PLAUNSOLLIB
Six Whiskers Mgnats looked nervously down the bridge of the missile escort ship numbered 7633 with his bloodshot red eyes.
He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since they left port in Gruccud, and he knew he would not until they got to Datsot. In less than a month, this route from Gruccud to Datsot had gone from a safe escort posting assigned to unambitious captain to being nicknamed the Highway of Death. The loss rate on this route was astronomical, some of the highest ever in Znosian history: three in five convoys did not make it to the destination. Worse, there were never any survivors; if a convoy was hit, it was good as dead.
Plaunsollib was the last system on this route, the final sector before Datsot, but that was no excuse to relax: Mgnats knew that another convoy had been hit in this exact system just last week. All eight escort ships and the precious supplies carried by the twelve supply ships they were guarding were destroyed. Technically, they had gone missing, as no wreck nor lifepod was ever found, but the logistics officer in charge of the route had taken full responsibility. It didn’t take too many whiskers for everyone else to add two and two together.
He just hoped that the newly implemented automatic self-destruct on the supply ships had activated before Lesser Predators got their hands on it. Such systems were always so unreliable and inconvenient, but on the Highway of Death, they had become a necessary evil.
Mgnats watched on the console as his reconnaissance drones mapped out every planetary body larger than his ship in the system. Every nook and cranny. It took a while, but like the precautions for the supply ships, these too were a necessary evil. They only had a few echoes, hints really, of how the enemy was now operating, but from what little they knew, hiding behind solid objects was a clear favorite.
“We’ve scanned the entire system, Six Whiskers. We should be good to go,” his sensor officer reported.
Mgnats nodded. Leaving the safety of the blink limit and entering the gravity well was where it always went wrong, but he had no choice. They had to get to the other side, and then, to Datsot.
“Take us in,” he ordered. “Let’s take the fastest route, shall we?”
The navigation officer nodded. Normally, this kind of orbital transfer problem would be a theoretical exercise, one found on a career training test, but there was nothing academic about the risk they had to minimize here. The path they took would take them deep into the system, using the gravity of the star to decrease their travel time to the other side. Hopefully, they would be in and out before any of those nasty Lesser Predators from the Sixth Fleet showed their ugly faces.
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Only a third into the route, Mgnats’ worst fears came true as the ship’s klaxon sounded. It was a new alarm sound, one recently programmed into the ship’s computers.
“Six Whiskers, we’ve lost FTL connection with both Datsot and Gruccud,” the computer officer reported with a shaky voice.
Since they started losing ships on this route, it didn’t take long to figure out that FTL malfunctions were somehow related to the appearance of the Lesser Predators. Which is why it had become protocol that all ships must maintain a steady connection with their originating and destination stations, to allow the ships and other stations to know immediately when this happened. And Mgnats always followed protocol.
Of course, the protocol didn’t mention what the captain should do once they learned of their impending doom.
Mgnats queried the Digital Guide.
The computer officer relayed the answer shortly. “We are only a third of the way through, but we are going far too fast to reverse now if they’re waiting somewhere in system. The fastest way is through, and if they got the same message on the other side at Datsot, they might send a patrol out for us on the other end.”
Mgnats nodded, hoping his crew did not pick up on his unbecoming anxiety. “Do—do— ahem… do as it says.”
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ZNS 1841
“Ten Whiskers, we’ve lost connection to the latest supply convoy!”
Ditvish snapped his head up. “Where was its last known location?”
The computer officer, paws flying over her consoles, triple-checked before replying, “Plaunsollib, Ten Whiskers. They took the fastest path through. We lost their signal about a third of the way in.”
“Where is 2228 and the response force?” Ditvish demanded, his whiskers twitching in agitation.
“They’re on ready alert at the blink limit, Ten Whiskers.”
“Good, patch me through to Skvanu.”
“Already is, Ten Whiskers. We called him as soon as this happened,” the computer officer replied.
Ditvish gave a quick nod of thanks and activated the transmission on his console. “Eight Whiskers Skvanu, are you ready for your task?”
“I am. We have been running simulations on the combat computer for weeks. Despite the radical nature of our threat, I am confident in our ability to chase them down and defeat them. Or if we fail at that, we should be able to cripple their ability to continue these annoying raids.”
“Good, good. It looks like it’s going to be in Plaunsollib this time.”
