Screaming echoes throughout the assembly hall, a universe of carnage marking the end of an era of humanity.

Two dead bodies strapped to chairs, blood soaking formal wear as globules of red liquid begin to float out into open space. A President points out towards his Secret Service Agents with one hand, an authority cemented by the handgun within his possession. “Secure those Java Treaty FUCKS NOW! THAT'S AN ORDER!”

Behind him Admiral Tucker is tackled to the far wall by American and Chinese Security Forces, a localized threat contained as a Secret Service Agent launches himself towards his president in a protective movement.

Cooper easily kicks himself off the careening human missile, the short body landing on the relative roof as he maintains his weapon upon the Java Treaty delegation. “I SAID SECURE THOSE PEOPLE NOW!”

From Marauder Leader’s suit the Squad’s Medic pushes out fragments of shattered ceramic; body armor sacrificed in the catching of jacketed lead projectiles. A confirmation of non-penetration by trained eyes, replacement plates shoved into inserts. The bit of advice is transferred over, Russian accent filled with background static from interference. “Lead, you need to not get shot. No good for health.”

“I will try.” The Marine grunts as they partially peek out of the wall, flechettes from a hyper-advanced assault rifle tearing through an exposed Space Liberation Front Fighter. “I need gun on point Cherny.”

Kalashnikov readied, the Combat Medic shifts position with his squad leader, EMU burning a short bout of acceleration.

“Almost outta mags here!” Lieutenant Keys reports from the second to last munitions depot. “T.A.C. how many hostiles are left?!”

“Currently there are twenty four accounted for in the Promenade.”

Master Sergeant Ling bawks at the number. “Where are the rest?! There were more attacking!”

The Rubicon finds them.

Crawling at the edge of the void, like insects their human forms move across the exterior of Station Four’s cylindrical hull. Maintenance handholds and E.M.U. units providing an unusual flanking opportunity, Space Liberation Front Fighters marked with green armbands and Java Treaty Troopers bypassing a lethal killzone.

Jamming signals still active from the Rubicon, a gun held to the world as the corvette’s lethal railgun points towards Station’s Observation Deck.

“You see them?!” Operations attempts to quantify.

“They’re gonna be flanking Marauder if they get in the maintenance locks.” Tactical offers his prediction. “Or they’re just gonna blow up the whole deck and kill ’em all.”

“We can’t let them do that.” Captain Perez growls. “Get me a tight beam to the rest of the ships, we’re going to be the primary communication node for this conversation.”

“Yes sir.” Operations replies immediately.

A channel connected to national space force vessels, a data stream limited in the midst of ECM jamming. Silence as the commanding officers of the Alaska, Liu Bei, and Lioness prepare for more demands from the assumed terrorist, Captain Perez taking a deep breath before beginning with a cold statement. “Advised, you drop this line and I kill everyone on Station Four.”

Attention grabbed, the woman continues. “Those troops on Station Four’s exterior are not from the Solar System Defense Force. They are a Java Treaty force here to assassinate gathered world leaders. We need to stop them, but the only way to do that is for the rest of you to work with me.”

More silence, the Captain continuing. “I require three things. The first is your guarantee not to attack my vessel. Second, you will need to eliminate all current Java Treaty Troopers from the station exterior. Third, allow the Rubicon to destroy Station Four’s Primary and Backup Communications Array to prevent hostile command and control. You will need to work with me, is that understood?”

“No.” The Alaska defiantly answers the orders.

The Captain takes a deep breath. “I could have destroyed all your vessels fifteen minutes ago, I still can now. I have not condemned you to an orbital grave because you are not the enemy. Those people attacking Station Four are. Do you understand?”

A whole precious minute passes, Captain Michelle Perez shutting eyes as she prepares to give a dreaded order.

The Russian voice cuts through interference. “Rubicon, this is Lioness. We will take care of hostile infantry on Station Four.”

“Liu Bei, we are with you Lioness.”

A sigh of relief, Captain Perez signaling the final vessel. “Alaska please confirm.”

A great pause, the Captain of the vessel outnumbered in his relenting of power. “This is Alaska Actual, we will not interfere.”

