ATLAS, LUNA
Mission failed, the computer reported without emotion.
You have improved upon your previous result, but you seemingly still fail to truly grasp the importance of your logistics supply train. You can also improve by reviewing the value of reconnaissance—
Grionc gritted her teeth. “Keep your rude comments to yourself, thinking machine, and just show me the summarized tally.”
You died.
Flagship lost.
All friendly ships lost.
Six enemy combat ships destroyed.
All orbital defenses lost.
Planetary objective lost.
One hundred forty thousand ground troops KIA. Six hundred thousand WIA. Two million MIA.
This is your highest score so far. Would you like to—
“Let’s go again,” she demanded, her voice steel.
Are you sure? This is your sixteenth attempt on the same scenario. Fatigue degrades combat performance. You are advised to take a break.
“What are you, my sire? Give me the scenario again!”
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“Grionc, did you get any sleep at all?” Speinfoent observed, concern lacing his words. “The Terrans told me you were up in the simulator room all night.”
“I’m fine. I’m heading there again to get some rounds in before breakfast. Just a few more tries. I think I finally have a handle on what the digital sentient is doing.”
“Do you at least want me to save you some of their delicious food? It was so good I think I had three separate dreams about our dinner last night. I can’t wait to see what they’ve invented for breakfast. The admiral said they had significantly different food types and it’s not just different portion sizes of the same meat again—”
“Ok, fine, save me some breakfast. Then, join me in the simulation room after.”
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Mission failed. You have improved upon your previous result, but you overextended your flagship again. Its destruction left the rest of your fleet uncoordinated and easy pickings for the enemy.
“Just summarize the results, vacuum cleaner.”
You died.
Flagship lost.
All friendly ships lost.
Seven enemy combat ships destroyed.
All orbital—
“Again.”
This is your thirtieth attempt on the scenario. Research shows that exhaustion severely degrades combat performance. You are advised—
“Again.”
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“You didn’t come back to the sleeping quarters at all last night,” Speinfoent said, his concern multiplying. “Were you at the simulator all night again? This can’t be healthy, Fleet Commander.”
“Don’t worry about it. I had an inspiration last night from what one of the fake officers in my fleet — in the thinking machine — did with her battlegroup. I have a new plan to try for the next one.”
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Mission failed. Your attempt to preserve fleet coordination by switching flagships mid-battle was an interesting and novel idea, but extensive combat experience shows that the familiarization process takes much too long—
“Results?”
You died.
Flagship lost.
All friendly ships lost.
Eight enemy combat—
“Again.”
This is your forty-fifth attempt—
“Is there a way to disable your stupid warnings, glorified calculator?”
No. It is a safety measure legally mandated by Naval Staff College Regulations, Section 29—
“What? Why would— Never mind, I don’t care. Again.”
---
“Carla, I’m worried about my commander Grionc,” Speinfoent pleaded. “She’s not sleeping. She’s just spending all day and night at the simulators. I think she is obsessed.”
Carla sighed. “We can’t stop her. This happens. Even our cadets sometimes lose sight of the purpose of the simulator.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were actually half-right in the room the other day. The simulator has no actual predictive ability. It just throws scenarios at people, so they can learn what to do in specific situations. It’s a teaching tool.”
“So that means the outcome of Datsot is still to be determined?” Speinfoent asked hopefully.
“No. We’re pretty sure that one is a lost cause. No offense, but better tacticians than Grionc have run that scenario thousands of times in the past week. The computer itself ran gazillions of scenarios itself on the blue team. We really did want to find a solid winning play, but the odds are just too stacked. Speinfoent, please do take care of your commander. Your people will need her for what’s to come…”
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Mission failed. You have improved upon your previous result. Splitting your fleet into four battlegroups did turn out to be a better choice despite the fleet’s inexperience with independent operations. However, you telegraphed your intentions with the deployment of your flagship, and the enemy easily deduced your plan.
You died.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Flagship lost.
All friendly ships lost.
Nine enemy combat ships destroyed—
“Again.”
This is your ninety-fourth attempt—
“Skip. Again.”
