Naval Station Europa, Europa (100 km)

POV: Ditvish, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Zero Whiskers)

Sprabr did not look surprised to see him. Nor his Republic-appointed lawyer sitting next to him. "Mr. Ditvish, my client appreciates your visit. But as he is under indictment and this conversation is not privileged, he will not answer any of your questions about the alleged war crimes that he has been charged with."

"It's fine. I'll talk to him," Sprabr said, waving his handler aside as Ditvish sat down opposite of him.

"Eleven Whiskers Sprabr," Ditvish addressed him carefully.

"I am no longer ranked… Eleven Whiskers Ditvish, of the Free Znosian Navy," Sprabr replied evenly.

"You've heard."

"They tell me things to get me to cooperate. An interesting interrogation technique. My— my— my—" Sprabr pointed at the man in an expensive suit towering over him to his side.

"Lawyer," the man helpfully added.

"Right, my lawyer says he made it so they aren't allowed to read my brain like they did to you."

"Not without a court order," the lawyer clarified. "We are filing a temporary restraining order with the Supreme Court contesting whether the practice is legal at all under the articles of the Atlas Charter. At best, their previous usage has been a loophole, an exploit that should be closed immediately; at worst, a knowing violation of the laws of the Republic, including the very charter that—"

Ditvish nodded knowingly at the man. "Ah, the APRU."

Sprabr looked between the two like they'd just shared a joke that excluded him. "The what?"

"The Alien Prisoners' Rights Union," Ditvish explained. "They protect the rights of alien prisoners."

Sprabr didn't look any less confused. "What?"

"They make sure we're fed properly. All… millions of us, apparently."

"It's— it's an additional layer of responsibility between their prison guards and us."

Sprabr sniffed twice as he accepted the explanation with skepticism. "What is the purpose of this— this extra layer of responsibility?"

"Nothing useful, as far as I can tell," Ditvish admitted. "But I don't mind being fed properly and my advocate brings me fun books to read. And some of their hatchlings write letters to me. Their drawings are horrible, but some of them contain fascinating insight—"

Sprabr was obviously much less interested in that. "And what about that brain reading thing? They can really do that?!"

Ditvish nodded. "It's quite clever. They just read the signals moving in your brain and their thinking machines can decipher it."

"That'll be useful for our State Security when we get our paws on that technology," Sprabr said, almost automatically. Then he frowned. "If… we get our paws—"

"Ah, there it is," Ditvish said, smiling. "And the delusions melt away… How did they get you anyway? They only told me you were captured last month."

"Our own people handed me over right before the schism broke out," Sprabr replied, his voice turning bitter. "State Security idiots. This was part of their terms of armistice. Hand us over for trial, the most valuable of us. The predators want to put me on trial for what they consider crimes I am responsible for."

Ditvish shrugged. "Better than you'd have been treated under State Security. The Terrans don't execute prisoners, or so they say."

"Bah. Their naivety… it is almost insulting how we are losing to them. If I didn't know better… Anyway, life in a cell like this one for the rest of my life is not much better than a quick bullet to the back of my head."

"It's alright. Not too bad," Ditvish replied. "The food is better."

"The food is better," Sprabr nodded in agreement after only a moment of hesitation.

Ditvish grinned a very un-Znosian grin. "I like strawberry ice-cream night."

"What's ice-cream?"

"You'll see." Ditvish tilted his head at his former fleet master. "You know, you can join me. Join us. Maybe they'll allow you to leave with me if you agree to fight for the Free Znosian Navy like I did."

"I don't think so. Ultimately, I am the face of the invasion into their home nest. Their current batch of leaders came to power with the promise of capturing or killing me. There will be no forgiveness in my future." Then Sprabr dry chuckled. "And what? Help our species? Save our people? They gave you that whole speech too?"

Ditvish nodded. "Yes, and I think… I was their second choice… Do you doubt their honesty?"

"No, I believe the Great Predators are genuine. Genuinely stupid. Well, not stupid… naïve. I don't think what they want is even possible."

"Not even worth trying? Surely, the survival of our species is still worth an attempt?"

Sprabr seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Actually, no. Not even worth trying. No."

"Really? Do you truly believe that?"

"They can throw Znos-4 into its star for all I care. It deserves it — every last one of us does," he said bitterly.

"What… have they done to you?" Ditvish wondered, looking at the former grand fleet commander of the Dominion Navy with pity in his eyes.

"The predators? Them? Nothing."

There was a minute of silence in the cell.

"I was betrayed by State Security too, you know?" Ditvish asked.

"Not like me. Not like this."

"I guess not… If you help, you'll get a chance to help kill some of them. Would that change your mind?" he asked hopefully.

Sprabr sighed. "No. Not even that. Redemption or revenge, I simply think… there is nothing in the galaxy worth fighting over left."