Observers from South America watch a battle through digital telescopes; two frigates and corvette spiraling across space as exhaust plumes match with flashes of ordnance, day-time activity seen in hypersensitive infrared cameras.

Java Treaty personnel turn mid-reposition, two cylindrical shaped frigates blaring upon their forms.

“殺他們!!!” The Liu Bei’s Captain orders her crew as hostile infantry markers come into range.

CIWS systems slaved to manual control systems, gunnery crews forced to ‘eyeball’ firing solutions as targets angle themselves into view.

Rotary machine guns roar out tracers in silence, personnel scrambling for cover along the hull of Station Four as rounds destroy life. Suits torn to shreds, clouds of gore flash frozen in the cold darkness of vacuum. Nearly twenty two infantry assets easily dispatched through computer screens, the Lioness and Liu Bei moving in conjunction with one another as they scour the Station of vermin.

Through the arcs of fire the Rubicon accelerates herself to the Station’s main control center. A tower-like design stacked atop Station Four’s Arrival Terminals, polymer windows allowing for observation of incoming orbital traffic.

Three currently docked ships: two space planes and the single Java Treaty Helium Freighter.

The hostile vessel is ignored for primary targets, the massive communications array of the Station located by fire control systems.

“Target locked, thirty percent power.” Tactical confirms as brutal acceleration passes over him. “Eight shots kinetic sabot, try not to hit the control tower”

“On the way!”

The hull rattles as each sabot is launched, sharp forms splattering themselves on communications equipment. Directional transceivers, primary and backup, completely annihilated under firepower.

A link cut with the rest of the world, communications only through naval vessels in orbit.

“End jamming.” Captain Perez orders. “All ships update with your respective forces. Prepare to evacuate delegations if necessary.”

Switching channels, it takes seven seconds for the local network of Station Four to reconnect with the Rubicon. A tactical link brought together, the rest of Task Force Thirty One located.

Marauder Team in on the promenade stuck in the midst of a vicious firefight, Admiral Tucker’s phone pinged as live streams from the main Assembly Hall pull default test images of stellar constellations.

The Flag Officer doesn’t respond.

Currently pinned against the Observation Deck’s armored glass by six American and Chinese Security Agents, Admiral Issac Tucker watches as a handful of dead space suits float by the relative bottom of the station. Bodies evaporated from insane rates of fire, an execution of hostile forces mildly reassuring as President Cooper organizes the pre-emptive arrests of the entire Java Treaty delegation.

A deep, calming breath sounded as Admiral Tucker watches the American Midwest roll beneath against a foreground of dead bodies, a moment of respite as he pulls himself down from the adrenaline rush of minutes prior.

Squares of lush green poly-crop farmland separated by massive highways, the growth of herbs, cash crops, and tuber roots intertwining themselves as huge fields of biomass from orbit. A picture of greenery painted against Columbus, Ohio to the south, metropolitan space contradicting its surrounding industry.

The sharp voice of President Cooper interrupts the Admiral's earth-gazing, a heavy hand grabbing the security officers currently on his form. “And get off of him!”

Physicality supporting directed orders with the loaded handgun, the agents float away.

“Hey, Issac you ok?” The middle-aged man asks.

A quick exhale as Admiral Tucker blinks away the after-image of biomatic green, turning to the rest of the Assembly Hall.

The entire Delegation currently stiffened in seats as children of peace attempt to process direct violence; National Security Forces surrounding their own people with a protective barrier of personnel, chaotic sight unfolding in front of him.

“I’m good.” The Admiral cracks an uneasy smile.

“Good.” President Cooper hands the borrowed handgun back to his friend, grip first as he instinctively checks the safety dial. “Now, you got a way out of this?”

“Yes we do, and keep the gun just in case.” Tucker waves away the offer, checking his pockets for the item. “Who has my phone?”

“Hey!” The President snaps at his force of Secret Service Agents. “Get him his phone back, now!”

Agents sent into motion by a more experienced leader, Admiral Tucker between them formulates the plan of action. Floating forward onto the Podium, the Flag Officer tests the microphone. A confirmation of operation, he begins slowly and clearly. “Everyone, I need your attention please!”

All eyes stare back at the terrorist once again.

