Military Calendar – June 23rd, 2520
Oort Cloud, Pegasus II

Cryosleep always felt like drowning in ice. The first breath after three months suspended in frozen stasis tore through Sergeant Roman Tucker’s chest, followed by a violent cough. His body convulsed, expelling the thick nutrient sludge that had sustained him. The foul sputum splattered across the grate, a ritual he never grew accustomed to.

The pods were designed to preserve elite soldiers at peak readiness during long voyages. But Roman wasn’t here because he was the best—he was here because he could keep secrets. Rangers were chosen for loyalty as much as skill, and loyalty to Earth’s united systems was absolute.

Beside him, Cor hacked and gagged as he stumbled into the showers. Cryosleep never agreed with him. Roman let the scalding water chase away the chill, steam curling around his armor‑scarred frame. Ironically, their aversion to space had been the reason they’d chosen the Ranger path over ODST. Yet orders had dragged them into orbit anyway. Refusal wasn’t an option.

Clean and armored, they suited up. The combat rigs clung like second skin, reinforced with battle plates designed to shrug off the 7.62 rounds of the MA5 rifle. Oxygen rebreathers made them adaptable to water or vacuum. Marines might crave dirt under their boots, but Rangers thrived in mud, water, and grit. The suits turned discomfort into something close to luxury.

Together they reported to Captain Harris. The outer office was crowded with officers waiting their turn, but the lieutenant at the desk waved the Rangers through immediately. Inside, Harris sat hunched over a tablet, his desk littered with operational files.

“Gentlemen,” he said without looking up, then rose and extended a hand. “Welcome to Port Haven.”

Roman and Cor shook it firmly.

“You’re wondering why you’re here,” Harris continued, settling back into his chair.

“It crossed our minds when we were shipped up,” Roman replied dryly.

Harris leaned forward. “Port Haven is meant to be a pirate port. A refuge on the edge of the colonies—somewhere insurrectionists can lay low, trade, and build a black market. Your job is simple: go planetside, drink in the bars, let slip that a new station exists. Spread the word. Draw scavengers, smugglers, and militia here. The busier this place becomes, the stronger our cover.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “And you believe we’re the men for this line of work?”

Harris smirked. “I’m paying you to drink and talk. Get in good with the locals, invite them up to party, convince shopkeepers to risk setting up here. Make Port Haven the place to be.”

The Rangers saluted crisply. “We’ll pass the word. Do we get a ship?”

“Report to the hangar. Your third is prepping a Calypso‑class transport. Go in style. Gun‑running, militia work—whatever sells the story.”

They filed out, the station stirring as crew emerged from cryo. A voice crackled over the PA, rich with a southern drawl:

“Y’all hurry up and follow the Captain’s orders. Banta‑045 is waiting for you in the hangar.”

Roman glanced up. “Who said that?”

The nearby info panel flickered, revealing a refined man in a gray Confederate uniform, gold braid gleaming.

“It was I,” the avatar declared. “Robert E. Lee, Confederate general of Virginia. I am the artificial intelligence of Port Haven. I will oversee groundside objectives and agents. Your reports are well within my capable diodes.” He straightened his uniform with a dignified nod.

Cor frowned. “General Robert E. Lee? Is there a shorter name we can call you?”

“Robert will do fine,” the AI replied smoothly.