GRANTOR

State Security Officer Svatken took a final, lingering look at her minimalist desk. With quick, practiced motions, she stuffed the few items she owned into her backpack in preparation for her next assignment. The Znosian species wasn’t one that valued private ownership and frivolous sentimentality, and she was no exception. The drive to possess large collections of such useless trinkets was merely a defect suffered by predator races. It was much more efficient this way, and Svatken appreciated efficiency.

Across the room, her assigned aide, Fstrofcho, was hunched over his glowing console, his paw dancing over the control keys, engrossed in some administrative task or another.

Fstrofcho’s bloodline produced specimens known for their loyalty, attention to detail, and memory. Not their charming personalities or reasoning skills. Not an outlier, like her. Svatken didn’t object: not everyone could be worthy of being a leader. Fstrofcho did his job and she asked nothing more from him.

She was contemplating whether it would be worth bringing him along to her next assignment when his console emitted a soft, urgent beep.

“Who is that?” Svatken demanded.

“Redirect from the Grantor Security Station,” her attendant replied, his eyes scanning the text scrolling across his console. “Last year, you requested to be informed when Potential Outliers ever contacted them again. This one is flagged as: probable.”

“Patch them through to me,” she ordered.

Svatken adjusted her comm device, her claws deftly activating the secure line. “Hello, Grantor Security Station here,” she lied. “How may I help you?”

“Grantor, this is Ten Whiskers Ditvish from the fleet at Gruccud. Please connect me to your Director now,” came a pleasant but firm voice over the line.

“This is her. You may direct your concerns to me,” Svatken replied, wondering what this outlier-flagged Naval officer was up to.

“Interesting. I was under the impression that your Station Director was a male.”

Without uttering a word, Svatken flicked her well-trimmed claws in a quick, upward motion at Fstrofcho. He dutifully upgraded the Ten Whisker’s status from Probable Outlier to Likely Outlier on his console. The Grantor Station director was indeed a male, and a naïve one at that, which was why she was intercepting his calls for his own good. As she was authorized to do in her capacity as State Security’s ranking officer here.

“Your assumption is improper, Ten Whiskers Ditvish. I am the Director here. What was it you wished to discuss with me?” she replied, her voice laced with an air of practiced patience.

There was a momentary silence on the other end. But he recovered admirably, as a closeted outlier would. He continued in an almost groveling tone, “Oh, my deepest apologies, Director. I take full responsibility for my erroneous assumptions. Please forgive my imposition—”

“Your responsibility is noted. Your purpose for this call was?” she snapped, resisting the urge to call up the Personnel Office to get his bloodline demoted for being annoying.

“Ah, r—right,” Ditvish stammered, “I have a most irregular matter to discuss with your security team. A raiding fluffle from my station has gone silent on a mission. They reported getting ready for an ambush, and then we received no further reports from the fluffle. A reconnaissance force sent into the system later found nothing except possible traces of debris.”

“The ships have been destroyed?” she asked, startled. Outlier officers were known for taking well-calculated risks, but few Znosian formations have been annihilated like that in this war. Very few. His use of the term ‘gone silent’ also raised some alarm bells in her head.

“They have not reported in, and there are possible signs of debris around their last known location. I can’t be sure, but that is the most logical conclusion,” he elaborated.

“What does the Digital Guide say?” she asked, feeling her eyes narrow in suspicion.

“My combat computer— uh Digital Guide— came to this conclusion as well,” he replied. She noted his accidental use of secular language, another easy clue for his deviant nature. “It suggests that the most likely outcome is sabotage.”

“Sabotage?” she echoed, wondering where the Navy officer was going with this.

“Exactly. Sabotage, station director,” he repeated. “It speculates that our central maintenance facility in Grantor was unknowingly infiltrated by Malgeir forces. The six ships in the fluffle were possibly rigged to destroy themselves on some kind of delay—”

“Ludicrous,” Svatken blurted, her mind racing. She knew the real director should take responsibility for this as any regular Znosian would when accused of such a blunder by a combat computer, but what he claimed was impossible. Under her careful watch, the Grantor pacification project was going exactly as planned. Incidents have been kept low, and there were no entry points for Malgeir infiltrators. In fact, there haven’t been any reports of a similar operation from them, ever. And she had seen no such signs of a possible enemy penetration. Furthermore, to suggest such an event could occur near Grantor would imply responsibility not only on the actual director of its security, but also herself personally.

While State Security operated outside the existing framework of regular Znosian society, such an intrusion within her purview would be a scandal.

She steadied herself and explained, “We have no other reports of such incidences, and we have been on high alert since Datsot. Our maintenance facilities are always kept under armed guard… and even if such a thing were possible, it does not make sense that all the ships affected by such hypothetical saboteurs were from a single fluffle and no other ships in the fleet.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

The ten whiskers clearly did not expect this answer instead of the habitual acceptance of responsibility.

There was another pause before he replied, again craftily trying to divert responsibility. “It is possible that the saboteurs rigged the ships to blow upon contact with Malgeir forces, with remote control, or it might be on some kind of time-based trigger. It is also possible that the infiltration occurred at another facility, not your own—”

She cut him off mid-sentence. “Is this your own speculation or from the Digital Guide?”

“It is my speculation, Director,” he admitted reluctantly. She’d expected as much from an outlier. It wasn’t the worst impromptu guess either, but she was not about to let him know it.

Svatken continued triumphantly, “Exactly. If you asked your Digital Guide, Ten Whiskers, you would see why this is not possible. Besides, if such a thing has been done, it should be trivial to inspect your other ships to see if they have also been sabotaged as you claim.”

