“Count nine hostiles down!” T.A.C. joyfully informs the rest of the squad.

“OK OK!!!” Marauder Lead shifts position as he slings lines of tracer fire towards the Terminal exit, his E.M.U. sending a burst of propellant as he moves towards better cover. Screaming into his microphone, a requested update is sent across tight beam communications. “Keys, where is it?!!! We need it down now!!!”

Immense transmitting power beamed directly between marines, suit systems automatically cutting through interference at the expense of data quality.

“LING, I’m tryina triangulate a fucking JAMMER.” Marauder Two barks back through the communication line. “Just keep them off me PLEASE!”

A handheld pocket radio produced from the Combat Engineering E.M.U., directional antenna extended outward as static plays through helmet speakers. Coiled copper receiving terrifying amounts of power, a spectrum overwhelmed from an unidentifiable source bounced between the interior of shielded walls. A pause before he swears to himself. “This is going to take some time…”

Spring loaded barrels dampens immense recoil by mechanical force, huge anti-material rounds blasting into hostile positions as Marauder Three picks off straggling Java Treaty Troopers entering the promenade. Fire control software isolated from virtual spotters integrated within nearby squadmates, accuracy now reliant on human intuition in close quarters combat.

A mind tears through relative velocities, the backup holographic sight atop the Marksman’s rifle aligning with targets.

Bolt action receiver trading rate of fire for increased payloads, the loaded rounds within the GSW-AMLR rearing for violence. One round for each in a hostile fireteam of four, Corporal Mercier braces her shoulder as she pulls the trigger.

Fragmentation rounds shred through kevlar armor by raw physical force, poorly maintained fabric annihilated as gore scatters in clouds of red mist.

Incoming fire sends the Marksman back into cover, her replacement gunner found within the kalashnikov rifle of Marauder’s newest member.

Peering through iron sights Marauder Four fires rounds in semi-automatic, suppressing fire keeping hostiles pinned against storefronts. Hostile positions marked, the delay from the tactical link is dangerously sluggish as systems reprioritize communications over actual combat data. Networked data unavailable, each suit reliant on its own sensors for a partial picture of the three dimensional battlefield.

“Иди нахуй!” The Medic swears into the squad channel. “Computer is slow!”

Hostile rounds spray past fortified positions, bulkheads pocket marked with impact craters as bullets scatter off in flashes of sparks.

Covering fire for a Java Treaty Breacher who accelerates at the closest target with suicidal velocity, a sawed off double barreled shotgun flaring out shots as he bridges nearly fifty meters of space in seconds.

Master Sergeant Ling Shu moves through his bulky suit as he ducks from incoming, a reaction time inhuman. Heavy rifle unwieldy in close quarters, his free hand grabs the tool from his chest carrier as a replacement. Sheer black cylinder, a sharp edged hammer spring loaded as mechanisms await execution.

The shine of an unsheathed Java Treaty machete catches the artificial lighting of Station Four, a terminal range entered as the Breacher swings directly at the Master Sergeant.

Training and experience executed, two words quietly echoing in memories of childhood martial arts classes.

保護 - Defend

攻打 - Strike

A shower of sparks as Marauder Leader deflects the blade with the barrel of his assault rifle, the hostile left defenseless as the Marine closes in for the kill.

Spring loaded safety hammer jammed directly onto the Breacher’s visor, the Solar System Defense Force Marine slamming the trigger.

Taught springs released, explosive force shattering safety glass as the salvaged space suit explosively decompresses. Air filled lungs are sucked out of diaphragms and eyes burst open, hands instinctively clawing for life as a brain is overloaded in carnage.

Shoving away the soon-to-be corpse the Marine grabs his rifle. A Squad Leader implying orders, the Master Sergeant barking out towards his subordinate. “KEYS!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP I’M WORKING ON IT.” The Combat Engineer growls back.

Handheld radio antennas finding a powerful source of interference behind the friendly lines, Marauder Two placing a temporary marker in the generalized direction. Turning to the Combat Drone next to him he speaks up. “T.A.C.! I need some covering fire!”

The Machine immediately answers him. “I’m sorry Marauder Two, but I cannot do that.”

“You need a fucking tactical link to shoot people don’t you?!” Keys groans through the communication line, turning over to a more human element. “Ling, I need cover!”

“Ok ok!” The Marine replies, translating orders. “Suppress all hostile to cover Keys! Go when I tell you!”

A fresh thirty five round magazine removed from tactical vests, loaded back into the empty receiver. The XA-77’s automatic bolt slams a new round into the chamber, the Marine reengaging as he peaks over his point of cover. “GO!”

