Citizens of the South African Coast stare at the evening sky.

The Battle for Station Four watched through telescopes and binoculars; entire neighborhoods standing upon empty streets, spotting the singular satellite crossing the starscape above.

Gasps as a tiny flash of light erupts in darkness, a gigantic explosion consuming the earth-facing side of the orbital structure.

Through magnification lenses observers watch as the entire lower half of the station falls apart, atmospheric disturbances censoring any further information from the ground.

Admiral Tucker seriously reconsiders his recruitment of Lieutenant Johnathan Keys for a split second as the shockwave is passed along solid bulkheads; turbulence echoing through an isolated system and slamming into the still living bodies held in brace positions.

Concussive force snaps reinforced aluminum bars, the Assembly Hall turning into a gigantic pipe bomb as the explosion tears the entire observation deck off the Station along with its separating bulkhead.

A hundred and ten metric tons of destroyed material now floating away from the Station, twenty four remaining National Security Personnel alongside Marauder Team watches the darkness of space enter into the Promenade.

Illumination flickers as primary power is shunted away, the station bathed in pale emergency lighting against a shadowed earth.

“CLEAR!!!” The Combat Engineer yells as he puts away the explosive detonator.

Admiral Tucker exhales a single note of emotional damage, a wrench thrown into next year’s United Nations Space Development Budgetary Conference. Future tense put aside, the giving of orders prioritized as the Flag Officer ties into the higher command channels. “Alaska this is Marauder Actual, Observation Deck is cleared. Require extraction point at future marker for personnel. Do you read?”

Conscripted into battle as control is restored with chains of command, the American Cruiser lumbers back into position. Nose broken, jaw fractured; bruised and humiliated by superior deployments, the scarred yet still functional vessel carrying a repair cost measured in the hundreds of millions.

Within the Cruiser’s C.I.C. a marker is placed, System Defense Force tactical software bridged to American systems via the closely watching Rubicon.

“Confirmed.” The Captain of the Alaska speaks up. “Marauder Actual, we’re on the way. ETA five minutes.”

Thrust bursts out of massive engines, the hundred meter long cylinder of the vessel maneuvering itself into position. A nose of armor plating and broken sensor suites presses against the free floating Observation Deck, relative velocities matching as the Cruiser begins to thrust forward.

An incredible mass moved at a snail’s pace, the trillion dollar warship turned into a tugboat as it pushes aside debris.

Across emergency suit radios the comment is raised, a familiar voice echoing into the general communication channels. President Cooper speaks up, watching as the brutalized cruiser maneuvers itself into position. “So glad we approved the budget for her.”

Admiral Tucker checks suit cameras immediately, finding the VIP within the crowd of unevacuated personnel. “Jack what the fuck are you doing here?!”

“They shoved Agent Pelsin into a pod thinking it was me.” The President shrugs, the remainder of his security contingent turning towards him in shock. “I’m here now, so what can I do?”

One of the suited secret service agents stops him. “Sir, after the Assembly Hall I am not allowing…”

“Relax, just in case.” President Cooper turns. “Our ride’s here anyway.”

Debris cleared, the form of the Alaska hangs thirty meters away from the massive missing portion of the Station. A fireteam of United States Space Force personnel on her hull, awaiting the transfer of evacuees.

“Wire coming up, hang on!” Marauder Two removes the launcher from his E.M.U.’s storage pylon, the gun-like shape checked once over before aiming it at the cruiser. A spool of woven carbon tied to bulkheads, the remainder attached to the STR-TEX adhesive covered projectile. “Launching!”

Compressed gas sends cable spinning into the black, the thing easily sticking onto the hull of the cruiser.

“Wire up!” The Combat Engineer informs as motors pull the loose cable taut.

“Get ready for attack!” Marauder Leader prepares as he shoulders his rifle once more.

Marauder Squad follows orders, aiming at the terminal in the preparation of a final firefight.

The Head Secret Service Agent turns. “Mr. President, you fir…”

“This is how you get on the wire.” President Cooper lectures the remaining evacuees, a demonstration shown as he pulls out one of the emergency space suit’s securing cables. Wrapping it around the razor thin bridge, he continues to brief. “This is to make sure you don’t go off course. Do not attempt to hold this wire, you will risk a suit breach in your gloves, and you DO NOT WANT THAT. Repeat after me: Attach cable, raise hands, do not touch.”

