When confronted with the infantry based orbital combat paradox, many military analysts immediately point towards the massive technological difference between engaging parties. Harkening back to the asymmetrical warfare found during the War on Terror in the early 21st century and even earlier in the Indochina Wars of the mid to late 20th century, the sheer difference in applied technologies in modern microgravity combat was commonly measured in the billions of dollars.

In the earlier decades, the inter-corporate piracy over the flow of Helium-3 and orbital infrastructure were commonly supplied by similar entities; Nanshan Industries, perhaps the most infamous, sold questionable armaments and combat space suits at questionably low rates to guarantee a constant supply of equally matched customers.

But today, the battles fought between terrorist/pirate groups scrounging salvaged technologies and hyper advanced, internationally supported paramilitary peacekeeping forces were laughable in comparison.

The so called “Orbital Warrior” program initiated by the Solar System Defense Force in the late 2040s to 2050s was heavily focused on modernizing antiquated space suit technology to fit the rigors of zero gravity firefights. Estimated by analysts as taking up over fifty percent of the newly christened force’s budget, recently declassified financial documents list out research and development costs of the program to over a trillion United States Dollars amortized over its eight year run.

Although certainly not the most expensive defense project ever contrived (the United States’ $3.23 trillion dollar spending on the F-35 Lightning-II at the turn of the 2000s tops that leaderboard), it certainly was the largest sum of funding spent specifically on developing infantry level equipment. Controversy arose after such a reveal of course, critics calling into question the necessity for a so-called Peacekeeping Force to develop their own hardware and at such exuberant cost.

The benefits for the average System Defense Force Marine, however, are undeniable in scope. Described as a human-shaped spaceship, the standard Combat Space Suit of the S.D.F. was in fact two distinct parts; a bulky but highly advanced environmental maneuvering unit, and the modular suit itself.

Designed to be a nearly universal size bar with some minor tailoring, the suit from the outside looked like a simple iteration of the classical, early 2000s N.A.S.A. design. White fabric over layers of bulky protective covering, a reflective helmet of polarized bulletproof material creating a distinctly nostalgic look.

The in-built tactical vest, however, betrays a more lethal purpose of the suit.

Inserts for extra plates of body armor, modular velcro holsters allowing for the addition of pouches of munitions, sidearms, utilities, or if needed even more armor plating were spread across the body. Beneath the surface, a default protection was provided by the twenty two layers of interwoven bullet resistant fabric, skins of impact gel, plates of ceramic, and self-sealing fluid. A center mass built like a carapace, protection from cosmic radiation and anti-material caliber rounds hand in hand within its design.

An insulation brutally effective against the heat of unshielded sunlight and the freezing temperatures of a planetary shadow, the human body carried within was naturally a source of power that continuously added energy into the closed thermal system. Applied knowledge gained from overheating experiences within Nanshan manufactured space suits, the coolant jacket developed from the Orbital Warrior Program was so effective a civilian grade version quickly became commercially available for industries ranging from steelmaking all the way to professional athletics.

Though, the System Defense Force held the exclusive rights for the design used in combat suits.

A specially designed non-toxic, possibly edible coolant was circulated through a capillary equivalent system across the operator’s body, a second skin of polymer and plastic in replication of an organic circulatory system. Defaulted to a median 22 degrees Celsius, the general comfort of the interior was a major plus to any Marine who found themselves within a protracted, high intensity firefight.

Laden upon the suit’s backside was the life support system. Modular in creation, the most basic stripped down model is able to recirculate breathable air for a minimum of 16 hours, while additional attachments extend the time to upwards of 136 hours (despite the fact the operator within would be dead of dehydration by then). One of the most heavily armored pieces of equipment on the suit, the module was also the bridging point for the environmental maneuvering unit.

The environmental maneuvering unit, a term usually interchangeable with the more antiquated ‘manned maneuvering unit,’ was a necessity for viable movement in the cold, zero gravity vacuum of space. Immensely bulky, the modular mechanism could be stripped down or even added onto depending on either mission parameters or tactical kits.

In general, lighter E.M.U.s sacrifice fuel and armor for the sake of neck breaking movement. Favored for fast, reactionary firefights requiring high bursts of acceleration; its most common usage was found within marksmen and some breachers. The former not requiring heavy mass, but instead the ability to reposition quickly, and the latter preferring to present blitzing shock and awe tactics in close quarters combat.

