The old man patiently waits in front of the airlock.

A full head of gray hair on a face defined by old features, a human being pushing nearly seventy years of age. Slightly sunken blue eyes holding an uncanny intelligence, a mind upon a relatively fit body for its age already working through prepared reintroductions.

Upon a straightened and ironed dark blue uniform, the shoulder patch of one pale dot above three orbital lines betrays immense rank:

Admiral Issac Tucker, Solar System Defense Force Task Force Thirty One.

Floating within arms reach of a handhold, the Flag Officer watches as a pair of technicians confirm the airtight seal.

“Pressure equalized.” One of them raises. “Good connection.”

A short breath taken in preparation of reunion, a genuine smile wrapping itself across his face.

“Opening doors.”

Marines stacked at the entrance, a readiness to leave cramped space engaged as they drag themselves out of the crew cabin of the packet corvette. Bodies piling atop one another, three marines and one combat drone in a mad scrambling to life on arrival.

“We made it!” The Combat Engineer screams out celebration as he catches his breath, body floating out in the microgravity environment. “WE MADE IT!”

The Admiral holds in a laugh, presenting a minor salute to the traditional awardee.

Lieutenant Jonathan Keys, combat engineering corps, pauses with a slight bit of embarrassment as he collects himself from celebration. A dismissive wave of his hand, casual in the fulfillment of tradition. “At ease Admiral.”

“You’ll never get used to the Star of Terra.” Admiral Tucker smiles, American heritage carried by his smooth, charismatic tone. Turning to the remaining Marines he continues. “Welcome to Luna Anchorage Marauder Team. Good to see you all again.”

“Yes sir.” They all reply at once.

A head count completed, the Officer pausing as he notes the lack of a Squad Leader between them. “Where’s Ling?”

“He’s talking to his girlfriend.” Lieutenant Keys answers, pointing back towards the docked Rubicon. “Interdepartmental issues.”

“Interdep…martial?” The Medic asks, a Russian origin hampering linguistic understanding.

French accented English, the petite woman glares at the large form. “Cherny you should not ask Keys. Better to ask Ling.”

“Alright Mercier, thank you for your support.” Lieutenant Keys rolls his eyes, looking back to the Admiral. “But all due respect sir, but you pulled us out of leave really fast. Barely had time to say bye to my mom before I had to catch the flight.”

The familiar voice of the Command Officer interrupts him, Captain Michelle Perez pulling herself into the arrival terminal alongside her fiance. “That you did, Admiral. Could have at least given us a two day warning before you pulled us back in.”

“Captain Perez.” Admiral Tucker notes, exchanging a firm nod to the woman. Turning towards her partner he continues. “Master Sergeant Ling, how was your vacation? No drama this time around?”

“It was ok.” Master Sergeant Ling Shu answers with a dumb smile, an easily readable emotional state bridging out experienced events. “No big fights. My dad and sisters like her so it all will be good.”

Lieutenant Keys stifles a laugh at the implication. “Better touch up on your Chinese Captain, cause I think we’ve found your retirement plan with Ling…”

“Oh shut up Keys.” The woman shakes her head, hiding the smile beneath a low scowl.

Clearing his throat Admiral Tucker aims his next question towards both the squad Combat Engineer and Marksman. Lieutenant Johnathan Keys and Corporal Estelle Mercier respectively turning their attention to the question. “I have to ask, how was New York for you guys?”

“It was a nice break from routine.” Keys answers. “Lieutenant Ano has all the photos if you want ‘em.”

“It was relaxing.” Corporal Mercier adds. “Not many things to worry about.”

“Haven’t been back to the U.N. building in almost three years, glad to hear it’s still standing.” The Admiral smiles, pausing as he moves to the last member of Marauder Team. “Cherny, how are you?”

Chief Warrant Officer Nikolai Chernyshevsky blinks at the question, an English answer translated from Russian in his head. “Good leave time. Relax at home.”

“Good to hear.” The Flag Officer nods.

“What about T.A.C.?” Lieutenant Keys interrupts as he points behind him to the combat drone. “You're not going to ask him what he was doing for leave?”

