He’s the first to awake at 0515.

A timeframe barrely definable as early morning, Master Sergeant Ling Shu rises as an internal, evolutionarily derived clock automatically shakes him to consciousness. An operative only requires a short six hours of rest, opening eyes watching as the short threads of illumination from passive LEDs project forth ambient lighting. Tuned just enough to fight against a pitch black environment yet not disrupt the cyclical cycles of sleep, the menial results from decades of academic research commercialized for the most unsophisticated of creature comforts.

One tiny bed occupied by two, his partner’s form still dozing in the midst of a deep sleep. Michelle Perez’s thin body contained within a near perfect posture, two hands upon her abdomen and spine aligned with the bedframe creating an image more reminiscent of a preserved mummy than a sleeping human being.

Ling Shu confirms her breathing before extraction, a safety of a future legal contract assured from the deep, unconscious movements of lungs. For a moment he just stares at her, the form of a lover highlighted against the darkness of an artificial night. A disbelief at the near-perfection of her, the olive skin, the structure of her face and body; it all comes together at the most basic of human instinct.

He doesn’t dwell for long, a form quietly removing thin sleepwear and pulling himself into a pair of shorts and a System Defense Force workout shirt. Controlled atmosphere and artificial gravity an absolute luxury reserved for personnel of the highest of high standing; the officer quarters within the artificial gravity ring of Luna Anchorage left for those souls burdened with the terror of command. Small but not tight, a bed holding just enough space for two if demanded while the living space itself spoke mostly of one occupant.

One desk, one drawer, one night stand; the Master Sergeant suddenly aware of his own position of a foreign, yet permanently welcomed guest into the world of a committed lover.

0530.

The System Defense Force lives between the change of shifts.

Within warships and stations, crews operate in the turns of a quadruple watch cycle: eight hours on, sixteen hours off. A twenty four hour cyclical movement to maintain sanity in the cold, timeless expanse of the orbital lanes, a guarantee of a balance between rest and work in replication of a legal compliance back in distant nations.

0630 catches the dregs of the shift change; late enough to put itself before first shift yet early enough to alienate any risers. A gym populated by a transient population of nine, marines and naval personnel in the midst of garrison duty and training rotations. A five, three, one split between pre-deployed troops, instructors, and a special warfare squad lead respectively; each finding themselves within their own microcosm of culture and friendship.

Half of Wolfen Squad, currently detached to the berthed Washington class cruiser Beijing, find themselves in a pre-deployment limbo. A minority split almost perfectly between European, Russian, and American; the five strangely social with the three trainers in their midst.

A connection point through mutual classes taken within the Tank, a bridge between two sub-divisions found within one of their breachers and the most junior of the instructors.

They are all aware of the Master Sergeant’s presence within the room.

The reemergence of Kaiju squad’s seemingly disappeared squad leader here after almost two months raises more questions than needed, and only on the sixth day does Lieutenant Commander Balabanov even attempt to begin socialization.

Master Sergeant Ling Shu, twice featured on the front cover in Modern Defense Monthly, was the closest the System Defense Force had to a male model. The sharp jawline and almost perfectly fitted frame beneath the layer of sweat soaked exercise clothing takes gazes at the very basic level of beautify standards, evolution somehow creating a specimen at the apex of his cyclical age.

A voice held against her own better judgment, a short smile as Balabanov speaks up towards him with a peculiar, flustered Russian accent. “You are Master Sergeant Ling right?”

He turns to her, a dumb expression drawn into a scowl alongside an immensely elevated heart rate, a workout interrupted as he stands in front of the cable machine. “Yes.”

She’s caught utterly off guard, a response squeezed out of stunned diaphragms. “O-ok…”

He pays no attention to her, returning to the duty at hand.

The body is its own lethal weapon, a biology sharpened like primitive flintstone placed upon an arrow’s shaft. Lean musculature rippling strength as the Marine pulls himself through the first half of the routine; endurance against the cold metal of rough, lunar manufactured iron weights. Mind utterly empty of all thoughts, Master Sergeant Ling Shu is a taught spring of discipline, focus, and sheer willpower.

0615.

Chief Warrant Officer Nikolai Chernyshevsky arrives within the space as scheduled. A form standing a head taller than the rest, the squad’s medic carefully makes his introductions to the current population. “Приветствую вас!”

