Captain Nazari floats in silence, watching as his entire platoon readies for combat. A scarred face built upon chiseled features, a lanky and slightly starved body from years of orbital combat hidden beneath the ancient space suit.

Dim illumination received from battery powered lights, the hollowed out interior of the helium-3 storage tank playing host to his understrength platoon of twenty five soldiers.

Salvaged oxygen reclaimers hum away as the frigid air of the hideout begins to freeze drops of nervous sweat, a non-existent insulation within the cavernous container creating a hellish micro-climate.

The Man checks the watch sewn into his suit’s fabric, a mission timeframe fast approaching in the minutes to execution.

“Captain!” One of his Lieutenants floats over towards his position. “All teams report ready!”

A pause as the old soldier takes a moment to deliberate, scanning the faces of the present force. Three infantry squads alongside his own command team, a dozen similar forces scattered among the separate storage tanks of the pirated vessel.

Faces coated with blank expressions against near impossible odds, insight catching the flashes of a fear buried beneath it.

He planned for this, but among the written letters to daughters and sons there was one document he never put to paper.

One memorized in minds; never to be placed onto medium but instead spoken in the final moments of an era. The Captain turns to his Lieutenant. “Give me a radio link to the entire Force. I need to speak with everyone.”

“Yes sir.”

It takes a moment, hardwired transceivers strung between hiding spots reconnecting with one another as a priority signal is recognized and made way for. Across nearly ninety irregulars ears tune to speakers, the Force Commander reading himself as the subordinate nods. “You are on sir.”

Captain Nazari takes a deep breath, a vicious passion hidden beneath cold words. A multinational group, he switches from Arabic to a more universal English in the addressing of his commanded troops. “Never before has a time come like this one. Never before have our people gathered in such unity against those who would see us trampled beneath their feet.

I command you today not as a soldier, but as a brother. A brother who has lost sons and daughters, a brother who has shed his own blood for their futures.

I will not deny the dangers we face today, for I know many of us will die. But in the name of God and the name of our children we will prevail! Our time is now, to tear down those who have murdered and raped us! God be with you today!!!”

His platoon of Java Treaty Orbital Troopers roar in approval, a victory cemented in their minds. The response from the others is mixed, the most fervent of which is found within the Space Liberation Front’s two squad detachment.

A tense alliance produced, their best troops placed under him in the execution of a daring operation. Majority Java Treaty, Nazari takes one final look at his people.

An averaged decade of fighting in zero gravity among his own elite guard, the immense sacrifices obvious on tired souls. Bulbs of skin cancer on dark complexions from cosmic radiation, wives and daughters lost to revolutions and mobs on a cruel earth below.

The Captain holds his helmet as he lets his rifle drift next to him, speaking forth a final bit of encouragement to his men. “TODAY WE SAVE OUR WORLD!”

Ululation from his troops, the high pitched battle cry echoing in ear shattering volume throughout the enclosed space. Helmets locked in place as suit seals are completed, the hiss of air deafened. Rifle bolts charged, a mixture of modified kalashnikov and AR pattern weapons alongside stolen GSW types, lethal ordnance alongside the distribution of more exotic grade items.

Smuggled grenades passed around alongside anti-tank mines, trained eyes even spotting three ancient RPG-7-IIs with crates of warheads passed down the line.

A minor convincing of himself, thoughts echoing in his own mind. We can do this.

He speaks into the radio. “Begin.”

A single briefcase left within the reception hall from the Java Treaty delegation, the large thing secretively tucked away behind one of the promenade’s benches. Blending into the environment, the lethal warfare package within activates.

Power consumed en-mass, the electronically shielded interior of Station Four reflecting electromagnetic carnage as the smuggled jammer roars out interference. At once online live-streams die, internet connections drop, and radios burn to static.

There is no warning within Station Four’s passenger terminal. Airlock technicians idling as they await further orders from Station Control, the garrisoned System Defense Force marine squad socializing among themselves in the boredom of security.

“I think the Admiral is just paranoid sir.” One of the guard jokes.

