It was slightly busier than usual on Station Four.
A rush of early arrival journalism teams, reconnaissance units from national space forces, and contracted construction workers mix alongside regular civilian travelers skirting station evacuation. Shops and restaurants shuttered in preparation of final inspection, a blanket security regulation removing the presence of any semblance of commerce from the commerce station.
Central promenade in the midst of a decorative overhaul, construction workers placing temporary light blue bulkheads atop closed stores as they string together signage in the celebration of global unification. National flags inserted with plastic sheets to prevent folding, subsequently stitched onto guardrails as a three dimensional reception hall slowly comes alive.
Four personnel and one combat drone watch the movements of the construction, dark uniforms of the United Nations System Defense Force atop human bodies acting as identification as they float along in microgravity.
Master Sergeant Ling points over towards the micro-gravity fountain within the lush green park structure in the central promenade: statue-like structures of hollow concrete built in three dimensional space, genetically modified palm trees bent in loops as they complete the design. Marking two locations, a killzone established. “There are hard points there and there. We can take up positions and make four fields of fire.”
In imaginations two Marines take position braced against bulkhead outcroppings, bulky maneuvering units blasting propellant as they open fire against an advancing squad. Accurate gunfire shreds a hostile, the rest immediately rushing back into cover.
“It is a good place to snipe people.” Corporal Mercier adds the third member of the squad into the firing position, a heavy anti-material rifle leveled as they zero in the scope.
“This entire station’s a giant field of fire.” Keys counters as he quantifies the nearly two hundred fifty meters of open space, pointing outward towards the observation deck as his newly recovered ribs allow for a full range of arm based theorization. “You see that reception desk over there? You’ve got fire superiority over the central spire right there.”
“There is too much concealment in central spire.” The Marksman estimates as she carefully maneuvers herself to stand on the edge of the railing.
Booted feet hanging off the aluminum handguards, a better angle received directly inside the probable firing line. She shakes her head. “Non. I think it would be better with rest of team. There will not be real point to sniping in space such as this.”
“Mercier is correct.” Ling agrees. “It would be safer for her to remain near us. Take out hard targets, not be alone in combat space.”
They pause as Mercier rotates back into a relative position with the rest of the squad.
“You guys know the architects designed this thing for a firefight right?” Lieutenant Keys informs, a hand outstretched as he points towards a pair of outcropped storefronts. A small 12/12 convenience store packed alongside a McDonalds, the small food court seemingly unconvincing in appearance. “You see how those shops have those plates right between them? That’s twelve centimeters of steel armor packed with graphene slips.”
The illegal munition soars towards the piece of cover; the rocket propelled grenade shatters as its fragmentary payload sprays lethal shards of metal back towards its operators. Untouched armor remains, the Marines behind it giving thumbs up in approval.
“We just find hard points like that.” Ling advises to himself. “I think the big issue is just knowing what places we are going to be fighting in.”
The Combat Engineer turns towards the massive form of T.A.C., the machine currently idling in silence. “You are writing this down right?”
“I am updating the architectural map with possible cover positions, yes.”
“Ling, how many squads did you say they need to be able to pull this off?”
“At least six squads.” The Master Sergeant estimates. “So around fifty.”
“Two magazines for each hostile?” Lieutenant Keys looks to the rest of the squad with his estimation. “In general, for everyone except you Corporal.”
“At least three magazines.” The Marine answers back as he reimagines the firefight. “There is so much space, most of the combat will be done with suppression.”
“So with eight magazines on each of us rifleman equivalent, that’ll leave us with more than a hundred short.” Keys does the math. “T.A.C. you getting this?”
“I am making notes of all your important findings.” T.A.C. answers. “The document is shared with all of you, in case you need to refer to something previously archived.”
“If I ever say you’re useless, please correct me.”
“Noted.” T.A.C. replies with a virtual chuckle.
“So we will store ammunition and weapons around station.” The Master Sergeant finalizes with the rest of the group. “Over there is…”
Cherny interrupts him, a mouthful of apple juice from his drink pouch nearly spilling out of his mouth in microgravity globules. “Do not talk about guns in area, many people.”
