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Grass Eaters 2 | 25 | Serenity II
🕑 Added 2024-07-12 16:47:01 +0000 UTCMarine Base Camp Serenity, Charon
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)
Baedarsust felt the gravity disappear beneath his feet as the training scenario room initialized. He latched his Terran-issued helmet shut as he’d been drilled and focused on the virtual imagery before him.
He was floating just a hundred meters off a civilian-model Terran orbital station, with its telltale narrow, utilitarian corridors and bleached white aluminum-steel hull.
“Get ready to make dynamic entry!” a voice screamed in his helmet. “Begin!”
Baedarsust fumbled with the unfamiliar controls, activating his propulsion pack towards the station. He noticed a slight drift in his vector and judged that he wouldn’t intercept the structure. He applied a slight counter-rotation to his trajectory… just a small burn—
Oh no.
Within seconds, he’d managed to put his suit into an uncontrollable spin. Cursing in disorientation, he tried to stabilize himself with the thrusters.
I’m a shuttle pilot. Technically. I can do this!
A few more tweaks to his vector didn’t seem to fix the problem. In fact, he could swear that he was spinning faster in place, the orbital station and the empty starfield taking turns occupying his visual field of view: station — stars — station — stars — station — stars —
C’mon. C’mon.
Baedarsust tweaked another control, and to his relief, the spinning slowed down: stars — — — station — — — stars — — — station —
As his orientation returned to him and he let out a quiet cheer in his helmet, he noticed one of the metal panels on the station seemingly shifting out of place.
What’s that?
Oh no.
A sinister protrusion appeared on the distant station hull, letting off a burst of projectiles straight towards him.
Splat.
The screen went black.
Aida, the instructor, roared in his helmet. “Baedarsust, you’re dead! Hit the reset button and try the approach again! Preferably without the joy ride, yeah?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Small adjustments only.
Baedarsust applied an appropriately small correction to his suit’s vector, remembering to keep the station in his field of view.
So far so good.
As he approached the hull, he realized that the station seemed to be getting bigger.
A lot bigger.
Too fast. Too fast!
He braced himself for the impact, stretching his paws in front of him, hoping that would be enough—
Crunch.
The screen went black.
“Again!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Baedarsust realized two things: one, he could program his approach path on his suit navigation computer, and that was way easier than the manual controls. Two, he could set his approach terminal speed to one safe for his suit.
He realized these two things in two separate simulation attempts.
As he approached the station, he reached his paws in front of him, pulling on one of the maintenance handholds the Terrans had helpfully bolted to the outside of their station to orient himself against it.
Baedarsust’s magnetic boots activated, sticking them to the hull with a thud. He gingerly tested his boots, walking a couple steps in them.
Huh. Neat.
Wow. This sim feels so realistic.
He fumbled in his belt pouch for the breaching explosive. He found it neatly folded into a block, and as he grabbed it out of the bag, he saw small, round holes beginning to appear on the floor — the hull he was standing on — near his boots.
Huh?
Splat.
The screen went black.
“What did I do wrong?” he asked in confusion.
“Made so much noise walking on the hull you woke up the whole station! Then stood still while they shot you through the thin metal. Try again!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Baedarsust made sure to avoid any audible contact with the hull before he could make entry.
He pulled out his explosive, carefully arranging it on the hull as he’d been shown. He grabbed his suit rifle from his belt, aiming at the improvised entrance he was about to make.
Holding his breath, he activated the remote detonation in the suit’s computer. The thermite burnt a clean trail into the hull in a large circle, exactly as shown in the instruction video. Then, the atmosphere inside the station came rushing out, detaching that circular piece of hull — which went spinning and… flying directly towards him.
He tried to duck out of the way.
It was a solid effort.
Crunch.
The screen went black.
“Again!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)
“How is my detachment doing?” Carla asked excitedly.
“Marines aren’t born, ma’am; they’re made,” Aida replied.
She winced. “That bad, huh?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: Head Pack Leader)
Baedarsust tried not to grimace as he pushed aside several realistic-looking Terran corpses floating in his path, not taking his paws off his rifle or his eyes off the narrow corridor in front of him.
