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Grass Eaters 3 | 70 | Valley of Death
🕑 Added 2025-04-04 15:47:01 +0000 UTCArea 203 Temporary Shelters, Znos-4-B
POV: Plodvi, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Six Whiskers)
It took almost three full months. The logistical expertise of the Dominion was put on full display in front of the predator enemy.
It was too bad it was to assist in the abandonment of one of its home system planetoids, Znos-4-C.
Shuttles ran day-and-night, lifting off every thirty seconds at some of the more crowded spaceports. Troops were stuffed — in some cases literally — into their hulls, beyond the allowances of all rules and reason. In the end, the predators allowed them to bring in additional transports from out of the Znosian system to assist in the evacuation, the deadline for which they continuously extended. Six Whiskers Plodvi caught an early flight; spacers of his rank were considered more valuable than most rank-and-file troops and workers.
But now, they stood shoulder to shoulder, regardless of rank, and they watched as their former moon moved further and further away from sight until it disappeared into the dark.
For most of them who lived their entire lives in the Znos-4 planetary system, it was a sobering sight. For some, their homes. For others, the lush moon held a special place in their minds. Nobody knew how long ago it had been towed into orbit there, or even if it had been at all, but nobody alive had known a day or night sky without it. A sign of stability, of a solid rock that they assumed would always be there.
A piece of the sky had disappeared.
“Did we do this?” Hobbsia half-whispered when she checked no one else was listening.
Rirkhni shook his head adamantly. “Can’t be. We didn’t give them anything that important. Because we don’t know anything that important. We just told them who was on our ship, our orbital altitude—”
“But it’s like— it’s like one of their puzzles. What if we gave them the last piece of the puzzle?”
“But there’s nothing important—”
Plodvi cut in to stop their argument. “Does it matter?”
They both stopped to look at him.
Plodvi shook his head and continued, “I don’t think it matters.”
“What do you mean?” Rirkhni challenged. “We are… apostates. We betrayed our species. We let them harm our people.”
“We already knew that was going to happen.”
“Yes, in service of… of the hope that things might change for the better. For our people. Not for some predators’ dreams of domination. We didn’t sign up to help them destroy one of our worlds!”
Plodvi shrugged. “But they did their best to minimize the magnitude of the horror. They allowed us to get out. Surely that counts for something.”
“Morality? Again?” Hobbsia cut in. “Bah! You and Rirkhni with your morality in war.”
“We’re alive. That counts for something for me,” Rirkhni declared.
Plodvi nodded. “What we did is unimportant. The more critical question is what we’re going to do now. This was a disaster, but it is also an opportunity for us.”
“How so?”
“It proves that what we believe… it is correct. The Dominion is rotten. It is rotten to its core. By the system in place. If not, no one — Great Predator or not — could do this to us. The malignant disease that is State Security… it is responsible for this.”
“Yeah, but we already knew all that,” Rirkhni said.
Plodvi nodded. “And now, other people might.”
“Other… people?”
“Like we said as much to them, there’s only so much we can accomplish by passing on information to the Great Predators. They align with our goals… for now, but they won’t be freeing our people. And if they did, it would not be for our good. True liberation — that we must do that ourselves.”
Rirkhni objected, “How? The others are not like us. They don’t think like us. It seems like there are more and more like us every day, but there are still a lot of them.”
“We just need to convince those who can be,” Plodvi said. “It’s time to recruit. We will make a real Free Znosian Navy. And we’ll convince the ones who can be convinced. To join it secretly. We’ll be careful. And if we use the new knowledge we have, with what the Great Predators told us… we’ll stand a chance.”
Hobbsia looked thoughtful for a moment, and she nodded. “That makes sense as a starting point for some planning. The mindless ones… if we win, they’ll follow. After all, we are better than they are, aren’t we?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
MNS Oengro, Grantor (24,000 Ls)
POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)
“All ships in Sixth Fleet in the Grantor system have completed post-blink preparations,” Vastae reported with a sharp tone. “And… it seems the Terran ships have already begun their burn towards the targets.”
Grionc turned and looked at him merrily. “And the others?”
“Maybe in the next century, High Fleet Commander,” Vastae echoed her amusement. “None of the ships from Second and Third Fleets have reported in yet, but from our sensors, all of them appear to have physically completed the blink procedures by now.”