“Please look around you!” The Old Man points outward. “Locate the cabinets marked red! These contain emergency space suits! These space suits are also located underneath your seats!”

The delegation takes the moment to check in hushed movements.

“Please follow the provided instructions and put them on!” The Solar System Defense Force Admiral continues. “We may experience atmospheric decompression, which these suits will protect against! Again, please locate the nearest emergency space suits and put them on! If you need assistance, read the instructions! And please make sure you have an airtight seal on your suit! Thank you!!!”

Announcement finished, the Admiral turns as his phone is handed to him. Messages scrolling across a lock screen, Captain Perez attempting to contact the Flag Officer. A call sounded, the Admiral connecting with the Task Force’s naval asset. “Rubicon, this is Actual, Please advise.”

“Admiral, this is Rubicon Actual. Good to hear your voice. Station’s Four communications channels have been cut, and Rubicon is green, ready for action.” Captain Perez tenses up slightly as she rechecks the tactical link. “Advised, Marauder Team is currently engaged with hostile units on the Promenade.”

“Copy, I’m patching in.” Admiral Tucker switches channels. “Marauder, this is Marauder Actual, what’s your status?”

Bodies beginning to tire, flesh tenderized by recoil and adrenaline beginning to fade. A close quarters gunfight reaching a lull, Marauder Leader replying to Command through labored breathing. “Actual, this is Marauder Leader. Count many hostile squads, we are still engaged!”

“Marauder, are we green for exfil to escape pods?” Admiral Tucker asks.

“Negative, we need to push them back still. But we are running low on ammunition!”

“Understood, hang in there just a little longer.” Marauder Actual puts his phone away, floating over towards the Podium for one last announcement. “We are leaving the Assembly Hall in ten minutes! Be ready for total decompression!”

Pushing off towards the back of the cavernous room and through panicked crowds, the Admiral arrives at his allotted seat near the main doors.

Four Marine Guards still holding station around the box as ordered, their forms in the midst of putting on emergency space suits. Admiral Tucker passes them a smile and a thumbs up. “Thank you guys for keeping this safe.”

“No problem sir.” They all reply, a Leader among them carrying the remaining words as they watch the old man break open the crate. “We should get you in a suit sir.”

The Old Man laughs maniacally as he stares at the contents held within the box, looking back at the four. “You sure do.”

A final fighting position.

Marauder Team is pushed against the cordoned off Observation Deck as the entirety of the destroyed interior of Station Four lays out upon them: a final stand against hostile forces.

Explosive craters burn padded walls, bullet holes covering nearly every square meter of space. Beautiful postmodernist architecture brutalized in violence, iconic palm trees ripped with impact sites and storefronts blasted apart.

Mankind’s united power in the stars annihilated by conflict.

“I am running critically low on ammunition.” T.A.C. informs with seriousness as their rotary machine gun bursts out suppressive fire.

“Keep it together, pace your shots!” Marauder Leader orders sternly as he reloads. “They are running low on ammunition too, all we need is to outlast them!”

The entire Space Liberation Front’s Fighting Force was reduced down to ten from an initial twenty two, the Java Treaty Troopers maintaining the remaining thirty three operational personnel. An attacking force decimated by the Special Warfare Team, the survivors still putting up a vicious fight.

“I fucking swear after we’re done here I’m resigning!” The Combat Engineer jokes as he stuffs replacement ceramic armor into his plate carrier. “There is no way in hell I’m helping repair this place!”

“Keep focused!” Marauder Leader silences, peaking out of cover against a hostile push.

A Java Treaty Marksman hidden within nearly two hundred meters of debris strewn space takes his chance as he spots the target. Rifle scope on top of the armored System Defense Force Marine, a relative velocity gathered as the trigger is depressed.

A lucky shot.

Missing armor plating, the bullet penetrates directly into the shoulder of Marauder Leader. Cutting straight through layered kevlar and into flesh, the high velocity round easily passes through the opposite end of the suit and into the wall behind him.

“I HIT.” Master Sergeant Ling grits. “MEDIC.”

Squad-based tactics execute on instinct, rifleman equivalents pulling out of cover as they send suppressing fire against hostile positions; a friendly unit pulled behind hard walls.

