Spooker
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Grass Eaters | 14 | Outpost
🕑 Added 2024-03-05 00:17:03 +0000 UTCMalgeirgam, Malgeiru
This job sucks. I was supposed to just collect prisoners and shake them down for credits, not be berated and personally threatened by the Home Fleet Commander himself for failing to obtain one measly autograph.
“Look, just scratch your signature here and we’re done. You walk, just like that,” Pincrio whined, his tail flicking with obvious annoyance.
Speinfoent’s eyes flicked over the digital text on the datapad. “That’s not happening. That document is full of lies! Fleet Commander Grionc didn’t order me to break into the Archives! And for the record, you can’t interrogate me without my lawyer present!”
Pincrio’s ears flattened, a desperate plea lingering in his eyes. “Speinfoent, be smart about this. Think! Think for once! The treason charge? You can’t afford the judge! That’s a one-way ticket to a lifetime behind bars. You’ve got so much of your life ahead. Don’t throw it all away for nothing!”
Speinfoent tilted his head defiantly. “Why are you guys trying to implicate Grionc anyway?”
His jailer’s whiskers twitched. “Why does that matter to you? It’s just a signature.”
“It just does. I won’t do it if you won’t even tell me what this document is for.”
Pincrio sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Okay, listen. You’re a young, naïve delta leader, and it’s about time you learned how the galaxy worked. Our fleet commander’s got this nephew… He’s gunning for her spot in the Sixth Fleet. Don’t give me that look. And don’t worry, I’m sure they’re not gonna throw her in a cell or anything like that. She’ll sign a document of her own, take a tiny step down the ladder, and mosey into early retirement.”
Speinfoent balked, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Your Fleet Commander knows that Sixth Fleet is the only major competent formation left in the entire Malgeir Navy, and we’re fighting a pretty darn important war, right?”
The jailer shrugged. “It’s just standard Navy politicking, way above what either of us gets paid to worry about.”
“Have you been out there? Really out there. Out on the frontlines?” Speinfoent pleaded. “We need good, experienced fleet commanders leading what remains of our Navy. We’ve just spent ten years getting our asses kicked by the Grass Eaters, and all we have to show for it are veterans like Grionc! If you get rid of her for someone’s nephew, we’re screwed—”
“Just sign it. If Grionc were in your paws, she’d do it to you in a heartbeat.”
“No— no, she wouldn’t,” the delta leader insisted.
Pincrio sighed again. “Look, you said you wanted to know. The deal is simple: if you sign the confession document, we’ll let you go now. No charges, no fees.”
“I want my lawyer. Fleguipu. Bring her back.”
“She’ll tell you to sign it. It’s the only sensible thing to do!”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to allow her back.”
Pincrio stomped his feet paws twice in frustration. “Gah! We’ll see if another few hours in the cell will change your mind, a short preview of the rest of your life if you don’t. Knock on the door and let me know if you reconsider.”
And then if the stubborn young officer still wouldn’t sign it…
Well, he had other methods.
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Atlas, Luna
S.83920 Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123
Status: Floor Debate in Progress
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Due to the relatively benign level of seismic activity on Luna, most buildings on the moon built upwards instead of developing underground. The low gravity further reduced relative construction costs for taller buildings, even if it meant they needed to invest in additional solar radiation protection due to its lack of an atmosphere and a magnetosphere. In comparison, digging into the fine regolith of the lunar surface created a host of costly issues, especially in the early days of Terra Corp when the top layer of Luna was still a mystery to humanity.
Even in those days, the engineers spared no expense for one particular facility. Dug into an underground cavern of a lunar lava tube (but not structurally connected to any building), its only publicly accessible entrance led vertically into the Senate Complex. Which is why Senate staff called it Floor B-41.
Its inhabitants called it “the Outpost”.