On the other side of the spectrum the heaviest E.M.U.s carve out their own niche, the bulky systems under the square cube law not allowing for fast movement but instead the ability to operate heavier tactical kits in combat. Automatic riflemen wielding machine guns and carrying thousands of rounds in drum magazines also generally pack more armor plating; with the only realistic way of moving such a mass found in the heavier E.M.U.s. Though, on the other side of the breacher ideology, some breaching teams end up using the heavier armor kits instead of fast paced shock and awe; becoming seemingly indestructible shotgun wielding juggernauts able to take hundreds of rounds before showing visible apprehension.

Another more commonly overlooked feature of S.D.F. maneuvering units are also found in utility pylons. A carryover from the original Nanshan Industries design, the pylons themselves act as a modular mounting system for different tactical kits. Originally used for grenade launchers and heavy machine guns, the pylon system has subsequently been expanded out to encompass more wholesome applications.

Autoloaders for heavy weapons, electronic warfare modules, sensor packages, extra munitions, external fuel tanks, and even prototype active protection systems were now common sights in System Defense Force press releases.

Though, not to say that the Force has completely abandoned the system’s violent legacy. Fire support platforms featuring rotary machine guns strip utility for raw, human guided firepower while combat engineering units operate with a unique inventory management system allowing for increased creativity in firefights.

This two part mechanism of suit and E.M.U. is umbrellaed underneath one of the most advanced tactical operating systems on the planet. A custom written avionics platform integrated with off-the-shelf battlespace intelligence software allows for total domination of combat space. Hostiles automatically highlighted, friendly units identified clearly, and communication distilled down to intuitive on-location markers brings forth tight cohesive squads able to peer through the dense, three dimensional fog of war of orbital combat.

All of this technology, however, doesn’t translate well to the brutal truth of modern warfare.

The scent of cleaning fluid, sweat, and opened snack food permeates the tiny space. Two racks of LED lights on two opposite walls provide full illumination to the interior as the whirr of Station Four’s ventilation system echoes through air ducts.

Four suited bodies and a heavy combat drone stuffed within a literal janitorial closet, a space stripped and converted into a forward operating base over the course of the past three days.

A hideout staked within the bowels of Station Four’s pressurized hull, forgotten back rooms used as illicit avenues of ambush by Task Force Thirty One’s marine detachment. Stretching nearly across the entire promenade, the spaces between spaces were lost to essentially everyone save a handful of station workers; a perfect place to await chaos, ignoring the obvious issues of course.

Lieutenant Keys looks up from his phone, the Admiral's final message read and processed before a small spheroid shape floats by his screen. “Corporal, can you please not eat M&Ms right now.”

“I am hungry.” The Marksman blankly states as she picks another button of chocolate from the floating bag of opened candy.

“Specifically not the minis.” Keys insists. “And seriously there’s fucking bentos in the crate could you just not eat that?!”

“But I want to eat chocolat.” Mercier replies with confusion as she continues to monitor her tablet.

The Lieutenant sighs, conceding a food-based argument as he turns back to his own device.

Dressed in full combat space suits minus helmets, Marauder Team floats nearly shoulder to shoulder to one another within the literal closet.

Suits plugged into standard outlets, full battery power maintained as micro-refrigeration units within coolant systems attempt to regulate comfortable temperature against the heat of human bodies. A temperature equalized at about 31 degrees Celsius, exposed faces now beginning to coat themselves in small beads of sweat as the fourth hour of waiting strikes the clock.

Borrowed tablet computers stuck to walls with loops of tape, video feeds of Station Four’s Security System augmented by livestreams from several international news networks watched with bored glances.

Cherny shuffles slightly, a large body pushed against a small storage shelf and the huge metal form of T.A.C. “Possible to move?”

“Sorry.” The Machine replies as a hydraulic limb extends, attempting to compress space further than physically possible.

The Medic’s arms move from a cramped position, blood flow restored. “Спасибо, TAC.”

An AK pattern rifle floating away from its stowed position, Ling sitting across from Cherny quickly pushing it back. The Squad Medic grabs his weapon swiftly, placing the unloaded thing onto its secured spot behind a shelf.

A bag of candy finished by Mercier, gloved hands scrunching up the recyclable packaging as she stuffs it into a garbage disposal bag. French accent even clearer in the midst of hunger, she speaks towards the rest of her squad. “It is around eleven, should we eat lunch?”

The Squad Leader pauses. “I am not hungry, but if you are eating you should only eat no-throw in case of combat.”

“Ok hold on dude.” The Combat Engineer objects. “Those sushi bentos we got will not last here in this sweatbox, we gotta eat those first.”

