Spooker
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Grass Eaters 2 | 68 | Lucky
🕑 Added 2024-10-21 16:47:01 +0000 UTCAtlas Naval Command, Luna
POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Fleet Admiral)
“The districts’ air forces are requesting that we help them deconflict their targeting,” Samantha reported as tens of thousands of atmospheric jets took off to continue their sorties against the enemy landers, the last of which were still in the process of entering the atmosphere.
Amelia nodded. “Give the districts full access to tactical computing. Squadrons 9 and 10 can take care of the orbits on their own for now.”
She watched through a ground observation satellite as it tracked another squadron of jet fighters taking off from one of the airbases in District 31.
Following her eyes, Samantha took a few seconds to recognize what she was looking at. She let out a short gasp of awe. “Woah, legacy mid-century tailed fighters! I didn’t know those were still in service.”
Amelia nodded, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Yup, Block 60 F-35As. I saw one of those at an airshow on a field trip to Terra when I was ten.”
“When you were ten?! Remind me, how long ago was—” Samantha teased.
“Some South American districts bought them second-hand and third-hand for cheap when they were replaced by seventh generation combat jets.”
“I’m surprised they can still take off, much less fight,” Samantha said, wide-eyed in amazement as one of the elderly jets activated its afterburner, turning its engine trails an reddish-orange hue as it entered a steep climb.
Amelia shrugged. “They launch air-to-suborbitals just fine, and they probably have an eighty-year-old down there whose sole job is to make sure the only remaining Link-40 comms controller in their district still works.”
As they watched, the atmospheric fighters began their ascent to 15,000 meters above sea level, then pitching up and launching their payloads at a pair of descending orbital troop transports.
A few minutes later, their munitions found their targets, the released shrapnel trashing the orbital shuttle’s engines and ripping thousands of bird-sized holes into their hulls; the dying Znosian transports tore themselves apart in the atmosphere, their pieces tumbling towards the Pacific Ocean below.
“How are the other districts doing?” she asked, finally taking her eyes off the spectacular display.
“Most of them have managed to mount effective independent defenses against the incoming shuttles.” Samantha frowned. “Some of the districts have apparently hidden far more anti-suborbital missile batteries than they were supposed to keep under the terms of the Treaty of Atlas. And some of these supposedly-suborbital missiles sure seem like they have a lot more delta-V in them than they are officially rated for. In particular, Districts 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 9—”
“Alright, alright. I don’t need your help counting to thirty… We’ll let the Republic Senate slap their wrists later,” Amelia said dryly. “Not everyone down there got the message that the two-percent district GDP defense budget line was supposed to be a soft upper-bound, not a minimum requirement.”
A few minutes later, Samantha’s head snapped up from her screen. “Admiral, we’ve located concentrations of them — a few Znosian Marine divisions that have landed — they are organizing to attack in force—”
“Where?”
“District 57. Looks like they’re going for… Damascus?”
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District 57, Terra
POV: Charles Meyer, Terran Republic District 3 Air Force (Rank: Captain)
Capt. Meyer involuntarily ducked his head as he saw something buzz his aircraft from above in his helmet interface. “God dammit,” he yelled at his copilot. “Tell those Egyptians to ascend to Angels 8!”
“They can’t, sir! There’s a massive traffic jam above us. We’ve got flyers from a dozen districts stacked up every thousand feet from Angels 6 to 40. Everyone’s trying to get in the AO!”
“Is there even going to be anything left for us to shoot by the time this whale gets there?” he complained.
His copilot’s face lit up in a psychotic smile. “Oh yeah, did you see the drone and orbital imagery? The aliens are piled up going north on the Syrian M5. Their convoy’s forty-five miles long, two lanes wide, and the wild weasels just took out their last short-range ack-acks. It’s dinner time.”
“Alright, tell the guys back there to prep the one-five-five.”
“Can’t we go any faster than this?”
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POV: Abram Stuart, Terran Republic District 3 Air Force (Rank: Staff Sergeant)
As the head of the target convoy appeared over the horizon in the distance, it became apparent to the AV-280’s primary gunner that they hadn’t brought nearly enough ammunition. The enemies and their armored vehicles stretched far beyond what the eye could see.
