Spooker
patreon
Grass Eaters | 42 | Orbital Control
🕑 Added 2024-04-08 17:03:16 +0000 UTCZNS 1841
The dense cloud of artificial objects in Datsot orbit hinted at the age of the Malgeir civilization. Even the Znosian home planet of Znos did not have this much space infrastructure. Centuries of development had left this core world’s orbit a chaotic mess of rusting hulls and drifting derelicts among the pieces of functional satellites for anything from communication to weather forecast. Unfortunately for the invaders, it appeared that the Malgeir defenders had rigged at least some of them to mount primitive weapons.
Primitive, as in crude. Unsophisticated. And yet they were more than deadly enough. While armored against debris and light proximity fire, the landing transports of the Znosian Marines were not equipped to stand up to sustained autocannon fire at point blank range.
Every pair of eyes on the flag bridge of the 1841 stared intently at the visual sensors on their consoles as another duet of infantry transports sped towards the planet. Despite their speed, Ditvish knew their captains were exercising the maximum caution they could. The conscripts on the transport knew they were sacrificial troops whose lives were already forfeited to the Prophecy the day they were hatched; if they did not die on the orbital insertion, their next objective was a full-frontal assault on a well-guarded spaceport.
Ditvish clenched his teeth tightly as he watched the troop carriers approach another concentration of unidentifiable Malgeir orbiters. As the ships glided past them, his stomach tightened at each wreck that came within visual range. A couple seconds later, the carriers reached the lower edge of the cloud, and just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, one of the space stations at its edge came to life to his utter dismay.
Its maneuvering thrusters fired, spinning the station to face the incoming pair of Znosians ships menacingly—
“1841, fire on that station now!” Ditvish barked into his console.
The enemy station seemed to struggle, turning slowly as if burdened by its own barely functional maneuvering systems. Ditvish swore he could see gun ports on its belly swiveling to face their targets. Then, as ordered, two railgun projectiles sped out from Ditvish’s flagship and lanced towards the vulnerable jerry-rigged gun station.
They were just a fraction of a second too late.
The defenders loosed a fast torrent of high explosive shells at the thinly armored transports, pummeling the lead transport ship. The transport took a dozen hits, spiraling out of control as fragments of its hull, atmosphere, and unfortunate Znosian conscripts sprayed out of the ship into the void like the lifeblood of a wounded prey.
The second transport was luckier: it dodged most of the fire and was only grazed by a couple deflected shots. A moment later, it sped past both its crippled sister ship and the hostile station with its hull intact towards the planet below.
Then, the railgun projectiles from Ditvish’s flagship reached the station, blowing a room-sized hole clean through the fragile armed satellite. A large room.
The station’s weapons went silent, its power and propulsion systems visibly failing. Then, lifepods began to eject from the crippled enemy station.
“Status report?” Ditvish demanded.
The sensor officer wasted no time taking responsibility again. “Our leading transport has been severely damaged. The following transport took minor damage, but its telemetry indicates they should be able to make its way to land near their original insertion site. I take full responsibility for repeating my terrible failure in this disaster, Ten Whiskers.”
“As you should,” Ditvish responded coldly. “We will deal with the subject of your penance and competence after the operation. What about the enemy station crew?”
“Sixteen have managed to abandon stations through lifepods,” the officer replied.
After a moment’s thought, Ditvish leaned closer to his console. “1841, put a shot through each of the lifepods.”
“Right away, Ten Whiskers.”
The ship’s captain complied without objection or hesitation as the ship picked off the defenseless enemy survivors with their railgun one by one with practiced efficiency. Smiling emptily at the disappearing icons on his sensor board, Ditvish speculated hopefully, “That should make the rest of them in orbit think twice about launching another attack. Send in another wave.”
---
The third wave of transports managed to descend to the enemy surface without issue. The fourth as well.
Ditvish half-thought the danger was over when three more covertly armed enemy stations appeared in range of the two transports in the fifth wave to blow them both to smithereens. This time, the Malgeir spacers onboard had enough time to start targeting the few lifepods from the dying transports before the rail projectiles from the flagship arrived to silence them forever.
He noted that at least none of the enemy survived the destruction of their station; it appeared they had not even bothered to get into the lifepods. Nobody got out.
Ditvish had half a mind to reprimand the sensor officer again, but he didn’t have a solution either. And that could end up being bad for morale.
“This isn’t a sustainable attrition rate for our transports,” he observed to the crew. “They must have rigged up a lot of these derelict stations with those cheap weapons.”
The computer officer, bowing, replied, “That is what the Digital Guide assesses as well. It recommends that we take proactive measures.”
“I’m all ears. What does the combat computer say?” he asked, frustrated.
“We can put a rail round into each of their orbital stations preemptively if they get into range of our transports,” she relayed after a few seconds of query.
“That would cause a cascading chain reaction and litter low orbit with debris,” he objected half-heartedly. He had considered the idea at the back of his mind from the start — he wasn’t really opposed to it for any logical reason; it just seemed… inconvenient. “Maybe our armored landers can still get to the surface, but we wouldn’t be able to use our unarmored logistics ships to resupply troops on the ground.”
“It considered that consequence, Ten Whiskers,” she replied. “And it recommends this course of action anyway. The attrition rate for logistics ships from orbital debris is more acceptable than if we keep taking active losses from the Lesser Predators like this.”
