MNS OENGRO
Sixth Fleet defeated the third and fourth volleys of enemy missiles without any additional casualties.
“We are entering our own effective range,” Speinfoent announced to the bridge the second he saw the notification. “Coordinating fire with the fleet… launching!”
A few seconds later, a massive flurry of much heavier projectiles streamed out of the fleet’s missile tubes and onto the sensor screens. Hundreds of anti-ship missiles began tracking the enemy targets, dwarfing the quantity of munitions the enemy had put into vacuum so far.
“We have good track…”
Grionc watched as the sensor screen lit up with a mass of dozens of new yellow dots near where the enemy fleet was. Her lips curled up briefly. “Decoys, huh?” she mused aloud. She watched as Speinfoent’s paws danced over the controls, activating preset filters to clear out the false threats.
Speinfoent updated the bridge calmly. “They’ve launched countermeasures. Our radar computers are compensating.”
Some of the dots sporadically began to disappear as the ship’s computer resolved them as irrelevant targets with their nonsensical orbit changes or radar returns.
The Znosian ships and training were good, but the Malgeir had numbers and physics on their side. At their vector and distance, the outgoing missiles should have just enough fuel to match whatever burn maneuvers they could execute. The Malgeir missiles closed half the gap in minutes without any overt response from the enemy.
If my experience is anything to go by, Grionc mused, about half of the Malgeir missiles would miss, but the remaining hundreds of missiles should still be more than enough to vaporize that tiny Znosian formation multiple times over.
She was interrupted in her thoughts as Speinfoent suddenly stood up in the tactical station, the fur on his back standing up. “Fleet Commander, the enemy fleet… it’s gone to full combat burn.”
“What?! What about their slow ships?”
Speinfoent, eyes fixed on his panels, double-checked his figures. “Fleet Commander, they’ve just ditched their orbital supply ships. Those acceleration numbers! That’s almost at ninety percent our combat burn!”
Grionc did some quick calculations in her head. It didn’t make sense.
“How can they increase their acceleration to full so fast?! Won’t their subspace engines burn out?”
“Likely,” Speinfoent replied in rapid-fire, “But they must have decided it was worth it.”
“What about our missiles?”
He did some more tapping on his consoles, shaking his ears in disappointment. “They’re going to shake our missiles. Factoring in their new acceleration, our effective range just went down by almost half!”
And sure enough, the plot updated to show the enemy ships burning hard, deviating far enough from their original trajectory for the missiles to run out of fuel way before they can approach their targets.
The alarm in Grionc’s head reached a screeching crescendo. “Wait, with their new acceleration numbers, how long would it take for us to reach effective range?”
“About two more hours,” Speinfoent replied.
“Two hours? We don’t have enough counter-missiles for two hours.” Grionc said, her outward calm a facade. “If we shoot now, what are our chances?”
Speinfoent shook his ears. “None. With their acceleration, our missiles don’t have enough fuel to reach them, and even if they did, they wouldn’t still have enough energy to maneuver to hit. Until we close the range, we’re going to be sitting ducks.”
Grionc weighed the two options on the table: she could chase down the enemy and destroy them all, at the cost of dozens of her ships as they close in, or… she could back off and let them slip away.
“Tracking enemy missiles approaching! All missiles destroyed,” Speinfoent sighed in relief for the fifth time. “Our counter-missile supply is running on half.”
She looked at her bridge of young Malgeir spacers, recalled her campaign orders, and made the only decision she thought she could live with.
She took a deep breath and announced, “Listen up, people, it looks like we won’t bag all the enemies today. But our people on Datsot must come first. Reverse course and disengage immediately.”
“Aye, Fleet Commander,” Vastae acknowledged, relaying commands through the fleet comms. The star field in the bridge viewport flipped. The loud whine of the inertial compensators sounded again, keeping the ship’s occupants from splattering into the ship’s walls as it started to reverse away from the enemy at full acceleration.
It was slightly disappointing that we wouldn’t be able to get all the enemy ships, but we were still able to drive the enemies away from Datsot.
“Inform the Marines to initiate landing preparations for the liberation of—” Grionc started to order.
Speinfoent interrupted her, “Fleet Commander, the enemy fleet is now slowing down as well. They’ve reversed and matched our reverse acceleration as well. And they’ve just launched another volley at us!”
What are they thinking?
Then, she saw the position Sixth Fleet was in. The sickly, heart-stopping realization dropped in Grionc’s stomach like a stone.
The enemy hadn’t been fleeing after all. Not really.
Their ships had been strung along just enough to sucker her fleet into a stern chase. They were just within the enemy’s effective range, but the enemy were right outside theirs. Now they were caught in a bind: too close to get away quickly, but too far to hit the enemy.
