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Grass Eaters 3 | 24 | Free Znosian Navy
🕑 Added 2024-12-18 16:47:01 +0000 UTCZNS 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—”
“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 — 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—”
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 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 naïve enough to believe their pace was a result of their extensive battle damage.
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 — mostly the ones with higher whisker rank — knew what was coming. The enemy may have the exact same ships he did, but their armament — the deadly missiles the Great Predators had no doubt given this new… adversary — 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—”
“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— 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— 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—”
“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—” 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—”
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.”
Comments
Valdis Trautmanis
It is his long-term plan - to strategically retreat from Granti space, save his forces and give the Dominion time to re-arm, while forcing the Allies to spend resources rebuilding the liberated systems. This, however, goes directly against Director Svatken's megalomania
Alric Malicorne
Feels like Sprabr is testing the waters for a diplomatic overture...
Nicolae
Probably should have added some info that this is the rebals not humans.
AnAbsoluteVillain
Drats, Reps ruin all the fun.