Someone else had already begun working on them. All that was left of the first few kilometers of vehicles were their charred metallic remains. With their own vehicles stuck behind them for another few dozen kilometers, panic among the alien vehicle crews was apparently setting in as they began to realize they were under heavy air attack.
As their aircraft approached the head of the column, an errant artillery shell whistled by, barely missing them to detonate a few hundred meters above one of the sections of convoy still apparently operational.
Bang. Pffsssssssss.
It released a cloud of bright white smoke, raining thousands of pieces of ignited incendiary submunitions on the Bun vehicles below like a bundle of shooting stars. A few of the speckles landed on a Longclaw, melting straight through its thick metal hull in seconds.
“What was that one?” the copilot muttered into the headset.
The pilot coughed twice and remarked sarcastically as he pointed to the afternoon sun, “Illumination shell. What the hell do you think?!” As he spoke, another of the enemy vehicles on the ground started to shoot autocannon tracers towards their AV-280, but they weren’t even getting close.
“Twenty-three mike-mike?” the copilot asked calmly, watching the rounds fall just short of the tiltrotor’s low flight altitude.
“Probably some alien equivalent. I’m surprised the air superiority jets even left them for us.”
“Sweet, sweet, pro-rated combat pay.”
One of the brainiacs back at base had suggested that maybe the low-altitude gunships should be held back at least until night-time, but that would have been way too late. Luckily, he’d been overruled by the tactical computers upstairs.
Abram yelled into his headset from the primary weapon station, “Get me an angle! I can’t hit the aliens from here!”
“Give me a minute. I’ll put us into a pylon turn,” the pilot’s calm voice came back from the cockpit.
“Marking reference point on the convoy.”
“I see it. I see it. Relax.”
Half a minute later, the tiltrotor aircraft banked on a wide radius turn, pointing the guns on its left side conveniently towards the enemies on the highway. “Confirmed no friendlies on the ground in the AO. Weapons free. Gunners, clear to engage anything with big fluffy ears down—”
“Two and three armed.”
“Gun ready!”
“Round away.”
Booom.
The main gun in the back barked, sending a 155mm plasma shell right into the hull of the Znosian vehicle still futilely shooting up at them. The aircraft shook violently as the round exited, and the plane’s anti-recoil system kicked in to keep itself on track. As the gunner peered down into the stabilized thermal optic, the target brewed up into a massive fireball, exploding its six-barrel turret into the desert sky.
“Direct. Oh-ho-ho, watch it go!”
Abram idly watched one of the burning Znosian crewman fall out of their now empty cupola with satisfaction before selecting a new target. Some of the personnel carriers below had unloaded their infantry. The specks of white-hot thermal targets scattered, booking it away from their ground transports in every direction. As he contemplated which of them to hit, the 50mm chaingun next to him started sending rounds down range at half-second intervals.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The secondary gunner reported calmly, “I’ve got the squirters.”
“Yeah, you do,” he chuckled, watching the smaller explosions follow and then catch one of the runners — hoppers, whatever — tossing the remnants of their lifeless body high up into the air with a near-direct impact.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The main autoloader quickly stuffed a new plasma round into the breech and then rammed two large white bags of propellant charges right behind the shell. His robotic loader took half a second to inspect and verify the result. “Gun ready!”
Abram noted that the 50mm airburst rounds and other artillery shells pounding the column were kicking up so much hot desert sand that it was obscuring even the thermal optics. He flipped a switch on the console in front of him to activate the millimeter wave radar. A second later, the targets lit up anew on his screen like a Christmas tree, and the computers put convenient red outlines around the high-value targets.
He selected one of them and squeezed the trigger. “Round away.”
Boooom.
A Znosian Longclaw on the road exploded, sending its occupants sky high.
“Direct.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Wooohoooo! Welcome to Earth, alien scum—”
“Judy back there. We’re trying to listen to what’s happening upstairs!”
“Gun ready!”
Rinse and repeat.
