The arrowhead shape is highlighted against a distant earthrise.

A vessel built in the forges of orbit, lethal form on approach to target. Armored whipple plating painted a heat deflecting white, bulbs of close-in weapon systems scattered across her thirty meter long hull. A single square gun barrel extends from the orbital combat corvette’s nose, the turret mounted railgun revealing the near universal application of superior firepower.

Across one of its flat sides the name is printed out, font written in a contrasting black in representation of the System Defense Force Ship:

RUBICON

The vessel’s Navigation Officer speaks through the communication channel, a cool voice accented Italian echoing through radio signals. “Luna Anchorage flight control this is Rubicon, requesting permission to dock.”

The flight controller responds, a chinese heritage audible on her reply. “Copy Rubicon we have you on tight beam, tasking you to airlock ten. Sending flight plan to your vessel do you receive?”

A moment as networks sync up, the route presented to the officer’s heads up display. “Flight plan received Control, Rubicon en route to airlock ten. ETA is five minutes.”

Bursts of reaction control fuel across its hull forces deceleration, the vessel’s angular shape slowing as it approaches the massive space station.

Two rings on opposite sides of the two hundred meter long cylinder provide opposing centrifugal force in the creation of artificial gravity, the structure itself resembling a strange, lightweight dumbbell.

Central spire thickened with gray armor plating, the familiar hardpoints of missile defense systems allotted against an unmaterialized attack. Windows half-ignited, half-dimmed as a population operates in the timeless shifts of watch cycles, the familiar memories of training and deployments of years prior returning to conscious thoughts.

The Tactical Officer next to the helm station chuckles, scottish accent somewhat loose as he gazes at the readouts from his station. A vessel’s relative velocity higher than usual, an inconsequential deviation but enough for an informative statement. “Be gentle with her mate.”

“Just shaving off some seconds.” Navigation replies.

From the center of the bridge Captain Michelle Perez gives a partially jesting order, cold voice executed with a dulled edge of Spanish accented seriousness. “Helm: decrease velocity by relative zero point four meters per second.”

“Aye, slow relative speed: zero point four meters per second.” The man replies quickly as he grips the vessel’s control stick.

A small, half second long burst of propellant cuts velocity, the path of the small corvette standardized with computer assisted pathing.

They watch as the station grows closer.

From within the Rubicon’s marine deployment bay the forms of four soldiers wait in well lit silence. Dark-blue fatigues of the Solar System Defense Force, national flags attached to shoulder patches beneath an international allegiance of an earthen orbital wrapped in twined olive branches.

Bodies strapped to acceleration chairs, their surroundings of gun lockers, idle combat space suits, and storage crates providing a backdrop to the beginnings of conversation.

A red triangle shoulder insignia marked with a vicious, fabric woven explosion. A unitary patch representing construction and destruction, the Combat Engineer interrupting individualized thought processes as he speaks up. An American accent hinted with a bit of sarcastic undertone, the relatively young man asks the question first. “When was the last time you guys were out here?”

The rest of the squad takes a moment to think, delving into memorized dates.

The Combat Engineer’s friend speaks up first, an English marred by a first learned Chinese. Words cemented in squad leadership, the Marine answering with dim friendliness. “It was before the Admiral recruited me and you. Around two month before that.”

French accent responding to the squad leader, the young woman cracks her neck as she continues off him. “Euh, I have been longer. Nearly two years since I was here. For training in first year of service.”

Their last member sits in silence, a mind in the workings of inner thought. The Combat Engineer taps his shoulder from the neighboring acceleration chair, huge musculature brought back to the present. Uniform marked with a neutral red-cross, representation of medical professionalism under fire.

A natural sarcasm toned down, the squadmate speaks to him with a rare calmness. “Well you haven’t been to Luna in a few years right Cherny?”

The large man nods, thick Russian accent hampering an already questionable english. “Been near seven year since return, хорошо вернуться.”

Flush against the padded wall, the combat drone speaks up. Its silvery armored body shaped in a rectangular prism, the machine’s single visible screen printing lines of executed code. Synthesized voice jovial in nature, interrupting the flow of conversation. “I’ve never been here!”

“Ok T.A.C..” The Combat Engineer sighs with a chuckle. “But I get the feeling giving you a tour will be a waste of time.”

The Machine artificially derives the humor, continuing off of the given prompt. “I have downloaded an architectural plan of Luna Anchorage so yes Lieutenant, such an activity will be a gigantic waste of your time.”

