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Grass Eaters | 33 | Ice Cream II
🕑 Added 2024-03-25 16:47:01 +0000 UTCMalgeirgam, Malgeiru
The indoor waterfall cascaded down the wall of glass, sending a tranquil ‘shhhh’ throughout the room. The sparkle and shimmer of crystal water glistened in different shades as moonlight bounced off it through the skylights in waves.
It was a perfect spot for Guinspiu to escape the galaxy outside, with its stress and strain. She paced in front of it, something she’d become accustomed to doing of late, especially deep in the night when she was unable to sleep.
There were many nights like that since the fall of her home planet of Grantor. As the Head-Councilor-in-exile of the Granti Alliance, she had many responsibilities around coordinating the resettlement of refugees, at first. When the Malgeir Federation was invaded, most of her people went on the run again. Now, she was merely a respected elder in a dwindling community of forever guests.
Pacing the waterfall, she felt a slight change in temperature in the room. The janitor must have left the windows open, she thought. As she turned around to head to it, she froze.
There was a solidly armored figure in black standing behind her with a darkened visor, and it was staring right at her. The figure was smaller than her, but it was clearly armed. She briefly glanced at the alarm on the wall. Would she be able to get to it, or was the datapad behind her a better option?
“Don’t worry about the alarms. We won’t be disturbed.”
She felt her mouth dry up but managed to squeak out, “Are you here to kill me?”
“What? No! I’m just here to have a chat with the head of state of the Granti people. Jeez, and you guys said we were paranoid.”
“Ah. You are one of the new Grass Eaters,” she nodded, sighing in relief.
It tilted its head, as if in surprise. “Good. I guess the Council shared our secret with you. That makes things simpler.” Then it opened its visor, revealing what she judged to be a male, middle-aged Terran with no hair on his light-brown scalp. “My name is Hersh. You may call me Operator Hersh or just Hersh.” He held out his hand, which she shook gingerly with her paw as the diplomatic brief she saw indicated she should.
“I’m Councilor Guinspiu, as I think you know. Why are you in my home?”
“We have a matter of utmost importance and secrecy to discuss with you.”
---
Plaunsollib
The station in orbit of Plaunsollib-3 was a hastily constructed Znosian forward base, just one sector away from the system of Datsot. Several ships had gathered here to reconnoiter the Malgeir presence in Datsot.
Among those, a cluster of six had their engines lit, ready to go. The singular Terran Navy reconnaissance ship hiding near the system blink limit had designated it as a battlegroup of five Forager-class missile destroyers escorting a Thumper-class battlecruiser.
Onboard the battlecruiser named the Zvontru, the senior command staff gathered in the meeting room.
A figure showed up on the main screen. “Eight Whiskers Atluftrosh, what is the status of your raid fluffle?”
“Never better, Ten Whiskers Ditvish,” Atluftrosh replied without even glancing at his underlings. “Our fluffle has combat ready flagship Zvontru, claw ships Sruakrach, Stvilp, Stonrakst, Vzdosl, and Birtevrut. We are all prepared to be underway.” Unlike most other ships in the gathering fleet which only had serial numbers, he had decided to order his crews to name their ships. He found that this encouraged them to have more pride in their work, which seemed to slightly improve combat performance at the expense of some discipline.
“Good, good,” Ditvish said, visibly pleased. “I trust you have received the information regarding the list of systems to hit. Are there any questions about your assignment?”
“No, Ten Whiskers. I would not dare question the judgement of those blessed to lead by the Prophecy.”
“You may question me any time, Atluftrosh. Your fluffle has never failed to make me proud since you were given command two years ago. I will explain my directives, so you may best follow it.”
Atluftrosh bowed his head in respect. “I await your directives!”
Ditvish straightened his chest, cleared his throat, and read, “The Lesser Predator menace is destined for extinction, but they continue their struggle. Their planet of Datsot has fallen back into heresy while it was still being cleansed. The Prophecy deems this unacceptable. As Servants, we shall once again liberate its skies from the Lesser Predators. In preparation for this crusade, you will first bleed their defenders. Find their arteries of supply and cut them. Report your progress. If you encounter any large formation of predators, flee without shame. Beyond orders, exercise judgement or utilize your combat computers. Such are your directives. May the Will of the Prophecy be done through you.”
