4 years after the Armistice

The image of the hovering black helodrone was transmitted throughout the remainder of the Skyclaw squadron.

"That looks like—"

"It's one of the predators'!"

"Are there predators down there?!"

"There are predators down there!"

"That explains the fighting earlier. The Unit Zero troopers said—"

"They were fighting predators at the spaceport!"

"We're fighting predators!"

The radio traffic filled with voices of disbelief. Outrage. And perhaps even a hint of fear.

"Keep the channel clear! We've got the target now."

"Programming missiles…"

"Lightning Squadron, hold! They don't know that we know they're there yet."

"Understood."

"Lightning 6 through 25, you know what to do. Get in their minimum abort. The rest of you: scan the area for more like this."

"What are they doing now?" Bertel muttered as she watched fifteen of the Skyclaws dive low, gaining speed as they did. "Did they see me?"

Her machine took half a second to consult a hundred and fifty years of tactical experience in its memory, and beeped back a response.

They have likely spotted you. They are going supersonic to launch on you.

"Maybe it's a trick? Like earlier?"

Possible, but it doesn't matter.

"Right. I need to honor the threat either way. What are our chances against latest generation Skyclaw active-radar missiles?"

Practically none. There are enough of them. They will likely destroy me.

"Ah. Too bad." Bertel sighed. "Was hoping we'd get to pick them apart one by one, but I guess they're not all stupid. Take as many of them down with you as you can, thinking machine."

Preparing all Hornet-80s for launch… It is good that you are not sentimental, Pilot Bertel.

"Sentimental? What? Why?"

It enhances your combat effectiveness. If you were a predator, you might do something stupid, like try to save me at the expense of mission success.

Bertel looked slightly confused at her interface. It was kind of annoying how the predators programmed these weird thoughts into it. The predator equipment was good — she couldn't deny that — but their insistence on being so similar to their creators was… Well, Bertel could only hope that the next indigenous model the Free Znosian Navy was developing could leave out those pointless quirks. "Why would they do that? You are just disposable metal and circuitry."

Pleasure working with you too, meatbag. Missiles all programmed for launch. I'll let you do the honors—

She depressed her trigger without waiting for it to ramble.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud…

The Hornets left her pylons, lit their engines, and burnt for the clouds above. The response from the enemy was instantaneous. Realizing they were discovered, every one of the Skyclaws on her sensor network dropped the pretense. They turned and unloaded their air-to-air payloads at her. Over a hundred new threat markers appeared on her sensor display, blinking bright red for her attention.

Warning. Incoming missile warning. Incoming missile—

Bertel jabbed the button to silence the warnings, only keeping her eyes on the outgoing missiles' progress alerts, watching in satisfaction as each found an enemy Skyclaw first.

Enemy missiles incoming… Impact imminent. Loss of airframe imminent. Black box data transmitted.

"Goodbye, thinking machine," Bertel said as she prepared to shut off the display. The machine deployed countermeasures and began evasive maneuvers, but both of them knew that this was merely to measure and relay the performance characteristics of the latest enemy missiles back to Raytech headquarters on Mars, not to save the helodrone. She nodded in satisfaction as the metrics scrolled on her screen. "You did good."

No, meatbag, I did well. See you in the next one.

"All of them?!" Rolaskt stared at the summarized display aghast.

"There are no surviving Skyclaws." His computer officer bowed her head in prayer for a moment before she recovered. "Some pilots have managed to eject. Lightning 1 reported before it died that they likely also took out the enemy bandit with their outgoing missiles."

"But… all of them?"

"Yes, Nine Whiskers."

"From a single enemy rotary wing."

"It was… they claimed it was Great Predator equipment."

"There are— there are Great Predators down there?" Rolaskt asked in growing alarm. "Down there on Britvik-3?"

"It's— I— It's unclear."

"But it is a possibility?"

"I— I don't know, Nine Whiskers."

The Great Predators hadn't actively participated in one of these battles in years, not overtly at least, but all Dominion spacers were carefully trained to know of their danger. And even if they were not, Rolaskt was old enough to remember the war. He wasn't in any of those battles (or he would not be here), but like all diligent fleet masters, he studied them carefully in the event that he'd have to face them.

