Spooker
patreon
Grass Eaters 3 | 66 | Critical Mass II
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 15:47:14 +0000 UTCObjective Zulu, Znos-4-C
POV: Mgnistr, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Four Whiskers)
Bang.
Mgnistr jumped back in shock as the State Security officer toppled over where she stood.
“You— you—” she looked at the unharmed Spazglu. His paws were empty. She looked around in confusion. “What?”
“One of my sharpshooters,” he replied dully, gesturing into the dim forest around him. “Precaution I took when she rolled up with those prisoners.”
“But— but— you— you’re an apostate!”
He looked at her oddly. “Yeah, I guess. I guess I am.”
Mgnistr stared at him blankly. “But—”
“What are you going to do about it, Four Whiskers?”
She pondered the question for a few seconds. He was an apostate, one of those dangerous critters that hatchling teachers had warned her about long ago, but it wasn’t— it wasn’t like it was her job to bring him to justice or anything. The person who was supposed to do that was lying in front of her paws, blood pooling around her corpse.
“I— I— I’m going to report you!” she declared.
“Sure. You do that.” Spazglu shrugged. “They’ll figure it out when she doesn’t report in anyway. Well, they might assume she died in the fighting, but we’re dead for not following orders to attack tonight anyway.”
“Our lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools!” she shouted back at him. She clung to the mantra like a blanket to protect her from all this confusion and uncertainty.
“Well, your life may be. But I have no intention of dying for nothing tonight. Nor any of my… friends.” He gestured again into the dark forest.
“Then— then— what are you going to do?” Mgnistr asked.
For a second, Spazglu’s confidence slipped from him like a mask, revealing the scared hatchling underneath. “I didn’t plan that far ahead,” he admitted even as he recovered. “Maybe that is how they get our compliance… when enough people follow orders, there is nothing else for us to do but also to do the same. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“We can surrender to the predators. They’re just a few dozen kilometers north, through this forest.”
“Betray the Prophecy?!” she asked, her mouth wide open.
“It betrayed us first,” he said, pointing at the corpse of the State Security officer.
“That’s not— that’s not how it works!”
“Well, whatever you want to think,” Spazglu shrugged. “Maybe we don’t give ourselves up. Maybe we just run away and hide.”
“Hide where?!”
“Somewhere. Does it matter?” He walked over to the prisoners’ truck and began to remove the restraints from the other deserters. He turned to Mgnistr. “Again, my question to you is… what are you going to do?”
“I’m no apostate!” Mgnistr replied. “I’m— I’m going to follow my directives!”
“Which is to attack the Great Predators. At night. With our troops scattered. Without any coordination or fire support.”
“Our lives were forfeited—”
“For a mission this wasteful, Four Whiskers? You really think that little of your own life?”
“What else can I do?” she asked miserably. “It is our purpose. It is what we are bred for.”
He extended a paw to her as the other released prisoners began unloading equipment from the truck they were tied to. “Come with us. If it makes you feel better, I’ll even order you to do it. I am your superior officer, after all.”
“And die as apostates?!”
“We’re probably all dead anyway, Four Whiskers,” Spazglu said as he looked up at the dark sky, barely visible through the dense forest canopy. “But us… at least we’ll die free.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Special Warfare Team (Rank: High Pack Leader)
“Margaret and her vehicle ate it,” Quaullast reported with some sadness in his voice. “Darn. I was just getting to know her.”
“What got her?”
“Grass Eater Longclaw, I think. There were a lot of them that way…”
“Is the unit—”
Quaullast shook his ears. “Unrecoverable. No telemetry at all.”
One of the strange things they’d learn about the Terrans after working alongside them for so long was that they tried their best to recover not only their people but also their robots. Not out of some odd sense of sentimentality — though many of the frontline troops did see it that way, but rather the cold efficiency of resource preservation. Even a shredded robot was sometimes still good for spare parts, and recovering them alleviated logistics pressure on the other end.
And the Terrans are suckers for logistics.
That was why they tried their best to recover their machines.
Not Margaret though. She was too far out of the bubble, and without telemetry, her hardware would have activated the self-destruct if that was the last thing it did.
“Pity.” Baedarsust took a look at his map on his tablet. “Requisition another one from the northern perimeter reserves, and transfer the Longclaw coordinates to short range fires. How are things looking on your side—”
“We’re holding, but barely. They’re disorganized yes, but there’s a lot more of them still streaming in, even with the orbital support. We barely survived the night down south. Our fires are keeping them back. And some of their units seem confused — a few are holding positions or even moving away from the battle. But we’re going to need more resupply to our outer perimeter to keep them sustainable.”
“We’re already getting them as fast as we can, but even the Crete is running low on some of the essentials. Field artillery has been burning through barrels like crazy the past couple days.”
“So what do we do? Are we going to need to tighten the perimeter?”
Baedarsust checked the time. “Well, the engineers should be ready… any time now…”
“Then what?” Quaullast asked.