A burst of propellant sent from the E.M.U., a piece of cover abandoned as the Combat Engineer accelerates across Station Four’s promenade.

Two data points received; a signal’s direction and distance from triangulation. An intensity implied rather than calculated, all signs pointing out towards Station Four’s Orbital Park.

“Jammer’s somewhere over there!” Keys looks up from a chaotic H.U.D., pointing towards the palm trees behind them. “T.A.C. you got anything cool with the Electronic Warfare package of yours?!”

Optical sensors scan ranges beyond human comprehension, a thermal image processed through classification algorithms as T.A.C. scans the park from his position. Placed right atop a wooden bench, the seemingly innocuous duffle bag was strapped onto the hollowed out seat. Pure red in thermals, the thing blaring out nearly forty-six degrees Celsius of heat into the cold vacuum.

“I have identified an anomaly within the search area.” The Drone smoothly updates.

Marauder Two chuckles as he stows the antennae away, a short barreled GSW-AR produced from his carrier. “There you are you piece of fucking shit.”

Aiming onto targets, a digital holographic sight aligns with the bag. “Jammer’s going down guys, hang on!”

Seven shots shreds electronics, sensitive boards of silicone and batteries of reactive lithium explode as flechettes shatter casings and capacitors. Instantly the signal clears, a tactical link fully engaged as transceivers ignite.

Lieutenant Keys turns. “T.A.C. do the thing!”

Unbreakable ethical laws met, confirmation of hostile forces received without any doubt. A weapons system engaged, the mechanical mind tearing across transistors as motors activate.

The Combat Drone folds out from its covered position, the boxy shape presenting two bilateral limbs out towards hostile positions. A body acting as a weapons mount, electromagnets securing the thing into the relative ground.

Three hostiles identified as they move out cover, their forms advancing forward alongside suppressing fire from two machine gunners at the edge of the Promenade-Terminal airlock. Java Treaty sending overwhelming force against the four marines of Marauder Team, a victory against the System Defense Force nearly guaranteed by raw volume of firepower.

Six barrels begin to spin, targeting leads from relative velocities calculated and munitions expenditure estimated.

A chirpy synthesized voice from T.A.C. speaks happy words into the squad channel. “Engaging hostiles!”

Lines of flechettes evacuate from the Combat Drone, arcs of fire cutting suited bodies in half as the rotary machine gun annihilates the incoming advance. In the silence of cold space three advancing Java Treaty Troopers are instantly taken down, cross fire accidentally piercing through body armor and shredding two Space Liberation Front Fighters behind them.

“Five hostiles terminated!”

Pressure eased, Marauder Lead gives the order to the Combat Drone through labored breaths. “T.A.C., send the message!!! Alert Admiral and Michelle!”

“Roger that!”

Mind-numbingly boring, Solar System Defense Force Admiral Issac Tucker rubs his temples as he attempts to fight off exhaustion from raw speech-craft. Nearly two hours of his precious life wasted listening to politicians drone on and on, the Old Man instinctively puts hands together as President Kravets of Ukraine finishes her speech. Applause falters as the woman pulls herself off stage, the next speaker arriving as his name is called.

Interest peaked from personal friendship, the Admiral watches as President Jack Cooper of the Fifty Two States of America expertly navigates himself through microgravity. Quick velocity corrections off of handrails barely caught by tracking television cameras as his body floats onto the stage, an arrival finished with three somersaulting flourishes.

Laughter from the delegation echoes as the short man straightens his suit, a bit of universal humor greasing the wheels of diplomacy.

Admiral Tucker whispers under his breath, a vain attempt to warn his friend of a terrifying mistake. “Don’t start with ‘I spent ten years in orbit.’”

President Cooper clears his throat, a smile as he looks out towards the assembly before him. Smooth stage lighting beaming onto his face, the Earth orbiting behind the man now crossing the coast of western America. A perfectly timed photo opportunity, three seconds of silence before he begins.

Buttery voice translated through microphones, the cornerstone of his electoral charisma upheld through gorgeous pronunciation of the English language. “Before I was President, I spent almost ten years in space….”

Admiral Tucker leans back at the generic line, eyes rolling in sockets as stifles an annoyed groan. Checking his watch to confirm timing, the past hours of safety lulling the Old Man into a sense of tense relaxation.

Awaiting in ambush, adrenaline rush going only so far against sheer boredom. Sharp eyes dart through the huge room as he observes objective personnel, the scattered Java Treaty Officials all tensed in preparation.

The Admiral counts them off, the five major suspects brought to scrutiny as they glance towards one another.

Still nothing.

A Wachbataillon Marine from the German delegation at the very back of the room holds a pause as she holds a communications earpiece, a confusion caught by Admiral Tucker sitting right next to her. She whispers quietly. “… bitte antworten?”

