Spooker
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Grass Eaters 2 | 1 | Can Anyone Hear Me
🕑 Added 2024-05-17 16:47:00 +0000 UTC(Footage: First day of ground combat, Liberation Battle for Gruccud)
Voice 1: I'm a butcher.
Voice 2: I'm a welder.
Voice 3: I'm a programmer.
Voice 4: I'm a musician.
Voice 5: I was working on my sire’s farm.
Voice 6: I was the daughter of a High Councilor.
Voice 7: My dame was on Gionlu.
Voice 8: My friends didn’t get out of Grantor in time.
Voice 9: I wanted to be a xenogeologist.
Voice 10: I'm your litter's schoolteacher.
Voice 11: I'm your neighbor.
Voices Mixed: I am you.
Title text: None of us were born for this war.
Title text: We fight so no one else has to be.
"Born for this War", Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry Recruiting Commercial, July 2124
---
Dashch Station, Znos-4 (36,000 km)
POV: Irtisl, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Four Whiskers)
Four Whiskers Irtisl looked around at her team of civilian engineers and technicians scurrying around the station, the bustle of their hurried movements like an orchestrated dance, punctuated by the sharp clatter of tools and the distant hum of machinery. Welding torches occasionally erupted with bright blue fire, casting flickering shadows that danced and played along the cold, metallic walls.
Amidst the cacophony, Irtisl's ear flicked at an approaching sound. The deliberate clicks of magnetic boots on metal echoed into her suit through the structure she was standing on — a measured, hammering beat as one of her technicians cautiously navigated the hazardous zero-gravity environment, relying on the technology beneath their paws to anchor them to safety.
Her helmet radio buzzed. “Project Manager, we are almost ready to proceed with the test.”
Irtisl turned on the spot, her movements slow, carefully keeping her own balance. Her eyes met those of the speaker, her mask of composed patience concealing her simmering irritation. “Head Technician Stultam, we are already two weeks behind schedule, and this date was picked after your repeated assurances that—”
“I take responsibility for this delay,” Stultam interrupted breezily, his tone almost dismissive. “My people are inexperienced in your military testing protocols, Project Manager, and the additional last-minute requirements from the—”
“I’m not interested in your excuses, Head Technician,” Irtisl sliced through his words. “Your people were allocated significant resources to complete this project because your design group assured us that you had a viable solution for the functionality the Navy requires. If this delay results in cancellation, you will be hold solely responsible for the waste.”
“Yes, Four Whiskers,” Stultam replied, his head dipping by the minimum needed for her to perceive the movement.
Even his show of respect is sloppy! These undisciplined civilians, Irtisl seethed internally, if I had my way, we wouldn’t be using anyone outside the Design Bureau. Alas, no one inside the Bureau had any idea where to even start on this one…
“How much more time does the team need before we can begin validation?” she asked, her tone clipped.
“Thirty minutes,” Stultam estimated. “We are securing the testbed, and one of the transport shuttles is just arriving in time for the trials.”
Irtisl’s nose crinkled in mild exasperation. “More officers? I thought everyone is already waiting on the observation deck.”
“Not from the Navy, Four Whiskers,” he almost whispered, a hint of fear threading his voice. “It’s her.”
---
POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)
State Security Director Svatken, her eyes flickering with impatience, cast a cursory glance at the screen. It displayed the shuttle's diligent verification of its docking seal's integrity with the station. Without a moment's hesitation, she slammed the override button. As if sensing her urgency, the doors flew open. Svatken's stride was purposeful, her trusty attendant Fstrofcho shadowing her every step.
The head of the welcoming party donned a mask of rehearsed delight. “Welcome, Director. I am Four Whiskers—”
“You are Four Whiskers Irtisl,” Svatken interjected with icy precision. “You are the Project Manager and Navy liaison for the civilian group operating this station. Your head technician needs twenty-five more minutes to complete preparations, which you will take full responsibility for. Now, you are going to lead me to the observation deck so I can interview one of your superiors.”
Caught off guard, Irtisl stammered, “I— I—”
“Was I mistaken?”
