4 years after the Armistice

POV: Sjulzulp, Free Znosian Marines (Rank: Six Whiskers)

"What are we doing? What can we do?"

Sjulzulp gazed at the hyperventilating Planetary Governor of Britvik-3 with as much calm as he could muster. "Governor, they've only sent an expeditionary force to Britvik. Four squadrons with an invasion ship. They are merely trying to intimidate you into submission!"

"Merely?! But we have no orbital cover! Your… friends! You promised us we would have support from your warships if this system were to declare itself free!"

"We will!" Sjulzulp declared with the confidence he did not personally feel. "The Free 1st Fleet is on its way as we speak."

"Do you even know how long they'll need to get here?! The Loyalists are overhead now. We are all going to die. I knew this was a mistake—"

Sjulzulp clasped an arm around the governor's shoulder, gently shaking, as if waking her from a stupor. "Governor, in your broadcast to the planet last week… those words I heard you say… Did you mean them?"

Until the entire Dominion is free, we are all slaves. It was a moving speech, but that was probably easier to say before four Loyalist squadrons blinked into the system above her planet.

Britvik was a thriving world of eight billion; it boasted no Dominion-level shipyards, but it had a pair of local space docks, enough for the production of transports for Britvik-3's well-run, well-oiled planetary economy, and that generation of lift capacity was now a priority for both sides of the schism.

More importantly, the system was in a vital spot: it was just four blinks away from Znos. For the advancing Free Znosian Navy, they'd jumped at the chance. Sjulzulp and his unit had been sent ahead of the fleet to assist the governor in the transition when it was rumored that she was considering defection.

There was always a possibility it was a trap, but, well, their lives were forfeited and all that.

As it turned out, it wasn't a trap. The governor had genuinely wanted to defect. But either by accident or someone had tipped them off, the Loyalists sent a fleet. They arrived less than a week after Sjulzulp's recon unit.

Britvik-3 didn't have its own warships. It didn't even have serious planetary defenses.

"Did you mean what you said?" Sjulzulp asked the fearful governor again.

"What I said— Yes," she said as her breathing became more regular. She stood back to her full height. "Yes, I did."

"That's right, Governor," Sjulzulp said with an approving voice. "Now, our recon battalion was placed under your command. What are your orders?"

"My orders, Six Whiskers? What— what do we do?"

"Once they enter synchronous orbit, they will likely attack the capital and the spaceport just twenty kilometers to its west," Sjulzulp relayed from his briefing earlier. "Forty to fifty assault transports. With orbital support. They need the spaceport so they can land their heavy-lift transports and equipment, which they will use to widen the beachhead and attack into the city. If they get a foothold in the capital, they'll be able to contest your legitimacy and possibly maintain control of this system."

"So you must defend the spaceport," she concluded rationally after a while, seemingly calming down a bit.

"Yes, but we are only one battalion, and their first wave will bring three, at least. You need to mobilize the troops under your command to assist in the defense."

"The Dominion Marines down at the spaceport base?" she asked.

"Are they locals?"

"I— I think so?"

Sjulzulp sighed as he asked, a little more slowly, "Will they be loyal to you?"

"Me?!" she squeaked. "I thought this was about the Free—"

"It's a figure of speech. Are they going to fight with us?"

She brightened up a little. "Oh, yes. Their commandant said he falls under my command, as per his training, and he trusts my judgement."

"Then, yes. Muster them up. And anyone else who can fight. Do they have heavy anti-aircraft and anti-orbital equipment down at the spaceport?" he asked hopefully.

"I— I don't know. I've never deployed people into combat before!"

And that was likely true. Britvik was too far from the border to need its troops for actual combat and too close to Znos to face any serious unrest.

Until now.

Sjulzulp steadied her again with a paw on her shoulder. "That's alright, Governor. Order everyone who can fight to the spaceport, and we'll handle it from there. We'll stop them."

"And if you don't?"

"Then you'll need to gather up the city in defense of itself. For as long as it takes our fleet to get here."

She smiled weakly at him. "So our hatchlings may be free, right?"

He saluted crisply. "So our hatchlings may be free. So we may all be free."

Sjulzulp stared at the grand total of four anti-aircraft launchers arrayed on the table in dismay. "Four?! You only have four launchers?" And they were the old pre-war launchers.

