Admiral Issac Tucker lets the silence persist on the video call, a cold gaze hiding every emotion at the sight of Marauder Team’s tired visages.
Gray hair and sunken eyes exasperated through the god awful hours of the night, a frame far too old to be pulling the all nighters yet a position forcing him to do just that. Deep breaths taken slowly but with absolute certainty, a remote debriefing conversation to be executed with military precision.
He’s the only one in the Task Force Office, a comparison to the relatively crowded hotel room. The entirety of the Marauder Team sitting in sofas and lounging in front of a complimentary projector, barely at attention.
It’s almost one in the morning relative time for everyone, monolithic time convenient for shift distribution within an inconsistent orbital body but horrendous for moments like this.
Lieutenant Keys attempts to break the silence first. “So…”
The Admiral interrupts him sternly. “I don’t even know why I assumed you’d all behave down there.”
Master Sergeant Ling immediately steps forward. “I take…”
“Don’t bother Master Sergeant.” Admiral Tucker stops him, taking a deep serious breath as he folds his hands behind his back. “I want you to understand that your behavior at the National Spaceflight Museum was absolutely unacceptable in nearly every definition. There were better ways of demonstrating your discovery other than what was exhibited this evening. Do you all understand?”
Everyone nods quickly.
The Combat Drone adjusts its massive metallic body behind his organic squadmates, T.A.C.’s voice sarcastic enough to almost push the group into breaking smiles. “Can I be excused for this conversation as I was not present?”
Admiral Tucker ignores the attempted comedic statement, continuing with his dressing down. “I won’t pin you on operational rules, due to the nature of Task Force Thirty One. However, you are all trained System Defense Force Marines and I expect from you a certain level of behavior especially when operating in a civilian area. For the rest of this operation, I want you to remember that; is that understood?!”
He uses the voice of command upon them, every single one put beneath absolute authority.
All of Marauder Team respond at the exact, trained tone. “Yes sir!”
“I will hold you all to that.” A held position relaxed, Admiral Tucker taking a deep sigh. “Now, although I would congratulate you on the success of your first day on operation, I don't want to make it a habit of bailing you guys out of federal jail. The System Defense Force doesn’t often use its diplomatic immunity, so try not to make this a thing or else someone’s going to try and change it.”
Lieutenant Keys sucks air through his teeth. “All due respect sir, but I don’t think we really broke any really serious rules or laws with what we did.”
T.A.C. accesses the legal database within his written memory database. “The charge you were accused of is sixteen counts of negligent discharge of an illegal firearm.”
Keys shrugs. “Illegal firearm yes, but negligent discharge? Come on we’re qualified and plus that wasn’t…”
“Corporal Mercier fired all sixteen rounds in the magazine of the weapon into a bullet resistant wall.” Admiral Tucker interrupts without any emotion. “Where in then you Lieutenant Keys discovered another full magazine on the display, asked for the weapon, reloaded it, and then fired the weapon again in full automatic. You both did this in a public space.”
Utter silence at the accurate retelling.
Keys hums to himself slightly. “I mean… I… we had be sure it was real.”
“May I assume that if you managed to recover a high explosive grenade you would’ve set it off to ‘make sure it was real?’”
He doesn’t even hesitate in his reply. “No, because that would’ve been negligent… sir.”
The Admiral buries his face in his right hand, a momentary dissociation with the world allowing for a mild moment of sanity before returning to the conversation. “Well good news is that we’re still looking at a positive outcome in this situation. FBI’s mostly content that there’s already some results with your presence at Camp Armstrong, despite how you came to those results of course. Investigation’s still proceeding, but as of now the Museum's gonna be closed for the foreseeable future.”
Keys dismisses the implications with raw facts. “Well that’s what you get when one of your exhibits is being used as a Space Liberation Front drop point right guys?”
T.A.C. turns his mechanical form towards the Combat Engineer. “What makes you say that Lieutenant Keys?”
“I mean, that wing was the only place where you could plant weapons and military grade supplies in plain sight. Plus, who else needs smuggled weapons and body armor at Camp Armstrong? Not tourists, that's for sure.”
Cherny’s vast mind comes to a conclusion as well. “I not like implikation of situation. Mean many weapons in terrorist hand from before.”
