Kicking in a reinforced door on the Moon is tricky. On Earth, you rely on your body weight to drive the force. Here, with low gravity, the physics are different. If you kick too hard, you will just fly backward.
Marcus, the squad’s heavy weapons specialist, stood in front of the warehouse blast door. The big soldier was usually a powerhouse, but in one-sixth gravity, he was naturally light. If he kicked with full power without preparation, the recoil would send him flying down the hall like a balloon.
To kick on the Moon, you have to be heavy.
"Stabilizers on," Marcus grunted over the radio.
He switched on his magnetic locks. Under his armor, he was wearing nearly nine hundred pounds of dense lead weights. On Earth, that load would be enough to crush a man’s spine. Here, with the Moon’s weak pull, it gave Marcus the grip of a normal two-hundred-pound soldier. While the enemy will float, he will be anchored.
Marcus twisted his hips and kicked.
BAM.
The reinforced steel didn’t just open; it shrieked as the locks tore away. The heavy door slamd into the center of the room like a giant piece of shrapnel.
Inside, the sudden violence froze everything.
A bald man, the leader of this cell of rioters, jumped. He had been stuck in this godforsaken place for ten years, waiting for the world to end so he could be king. He had been laughing a second ago with a pistol in his hand.
"Who the hell—"
He raised his stolen gun.
Jason didn’t shout for warning. He didn’t ask for surrender. He stepped into the doorway, lifted his rifle, and pulled the trigger twice.
Phut-phut.
Two rounds hit the bald man in the forehead before his finger could tighten. His head snapped back, and he dropped.
"Intruders!" a rioter scread.
Panic exploded in the warehouse. The convicts scrambled for their weapons whatever was placed near them, makeshift knives, stolen batons, and a few guns taken from dead guards.
But this wasn’t a fight. It was an extermination.
"Clear the room," Jason ordered, his voice cold. "No rcy."
The squad moved in a tight formation. The difference in training was absolute. When a convict tried to fire a pistol, the recoil lifted him off his feet, sending him spinning into a wall. He was a floating target.
Jason’s n were different. Anchored by lead weights, they moved with the heavy, deliberate stomp of machines. They fired in short, controlled bursts.
Crack-crack. Crack-crack.
Every shot was a kill. There was no wasted movent. The soldiers swept left and right, their muzzle flashes lighting up the dark room. At first, there was sporadic resistance, but anyone who showed their head was quickly suppressed.
The fight lasted less than ninety seconds.
The echoes of gunfire faded, replaced by the hiss of the air recyclers and the sobbing of the hostages.
"Sector clear," Austin reported, lowering his weapon. "Twenty-two hostiles down. No friendly casualties."
Jason walked through the carnage, stepping over the body of a man who had tried to charge him with a wrench. The team’s marksmanship had been surgical; not a single hostage had been hard.
The won huddled against the wall stared at the armored soldiers in shock. They were trembling, unable to believe the nightmare was over. So were weeping silently; others held onto the soldiers’ armor, refusing to let go, needing to feel sothing solid to know they were alive.
"Get the dics in here," Jason commanded. "Austin, you watch the prisoners. The rest of you, help the victims."
"Captain!" Shane called out from the back of the warehouse. "I found sothing. A basent hatch."
Jason’s chest tightened. He walked over to where Shane stood by a heavy iron door. He yanked it open. A thick sll of copper wafted up. It slled like old blood and rot.
Jason switched on his weapon light and went down the stairs.
The light cut through the darkness, revealing a scene that made even his hardened stomach turn. It was a dungeon. Over forty n were cramd into the small space. They were the missing security guards.
They had been tortured.
The worst was a large man slumped against the far wall. One of his eyes was gone, leaving a bloody socket. An ear had been cut off, and his uniform was soaked in dried blood. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest showed he was still alive.
"Mark?" Jason whispered.
He knew the man. It was Captain Mark, the head of the Moon Base Security Force.
Jason rushed forward, ripping open a d kit. He pressed a bandage to Mark’s chest and opened a water pack, pouring it into the man’s cracked lips.
Mark coughed, his one good eye fluttering open. He stared at Jason’s visor, his vision slowly focusing.
"J-Jason?" Mark rasped, his voice a broken wheeze. "The Victory? You... you ca? That’s the only way... how are things outside?"
"I’m here, Mark. The sector is safe. The rioters are dead," Jason said grimly. "But we didn’t find Calvin. How did this happen? How did a few civilians take down the Security Force?"
We were betrayed," Mark whispered, gripping Jason’s arm with a shaking hand. "When Calvin first arrived, he started organising people into his group called the ’Lunar Society.’ They acted like saints hardworking, quiet. They volunteered for the kitchen, dirty and heavy works and cleaning shifts that no one else wanted."
Mark coughed violently. "We thought they were reford. We let them in. We let them cook our als. But they were a sleeper cell, Jason. Waiting for the signal."
Mark let out a weak, bloody laugh. The pain made him tremble.
"Where’s Calvin?" Jason asked.
"I don’t know but" Mark shivered, hate burning in his remaining eye. "He is probably in the Central Administration Tower."
Jason nodded. He stood up and began releasing the other captive soldiers. So were too injured to move, but others still had fire in their eyes.
Jason pulled a spare pistol from his gear and pressed it into Mark’s bloody hand.
"Can you hold this position, Captain Mark? I need soone to watch the survivors."
Mark gripped the gun, his knuckles turning white. The soldier in him fought through the pain. "I can fight."
"Good," Jason said, his face like stone. "First Battalion, listen up. We have a new objective."
"Split into teams. Sweep the sector. If they have a weapon, kill them."
He checked the magazine in his rifle.
"Then et at the Central Administration Tower in one hour. We’re going to cut the head off the snake."
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