Although today ubiquitous, the name ‘Camp Armstrong’ actually finds its origins in a humorous, half-hearted quip. A famous line spoken by one of the astronauts during the initial setup of the first lunar habitation domes, the abridged quote has been immortalized in the form of the official motto of the settlement.

Officially to be named “Tranquility” in honor of its location on the lunar surface, the supposed founding plan of the colony was completely tossed aside when one of the engineers muttered their disappointed opinion to the entire mission-wide communications line. “I think Neil Armstrong would call this more of a ‘Campground’ than an actual colony.”

Under the United States’ Discovery Doctrine, a very obscure and now overturned legal principle, the handful of present astronauts subsequently went rogue from mission control in one of the largest mutinies in the history of space flight.

Stringing up a sign consisting of a white t-shirt, one spare eating tray, and ink salvaged from a package of permanent marker, the personnel at mission control helplessly watched in thundering laughter/horror as the colony was officially named.

Almost twenty years later, Camp Armstrong is now the largest permanent settlement outside Earth’s atmosphere. Fueled by the demand of materials mining and Helium-3 extraction, a majority of its early population was found in its corporate mining concerns. Though, after numerous political consolidations and reorganizations, the small city has today become more of a tourist hotspot than its intended use as an industrial center.

Home to a fluctuating population of around sixty-four thousand people, the seven connected habitation centers of the city provide both housing for the workers in the still booming mining industry as well as the entertainment catered to the locale’s tourist attractions.

Space tourism, which only in the recent decade has found purchase in the market thanks to disruptively low ticket prices and two labor reforms in the developed world, is still seen by the global public as an affordable novelty.

Estimated to bring in around seven hundred sixty billion United States Dollars in GDP on the moon alone, the Space Tourism Industry has been considered by economists as the fastest growing market in earth’s orbital sphere next to applied sciences manufacturing.

Though, the projections for the 2075 fiscal year have been severely undercut following the destruction of United Nations Civilian Commerce Station Four and an escalation of terrorist attacks by the Space Liberation Front in both earth orbit and on the lunar surface. Despite the insistence of safety by providers of space tourism, the Maglev Bombing of February 14th compounded by the United States’s upgrading of lunar travel to a code red advisory have completely destroyed any real hope of a profitable year for the industry.

A nearly empty terminal, the arrival of Marauder Team among only two dozen other individual travelers sending a gigantic flare into neutral space. The four System Defense Force Marines wearing fitted dark blue uniforms mark themselves against civilian clothing, on their forms the obvious addition of gray bulletproof tactical vests inlaid with thin plates of ceramic armor.

Almost no luggage, personal belongings instead stuffed into just six duffle bags among them and one custom fitted cardboard box pushed atop a wheeled trolley.

Through sterile halls of padded walls the marines of Marauder skip and stumble through the space at .11 Gs, the planetoid body providing just enough acceleration to create a relative ground yet not enough to fully allow for human processes to align themselves to it.

“I hate America.” Lieutenant Keys announces as he pushes the trolley along the floor.

“Keys you are American.” Ling points out.

“Yeah, and my home country denied an EOD kit for ‘security reasons.’” The Combat Engineer continues. “I thought they’d be a bit more open to someone of my fame and citizenship, considering I DID SAVE Collins Memorial last year!”

Voice echoing down the empty terminal, guards turning their attention to the four marines.

“You are just tired.” Corporal Mercier answers her superior. “You did not get any sleep.”

“Yeah because they thought I was a domestic terrorist and wouldn’t approve the fucking transit forms!” Keys snaps back at her. “Look, do I look like someone who’d blow up a space station?!”

A short pause from his squad as they all just stare at him, the man continuing with a more reeled tone. “Fuck you guys.”

One among the group of guards slowly gallops towards the team of Marines, fabric layered in blue camouflage indicative of a national alignment. A body at the edge of low-gravity atrophy, thinned yet lethal in with the submachine gun strapped to her loaded tactical vest.

Seven plastic zip ties for securing suspects alongside flash grenades and non-lethal stun guns, the simple words spelling POLICE betraying a more militarized purpose.

Her words reach the group, a mild grunt as she skids herself to a halt on the rubberized ground. Authority from domestic origin, legal jurisdiction in boundaries of the lunar body from signed treaties and officiated alliances. “Hello, is everything alright?”

Master Sergeant Ling puts on a light smile, opening his mouth to reply when the interrupting force slams leadership aside.