“We have inspected them. None of them appear to have been interfered with,” he conceded. “But no other possibility comes to mind. The raiding fluffle was commanded by a competent commander I picked myself and crewed by experienced Znosian spacers. I am merely calling your office to see if the possibility exists that their ships have been sabotaged at your facility or perhaps another facility with a method we cannot detect.”

She snorted. “Ten Whiskers Ditvish. It is clear that you know as well as I do that no such possibility exists. Instead of blaming this or — when I caught you attempting so — diverting responsibility to another station. For an error of this magnitude, a truly loyal adherent of the Prophecy would take full responsibility for this setback and examine whether they have misplaced their trust in the wrong officers and ships. Or humbly ask the Digital Guide for suggestions on additional procedures to ensure such a disaster would not re-occur.”

Ditvish sounded appropriately chastised. “Yes, Director. I see that now, and I take full responsibility for my errors in judgement.”

“As you should. As a ten whiskers officer of the Znosian Navy, you must set a good example for your subordinates. As for the matter of your missing fluffle, I will personally take charge of its investigation from now on.”

He started to protest, “Director, that will not be necessary. We should not bother you with such trivialities beneath—”

She cut him off again. “Ten Whiskers, you have done enough. Make no mistake: your objectivity is in question, and I am taking over to finish where you have failed.”

“Yes, I— I understand, uh— Station Director.”

“Send over all relevant orders, directives, files, records, and notes — all documentation — of this incident to my office. And do not even think about attempting to interfere with this investigation,” she warned, her eyes narrowing and her voice cold. “I would not want to upgrade the working hypothesis of your potential responsibility from incompetence to minor apostasy.”

“Of course, Station Director. Rest assured, my office and all my subordinates would comply with any such investigation—”

She cut the communication.

Fstrofcho looked at her expectantly. “Should I alert the Office of Personnel—”

“No, not yet. He knew that it was not sabotage. He was just trying to unload responsibility onto our gullible security Station Director. Typical outlier. To be fair to the cretin, the raiding fluffle disaster probably wasn’t his fault either: our ships don’t just go missing. In fact, only one similar case to this comes to mind, and it was under his command too. I just told him all that to get his compliance and get his ten curly whiskers off my back so I can investigate this case in peace.”

Fstrofcho’s whiskers twitched. “Who should I assign responsibility to, then?” he asked without judgement.

“I will have to find out. This is a most peculiar scenario with potentially very unpleasant outcomes. Contact Znos, tell them that I am completing one last investigation here. I will be requisitioning an advanced reconnaissance ship from Grantor.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will complete and send out the requisition orders for the Grantor Pacification Fleet as well.”

“Excellent.”

“What about the upcoming Datsot offensive? They are already on the way. Should we recall the fleet?”

She paused, giving Fstrofcho a surprised look. Had he always been this insightful? No, it must have been her positive influence on him. “That is up to the Navy, and we have no compelling reason to veto it. For now. Most likely, they would continue. It’s only a single lost fluffle and they should have more than enough ships remaining to defeat the incompetent Lesser Predators guarding the system. Like our ten whiskers said, they inspected their other ships for sabotage and found no signs. Hopefully, I am chasing ghosts, and this was a mere accident…”

He nodded as she trailed off, his whiskers relaxing. “I will temporarily withhold these details from the report to headquarters in case your investigation does not come up with more relevant intelligence.”

Svatken nodded approvingly. She decided that maybe it wouldn’t do her any harm to put in a good word for his bloodline at Personnel. Maybe they’d even allow her to keep him for her next posting…

----------------------------------------

GRUCCUD

The Marine base was a sprawling facility, stretching over kilometers of arid desert terrain with rows upon rows of armored vehicles lined up beneath the gentle sun. At the center was a command tower that rose high above the surrounding buildings. It had massive windows from which officers could observe their students as they received their instructions and honed their skills among obstacles scattered around the area.

At one end were newly constructed hangar bays where maintenance crews worked on keeping their equipment primed and ready for battle. Next to it were the barracks, a tight network of buildings that housed its thousands of Znosian Marines.

Unlike the standard-issue infantry conscripts, Skhork had been training at the base for the upcoming operation for sixteen months. He was what his peers referred to as a “whiskerborn”: his bloodline bred specifically for the purpose of his occupation: Armored Land Vehicle Crew Member. Compared to the average Znosian adult, his body build was slim but athletic, short and stout, perfectly suited for the cramped interiors of the vehicles of the Znosian Marines. His temperament was patient and thoughtful on the defensive, but bold and aggressive on the attack. The result of countless generations of breeding, his entire bloodline lived and died for the service, and they did so in the mechanical beasts of the Dominion, one generation after another.

There were four Heavy Direct Assault Vehicles, or Longclaws as their crews referred to them, sitting on the tarmac: fully inspected, battle-ready, and awaiting transport.

A combat experienced six whiskers, Skhork knew his war machine’s crew like the back of his paw, in addition to the three other Longclaws under his command. Znosian doctrine called for strict de-individualization in the interiors of the vehicle for the sake of efficiency, so he no longer referred to them by their names but rather their roles: Driver, Gunner, Engineer, Controller. And they no longer knew him as Skhork, instead preferring to call him Commander or Longclaw Commander. And unlike the disposable infantry conscripts, his crews were a well-trained, well-oiled machine that lived and breathed their craft of death. They would be prepared for the battle to come.

Skhork watched the Navy technicians load their Longclaws onto their transport ship destined for Datsot one by one. Four Longclaws. That was a lot of firepower and composite ceramics. He imagined the expressions on the faces of Lesser Predators that will be trampled beneath their anti-gravity engines.

He shot a proud look back at the assembled crews and gave them a flat-toothy grin.

“Awoo?” he bellowed, his voice laced with anticipation.

They roared back in perfect unison.

“Awoo awoo awoooooooo!”