In the general communications channel the words are repeated.

“Good.” Pointing to one of Wachbataillon Marines, the President selects them as the first volunteer. “You’re up!”

Counting off the three steps:

Attach, the cable wrapped around the wire.

Raise, hands raised above bodies.

President Cooper leverages his position against a point of cover, pushing the heavy woman with exerted physical force.

A surprisingly fast velocity maintained, path guaranteed through the attached cable.

The fireteam of Space Force personnel catches them as they hit the cruiser fifteen seconds later.

“Next!” The President orders, growling as indecision comes across clear helmeted faces. “NOW, FASTER!”

Six more are sent into safety, the short man now assisted by his agents in the shoving of bodies along the wire. An improvised plan executed to perfection, extraction of assets turning into a full assembly line.

Interrupted by hostile force.

“Incoming!” Marauder Leader spots the shapes of canisters tossed into the Promenade, smoke grenades creating huge spheres of concealment around their forms.

“Keep up the evacuation, we’ll cover you!” Marauder Actual coldly orders as rotary machine guns spin.

Optical sensors extend human perceptions to spectrums beyond imagination, infrared cutting through blankets of simple burning chemicals.

Hostiles identified through smoke screens as the final attempt to eliminate leadership are brought to bear, twenty seven Java Treaty personnel stepping up to the dais of battle with insane conviction.

To die for a cause greater than them.

“Hold fire!” Master Sergeant Ling sadistically observes. “See how many fish we can catch in the net.”

An unopposed advance, positions retaken.

Eight evacuees remain.

Marauder Lead gives the order. “Now!”

Gunfire cuts through clouds of brackish material, four advancing troopers torn apart by immense firepower.

The remainder dive to cover, positions secured even under fire. Their very presence threatening the ongoing evacuation, Marauder Team forced to expend dwindling munition supplies to keep them suppressed.

T.A.C. peaks up from his position, a cable detaching from the laptop briefcase. “Be advised, the majority of Java Treaty satellites have been disabled.”

“No time to celebrate!” Marauder Actual replies as he adjusts fire, an MMU blasting out propellant in counter-recoil burns. “Ling!”

“Keep this going!” The Marine barks.

Four more minutes of vicious gunfighting, the final evacuee found within the most powerful man among them. President Cooper yells out as he secures himself to the cable. “Last one out, good luck!”

Leaping off bulkheads the man is sent at velocity, a form shifting mid-flight as he plants his feet downward towards an incoming point of impact.

Station Four shifts.

Emergency thrusters across nearly three hundred meters of the remaining hull activate, the massive mass lurching forth in acceleration.

Debris and smoke within the exposed Promenade slowly shifts towards the Terminal edge of the Station, a relative ground found as unsecured infantrymen grip onto pieces of cover.

“сука бля!” Cherny swears aloud. “What is happening?!”

“Station is moving.” Lieutenant Keys answers as he sends more flechettes downrange. “It’s not me I swear!!!”

“Perhaps the Java Treaty has control over the station control center?” T.A.C. offers. “I cannot contact station control at the moment.”

A consequence interrupted as Admiral Tucker’s voice holds priority, an alert overriding tactical channels. “ALASKA PRIORITY ONE, STATION FOUR IS ON DIRECT IMPACT COURSE. REPEAT, ADJUST VECTOR IMMEDIATELY.”

The President slams onto the hull, a body immediately unclipping himself from the wire. The four space force personnel barely keep up as their Commander-in-Chief scrambles towards wide open maintenance airlocks, suited bodies stuffing themselves into a completely depressurized interior hull.

Station Four crashes against the Alaska, tearing the secondary hull in a wailing moan that echoes within the entire vessel. The Captain of the Cruiser slams his acceleration chair with a gloved hand, roaring through the communication line. “Get us out of here NOW!”

Maneuvering thrusters screaming out propellant, the lumbering beast skirting away from the even more massive station.

Tense moments held within the briefing room, the highest echelon of governments awaiting reports from high above.

One minute passes alongside the next, the woman at the center of political chaos taking a moment to glance down at the printed speech on the oak table.