“All due respect ma’am but fuck off please.” Lieutenant Keys immediately snarls. “There were four other checkpoints that checked our transit papers and they looked much more competent than you. And I don’t think you’ll suddenly discover something they missed.”

The pause carries through the world, four seconds of silence interrupted by a general announcement echoing across the arrivals terminal. A masculine voice, synthesized from software in the automated announcement of caution. “Travelers, please be alert for suspicious individuals and unattended baggage items. Report these instances to the nearest authorities immediately. Thank you for your alertness, and welcome to Tranquility Spaceport.”

The Guard clears her throat, calm voice against belligerence as she holds a hand at her sidearm. “I’ll need to see your transit papers and IDs, please.”

At once the Marine squad reaches into their pockets, Lieutenant Keys continues speaking as he finds his own wallet. “Alright, System Defense Force diplomatic immunity. Really leveraging that aren’t we?”

Ling raises a hand as he attempts to calm the situation, unfolding a paper of barcoded authorizations from one of his vest’s pockets. “Let us not get arrested today.”

An optical lens mounted on the Guard’s glasses reads the four codes, an identity confirmed and cleared with a bright green checkmark.

“System Defense Force huh?” The woman scowls as she reads the augmented reality output. “What are you doing here?”

Lieutenant Johnathan Keys, Combat Engineering Corps of the United Nations Solar System Defense Force simply gives her a cheesy finger gun along with a thin smile. “We’re here to help clean up the mess you can’t clean.”

“We are here to assist in counter-terrorist mission.” Ling corrects with his Chinese accent, the final words accidentally faltering through foreign language.

“So you’ve got guns on you?” The Guard asks, quietly motioning towards her compatriots behind her for backup.

Corporal Mercier blinks with a bout of nausea. “This is going to happen again?”

“Not if I can help it.” Keys steps forward. “Look, all we have is just these vests and several replacement plates for them.”

“And what do you need all that for?”

“In case one of you guys lets a squad of Space Liberation Front terrorists through security.” Keys fires back. “Now are you detaining us or are you going to let us through because the FBI rep we’re supposed to meet half-an-hour ago is probably getting really impatient.”

Three other guards arrive behind her, hands on weapons as the woman gives the Combat Engineer a blank stare. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to call this in.”

With colonization efforts originally spearheaded by NASA in the mid 2050s, the development of Camp Armstrong was bottlenecked at the sheer amount of startup material required to even begin permanent habitation. Non-lunar fabricatable infrastructure such as scientific equipment and housing structures alongside more important items such as food and water, atmospheric recyclers, and personnel had to be somehow landed onto the lunar surface, installed, and optionally returned back into orbit.

Although simplistic, the earliest iteration of Tranquility Spaceport was nothing more than a smoothed out piece of lunar landscape. Work initially bought by the sweat of in-suit manual labor, the site was later expanded on with a chimeric bulldozer welded together from a broken lunar buggy and pieces from a crashed supply drone.

Later paved over with concrete in the 2060s, the Spaceport’s duties as a landing and offloading site for Camp Armstrong’s cargo have been mostly superseded by both on-site fabricators and the construction of the Armstrong Lunar Elevator. Though, with an average five days travel time with dangerous levels of gravity on the elevator, the four square kilometer space and accompanying terminal still remains a necessity for efficient passenger transport down to the surface.

In the arrivals terminal the man watches the world beyond the observation lounge, seated on a steel bench in a tested patience. A dark blue windbreaker partially covering a plaid red formal shirt, the three yellow letters written atop the article enough to cement an authority from governmental powers.

Four lunar landers lie idle in a line across the smoothed concrete concourse, huge boxy forms stripped of all aerodynamics in the airless vacuum of space. Thrust nozzles cold against a distant sun, beasts of human engineering asleep in the preparation for short-term storage. An economic future grim at the prospect of domestic instability, corporate minds slashing bottom lines to save sinking ships.

The voice calls out to him, a tiredness edging to consciousness in the arrival of his charge. Accent a familiar western American, its owner the only domestic counterpart amongst an internationally represented group. “Hey! FBI guy!”

Attention brought back, the Agent standing as he quickly snaps towards them. A paper sign brought up from his lap, hand written words in blue permanent ink spelling out the named group, one amongst three guides remaining within the deserted arrivals terminal.