“Very well,” Ditvish relented. “Tell 1841 to put a slug into anything that crosses the horizon towards our shuttles. I shall take full responsibility for any inconvenience we suffer from the orbital debris.”
His fleet only suffered one more transport lander casualty from a station that somehow hid in a wreck and survived a railgun projectile long enough to get in range to fire its guns anyway, but as Ditvish looked down at the cascading collisions below that was quickly turning the entire low orbit into a navigational hazard zone for his invading supply ships, he sighed deeply.
He would have to call for more armored landers or clean up the orbit, and the invasion timeline would be delayed once again — that annoying State Security agent on his case would not be pleased.
---
MNS Oengro
Grionc leaned back in her command chair, her eyes still fixed on the bustling activity in the shuttle bay on her console. The Terran supply shuttles entered and left her ships in practiced synchronization. They had ordered her entire shuttle bay depressurized for the resupply operation, which negated the need for lengthy pressurization and depressurization cycles. She watched the alien figures with darkened visors roll out standardized palettes of cargo, neatly stacking them in the corner of the hangar before they flew off, another shuttle smoothly taking their place on the line.
Doing this in vacuum was easier on the shuttles, the Terran operative had said, which saved money on maintenance and improved their shelf life.
She wondered why she never thought about it like that. The Terran crews loaded up supplies for the entire Sixth Fleet in record time; the Oengro, due to its size, finished last after a mere hour. Grionc couldn’t help but be impressed.
They had also simultaneously refueled the Fleet with their dedicated fuel tankers. The Malgeir were not entirely unfamiliar with the concept: indeed, the Navy used reappropriated civilian fuel tankers at the start of the war, but they were slow, vulnerable, and became easy targets for Znosian raiders. Now, they mostly relied on fuel scoops at gas giants or local civilian refueling infrastructure, which was much slower and more prone to enemy ambush. The Terrans’ dedicated fuel tankers worked much faster; she wondered whether she could convince them to leave one behind with her—
Vastae’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Sixth Fleet has been fully resupplied, High Fleet Commander. Heading to the system limit for phase two.”
Grionc sighed inwardly at the formality. She had tried, and failed, to get her crew to drop the ‘High’ from her title. She missed the simpler days when she was just Fleet Commander, Commander, or even just ma’am.
“Well done, Vastae,” she noted, deciding not to dwell on the title issue. “Is the Terran operative safely aboard… what was his name again?”
“His name is Mark,” interjected Speinfoent helpfully, ignoring a familiar disapproving glance from Vastae at his tactical station console.
Vastae nodded, but his brow furrowed as he glanced at his console. “He boarded with the last shuttle. Now he’s in the hangar bay pressurizing with the supplies… The last shuttles’ manifest did not include any parts or weapons. It’s in Terran Standard; I can’t read this ugly prey script—”
Speinfoent leaned over his shoulder to look at his console. “Hmm… I only learned a few words from my— wait a second, I recognize that last one—”
“What is it? What did they send?” Vastae asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Resupply for an ice cream machine. A certain… someone on board has—”
“What is ice cream?”
---
Datsot
The newly installed sirens at the forward base wailed urgently, prompting the Longclaw crews to button up their vehicles, closing their hatches with trained motions as they awaited the incoming indirect fire.
Skhork noted dryly to himself that their base was obviously being used as bait by someone upstairs: the growing complex was intentionally positioned far forward of the frontline to draw fire away from the newly established Znosian Marine beachhead. And it was working: this was the third attack they’d had to endure since they got here today.
No doubt the fleet was doing their best to locate their attackers and eliminate any unfortunate Lesser Predators caught in the open, but that did not make the incoming barrages feel any less harrowing. He was grateful for the meter thick composite armor that protected his hide; the infantry outside was less fortunate: their deployable bunkers shipment was delayed, and they had to rely on good old-fashioned digging into the soft ground of Datsot with their shovels.
The blast of the first volley sent a shudder through the base. Pieces of shrapnel flew in all directions, some pinging against the well-protected hull of his Longclaw. It seemed like an eternity before the ringing in their ears finally stopped, but there was no reprieve; as soon as it did, another artillery round hit next to one of the hastily dug trenches. Skhork watched on his screen as the infantry miserably hunched down further into their holes as more rounds landed. The base short-range turrets activated, spraying a hail of point defense fire at the incoming rounds; most were starting to be intercepted, detonating in midair and scattering their fragments harmlessly onto the ground beneath them.
The onslaught continued for a good minute, leaving behind a few tattered temporary shelters and churned mud. Almost miraculously, there were no casualties. Then, they watched the imagery on their screens as it showed one of their fire support ships in orbit call down a volley of precision missiles on the battery that attacked them. The distant guns on the map stopped.
Skhork’s crew cheered.
Their battlemap beeped as it called out a new threat.
“Incoming air assault,” Skhork announced, cool as ice, as the signatures of the low-flying rotary wing attack aircraft showed up on the Longclaw radar.
The Gunner shook her head, snorting. “Suicidal predators. They won’t even get into visuals.”
She was right. The base’s air defense battery launched a volley of air defense missiles that tracked and then surgically plucked the entire predator formation out of the sky, their signatures vanishing from the radar, confirming their kills. Despite their distance, the echoes of their explosions reached across the open fields a few seconds later.
“Is that all?” the Gunner asked with bravado.
Skhork just shook his head. “They’ll try again in a couple hours. Catch some sleep for now; we’ll be on the move by nightfall…”