Marauder Four is on top of the wounded man instantly, medical experience and suit readouts diagnosing the injury. “Relax, it just a flesh wound and collar bone. You be ok.”

Medical kits cracked open and three materials produced; two vials of sealant and one blood clotting mechanism.

A vicious ten centimeter long needle pulled out from the Medic’s kit, the Master Sergeant’s stomach turning as he sees it attached to the vial. An objection raised, words spoken as he attempts to maintain consciousness against a possible bleed out situation. “Ok, that is a little bit too big for me.”

“Relax.” Cherny informs sternly with his deep Russian accent.

Before more words the Squad’s Medic injects the formula deep into the entrance wound, bio plastics latticing across wounded flesh. Reconnecting severed blood vessels, the organic material burns nerves as Ling screams out in pain through the communication channel.

“I said RELAX.” Cherny orders as the entire vial is pumped into bodies.

Directly across from their position Marauder Three counter-snipes the hostile marksman, easily finding the man through an augmented reality heads up display. A bigger bullet with bigger consequences, the hostile sniper’s helmet, head and all, taken off like a hat. “Hostile marksman down, he is no problem anymore.”

A calming of nerves as the seconded payload of painkiller is delivered, the Medic following it up with an application of suit sealant.

Two guns down, Marauder Team is unable to beat back a Java Treaty Breaching Team. A hostile squad crossing open space under fire, Marauder Two and Three alongside T.A.C. exhaust munitions as only one falls under them.

“We need more fire!” The Combat Engineer informs quickly.

The Combat Drone falters for a moment, gunfire deflected off its armored surface. “I have sixty rounds remaining.”

“Merde!” The Marksman swears alongside the rest of the squad as her rifle’s final magazine exhausts itself.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Lieutenant Keys grips his rifle, diving into cover as he calls it in. “Rubicon this is Marauder Two, condition black! We need fir…”

The airlock doors to the Assembly Hall open silently in vacuum.

A form floating direct center: a bulky mass of bone white ceramic and kevlar flanked by the extended pylons of the heaviest possible E.M.U. configuration available to the System Defense Force.

Combat space suit packed with an ungodly amount of armor plating, the supposed human form buried within a cocoon of white as the iconic reflective helmet visor is instead replaced with a solid mass of metal: a body of eight cameras feeding video to the occupant.

Shocked eyes are drawn towards the loadout of ordnance upon the Monster.

Twined multi-barreled rotary machine guns pintle mounted on side pylons, half-spheres of maneuverable space allowing for a full manipulation of fields of fire. Unbelievable firepower concreted on the ultimate demonstration of the System Defense Force’s combative power, an unofficial motto repeated to material suppliers and politicians made reality.

Not everyone respects peace, but everyone bows to big guns.

Task Force Thirty One falls silent as a new member enters the Squad Channel, rank bumping him up to the very top of the list. A familiar voice spoken through helmet microphones, a lifeless monster as the Flag Officer speaks in cold execution. “This is Marauder Actual, engaging targets.”

Barrels whirr to life, a prelude to carnage giving exposed hostiles just a single second of thought before annihilation.

Three thousand rounds per minute for each of the two guns, an inconceivable rate of fire doubled up as tracer flechettes rip through the Promenade in a solid wall of burning red violence.

Salvaged bits of ceramic armor shattered, flesh within suits evaporated. Computer systems shift targets automatically as each hostile is ripped apart, the entire assault cut down beneath unholy gunfire.

Rounds tear through E.M.U.s as inexperienced squads panic in retreat, broken tanks of propellant sending dead operators spiraling outwards into walls in uncontrolled velocities. Frozen clouds of viscera expand outward, husks of suits drifting across microgravity; cover and concealment used by still living allies in desperate retreat.

Within the opened airlock the four Garrisoned Guards throw out duffle bags of stored ammunition towards the cowering positions of Marauder Team, the fabric forms filled to the brim with a final resupply; an Admiral’s private reserve.

The fire doesn’t let up.

An entire assault falters as Admiral Tucker seemingly runs out of targets, the final remnants retreating back into the terminal two hundred fifty meters away.