A seemingly casual response from the Russian subgroup of Wolfen Squad, withdrawn as the massive man greets his squad leader next. “Hello Master Sergeant.”

Already moving onto the next step of his workout beyond the confines of the gym, the Marine takes a pause to acknowledge his squad member. Long smile upon his face, the Master Sergeant gives a short nod before he leaves. “Good morning, Cherny!”

A silence as they all watch him leave, a replacement almost immediately moving towards the massive weightlifting unit set aside in the corner of the space.

An automatic spotting system installed in the prevention of injury and death, a once two man operation thinned down to just one. Stretches executed to medical perfection, every joint and every tendon perfectly prepared for the task ahead.

After white december and the reunification, the entire sport took a strange hold upon the Russian youth. Argued to have spawned from the confines of time spent within bunkered metro systems and bomb shelters, the simple act of slugging iron while eating humanitarian rations built up a sizable following within the metropolitan youth.

And Nikolai, a child of circumstance and near-impossible luck, was born just at the very end of the craze to experience it fully.

A steel tumbler of protein powder emulsified within warm, synthetic milk sipped from as he prepares himself, calloused hands clapped together in preparation for the maintenance of physique.

Musculature the results of nearly two decades of constant routine, Cherny’s sudden realization of his own body rising with a small hint of pride. Chalk on hands, a body prepared for the activity to come.

Something about the art of the lift wraps its addictive tendrils across his mind, Cherny easily bench pressing nearly a hundred thirty kilograms of mass at .8g. The stress of medical academia washing away at the expenditure of explosive muscular power, a meditative trance pushing him back towards a more relevant, current experimental study.

An email exchange with colleagues back on earth, crushed simulation data finally creating positive results; a board approved notion to move onto animal trials nearly jumped upon by impatient researchers. A decades long study coming to fruition in months to come, his own involvement now sidelined as an advisor rather than frontline researcher.

Still, Cherny assures himself of his own choices. Contentedness found within the blood and guts of battlefield medicine, and a challenge…

There is still emotion, a connection there, for her. He tries to shake the thoughts from his mind as her laughter, her smile, her anger returns. If only he could take back those words, if only she was still here to laugh with him at the utter absurdity of this thought process.

It's not your fault. She would’ve said, with a slightly disappointed smile.

It’s the terrorists and pirates that took her from the world, the Java Treaty mooks currently atomized beneath ruthless drone strikes and the unchallenged operations of the Space Liberation Front.

They’re still out there, still fighting, still killing.

There’s a bit of vengeance there too, he supposes.

More weight, more exercise, just to clear his mind.

0725

Lieutenant Jonathan Keys is, by all accounts, an early riser when compared to the rest of the System Defense Force Combat Engineering Corps. A timeframe ranking him second out of seven, his thin form already in casual uniform as he steps out of his single room and into the world of artificial gravity.

Hunger, thirst; an awakening biology demanding power from foods to be served as his stomach growls. An American life craves the starch of fried potatoes, the protein of eggs and bacon, and the tang of fruit juice; a near-impossibility in the service to the multi-cultural population of the System Defense Force.

His friend greets him first, jogging down the axial roll of Luna Anchorage’s gravity ring. “Keys!”

Freshly showered and cleaned, Master Sergeant Ling Shu’s form comes with a wide brimmed smile. “It is a good morning!”

“Good morning dude.” Keys grins, the pair exchanging a hard, bone shaking high-five. “Ow… you getting breakfast?”

“I am.” The man nods. “Did some exercise, am getting hungry.”

They both find a wordless agreement as a pace moves them towards the allocated mess hall, a conversation held towards the upcoming deployment in a mere day to come.

Perfectly tuned counterweights adjust to the flow of personnel within the spinning ring, electromagnetic motors continuously maintaining a mathematically perfected velocity in the supply of artificial gravity through bare physics.

“We’re still having the meeting at 1400 right?” Lieutenant Keys confirms with his squad leader; a directed question in avoidance of a possibly forgotten time to target.

“I do not remember.” The Master Sergeant answers blankly.

“We’ll say it's 1400.” Keys dimisses, then turns his expression into a tired draw. A face scrunched and voice panicked, complaints against his own nation leveled at the most base form. “Dude, they haven’t even gotten back to me yet about those transit forms.”

