The Guangdong was a supercarrier made with the intention to compete with the United States’ naval dominance in the South China Sea. One of the most advanced vessels of its time at commission, the panicked response of intelligence agencies in the western world and their respective administrations left a whiplash injury in American foreign policy so immense, the impact of which is still felt even in the mid-2070s.

Now over forty years later, the massive supercarrier was one half of the Arabian Sea Peacekeeping Joint Task Force alongside her American counterpart the U.S.S. K. Jerome.

A twin supercarrier task force currently anchored two hundred miles off the coast of southern Iran, the nearly twelve vessel strike group was operating at a reduced yellow alert status.

Combat flight patrols orbiting above in case of retaliation, a screen of stealth destroyers and escort frigates visible from the massive peaks of the carriers acting as an early warning system against cruise missile based counter strikes.

Guiding himself through the hangar deck of U.S.S. K. Jerome, Lieutenant Keys manages to avoid the crushing reorganization of F-35 fighter jets and the movement of transport drones laden with the heavy ordnance of missiles and cannon shells. Right arm currently wrapped in a white sling, the out of place blue civilian operations uniform catches a handful of watchful eyes from the carrier crew.

The deafening sound of military machinery claws at sensitive eardrums, a small door found as the exploration of the city-like vessel comes to fruition. Located at the back of the carrier itself, the small bit of exposed walkway was a vestigial aspect of metal construction: a location free from the roar of flight deck operations and the dangerous activity within the hangar bays.

Fresh air for morale, a handful of metal chairs set up against the hull bringing out a few off duty personnel to the location. Solace and social time within the outcropping, the lapping of waves against a steel island audible over the idling engine slowly churning sea water beneath them.

Lieutenant Keys spots him, the Arsenal-Vertigo Operator standing at the far edge of the space. Smoke rising from an ignited cigarette, the form of Nikolai Chernyshevsky stands looking out towards the massive metal image of the Guangdong five miles out. A mind held in deep thought, smothered by the application of nicotine to bloodstreams.

A single word takes him out of meditation, the young Combat Engineer clearing his throat as he approaches. “Operator.”

The mind finds the name as he connects the face together, recognition from a rescue two days prior and broadcast news reports months ago. An accent heavily Russian, English technicality lost to a first learned language. “You are… Keys? Lieutenant Keys.”

“Yeah that’s me.” The young man replies with a chuckle. “How are you holding up?”

Operator Chernyshevsky pauses as he translates the question in his head, a response given as he takes a small puff of the burning cigarette. “I am well.”

A small hint of smoke hits the Lieutenant, his body automatically coughing from inhalation. “Good… good to hear. I suppose the food’s better than whatever the Java Treaty was feeding you.”

“They need to keep us looking good, to get a good cost from us.” The man shuts the conversation down as they frown. “So food is ok.”

“Oh… ok.” Lieutenant Keys blinks back at the words.

“Is your ribs ok?” The Medic asks as he observers the Lieutenant adjust the sling at his arm.

“Yeah, still a little sore.” Keys grimaces as he turns slightly, a pang of pain sent through the spinal column as two of his left ribs protest against the movement.

“Avoid move around. It is only a small crack, will take two weeks for body to fix.” The Medic recommends. “If you need to take pain pill then it is ok, not too strong or else you risk damage by accidentally move. Like iboprofane.”

“Yeah I’ll think I’ll need some ibuprofen.” The young man agrees.

“Two hundred milligram.” He continues prescribing, a medical authority remaining despite a linguistic barrier. “As on label, do not take too much.”

“I understand.” The Lieutenant grimaces as he realizes a context to the injury. “I took an RPG round to the chest, are sure nothing else is broken?”

“I did not see X-ray, do not know if there is more broken but pain is near amount for crack, not fractor.”

Keys allows for a very conservative scoff, a light nod in agreement with the diagnosis. “I’ll take your word for it Doc.”

A low rumble sounds across air as a Chinese stealth fighter descends towards its home carrier five miles out. Paired engines vectoring thrust as the gray creature comes in for a landing, the pilot allowing a metal mind to assist in final approach. One final throttle burst is enough, aerodynamic canards stabilizing the chaos of air as landing gear makes contact with the deck.