“I’ve been in contact with the Admiral regularly over your leave time.” The Machine answers. “And as I am not a sentient entity I don’t morally or legally require a vacation.”

“T.A.C. has been helping me out with some intel analysis.” Admiral Tucker informs. “Also managing my email list, which he does quite effectively.”

“You flatter me Admiral.” T.A.C. responds, synthesized voice strangely warm. “But I believe a majority of my processing time has been taken up by your analysis requests. Which is, if I have been led to believe, the reason for your recall orders to Luna Anchorage.”

Lieutenant Keys scoffs at the cadence. “They changed your socialization software haven’t they?”

“Why do you ask?” T.A.C. turns, two hydraulic limbs turning the flat surface of the drone to face the Combat Engineer.

Floating at least half a meter shorter than his mechanized counterpart, Keys shakes his head. “Well you sound more and more like an intel officer, nailing down the asshole attitude.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” T.A.C. rotates back to the Flag Officer, conversation finished. “Admiral, if you would like to…”

“Of course, the recall orders.” Admiral Tucker interrupts, rubbing his temple. “Elephant in the room I suppose.”

“I guess it’s something to do with the bombing last month.” Captain Perez rolls her eyes as she pushes herself up from the group. Hands reaching out towards the handles protruding out of walls, she stops at the airlock doors. “Sorry everyone, Rubicon’s acting up again. You people have fun.”

The Combat Engineer turns his body half-way to face the leaving individual, a trained instinct effortlessly maneuvering a form through a microgravity environment. “Hey if Natalia needs an extra pair of hands, tell her to call me.”

“You better stay away from my ship with that combat engineering kit Lieutenant.” The Captain laughs concernedly. “But I’ll tell her you’re available to help.”

The woman leans down to her fiance, a short upside down kiss on Ling’s nape executed with masterful precision. “Admiral, would you mind sending us the brief later?”

“We’ll wait for you.” Admiral Tucker dismisses. “Not exactly a busy day ahead, take your time.”

Marines watch as the thin form of the command officer disappears back down the airlock and into the Rubicon’s crew cabin, an attention returned to the old man and the terminal beyond.

A snap of his fingers gathers minds with a sharp tone, an entire subsidiary unit at his command. “So, you people want to check out the new office?”

Excitement rises among them, Master Sergeant Ling speaking up first. “We are getting a new office?”

“Well the last one burned up on re-entry didn’t it?” Tucker answers as he pushes off his relative floor, outwards to an intersection within the docking terminal.

Following, Lieutenant Keys bridges his friend’s question. “I think it’s more so that we’re responsible for it burning up. Didn’t think the rest of the Admiralty would give us another one so quickly.”

The Admiral laughs. “You people took one of the most devastating terrorist attacks in human history and managed to salvage something out of it. Least I could do was convince the System Defense Force to give our task force another one. Plus, Station Four was a dying hulk right?”

“Station Four was the third largest orbital station in orbit.” Corporal Mercier coldly corrects the Flag Officer.

T.A.C. adds his own discovered fact alongside the squad marksman. “And United Nations Civilian Commerce Station Four maintained an average of seven point four billion united states dollars of commerce each fiscal year before its destruction two months ago.”

“A small cost compared to the two hundred thirty delegates from the G40 conference that you saved.” Admiral Tucker encourages. “Not to mention, the Java Treaty’s no longer an orbital problem.”

“I heard about that.” Lieutenant Keys realizes, turning to the rest of his squad. “You guys know what’s going on down Earthside right? All that shit with the PLA and the Marines going into Vietnam?”

Ling blinks. “I do not know what I need to know.”

“Gang of Four’s laying the smackdown.” The Admiral informs as he rounds a corner, a single pull on an exposed maneuvering handlebar translating to a full redirection of velocity. “We’re seeing the largest military mobilization in the twenty-first century. China waging a land war in indochina, Europe and Russia working on a precision bombing campaign in the Middle East, and the United States all in between. It’s the early 40s all over again, except all the superpowers are working together now and nobody really knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

“That bad?” Keys asks with a feigned concern.