Best job in the whole galaxy.
And it was. Which was why despite the risks and stress involved, and despite it being — by far — the most costly to the Republic’s veteran healthcare system, Aerial Gunner was one of the very few frontline combat roles the air force had not outsourced to the damn clankers.
The gunner wheezed and coughed twice as he breathed the air mix of unfiltered depleted uranium and lead particles straight into his lungs. He looked at the oxygen respirator he was technically supposed to always wear on the job hanging on a shelf next to him and shrugged internally. They have a cure for that nowadays, right?
He selected a new alien tank on his screen. Or was it one of their APCs? Whatever it was, one of the poor fuckers had gone off-road to desperately try to escape the destruction derby, but they’d gotten it stuck in an irrigation ditch just thirty meters away, slotting in perfectly just so that their fancy grav engines wouldn’t be able to boost them out of it.
Their day was about to get a whole lot worse.
Should have stayed home on Znos.
“Round away.”
“Direct!”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Half an hour into the Great Bunny Shoot, there was no semblance of resistance left from this stretch of the highway convoy, just tens of thousands of enemies scrambling to get away from the shooting gallery. Many — thousands, it looked like — of the Znosians had ditched even their vehicles, hopping away on their bare paws on the hot noon sand, driven by primitive instinct and fear.
It looked hot down there. Almost as hot as his secondary gunner’s glowing barrel as it poured continuous fire into crowds of scattering red dots on his heads-up display.
Where were they even retreating to on Earth? He shrugged. It wasn’t his job to care.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Gun ready!”
Abram selected a Longclaw that looked like it still might have something left in it. Just as he was about to depress his trigger, the enemy armor targeted on his screen exploded all on its own, his camera accurately tracking the turret it tossed high into the sky.
“What the hell?!” He zoomed out on his optic, searching around, only to see a flight of four Jordanian-flagged autonomous light attack helicopters pass below the AV-280, smoke dotting their pylon racks as dozens of ATGMs and cluster rockets came off their wings in pairs, engulfing the highway in a scene of fire and brimstone straight out of religious text. A few seconds later, the sounds of their explosions reached the aircraft from below in a loud cacophony.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“Get some! Get some!” he yelled excitedly into the din.
The chopper drones were done in less than twenty seconds. Their entire munitions load dumped, they turned and headed back towards their forward bases for another.
Looking back down and inspecting the dark-colored smoke still lingering in the target area and the shockwaves from the secondary explosions, the gunner sighed and spoke into his microphone, “Ah, for fuck’s sake. Captain, bring us up another half a mile on your next turn. There’s nothing left to shoot here!”
++++++++++++++++++++++++
POV: Charles Meyer, Terran Republic District 3 Air Force (Rank: Captain)
“Cease fire, cease fire!” Capt. Meyer repeated into the crew voice channel as he pulled hard right on his joystick.
“What’s going on?” one of the gunners in the back complained impatiently as the aircraft tilted and banked away from the direction of the slaughter. “We’ve still got a few more rounds left!”
“There’s an orbital artillery strike incoming! We gotta get out of here.”
“Aww come on, why can’t we hang around a bit? Just stay out of their blast radius.”
“Do you know the CEP of a thirty-year-old large-diameter O2G missile, Staff Sarn’t?” Meyer asked, referring to the circular error probability — broadly, the accuracy — of the incoming orbital munitions.
He paused for a second. “No. You?”
“Me neither. And I’m not sticking around to find out the hard way. But if you want to, you’ve got a parachute back there, and I can leave the aft cargo door open for you…”
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POV: Kvatska, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Four Whiskers)
Four Whiskers Kvatska was having a bad day sitting in the back of her armored personnel carrier. A very bad day.
By all objective measures, they’d been extremely lucky.
They survived the Lesser Predator attacks at Gruccud.
They survived the Great Predator blink traps on their way.
They survived the devastating attacks on their refueling operations at Preirsput.
Their orbital transport was deemed essential enough to be refueled at Sirius with just enough to be able to reach Sol.