“We will eat those later.” The Master Sergeant orders. “After main conference is finished and big threat is over.”

“That’s in eight hours. You think they’ll last that long?!”

The Medic nods alongside him. “And it raw fish, not good for storage in warm place.”

Lieutenant Keys gives a thumbs up through his suit. “See Cherny agrees with me.”

“Hеt, I say do not eat ever. Not safe to eat.” The man replies, turning to the Marksman and Combat Engineer. “I forbid you to eat sushi under order.”

Disappointment on faces, the elevation of boredom through national cuisines pushed aside as bodies once again lean back against protruding E.M.U. units.

Every second seemingly extends to encompass five more in utter boredom, space-time bending in impossible shapes via physically impossible paradoxes. A chronological marker turning inside out like a corrupted mobius strip, dimensions folding atop one another in an utterly incomprehensible shape that passes through the room. One minute blends into the next, a mental facility beginning to deteriorate in hot and humid air.

“I think my phone is broken.” Lieutenant Keys comments as he checks the time. “It says it's only been half-an-hour.”

“Your phone is not broken.” T.A.C. replies coldly.

A pause as parties realize the implication.

“Oh my GOD we need to be here for THREE DAYS.” Keys yells as he bangs his head against the solid armor plating of the E.M.U. “I swear we could’ve just been part of the SECURITY DELEGATION!”

Ling shakes his head. “If we did that, then they would be prepared for us.”

“If we did do that then we wouldn’t be stuck IN HERE FOR THREE FUCKING DAYS!!!” Keys repeats as he emotionally depressurizes, taking a deep relaxing breath. “Ok I’m better now.”

The Squad Leader chuckles. “Never a boring moment with you here.”

The noise of fluid passing through an airlocked straw sounds in silence, Corporal Mercier folding the sealed packaging of the liquid meal as she attempts to extract every last drop storied within.

She speaks as the trickle of chicken-salsa flavored protein stops. “I do not like no-throws.”

T.A.C. speaks up suddenly with a bit of trivia. “Did you know System Defense Force no-throws were originally made from human flesh? The initial prototype batches used lab grown human tissue as a substitute for bovine protein.”

Utter silence at the statement, the straw floating out of Corporal Mercier’s slack mouth.

The Machine continues. “That was a joke.”

“T.A.C. who the fuck writes your jokes?!” Keys barks the question at the solid rectangular prism of robotics.

“I do.” The thing replies. “I am able to derive humor from a database of situational statements and augment them with contextual social cues.”

“It was funny.” Cherny adds.

“Ok it was funny.” The Lieutenant agrees with a slight apprehension. “But still it gave me a literal heart attac…”

“Admiral Tucker.” Corporeal Mercier yelps out as she points out Russia Today’s livestream from the screen, the familiar face of the Old Man spotted as recycled footage is played again once more.

The Admiral exchanges a firm handshake with President Batbayar, the expression on the Russian Leader’s face pulled from pure joy at the novelty of microgravity. Real-time subtitles spell out spoken words, the President quipping in English. “I should not stay too long up here, or lose all my body to this no-weight place.”

Admiral Tucker simply laughs at the statement, the footage cutting back to a news anchor.

“Plus one point to Corporal Mercier.” T.A.C. keeps track. “The Admiral watching scoreboard is still led by Corporal Mercier at five points followed by Lieutenant Keys at three points. In third plac…”

Phones ring at once, a general announcement made across the group chat by Admiral Tucker himself. @all General call sounded, everyone going into assembly hall. Next three hours be on high alert. Need sit-rep.

The Rubicon’s Crewman takes point, fingers tapping away on a physical keyboard aboard the naval vessel. Captain Update: U.S.S. Alaska no longer worrying about us, but if something happens we cannot rely on her to do anything. Need clearance to engage her if things go bad.

The Admiral replies quickly. @Rubicon Approved

Marauder Team exchange glances at one another at the revelation.

“Can the Rubicon even destroy Alaska?” Ling asks the squad.

“One penetrating shot to her central reactor and she’s junked.” Lieutenant Keys informs as he bridges microgravity engineering and naval warfare. “She’s built for deep space combat at interplanetary distances, not orbital knife fights.”

“Oh no.” Ling continues.

An impatient request comes from the Admiral. @Marauder Sitrep

All eyes stare at the Combat Engineer, the man sighing as he pulls his phone out once again. In the tree-house still, green light ready. Keys dead from boredom, Mercier ate human flesh no-throw. Gonna give us a cool speech before you go?

