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Grass Eaters 3 | 68 | Thunder
🕑 Added 2025-03-31 15:47:01 +0000 UTCDominion Navy Central Command, Znos-4-C
POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)
“Eleven Whiskers, there’s been an update from the temporary division commander,” Dvibof reported nervously.
“What is it?”
“He seems confused, but some of his vanguard troops have encountered heavy direct contact.”
“This soon? Shouldn’t we still be… about eight or nine kilometers before coming into range of the enemy base perimeter?” Their estimation of the enemy’s true capabilities was still a bit uncertain, but after constant fighting over the last week, its contours had at least become less hazy. “Is it their long-range artillery and beyond-the-horizon assets?”
“Unsure. I’m clarifying… Negative, he insists it’s direct contact. Enemy direct fire vehicles and anti-Longclaw fire.”
“Direct fire?! But that would mean—”
“He says it’s coming from directly inside the nuclear danger zone.”
Sprabr was quiet for a minute. “I guess they are willing to do the same that we are,” he muttered.
“Yes, Eleven— Hold on, there’s been a new development.”
Another new development?
There were a lot of those today.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Boooooooooooom.
“Get them!” Frumers yelled, slapping the tank hull excitedly as Margaret’s railcannon sliced through another Longclaw on the horizon. “Grass Eaters front! Get them, Margaret!”
Margaret saw them five seconds ago and had accurately prioritized them, but was far too busy to find a witty reply, so she settled for a terse report. “Enemy armor destroyed. Enemy infantry identified, thirty on infrared sensors— twenty-nine— twenty-four— twenty— new contacts, thirty-two… thirty…”
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.
Her minigun poured a hailstorm of 6.5 millimeter into the enemy thermal dots, picking high-priority targets out of a queue as rapidly as they were appearing.
Cruuuuuuuuunch.
Her treads just as deadly as her guns, Margaret shifted gears for a few milliseconds to optimize her suspension for the tracks to more smoothly run over another squad of helpless Znosian infantry even as they scattered to hop away from her, chittering in high pitch screams, barely audible through the din of battle even in her sensitive hearing. Her minigun de-prioritized them, their lack of any explosives that could damage her made them a low—
Incoming! I’ve got it.
I’m backstop. Ready.
Whooosh— Bang.
An anti-armor rocket raced at her from her three o’clock, launched from afar. One of the adjacent tanks identified the incoming threat with its radar and vaporized the projectile’s warhead before it got into range of her own active protection system. A few of its fragments clattered uselessly against her ceramic composite outer hull.
No! Not your beautiful factory paint, Margaret!
Shut up… Target acquired.
Booooooooooom.
Margaret’s railcannon roared again, this time on a special setting that splintered the outgoing depleted uranium shell into a million pieces as it exited the barrel, acting as a massive shotgun, aimed precisely at the far tree line where that rocket came from. She didn’t bother to see if the exact unit that fired the rocket was hit, but it was a fairly good assumption: every tree trunk in fifty meters of the target simultaneously exploded at Znosian head height. If the canister shot hadn’t gotten them, the trees now crashing down on their head probably did.
“Yo, Margaret, does our laser transmitter work?” Frumers asked from inside her hull.
Margaret did not feel irritated at the question. Instead, she beamed with pride with a fraction of her spare processing power. “Yes, everything I have works.”
“Can you connect the radio microphone to every Bun unit in our proximity still receiving?”
“Yes, Head Pack Leader.”
There was some light scratching in the cabin speakers as she activated them. That light scratching static noise was not strictly necessary for operation, of course, but organics loved their audio cues, and this was her way of intuitively letting them know that things were active and functional.
“What are you doing, Frumers?” Spommu asked, tilting her head even as Frumers picked up the microphone.
Frumers yelled as loudly as he could. “To all Grass Eaters on Znos-4-C. Run! Run for your lives! We are hungry predators, and we are coming for you! Mwahahahaha.”
Freeing up some spare processing power, Margaret did some light editing on his audio, making sure the translated voice sounded as scary as she could and boosting its bass by as much as she could while ensuring the result was still in the hearing range for most Znosian listeners.
“Hop! Hop for your lives, long ears! This is our planet now—”
“Ok, that’s just lame,” Quaullast said, snatching the microphone from him. “Here, my turn. Rawwwwwwwrrrrr.”
As she raced as fast as her engines allowed, Margaret identified yet another cluster of targets on her optics.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.
“Good news, guys,” she reported to the squad in her belly, still fighting over the microphone as they broadcast increasingly exaggerated war cries at the enemy.
“Yeah?” Baedarsust said, pausing the squad with a paw for a second. “Another high-ranking officer? How many whiskers this time?”
“Negative. I just neutralized a mortar squad, large bore.”