Recovering, Irtisl replied, “Of course not, Director. Right this way.”
“Good,” the Director said, following the stiff footsteps of the flustered four whiskers. “And do not consider my assignment of responsibility unfair. Responsibility implies credit. This is an important project for the proper course of the Prophecy. If you did your job correctly, you and your bloodline will be rewarded appropriately despite the delay. If you did not…” She left the hanging threat unspoken.
“Yes, Director,” Irtisl murmured, leading her onto the elevated observation deck.
Several high-ranking officers were deep in conversation around an instrument console. Upon the sound of the doors opening, they paused and turned towards Svatken as she entered.
“You may leave us now, Four Whiskers,” Svatken ordered. Irtisl happily obliged, turning around and hopping out the door to get as far away from the menacing State Security Director.
Svatken fixed her gaze on the tall creature at the head of the table. “Eleven Whiskers Sprabr. I have some questions for you. Alone.”
The elderly 25-year-old Grand Fleet Commander Sprabr looked surprised — feigned, no doubt — but bowed his head in respect. “Of course, Director.” He looked at his subordinates and gestured at the exit. “Allow me a moment with the Director.”
The officers, all visibly relieved, quickly filed out of the deck.
“I am happy to answer any questions you have, Director, but—”
“You are a hard creature to reach, Eleven Whiskers,” Svatken interrupted, her eyes narrowing. “Four calls to your office, two to your domicile. That might be a record. For my patience, that is. Usually, one of those unanswered calls would have been followed by an armed raid by a squad of armed agents.”
“I take full responsibility for my unavailability, Director. Managing the many squadrons of the Grand Prophetic Fleet has consumed much of my free time, and my office attendant is forgetful—”
“She was not,” Svatken countered. “I interviewed her before I arrived here. You will not pawn your responsibility off to your subordinates or lie to me. And if managing your fleet is taking up too much of your time, I can arrange a reduction in your responsibilities.”
Sprabr dropped his cautious veneer. “That will not be necessary, Director. Please forgive my personal transgressions towards your more valuable time; I take full responsibility. I will answer all your questions in detail.”
Svatken glanced at Fstrofcho, busy entering new notes into his datapad. “Make a note of that, Attendant. I will determine the level of your transgression after this interview, Eleven Whiskers.” She turned back to Sprabr. “But enough of wasting my time. You will now answer my questions. What is the nature of your relationship with Zero Whiskers Ditvish?”
If he was surprised by the question, he did not show it. “I was Ditvish’s superior when he commanded the Datsot Invasion Fleet, Director. I was not aware of his intent to defect until after—”
“If you were aware of his apostasy and did not report it, you would be facing a firing squad, Eleven Whiskers, not my questioning. Keep your irrelevant commentary to yourself. How long did you know Ditvish before that?”
“18 years, Director.”
“18? The records show you were his superior for most of his career, and his Navy Retraining Center instructor before that. That adds up to 15.”
“I met Zero Whiskers Ditvish three years prior to his qualification and acceptance to Znos Navy Retraining Center. I was the one who convinced him to apply when I discovered that he was grasping concepts at a much higher level than the six whiskers rank he was bred to be.”
“So your relationship with him was deeply personal?”
“It was indeed. I did not obscure that detail from my initial interview with the second Apostasy Commission after his defection was—”
“Less wasting of my time, please. When he defected, what was your initial reaction?”
“Complete shock, Director. The Ditvish I knew for 18 years would never contemplate defection to the Lesser Predators out of personal fear.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“Like all good Servants of the Prophecy, he did not fear death. And like all great Servants of the Prophecy, he did not fear failure. Instead, Ditvish welcomed both as mere challenges. More than once, I have seen him charge into great danger, at risk of both death and failure, without reluctance or delay. Surely you have seen that in his career records too. In my experience, those who defect hold one of these fears, and those fears are what drive them to abandon the Prophecy.”
“So if not personal fear, what was it? Out of greed, then? For power? Maybe revenge? Or perhaps perverted pleasures of the flesh?” She made a disgusted face.
