Spooker
patreon
Grass Eaters | 20 | Blood
🕑 Added 2024-03-08 06:34:24 +0000 UTCAtlas, Luna
“This is impossible,” John declared, throwing his hands in the air.
“No, wait. Wait,” Kara murmured, her eyes glued to the complex puzzle displayed on the screen before them. “Aha. I got it!”
“No way,” John replied, rolling his eyes in disgust. “Fine, go ahead. I’m not going to figure it out anyway.”
“Okay, watch this: Rook to d8 check. Knight to a6 check. Queen to b8 check. Knight to c7 and mate,” Kara rattled off, swiftly manipulating the chess pieces on the screen to demonstrate her solution.
“Solution confirmed. Well done!” the computer chimed in an artificially enthusiastic voice.
John scratched his head. “Well, would you look at that? Guess it’s not impossible after all. You know what they say, though? The ability to play chess is the sign of a gentleman. The ability to play chess well is the sign of a wasted life,” he teased.
“Says the guy who ended up wasting half his life fighting for criminals and slave owning secessionist losers,” Kara shot back, smirking.
“I’ll give you the latter but even criminals deserve— Whatever. Are you sure it’s a good use of Republic taxpayer resources to be using our expensive super-Terran intelligence computer to play chess puzzles?” John asked.
“Of course,” Kara replied matter-of-factly. “It’s training. For the brain. That’s how they trained these computers up in the first place back in the day, isn’t it? Playing chess?”
“I don’t think so,” John shook his head. “Chess is an adversarial game. Not a good idea to train super-Terran intelligences to base their world models on something like that. It’s not a good game.”
Kara gave him a bemused expression. “You really do hate it, huh?”
“As someone once said, it was a game born during a brutal age. Where life counted for little. Where some people were worth more than others. Kings, queens, knights, and pawns. Every piece with an assigned value. To be sacrificed, traded for the greater good, traded to protect the king. Imagine teaching a computer intelligence in charge of our lives that. Imagine teaching a child that.”
Kara looked up at him from her next chess problem in mock confusion. “The value of life— How does someone like you even work at the TRO?”
He stuck out his tongue at her. “I’m changing things for the better from the inside.”
“Well, good luck with that. I’ll bring the matches when you decide to burn it all down. In the meantime, how about a nice game of Titan Assault on the game console instead?”
“Ugh, fine, but only because I don’t feel right using our super-Terran intelligence. It’s overkill for all this gaming—”
John’s sanctimony was cut short by the jarring buzz of the hardline phone stationed on the desk. Kara grabbed it swiftly. “Talk to me.”
Mark’s voice crackled through the secured headset. Voices and faces can be easily faked, which is why the other end of this hardline phone only goes to a room in the Senate Complex above, under armed guard at all times.
“Buckle up, Kara. We’ve got six more Bunny missile destroyers playing escort for a pair of heavy transports into the Gruccud system.”
Kara leaned forward in her chair, pulling up the report on her screen. “Tell me they transmitted the manifest in the clear.”
Mark chuckled. “They did not, but we got it anyway. You are going to love this. It’s blood. They are carrying two heavy tankers of blood supply and nothing else. We’re talking just liters and liters of blood.”
Kara raised an eyebrow as she looked at it. “Got it. I’ll generate a report for the Diplomacy Team. They are not going to be happy.”
“Yeah, they’re gonna be thrilled,” Mark said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t worry, I’ll prep them for the incoming storm. You just focus on solidifying the military analysis. Over and out.” With that, he disconnected, leaving Kara staring at the empty space in front of her.
John swiveled around in his chair. “What did he say?”
“They’ve just moved two heavy transport ships full of blood into the staging point at Gruccud,” Kara said, her eyes darting back and forth between displays in front of her now showing the new reports.
John let out a sharp breath, the air hissing between his teeth. “Shit. That’s enough for almost thirteen full divisions of injured Bunnies.”
