DATSOT
Longclaw Commander Skhork peered through his scopes at the endless, soggy sea of marshland stretching out before him. It seemed like the swamp had swallowed up the world, with not even a hint of dry land in sight. They had seen nothing else out here for dozens of kilometers.
His Gunner, peering through her own scope, chimed in with a mix of boredom and disbelief, “Nothing but endless predator swamp, huh?”
“We should be hitting the outskirts of their city soon. But yeah, just mud for now,” Skhork grumbled, his gaze not leaving the scope.
“I don’t remember there being so much swamp on the original maps,” the Gunner mused.
“There wasn’t,” Skhork muttered, half to himself. “This whole area was supposed to be dry as bone this time of year. The Lesser Predators have a dam upstream, and they opened it to flood the whole area around us to complicate our operations.”
The Gunner managed a shrug, even in the cramped quarters of their Longclaw. “Well, it worked. Half our logistics trucks are stuck back at the forward base without anti-grav. At least our Longclaws aren’t afraid of a little mud.”
“For a little while anyway. We should have a much easier time once we get to the roads. We’re just a little behind schedule for now.”
“Good to hear,” the Gunner said. “I pick up signals now and then from our holdout troops in the city, still holding their ground. Maybe if our assault goes well enough, we can link up to them and evacuate their—”
A loud, distinctive whistle sliced through their chatter and Skhork watched in the exterior camera as a large tree next to them exploded into splinters. Skhork instinctively shunted all non-essential power usage to the combat systems immediately. And with the press of a button, a dozen smoke grenades launched ahead of the Longclaw turret, forming a curtain of white smoke to block out the enemy vision.
“Enemy contact. We’re under attack,” he declared, the picture of calm as the crew sprung into battle-readiness.
“Searching for targets,” his Controller said, releasing a trio of the Longclaw’s reconnaissance drones into the air. Skhork watched as the other three Longclaws under his command did the same, the drones spreading out in search of infrared signatures in the area.
The Gunner and Engineer joined the search, their eyes glued to their screens, hunting for the source of the attack.
Another piercing whistle tore through the air, its shrill note cutting through the chaos. A deafening clang reverberated through the Longclaw’s hull, shaking Skhork to his core. For a fleeting moment, the merciless assault on his eardrums rendered him deafened and disoriented. But, as a battle-hardened Znosian Marine, he swiftly regained his composure.
Turning his attention to the damage control board, Skhork’s crimson eyes narrowed as he surveyed the aftermath of the hit. Relief flooded his veins as he saw the reassuring diagnostic report: the Longclaw’s thick composite armor had deflected the enemy’s deadly projectile.
“Fearless Platoon, everyone still alive?” Skhork barked into the radio.
“Fearless Two, here.”
“Fearless Three, here.”
“Fearless Four, here.”
“Good, did anyone see—”
“Found them!” his Controller interrupted with a triumphant shout.
Pressing a button, a flurry of false color heat signatures blossomed on their screens showing the enemies a few kilometers away: over a dozen armored vehicles at the edge of a clearing. Though invisible through the slowly dissipating smoke, they were accurately overlayed on the Longclaw’s systems through their overhead drones.
The enemy had previously been waiting, hidden in the foliage. As they watched, the enemy armor were now powering on their engines and moving into the open to get closer to his obscured Longclaws.
“Gunner, sabot, armor!”
“Up!”
“Armor identified! Range 3,200!”
“Ready!”
“Fire and adjust!”
Before he even finished his full command, his Gunner had acquired the first target, zeroed the gun, and launched the loaded anti-armor shell in the Longclaw’s breech. Skhork grinned as he watched the projectile penetrate clean into its target through the drone cameras above. The shell cut into it like a hot knife through lunch rations, detonating the enemy vehicle’s munition magazine, spreading its debris through the nearby sludge.
His Gunner selected another target and waited for the autoloader to transfer more shells from the magazine into the gun breech.
As Skhork activated another curtain of smoke in front of the Longclaw, the other Longclaws next to him also started to open fire, making sure to coordinate and mark their targets through the data-linked sensor system.
“On the way!” his Gunner yelled. The launch of another shell temporarily deafened the cabin again. Skhork watched as an incoming enemy munition chose this moment to barely miss them and hit the ground next to them, throwing up a cloud of mud and vegetation. When the noise subsided, he noticed on his screen that for every enemy vehicle they were destroying, another was emerging out of the forest to engage them. Some were pushing the wrecks of their dead comrades aside to get a clear shot at them—
“There are so many of them!” his Controller cried as another two enemy vehicles started firing, panic creeping into his voice.