Massive electromagnets activate below it, invisible fields of arresting gear ripping velocity from the aircraft as it comes to a standstill.

“Thank you by the way.” Lieutenant Keys begins as they observe the flight operation. “For, running out and making sure I wasn’t dead.”

“You were injured. I was just doing job.”

“Well you’ve got a really bad definition of a job then.” The Combat Engineer jokes.

The Operator pauses, formulating his own line. “I also need to thank you. Rescue me, risk life.”

“I was just doing my job.” Lieutenant Keys repeats with a smile. “But really, I don’t think we had much of a chance to talk since we got back. Been wanting to talk to you about something.”

Brown eyes stare out into the ocean, the man responding as he turns to the System Defense Force Marine. “What?”

“Why did you leave the S.D.F.?”

Chernyshevsky chuckles. “Бля, that was eight year ago.”

“I mean as a Medic, come on.” Keys continues. “Most non-retirees end up with Orbital Security one way or another for the finances, but in Arsenal-Vertigo? They're cheap sharks aren’t they?”

“Акула?”

“Don’t pay as much as the rest of the OSC groups and conglomerates.” Keys clarifies the idiom. “And you’re a full-fledged Medic with an advanced medical degree, you could’ve just gone into private practice. So it’s obviously not the money you’re after. Why did you wash up with Arsenal-Vertigo?”

“Big story.” The Operator immediately answers as he takes another drag off his cigarette.

“I suppose that’s all I’m getting out of you.” Keys frowns as the wind changes, smoke from the burning cylinder of embers blasting in his face. Enough carcinogens inhaled by unfamiliar lungs, human reflexes sends the diaphragm into a full coughing fit, sore ribs stinging with pain. “Fuck… damn smoking’s terrible for you isn’t it?”

“It is.” Chernyshevsky scoffs, reaching into his borrowed fatigue pockets as he fishes for the device.

Producing a small palm sized paper carrying case, the man flips the folded plastic cap to reveal the contents within. An infantry squad of cigarettes taking up half the capacity of the thing, rolled and compressed tobacco packed with powerful particulate filters. The Doctor speaks in the offering of the thing. “You want one?”

“NO.” Lieutenant Keys steps back immediately at the sight, instinctively checking his uniform for flammable ordnance. “No. And where the hell did you get those anyway?”

“Chinese crew.” The Medic points outward towards the distant form of the Guangdong.

“Well good to know the Chinese air crews are maintaining the good old fashion tradition of smoking in hangar bays of explosives and fuel.” Lieutenant Keys steps back with a slight discomfort. “And aren’t you a Doctor? Shouldn’t you not be… well shouldn’t you not be smoking?”

Chernyshevsky’s face contorts into an unnatural half-smile. “One in a good time is ok for health. It is tradition to me. Also, lung canker has cure now, so it is ok.”

Keys’ reaction is muddled by an attempt to unravel logic, his response hiding a grossed expression. “I’ll take your assurances, sir.”

“Do not worry, no smoking in space.” The man assures. “Big explosion if done.”

“Yeah…” The Combat Engineer breathes through his teeth as the aimed words push him off balance. “I don’t have the best history with fires in microgravity.”

A cylinder of red embers burning out, dried plant matter giving away to particulate filters. A cigarette reaching the end of its lifespan, the final breath taken igniting the last fragments of the chemicals trapped within organic material.

“Have you considered signing back on?” Keys asks. “To the System Defense Force of course. Orbital Combat Medics of your caliber are rarer than palladium, they’ll snatch you back up in an instant.”

“No.” Chernyshevsky answers without thought, unwrapping the remaining cigarette filter from its paper cover. “Why you ask?”

“How much do you know about Admiral Issac Tucker?” Keys begins.

“He is one of first Admiral of SDF, represent on Security Council. Why?”

“He’s putting together a team.” The Solar System Defense Force Combat Engineer responds cryptically. “A team of extraordinary people.”

“Ex..extra…dinary?” The man attempts to translate the forgotten, foreign word in his head.

“He’s creating a Task Force. A very strange but strong one. One that can change the world.” Keys interrupts with the simplification, murmuring to himself as he fixates on the ocean beyond. “Man, I wish Ling was here.”

