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Grass Eaters 2 | 44 | Border
🕑 Added 2024-08-26 16:47:00 +0000 UTCBlack Site Deimos, Deimos
POV: Baedarsust, Malgeir Federation Marine Infantry (Rank: High Pack Leader)
“What is this place?” Baedarsust asked, glancing curiously at the sealed hangar door from the back of the shuttle ramp.
Aida looked at him darkly. “The place where you keep quiet and don’t ask too many questions unless you don’t want to leave until your fur turns gray, High Pack Leader.”
“Ah…” Baedarsust nodded in understanding.
Frumers did not get it. “I heard from some of the Terran spacers on the Crete that this is where they do live experiments on captured aliens… including some Malgeir criminals, I hear,” he speculated excitedly.
“Silly conspiracy theories,” Spommu dismissed.
“They seemed to know what they’re talking about—”
“Look, your Friday night poker buddies play poker with you. For money. How much critical thinking can they be doing?!”
“Well, their theory makes sense,” Frumers hedged.
“None whatsoever. They can just ask our government for any data they want on us. And the ones about the Grass Eaters, why would they hide experiments on them here? Think about it. Logically, they’d just do that outside of their home system—”
“And I hear they throw live specimens into vacuum to see how long they’d survive—”
“I’m sure the Terrans recorded plenty of that kind of data from our fleets; there was no shortage of explosive decompression data in our fleets before they joined the war.”
“And there were the leaked Republic black budget reports on social media,” Frumers argued. “You don’t really think they spent 20,000 credits on a hammer, 30,000 credits on a toilet seat, do you?”
Spommu scoffed at him. “Bah, spoken like someone who has never set their eyes on an actual defense-related request for proposal. That’s exactly what I think they spent on a hammer and a toilet seat!”
“And that planetary tug we saw flying in—”
“Obviously for physics experiments and weapon research. What stupid conspiracy could your friends have possibly come up for—”
Aida shushed them and cut in, “Alright, pipe down. They’re coming.”
She pointed at the door frame lights, which turned green. It opened, revealing a man — an unarmed civilian in casual wear — loosely escorting six restrained Terrans in orange jumpsuits and handcuffs.
One of the civilians took a quick glance at the Marine squad behind Aida. “Ah, it’s one of you guys. I hear you’ve been making a lot of extra work for us in the Red Zone. Good work on the Aces.”
Aida straightened. “We try our best, sir.”
“Well, I’d invite your men in to try out some of our new, experimental ice cream flavors,” he winked. “But I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance to enter our mess.”
“No, sir, and we’re on a somewhat tight schedule.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll sneak them into your resupply once they’re ready…”
I hope it’s not coconut.
The man glanced down at his tablet. “You’re going… straight to Europa, and then… Datsot… ah, extrasolar leave for your Marines?” He nodded at them. “Enjoy it, your guys earned it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ll be there… two months huh? Gotta see the green beaches they’ve got near their equator… on the big continent, I forgot the local name. During summer, the algae bloom or whatever makes them look like green jello. Never seen anything like it.”
“Yes, sir— you’ve— you’ve been there for R&R?”
“Not… not exactly R&R.”
Aida obviously immediately regretted asking. “Ah, understood. Yes, sir.”
“Alright, don’t let me keep you.” He gestured towards the six prisoners as he scribbled his name on the tablet. “These guys probably won’t try to escape, but if they do… you know what to do. If they don’t make it to their trials—” he shrugged. “I can’t imagine the courts will be too happy, but these things happen.”
“Understood, sir.”
“See you all,” he waved cheerily, addressing the prisoners as the transfer completed. “And be nice to your new friends.”
When Baedarsust and his squad approached the Malgeir prisoners, they looked fearful. One flinched as he grabbed her arm with his paw, leading them into the back of their shuttle.
As the shuttle ramp closed and it took off, Aida seemed to relax.
The prisoners did not.
Frumers decided to make small talk with them. “So… what are you guys in for?”
The prisoners looked at each other wordlessly, as if wondering who he was speaking to.
