and hummus leftovers from the mess. ¡°Another?¡±
¡°No flesh?¡±
Carla resisted the urge to roll her eyes, barely successfully. ¡°Yes, no flesh.¡±
¡°I suppose¡ I suppose I¡¯ll have more,¡± Khluti said with poorly-feigned reluctance.
¡°Do they have¡ food services where you¡¯re from?¡± Carla asked curiously. ¡°I guess you don¡¯t have restaurants, but surely there has to be something better to look forward to than rations when you get off the ship.¡±
¡°Back on Znos?¡±
¡°Is that where you¡¯re from? Znos?¡±
Khluti stopped devouring kale to look up at her suspiciously.
¡°What could it possibly hurt if you told me where you¡¯re from?¡± Carla asked hastily. ¡°Surely that¡¯s not a state secret.¡±
The captive tilted her head, and resumed her lunch. ¡°Yes, I am from Znos-4. We don¡¯t have stores for wasteful food like you abominations. But we do have higher quality, more nutritious food for certain people.¡±
¡°Like who?¡±
¡°Infantry. Hard laborers. Jobs that require more strength development or have higher daily energy expenditure.¡±
¡°Sounds¡ coldly efficient. So for you Navy spacers, they just feed you and your¡ª your families slop and you¡¯re fine with that?¡±
¡°Family?¡± Khluti scoffed. ¡°We don¡¯t have such predator sentimentality. We have our bloodlines.¡±
¡°Sure, your bloodline¡ they just feed them that soggy crap too? Surely there is some perk to them being associated with someone as high-ranking as you.¡±
¡°My bloodline is of high-quality stock, carefully bred for tactical doctrine adherence and confidence in leadership,¡± she said proudly in between bites. ¡°That is why I am a seven whiskers of the Dominion Navy. It is the job I was made for.¡±
¡°Well¡ until you surrendered your ship, had it scuttled, and got your whole crew captured.¡±
¡°They should not place heavy fault on me for that at my eventual assignment-of-responsibility hearing. That was a deliberate decision to waste your resources and¡ª¡± Then, obviously realizing what she¡¯d just said, she interrupted herself and clamped her mouth shut.
¡°Go on.¡±
¡°You lied!¡± Khluti pointed a shaking claw at Carla. ¡°You said this was not an interrogation.¡±
¡°It¡¯s not. And I said it was not torture.¡±
¡°That¡ª there is no difference between the two. What¡ª what are you doing then?¡±
Carla waved the accusation away casually. ¡°It¡¯s just a few questions, to satisfy my irrational predator curiosity. Let¡¯s go back to talking about your family¡ª bloodline, whatever. That can¡¯t hurt, right? You don¡¯t have to volunteer any information you think will harm your people.¡±
Khluti just stared at her, her expression indecisive as she chewed the food absentmindedly.
Speinfoent replaced her plate again. ¡°More? You must be really hungry.¡±
The captive Znosian sniffed twice at the fresh plate distractingly. ¡°What is this?¡±
¡°Roasted carrots. And before you ask, no, it¡¯s not flesh.¡±
¡°Are you sure?¡± She prodded twice at the sizzling carrot before looking up at Carla suspiciously. ¡°Why is it all¡ blood-colored like this?¡±
¡°I have no idea. I¡¯m not a botanist, just a spacer like you. Do they teach you why your food looks the way it does?¡±
¡°No.¡± She looked at the plate and speculated, ¡°Maybe you are simply fattening me up before you eat me.¡±
Carla rolled her eyes. ¡°If we were, it would be easier to simply¡ª¡±
¡°Yeah, yeah. More of that irrational nonsense again.¡±
¡°Whatever you want to think. Plate¡¯s yours.¡±
Khluti took a good ten seconds to decide. Then, she took a bite. And another. No amount of practiced deception could hide the enjoyment on her face.
Carla continued, ¡°So¡ your bloodline. Where on Znos-4 did you say you come from again?¡±