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Grass Eaters 3 | 64 | Restraint II
🕑 Added 2025-03-21 15:47:01 +0000 UTCObjective Zulu, Znos-4-C
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Special Warfare Team (Rank: High Pack Leader)
If he hadn’t been briefed and prepared extensively about his objective, High Pack Leader Baedarsust would not have noticed the difference between his current mission and any other routine exercises. Indeed, the pre-mission briefing was longer than all the ones he’d participated in, combined, in all the time he was in the Federation before the discovery of the Terrans. It covered contingencies, emergencies, abort thresholds. It covered just about everything, including whether they were allowed to shoot at enemy noncombatants if they somehow found themselves in a Grass Eater colony.
But there were no enemies here, in the middle of this continental forest. Not for kilometers in every direction.
He saw it with his own eyes when deorbiting from the planet. Their lights had all been turned off by the fleet upstairs. Somehow. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn that the specialty of the Terran Republic Navy was turning other people’s lights off without their permission.
In all, the mission was supposed to be incredibly boring.
If everything went right, all his people had to do was get to a good spot, set up a perimeter, emplace the defenses and equipment they brought with them, wait for resupply, and then wait until they were told they could go home.
As he watched his robots begin to dig into the rich, soft alien soil, part of him hoped that the mission would continue to be boring.
It was unlikely.
And the other part of him really wanted to see just how many Znosian lives were forfeited for this…
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dominion Navy Central Command, Znos-4-C
POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)
“They’re doing their best to repair their machines, but it appears most of the circuitry in that part of our planet has been fried from the nuclear EMP,” Dvibof reported. “More worryingly, the wireless communicator devices and Digital Guides for most of the units in the area are now inoperable. Only our wired communication devices remain, but we did plan for that, given— given—”
“Given that we expected to lose communications in a fight against them anyway,” Sprabr said wryly.
“Yes, Eleven Whiskers.”
“What are the Great Predators doing down here?” the unsettled Sprabr asked as he pointed a claw at the bubble marking enemy locations on his planetary map.
“Unclear so far, but recon footage shows that there are many Lesser Predators among them. Their shuttles carried a number of armored vehicles with the troops.”
“Longclaws?”
Dvibof nodded in confirmation. “Their equivalent, Eleven Whiskers. It appears they are settling in, preparing a forward base for an invasion. This is— this is how we would do it.”
“But… forty of those tiny shuttles? Against our entire planet?! That can’t be their entire plan!” Sprabr exclaimed.
Dvibof shrugged without an answer.
“What assets do we— do we even have remaining to defend against their invasion?” Sprabr asked.
Dvibof queried the combat computer in the command center for a few seconds. “Infantry are our most flexible assets. They landed in a sparse location, but we do have six Marine bases on that continent that can respond immediately. That’s about a dozen divisions. Some of our vehicles remain operational, especially the ones that were mothballed in tunnels or underground bunkers. With those, our Marine chief says she can transport those troops to the fight within days.”
Sprabr glanced at him abruptly. “Days? That’s a rather unspecific measurement.”
“About seven to twelve days for the bulk of them,” Dvibof said after a moment more on his console. “But the first division will start arriving in the battlespace in about twelve hours.”
“It’s impossible to form a coherent battle plan against them when we don’t know their exact objective,” Sprabr almost whined. “And not to mention exact, we don’t even know the contours of it. For example, they most certainly picked that location for a reason, probably because it is sparse, but we can only speculate. They must know our response times and our exact response plans.”
“Then we are in luck, Eleven Whiskers.”
Sprabr couldn’t believe his ears. “In luck?! How are we in luck? How could this possibly be a fortunate turn of events?!”
“Because, Eleven Whiskers, I’ve just checked: we have no relevant response plans for such an alien invasion of Znos-4-C.”
“None?!”
Dvibof inspected his screen for another minute. “We did generate one, about seven centuries ago, as a precaution before we started a war against a particularly strong predator species. But we ended up trouncing them in a decade and exterminating them to the last.”
“Are those plans—”
“They’re no longer relevant, Eleven Whiskers. The locations of our bases have moved many times in the last seven centuries. New cities and roads have been built. Several artificial islands created. Others abandoned. And we’ve gone through dozens of generations of equipment improvements. The combat computer cautions that we can’t rely on those plans at all.”
“Pity,” Sprabr muttered as he thought. “What about our long-range assets? We only have a few divisions of troops on the continent, but surely we can hit them from here where we are?”
“It’s— Eleven Whiskers, we don’t usually make gear to defend our planets.”
“But surely we’ve got surplus and reserves of what we send for our invasion fleets, right? Right?!”
“Hm… checking. Right. We’ve got… some fixed-wing aircraft and intercontinental ballistic missiles.”
Sprabr sat up in excitement. “Fixed wing and long-range missiles?”