One of the women spoke up, her voice quivering. “H—handling money for the Resistance.”
Frumers nodded in understanding. Money laundering. Now that was a subject he could really comprehend.
“How much did they get you for?” he asked.
She hesitated before she answered, “Half a billion credits.” A couple of the prisoners looked away from her.
Frumers whistled. “Solidly upper-middle management then. Why did you do it?”
“At first, I needed the credits. After a while…” she shrugged. “I never thought about how deep I was until the Tharsis Incident.”
Aida rolled her eyes. “Tharsis ‘Incident’, yeah. As if you didn’t help fund a massacre that killed hundreds of your fellow Terrans.”
She stuttered. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t know— What I did— it’s just what I was good at.”
“Not good enough, if we caught you,” Frumers pointed out cheerily.
The prisoner shook her head. “I didn’t get caught. I gave myself up. Plea deal with the Reps— Republic in exchange for full cooperation.” She pointed at the rear of the shuttle ramp, gesturing back towards the receding Martian moon.
“What’s the deal?” Frumers asked curiously.
“They got to ask questions and poke around in my mind. For six months in a Jovian minimum security and the rest in house arrest. At least it’s not Neu-Nuremberg.”
“And not a Martian prison either. Can’t imagine you’d have a good time there either,” Aida commented. “Not after the massacre from your people.”
“Your people have killed ours too!” she reacted. She looked fearfully at the Malgeir Marines. “And you use alien troops against us!”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Spommu asked loudly.
The prisoner shirked away from them. “You— you— you eat our people alive and— and they give you a puppy at the beginning of bootcamp and at the end you have to kill them to prove your worth— and is it true when they breed you, you eat your mothers as your first solid meal?”
Spommu shook her ears and sighed. “Incredible. You’re even more gullible than Frumers.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
My Snout Is Sealed, Datsot (18,000 Ls)
POV: Eupprio, Malgeir (Executive)
Eupprio stared out the window of her shuttle at the new industrial robots crawling and jetting around her new shipyard under construction for almost half a year.
It was a marvel of engineering, designed by teams of Terran and Malgeir experts working side-by-side: the Terrans brought their experience and computers, the Malgeir brought their credits and told them what was not possible, and then the Terrans promptly ignored them and did whatever they drew up anyway.
Somehow, it worked out.
Its shape resembled an array of fossilized ribcages of some large, ancient beast, gleaming metallic rings of production bays around the final assembly volume, each bustling with construction activity.
“It’s beautiful,” she declared.
Fleguipu barely glanced at the image, busy working on her new Terran tablet. She’d fallen in love with the spreadsheets program loaded on it by default. Eupprio didn’t have her obsession, but the reaction to new Terran gadgets she’d gotten recently — she understood it. Fleguipu muttered, “For just under two hundred billion credits, it’d better at least look good.”
“We’re already making back some of our money,” Eupprio said proudly, pointing at one of the already functional, smaller production lines now occupied by a series of small shuttles. “The Next Generation Low Observable Assault Shuttles, Federation variant, licensed Raytech production and modified based on the experience of our troops in Sol. Fulfilling that Ministry contract will pay back almost a fifth the original cost of this entire shipyard. And the new mine and missile production licenses—”
“We’re certainly going to have to give the new assault shuttles a better name than that,” Fleguipu said without looking up from her work. “And that’s a twenty-year contract. If you’re looking for that kind of spare credits, I’ve got a dozen different investment opportunities with far better guaranteed returns.”
“Nothing is guaranteed in war,” Eupprio argued. “Especially if we lose. This helps us win, and we get to make money doing it.”
“Noble sentiments,” her friend sniffed. “If only that paid all the bills around here.”
“If only,” Eupprio smiled. “I’ll settle for the Federation Defense Ministry and the Terran Republic Navy paying them. Aren’t you at least a little proud of what we’ve done here?”
Fleguipu sighed. “Yes, Eupprio, your new shipyard is magnificent. First new one built in generations. Tourists from all over the Federation will come to gawk at it for years. Now, can we get back to the topic of the plans for our new food import business?”
