Solreign Orbital Holdings maintains seven station installations in rotation, each with its own distinct layout, lighting drift, and operational mandate. When you board, you land on whatever facility currently holds the shift.
DESIGN CONCEPT — Occupancy, dimensions, risk tiers, salvage tuning, and lighting behavior are illustrative targets, not live station telemetry or verified GAME configuration.
Central corporate administrative hub. Lighting barely moves: cool acid-mint easing to sterile white. Never truly dark.
Best for high-stakes political roleplay, corporate tribunal trials, command ops, and intense security enforcement.
Each entry below documents an active station in the fleet: its tactical designation, its configured lighting drift between day and night cycles, and its standing corporate profile.
The largest single installation Solreign operates, and it moves like it: the slowest lighting drift on the roster, ninety minutes from marble-dark night to champagne-ivory day. Its lower structural tiers are vast and, per onboarding materials, have never been fully surveyed.
Salvage keeps recovering things down there that nobody can quite identify.
The central administrative hub — the beating heart of the company's paperwork. Its lighting barely moves: cool acid-mint easing to sterile white and back, the smallest swing on record, never truly dark. Fittingly corporate.
Occasionally home to sensor readings the atrium's cameras politely decline to confirm.
Built for the dark. Nocturne runs a permanent low-illumination protocol — officially, to save power — so it doesn't take the station-wide day-night cycle at all. It runs its own lighting rig and leans into a quiet, after-hours, bar-lit mood.
If you hear something breathing near the ration locker, Security checked, and there was nothing there.
One of the two green installations, this one meant to suggest the company cares about your leisure time. It reads like a waystation at dusk: a blue-teal night pool warming to turquoise daylight over a thirty-five-minute cycle. Pleasant. Popular with shareholders.
Not contractually required to actually be restful.
The station closest to the primary star, running warm by design for thermal-research reasons that are classified for your own comfort. It carries the warmest-dark palette on the roster — deep amber to sun-cream — and crew rotations here run shorter than standard.
Not because of the heat, the company insists. Please disregard any documentation suggesting it is because of the heat.
The furthest outpost — far enough from anywhere that matters that keeping it supplied is itself an achievement. Terminus doesn't do day and night: its light is flat, industrial, and identical around the clock.
Compliance calls it "the eternal shift," and means it literally.
The other green facility, this one meant to suggest the company cares about the planet. It's the most alive-looking of the seven — forest gold-green softening to dappled chartreuse over an hour, with glow-flora that still reads as plant-lit even at the dim end.
Whether any of that greenery signifies anything is, per Management, not a question the name is required to answer.
While the seven operational facilities remain the pride of Solreign Orbital Holdings, the Ledger also records entries from stations that are no longer accessible — whether by decommission, catastrophic failure, or complete expungement from the manifest.
A forward supply depot near the periphery of Solreign's operational sector. It went dark abruptly mid-cycle; the final automated transmission logged a station-wide depressurization event and a thermal spike indicative of a localized core meltdown. The salvage teams dispatched six months later reported that the outpost's hull was perfectly intact — and completely empty.
Official RulingDesignated "long-term structural write-off."
A deep-space research facility tasked with biological refinement and hydroponic stress-testing. Over a three-week rotation its personnel manifests began returning anomalous crew counts, steadily dropping until only a single researcher was listed. The audit team found the station functioning perfectly and the botanical yields at a record high — and absolutely no trace of the crew, save for a rhythmic knocking echoing through the main airlock.
Official RulingSealed; coordinates redacted.
The Ledger does not forget a station any more readily than it forgets you. Both entries remain on file, indefinitely, for reasons Management is not required to explain.