A reactionary checkmark is placed on the message by the Admiral, followed by a textual reply. Ping me if it starts. And speeches are for dead people, I don’t do them. Good luck, T. out.

Settling back down into position Marauder Team cracks sore muscles and joints. A preparation for conflict, weapons checked for operational capacity.

A design over a hundred twenty years old, the Kalashnikov pattern rifle in Cherny’s possession was perhaps the most antiquated weapon in the squad’s arsenal. Painted a heat shedding white minus tactical black handguards, the thing was immediately recognizable with its iconic design. Rails devoid of scopes and attachments, the only real development of its origins in space was in the tiny layer of circular radiators welded across its extended barrel.

Confirmation of a medical kit’s possession following a weapons check, the squad medic’s storage space was filled to the brim. Tactical vest packed with extra bottles of chemical sealant foam, an E.M.U. laid with an assorted array of packed medical equipment and replacement plates of ceramic armor.

Emergency measures just in case of wounding, a mantra of preparedness from a near decade and a half of treating combat injuries in microgravity.

Corporal Mercier’s GSW-ALMR doesn’t actually fit within the space. The anti-material rifle’s heavy barrel removed for the sake of comfortable storage, the Marksman quickly locates the missing part as she begins to screw it back onto the bullpup receiver.

High caliber magazines laid across her tactical vest, incredibly powerful munitions tipped with an assorted array of fun colors in the representation of lethal payloads; magazines of fragmentation rounds alongside full armor piercing high explosive warheads, a combat utility achieved through the application of unstoppable firepower.

In an uncharacteristic quietness the Combat Engineer of Marauder Team checks through his available assortment of gear. A mass mainly dedicated to explosives and various tools, the only real weapon on his form a standard short barreled GSW-AR. A boxy barrel inlaid with cooling fins, a holographic scope turned on, and a firing bolt cleared. The tried and true design unmolested in modification, a weapon simply good enough in the application of self-defense.

Perhaps the most expensive of them all was Master Sergeant Ling Shu’s XA-77 rifle. Angular and evil in appearance, its intended usage in orbital violence was immediately apparent to any onlooker. A projected iron sight automatically initiated, a digital crosshair hung above the rifle’s main rail as the firing bolt automatically snaps into place.

Fire control software integrated in the rifle itself connects with suit systems, a heads up display within a currently unworn helmet allowing for optical magnification from an on-rifle camera sensor.

Seven extended magazines on the Marine’s tactical vest, a tried and true ally of the System Defense Force found in the form of many bullets.

“Lieutenant Keys…” T.A.C. begins to speak up.

“Right, make way everyone!” The Combat Engineer announces to the rest of the squad, detaching from his maneuvering unit as his bare suit navigates the cramped space towards the Machine.

Held within the Combat Drone’s two “limbs” were modular pylons similarly found on the exterior of the E.M.U.s used by the System Defense Force. Minor differences in design however prevent any real standardization between units, Lee-Peisic’s Skunk Works division instead opting to provide pre-tailored combat kits as an interim solution to the issue.

As the Combat Engineer arrives on site T.A.C. automatically reaches out both arms, the boxy shapes pointed in directions away from allies. Maintenance hatches opening, the lethal contents held within are exposed to the world.

Mounted on the right limb was the automatic rifleman package; a vicious six barreled miniaturized rotary machine gun tucked away within a rectangular cowling. Packed with a thousand rounds of ammunition in an internal magazine, the weapons system was rendered inert with a single red safety lock on its barrel.

The left pylon was filled with the so-called ‘point defense system.’ A package of sensor suites and a 40mm multi-purpose launcher with five distinct types of munitions stored alongside it: an alien piece of technology divorcing itself from the original conceptualization of defensive systems. Another safety mechanism installed, this time an analog safety switch currently locked on ‘safe.’

“Alright, everyone ready to unleash the giant killer robot?” Lieutenant Keys jokes as he reaches for the left limb first.

“Stop.” The Master Sergeant raises as he holds his squad. “We do not want to go yet. We will only go in case of an attack by the Java Treaty.”

A small pause, Marauder staring at their leader dumbfounded.

Objections raised in different accents, Lieutenant Keys cutting through the interference as he speaks up. “Ok Ling we just went through a whole getting prepped sequence with guns and shit and you’re telling us to wait?!”

“It is part of the plan.” The Marine reminds.

An argument not found, the rest of the squad sighing in disappointment.

“Alright, back to waiting.” Lieutenant Keys maneuvers back towards his own position, the suit reattaching itself to the free floating E.M.U. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m taking a nap. Wake me when it starts.”