“Yes, Ten Whiskers. This isn’t the first time the Lesser Predators have hit the system. Even with their new equipment, they are predictable as ever.”
“Don’t underestimate these predators, Skvanu. We were becoming predictable with our over-reliance on the combat computers too.”
“Got it, Ten Whiskers. They won’t know what hit them.”
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MNS OENGRO
“Squadron 1 to 3 all completed blink, ma’am,” Vastae reported with a hint of pride. “Sixty seconds this time.” What would have been an unthinkable post-blink record just two months ago had become now routine, thanks to the relentless drilling and exercises with their Terran allies.
“Good. We’ll beat the Grass Eaters’ record one day. Link up with the Nile. Let’s find out where our juicy bait is,” Grionc ordered.
The systems of the Oengro connected to the stealthy Terran ship lurking in the outer system, and as usual, detailed information about every entity in the system larger than her paw popped on their sensor screens. What had been magic just months ago was now considered standard.
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“Looks like we’re right on time,” Grionc noted, her eyes fixed on the display showing the cluster of enemy ships. “Eight Forager-class missile destroyers escorting some juicy Bunny supplies, bound for Datsot.” Like most in her fleet, she’d gotten used to the Terran jargon. Much less confusing when talking to their allies.
“Which of the rehearsed plans are we going with, High Fleet Commander?” Vastae asked.
“The expected company still hasn’t arrived,” Grionc pondered out loud. “What do you think, Vastae?”
“The medium velocity pass,” Vastae decided after a brief calculation on his console. “That would give us more options. Two volleys if the tangos don’t show, one if they do.”
If this were a few months ago, she never would have thought to ask for his opinion. If he offered it without prompting, she might have given him the side-eye for overstepping his role. At the very least, she would have been annoyed at the breach in discipline.
Now, she merely felt unexplainable pride.
Grionc gave him a nod of approval. “Medium velocity pass it is,” she confirmed, giving him the credit for picking the option. “Take us in.”
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“What do you think they’re thinking over there?” Vastae mused, his eyes narrowing at the enemies staying the course on his screen. “Acceptance of death? Hatching an escape plan? Maybe they aren’t up to date and think they can shoot their way out?”
“Good question. We did bring a smaller force than usual. Eight to only thirty-six. If I were over there, I would think I can maybe get a couple licks in,” Grionc replied, using the old-timey Terran expression.
Vastae tilted his head. “You think maybe they got another software update?” he asked. “Last time that happened was an annoying surprise.”
“Maybe, but there’s only so much you can do with those, even though they are getting worryingly good at seeing through our dazzlers on terminal. Four proximity hits on the last run. If they keep this up, we will start taking real losses. I keep telling Mark we should stick around to clean up those communication drones and lifepods so they can’t report back, but he didn’t seem that interested in doing that.”
“Weird, wasn’t that the top priority for our Grass Eater friends: their secrecy from the Buns?” Vastae asked in confusion.
Grionc shrugged. “It feels like something shady is going on, but then, with that man, there is always something shady going—”
A klaxon sounded on the bridge.
Vastae looked at his console. “Looks like additional guests have arrived.”
“How many? That was always going to be the variable here,” Grionc asked, her voice tense.
“That’s four, five squadrons. There’s the Thumper-class Battlecruiser. We have her marked as the 2228 led by the one known as Skvanu, as expected,” Vastae said, then continued, his eyes widening with each new signature on his console. “Wait, no, there’s still more blinking in— woah.”
Grionc checked her own console and let out a low whistle through her snout. “Woah is right. That… is… unexpected. It is time for what our new friends call… Plan B.”
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MNS TRASSAU
Out in deep space ready to blink, Battlegroup Commander Loenda looked at her data-linked connection from the Nile and took a sharp breath. “What do you make of that, Gamma Leader?”
“That’s… twenty-five, twenty-six squadrons of the Znosian Navy’s finest, I’m guessing? Over three hundred ships,” Speinfoent reported, his heart pounding as he counted the number of enemy ships piling into Plaunsollib. They were light years away, but the danger felt real anyway. “This must be the combined forces of what they planned to hit us with if we had stood and defended Datsot.”