“Well I was talking to Cooper last month when he was in L.A. for A.P.E.C. and it’s bad.” The Old Man informs. “That’s what happens when you try to assassinate thirty five other heads of state in orbit. You turn everyone against you in a not so wholesome way.”

Mercier raises the question. “Who is Cooper?”

The Combat Drone answers her, contextualized information given from a completed database search. “President Jack Cooper is the current President of the United States, a member of the New American Workers Party.”

“The guy I took hostage as a distraction from the whole bomb thing.” The Admiral informs from the now iconic historical event, rubbing his forehead at the memory. “But all that aside, up here we’re running into our own set of problems.”

“The Space Liberation Front?” Master Sergeant Ling asks.

“We’ll talk about it in the Office. For now though, I need to show you something.”

Luna Anchorage, true to its heritage, was a purely paramilitary installation. Now nearing its eighteenth year of existence, the small details of its aged construction were beginning to become apparent to the experienced observer. Tighter corridors cramping bodies together within strangely oriented decks; space prioritized for temporary living quarters, administrative space, and training centers. A priority for function above form, superficial civilians and narcissistic admirals demanding spectacle replaced by a tight budget to maintain an overtly expensive military force.

Master Sergeant Ling remembers as he pulls himself through corridors, a master at three dimensional movement returning to a time of confused beginnings. “This was the first I experienced zero gravity sickness.” He points towards one of the docking terminals, its berth currently empty of any vessel. “Right here.”

“Did you throw up?” Keys chuckles. “Because I puked my guts out during the first week of Orbital Combat School. Noooot fun.”

“Well good because it was built that way.” Admiral Tucker informs sadistically. “We told the architects to design an interior without floors, walls, or roofs so you trainees had to adapt fast. At least, that’s what the Sergeant Major and both of our advisors recommended, and it seems like they did a good job.”

Words processed, the group carefully observing the docking terminal as they narrow eyes.

Handholds spread out in strange configurations, padded white walls arranged in subtly crooked positions. An entire world refusing the human brain the luxuries of solid direction, confusing design purposeful in the forcible creation of orbital warriors.

“Where are we going anyway?” Lieutenant Keys asks as they reach one of the separating bulkheads.

Atmospheric door sealed, a cautionary measure against possible decompression.

“Cargo terminal two, quick detour.” The Admiral answers, pressing an identification card onto the reader. “Through Central of course. Maybe watch a sim-match or two if you guys are up for it.”

“Wait, this is the same class from the Tank right?” Lieutenant Keys nudges the shoulder of Corporal Mercier. “Remember when we visited last November?”

“I remember.” Mercier answers.

“You’re right Lieutenant. That class is currently the first rotation of orbital combat school.” Admiral Tucker slips a foot into the padded wall, leveraging physical force as he pushes the heavy door aside. “Come on!”

At a hundred eighty five meters long the almost cylindrical training deck takes up a majority of the station’s interior space. An artificial world built in microgravity, a full representation of a real life orbital combat scenario modularly crafted to suit the needs of instructors and students. From the long running observation deck filling one of its flat sides, the Admiral’s entourage of marines watch as a simulated combat scenario plays out in augmented reality.

Officially referred to as the Micro Gravitational Acclimation and Combat Simulation Center, there was no nickname given to the location. Unlike the watery depths of the Neutral Buoyancy Combat Simulation Facility, lovingly referred to by graduates as “the Tank,” its cousin in lunar orbit was a different beast entirely.

Bigger and more chaotic, discipline lighter from instructors but simulated combat faster and more brutal.

Trainees equipped with real combat space suits and operating in real microgravity, a complete paradigm shift from the gigantic pool back on earth. Weapons firing computer simulated rounds in digital combat space, yet impacts and wounds painfully dealt within an actualized haptic feedback array.

Every System Defense Force Marine forged within its confines, veterans of orbital warfare without firing a single shot in anger. Realistic loadouts, realistic drills, and perhaps most importantly; accurate combat areas outside an actual firefight.