Admiral Tucker answers the concern. “There’s almost guaranteed to be multiple vectors for elicit smuggling, so I wouldn’t concern yourself too much in stopping all of them.”
The Medic continues. “But make us target no?”
Lieutenant Keys points to his uniform. “We were already targets wearing these things down here. Not like it's gonna change because of us busting a dead drop.”
“They will make us target.” Cherny insists based off his own heritage. “Need to careful.”
Master Sergeant Ling delivers the orders to his team, an attempt at easing the concerns of them all failing spectacularly. “We will wear body armor when outside. And be careful.”
“But still no guns…” Keys complains.
Corporal Mercier narrows her eyes. “After what we have done, we will not get any guns.”
“So if we get jumped with anything larger than a FMJ handgun, we’re utterly fucked. What are these vests rated for huh?”
T.A.C. answers him as the document search finds and links both a product description and an identification database. “The bulletproof vests that you have equipped are capable of withstanding any rounds under and including Class III designation.”
Keys lowers his voice. “Let’s hope there are no flechettes in that case…”
The Master Sergeant shakes his head. “There are policing people in city. We will be ok if they are there.”
Admiral Tucker clears his throat, the sound lagging slightly as Luna Anchorage’s orbital path brings it into another on-surface transceiver’s range. Internet connection reestablished, his video feed speeding up for a good half second before the system catches up. “Whatever the case, please be more mindful of your situation. You are in a public place, not owned by the System Defense Force. So don’t be shooting it up just for a punchline.”
Lieutenant Keys leans into Ling’s ear with a whisper. “That’s some foreshadowing right there.”
The Squad Leader nods at the Admiral, ignoring his friend. “Is that all?”
“One more important…”
Its almost perfect timing; the incoming call interrupting the conversation from Marauder Team’s lunar connection. A call widget presenting an anime styled profile picture alongside a functional username; the alt account of the System Defense Force’s most arguably loved individual recalling recognition by the entirety of the marine team.
“Oh merede…” Corporal Mercier begins.
“What’s happening?” Admiral Tucker asks with a hint of worry.
Lieutenant Keys narrows his eyes. “We got an incoming call from the Sergeant Major.”
It's the ease of modern technology, the entire act only requiring one raised hand and three functional digits. A digital camera mounted from within the projector in constant surveillance of the audience, a servant primed to serve any need required of its master.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Corporal Mercier, the owner of the portable device connected to the hotel projector, raises her left arm. Face recognized by running algorithms, subsequent instructions delivered with an open palm pinched into a single point. A popup widget reacting on the screen with a false haptic feedback, subtly highlighting the several options available to its user.
Digits tapping the implied real green “accept + add to call” key, a loading screen taking a moment to fully add the newest member of their video chat. A difficult issue with a subtle, one point four second light second lag; the connection solid but video quality poor to a comedic degree.
Short cut hair atop the old face, dark wrinkled skin fresh from a return home. The dark blue fatigues of the System Defense Force obvious on a solid body currently lounging atop a sofa, alongside the absolute authority of the rank of Sergeant Major.
Sergeant Major Katherine Lee’s bombastic arrival is on another level, time zones aligned to a tiring early morning for those spaceborne but a nice 6 o’clock casual call for those on America’s pacific coast. “Hooooooly fucking SHIT.”
A long pause as she identifies all members of the room, a sudden change in attitude from bombastic joy to a sarcastic disappointment carrying itself on her face. She aims her next words towards the old man. “What the fuck are you doing here.”
Tucker takes a deep breath, a stance relaxing at the familiar visage. “We’re in the middle of a debriefing.”
The Sergeant Major chuckles. “Well, does it have anything to do with Corporal Mercier getting on the fucking front page of uWatch today?”
There’s a moment where the old man considers the risks of Operational Security before answering her question. “Actually, yeah. How’d you know?”
“One of the Tank trainees showed it to the rest of the class.” The old woman laughs. “And was that fucking Solomon? The old Nanshan asshole?”
“It was.” Corporal Mercier replies.
“You chewed him out goooood. Love your use of [transcript expunged under automated archival order SDF-AM-947416, TF-4].~” She praises. “The only better thing you guys could’ve done is beat the living shit outta him like I did.”
