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Grass Eaters | 34 | Full Responsibility
🕑 Added 2024-03-25 18:47:00 +0000 UTCOutpost McMurdo
“Activate automatic response procedure?” Bert asked, his eyes glued to his console while his fingers danced across the controls.
“Do it. Sound general quarters. Update me when we have a solid lock—”
“Gravidar’s got them. Six distinct signatures: all likely Znosian. Five Foragers and one Thumper,” Bert rattled off, his voice tinged with urgency. “Should we go to a higher level of emissions control?”
For a Navy station officer on the frontier, the only thing worse than being discovered by the aliens was… the possibility of being discovered by aliens and then losing to them. Zwena didn’t skip a beat, their training kicking in like second nature. “Affirmative. Go EMCOM Alpha. Prime the electronic warfare unit for action. What’s the word on the rest of the station?”
“All crew are at battle stations. ETA fourteen seconds. Flipping the switch to EMCOM Alpha now.”
As the lights in the room turned a dimmer shade of red and the hum of the air conditioner came to an immediate stop, Zwena thought they could feel the air temperature getting warmer in real time. An illusion, no doubt…
“Thermal systems status?” they asked, zeroing in on the most critical system on the outpost.
Bert responded in rapid fire, “Nominal. Heat sinks at twelve percent. Both heat dump shuttles ready in the hangar bay, prepped for cold launch.”
“Good to hear. We just might need those if—”
Bert’s voice interrupted them for the count down.
“ETA five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.”
After a brief pause where Bert’s eyes darted over his console, he announced, “Emergence event detected. Gravidar results confirmed with sensor buoys. Znosian battlegroup, most likely raiding configuration. Designated Bandit Alpha.”
The triangles denoting the enemy ships on the main console screen turned red.
“Are they coming for us?” Zwena asked, hope flickering but the tactical part of their brain running worst-case scenarios.
“Negative, five ships are heading for the gas giant, McMurdo-6. One single ship is staying near the blink limit as a backup observer, designated Bandit Bravo.”
The enemy flotilla on their screens separated into two distinct red triangles, one moving into position near the blink limit and another, with the five ships, moving towards the gas giant.
“Hmm, the gas giant, you say?” Zwena mused. “You think maybe they’re just trying to fuel up and get out of here, Williams?”
Bert thought momentarily. “It’s possible. Haven’t seen any of them come this way for fuel before though. And their usual stomping grounds aren’t even in this vector from Gruccud.”
His eyes flickered as new markers appeared on his console. “Looks like we’ve identified these ships before. They match recon data from Gruccud. These are the named ones from their special task squadron, the Zvontru, Sruakrach, Stvilp, Stonrakst, Vzdosl, and Birtevrut. I’ve marked them on our tactical display. Birtevrut is the one they held back at the edge of the system. Seems they’re being a touch paranoid… It’s just a couple light-hours from McMurdo-6 to the system’s blink limit.”
“Standard operating procedure since we beat the snot out of them at Oettro; these guys learn their lessons, unlike the Puppers. How are our heat sinks looking? Current capacity and burn rate?”
“We’re good for six days at this clip. Maximum usage at combat conditions can lower capacity to twenty hours.”
“That should work. If they are just here for petrol, they should be out of here before that. We won’t even need to use our shuttles.”
Bert voiced the question that was hanging in the air. “Do you think maybe they’re just scouting out the neighborhood? Maybe this is prep for that Datsot operation.”
“Good question, XO.” Zwena nodded. “One that I hope we’ll be able to answer when we see which vector they blink out to.”
---
ZNS Sruakrach
The captain of the Znosian missile destroyer Sruakrach looked at her underling with dismay. Their point defense targeting system was malfunctioning again. This had been a recurring issue in their last deployment, but she thought maintenance had fixed it. Apparently not.
As a well-civilized Znosian, she did not even consider hiding the problem from her superiors for a second. “That is not good. We may become combat ineffective at a most inopportune time. Call Eight Whiskers Atluftrosh. I must report this problem.”
---
“Seven Whiskers, how long will this issue take to fix?” a frustrated Atluftrosh asked. He had just assured Ditvish that his fluffle was combat effective! And now this! Without a reliable point defense targeting system, he cannot place the Sruakrach in his formation for fear of it malfunctioning in the middle of battle. A single missile that gets through could spell disaster. The predators weren’t known for their combat effectiveness, but they could still hurt if Servants of the Prophecy screwed up.
Like having a ship with an unreliable point defense computer. Ugh.
