This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Spooker0 on 2025-06-27 13:35:37+00:00.
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100 Low Ground III
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.
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“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.”
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“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 current—”
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.”
“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...
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