Tucker once again palms his face. “Don’t encourage them…”
She’s inquisitive by nature, a dangerous question asked so casually the old man actually has to mentally catch himself before automatically answering her. “And what the fuck are you guys doing on the moon?! Issac don’t tell me you put’em…”
“Classified.”
“Fuck you Issac. KEYS!”
“Advisement.” Lieutenant Keys answers quickly. “Just hanging around and doing security consulting.”
She takes a moment to think about it. “So you guys aren’t bringing the fight to the Java Treaty in L.E.O.?”
“No…” Master Sergeant Ling blinks.
“This ain’t even Orbital Warfare what the fuck Issac?! I didn’t train these kids for this!”
He’s tired and overwhelmed, a brain already coming on with a stress headache. A quick answer to her produced coldly. “We’re keeping Marauder on a low profile until our next OP. It’s practically a vacation for them.”
“Yeah, a fucking vacation spot that just had a shooting by the Space Liberation Front. You guys better stay away from the National Spaceflight Museum you hear me?!”
All of Marauder visibly stiffen at the mention, a silence holding itself for a good eight seconds.
She narrows her eyes at the suspicious lack of answer. “What did you guys do?”
Admiral Tucker slips in his tired state, a nickname accidentally revealed as raises his hand to kick a call participant. “I’ll call you later Katie.”
“Hey wait what the fuck did you guys do, you can’t just…!”
A calming bloop signals her forced exit, a return back to the debriefing wonderfully leaping off of the Sergeant Major’s entry and exit.
Admiral Tucker clears his throat and mind. “As the Sergeant Major just mentioned, your encounter with Officer Solomon from the Orbital Defense Company has been a bit of a PR fever dream for the Force. Admiral Markov and the rest of Task Force Four are running with it the best they can, but I’m told it’s not a good look for our Marines to be dropping the gamer word’s less vile cousin in public. Remember Corporal Mercier, this is real life not a Sightlines lobby so please act accordingly.”
She nods quickly. “I understand.”
“Good, glad we covered that.” The old man pauses as he takes a centering breath, attempting to keep himself awake. “But I’m genuinely concerned about Officer Soloman’s appearance at Camp Armstrong. The most recent intel I had pulled pins him on Earthside running the politic, not down there with you.”
“He had some D-tier operators with him too.” Lieutenant Keys shares. “Not any guys from the Vacc. Exiles or even the Direct Action Division for that matter.”
“T.A.C.?” Admiral Tucker asks for specifications from the combat drone.
The machine spits out its answer with understanding haste. “Previous empirical intelligence suggests that any high ranking Officer within the Orbital Defense Company will always travel with at least two Vacuum Exiles Division guards.”
“Him included.” Tucker replies, rubbing the stubble upon his chin. “Especially him.”
“Makes sense for corporate saturation. Растянутый тонкий, stretched thin?” Cherny crosses his arms. “Open bounty on Java Tready Stations. Want best there for combat. Make financial sense.”
Master Sergeant Ling objects to his subordinate’s analysis. “Not tactical. If you lose a commander then your battle order falls into many pieces.”
Marauder Team all consider the words from both sides, decided upon by the Flag Officer as he nods. “I agree with the Master Sergeant. But the Space Liberation Front’s not in the habit of getting into firefights with security forces, especially the Selene Cell. Even if he’s got guards I’d assume they’d be heavily armed. Keys?”
Lieutenant Keys delivers the technical analysis of his guardians. “Oh they were alright. Two had GSA-ARs, one had a GSW-SMG, and all were wearing those fancy exo-atmo-combat suits that they got.”
“Intimidate the terrorists.” Mercier answers.
“Maybe.” The Admiral coldly concludes. “That would make sense within their playbook, all things considered. However, you shouldn’t dwell too hard on the implications of this. Your job down there is PR and community service; we can leave the actual security to the United States and whoever they decide to contract it out to.”
Keys rolls his eyes with his sarcastic comment. “Great, leave it to the nationals and PMCs right? Gotta love it.”
“Better than we doing it.” Master Sergeant Ling replies with an equal amount of tired energy.
“Marauder.” Admiral Tucker continues as he calls them to attention. “Other than that, I sincerely hope we do not have another call; at least not until this Friday for the weekly brief. Is that understood?”
“We will be ok.” The Squad Leader flashes an ok symbol alongside his words of assurance. “We will behave.”
