Latex Skies Ch 01

Space is never easy. Through generations and countless decades of effort, we've clawed out a place among the stars. From one planet to several dozen across the Settled Worlds, humanity has learned to survive the void and the chaos that comes with it. I grew up knowing that. Even as a kid on Terra, staring up through the satellite haze, I knew I didn't belong in the crowds and corridors of the heartworld. I wanted silence. Vastness. The kind of quiet that stretches for lightyears. But growing up on Terra meant a life of structure, routines, and recycled air. Everything was charted. Everything was owned. There was no frontier left on Terra, at least not one they let you touch.

As soon as I got my degree, I traded in my carefully curated civilian life for something real. I enlisted. Worked my way into the Terran Ranger program the hard way, grit, sweat, and a lot of blood I never let anyone see. The Rangers weren't soldiers, not really. We were scouts. Explorers. People they threw into the unknown to see what would bite.

Most of the cadets didn't make it past the second year. I did.

Four years later, I stood in the northern hangar of Atlas Base, dressed in a plain dark blue flight suit, staring at the ship they'd assigned me. My dark brown hair was pulled tightly into a high bun, and my face was clean and devoid of the extravagant makeup which Terran citizens have come to adore. At the moment, I was all business as I looked up at the small starship. My ship. Ardent Dawn. The name was etched in white paint beneath the cockpit, chipped and worn from previous missions, but to me it was perfect. It didn't matter that it was old, nor did it matter it's previous crew were reported missing. It was mine, and for that reason I viewed it in favor.

Embarassingly enough, I failed to pay attention to Commander Havel until he spoke. He cleared his throat, tapping a crystaline blue transparent data pad on his chest as if trying to draw the attention of an animal. Commander Havel was a rather large man, slightly overweight and balding. He spoke with a gruff conviction of a veteran ranger who has earned, or felt like he earned, the respect of his peers. "You got your wish, Captain," he said, holding out a datapad for me to take. "Your first solo run. One ship. One crew. You."

I nodded, gripping the pad a little too tightly. My knuckles turned pale as I took the pad and held onto it, trying to keep the slight tremor in my fingers from becoming noticeable. Nervous energy twisted in my stomach like a knot refusing to loosen, but I forced myself to appear composed. Not in front of Commander Havel. He didn't tolerate uncertainty, and I wouldn't give him a reason to doubt me. I reached up and wiped a bead of sweat that had started trailing down my temple, the chill of the hangar doing little to stop the heat rising through my chest. "Understood, Commander. I promise I won't let you down," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. I saluted, clean and precise, channeling the same unwavering earnestness I used to carry through every training mission and exam. Part of it was instinct, muscle memory, but the other part was pure performance. The confidence had to look effortless. Solo missions were coveted among rangers. Most of them consisted of relaxing in a starship for a couple months and streaming shows or movies. Sure once you got far enough away you'd have a delay, but that just meant no one could spoil things for you. Sure there were the few dangerous solo missions, but with how advanced modern tech has gotten accidents rarely happen.

Commander Havel's gaze didn't waver. He studied me, not with doubt or approval, but the heavy silence of a man who expected you to meet his standards without needing to say a word.

He studied me for a moment, as he always did, his eyes narrowed with thoughtful intensity. He wasn't trying to intimidate me. It was simply how he processed the world, measured, cold, deliberate. He was a man who thought far more than he spoke, and when he did speak, his words were surgical. His face remained an emotionless mask, revealing nothing beneath. But in our world, thoughts didn't have to be private anymore. Communication was turning into something deeper than words, something embedded into our very perception. Mind-to-mind messaging was quickly taking off now. Like many other Terran citizens on the forefront of this innovation, I had purchased a neural chip and had it implanted behind my left ear, a seamless bit of biotech that granted me access to a floating user interface only I could see. Through it, I could send and receive messages, browse the net, navigate systems, or even stream entertainment if I felt brave. The newer models came with built-in personal assistants, digital companions with real conversational depth. Of course, Rangers weren't supposed to use those features. They were considered distractions, undisciplined luxuries. But I had one anyway, tucked discreetly inside the firmware, invisible to inspections and low enough in functionality to stay off the grid. It wasn't a grand rebellion, but it gave me reminders, nudged me with alerts, and helped me hold my scattered thoughts together on the lonelier days.

