MNS CLIUNC, SCONCANS (16,800 LS)
1 HOUR AGO
POV: Traenstrius, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Omega Leader)
“Battery commander! Main missile battery commander!” the orderly yelled across the long hallway.
“What is it?” the omega leader asked, wiping her greasy paws on her uniform.
“New orders for all missile batteries: you need to pack up all the missiles and send them to the cargo bay!”
“What?! Who issued these orders?”
“The fleet commander himself,” the orderly replied, bringing out his tablet to show her the unusual orders. “It must be done immediately!”
“What about the one already in the tube?”
“That one stays. All remaining in the magazine must be transferred over to the cargo bay in the next ten minutes! The fleet commander says any that aren’t in the cargo bay in ten minutes will be docked from your pay.”
“We don’t have a powered cart up in here!” the omega leader protested as she verified the new orders on her datapad. “I can’t afford that kind of fee!”
“Not to worry,” the orderly flashed her a sly grin. “My technicians from the hangar bay are coming with ours. We’ll help move your cargo. For just a few credits, of course. How many do you have?”
She stared at him glumly for a couple precious seconds before nodding. “Four in the magazine.”
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30 MINUTES AGO
POV: Trertanc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Delta Leader)
“8… 9… 10… 11,” the aft-6 cargo bay commander counted. “Where are the last two?”
“We can’t locate the last two missiles in our batch, Delta Leader! Our technicians are still looking in the fourth battery magazine.”
The delta leader looked at his watch before shuddering. “Ah, crap. We’re already late. We can’t wait anymore. Depressurize the outer bay.”
“Wait, wait! We’ve got one more!” a technician yelled from the other end of the cargo bay, pushing a cart barely holding up a massive anti-ship missile stacked on top with three other crew members.
He hesitated for a second but relented. “Alright, get them in there! These are the last ones!”
“Where do you want them?” the technician asked as he got closer.
“Where do I— just set it down! These are going out to vacuum anyway! Go go go!”
The four crew members gingerly plopped the cargo onto the floor, next to the other missiles and an assortment of junk and ship parts that were deemed non-essential, before they all sprinted for the exit.
“That’s it!” the delta leader shouted as the cargo bay door closed. “Depressurize!”
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20 MINUTES AGO
The timer hit zero.
“Ejecting… now!” The delta leader pulled a large red lever on the board next to him.
The final batch of missiles went out into vacuum as the inertial compensator field in the cargo bay inverted, shooting its contents out the exterior of the ship.
A technician pressed up her snout against the plexiglass window. “Darn, that was my one good hover cart.”
The delta leader scoffed but said nothing.
I’m just glad those missiles didn’t blow up in our faces on their way out.
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ZNS 0339, SCONCANS (16,700 LS)
POV: Sutpra, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Eight Whiskers)
“All four ships reporting good track on target,” the computer officer reported. “Ready to launch when we enter effective range, Eight Whiskers.”
“Good, call the observation ship. Tell them to ready the experimental device, just in case.”
“Yes, Eight Whiskers.”
“Like I said, two missiles from each—”
All the klaxons on the bridge went off all at once.
Sutpra had enough time to glance at the sensor screen to see dozens of threats closing on her ships, some from the front, others from the rear, all burning for—
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ATLAS NAVAL COMMAND, LUNA
POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)
“Connection established with the Malgeir missiles in the debris pile, Admiral,” Chuck reported. “We have full control from here.”
Amelia looked at the three dozen dots, the entire remaining missile inventory of the Cliunc, floating dormant on the battlemap: some next to the ship’s abandoned cargo, others next to her radar chaff.
“Our computers are working on their orbital parameters. Updating the firmware… Give it a second… and done.”
Within minutes, the flotilla of Znosian missile destroyers finally accelerated into their effective range overlap.
“Launch.”
The icons representing the dozens of missiles hidden in the debris activated their main engines and converged on the four enemy ships. With the targets that close, it only took seconds to verify the results.
