The Ballad of Ranger Blue

The hull shook and the windshield flashed fire, but Blue's thoughts were twenty years and three hundred million miles away.

He couldn't remember which cartoon character graced his bedsheets or under which floorboard he hid the notes from his fifth grade crush, but that poster was forever etched into an old corner of his brain. It was lovingly thumb-tracked in a place of honor at the head of his bed, upside-down, so he could stare at it until his eyes went fuzzy.

You Know Who You Are – Be A S.T.A.R.! The letters were almost as tall as the shadowed skyline behind them. Gracious citizens dotted the rooftops with arms outstretched like little letter Ys. The sky above was crisscrossed and heavy with Stinger ships, each on its own urgent adventure with stakes no smaller than the known universe itself. He stood before it like the new Colossus of the 22nd Century – Ranger Red. Every inch of him, from his rocket-saddled boots to his gloves bent in the three-finger Ranger salute, was the same brave shade of crimson. Every inch with the striking exception of the eyes.

Two little mirrors, settled above the steel cheekbones of his helmet, reflecting the fleet above. It left his identity a blank, but even so long ago, little Blue knew why.

Anyone could be under that helmet. Even him.

"One minute to L-Z," said Ranger Green, hauling Blue back to the present.

"You think they'll autograph it for me?" said Ranger Yellow, snapping his Ratrox-branded blaster into working order and holstering it. His voice sounded identical to Green's, choked by the same synthesizer. Ranger Code required it. Rangers are symbols, not soldiers – image to citizens must remain consistent.

Blue's veins went electric at the thought. Solar-Transgalactic Astronaut Rangers weren't blunt objects swung in the direction of the Colonial Front's will. They were symbols, beacons. Heroes. And there was nothing else he ever wanted to be.

"Yellow, save the levity for the flight home," said Red, directly across from Blue. Twenty years earlier, he was just a picture on the poster of a daydreaming kid. Now, Red sat a few feet in front of him, ready to lead a mission to tranquilize a "massive biomechanical failure" at a remote Ratrox Munitions Plant.

"Once in a while I'd just like a souvenir," said Yellow. "My mama's going to be so disappointed."

They may have all sounded the same, but Blue could figure out who was talking with his eyes closed. For Yellow, he just listened for the thud of falling jokes.

"Wouldn't be the first time," said Blue. Green laughed from the controls. Red nodded slowly. Blue smiled in his helmet. Red never laughed, but Blue didn't care; he'd take a bemused nod.

"Well then you can tell her why I never bring her anything," said Yellow.

"When's the last time you paid her a visit, Yellow?" asked Green.

"I don't remember, but I still would like someone to tell her why I never bring her anything." Green laughed as the Stinger cut through the upper atmosphere.

From what Blue pieced together, all the Rangers in Squad Zeta-Twelve were adopted by parents who wanted them to be anything but Rangers. All of them had run away to join the academy. Blue remembered packing frantically under the cover of night, catching the shuttle to the airport and landing at the training grounds on Wartan. He could almost recall the scene, replayed almost weekly, between him and his parents:

You don't have to be a soldier...

Blue frowned behind his mask – he couldn't finish the memory.