“He ist just nervous.” The Leader of the group waves away. “Ja he maybe careful, but it ist…”

A breaching charge detonates from within the closed doors, red hot metal fragmenting outward into the Terminal with lethal velocity.

Both airlock technicians are ripped into gore from concussive force, fragments of calcium adding to the cloud of shrapnel. Only half of the marine guard survives the blast, civilian level peacekeeping armor inadequate for real combat as bodies are launched backward.

Gunfire erupts as a Java Treaty Breaching Team accelerates into the Terminal. Survivors of the initial entry instantly gunned down, experienced eyes clearing corners as they spot more hostiles at the edge of the hall.

Armed with short barreled GSW-ARs along with submachine guns, the surprise attack catches the near two dozen marines off guard as the advance team drills munitions into their forms.

Fourteen immediately executed as rounds pierce through kevlar vests, bodies stiff as they float aimlessly away. Several however make it into cover, weapons turned off safety and bullets sprayed out in vengeance.

“PRIORITY ONE WE’RE UNDER ATTACK.” One of the guards screams into her radio, the signal responding only in static. “REPEAT, WE ARE UNDER…”

Three bullets from Captain Nazari blasts the woman’s skull open, the soldier switching targets as he spots two forms hiding behind a waste disposal bin. A viciously accurate burst from the man rips through aluminum as they strike flesh hidden behind it, a kill freeing a full field of fire for the breaching team.

From a small cubby to his relative right a hostile open fires. An aimed burst of caseless flechettes cleaves through Nazari’s group, one managing to catch a rifleman through his visor. Suit instantly going limp in death, the vengeance from the Captain is found in the semi-automatic tapping of two full metal jacketed rounds.

Six remaining guards attempt to leap out in retreat, the attacking force easily wiping them from battlespace.

Passenger Terminal Cleared of all hostiles, Captain Nazari bites rage as he signals an all clear.

Java Treaty Troopers pile into the station, equipment pushed through destroyed airlocks as a forward operating base is established. Crates of ammunition stuck to flooring, a temporary tirage station as three medics secure themselves to covered bulkheads.

A team of Combat Engineers laden with equipment-filled duffle bags meet up with their assigned escorting squads, hand signals exchanged as they maneuver towards Station Four’s Control Center. Green arm bands of Space Liberation Front fighters scrounge together as inexperience in microgravity shows immediately, bodies bumping into one another in an attempt to reorient themselves.

Only enough E.M.U.s to equip their most elite of teams, nearly half of Nazari’s platoon was left with regular space suits and physical motive force.

From the Terminal’s far exit more guards arrive. Another wave of defenders hailing from the sealed arrival airlock, the initial exchange immediately striking four members of the attacking force.

Three S.L.F. Fighters are hit, two taking fatal wounds as bodies seize randomly in the final moments of life. One Java Treaty Trooper eats a shot to his chestplate, the low caliber flechette scattering off of worn ceramic plating.

Pulling himself into cover Captain Nazari stops behind a bulkhead as he reorients to battlespace.

“GET THE GUNS ON STATION NOW!”

A PKM heavy machine gun booms out gunfire towards the defenders as a Java Treaty Machine Gunner engages, huge rounds cleaving through metal as warriors behind them are turned into gore.

Thermite burns as the armored entrance to Station Four’s Control Center melts under immense heat, a breaching hammer drilled to the padded frame.

An open fist turned to point towards the hostile force, Captain Nazari ordering covering fire for the combat engineering team twenty meters back. Training echoed as all pass the order around, nearly fifty guns sending bullets out onto hostile positions.

Among ear shattering noise three distinct blasts carve through the Terminal: hydraulic breaching hammer annihilating molten doors, only a single minute required as the Java Treaty Breaches into the nerve center of Station Four.

A circular room covered in chairs and terminals, station operators turning at the sudden arriving force. Blasts of shotgun pellets take life immediately as the automatic breaching weapon rips into flesh, civilian workers silenced in a massacre. Squads of troopers enter in, clearing the space as Combat Engineering Teams get to work.