Kara nodded, her gaze still locked onto the screens. “Yeah, and since you don’t expect one hundred and thirty thousand WIAs in a pure fleet action—”
He jumped in. “—the operation has to be a full-blown ground invasion campaign. They want Datsot again; this is not a Stoers Shipyard raid scenario.”
Kara’s mind racing. “The only thing we’re missing here is the ground troops. Where are they assembling them? You’d think we’d see some traffic if they’re going to concentrate such a massive—”
John shook his head vigorously. “You’re thinking like a Republic Marine General. Remember, these Bunnies don’t give a crap about their ground troops. Their fleet retakes the orbitals, and once they do, they’ll just send in waves of their conscripts. Other than a few elite units, most of their ground pounders’ jobs are to fix the Malgeir defenders in place for the fleet’s support ships to rain holy terror from orbit. Hell, they’ll even use them as cannon fodder to reveal enemy positions for artillery.”
He leaned forward confidently. “They’ll just snatch little Bunnies off the street at Gruccud or some other nearby colony, give them a rifle, pack them into civilian transports to Datsot like sardines, and tell them ‘just run towards the loud noises, kid’. If we see supply ships of blood moving in theater, we can’t wait around to look for where their ground troops are coming from. They might even gather and start to arrive in system after the orbitals are taken.”
Kara took a moment to absorb John’s analysis, nodding in agreement. “Well then, we’ve got our work cut out for us. What’s our timeline?”
“Znosian blood is at its best when it’s fresh, optimally within six months of being harvested or synthesized. And the rule for blood is: the fresher it is, the better. That’s why it’s usually the last puzzle piece we put into place for an operation. If the Bunnies are shipping in that much blood now, you can bet your last credit they’re almost ready to roll. They can go any minute now. And when they do, that’s four months to Datsot, including clearing the route, establishing fuel supply points. Everything.”
Kara looked up from her screen, locking eyes with him. “The Pups can’t defend Datsot. It’ll be an absolute… bloodbath if they try.”
“That’s…” John hesitated. “…what the Navy sims say. Unfortunately, based on our past experience with their Fleet Council, they will probably send Sixth Fleet in for a pointless and disastrous delaying action.” He let out a weary sigh, his shoulders drooping.
Kara threw her hands up in frustration. “What are we supposed to tell the Malgeir? Hello, we are your friendly neighborhood nightmare, the half-vegetarians. We have some urgent advice for you: you need to abandon one of your precious core planets, okay? Good luck, and we’ll be in touch?”
John shrugged his shoulders. “I’m glad we’re not on the Diplomacy Team.”
---
Malgeirgam, Malgeiru
“This is an absolute outrage!” thundered the Councilor from District 2, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis. “I mean, come on! Even the almighty Home Fleet Commander can’t just yank a fleet commander out of their position without a good reason. Especially not the hero of Datsot, who we just honored with a glimmering medal! This is a slap in the face. A direct challenge to our authority and legitimacy earned through the sacred process of free and fair snout-counting. An arrest without cause!”
“Technically, the cause is treason…” one of the other Councilors leaned back, murmuring.
He shot back a dirty look, spittle flying from his snout. “Then let’s have a proper, transparent public trial! Let them present the evidence, and a Council-appointed judge can decide! Home Fleet isn’t the law of the land. We are the law of the land.”
The Head Councilor raised his paw, signaling for quiet. “That’s quite enough. We’ve already agreed a couple years ago that independent military judicial proceedings are a necessity due to war. Besides, they’ve already released her and promised not to harass her in the future. Isn’t that right, Fleet Commander Grionc?”
“That is what they promised,” Grionc answered in a careful, diplomatic tone.
“Fine. We’ll overlook this for now,” the Councilor from District 2 was still seething. “But the next time they step out of line, we are coming down on them like a bag of rocks. Agreed?”
The other Councilors muttered their assent. The District 2 Councilor slid a small rectangular paper card over to Grionc, muttering, “You got a problem with him next time, you call me right away, understand?”