A quiet, “I see,” escaped Grionc, her snout parched and voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, Grionc considered splitting her fleet, but there was too much complexity there. The fleet was not ready for independent maneuvers. And she realized that whatever she considered in the moment, the war-experienced Znosians surely did as well. Ultimately, she liked the idea of being defeated in detail even less than charging up their throats under fire.
Her ships must chase the fleeing enemies; they had given her no choice. She knew that Sixth Fleet was going to lose ships — many ships — to this.
To her mistake.
Her stomach knotted in guilt, but Grionc squared her shoulders and did what she knew needed to be done.
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“Reverse course again. Full acceleration. We have no choice. We need to close our range with the enemy as quickly as possible.”
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Grionc’s heart sank as Vastae delivered the grim news an hour and a half later. “We’ve exhausted counter-missiles across our fleet, Fleet Commander.”
The echo of the words stung. They’d lost four ships even with some counter-missiles. Now, without any, the approaching volley promised devastation. In her head, a mental image formed of her fleet being ripped apart by the Grass Eaters. Ship by ship, life by life.
“Volley inbound, one hundred sixty missiles!”
Teeth clenched, Grionc ran the quick, brutal math through her mind. Even with her ships pressed into a tight formation with overlapping point defense coverage, with no counter-missiles…
This will hurt. At minimum, eight ships this volley, she counted in her head — undoubtedly including her flagship — which the enemy had been throwing a sizable portion of death at in every volley.
“Inform the captains of the rest of the fleet. No matter what happens. Even if this flagship is destroyed. The fleet must close with the enemy at all costs and engage. That is the only way we win — the only way even some of us survive,” Grionc commanded.
Making her peace with the inevitable outcome, Grionc mouthed a silent apology to the crew of the Oengro and their families.
I was the one who put them in this danger, all of them—
“Ma’am,” Speinfoent’s voice cut into her self-pity. “Squadron 4 is falling out of formation.”
“The Granti ships are falling back? Tell them I understand, this is not their fight,” Grionc replied calmly. She added, “In fact, broadcast for the record that I am ordering them to disengage with the—”
“No, Fleet Commander. They have dumped their excess fuel and cargo, and they are boosting in front of the Oengro—”
Grionc didn’t need completion of his report to grasp their full intentions.
Hurriedly connecting to Gridquucque’s communication on her own console, Grionc snatched up her microphone and shouted into it ungracefully, spittle flying. “Captain Clebret, what the hell are you doing? Get your squadron back in formation and get out of our forward defensive zone.”
Clebret’s image, black fur and golden eyes steady, materialized on the screen. He was most definitely not fooled by her transparent attempt to re-frame the order to clear their frontal sector. “Fleet Commander Grionc, I can read a battlemap as well as you can. Over a hundred missiles inbound and these Znosian anti-ship missiles are nasty: your battleship can take what… eight, maybe ten direct hits in total? If you’re lucky. The fleet will need your missile tubes for the fight you still have ahead.”
Grionc snapped back at him. “Captain, your orders are not optional! Get your ships out of here!”
The subtle tilt of Clebret’s head spoke volumes. “I guess we will have to see at my court martial then, Fleet Commander Grionc… I know you… and your people: they will take care of our families back on Malgeiru. None of us— none of us have forgotten what you and your people have done for us and ours. It was an honor to serve under you.”
He paused briefly, offering her the somber Granti salute with the ancient traditional expression: “good hunting, Sixth Fleet.”
The transmission was cut from the other end.
“Get them back!” Grionc screamed at Oengro’s communication officer in futile desperation. “Get them out of there!”
Speinfoent warned, “Enemy missiles approaching our formation, direct front!”
She could only helplessly watch the full magnitude of her failure play out as the twelve small dots in front of the Oengro spat everything they had left on the ship at the incoming tidal wave of death and several of their dots winked out from the radar forever.
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Grionc’s gaze flitted across the bridge, silent save for the ambient hums and beeps of machinery and consoles. “How many?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but she knew Vastae would understand.
“Seven ships from Squadron 4 are gone, reactor hits,” he replied, voice tinged with sorrow. “Two more are disabled. It looks like the Grass Eaters really wanted us dead. Most of the rest of the Sixth did not receive much fire. I’m getting reports that two more may be disabled in Squadron 8. And they took out all our heavy transports. The enemy must have targeted them intentionally.”
“Did Captain Clebret and his ship manage to get out—” she murmured.
Vastae shook his head sadly.
She put him out of her mind for now.
Seven, plus two, plus another two. Eleven of her combat ships down.