“A miracle on its own,” Grionc remarked dryly.
“Indeed.”
Four systems back, some of the ships in Third Fleet ran into some blink drive synchronization issue. That delayed the operation by a couple days while one of the Terran ships doubled-back… to make sure there wasn’t some kind of intelligence leakage or foulplay from the enemy. She got an earful from Amelia for that… something about one of their domestic pets.
Herding felines, whatever that means.
At least it was enough to convince Malgeirgam that it was time for a change in leadership in Third Fleet.
“Maybe their new fleet commander will whip them into shape,” Grionc said.
Vastae grinned back. “Fleet Commander Loenda? The squadron leaders have a pool going for how she’s going to deal with them.”
Her former squadron leader, Loenda, had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the recently vacated fleet commander chair. It was surprising how much fight she had in her despite her advanced age.
“A pool, huh? What’s the highest—”
“Six to one odds she’s going to send all their squadron leaders and captains out the airlock and drive all the ships herself.”
Grionc guffawed. “Bahaha. Oh come on, they aren’t all that bad. Some of them are good people. A couple of our captains in Squadron 2 were from Third Fleet, if I remember right.”
“Yeah, and why do you think they got transferred here?”
“Fair enough… Alright, enough gossiping about inferior fleets. What about the enemy?”
“They know we’re here, and they appear to be ready for us.” Vastae’s expression tightened as he read off his reports. “80 enemy combat squadrons in system. A quarter of them were actively patrolling the outer system — they are now burning back towards the planet to defend it. 45 more scattered around the inner system. And about 15 squadrons defending the planet itself. They appear to be warming their engines up for a fight.”
As they were expected to. The Grand Coalition fleets had been going around the perimeter systems of Grantor. Taking out their stranded ships. Cutting logistics and supply lines. Putting them on their paws. Even the densest Grass Eater couldn’t have missed the signs.
“Good. Is everything ready?”
“Yes— wait, no. The Terrans just sent us a new message from their new ship, the TRNS Archerfish. They are ordering us to start burning towards the enemy at a measured pace.”
She frowned. “A… measured pace?”
“They say they need a bit of extra time,” Vastae reported from his console.
“Terran ships? They need extra time?” Grionc asked in surprise. “What are they waiting on now?”
“It’s Grantor-3. They’re saying— they say they can buy us a few… free kills.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dominion Navy Base 1238 (Grantor City), Grantor-3
POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (City Leader)
Resist! Prove that you exist!
This world is still ours, we persist!
Insist! Follow your—
The singing on Torsad’s two-way radio stopped abruptly. There was a brief moment of static. Then, as she held it up to her ear, a monotonous voice recited, “I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.”
She swallowed, activated the microphone, and responded to the challenge phrase solemnly, “And I fear no evil, for my rage lights the path ahead.”
“Good, Torsad. Are your teams ready?”
“As ready as we can be.”
“Good luck, Torsad. We are all counting on you. Eye in the sky, out.” The line clicked dead.
Torsad lightly panted in the humid heat as she turned back and counted her people in the dark with her night vision goggles.
“We’re all ready,” Insunt reassured her, his voice echoing off the narrow tunnels.
Getting here, beneath one of the bases of the enemy, had not been easy. The tunnels had taken months to dig.
They had to be quiet. The Grass Eater garrison had sensitive sensors to detect large-scale digging. No machinery was allowed. And definitely no explosives. So they dug by paw. Sure, they had ground penetrating radar and some laser tools, but it still wasn’t easy. Even for the toughest, strongest species this side of the galaxy. They had to stop progress for a few days when a cave-in accident severely injured two of her diggers.
But they’d done it. The tunnel had to be almost a kilometer long, which was about how far the Znosian garrison had ended up designating as the cleared free fire zone around their base. It terminated at a vertical hatch, with ladders extending up into the occupier’s facility above.
Her battalion of barely trained but enthusiastic Underground fighters stared back at her in the dark. She detected nothing but eagerness from their waiting faces.
“Is he right?” Torsad asked, her voice echoing loudly through the cavern to her gathered troops. “Are you all ready?”
“Yes, City Leader!” they answered in unison up and down the tunnel.
Torsad winced. “Okay, not quite so loud. They might hear us up there.”
Insunt shrugged. “If they’re still awake.”