Most of the time it stayed silent, waiting for prompts, occasionally blinking into my peripheral vision with a soft glow or a whispered reminder. I didn't abuse it, but it was comforting to know it was there, humming quietly in the background. Sometimes I thought about how far we'd come. Just a decade ago, people walked around with slabs of glass and metal in their pockets. Phones, they were called. Physical devices for messaging, photography, and games. Primitive, in retrospect. These days, all it took was eye contact or someone's Citizen ID to initiate a mental conversation. We barely thought twice about it. Anyone without a chip was starting to be considered outdated or, worse, intentionally disconnected. I was grateful that Ranger Command eventually relented and allowed chip usage among active officers. There had been resistance, of course. I still remembered watching the debates broadcast from the World Congress chamber, endless arguments from aging officials clinging to their outdated fears. Privacy, dependence, ethics, all tossed around like they mattered more than functionality. But progress had always faced resistance. And in the end, the chips stayed.

The real tipping point came after World War Three in 2075. That war shattered the world, broke it so badly that unity became the only alternative to extinction. The Terran Alliance rose from the ashes, the first true planetary government, and in the aftermath, the vaults opened. Decades of hoarded scientific discoveries and suppressed technology were finally released to the public. Cold fusion, water-based engines, nanomedicine, genetic editing, and long-theorized cures for ancient diseases were no longer corporate secrets. They were tools for rebuilding. And they worked. Terra entered its Golden Age. Energy became free. Food became abundant. Poverty became rare. Universal Basic Income was implemented, and people stopped fighting over scraps. Cities became cleaner, technology smarter, life easier. For once, it felt like we'd earned the stars. Settlements spread beyond Terra, then across the Settled Worlds, and a new kind of humanity began to bloom. But as always, peace never traveled as fast as people.

With expansion came entropy. Space, though wondrous, did not dilute human nature. Pirates began prowling trade routes. Smugglers and traffickers carved out territory among asteroid belts. Rogue colonies declared independence and rewrote their own laws. Terra remained the center, but the farther you got, the stranger things became. Worlds began to evolve in isolation, some forging utopias, others descending into chaos. Delta-7 was one of the more curious examples. A Terra-class planet nearly five thousand lightyears from Sol, colonized primarily by Chinese and Japanese settlers during the Third Expansion. Over the years, it regressed, or reimagined itself, into a society built on feudal ideals, evoking ancient Japan in almost every way. Samurai ruled regional provinces. Currency was in use. Tourists from Terra flocked to it for the novelty, floating tea gardens, bamboo forests, elegant shrines built on snowy cliffs. It had become a favored vacation planet, packed with hot springs and resorts. But beneath the beauty was a rigid, proud society that rarely welcomed change.

Despite the polished image Terra liked to project, space remained treacherous. Ships vanished without explanation. Colonies went silent, their people gone. Pirates targeted unguarded vessels, forcing civilian liners to travel in convoys or under military escort through disputed regions. The further we spread, the darker the corners became. That's why the Rangers were created. After a long series of tragic losses and failed rescue missions, the World Congress authorized an elite corps independent from standard military structure. The Rangers were explorers first, scouts second, troubleshooters always. We were entrusted with authority because we were expected to act with integrity. At first, our autonomy was criticized. Military brass didn't like losing oversight, and some fringe colonies accused us of being Terran spies. But after a few years of successful operations, rescue missions, first contacts, conflict mediation, our reputation solidified. In many places, a Ranger's word held more weight than a fleet commander's. We weren't just uniforms. We were symbols of something Terra had long forgotten: accountability and honor without politics.

My focus snapped back into the present as Commander Havel cleared his throat, sharp and disapproving. "Captain? Hello?" His glare was pointed, his voice sharp enough to slice through my thoughts. I blinked, refocusing, heat rushing to my face. I'd zoned out. Not a good look. Not here. "This isn't a game," he snapped, his tone brittle. He stepped back, frustration radiating from his stiff posture as he pressed both thumbs to his temples, rubbing slow, circular motions in a vain attempt to ease whatever migraine I'd just contributed to. "You're going to be out there alone, Captain. Thousands of lightyears from the nearest starbase. There's no support, no quick fixes. If you screw this up, no one's coming. And I've got a list of people who would kill for this assignment. If you can't focus, maybe I should rethink the mission." His hand reached out toward the datapad, the motion slow but deliberate. My heart leapt into my throat.