“Yeah, let’s leave the actual planning for later.” Keys agrees. “Remember, we’re working on reconnais…”
A message arriving on phones, Admiral Tucker sending a text through Task Force Thirty One’s group chat. Specifically pinging Marauder Team, the entire lettering is highlighted red in priority. @Marauder Sorry to interrupt your little break. Need help with something. Meet me in the cargo terminal ASAP.
Ling responds quickly, motioning for the squad to move out while he replies with his free hand. On way.
Poggers, no rush.
Construction material transported from Earth, standardized cargo crates filled to the brim with items secured on transporter rails. Workers scramble as they attach maneuvering thrusters onto pallets, microgravity movement assisted with bursts of compressed nitrogen.
A huge scanner placed at the edge of the terminal airlock, each bit of cargo scanned and analyzed as they enter the main concourse of Station Four; security measures augmented by nearly eight garrisoned fully armed Solar System Defense Force Personnel.
Marauder finds the Flag Officer next to the massive cargo airlock, a bone white crate next to him as he straps a borrowed thruster kit onto the thing. A hastily printed marking designates the thing as an O-891841 Oxygen Recycler, the boxy shape left without any air intakes or outtakes to represent its intended purpose.
“Good afternoon Admiral.” Ling speaks up as the infantry squad maneuver themselves in place, hands gripping industrial grade bars as they instinctively take up a perimeter around the cargo.
Glancing up from his work Admiral Tucker smiles, an easy salute placed towards the traditional awardee.
“At east.” Lieutenant Keys dismisses.
“Keys, Ling, Mercier, Cherny, T.A.C.” The old man chuckles as he greets them, waving to the crate in front of him. “Sorry for calling you guys over, I just needed some help moving this thing.”
“What is it?” The Combat Engineer asks with a barely hidden interest.
“What do you think?” Admiral Tucker answers cryptically.
“Well all due respect sir, but I don’t think it’s an oxygen recycler.” Keys immediately responds back.
“Good guess. But as far as those guys are concerned…” A quick glance over at the security scanners, the personnel manning the station currently engaged in the logging of incoming supplies. “This is an oxygen recycler.”
Cherny blinks. “This is… контрабанда?”
“Welcome to Task Force Thirty One Chief.” Admiral Tucker chuckles, a voice granting an assured tone. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing illegal. I just don’t want this to be officially logged in anything. T.A.C.?”
The Machine nods, a few lines of code passing across its screen. “All data regarding this encounter will be deleted once the objective is complete.”
“Good. Any other questions?”
“Let’s just leave it as this.” Lieutenant Keys waves aside the words, taking charge as he rigs the cargo with maneuvering gear. “Where is this going?”
“To the observation deck.”
“Ok if that’s the case can’t just leave it like this.” Keys turns towards his friend as he tightens the final strand of synthetic rope. “Ling, you wanna know?”
“I do not want to know.” The man defensively raises his hands.
“Alright I’ll tell you when we’re back in the Office.” Admiral Tucker compromises with a lie, activating the central module as thrusters come to life. “Until then, just screen me and don’t react to anything.”
Bursts of pressurized nitrogen maneuver the nearly hundred kilogram cargo into position, built in gyroscopes reducing the necessary motive force needed to move the mass. Guiding the thing through a microgravity environment the group arrives at the scanning system.
“Admiral!” The guards immediately recognize the rank on the old man’s uniform, hands quickly snapping to a saluting position.
Admiral Tucker lets them sit for three seconds before replying, cold words in execution. “At ease.”
The leader of the guard post speaks up, a German accent playing forth as he glances between the marine squad, boxy combat drone, Admiral, and their cargo crate in tow. “What ist in the crate?”
Admiral Tucker is completely straight faced as he delivers the requested answer. “One direct combat space suit, a type heavy manned maneuvering unit armed with two pylon mounted Mk. 19 rotary machine guns loaded with a thousand rounds of caseless ammo each, forty two pylons grenades, and four duffle bags of fifty loaded GSW standard magazines along with three anti-material rifle magazines.”