“Is this the… security people?”

“Yeah the T.S.S.” The Lieutenant confirms with a loud sigh. “T.A.C. says he’s gonna call ‘em today just to figure out what the fuck is up with them.”

“Admiral said that they would not allow dangerous items…” Ling continues to reply.

“When was the last time someone got killed by a tool set and an EOD suit.” Lieutenant Keys pauses as he makes the generalized assumption. “Don’t answer that question.”

0730

Catching the half-hour right before shift change, the long running hallway of Luna Anchorage’s primary habitation ring was filled with the movement of a waking populace of soldiers and sailors.

Efficiency first, quick greetings exchanged in snippets of English and shared languages; all headed towards either one of two allocated mess halls. A methodology of rationing not technically enforced, rather done out of convenience and logistical simplification; the System Defense Force splitting the population into two halves between those awakening and those coming off shift.

A capacity of around two hundred nearly full, Dining Hall Primary was the designated breakfast center for this cyclical day. Bolted down and padded benches lining across specially designed separators, a sound proofing measure calculated and designed by architectural algorithms reducing the usually loud bustle of a morning meal to a creepily quiet whisper.

Food served semi-buffet style; an army of automated cooks behind the scenes presenting heated trays of mass produced dishes towards hungry constituents in a thin, but decadent selection. Far-eastern oriented; sticks of deep fried youtiao, steamed rice buns stuffed with synthetic meat and spices, capped with savory and steaming egg soup. Alongside classical chinese staples the more exotic plates of dry but spicy noodles, slabs of roasted chicken meat, and steamed vegetables seemed to call more towards a supper rather than a breakfast cycle.

It all hides the truth of their living condition: every single dish created from industrially processed and packed shipments of raw, standardized ingredients. Massive pallets of compressed carbohydrates sent across hundreds of thousands of kilometers between two orbitals alongside cell cultures and spices; not a single gram wasted in the cold calculations of logisticians and their nightmarish black box software systems.

The food’s not bad at all, reassembled ingredients nearly indistinguishable from its original intended replication. Mystery flour with vile filler and cultured meat grown in an attached lab facility smothered underneath a layer of synthetic spice and salt, both Keys and Ling nodding in approval as they begin their breakfast.

“How’d you sleep?” The Lieutenant asks as his mouth already tears through one of the meat buns.

The chinese accented response takes a moment, Master Sergeant Ling carefully selecting the correct string of noodles before consumption. “Ok”

He asks the question, a brotherhood pressing beyond the confines of social modesty. The mutual relations between three original friends compromised by one romantic relationship; Lieutenant Keys trapped with the responsibility of insurance and maintenance of a mutual friendship. “You’re sleeping with Michelle right?”

A mind still focused on the food, the idiom uncaught by a first learned chinese. “It saves space.”

“No I mean… sleeping with her. You’re still keeping that up right? Everything going alright on that end?”

“What do you…”

“Are you guys still having sex?”

Nobody pays attention to the conversation, a surrounding crowd engrossed in their own meals and social circles. To their open left flank relative floor a group of eight sailors and two officers of the Beijing find themselves in the midst of a social brawl. One mixed reviewed movie watched in off-hours raising forth jesting rage and rambunctious laughter in the justifications of personal scoring metrics, Marauder Lead and Marauder Two left to their own, shielded discussion nearby.

Master Sergeant Ling Shu just cuts his friend a cold expression of disbelief, Lieutenant Keys leaning back on his chair with a coy smile. “I’ll take that as a hard yes.”

0900.

She lives with precision, a form dressed in a well kept, ironed uniform as the shift change reaches its perfected time. Captain Michelle Perez sits amongst the observation chairs as she suppresses a sneeze; the colder temperature of the observation deck creeping into a physiology adapted for the heat of the Mediterranean Sea and climate controlled warship bridges.

She watches as a vessel, her vessel, is carefully ripped apart in microgravity.

The orbital combat corvette Rubicon now nothing more than a modular skeleton; the spinal column and partially deconstructed rib cage the only remainders against acts of pre planned surgery. Not even five days into their dockyard cycle and already Luna Anchorage’s engineers are put to work; a full retrofit of the third generation ship executed via massive remote controlled arms mounted across the berth.