“Fine.” Eupprio tilted her head. “What’s wrong with Eupprio’s Alien Foods?”
“That’s a terrible name too. The Malgeir people associate your name with cool technology, and that’s great for finance, for ships, for our new computing business. Not exactly the best idea for a new food-related brand,” she said. “But that’s not my main point.”
“So what is?”
“Again, there’s nothing wrong with the Terran food idea, and I actually think we should put more credits into the business if we can, but the concept of importing food all the way from Sol to the heart of the Federation — it’s just too expensive. The transport ships we’d need are all booked out for higher priority needs… like the war.”
“But it’s the only way to maintain full authenticity!” Eupprio protested. “When our people learn about the Terrans, they’ll want the real thing, not some cheap knock-off we make in a lab on Malgeiru or whatever planet we expand to!”
“First of all, the Terrans themselves make their food in labs and factories,” Fleguipu argued. “So technically doing it that way would be even more authentic. And second, you remember that story Abe told us on one of our trips to Terra? District 3, I think?”
“Which story?”
“The one about the cookies.”
Eupprio thought for a second. “Oh yeah, the cookies that claim to tell your future… the fortune cookies! What about it?”
“Sometimes when you copy food from Terran cultures, you’re supposed to modify it a little. Soon enough, most people won’t really know the difference, and sometimes it might even be more popular than the original!”
Eupprio huffed. “Isn’t that considered disrespectful to some in Terran culture?”
“Is it? Well, if they tell us to stop, we’ll pay them off if we have to,” Fleguipu shrugged, looking back on her tablet. “Anyway, you saw their production lines: making locally with their synthesis technology instead of transporting interstellar — it’ll save us billions, it might even make our food cheaper in general! And when the war is over, we can try your transport idea and introduce those as new luxury product lines.”
Eupprio thought for a moment, then smiled wryly. “Fine. You know this stuff better than me. This is why you handle the business side of things.”
“No, I handle the business side of things because someone has to be the responsible adult around here.”
Eupprio grinned even wider. “Is that your way of asking for a raise?”
“I don’t need to ask you for a raise,” Fleguipu said innocently as she buried herself back in her tablet. “I just slip the compensation change approval form into the stack of two hundred documents I send over for you to sign every day.”
“Hey!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Outpost McMurdo, McMurdo System (600 Ls)
POV: Zwena Tanith, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Commander)
“Registered incoming from the Sol side,” Bert reported as a new alert popped up on the main screen. “Verified FTL signature with gravidar. TRNS Crete.”
“The Pupper Marines going home for some R&R?” Zwena asked. “I heard they’re getting rotated out for a fresh batch.”
“Yeah, the Navy is holding in the Red Zone for now. I think they’re closing in on the last pockets of Resistance anyway.”
Zwena dry chuckled at the pun. “At least it’ll be over soon. You think we’ll see more activity out here afterwards?”
“We’d have to. The Pupper Marines took out three out of four of the Resistance Aces, and judging by the way things go, they’ll probably be sent to take out the Ace of Clubs when they find her too. Knocked all the wind out of the sails for all the cynics complaining about wasting money on their war last year. The Senate would have to be nuts not to authorize more extrasolar missions to help them out.”
“I just hope that it’s in time for the imminent Bun offensive,” Zwena said, pointing to the screen showing all the systems that are now being FTL jammed in occupied Granti territory. “They’re doing… something. I can feel it in my bones.”
“You’re not that old yet, Commander,” he teased.
They smiled. “Hey, you know what the kids say now: born too late to explore the Solar System, too early to explore the rest of the galaxy… just in time to kill ugly aliens though.”
“Please stop. The kids absolutely do not say that.”
“Um… well, I’d like a second opinion from another—”
Bert chuckled and pointed at Sol on the strategic map, “And more like… born too late to fight in the Red Zone, too early to fight in the Red Zone, and just in time to fight in the Red Zone.”
