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Grass Eaters 3 | 23 | Battle Planning II
🕑 Added 2024-12-16 16:47:00 +0000 UTCTRNS 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—”
“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—”
“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—”
“That— 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— 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 — in Znosian paws — 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 — just these seven systems — 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— 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—”
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— 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 — 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 — for now — 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 — 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—”
“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 — Fskokh counted nine whiskers on his rank insignia, with the bottom one — was that last whisker drawn on with chalk? — 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— 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—”
“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.”
Comments
87894354
“Their handshake is using a slightly older code, sir, but it still checks out." A Return Of The Jedi reference? Bravo. Unrelated - the Znosian response to a potentially compromised vessel is to *invite said vessel to send a shuttle closer*. That... sounds like it could have backfired for the Bunnies. For all we know, the Bunnies might have been willing to let that shuttle actually dock with the fluffle's flagship so that code could be physically checked. How long before someone fills a shuttle with combat robots or nukes?
AnAbsoluteVillain
I like where this is going. Free buns for every resistance member. 🐰😍
Bayliner1980
This may be an unpopular opinion, but I feel really bad for the buns. Seeing how the resistance treated the znosian prisoners they have makes me fear what they'll do to the populace of spofke, if they win that is. I understand that they deserve punishment for what they did to the malgier and the granti, but eating them, cutting off ears, its all a little horrific. Let's just say I'm rooting for the buns on this one. Maybe the resistance will have some mutinies on their hands.
Spooker
Remember, they can’t make you identify yourself unless you consent!
Hbgplayer
The Buns got infected with SovCit?
Valdis Trautmanis
The Free Znossian Navy, huh? That might just be crazy enough to work