“Our allies’ fleets are in the system. I expect they’re going to be awake.” With a louder voice, she announced for the benefit of the people in the back. “Grantor City, look up! Look up and behold, the Grantor star is finally rising!”
With one last look back at the darkness, she shouldered her rifle, put her paws on the sturdy ladder, and began to climb.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3
POV: Krelnos, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Administrator)
“Wake up! Administrator, you have to wake up now!”
As it turned out, Krelnos had decided to go to sleep. After all, the predators’ fleet wouldn’t get to her planet for a few days, and she was not responsible for the fleet up there. She woke groggily to her attendant’s yips. “What— what is it this time?” she grumbled. “Which one of our bases is it this time—”
“It’s all of them!”
That woke her up in a hurry.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dominion Orbital Defense Facility 38 (Grantor City), Grantor-3
POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (City Leader)
For a facility with such an important function, Torsad expected it would be… more. A large control room full of sophisticated alien computers, perhaps. She expected at least some permanent structures built to last. Maybe a large administrative building, one of those concrete boxes the Grass Eaters loved. Or it would at least look like a military base with layered defenses. But there were none of those here.
In hindsight, that wouldn’t have made sense. The facility was a temporary one, its assets intended to be mobile, dispersible in case of planetary invasion.
Defying her expectations of majesty, it was a simple green field, splattered with a dozen round hangars covered by neatly trimmed turf. Each of the open hangars was occupied by a singular mobile missile launcher transporter, accompanied by their control vehicles and radars.
From the air — or orbit, she had no doubt this would look like an innocent, empty grass field to anyone watching. Camouflage well done.
But this was her planet. Her people lived here. They were the ones who previously lived in the area and were either evacuated or shipped off into work camps. They were the ones who could see construction supply and vehicles going in and out of the base every morning. And a few of them — they were the ones who were forcibly conscripted to build the hangars in the first place! There was no hiding these from them.
Rat-at-at-at-at-at. Rat-at-at-at.
The exchange of automatic fire jolted her from her thoughts.
Each of the hangars were only guarded by a squad or two of Dominion Marines. And they’d been caught by surprise. Her people may not be real soldiers, but they’d become intimately familiar with how the element of surprise worked.
Rat-at-at-at.
One of the Znosian guards collapsed out from the thin sheet metal concealment they’d been cowering behind. Emboldened, her platoon cheered, spirits high.
“With me!” Insunt yelled. Barely audible in the loud noises of combat, his towering figure climbing out of the shallow ditch sent the right message anyway. As the machine gunners suppressed the enemies with a steady trickle of fire, Torsad and the remainder of the platoon sprinted across the open grassy field behind him.
One extraordinarily stupid — or poorly bred — Znosian Marine peeked out, trying to get a shot at the mob of two-meter tall nightmare beasts thundering toward their position.
Rat-at-at-at.
The machine gunners behind them took care of them in a hail of bullets before they could even get a shot off. Under cover of the machine gun fire and losing only a couple of fighters, the platoon crossed the open and reached the hangar in just under half a minute.
Rat-at-at.
One of the enemies opened fire on them as they stormed into the darker space. For a second, Torsad’s eyes adjusted to the dark. A few million years of evolution had given her people reflective membranes on the back of their retinas that made the transition between light and dark spaces faster. Not an advantage that was determinative in a war fought at light seconds in space and with night vision equipment on the ground, but here, it came in handy. She spotted the armored Znosian Marine concealed in a dark corner as two of her people fell from his weapon.
Rat-at-at-at.
She calmly shouldered her gun and dispatched the enemy with her practiced aim.
Rat-at-at. Rat-at-at. Rat-at-at-at.
At such close range, the outnumbered and unprepared Znosians fell under the weight of her people. To their credit, none of them flinched from their impending death, and each one of them took at least one or two of her people down with them.
A heavy sacrifice. She tried to put the thought out of her mind as she gestured the medics to her casualties.
A painful one. But every drop of blood well worth what we are doing today.
As her people cleaned up the remnant enemy troops, Torsad reached the mobile command vehicle. She pulled on the door. It rattled, but did not open. She didn’t have time for anything with more finesse. She winded her leg back and kicked at its hinge.
Crack.
The thin metal dented under her weight.
Crack. Bang.