"Isn't that up to— up to our people? Shouldn't we collectively get to decide that after we get a look at some actual choices?"

"Eleven Whiskers Ditvish, I— I just don't care. I am tired of this war… so tired… Perhaps that is why they don't allow us to live too long before our recycling. Because we would all tire of war. I am done. I've done what I can for our people. Maybe it was the wrong thing. Maybe I worked for the wrong people, for the wrong cause. But I will do no more."

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Tried as he might, Ditvish could not change Sprabr's mind. As he got up to leave, he shook his head and took out a piece of paper from his pocket. He slid it across the table to Sprabr.

"What is this?" Sprabr asked, glancing at it suspiciously.

"My reading list. Perhaps there is something in there that will help you. Or at least it might be useful to pass the time."

Sprabr opened his mouth, as if ready to object, but said nothing and accepted the list. Instead, he nodded. "Thank you, Eleven Whiskers. Ah. I— I have something for you too."

"Oh?"

Sprabr clasped his paw to his shoulders, and with one swift ripping motion, removed the old insignia on his uniform. He held it up to Ditvish. "They forgot to take this from me. Perhaps you will wear these eleven whiskers better than I did."

Ditvish looked at the synthetic cloth patch, frowning in confusion. "Huh? Why would I need yours? Insignias are not hard to make. I am sure they can fabricate another one of those for me very cheaply when I get there."

Sprabr stared at him for a moment and then nodded as if he'd been silly to suggest it. He put his insignia back in his pocket. "I guess you're right. May the Prophecy— Good luck, Eleven Whiskers."

District 95, Zishskish-2

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

Sjulzulp carefully watched the corner of the dark trench with the optic on his Dominion Model-183 rifle as he rounded it in one swift step.

Nothing.

"Clear," he whispered.

His squadmates whispered back. "Clear."

"Clear."

"All clear here."

Sjulzulp slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled himself over the edge of the trench, looking into the charred, dead landscape. The formerly vibrant and beautiful district had been engulfed by war for merely three months, and the layers of freshly built trench lines in its fertile soil were a testament to just how much things had changed.

He pointed at the next trenches over, merely a few meters away, and continued in a low voice, "That's the next line. They're over there."

"Are you sure?"

He squinted at the position and the silhouettes in the dark. "Yeah, I see their campfire. They're right over there."

The squadmate snorted. "Camp fire? Must be a squad of the mindless."

"The new conscripts, probably," he agreed in a whisper.

His squadmate giggled lightly. "We are lucky they are so stupid."

"Alright, alright, not so loud. They might hear. Pass me the grenades."

They handed him a basket of the oval-shaped devices. Operating these had become second nature to him. Sjulzulp grabbed one, pulled the pin, and tossed it toward where the enemy squad was.

Boom.

The grenade explosion punctuated the night.

It missed. Landed just short of the trench. The enemy squad yelped out in surprise, chaotically organizing themselves as they realized they were coming under attack. A couple of wild shots flew off in an errant direction.

Sjulzulp didn't even bother getting back into cover. He tossed them another one.

Boom.

"Got them," he said as he observed his work with some satisfaction. "Move up."

The squad pulled themselves up into the danger zone over the trench and hopped down into the next line. What had been the hiding spot of an enemy squad was now a mess of blood, gore, and fur. Sjulzulp looked down at the bodies of the enemies he killed. They looked… just like him. Just mindless Znosians fighting for the wrong side in a horrible war.

One of the bodies stirred. He aimed his rifle at it, careful to avoid traps. He knew exactly how fanatical the enemy can be, even this close to death. After all, they looked just like him.

The dying enemy stirred again, then gurgled, blood spilling down their cheeks. They futilely tried to get up, but found themselves too weak to even move their legs. With a sigh, they resigned themselves to their spot on the ground. "I— My life was forfeited… to the Prophecy… the day…" they barely whispered out before they stopped breathing.

Bang.

Sjulzulp put a round in between their eyes. Just to be sure. "Clear."

"All clear."

He turned to his squadmates. "Radio."

They handed him one wordlessly. He dialed it to the correct channel. "Nova, Recon squad. We've secured the trenches behind the forest."

"Understood, Five Whiskers… Any casualties to evacuate?" the voice of his new commanding officer asked.

"Negative. Resistance was minimal. I think they've mostly pulled out in this sector, leaving behind only the conscripts we saw coming in two weeks ago."

"Good work. Hold your position. We'll move our main attack force in tomorrow morning. Nova, out."

Sjulzulp's squad began clearing the enemy squad's bodies out of the trenches, dragging and then throwing them out by their ears by the pair. It wasn't glamorous, but they did as they were told. It wasn't much different from what they were doing before all this, but at least now they were fighting for something.

