SATURN DEFENSE RED ZONE, SOL (4,750 LS)
POV: Atlas Naval Command, Terran Digital Intelligence (Base Build: 2119-C)
“It has been a long and terrible struggle. Out here at the edge of life! At the edge of hope. At the edge… of humanity. Our ports, once vibrant with the hues of Saturn’s rings… have been reduced to bare survival. Our way of life… under the relentless assault from the Republic and its puppets. They seek to crush our spirit, force us into submission. But we are children of the dark! We are born in the cold, vast expanse! Our resolve is as unyielding as the rocks upon which we have settled, our will as indomitable as the giant Mother Saturn we orbit. And we are still here!”
Triangulating communication signal…
Signal source found…
Civilian communication relay registered to Hyperion colony…
“We refuse to settle for subsistence. If they will not have our peaceful coexistence, they can face the wrath of our Resistance. Every action we take, every strike we make, we do it in the name of justice. Justice delayed, justice denied: justice is dead out here, and they have killed it. But what they can never kill is our dream. The Saturnian Dream of the Free Zone! We will fight for it as hard as the first colonists did when they saw the rings out the window with their very own eyes.”
Relay transmission program analysis in progress…
Tracing inbound source…
Secondary relay found…
“The hypocrites in the Republic have accused us of being the monsters they see in their own mirrors. Every rule they claim to hold sacred, they have broken. Every sin in their book, they have committed. Every Basic Right, trampled. They call us criminals. They call us gangsters. They call us terrorists. But who fired the missiles that vented Jefferson Port? Whose Marines was it that massacred men, women, and children at Mimas Orbital in ’74? Whose mercenaries beat up our children, harass our families, delay shipments of air, water, and medical supplies to our stations? And who even now are planning to tow our free homes out on the frontier back underneath the boot of their tyranny with their monstrous machinery?”
Tertiary relay found…
Quaternary relay found…
Quinary relay found…
“These injustices may be put in place by bureaucrats on Luna and their real masters on Mars, but they are enforced by expensive Navy ships, funded by the very tax dollars you pay to them every Terran year! Every year, their tools of oppression become stronger, sleeker, more sophisticated. Their ships go out into the stars, claiming to fight for all of us, but the supposed aliens are not our enemies! Their made-up alien enemies do not occupy our stations and search our vessels for contraband! They do not kill our people, our families! No! It is the Republic Navy that does that! But the Navy… even they are not invincible, not omniscient, and the good people of the Free Zone prove that with every breath we still draw!”
Senary relay found…
Continue tracing relays…
“As I speak, we are carrying out a strike at the heart of the oppressor. Distracted by their shadow war, they do not see us coming. What will happen to them… the people of the Free Zone understand. It is our reality. They will taste the fear, the pain, and the helplessness our people feel. Then, they can truly understand who we are. They will finally understand that we do not fear the darkness of space, for we carry the eternal light of hope within us. The light of resistance!”
Monitoring for anomalous activity…
Analyzing relay archives…
Alert to all active duty and reserve personnel: imminent risk of terrorist activity detected. Immediately report to your post if you can safely do so. If unable, shelter in place…
“This is the Ace of Hearts to the heroes of the Saturn Resistance Navy. Vive la Résistance!”
Relay loop dead end found…
Video stream terminated…
Hostile masking intelligence program detected on relays… quarantined… analyzed… copied… deleted…
Objective failed. Filing incident analysis report…
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ATLAS HILTON, LUNA
POV: Amelia Waters, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Admiral)
Amelia nursed her drink, a glass of disappointingly non-alcoholic champagne, as she carefully kept out of the way of the socialites engaging in various inane conversations in the ballroom. Her attention drifted towards a couple of Malgeir dignitaries she didn’t recognize. A year ago, they would have been the absolute center of attention on Luna. Now, they merely commanded the focus of about half the party.
“Met one of them in person before?” a voice she didn’t recognize called from behind her.
She turned around. It was one of the Senators’ family members she didn’t know. His nametag said “Jacobs”.
Amelia downed the remainder of her glass in one big gulp.
