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Grass Eaters 3 | 15 | Learning Ahead I
🕑 Added 2024-11-27 16:47:00 +0000 UTCGrantor City Safehouse India, Grantor-3
POV: Torsad, Grantor Underground (Cell Leader)
“Ten guards for each prisoner.” Torsad pointed at the guard towers on the digital map. “According to my people in the hatchling pool camp, they have patrols all around the perimeter. And shift changes are now staggered. New policy.”
“That’s what the other cells say,” Mark said, nodding in agreement. “New procedures thanks to our recent… activities.”
“What do you need from the camp? Is it big? I can get my people to smuggle things out. The prisoners won’t say a thing if they know what’s best for their families.” Torsad’s eyes were hard.
“What about moving things in?”
“We can… move things in as well. That is a little more of an unusual request, but we can get people in place for that too. Six pools, so you’ll need six different teams to reliably blow them all up simultaneously.”
Mark examined the map for a little longer. “No. Good thinking ahead, but this mission is a little different. We’re not looking to blow up the hatchling pools either. We need you to get a suitcase into the computer room, and we need you to get it out of there. And the Grass Eaters can’t know.”
“How— how big is this suitcase?”
Mark pointed at a red box in the corner. “That one.”
It was about the size of a standard shipping crate. She picked it up. Weighing it in her arms, it did feel heavier than it looked. She thought for a moment. “This should be possible. Do we have a guy in the computer room?”
“Yes, an electrician who fixes their air conditioner. Just need to create a problem with that air conditioner for an excuse to get him in. We’ll put you in touch with his cell leader. In fact, we’ll give you access to our personnel lists.”
“If we have someone in the room, this shouldn’t be too hard. What is… in this package?” she peeked at the seams of the suitcase, as if trying to decipher its contents.
“Our utility robot, Flowers.”
“Flowers?” She narrowed her eyes and asked skeptically, “Utility robot?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. It unpacks itself.”
“That… is not on the list of things I’m worried about. Is this… suitcase going to be detected by their sensors around the camp perimeter?”
“Probably not. It’s pretty sneaky like that. But if it does, it’ll get you out of the situation.”
“Get us out of the situation,” Torsad repeated as her skepticism deepened. “Some utility robot, huh?”
“Well… it’s uh— multi-purpose. Point is, it should be able to get you out if things kick off, no problem. Good enough for you?”
“Does it—” Then she shrugged. “Okay. Good enough for you is good enough for me.”
“But preferably, things don’t kick off. Not too much.”
“Right. Small ruckus.”
Mark nodded. “Okay, good, but that’s only step one. Step two is you need to gain access to one of the hatchling pools themselves.”
“And kill all their hatchlings?” she asked neutrally.
Mark shook his head. “Nothing that distasteful. What we need are subjects. For an experiment. And not like one of those grotesque ones they do. Just some light social experimentation, you know? Psychology, that kind of—”
Torsad shrugged. “I wouldn’t object either way.”
“Ah, okay. Anyway, bring a few that you can carry out, and leave the rest. It is vitally important your men don’t get carried away.”
“Don’t get carried away?” she echoed. “On a sabotage mission?”
“Yes. You have to ensure that the hatchling pools remain functional after so they can use them again.”
“Why do they— actually, again, I don’t care,” Torsad said nonchalantly.
“Just do as little damage to the camp as possible. And then there’s step three, which is really secondary, but it will be helpful for the Underground. Once you do this, the Buns are probably going to purge the camp again. Anyone you get out of it will probably be someone’s life you save. And they’ll become fugitives, so you’ll have no problems having them join up.”
Torsad looked at the map one last time, going through the plan as the Terrans described it. She nodded. “Okay, this seems doable.”
“Good. Oh, and since you know The Big Secret now, you aren’t just a Cell Leader anymore,” Mark smiled at her.
“Oh? A promotion?”
“Yes, you are now a Department Leader. Department Leader Torsad.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, puzzled.