Sprabr shook his head. “No, to defect to the Lesser Predator for those would be irrational, and Ditvish was not that either.”
“Then why?”
“Perhaps he thought the Prophecy abandoned him. After all, it was after your commission announced—”
Svatken interjected, “His schism plot was what led to the commission. I know you have read the full commission report on the sequence of events, Eleven Whiskers.”
“I’ve seen the evidence for that supposed plot. It may have been good enough to convince your superiors, but the totality of the evidence prior to the decision was clearly circumstantial—”
She bristled. “The evidence was incontrovertible. We had physical evidence of the crime. Sensor data, communication logs, and I saw those supply ships with my own eyes!”
“Director, have you considered the possibility that your first case was built on an enemy ruse? Lesser Predator manipulations. They may not be very bright, but they are practiced in such matters, even amongst themselves.”
“It would be— it would be extremely unlikely,” Svatken said, catching herself. “I am used to dealing with predators, Eleven Whiskers. Such a clean execution would be unheard of. They may be able to conjure up some data, but all of it? That they really did defeat several of our convoys, fluffles, and fleets in open battle despite the odds heavily in our favor? We should not underestimate our enemy, but in my experience, the simpler option is the most likely one.”
“And yet, you have doubts,” Sprabr pointed out. “Or you would not be asking me questions about Ditvish six weeks after his case was officially closed. And you would not be here observing a test for technology that doesn’t exist, inspired by an impossible weapon that our enemies don’t have.”
“I— I— yes, I have an open mind for an alternative hypothesis,” Svatken admitted. “As any good State Security officer should be.”
“Here is mine: in addition to their new technology upgrades, the Lesser Predators managed to get into our communication network. They heard what we heard and saw what we saw. Then, they fabricated the appearance of a conspiracy, a schism plot, and left clues they knew you would eventually find at the sites of our defeats, tailoring the evidence to fit your suspicions. And after the Apostasy Commission completed their judgement, they intercepted that too and leveraged it to convince Ditvish and his fleet to defect to the enemy, depriving us of one of our most successful commanders and leading to the greatest Znosian naval defeat in living memory.”
“That— that is your idea of a more likely theory?” Svatken gaped at his brazenness incredulously.
“It is. And I take full responsibility for coming up with it. But it is not just mine. These are now the worst-case planning assumptions of the Navy, which is why we have upgraded our encryption systems and why,” Sprabr pointed out the windows of the observation deck, “We are taking these… allegations of new predator threats very seriously.”
“You actually believe this theory of yours.”
“I do.”
Svatken pondered his words for a moment, wondering whether she should believe his sincerity or have him shot. She settled for wait-and-see.
She could always have him shot later.
“You can call your subordinates back in now. And let’s see if there is any merit to these technological wonders that our enemies have allegedly cooked up.”
---
POV: Irtisl, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Four Whiskers)
Irtisl depressed the big red button firmly with her a claw. Its crisp click in the chamber was the only immediate response.
Then, in synchrony, the symbols on the consoles arrayed before her began to dance. The calm of the blue and green indicators gave way to orange and red, signifying a dramatic rise in power draw as the test device drained the reserve power of the station and demanded more. The very air in the room seemed to hum with the flood of energy being poured into the machinery.
She looked over at Head Technician Stultam’s station. He gave her a positive gesture with his paws.
It’s working.
---
POV: Svatken, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Director)
“Thank you, Operative, that is an excellent find,” Svatken's voice was low but clear as she spoke into her communicator device. “This proves that their deliveries have been intentionally slow for weeks.”
Fstrofcho gently tapped her on the shoulder. He leaned in, his voice a whisper against the hum of the station's systems, “Director, they are beginning the test now.”
Svatken, without turning, raised a single claw, mouthing to him, “Hold one moment.”
Refocusing on the call, her tone shifted to brisk efficiency. “Yes, Operative, get to the camp, find out why, and get that report to my office within the week.”
A brief pause followed. Frowning, she looked confused at her receiver when the expected confirmation didn’t come out. “Hello? Operative? Are you still on the call?”