VICE PRESIDENT LU -- FOR IMMEDIATE CHANGE OF EXECUTIVE LEADERSHIP

The Captain’s harsh voice echoes across livestreams and new channels. “This is Alaska Actual, Stardust is onboard and we are clear!”

Celebrations across an entire nation, the confirmation of dramatic rescue sending waves of humanity into cheering messes of souls. From the gathered crowds in front of the White House to classrooms across America, a nation boils itself in victory.

The woman at the oak table takes a deep sigh of relief, tearing up the speech.

The battle isn’t over.

“Alaska cleared!” Marauder Actual updates as rotary autocannons lay down fire.

Marauder Leader sends himself across positions with a burst of his E.M.U., finding himself next to the Flag Officer’s fire-support platform. “Admiral, do we have extraction?!”

“Working on it!” The Admiral replies quickly.

The Java accelerates.

Still attached to the Terminal’s docking clamps, the massive vessel activates its main engines.

Modular helium storage tanks separated from the main deck at the center of the vessel, an excess mass removed as now insanely powerful engines roar outpower.

A full blast of acceleration smashes infantry within the Promenade, an entire world shifting as bodies are plastered against bulkheads. Free floating debris literally falling towards a newly created relative ground, smoke clouds splintering into a now open terminal as hostile positions are once again revealed.

Maneuvering units blast out propellant as they attempt to counteract the effect, space suits scrambling to points of cover and gripping guardrails.

Outside the confines of the station the free floating mass of the observation deck stands still against the movement, a lethal trajectory bringing it towards the artificial gravity ring.

Construction intersects, a hundred twenty four metric tons of material shearing the supporting column of the still rotating ring. Still pressurized rooms crushed like cans, atmosphere stored within exploding out into a cold vacuum. Destruction continues as the spinning structure batters itself in a full trail of destruction, finally stopped as emergency brakes are automatically applied to the motorized mechanism.

The hull of the station slams soldiers aside as angular velocity is transferred into brutal turbulence, the intense velocity throwing shattered glass, dead bodies, and loose ordnance into combat space.

Tactical computers localize data, tearing through visual interference as software attempts to locate hostile units in chaos.

“Alert, orbital trajectory unstable.” T.A.C. repeats again, his metal body secured against a point of cover.

“They’re gonna try and burn the station!” Admiral Tucker realizes, E.M.U. propelling his suit against the now twenty one percent gravity burn. “T.A.C. I need a list of major cities along Station Four’s orbital trajectory, two deviation search!”

A millisecond of calculation, the Combat Drone replying as it retrieves the data. A synthesized voice covering across the command channel. “Alert, Station Four debris target is the Shenzhen-Hong Kong metropolitan area. Estimated casualties: six hundred forty six.”

“Rubicon, do you…”

“We heard him.” Captain Perez answers, glancing at console readouts as she formulates a plan. “We’ll take care of it.”

Keeping station alongside the accelerating orbital structure the arrowhead shape of the corvette highlights against the world beneath it. Exhaust plume vectored with care, radiators extending like brilliant, burning wings from its body.

A multi-step process, executed in parallel. The Captain begins in cold form. “Operations, send general alert to Longwang Station, priority red on incoming. Engineering, fold up the radiators, we’re going in. Tactical, Navigation; destroy the Java's command bridge, see if we can force her to overshoot her target. Navigation following secondary, swing around and extract Marauder Team at the base of Station Four. Copy?”

“Heat at eighty percent.” The Chief Engineer gives parameters in objection, reporting to all stations. “Estimated five minutes to overheat.”

“Noted.” Captain Perez acknowledges without emotion. “Execute.”

Internal structure already at immense temperatures, an exhausted fusion reactor called to war once again. A blast of thrust sends the Rubicon across accelerating battlespace, a masterful pilot pulling her to face the currently docked Java Treaty helium freighter.

Naked in form, abandoned payloads of the vessel left behind in operation. A single long stick of crew cabins and engines completely vulnerable to hostile fire.

Railgun trained, words executed.

“Three shots, AP-Sabot fifty percent.” Tactical informs as he selects the weapons payload. “Clear to fire.”

“On the way!”

A civilian crew of seven drafted to service of their relative national powers, held hostage by their own people as they send the doomed freighter onwards to annihilation. Java Treaty Marines standing against a wall turned floor, assault rifles keeping obedience through threat of death.