“Kind of like a general. It’s what Guinspiu does but more. You report directly to us now, and you get to know about other cells. For now, anyone in the group you recruit will go into their own cells; you just need to make sure they don’t know about each other. You, on the other hand — you can know everything.”
“But what if I get captured?”
Mark winked. “Then you’ll get to laugh in their face while they figure out how to torture you without your pain receptors, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” It was going to be a while for her to get used to that.
“Yup, so it is important that you know things now. For example, you might need to know why we are grabbing hatchlings out of their hatchling pool without destroying it.”
Torsad shrugged. “I can already guess. You’re trying to figure out how to poison them through the hatchling pools, right? That’s why you need to get into the computer room, and you want samples from before and after.”
Mark chuckled. “Almost. Not what you’re thinking, but not a bad guess. What did you do before the occupation again?”
“Chemistry teacher.”
“Ah, that explains your former job in the camp. Alright, let’s start from there.”
She nodded. “Anything else?”
“We do have another unrelated matter. We have a spaceship up there,” Mark said, pointing his finger at the sky. “They help us out with things from time to time. Long story short, our guys in the sky are getting a little nervous.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say… there’s a war going on in the galaxy, and the Znosian Navy has been very quiet recently. And not quiet like a cub falling asleep kind of quiet. More like they’re planning something big quiet. So they want us to figure out what the Buns are planning.”
Torsad thought for a moment, then nodded. “What’s the plan?”
“Let’s get ourselves a few people who work with their Navy base outside of the city. We need to talk to a few of those friends so we know what the rest of their little Dominion is up to.”
Torsad shook her head. “That’s not so easy. They don’t use locals in their Navy base outside the city. Not for a while now. It’s all their own people.”
Mark sighed. “Damn, I was hoping they’d be stupid. What about the people who support the base? Don’t they use Granti workers at the spaceport and to drive them to and from the spaceport?”
She thought for a moment. “Hm… I’ve heard they sometimes use Granti drivers.”
“Good. See if you can get a couple of those guys and get a copy of their schedule. Discreetly, if we can.”
Torsad grinned. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Dominion Hatchling School 34018, Grantor-3
POV: Spisme, Znosian (Teacher)
At the mature age of five years old, Spisme was ambitious for a hatchling teacher. She left her birth world of Znos, completing her training onboard a ship out towards the frontier of the Dominion. When she landed on Grantor, its first hatchling pools had just finished construction. Now, a few of her former students were working alongside her.
A few of them. On Grantor, most of them went towards more vital tasks of planetary administration and pacification of the Slow Predators. A few of the more capable ones went towards the Navy and Marines.
As a fresh hatchling teacher, her expertise was 1 to 6 months after hatching. At one month, most hatchlings started to be taught to speak, read, write, and count in the simple Znosian alphabet. At six months, they were expected to be proficient in all those so they could be trained in more specialist tasks. The exceptions to these were bred-illiterates — about ten percent of the population for whom reading and writing were too complex because of the way their brains form during the hatching process — and elite Znosian hatchlings bred for other specialist tasks.
Spisme looked out at her class of two hundred, noting few anomalies among them. Each of her students wore a virtual headset that fed them the standardized lessons that most Znosian hatchlings absorbed. It was a new headset. When she learned on Znos, they’d used a slightly older version, but the Dominion spared no expense on the basic task of education. It made sense: well-taught workers were efficient workers.
Spisme noted that one of her students had taken off his headset, opting to waste his precious education time looking out the window instead.
She sighed. Few anomalies. He was one of them.
Spisme walked down his aisle, bending down to reach his height. “Hatchling, is your headset defective?”
“No, Teacher Spisme.”
“Then why is it not on your head properly over your eyes?” she asked patiently.
“I’m bored.”
“Bored?” she asked. That was a new one. Teaching was such a fulfilling job. There was always something new every once in a while…
“I don’t want to learn to count anymore,” her defiant pupil insisted.
“You have to learn,” she explained. “And if you don’t, you will be recycled.”