“Then… one way or another, this op ends today or tomorrow.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
By lunch, the Znosian Marines got themselves organized — enough to launch another wave of attacks on Objective Zulu. The artillery teams continued to expend as much munition as they could carry down from the Crete against the Znosian tide throwing itself against the southern perimeter. And the enemy had gotten close enough in range that they were beginning to fire back. A trickle of missiles began to trigger the base defenses, their air defense autocannons stabbing into the sky to defend its occupants.
The fire was sporadic and ineffective, but the defenses further increased the logistics load of the beachhead. Every round of depleted uranium that the incoming missiles wasted needed to be replaced by the constantly-ferrying shuttles, taking up valuable volume that other munitions and weapons could have used.
It was a matter of time before some threshold would be crossed and the dam would break; only the super-Terran intelligence chips in full command of the logistics system knew where that was.
Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. Boom.
Baedarsust hunkered down in the concrete shelter as an incoming artillery shell — deemed not worth intercepting by the busy base defenses — detonated about 200 meters from the lines, shaking the ground with its explosion. It might not have been aimed for them, but shrapnel could still travel a lot farther than that. Terran armor was built well and had served them well the last few operations, but even so, there was only so much trust he put into the lowest bidder that made it.
“They’re crossing the horizon now,” Quaullast reported as several more enemy units on their tablets blinked red for dead. “Southern perimeter.”
Baedarsust took another glance at the situation on his head’s up display.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The reserve armor units at the perimeter began opening up with their direct fire cannons towards the approaching Znosian Longclaws to the south. Ten seconds later, the anti-tank guided rockets joined the battle, racing through to find their targets five kilometers away. The artillery worked non-stop.
“What do the simulation computers say?” Baedarsust asked, hoping they wouldn’t confirm his instincts.
They did. Quaullast read the grim report out loud, “We don’t have enough ammo here to stop them before they get in range this wave. We’ve run out of drone swarms back there.”
Baedarsust grunted his acknowledgement as he dialed his radio in, as he’d done six other times in the past week. “Zulu One to Linebacker, Zulu One to Linebacker, come in, over.”
“Zulu One, this is Linebacker. Go ahead.”
“Linebacker, Zulu One. Be advised. Large numbers of enemy armored vehicles are crossing the horizon. Troops in contact. We need immediate close orbital support. How are you on munitions?” he asked as he focused intently on his battle map.
“Roger, Zulu One. We’ve got one last one in the reserve for you before we need to shift orbits for a full reload.”
“Stand-by for my 9-line.”
“Standing by.”
Baedarsust took another half a minute to update and clarify his targets. The computers upstairs could probably verify it themselves, but he didn’t want there to be any mistakes. That was one of the many, many lessons he’d learn during his instruction. And with what he was about to call in, there was no room for error.
“IP Zulu South Echo. Break. Heading, one-eight-six degrees, right offset. Distance, five-point-four kilometers. Forty meters MSL. Break. Large armor formation, advancing towards the objective at military speed. Break. Eight digit grid, one-eight-four-tree, one-five-five-niner. I say again, one-eight-four-tree, one-five-five-niner. Break. Marked by drone datalink. Break. All friendlies have vacated target area and are on IFF and strobe. Egress at your discretion. Bring a star. How copy?”
It took about eight seconds for the message to travel all the way up the automated kill chain and another three for the approval to come down. The Linebacker’s radio operator replied, “Copy, Zulu One. Read back as follows: IP Zulu South Echo, heading one-eight-six degrees, right offset, five-point-four kilometers, four-zero MSL. Targets marked on datalink, friendlies five kilometers north at Zulu. Egress discretion. Strategic payload authorized, danger close acknowledged. Over.”
Baedarsust took a deep breath. “Read back correct, Linebacker. Cleared hot. I say again, cleared hot.”
“Cleared hot, roger. Linebacker engaging. ETA on target, eight minutes. Get in cover. Good luck down there, Zulu One.”
As the base’s weapons began to engage the enemy vehicles crossing the horizon in twos-and-fours, more and more rounds began to pour into the fortified base. The base defenses were going off non-stop.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt.
Despite the interceptions, explosions rocked the ground beneath Baedarsust’s feet.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered.
“There!” Quaullast said, pointing up at a cloud of vapor in the distant sky. As they watched, the descending munition shed nearly half of its weight in penetration aids.
“Duck and cover!” Baedarsust yelled at his squad. They were ahead of him on that one, each of them cowering near a solid structure in the trench.
Despite their lack of electronics and sophisticated radar sensors, someone on the other side must have learned to look up with their naked eyes. Enemy anti-air batteries opened fire, engaging the incoming projectile rapidly. Tracers rose up to meet the incoming projectile like a near-solid wall. Within a couple seconds, it looked like every weapon the enemy had was aimed at the sky with their triggers held down. The Buns knew exactly what was coming, and in their desperate defense, some of the anti-aircraft defenses even got close.
Close didn’t count for missile defense.
The hypervelocity missile didn’t bother to reach the ground. As designed, it detonated a hundred meters off the ground, the airburst bathing the landscape with the blinding glow of a brief sun.