“Hey, this is the last campaign. The very last one. We’ll get them all this time. My Senator promised!” Zwena sighed and continued, “Hopefully the last one for a while at least… I just want to see some real action where I can shoot ugly aliens instead.”
“You thinking of moving onto ship command after this?” Bert asked. “One of the new Rabbitkillers, maybe.”
“The Pythons and even the old Peacekeepers are nice,” Zwena said. “But… what I really want is command of a long-haul logistics transport ship.”
“Wait. Really?”
“Hell no. A whale? You had to ask?”
“Whew, I thought you were going insane,” Bert said. “I hear being out here on the frontier for months at a time could do that to someone.”
“Get out of here… What about you? What would be your dream posting?”
“Bomber command.”
Zwena chuckled. “Orbital support squadron? Oh, I see, it’s your turn to jerk me around, huh? I see how it is.”
“No, really. I always thought that was a more hands-on job… even if they are supposedly a lower rung on the informal Navy ladder under space superiority. Plus, they get to play around with glow-in-the-dark.” Bert grinned.
“Right on, slugger. Sling one at Znos for me when you get there.”
Bert squinted at their mocking face, “Is that really how kids talked back in your day?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
MNS Copproe, Quistqueu (20,000 Ls)
POV: Speunirtio, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Gamma Leader)
Gamma Leader Speunirtio of the Omega/Beagle-class MNS Copproe stared cautiously into the sensor screen.
“We’ve just crossed into occupied Granti territory, Captain,” his tactical officer, Plecta, reported. “The Copproe has completed post-blink procedures.”
Not tactical officer, he corrected himself in his thoughts.
Executive officer. XO.
That’s the new terminology they were supposed to use in the Sixth Fleet anyway. The Copproe was newly attached to the battle fleet’s organization, which was mostly the bigger Delta-class ships, except when they needed specific jobs. In this case, a specific job that only called for a single ship.
No, not Delta-class. Shepherd-class missile destroyers.
They did things differently in the Sixth Fleet, and of all the officers on the Copproe, only Speunirtio and Plecta were officially supposed to know the real reason why. Supposed to, anyway. The existence of their new alien allies was by far the worst kept secret in the battle fleet.
“Thank you, tactical— XO,” Speunirtio replied. “Scan the system, and let’s find out who is here with us.”
A couple minutes later, the results came back.
“A single squadron on passive,” Plecta reported. “We’ll get better resolution once our radar beams them then. Five light hours away, so they can’t have seen us yet… unless they have an observation platform near us with an FTL radio.”
“Which we shall assume they do,” Speunirtio asserted, as per new procedure. “Keep us moving. Have communications— electronic warfare raise Gruccud. Are we being jammed now?”
A few seconds later, Plecta returned from her console reading. “Captain, we’re being FTL jammed now.”
“Unfortunate… but expected,” Speunirtio said. “That means our assumption was correct. They have seen us. Get out the advisor.”
It was a new procedure, but they were drilled extensively on it.
“Yes, Captain.”
Pressing her paw to the paw-print reader on the cabinet next to her station, it unlocked and sprang open with a short affirmative beep. Plecta took out a thin tablet of obviously alien make and a black cord. She connected it to her console, and the readings on the main screen of the bridge was replaced by black and white text, showing the bootup sequence of a new program.
Initializing HannibAI… Integrating…
Copyright © 2074 Ray Technologies
The bridge crew patiently waited the few seconds it took for the program to start, many of them looking away and pretending not to know the source of the software.
Name, rank, and position?
“Gamma Leader Speunirtio, captain of the MNS Copproe.”
Voice and face confirmed. Authenticate: Foxhound, Instinct, Rottweiler, Eskimo.
“Bone, Instinct, Rottweiler, Dalmatian.”
Confirmed. Prime Directive contingency cancelled.
What can I do for you, Captain Speunirtio?
“Observe the system, thinking machine. Should we get ready to engage the enemy system defense squadron?”