Absolute silence, the Leader taking a moment to scan the deadpan faces of the entourage. A visual inspection ended with the form of the massive box like combat drone in their midst, lifeless optical sensors reflecting the man’s face.
A nervous chuckle, the guard smiling awkwardly. “Oh it ist a joke.”
“It’s not going to scan anyway.” The Admiral continues. “The crate is lined with lead foil to protect it against radioactives. Oxygen recyclers, you know how they work.”
“Yes sir.” The leader nods, turning to the rest of the guard post as he grips one of the handholds. “You can go.”
A few curious glances from the Garrisoned Guards scan over the readouts from the millimeter scanner, the mechanism failing to penetrate the thick metallic skin of the pale white crate as it passes through the checkpoint.
“It’s not actually that… is it?” Keys asks the Admiral nervously as they arrive on the promenade.
“Well you know me well enough Lieutenant Keys, what do you think?” The Admiral answers surreptitiously as he brings forth the crate onwards towards the observation deck.
The Combat Engineer remains quiet at the asked question, the rest of the squad keeping themselves focused at the task at hand.
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A reinforced bulkhead cutting the once wide observation deck off from the rest of the promenade, the single point of entry is found alongside one of the relative walls as if to create the illusion of a solid floor. Armored metal made to resemble wooden doors, a created fallout shelter doubling as the primary meeting hall for diplomacy.
Blocked off with projected construction warnings, the group isn’t fazed as they pass in.
The usual cafe-like appearance of the deck is overridden by modular construction, aisles of seats and carpeted flooring creating a resemblance of the United Nations Assembly Hall in New York City. A mild bout of nausea easily overridden by experience, the attempt at creation of a solid “ground” extended across a third of the circular deck in an exploitation of microgravity.
A paneled table surrounds a single speaker’s podium, forty seats delegated to each nation broken in half by one speaker’s position.
Placed right in front of the gigantic panoramic window, a view of planet Earth anchoring the backdrop of any speech.
Construction personnel marked with high illumination vests move between positions as they prepare the final touches of the assembly hall, alongside them nearly two dozen formally dressed figures observing the work.
“Secret service.” Lieutenant Keys whispers as he spots the tightly worn business suits, the fifty two stars and stripes held within a tiny metallic pin betraying their nationality. Augmented reality sunglasses and ear pieces allowing for secretive lines of communication, the slightly bulging forms of hidden firearms within coats acknowledged by the soldier.
“There are Chinese and European here as well.” Ling directly points over to a small group, coughing as the scent of fresh plastic and cleaning solution hits sensitive noses.
“They’re here to make sure nobody plants a bomb during construction.” Admiral Tucker shrugs as he finds the spot; a still unsecured panel next to one of the far seats at the back of the room. “Perfect, this is the spot.”
“Is this yours?” Lieutenant Keys asks. “Your chair I mean.”
“Someone’s gotta represent the United Nations Solar System Defense Force in this one.” Admiral Tucker replies as he secures himself down with a protruding strap. “Though, I’m just here as an observer. G40’s all about planetary economics, G7’s where we really get involved.”
The panel’s two emergency release levers pulled, the heavy thing smoothly disconnecting from the main body of its comrades. An empty space left beneath it, the padded walls of the observation deck peering through among a jungle of scaffolding.
“Alright get that in here.” The Admiral orders.
Straps of maneuvering gear removed, the innocuous white crate left to float as personnel take a quick measurement of the activity.
One intruder begins floating towards them, the well-dressed form of an American Secret Service Agent kicks off the far wall and onwards to Marauder Team. Like a missile he moves head first with insane velocity, aimed towards his intended target. “Excuse me! What are you…”
Experience realizes lethal vectors, Marines and Admiral swiftly dodging away from the impact site. Hands outstretched, the Agent widens his eyes as makes impact with the relative floor. Impact force bruises flesh, joints fold atop themselves, and ligaments painfully stretch as cartilage impacts bone.
A howl of pain as the man slams into the hard plastic table face first, sunglasses bucked from his face as he attempts to reorient himself in a three dimensional spin.