"No! I know, sir," I blurted, holding the pad closer to my chest. I meant it. I had trained for this. Every simulation, every drill, every sleepless night of study had led to this assignment. The Ranger Corps didn't tolerate mistakes, and the system certainly didn't either. Our failures weren't just internal embarrassments, they were broadcast planet-wide. The newsfeeds thrived on scandal. And nothing sold faster than a fallen Ranger. Citizens adored the myth of us, but they lived to watch us crumble. I wasn't going to be their next cautionary tale.

"I promise to complete my mission," I said, mimicking the same motion I had done countless times. I stood straighter, saluted again with clean precision. "I will bring honor to both the Rangers and the Terran Alliance." The words rolled off my tongue with practiced ease, but they were empty. That phrase had saved me before, allowing me to get away with much more than I should have.

Commander Havel's gaze lingered on mine, silent and intense. After a long breath, he let his hand drop. "The mission is clear, Captain. You are to investigate the newly discovered system, chart the planetary bodies, and report back. Habitation index, mineral scans, starmap updates. Prioritize them. Your ship's systems will handle the heavy lifting, just don't fuck it up." His voice was quieter now, laced with something heavier than annoyance. He looked at me with that rare expression, the one he wore only when sending someone alone into deep space. A flicker of humanity beneath the layers of ironclad command. His jumpsuit, marked with rows of ribbons and insignias, caught the light as he turned. His bald scalp gleamed, reflecting the blue-white glow of the hangar lights. That image struck something in me, something quiet and heavy. A sudden, sharp realization. Other Rangers had left this same hangar, confident and ready, and never returned. We were losing people. Even the veterans. Every year, recruitment became more aggressive, the training more intense. Some of us were dying. Some were vanishing without a trace. I knew this. We all did. But the instructors had said it best: be safe, follow the rules, and above all... do not fuck up. If you can manage that, maybe, just maybe, you'll make it home alive.

Two days later, I launched. The Ardent Dawn was fast and lean, outfitted with long-range scanning arrays, redundant life support, and just enough firepower to make a pirate think twice before thinking to attack. It was a rather old ship, but its character far outweighed the lack of modern equipment. As Commander Havel once told me, "You'll get the new stuff when you earn it." I didn't mind, as completing missions with outdated technology led to your reputation increasing back home. With universal basic income being adopted on Terra, reputation was everything. Your home, transport, even the food you ate was dependent on your achievements and the effort you put into your chosen occupation. If you decided not to work, you could survive on meal vouchers and standard housing. Many did, and even with the stigma that would usually attach, no one viewed them poorly. Those who worked did so because they wanted to, not because they had to in order to survive.

The flight to the coordinates took almost half a month in hyperspace. Long enough to get used to the sound of the ship, the rhythm of its systems, the way silence crept in around the edges when the engines dimmed for sleep cycles. The ship consisted of the bridge, a small bedroom, a bathroom, the engine room, and the cargo hold underneath it all. It was decorated sparsely from the few things I brought along in my pack, mostly consisting of a couple antique posters and a bobblehead which sat on the navigation console. Sparse decorations were the norm for rangers on assignments. We were allowed to bring a few personal items, but the less we brought the better. You never knew when you had to abandon ship, and the last thing you wanted was to lose something precious. I remember one cadet back in training who had lost an antique baseball when they were conducting a scouting mission. They had been disabled by a retrofitted mining vessel used by pirates and had to abandon ship and retreat. He never got over that.

