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Grass Eaters 3 | 17 | Radio Free Grantor
🕑 Added 2024-12-02 16:47:00 +0000 UTCTRNS 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 — we know you are out there — 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—”
“They’re coming for Sol! They’re coming for—”
“Say again, Captain? Don’t think we caught the last—”
“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—”
“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—”
“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—”
“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 — 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—
“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— 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 — 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—”
“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—”
“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—”
“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—”
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 — teaching them about empathy and morality — 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.”
Comments
jrharper42
They can be man's third best friend. Second best friend is reserved for the Puppers!
AnAbsoluteVillain
Bred for the purpose of being little savages! Ugh, why cant they come predomesticated cute and cuddly. Hope TRO cooking something good cause we dont have a thousand years to selectively bred them to be man's second best friend.