The Five Whiskers in charge of the unit shrugged uncomfortably. "Look. We don't do a lot of combat here in Britvik. Mostly just firefighting and supply duties. And they've been siphoning our resources to the front because of the schism…"

Her whiskers were gray, a sign of her age. Some of the predators had a saying about how the most dangerous soldiers were the elderly ones, because of what their survival to old age implied, but here, it was likely just because the Dominion didn't bother to recycle elderly Marines who could still fill quotas on the worlds where fighting was not expected.

Sjulzulp sighed. "I know that! But I was hoping you'd have at least more than what we brought down here with us!"

"I take full responsibility, Six Whiskers, for our lack of readiness—"

"Forget about it. Do your people at least know how to prepare sandbags and static defensive positions?"

"Yes, Six Whiskers," she replied, looking at him oddly. "We all went through the same standard training you did."

"Right," Sjulzulp muttered, neglecting to mention the extra training he'd gotten. "Thank the false Prophecy for Dominion standardization."

"Would you— would you like us to establish a perimeter around the spaceport?"

Sjulzulp shook his head reluctantly. "Not enough troops. Spread your Marines out here." He pointed at a section of buildings on the southeast side of the spaceport. "We can defend here. We can hold the barracks and logistics terminal buildings."

"What about traffic control?" She pointed to a tall tower — about fifteen stories tall — right in the center of the spaceport.

"What about it?" He took another glance at it. It looked… weak. "It's unsupported and too far away from everything else. The Loyalists will level it the second they see you in there."

"What about scouts?" she persisted.

He looked a bit surprised at her. Maybe there was something about that predator saying. "Good point. Garrison it with a squad of your scouts. And tell them to keep themselves hidden. If they get spotted, they're all dead."

She turned to give the order.

"We'll try to hit a few of their flyers as they come in for the landing." He took another look at the launchers on the table and added, "As many of them as we can, anyway. For the rest, well…"

"The schismatics have just seized control of the capital," Nine Whiskers Rolaskt declared, pointing at the recon satellite imagery. "Luckily, our sources on the ground reported the planetary governor's treachery when she reached out to the schismatics' fleet."

Znos didn't see it coming. There were so many systems in rebellion that the signs were lost in all the noise. But once they learned of it, the nearest quick reaction squadron was immediately dispatched to quell it.

"Marines, we have a prime opportunity here!" he said, thumping his foot in emphasis. "The schism is fresh. Weak in its uncertainty. There are still many loyal Servants to the Prophecy on the planet. And the planet itself has no static defenses and a very light troop presence."

"If we retake the capital, the rest of the planet will follow." The map on the main screen switched to a map of the city. "There is a planetary-grade spaceport, a little over twenty kilometers to the west of the governor's residence, built for heavy transport landing. It has the infrastructure and logistics equipment necessary for us to initiate a lightning push into the capital."

One Marine platoon leader raised her paw. Rolaskt pointed at her. "Question?"

"Yes, Nine Whiskers. Should we expect to face any anti-orbital or anti-aircraft fire on our way down?"

"None that we know of, Five Whiskers. But… there is one unknown. Our sources say that the schismatics have sent a recon unit to the planet, roughly battalion strength, and they arrived last week. From what our people reported, they don't appear to have much heavy equipment with them, but even if they do, our mission is largely unchanged."

A rustle washed over his gathered troops. Another Marine asked, "Are we conducting orbital defense suppression before we go in?"

"Negative." Rolaskt shook his head. "A full orbital suppression campaign will take weeks. We are a quick reaction force, not an orbital superiority fleet. If their cursed main fleet shows up here, we will not be able to sustain an operation. Whatever we do here, we should seek to accomplish our objectives before they arrive. If they arrive and we're already secured control, we can hold out down there for as long as we need for our main fleet to head here and engage."

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They all bowed their heads as they uttered the prayer. "Our lives were forfeited were forfeited to the Prophecy the day we left the hatchling pools."

Rolaskt nodded and continued, "We must rely on speed and surprise. Remember, this war is not just about bullets and bombs; it is about control. Right now, those schismatics down there have shocked the locals into compliance with their audacity. If we wait a few weeks — a few months even — before we come back with a full fleet, they'll have suborned the population with their poisonous ideology. By then, even if we can retake the capital, we'll be dealing with a planetary-level insurgency for months and years. But now… when they are still establishing themselves, when the people of this planet are still uncertain… it is why we must act fast. Any other questions?"