“Was that, китайский…” The man motions for his face as language fails him, an attempt to describe features falling on combined words. “Asia, Chinaman. Strong, yell.”

“Yeah he’s the guy who helped you carry me back to the helo.” Keys extrapolates from the description. “Master Sergeant Ling Shu. He’s the Squad Leader, technically. He’s on a call with his fiancée right now; she’s still up in orbit so time zones and stuff. But back to the main point.”

“Create team?”

“Task Force Thirty One, specifically.” Lieutenant Keys informs. “An end of year project for the System Defense Force. A Special Warfare Group made up of one corvette and a marine squad.”

“Big group.” Chernyshevsky comments.

“It’s a Yangtze Class Corvette, nine crew.” Keys specifies.

“Oй, small group.” He corrects.

“But we’re still in the middle of getting the Marine Team together. We just recruited a marksman: Corporal Mercier, the little French lady. But we’re still a hand short.”

A filter exposed to open air, calloused thumbs crushing the remaining cylinder. Tiny packets of liquid within unleashed, chemicals reacting with each other as the mechanism begins to combust from within.

The Arsenal-Vertigo Operator releases it into open air, the thing burning away into carbon as the wind takes away its ashes. “What does have to do with me?”

“We need a Medic.” Lieutenant Keys puts down. “You’re…”

“Нет, not me.” Chernyshevsky replies immediately as he straightens himself up. “And there are other medic in S.D.F., get them.”

Keys is put off balance, a social encounter turning into a battlefield. “Yeah, but we want you.”

“No.” The word is spoken again with cold determination. “Is this why rescue us?”

“Partially.” Keys admits. “Well, our Admiral was also paying back some Arsenal-Vertigo favors he owed. Rescuing your surviving squad helped even things up, if you know what I mean.”

“I do not know.” Chernyshevsky lies.

“Well, the pay’s a special warfare salary so it’s better than what they’re comping you in Arsenal-Vertigo.” Keys continues pitching. “And private quarters in the gravity ring too. That’s a bonus. And also cool state of the art hardware, but not sure if that counts as anything for a medic though.”

The Operator leans on the catch fence as he sighs. “No.”

A surprised expression draws on the Lieutenant’s face. “What the do you want then?”

“I do not want to re-in the Force again. That is all.”

A strange coldness to the man, the human form against an endless ocean below him. With a rare bit of insight Lieutenant Johnathan Keys grips the chains of the catch fence, his eyes meeting with the Operator. “It’s not the same as before you know. With the revised engagement rules they put in five years ago, we’re actually able to do something about getting shot at.”

“They say it. But reality is different.”

The Combat Engineer takes a quick moment to glance around, the idling ears of an ocean going naval crew occupied by both casual conversation and music from headphones. An implicit privacy confirmed, he breathes in as he lowers his voice. “I put a bomb inside a terrorist and got a fancy medal for it. Those revised engagement rules do change it up.”

“That was real?” Chernyshevsky immediately catches the words, a medical knowledge pulled from mind palaces. “You put it… inside him?”

“Not really inside ‘inside.’” Keys continues as he puts on a slightly disgusted expression at the memory. “If you looked closely it was pretty obvious. Still had to pump him full of morphine though to make it not seem too suspicious, the guy was basically ODing by the time we got him to the hostage exchange.”

A disturbing image returns in the Medic’s imagination, unease arriving as the realization of an actual reality turns hardened stomachs. “So bomb inside central cavaty?”

“Five pounds of C4 right around here.” Lieutenant Keys motions at his lower abdomen, pausing as he raises a point with the medical professional. “There’s a lot of empty space inside a human being, like I was really surprised that it all fit.”

“It is human atomnomy. Strange.” Chernyshevsky dismisses. “But what you doing is… you did?”

“He had it coming.” Keys answers coldly. “My opinion; he got off easy. Seriously, he was the one who masterminded the fucking Mond-One attack back in the 60s. At that point he was going to die either by us or a national space force. Hell, even if you PMC people bagged him that would’ve been a fifty million reward in crypto right there.”

The Medic remains silent at the revelation.

“Either way, we got to him first. Phantom Team dragged him in after the initial firefight and that’s when I got the idea. I’m no combat medic, but there’s at least some overlap between engineering and medicine, right?”