Almost two hundred meters underneath the lunar surface was a secured single-floor facility equipped with state-of-the-art protection systems and electronics. The Outpost was shielded from all sides with armored composite walls, which should delay any potential attackers more than long enough to activate the self-destruct systems that would incinerate its contents before it was breached. Its initial purpose was to serve as the headquarters of the infamous Terra Corporate Security Division, surveilling the domains of Terra Corporation and keeping order within its unofficial jurisdiction. Several uncovered abuse scandals and accountability hearings later, the extrajudicial division was disbanded, and the building was vacated. For years, it sat empty.
After Terra Corp reforms, a new corporate division was secretly created to take over the legitimate external security-related roles of its former inhabitants: the Terra Reconnaissance Office. The job description of the TRO was explicitly intelligence collection on potential extrasolar threats. Unlike its scandalous predecessor, its crosshairs were aimed squarely outwards towards the alien — not internal — threats to Terra. It upgraded and took over the Outpost for this purpose, where its mission continued even after Terra Corporation became the Terran Republic.
At first, it was only a highly secretive R&D division dedicated to alien research. With every discovery it made of aliens beyond humanity’s little bubble in the stars, its jurisdiction and budget expanded to accommodate its growing relevance.
The TRO protected humanity from the shadows. The Navy got the public credit for hunting down unauthorized attempts to acquire and abuse FTL drives and radios, for its interceptions of terrorist operatives burning for the system limit, and for sending its ships and crews into dangerous alien-infested space. They were the steady fist of the Terran Republic, but the TRO considered itself the nerve center that directed its mighty swing.
For a long time, the TRO’s very existence was a highly guarded secret that was only whispered in between the line items and blacked out pages of the Republic’s annual budget. Its operatives, analysts, and directors — categorized as “logistics personnel’ or not at all — did not receive medals in public ceremonies. They did not publish memoirs about heroic missions when they retired. Even now, with their existence more widely known, their people’s sacrifices were remembered only by their peers and a white marbled wall marking just over a hundred anonymous stars, flanked by two flags.
In honor of those who fell in the line of duty. For the Terran Reconnaissance Office. For the Republic. For humanity.
The memorial wall was upstairs, in the basement of the Senate Complex itself. It was for tourists and families.
The Outpost further downstairs was not.
Not satisfied with his predecessors’ already paranoid focus on security, the current Outpost’s director reinforced its merely armored walls with nanite-enhanced paint that also muted the sounds made by its occupants from any potential listeners. Hidden sensors were seeded throughout the facility to keep 24/7 track of its authorized occupants, and its computer network was air-gapped to ensure that no data leakage was possible. Even its electricity supply was heavily monitored and fuzzed by a protected, isolated system to ensure that not even the amount of power used by its occupants would become known to a potential adversary. Indeed, plant workers loyal to the TRO at the nearby fusion power generation facility made sure that even the monthly power consumption of the Outpost was kept a well-guarded state secret.
Director “Mark” sipped his coffee as he monitored the operations of his realm through his console. Naturally, Mark was not his real name, but it was the only one he used nowadays. After a field accident that cost him his left leg, even advanced prosthetics could not save him from being transferred to this desk job. At forty-five years old, many who knew him would say he looked young for his age. Mark would often attribute that to his Mongolian ancestry in conversation, not the numerous classified genetic and prosthetic enhancements made to him by the TRO during his service.
Loud, pulsating sirens pierced the stagnant air, and a fervent glow of red lights bathed the austere interior of the Outpost as its main doors opened expectedly to admit two of its analysts.
“Kara, John, welcome back,” Mark hailed from his position overwatching the door, one hand subconsciously poised above the clandestine emergency intrusion button concealed beneath the armored security station.
“John” was the impeccable image of a seasoned soldier in his mid-30s. His skin, a rich, deep ebony, and his hair trimmed into a meticulous crew-cut painted a picture reminiscent of a classic Republic Marine Corps recruitment poster.
