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Grass Eaters | 46 | Logistics
🕑 Added 2024-04-17 16:47:01 +0000 UTCPreirsput
The Znosian captain of the escort ship numbered “13312” was an unremarkable member of his species. For a ship captain, he was neither particularly ambitious nor too careful, and that was the hallmark of his bloodline. For a captain, Pachte (his given name) had an average height, an average build, and an average intellect for a Navy captain. The Servants of the Prophecy did not expend unnecessary resources to develop special talents for the specimens who fulfilled average roles.
Regardless of the circumstance of his birth or position in the hierarchy, Six Whiskers Pachte took his job seriously. After all, he was bred to.
As the logistics supply convoy jumped into the undefended system for transit, he followed procedure to the letter: he ordered an escort ship to stay at the system limit while the rest of the flotilla moved through to the other side, with their autonomous supply ships following dutifully with their limited programming. Despite the tight deadline they had been given, it appeared the supplies would arrive in Datsot with plenty of time to spare.
In other words, no corners needed to be cut, not that the hard-working Znosian people would do that like the lazy Lesser Predators do anyway.
---
As they were halfway through the sector, the ship’s klaxon sounded the radar detection of a large enemy fleet in system as they materialized from behind a rocky planet.
Pachte was surprised but not petrified. “Pachte to escort fleet,” his voice echoed firmly through the comms. “It looks like a large raiding attempt from the Lesser Predators, sixty missile-capable combat ships. Prepare for battle.”
“Yes, Six Whiskers,” his subordinates replied in unison.
Pachte furrowed his brows at the sensor station. “We did not see them earlier?”
“They were hiding in the sensor shadow of the planet, Six Whiskers,” his sensor officer replied, head bowed to show contrition. “I take full responsibility for the failure to spot them in time.”
Pachte waved away his implied apology with his paw. “There was no way you could have known. I take responsibility for not deploying surveillance drones before proceeding in-system.”
“Thank you, Six Whiskers,” the officer said, relieved.
Pachte turned to his computer officer. “What does the Digital Guide say we should do?”
The computer officer did not hesitate to relay the bad news. “We are outnumbered, eight ships to their sixty, which we identify to be from their above average Sixth Fleet. We will most likely lose our supply ships. Retreat is pointless, and we can deal significant damage to this raiding fleet if we stand and fight. The conclusion is obvious.”
Pachte nodded in determination. “Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pool. Get ready to deploy all available countermeasures. The more waves of their missiles we survive, the more of these Lesser Predators we will see in the afterlife.”
Not all Znosians believed in an afterlife. It was considered a progressive concept: Znosians traditionally believed in reincarnation under the Prophecy. A schism almost broke out over this distinction several centuries ago; now the authorities informally tolerated this diversity of opinion, as long as its adherents did not evangelize too heavily. After all, there were some motivational benefits to either school of thought.
“How many waves of missiles does the Digital Guide think we will get to fire at them before they take us down?” he asked the computer officer out of pure curiosity, not contemplating changing the course of his fate.
“Six, possibly seven. We should be able to take out about twenty Lesser Predator ships in that time, given that they are still warming up their cold engines.”
“Excellent. Twenty of them for eight of us. We will meet those expectations. If not, my bloodline will have to take responsibility for my failure.”
---
The computer officer’s voice cracked as he reported. “Six Whiskers! Our observation ship at the system limit, it just disappeared from our sensors!”
“Disappeared?” Pachte echoed.
“Destroyed, we are detecting radiation consistent with its drive signature. I take responsibility for not being clear—”
“What hit them?” he asked, his mind spinning into overdrive.
“Unclear, the Digital Guide recommends that I scatter communication drones with our last status report in case—”
Pachte considered the recommendation, then nodded. “Do so. And speaking of communication, did we get to someone from the Datsot invasion fleet? It’s three blinks away, but they might have a patrol close enough by to avenge us.”
“No, Six Whiskers. Strangely enough, we haven’t received any responses to our FTL communication requests since we entered this system. In fact, I checked and none of our ships have.”
“Odd. What does the Guide say about that?” he questioned.