Death by vacuum, not a good way to go.
His suit displayed the station map in a three-dimensional display as he came to a three-way juncture: a corridor fed into the primary hallway from “above” him. He knew from the past simulation attempts that there would be someone waiting, and sure enough, his suit’s millimeter-wave radar sensors flashed him a warning as he approached the corner.
With a fluid motion, he rounded the corner, squeezing the trigger on his rifle as he did and trusting his suit to pre-adjust his aim as it locked onto the target’s head and compensate for the recoil. And exactly as expected, his weapon made a dozen holes in the two armored targets around the corner. They went slack, globules of air and blood rushing out of the new breaches in their suits.
He saw motion deeper in the station, a figure moving quickly from his right to left through a far window. Without hesitation, he opened fire again. His weapons made tiny holes in the glass, venting air, and he watched with satisfaction as the target went limp.
Baedarsust hit a button in his suit glove to activate his zoom optics to examine who he’d just shot.
Oh no.
Aida’s voice activated in his helmet, “You just killed the VIP in the safe room, genius!”
As he contemplated his terrible mistake, another armored figure sped around the corner right in front of him. He tried to adjust the aim on his weapon to take care of the new threat—
Splat.
The screen went black.
“And… that’s instant karma. What did we learn?” Aida’s asked.
“Identify the targets before I shoot?” he suggested meekly.
“That, and you’re going to make mistakes. When you do, don’t just stand there with your snout wide open! Try it again!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
The hostage looked at Baedarsust with confusion as he carefully fit her into an emergency EVA suit.
Yeah, yeah, I’m not one of your Terran Marines in shining armor. Deal with it, Grass Eater.
He studiously scanned his surroundings, noticed the proximity sensor pick up a new signal, and swiveled up to aim his weapon above him right as a new enemy burst into his line of sight.
One quick burst and the target went limp.
Recovering from her initial confusion, the hostage tried to yell something at him through her closed helmet. It only came through as a muffled sound transmitted through the physical contact between their EVA suits.
Not falling for that one again.
Instead of trying to decipher it, he kept his eyes on his ingress route as another snarling pirate burst into the room, holding an improvised melee weapon — some kind of a sharpened rebar rod. A quarter-second squeeze of his trigger, and he watched the enemy’s blood splatter and fill the inside of his helmet. The long, metal stick hung in the air motionlessly.
Headshot, nice and clean.
With a practiced flick, Baedarsust activated the radio button on the hostage’s emergency suit. “Stay behind me!” he yelled as he yanked another breaching charge out of his belt with one paw, still keeping his rifle aimed at the corridor he came in from.
I could go out the same way I came in, through that winding maze of corridors and enemies. Or…
Baedarsust stuck the explosive to the hull right next to him, a motion he must have done dozens of times by now. Pulling back to a safe distance and carefully shielding the hostage with his armored suit, he detonated the charge, exposing the room to vacuum as he held tightly onto a bolted protrusion embedded in the wall.
Air and debris rushed out of the safe room through the circular opening. He waited patiently for the decompression to complete, another lesson he learned in a previous exercise…
Quickly attaching the hostage to him with a secure nylon rope, checking the connection with a tug — another lesson learned — he turned his back to the opening and leapt backwards through it, keeping his weapon in front of him again.
As expected, one of the pirates was waiting for him on the outside, their magnetic boots glued to the hull. He trusted his suit to adjust his aim again, and it stitched a dozen new holes in the enemy.
On the skin of the station, Baedarsust spotted a threat from earlier.
Murder hole.
He turned around, hastily grabbing the hostage and oriented her in a feet-first direction towards the loosened hull panel to minimize their profile. With a steady paw, he calibrated the grenade launcher attached to his rifle to the distance and relative vector of the potential target, then fired a fragmentation grenade towards it.
Bloop.
He felt the launch through his suit. A second later, the panel on the station shifted, revealing a compartment inside as someone opened it. He could see the helmet of an armored figure as it began emerging from the hole, looking straight in the direction of the hostage and him.
Right on time, his grenade reached the enemy and detonated, showering it and its compartment with deadly debris. No further movement was visible in sight.