Beside him, “Kara,” a woman exuding a quiet, unyielding strength woven through her Persian features. Her chocolate brown locks were neatly secured in a bun, revealing a visage of focused hazel eyes that acknowledged Mark’s greeting. “Good to be back, Director.”
A voice and brain wave scanner mounted on the ceiling beeped its affirmation that she was not an impersonator or under duress.
Exhaling a held breath, Mark’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he approved their entry. “What’s the latest?”
A shadow passed across Kara’s eyes. “Fleet Commander Grionc’s arrest warrant just got signed.”
Mark sighed heavily. “Shucks. Are we certain that she’s going to launch a coup on—”
“Not our concern, Mark,” she replied firmly and emphasizing it with a shake of her head. “That’s what you pay Hersh and his team for.”
Mark’s posture straightened subtly. “They are briefing the Intelligence Committee, right now?”
“Yes, and we’re up next. John and I are just here to get our stories straight before they summon us upstairs.”
A playful glint sparked in Mark’s eye as he turned towards the former Marine. “Ah, John, your first committee briefing, is it?”
“Affirmative, sir,” John nodded, maybe a little too eagerly.
“The thing about these things is,” Mark confided, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, “You have to try to tell them as little as possible without them catching on that’s your game.”
“Yes, sir,” John chuckled for a second, before stopping and realizing that the director was not joking. “Wait—”
Kara looked at him amusingly. “Don’t worry. They’re mostly harmless geriatrics whose only knowledge of the Navy is based on the toy model warships they buy their great-grandchildren for Christmas. And look at you and your disgustingly maintained uniform: they’ll absolutely love you. But uh… to err on the side of caution, let’s do a dry run.”
She guided the group into a large conference room.
With a quick swipe of her credentials at the center console, lights around the room shifted, and a heavily annotated three-dimensional battle map of the Malgeiru system hovered above the table. Crimson and azure fleets appeared before them, signifying opposing “teams”.
Mark’s brow furrowed. “I thought we weren’t doing the red and blue thing to not give an impression we’re rooting for Grionc’s Sixth Fleet if it goes down.”
Kara exhaled a light sigh. “The battle map holographic system they have upstairs in the briefing room is an older version. It only supports friends, foes, and civilians, so we’ll have to make do.”
“Understood. I’ll make a note of that in the next budget request. Carry on.”
Slyly, a mischievous grin danced across Kara’s face. “And don’t tell them, but we are most certainly rooting for the blue team if it goes down.” Kara then pointed at John. “You start this time. Like I said, imagine we’re ninety-year-olds who don’t know the first thing about what’s going on here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” John began in his best impersonation of an authoritative voice, putting his expensive TRO training to good use. “These are the forces arrayed around the Malgeir home planet. The two main concentrations of ships are Home Fleet here, in red, and Sixth Fleet here, in blue.”
With a deft tap from Kara, the units on the battle map began their movement as the simulation began to play.
In the corner, a window showed up depicting the first-person view of the flagship Oengro’s bridge, showing a mock version of Malgeir officers on its bridge with a minimal loss in fidelity. Every known officer was replicated. And even their morale and experience were tracked and simulated extensively, some partially telegraphed on their facial expressions.
In the simulation, (mocked) Fleet Commander Grionc looked straight at her (mocked) tactical officer. “Space Warfare Officer Speinfoent, what is the disposition of enemy and friendly force?”
A passable impression of the young alien officer replied almost instantly, giving the report with anatopic Republic Navy designations. “The loyalist forces are twelve Husky-class battleships, two hundred and fifteen Shepherd-class missile destroyers, and over six hundred smaller picket ships of various classes. Our Fleet is still recovering from its last campaign at Datsot. We have a single battleship Oengro, about sixty equivalent missile destroyers, a few of which are lower quality loaners from other fleets, and a handful of pickets.”
“A completely hopeless situation for us, would you say?”
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Senate S.83920 Terran Republic Defense Authorization Act 2123
Status: Emergency Hearing in Progress
