POV: Grionc, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: High Fleet Commander)

  “The enemy fleet has blinked out of the system,” Vastae reported. “Grantor system space is clear.”

  In the past, the disappearance of about a thousand enemy combat ships from the sensor computers would be accompanied by the slowing of their cooling fans as they had to process less data. The newly retrofitted Terran computers on the bridge were much less perturbed.

  Grionc nodded in satisfaction. “They didn’t try that stupid wounded prey trick again?”

  He grinned back at her, baring his canines. “Wouldn’t help them much now. That trick can only backfire, given our massive missile range advantage and our allies’ radars.”

  “Yeah. You know that. I know that. But I was kind of hoping they wouldn’t.” Grionc pointed her snout toward the front of the ship, as if gesturing out toward where the enemies had fled.

  “Too bad,” Vastae said nonchalantly. “We’ll just have to destroy them another day.”

  Grionc did a double take at her captain, wondering whether he would have made that comment merely a few years ago. Before the Terrans. That detached attitude towards battle, that supreme confidence in the competence of the Federation fleets earned by years of experience — she considered if this was a result of their steady string of victories… or the other way around… if their veterancy had a part to play in those victories.

  She looked down at the planet of Grantor-3 on her battle map, and she hoped that her millions of Marines who were going to be storming the planet were just as prepared as her fleet.

  Look at that mess. It’s going to be such a bloodbath down there.

  As Grionc ruminated on the thorny problem, Vastae tapped her on the shoulder. “High Fleet Commander, you have an urgent call for you from Sol.”

  She frowned. “An urgent call from Sol?”

  At this time?

  “It’s Fleet Admiral Amelia Waters.”

  The creases on the face of the human admiral were accentuated by the dim lighting in Grionc’s own office. War was not kind on any of its participants; while it often left a lighter touch on those who did not fight where they could see the whites of the enemy’s eyes, Amelia looked like she had aged two decades since Grionc first met her.

  “A truce? Now?!” Grionc blinked in confusion. “But we’re already on the verge of liberating Grantor!”

  “They’re giving up the system,” Amelia replied. “And we’re going to allow them to evacuate.”

  “So we’re just going to let them go? I thought the plan was to force all their troops on the ground to surrender and use that as a bargaining chip. Millions of captive Znosian Marines…”

  Amelia’s exhaustion was even more evident as she sighed. “Our leaders — and yours — have agreed to let them go through the siege lines in exchange. For the sake of the Granti people.”

  Grionc frowned. “What’s the Granti official position on that? Aren’t they staunchly against any negotiations without tangible guarantees? If they don’t have a problem continuing to fight, why are we—”

  “Our leaders have argued that their government-in-exile can’t possibly be representative of their entire species,” Amelia said neutrally.

  “That’s— that’s absurd!”

  The Terran admiral sighed. “As it is, we are pushing the Znosians out of all their territories. Even if everyone knows that the Znosians will simply gear back up and try this again, they are at least in a worse strategic position to do so. Which is why the Granti exiled leadership have, in principle, agreed to accept the ceasefire terms after some persuasion.”

  “In principle?”

  “They don’t exactly have an intact chain of command. What they have are a bunch of resistance and underground networks on their planets, stirred up by our good friends downstairs. Anyway, the newly reformed Granti government is filtering their instructions out as we speak.”

  Grionc nodded reluctantly. “We’ll follow our orders, of course. Regardless of what we personally think of them.”

  Amelia did not look relieved. “I know it’ll be hard for your people once they take a look at what happened down on Grantor-3…”

  “How long do we have to stop shooting at them?”

  “One standard Terran year. Or 350 Malgeiru days,” Amelia said as she did the conversion in her head.

  “Unless…”

  “Yeah, unless they don’t follow the evacuation schedule exactly as prescribed. In which case, you are to exercise your discretion, especially once our troop strength outnumber theirs on Grantor in a couple months. Do you understand what I mean, High Fleet Commander?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

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

  Sprabr calmly stared into the barrel of the gun pointed at his head as an unseen paw roughly snatched the black hood off his head.