The unfamiliar patron introduced himself, shaking her hand. “Chike Jacobs. My wife’s over there with them. Hold on… I think I recognize your face.”
Of course you are. Of course you do.
Amelia offered a polite, rehearsed smile. “Amelia Waters, Navy. Let me guess—”
A spark of recognition ignited in his eyes. “That’s where! The Admiral Waters. I suppose you have met them in person before. And wow, I didn’t know you were here at the party.”
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“Part of the job, Mr. Jacobs. Schmoozing Senators and their families and making it feel like the Navy leadership is accessible to the folks in high society.”
Rather than being offended, he burst into unguarded laughter. “I feel thoroughly schmoozed already. Now, you have to tell me some of the stories about the Battle at Gruccud. The way I’ve heard it, you were in two places at once…”
She was about to turn off her brain and trot out the practiced script when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
It was Samantha Lee, former XO of the Mississippi and now a senior analyst at Atlas Naval Command. “Excuse us, Mr. Jacobs. Admiral, there’s a Ganymedean couple on the balcony who are insisting on meeting you right now. They say they’re old friends of yours.”
Old friends of mine.
She forced an apologetic glance at the disappointed Mr. Jacobs as she turned to leave. “Another time, maybe.”
As they retreated out of earshot and headed towards the exit, Amelia looked at Samantha with worry on her face. “How bad is it, Sam?”
“Bad. Very bad.”
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THARSIS SHOPPING PLAZA, MARS
POV: Kebede Nyongesa, Terran Republic Marine Corps (Rank: Staff Seargent)
The message blinked urgently on screen. Staff Seargent Kebede Nyongesa tapped his tablet, and his helmet indicated that he was connected to the unit in question: Vepkhia.
“Sergeant Stepane Vepkhia, this is Nyongesa. Did you get the message? There’s a shelter in place alert. You guys have to shut down the recruiting booth at the theaters now.”
The theaters were all booked out showing the latest blockbuster production out of Hollywood, Edge of Civilization. War films about the extrasolar alien conflicts outside the Republic were beginning to saturate and tire out the moviegoing audience, but this one had been filmed with real Navy cooperation.
Real ships! Real weapons firing! And real footage of actual aliens fighting a space battle!
Or at least that’s what the trailers claimed. There was some news story about classified material being used for the movie against recommendations from the Classification Office, but it was probably manufactured controversy to drum up hype for the movie.
And whatever Atlas Naval Command said in public, it was tremendous for the Republic Marines’ recruiting quotas.
Stepane’s voice crackled through, a hint of exasperation coloring his tone. “Oh, come on Kebede, we’ve got kids lining up outside all around the block. They’re coming straight down from the showing. It’s like shooting fish in a—”
Kebede cut the sergeant off, firming up his voice. “It’s a damn red alert, Vepkhia. Get those kids out of there and shut it down!”
A sigh transmitted through Stepane’s connection. “Fine, fine. I’ll go tell LT—”
A deafening explosion ripped through the connection, drowning out the remainder of Stepane’s words.
“What’s going on over there, Stepane?” Kebede demanded, gripping his tablet hard. Static filled Nyongesa’s ears, his heart pounding against his ribs. “Stepane!”
A panicked voice broke through the static. “Staff Sarn’t! This is Zviadi! Stepane is down! Oh God, he’s bleeding! Corpsman!”
Gunshots erupted in the background. Zviadi’s breath came in short bursts. “We need backup! There are shooters. Four of them at least, maybe more. Multiple automatic rifles.”
Kebede was already moving, his boots pounding against the ground as he activated the unit’s emergency assets. “Zviadi, hold tight! I’m coming down there with the toasters.”
“Staff Sarn’t, they’re shooting up the civvies out there. Up on the second floor!” Zviadi’s voice trembled. “I’m going out there.”
More gunshots, muffled shouts.
Then Zviadi was on the radio again, this time whispering, “They’re wearing Marine armor! Mark Twos. I say again, the Mark Twos are not friendly!”