“All four targets hit,” Chuck reported. “Multiple hits.”
Amelia felt her chest release a massive sigh of relief as the analysts in the room cheered.
“Massive radiation release from one of the Foragers,” Chuck continued. “It must have been hit in the reactor. Cliunc’s radar still detects the three other contiguous targets, but they are all drifting without acceleration. Radiation from one of them suggests it is melting down. Escape pod ejections detected.”
“Good. Get the Cliunc—”
The Malgeir fleet commander needed no additional prompting. His excited face appeared on the call. “Excellent battle planning, Fleet Commander Amelia Waters!”
She gave him a wry smile. “My compliments to your crew too, Fleet Commander. Now, time to come home—”
He interrupted her as one of his crew members whispered something into his ear on screen. “We are detecting pod and shuttle ejections from the Grass Eater ships! We should go back for prisoners.”
“That is extremely risky, Fleet Commander Peipplust,” Amelia said, alarm rising. “The enemy ships might no longer have engines, but their weapons might still work. You are alone. Better to come home quickly.”
Peipplust thought for a moment before replying, “Their engines are disabled. We will shred their ships with our point defense guns before we get back in their range. And we will only pick up a couple of the higher-ranking hibernation pods. They are no threat. Besides, this is an intelligence gathering mission, and these prisoners can have valuable intelligence.”
Amelia admitted to herself that it wasn’t a terrible plan. It went against her instincts. But there was nothing she could immediately dispute with his reasoning. It just… felt wrong. She racked her brain for something that rational could convince him but came up empty. “I advise against it. If you must… just be careful. If anything goes wrong, immediately burn for home.”
“Yes, yes. We will be careful,” he waved nonchalantly as he disappeared out of view.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Amelia looked at her room full of analysts. “Find me anything — everything — that can possibly go wrong… now.”
It only took them thirty seconds to come up with a list, and it was a hefty one. At the top of the list…
She called out on the live call to the Cliunc. “Fleet Commander! The Znosian evacuation shuttles. They’re dual-purpose boarding shuttles. Disable their engines before you get close!”
Nobody responded.
Annoyed, she looked at Samantha. “Crank up the volume—”
Chuck tapped her on the shoulder as an urgent notification popped up on the screen: transmission interruption detected.
“Interruption?” she asked, her anxiety levels spiking. “Jamming? Is it one of our relays? Can we route it through another—”
“It’s on the other end,” Samantha said. “Source is… Sconcans, near the side towards Pomniot, at the blink limit. Raw signal but it’s powerful enough. Must be a dedicated electronic warfare ship.”
“That’s the Buns. I knew we should have insisted on installing a resilient FTL comms suite for them!” Amelia sweated. “His image is still moving. Can we get anything through?”
“Negative, Admiral. We can see and hear them because we’re cleaning up their signals here, but they likely can’t hear us.”
Her heart stopped. “Please tell me they’ve noticed the Bun boarding shuttles.”
“No changes in their targeting, Admiral. They’ve locked up the enemy capital ships with their point defense guns,” Samantha reported emotionlessly.
“They still have a few minutes before they get in boarding range,” Chuck suggested optimistically. “Maybe they will figure it out?”
They did not figure it out.
Several minutes later, the instruments reported the Cliunc point defense guns firing. As expected, their shells detonated the three defenseless and drifting Znosian missile ships… but the dangerous shuttles remained, lurking near their wrecks and hibernation pods.
The face of Peipplust appeared back on the call. “Fleet Commander Amelia Waters? Fleet Commander? Hmm…” He scratched his snout. “Looks like your end of the connection is malfunctioning. You should get that fixed. Anyway, in case you can still see this: we have destroyed the remaining Znosian ships and are approaching their hibernation pods. I was about to ask you which ones to pick up, but it seems you are… predisposed, so we will simply pluck two from their flagship bridge pods.”
Amelia wanted to scream at the screen, but it was no use.
