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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Spooker0 on 2024-12-27 16:39:41+00:00.
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22 Battle Planning I
TRNS Crete, Quistqueu (12,000 Ls)
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Rear Admiral)
“Admiral, Resistance One sent a message requesting a— a strategy meeting with you,” Lieutenant Beth Woods announced from the electronic warfare station.
“The Ace of Clubs? Is this some kind of trick?” Carla asked.
“We can always shoot her out of the vacuum and say it was an accident later,” Beth joked.
“Cover it up? Why? They’ll build a big, glorious statue for us back in Sol if we take full credit… What does she want now?”
“She’s not being very specific in her request,” Beth said, reading off her screen.
Carla tilted her head. “Okay, so what does the bug that ODT installed on their ship a couple months back say she wants?”
“Officially, to discuss what to do when we arrive in Prinoe,” Beth said, gesturing to the frontline system occupied by a swathe of red on the battle map.
“Unofficially?”
Beth smiled. “They’re here to feel out just how much we plan to actually support them when we unleash them into Bun territory like a pack of wild Malgeir.”
“Touché,” said newly promoted Alpha Leader and Carla’s executive officer Speinfoent, chuckling dryly.
Carla turned to look at him. “So, XO, what do you think we should do?”
“Is one of the options blowing—”
“Other than that.”
Speinfoent thought for a moment. “Whatever we do, we shouldn’t let the Ace land her shuttle in our hangar bay. They could be carrying explosives. Or worse.”
Carla tilted her head. “Yeah, that’s worth avoiding.”
“Or come into railgun range, for that matter. I think we send a shuttle of Marines to board her and bring her on board. That’ll put her on notice too. Let her know we’re keeping watch on her. So she knows her place here.”
Carla gave him an affirmative gesture. “Not bad. What about when she gets on board?”
“We should— I don’t know… What’s your government’s policy on military cooperation with them now?” he asked as he scratched his head with a paw.
“Good question.”
After a few heartbeats, he asked, “Wait, that’s it? Just good question? No answer?”
Carla shrugged. “I don’t think— things are still a bit hectic back in Atlas from the Battle of Sol. We have officially recognized their non-exclusive authority in Sirius and a to-be-determined Bun system under the Treaty of Hano, and we’re no longer at war, but… we’re not allies or anything. I don’t think we’ve been issued any additional directions beyond that. So it’s up to us.”
Speinfoent tilted his head. “But they will fight the Grass Eaters?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Last I heard, some of them over there weighed the possibility of owning their own planet of billions of Buns. Makes their fantasies of ruling over a few million colonists out in the Red Zone look downright realistic, but I’m not going to tell them what they can or can’t daydream about. And there’s just one thing stopping them: the Bun Navy from here to there. So yeah, they’ll probably fight.”
Speinfoent asked cautiously, “We’re not… actually letting them do that, are we? Letting them rule over the Buns if they manage to take one of their planets.”
Carla shook her head. “Not our problem. We’ll wish them good luck figuring out how to invade a whole entire habitable planet with a few thousand irregular scumbags and no supplies while we continue on our mission.”
“Wait. What if… they actually succeed? I don’t— I don’t see how they could, but…”
Carla shot him a wink. “See, XO? Now you’re thinking like a paranoid Grass Eater. I knew all that expensive Staff College training we gave you didn’t go to waste.”
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POV: Sophie Garnier, Saturnian Resistance Navy (Ace of Clubs)
The Ace of Clubs sized up the squad of armored Marines blocking her way, their leader with his arms crossed. Shorter than her at just 1.4 meters tall, these Malgeir Marines looked a lot less cuddly or harmless than the two officers her people had captured and held as prisoners in the basement back in the Free Zone Liberation War.
The way they were gripping their weapons coolly… and they looked way too comfortable in what looked like custom-tailored Republic Marine Mark V armor. She couldn’t spot their combat robots, but she had no doubt they were hiding somewhere in their shuttle, with their own weapons aimed squarely at her vitals.
“Where’s your owner?” she snapped at them. “Don’t you know who we are?”