A minute later, the computer officer came back with a response. “Possibly an undiagnosed systemic malfunction of the FTL radios. Its recommendation is the same: send out our communication drones in case of our demise.”
Pachte nodded again. “Do that for now. Other than the fact that we are about to perish, there is something unusual about this raid. I can feel it in my whiskers and my bones.”
---
Pachte glanced at his weapons station as the tactical officer declared, “We are entering our maximum firing range.”
Luckily, he thought, the Lesser Predators have weaker missiles with lower range than us. And our engines are hotter. No matter how many ships they brought, we can still open fire first. The knowledge gave him a small degree of comfort. “Fire when ready and repeat fire as long as we can. Focus on their flagship with our entire first volley, and then pick five new ships to focus on for each subsequent volley. Spread this command so it will be fulfilled even if this ship is destroyed or I am incapacitated. Is that clear?”
The tactical officer operated her console without taking her eyes off it. “Yes, Six Whiskers. The command went out. Firing now.”
He watched on the radar as dozens of dots marking their missiles raced out from the escort fleet towards the mass of incoming enemies.
The sensor officer declared, “They are deploying countermeasures. We are resolving the targets on the radar— no, wait. Something’s wrong.”
I’m going to need to talk to her about precision of language later, Pachte thought. Then he realized it might not matter soon anyway.
Pachte sighed and looked at the sensor board. As he did, a fresh wave of shock washed over him. Thousands of new decoy contacts blossomed out of the enemy flagship on the radar, each with as much potency and clarity as the real targets.
He watched in horror as the new targets continued to stream onto the radar screen, some of the new ones so powerful they were resolving as literal planetary objects and stars, covering up not just the singular flagship they were targeting but the entire enemy fleet.
The tactical officer came back with a tally. “Twelve thousand new contacts detected! And climbing! These must be decoys!”
“Are we going to find any of the real enemy ships in time?” he asked urgently.
“That is… unlikely for our first volley, Six Whiskers. I take full responsibility for this failure.”
Pachte sighed in disappointment once again. The estimated number of enemy ships they can take with them just went down. “Let’s get another volley out. Our radar should have resolved these targets by the time they get there.”
The radar showed the computer resolving one, two, and then dozens of targets as they ruled out contacts that were clearly not moving or behaving naturally. Not nearly enough. The estimated time remaining counter on the radar display for getting a confident positive identification showed a comical “142.3 standard years”.
The tactical officer relayed the readout from her consoles. “Second volley out. Our missiles are still not seeing a specific target. All we have is a bunch of signals, too many to sort through. The likelihood we will hit an actual target out there is near zero—”
“Keep firing. They must have expended all their countermeasures as well. Eventually they will have to fly out of their decoy cover—” Pachte’s voice faltered as a fresh wave of false targets poured onto the sensor console. Someone had clearly not told these predator abominations what was supposed to be possible.
New klaxons sounded, this time warbling much more urgently.
“The enemy is firing now, Six Whiskers! Missiles incoming! Two hundred and forty in total.”
Pachte almost lost his nerve as he sank deeper into his command chair. Then he remembered his training: his people needed him to display an aura of competence, even if they were all going to die. Drawing up his remaining strength, Pachte recovered his composure and stood up to his full height of 1.2 meters, his face as calm as he could make it. “Let’s focus on defending for now. We have countermeasures too. Deploy them all.”
---
MNS Oengro
The mood on the Malgeir flagship was much less tense.
“High Fleet Commander, our new countermeasures are working as expected. All the Znosian missiles went stupid,” Vastae reported in mild surprise, borrowing the Terran terminology.
“Of course,” Mark said as he casually chomped down a bag of pistachios from his guest chair on the bridge.
“I can’t believe you can eat at a time like this. What is that even?” Vastae asked incredulously.
“Pistachios. These are nuts… well, technically cashews, I think,” Mark replied in between mouthful.
Vastae rolled his eyes. “And why were you so sure our countermeasures would work?”
Mark grinned. “Like I’ve said before, I have full confidence in your fleet and crews. Besides, we may not have given you the best ECM we have, but surplus Raven Two electronic warfare pods are more than enough to dazzle the skirts off those meager sensors and computers on those Bunny escort ships.”
