Synthetic, brown carpeting covering the floors, false crystal LED lights mounted on the roof, and arching support pillars between each; three rooms built in the replication of a more human centric design.
Two bedrooms, one featuring a pair of twined beds and another with a single large mattress, were each interconnected by a relatively large lounging room alongside an attached bathroom. Classical architecture meeting with alien gravity, padded walls and smoothed corners on plastic furniture ensuring a relative safety against accidental bumps and knocks.
The scent of industrial cleaner mixed with fabric softener immediately hits noses, Marauder Squad carefully filing into the space with duffle bags at the ready. Instinctively clearing three dimensional corners, a slow movement as each of the four Marines completes an initial search within the enclosed space.
“Home sweet home.” Lieutenant Keys announces as he rolls in the massive cardboard crate from the hallway, dumping the rest of his baggage onto carpet. “We made it. T.A.C., you still alive?”
The synthetic voice speaks up from within the cargo container, muffled underneath packing material. “Yes, I am still alive. Though, getting out of this box will be difficult without damaging it.”
“And we don’t even get a knife to cut you out.” Keys sighs, taking a moment to glance around the sterilized suite for tools.
Atop one of the writing desks Master Sergeant Ling grabs a single Hilton™ branded red pen, a ballpointed edge exposed with a clack. “I found something sharp.”
“Take care not to scratch his paint.” Keys jokes.
“He will be ok.” Ling answers his friend as he begins slicing through packing tape.
Behind them Cherny watches the process, a gift unwrapped from its selective packaging. “It is good that we have squad member who do not breathe.”
“As the cargo it’s quite convenient being shipped rather than transported.” T.A.C.’s response clears up as Ling pulls open the cardboard flaps, the box-like combat drone rising from a snowbank of biodegradable packing peanuts. “With the addition that I am unable to develop claustrophobia.”
From the next room Mercier’s voice interrupts the reunion, a small frame taking up one of the arched doorways. “I submit a request to inhabit the large room.”
“Hold on you want the big bed Corporal?” Keys raises the issue immediately, turning to the squad leader. “I guess that’s fair…”
“Ok we need to choose sleeping spaces or someone is going to die.” A quick count of the rooms as Ling replies with a mild note of worry. “There are only three beds.”
“Technically four beds.” T.A.C. interrupts, a boxy limb outstretched towards one of the sofas in the living room, the gray thing staring back at the machine. “That is a Header Styled fold out bed, product number CS-LW-10148. Size is a standard American queen, which is equivalent to two meters long, and one point five in width. This is around the same size as the largest bed in the master bedroom.”
Master Sergeant Ling nods at the information, turning back to the small frame of the young woman. “Mercier, why do you need the big bed?”
“I toss myself when asleep.” Mercier immediately answers.
“Yeah…” Keys subsides his squadmate, barely holding in a chuckle as he continues with evidence. “She rolls around like she’s on fire. You basically slept on the floor when we were in New York.”
“I did.” Corporal Mercier coldly acknowledges as she stares daggers at the Lieutenant.
“So Cherny will need a big bed as well.” Ling finalizes, turning as he cranes his neck to face the massive bulk of the man. “Is that ok?”
Cherny pauses. “Why do I need big bed?”
“Cherny you’re like two meters tall.” Lieutenant Keys narrows his eyes. “You don’t even fit in the doorframes what makes you think you can fit in a twin?”
“Близнец? Related sibling?”
“It’s a bed size.” Keys specifies, wiping his forehead as he attempts to organize the logistical disaster. “Fuck that means Ling and I have to share a room again. God… ”
“It is just like on the Beijing.” The Squad Leader turns, a slow push off the floor sending him on a mild parabolic trajectory towards the twined room. “Get your things ready. We will have dinner in twenty minutes with Agent Morsow in hotel dining area.”
Five days worth of spare uniforms, the simple custom tailored, dark-blue fatigues of the Solar System Defense Force placed into vacuum sealed bags alongside sets of underwear and casual civilian wear. A full arsenal of living equipment, personalized to each of its owners.
Keys stops as he spots it, his open duffle bag left on the ground of the twin room as he peeks out towards the squad medic. “Cherny you really brought the suit?”
A full business dress: sharp black trousers, a well ironed white dress shirt, and a massive suit jacket neatly folded onto the sofabed. A tiny, five centimeter thick mattress covered by cleaned linen sheets and clothing, the opened furniture taking up nearly half the space of the living room in its outfolded state.
A gaze met, Cherny shrugs. “It is necessary in case of event.”