“Dude are you ok?!” Lieutenant Keys immediately asks.
The man shakes away disorientation as he grabs a table edge, seriousness returning to his face as he stares at the Task Force. “Who are you and what are you doing?”
Admiral Tucker takes a moment to glance at his subordinates, an acknowledging nod towards them given as he takes control of the conversation. Speaking with authority, the Flag Officer aims his words directly at the Secret Service Agent. “Before I answer that question I need some identification, please.”
“What?!” The man shakes his head clear again, a memorized answer retrieved. “My name is Agent Samuel Peslin, United States Secret Service. And I need to see your identification.”
Behind the Old Man soldiers work, Marauder Team maneuvering the heavy mass in place over the space as they prepare to lower the thing in.
“Tell your people to stop what they’re doing.” Agent Peslin continues. “I ne…”
Tucker raises his hand, stopping the man mid-sentence with cold words. “Mr. Peslin, one star above three bars represents the rank of Admiral within the Solar System Defense Force. I will give you an opportunity to recognize the symbology on my right shoulder, do you understand?”
A quick glance to the old man’s uniform; a single point of light hanging above three bars representing one world three orbitals away from stellar masses. Rank holding service to a pale blue dot, the Agent turns back slightly in a daze. “Admiral.”
“I am the highest ranking Officer on this station.” Admiral Tucker continues. “Please understand that your presence here as a United States Security Reconnaissance Team on United Nations International Commerce Station Number Four is only allowed under the authority of the United Nations and its goal of perpetuating international unity. You and your team represent a distrust within the internatio…”
“Sir, please.” The Agent stops the old man. “I do need to know what you are…”
“Do not interrupt me again Mr. Peslin.” Admiral Tucker silences as he observes a handful of other secret service agents begin to take notice of the conversation. “As I was saying, you and your team’s presence on this station has limits. You are here to observe and determine the effectiveness of the security measures we are placing here, nothing more. We are not a second world country, and you are not fit for orbital combat. You are not qualified to make judgements in terms of microgravity. Now please, Mr. Peslin, remove your curiosity before I need to exercise my authority as a flag officer of an international organization and to remove you from this station.”
Silence as the Secret Service Agent glances over at the rest of Task Force Thirty One. “I’m sorry sir, but I cannot allow you to place that crate within the assembly hall flooring without knowing what is in it.”
Lieutenant Keys groans as he speaks up. “It’s an oxygen recycler you fuck, can’t you read English?!”
“One moment please, Agent.” Ignoring his subordinate the Admiral takes out his phone, staring right at Peslin he dials the number stored within contact information.
The direct line from Station Four connects to transceivers on earth, the current European array receiving the carrier wave. Quickly routed across the Atlantic as it makes a beeline towards its target, the signal careening through data nodes as it’s stopped cold by firewalls.
Insane cyber security protocols interrogate the thing, a safety guaranteed before its allowed into the secured office.
“Issac?!” The answer is near immediate, surprise in the charismatic voice obvious. “How are you?!”
Lowering the speaker’s volume, the other line falls to only the old man’s ear.
“Hey Jack, I’m doing fine.” The Admiral responds, waiting for a moment before interrupting. “This isn’t a pleasure call by the way, it’s about G40.”
A pause as the other line makes a statement, Tucker continuing. “Yes, I’ll make it quick; one of your secret service guys is shaking me down… yeah, he’s Agent Peslin, Samuel Peslin…. alright, thank you.”
More chatter, Admiral Tucker hiding a small smile. “Yeah, Katherine’s doing fine… yes next time I see her I’ll tell her that. She misses Ingrid too of course… yeah, see you in a few weeks.”
Hanging up, the Flag Officer leaves fifteen seconds of tense silence before a message arrives within the ear pieces of the Secret Service Agents. An entourage suddenly staring at the group, a longer pause as they process the gravity of the situation.
Agent Peslin straightens up slightly, a shocked smile arriving on a serious face. “Sorry sir, I’ll leave you to it.”