“I’ve already called the fleet,” Skhork replied, staring at his screen at the confirmation. “We’ve got orbital support missiles incoming in about three minutes! We just have to keep them tied up for that long.”
The gun barked again. And again. Their hulls rang again as they were hit. Then twice. Both deflected. Due to the sheer volume of incoming fire, all his Longclaws took more hits, but unless his sensor was faulty, it appeared that none took any major damage.
Three minutes in battle did not feel like three regular minutes. He counted down the seconds remaining to the orbital support as he watched his crew efficiently eliminate as many of the enemy vehicles as they could while staying alive under the inaccurate but voluminous enemy fire.
“Incoming missiles in three… two…” he reported.
The imagery of their thermal sensors disappeared into a blinding flash of white light. The Longclaw’s computers quickly adjusted, and the scene reappeared: the enemies were gone, vaporized, as was most of the forest around them.
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The shockwave of the explosion hit their Longclaw right on time, rattling their hull once more. A tree at the edge of the enemy clearing came crashing down on itself a few seconds later, still burning.
Then, silence.
“Fearless, status?” Skhork called again into the radio.
“Fearless Two, here.”
“Fearless Three, here.”
“Fearless Four, here.”
Skhork breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the Longclaw’s status: just under half ammo and power. “That could have turned out worse,” he muttered.
The Gunner chuckled. “Good thing their vehicle weapons are as underpowered as their fleet. A dozen hits in the platoon and zero penetrations.”
“Still,” Skhork said, his heart rate still recovering from the battle. “I hope we won’t have to test our armor out like that again.”
She nodded, adding, “And we got lucky their first shot wasn’t coordinated. If they all just sat there and opened fire together… who knows? We’d been hit more, and one of them might have done more damage.”
“I take full responsibility for failing to spot them in time, Six Whiskers,” his Controller said, finally finding the free time to do so.
Skhork nodded, acknowledging the mistake, but added, “I know you were trying to save battery for us; we’re using enough as is traversing the mud with our anti-grav. Just make sure to keep at least one drone above us at all times.”
The Controller nodded, programming the commands into his station.
“Now, Driver, let’s get back to base for a recharge.”
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Skhork looked at the base logistics officer in dismay. “What do you mean, we don’t have enough for a full load?”
“We don’t have enough shells in this base to ensure that every Longclaw can get a full combat load at this time,” the officer repeated patiently. “Best I can do for you is eighty percent load, and… no replacement drones anymore. The other combat units took all the remaining drones they had.”
“Eighty percent?” Skhork gaped at him. “And no drones? We are a combat unit! We don’t operate at anything less than one hundred!”
The logistics officer said nothing, so Skhork continued, “Do you do your job at eighty percent? Do you think we can do our jobs properly at eighty percent?”
He only got a shrug in response.
Skhork sighed, calming down. “Are you responsible for this disaster?”
“Ten Whiskers Ditvish has already taken full responsibility for this supply shortage. Would you like me to as well?”
Skhork sniffed, “No, that would be unnecessary, but I thought we opened a corridor in orbit long enough to squeeze a few armored supply ships through.”
“Ah, you haven’t heard.”
Skhork shot back, “What haven’t I heard? I’m a Longclaw Marine, not some cowardly base sitter who has all day to gossip about trivialities.”
“We haven’t gotten fully supplied in two weeks. I heard… that four supply convoys have been confirmed destroyed before they reached the system,” the supply officer relayed in a slightly lowered voice.
“The Lesser Predators’ ships cut the Navy’s supply lines? Are you out of your mind?! Have you even seen these guys out there? They can’t even cut grass if they had an industrial weed-cutter!”
“Some are saying it’s not the Lesser Predators. Some are saying that this is the work of the Shadows.”
“The Shadows?”
“Shadows, Phantoms… the Great Predators,” the officer almost whispered the last one.
Skhork snorted. “Hatchling’s tales. You guys should really get out more; staying in the base all day must have addled your minds. These excuses of yours get more absurd every day… Whatever. Just tell me when you have my shells for me, or you might soon find yourself being called to take responsibility for my unit failing to accomplish our missions.”
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Ditvish’s face betrayed little of the annoyance he felt as he received the unexpected call from his communications officer in his quarters. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s a call for you from… possibly Grantor, Ten Whiskers.”
“Possibly Grantor?”
“The caller identifies herself as from Grantor Security Station,” the officer elaborated. “But according to our FTL radio’s triangulation, she is calling from another system much closer to us.”
Ditvish wiped away all traces of sleep from his mind as he sat up. “Put her through immediately.”
