so. imagine if aliens had more advanced technology, but vastly inferior tactics.
like we get into our first battle with aliens and they line their ships up in old-fashioned formations like firing lines or something. it’d be like the british soldiers standing in a line, trying to fight against american soldiers hiding behind trees and shit. and we all know how that turned out.
anyways i wrote a story based on this idea
“Alter course twenty degrees,” chimes the Executor on my left. “Prepare formation. Charge all rails.”
“They’re not lining up,” Weapons calls. “It’s as though they’re not expecting a fight. They’re not even in formation.”
Around us, the Fifteenth Expeditionary Fleet of the Kaphro Systems Alliance cuts its way through space. It’s made up of the finest and newest ships Kaphro has to offer. Plasma generators, high-yield slug throwing rails, advanced dual-layer shielding, and even antigrav.
“There’s no way they don’t know what’s coming,” Navigation states firmly. “Our intel says their scanners are more than capable of picking us up at this range.”
“Do they need a formal declaration of battle? Maybe we should open communications?” I ask.
“Not an option,” barks Weapons. “We’ll be in firing range soon. Get me a firing solution and we’re going to hit first. Line or no line.”
“If we hit an unprepared enemy, we tarnish our reputation forever,” I state.
“Who’s going to know?”
“The onboard recordings.”
“Which can be changed. Besides, it’s not as though they haven’t had time to prepare. If they want to roll over and die, who are we to deny them?”
“We can’t have any more eyes on this than absolutely necessary. The Council wants to keep this little… skirmish off the radar.”
“And it will be. Class Twelve species, new to the galactic scene, no political pull. They beg for surrender within ten minutes of contact, guaranteed. And the Council gets another puppet state.”
“Why would they try to initiate first contact without any firepower?” Culture asks, shaking her quills. “Are your scans accurate?”
“They’re never wrong,” states Weapons. “They’re a Class Twelve tech level. Basic rails and projectile weapons only, no plasma. Basic lasers. No shielding.”
“Lots of engine capacity. And the hulls are thicker than anything we’ve seen,” I say.
“Well, they’d have to be, to be come out here without shields. Crazy fuckers.”
“Where are they from, again?”
“Some little planet out in the Sol system. Terra. Ass end of nowhere.”
“We’re in range!” Navigation shouts. “All ships in position. Waiting on your command, Executor. Two cycles until firing solutions are ready.”
“Fire,” the Executor calls.
And the fleet around us burns.
The Terran ships spring into motion like slugs from a rail. Their sudden evasive maneuvers provoke outbursts from around the command center.
“They’re pulling at least twenty standard G’s! First salvo’s a miss, sir.”
“Scanners are picking up hundreds of new signatures. Too big to be missiles, sir. They’re going to hit us in five cycles.”
“Incoming! Their largest ship must’ve been all rail, sir, the slug just took out three ships in one-”
“…burning, decks three through five, venting atmo to try and -”
“They’re weaving between our ships! Can’t get a targeting solution-”
“…Strafing runs, can’t break away-”
Tiny ships dance like swarmbugs in the night, buzzing angrily around our ships. Shield generators and relays go down. Giant slugs punch holes through our perfect lines, gutting two or three ships at once with pure mass. No plasma needed. Rapid pulsed laser arrays sweep across our communications relays in indiscriminate firing patterns, blinding us and taking tiny chunks out of the hull where they land.
“You said their ships had no shields!” barks the Executor.
“They don’t,” Weapons states, his quills shaking and his face pale. “They just haven’t been hit.”
“Incoming broadcast,” calls Communications.
“Fleet status?” asks the Executor.
“Fifty four percent losses,” states Analytics. “Enemy force facing four percent losses.”
“Put it through,” says the Executor.
No time is wasted. A pink, quill-less face appears on screen. It’s got two beady predator’s eyes and a mess of tangled hair atop its head. Gibberish comes out until Communications loads the translator program.
“…Demand your immediate surrender,” the figure on screen repeats. “This is the United Earth Federation. Surrender immediately, or face further losses.”
“Impossible,” the Executor breathes.
“How is it possible? Their lines… where are their firing lines? Their formations?” asks Culture.
The figure’s eyes turn from the Executor and settle on Culture. Her quills tremble.
“They’re a thousand years in the past,” he says.