“Large bore mortar… That means—”
For once, in her excitement, Margaret accidentally allowed herself to interrupt the slow-thinking organic. “High Pack Leader, that means we are likely in the rear of this Znosian vanguard battalion.”
Baedarsust did not become angry at her or seem surprised at her interruption. Instead, his grin grew even wider, if that were possible. “In their rear?”
“Yes, High Pack Leader.”
“Anyone need to stop for a bathroom break?” he asked, looking at each of his squad members.
They each shook their heads as vehemently as they could.
“Good. Keep going.”
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt. Booooooom.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
“What is it?” Sprabr asked as he sighed.
“The temporary division commander has rejoined the Prophecy, his direct subordinate reports.”
Sprabr rolled his eyes. “Of course he has. What else is going on down there?”
“Our new frontline division commander reports urgently: a large force of enemy armor is charging straight out of the nuclear fallout zone seemingly without regard for their own safety!”
“Charging?”
“Without regard for their own safety, Eleven Whiskers.”
“I heard you the first time,” Sprabr grumbled under his breath. “How much armor did they commit to this counter-attack?”
“Unsure. The commanders on the ground report estimate over a thousand, but that seems unlikely. That would be far larger than the total confirmed force they’d landed on our planet! Additionally, there are reports this includes the Lesser Predator special unit that featured prominently in one of their ship boarding propaganda videos.”
“Lesser Predators? Impossible.”
“Our commanders on the ground seem certain. A few survivors managed to report back from the front. They are screaming profanities and threats at our Marines through their line-of-sight communicators.”
Sprabr didn’t contradict him, but he snorted lightly to express his doubt. He’d fought Lesser Predators before; they did not impress him. Then again, with the way things were going, very few things could surprise him anymore.
A few minutes later, there was more bad news. Dvibof glanced at his screen, seemingly in disbelief.
Sprabr snapped at him. “Out with it, Six Whiskers! What did he say? I have become accustomed to hearing terrible news for the last week, and I haven’t ordered you recycled yet.”
“Yes, Eleven Whiskers. The— the new division commander reports that two of his battalions in contact are no longer responding to directives.”
“Wait. No longer responding to directives? They’re dead?” he asked, annoyed at their verbosity. “Figures…”
“No, Eleven Whiskers. Not casualties… not exactly. They are… moving away from the battlefield.”
Sprabr looked at him in shock. Not that much shock though. “Are they… disoriented? Confused as to the direction of the enemy and their objectives?”
“It does not appear to be the case…” Dvibof took a deep breath. “The word he used was… flee. They are fleeing the battle without orders.”
“Flee… Like— like a flock of primitive prey running away from a predator.”
“That is the precise word he used.”
The background conversations in the command center slowed to a quiet lull for a moment. All that he could hear were voices through the headphones of his subordinates who were now all staring at him, wondering what he was going to do.
Sprabr swallowed hard. “I… I see.”
“Should we— should we report— report them to— to someone?”
Sprabr looked at him wryly. “Report them? To who?” He glanced at his outdated map, but even it was showing the seemingly overwhelming numbers of his frontline troops were scattering or melting away like spring snow. “This attack has clearly failed, and the enemy will not make a mistake like that again. Pull the troops back.”
“Are you— Yes, Eleven Whiskers.”
A few minutes later, an aide ran into the command center, up to Dvibof to give him a paw-written note. They whispered back and forth for a few heartbeats and Sprabr saw his expression pale.
“What is it?” he asked.
I’d ask how this day can possibly get any worse, but this universe is full of possibilities…
Dvibof replied quietly, “It’s the Znos-4-C Orbit Administration Authority, Eleven Whiskers.”
“Orbital admin?” he asked impatiently. “We lost the orbits to their fleets last week. What do they want now?!”
“No, Eleven Whiskers, not the organization in charge of administering orbital clearances for non-Navy ships. The Orbit Administration Authority.”
He stared. “What? Never heard of it.”
“They are the State Security office in charge of our orbits.”
“And? We’re on battle lockdown. Tell them whatever to get them off our backs. If you haven’t noticed, Six Whiskers, we are not exactly in a position to do anything regarding the additional orbital debris created by the—”
“No, Eleven Whiskers, not the orbits around us. Our orbit.”
Sprabr stared at him, and for a moment, he thought he’d finally cracked and lost his mind.
Then, he realized it was the universe that had.
“Our orbit,” Dvibof repeated. “Znos-4-C orbit. Relative to Znos.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
TRNS Crete, Znos-4-C (15,000 km)
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)
“Admiral, surface engineering team reports the planetary tug is now fully emplaced and operational.”
“Good. Any response from the enemy?”
“Yes,” Speinfoent reported as his console lit up with new notifications. “Six enemy planetary engines countering our acceleration. We’ve identified their locations based on their response delay with randomized vectors.”