Through the vessel’s internal speaker system the Captain’s voice reaches down to the marine deployment bay, ears perking up as they listen to the directed announcement. “Marauder Team be advised we’re about to decelerate on final approach. Please make sure you’re strapped in.”

Orders followed, bodies checking harnesses instinctively.

“Three minutes to contact.” The Navigation Officer reports from his station.

Six vessels currently docked in Luna Anchorage, their mismatched forms spread out across the centralized docking section of the station catching the unfiltered strands of a distant sun.

Four orbital combat frigates in the midst of a resupply, cylindrical forms anchored on station. Hulls mostly unarmored, defense instead found in the caps of inactive missile defense systems mounted on hardpoints. Two distinct classes represented by two lead ships, the Souez and Typhoon holding two entirely different generations of design. Missile launch tubes dot the structure of the older Souez in representations of unfought conflicts with unfound national forces, while the pair of marine deployment bays of the Typhoon hearken back to a more recent, infantry based era of orbital warfare.

Dwarfed by the seventy meter long cruiser currently in berth.

A single turret mounted coilgun spanning along her central spine matched by an equally expansive marine deployment bay, heavy whipple shields armoring every square meter of her hull. Close-in-defense rotary autocannons visible, an aged design still lethal on visual approach. Radiators half-opened in dock, wings of metal glowing red as a fusion reactor pumps out heat in a dry-run of combat operations.

The words spell out its name in two languages, the romanization of the city matched with its native tongue.

BEIJING

北京

“Be advised the Yenisey’s also here.” The Operations Officer notes as he recognizes the IFF signature at the edge of Luna Anchorage’s dockyard, a sister ship to their own vessel marked on heads up displays.

Newer by a short seven months of manufacturing time, the similar arrowhead shape of a Yangtze class orbital combat corvette is shadowed by Luna Anchorage’s heat radiation panels. Unmodified, untouched, the standard configuration of the ship is placed against her modified sibling. A pair of autocannons on each of her flat sides, her nose hardpoint featuring a dome of ECM countermeasures rather than a massive electromagnetic rail gun.

“Interesting… it’s not too busy at the moment.” The Chief Engineer comments aloud as she quantifies the readouts from her display.

“After the bombing three weeks ago everyone’s being put on alert.” Tactical answers with a loud sigh. “They’re either out on flag waving patrols or raids.”

“So what are we doing here?” The young woman asks her follow up question.

“We’ll find out in a minute.” Navigation silences. “Forty five seconds to contact.”

Small bursts of propellant provide tiny corrections to velocities, a microgravity rendezvous demanding perfectly accurate contact points. From within flight helmets alarms blare out, experience recognizing it instantly.

“Status?” The Captain requests.

A calm response from the Chief Engineer, her voice dull in the diagnosis of the technical issue. “We’re green. Seems like the people in the Boneyard fucked up the proximity detection system again.”

Voice entering the communication channel, the Squad Leader of the marine detachment speaks up against a background of alarms. “Rubicon this is Marauder Team, is something wrong?”

“Someone fucked up the sensor alignment probably.” The Chief Engineer replies. “We’re fine.”

“Hey, I can help with that!” The Combat Engineer interrupts as he also enters the channel.

“Can you people please be quiet?” Navigation bites as he switches cameras, the airlock mounted optical sensor overlaid with a readout of relative velocities as the final approach settles in. Radio channels switched, flight control once again pinged. “Control this is Rubicon, eta is ten seconds to dock. Tight beam confirmed, moving in please confirm.”

“Copy Rubicon.”

A hull vibrating as computers guide the final approach in, docking clamps tightening their grip as they make contact with standardized airlocks.

“Full contact!” Engineering reports, a low rumbling echoing through the frame of the vessel.

“Confirmed full contact.” Navigation updates.

A distant controller makes the call. “Rubicon please confirm full seal.”

“Confirmed Control.”

Cool voice, the flight controller attempts to hide a mild bit of excitement as she closes the channel. “Copy that Rubicon, welcome to Luna Anchorage. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye Control.” The Navigation Officer responds quickly, a body already stretching from his seat. Turning back to face her, he puts the request down. “Captain?”

“Let record reflect arrival at Luna Anchorage at 1115 hours after transit from LEO, BY-M3 orbital.” The Captain logs into the system, switching to her tiny vessel’s broadcast system. An announcement played across the corvette, a crew of eight and marine squad of five listening into the words of the Commanding Officer. “All hands secure from stations. We have arrived at Luna Anchorage.”