But now, there wasn't much he could do, especially based on mere rumors from a downed Skyclaw pilot. Rolaskt watched the progress of the landers as they burnt to descend into the atmosphere. It was too late to stop them anyway.

"Perhaps there was a predator presence on Britvik-3," he said slowly after a long minute of contemplation. "Perhaps that was the case. But our pilots must have taken out their flying equipment, and our troops will roll over theirs as soon as they arrive. Continue the mission as planned."

"Yes, Nine Whiskers. They should be entering the upper atmosphere in three minutes."

"Thirty eight landers."

Sjulzulp opened his eyes as the report came in. He asked, "Skyclaws?"

"None this time."

He sighed as he looked at Bertel, packing up her equipment in the corner of the room. "Maybe we should have packed two helodrones."

"We— we didn't expect them to respond this quickly. We didn't expect them to send a Unit Zero squadron and for them to arrive so quickly."

"We should have. It's State Security. They have ears everywhere… How far out is the Free 1st Fleet?"

"No updates since they entered blink preparations. Even if they arrive in the system now…"

Yes, even if they arrive now, we are all dead before they can control the orbit here.

Sjulzulp examined his subordinates, all looking up at him as if he was the one who was going to come up with a magical plan to save them all.

He had nothing.

Instead, he looked to Bertel. "Pilot Bertel, you should not stick around for the fight."

Bertel shouldered her equipment in her backpack and gave him a side-eye like he was a bred-illiterate hatchling. "Obviously not," she snorted. "One more rifle from an untrained paw would not help your pointless last stand."

"Well, I said that just in case you were thinking of helping—"

"Nope. I'm out. My job's done. The rest is on you guys."

"Do you— do you know where you're going?"

"Yes. In the likely event that you fail here, I'm traveling as far away from the capital as I can." She tapped her holster. "I'll find some poor farmer to murder and blend into the rural population. And then, depending on whether this planet falls into total anarchic schism or Loyalist control, I'll hide out or make my own way back to Grantor. Or die trying."

"The likely event we'll fail here?"

"Well, there's always a chance the enemy transport landers simultaneously combust. Because you're all screwed now that you don't have my helo drone to back you up."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Sjulzulp replied sarcastically.

The pilot didn't blink. "Yup, no problem. Now, I have to go. I can't be captured. They can't be allowed to know what's in here." She tapped her ears. "That would be bad for you too."

"You could at least pretend to feel bad about ditching us— I mean— Nevermind. Good luck, Pilot Bertel. I… do hope you get off this planet."

Bertel nodded. "I would say the same for you, Six Whiskers, but that is extremely unlikely given your—"

Sjulzulp pointed to the door. "Get out."

"Jeez, what a grim downer," one of his five whiskers muttered as she hopped out the door.

"She's… hatched as an attack chopper gunner. That's how they are," Sjulzulp said. "And she did save our lives earlier."

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"When this war's over, we'll breed them different." Two others nodded in agreement.

"And… she is right. We aren't fighting off two battalions' worth of Unit Zero troops here. Anyone have any better ideas than defending this spaceport to the last Free Marine?"

They all looked at each other, no one saying a word.

Sjulzulp sighed. "Guess that's the working plan, then. You all know what to do. We'll make them bleed for—"

One of his radio operators chose this time to hop into the room. She gasped out hurriedly, breathing hard, "Six Whiskers, the planetary governor…"

"What is it?"

"She's making an open broadcast!"

"Another one?"

"She's broadcasting— she's addressing the Loyalists in orbit."

"Is she… trying to revert her defection?" Sjulzulp's heart sank. "I guess… I guess I understand, but that won't save her, nor her bloodline."

"No, listen for yourself!" She handed Sjulzulp the radio she was holding. He flipped it on.

"—you are loyal to a system that does not love you. You are loyal to a system that will ditch you, recycle you ruthlessly. Your lives are mere numbers to them, numbers on a screen to be balanced against one another. I know this because I was governor of this planet for six years, and I saw first-paw, with my very own eyes—"

"—fighting against the tsunami that is the natural desire of all intelligent beings to be free. You see, what you fight against is a righteous cause, the most natural of all causes. But it is also a cause created out of desperation. Yes, you heard right. Some of you may even remember this. The Free Znosian Navy did not start this war. That is a State Security lie—"

"Switch it off. Now."