USB boot drives plugged into computer hardware, operating systems overridden as nefarious software burns lines of code. Security clearances removed, direct access to hardware exploited for lethal consequences.

Tasks executed in a predetermined sequence, years of planning coming together in the first five minutes of the operation.

A network connection reestablished with ground, a false signal patched through as an alarm stand-down order is sent across airwaves. Live-streamed web cameras fed with recycled footage as an illusory cover is brought over violent action.

Except for one.

The Assembly Hall is isolated save for its video feed, an entire section of the station held within its own universe. Alarms pre-silenced, atmospheric life support removed from main systems. The preservation of a handful of leaders following alongside fellow hostile units.

Live footage of G40s opening half-hour fed down to Earth based receivers, world leaders within the Hall taunting speech-craft in the praising of human unification and global economics; footage cut up by machine learning algorithms and human directors commanding within syndicated news networks.

Politicians and public in complete ignorance of warfare, a rude awakening at their very doorsteps.

The Combat Engineering Team reaches the final command within station command software, the singular order hailing forward to the next stage of combat.

Tight beamed radio cuts through jamming signals, Captain Nazari receiving in the midst of suppressive fire. “Emptying Station.”

Nazari turns over towards his own squad. “BRACE NOW!”

Slivers of micro explosives on terminal windows activate, clear polymers fractured as air seeps through cracks in a barely controlled decompression.

It takes nearly five and half minutes for the cold vacuum of space to enter the cavernous space against automated fill tanks, a handful of compromised windows shattering as the contained atmosphere blows out into the black.

Unsuited guards scramble towards emergency space suits stored in marked red cabinets, gunfire from the Assault Team cutting them down mid-flight.

Pushing as hostile forces are forced back, Captain Nazari leads his team forward as they leapfrog towards primary objectives. Raw experience crushes opposition, a generation of survivors ruthlessly breaking hostile lines through insubordinate firepower.

Bursts of heavy machine gun rounds cover advancing riflemen, skirmishing breachers accelerating across open space in the harassing of defensive positions.

A Space Liberation Front fighter tosses a fragmentation grenade towards a group of guards hidden behind the Terminal exit, a lethal mistake spotted the Captain screams out to the warning. “COVER DOWN NOW!”

Troopers instinctively accelerate towards bulkheads as they hear the order, a handful of inexperienced soldiers and terrorist gunmen taking pause as they process the event.

A perfect throw in microgravity, the bulbus ordnance lazily passing over the piece of cover. The ignited fuse strikes its core, packed explosive within a steel body detonating outward.

Sound deafened in the fast approaching vacuum state, a flash of light highlighting smoke trails of sent shrapnel.

A cloud fragmentary scrap metal indiscriminate in velocity, physics unforgiving to friend or foe. Distance irrelevant as the grenade’s killzone reaches out to all ranges, the natural buffers of aerodynamics and gravity inapplicable in an airless, weightless environment.

Six total casualties, five hostile guards caught in the blast immediately shredded while one of the Assault Team is caught out.

A Java Treaty Breacher takes the brunt of the friendly fire as he’s hit with two shards; one deflecting off an armored chestplate while another penetrates the suit at the man’s right leg.

“I’m hit.” The Trooper grimaces as he slams into cover, a suit billowing out gas and blood. “Sealing now!”

Contact glue smothered on the tear, the flowing of liquid and ice cold pain ignored. A vision slowly darkening as a severed vein pulses out blood, a mind sharpening as the man attempts to focus against physicality.

“Get a medic on the Sarjukheh!” Captain Nazari orders on the tight-beam radio as he peers out of cover.

Scope sights align, the remainder of his weapon’s magazine dumped into hostile forms in the final moments of the breaching firefight.

A raised hand from one of the point men signals a cleared state, the Terminal emptied of hostile force.

In silence the Java Treaty Captain scans through a counted dozen and a half Space Liberation Force Personnel, trained eyes counting stowed grenades on chest rigs.

