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Grass Eaters 3 | 92 | Deserve
🕑 Added 2025-05-26 15:47:01 +0000 UTCTRNS Crete, Spofke (25,000 Ls)
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)
“Attack! Attack! Attack!”
Klaxons and sirens rang as thousands of new missile and threat signals near-simultaneously appeared on the sensor display, racing out from the Resistance ships and their long-range missile sites towards the 75 squadrons of the Znosian fleet.
“What the—” Beth, her electronic warfare officer, exclaimed in confusion as she focused on the indicators on her console. “We’re jamming them! Even if they had backup light signals, the transmission source is three light hours out! The Resistance must have broken through our FTL jammers somehow…”
Carla shook her head. “No. Nothing to do with that.”
“Admiral?”
“It’s a pre-programmed message, not a real attack command,” Carla explained, sighing in deflation. She pointed at the single dying Resistance ship. “They were prepared for this. They weren’t even waiting for her signal, just for either a set time or the explosion. They knew. They knew this was coming.”
“Oh.” Beth sat back down as she figured it out too.
“What?” Speinfoent stared at the display for a few quiet seconds. “I don’t get it.”
“The Ace. She did this. She blew up one of her own ships. This… is what we call a staged false flag attack.”
His snout falling open in shock, Speinfoent stared at the ships and missiles. “Blew up— blew up one of her own ships. Why?! What for?”
“So they can do precisely this.” Carla pointed at the swathes of missiles still pouring into vacuum. “Pretext. Either to explain it to her own people or their Bun collaborators on the planet down there. Which… the fact that the Ace even bothered to make up a pretext this time, I guess she has changed. Or… maybe she’s delusional enough to think we’d fall for it, or at least be paralyzed by indecision.”
“Indecision. Right. What— what do we do now?”
Carla didn’t say anything for a few seconds, running through the dwindling options in her head.
“Admiral?” Speinfoent asked gently.
“Get me the Buns again.”
Beth shook her head. “They’re not responding.”
She placed her face in between her open palms. “I… don’t even blame them.”
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ZNS 0312, Spofke (23,500 Ls)
POV: Telnokt, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Ten Whiskers)
“Incoming missiles! At least two thousand, maybe more! They are almost all the predator’s Pigeon type!” Telnokt’s computer officer shouted over the noise of almost every alarm and klaxon on the bridge going off all at once. “Radar ships caught the launches; they think we have positive track on almost all enemy missiles.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“We’re still identifying the launch sites and ships, but most of them are coming from their mobile fleet! And the other predators are hailing us again.”
“Ignore the treacherous abominations!” Telnokt snarled. “All ships, maximum burn for the blink limit toward the next system. Load counter-missiles and prioritize point defense. All ships in overlapping formations, deploy the new confuser devices, and watch for their parasites near us!”
“Yes, Ten Whiskers! Radar confusers deployed! Counter-missiles prepared to launch once their missiles cross the midway point. 95% of point defense batteries active. Radar ships report that one of their ships has just started deploying parasites, but we should be able to out-burn them.”
“ETA on their missile swarm’s midpoint?”
“Twenty minutes. Should we bump up the release further out to—”
“No. No point. Our missile can’t out-sprint theirs. How many waves of counter-missiles can we launch if we begin with the midpoint defense profile?”
“They are launching from just beyond our powered envelope. Combat computer says… three waves, effectively.”
Telnokt felt her stomach sink. Three waves of counter-missiles against all those incoming…
“Ten Whiskers…” Her computer officer asked hesitantly, “Should we load offensive missiles and launch on the enemy ships instead?”
She considered it for a moment, the temptation to go down with the enemy almost overriding her judgement. “No. We are most likely to survive to blink out if we focus on our defensive coverage. Vengeance for this ambush will have to wait for another day.”
“Yes, Ten Whiskers.”
Telnokt traced her claws on the battle map, from her position toward the distant blink limit, as the maelstrom of enemy missiles closed in on her fleet. “And keep my orders the standing orders for the fleet.”
