Deep grey and well-lit, the armoury was a vast room, many metres long and wide. The main chamber was stacked with crates of ammunition, ranging from small-arms gas cartridges to vast shells for the ship's railguns, each one longer than a human.

No guns, however. Those were kept somewhere else...

Just on Marcus' right when he and Ichiro walked in was an offset chamber that was separated by a partition that came up to the Horusan's midriff. Inside, rows of gun racks and weapon boxes ran up and down, with automated mechanical arms and steadily rotating sentry turrets keeping everything in check.

Another Martian stood at the fore, meticulously inspecting a row of plasma bayonets that lined the wall just in front of him. His long, bony fingers ran down the flat of one blade, then rubbed together, his bulging eyes searching intently for dust. His chocolate brown hair splayed out in a shock from the back of his head, and his thin-lipped mouth was pulled in a line as straight as a ruler. Just like Baker, and all Martians, his porcelain-white skin was crisscrossed with dark red and black-blue blood vessels, a tight webbing of colour stretched over his face and hands.

"Top of the day, Finch." Marcus said politely.

The Martian flicked his gaze up and to the left. "Ah, Major Winter..." he said in a high-pitched, wheezy voice. "Here for your armour, I assume?" Marcus nodded in response, and the ship's Quartermaster extended one of his immensely long arms to gesture down the room. "The containers are against the wall." His voice sounded pained and desperate, a faint rasp accompanying his every word.

Common side effect of the thin Martian atmosphere – damage to the lungs and throat. It could be helped with treatments, assuming you could afford them.

"Thank you, Finch." Marcus replied promptly.

The Martian's head bobbed upon his wiry neck. "Ever at your service, Major."

He spoke like a shop owner saying parting words to a customer. In fact, that had been his career before he was conscripted. Marcus had spoken with the Quartermaster several times throughout the trip, either to requisition weapons for target practise or just for the sake of conversation.

It was from both Finch and Captain Baker that he learned a lot about Mars, and how its people were treated in the Union, especially by Earthers. The two colonised worlds of the Sol system shared a symbiotic relationship. Mars provided Earth with raw resources like iron, and Earth provided Mars with the food that the Martians couldn't grow in their hydroponic farms.

Despite being the Union's oldest colony, Mars' inhospitable environment meant that it never reached the sheer population sizes of worlds like Chiron, Ceti and Janus. It was a dry, cold and arid planet of poor soil and high UV-radiation, its people kept breathing only by the constant work of aerosphere-processing machines on the world's surface. Being constantly subject to low gravity and stale air made the folk of the Red Planet naturally suited to space travel, but very little else. And thus, 80% of all Martian conscripts went into the navy.

The rest went into auxiliary support roles, most likely to never see combat. A mixed blessing - the sweet relief of avoiding frontline combat, blended with the bitter stigma of being branded as a coward for hiding behind your own lines.

Putting aside such thoughts, Marcus strode up the room, and immediately saw what he was looking for. Several coffin-like containers, exactly where Finch said they were, rectangular, half-embedded in the wall, taller and wider than a man. In the centre of their hard metal panels was a small, black screen, just barely larger than a PDA tablet – a handprint scanner.

Pulling off his right hand's glove, Marcus pressed his palm and fingers hard against the scanner. As he did, the small screen lit up and scanned his hand with a bright bar of green light. A multi-digit number appeared just above where his fingers were. A number he recognised instantly as his serial number.

'45903 – Access Permitted' flashed upon the panel, and as it did, the armoured container opened, revealing an alcove-like chamber that was lit from within. As it opened up, Marcus' suit of Wyvern Powered Assault Armour, with its deep grey edurium armour plates, electroconductive motor fibres, well-oiled pistons and fresh plasma energy cells, revealed itself to him.

Each suit of Wyvern armour was custom-fitted for its user, and its software was programmed to only accept a user whose neural chip it recognised. Despite being repaired multiple times, its scarred plates swept away and replaced with new, fresh ones, Marcus had only had one suit of Wyvern Armour. Specifically, the Mark 3 edition. It had carried him from the mountains and valleys of Horus, to the battle-scarred streets of Kenostros, and back again. It was ten years old, but it still held strong.

However, there was one change to the armour from the last time he wore it here. Last time, the insignia upon its epaulet denoted him as a Captain. This time, instead of three marked studs, each shoulder was marked with the single star of a Major...

A Major...

Marcus sighed, then he reached upwards, his fingers firmly grasping the shoulder of his gear. As he did so, a face flashed before his eyes for the briefest of moments, glinting like a spark from a fire before vanishing as quickly as it had come. A handsome and tanned face with wrinkled skin, bleached blonde hair lined with streaks of grey, and a suave, confident grin.

He recognised it instantly. Reacting to the face was second-nature by this point in his life. Major Aharon Kleber. The real hero of this planet.

Major Winter saw the vision and smiled. Even in death, his old friend knew no fear. Even after what had happened, his image as the fearless leader remained locked in Marcus' mind, and in the mind of everyone he had led. Even after his terrible demise... one that Winter could try to remember for hours, but couldn't bear himself to think about once it came...