She sat down heavily in her chair and looked at the glumly silent command room. We have managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. How quickly an operation can go so badly—
“Assume the Cliunc is about to be captured by enemy forces. What is our contingency? Can we still activate the self-destruct option?”
“Negative, Admiral. The jamming signal on the other end is too powerful for their systems to receive anything!”
“Where’s our closest quick response— any ship— Do we have any ships that can respond?”
“The Amazon is seven star systems away, Admiral.”
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MNS CLIUNC, SCONCANS (16,800 LS)
POV: Peipplust, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Fleet Commander)
Peipplust stared at the two prize hibernation pods in the cargo bay camera with satisfaction. “Good work, crew! My Znosian is rusty, but I’m pretty sure that inscription on the pod says Eight Whiskers. Transmit that information to the—”
The proximity alarm klaxon sounded, shattering his train of thought.
“Fleet Commander,” his tactical officer shouted in alarm. “Enemy shuttles are on a collision course with us.”
“Collision? Shuttles? More than one?” he asked, startled.
“All of them! They’re boarding shuttles!”
Two seconds later, the Cliunc shuddered several times in quick succession as the enemy boarding shuttles hit the massive battleship, several in the midsection and even more in the rear, overloading its inertial compensators for a brief moment. Two officers on the bridge fell to the ground, but Peipplust kept his balance as he held onto his command console.
He looked on the ship’s interior cameras in horror as dozens of Grass Eaters poured out of the vessels into his hull, weapons ready and apparently well-coordinated.
Maneuvering in small, independent teams and cutting their way into the ship’s vital systems, an unseen Znosian gunner cut down one of his Marine squads in a volley of withering fire. In seconds, he knew it was all over. Brave as his ship’s Marine contingent was, they were not prepared to face down the hordes of equally determined Znosian Marines streaming onto his ship.
But Peipplust was no coward.
We will not go down without a fight.
In two quick strides, he rushed to the bridge weapons locker, opening it with a quick tap on the identification pad. There appeared to be a slight shortage of rifles from the empty slots in the cabinet, but there was just enough in it to arm the remainder of the bridge crew. He started loading and tossing them to each of his officers on the bridge, leaving one next to himself. He picked up the two grenades inside, tucking them into his belt.
“Get all Marines to the engineering section, right now!” he shouted at his functionally paralyzed tactical officer.
“The engineering section?” his tactical officer asked in a daze.
“Yes! The self-destruct. Order them to activate it immediately.”
“The self— self-destruct?”
“We swore an oath of honor! We can’t let the secret of our Grass Eater allies out to the bad Grass Eaters!”
The tactical officer only hesitated for another half-second. “Yes, Fleet Commander!” She turned to her communication console to give the order.
As he handed out the rifles from the weapon locker, the tactical officer looked back at him, her face ashen as she recovered enough from her shock to stutter, “The enemy— enemy has cut off control— control to engineering and— and— and the rear sector of the ship. They won’t be able to get the self-destruct sequence started even if they could send the signal!”
He handed her the last rifle in the locker. He pointed at the command consoles. “Shoot and destroy all the computers in here. Hopefully that will be enough to wipe out any… relevant data in here.”
Peipplust was… disappointed. As little as he initially thought of their new allies, they had not let him down. And he knew he was about to let them down. He walked over to the special communications station, took one last look at the frozen face of the Terran fleet commander on the screen, and spoke into it with only the slightest hesitation.
“I don’t know if you can still hear us, Terrans. If you can, we have been boarded, and they will likely take our ship. They are coming for the bridge… I am sorry: this was my fault.”
Taking responsibility was against his every instinct. Against his decades of habit in the corrupt Federation Navy. His aptitude for self-preservation in the malestrom of normalized corruption in the society he was born to and grew up in. But perhaps it was because he was dead anyway. Or perhaps it was a few months of working with the new Grass Eater allies — even if only tangentially — with their odd, naive even, senses of self-respect and high-minded ideals…
Thud. Thud.