“Ten Whiskers?”
“If they’re anything like… they know where I am. They will target this ship first. The remainder of the fleet must keep the defensive posture to get to the blink limit. There is a chance…” Her voice trailed off, but he understood and sent off the command with a brief nod.
“Are the signal confusers working?” she asked a few minutes later.
“Somewhat… Over twenty percent of enemy missiles have already been directed off course. The remaining are tracking us with their onboard radars with degraded effectiveness.”
At least the concept works. But we already knew that… from watching the predators use them against us.
The only thing left to do was to watch as the ship defenses do their work. The minutes counted down on the main tactical display, until…
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Launching counter-missiles,” her computer officer reported calmly as the decks rumbled with their launch. The deluge of outgoing munitions joined the display. Thousands upon thousands of missiles sprinted out of their batteries at the cloud of incoming threats. As they approached, the threat signatures multiplied, clogging up the display with a sea of red.
“Enemy munitions deploying chaff and decoys. Tracking vectors and resolving.”
The presence of the enemy missile penetration aids would have been utterly confusing to Znosian fleets two or three years ago. Now, their effectiveness was merely terrifying. The number of verified signatures slowly climbed on Telnokt’s console as her fleet’s upgraded computer systems worked overtime to discard false targets flying off in improbable directions.
The defensive counter-missiles homed in on the confirmed threats they saw. The dots representing their positions began to disappear off the screen. One by one, then cluster by cluster.
But not all of them.
Not even close.
“Fifty… fifty-five percent of incoming successfully engaged or directed off-target!” the computer officer announced in elation. That was the highest ever numbers achieved by counter-missiles of a Znosian fleet against a Great Predator fleet.
Which left… over a thousand missiles.
“Second counter-missile volley: status and ETA?”
“Batteries are reloading and re-programming to maximize effectiveness. Three minutes.”
Telnokt resisted the urge to micromanage, instead watching her people do the work they’d been bred and trained to.
“Ninety percent of our squadrons are ready to launch for the second wave. That is—”
“Good enough. Authorize the launch.”
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
On her computer officer’s command, another wave of thousands of counter-missiles rushed out towards the enemy. This time, their tasks were much more complex. The enemy incoming was closer, yes, but these were also the slippery ones that had been missed in the first volley. And for some reason, it seemed like the enemy missiles were adapting and adjusting their flight profile and penetration aids based on the first volley…
She put it out of her mind, allowing her bridge crew to quietly cheer as smaller swathes of the enemy missile swarm disappeared from the battle map.
Her computer officer gave the sober analysis. “We didn’t get many. Over eight hundred missiles still on track. Third wave of counter-missiles reloading. Ready to launch in five minutes.”
“Five minutes? That means we won’t have a fourth wave—”
“Most likely not, Ten Whiskers. Only a few squadrons will be ready to launch a fourth wave of counter-missiles.”
She swallowed. Eight hundred missiles, and each one potentially deadly to her ships. In a daze, she sat back in her command chair, watching through the fleet’s cameras as spacers rush to-and-fro, doing the job they were born into. Doing the best that they collectively can. Just doing their jobs.
Maybe the predator was right. Maybe there is more to life than this.
“Counter-missiles across the fleet at ninety percent, Ten Whiskers. Combat computer recommends—”
“Launch.”
A third — and their final — wave of counter-missiles released. This time, they were not nearly as effective as the first couple had been. A few found their marks, plucking incoming ship-killers out of vacuum. But many did not. The incoming predator missiles dispersed new clouds of penetration aid, jamming up the sensors with false signals that her fleet computers still had trouble discerning.
Then, the enemy missiles passed the defensive wave, like an inbound tidal wave that just breached the final levee before landfall.