“What event?”
“In case of ceremony or award giving.”
Keys scrunches his face. “We’re supposed to wear our uniforms for anything formal anyway. It’s not like you’ll get much use outta that thing.”
“Good to use in everyday. Look normal enough for living in life without outer coat.” The man argues calmly, rectifying a Russian accent through logical argument. “It is ok for me to use, not much clothing.”
“That’s fair enough.” The Combat Engineer shrugs. “I guess if we need someone to go to a job interview it’ll be you.”
Cherny gives a sour look as he translates the words, Keys chuckling as he moves himself back into his shared room.
Two twin sized beds, small but workable in the sizing of averaged human beings. Red comforters layered over thin sheets of bedding, a mattress viciously thin in a low gravity environment. A single shared nightstand between the two, the small lamp screwed onto the false wood democratically designed with two switches; one for each resident of the small space.
“We need to make a decision.” Master Sergeant Shu Ling suddenly speaks up to his friend, the unpacking process stopped.
“What decision?” Keys blinks.
“What time are we going to sleep?”
Lieutenant Johnahtan Keys halts all processes as he hears the question, an uncanny seriousness pulling on his face. “As the second in command of Marauder Squad, I suggest we put this to vote. I don’t think any of us can pull a Ling schedule.”
“What is a Ling schedule?” The Squad Leader asks on the directed term.
“Sleeping at midnight and getting up at five in the morning, you’re like a fucking machine dude.” Lieutenant Keys scoffs, returning to his own unpacking process. “And don’t forget we’re probably going to have to figure all the other living arrangements like bathrooms, showering times, all the fun things. Just like combat school all over again right?”
The Squad Leader blinks. “Ok.”
As owner of the largest bedroom Corporal Mercier’s short fifteen minute stay had already destroyed a majority of its precleaned state. Pieces of clothing dumped onto the large mattress, disorganization compounded by a removed comforter and introduced body pillow. A half-full duffle bag thrown onto the spare guest chair, the room’s occupant instead found lying on the bed wearing full combat fatigues. Phone out, a mind occupied by the intergalactic scale of a mobile management game.
“Mercier, are you done?” Master Sergeant Ling asks, peaking a head through the open archway.
“I was done fifteen minutes ago.” The Marksman replies.
A nod, Ling motioning for the rest of the squad as he raises his voice. “Ok, let us go get some food!”
Nearly nine hundred square meters of floor space, the grand ballroom of the First Step Resort completely dwarfed a simple four System Defense Force Personnel. Flowered wallpaper inlaid with golden titanium covers surfaces of false marble, massive grecian pillars reaching upward into a wholly decorated ceiling. A starscape above them all, hand painted constellations interconnecting glistening stars surrounding a centralized green Earth.
Dining sets brought forth into a rubberized floor, tables and chairs completely unoccupied in the presence of better alternatives and the absence of tourism.
With the exception of one.
Agent Morsow raises a hand as he spots Marauder Team file in, eye contact exchanged as he motions for them to arrive.
A table for six, a formal dining area forcing a bit of pause from the group of military personnel.
“So how were your rooms?” Morsow asks gently as they all skip forward towards the chairs.
“Not bad.” Lieutenant Keys lightly answers for his group.
Chairs distributed, the Medic and Squad Leader forced into flanking positions beside the calm diplomat. Agent Morsow continues. “Well the Federal Government actually offered to subsidize your accommodations here, but your Commanding Officer waved us off. I suppose the System Defense Force has standards?”
The entire squad exchange glances, a wordless consideration to current predicaments cemented by the slipped line.
Ling nods. “He has idea on what to do.”
“Well I’ll take your word for it.” Morsow nods, motioning at the printed menu on the table. “I’m unsure what you guys like so I didn’t take any liberties.”
Laminated sheets of paper wrapped in false leather bindings, a thin book of foods provided to customers on the basis of lunar infrastructural development against an attempt at cultural diversity.
A full four sheets of appetizers almost universally deep fried with the exception of harshly pickled vegetables, main courses created from slices of synthetic meat, breading and conglomerate vegetables, and a suspicious selection of dairy-free desserts raising eyebrows from the experienced consumer base. The entire group stops, their only salvation found within the final two pages.
“Are we going to use Cherny’s idea?” Master Sergeant Ling asks the squad.
Keys blinks, an ignorance from inside conversations. “What’s his idea?”
“Drink alcohol can ease gravity sickness.” The Medic offers. “It can be effective in this saturation.”
A long pause.
