Racing today, Reflecting too late? Gaps in the Commercial Low Earth Orbit Destinations Era

Glancing at the clear night, it looks as though you can see millions of stars. In fact, your eye shows you no more than around 6,000 stars in all. Among those visible points of light, the International Space Station (ISS) shines brightly, a rare human-made beacon orbiting above us. For over two decades, this iconic shared outpost has served humanity as a platform for conducting scientific experiments, including those focused on microgravity and studying the space environment. 

Launched in 1998, the ISS became a remarkable symbol of peace and collaboration among the global powers – the U.S., Russia, Europe, Canada, and Japan. From groundbreaking disease research to conducting microgravity breakthroughs, the ISS has been instrumental in pushing the boundaries of space science while bridging diplomatic divides back on Earth. But, as its retirement comes close in the early 2030s, that symbol of peace and cooperation is nearing the end of its life. 

At the same time, the U.S. is shifting its focus on lunar exploration through the Artemis program and the lunar gateway, moving national priorities beyond Low-Earth Orbit (LEO), the region of space between 160 and 1,000 km above Earth, which has served as the primary zone for human space activity. To ensure astronauts’ safety and redirect funding, NASA plans to transition operations in LEO to the Commercial Low-Earth Destinations (CLDs) program. 

According to NASA, the CLD program is designed to enable a smooth transition from ISS to commercially operated space platforms in LEO. With this initiative, NASA is funding private space companies to develop independent space stations that can host scientific research, technology demonstrations, and space tourism. Private companies, such as Axiom Space, Blue Origin and Sierra Space, and Voyager Space with Airbus, are shaping the future of commercial space stations. In 2021, NASA awarded around $415.6 million in CLD development to the respective four companies. These funds are not solely for construction budgets, but rather for initial investments to fund concept development, safety protocols, and system architecture. 

NASA’s goal is to reach key design milestones by the end of the decade, with the expectation that successful stations will eventually replace the ISS. In return, the companies must meet specific deliverables, such as preliminary design reviews and engineering demonstrations, to receive payment at each phase. This new commercial model shifts many traditional government responsibilities, such as station operations, safety oversight, and mission logistics, into private hands. In this evolving framework, regardless of which commercial venture ultimately prevails, pressing questions arise as to how companies will maintain the scientific integrity of research conducted alongside profit-driven commercial ventures. And in the absence of direct government command, how will disputes, international collaborations, and cross-border ethical concerns be arbitrated? As NASA transitions from operator to anchor tenant, the burden of stewardship over LEO is being transferred to corporate hands. While this initiative may increase cost efficiency and innovation, it also signals a long-term shift in the space. Once an international commons, LEO is quietly being turned into a service and is soon to be a market.

Traditionally, space agencies such as NASA or ESA have adhered to strict safety protocols under well-established government authority. In the commercial realm, companies will need to self-govern under national regulatory frameworks, such as those issued by the FAA or NASA’s Commercial Crew Program. However, Congress has limited the FAA’s authority over human space flight. Under federal law, the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) is prohibited from regulating the safety of onboard crew members due to a congressionally imposed “learning period” designed for the commercial spaceflight industry to innovate without heavy oversight. This gap leaves safety standards for private astronauts largely in the hands of operators. For example, during Private Astronaut Missions (PAMs) to the ISS, NASA guidelines apply only within its jurisdiction, meaning that, in, for example, human safety standards for crewed missions aboard privately owned commercial space stations have limited regulatory oversight, leaving there is less regulation and much more responsibility to private owners. Moreover, critical elements such as life support systems, mission readiness certification, and emergency preparedness aboard private modules operate outside the purview of NASA’s technical oversight. These areas, although arguably just as high-risk and often physically adjacent to NASA assets, are left to internal corporate regulation, raising concerns over safety consistency, legal liability, and ethical standards. As the transition to fully private space stations accelerates, the absence of a centralized international regulatory authority for orbital operations poses serious risks, particularly in emergency scenarios involving medical needs or evacuating multinational crew members. When commercial entities prepare to launch private orbital stations that will host a mix of national astronauts, researchers, and tourists, one critical question remains unanswered: Who safeguards the rights of those aboard? 