Currently in rotation: a civilian commerce station, the standard cylindrical design matching with the training Center’s default shape. A dozen storefronts painted over with fictional names, civilian architecture of protruding metal plates providing avenues of cover within the modularly created operational area. A full hundred sixty meters in length, two unbalanced teams of trainees engaged in a vicious close quarters firefight.

Smart glass layered atop the observation deck allowing for a peek into an augmented reality world, a calm and peaceful sight of trainees working their way through simulated combat instantly turned into a deadly close-quarters killzone.

An attacking automatic rifleman lays down heavy fire, tracer flechettes tearing through the promenade in a multi-colored spray of lethal tungsten. Suppressed defenders pulling themselves deeper into cover, the opening left wide as a breaching fireteam of four advances towards primary objectives.

Clearing corners one of the assaulters is caught out, an undetected defender spraying him down with a conceited burst from his short barreled, fully automatic GSW-SMG.

The recognition immediately snaps to conscious minds, Marauder Team turning to face one another.

“That is… lokation familar.” Cherny begins, the squad medic attempting to remember the English word.

“Oh my god, that's Station Four!” Lieutenant Keys suddenly makes the connection. “They’re playing out the firefight we had with the fucking Java Treaty!”

“That is peu récent.” Mercier observes quietly.

“Yeah too soon sir.” Keys adds.

“It makes sense why they would use our situation.” The Squad Leader interrupts with a bit of tactical wisdom, scratching his chin as he thinks. “It was the longest firefight I have ever been in. Good to learn from.”

“That was the longest firefight ever experienced by the Force to date.” Admiral Tucker corrects. “The ammunition you people expended totaled almost twenty percent of all the rounds fired by the Force in 2074.”

“We.” Keys adds. “That fire support EMU you were wearing sent at least six thousand rounds down range.”

“The total munitions expenditure for the operation is totaled at nine thousand, four hundred and twenty rounds. Inclusive of the Rubicon’s main weapons system.” T.A.C. allots.

“What he said.” Keys points.

Within the simulator a handful of defenders pull back, a munitions load drained as they beat assaulting forces back into cover. Virtually simulated smoke grenades raze a battlespace in panicked positions, a handful of exposed lines of fire exploited as two defending trainees are slaughtered.

“Do you think Instructor Yan will let us help with training?” Master Sergeant Ling asks the group casually. “When we are free.”

“I don’t even want to imagine putting Marauder Team in there.” The Admiral dismisses with a chuckle. “You’ve already demonstrated the effectiveness of System Defense Force Marine and the Combat Engineer Corps to an uncomfortable degree, probably best not to stack trainees against you, especially now.”

Gazes sent at one another, Keys and Ling smirking at the Flag Officer’s answer.

Timer counting down, a twenty five minute combat session reaching its final thirty seconds. Defender advantaged, an asymmetrical attacking force surging forward in a near suicidal charge.

Marksmen turned breachers, riflemen now human shields to a roaring advance.

An entire battlescape turning into walls of flechette fire, almost a dozen casualties counted in less than three seconds of time.

“Whoever is the squad lead of attacking team should not be squad lead.” Marauder’s Squad Leader judges.

“Need to make sacrifices.” Admiral Tucker coldly informs. “When the mission is at stake, you need to make the call.”

An objective marker reached, one attacker managing to scramble into position. A red lever marked in virtual space, gloved hand reaching out towards victory before the body of white armor plating slams into him.

A defending breacher equipped with a light EMU, the mass at velocity brings intertwined warriors spiraling into the promenade.

Lethal serrated blade exposed, catching the artificial light from the station interior. The Breacher’s knife lunges towards her opposing counterpart, a moving arm caught as the response of flechette fire from the attacker’s petite GSW-MSP handgun cuts into her at point blank range.

All simulated of course.

Lethal wounds fictional, a sharpened edge of steel nothing more than a dull bit of collapsible plastic in reality and tungsten flechettes simple laser designators.