The Head Councilor looked around the table. “Any other Navy drama we need to address first? No? Good. Fleet Commander Grionc, we’ll need you to swear an oath of silence on the matter we are discussing in this room today.”
Grionc bowed her head with solemnity. “I do so swear. I would never betray the confidence of the Malgeir people or its High Council.”
“Good enough for me. Now that we got that out of the way, Ambassador Niblui, brief her.”
Grionc listened as Niblui unraveled her story, eyes widening with each revelation: of Pesmod’s capture, the delicate negotiations with the mysterious Terrans, their physical appearance, and the dossier they had sent that prompted more questions than it answered.
When Niblui finally finished, Grionc shook her head in amazement, absorbing the weight of it all. “Niblui’s story is certainly a surprise. But I have also recently deduced that this is not the first time we’ve encountered these Terrans. Or rather, my flagship’s tactical officer Speinfoent has deduced this, and he brought it to my attention.”
The room went silent, as if all the air had been sucked out.
“We— we have encountered them before?” the Head Councilor stammered.
Grionc delved into the Defense Ministry Archive data she’d received from Speinfoent, describing the engagement she watched with as much detail as she could. “It really is something that you must see to believe. These aliens’ singular ship wildly exceeds the capabilities of any of our own. It may be true that they do have much smaller fleets as a result of their relative youthful history, but individually, I have no trouble believing that their ships easily outperform anything we have ever fielded in our Navy.”
The District 5 Councilor stroked his whiskers, musing, “In that case, Niblui’s negotiations may have taken on even more importance. Fleet Commander, how much do you think the addition of their ships into our fleets will impact the course of the war?”
Grionc paused, choosing her words carefully. “It’s impossible to tell from just one incident, especially since they have been vague about their total fleet strength. However, if they are truthful about what they have said about their capabilities and fears of vulnerability against the Znosians, I am confident they can’t have more tonnage than a full strength Malgeir battle fleet.”
“No more than one of our fleets? And what makes you so sure of that?” the Head Councilor asked, disappointed.
Grionc met his gaze. “Because, High Councilor, if they had enough tonnage to fill one of our battle fleets, they would not have asked us for alliance; they would have asked for allegiance… If they had enough tonnage to fill more than one of our battle fleets, the entire known galaxy would be the undisputed domain of the Terran Republic.”
---
MFS Pesmod
“In hindsight, that could have gone a lot worse,” Grionc mused as they stepped aboard the bare decks of the diplomacy ship.
“Tell me about it,” Speinfoent shuddered. “I’m just glad to get out of that cell. Even if they are sidelining us from the war.”
Grionc flashed him a half-smile. “Oh, cheer up. At least we didn’t get busted down in rank too. That’s something.”
Speinfoent broke into a grin. “Yes, High Fleet Commander,” he said, putting extra emphasis on her new title. “We might not belong to a real fleet anymore, but hey, we’ve got promotions and raises at least.”
Grionc gave a nonchalant shrug. “Honestly, that’s about as much as the High Council can do for us anyway. They can’t step on the Navy’s paws too much, especially not the decision makers with connections in Home Fleet. The good news is that when the Navy takes us off the bench eventually, we won’t have to serve under incompetent officers. And you are now probably one of the youngest Gamma Leaders the Fleet has seen; maybe they’ll give you a ship soon.”
“Bah,” he dismissed. “I would make a terrible captain. I don’t know the first thing about command, other than what I learned under you as a tactical officer on the Oengro. Ships aren’t in combat most of the time—”
“That may be, but you are allowed to make plenty of mistakes when the ship isn’t in combat. Better to be deficient in those areas than it is to freeze up and be useless in combat, I’d say.”
“Do you think our new alien friends would agree with that?”
Grionc looked puzzled for a moment, raising an eyebrow. “The Terrans? Why?”