  It was exactly who he expected to see. He had hoped in his heart that the Terrans would kill her in her bunker when they came into Znos, but no such luck.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Sprabr, Sprabr, Sprabr.” Svatken tutted chipperly.

  Odd, she seems to be in a good mood.

  Sprabr examined his unfamiliar surroundings. It was a courtyard, its ground painted with the blood of— he looked at the pile of fresh corpses stacked neatly in a corner. He recognized quite a few faces among them.

  He looked back at Svatken. “Director. You’re still alive.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.” She gestured at the pile of dead bodies. “Your apostasy attempt has failed.”

  Sprabr took another look. “Those— those people aren’t even involved—” He sighed, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would change her mind. He stood up straight. “It wasn’t apostasy. It was me, taking full responsibility during a crisis for which the Dominion had no better response.”

  Her voice was dangerous. “You knew full well what you were doing. And if it weren’t for your utter failure to defend Znos-4-C, losing it to the enemy, it might not have been so easy to take you down.”

  Sprabr thought about staying behind on Znos-4-C, but he didn’t covet pointless death that much. As the evacuation went on, he considered more and more extreme options to somehow extend his existence, but his last real hope had been dashed the moment the predators announced they were demolishing the planet. If he’d been more successful with the planet’s defense… If he’d been able to gather more support within State Security on the back of a victory… If he had the de facto control of the Dominion Navy whose command facilities were now fusion fuel for the Znosian star… There were so many what-ifs for him, but all of them required not losing to the predators in such a horrific fashion, a defeat worse than anyone in the Dominion imagined was possible.

  State Security intercepted his personal shuttle as it left the planet with the last of the evacuation ships. And no less than half a battalion of Unit Zero troops were waiting for him when they landed.

  His eyes went back to the gun pointed at his head, and he shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Click.

  Sprabr flinched at the sound of the dry trigger pull, but confusion flooded his emotions a few seconds later as he continued to breathe.

  He opened his eyes again. Svatken was still smiling, cradling her gun in her paws. She scoffed. “Death? It’s not going to be quite so easy for you.”

  He sighed again. “I thought not. Endless torture by your minions?”

  “No, worse.”

  “What is worse than the worst pain you can imagine?”

  Svatken’s grin widened to fill her snout, the unnatural expression even more eerie in the dim lighting. “The worst pain that the Great Predators can imagine. You are being handed over. And given how quickly they apparently broke our people they captured… It is a mild pity I will not be there to watch them eat you, but when I requested it, they did assure me that all proceedings will be broadcast on the open FTL radio. Even if they are lying, well… I will merely have to settle for my vast imagination.”

  Sprabr couldn’t find the energy to retort or even to yip in surprise as another hood was roughly lowered over his head.

  POV: Zvojshur, Znosian Dominion Navy (Rank: Nine Whiskers)

  “Rank?” the bored Republic Navy officer at in-processing asked.

  “Nine Whiskers,” Zvojshur answered.

  “Nine…” The officer looked up and glanced at her face in disgust. “Jeez, what the hell happened to your ears? Wait, don’t tell me, the Resistance fed them to you.”

  “I am happy to eat whatever you ask me to eat,” the Nine Whiskers said in monotone.

  The officer sighed as she shook her head. “That sounds about right. A few months with them and— Name?”

  “My name is Zvojshur, but you can call me Zvo,” she answered in the same voice.

  “They really did a number on you huh, Zvo? Ah, you’re on the list. The admiral wants to talk to you.”

  Zvojshur looked up with glassy eyes. “I will comply.”

  The officer led her by her paws to an empty conference room, where she complied with an order to sit down and wait patiently. A few minutes later, she was joined by another superior officer.

  “Hello, Bun. My name is Amelia. Do you know who I am?” she asked.