A shrill tone echos across the deck, primary objectives incomplete as the timer runs out.

“Scenario over.” One of the Instructors announces calmly. “Green team victory.”

Smart glass deactivating, a ruined augmented reality environment folding away into an actualized location. From bullet ridden interrors to pristine padded steel, disabled suits returned to life as the scenario resets.

A scoreboard projected upon both the observation window and each trainee’s heads up displays ignored as bodies rest against insane physical activity. Twenty six total combatants currently on the deck, augmented by five instructors wearing non-combatant orange vests over half-suited forms.

“Alright end of match, get off the deck!” One of them yells out into the communication channel. “Prepare for a debriefing over lunch!”

Doors open at both edges of the facility, a fresh class of twenty four entering the simulation deck. Trainees exchanging greetings and quips as they remove helmets, fellow brothers and sisters in training bonding over mutual sufferings.

“Alright time to get going.” Admiral Tucker claps his hands together, sharp sound regathering attention from his own trope of soldiers. “Not to rush of course.”

“Well I can’t wait to find out what brings us out to the moon.” Keys rolls his eyes sarcastically as he turns to his squadmates. “Right?”

“We had discussion.” Cherny specifies as he reads the Admiral’s smile. “On way here, fifty six hours of time to discuss reason for arrive.”

“Well I suppose it wasn’t too difficult to figure out. Ling, what was your answer before?”

Answering as ordered, the Master Sergeant looks away from the scoreboard. “Space Liberation Front.”

“Specifically what?” The Admiral follows up.

Ling blanks on an answer, the squad marksman supplying her answer coldly.

“Assume security job.” Corporal Mercier shrugs.

Keys smiles, a cheezy tone of sarcasm echoing through the mostly empty observation lounge as he throws out a wild thumbs up. “Yeah, show the Americans that the System Defense Force is always there to help out! Community outreach!”

“You are American Keys.” Ling notes for his friend.

“Well this ain’t an American flag dude.” The Lieutenant slaps the blue United Nations sigil at his uniform’s shoulder, adding a bit of exotic flair to his words. “We’re international.”

Corporal Mercier slaps his opposite arm, an aimed hand directly atop the thirteen stripes and fifty two stars of the Combat Engineer’s national heritage. “You have responsibility to United States too. Do not overlook it.”

“Corporal’s right Lieutenant.” Admiral Tucker answers sternly as he swings himself forth, a half-flip executed precisely towards the far door. “But, to specify your specification Corporal Mercier, it’s a more security based role.”

“I was correct.” The woman acknowledges emotionlessly.

“Active security?” Master Sergeant Ling blinks. “Like security guard?”

The Admiral opens his mouth to answer, interrupted by Keys’ sarcastic tone. “I get the feeling that having our task force with its operations playbook running security in a civilian tourist colony would be a waste of time.”

The Flag Officer chuckles, a sharp insight reading nervousness from his usually unreadable expression. “No comment.”

A circular hallway connecting cargo terminals, Luna Anchorage’s five modular cargo bays now mostly used as storage for spare parts and ordnance for her docked ships and garrisoned marines. Inventories of itemized parts accessed by Chief Engineers and their subordinate staff, ailes of firearms ordered from manufacturers or captured from terrorists, national pirates, or even private military companies allocated to squads of marines for more peaceful purposes.

A light jog within the hallway provides a noticeable amount of artificial gravity as human bodies push centripetal forces on a relative floor, Admiral Tucker leading the way as they pass by station personnel.

Salutes thrown towards the highest ranking Flag Officer at first, a sudden change at the realization of a Star of Terra awardee in the group’s midst. Lieutenant Johnathan Keys awkwardly dismisses them with a wave of his hand, continuing onwards as they wrap around a near quarter of the station’s circumference.

“What is in cargo terminal two?” Master Sergeant Ling asks as he keeps pace.

“It’s something you all need to see…” The Admiral answers cryptically, “before I brief you officially.”

“Great, can't wait.” Lieutenant Keys rolls his eyes.