The ship did not carry anyone high ranking enough, nor any cargo dangerous enough, to be prioritized by the enemy defense fleet in orbit.
Their captain had been one of the few sensible enough to initiate an atmospheric drop even without orders.
They survived the atmospheric jets and the orbital defense batteries.
On the ground, they managed to get in contact with other units with direct line-of-sight radios. Through some miracle of the Prophecy, they found a route to their target objective on one of the Great Predators’ own highways even without the orbital positioning systems they had been trained to use.
That was… until the convoy got attacked from the sky.
Kvatska’s quick action saved her squad. With her experience from the Invasion Battle of Gruccud several years ago, she ordered their vehicle off-road immediately and managed to get out of sight of the enemy aircraft before the main air attack began in earnest.
They could still hear the screaming and increasing panic of their dying comrades over their radios. That was all they could hear through the heavy communication jamming; she suspected that the predators were doing that deliberately in some sick attempt to intimidate them. Then, they lost all contact with the rest of the units.
For all she knew, the divisions of Marines they came down to this cursed planet with were all dead. Or worse, captured to be eaten.
She was lucky.
She wasn’t feeling very lucky.
Since the air attacks, they’d driven aimlessly off-road for the past three hours. The sun was setting when they finally came into the first signs of civilization they’d seen since they left the road: a fence. Beyond it, there was a herd of fluffy, white, unintelligent animals in the distance.
Kvatska stood up in the cupola of the carrier, searching around with her binoculars. After a few seconds, she spotted one of the Great Predators, a mostly unarmed one it looked like, directing the poor animals with a long wooden stick. To the slaughterhouse, probably.
Disgusting predators.
“Drive up to that butcher!” she ordered.
The armored carrier crushed the thin wire fence under its tracks, driving into the grassy field towards the lone creature. The vehicle ground to a stop just a few meters short of it and its flock.
The repulsive critter gaped at them — its mouth hanging wide open — revealing all its sharp, primitive teeth at the Znosian Marines who’d gotten out and were pointing their guns at him. She noticed it was hunched over and leaning on its staff, as if tired from its work.
Must be a lazy one. Or a defect.
“Three Whiskers, ask it where we are,” Kvatska ordered from the open turret.
The short three whiskers Znosian got out of the carrier, hopped up next to the predator with his datapad and spoke to it in the guttural native tongue that was supposedly most commonly used in this part of their world. “Predator, where are we?”
The creature said something back as it gestured around it, which their translator couldn’t understand.
“What did it say?” Kvatska demanded.
The three whiskers searched fruitlessly on his datapad for a few seconds, then looked up and shrugged, “Sounds like a town or local area name. It’s not on any of our maps.”
“Never mind that. Our primary objective was obviously too well-defended. Ask it to point us to our secondary target… the city near the water that we were supposed to receive orbital supply drops from.”
Kvatska declined to voice her doubt that there were still any orbital ships left to drop supplies. They were Great Exterminator Marines — the pride of the Dominion, and they would accomplish their mission! With or without orbital support.
She yelled down at the predator, “Hey, what about the other city…” She paused before pronouncing the weird Great Predator city name through her snout as best she could.
His front-facing eyes snapped up toward her. “May God have mercy on you.”
“Excuse me?” Kvatska asked in confusion.
“You sneezed. In our custom, when people sneeze, we say that—”
“No! That’s not— Three Whiskers, you ask him.”
“Which direction is your city of Haifa?” the three whiskers asked slowly in the local tongue. Kvatska noted in the back of her mind that it was right; the name of the city did kind of sound like sneezing.
The local predator made a grotesque, rumbling sound through its chest. Kvatska pulled up her local customs guide on her datapad, interpreting the body language. Laughter. Predator humor. “Ask it what it finds so funny.”
After a few seconds, the infuriating predator finally stopped its laughter to give them an answer.
“It tells us: if its God wills it, we will reach our destination quickly. It says we will definitely enjoy our journey to that city.”
“Finally, some good news today.” Kvatska waved at the creature impatiently. “Tell it to point us in the right direction.”