“Ok guess we are bringing the Beijing back together…” Lieutenant Keys manages to quip in abject terror.

“So he was not lying…” Mercier adds.

“We’re clear!” Admiral Tucker ignores them, keeping guns trained on points of entry. “Get them to escape modules now!”

The entire Assembly Hall decompresses in a controlled evacuation of atmosphere, airlocks opening to delegates within.

National Security Personnel within thin fabrics of emergency space suits exit first, weapons drawn as they scan utter carnage for hostile units. A handful stop to point at the heavily armored suits of Marauder Team, quickly disengaged at the recognition of friendly assets.

White and red stripes of emergency evacuation modules; scattered across the entire Promenade the flush entrances were marked with bright red handles and lettering in five languages.

Nearly two hundred remaining delegation members, a count off finishing with lethal consequences.

T.A.C. brings the update. “Marauder Actual, advise that there are not enough escape vessels on the promenade to evacuate all personnel. There will be twenty six remaining personnel even at maximum capacity.”

“I know.” Admiral Tucker grits as he continues onto the next phase of the plan. “T.A.C., I need a favor.”

“I cannot equivalate favors; that’s not a feature I have installed.” The Drone calmly replies.

A signaled hand, one of the guards floating a briefcase over.

Black armored plastic hiding a payload of command and control, T.A.C. grabbing it from its position with a manipulator arm.

“That’s the Java Treaty’s trigger.” Admiral Tucker begins to explain. “I need…”

“I am able to disarm the entire satellite network via. a self-terminating order given the appropriate access codes, if that is the request.” The Machine interrupts happily, opening the case up. “Provide me cover.”

“Do that.” Admiral Tucker orders, turning to the squad leader. “Ling, what’s the chance of clearing the whole Station?”

Spoken through dulled pain, the Squad Leader of Marauder shakes away painkiller proctored brain fog as he answers the Flag Officer. “T.A.C., how many hostiles remaining?”

The Machine makes a headcount as he attaches an input cable to the briefcase mounted control system, a side-calculation added alongside the Rubicon’s estimated total. “Thirty one unaccounted for, standard error at four point one six.”

“It will be difficult.” Master Sergeant Ling answers, taking pause as he stares at the Admiral’s equipped suit. “Even with you.”

The Flag Officer takes the Marine’s words under advisement, turning to backup plans. “Lieutenant Keys.”

“Sir?!” The Lieutenant answers quickly.

A plan given straight to him. “I need you to blow out the Observation Deck.”

Words reaching ears through suit speakers, a consideration faltering as the Combat Engineer just stares. “What?!”

“We need an exfil point in the Observation Deck to give the Alaska enough space to evacuate the remaining personnel.” The Admiral specifies. “Assuming we can’t clear the station.”

“Oh come on…” A projected groan, Lieutenant Keys rolling eyes as he gathers his remaining kit. Sarcastic voice broadcast to the localized channel, complaining limited as the lower ranking Naval Officer answers orders. “I’m on it.”

High explosives, thermite, plasma cutters, and a dozen other tools brought alongside him as the bulky form of the Combat Engineering Suit accelerates through a crowd and into the Assembly Hall, the remaining Marines of Marauder Team taking a moment to catch breaths against heavy combat.

“Take a time, restock!” Marauder Leader orders, a wounded shoulder rolled in a conformation of a half range of motion. Arm pressed against sealant and nerves dulled by painkillers, the Marine ignores a damaged body and instead checks his assault rifle.

Scratched from rough handling, a red overheat alarm sounds across the holographically projected scope field. Long barrel glowing a lethal orange color, Ling snaps open the XA-77 in a mid-combat modification.

Modular down to its bolts, the weapon’s long barrel is tossed aside as the assault rifle is transformed into a short barreled carbine. A majority of the gun’s heat profile removed in the ejection of a technical heatsink, the Marine grants the rifle a few more magazines worth of shots before a total mechanical failure.

A tattered tactical vest restocked with magazines from duffle bags, enough ammunition to tide the squad over another upcoming firefight.

The cold silence of space within the Promenade; national security personnel prioritizing the bodies shoved into pods. A capacity of twenty each, packed into the shell of ablative heat shields and parachutes like sardines in cans of olive oil.