“May the Will of the Prophecy be done through me,” intoned Fluffle Commander Atluftrosh and his underlings.
---
Naval Station Charon
“This ice cream is delicious. I think I can have this just be a full meal by itself,” Speinfoent declared, his eyes twinkling. “You say that all your ships can make this?”
The lieutenant in charge of the ice cream barge glanced at him. She was finding it hard to keep her composure professional in front of a living, talking alien whose head looked just like her pet Shepinois at home. “Yes, sir. Most of them, anyway. They have the smaller machines though, so they’re mainly for the crews. Ours can supply the whole fleet, including any transported troops.”
Speinfoent’s eyes widened even more, if that was possible. “Your Marines get ice cream too?”
“Yes,” she said, a proud grin spreading across her face. “We are an essential morale warfare unit for the whole Republic military!”
“Morale warfare?”
“Yup. Well-fed troops perform better. Well-fed troops with ice cream perform miracles. Picture this: you’re an enemy soldier stuck in a miserable, sweltering trench for days. Food supplies are scarce, you’re rationing water, and your buddies are passing out from heat exhaustion. Then you peek through your long-range scopes to see when the next orbital barrage from the Republic Navy is gonna rain down, and what do you see? An enemy ice cream barge sailing over the horizon. That’s the moment you realize you’re truly screwed…”
---
Atlas, Luna
“Welcome back,” Niblui greeted warmly at the duo. “Sorry you couldn’t make the ceremonies, but I have a feeling whatever you were doing is more important than listening to some old politicians and diplomats give speeches.”
Grionc fought to keep a smirk off her face. “You could say that. The Terrans gave us a tour of their naval capabilities and planning.”
Niblui’s eyes twinkled. “That seems important.”
“I will need to return to Malgeiru as soon as possible to report to the Navy on the newest developments of the war,” Grionc said, her voice turning serious. “Also, just as a head’s up: we’ve given permission to the Terran admiral to make some basic modifications to the communications system on the Pesmod so they can keep in contact with us through some kind of direct line-of-sight system. It’s apparently a different system from ours. More secure, whatever that means.”
Niblui nodded, absorbing the info. “Ah. We planned for this. You can go. I will stick around here with the Terrans and try to be our liaison here in case of emergencies. Take the Pesmod back out. With her escort ships too, please.”
Grionc raised an eyebrow. “Was he that unpleasant?” Grionc asked, naturally referring to Euntribent, the half-witted, nepotic commander of the escort task force.
Captain Pliont, who was standing by, chimed in. “He nearly kicked off an interstellar diplomatic incident.”
“And… of course he did,” Grionc shuddered, as if touching a live wire. “I really hope if we come back, we get someone—”
“Yeah,” Niblui interrupted, knowing exactly what she meant. “Unfortunately, the Navy is not swimming with competent commanders they can just hand out to escorts that aren’t on the frontlines. Anyway, the situation is resolved with the Terrans now; we just need to bring those six deserters back to Malgeirgam. Turn them over into the hands of the Home Fleet Military Police and pay them a few credits out of the Foreign Ministry spare funds to drop the charges.”
“Deserters?” Speinfoent asked, lips raised in suspicion.
“Yeah. Long story. The only important thing is that you can’t transfer them back to Euntribent’s custody, which I know you’re not inclined to do, and they should be free and clear. Home Fleet hasn’t actually executed anyone for desertion in six hundred years.”
“I see…” Speinfoent said, clearly not seeing at all.
“Don’t worry about them. They’re harmless. They just tried to sneak onto the Terran surface port because Euntribent prohibited them from leaving—”
“Ohhhh…” Both Grionc and Speinfoent understood at once.
“Can’t believe he actually held to his guns on that one while we were away,” Grionc muttered. “If he cancels any more port leave, he’s going to have a mutiny on his hands.”
“Well, anyway, you should only have to deal with him for the duration of the trip home,” Niblui said sympathetically. “On the bright side, we did load Pesmod’s cargo bay and frankly any empty space we could find on it full of Terran food for you and your crew to enjoy on the way home.”