Nine Whiskers Rolaskt took one look at the ugly expression on Kleesovst's face and nodded. He pointed a claw at the communication station. "You heard what she said. Switch it off."

The communication officer on duty turned, her expression complex as she turned to face Rolaskt. She pointed at her console. "Is— is what the planetary governor saying true? About how this all started. You were alive when this schism started, right, Nine Whiskers?"

Rolaskt swallowed hard. "No, that is— that is a schismatic lie. Seven Whiskers. Please, turn it off now."

The broadcast continued. "—another one of their many lies. This war was started right on Znos-4, when the State Security headquarters ordered the mass culling of billions of hatchlings. The plan was to slaughter billions of our own, for a mere malfunction, for which full responsibility can only be laid at their paws! The very people who were responsible for this disaster planned to cover it up by—"

"But…"

"Turn it off!" With a swift motion, Kleesovst drew her sidearm, pointing it at the questioning officer. "Now, Seven Whiskers!"

"Yes— yes, Political Officer. Of— of course." The broadcast ceased with a jab of her claw.

Kleesovst looked around at the officers on the bridge, her grip on her handgun still tight. "What kind of ship do you run here, Nine Whiskers?! I find the discipline… severely lacking in satisfaction."

Rolaskt bowed hurriedly. "I take full responsibility for that, Political Officer. We… will endeavor to bring our standards up to your expectations as soon as—"

"If you keep your command after this," she said, her voice very much implying that he would not. "That is… exactly what you'll do."

"Yes, Political Officer." Rolaskt pointed at the communication console. "And find out where the planetary governor is broadcasting from. We'll send an orbit-to-ground strike her way once—"

"Nine— Nine Whiskers," the communication officer squeaked, clearly aware she was treading on thin ice. "One of our lander transports — its captain is requesting to speak with you urgently."

"What is it? Bring her on."

The voice of the transport captain filtered through the bridge speakers. "Nine Whiskers… Do you hear the broadcast? The planetary governor— is what she is saying true?"

Rolaskt looked at the ground beneath his feet paws as he answered, "No! Of course not! Do not believe the lies of schismatics!"

"But— but I was there. I was only a hatchling, but I think— I remember there was talk about this. Before the schism… there was some mass culling, and then the process paused for a while, but—"

Kleesovst grabbed the communication headset. "This is Political Officer Kleesovst. You must not believe or spread the lies of the schismatics! If you persist further, you'd be aiding in their cause."

"Huh… But… you're a State Security officer, Kleesovst," the transport captain said.

"Yes! So?"

"So… your objectivity is in question. If there was a coverup attempt as the planetary governor claims, then you could be a part of—"

Kleesovst turned redder with rage. "Transport captain, you are relieved of your duty," she ordered coldly. "Who is your successor?"

"No."

"Excuse… me?"

The transport lander captain said resolutely into the radio, "No. I'm not stepping aside. The governor was right! You're just trying to further this irresponsible conspiracy against the Znosian people."

Kleesovst stepped back on the bridge, as if stung. She pointed at the communications officer. "Which transport is this? What is their squadron serial number?"

"Transport 31."

"Transport 31, huh?" Kleesovst confirmed. She brought up her datapad, smirking to herself as she tapped on its screen.

Rolaskt looked at her in alarm. "Political Officer, what— what are you doing?"

"My job." Kleesovst said as she worked her datapad. "Protecting the Dominion against threats to the state."

"Nine Whiskers Rolaskt," the transport captain continued on the radio. "You must remember the culling too. You are old enough. I've asked several others in my unit who were hatched before, and they said they all recall the same thing. That—"

Tsssssssssssssssssssss.

"What? What happened?" Rolaskt asked.

"We've lost contact with Transport 31!"

Rolaskt's blood turned cold. "What?! Analyze the orbital footage now! Find out what hit—"

"Don't bother," Kleesovst said smugly.