Agent Morsow clears his throat, raising his own point from experience. “No offense Doctor, but I don’t believe…”
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“You’re fucking with us.” Keys interrupts the man, the folded menu in his hands now pointing at Cherny. “But I’m willing to try it.”
The Medic continues. “No too much. Need little to get blood into head to circumlate. Reccomend maybe point zero three precent alcohol to blood.”
“That’s like what… a beer or something?” Keys thinks.
Ling thinks. “It is… two 啤酒?”
Corporal Mercier shrugs as she slouches. “It is around deux glasses of wine for me.”
“I do not drink.” Cherny shrugs. “But there is calculation for body mass and content of alcohol. For me it is…” The Medic does the math fast, a response given in an acknowledged approximation. “Around two hundred milileters.”
Agent Morsow clears his throat. “Well I suppose the question then is what sort of poisons do they stock here?”
The entire section split on the borders of insanity, a non nativity to their production, an expense of shipment included within exorbitant price tags.
Running his hands through hair Lieutenant Keys lets out a dry wheeze. “Five hundred dollars for the cheapest bottle…”
“Is that a lot?” Mercier asks with boredom.
Ling follows up his friend and squadmate, leaning back slightly at the number. “That is a lot of money.”
“Mercier, the one we ordered at the UN building was around a hundred fifty bucks.” Keys reports as he does emergency addition in his head. “A glass each for five…”
“One hundred per head.” Cherny acknowledges. “But I will not drink.”
“I’m out too.” Agent Morsow waves aside.
“Oh come on Agent, where's your college spirit?” Keys jibes towards him.
The man chuckles. “I left it at Kansas State.”
Master Sergeant Ling makes a fast wave towards the conversing group, a voice hiding a more serious concern. “We should tell the Admiral before we buy it.”
“Dumping five hundred bucks on wine? He’d probably clear it.” Keys dismisses casually, pausing at the realization of his own words. “Well actually…”
A phone produced, the hastily composed message and taken photograph quickly sent across orbital distances and universal time zones.
@Adm_Tucker Permission to buy 500 dollar wine, for a medical reason.
Read recipient taken in a single minute, the entire Task Force brought to bear against the utter ridiculousness of the request.
Captain Perez shows no mercy, a generalized ping reaching out to fourteen members of the Task Force alongside an integrated yes-no poll. @all Is this an appropriate use of international peacekeeping funds?
A description of typers, multiple members of Task Force Thirty One’s Rubicon crew about to engage in political argumentation. Usernames fluttering as words per minute intersect, Admiral Tucker managing to slide in a single response before chaos. USA will reimburse food costs.
“The United States is paying for this?” Ling raises.
Keys chuckles to himself in assurance. “Well that means I’m off the hook for this one.”
Agent Morsow interrupts with a cough. “Lieutenant Keys, aren’t you a resident of the United States?”
“I’m a N.O.R.I.S.” The Combat Engineer brags.
Cherny blinks as the term makes a familiar connection in his own education. “So tax avoid?”
“Non resident, international service.” The American Agent informs calmly. “For all United States Citizens who are currently Peacekeepers or otherwise in international service. So Red Cross, World Health, all those organizations.”
“I get paid the basic four hundred thousand a year for existing.” Keys simplifies immediately. “And I don’t even need to pay income tax.”
“You should be paying income tax...” The Agent begins.
“I mean I do pay income tax.” He corrects quickly. “I pay income tax; for the laborers of the United States. I give’em my money, yep.”
There’s a long pause as the entire squad attempts to process the possibly fraudulent joke, interrupted by Corporal Mercier’s decision. “I have decided my order.”
The Agent turns towards her, a short smile bridged to a question of curiosity. “What are you getting?”
“Fish… stecks?” Mercier attempts to pronounce.
“That ain’t real fish Corporal.” Lieutenant Keys cautions, then pauses. Breaking open his own copy of the menu, a full five seconds spent tearing through divided sections of cuisine. “And that’s not the kids meal is it?!”
Eyes narrowing to the top of the menu section, foreign english lettering betraying a reduced portion size. An image imagined of a more substantial meal, within the context of laminated sheets of paper enlarged for easier viewing.
“It is.” The young woman coldly informs. “I will just order deux.”
The squad leader leans forward on his chair, finding his own selection amongst the short few items. “I am done.”
“Cherny?”
“Complete.” The man informs, shutting the bioplastic folds atop one another.
The small touch screen built into the table is activated: an order self-served in the automation of simple service. A burden placed upon consumers, assisting the unmanned vestiges of toiled machines.