Marcus tried again to think about it, to remember the last time he saw his friend alive. But that horrible thought remained blotted out, cast within the darkness of horror and the creeping cold of grief.

His smile had long vanished, the joy in his heart replaced by doubt and a small pang of regret. He had so much to say, and no heart to say it. After all, Aharon wasn't on this world. He was somewhere else. Elizabeth would say he was with God. Ferro would say he was dead in a ditch. Either could be true.

All that Marcus could bring himself to do was quote the values that he remembered his old friend telling him when they last came to this planet. The values that all Bellonans fight for.

No... all soldiers fight for.

"Peace and freedom, Aharon... peace and freedom."

His mind then flashed back to the day of the battle once again. Of what he and Aharon had promised each other in the dropship before they leapt into the fray.
"And don't worry. I gave them the tour of Horus." Marcus said, smiling. "I just wish you were there with us."

And with that, Major Winter turned around, slipping his arms into place in the plated sleeves and gauntlets of his armour. There was the sound of buzzing electricity, and all at once, the armour's torso shifted forth, opening up and surrounding Marcus' body of its own accord. Boots and greaves encased his legs on all sides, the power cells fixed themselves against his back, and the thick plates of edurium fixed themselves around his torso while the electroconductive fibres wreathed themselves around his body.

And then, with a heavy 'clunk', it all snapped together, the armour encasing its wielder and diverting all control to him. Major Marcus Winter stood with his legs slightly apart, glimpsing his reflection in a nearby pane of metal. The heavy boots added an inch or so to his height, while the armour, pistons and thrusters all bulked out his physique, making him look more muscular than he already was. Stepping forward, he felt the characteristic weight of the Wyvern; each time he moved a limb, he felt a half-millisecond of resistance as his armour's servomotors reacted and moved in accordance with his body.

He turned to the left and saw Jennifer and Ferro waiting for him by the door, fully-armoured in their own powered combat gear. Meanwhile, in his booth, Quartermaster Finch had Marcus' M-28 ready in his hands. As he approached, Ferro's voice echoed through the room.

"What took you so long?" Ferro asked, direct as ever.

Marcus looked at him. "I had to get my files straight, Ferro. It's a diplomatic mission," he replied.

The short man rolled his eyes a little. "Right..."

Marcus' mind drifted back to what he said to Ichi. Just like him, Ferro seemed to know.

Finch's unmistakable rasping then cut through Marcus' thoughts. "Your gun, Major." He said, presenting it to him. "Repaired and tuned by the finest hands in the Union Navy, Major... my own." The Martian made his remark with a self-righteous smile, holding out the gun with pride in his eyes.

Marcus lifted the SMG from the Quartermaster's spindly digits. "No ratings to help you this time, Finch?" the Major asked half-jokingly.

Finch gave Marcus a look. "Just be glad of my service, Major. With the amount of trouble you Orbital Commandos get into, your gear would be rusted and ripped apart if not for folks like me."

As the Martian said that, Jennifer stepped forward. "You're out of line, Finch," she said firmly, her words echoing what Marcus had said to Ichi earlier, sending a chill up the Horusan's spine.

Finch looked at Jennifer. "Apologies, Captain," he said, his voice unapologetic, but his head bowing slightly on his long neck. "Major Winter has struck me during our talks as a man I could speak my mind to..."

Jennifer was about to speak, but Marcus cut her off. "And I am," he said firmly. "And thanks, Finch."

The Quartermaster nodded. "No problem, Major. And now..." He then turned to Jennifer and brandished another M-28. "One for you, Captain Sakong."
Jennifer reached out and lifted the gun from his grasp. Just as she withdrew, Ferro stepped forward, holding out his pudgy hands expectantly.

"Ah, and for you, Ferro..." Twisting around, the tall Quartermaster strode down to his gun racks and pulled an E-87 from its place before returning to the Tartarusan captain. "One E-87, primed and ready."

Gripping the gun, Ferro gazed down at the weapon, handling it with a familiarity seen only in soldiers. The three SOSC officers held their guns tightly and looked at each other, expressions of reluctance upon their faces as they all felt of one mind.

Coming back here again...
"Just like old times." Ferro murmured.
Marcus looked at him and repeated those words under his breath.

"Just like old times."

Marcus looked at Jennifer. The Earther was tight-lipped and had a stern look on her face, sadness brimming in her eyes as she met Marcus' gaze. Deep beneath her hardened exterior, a soul remained. A soul that remembered.

It remembered Megan. It remembered Robert. It remembered Kleber.

It was a death that scarred her too. As for Ferro – he was silent.

"Well, you lot should probably be getting by now." Finch said, lifting another crate of gun parts. "Captain Baker's giving you the Full Monty to celebrate your departure."

Breaking gaze with his subordinates, Marcus turned to Finch and nodded. "Thank you, Quartermaster."

And without another word, the three left the armoury, walking through the corridor with their heads hanging and their faces grim as they went to do what they had to do.

For the sake of the galaxy, which now rested upon their shoulders...