There was a smattering of low voices in the crowd but no additional questions. The prior briefing had been brief, but the mission was clear.

Rolaskt cleared his throat, then stared his Dominion Marines in the eye, each of them. "Britvik-3 must not fall. Here, we draw the line in the sand. Here, we show the galaxy the failure and destruction that schism brings. We are Special Unit Zero. We are the silent death that visit apostates and predators in the night. Trust in your training! Trust in your breeding! Trust in your state! Awoo?"

"Awoo awoo awoooooooo!"

Rolaskt watched the progress of his landing shuttles with white knuckled claws as they descended into the atmosphere. Of all the operations that Dominion Marines were trained to do, a contested orbital insertion was the most difficult. They were trained and bred for it, yes. The planning was thorough, yes. But in a single battle, anything could happen. He'd learned that lesson well enough in the past four years of schism.

"Entering the Britvik atmosphere," his computer officer reported. "No resistance so far."

That'll change.

Rolaskt nodded his appreciation at the update and ordered, "Computer Officer, I want to make a broadcast on the radio."

"Nine Whiskers?"

"There are still loyal Servants of the Prophecy down on Britvik. The governor can't have gotten to everyone so quickly."

"Yes, Nine Whiskers," his computer officer said. A few moments of tapping on her console, and she gave him an affirmative gesture with her paw. "You're on the open channel."

Rolaskt cleared his throat and spoke sternly into his headset. "Inhabitants of Britvik. Hear me now! I am Nine Whiskers Rolaskt of the Dominion Navy, the one and only true Navy of the Prophecy. I know that some of you are still Loyal Servants of the Prophecy. That many of you have not yet fallen prey to the schismatics and apostates who have perverted the purpose of our species. Those who now sell you a lie. A false promise of freedom and truth. You know, in your ears and your bones — you know that these are nothing but meaningless abstractions, designed to fool hatchlings and bred-illiterates. The truth is: the schismatics are greedy hypocrites, filled with fear. Fear of authority, fear of death, fear of failure, and fear of your loyalty to the rightful Prophecy."

He took a deep breath and continued, "Your false planetary governor's attempted schism will fail. My troops, who are now landing on your planet, will see to that. The only thing that you can change now is how many bloodlines must be shed from the Prophecy. Brave and loyal Servants, hear your directive now: you must go to your false planetary governor's residence now and remove her. Oust her from her position! Take her out, and I promise you this: this is the right thing to do. As for those who have contemplated schism, even you are not beyond saving! If you immediately begin to take full responsibility for your misdeeds, if you undo your damage now… the responsibility assignment for this planet may be limited to—"

"Ahem!"

Rolaskt looked up in surprise at the throat clearing on his bridge. He muted his microphone as he recognized the speaker. "Political Officer Kleesovst. To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence on the bridge?"

Before the schism, political officers hadn't been used in the Dominion Navy for centuries. There simply hadn't been the need. Order was usually maintained by State Security informants or security officers, operating hidden in the ranks of leadership. But as the schism got more serious, more drastic measures needed to be implemented. More visible. Hence, political officers who ensured the ideological purity of the Navy's officers.

"Nine Whiskers Rolaskt, your mandate is clear. You must retake this planet. What happens afterwards… the responsibility assignment… that is not within your authority to grant!" Kleesovst replied in a loud voice for the entire bridge to hear.

Rolaskt dipped his head in a bow. "Yes, of course, Political Officer. I was merely offering our people on the ground some incentive— I thought that—"

Kleesovst interrupted him. "Is thinking part of your directives, Nine Whiskers Rolaskt?"

Rolaskt thought for a few seconds. "I believe it is, Political Officer Kleesovst. Thinking is necessary to accomplish my objective of retaking this planet. Surely—"

"Yes, that is true," Kleesovst admitted. "What about thinking beyond the necessity of your mandate? Is that necessary?"

"By definition, what is beyond necessity is unnecessary—"

"No, no, it is not!" Kleesovst said triumphantly, as if she'd just discovered a serious plot. "Therefore, you are not to think beyond your objective! Most importantly, you are not to offer amnesty to any potential schismatic or apostate, without authorization from me or Znos!"