Fifteen seconds later, the shockwave reached the base, rattling everything that was not nailed down.
Whoooooooooompp.
It passed them as quickly as they noticed it.
The Lemmings would have stood and watched in awe, but this wasn’t their first tactical nuclear strike. It wasn’t even their first one of the day. Instead, as they crawled out from their hardened shelters and recovered from the detonation exactly as they’d been trained, they directed the drones around the base to survey the site and conduct battle damage assessment on the enemy force.
The result was definitive. “Advancing enemy columns destroyed in a two kilometer radius,” Quaullast reported. “Significant casualties…”
Baedarsust dutifully reported the results back up to Linebacker. They replied, “Good to hear, Zulu One. Linebacker transitioning to high orbit for rearm.”
A few minutes later, Quaullast tapped him on the shoulder with a worrying expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
Wordlessly, he transmitted the updated satellite imagery onto Baedarsust’s visor.
“Shit.”
“Yup.”
Behind the detonation radius of the tactical nuclear weapon, a large mass of thermal signatures on the scan were beginning to surface and assemble. Thousands and thousands of Znosian Marines, mostly in lightly armored vehicles, but almost as many simply hopping on their paws. They’d known those enemy troops were there — there were almost half a million Dominion Marines around them, all converging on their positions, but command had dismissed this formation as disorganized from a previous engagement. But from the look of it, they didn’t seem nearly as disorganized now. Instead, they were swarming, all in the same direction. And it was clear exactly where they were headed.
“How far?”
“Sixteen kilometers. Just beyond the horizon… and that.”
Baedarsust examined the map again. It wasn’t like it was his first time seeing it.
Just the first time seeing it with that big bright cloud between him and the enemy.
He asked lightly as he pointed a paw at the dissipating mushroom cloud, “Any chance they decide to prioritize their health instead?”
Quaullast chortled. “Would be nice, wouldn’t it? War would have been over a few years ago.”
“Guess not.” He sighed and made up his mind. “Lemmings, gather the bots and get ready to move out.”
“Where to?”
“Where else?” He pointed toward the aftermath of the nuclear explosion, now a growing curtain of flame. The very air seemed to be on fire. “That way.”
“Are you nuts?!” Frumers exclaimed.
Spommu shot him an equally questioning stare. “High Pack Leader?”
He shrugged. “Can’t let them in range and get a chance to hit our resupplies. We have to protect the AO until our orbital support becomes available again.”
“It’s a nuclear disaster zone out there!”
“Won’t stop them. Won’t stop us,” Baedarsust said. He rummaged in his survival pack for a few seconds before he found what he was looking for. Holding up a small, white plastic bottle to the low light in the bunker, he confirmed their contents. He poured a pile of pills into his paw, handing three each to his Lemmings.
“Iodine pills?” Quaullast grumbled. “Aren’t those fusion nukes supposed to result in minimal radioactive fallout?”
“Hey, you don’t have to take them if you don’t want to.”
Quaullast disdainfully sniffed his pills twice before gulping it down quietly.
By the time the Lemmings prepared their gear, the hundred or so combat robots and their armored vehicles were already gathered in the base’s assembly area, engines hot and ready to go. As they mounted up and the vehicles began rolling toward the danger zone, Baedarsust lightly slapped the outer hull of his command tank twice as his torso stuck out of its hatch. “You!”
“Yes, High Pack Leader Baedarsust?” the tank replied.
“You’re my new Margaret!” he shouted at it through the engine noise.
“Yes, High Pack Leader. New designation confirmed. What are your orders?”
Baedarsust dialed his internal suit microphone to Margaret’s radio. “Once we get into the disaster zone, we’re going to lose communications with base and possibly with the other units.”
“Each unit is prepared to operate for months without specific orders,” Margaret replied on the same channel. “What is our objective?”
He gestured to the front as he drew the exact deployment configuration on his tactical display with his paws. “Hold that line there while we buy time for orbital support to rearm. Take the high ground, and delay the advance of their vehicles. And when they try to bypass us, we can inflict casualties on their convoys from our elevated position.”
Margaret seemed to calculate for a few seconds, then replied, “If I may suggest something else, High Pack Leader?”
“Something… else?”
“Something a little less… cautious.”
“Now, that’s what I like about you clankers.”
Comments
Retroburn
The Republic is definetly not going to go full 'Exterminatus' anytime soon. Maybe they're planting a robot factory that can autonomously conquer Znos-4-C?
Infinate Fail
They said they were moving a lot of dirt. My guess? They're going to crack the planets core.
Kyle Lindstrand
Turns out I was wrong about who shot state security. I like this 7 whiskers. Very well prepared. And, he cares for their lives.
M
Right. At least we don't have to find out in person^^
Spooker
> Sprabr squinted at the image, trying to figure it out himself, but nothing came up. He sighed. “I’m sure we’re about to find out anyway. In the worst way possible.”
M
What the hell are they doing down there? Attaching thrusters? Burying nukes or worse? Or do we know already and I've missed it?