He has no choice but to believe them, a final order placed on the one sane member of the group before he terminates the call. “T.A.C., send me the meeting notes for this as soon as you can. Good luck out there everyone. Actual out.”
A small bloop ends the hosted channel, Marauder Team left sitting amongst the suite in silence.
Lieutenant Keys happily claps his hands together. “You know what I think that went well all things considered.”
“Go to bed.” The Squad Leader sternly orders. “Now.”
It’s quiet in Camp Armstrong.
The late night of a workday populated only by night-shift staff and automated delivery drones, a city completely unconscious to its constituent parts. A near-perfect replication of a night cycle, ironically lit by soft artificial moonlight.
It's in the quietest edge of the warehouse district, aisles of automated storage facilities almost forgotten except for their still-human management staff. Shelves of robots automatically storing incoming consumer goods delivered from fabrication sites, a constant endless drone of electrical motors and thinking servers resounding through sound-proof concrete.
They prepare themselves.
Multi-colored jumpsuits from almost every corner of Camp Armstrong’s workforce, from the green of drone pilots to the orange-blaze of exo-atmospheric personnel. Even the cold black of corporate administration is present, if just one out of the six members of the cell.
A diversity evident amongst them but yet united through something much larger than their composite selves.
Kevlar salvaged from disposed mining equipment woven together into chest carriers, subsequently stuffed with plates of lightweight alloy hammered into shape. A camouflage of bright yellow and drab gray, a dress meant for disguise rather than identification within the crowded rush of personnel.
“It's heavy.” One of them comments, Andy’s thin body attempting to squeeze itself into one of the smaller vests. “Jesus Christ I don’t feel comfortable.”
“Eh, we're only going to be wearing it for thirty minutes.” The larger drone operator returns, Xia’s body squeezing into her battledress for a final fitting. “It’ll be fine, just to make sure we got some sort of protection. But I love these things”
They’re barely considered firearms in a modern sense.
A total of nine laid within a shielded lead box, retrieved alongside their subsequent munitions. Made to be subtly concealable, or at minimum disposable in a desperate situation.
Three single action navy revolvers hold their place on one corner, ball and cap firing mechanisms literally two centuries old at the time of their final usage. Alongside another pair of a slightly more ancient make; the wood and ivory sheath of the two flintlock pistols providing an insane level of artistry and history to the armaments. A consistent munition; vials of explosive black powder created within illicit laboratories placed beside pawned steel ball bearings; supporting the actual guns of the group.
The boxy shape of the hammered together submachine gun is only held by duct tape, three screws, and the will of Liberation. A smoothbore barrel ripped from stainless steel plumbing and a full auto firing mechanism from a disassembled massage chair’s internals. A charging handle the back half of a plastic-rubber screwdriver slammed into the receiver, all completed by a stamped uzi magazine without any identification.
There’s an M1911A1 handgun present as well, the seemingly unkillable design still used in highly regulated civilian hands for sports shooting but now in something much more deadly. Knife marks on its slightly rusting steel slide, a date of last operation scratched onto its side as a trophy and reminder of a veteran status:
10-29-52, Triangle Hill
III
Nobody in the cell has asked how Matthew managed to get his hands on a fully functional M16 assault rifle. Pristine as the moment of its production; its black polymer skin unscratched, firing mechanism still lubricated, and barrel still shining from the occasional light passing through the hidden meeting site. Over a hundred years of existence, a sheltered mechanism witnessing a timeframe from the first landing upon the moon now up to its current place on that very lunar body.
“You sure about this?” Andy nervously asks all of them.
“You know the plan right?” Matthew coolly narrows. “All you gotta do is keep watch. We’re doing the hard part just like the bossman says. It’s just like VR, except much more accurate.”
“Y-yeah…”
“Just shoot at anyone in the uniform tryna run.” Xia replies. “We just gotta figure out what we’re getting for dinner after.”
“I’ll cook something.” One of the others dismisses.
“Yeah we should get some rest.” Matthew refocuses. “In the morning we can put on the camera scramblers and disperse DNA samples. Then showtime.”
“W-w-we’ll be fine right?!” Andy nervously blinks.
“Relax bro it’ll be fine. Meet here tomorrow morning and we’ll get some shit done!”