Entrance reached, two guards flanking the door on opposite sides. Full combat kit EMU inclusive, submachine guns holstered as they wave at attention to the entourage.

Voice broadcast through speakers, pressurized atmosphere carrying words spoken through microphones. Russian accented English, the voice in recognition of the Flag Officer. “Admiral, how can we help you?”

“Just… paying respects.” Admiral Tucker answers as he scans his card, the authorization accepted immediately against rank.

Airlocked doors opening, the old man leads his group in. Tone quieter than usual, he stares at the loudest member of Marauder Team. “Lieutenant, please be respectful.”

“When am I never?” The Combat Engineer smirks as he watches the far doors slide open. “Please Admiral, I know how to…”

The storage shelves are filled with them.

From wall to wall, the sealed metal rectangular boxes line themselves across an entire cleared sector of three dimensional space. Hallways created between each row, aisles of boxes ordained with small identifying tags placed upon them.

The Squad’s medic is the first to realize it, a softly spoken swear underneath his breath. “черт…”

Lieutenant Keys takes a moment to read one of the tags. Handwritten words scanned into digital software, letters still maintaining the specks of human imperfection.

Name: Daniel Reyes

Age: 32

Case No.: 131

…

“Oh god…” The Combat Engineer stops as he stares at the rest of the caskets.

One hundred eighty four total.

The Admiral speaks up. “It was decided the System Defense Force would hold them for the time being. Given the international status of the… incident.”

“Is this all of them?” Corporal Mercier asks as she finishes the count in her head. “There were more?”

“These are the ones they identified.” The Flag Officer informs quietly. “They’re still picking through the pieces.”

“Even after a week?” The Corporal asks.

“The bomb went off mid-transit.” The Combat Engineer recollects from experience and news reports as he slowly pulls himself through the aisles. “The train was going at least seven hundred kph when it went off. T.A.C., what was the debris footprint?”

The Drone standing at the doorway takes a minute to access databases, socialization software answering the Lieutenant from found numbers. “Debris was scattered over seventy four square kilometers.”

“United States Space Force has the U.S.S. Constellation in geosync trying to catalog all of the pieces.” Admiral Tucker informs. “But even with her suite up there it’s… it’s bad.”

SIlence in the expansive cargo bay.

“操...” Master Sergeant Ling speaks as he finally makes the connection. “So how many were total? On train, total on train.”

“Five hundred twenty seven.” T.A.C. answers. “No survivors. The remaining unidentified are currently considered missing, presumed dead.”

“Wait, there's emergency procedures on the maglevs for this right?” Lieutenant Keys bawks. “They’re made to withstand explosives. I think the current ones in the inter-lunar loop are built specifically to be compartmentalized in case something like this happens.”

Admiral Tucker takes a moment to ensure privacy as he scans the room, answering his subordinate slowly. “FBI ballistics say it was at least four lunar-kilos of explosives.”

The Combat Engineer racks his brain, a calculation converting numbers to more earthly terms. A weight found, the man almost pushes back against one of the handholds. “Holy fucking shit…”

“What is wrong?” Master Sergeant Ling asks his friend.

“Me blowing off Station Four’s Observation Deck? That was two thirds of how much they used for this.” Lieutenant Keys informs, turning back to the Admiral in shock. “You can’t smuggle that much explosives through security… you’ll need…”

The Combat Engineer’s mind switches gears, the young man transitioning from peacekeeper to international terrorist. “With that much mining explosives you’re going to need a meter of detonation cord, a radio trigger which needs a battery to go along with it, and finally for that radio you’ll need to use a low powered receiver. Maybe a rewired phone, if you’re in a classy mood.”

Admiral Tucker gives him the grim news. “It was a physical trigger.”

Lieutenant Keys stops, staring at the Admiral in disbelief.

“What is physical trigger?” Master Sergeant Ling asks blankly from ignorance.

“Not remote detonated. Which means someone did the thing.” The Combat Engineer clacks an imaginary detonator in his hand. “Good old fashion suicide bombing. Didn’t think the Space Liberation Front had the guts.”