“How dug in are they?”
“Very. It appears two of them are deeper than a kilometer down.”
Carla tilted her head as she inspected the visual diagram. “Huh. That’s far down. I guess they weren’t kidding about them being a burrowing race, huh?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Won’t they like… cook to death down there?”
“I believe they have superb air conditioning and ventilation technology, ma’am. But if it makes you feel better, it probably is miserable down there.”
“Ah. That does make me feel slightly better. Targeting?”
“CIC estimates we won’t be able to hit them that far down with our orbit-to-surface munitions. We can likely bury them alive, but there is no guarantee that will stop their functioning immediately.”
“Well, not with the conventional munitions.”
Speinfoent did a simple calculation on his console. “Yes, the conventional ones. The rods—”
“I guess there was a reason we lugged around all those heavy kinetics, all the way from Sol. Message Bomber Command, they are go for kinetic bombardment on all six designated targets.”
He typed their joint authorizations into his console as the other ship began preparations. “Yes, ma’am… They’re ready… Rod release in three minutes.”
“Tell them not to miss. Those rods are expensive.”
“Yes, ma’am… Bert— Captain Williams replies: close enough is good enough, for horseshoes and rods from god.”
“Bet him drinks for his entire bridge crew that they can’t achieve sub-meter accuracy on all six.”
“He says… you’re going to regret that.”
Carla sat back in her command chair. “In that case, prepare the message relay drone. We’re about to have some very anxious Grass Eaters down there.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
The actual, official name for the rods-from-god was the Multi-Stage Hypervelocity Kinetic Kill System.
That was probably why nobody called it that.
The system was first conceived over a century ago, during the Cold War. The concept was simple: drop heavy things from orbit… make big boom. A flawed understanding of the physical laws of conservation of energy misled some policy-makers and Hollywood movie makers into thinking that such a system would result in a massive blast that could rival the explosive effect of nuclear weapons.
Unfortunately for the stock value of defense companies, that proved to be untrue. However, such systems did have other benefits, like their ability to remain dormant in orbit for long periods of time without revealing themselves. And when caught by adversaries, well, they were just inert rods, right?
The idea was abandoned when it became obvious that its delta-v cost would outweigh whatever geopolitically destabilizing advantages it could possibly grant.
Later, it resurfaced as another theoretical superweapon: one of the implications of the Elephant Mafia’s assertions that a hybrid drive where the energy input cost did not scale with kinetic velocity output was possible. Several proposals for putting those engines on big rocks were immediately generated, and one of them was even put into action at the Battle of Mars for the destruction of its moons for a large-scale denial-of-service attack on the enemy’s sensors.
Lesser known to the public but which did not escape the notice of weapons designers at Raytech, there was another interesting possibility for a kinetic kill weapon: ground penetration.
Bunker-busters had existed for over a century. Indeed, one such item in Raytech’s original catalog before it gobbled up all the other weapons manufacturers in the early days of the Republic was the laser-guided Parity bunker-buster, designed to turn the concrete shelters of unfriendly dictators and illegal nuclear research sites into concrete coffins.
But instead of heavy deadweight filling and a simple delayed timer fuse, these hypervelocity rods were much more sophisticated. They were guided by an onboard intelligence from the current century, utilizing a myriad of sophisticated sensors to make their navigation decisions in real time. Instead of the usual electronic warfare devices similar missiles had, they were mounted with additional ejectable sensors that allowed the missile core to see past the plasma sheaths that covered much of their nose cone during atmospheric re-entry. When contact with the planet’s surface was imminent, a plasma charge detonated at its rear, further improving its ground penetration power as it propelled itself into the ground at hypervelocities that only a near-solid tungsten rod could survive. Finally, the nuclear charge embedded in its well-protected warhead would go critical at the last moment, its frontal cone directing as much of its explosive force further into the ground as it could.
The designs for such overkill contraptions were also first envisioned during the Cold War, designed to destroy armored, underground silos in a first-strike scenario to neutralize the land component of an adversary’s nuclear triad. They could deorbit and hit just about anywhere on the planet within ten minutes. No site, no matter its depth or armored protection, was safe.
Such designs were never intended to be used against targets offworld, but the Republic had gone out into the stars long enough that someone had not only considered the possibility but also done the calculations necessary to optimize their destructive power. Dirt was dirt and physics was physics. There was nothing special about Znos-4-C that exceeded the parameters of the nightmare weapons that humanity had already meticulously planned to utilize on its own home planet for over a century.
Needless to say, there were some very deep new holes in the surface of the Znosian moon when they were done.
Comments
Krzychu0304
I like the idea of using the entire moon in orbital bombardment:)
EclipseDragon96
Here come the Rods from God!