An ungraceful push off the wall, the well-dressed man spiraling out of control as he tries to move back towards his own group. For a moment they watch him, turning back only as he finally arrives without injury.
“Is it done?” Admiral Tucker asks as he observes the thing snugly fitted within the floor panel.
Lieutenant Keys grabs the floating hatch of carpet and steel, placing it back into its notch. “Yes sir, it’s done.”
“Perfect, then you’re done here.” The Flag Officer casually dismisses them, a slight seriousness to his tone as he continues. “Thanks for helping, I owe you.”
“Are you going back to the Office?” Ling asks quickly. “We need to talk to you.”
A pause as gazes all settle on him, Admiral Tucker answers with a slightly uneasy expression. “Sure.”
Evacuation procedures already underway, the artificial gravity ring unspun as construction proceeds within the central station core. The strange addition of a third dimension within a space designed for a near approximation of gravity, several unsecured items already finding themselves floating up above their respective locations.
Critical infrastructure removed from Task Force Four’s headquarters as the temporary relocation moves them completely out of the station, aisles of open space creepily devoid as the interrupted life of administrative work leaves nothing but emptiness.
Photos of families, occasional house plants, and idling server racks keep the only real remaining inhabitants company.
Within Task Force Thirty One’s allocated space the lack of artificial gravity was most obvious in the free floating mess of unsecured items. Rolling chairs tied to tables with elastic bands, the unregulated communal storage area full of office supplies and various appliances held by stuck magnets. Laptop computers velcroed onto tables, the panic of a sudden loss of fundamental force found in the destruction of everyday life.
Two personnel currently within the space; Rubicon’s Enlisted Gunner alongside the Helmsman. Within the roof’s far corner, face covered by a sleeping mask, the Crewman sleeps away her late lunch break in zero gravity. The Helmsman is much more conventional in his positioning, casually perusing orbital trajectory calculations atop his assigned table.
“Admiral on deck.” The Helmsman casually announces as he raises a hand in attention.
The sleeping Crewman in the corner fires a sharp salute in a half-awake state, Admiral Tucker dismissing them with soft words. “As you were.”
“I hate this.” Lieutenant Keys sighs as he careens himself across the now cavernous space. “I want my gravity back.”
T.A.C. answers the Combat Engineer as the body form folds outward, square limbs and hydraulic pistons allowing for strangely graceful movement in microgravity. “Construction is estimated to finish by the end of this week, you just need to be patient Lieutenant.”
A mild groan from the Lieutenant, Admiral Tucker clapping his hands as he turns to the rest of Marauder Team. “Alright, what do you want to talk about?”
Master Sergeant Ling doesn’t even hesitate, a plan already made in mind and expressed with brutal honesty. “We need more ammunition and supplies, and we need to store it across the station.”
An expected request, the Admiral answering quickly. “How much?”
Ling pauses as he thinks. “Did we say a hundred magazines?”
“One hundred fifty.” T.A.C. reminds the Marine. “That is a total of five thousand, two hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition. Not including unique calibers such as anti-material weapons, sidearms, and pylon mounted munitions.”
“And what did you want to do with this again?” Admiral Tucker continues the line of questioning.
“What is the word… store?” Ling blanks.
“Cache it away.” Lieutenant Keys answers for his friend. “Distribute the guns and ammo across accessible caches.”
“How many caches are we talking about? Four, five?”
“We have located twelve.” T.A.C. answers.
“Twelve so far.” Keys corrects the Machine. “And Ling we’re not counting non-accessible stashes, so I’d say we need to at least double our initial count.”
“Three hundred magazines.” T.A.C. recalculates on the fly. “That is a total of ten thousand, fi…”
Admiral Tucker interrupts the combat drone. “Slow down everyone. You want around ten thousand rounds of ammunition to stockpile across Station Four?”
“Explosives, pylon resupplies, weapons, EMU fuel, etc.” Lieutenant Keys specifies.
The Admiral stops. “G40 is in two and a half weeks.”
“Too much to get?” Cherny raises the question.