The bridge access door thumped a few times. He could hear the Grass Eaters’ shots and yells from the hallway beyond. There was a staccato of gunfire next to him as his tactical officer continued to destroy as many of the command consoles as she could, echoing the rat-at-at of the gunfire outside as the Znosians wiped out the remaining defenders near the bridge. His officers took cover near their consoles, rifles aimed at the door.
He continued into the special console, “Our reactor has been cut off. We cannot activate the self-destruct. We will destroy what data we can on the bridge, but I cannot guarantee anything. Except—”
Another few thumps on the door, and then a loud bang. It was the Grass Eaters with their breaching explosives.
Rat-at-at-at-at.
His officers’ weapons rang out, gunning down the first couple of the enemy’s Marines as they rushed through the door. For a second, it looked like they could hold the door, then the enemies released a smoke grenade, its fumes covering his crew’s line of sight.
The Grass Eaters, however, could see right through it. A few shots rang out, and his officers fell in droves. He saw his tactical officer slump face-down into a pool of her own blood. The remainder were whittled down by the increasing volume of fire from the enemies as he ducked behind the console for cover.
“Except— All I can guarantee is that they will not take any of us prisoner. The next time you see this ship, it will be enemy. Good hunting.”
He smashed the remaining communication console with the butt of his rifle and stood up, facing the enemies.
Alone, he realized. His bridge crew were all lying around him, dead.
One of the enemy Marines emerged from the smoke, snarling even in his partially covered helmet.
Peipplust brought up his rifle to his shoulder. He hadn’t shot one of these since basic training over a decade ago, but… it was a simple weapon, the target was close, and his paw was steady.
Bang.
He put a clean paw-sized hole through its head.
The outline of another ran out of the smoke towards him. He immediately shifted his aim, but before he could work the trigger this time, he heard a wet thump on his right shoulder, and suddenly his vision shifted violently.
He was lying on the floor.
Get up. Get up.
Peipplust tried to climb back to his paws. He saw the enemy running at him. He tried to grab at his rifle lying next to him. But the enemy was too fast. It thumped on his right paw with its armored paw. He heard a bone crunch — his — and screamed in pain.
An ugly face loomed over his.
“Ah, we are in luck. A fleet commander,” the Grass Eater said in its ugly native language, taking a second to observe his uniform.
Peipplust spat at its face in his best broken Znosian, his breathe getting shallower. “May your eggs shatter… and rot, abomination.”
“Very interesting tactics, I must admit… for a Lesser Predator. Luckily, we were prepared for… better than you. As you can see,” it pointed around the bridge with an expression he didn’t need a translator to tell was smug.
And it was right. Even for Grass Eater Marines, these people moved faster, more aggressively, than he’d seen in the videos. They’d torn through his people like knife through lard. “Rotten tricks and—”
“Save your breath, abomination. You will get your chance to talk. After all, our commissioners have many questions for you,” it continued. “Medic… stop the disgusting creature’s bleeding, and give it some blood from its fellow vermin.”
He saw out of the side of his right eye one of the Grass Eater medics bend down to insert a needle and tube into one of his fallen bridge officers. Their leader looked at one of its subordinates as they muttered something unintelligible. It scoffed, “Blood type seven, universal donor? That makes things easier.”
“I will not… tell you anything,” he gasped out.
It imitated a mock grin back at him. “Our people can be very persuasive… so we shall see about your… stubbornness.”
Color in his vision slowly fading out, Peipplust idly counted seven lines on the rank patch sewn embedded into the enemy’s armor.
Seven whiskers. Not great, not the worst.
He matched the alien’s dumb grin with his own through the discomfort. “Make sure to tell me… what you find out…”
With pained effort, he brought up his good left paw, showing the enemy critter the universal sign of hostility: the pulled pins detached from the now-live grenades counting down in his belt.
Their fuses lasted just long enough for Peipplust to watch the mild confusion on the Grass Eater’s eyes transform into wild panic with his last breath.