WELCOME:

U.N. System Defense Force TF-31

Uniforms classified as formal wear, recognition of memorized faces executed with a near robotic response. An artificial smile pulled across a pale complexion, perfect white teeth reflecting lighting above. Voice pitched above naturality, lines nothing more than a standard response to visiting advisors. “Welcome to Camp Armstrong Task Force Thirty One! I am Special Agent Jason Morsow, pleased to make your acquaintance!”

It catches them off guard, the lack of socialites within Marauder Team forcing a repositioning of tactical assets within the group. Short glances placed between one another, Master Sergeant Ling stepping forward with a chinese accented answer. “Hello Agent. It is good to meet you.”

“Likewise Master Sergeant Ling.” The Agent replies as takes a respectful bow, turning to the rest of the group.

“Lieutenant Keys, it’s good to meet you. Good work back on Collins Memorial, I say for all of us that we appreciate your service.”

The Combat Engineer scrunches his expression, the false joy blowing over him like an uncomfortable breeze. “Yeah… sure thing?”

“Corporal Mercier.” The man moves to the next, the small woman stepping back defensively as he turns to her. “Pleasure.”

“Hello.” She coldly answers.

The final member stands to his full height, a few inches taller than the already lanky Agent. Cherny answers first, heavy accent pulling onto the greeting. “Good meet you.”

“Same to you, Dr. Chernyshevsky.” The man perfectly pronounces.

“Morsow is… русское name?” The Squad Medic asks.

Off script, Agent Morsow is put back on the defensive as he formulates a response to the towering form’s question. “Blame my grandfather for that. He immigrated in the late 2020s. So we do share a bit of a connection there eh?”

An awkward silence lasting far too long, the Special Agent continuing his introduction. “Welcome to Camp Armstrong. I hope you had a good flight down?”

“Landers’ great. Security isn’t.” Keys states with a rare deadpan expression. “You put everyone through this?”

“All security procedures are meant to maintain relative safety within the confines of the settlement.” Agent Morsow informs. “I hope you understand.”

“Well it obviously works.” The Combat Engineer narrows his eyes alongside his sarcastic response. “I mean how hard is it to smuggle in five kilos of C4 explosives onto a maglev these days?”

The Agent falsifies a chuckle. “That’s what you’re here for Lieutenant. You and your Task Force are meant to advise us on our security procedures: help us improve relative safety throughout our operational flows.”

The man motions towards the end of the terminal, a destination already locked as he pushes off the floor. A masterful maneuver, experience and acclimation to macogravity against the relative unease of Marauder Team. “Come on, let’s get you settled in first.”

Marauder Team turns to one another, glances exchanged between the four marines as they watch the form continue down the terminal.

“I do not like him.” Mercier whispers beneath a tired breath.

“Yeah…” Keys follows.

“He will be with us for month on Lunar.” The Master Sergeant silences his squad. “Be friendly.”

“Whatever you say dude.” Lieutenant Keys scoffs, pushing the cart forward as they follow the agent. “For the official record though: I still got a bad feeling about this.”

Encompassing seven sealed domes beneath a layer of lunar regolith, Camp Armstrong’s location was specifically chosen for both its historical importance and its near unlimited industrial potential.

Located atop one of the richest deposits of mineral resources on the lunar surface, the city itself operated both as a refinery center for mined lunar resources as well as the primary shipment center for goods destined to geosynchronous lunar orbit.

Metalloids and their resultant refined products of titanium alloy, steel, and aluminum were nearly always funned into vast construction stockpiles. Materials soon to be consumed by Camp Armstrong for its “22nd Century” expansion project, the remainders shipped across the lunar surface to the settlements of Mond-1, Gagarin city, the newly founded Chang-Er, and into orbit for in-space construction.

Though, Camp Armstrong and its seemingly unquenchable growth still took up a statistical majority of domestic production.

City streets created in the reflection of a neoclassical architecture with a hint of industrial brutalism, its creators working with a practicialistic approach to pure human arrogance. Huge towering buttresses of concrete a gateway towards a well lit commercial center; glass facades of stores and hotels standing in front of pillared porticos.

Shapes impossibly thin, physically impossible structures brought to life through a lower gravitational constant and lack of geological activity. The hint of exoticness sprinkled atop every single structure as bodies trained on earth gravity attempt to rectify the contradiction, the human brain simply giving up as it refocuses towards a much more pressing matter.

Marauder Team stumbles into the city, a gravitational constant foreign to bodies adapted either to the extremes of orbital combat or the single gravity pull of earth. Rough concrete adding uncomfortable friction to textured streets, a completely pedestrian oriented design stopped by unused light rail tracks at the center of each road.