It took almost half a minute for the computer to spit out a reply:
Negative. Recommend avoiding engagement as long as possible. Recommend recon drone deployment. Recommend new course near system limit to observe enemy action.
Speunirtio read the reply in mild disappointment, “Alright, well, that all makes sense. Do as it says.”
“Thinking machine for orders,” his executive officer remarked, her face a mixture of caution and curiosity as she passed the orders to the crew. “Every day, we become more like the Grass Eaters.”
“Can’t beat them? Join them,” Speunirtio replied wryly. “We can lose honorably instead… if you’d prefer?”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Five hours later, they got their answer. The enemy had not just seen them. They were reacting and spreading out, but they did not seem to be burning directly towards the Copproe.
“Probably trying to gauge our reaction and getting ready to see if we’ll put ourselves in a position where they can trap us,” Plecta commented, echoing the machine advisor’s assessment.
“What is our latest intel on their acceleration numbers?” Speunirtio asked.
“Not nearly enough to catch us with those Delta— those missile destroyers, Captain. ”
“Good. Has the advisor identified which ship is the jamming ship yet?”
“No, Captain. It says it is only possible to identify an FTL jammer with three simultaneous ships or missiles.”
Speunirtio nodded. “Ah, that’s why our new wild weasels need to be—”
“Yup. Should we arm our LARMs and give them a go now?”
Speunirtio thought for a second and shook his ears. “Let’s not waste that advantage yet… unless the advisor says different.”
Plecta hesitated, seemingly resisting the urge to recommend otherwise. A few seconds of reading her console screen later, she nodded as well. “So… what else?”
“We keep recording and wait. And try not to look too hard at the ground footage we’re getting from occupied Quistqueu-4,” Speunirtio said, sighing.
Plecta nodded grimly. “Those poor Granti prisoners.”
“Nothing we can do for those people now,” Speunirtio said automatically. “Other than win the war.”
A few minutes later, Plecta reported back much more enthusiastically, “New recommendations from the advisor. Six priority targets in system. Two fuel depots and four new orbital warehouses around Quistqueu-7.”
“Quistqueu-7?” Speunirtio asked, puzzled. “The gas giant? That’s not a habitable planet. Why did they add so much infrastructure there now?”
“The advisor says they’re stationary and undefended, and we might find out what they are if we blow them up,” Plecta replied.
Speunirtio nodded. “Alright. Let’s use our old missiles. No need to give away all our secrets. One missile for each target, and time them all to hit at the same time. Launch when ready.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Damage assessment: fuel depots were full or near full (95% certainty), warehouses likely held munitions (99% certainty).
It sent its analysis of the fiery secondary explosions from all the targets to his command console.
“Interesting. And the enemy defense squadron still isn’t coming for us?”
Plecta replied with a glance at her screen. “It seems like they’re transferring to Quistqueu-7 instead. Maybe they’re trying to salvage some of what we destroyed.”
She input her speculation into her console and waited a minute.
Unlikely. Enemy behavior anomalous. Recommend reconnaissance drone inspect the far side of Quistqueu-7.
It took another few hours for the high-speed drone — essentially a missile with camera sensors instead of explosives — to burn to the occluded side of the planet to take pictures… and a few more minutes to transmit the imagery back to the Copproe via its subspace radio. Just before agile counter-missiles from the enemy found the drone to silence it.
The bridge crew stopped what they were doing to gawk at the data filtering onto the main screen.
Speunirtio stood up from his chair, the fur on the back of his spine fully raised. “By the Malgeir! Get us back to Gruccud, immediately!”
Comments
Valdis Trautmanis
Looks like we just kicked a sizeable Bunny nest... Props for the Independence Day reference 😉
Spooker
It's not a cliffhanger! He just left his stove on!
AnAbsoluteVillain
Ain't that the truth!
Spooker
Consistent usage of terrible acronyms/names by defense companies is how I try to inject realism into my story.
Alex
Nooo the cliff
AnAbsoluteVillain
"HannibAI" 😗 combat computerz. Missed chance to call it something pup related like "SnoopAI" 🐶