Her computer tallied up the totals. Over five hundred incoming missiles remained. She did the quick math. It was more than enough to savage her fleet, but not to kill everything. If the enemy followed up now with a second volley, with both fleets now separating, more of her ships would die, but at least some in her seventy-some squadrons would likely survive. At least a hundred of her ships, maybe two.
She would certainly be dead, but her thousand-ship fleet might end up with enough tonnage to still be called a fleet by the time they reached the blink limit.
In some ways, she felt pride. Pride in her command. Pride in her officers and crew. That they’d done what no other Znosian fleet had done, not even the original primary Grand Fleet that went for the Great Predators’ home system — some would survive and blink out.
They would escape with their sensor data intact. The Dominion would learn from this battle. And its people would adapt. They would adapt to this new threat. That was what it did. And the next time another Grand Fleet went against these predators… potential victory was no longer totally out of reach.
She had good reason to be proud. She would join the Prophecy with some honor and dignity.
But as Telnokt turned around, she took a long, hard look at the people on her bridge — the people she was responsible for, and all that pride was washed away. And all that replaced it inside her was the empty pit in her stomach.
Telnokt tried to summon the courage to stand up from her command chair. To lead her people in prayer as they faced the end.
She couldn’t do it.
They didn’t deserve to die. Not like this. The predator was right.
Their lives are worth more than this.
Hers, too. It was a cruel irony of the universe that she only realized this after it was too late.
Sensing her faltering self-control, her computer officer did his duty. He cleared his throat, and he led the bridge as he chanted, “My eternal gratitude to the Prophecy for this insignificant life of service. May It prevail through the will of others, and may the service of Its faithful and worthy Servants bring about Its coming. For Its glorious purpose, our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we were hatched.”
It sounded hollow in her ears, like a herd of helpless prey, coping, crying about the inevitability of being eaten. Perhaps that was even its original purpose.
The enemy missiles closed in on her fleet. Hundreds of them. She could imagine their computers, identifying the weak points of her squadrons and ships. First, they would find the ships that had displayed the most effective point defense coverage. Then, the leadership, which included her ship. After that, it was just a simple resource optimization problem for the rest.
“Squadrons 14 and 18 report almost ready with a fourth wave of counter-missiles,” her computer officer reported calmly. “They are engaging independently.”
She nodded without a response. It would barely matter, but perhaps they’d save a few more of her ships — and a few of her people. Sporadically, the more efficient ships in her fleet fired their final volleys as the rest began their preparations for their own last ditch defenses.
“Missiles approaching, two minutes. Squadron 30 is launching counter-missiles.”
“Squadron 44 is launching now.”
“Squadron 6 Leader reports taking full responsibility: they will be unable to launch in time.”
She watched the enemy missiles race in, bearing down on her fleet like a flock of winged predator swooping on a defenseless nest. The enemy missiles approached point defense range of the ships in the outer perimeter of the fleet—
Warning. Warning.
Her computer officer sat up violently in his own chair. “What was that?”
New enemy threats detected.
She glanced at his station sharply. “Computer officer?”
His calm demeanor was gone now as he typed furiously into his console. “Infrared flares! Infrared flares detected! Hundreds— eleven hundred new missiles on sensors!”
“What sensors?”
“Aft-top airlock exterior camera!”
Ah. There comes the other shoe. I guess this is where the Grand Fleet dies, after all.
Telnokt sighed in resignation as she closed her eyes for the end. “Their stealth missiles… of course. It was a mixed volley after all.”
“No! It’s— it’s not from their main fleet!”
An eye peeked open. “Huh?”
“It’s the Great Predator hiding ships! They’re right on top of us!” her computer officer shouted as more of the fleet’s sensors began to track the predator ships emerging from stealth near their position.
Telnokt stared at her screen with an ashen face. And she realized he was not being imprecise when he said they were on top of her fleet. One of the darker-than-black ships was within two thousand kilometers of her flagship.