“Yes!” Speinfoent said excitedly. “Thank you so much, Niblui. They had this dining hall at the place they brought us to, and they had all kinds of amazing food. Even if some of it was grass. Did you know Terrans don’t normally eat ration cubes on their ships? They all have a kitchen. And ice cream, so much ice cream. Did you guys get to have ice cream?”
Niblui smiled. “Yes. In fact, I suspect we got more than you two did. They took us to their luxury restaurants. I didn’t get the ice cream, but one of the Terran ministers did, and he let us all have a taste of it. After that, they had it as a delivery menu item for the hotel, and apparently everyone on the floor—”
“Did you know their Navy has an ice cream barge?”
“An ice cream barge?” Pliont asked incredulously. “What is that… like a ship with a freezer that transports ice cream between their colonies?”
“No. Not precisely. Way, way better than you can possibly imagine…”
---
MFS Pesmod
Grionc peered into her styrofoam bowl, scrutinizing the steaming chicken ramen. “It is uncanny how the Terrans are able to preserve the integrity of their food without ruining its flavor.”
“The high frequency electromagnetic radiation machine is quite primitive in principle, but it works, and they’ve managed to design an entire cuisine style around it,” Pliont marveled.
“Absolutely,” Grionc nodded, twirling a noodle around her plastic fork. “Of all their civilian inventions, I believe that’s their second most important. If our people see the value in this, it will have a profound impact—”
Pliont’s ears perked up. “Second? What’s the most important?”
Grionc’s eyes twinkled. “The ice cream machine they gifted me a unit of while I was visiting the barge out at their naval base—”
“You got a what now?” Pliont nearly dropped his bowl in astonishment. “When were you planning to share that information?”
Grionc grinned deviously. “Oops.”
Just then, Speinfoent set down his lunch bowl with a groan, clutching his belly with his paw. “I think I ate too much. If I have one more bite, I’m not going to have enough room for the ice cream later.”
Grionc nodded sympathetically. “Their servings are quite generous.”
Without missing a beat, she extended her paw toward Speinfoent’s unfinished bowl expectantly. “Since you won’t be finishing yours…”
---
“Admiral Waters, we are ready to go home now,” Grionc announced, looking at Amelia’s face glowing on the main bridge screen. “Our escort ships will follow us out.”
The Terran admiral’s face broke into a warm, enthusiastic smile. “Excellent. We’ll escort you out to the edge of Terran space and hop on over for one last goodbye party. After that, good luck! We’re all counting on you now, Fleet Commander.”
---
Outpost McMurdo
Almost 30 light years from Sol at the cold, dead frontier of the Terran Republic, McMurdo used to be seen as a punishment posting. After the presence of aliens were discovered in the nearby galactic neighborhood, Naval Command quickly realized it would be imprudent to send the Navy’s worst miscreants to the places where said aliens were most likely to appear. Now, each and every one of the two hundred crew members posted to McMurdo were combat experienced spacers who had undergone extensive background checks and psychological evaluations.
Inside the bustling nerve center of McMurdo, a select team of six personnel kept everything humming. Leading the station was Zwena Tanith, a seasoned commander hailing from District 17. They’d clocked four high-stakes tours in Saturn’s tumultuous Red Zone in their three-plus decades of Navy duty, including one all-out sanitation campaign against the Saturnian Resistance Navy.
Their right-hand man was Bert Williams, an up-and-comer from District 3. The young Petty Officer had shown his mettle while piloting an inspection cutter patrolling the Jovian colonies. Some bigwig saw his potential, shipped him off to Officer Candidate School, and now he was cutting his teeth out on the frontier as McMurdo’s executive officer.
Zwena was halfway through their morning Greek yogurt when the alarms shattered the command center’s usual hum.
Woo-woo-woo-woo.
The noise echoed like the wail of a banshee, snapping every crew member to attention. Fingers flew over tablets, pulling up streams of real-time data.
“Bert, status report.”
“Multiple unknown ships inbound, far side of the system. ETA thirty-five seconds. Activate automatic response procedure?”
---
Meta
The real McMurdo Station is the largest Antarctic community on Earth. It can support up to 1,500 personnel during summer. Its facilities include a harbor (the southernmost in the world), three airstrips nearby, a hyperbaric diving chamber, and a nine-hole disc golf course with a 4.8/5 rating on UDisc.