The captain bowed respectfully. “Unknown. It is a recurring issue. I don’t know if we can even fix it with the parts and crew we have on hand. I take full responsibility for my lack of foresight.”
Atluftrosh calmed down and remembered his responsibility assignment training. “Unlikely. The responsibility clearly lies with the maintenance crews. I will report this problem to Ditvish.”
---
Ditvish’s furry face flickered with surprise on the FTL radio interface. But Atluftrosh had no choice: his duty to report errors comes first. “Ten Whiskers, I must admit a weakness in my fluffle. One of our ships may no longer have an effective point defense targeting system. It is a recurring issue from our last deployment. We thought maintenance fixed it, but they did not. I take full responsibility for my lack of foresight.”
Ditvish shook his head, tufts of fur swaying. “Nonsense. The responsibility clearly lies with the maintenance crews. What do you intend to do about it?”
“M—me?” Atluftrosh stuttered. “I await your directives!”
Ditvish let out a deep, rumbling purr as he sighed. “Eight Whiskers, do you know why I am allowing you to take a raiding fluffle out by yourself?”
“No, Ten Whiskers.”
“I see a promise in you, one rare in our race, even in the Navy… Even some with more whiskers than you. It is your ability to make good decisions in the heat of battle without directives. Initiative, as the Grass Eaters call it. One day, you will lead your own Fleet. To prepare for that, you must nurture this skill. You must prepare to make decisions on your own without my directives.”
“I would not dare—”
“What if your FTL radio malfunctions?” Ditvish interrupted.
“I would relay the situation to the Stvilp via the subspace radio and ask them to inform you, Ten Whiskers,” Atluftrosh answered quickly, reciting the procedure he’d retained from his lengthy training. Unlike the incompetent predators, the average Znosian officer spent the first fifth of their natural life learning, training, and drilling for war. As one bred for an elite officer bloodline, Atluftrosh was not average; he had received almost eight years of such instruction before he was sent off to command.
“What if their FTL radio is broken? What if none of your ships had a functioning radio?” Ditvish pressed.
Atluftrosh pondered for a moment, then nodded with slightly more confidence. “I would replace the Birtevrutwith the Sruakrach as the safety observer ship. If we are ambushed, it would be able to report our demise. If it is ambushed,” he shrugged. “It would not be a big loss to our combat effectiveness anyway.”
Ditvish grinned in obvious pleasure. “Good. That’s what I would do too. So go do that. Now I have some unpleasant calls to make.”
---
“You are the maintenance crew who worked on the Sruakrach’s avionics modules?” Ditvish asked the six grimy creatures on his call screen.
“Yes, Ten Whiskers,” the head engineer responded, bowing her head in respectful deference.
“There is a critical issue with its point defense targeting system,” Ditvish stated matter-of-factly.
“We believe we resolved that issue in the last maintenance cycle, but if it has persisted, we are clearly responsible,” the head engineer admitted.
“You are indeed,” Ditvish replied calmly.
“I take full responsibility for this issue. We await your directives, Ten—”
“List the level of experience of your crew, head engineer,” Ditvish ordered.
“I have six years of experience in my position,” the head engineer replied, then pointed at each of her underlings. “Five years. Five years. Three years. One year. One year.”
“Hm… some of you would be costly to replace.” Ditvish thought for a moment. “But some of you will not. The last two of you: you are no longer part of the Prophecy. Head engineer, dispose of them and pick their replacements from Personnel by the end of the hour. Such are your directives.”
“May the Prophecy be done,” all six creatures answered solemnly, bowing their heads.
Ditvish waited on the line long enough to see the head engineer quietly and efficiently bash in the heads of her two least experienced engineers with a heavy power wrench before he hung up.
Turning to his communications officer, he instructed, “Now patch me through to our State Security leadership officer. I must report a potential supply chain defect incident. And log the names of the entire maintenance team with Personnel. Their genetic bloodlines may be suited to some career path less… complex.”
---
Outpost McMurdo
“Now that is an interesting development,” Zwena observed, their eyes glued to the sensor screen as they watched the two bandits swapping positions.
“Our quantum section is still decrypting their last FTL message,” Bert chimed in. “But my gut feeling is something is wrong with the Sruakrach.”
“Oh?”
Bert gestured toward the data readouts on his console. “According to our records, the Sruakrach is their second most combat experienced ship. Normally you’d want that with the rest of your fleet and not playing safety out at the system limit. The most obvious reason to swap her out with Birtevrut is because she is no longer as combat effective as the other ships.”
Just then, a cheerful beep emanated from his console. “Ah, looks like we’ve broken their code, right on time… and looks like I was right.”