She hissed the amnesty word out like poison. That had been a tactic that was attempted to pacify certain planets in schism. Its effectiveness was… mixed. Some rebels did initially fall for empty promises of amnesty if they surrendered, but as the schism went on, they found more and more ways to exploit the Dominion's generosity against it.

Rolaskt hurried to explain. "It is not— I did not make concrete promises of amnesty. I was merely offering— suggesting ways that loyal Servants of the Prophecy could fulfill their purposes, as— as another simple Znosian. I put myself in the shoes of—"

"You put yourself in the shoes of schismatics?" Kleesovst asked dangerously.

"Of— of course not, Political Officer. I take full responsibility for giving out that— that false impression. I would never— never— I take full responsibility."

Kleesovst huffed twice, then said, "Your full responsibility is accepted. We will discuss your penance after your objective is completed."

"Yes, Political Officer." Desperate for a distraction, he looked at his computer officer pleadingly. "Computer Officer, any updates?"

"Yes, Nine Whiskers," she replied hurriedly. "The first landing shuttles have reported in: they are taking sporadic fire from the ground. Two shuttles have been hit with anti-aircraft missile fire. One of the old ones from the planet's Marine contingent, we believe. Both remain operational. They are in the final stages of landing now."

On the monitor, six columns of black smoke rose from the spaceport into the sky, clouding the infrared vision screen with a dark fog over the southern edge of the facility.

He pointed at their source. "They, uh— they—"

She nodded. This was one of the scenarios that the Digital Guide had projected. "They likely sabotaged the fuel tanks to obscure the landing zone. The schismatics have used this tactic before. Our pilots are trained to fly and land their shuttles by instrument. It should not pose an immediate problem."

He could almost smell the burning fuel.

"Good, good." Rolaskt traced the first landing shuttles on the map as they began firing their massive landing thrusters. "Once they land and unload, get those shuttles off the ground as soon as they can. And get the second wave Marines in our cargo hold ready. The first wave will undoubtedly take the brunt of their defenses. Our subsequent waves should clean up once they get there."

Even through the thick, sandbag-reinforced walls, Sjulzulp could hear the fighting at the front as the planet's Marines engaged the landed troops with their machine guns.

Rat-at-at-at-at.

As much as he wished he were there with them, he had more appropriate responsibilities today. He followed the enemy's progress on his datapad in the command center, just three defensive lines behind the front.

"Defensive Line Alpha," he spoke into the radio calmly. "Call out the enemy's position."

The response came from the young Free Znosian officer in charge of coordinating the defense from the two-story tall perimeter barracks. He was barely out of hatchling-hood, so it was hard to tell if the shrill tone of his voice — interspersed with gunfire — was the result of his youth or his emotional state. "We're taking heavy fire!" He coughed hard into the radio as it was filled with another burst of gunfire. "They've got our windows zeroed with their Longclaws!"

Rat-at-at-at-at.

The landed Loyalist heavy armor wasted no time. As soon as the transports dropped touched the ground, they rolled off the ramps, their guns already properly ranged. From one of his surveillance drones overhead, Sjulzulp could see that one of the barracks buildings was missing half of its second floor from the plasma fire before the enemy shot it out of the sky.

They came prepared. At least two of their Light Longclaws were armed with anti-aircraft cannons, their 45 millimeter autocannons shredding everything he launched with a volley of airburst ammunition. And those were the drones towing fiber optic cables or using line-of-sight laser communication modules. The remote controlled ones couldn't even take off with the heavy electronic warfare signals being broadcast by the enemy.

"Defensive Line Alpha, I need targeting coordinates," Sjulzulp requested patiently. "Our mortar team is just firing blind here."

Thonk. Thonk.

As if to corroborate his statement, the mortar tubes coughed sporadically, sending a few more explosive rounds into the main area of the spaceport, hopefully where the enemies were concentrated.

Rat-at-at-at-at.

"I can't reach the guys downstairs! We ran out of anti-armor. They're driving their troop carriers right up to my building!" More shooting, this time the shots from the firefight in the background echoed as if they were indoors. "These people aren't trained or bred to fight Special Unit Zero operators!"

Rat-at-at-at-at.

"Defensive Line Alpha. What about your position? Can you see where their infantry is unloading from your position?"