Master Sergeant Ling Shu almost trips as one of his traveling leaps takes him farther than expected, a slip of his foot off of ribbed concrete corrected with an insane reaction time. A hand outstretched for stability, grabbing Lieutenant Keys’ luggage cart with an iron grip.

Corporal Mercier doesn’t even try, her form holding onto one of the cart’s handholds. Careful steps made against unreal gravitational forces, the young woman taking deep breaths as she finds her own balance.

The squad’s medic faceplants onto the ground behind them. A weight lowered but a still constant mass, a miscalculated deceleration bringing the huge form of Cherny low. Flesh against concrete, a spike of pain let out through a string of Russian curses.

“Take your time.” Agent Morsow chuckles as he slows his own pace, the System Defense Force Team lagging behind him. “Moon legs take at least a week to grow on you.”

“We are 羞辱...” Ling begins as he nervously stands straighter, looking over to Lieutenant Keys. “This gravity is difficult.”

His friend just stares at him, casually leaning onto the cart as he applies an electronic brake to the wheels. “Yeah, it sure is dude.”

“Is this not difficult?” Corporal Mercier turns to the Combat Engineer.

“Not really.” The Lieutenant admits. “The Combat Engineering explosives course is done on the moon with the United States’ Space Force. So not really much of a big deal for me honestly.”

The entire Marine squad stares daggers at him.

“It’s like using a mouse and keyboard alright?” Lieutenant Keys explains, releasing his grip on the cargo cart. “Once you get used to it you don’t really forget how.”

Agent Morsow clears his throat. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time. I’ve allotted a few days in the schedule for you to… acclimate to the environment.”

“No.” Master Sergeant Ling objects as he stands straighter, a squad anchored in his leadership. “We will take today to adjust.”

“Don’t rush it dude.” The Lieutenant advises. “I’m pretty sure the US Department of Travel or whatever says it takes two days to adjust to this gravity.”

Cherny wipes grime from his face, a huge form grabbing a wire catch fence at the edge of the sidewalk “For civilian. We are System Defense Force.”

Both Squad Leader and Medic turn to the Marksman in their group, Corporal Mercier gritting her teeth as she gives a wobbly thumbs up.

“Alright I guess that’s settled.” Keys shrugs, pulling out his phone as he prepares for incoming messages. A voice directed at nothing, speaking towards an unseen individual in their midst. “Should we just dump our ‘luggage’ into the hotel room and go for a tour? You wouldn’t mind right?”

There’s a short pause before the response arrives, a private message sent to the Lieutenant’s mobile device.

giant_killer_robot: It’s not like I can contribute to your tour Lieutenant.

“Yeah let’s dump our stuff at the hotel.” The Combat Engineer relays back to his squad. “Hey FBI Agent, you have time to give us a tour?”

Morsow blinks with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’re getting paid by patriotism right?” Keys sarcastically sends an aside at the suited man. “Might as well work some overtime, get us acclimated with a tour of the colony right? That is your job right?”

The Agent pauses, an unexpected culture shock from the System Defense Force Combat Engineer reorienting a given answer. “I mean I wouldn’t suggest…”

“That’s a no.” Lieutenant Keys interrupts with a smile, the rest of the squad replying with equivalent expressions of glee. “Guess we’ll just find our own kind of fun out here.”

“Wait.” Agent Morsow stops him. “Sorry, but you’re not allowed to… ‘roam’ freely while on official duty. You’ll need an accompanying individual to monitor your activities.”

Marauder Team just stares at the man, a full four seconds of silence perpetrated against the light buzz of activity within the commercial district of Aldrin Dome.

“I’m a citizen of the United States of America, you can’t do this to me!” Lieutenant Keys objects. “This is a violation of my constitutional rights… I think?”

Master Sergeant Ling stops his friend. “Keys what about us? We are not American.”

From the depths of legal terms Corporal Mercier finds the relevant term within her memory. “Diplomatic immunity.”

The Agent clears his throat, voice returning to a more formal tone. “Under agreement with the System Defense Force and your operating procedures, an observer is required if you are operating a contingent on United States territory. I can give you the relevant regulations, if you would like.”

A longer pause this time, Mercier interrupting with a repetition of her own discovery. “Diplomatic immunity. The punishment is by our own chain of command not by America. I do not think the Admiral will martial us for this violation.”

Cherny raises a mild objection to his team, crossing his large arms in realization. “Not safe to acclimate, should be within hotel lokation.”