Speinfoent shrugged. “It seems like they have a different command philosophy. We throw our spacer recruits into deep water and ask them to sink or swim. They have years of training.”
Grionc scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t be silly. Our Grass Eater friends are still wet behind their spacefaring ears. Just because they have good ships doesn’t mean they know everything there is about interstellar warfare. I didn’t learn anything important in my instruction period; like my mentors said, ten seconds in real combat would teach me more than they could ever teach me. And as it turns out, they were right.”
Speinfoent gave a reluctant, conceding nod. “So why are we following Niblui into their home system?”
“Officially, we’re her esteemed, high-ranking Navy advisors. So, if they have any questions about how we operate, they can ask us,” Grionc explained, grinning.
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, we’re going there to snoop around and see just how much of their technology they can share with us. Barter, borrow, or beg, we need the capabilities they’ve shown so far. If we get their technology, we can really turn this war around.”
“You mean the radar invisibility technology they have?” Speinfoent asked.
“That’s my top priority. Then, the systems that they used to defeat everything we could fire at them within visual range. And whatever offensive weapons they have must be worth looking into it because they clearly are good enough to kill the Grass— Znosians at Oettro.”
Speinfoent’s eyes widened as he considered the possibilities. “That makes sense. If we get all of those, we can easily hold the core worlds. Maybe even take back our agricultural belt colonies and push back into the periphery near the Granti border.”
Grionc chuckled. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, they have offered to fight our battles for us. Lending us their technology and putting them on all our ships can’t be harder than that, right?”
---
TRNS Mississippi
Vice Admiral Amelia Waters was in the middle of pouring herself a glass of exquisite-smelling Malgeir wine, appropriated from the Pesmod’s secret kitchen stash, when the secured flag suite FTL communicator rang. She indulged in a small, appreciative sip, savoring the rich flavors, and then picked up the comms device.
“Talk to me. Waters here.”
The male voice that crackled through the secure line had a modulated tone. “This is Director Mark. Ready for some new marching orders, Amelia?”
Amelia glanced at the communicator’s display, confirming the call originated from The Outpost. Her computer autonomously completed several more validations that the other end of the phone was indeed secured and not under duress.
Taking another adventurous sip of the “borrowed” Malgeir wine, she mused, “Don’t you think it’s a little unfair how the Puppers call us Grass Eaters? They clearly enjoy alcohol, which has got to be made of some fruit or—”
“Actually,” Mark interrupted, humoring her non-sequitur. “I’m pretty sure their ‘wine’ is made from the fermented blood of a native herbivore on Malgeiru. Interesting stuff. That bottle you liberated from them recently, did you by chance have any remaining—”
Amelia spat out the remaining liquid in her mouth back into her cup. “Gross. Anyway, what are you guys cooking up? It’s about time we get off our asses now that we are legally allowed to—”
“Regrettably for a lady of your talents in that area, this one isn’t a combat or recon mission.”
She let out an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, what expensive errand do you need us to run this time?”
“We need you to do some high-stakes diplomatic footwork: convince the Malgeir Navy that they need to retreat from Datsot.”
She whistled. “Because sticking around would be a one-way ticket to annihilation and defeat?”
“Precisely,” Mark replied, his voice tinged with a sense of relief that he didn’t have to spell it out for her.
Rubbing her temples, Amelia considered the mission. “That will be a tough sell. Very tough. Datsot’s one of their core worlds and their ego’s still inflated from that recent ‘victory’ of theirs, temporary as it might be. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to, I don’t know, blow something up? Seems more my style.”
Ignoring her, he pressed on, “Their diplomatic delegation is coming in with Fleet Commander Grionc, whose… work I believe you are familiar. High Fleet Commander now, actually: just got a shiny new promotion, our intel says. Convince her first, and maybe she can get us into the door to convince their Navy. And Amelia, time’s ticking. We have weeks, maybe days to pull this off. Here’s how we suggest you play this one…”
