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Grass Eaters 3 | 27 | Kill Codes
🕑 Added 2024-12-25 16:47:01 +0000 UTCZNS 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 — an emotion she didn’t expect at all — 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 — the source more likely being her anger rather than the ship’s predicament — 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— 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— 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—”
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— but… Thirteen Whiskers, our Znosian bodies are more fragile. We can’t tolerate that high acceleration— we will not be working at combat effectiveness—”
“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.”
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— 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— 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 — way too far for visuals — 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—”
“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—”
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!”
“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… small 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—”
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! Targeting computer can’t accurately track those tiny little things in those—”
Boom.
Comments
AnAbsoluteVillain
Merry Chirstmas! Buns getting many suprise presents today. 🥰
Tabby
I'm getting whiffs of Corinthian Leather from this one. 🥹
Tabby
No Christmas is complete without a nice surprise Boom. (As my neighbors reminded me last night by using up the rest of their 4th of July toys until the wee hours of the morning. )
Spooker
Merry Christmas to you all, and have a wonderful one!
Valdis Trautmanis
Hmm.. What an intrigueingly evil and stupid contingency by the Buns - shooting both the supposed deserters and themselves in the foot like this... Oh and Merry Christmas, Spook! 🎄🥳