One final hard burn with his suit thrusters and they were out of the target area.
The screen went black.
“Not bad,” Aida voice came over the headset.
Baedarsust opened his helmet visor, letting the outside air in and panting in exhaustion. “Yeah, only took like thirty tries.”
“Forty-four,” Aida corrected. “Like I said, not bad for your first solo scenario.”
“Not so easy when everything’s trying to kill me out there,” he grumbled.
“It’s space. Of course everything’s trying to kill you. Your own equipment more than the Resistance sometimes, but it’s nothing personal. And—”
“Wait a second, did you say my first scenario?”
“What? You thought we only had one hostage rescue mission and one orbital station configuration? We have every known station in the Sol system in the sim. Here… I’ve got another one, similar mission objective to keep it simple—”
“Another one? Now?” the exhausted Baedarsust gasped out.
“You got somewhere else to be?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
TRNS Crete, Charon (400 km)
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)
Carla’s new command chair was raised slightly above the rest of the bridge, giving her a clear view of both her crew and their displays as well as a small panel on the side for her own controls. She took a few seconds to settle herself into it.
“Captain Bauernschmidt, you have a call waiting for you on the private line.” It was Beth, one of her new electronic warfare officer-in-training straight from the Staff College.
“Thank you, LT. And you can call me Carla.”
Beth nodded and focused back on the tasks on her console.
Carla picked up her headset. “This is Captain Bauernschmidt on the line.”
It was Amelia. “Carla! Just calling to congratulate you on your first command, a little belatedly. I’ve been busy lately. How’s it feel?”
“Thanks, Amelia. It’s uh— certainly a change of pace from the Mississippi.”
Amelia chortled. “It’s no space superiority ship, that’s for sure, but I wouldn’t count her out in a fight, especially with how many defensive upgrades you’ve got now. Getting to know your crew?”
Carla furtively glanced around the bridge, hoping nobody was paying attention. “It’s uh— they’re good. Very professional. Experienced. Can’t ask for a better—”
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re thinking… they’re looking at you funny because the Navy gave you the command chair instead of one of their own. Or that you got it because you were the admiral’s pet. Or some real imposter syndrome shit.”
Carla turned beet red. She was glad this wasn’t a video call. She half-whispered into her camera, “I’m on a ship full of people who know exactly what they’re doing at all times. I can barely even operate the coffee machine in the—”
“Are you the ship’s barista? Hold on, let me check if I made a typo on your transfer papers—”
“That’s not my point!”
Amelia waved off her objection, “Then you can get all that out of your head. Did I ever tell you how I got my first ship command?”
Carla paused to roll her eyes. “Only a few hundred times. Nepotism.”
“Exactly! Connections and luck. The same way as just about everyone who’s made it above O-6 — well, in peacetime anyway. You know what they say — you can go up or out in the Navy. It just so happens that some of us are actually qualified for our jobs… And I wouldn’t put you in a position where you weren’t qualified.”
“But I’ve never even worked with an assault carrier before!” Carla said as quietly as she could into the headset.
“Oh please, you think you’re the first person to captain a ship type they’ve never set foot on before?” Amelia asked with a hint of dismissal. “Surely I’ve taught you better than that. It’s not about commanding the ship. Never has been. Leadership is about people. You command people, Carla. Everything else comes naturally. What are you doing with your people?”
“I’m just getting to know my officers and crew. Fixing their problems, one-on-ones, dining them in… like that book you sent me. Did you know that some of my officers have been working on the Crete longer than I’ve been in the Navy?!”
“That’s a good start. Trust me, Carla. Those people are more scared of you than you are of them. Well, not scared — that’s not the right word. Uncertain. They’re just uncertain. They’re trying to figure you out — to feel you out, to see if they can put their lives in your hands in a crisis. They don’t know if they can trust their captain yet. But I do. And I’m sure when the time comes and the chips are down, they’ll see in you what I see in you. Now, go make me proud.”
Carla felt genuinely touched by the rare pep talk from her. “Thanks, Amelia. For everything.”
“And besides, the Crete is a thirty-year-old jarhead express. If you get the rust bucket all scratched up, nobody here in Atlas will even notice.”