Metal spalls through them all as three sabots cut into the Java’s bridge. An insane velocity transferred into red hot fragments, nail sized bits exploding unsuited bodies into pieces of organic material.

Control consoles blasted to smithereens, the entire interior coated red as engines continue to burn.

“Java bridge destroyed.” Tactical reports as he continues monitoring acceleration profiles. “Confirmed velocity, t-minus four minutes to terminal re-entry sequence.”

“Mierda…” Captain Perez swears, switching to Marauder Team’s communication channel. “Marauder this is Rubicon Actual, overshoot confirmed. Standing by for extraction.”

Marauder Leader replies through gritted teeth. “Confirm, standby.”

A viciously dangerous battlespace, the entirety of Station Four turning into a vertical skyscraper through acceleration forces. Java Treaty survivors standing on walls shooting up towards Marauder Team, those above them replying in kind with barrages of fire.

Artificial gravity produced through the movement of the Station; the prospect of a 300 meter fall at 36% gravity lethal when augmented by hostile gunfire.

“I am running out!” Marauder Leader informs as depleted stores of ammunition trigger alarms.

Peeking out from bulkheads a Java Treaty breacher aims the RPG directly at the heavily armored form of the fire support platform hanging at the center of the promenade. Red band surrounding the bulbous shape, recognition of an anti-tank tandem warhead called to in tactical computers.

Marauder’s Marksman cuts the anti-tank trooper in half with a high explosive round just before triggers are depressed, the rocket spiraling forth from its launch tube.

“Incoming!” The young woman warns again.

T.A.C. intercepts it without hesitation, projectile detonating into items easily deflected by colossal armor.

“I am out of ammo.” The Combat Drone warns once again. “Completely out.”

“Ling…” Lieutenant Keys begins.

The Master Sargent cuts off his friend as he switches to command channels. “Rubicon this is Marauder Team, priority black! Request fire mission on A.O.: hostile marked on tactical link is actual. Repeat, hostile mark is actual. Caution, friendly units in proximity of line of fire, will be danger close!”

“Received.” The Fiancée turns to her crew, absolute rage at the sound of a wounded lover. Words ice cold, a personal touch to sadistic vengeance found in the ordering of specialty payloads. “Helm take us in; relative grid sector X-ray six seven. Tactical, load squash head kinetics, burn those hijos de puta.”

“Copy that!” Stations reply.

The woman speaks to the infantry squad. “Marauder Actual, fire mission approved.”

“GET INTO COVER!” Master Sergeant Ling orders the entire fighting force.

Marauder Team moves under the threat of an incoming apocalypse, bursts of E.M.U. propellent sending armored bodies crashing out of the line of fire. Cherny and Mercier find positions at the edge of the torn hull, hands gripped onto guardrails while Ling shoots himself sideways, finding a cranny at the back of the Station. Admiral Tucker’s massive fire support platform crashes into the side of the station as he boosts away from the centralized promenade, bringing enough force to dent padded walls. Keys is the unluckiest, a position caught out right next to one of the ejected escape modules.

T.A.C. detects the vulnerable squadmate, the rectangular block of armor, ordnance, and sensors unhooking himself from his hull-down position. A burst of propellant from the E.M.U. sends the thing careening towards the Combat Engineer, an acceleration stopped in the nick of time as two limbs extend out.

Denting the walls next to Marauder Two, the Combat Drone covers allied assets from incoming fire with robotic physicality.

They all watch the vessel arrive.

A flip executed as it slots in right in the path of the accelerating battlefield, the angular form of the orbital combat corvette finding a position ten meters away from the torn hull of Station Four.

An arrowhead matching the acceleration profile, a background of an earth night from the Gobi desert behind her. The Rubicon hangs there, five seconds passing as her sensor package confirms positions.

Within the Gunner’s heads up display friendlies and hostiles are marked, blue and red units among the ruined interior of the Promenade.

“Full belt, squash kinetics; twenty percent.” Tactical reports. “Clear to fire.”

The Gunner marks the nearly two dozen remaining targets, a field of fire calculated away from friendly units. Assault vectors placed, micromovements requested from the helm in the creation of a precision attack.

“On the way!”