“You are the Ace of Clubs,” the gravelly voice of their squad leader filtered through his translator module. “But you could be the Head High Councilor himself, and you would still not be allowed onto our shuttle with your weapons.”
“That’s not how this works. We are humans, not rabid animals. I am coming to your owners’ ship under a flag of truce. Like civilized people. That’s a gesture of good faith, and you are obligated to reciprocate. I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” the Ace said, sneering at him. “Why don’t you get someone who knows what they’re doing on the phone and—”
The Malgeir squad leader slowly detached his suit radio, switched it to speaker mode, and dialed its volume to full. He said into it deliberately, “Admiral, our guests are claiming special diplomatic privileges, and they are refusing to relinquish their firearms. What would you like us to do?”
Carla’s voice came back in the radio speaker, loud enough for the entire hangar bay to hear. “High Pack Leader Baedarsust, the guest rules for my ship are clear: no weapons. If anyone tries to sneak any on board the shuttle, shoot them until they stop moving. Understood?”
“Understood, Admiral.” Baedarsust looked back at the Ace, a slow grin forming on his face. “Should we get started, or do you have more… requests for additional accommodation?”
The Ace thought about resisting for a moment, but quickly dismissed the fantasy. She needed the Reps.
For now.
She gritted her teeth and made a gesture to her people to stand down. She unslung her carbine and carefully brought it to the hangar floor, and her posse did the same. “Satisfied?” she asked as she released it and stood back up to her full height.
“No power armor either,” Baedarsust said simply.
She hit the quick release on her armor, stepping out of it. She took a few steps and stretched her arms. As she stepped forward towards the shuttle, the Malgeir squad leader put his paw in front of her, signaling her to halt.
“Your sidearms. And your knife.”
Rolling her eyes, the Ace undid the holster on her hip, placing it carefully on the floor as well, the pile of items growing. Another gun strapped to the front of her vest. The magazines. Then, the tactical knife in her belt. “You want to search me for plastic explosives too?” she scoffed.
He didn’t even blink as he produced a familiar-looking portable spaceport scanner, waving it all around her. “Yes. Take off your footwear too.”
“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled as she complied. “Hundreds of light years from Sol and still under the boot of the paranoid Reps!”
“Paranoid… that’s what I thought at first,” Baedarsust said he took a perfunctory sniff inside the Ace’s boots as his scanner searched her thoroughly. “But a few months of raids and patrols in the Red Zone, and I’m beginning to see why you Terrans do things the way you do.”
The scanner beeped and its indicator lights turned green. Baedarsust sniffed her collar a few times before stepping back with a satisfied grunt, then gestured her towards the shuttle as she put her combat boots back on. “Stand over there while we check your people.”
Her aide, Felix, was next. Pausing only to remove a small box-cutter he’d “accidentally” forgot about in his belt, the Malgeir squad cleared him quickly too.
They moved onto her alien pet advisor, Eight Whiskers Krizvum. Once a proud Znosian Navy spacer, he’d been reduced to a quivering shell of his former proud self after a mild dose of Resistance re-education. The Ace saw a couple of the Malgeir Marines lean forward as the Znosian stepped up to be inspected.
“A Grass Eater,” Baedarsust mumbled curiously. “Eight Whiskers too.”
Hearing him, the Ace smiled coldly, “Your owners aren’t the only ones who got new pets. And Krissy here isn’t the only one we have.”
“How did you manage to… domesticate them?”
“That’s a Resistance Navy trade secret,” she smiled smugly.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, and a few moments of scanning later, he nodded, “The Grass Eater is clear too.”
The three of them were herded into the Malgeir shuttle. She could tell it was obviously designed by humans with barely a glance. The minimalist interiors took their design cues from familiar Raytech assault shuttles, and the service panels had instruction writing in five human languages beneath the alien language in bold. But the layout was heavily adapted for the aliens’ physiology. Operable switches and controls were at a much lower height than would be comfortable for a human. Screens showed interfaces with oddly contrasting colors. And the emergency suit holders in its passenger bay would never fit an average human adult.
The Ace of Clubs wrinkled her nose at the tiny EVA suits. “We’d never fit in those,” she said, pointing at the one next to her designa...
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