The ship’s camera tracked one of the Great Predator ships as its afterburners lit the vacuum to begin active maneuvers. Instead of opening the large missile launch tubes arrayed at its top, hundreds of compartment around its rims and belly materialized, exposing the mechanical innards of the sleek beast as it snapped off a flurry of dozens of agile projectiles.
“Wait… these are— the missiles are outgoing! They’re counter-missiles! They’re— they’re helping us?”
Two dozen bright lines of tracers stabbed out of the predator ship’s hidden point defense compartments, away from her fleet towards the incoming Pigeons. And as she watched the display, the black ship ejected a visually spectacular barrage of burning countermeasures. Her flagship’s cameras completely lost track of their target, and its sensor computers chugged as hundreds of thousands of new false targets joined their telemetry stream.
On her console display, the tidal wave of incoming missiles met a brick wall. As they lost track, the sea of red signals on the screen were wiped away. One second, they were there, and the next, they were gone — leaving behind only her fleet, at least two of the Great Predator stealth ships flickering in and out of her fleet’s sensors, and a very confused ten whiskers.
There was a stunned silence on the bridge as the countdown clock on the main screen ticked down to zero. The automated point defense guns of the ZNS 0312 didn’t sound. The klaxons and warning sirens cut out. And the loud cooling fan of the ship computers slowed to a reasonable spin rate as their primitive combat intelligences did the equivalent of letting off a sigh of relief.
Telnokt waited a few extra seconds. Just to be sure.
“Fleet status?” she asked with a dry throat.
“I, uh— I didn’t expect—” Her computer officer looked embarrassed, but the moment passed and he returned to his console. “Compiling status updates now, Ten Whiskers…Squadron 24 reports two proximity hits, no change in combat readiness. Squadron 65 reports one proximity hit, no change in combat readiness. Squadron 30 reports a direct hit. One ship was hit in the engines: there’s a small fire near her rear; they are trying to recover, and her captain reports the chances are more than even.”
“One— one ship. That’s— that’s it?”
“All other squadrons have reported in without casualties, and…” He stopped to stare at his screen for triple confirmation.
“What is it?”
“Squadron 30 also reports they have accurate real-time sensor data on one of the Great Predator hiding ships near us.”
“One of the ones that— that—” She took a deep breath before continuing. “One of their hiding ships that saved our fleet?”
“Yes, Ten Whiskers. Our squadron leader says three of his ships have a solid target lock on a hiding ship with their guns and missiles. They are asking for permission to open fire.”
She glanced at the target on her console.
A Great Predator hiding ship, one of their state-of-the-art; so new that — she was pretty sure — this was the first time they ever fired a shot in combat. It was close enough they could see it with their visual-thermal sensors. Sure, those covered hatches at the top were probably still mounting hundreds of ship-killers, each of which could turn her ship into a scattering debris field. But the predator ships had just launched all their counter-missiles. And they were close. Close enough for even the guns to be effective.
And she had 75 squadrons here.
Telnokt analyzed the situation tactically.
She had a more than solid chance to take out one of their prized new hiding ships. She would be the first. The very first. It would cement her place in the Prophecy as one of the Dominion Navy’s greatest fleet commanders. It didn’t matter that those ships had placed themselves in that vulnerable position to save her fleet; in the long, complicated history of the Znosian people, few would even remember that minor detail.
But she would.
If she and her crew survived.
Which they wouldn’t.
And in that moment, that last part mattered infinitely more to her.
Her computer officer cleared his throat. “Ten Whiskers, Squadron 30 Leader predicts his ships can maintain target lock for two more minutes at most. After that, the number of missiles we’ll need to expend to ensure a probable kill doubles every ten seconds. He’s urgently requesting orders to switch to offensive munitions—”
“No.” Telnokt shook her head slowly. “Permission denied… Order him to begin search and rescue on his damaged ship,” she said quietly. “And hail the ship they call the Crete. I want to speak to their fleet commander again.”
Comments
M
Great chapter! Now the navy has their own foot in the Znosian schism wars.
J
Carla here to prove that “our way is better.” Right on.