“If they work so well, Grass Eater, why are they surplus?” Vastae challenged skeptically.
Mark didn’t stop chewing. “Because… our pirates decided to get themselves better sensors than your flagship, Blood Drinker. Hey look, don’t blame me; I’m not exactly happy about that either. Besides, the newer ones we have were supposed to be cheaper.”
“Cheaper? Really?”
“No,” Mark half-chuckled, “But the defense contractor that sold them to the Navy claimed they were going to be. She is very good at her job.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” Grionc nodded, the story of defense procurement a familiar refrain in the Malgeir Navy too. “At least most of your equipment works.”
Vastae looked at his console as a warning started to sound. “Looks like they have deployed radar chaff and decoys too— that’s got to be everything they have in the magazines. Exactly like the rehearsals. They are fighting to the death.”
Grionc looked at her console grimly as the number of radar contacts continued to climb into the dozens, over a hundred, and the outgoing missiles began to lose track of their original targets. “And we shall oblige. All combat ships, switch off your radars and fall back to the datalink from the supply ship marked as Rivers-1.”
The bridge watched as all the radar and decoy contacts momentarily disappeared off the radar, replaced by the simplex communication signals now provided by the next generation sensor and gravidar systems of the Terran reconnaissance ship loitering stealthily near the system limit. The one that had just eaten the enemy observation ship for breakfast.
The eight enemy escort ships and their convoy reappeared, clearly marked by the new data streaming in from the superior Terran sensors unfazed by enemy countermeasures and trickery. Quickly, the missiles of the Malgeir Navy tracked onto the targets confidently provided by their mother ships, and homed in.
---
Pachte could not believe his ears. “Say that again?”
“They didn’t go for any of the countermeasures, Six Whiskers. Not a single one. All their missiles are heading straight for us and our other escorts.”
His eyes went wide. “That’s impossible! We dumped our whole load!”
“Impact in six seconds! Five—”
“Signal the autonomous supply ships to scuttle! Don’t leave the Lesser Predators any—”
---
Mark observed the expanding ball of debris that was the enemy escort fleet with satisfaction as the bridge crew cheered the astonishingly bloodless victory in the background. Bloodless… for the Malgeir.
“And… that’s all she wrote. You sure you don’t want some of these pistachios? Don’t worry, I checked: none of you people are allergic to pistachios. They’re actually healthy for you — unless you eat too much.”
“Fine. I’ll try some of those seeds of yours. What next, you Terrans start introducing us to plant roots for dinner?” Vastae sniffed suspiciously as Mark handed over his snack bag.
Mark chuckled as he gestured to show Vastae how to crack them open. “Roots? Like carrots and potatoes? That can be arranged. I’m sure you’ll love fries. They come in vegan, but we can also cook them in these oily vats of synthetic animal fat…”
“Alright, alright, I get the point. No need to make us all hungry so early in the day,” Vastae said, struggling with the shell on one of the strange nuts— cashews.
“We’ll make a Root Eater out of you one day,” Mark winked.
Grionc turned around to face him. “Aren’t your people supposed to be salvaging those Znosian supply ships? Do you need our Marines to board them first to check for traps?”
Mark’s expression turned incredulous. “Board the enemy supply ships to check for traps? With real, living Marines first? Are you people nuts?!”
Grionc shrugged.
Mark waved the concern away. “Don’t worry about my salvage ships, Fleet Commander. We’ve got more than enough experience dealing with these kinds of situations. Some of our Red Zone terrorists can teach the Bunnies classes in counter-VBSS operations. There was this one time — before I joined the TRO — we were going after the lieutenant of a Resistance Ace; she stuck — I swear to God — this massive twentieth century fissile nuke in her Faraday shielded cargo hold, and we really needed to know where she got it from. You won’t believe how many combat robots we had to expend. Now, that was a nasty scene when we finally got on board…”
Comments
Will Clark
HEART - STEEL WE - KILL GET - UP ON TO WAR!!! Cyberstan forever, babeeeeeeeeeyyy!
Valdis Trautmanis
Combat robots, you say? Intriguing. Something like a T-800 Terminator without the skin perhaps?