“Maybe?”

“Human body’s basically just a very messy machine.” Keys dismisses casually. “Either way, I’ve been in the force for like six years now and when we get shot at its guns free. Good times.”

The form of the Guangdong distorts against human vision as human eyes catch the moving anomaly. Like a mirage in the desert the ocean and carrier wraps around the boxy shape, near-perfect optical illusion against all spectrums perceived by humanity.

“что за хуйня…?”

“It’s one of those Kelso Class Destroyers… probably.” Lieutenant Keys informs from accumulated knowledge. “She’s got a big enough power plant to run adaptive camouflage and two railguns at the same time. Don’t know why she’s running silent right now though.”

The two watch as the stealthed missile destroyer passes between the twin carriers, the churning wake of ocean foam following the craft betraying a true location and vector.

“So what about the offer?”

The Operator pulls himself out of the Lieutenant’s story, words still executed in a cold stillness. “I will not join. Goodbye.”

A form rising off of guard rails, an immediacy to the ending of conversation as the man heads towards the shut blast door.

“Wait!” Lieutenant Keys barely has time to react to the sudden change in tone, a panic flooding into conscious thought as he quotes a line from memory. “Hold on! One thing!”

The Lieutenant rips his phone from his pocket, the thin device almost fumbling out of his hands as he nearly drops it overboard into the ocean below. “I just need to make one call and then you’ll change your mind.”

Already in the midst of opening the blast door the Operator stops unamused. Patience evaluated in a step back, leaning on warm metal as he watches the Lieutenant attempt to find the dialing application on the device’s touch screen.

Memory serves its purpose as the randomized twelve digit number plus area code is brought from neurons, a device connecting insane distances in seconds. From the aircraft carrier’s local network broadcasted to orbiting satellites above, the signal is subsequently relayed into a central communications hub aboard the United States’ C.O.M.M.A.N.D.O. 60 military installation in geosynchronous orbit. A reception confirmed and destination processed, the line is shot out towards a more intentional target.

A United Nations SAT-COM satellite receives the communique, an automated system immediately retrieving a database catalog in an attempt to locate the targeted device. The location is discovered within four milliseconds; a passenger onboard the corvette Rubicon.

Luckily within line of sight in their current orbital pattern, the SAT-COM network beams the signal directly to the vessel.

Flash encrypted radio signals converted to electrons within the small vessel, the local network aboard the vessel bridging the final step.

Nearly a thousand kilometers between the boundaries of earth and space crossed in less than a second, it takes a brutal ten seconds more for the recipient to actually pick up the phone call.

Admiral Issac Tucker’s voice is muffled slightly through an integrated microphone and a mouth full of a mid-consumed microgravity S-ration lunch. An answer paused as he wipes away stuck sauce on his face, the Flag Officer speaks up with a minor concern. “Hello? Keys, how are you doing?”

“Hello Admiral.” Keys takes a deep breath as he straightens himself for conversation. “I’m taking to Chern… Chernshe… Chernsky…” The name falters, the Lieutenant continuing anyway. “Our medic recruit, I’m talking to him right now, it’s not going good.”

“Ling’s not with you.” The Admiral notes as he observes Captain Perez’s conversation with her fiancée across the Bridge.

“Yeah I thought I could do it, but it’s going a lot worse than I thought.” Keys’ expression tilts slightly at the delivery of the news, facial muscles trying to emulate a sense of panic.

Admiral Tucker pauses, an excruciating silence as he creates a new plan of attack. “I’m not the person you should be talking to about this.”

“Then who…”

“I’ll transfer your call over to her.” The Admiral interrupts. “But you’re gonna have to face the consequences.”

“Who are you…” Lieutenant Keys barely begins as the line is dropped, a dial tone resounding through the directional speaker.

A much shorter route than before, the connection this time routed through purely domestic hardware. From C.O.M.M.A.N.D.O. 60’s massive earth facing transceiver the signal is sent straight towards its recipient counterpart in the outskirts of Edwards Air Force Base in the Western United States. Contents interrogated by automated firewalls, a bridge from military to civilian communication channels lowered as the approval is received. Data transferred to rising cell towers, airwaves relatively silent in the dead hours of the early morning as the carrier wave finds its target.