The second kick did the job, slamming the door wide open. As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior again, Torsad came face to face with an unarmored Znosian officer right behind the door. For the shortest of moments, they both froze in surprise.
And they recovered at the same time. Torsad slashed her paw towards the enemy with her three meter reach and almost three hundred kilograms of carnivorous fury. The Znosian officer dodged backwards with a hop.
But not fast enough.
Torsad’s meaty paws tightly grasped the tip of his long ears as he ducked and fumbled for a weapon. Before he could blink or even yelp in pain, she slammed the stunned Znosian officer into the walls of the command vehicle by his ears.
Thump.
Then, for good measure, the ground.
Thump. Thump.
Torsad dropped the lifeless enemy from her grasp casually as she surveyed the interiors of the command vehicle. It had been thoroughly self-sabotaged, its control panels trashed with bullet holes and signs of physical damage.
She searched through the cramped vehicle until she found what she needed: the keys for the mobile launcher vehicle.
“Insunt,” she yelled at her lieutenant, tossing him the jingling chain.
He unlocked the vehicle and put it into neutral — its cabin was far too small for him to fit in and drive it. Within a minute, the regrouped platoon pushed the launcher vehicle out of the hangar into the open.
As she stepped back to verify that it was fully clear of the hangar, Insunt looked at her questioningly. “How are we supposed to give it the right instructions— ah, your thinking machine abomination.”
She didn’t bother to reply, plugging the small, locally-fabricated alien chip into a small maintenance port on the passenger seat control panel as she — and hundreds of trusted Underground operatives all around the planet — had been instructed to do. “Just a small… software update.”
“Now what?” Insunt asked as she stepped back.
Bwwaaahhhhhhhhhhh.
The launcher vehicle made a loud buzzing sound with its built-in sirens. A hydraulic arm on its back activated, slowly raising its payload into the vertical position. Torsad checked to make sure everything was in place and looked back at him and the rest of the excited platoon coolly. “Now, we get out of range of the return fire.”
Insunt scratched his nose. “Return fire? The other platoons say they’ve mostly cleared the base of Grass Eaters and we’re overrunning their nearby bases too. It should take their response team at least a couple more hours before they muster up enough—”
“Not the Grass Eater Marines.” Torsad looked up into the sky. Into the orbit of her planet. And beyond. She pointed a claw at the unseen enemies. “That return fire.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Grantor City State Security HQ, Grantor-3
POV: Krelnos, Znosian Dominion State Security (Position: Administrator)
“What?!” she sat up in her cot. “All of them?!”
“The Digital Guide says it’s all the Navy bases with surface-to-orbit batteries!” he clarified.
“What?!” she repeated. “How?!”
“Unknown! But it’s all over the planet. We’ve lost communications to the control centers for at least half of them. There’s still fighting in the rest, but they just all suddenly started to—”
She didn’t need to hear the rest. “Get me Ten Whiskers Telnokt!”
“Ten— the fleet?” he asked in confusion.
“Yes! The fleet!”
He still didn’t get it. That wasn’t even one of the options he’d prepared for her. He stared in disbelief. “The orbital fleet?”
“Yes, that one! Get them on comms now! They have to know they’re about to be fired on by their own batteries!”
He frantically tapped commands into his console. A few seconds later, he shook his head at her. “I can’t reach the fleet. The predator fleet must be jamming us.”
“Not the FTL radio!” she snarled. “Use the long range line-of-sight laser communications module on the roof!”
“Unresponsive!” he reported half a minute later. “Our line to the roof must be cut!”
“What? Again?!”
One of the Lesser Predators collaborators in their station had sabotaged their communications systems a few weeks ago. Literally just chewed its way through a bundle of important wires with its teeth, apparently. She got rid of the whole batch of collaborators and sent for their replacements. But that — also apparently — didn’t solve the problem.
It was an annoyance then. Now, it’s a catastrophe.
In hindsight, that act seemed to have been more… malicious… than a lone, turned predator collaborator acting out of simple frustration; almost like… they had planned even that.
“Summon the maintenance squad by signal rockets!” she ordered. “We must fix the problem now!”
A few minutes later, her attendant reported more bad news. The maintenance squad from the nearby barracks was ambushed by more predators on their way to the station. She called for the backup squad. By the time the news of their demise got back to her, it was already too late.
Far too late.
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A glorious day for all Granti people.