Another pause as she repeats the line with no response.

A quick scan of camera feeds, Admiral Tucker stopping at the live televised feed of the Assembly Hall. Tapping his foot on the carpeted surface, the Man speaks to himself under shallow breaths. “Come on Marauder… when is it starting?”

The Wachbataillon Marine floats towards the massive door, checking its integrity. Now flanked by four armed System Defense Force Guards the Admiral takes note of the woman’s concerned expression.

“Sorry ma’am.” One of the guards speaks up softly. “We can’t authorize you to open the door while the assembly is in session.”

Admiral Tucker shows up next to them, his position just three meters away crossed with just one push against his chair. “Open it.”

The guards just stare at the Flag Officer.

“What?”

“Open it Private.” The old man quietly, but sternly orders. “Now.”

The Guard blinks in confusion, nodding as he pulls himself to the electronic lock. A scanner for keycards, the Guard bringing his own to the tag reader.

Blanked red, unauthorized.

Admiral Issac Tucker is next, an immense rank held within his own identification.

Again, a red line represents unauthorized users.

“Fuck…” The Admiral bites, turning around as he scans for the Java Treaty delegation.

Whispers between politicians, spoken words left in short phrases of undecipherable foreign language. Eyes darting to watches as an invisible timer counts down, an attack executed in complete secrecy as another one of President Cooper’s jokes brings a wave of laughter across the Assembly.

Admiral Tucker turns to the German Security Officer, cold eyes staring into hers. “Ma’am, return to your station. We’ll take care of this.”

Concern arriving on her face, the Officer nodding in confusion as she pushes back towards her own post.

“What’s happening sir?” One of the Guard asks.

“Something bad.” The Admiral replies coldly. “Get ready for anything.”

“S-sir?”

“That’s an order.”

Objectives created, primary vectors allotted.

Yet no path forward as he shuts his eyes, a brain reorganizing as he turns back decades of time. A mind racing to scrounge up any semblance of a plan discovers a memory with questionable relevance, replayed in near perfect imagery.

Lieutenant Commander Issac Tucker of the United States Space Force stares back at the mirror. A half-dressed body in the waking hours of an early morning, mild panic running through an elevated heart rate as he repeats the memorized answers in his head.

Words jumped within themselves, a mind losing control as he quickly checks the smart mirror’s time. A confirmation of scheduling; three hours before a social death against visiting congressmen.

The bathroom door opens, the young woman’s completely naked form stumbling in as she makes a beeline for the toilet.

Checking her phone’s news feeds as fluid splashes within the bowl, the partner chuckles. “See Issac, they’re gonna be livestreaming your entire conference.”

“Don’t remind me.” The young man grumbles.

“What, don’t think you can do it? They’re just some congressional shitheads come on.”

Silence at the question.

Thick arms wrapping around his relatively scrawny shoulders, warm flesh pressed against his bare back as she laughs. “Well even if you fuck something up, I know you’ll do fucking amazing.”

Issac stops. “Why?”

Voice lowering in volume, spoken directly into his ear. “Because whenever you’re cornered, I know you’ll always do something dramatic.”

Admiral Tucker blinks away the memory, primary objectives reformulated and a plan of action reached.

A distraction of ungodly caliber, a captivation of an interconnected humanity required.

No price too small against unthinkable consequences.

Staring at the four guards against the door he motions for them to come closer. “Keep me covered while I get something from the floor. And when it starts don’t shoot me.”

“What?!”

“Don’t shoot me.”

Tracer rounds roar past Marauder Three’s position, the Marksman forced back as a hostile automatic rifleman across the way keeps her pinned down.

“You ok Mercier?!” Marauder Lead asks from across the station as he casually reloads his weapon.

“I will take care of it.” The young woman bites, removing the currently loaded magazine from the anti-material rifle.

Anti-infantry fragmentation flechettes replaced with tungsten cored armor piercing bullets, the remaining unfired round in the chamber cycled out as a different type of utility is slotted in.

Tactical link highlighting hostile positions even through walls, the Marksman accelerates backward as she aims her weapon against her piece of cover.

Estimated firing positions, a thickness of material lethal as the hostile automatic rifleman positions themselves against a storefront’s metallic cage.

Two shots flash in silence, titanium tearing through metal at point blank range. Razor sharp penetrators pass straight through cover as they careen into bodies, specialty rounds taking out the priority target through nearly twenty centimeters of steel plating.

“Enemy down.” Marauder Three updates.

“Ok, keep up the pace!” Marauder Lead orders in the midst of firing his own weapon. “Need to buy time for Admiral!”