The districts of metropolitan Los Angeles: from monoliths of LED ignited skyscrapers in downtown to the naturalistic suburban sprawl that expands outward into distant mountainsides. Nearly eleven million people soundly asleep in the guarantee of security and safety, of an inherited prosperity in the coming future.

With the exception of one.

The response to the call is surprisingly fast, an old body slamming awake with a trained instinct as she grabs the phone. A voice shedding a tired edge as an uncanny seriousness and roughness answers the Lieutenant. “This is Sergeant Major Katherine Lee, what’s going on?”

An immediate panic hits Lieutenant Keys as he lets out a dry wheeze, a full five seconds spent as a mind crashes and reboots.

“Hello?!” The Sergeant Major yells out again in impatience.

“Hello…uh… Sergeant Major…” Keys begins quietly. “It’s uh… Keys… Jonathan Keys?”

“Lieutenant Keys!” The old woman immediately recognizes, her tone souring at the realization. “What the fuck is going on?!”

Lieutenant Jonathan Keys takes a deep breath. “Uh… I need to ask a favor.”

“Is the Admiral actually sending you on that suicide mission?” The Sergeant Major stops. “Fucking christ… I’ll fucking kill him the next time I…”

“N-no!” Keys interrupts. “Not really, we’re already done with that Ma’am. Everyone made it out ok. This is about something else entirely.”

There’s a short pause before she continues. “Then what the fuck is it?! It’s two in the morning, and how in the fuck did you get this number?!”

Dividing the questions Keys answers her. “Admiral Tucker routed the call, he said you could help me with this thing.”

“He’s dead.” The woman announces as she grits her teeth. “I’ll strangle him the next time I see him.”

“But I’m talking to Operator Cher… Chernsky…” Keys fumbles the name again.

“Nikolai Chernyshevsky.” The Sergeant Major recalls. “You’re talking to him right now?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m trying to get him to join up with us… but I’m getting nowhere.”

“So the Admiral did send you on a suicide rescue mission.” The old woman replies with uncanny political intelligence. “Fuck. And you want me to tell Cherny to join up with you idiots?!”

“I suppose?” Keys squeaks out.

“Fucking hell alright let me talk to him.” Sergeant Major Lee orders.

Operator Chernyshevsky raises a bemused expression as the Lieutenant raises his phone in offering. A once confident voice lowered to submissiveness as the Combat Engineer coughs out the request. “They want to talk to you.”

The man sighs as he takes the phone, putting it against his ear. “Hello?”

Lieutenant Keys observes the shifts of expression on the Arsenal-Vertigo Operator’s face. Surprise turned to nostalgia in conversation, the exchange of remembered stories and common events trailing back to a singular request placed at his doorstep.

An expression returns to disappointment as Chernyshevsky stops, a deep sigh given as he stares out into the afternoon horizon. Warm waves lapping at the side of a steel island, disrupted by the roar of passing fighter jets and churning engines. The rare scent of clean air mixed with oxidizing metal, a hint of dust from the deserts in the far north.

The old instructor speaks a secondary offering in replacement of the request, a more digestible favor in replacement of a massive life changing request.

A deeper sigh this time, the man finally agreeing.

Lieutenant Keys watches as Operator Chernyshevsky returns the phone, muscular body opening the blast door to the hangar deck without a single issue. Watching as he marches into darkness, Keys brings the phone to his ear. “What…”

“You fucking owe me Lieutenant.” The Sergeant Major slams across the call.

“Does that mean…”

“No it doesn’t.” The woman interrupts. “I’ve invited him to Thanksgiving Dinner with us. He said yes.”

Keys blinks. “What?”

“The magic comes face-to-face.” Sergeant Major Lee explains. “I’ll see what I can do to talk him out of that fucking corporate hell-hole when we’re actually meeting. For now, don’t fuck it up again. Aka, don’t talk to him because you suck at it.”

Slightly dumbfounded Keys attempts to reorient. “Yes ma’am.”

“Is that everything?” The woman asks again as she suppresses yawn.

“Y-Yes ma’am.”

“Good, I’m going back to bed. Have a good evening or whatever fucking time you’re on. Goodnight, see you in a few days.”