“Yeah, they’re in their packaged crates in reserves and some in preparation for transport, as you predicted! We can—”
“They’ll have to do. Unpack them, and get the Marine chiefs to figure out a plan to use them.”
“Yes, Eleven Whiskers.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Objective Zulu, Znos-4-C
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Special Warfare Team (Rank: High Pack Leader)
“Get in cover, Marvin!” Baedarsust screamed at him as the newly setup base sirens blared their highest possible pitch and volume.
WOOOOOoooooOOOOOO.
“You do not need to worry about me, High Pack Leader. I am already getting in cover,” Marvin replied a second later as it got under a digitally camouflaged canopy. It draped an anti-electrostatic bag over its own head in unison with the hundreds of other combat robots in the camp.
“Don’t let them fry your circuits!” Frumers offered.
“Thank you for the advice, Head Pack Leader,” Marvin replied as it continued its preventative procedures. “But I should be fine. My circuits are hardened against electromagnetic pulses.”
“Yeah but what if it’s a strong one?” Frumers asked. “Like if it’s real close.”
“The other effects of the nuclear explosion will get me — and you — before the EMP.”
“Ah,” Frumers grinned. “Then why are you getting in cover?”
Marvin tilted its head. That looked weird, the way the tubes on its head leaned with its sensors as it mimicked the Malgeir expression. “Because… it is still good to be sure.”
A few minutes later, the nuclear warheads detonated above them. A bright, brief flash of purple that turned into magenta and then into a red glow. And then… an aurora.
The sirens ceased their wailing, and the camp got back to work.
Another ten minutes, their resupply ships arrived over the objective site. In seconds and on pre-programmed reflexes, they dropped pallets of their cargo directly on it before burning their thrusters away from the planet again.
Just another day at work.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
TRNS Crete, Znos-4-C (12,000 km)
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)
12,000 kilometers above the enemy planet was well within range of the longer-range enemy orbital batteries. If they were operational.
And the Crete was not alone. It was flanked in this low orbit by its silent escorts — too far to see with the naked eye, but just close enough for the Crete’s sensitive sensors to detect them even without their presence on datalink.
“Admiral, the ground team is almost ready to begin,” Speinfoent reported.
“That’s what they said six hours ago, XO,” she noted, her voice carrying not so much an accusatory tone as a cautionary one.
“Yes, Admiral. They ran into some problems digging in. More moisture than expected in the soil or something. We fabricated a solution and sent them on the second resupply. They’re on the way back.”
“Good, good. What about the other side of the moon?” Carla asked.
“It seems like they’re beginning to react. They’ve begun to unload those atmospheric jets they have at their spaceports. I think they’re preparing to use them as makeshift runways to launch them at us. Oh, and likely some longer-range missiles.”
“Well, that’s all very predictable,” she said dryly.
“Should we bomb them before they take off?”
“That wouldn’t be very sporting, would it, XO?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Speinfoent knew her enough to get the hint. “No, Admiral. Not sporting at all. Perfectly unsporting, just the way we like it.”
“Excellent. Send the command up to Bert’s ship. I’m sure they’re chomping at the bit to get started.”
Speinfoent narrowed his eyes at her. “Chomping… is that one about— about your pet dogs too?”
“Hah. Surprisingly, no. It’s about horses. But I’ll come up with a better one next time, I promise.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dominion Navy Central Command, Znos-4-C
POV: Sprabr, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eleven Whiskers)
“Their missile was a direct hit. We’ve lost hardline communications with Spaceport Dwarf-23,” Dvibof reported solemnly. “Our other spaceports aren’t faring much better. I don’t think they’re going to let us get anything off the ground over here…”
“Back to the drawing board then,” Sprabr said, seething at the loss. “What do we have on the dark side?”
“Reconnaissance sensors and unarmored platforms in orbit and the outer system. They are still sending data as of now, but the predators are targeting and shooting them out now with their minesweeper at an alarming rate. According to our combat computers, we will likely lose continuous intelligence on what they’re doing down there by next week.”
“We need our people in there, now,” Sprabr declared. “All of them.”
“Our ships— the ones in water, they aren’t equipped to carry that much equipment on such short notice. And they were even more vulnerable to their orbital control. We likely can’t get any to the continent, but we are going to try to force them to expend their limited munition stores on them. But other than that, all we’ve got are just the twelve Marine divisions we’ve got on that continent there with them.”
That was still a lot of troops. Especially against that small an enemy force. But Sprabr was not naive enough to think that this was going to be some kind of fair fight.
“Get them all in there, as soon as possible. I want to know what the Great Predators are planning to do with my planet!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
POV: Mgnistr, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Four Whiskers)
The hardest part about dispersing was the total loss of command and organization. Every unit on their own. They were given pre-arranged instructions when they mustered out, but other than that — they had no effective logistics. That wasn’t the worst part; after all, they were not expected to fight protracted battles. Just one, really. The enemy didn’t have the numbers. They just needed to be overrun.