One volley without counter-missiles and it was already more damage than they’d expected to take in the campaign so far.
“One hundred sixty missiles inbound,” Speinfoent interjected into her thoughts, his report falling like another hammer blow. “They can unleash at least another… four volleys before we reach maximum effective range.”
Four volleys, Grionc thought bitterly, that’s another forty ships if we continued like this. And it will only get worse as we lose more ships and coverage.
She prepared to give the order to scatter the fleet in a wide formation, hoping that would give the enemy too many targets to focus down immediately.
Suddenly an unfamiliar voice crackled through the communication net: a Granti female, her alien accent distinguishable despite the focused tone and sounds of coughing and shouting in the background. “Looks like I’m the next one on the succession chart. All remaining ships in Squadron 4, maintain course and shield the flagship with your IR signatures. Prioritize damage control efforts solely on point defense and targeting—”
Grionc started to admonish her and wave her away. “Squadron 4, you’ve suffered extensive casualties and have two disabled ships. Cease your acceleration burns to conduct search and rescue—”
Then, another voice, a Malgeir male this time, joined the Granti captain’s on the communication net. “This is Squadron 1 Lead. All ships in Squadron 1, maneuver and align with Squadron 4 ahead of the fleet commander’s flagship. To the rest of Sixth Fleet: good hunting.”
Grionc knew that nothing she said would change their minds.
But that did not stop her from trying.
Vastae shook his ears, looking as miserable as she felt. “Their bridges have stopped responding to our hails.”
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“Another volley incoming!”
“This is Squadron 2 Lead. All ships, form up on us! Join Squadron 1—”
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“This is Squadron 3 Leader to all captains in the squadron. We are moving to join Squadron 2. Other volunteers in the squadron will be honored. Sixth Fleet, good hunting!”
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“This is Squadron 5. We are moving to join the spacers of the third. I thank you all in advance on behalf of my beloved pack on Datsot. Good hunting!”
Seething, Grionc snapped at the bridge, “Are we going to get into range of the enemy any time soon?”
“Fleet Commander, we’re almost in range,” an exhausted Speinfoent reported after a few seconds. “We will be in range to shoot back at the Grass Eaters in… one more volley.”
Another thirty-five of Grionc’s ships had gone down, either outright destroyed or otherwise incapacitated in their desperate mad dash to close with the enemy.
She filed away her grief and guilt for later as she watched another squadron boosted out of formation to take the missiles meant for her flagship.
“Fleet Commander, we are now in effective bracketing range!”
Across the fleet, a simultaneous flurry of activity ensued as ships aligned their weapons and readied their payloads, preparing to unleash their numerous might upon the Znosian enemy. Grionc knew that every second counted, that each moment of delay cost lives. She allowed herself a heartbeat to honor those who had fallen, those who were about to, and then she gave the order.
“Sixth Fleet, launch.”
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Grionc could hear her heart pulsate in her chest as the fierce clatter of missiles resounded through the cosmos, a deadly symphony that followed an enduring, seemingly infinite pursuit. Her fleet, what remained of it, unleashed a hellish volley of firepower, their missiles zooming through the vast darkness before finding the Znosian ships, creating monstrous fireballs that briefly illuminated the dark void.
Finally in range, the sixteen enemy ships took another three ruthless missile volleys to destroy. In those three volleys and at such close range, even in their final moments, the Znosians managed to land crippling blows, leaving another two dozen of her own ships limping or mangled in the great dark.
As usual, none of the enemy surrendered before their ships broke, though Grionc wasn’t sure she would have allowed them to if they had tried.
Grionc stared, the resolve leaving her eyes to be replaced by despair, at the flickering screen displaying her casualty lists. A whopping sixty-four of her vessels, of her once mighty fleet, over two-fifths of it now reduced to debris and legions of escape pods in less than a day of combat. And all her heavy transports, vital lifelines of her fleet, obliterated.
Nearly forty thousand spacers — all brave souls under her command — gone.
The bitter taste of regret lingered in her mouth as she considered the enemy. These were not even the Znosians’ top-tier combat ships, but backup defensive units… just sixteen of them. And they had wrought this devastation upon her fleet. By dangling the most transparent bait in the galaxy in front of her.
Grionc retreated to her quarters and collapsed into her office chair, weary and broken by her own miscalculations.
She wept.
It was all her fault. In her mind’s eye, the battle replayed, each of her thousand missteps and overlooked decisions echoing with crystal clear precision.
Grionc indulged in the darkness for a few minutes, then remembered her duty. She dried her tears and prepared for a long night of drafting condolence letters to the families of her fallen spacers.
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???
“Holy fuck…”