Loenda nodded, then calculated out loud. “Nine squadrons, plus the High Fleet Commander’s three, against twenty-five. With our Grass Eater upgrades, we might come out ahead. All we would have to do is blink in behind his forces like we planned…”
Speinfoent’s eyes almost bulged out of his skull. “Squadron Leader, I would heavily advise against—”
She snorted. “Relax, Gamma Leader. I’m senior, not senile. This is clearly far outside the parameters of our mission, enough to trigger the pre-arranged abort,” Loenda said to him like a grandmother would soothe a cub.
Speinfoent noted with some amusement in his head that she was throwing around Terran terminology like it was second nature, a departure from how she felt about them just a few weeks ago.
“Yes, Squadron Leader,” Speinfoent replied, his heart rate returning to normal. “Like we discussed, even if we abort the mission, forcing them to throw their weight around like this does waste even more of their now limited resources and strains their readiness.”
“Yeah, yeah, a lot of fancy Prey talk. All our enemies gathered in one place and we’re not coming down on them. This is unnatural and you know it. The only reason I’m following it is because the high fleet commander trusts—”
“Hang on a second, what did you say?” Speinfoent paused, an idea surfacing in his head.
“I said: This. Is. Unnatural. And. You. Know. It,” Loenda repeated slowly.
“No, before that. All our enemies are gathered in one place.”
“Yes, and?”
“They’re all gathered here. Well, they’re not gathered here. They are gathered in Plaunsollib.”
Loenda took a serious look at him. “I know that look, Gamma Leader. You have an idea. But this isn’t an exercise. This is the real deal. We screw this up — spacers die, and we die. This is as real as it gets.”
Speinfoent matched her look. “Yes, but we won’t. Hear me out, and if what I say doesn’t make sense, you can shoot it down then. Not like we’re doing anything here in the meantime anyway, right?”
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MNS OENGRO
“Coming in range of the supply convoy in a couple hours. Should we call off the attack?” Vastae asked. “The size of this response fleet does call for a mission abort.”
“Yes, the main mission is a no-go, but we can still pick off the convoy on our way out,” Grionc replied, looking at the massive armada hot on their tail. “To be safe, let’s go in at an angle. Max combat burn at an escape vector. We’ll only be in range of the convoy long enough to fire off our magazines. Probably not enough time for a full volley reload before we pass them. But one volley of our new payload should be more than enough to wreck them… then we head out towards the blink limit on the other side before that fleet of doom intercepts us.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vastae replied, agreeing with her judgement.
The communications officer suddenly sat up. “High Fleet Commander, urgent transmission from the Nile.”
“Put him through.”
The Terran commander of the Nile showed up on screen. He was in his casual jet-black combat fatigues, rather than encased in an EVA suit, so Grionc assumed that things were still going fine over there, wherever they were. “Captain Guerrero, is everything alright?”
“Affirmative, High Fleet Commander,” he replied respectfully, a line of sweat beads covering his forehead. “We are still in emissions control, just a few light minutes off your bow, but we should be fine to relay a few messages. Battlegroup Bravo has decided to abort the primary mission. They are a no-go for jumping in behind the enemy response fleet.”
“That’s what we expected, Captain,” she confirmed politely. “Continuing with the mission would have been… inadvisable.”
“What we didn’t expect is that Sphinx has an idea, and he has been working through it with us.”
“Sphinx?”
“Your young prodigy over there on the flagship of Battlegroup 2. I’m not sure how he got that callsign but—”
“Oh, I know exactly how he got that callsign,” Grionc grinned. “What is Speinfoent’s new improvised plan?”
Captain Guerrero started to explain. “There are a few elements involved, but for your part, we just want you to slow down a bit.”
Grionc balked, still keeping her eyes on the two dozen or so squadrons of enemy ships on her console. “Slow down a bit? You do see how many Grass Eater combat ships are on our tail, right?”
“You have a few hours of lead time on them. You should be fine. We have a new recommended course for you: take your time to destroy the supply convoy, and then leisurely make your way to the other side of the system.”
“Leisurely,” Grionc repeated, peering at the new, suggested course transmitted onto her console, which put her a lot closer to the enemy fleet trailing her than she wanted to be.
The Terran insisted. “Leisurely. At a comfortable pace. Without additional haste. Unhurried by—”
“I think your translator is working fine, Captain. What I am questioning is not the semantics, but rather the sanity of the plan. You did run this through your fancy thinking machine simulator, right?”
“A few gazillion times, yeah. I think you personally survive the battle at least a fifth of the time— hey, I’m kidding! You will be fine. The plan is solid.”