---
POV: Znufchu, Znosian (Civilian)
The primary traffic controller at Znos Space Control looked askance at the confusing lights blinking on the panel in front of her.
“Traffic control to 2411, you are deviating from your flight path. Please return to autopilot as soon as possible,” she asked the incoming warship on the FTL radio.
“Traffic control to 2411, did you copy my last? Please return control to autopilot.”
“Traffic control to Navy command ship 0114, I can’t reach 2411. There may be a communication emergency on board their ship.”
“Traffic control to ground control, I can’t reach the Navy command ship in orbit. Can you check on your end?”
“Traffic control on the open FTL channel. Does anyone copy? Can anyone hear me?”
---
Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)
POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)
Station Commander Zwena's eyes locked onto the six pulsating alerts on their console in the dimly lit command center. “Shit, can anyone reach the FTL frequency for any of our receivers in Znosian sector zero-zero-zero? I’m still receiving, but none of our observation drones are responding to commands.”
Their second in command, Bert Williams, cast a seasoned gaze toward the communications station. “LT, reach to the side of the console and manually flip the squelch control knob to the off position.”
The lieutenant on duty at the station did as he ordered. An abrupt static hiss erupted from the speakers, assaulting their ears. She flinched, her hand darting to the volume control knob, twisting it until the cacophony subsided to a bearable hum.
Unperturbed, Bert continued, “Now hit two-two-zero on the pop-out pad to disconnect the transmission lock.”
As her fingers danced over the pad, the static dimmed further, sinking into a whisper against the backdrop of the command center’s quiet hum.
Confusion clouded Zwena's expression. “What does that mean?”
“It must be an FTL jamming signal from the other end, Commander,” Bert said with increasing certainty. “Some kind of noise-modulated jammer. Primitive, but powerful enough to stop our commands from reaching them. We should still be able to hear them though.”
“Can we burn through it somehow to send commands?”
Bert shook his head. “Unlikely. We’re too far away and we don’t mount FTL frequency hoppers on those buoys. No blink drive, and they would have taken too much of the volume budget anyway. But unless they are discovered, our buoys will just keep transmitting data to us until they get a command back from us. These jamming signals aren’t selective, Commander. They can’t possibly continue jamming their own home system forever. Most likely it’s some kind of test or emergency, and it’ll stop when they’re done.”
“I’m glad someone paid attention in Electronic Warfare Theory class at the Academy. Well, you know the SOP: continue all operations as normal. Don’t let the enemy know they’re having an effect on us. And file a Signals Interference report with Luna. Someone over there will know what to do.”
Comments
Valdis Trautmanis
I think 14 whiskers is the max for the Big Bun, their leader, 13 for the Vice Bun and 12 for their equivalent of the Chief of Staff
AnAbsoluteVillain
11 of them!!!!!!!!!!!
Gregoire Brougher
(this is to enhance immersion, obviously)
Gregoire Brougher
while you're at it, im going to need inclination, right ascension of the ascending node, eccentricity, argument of periapsis of the orbit as well. unless its a powered vehicle and not in a keplerian orbit, in which case ill need just the 3d position and velocity vectors
Gregoire Brougher
thats exciting!
Marsharbour
I heard whispers of a new kind of whiskers.
Spooker
We're doing that and the POV thing from now on.
Desurtfawks
I wonder if there is a twelve whiskers. A high whiskers. A holy whiskers. A lowly whiskers. I wonder if they have over nine thousand whiskers. Maybe on one ship? A special whiskers for every situation. What happens when they bend a whisker? Do they breed them for whiskers? The more the better? So many questions, SO MANY WHISKERS.
Gregoire Brougher
Dashch Station, Znos-4 (36,000 km) i love the little detail of orbital altitude
Valdis Trautmanis
It was a matter of time anyway. The jammer is still primitive, but it will certainly impede alied operations for a while and the Malgeir will be forced to "grow up" sooner and become more autonomous during fleet actions
Marsharbour
Exciting!
Marsharbour
FtL jamming is now a strategic reality for both sides. The Turkey shoot just got less one-sided.