Lieutenant Keys leans back on his chair, body squirming amongst the padded metal. A tired tone vocalizing the state of the entire squad alongside a deep sigh. “The first ten hours is always the worst… Getting used to this gravity suuucks. I can do one to zero or even point eight; but point eight to point one? Fucks me up everytime.”
“You are ok…” The Master Sergeant grunts as he catches the sarcasm.
“Hey even I get acclimation sickness alright?!” Keys continues to insist, a physical state easily surpassing the sickly looks on his comrades faces. “It's normal.”
“Eighteen hours minimam.” Cherny reports, a loud grumble coming from moving diaphragms; inner ears wildly out of place amongst a confused biology.
It comes quicker than expected, the lack of crowded consumers allowing for the automated kitchen to throw together the first servings of alcoholic beverages. A small cart sent forth along predesignated paths, its rubberized surface holding a single bottle of generic branded wine alongside five glass flutes and a bottle opening kit.
Crystalline structuring reflecting the light from lamps, distributed by Agent Morsow to each of them.
The bottle is taken into the Combat Engineer’s hands, a set of tools unfolded and understood through implied instructions. A corkscrew of lunar mined stainless steel roughly fabricated through on-site printers, every ounce of its craftsmanship automated in the development of off-world manufacturing.
“So, we’re testing out Cherny’s theory?” Keys jokes. “Nobody’s parents ever told you that drinking makes you throw up? Or was it just my mom?”
“Open the bottle.” Master Sergeant Ling orders.
Steel digging into farmed corks, the squelch of bark against glass resounding across the empty dining hall. Enough physical exertion to actually force a scowl across the operator’s face, leverage against the table used in a final application of physics to break the airtight seal.
A few large droplets of precious liquids take their chance, blobs of vomited fluids trying to escape consumption through the low gravity environment. An arching path created with abysmal velocity, a raised arm easily intercepting the blob as Master Sergeant Ling’s held glass fills partially with the recaptured liquids.
“Fluid dynamics.” Agent Morsow comments calmly. “It’s…”
“Makes mixing explosives and cocktales a whooole lot harder.” Lieutenant Keys finishes the thought, a provided flow regulator valve capping off the glass bottle. Turning over to the rest of his Squad, his words lace themselves with the sarcasm of the situation. “Alright, five hundred dollar marked up wine from the wonderful state of California provided to us by the tax paying workers and corporations of the United States of America. Please keep us in your prayers as you enjoy~”
Shipped from vineyards across the North American continent to one of two lift facilities within the relative west and east coasts, followed through across the orbital lanes of two planetary bodies and brought down in the crawling velocity of the Armstrong Lunar Elevator; the consumption of alcohol here amongst the developments were, in any other planetary case, an inconsequential purchase turned outright luxury.
Three glasses filled with deliberate care against low gravity, both Cherny and Agent Morsow remaining sober.
He takes notes, the analytical mind of the Squad’s medic taking a visual diagnosis of current conditions. Gleaming anecdotal evidence for a possible future clinical trial and cure of gravity sickness, an ineffectual yet entertaining sight before Master Sergeant Ling makes his own observation with a sour expression. “This is… 不太好.”
“Look, we aren't drinking this stuff because it's good alright?” Keys retorts. “It's for your sake!”
Corporal Mercier narrows her eyes at him, squirming in her chair as she tries to keep the cheap substance inside her stomach against the protest of an unacclimated limbic system. “Then why are you drinking it? You are ok…”
“Fuck you.” Keys replies, downing the remainder of his entire glass. “And Mercier, is this bad or good wine?!”
She remains cold as she just stares into the distance, a cultural heritage botched by the intermixing of cheap concentrate. “Bad.”
FBI Agent Morsow clears his throat. “Food’s normally the worst part about living here. I’d recommend not eating anything shipped from earth, due to shipping and handling issues. If you can, try to avoid anything fresh especially.”
“Agent, we’re the fucking Solar System Defense Force.” The Combat Engineer arrogantly waves. “Everything we eat is from either powder, concentrate, or grown in a cleanroom lab. And we’re still combat effective right?”
Cherny clears his throat carefully. “I recomomend one fresh per week, for psychologkal help. Maybe fruit, or vegtable.”
“It’s good for your mental health to eat something nice every once in a while.” Morsow agrees, taking a deep breath as he turns to the facto leader of the group. “Master Sergeant, if your team is ready tomorrow I believe we can begin the operation ahead of schedule.”