“Then I will rejoin the Prophecy,” he said proudly. “Isn’t that a good thing? What’s wrong with being recycled? I will rejoin the Prophecy faster.”
A younger, less experienced hatchling teacher might have been confused by the deeper theological question. An older, more experienced one might have contemplated a wise answer to address the contradiction.
Instead, Spisme gave him a patient frown and chided, “You are too young to understand. And you are asking too many useless questions, even for a hatchling! Which lesson are you on?” She snatched his headset from him, checking the screen. He’d barely passed the algebraic factorization lesson. “You are less than halfway through your assigned work for today!”
“I don’t want to learn anymore,” he pouted. “It’s boring. I won’t do it!”
Spisme sighed. He was becoming a defect. It was not her fault, but it was her responsibility. Maybe she could get him placed in a class and curriculum with other bred-illiterates instead. It would be a waste of his genetic investment — hatchling pool nutrient and development was not free, but even a thoughtless grunt who couldn’t multiply was still better than the squandering of a full recycling.
“If you don’t put the headset back on, I will have to place you in the other class,” she threatened. Spisme hoped that he would change his mind, but she knew from experience that was unlikely.
The defective hatchling shook his head vigorously. “The moron class? I don’t want to play with them.”
Spisme looked at him in shock. “Who taught you that word?”
“What word? Moron? Moron, moron, moron,” he repeated defiantly with an unsettlingly predator-like grin on his face. “The moron class—”
She cut him off. “That’s a specialist word! Learning ahead is prohibited. Who told you to say that? Who taught it to you?!”
He gave her a smug look. “I’m not telling you!”
“You need to tell me, hatchling! I can’t take full responsibility for this if I don’t know the cause!”
“I’m not telling you, unless…” the hatchling said, some thought creeping into his eyes as he contemplated what he could bargain for.
“Unless what?” Spisme asked, her heart sinking. Not only was he a defect, but he was also contaminated, and it had occurred under her watch. There was only one acceptable remedy for this.
“Unless… you let me skip learning for the rest of the day.”
Spisme pretended to consider it for a second before she nodded. “Okay. But you have to tell me who is teaching you these words.”
“It’s the Slow Predator.”
“Which one?”
“The one that sweeps the hall outside,” he said proudly, gesturing outside the classroom. “He also teaches me other fun words…”
Ignoring the contaminated hatchling, Spisme looked out into the hall. It wasn’t there, but the abominations who did that were supposed to know to keep their damn snouts shut, instead of misleading her hatchlings. A swell of anger flashed across her chest. She’d known they shouldn’t be using substandard workers — non-Znosians — around the important task of education, and this only further confirmed her suspicions.
“Does this mean I won’t have to learn anymore today?” her pupil asked, tugging on her paw and looking up at her.
She smiled down at him. “Yes, you won’t have to learn anymore. We’re going on a trip, just you and me.”
“A trip?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. “Where are we going?”
Spisme sighed deeply before grabbing him by the scruff, dragging him towards the hatchling recycling center. She was going to have an unpleasant talk with the school security administrator about this.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
“What’s the matter, hatchling teacher?” the Znosian Marine asked patiently and respectfully. As a civilian teacher, she was not technically his superior, but he worked at the school day in and day out, and he knew which side his lettuce was buttered on.
“Four Whiskers, your usage of Slow Predators for cleaning tasks in our school is contaminating my hatchlings. I had to recycle one of mine today. You need to stop employing the barbarians near them,” Spisme demanded.
“Hatchling teacher, I take full responsibility for that,” he said with contrition. “But we don’t have much choice. My Marines are being stretched thin with a recent wave of— Anyway, it’s been difficult, and sacrifices need to be made by everyone.”
“But… it’s the hatchlings!” Spisme shouted. “Think of the hatchlings!”
“Yes, of course, hatchling teacher, you are right. Education is one of the most important tasks of the Dominion. I take full responsibility for this failure. Perhaps I can have a talk with the Slow Predator in question while I try to find us more resources for this? Did you catch the name of the Slow Predator who is responsible?” he asked, seemingly eager to placate her anger.