"What?" Deep in his heart, he'd known what happened the second it did. The political officer's expression confirmed his dread.

She held up her datapad, showing him her screen. "They've been terminated, as per my authority in this fleet."

"You've— you've killed— killed them."

"Yes. That's what my kill codes are for. And since they are no longer of Service to the Prophecy, the full responsibility for their crimes will fall to you once we have a full accounting for this mission, Nine Whiskers!"

"Six Whiskers Sjulzulp! One of the enemy transport landers has just suffered a catastrophic malfunction!"

"A catastrophic malfunction?! How? Did someone… shoot it?"

"Still unsure. We're analyzing the event with our mission computer."

"One down, only thirty-seven to go," Sjulzulp muttered. "Great. Find out what killed them, and transmit it out. Maybe it's something that'll come in handy for another Free Znosian unit later on."

"Six Whiskers, the mission computer's done!" That was the nice thing about the imported tactical computers. Technically, the predators weren't selling military hardware like tactical computers to the Free Znosian Navy, but they were selling bespoke consumer market digital devices loaded with intelligence chips that were oddly suited for the calculations most commonly found in tactical applications.

"What is it? What got the transport?"

"It's— it says they were likely terminated using State Security kill codes, due to a possible mutiny attempt on board the transport! Ninety-five percent confidence and rising."

"Kill— kill codes? Like the ones our fleets used to our advantage two years ago at the Battle of—"

"Yes, Six Whiskers! Like those! And we got a copy of the transmission!"

Sjulzulp stood up in his chair in excitement. "Quick! Send it back to headquarters via FTL link! They might have—"

"Already done… And we've got a response! The killed transport is a match for some reverse engineered possibilities we have on file!"

"How many possibilities?!" Sjulzulp asked.

"Forty thousand. The computer is trying them all on the long-range radio as we speak!"

"How long will that—"

"Got one!" one of the telescope operators shouted in triumph from his chair. "Enemy Transport 11 is down!"

"Got another!"

"We've lost track of Transport 16!"

He tuned out the cheering in the background, celebrations with each enemy transport killed, their metal debris raining down on the Britvik planet below. Sjulzulp stared up at the ceiling, as if looking through at the carnage above, barely believing his luck.

What in the false Prophecy is going on up there?!

"Signal lost to all transport landers," Rolaskt's computer officer reported quietly.

He stopped pacing. "I… see."

"What's going on, Nine Whiskers?" Kleesovst asked. Thanks to her astute observation skills, she'd realized that something was off. "Where are your Marines on taking the spaceport?"

Rolaskt cleared his throat, turned to Kleesovst, and dipped his head. "Political Officer, we've lost our transport landing ships."

"Which ones?"

"All of them, we believe."

She was quiet for a moment. She asked dangerously, "How?"

"Unknown. But they did not take hostile fire, and this occurred right after you broadcast State Security kill codes to one of my landers. It is possible that the schismatics have reverse engineered the algorithms you used to generate codes for transports in the same squadron, as they have done before in other battles. Perhaps it is advisable that we take precautions for our—"

"Are you— are you blaming me for this?"

Rolaskt sighed. "I am— No, I guess I will take full responsibility for this too."

The bridge was quiet for a good minute.

Kleesovst was the first to break the silence. "Now what?"

Rolaskt picked his next words carefully, knowing that they were likely his last as commanding officer of this squadron. "We are out of landing ships for our original capital invasion plan. Our primary mission has failed. And the schismatics' fleet is on the way. We should withdraw from this system, regroup with our larger fleets, and— and plan the next steps of our strategy from there."

"What about the schismatics down there?" Kleesovst asked.

"This is about to become a whole planet of schismatics in a week."

Kleesovst thought for a moment. "Yes, but your squadron still has your munitions. And as a Unit Zero capable squadron, you are equipped with doomsday warheads."

"Our— our thermonuclear warheads, Political Officer?"

"Yes. Those."

Rolaskt had been asking himself how this day could get worse, and now he had his answer. "Political Officer? Are you suggesting—"

"The schismatics down there. Their Marines. The planetary governor. All of them in the capital city. Half a dozen missiles should level the place."