Beyond logistics, there were bigger, more immediate problems.
For one, they couldn’t trust their radios because the predators were hijacking them to spread disinformation and wrong orders. The best they had were signal rockets, but they were of limited utility for units that were used to fighting on the move.
Mobile units excelling in maneuver warfare, which were some of the Dominion’s greatest advantages over the predators in ground warfare. Gone. Now, they were like rocks thrown by a savage, relying on momentum and inertia to get to their targets.
They were essentially no better than holdout cells. On their own planet.
In Znos.
Znos-4-C.
What an absurdity.
A reality, nonetheless. Mgnistr took one last look at the horrifying fire and rising smoke stacks in the distance, accompanied by the noises of battle, as she climbed into the relative safety of her armored troop carrier. The interiors were dark. Most of the sophisticated electronics scattered around the hull interiors were fried by the predators’ prolific use of nukes in the upper atmosphere; it was a surprise that it was still able to drive at all.
She counted the ears in her squad — twice, as her training dictated. Satisfied, she rapped the driver’s hatch in the front crew module heavily twice, ordering, “Go!”
“Yes, Four Whiskers.”
The carrier’s engines roared into action, and a minute later, its tracks churned (the anti-grav engine was one of the first components to break down) the fresh Znosian soil beneath the vehicle as they propelled the squad towards the sound of battle.
Mgnistr activated the improvised communication extender attached to the top of the carrier. It used a line-of-sight laser device to communicate with nearby units, a practice that had become unfortunately necessary lately.
There was a short beep as it detected a nearby friendly source. She peered into the carrier’s backup sight: it was indeed one of theirs. A tracked reconnaissance vehicle just a kilometer ahead of her squad.
“This is Four Whiskers Mgnistr,” she spoke into her microphone. “Status on the front?”
The reply back a few seconds later was scratchy, but she could understand it — if only barely — through the excited response. “We’re overrunning the enemy position! We found at least two more of their vehicles, and our spare Longclaws are engaging.”
A few of the Longclaws still worked despite the EMP. When predators were spotted in the system, some vehicles had been moved to underground bunkers for redundancy. Of all the equipment made up the Dominion Marine arsenal, the Longclaws were the most costly to make and thus the most hardy… and the most protected.
They also made the most attractive targets. Mgnistr’s squad had passed a whole armored division worth of them on their way here, and those Longclaws had been thoroughly smoked. The enemy didn’t have atmospheric fixed wings — as far as she knew — but she knew they had the smaller flying machines that carried anti-armor munitions. Those machines were bad news. And, for once, Mgnistr was glad she only commanded a mere troop transport.
“Copy, recon vehicle,” she replied. “How far are we from our target?”
It took about a minute for their friendly asset to calculate the answer. They said, “28 kilometers to your north-north east, 22 degrees. You’ll meet a frontline—”
The rest of the reply was cut off in static.
“Recon vehicle? Hello?” Mgnistr frowned and tapped her device twice with her claw, wondering why it’d suddenly stopped working.
“Four Whiskers!” her driver called from the front. “Four Whiskers!”
“What?”
“Look!”
She squinted through the small gap toward the driver’s module but couldn’t see anything. She climbed into the commander cupola out of the vehicle’s metal hull. Then, she saw what he was yelling about. There was a bright glare in the distance, a mushroom cloud rising kilometers high from the horizon, glowing with such a brightness that even the Znosian sun looked like a dim lamp.
It took her brain a second to understand what was happening. She gasped.
Reacting with generations of bred instinct, she hurriedly climbed back into the vehicle, securing the hatch above her and strapping herself into her seat with the rest of her wide-eyed squad. The driver quickly turned the vehicle around, desperately driving away from the nuclear inferno.
A minute later, the shockwave reached the vehicle.
Bang.
It shook and rumbled the armored carrier, deafening Mgnistr and her squad. She saw in the dim lighting that her troops were rattled but still alive. The sound of falling dust, ash, vegetation, and debris clattered on top of their hull for another minute.
The psychological shock and panic passed as well, and Mgnistr was back on her laser communication device, scanning the horizon for the signal they’d last heard from. A few seconds later, she spotted the vehicle; it had gotten itself stuck in a ditch, but seemed otherwise unharmed.
“Recon vehicle, recon vehicle, are you there?” she asked.
Her communicator buzzed, and the voice of the other operator returned, “Copy, Four Whiskers. We’ve lost connection with some of the front, but we can see on our optics that at least a few of our armored units there remain operational. Blast radius of the cursed predator munition: estimated about one or two kilometers, but the lives of those who are within the larger radioactive fallout radius— their lives were forfeited to the Prophecy the day they left their hatchling pools. As are yours now.”
She repeated the mantra under her breath, then replied, “Understood. We’re heading back to the front now.”
Comments
Ark
It's so joeover Znosbros