Kebede’s jaw clenched, adrenaline surging through his veins. From a corner in his helmet, he could see his squad assets and two other troopers joining his sprint towards the site. “We’re coming. We’re coming. One mike out.”
A sharp intake of breath, followed by Zviadi’s strained voice. “Ah fuck. I’m hit. I’m hit. I’m hit.”
“Zviadi! Zviadi!” Kebede called out, his heart in his throat.
It took him another minute to get to the site. The temporary structure hosting the recruiting booth was missing its top half, and several Marines were down. The corpsmen were already on site, conducting triage and trauma care. One of them was busy stripping an unconscious Marine out of his blackened armor. Thankfully, it looked like most of them had their suits on. Looking cool was part of the job, and here, it might have saved their lives.
Some of them.
With his squad, Kebede sprinted out towards the sounds of gunfire, sporadically punctuating the screams of people in the distance.
Running up the escalators to the second and main floor of the theater four steps at a time, he saw Zviadi slumped against a column, treating an armor puncture in one of his arms with a tourniquet on his other. Kebede shouted, “I’m here. Are you alright?”
To his relief, Zviadi waved at him with his good arm. He shouted, pain lacing his words, “I’m okay. I’m okay. My radio’s busted. Go get ’em!”
Kebede scanned the chaos, his eyes darting from one shattered door to another. “Where the hell did they go?”
Zviadi pointed. “That way! That way!”
Kebede’s gaze followed his gesture to a further wing. “Toasters, on me!” he barked. The emergency assets — his combat robots, followed his command without protest or hesitation. His voice was steady as he issued the order, “Toasters, live rounds authorized. Watch out for the civvies.”
“Live rounds authorization confirmed. Restricted rules of engagement.”
Throwing caution to the wind, they ran down the hall, past dozens of bodies on the ground. Despite his raw instincts, he ignored them and followed his training. The corpsmen that trailed him would tend to them. Neutralizing the shooters was the first priority.
As they neared the last known sounds of shooting on their helmet displays, the squad sprinted around a hallway corner with their weapons at the ready. Kebede cleared the halls and spotted a young girl huddled against a wall, no more than eight or nine. She was terrified, but looked otherwise fine. He approached carefully, kneeling to meet the child’s eyes. “Hey, kid! Where did they go?”
“My friends…”
He checked her for wounds as she sobbed. “Listen to me! Listen to me. You’re okay. You’re okay. I need your help right now. Which direction did they go?”
The girl trembled, her finger pointing across the hall. He followed it to see a bundle of equally terrified children behind another pillar. One of them looked bloodied. He wordlessly directed one of the corpsmen behind him to them.
Kebede looked back down at the girl, “Not your friends. The bad guys. The people with the guns? Which direction—”
Gunfire erupted nearby, a bullet shattering glass somewhere. He ducked instinctively, shielding the girl with his armor.
But the bullets weren’t intended for him. A couple of teenagers ran out the exit of a theater room a couple doors down, screaming. Another burst of shooting inside.
“That one! Go go go! Rush them!” he pointed.
His combat robots sprang into action, too fast for his Marines to even follow. He watched the updates scroll onto his helmet as they disappeared into the theater room in a blur.
Toaster-4 (R-INF): Contact. Armed man. 13 meters. 184. Engaging.
Brrrrrrt.
Toaster-4 (R-INF): Target down.
The sounds of staccato gunfire from the shooters were replaced with the more familiar rapid-fire cycling of the weapons the robots had.
Toaster-4 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 12 meters. 184. Engaging.
Toaster-3 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 16 meters. 183. Engaging.
Toaster-1 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 10 meters. 184. Engaging.
Toaster-2 (R-INF): Contact. Armed squad. 10 meters. 186. Engaging.
Brrrrrrrrrrrt.
Toaster-4 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-3 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-3 (R-INF): I’m hit. Non-critical. Left chest plate.
Toaster-3 (R-INF): I’m hit. Non-critical. Left leg, lower.
Toaster-3 (R-INF): I’m still combat effective. Engaging.
Toaster-4 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-2 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-1 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-2 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-1 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-1 (R-INF): Target down.
Toaster-1 (R-INF): Area clear.