There it was, the lamentable routine. The distant curve forbade anyone from forgetting he lived inside a space colony, the dream of generations, but closer up, everything was as it ever was. Roger marched toward his designated external trash receptacle, rake in hand, ready to repel the scavengers the engineers back on Earth insisted were necessary for sustainable life beyond the planet.
"They spent trillions to make, get out of here, space rats and space raccoons! Get out of here! Get!"
It was the indignity he hated most, Roger thought during the indignity of leaning over to poke the trash cart with the rake at maximum distance. He hated whichever part of the routine he was in the most. Regardless, the raccoon made that weird hissing noise, jumped out, and skittered away. Roger sighed and began composing mentally another request to let colonists put lids on the carts.
That scene was captured by recording equipment miles away. The operative checked the setup, confirmed, and activated his communicator. "I have the combat data," he reported.
"Good. Return immediately to the secondary . . . what's that sound?"
Helicopters deactivated their optical camouflage, eight of them. Through a loudspeaker on the lead, someone demanded, "Leave the combat data there. This is your warning."
By the end of the warning, the operative was hanging from the building's side, about to crash through a top-floor window, when bullets going the other way shattered the glass. "That combat data is ours," the lead power armor declared.
The battle soon became general the way it did every day. As new as life in space was, the routine was already old.
Finis
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