The primary legal framework for space activities is the 1967 Outer Space Treaty. While it holds states responsible for national activities in space, including those by private entities, the treaty doesn’t clearly define labor rights in orbit. Further, the Outer Space Treaty remains vague on matters of employment jurisdiction and human rights beyond Earth’s atmosphere. This ambiguity could prove perilous in facilities where national interest, academic integrity, and corporate policy converge, yet no global legal system exists to arbitrate between them. What happens when one corporation, licensed by one government, becomes the gatekeeper of a vital orbital facility used by multiple nations, companies, and research groups? 

Consider, for example, a future scenario in which researchers from the U.S., a private astronaut from Europe, and a tourist from Russia share the same orbital station, under let’s say Axiom’s license. In case of a dispute over intellectual property or unequal safety conditions, whose law applies? Will resolution default to U.S. law, Axiom’s internal policies, or some yet-to-be-formed international tribunal? Just as ocean and Antarctic researchers rely on multilateral agreements to define working conditions and resolve disputes, spacefaring professionals need the same. The time for policymakers is now to act before private orbital outposts become a source of sovereignty. 

Beyond safety and protocols, the integrity of scientific research is increasingly compromised by a profit-driven environment. Conducting sound and unbiased scientific research is essential for maintaining public trust in private companies. Private stations will host a wide array of activities, from biotechnology experiments to orbital tourism. As corporate interests grow, so does the potential for commercial priorities to outweigh scientific objectivity. This raises questions about how to preserve the credibility of orbital research. And, how can we trust that discoveries made in orbit truly benefit humanity, not just a company’s bottom line? Unlike the ISS, privately operated CLDs could limit access to data, prioritize proprietary results, and even sideline research that doesn’t serve corporate goals. 

While current CLD contracts, funded by NASA, aim to ensure operational continuity, they do not address questions of access, equity, and scientific transparency. Recognizing this, so, me policy voices such as the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer,r Space (COPUOS) have been disregarding norms around commercial however,ct in orbit, but no binding mechanisms exist yet. In the vacuum of legal clarity, there is a risk that orbital infrastructure could evolve into a fragmented and unequal domain governed by corporate interests or national silos. To preserve the spirit of international collaboration that defined the ISS era, the U.S. and its international partners should champion the development of a binding International framework for commercial orbit. This framework would establish international guidelines for access rights, scientific data transparency, crew member standards, and other aspects for dispute resolution across all commercial space platforms. By this effort, the U.S. can help prevent LEO from becoming a patchwork under wealthy governments or corporations. Instead, this framework would promote a responsible and transparent orbital economy, enabling scientific progress and global inclusivity. 

We’ve seen what happens in other “unregulated frontiers”. The deep ocean remains largely inaccessible and exploited by a handful of industrial powers, and Antarctica, though governed by treaties, is constantly renegotiated amid the scientific rivalry. Will space become the same? Or worse? In the absence of policy foresight, commercial orbit could easily become a patchwork of private bubbles, inaccessible to most of the world and opaque in their operations.

While private companies are advancing innovation at an unprecedented pace, these commercial initiatives are largely based on contracts that prioritize efficiency, technological leadership, and return on investment, which may not always align with broader global values. Unless there is any international governance to enforce collaboration, the future of spaceflight may increasingly be shaped by contracts and private interests rather than cooperative global stewardship. In this emerging paradigm, private companies are shaping the ethical architecture of life beyond Earth, and this shift is emphasized in NASA’s evolving role as a customer in a commercially governed ecosystem. From station operator to station customer, NASA is stepping back from direct control and placing trust in privately managed platforms under the CLDs program. While this model is designed to stimulate a sustainable market in low Earth orbit and free up resources for lunar and martian exploration, it also places the burden of upholding ethical standards, such as crew welfare, research integrity, and international access, on corporate partners themselves. The question, then, is not only whether these companies can deliver technically advanced habitats, but whether they can carry forward the spirit of shared responsibility and transparency that has defined the ISS era, even as NASA shifts from proprietor to participant. Leaving ethics, access, and accountability of the new space era to market discretion is a risk we cannot afford. Instead, our solution lies in a future international framework.