World Leaders first, chaotically sorted from journalists and surviving support staff.

As each module fills to capacity, launch systems automatically shut doors. Metal bars descend over seated forms, securing personnel against an upcoming descent through thick atmosphere.

Deployment vectors calculated; a serious, robotic voice played through speakers within seats; audio transferred into the suits pressed against them. “This pod will launch in five seconds, please brace for acceleration.”

Station Four’s position over the icy cold waters of the North Atlantic brings the thing into range of three observation posts, military grade hardware gazing skywards.

In the frigid darkness of a mid-winter Greenlander afternoon, Thule Air Base of the United States Space Force tracks an ongoing orbital battle with incredible resolution: clear atmospheric conditions and proximity providing sensor suites with near optimal operation capacities, augmented by a data link connected to north Canadian N.O.R.A.D. stations and European Space Agency tracking sites.

Exhaust plumes from launching escape modules detected, number counted in control centers and automatically marked with priority markers.

An evacuation proceeding smoothly against the chaos of ten minutes prior, the few remaining personnel on Station Four relegated to National Security Forces and a handful of brave or moronic journalism teams.

Assembly Hall cleared minus one soul, the Combat Engineer accelerating through empty space as he shapes charges of plastic explosive and slathers thermite onto load bearing beams.

One of the most exclusive group of soldiers in low earth orbit, the Solar System Defense Force’s Combat Engineering Corps was at the end of the day just another way to subject personnel to manual labor.

A total of fifteen pounds of plastic explosives mixed with breaching charges as replacements for specialist demolition tools, painted walls of thermite applied the destruction of structural integrity. Architectural physics so ingrained within minds it becomes purely intuitive, a light tune hummed alongside laborious work.

“Marauder Two, status?” Marauder Actual interrupts a thought process.

“Oh it’s going great.” Lieutenant Keys reports sarcastically, a rant formulated and given to unconsenting listeners. “You know what I’ve been doing today? I’ve been working. And not that kind of gun toting I’m terminating hostiles kinda work no, I’m doing the kinda work that nobody wants to do.” Continuing in a mocking voice, the Combat Engineer places a detonator into one of the piles of high explosives.

‘I’m outta ammo, Keys, can you get some for me?’

‘Oh of course, I’ll go and get some ammo for you.’

‘I’ve been hit, can you help me plate up?’

‘Of course I can, it’s not like I’m not doing anything important. And while I’m there might as well tune up your E.M.U. because why not?!’

‘I need a rifleman, can you do it Keys?’

‘Well I’ve got a gun and no brain so sure, I can do it!’

‘Keys, I need you to cause ten billion dollars’ worth of property damage to the most iconic landmark in earth orbit.’

‘Well you asked nicely so why not?!!!’”

Termite burns as a lit magnesium matches touch slathered tiles of red matter, new suns born as the Combat Engineer makes a gracious retreat out of the demolition zone.

The very structure of Station Four buckles underneath insane temperatures, a low moan rumbling through bulkheads as steel beams tenderize.

An authority yelling out words, the man with explosives treated as the highest rank among Marauder Squad as he arrives. On heads up displays a countdown clock is placed at the top right corner, five minutes to a titled event only marked as ‘BIG Explosion.’

Lieutenant Keys pulls himself from the Assembly hall, immediately reporting to the rest of the squad. “It’s rigged, countdown’s t-to before I blow it. I need everyone to move at least fifty meters up and into cover. The lower section might get ripped from the station along with the entire deck.”

“Wait.” Admiral Tucker stops. “Did you just say the entire deck?!”

A thumbs up, facial expression unread through reflective visors. “The Observation Deck’s at least a hundred metric tons. Trying to move it out of the way is going to cause A LOT of collateral damage.”

“Lieutenant, we needed a hole cut to evacuate personnel through.” The Admiral specifies.

Air sucked through clenched teeth, the Combat Engineering answering mis-interpreted orders with a chirpy tone. “Well… that’s a problem the Task Force will need to deal with later.”

Switching channels to a general broadcast, Marauder Two points towards the remaining sectors of the promenade. “Move it everyone, get clear of the blast zone!’