The sky above was a shroud of dull, swirling clouds, not of water or weather, but of metal and artificial smog constant reminders that Earth hadn't been Earth for a very long time.
Overhead, the skeletal frames of orbital elevators stretched toward low orbit like the fingers of a dying god, ferrying supplies, bodies, and data into the stars with a precision that no longer inspired awe.
Atlas Kael watched it all from the launch deck of Platform Eos-9, his helmet cradled in one hand, the other resting absently on the hardshell bulk of his suit's hip plating. He had stood on a hundred decks like this before.
The smell of cold steel, burnt coolant, and sterilized air was the same on every one.
The silence of the moment, so different from the constant hum of engines and logistics chatter, settled into his bones.
He wasn't sure when the stars had become a place of routine. But they had. Somewhere along the line, the unknown turned into cargo manifests and standard procedure.
Somewhere along the line, he stopped looking out the window during jumps.
A low chime sounded in his ear soft, clinical.
"Pilot Kael," came the voice. "Final inspection complete. Valkyris-9 is cleared for launch."
He blinked. "Understood."
He slid the helmet on and sealed it with a quiet hiss. The (HUD) "Head-up-display" flickered to life, displaying oxygen levels, hull pressure, mission parameters. All green. The usual. It felt like slipping into a second skin one that never quite fit.
As he made his way across the long bridge to his vessel, the world grew quieter with each step. His boots echoed in the corridor, the sound oddly hollow despite the thickness of the alloy beneath him.
Ahead, docked like a bird of prey hunched in sleep, Valkyris-9 waited.
Sleek, aggressive, and elegant in the way all long range vessels were, the Valkyris-9 wasn't made for combat but it was made to last.
A hyperspace-grade courier ship outfitted with reinforced hull plating, deep-space life support, and the latest in neural-interfacing controls. It was more reliable than most people Atlas had met in his life.
At the base of the loading ramp, he paused. A gloved hand drifted to the side of the ship, touching the cold outer plating.
It was something he always did before a flight. Superstition? Maybe. Or maybe it was just a habit from the days when he still believed in good luck.
"EVA," he said, speaking aloud for the first time that morning. His voice rasped through his helmet.
A pause. Then, a crisp female voice "Systems online. Welcome aboard, Atlas."
He frowned. It wasn't the same voice he remembered. They must have upgraded her firmware again. Smarter, maybe. Smoother. Less human.
"New voiceprint?"
"Yes. My profile has been updated to comply with Standard OS-12 protocol."
He sighed as he stepped inside. "Of course it has."
The cockpit lit up as he entered, screens waking, panels blinking. EVA's presence filled the space like a silent breath, waiting for input.
He settled into the pilot's seat and flexed his fingers over the interface. Data flowed across the 'HUD' in rapid succession. He scanned it with mechanical ease.
"Route?"
"Course is charted to Gamma-Corvus 3.
Estimated jump in T-minus eleven minutes."
Mission code: Supply Run Theta-Seven. No complications expected.
Atlas leaned back in his seat. The hum of the ship's reactor built beneath him, like the heartbeat of something alive. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Gamma-Corvus 3. Another world torn by proxy wars and corporate disputes. Another dying rock where soldiers bled for things they'd never own. He'd been there once. Landed under fire. Buried a squadmate in a crater lined with glassed sand. He never remembered their names anymore just their silences.
"Begin preflight," he murmured.
"Confirmed."
As EVA ran the checklist, Atlas gazed out the viewport. Beyond the hangar shield, space loomed vast, black, infinite. The stars blinked like distant witnesses, watching without concern.
Once, when he was a child, he'd imagined they had stories to tell.
Now they were just reminders of how far you could fall and still never hit bottom.
He reached for the control panel and, almost without thinking, flicked open the comm logs. There it was an old message.
The last one he'd saved. Dated four years back. A soft voice, broken by static. Her voice.
"I hope you still find peace out there, Atlas… somehow. Even if it's not with me."
He closed the file before it could finish.
"Launch in three minutes," EVA announced.
He sat in silence, gripping the controls.
There was nothing left on Earth for him. Not anymore.
But out there, in the deep black, maybe there was something still worth chasing.
Or maybe, just silence.
"Let's get this over with, he said."
"Confirmed," EVA replied.
And with that, the stars began to shift, and the Valkyris-9 rose like a ghost toward the heavens.