I talked to myself more than I should have. Trying to stave off the boredom. My routine was rather fixed. The autopilot ran most of the navigation, and only needed minimal human interaction. Every so often it would ask for confirmation, or require approval for course corrections, but other than that it was self sufficient. Every day I would get up, make myself breakfast, and watch the hyperspace window for any abnormal events. It was a rather relaxing journey. Sure the isolation was getting on my nerves, but with an almost unlimited amount of movies and television to watch I was plenty occupied between reports and the autopilot. The current trend in entertainment were historical dramas from the early 2000s. Between the first and second reports I watched the entirety of Covid-19 Unearthed. It's a drama about life during the first great pandemic of the early 2000s. It's almost comical how stupid people were back then. How could they not know Covid was caused by consuming animal protein. It certainly was a barbaric era. I'm glad we phased out meat and switched to a plant based diet. The idea of my food coming from a penned animal made me shiver.

Once a week I would make a report to command, however I knew that even my first report wouldn't be received until the mission was over. Space was funny like that, even though we could travel light years in hours, communications still moved at a snail's pace through deep space. I assume it's the lack of high speed communication equipment in the outer reaches. It might be months, or even a year, before my first report is received by command. It was fine, It just meant that I would be back and settled in at command to receive my own reports. It was an abnormal concept, but quickly grew normal the more times you did it. It's similar to leaving yourself a voicemail. Unless you said something stupid, which always makes the receipt awkward. I remember watching a recording of a report during investigations in my first year. The Captain had treated each report like a talent show, putting on a new show each week. I remember the professor saying that when he got back to command he received a demotion and had to endure watching as each report was played to the command staff. I certainly was all business with my reports, starting each one with the current date and mission day. I would give a status report, mentioning my current travel time remaining, and end with my plans for arrival. My mission was clear, I was to scout an unknown planetary system recently discovered and return to command. I would drop out of hyperspace in orbit around the closest of the inner planets and spend a few days scanning each planet and moon. It was simple, all I had to do was scan and go home. I didn't even need to change out of my pajamas, except for the video reports of course.

After almost half a month I arrived at the coordinates.

I was sleeping at the time, being roughly awoken by the sound and sensation of the ship dropping out of hyperspace. It was a jarring sensation, unmistakable for a trained ranger like myself. I groaned, rubbing my eyes as I looked to my left and saw something massive and dark covering what once was a picturesque view of outer space. "Noooo five more days." I said half heartedly, rolling out of bed and slipping my feet into my dark blue slippers. It was the small things when on an extended mission like this. A robe, slippers, good coffee, a few small luxuries can make anything bearable.

I groggily entered the bridge, yawning and sitting in the captain's chair. Filling the entire viewscreen was a large unremarkable moon.

The moon wasn't anything unique at first glance, grey, cratered, like thousands of others drifting through the void. It looked a shade or two darker than the moon orbiting Terra, though you can barely tell what color it is with the space ports and astro settlements covering the surface. I started a scan, taking a sip of my coffee as I watched the augmented display start to overlay bright green grids across the moon as the ship orbited. The automatic system mapped the moon, scanning the surface and cataloging any unique features that may warrant further investigation. "Habitation zero percent... Ore..." I said, trailing off as the ship's sensors pinged something on the surface. The green grid had turned red in a specific location, and as I zoomed in I noticed a crater that looked strange. I orbited around the dark side of the moon, trying to make sense of the data flooding into the system. My sensors pinged again, lines, geometry, a break in the natural formations. I leaned forward, confused as the data streamed in. "This can't be right?" I said, looking closer as an unmistakable silhouette filled the view screen.

A base.

The viewscreen zoomed into the area. The old long distance telescope groaned with effort as it focused on the location. It was a small grey dome built into the center of a large crater. It was easily missed by the naked eye, but the sensors picked it up after finishing the scan of the area. In fact I could barely make it out myself. If my chip hadn't outlined it with red markings over my vision I would have overlooked it and thought it to be a mistake. "Strange." I said, looking over the data. "This area is supposed to be uncharted. There shouldn't be anything out here. At least, nothing official." I said, sighing as I realized that my mission just got harder. If I went back,without investigating, I would have a furious commander to report to. "It's probably just a mining outpost some shady company set up and abandoned." I said, sighing as I piloted my ship towards the surface and lowered the landing gear. "I have no choice, the ship picked it up and if I delete the log I'm sure they would find out." I sighed, switching to manual as I got closer to the surface.