Bulbs of laser close-in-weapon-systems removed from their mounts, hyper-advanced ordnance too temperamental alongside the still experimental electromagnetic railgun on her nose. Their replacements found in the form of rotary autocannons still within fresh packaging; a vessel’s metaphorical ceramic suit replaced with a much lighter kevlar tactical vest; a new focus towards maneuverability over head on survivability noted by a tactican’s wisdom.

Portable laptop secured on the provided table, the Captain now reduced to administrative work as she pulls forth the drydock schedule once more. An entire crew left to their own devices in the training cycles of on-call naval personnel. Half-instructors, half-students as they sit in classrooms and practical laboratories; tactical shooting simulated targets and engineers working in damage control scenarios.

She at least takes solace in the heated package of coffee and toasted corn tortillas spread with jam. Sweetness and bitterness mixed together in the confines of microgravity, a breakfast and work somehow downing an already soured mood.

The best of the best, left to rot here in the midst of an interim cycle of a Task Force’s operational capacity.

She sighs, recomposing the email once again to dockyard operations in a bite of frustration.

1130

Marauder Team is left packing.

The office space is nothing less than a disaster, articles of folded clothing and personal belongings left on desks and chairs. Duffle bags half-stuffed as three members of the team dust off a final round of luggage. Time to target a little over one day, the motivation for completion found at the last minute.

T.A.C. gives the suggestion, a combat drone’s sensor suite cataloging each individual item packed and bringing forth artificially generated snippets of advice.

“Lieutenant Keys, I suggest you pack one more day of clothing.”

“Shut it T.A.C..” The Lieutenant cut with a jovial, sarcastic interruption. “How’s the T.S.S. looking?!”

A split silicon mind operating a phone line alongside the tasked conversation, the machine’s response spiked with a dry irony. “Do you believe there’s humor in having an artificial intelligence argue with another artificial intelligence over the need of bringing an ordnance disposal kit through a transportation authority?”

“Yes, it's hilarious.” One more uniform folded from Keys’ desk, carefully placed into his duffle bag. Pointing over to the already packed kit at the corner of the office space, he gives the order to the technical subordinate. “And remember, one of you has a grenade launcher and the other one doesn’t.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Lieutenant.”

They all find the final member of the squad, Corporal Estelle Mercier wandering into the space without comment. Uniform unkept and over-regulation hair tied into a haphazard ponytail, the young woman simply finds her own chair and desk above an already completed package of one duffle bag.

Personal uniforms and belongings; an entire existence easily fitting into one cubic meter of space. Unfolded uniforms, a pair of universal chargers, and undergarments stuffed into vacuum sealed bags, a mind already turning to more present topics.

Nearly four hundred thousand kilometers from a world of eight billion; a communication line found within a scattered network of satellites spread across the orbital spheres of a dancing Earth and her moon. A signal bouncing between an artificially optimized network and two bottlenecked arrays, the hopes of a decent multiplayer match for any real competitive game destroyed, matchmaking algorithms automatically excluding her based on a server ping exceeding the high triple digits.

Tired eyes, dark circles watch as the spinning bullet at the bottom left corner of the screen indicates a failure to connect. An addiction towards digital warfare unfulfilled alongside the realities of cosmic travel, Mercier’s cravings eating away at her mind.

Frustration, acceptance, a selection within a purchased library of multiplayer games providing some avenue of reprieve. Simulated government work commanding interstellar fleets across a persistent galaxy, a hybrid-time strategy game more lenient with an absurd server ping.

Better with a keyboard and mouse when compared to the mobile platform, Corporal Mercier working her way through a tertiary mining colony at the edge of her empire’s space before the interruption arrives.

There is no schedule to pin on Admiral Issac Tucker, his existence a transitory note within an endless shadowed world of political meetings, budgetary conferences, and classified reports. An implacable mind held within it an ancient heritage of orbital warfare; from the vicious firefights between long dead private mercenary groups and nation-state funded privateers the more civilized age before him now seemed to bring forth a greater air of false calmness over an inherent unease.

They all turn at attention to his arrival.

“Good morning everyone.” He happily greets, a casual half salute brought before Lieutenant Keys in the maintenance of traditional valor awards.