The railgun flares as electromagnets pump out shells from autoloaders at diabolical velocity, a rate of fire imperceivable as the allotted belt of nearly two hundred rounds is sent into the Promenade.

No cover is enough to stop them.

Fist sized holes punched through forty millimeter plates of steel armor, projectiles melting stacks of salvaged ceramic plating and flayed kevlar as they continue onward to soft tissue within. Kinetic projectiles cavitating flesh, bodies literally exploding into gore.

“Adjust position, two meters relative port.” Gunnery orders.

“Adjusting!” The Helmsman replies.

Trigger held down, stabilized turret mounting tracking targets.

Rounds cut into Stores and Parks: fountains of hollow concrete evaporated as iconic palm trees are logged into sawdust; souvenir snow globes and metallic models, paperback books and lightweight apparel, prepackaged meals and vending machine guts all exploding into battlespace as shells rip into the final surviving fragments of Station Four.

“Heat at ninety five percent!” The Chief Engineer reports as uncontrolled firepower cuts crucial operational time.

Heads up display confirming full termination, Gunnery reporting to the bridge. “All hostiles destroyed.”

“Marauder, fire mission complete.” Tactical reports.

T.A.C. leaps into the priority channel. “Advised, Station Four’s deorbit vector is terminal. Estimated impact point: South China Sea.”

Wordless orders transmitted, Operations and Navigation working in tandem as the Rubicon maneuvers itself closer to the shattered remains of the Civilian Station.

From its belly the newly installed marine deployment bay cracks open, emergency red lighting exposed in the shadow of the earth. The escape route found, Marauder Team stunned as the voice of Rubicon Actual yells through the channel. “Marauder, get your asses in NOW! WE’RE LEAVING!!!”

A blue marker placed on augmented reality displays, three dimensional space navigated as E.M.U.s boost operators into the confines of the vessel.

Uncontrolled velocities slam armored suits into the deployment bay, Master Sergeant Ling counting off his men in confirmation of recovered states.

Two Solar System Defense Force Marines: the Marksman gripping her anti-material rifle and the Medic recovering a handful of loose medical supplies from a shot-open tactical vest.

Alongside them two Naval Officers: the Combat Engineer desperately gripping onto handholds and ranked Admiral tearing off plates of armor in the reduction of mass.

A final drone completes the group: its metal body scuffed and battered by deflected bullets, two major impact sites of armor penetration completely ignored by redundant systems.

“Rubicon we are all aboard!”

“Copy!” Operations responds, the deployment bay slamming shut. “Brace for heavy acceleration!”

“Internal temperature is critical.” The Chief Engineer yells from her position. “Remaining full burn time: twenty seconds.”

“That’s not enough time to get out of here!” The Helmsman bites as they quickly calculate orbital trajectories. “Our only way out is relative forty-eight degree counter burn!”

A plan sent across consoles, Tactical objecting as an entire sheet of space reads a hostile red. “Negative, we’ve got debris impact on that trajectory!”

“Shit we’re on terminal re-entry!” Helm swears.

“No we’re not.” The Captain calmly states, a mind processing immense calculations in seconds. “Helm: five-G burn, angle relative orbital trajectory; negative two degrees on horizon. Ops, deploy full radiators on full acceleration and prepare to launch emergency heatsinks.”

“Aye five-G burn, negative two degrees on horizon.” The Helmsman follows.

“Radiator deployment ready.” The Chief Engineer replies.

E.M.U.s stripped off, suited bodies clambering into acceleration chairs in the fifteen given seconds of preparation. Only enough positions for four, T.A.C. slams himself into his allotted cubby within the marine deployment bay, the huge drone becoming flush with the walls while Admiral Tucker’s armored body is instead strapped tight to one of armory walls with industrial grade cargo straps; complements of Marauder’s Combat Engineer.

Listening in the Marine Team turns to one another, Lieutenant Keys speaking up. “Ling what the fuck is your girlfriend going?”

“Uhhhh…” The Marine blinks in uncertainty.

The Helmsman continues. “All hands brace for acceleration in t-minus three, two, one.”

Across a night sky the Rubicon blasts out a plume of thermal exhaust; engines burning against a starscape.

Pushed against acceleration chairs, heavy g-forces pull against the Marine Squad. Blood vessels constrict as bodily systems counteract more weight, heartbeats heard in ear drums as air is pushed out of lungs.