After a few minutes, they arranged the night watch and began passing out tea. It was cold tea. They could light a fire and brew it for real in the trench, but only if they wanted to broadcast their exact position to every enemy fire support asset within ten kilometers of their position.

"How long do you think this will take?"

Sjulzulp looked up in surprise at his radio operator staring at him. "Hm?"

"This war. Fighting the mindless loyalists. There are a lot of them, yes, but we're much better at this than they are. How long do you think it will be?"

"I have no clue," he admitted a few heartbeats of thinking later. "There are a lot of them. And in war, there are no guarantees, no certainties. Maybe the Zishskish High Command will surrender and end this tomorrow. Maybe an artillery shell hits our position and ends our war tonight."

"I hope it's the former and not the latter."

"Then what?" Sjulzulp wondered out loud. "Then we pack up everything and move onto another planet? We liberate another world?"

The radio operator grinned. "We do as we're ordered and go where we're needed. Like all Free Znosians, of course."

"Hah. I wonder how all the other worlds are doing."

"Wonderfully, I'm sure. Maybe we'll be in Znos by next year."

Sjulzulp chuckled at his dry sarcasm and held up his cup of tea. "To next year in Znos."

His squadmate matched his cheer and gulped down his own cup. "Next year in Znos."

Three hours deeper into the night, Sjulzulp woke abruptly to the shaking of his radio operator. "Wake up! Wake up, Five Whiskers!"

"What?" he said as he sat up, taking stock of the artillery shelter he'd fallen asleep in. "What's going on?"

"Urgent! Radio for you!"

Sjulzulp rubbed his eyes and accepted the radio. "Recon squad. Go ahead."

The voice on the other end was a lot less calm. "Recon squad, get out of there! Our spotters say there's an armored unit heading your way…"

As if in response, there was a large boom far away, the fur-raising sound of a kinetic cannon firing.

One of his squadmates ran into the bunker. "It's a Longclaw, heading this way! Two, maybe three kilometers out. They're clearing one of our decoy positions on the hill—"

"What type?"

"Hey, what type?" the squadmate yelled out to the troops watching in the open trenches.

"Heavy, I think. They've got the urban style armor tiles on the front," one of the Marines with an optic yelled back.

"We're hatchlings in deep water. We didn't bring heavy anti-armor!"

"Get back down! Don't let them see you!" Sjulzulp yelled at him urgently as he saw one of the troops peek over the rampart a little too much.

A second too late.

Rat-at-at-at-at.

The distant Longclaw raked their trench line with a burst of kinetic ammunition. They dove into the trenches in time, but the enemy gunner had obviously spotted them.

"They know where we are! Get out of the bunker!" Sjulzulp ordered, and his crew hurriedly relocated, running into the maze of trenches.

Rat-at-at-at.

One of his troopers popped a smoke grenade, its green fumes billowing everywhere in the frosty night air. It didn't seem to work very well against the Longclaw, still raking their position — accurately — with its machine gun.

Boooooom.

The artillery bunker exploded behind Sjulzulp in a fireworks display. It was designed to help protect against shrapnel from indirect fire, not a direct hit from a Longclaw plasma shot. The concussive force of its explosion knocked the squad to the ground.

Rat-at-at.

"We have to move!"

"Can't! They have us sighted in!"

Boom.

Another plasma cannon round shrieked past them and exploded not fifty meters from their position, searing their fur with the intense heat. A barrage of lighter but no less lethal kinetics peppered their lines.

Rat-at-at-at-at-at.

"Maybe we can hop for it?"

"Don't be stupid. Stay down."

"I don't want to die here!"

Sjulzulp winced at his radio buzzed again.

"Recon squad, I don't know if you're still there, but I've connected you to our orbital support."

Orbital support? Since when did we get orbital support?!

He wasn't one to complain when a lifeline fell into his lap out of the sky. "We're here, Nova. And understood… Orbital support, are you there?"

"Reading you loud and clear, recon squad. You're the squad facing down that new generation Longclaw in the forward trench lines in district 95?"

"District— Yes! That's us! Where are you?"

"Over you, silly. Anti-armor orbital munition is already inbound on the Longclaw. ETA six minutes. Stay down. We'll let you know when it's about to hit."

Rat-at-at-at-at.

Two seconds into the wait, Sjulzulp already knew it was going to be the longest six minutes of his life.

"Thank you, orbital," Sjulzulp replied as he pressed his belly down in the shallow trench. "I thought the Free 82nd pulled all its ships out weeks ago. I didn't know we still had orbital support in this system. Which fleet are you guys?"

"The Grand—"

Rat-at-at-at-at-at.

Boom.

He frowned. "Huh? Which one? I didn't hear you right."

"The Grand Fleet. Under Ten Whiskers Telnokt."

"Never heard of you," Sjulzulp said as the bullets whistled overhead. "But welcome to the cause. Wish you'd joined six minutes earlier, but better late than never, right?"

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