“You!” Captain Nazari points as he accelerates towards the space suit, a sheathed machete removed from his utility belt.

A human reaction raising hands in a defensive stance, the Soldier slashing the blade across the Fighter’s upper thigh. Immediately air spews out of the gash, a honed edge easily carving through thick material.

A scream of shock, the form panicking as he broadcasts his voice to the entire spectrum. “WHAT THE F…?!”

“You do that again and it’ll be your guts that I tear out.” The Captain growls through the radio, a blade sheathed back into its holster. “Now seal yourself up.”

A handful of Combat Engineers return from the Station Control Center, bulky forms grabbing handrails as they give a thumbs up. “We’re good. Assembly hall has been isolated, just checked the security feeds and the guards on the central spire are dead. They have no idea what’s going on.”

Captain Nazari takes a deep breath, turning away from his victim. “Good. Get ready for stage two.”

A quick salute, the team pushing off towards the Terminal’s main airlock.

Weapons reloaded, an organization readied as troops navigate themselves towards the exit.

Bullet ridden walls stained by blotches of blood and gore, spent casings of ammunition from weapons brought into orbit brushed aside as rifle barrels peer into Station Four’s Promenade.

Experience recognizes kill zones, a two hundred fifty meter open expanse spanning the cylindrical shape of the Station broken up by arcs of guardrails, storefronts, and the massive centralized park structure.

Interspersed among them; corpses left floating in airless vacuum.

The mixture of national security personnel mixes with the fatigues of unsuited Solar System Defense Force Marine Guards, solace left in the lonely breathing within the isolated Java Treaty space suit.

The cordoned off Assembly hall at the end of the Promenade is identified, the primary objectives held within confirmed. A huge door acting as a massive airlock to the system within, currently shut and unoccupied as souls lie completely unaware of the threat approaching.

Trained eyes scan for signs of surviving hostiles, a quick confirmation of watched security feeds easing a tense soul as no movement is detected by human sense.

Two hundred fifty meters onward to objectives, cleared space ahead.

Slowly leaping forth from the entrance, the rest of the Assault Squad follows him. Twelve of the Elite Guard scan corners with weapons raised, pushing floating corpses aside as they move the first twenty meters into the promenade.

Jamming signal destroying spectrums, suit communication on tight beams barely readable as the team falls back to archaic hand signals.

The team’s Lieutenant raises four fingers against a closed thumb, waving the rest of the troops into space. All clear.

An era of swords and slings, of life beneath an empyrean sun.

A single form upon dirt roads is watched by ethereal gods; a soul stained with blood upon the highways of ancient empires. A bounty of stolen coinage singing in the Bandit’s purse, metallic chips of riches unearned echoing across the lonely aisles of an ancient cedar forest.

The man turns around suddenly, a hand upon his sword as he feels the presence behind him.

Something within dark woods watches with hungry eyes; a sense of primordial danger, fear taking root within the trained mind.

Captain Nazari feels a chill run up his spine, a supernatural feeling tearing at physicality. A bead of sweat forms on his forehead, breaths quickening as he suddenly holds up a hand in the stoppage of movement.

An order transferred, the squad in front of him halting.

One more scan of the Promenade within rifle scopes, the reverberated noise of fabric and movement within the space suit completing the absolute silence of vacuum.

Nothing.

Two deep breaths, a heart rate relaxing against the inconsequential gut feeling.

A single imperfection catches the man, a strange illusion against a single storefront around forty meters away. Surrounded by a small distortion of air, the reflectiveness of a mirrored surface sends Captain Nazari’s own visor reflection back at him. An infinite tunnel laid before him, the illusion confronting minds with confusion as the Soldier lowers his weapon for a split second in mental processing.

Eight members of the Assault Team are killed in the first volley.

Caseless flechettes rip through combat space as fully automatic gunfire erupts across the promenade, human reaction barely able to comprehend death as bodies are shredded on impact.

Nazari watches as a decade of brotherhood dies in twenty milliseconds of combat, realization of a fatal error barely griping upon awareness.

All before an anti-material round evaporates his upper torso.