“Nobody likes a show-off, Bert.”
---
“Commander, Bandit Alpha has cut thrust and slowed to a stop. They are not in position to refuel,” Bert reported, scrutinizing the updating data on his console screen.
Zwena’s eyes narrowed. “Figures. It sounded on the call like they were here for something else. Where are they?”
“In orbit around the gas giant McMurdo-6, just waiting in the ringed area, it seems,” Bert answered, still puzzled. After a few more seconds of scrutiny, his eyes widened. “Ah. Commander, they’re setting up for an ambush. Textbook ambush deployment with only their cold buoy exposed to observe incoming.”
Zwena peered at the main viewscreen. “Control, exclude the feed from the gravidar and our defense drones. What do our station subspace sensors show?”
The computer recalibrated. It removed most of the smaller objects in the system, and four of the five ships in Bandit Alpha disappeared from view. Even the observer ship near the system limit, cleverly obscured by a comet it was taking refuge behind, winked out. Without gravidar, the only signs of the Znosians in system were a single ship they did not occlude from McMurdo — which they couldn’t know the location of — and the exposed observation buoy, which the cooled sensor emplacements deployed near McMurdo had no trouble picking up.
They nodded. “Nice catch, Bert.”
“What’s the game plan, Commander?” Bert asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Even with the recent ROE modifications, it might be prudent to—”
“That depends, doesn’t it? Malgeir supply ships come in and refuel at McMurdo-6 every couple weeks, but you know how they are: not exactly what we call punctual. Their next supply run is due in… six days? But it’s not a big deal. We know exactly where they all are. Even if the Bunnies deploy sensors, they won’t see our heat dump shuttles hauling our waste off.”
Bert scratched his head. “So we wait for the Malgeir to come in, get ambushed, and hope the Buns pack up and leave after?”
Zwena shrugged. “Much as I hate it, there’s not much we can do. It’s not worth revealing this station for a couple Malgeir junk haulers. Maybe we can burst an FTL message to Charon; see if they want to give the Malgeir a heads up to avoid this system for a while. The critters will have to leave eventually, right?”
Suddenly, alarms shrieked through the command center again.
“What did they do now?” Zwena asked immediately, eyes darting to Bert.
Fiddling with his console, Bert answered, “Nothing as far as I can tell, but we’ve got multiple ships inbound. ETA forty seconds.”
“Huh. Those Malgeir supply ships must have found themselves a clock. Never seen them early before—”
“Negative, Commander. These are coming from the direction of Sol. Gravidar’s identifying them now. Seven Shepherds. One Pointer. One Python, Recon variant, likely TRNS Mississippi. One Malgeir civilian transport.”
Zwena barked orders urgently. “Put the location of all the bandits into a burst transmission; prepare to update the Mississippi on the enemy locations.”
Bert counted down again. “ETA five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Emergence event detected. Gravidar results confirmed with subspace sensor drones. The Malgeir transport is their diplomacy ship Pesmod. And its eight escorts.”
“Interesting,” they commented, studying the map intensely. “Looks like the Mississippi’s sensors work just fine without our help. She’s gone full emission control too.”
Nervously, Bert wondered, “What are they going to do? The Znosians must see the Pesmod and its escorts by now. If they just turn around and leave the system, that might arouse even more suspicion.”
“Your guess is good as mine, XO. Keep your ears on those comms. If Bandit Alpha so much as sneezes, I want to be the first to hand them a tissue.”
---
TRNS Mississippi
“Blink complete. Right on the mark,” Captain Chuck Harris announced, his voice tinged with pride.
“Excellent. Well, this system was our last stop. Let’s hop on over to—”
Samantha Lee interrupted with urgency. “Captain! Bogeys— no, Znosian bandits detected in system. Gravidar says five near McMurdo-6. One hanging out near the opposite system limit. We need to—”
“Go EMCOM Alpha now,” Chuck barked. The thruster acceleration cut to half and the air in the cabin warmed up as the ship fully sealed its thermal emissions into the hull.
Carla reported, “McMurdo has gone quiet as well. They just sent us a burst packet of the enemy vectors, confirming our gravidar data. They say the Bunnies have been skulking around here for hours and are set up to ambush a Malgeir supply convoy.”
“Have they seen us?” Amelia asked, concerned.
“Unlikely, ma’am. We were already in EMCOM Charlie when we blinked in, and their ships were mostly occluded. And the emissions from the Pupper ships should be covering us at this distance,” Harris reassured. “But if they’ve been in here for hours preparing for an ambush, there’s no way they won’t see our friends here in a few hours. What do you think we should do?”
