The humans were having ice cream sundaes, as much as they can eat, while their superiors reported to their allies about the battle, and their allies read the battle reports and all the horrors within.
@internutter/challenge-02772-g215-to-aid-in-aggression -- Fighting Fit
"All the little angels rise up, rise up. All the little angels rise up high," the Terran Space Marine Corps were singing over ice cream sundaes with all the lashings. There weren't as many of them singing as had gone to Vrantamire, and that was why they were singing with broken voices and tears in their eyes. "See the little angels rise up, rise up. See the little angels rise up high..."
To that background, Commander Dev was reading the distilled version of the battle report. Condensed, cleansed, and coated in the sugar surface of bland technical jargon, it was dry and dull stuff.
Survivability of encounters with the hostiles was at a rate of sixty percent once the correct ammunition fabrication process was refined. The reporter writing it meant that the instant they had Slagomizer Brand laser cutters turning Those Bastard corpses into bullets, then everyone stopped dying so much. Also 'survived' counted those who were wounded or otherwise impaired for the rest of their lives. 'Survived' counted those in cryostasis who were waiting for their replacement organs to be printed and installed.
"They rise tits up, tits up..."
Creation of a system to transport raw material behind the lines accelerated the process immensely. Once they bodged the supply drones to carry Those Bastard corpses back to the supply factory landers, things heated up.
"They rise tits up, tits up high..."
Sixty percent survival rate. Four out of ten marines died, even with the bullets made out of Those Bastard carapaces.
"They rise flanks up, flanks up..." Huh. A kid must have wandered into the room. Say what you will about the GroPos, they minded their manners around more innocent civilians.
Technicians were able, post complete hostile pacification, to salvage all mineral resources, volatiles, and technology harvested by the hostiles. When every single one of Those Bastards were rendered meat, the techies were able to gather the jigsaw pieces of Vrantamire. As far as Commander Dev knew, they were still putting the planet together from the iron core out.
Salvaging of the hostile's technology is still underway, as well as a thorough investigation into the pacified hostile's DNA.
"They rise flanks up, flanks up high..."
The medtechs were still trying to unriddle what the hell made Those Bastards like that and, if they could, what else they might be weak against besides shards of their own skin at high velocity.
"All the little angels rise up, rise up..."
Commander Dev sighed. The civilians had lies, damn lies, and statistics. The military had lies, damn lies, and sanitised post-encounter field reports. He put the report down, picked up one of the fresh new sundaes, and joined the singing.
"They rise cocks up, cocks up..."
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / hayaship]
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