“The FBI has not closed the possibility of a timed trigger however.” T.A.C. corrects. “The device was detonated at precisely 9:03AM local time which indicates a possible inclusion of a clock.”

Admiral Tucker waves the drone off. “It’s still up for debate.”

“You can’t bring any of that through security though.” Lieutenant Keys snaps as he continues his line of thought. “Maybe in separate parts sure, but that’s going to take months and even then security’s going to be logging every device that goes in and out. System’s going to flag you down eventually.”

“So they could have taken it in at once?” Ling finalizes from the Engineer’s lecture.

“Well depending on how bad security was either option could be true.” Keys turns back to the watching old man. “And I get the feeling you’re going to tell us all about it.”

“You’re not going to like it.” The Admiral begins neutrally. “First and foremost our hands are going to be tied for this one.”

Mercier opens her mouth to question the idiom, T.A.C. interrupting Lieutenant Keys’ answer as he explains to the Marksman with a synthesized voice. “He means our operations will be limited.”

Admiral Tucker continues, deliverance of bad news arriving. “So no more ‘Battle for Station Four’ type ops for now.”

Marauder Team stops, staring at the old man.

“What?!” Lieutenant Keys begins, reeling back his volume as he notes the crowd of coffins surrounding him. A realization at the cost as well, the Engineer makes a nervous chuckle. “Ok well I mean, it makes sense. We caused at least a hundred fifty billion dollars…”

“One hundred, sixty seven point seven billion.” T.A.C. interrupts with the calculation.

“... worth of damage. Probably best to keep us on a short leash right?”

The Admiral sighs, a shake of his head dismissing the assumption. “Although the Orbital Development Council didn’t enjoy the consequences of our ‘doctrinal based operations,’ we did in fact earn some credit with their main funders. So, we’re off the leash.”

Master Sergeant Ling asks the clarification question. “So it is not the Admirals who is keeping us away?”

“The Brass is the big reason. We’ll need to start following some operating procedures, according to them. So we’re getting exiled, basically.”

The entire marine team stops as they hear the words.

“I thought the whole point of Task Force Thirty One was to create a group working outside the rules and regs?” Lieutenant Keys objects. “Going out there in the orbitals, actually bringing the fight to them rather than waiting for it to come to us?!”

“We can still do whatever we want in orbit.” Admiral Tucker dismisses easily as he straightens his arching back, the sound of cracking bones echoing deep within the mostly empty cargo terminal. “But the moment we step into national territory we’re limited by their laws.”

It takes a few seconds for the implications to reach towards the listening members of Marauder Team,

“Wait you’re not saying…”

“Let’s not get into the details here.” The Admiral once again deflects the inquiring question, turning back towards the door. “But I hope you all understand the gravity of what you’re about to do, and what’s at stake here.”

Marauder glance among themselves, a silent member still staring down at one of the alloy caskets.

Chief Warrant Officer Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s huge form doesn’t even move as he attempts to process the words written on the tag, eyes glazed over as he loses himself.

Name: Jonas Groß

Age: 06

Case No. 33

A vast mind focused on just a singular soul, imagination taking the man down a hundred kilometers onto the lunar surface. Dreams of families and lovers, of promises unkept. He stares at another victim right here.

The Squad Leader brings him back to the present, a light tap on his shoulder executed with precision. Master Sergeant Ling’s voice, lighter than usual, echoes within the metal bay. “Are you ok Cherny?”

He doesn’t answer for a while, turning as the rest of his squad stares at him with deep concern. “I… I do not… ”

“Take all the time you need.” Admiral Tucker softly speaks up from his position at the edge of the graveyard.

He takes a deep breath, Russian accent charging through his question. “We are to fight against Space Liberation Front?”

“That’s the plan.” The old man informs with a small, tragic smile.

“Я буду делать с ними плохие вещи.” Cherny speaks aloud in his native tongue to the box. “Очень плохие вещи.”

The rest of the squad pause as the foreign tongue words pass through them, only Admiral Tucker reacting with a deep sigh. “We’ll stop them. It’s the least we could do.

“For them, at least.”