Rat-at-at-at-at.

"I can't see nothing! They've got our windows pinned!"

"Can you launch your drones, Defensive Line Alpha? Even if just for a second, we just need to see where—"

"They're coming up to the second floor!" The background of the radio filled with more shouts. "Grenades! Use your grenades!"

Rat-at-at-at-at-boom-rat-at-at-at-boom.

Sjulzulp could hear the explosions even without the radio, just a few buildings away from him.

"Defensive Line Alpha? Alpha? What's going on?"

"They've taken control of the stairs! They've on our floor now! They've got some kind of stun grenade—"

Sjulzulp knew exactly what the defensive line commander was talking about. He could still recall himself in one of those breaching scenarios at his special training, overwhelming the static defenders with so much force and violence that they couldn't respond to all the breaches. Apparently, his retrained platoon wasn't the only ones who'd learned from the big predator bag of magic tricks. The enemy had, too.

"We're— we're—"

Rat-at-at-at-at.

For a few seconds, there was nothing from the radio. And then, the defensive line commander's voice came through, this time calm. Resigned. "Six Whiskers, our position should be considered lost. Our lives were all— Ah, screw it. You better win here, Six Whiskers. Next year in Znos?"

Sjulzulp held back his emotions as he replied, "We'll see you next year in Znos, company leader. Can you get your Marines out so we can—"

"No time! They're here!"

"Wait! Wait—"

"This is Five Whiskers Fzulin! Ears Company! First Recon Battalion! 1208th Free Marines! Awooooooooo—"

Tsssssssssssssssssssss.

For a half second, Sjulzulp looked confusingly at the steady static from his radio. Then…

Boooooooooooooooooooooooom.

The roar of the explosion shook every building on the spaceport, rattling his teeth, ringing his ear, and shattering just about every window in the vicinity.

As the shockwave passed, Sjulzulp closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

So our hatchlings can be free.

He flicked a switch on his radio. "Defensive Line Bravo, do you copy?"

"This is Defensive Line Bravo. Six Whiskers, the perimeter barracks— they've detonated their charges… They're gone."

"Yes, I know. Do you now have line of sight on the unloading enemy?" The logistics terminal was a sprawling warehouse, but it was only one-story tall. And their vision to the rest of the spaceport had been blocked by the perimeter barracks.

"No, Six Whiskers. There's too much smoke in the area, and part of the building is still standing. We can't see— Hold one… Six Whiskers. We can see a couple of their landers in the spaceport's main area. They're taking off! Should we engage them with our anti-armor launchers?"

Sjulzulp shook his head, mostly to himself. "Negative, they're armored to withstand high-caliber naval fire. We are unlikely to do any damage to them without anti-ship defenses. Are your own defenses ready?"

"As ready as we can be… But I heard the same thing on the radio you did, Six Whiskers. We can't hold against their Unit Zero troops. We can already see them unloading more of those at the barracks. They'll come for us next. We'll fight to the end, Six Whiskers, but…"

"Understood." Sjulzulp sighed as he closed the radio connection. He looked at the only other occupant of his command center who was just sitting and doing nothing at the moment. He nodded at her. "Is the uplink ready?"

"Ready as can be," she replied with a humorless smile. "We've got six laser transmitters mounted on the tall buildings back in the city by hardline. And the package we brought down here has been deployed. There's just one problem: we'll still need those target designations."

Sjulzulp activated his radio again, this time broadcasting on the entire network. "Does anyone have eyes on the enemy formations who can designate for our fire support?"

There was a brief moment of silence.

Then, the voice he expected spoke up. "Six Whiskers, traffic control squad here. We've still got a spotter drone we can launch."

Sjulzulp wanted to fight her hard on it, but he knew there was no other way, and he didn't want to be insincere. "Traffic control team. You know that as soon as you launch a drone from your position, they'll—"

"We knew the risks when we hid up here. They'd have found us eventually."

"Understood. We're ready on your go."

"Hey, they haven't gotten us yet… Spotter drone ready to launch in thirty seconds."

Sjulzulp switched his radio off and looked back down at the officer sat at her desk.

She shrugged at him, lowered her virtual reality headset over her eyes, and put her claws on her own controls. "Ready, Six Whiskers. Orders?"

"Show them what you've got, Pilot Bertel."

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