“No, but I know it sweeps the halls outside my room,” Spisme replied, slightly calming down.
“Ah, that’s the new one they call Insunt… hey, there it is now,” the four whiskers said as a white-furred Slow Predator walked up next to them. “Hey, predator, come over here. Insunt! Get over here!”
Insunt walked over to them, the brown creature’s large figure towering over both of them. “Good day, Four Whiskers. How may I help you today?”
“This is one of our hatchling teachers. She says you are contaminating her hatchlings. Take full responsibility for it now,” he spat at its feet.
Insunt took a look at Spisme. “Of course, I take full responsibility for my mistakes… I’m sorry, what is your name again, hatchling teacher?”
“I’m Spisme,” she replied haughtily, not looking at the big abomination. “And you will make it not do that again in the future, Four Whiskers!”
“Of course—”
“Oh, you’re the hatchling teacher named Spisme,” Insunt interrupted rudely.
Spisme looked up in confusion. The expression on the predator’s face had gone from apologetic to curiosity… and then greed. She pointed a shivering claw at it in outrage.
“Excuse me, predator?! Did you forget your place in—”
Before she knew what was happening, Insunt brought his paws down on the four whiskers’ unarmored head, crushing the fragile Znosian Marine in a single blow.
Spisme shrieked in horror and panic, scrambling to try to get away, but the predator was right behind her. With a flick of his paw, she stumbled and fell to the ground. Insunt picked her up by her scruff, immediately running straight towards the exit of the school.
“Let me go, abomination!” she screamed, trying to bite and swipe at Insunt’s paw, but he avoided her blunt teeth and nails effortlessly. “Let me go!”
“No can do, hatchling teacher Spisme. I have a friend who wants to meet you.”
She fainted.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Spisme woke up looking straight at the white ceiling in an unfamiliar room.
“Look!”
“Wow.”
“Mom!”
She sat up in a hurry and looked down at the fluffle of about a dozen hatchlings gathered around her.
“What’s going on?” she asked them. Then the memory of the kidnapping returned to her. She stood up hastily, looking for an exit. She was in an odd room, its walls painted with bright colors and adorned with poor quality paintings.
A voice popped up behind her. “Ah, you’re awake now. Good.” It was the voice of a Slow Predator. One of their females.
She turned around slowly, trembling in fear.
It was another one of the browns. They were known for their strength. She knew the reason the Servants of the Prophecy defeated these abominations was through the use of technology, like a set of proper Znosian Marine battle armor she wished she had on right now.
“You are making a terrible mistake, predator,” Spisme said, her resolve returning to her as the realization of how screwed she was began to sink in. “You will be—”
“No, I don’t think I am, hatchling teacher Spisme,” it chuckled.
She recoiled. “Who are you? And where am I?”
“You can call me Torsad. You… are now in the Grantor City School for Gifted Grass Eaters,” the predator said, pointing down at the hatchings gathered around her, looking at her with their glassy, empty eyes.
She rolled her eyes as she examined the markings behind their ears. “This is why you are called Slow Predators. These are obviously not gifted hatchlings. They are not even specialist material! They are at best standard quality hatchlings. Anyone can see that.” Spisme pointed at one of the shorter hatchlings and continued, “And that one’s substandard!”
“Perhaps. But we’ll have to see about that, won’t we, hatchling teacher?”
Comments
AnAbsoluteVillain
🥰 cute little buns. I bet they will be very gifted indeed.
Alex
Yeah, that makes sense. Culture Cracking is the only real way effective way to handle a species that has 500+ planets... that or you just start nova sparking every system they own.
Valdis Trautmanis
I think we're looking at a potential long term solution to the Znossian problem. Grow a generation or two of peaceful buns to replace the xenocidal zealots in a couple of decades. Or at the very least replace their leadership. The rank-and-file will do as they're told anyway