“Oh come on it's not like the S.L.F. is everywhere listening to us.” Lieutenant Keys rolls his eyes, pausing as he takes social leadership amongst the group. “Agent.”

“Yes Lieutenant?”

“Ok, we’re inviting you to dinner tonight. Hotel dining restaurant, assuming they have one. If you say no we’re going out alone. Deal?”

At almost a hundred fifty six years old, the Hilton chain of hotels was one of the first to capitalize on the space tourism market. When the first plots of commercial development on Camp Armstrong opened in the late 2050s, the corporation put down a historical buyout of nearly 30% of the newly zoned areas. A total development and acquisition cost amounted to nearly $520 million for their revenue tier, their bid was only made possible via the complete emptying of their liquid cash ‘war chest’ alongside a huge common stock sale.

Construction materials sourced from lunar mines and refineries, the so-called “First Resort on the Moon” demanded an insane creativity from its architects.

Working with only concrete, metal alloys, and refined bio-plastic; the “Hilton First Step Resort” was designed with uncompromising architecture and engineering prowess. A facade reminiscent of the French Renaissance, with arching walkways and silhouetted windows against a patterned layer of carved concrete, covers a more post-modernist interior design with its smoothed corners and curving ceilings.

A dichotomy of a past era pushing against a new future, the huge hotel a boundary between the familiarity of distant worlds and the alien creation of the stars.

“Time to see how much the Admiral spent on us.” Lieutenant Keys quips to his squad as he steps through the double glass doors. “I sure hope he was joking with the one room deal.”

Lobby mostly empty, well padded seats and luggage porting drones deserted across a rubberized marble floor space. Tourism faltering against international travel alerts, high risk vacation enjoyed only by a handful of senior citizens and well dressed business travelers. A skeleton crew of resort staff idling behind armored desks, their workforce augmented by automated telling machines mounted into marble walls.

Leaving the cart behind the Lieutenant takes charge of the social encounter, skipping gracefully beyond rubberized marble floors and towards the desk.

Ling sighs as he settles himself against an overstuffed sofa. “One month here…”

“It is only three weeks.” Corporal Mercier corrects her squad leader. “Short period.”

“It is a long time.” Ling continues, rubbing his temples as a proverbial mining company begins to extract the inside of his skull. “哎呀, I have a pain inside my head.”

The Squad’s Medic leans down, a diagnosis executed as a thick hand is placed against the Marine’s forehead. A temperature nominal, pulse mildly irregular; Cherny gives his diagnosis. “Gravity sickness. Inner ear unbalance, take time to adjust.”

“Is there a cure?” Ling asks.

Cherny scrunches his face, a decision made to divulge forbidden scientific knowledge to unprepared squadmates. “Friend from Amerika has theory on cure. Is to drink high alcohol to partal drunk, not full drunk.”

Corporal Mercier blinks at the words, an unamused expression rolling off her face. “It does not sound like a cure.”

“Theory.” Cherny reiterates, hands motioning towards ear drums as he attempts to puppeteer the explanation. “On paper on journal, it said to increase flow of blood to inner ear. Flow of blood reduce time for sickness to happen and adjust.”

“Ok, does it work?” Ling desperately asks through strained breathing.

“No science trial.” The Medic warns. “So, only theory.”

“Have you done it?” Mercier leans forward as another wave of nausea hits her, an early brunch attempting to snake its way back up her digestive track.

Cherny waves his hand in dismissal. “I do not drink, not good for health. Cure is only theory, no patient test so not recommend.”

“操他媽的...” The Master Sergeant leans up with a grunt. “I volunteer for an experiment of this method.”

The Medic sucks air through a scrunched nose, a medical ethic weighed against the opportunities presented by a fellow squadmate.

“Hey hey!” Lieutenant Keys interrupts them, boots skitting to a halt as he manages to slow his velocity on the flooring. “I got ‘em.”

Five plastic laminate cards in his hand, a group spreaded like a deck of playing cards. White forms printed with the hilton logo, a welcoming flower alongside a freshly minted room number. Keycards for convenience, a sacrifice of security for digitization.

“The Admiral wasn’t joking about the one room by the way.” Keys informs as each of his squadmates takes their own key. “We got one big suite to share between the five of us.”

“How big is it?” Mercier asks, taking a moment to observe the small unit of authorization.

Three cards removed, two remaining in the Lieutenant’s possession. A shrug as he pockets them, turning over towards the elevator at the far end of the lobby. “I guess we’ll find out.”