A short nod, a face slowly flushing red with alcohol as he gauges the response from the rest of his team. “We will be ok?”
Keys leans back, watching his still sickly looking friend reach for the bottle once more. “I mean, not like the SLF’s gonna do anything crazy in the next few days right? We got some time before the next sniper attack or bombing.”
“Are you certain?” Mercier asks with a slightly frothy, French accented burp.
“In my personal opinion: international terrorism tastes the best on a monthly to bi-monthly cycle. Need to balance the ‘too soon’ factor and the ‘when is the next one’ terror.”
Morsow raises a small objection. “That’s… not how it works. Our data shows that most terrorist attacks from the Space Liberation Front occur during opportune times; population movements, security rotations, those sort of…”
“It is not for data.” Ling corrects with a slight tipsiness.
Lieutenant Keys simply cracks his knuckles. “Oh boy, we're doing this thing. How did the Admiral put it again? The whole spiel on terrorism he talked about during the movie night back on the Beijing. I think it was…”
It's a dinner party aboard Lunar Anchorage.
The entire nine man crew of the Rubicon plus flag officer brought together in the crowded office, individual stainless steel mess trays filled with slices of still hot pizza and owners sitting surrounding a broadcasting projector at the very back of the horizontal space.
A movie in relevancy, a story shot in the dual perspectives of desperate American Insurgents and the National Guard units sent to find them. A setting in still living memory, images of the forests and swamps of a still standing site of battle brought to life through immense resolution and brilliant, terrifyingly realistic audio.
Captain Perez raises the question from a European centric perspective, watching as one of the main insurgent characters is comically ripped apart by machine gun fire. “The one thing I don’t understand is why would these regular, middle class Americans decide to start an insurgency? I mean it doesn’t really make sense, right? You got enough to eat, decent enough medical care with some expense, like… why?”
She catches Admiral Tucker mid-chew; the old man trying to pull his own experience and history from the era. “Well, terrorism is all about your end goal and motivation after all; people are only willing to risk so much for a good reason. Like for instance take the Java Treaty’s spaceborne troopers right? As national soldiers you couldn’t convince them to strap bombs on themselves and rush positions. Same thing with the whole American Insurgency; they had a goal of creating an independent nation from a perceived undemocratic election. But were they willing to go suicide bomb Washington?”
Chief Engineer Lieutenant Ano answers the question from a high school United States History course. “They tried… like twice right?”
“There’s exceptions in every population.” Admiral Tucker dismisses the data point. “Point is: terrorism is all about the end goal. Convincing your followers of how epic that end goal is defines the actions they’re willing to take, the things they’re willing to risk; it’s all based on culture. A Space Liberation Front terrorist attack can be as mundane as destroying all the vending machines in Mond-1 to blowing up a transit maglev during rush hour.
“That’s the best kind of follower you know? Nobody wants to lose ten dollars as much as their lives, but at the end of the day if you can convince someone that their life is worth less than five kilos of high explosive then you’ve made the right culture. There is no plan: people make their own schedules as they see fit. Can’t plan against chaos, afterall.”
Agent Morsow just stares at the faces of Task Force Thirty One’s Marauder Team, the joint conversation completed to an audience of one federal representative. “That’s an interesting theory…”
“Hey, that’s why the Space Liberation Front’s one of the more dangerous OPs out there for us.” Lieutenant Keys chuckles sarcastically. “Got black funding from Environmental N.G.O.s, the Java Treaty; though that’s starting to dry up given the circumstances and uh…”
“And public.” Cherny viciously adds with cold emotion.
“Yeah and some sectors of the civilian public.” Keys finishes his statement. “They don’t play by the rules.”
Mercier adds onto the facts at hand. “They have guns and orbital cutters and mercenary. They are dangereux.”
Master Sergeant Ling speaks up towards the Agent, cold methodology in squad leadership. “That is why we are here, System Defense Force is good at countering terrorists; we have been fighting them for a long time.”
They all try to avoid eye contact with their Combat Engineer, the young man’s slightly scrunched grin hidden beneath his hand.
“Well, I suppose that’s the reason you’re here.” The Federal Agent nods slowly. “Any advice or security revisions you provide can save lives.”
Silence before the Squad’s medic vocalizes his consideration, russian accent censoring the poison hidden within. “Every day we down here, is less battle fought up there.”
“Cherny, pretty sure the rest of the guys can handle it.” Keys mediates. “We’ll be back up there in a month, and then we can start cleaning house again. Marauder style!”