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“I saw you in the simulator earlier,” Carla smiled at Speinfoent. “It was a nice try.”
“What did I do wrong?” Speinfoent asked eagerly. “How could I have done better?”
“It’s just… a few minor things here and there,” Carla lied. If he were a student at the Staff College, they might have used it as an example of what not to do in the next lesson. But she decided to spare his feelings and told him the partial truth: “You actually did a lot better than the three other battlegroups Grionc split off that were commanded by simulated generic Malgeir officer agents.”
“What’s the best that Terrans have done in this scenario?” Speinfoent asked curiously.
Carla chuckled. “I think every sane Terran commander sees the parameters and just evacuates the orbits.”
“Well, that’s not really an option for Grionc.”
Carla gave him a wry look. “I guess not. Well, the computer said it won about 5% of the scenarios where it played as the Malgeir against itself on easy mode. So it’s not totally impossible, just very unlikely unless the Bun subroutine behaves uncharacteristically stupid—”
“Easy mode?” Speinfoent’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
Carla blushed, realizing she might have let the cat out of the bag. “Oh yeah… I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“Tell me what?” he insisted.
She sighed. “There are different difficulty modes. Even the computer doesn’t win against itself when the Opfor are operated on medium or above. You’ve been simulating the best-case scenario.”
Speinfoent looked like he’d been slapped with a wet aquatic animal. “There’s a worse scenario?!”
“Yeah. The Znosians draw in some more ships, which is likely, and Sixth Fleet is outnumbered three to one instead of having a slight numeric advantage in the simulations she’s been playing in. Look, we just put it in the best-case scenario to make a point and show you guys that—”
“We have no chance, do we?” Speinfoent despaired, recognition finally dawning into his eyes.
Carla reached over and gently took his paw in her hand, her eyes filled with genuine concern. “Sorry, Speinfoent. Please. We do have a plan that can win the war. But it can’t start with throwing away your best fleet in a hopeless battle. We just need Grionc to see this.”
Speinfoent exhaled a weighty sigh. “I’ll try my best to convince her.”
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Mission failed. You have followed the recommendation to cede control of the system, but your ships stayed in system, trying to degrade the invasion fleet long enough for enemy ships to trap and destroy most of your fleet. Despite the heavy losses, this was a vast improvement in—
“I’m not even supposed to try to do some damage to them before we leave?” Grionc snarled.
That is not advised without more reconnaissance. The risk is far greater than potential for gain.
“I’ll be the judge of that, toaster.”
Interesting. I see you have learned a new epithet for me at breakfast? This is your—
“Again.”
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“Is she finally coming around now?” Amelia asked.
“Possibly. She’s been trying to get a few licks in on the Bunnies before retreating. And she’s actually gotten some real damage in once or twice,” Carla replied.
“Is this on easy difficulty still?”
“No, she immediately cranked the simulator to the hardest difficulty mode the second Speinfoent told her about them. I believe her exact words were: don’t take it easy on me, you digital abomination; give it to me good and hard like I deserve.”
Amelia let out a long sigh. “Well, at least our new allies don’t lack in confidence and ambition what they do in tactical skill and strategic insight.”
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Withdrawal of Sixth Fleet, successful. Datsot lost.
Grionc was too tired to even cheer. “Losses?”
Sixteen friendly ships lost.
Four enemy ships destroyed.
Twelve enemy landing ships destroyed.
All orbital defenses lost.
Planetary objective lost.
This is your highest score so far.
“Computer, your idea about the delaying action in planetary orbit was not too bad,” she admitted, drawing a new plan in her mind to combat the computer’s strategy in the previous round. There must be a way to beat it and even up the ratio…
Thank you, but I can’t take credit for it. The Terran commander who first used it has the current high score on the scenario, other than mine of course. Full disclosure, I only got my high score after copying their idea.
“Oh? Can you show me the Terran commander? I’d like to meet them.”
Confidential. The point of the simulator is to learn, not get a high score, Fleet Commander.
“I see.” She didn’t see at all. “Can you at least tell me what their high score is?”
Sixteen enemy combat ships and twenty-four landing ships destroyed. No friendly fleet losses. Datsot was still lost.