The Admiral waves away the Medic’s concern. “The guns and ammo you can have from the Station Garrison’s stockpile. But stashing that much hardware securely and without raising attention is going to be a challenge.”
The Master Sergeant gives a confused glance. “We are System Defense Force, we doing security correct?”
“It is concerning to people if you are storing big guns.” Mercier recounts from experience.
“Yeah, we can’t make it obvious that we’re actually storing guns and shit.” Keys continues off of his squadmate. “Means we need crates and stuff or hide them under floor panels.”
An immediate pause as the realization hits Marauder, Admiral Tucker staring at them blankly. “Don’t look at me, I’m not good at hiding stuff in the floor.”
“Moment.” Cherny interrupts. “If we putting guns and muntion in place it is no legal for regulation.”
“Task Force Thirty One Cherny.” Lieutenant Keys reminds. “It’s perfectly legal for special warfare units.”
“Боже…”
“You wanted to do some good in the world, Chief.” Admiral Tucker chuckles. “Best way to do it right now is with guns.”
“I am here for Combat Medic, specific combat part if against Space Liberator Front.” Cherny stretches. “But still is strange in uniform and going this.”
Ling smiles. “Welcome to the Task Force Cherny.”
Oblivious to the conversation, Lieutenant Keys the Combat Engineer makes the connection. Shooting his hands in the air he waves for attention as he yelps out in excitement. “We’ll cache the ordnance between all the construction taking place!”
“What happens if a construction worker finds it?” Admiral Tucker immediately counters. “Trust me, it’s happened before with some of the old Nanshan industries PMCs. Not fun.”
Digging through an inordinate amount of uniform pockets the Lieutenant finds the allotted item; a thick stack of reflective red stickers bound by a rubber band catching eyes.
Text in bold lettering, words of caution printed in five different languages alongside a human skull and bones:
DANGER DO NOT TAMPER!
危险 请勿篡改！
ОПАСНОСТЬ НЕ ВЗЛАМЫВАТЬ!
PELIGRO NO MANIPULAR!
DANGER NE PAS MODIFIER!
“Stick them on anything, guaranteed not to be touched.” Keys continues. “Works every time. That's why nobody even gets close to my food in the fridge.”
“Leave it to the Combat Engineering Corps to have those lying around.” Admiral Tucker buries his face in his palms. “Alright, if you can find enough spaces to store them and not get caught doing it, you’re good.”
“And ammunition?” Ling asks.
“I’ll put in a rush order, but no guarantees any manufacturers can fill it in two weeks. In the meantime I’ll give you access to Station’s Four military stockpile. There’s probably not ten thousand rounds in there, but I’m sure it’s enough to tide you over with the rest of the supplies.”
“Good.” The Master Sergeant raises both his thumbs in confirmation. “Ok, we just need to finish scouting out the rest of the station. Then we go store things.”
“And make plan of defense.” Mercier adds.
“And I need medical check of all you.” The Medic suddenly cuts in. “It is regulution before combat.”
“We’re Task Force Thirty One.” Keys excuses himself. “Don’t have to, all due respect.”
“No you need.” Cherny insists as he flexes a two meter tall form. “Even without regulation I order under medic necessity. Each of you check up or else I make you.”
Keys takes a moment to float backwards at the wording. “Is Cherny threatening me?”
“Everyone needs a checkup.” The Admiral adds. “And remember, as every goddamn military movie says these days: the medic has the final say. Cherny, if anyone is out of line just call me.”
A deep breath, the Flag Officer awaiting another question. “Anything else you people are doing?”
The Combat Engineer speaks up with his own plan. “Booby trap some hard points maybe? Some C4 in one of the closed shops could probably take out a fireteam if used correctly.”
Absolute silence as Marauder Team glares at their squadmate.
“I’m not being serious by the way.” Keys justifies defensively, a lie barely hidden in nervous laughter. “I’m joking, really I am.”
“Master Sergeant.” Admiral Tucker points over towards the squad’s leader. “Keep a close eye on him.”
“Yes sir.”
“And best of luck Marauder.” The Admiral finishes warmly. “Plan well, fight well. Save the world.”