“Did the Admiral even get the message?!” The Combat Engineer yells into the squad channel.

“Yes he did.” T.A.C. replies calmly. “His phone has sent a ‘read’ recipient message.”

“Well he better figure out what the fuck we’re doing, because we’re gonna run outta ammo at this rate!”

A few of the Admiral’s seat neighbors watch in both confusion and mild amusement as the old man removes the floor paneling, the carpeted surface left drifting a single meter above them.

The white box; poorly painted upon its smooth surface with the product code: O-891841, Oxygen Recycler.

Hands finding purchase against it, the old man heaves the heavy crate out of its cubby with a barely held groan. A few more delegates and observers at the back of the Assembly Hall now turn towards Admiral Tucker, the old man waving away glances with a charismatic smile.

Hidden switch re-discovered, the tiny hiss of a pressurized cargo carries a short distance as the thing is cracked open.

Looking up at one of the Garrisoned Guards, the Admiral follows up his orders. “Do not let anyone touch this, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“The fate of the System Defense Force hinges on nobody touching this.” The Admiral follows sternly. “If they try you have authorization to shoot them. Is that understood?”

“Y-Yes sir?”

Confusion from the four guards turned to shocked fear as they watch Admiral Issac Tucker remove items from within the crate.

Two loaded GSW-PDP handguns, each checked with a visual inspection. White forms covering thick heat dispersing barrels, clear polymer magazines revealing a payload of pistol caliber flechettes held within. Rails empty of attachments, the simple tool of cold iron sights and trigger awaiting violence.

“S-sir?” One of the Guards begins.

The Admiral doesn’t even turn around as he whispers out his orders. “One: Do not shoot me. Two: Do not let anyone touch this. Do you understand Private?!”

“Y-y-y… yes sir!”

A message arrives on the Admiral’s phone, the old man taking pause from rearmament as he checks it.

Giant Killer Robot: @Adm_Tucker YOU ARE IN DANGER: EIGHTY JAVA TREATY HOSTILES ON STATION. MARAUDER ENGAGED ON CENTRAL PROMENADE.

“Great…” The Old Man growls under his breath. “Right on time as always.”

One of the firearms stuffed into his side pockets, and another hidden beneath his formal uniform’s coat. A deep breath, air sucked into his diaphragm as the System Defense Force Admiral pushes himself towards the central podium.

President Jack Cooper takes the dramatic pause as he strikes a major point within his speech, a bored audience before him listening with limited mental power. “As a wise man once said, ‘War is where mankind finds its problems.’ But what about peace? Today we are gathered in celebration of peace; gathered to find the solutions to those problems we have found in our conflicts. We stand together, today, as…”

Experienced eyes catch the Old Man pulling himself down the central path towards the Podium, a formal dress uniform and facial structure recognized. Covering nearly a hundred meters of open ground in microgravity, Admiral Issac Tucker shoots towards his target with surprising velocity.

Movement slowed in its final moments, a form bleeding speed as handrails are grabbed and released in quick succession. Five meters before the stage, all eyes stare at the interrupting force.

Cameras pointed at the System Defense Force Admiral, broadcast feeds prioritized in serialized news networks as an unexpected event begins to unfold.

President Cooper gives a strange, confused smile as his old friend arrives at the stage, watching as he leaps off the surface towards him. Grabbing onto the podium, Issac masterfully stops right next to the Official.

Silence, the President of the United States staring at the cold eyes of a System Defense Force Admiral.

For ten seconds nothing happens, Secret Service Agents in the periphery of the Assembly Hall readying hidden firearms. A handwave from the President orders them to stand down, Jack vocalizing the question to his friend.

“I-is there something wrong?”

A motion to lean in, a hand held within coat pockets as subtle motion for privacy unfolds on the international stage.

Concern flashes through Cooper’s expression, acknowledged as he does as requested.

“Trust me Jack.”

A bond forged in low orbital warfare, brothers born in the stellar crucible of brutal combat. Trust maintained both on battlefields and off, souls intertwined by sacred wounds and the taking of life.

A bond and trust exploited.

Foot placed into one of the stage’s handrails, a point of leverage used as Admiral Tucker rips the short man away from the podium. Left arm wrapped around the President’s neck in a deadly choke hold, his right holding a more terrifying implication.

The Politician's balding head feels cold, hollow steel placed against it; the temperature and shape immediately recognized by the retired warrior.

Both President and Admiral stare out into the Assembly, a moment of silence suddenly broken by instinctual screaming by the crowd.

Weapons immediately drawn towards the held pair of souls, a Secret Service Agent barking out the words with wide eyes. “HE’S GOT A GUN!!!”