“Good morning sir.” The man dismisses as he pulls his face out of his duffle bag. “We have a meeting at 1400 right?”

“1300.” Admiral Tucker diplomatically corrects him, pausing with a correction. Looking at the room, acknowledgement of each of the five present soldiers. “Of course Marauder’s all present. It’ll only take ten minutes, last minute logistics and all that, we could do it now.”

“Would it be better as an email?” Keys asks sardonically.

He actually takes it into serious consideration, one line enough to completely reverse the entire afternoon’s plan. “Probably. In fact, it’s better as just an email anyway.”

A pointed finger towards the watching combat drone, permission for the release of information given alongside his voice print. “T.A.C., can you distribute the briefing file for this afternoon to everyone here? Rewrite it as an email with bullet points.”

The machine doesn’t move, instead the viewing screen simply props a textual character thumbs up. “Will do, sir.”

Less than three seconds of computational time and two for network lag, a priority email notification arriving on mobile phones held within uniform pockets.

Ling and Cherny reach for the items with immediacy, the remaining two allowing a multitasked mind to half focus towards the briefing.

“Big thing that we should go over is your cover.” Admiral Tucker begins, watching as the marine team continues to pack. “I’m not certain if you’re aware of this, but on paper Task Force Thirty One is an administrative TF. We’re supposed to do paperwork; go to conferences, attend diplomatic meetings to represent the System Defense Force.”

There’s an elongated pause as the entirety of Marauder Team stares at the old man. Lieutenant Keys makes the obvious joke, the reference to transpired events even forcing a smirk from the usually stoic Corporal Mercier. “To be fair sir, we have been going to conferences.”

The Admiral scoffs, continuing his line. “So if anyone asks too many questions: you’re just a couple Marines who got pulled into admin, and then the System Defense Force decided you weren’t doing enough work and sent you to lunar. Got it?”

There’s a moment to consider, both Cherny and Ling reading over the compressed bullet point at the very top of the email.

“Next up is your contact.” The Admiral changes subjects, eyes drawn towards the point and attached service photo beneath it. “F.B.I. Special Agent Jason Morozow, he’ll be your tour guide for the month down there. He’s in charge of making sure you guys don’t get into any trouble.”

Ling blinks at the still photo atop his phone screen. “Any combat experience?”

“It's the F.B.I. dude.” Lieutenant Keys tries not to laugh at the ridiculousness of his friend’s words. “Of course not.”

“Most of the people who were involved during the insurgencies in the 30s and 40s are long retired.” Admiral Tucker continues off the Combat Engineer’s statement. “So, all you’ve got left are a few detectives and pencil pushers with guns. To answer your question Ling; no.”

A quote ripped from digital books, T.A.C.’s experimental socialization software providing a creepily accurate reference to a hidden political and social intelligence. “Soft is the ass of thine who sits upon the golden throne.”

“Hopefully this is a good wake up call.” Admiral Tucker tries to find solace in the silver lining, pausing for any incoming questions.

None come, a final point to be made at the base of the document. Directions, detachments, lines of contact to the rest of the Task Force.

“You’ll be staying at Hilton First Step.” The old man informs them. “That’ll be your central operations center for your time there. Any mail such as letters from family, shopping orders and the like we’ll send it down. But other than that, you’ll be on the F.B.I.’s schedule. So remember to have fun, and take some time for yourself on the weekends… carefully of course.”

The Medic blinks at the implication of the statement, the russian accent questioning the final words from the Admiral. “We have time on weekend?”

“America’s a worker’s country Cherny.” Lieutenant Keys scoffs to himself, leaning back out as he stretches; a packing sequence nearing completion. “Max thirty hours of work, need at least two days off per week or else the government’s gonna come for your head. Pretty good for us.”

The old man pauses at the political generalization. “More complex than that, but again; if there’s nothing better to do, please take some vacation time if you are over your F.B.I. allotted working hours. I know this is an unusual assignment, and I wouldn’t want any of you getting cabin fever in the domes.”

“We will be ok.” Master Sergeant Ling Shu assures.

A nod, careful political action coming to fruition at the final moments here on the ground. “Well in that case, T.A.C. I’ve gotten the shipping authorization for you done. But if there’s nothing else, have fun and try not to get yourselves killed.”