The predator seemed to think for a few seconds, looking around to orient itself. Then, it pointed adamantly towards the distance at a patch of sand in between two short hills in the distance. “That way.”
Kvatska nodded in satisfaction as the three whiskers packed up his datapad and climbed back into the armored vehicle.
As if it knew its fate, the hunched over predator dropped to its knees. It set its stick aside gently on the ground, and began to pray, “I bear witness that there is no deity but God. And I bear witness that His messenger—”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Kvatska brought up her carbine and let loose a three-round burst into its center of mass, casually culling the predator before it could finish its annoying blasphemy. Hearing the loud noises, its liberated flock galloped and fled in every direction around the vehicle. She climbed back down into her cupola and ordered the vehicle to drive towards the direction they’d just been given.
“How far away did that primitive predator say the city was?” her driver asked a few minutes later.
“I— I don’t think he really mentioned that,” her translator replied.
“Great, we can’t go back and ask now that Kvatska culled him—”
“Just drive.”
A few kilometers later, Kvatska’s vehicle rolled into a marked field, one of many that dotted the area — the last remnants of the millennia of conflicts that took place in the rich, fertile, and blood-soaked soil and sand that was roughly the birthplace of human civilization.
If the Znosian transport had stopped at the improvised ditch marking its boundary, the squad might have seen the trilingual warning signs placed near it by local shepherds and villagers warning people away, but they were too exhausted to be paying attention and it was too dark outside to be reading.
Besides, who cared what local predators put on an old, rotting wooden sign?
Less than a hundred meters into the oddly easily drivable terrain, a pair of Soviet-made TM-62 anti-tank mines buried there over a century ago blew apart one of the last effectively operational Znosian units remaining on the surface of Terra.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
District 3, Terra
Emergency Mobile Alert
ORBITAL DEBRIS INBOUND. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
As a result of recent military action in low orbit, NASA is closely monitoring falling orbital debris in the following states: California, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada. There may be live Znosian military personnel in the wreckage.
If you see an escape pod or any extraterrestrial debris, call 911 immediately.
DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPEN. DO NOT ENGAGE WITH FIREARMS ON YOUR OWN.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
2 weeks later
DCDC Update
The District Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is issuing this urgent health warning to notify the public about recent reports of severe illness associated with the consumption of alien life forms.
There have been alarming reports of district residents consuming flesh from deceased Znosian personnel that have deorbited in escape pods. Some of these individuals have been hospitalized with the following symptoms: diarrhea, nausea, headache, fever, skin rashes, itching, joint pain, and sexual dysfunction. Full recovery is likely with prompt treatment. No cases of human-to-human transmission have been documented, and experts assess the risk is low but not zero.
Rumors from online sources alleging health benefits of alien flesh consumption are not backed by scientific evidence. Experts strongly advise against consumption of alien flesh due to potential health risks. There is a heightened risk of zoonotic diseases due to rarity of prior contact and immunological incompatibility.
If you suspect you may have consumed or otherwise inadvertently come into contact with alien flesh, and are experiencing any of the symptoms above, seek immediate medical attention.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
News Flashes Live Feed
(Local // District 3 // AZ)
Underground Alien Fighting Ring Busted
Two Dozen Arrested for Trafficking Captured Znosians Across District Lines in Arizona
160+ Alien Prisoners Recovered Alive by Republic Marines in Tucson
Republic Office of Justice Declined to Comment
Editor note 1: Is the word choice “captured” or “kidnapped” more appropriate for this headline? The aliens were captured by non-uniformed, armed civilians two weeks ago, but the illegal nature of their continued custody could make the latter a preferable selection going forward.
Editor note 2: They should have stayed home in Znos.
Comments
AnAbsoluteVillain
I don't believe on lick what the DCDC is trying to sell us. They just don't want us eating these delicious buns!
Eric E
i think captured is better but thats just my opinion.
Nicolae
dam
DeWhit
Hmm, that CDC section paints a rather horrifying image. I’d figure people would be averse to eating sapient creatures, even if they are invading aliens. But I guess angry people don’t necessarily make the best decisions 😅
Josh Delgado42
Thanks for the chapter!