“They killed sixteen Grass Eater combat ships and two dozen landing ships without losing a single ship?!”
Correct. They also managed to pack up most of the orbital defenses and evacuate an additional hundred thousand Marines after the enemy blinked in system.
She tilted her head. “Fascinating. How did they achieve the combat kills?”
They deduced the position of a battlegroup of sixteen isolated Znosians ships. Next, they feigned a hasty retreat, then spun around the star with gravity slingshot to throw four overwhelming volleys of missiles at the isolated group before they got to the system edge and blinked out.
Then, it showed her. In the recording, the Terran commander split the Sixth Fleet into eight battlegroups, somehow managing to exert their command effectively across all eight simultaneously, executing flawless maneuvers in coordination. It was organized chaos. They made themselves look like vulnerable prey animals scrambling to get away from the incoming tidal wave of red ships, flipped around the star, then turned the tables on a vanguard force of sixteen of their assailants with brutal precision at the last possible moment.
Grionc frowned. “Is this commander cheating? I don’t see how they could have known that vulnerable battlegroup would be there?”
Experience and practice. You will develop that instinct one day, Fleet Commander.
“How long?”
Years of experience, usually. Or about sixteen real-time milliseconds for a super-Terran digital sentience like me. But nobody’s perfect, Grionc.
She ignored the machine’s not-so-humble-brag. “No better time to start, then. Let’s go again— let’s go again…”
Have you run out of new insults for me, meatbag? Would you like recommendations?
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Amelia looked at the fleet commander with pity on her face. The Malgeir’s fur was disheveled. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot. The only thing that kept her from immediately collapsing on the floor was pure spite against the Terran machinery that told her what she knew by now was true. “So, tell me, Fleet Commander. In the end, did you ever manage to score a result that would improve the Malgeir’s chances at winning the war?”
Grionc browsed her memories. Countless battle simulations flashed through her mind, blending into a chaotic swirl of maneuvers. She frowned. There had to be at least one try where she came out on top, right? Right? “I have successfully withdrawn most of my ships and dealt damage to the enemy in multiple scenarios.”
Amelia shook her head. “The correct answer, Fleet Commander, is no. You did not. None of those scenarios ended with a positive attrition ratio, and given how outnumbered we are against the Bunnies, we need more than an even trade to win the war! Now, imagine this was the real battle. There would be thousands of spacers under your command. Tens of thousands of spacers, not to mention your people on that planet. If you get anything wrong, they don’t get to go home and neither do you. If you play out this scenario one more time, just once more — no redoes and no retries, like in real life — do you think you can come out on top?”
Grionc considered it. She considered going back into the simulator room and trying to prove this Terran wrong. That Datsot can be saved. That Sixth Fleet can make a difference.
But a gut-wrenching realization washed over her: she was the one who was wrong. She couldn’t. She couldn’t throw away the lives of thousands of her Malgeir for her own vanity and hubris. Grionc shook her ears, and tears broke free, cascading down her furry cheeks and wetting her whiskers as she confronted the unpleasant reality. “No. No, I can’t. Oh, I’ve failed my people.”
Amelia reached out and gently touched Grionc’s shoulder, stroking her fur in what she hoped was a universally comforting gesture. “It’s not just you, Fleet Commander. We all have.”
“What do you mean?” Grionc said between light sobs. “I’m just not good enough to win that battle.”
“The high score you saw playing out on the simulator: that was my best try. I only got that after over two hundred and fifty attempts. In about three quarters of my early attempts, I lost the entire fleet too. You can’t stand and fight that battle. You just can’t. But that does not mean Datsot is lost forever. We do have a plan.”
Sniffing, Grionc perked up a little. “A plan?”
“Yes, there is a plan. A counter-offensive. A strategic solution, not a tactical one. They’re not going to make us take this loss lying down.” Amelia switched the console back on, and the planets and ships came back into focus in the room. “Computer, pull up War Plan Anaconda.”
“First, we pull Sixth Fleet out of Datsot. But, you’ll notice…”
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META
No relation to the Anaconda Plan, the naval blockade plan used by Union forces in the American Civil War.