Across the localized squad channel Marauder screams in a cacophony of chaos, voices in utter panic.

“HHOOOOOLLLLLLY SHHHIIIIIIT!!!!!!” Lieutenant Keys screams out in abject terror.

“TIGHETEN CHEST.” Cherny advises as he grunts. “PUSH BLOOD IN HEAD, KEEP ALIVE.”

Through trained, forced out coughs the actual naval officer among them speaks up. A voice relatively casual against the situation at hand, Admiral Tucker coughs out words. “Listen to Cherny! Keep yourselves conscious!”

Master Sergeant Ling pushes against the acceleration, physically raising his head above the helmet. A black tunnel appears at the edge of his vision, a circle of vision closing against the man. Breathing held in tight grunts, nothing stops it as a world bathed in red emergency lighting becomes smaller and smaller. Panic sets at once, Ling screaming out his final words as eyes slam wide open in a final struggle against the universe. “操他...!”

Unconsciousness clobbers the man out, a suit going limp.

“Update: Marauder Leader incapacitated.” T.A.C. announces as suit diagnostics come in.

“WHAT IS SHE DOING?!” Corporal Mercier screams out in the channel as augmented reality displays watch an earth begin to peel towards them. “WE ARE GOING DEAD!”

Ice cold blood running through veins, discipline maintained as the Rubicon’s crew remain locked to consoles; gravities of acceleration easily accepted within pressurized G-suits.

“Full radiator deployment complete.” Engineering reports. “Capacity at ninety eight percent.”

Wings of honeycombed aluminum spread out from the Corvette, stored heat dissipating into vacuum as forms bend against the massive acceleration.

“Reading atmospheric conditions on the hull.” Operations updates.

“We’re entering upper mesosphere!” Navigation concludes.

“Heat capacity reached!” Engineering adds. “Reactor meltdown in forty six seconds!”

Friction begins to scratch the Rubicon’s secondary hull, gaseous air charring an exterior of armor plating.

“IT’S GETTING HOT IN HERE!!!” Lieutenant Keys grunts out as he glances over to the readout from his helmet.

“WHAT IS PEREZ DOING?!” Mercier asks again in desperation, a mind already slipping towards the black.

Admiral Tucker bites down as he pulls pressure on his neck, blood forced to brains as he answers his subordinates. “You ever heard of Apollo Thirteen?!!!”

T.A.C. adds to the briefing, a helpful note against insane turbulence. “Captain Perez is attempting to skip across the atmosphere. The plan will work, assuming we do not burn up on reentry.”

Bodies are suddenly plastered against securing harnesses as heat dissipating radiators are sheared off, massive securing bolts sent flying as metal fragments spiral away against rushing air.

“Reactor meltdown in fifteen seconds!” The Chief Engineer updates.

Unconsciousness burning at the edge of visions, brutal training eroded through. Hearts struggling, hemoglobin in blood beginning to tire as awareness is barely held together; precious seconds of activity remaining on human bodies.

“We need more time!” Helm screams back.

“Eject emergency heatsinks!” Captain Perez orders through blind rage.

From the secondary hull blocks of ferrous metal are released, twenty six red hot squares weighing a kilogram each crash away from their homes.

“Non-terminal in ten seconds.” Helm updates, beginning the final countdown. “Nine… eight… seven…”

The Shenzhen-Hong Kong nightlife is interrupted as crowds take to the streets against the wailing air-raid alarm. A city illuminated by neon-lighting, a population of over thirty million packed within hundred story skyscrapers of commercial and residential mix.

One stands out; Nanshan Industry’s old headquarters tower standing higher than them all. Illuminated by walls of billboard ads, the long defunct company’s legacy still survives in low orbital warfare.

Eyes staring upwards, ready to witness a once-in-a-lifetime meteor shower as projected re-entry of the third largest space station in orbit begins. Phone cameras out, sharp eyes spotting the first sign of trouble.

A single streak of light, one corvette burning at immense velocity igniting just a small trail in the darkness; fifteen seconds before disappearing back into the black of space, an audible disappointment vocalized from crowds.

Two minutes more of waiting returning nothing, several impatient individuals re-entering buildings.