  “Yes, you are the Thirteen Whiskers in charge of the Great Predator Rep Navy,” Zvojshur answered dutifully.

  “Thirteen Whiskers in charge of— I should get that printed on a business card or something,” Amelia replied, smiling. “How are you— uh— doing today?”

  “I am happy to comply.”

  “Uh… good. Alright, I’m going to ask you a few questions. You can feel free to answer, or not, if you don’t want to,” Amelia said, setting up a camera on the table pointed at the prisoner.

  “I will be happy to answer any question you have, Thirteen Whiskers.”

  “Then, let’s get started. You are a prisoner of war here, Nine Whiskers. Do you understand what that means?” Amelia asked.

  “Yes, it means I must do what you say.”

  The human admiral frowned. “Not quite. It means you have been deemed to be a legitimate combatant captured by the Republic. We are beginning negotiations with your government for your release. If you are included in the priority list, you may be repatriated soon. Do you know what that means?”

  “No. I take full responsibility for my stupidity, Thirteen Whiskers. Can you please explain?” she asked.

  “It means you can go home.”

  “Home?” she asked in a stupor.

  “Yes. Do you want to go home?”

  “Home? Do I want to go home?” Zvojshur asked herself, still in a daze.

  Amelia sighed, reading from her screen, “Alright. Do you consent to be returned to your state of origin?”

  “Yes, I will do whatever you ask, Thirteen Whiskers.”

  “No, not good enough, Nine Whiskers. You must express this decision voluntarily and without coercion,” Amelia explained patiently. “Do you choose to return to the Znosian Dominion voluntarily?”

  “The Dominion?”

  “Yes, the Dominion. Where you are from,” Amelia checked the notes on her tablet. “Your home planet of… Znos-4.”

  “Znos!” she suddenly shouted. Some recognition and life began to appear back on her face. “Home. I’m going home! I’m going home?”

  “Yes, if that is your wish,” Amelia said, looking up to check to make sure the camera was still recording. “Do you want to—”

  “Yes! I want to go home!”

  “Great, awesome. That’s all we needed. Thank you, Nine Whiskers,” the admiral said, shutting the camera off and collecting it into her pocket.

  “Wait,” Zvojshur said, her repressed personality resurfacing after months in Resistance hands. “You are letting me go home? Why?”

  Amelia sat back down, sighing. “We are trading you. Prisoner exchange.”

  “Prisoner exchange?” Zvojshur shook her head. “The Dominion does not trade with predators for prisoners.”

  “It does now. Apparently we captured enough of you in Sol to get that policy changed,” Amelia said, grinning. “Which is great news for both of us. We are getting pretty tired of feeding you all.”

  “What are— who are we being traded for?” Zvojshur asked. “I didn’t know we had prisoners of yours.”

  “Correct, you do not. The terms are the withdrawal of all Znosian forces from pre-war Granti space, and for all remaining Malgeir and Granti prisoners held by your government. Among some other interesting conditions.”

  “They would never agree to that.” Zvojshur shook her head. Then, she hastily added, “Respectfully, Thirteen Whiskers of the Great—”

  “As it turns out, we are pretty persuasive. Your people are withdrawing from our territories. In exchange, you get to have yourself a little breathing room.”

  “Breathing room?”

  “A year-long ceasefire accompanied by a phased withdrawal on your end. One which we will rigorously enforce.”

  “That… is surely just a temporary retreat,” the nine whiskers predicted. “It does not end the war.”

  The admiral nodded. “No. No, it does not.”

  “We will come back to exterminate your kind after we make additional preparations,” Zvojshur stated matter-of-factly. Then she added again, “Respectfully, Thirteen Whiskers.”

  Amelia stood up, looking down with amusement at the disheveled prisoner politely threatening her with extinction. “Oh, we’re counting on it. I’m sure we’ll see you again, one way or another. Enjoy your flight home, Nine Whiskers… of the Grass Eaters’ Navy.”