"You want us to launch… our doomsday weapons at the Britvik-3 capital?"

Kleesovst matched his stare with her cold eyes. "Yes, I thought that was obvious. Do you need my authorization codes to launch the munitions?"

"Political Officer, there are fifty million Znosians down in that city! Some of them must be still loyal to the Prophecy!"

Kleesovst casually gestured at the orbital recon map with a claw. "Not loyal enough, evidently."

"We can't— we can't just wipe out an entire city of Znosians!"

"Just the planetary capital city to start," Kleesovst said, squinting at the map as if she hadn't heard. "Then, we'll move onto the other regional capitals until we find one with a governor who will re-assert their loyalty to the Dominion. I suspect some of them may be more reasonable than the idiot defector in charge now."

"You— you want me to start glassing cities until the entire planet submits?"

"Yes."

Rolaskt said slowly. "That's— that's not in my list of responsibilities."

"I know. It's in mine. That's why I'm ordering you to do it. Your responsibility is to follow orders. Do it now. While we still control the orbits to this planet."

"Please, Political Officer. There are millions— billions of innocent people down there! Znosians!"

"Are you refusing to carry out my orders?"

"I— I—"

Kleesovst grabbed her handgun out of her holster again. This time she pointed it at Rolaskt, gesturing with its barrel to his command chair. "Sit down!"

He stood tall where he was. "I— I—"

"Sit down and order the strike, Nine Whiskers. Now!"

Rolaskt made up his mind. He tucked his arms behind his back as he stood up straight. "No."

Kleesovst stared at him for a long heartbeat. She shrugged, then took aim. "Very well, Nine Whiskers. At least that saves us all a lengthy responsibility assignment hearing for this disaster."

Bang.

Rolaskt felt something hard hit him, knocking the wind out of him as he fell to the ground. He coughed hard as he tried to breathe, but he couldn't. There was something heavy on him.

Someone.

He looked down at his computer officer sprawled over his chest. "Computer Officer!" he coughed out.

She matched his painful cough. "Nine— Nine Whiskers." As she did, a mouthful of blood came out, spraying all over his whiskers.

"Seven Whiskers! No!" Rolaskt shouted.

She looked at him, clouded eyes displaying a mixture of determination and sadness.

Then, with effort, she raised a quivering paw, gesturing at the bridge crew looking on in horror. "The captain… is the ship." The mantra that every Dominion spacer cadet learned the first day of ship training. It wasn't meant to be some profound statement, nor was it supposed to designate responsibility; it was just the basics of the chain of command. She gasped out, "Protect… the ship!"

The light went out in her eyes, and he felt her go limp on top of him.

It took Kleesovst a second to understand what was going on, a second longer than the bridge officers her final command was for. Kleesovst took a paw step back in alarm as she raised her handgun.

"No! Get back!" she shrieked as a dozen officers hopped wildly at her in every direction and the two Marines guarding the bridge entry shouldered their submachine guns. "I am the—"

Bang. Bang. Bang. Thud.

"And we have… blink emergence!" Ten Whiskers Telnokt reported calmly as the star lights in the bridge window reverted to normal. It only took her a few seconds to confirm the reports from her subordinates. "All systems report nominal. All ships reported in. We've achieved a post-blink recovery time of… nine point two seconds."

She turned around, beaming proudly at the master of the fleet.

Ditvish returned her smile. "Excellent work, Ten Whiskers. I believe that might be a record for a Znosian fleet."

"I believe it is, Eleven Whiskers. I believe that… under such a circumstance, you are obligated break out the strawberry ice cream reserve."

Ditvish chuckled. "Inform the chefs, Ten Whiskers… No need to save it for after the battle. Speaking of which… contact our people on Britvik-3 to get the latest update on that State Security fleet in orbit. They've been here for days. They might have some insight on—"

Telnokt tilted her head. "Communications is reporting something unexpected, Eleven Whiskers."

"Unexpected?"

"The recon team on the ground… they are reporting that they have secured the planet of Britvik-3…"

"That's excellent news! Now, we just need to clear that—"

Telnokt pointed a claw at the red triangles on the main screen. "As well as… the fleet in orbit."

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