“嗰邊!!!” One points up. “Look, up there!”

A brilliant flash of light igniting the night sky, souls in awe as Station Four enters the upper mesosphere. Burning trails of debris following the main body, the massive artificial gravity ring shredding off from atmospheric stress.

Gasps and screams as instability within construction begins to force a wobble, viscous aerodynamics suddenly slamming against the two-hundred fifty meter long shape.

The Station twists, a weak point discovered as mechanical forces completely shred construction. An explosion of debris scattering fire across the sky, a light erupting in distinct trails as three major parts continue burning down to ground.

Live streamed cameras mounted atop skyscrapers capture images, an entire world watching a hundred fifty billion dollars of construction plunge through Earth’s atmosphere.

A show lasting minutes, the trails of slower debris finally dissipating into the black of space once again. The final breath of the United Nations Low Orbital Civilian Commerce Station Four ended with insane fanfare, cheers instinctively hollered as an entire population waves up at a starry sky.

“Two… one…”

Bodies slam forward into chair harnesses as five gravities of force are suddenly cut. Blood rushing into heads, black rings instantly removed as full consciousness arrives back into minds.

“SHIT!!!” Lieutenant Keys yells out as spittle is sent into the inside of his helmet. “OWWWWW…”

Seconds of recovery across communication lines.

“Is everyone fine?!” Cherny asks through labored breathing, pulling up suit diagnostics onto his heads up display.

Corporal Mercier groans as she holds back tears, a rare emotion of expressed convalescence crying out into the communication line. “I am not dead…”

One squad member unanswered, Marauder Team stopping at the realization of their Leader’s condition.

“LING!” Keys screams at this friend, turning the helmet towards his limp form. “LIN…”

“... 媽AAUUUUUUUUUUUUUIIIIIEEEEEE!!!” A primordial scream from Master Sergeant Ling across the squad channel as his body eases him into consciousness, the immediacy of violence apparent as his suit scrambles to grab a non-existent rifle from his chest holster.

Absolute silence as they watch the man struggle for a whole ten seconds against suit restraints, an instinct ready to kill before a full consciousness reels back bodily systems.

Staring at the far wall, the Master Sergeant grabs his suit’s body, ensuring full survivability as a minor coldness passes through his wounded shoulder. “我還... 我還行... I am ok…”

Admiral Tucker chuckles at the reaction. “That you are Ling. Let’s gooo… ”

A voice fills the announcement channel, the woman speaking with a serious expression. “Marauder Team this is Rubicon Actual, what’s your status?”

The Squad Leader takes a moment to check reactions from his team, a universal thumbs up given by them. “Rubicon this is Marauder Lead, we are ok!”

Relief flushing across Captain Michelle Perez’s face, a light chuckle ending nearly an hour of insanity. “Confirmed Marauder Lead. Be advised, the Rubicon is clear of the A.O. Marauder Actual, we’re sending you a telemetry update, please confirm.”

Tired eyes move to the incoming feeds from the vessel, an elongated orbital trajectory chaotically calculated against improvised plans. A criticism of risky plans withheld in retrospect by the Flag Officer, a deep sigh of relief preluding words. “We’re done, it's over.”

No celebration, no laughs.

Tired forms breathe out stress and exhaustion from diaphragms, bodies in suits going limp in the glory of microgravity. Moans across both Marine Squad, Naval Crew, and Flag Officer; a full two minutes of recovery interrupted by one.

Lieutenant Keys speaks up in the general channel, tired voice hinted with an acknowledgement of events. “We’re not getting away with this, are we?”

“What?” Ling croaks out.

“We just blew up Station Four.” Keys continues, shutting his eyes. “The Brass are going to skin us alive, we’re fucked.”

“You know…” Admiral Tucker pauses at the words, pulling himself together as he responds to the observation. “Considering the circumstances, and what you guys just pulled off? I think we’re actually going to be getting away with it.”

Laughter throughout the corvette, psyches rectifying brutal violence with victorious mental states; survivors of low orbital warfare allowing for just one bit of celebration.

Souls against an ancient black void, beneath them the silent form of mother earth. A glorious Pacific Ocean and American West Coast, half-ignited in sunlight as the trajectory brings a pale horizon across windows.

One orbit nearly completed, and many more to come.