Freefall Over Daymar 

Orbiting Daymar was supposed to be routine. We’d just finished a patrol sweep when chaos came calling.

A drunk pilot Caterpillar dropped out of quantum, decoupled, and plowed straight into us like he’d mistaken the Exodus for a landing pad. Shields flared, alarms screamed, and the Carrack groaned under the impact. By some miracle we held together. He didn’t try to fight, just slurred over comms, apologizing like it was a barroom scuffle. Said his name was Space Trucker Cletus, like we were supposed to know who that was. 

Spectemus made sure the man transferred credits to cover our repairs — then we lightened his hold of a little extra RMC for “inconvenience fees.” After that, we cut him loose. The Exodus needed systems powered down for checks, leaving us adrift for a while.

With the drones offline, I volunteered to EVA. I’d done inspections a hundred times before, never thought twice. I grabbed my Cambrio SRT and some canisters of RMC to do some repairs.  In the middle of sealing a shredded spot in the hull, fate chose to no longer care about my training. Somewhere between hull checks, my magboots disengaged. One second I was secure; the next, I was drifting. Daymar’s upper atmosphere caught me like a tide, pulling me down, faster and faster.

There’s no training for this. There are no parachutes in space and our suits don't come with built in rockets boosters. Just instinct.

I swapped to my maxlift to try and tractorbeam myself in. Simultaneously, I hit comms. I was already too far for my maxlift to fight Daymar’s pull. Without thrusters, I was just a falling rock. Sure, I was backed — regen would bring me back if I splattered — but I don’t enjoy dying, and I try not to when I can help it.

Spectemus didn’t hesitate. He powered the Exodus back up, engines screaming as he dove the Carrack after me. First attempt, they tried to scoop me into the forward hatch. Too much drift. Too much chaos. It failed. 

Then, out of nowhere, a local in a Nomad cut across comms. He’d seen what was happening as he left Daymar and tried to angle his cargo deck under me, calling out for me to aim. Noble effort, but without EVA thrusters, I couldn’t steer. I just kept falling.

Finally, the Exodus got directly under me, engines screaming as she matched my suicidal descent. As they slowed from matching my speed to pulling ahead, I dropped closer and closer to the hull. The hangar doors split open, and I tumbled inside — landing hard and ungracefully on the roof of the Pisces we kept onboard. Metal groaned, my ribs shattered, my leg broke, the helmet's glass shattered, my Personal Integrated Life Support System  (PILSS) shut down, and the Pisces now had a human-sized crater in the top of it.   I blacked out. I was alive but unconscious.  

They dragged me to medical, patched me up, and pumped me full of medgel. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

I’ve faced firefights, bombardments, and a dozen near-death brushes in the war. But nothing compares to the sight of Daymar’s sands rushing up at you while you wait to see if your crew can outfly gravity itself.