The soft voice of his nightmares came through his headset, and he felt ice in his veins. “Ten Whiskers Ditvish, I hope you remember me from our last conversation.”
“Of course, Grantor Security Station Director… I forgot what your name was. I apologize and take full responsibility for my forgetfulness.”
“Lie to me again, and you’ll find out what happens to apostates of the Prophecy, Ten Whiskers. I know that after our call last time, the first thing you did was to discreetly have one of your underlings follow me from Grantor to find out who I really was. He was good, but you Navy cubs are all the same: blunt instruments with no appreciation for the real art of subtlety and surveillance… I was all too happy to complete his education.”
The five whiskers he put on the task had indeed found out who she was: an agent from State Security, but he disappeared immediately after reporting her name and position.
“I apologize for that too… Agent Svatken, but I had to be careful that there were no enemy infiltrators in our ranks, especially after what happened to Atluftrosh’s raiding fluffle.” He hesitated but added, “Is— do you know if my subordinate is still available for future service to the Prophecy?”
Svatken brushed his apology aside without acknowledging it. “Your minion still draws breath if that is what you are asking. You can have him back after I decide I’m done having fun with him. But enough about my new pet. I am calling to inform you that I have determined that what happened to your raiding ships was not the work of enemy infiltrators, Ten Whiskers.”
“If not infiltrators, did you determine what was the cause of their destruction?”
“The same as those four recent missing supply convoys of yours, I expect.”
Ditvish had to close his mouth to stop himself from panting out of nervousness. They have not yet discovered much there, either. Supply convoys don’t just get wiped out by predators, leaving behind only debris and scant few traces of what happened. Especially not four supply shipments in a row. Nobody higher up had noticed yet, but he was going to have to report it soon when it started impacting his offensive operations on Datsot. It wasn’t like he was hiding failure; no, that’s not a very Znosian way of doing things, but there would be questions about how proactive his bookkeeping was if things continued. “How do you know about those, Agent Svatken?” he asked with a dry mouth.
“Why do you think I’m running around in the middle of nowhere, Ten Whiskers? I was just recently in the Malgeir system of Preirsput, and to my surprise, there is a lot more friendly debris here than I would expect from a competent commander of the fleet. So — and I’ll ask only once more — what happened, Ten Whiskers?”
“It seems our supply convoys are being hunted by ships from the Sixth Fleet of the Lesser Predators, including her flagship: the one they call the Oengro,” Ditvish replied miserably. “But that should not be possible. We saw them retreat towards Malgeiru after leaving Datsot to defend their home system!”
“Don’t be stupid,” she chided. “Ships can turn around in space.”
Ditvish bowed his head. “Anyway, that’s not the most important part. This is: from what we have discovered about the enemy from a survivor we picked up in one of our lifepods, their ships have recently received radical upgrades to their tactical systems. We believe these systems are in the field of concealment and targeting, and while these advantages are tactical in nature, the effect they have on our operations is deeply strategic.”
“What you mean to say is that they will hit our supply lines again with their upgraded ships, and you need to request even more ships to defend them, pushing back our Datsot invasion timeline even more,” Svatken guessed sourly.
“That is our analysis as well and we’ve sent over what few telemetries we have from the raids so far to the Ship Design office. We were hoping they could get us some software updates to reduce some of these new disadvantages…”
Svatken thought for a moment. “My concern is more the source of these ship upgrades and the sudden change in behavior in these Lesser Predators than your software. If what you report is true, there has never been such a leap in their supposed capabilities since we discovered their existence. Since your fleet is at the front where you are most likely to find them, you are to report any anomalies that may contribute to our understanding of this new problem to my office.”
Ditvish bowed his head. “Of course, Agent Svatken….”
He hesitated for a couple seconds, then added, “I hate to spread baseless rumors, but some of my subordinates have speculated that this resembles the work of Phantoms, which is how they know how we operate so well. It’s all conjecture…”
“The Great Predators referenced in the ancient texts of the Prophecy?” Svatken asked. “That is indeed a convenient scapegoat, but in my department, we deal with hard evidence, not gossip.”
Technically, State Security also dealt with gossipers. Harshly, usually. But there was a distinction.
She continued, “Regardless, if you have any evidence to back up this hypothesis, no matter how circumstantial or thin, you are also to report them to me immediately. Is that understood?”
Ditvish once again bowed to signal his acknowledgement as she hung up.
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“Fstrofcho, have his precious five whiskers in the brig prepared and delivered to my quarters, for later tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am. Chemically drugged and cleanly shaved?”
“You know how I like him. And make sure to bring a roll of heavy-duty mechanical repair tape. I ran out in the middle last night and that was no fun.”