Escape from Pittman

Day 1: Deployment to Pittman

We were already in orbit over Pittman when the orders came through. The situation on the surface was deteriorating fast. The MDF garrison was under siege by an unidentified alien force and couldn’t hold out much longer. Captain Harper and I briefed the crew. Our mission was straightforward: deploy our Marine complement and provide orbital support for as long as possible.

The USS Liberty is a Sierra-class Assault Ship, built for this exact kind of operation. We’ve executed dozens of orbital drops before, but something about this one felt different. The reports from the surface were vague—fragmented transmissions, no solid intel on the enemy. Fast. Advanced. Unpredictable. That was all we knew.

We launched the pods one after another, watching as they vanished into the atmosphere. Each carried Marines who had no idea what awaited them below. Our job was to hold orbit and provide cover fire from above.

At least, that was the plan.

Day 2: First Contact

Less than a day after the drop, everything changed. The ground battle was raging, but the real threat came from above. The first sign was a distortion—something flickering on the edge of our long-range sensors. Before we could identify it, they were on us. A fleet of unknown vessels emerged out of nowhere, moving faster than anything I’ve ever seen. Their assault was swift and devastating.

The USS Javelin and USS Olympus Mons, our two destroyer escorts, were destroyed within minutes. Their hulls broke apart under the sheer intensity of the enemy fire. Whatever these ships were, their technology dwarfed ours. They moved with precision, cutting through our formation as if we weren’t even there.

Captain Harper ordered evasive maneuvers, but the Liberty isn’t built for speed. We launched counterfire, missiles, railguns—everything we had—but it barely made a dent. They outmaneuvered us at every turn. I watched the tactical display in disbelief as our fleet crumbled.

Day 2: Desperate Escape

It became clear we couldn’t win. The Olympus Mons disintegrated before our eyes, ripped apart by sustained energy fire. The Javelin followed soon after. Captain Harper ordered all power to shields and engines. We had one chance to break orbit and escape the kill zone.

Harper kept his voice steady, but I saw the strain in his eyes. We had left our Marines on the surface, and now there was no way to help them. As we climbed out of Pittman’s gravity well, I caught a final glimpse of the MDF communications relay—its signal flickering and fading into static. They were on their own.

With the engines at full burn, we pushed through the blockade. For a time, the alien ships pursued, but then—suddenly—they stopped. Maybe we weren’t their priority. Maybe they had what they wanted. I don’t know why, but they let us go.

The Liberty was the only ship to escape.

Day 3: Regrouping in Deep Space

We’re adrift now, far beyond the orbit of Pittman. The jump drives were damaged in the attack. Engineering is working around the clock, but progress is slow. Our long-range communications array is offline, leaving us effectively cut off. I’ve sent emergency pings on every frequency we have, but it could be days before anyone hears us.

The bridge is quiet, tense. We’ve lost all contact with the Marines and the MDF garrison. No word, no telemetry—nothing. Captain Harper is holding the crew together, but I can tell he’s just as frustrated. We were supposed to be their lifeline, and now we’re struggling just to stay alive.

I can’t get the image of those alien ships out of my head—the way they moved, the way their weapons tore through solid hulls like vapor. We’ve fought human enemies before, but this was something entirely different. I keep wondering what’s happening down there. Are our men still fighting? Or has the planet already fallen?

Day 4: Damage Report and Survival

We’re still running dark while repairs continue. The Liberty took heavy damage, but we’ve managed to restore partial propulsion. Life support is stable, though our weapon systems are gone. If the enemy finds us again, we won’t survive a second encounter.

Harper and I spent most of the day in the ready room discussing options. Without communications, there’s no way to call for help, and even if we could, reinforcements might arrive too late for Pittman. The decision was made to head for the nearest transit corridor, hoping to repair the tunnel drive and reach friendly space. It’s a bitter choice—leaving Pittman behind—but staying here would mean death for everyone aboard.

Day 5: The Long Wait

Repairs are nearly complete, but morale is fading. The silence of deep space is heavy. The only sounds are the low hum of the engines and the occasional burst of static from damaged systems. I walk the corridors during the quiet hours, talking with crew where I can, trying to keep spirits from collapsing entirely. They need to see confidence, even if it’s only an act.

We’re drifting farther from 279 G. Sagittari now, and though we’re moving toward safety, it feels like we’re leaving something behind that we’ll never reclaim. No one talks about it, but every face says the same thing. We abandoned our own. The weight of that sits with all of us.

When we finally make the jump, everything will change. Command will want answers. And Pittman—whatever remains of it—will demand vengeance.

Day 6: The Transit

The tunnel drive is back online.

It took longer than expected, but at last, we’re ready. Supplies are running low, and the constant fear of detection has worn everyone thin. The crew is eager to leave this system behind, yet the bridge feels heavy with silence. Everyone is thinking the same thing: the Marines we left on the surface. They went down there believing we’d be their backup. Now, they’re alone, facing an enemy we barely understand.

We’re charted for Sector Delta, hoping to find a repair station and reestablish full communications. Once we report in, the questions will start—how the Liberty survived when the rest of the task force didn’t, what kind of ships attacked us, and whether the war has already begun.

I don’t have all the answers. But I know one thing for certain—Pittman was only the beginning.

— Commander Elias Trent, Executive Officer, USS Liberty, Sierra-class Assault Ship

Orbital Drop onto Pittman

Day 1: Deployment Orders

The briefing was quick — too quick. We are aboard the USS Liberty, holding orbit above Pittman. The captain just gave the order for a full combat drop. Details were scarce. An MDF garrison on the surface has been under siege for days by an unidentified alien force. Reports describe them as fast, lethal, and equipped with technology far beyond anything we have encountered.

That was all we needed to hear. Within minutes, we were suiting up. Training is one thing; stepping into the unknown is another. My drop pod is prepped and sealed. In a few minutes, I will be falling through Pittman’s sky toward what sounds like the worst battlefield in recent memory.

The usual jokes and chatter are gone. Every Marine is quiet, checking gear, reviewing ammo counts. We have all seen combat before, but this feels different. Facing another human is one thing. Facing something not human — that’s harder to process.

Day 2: The Drop

The inside of a drop pod feels like a coffin. No room to move, just the hum of systems vibrating through the seat. My HUD flickered to life, streaming vitals and mission data I barely saw. All I could focus on was the countdown in the corner of my display. It hit zero, and then gravity tore me downward.

The descent was violent. The pod shook and screamed as friction turned the hull into a fireball. I felt every impact as we cut through Pittman’s atmosphere. Ten thousand meters. Eight. Five. Contact.

The impact hit like a fist from God. The shock absorbers strained but held. For a moment, I saw nothing but smoke and fire. Then the hatch blew, and chaos poured in.

Day 2: Touchdown

The heat of the battlefield hit like a wall. Smoke, dust, and the metallic scent of ozone filled the air. I sprinted from the pod, joining the others as we rallied at the rendezvous point. The ground was a jagged wasteland of rock and craters — a place shaped by constant war. Ahead, I saw the MDF garrison holding a fragile defensive line. Their armor was blackened and their eyes hollow. They had been fighting for too long.

Our mission was simple: reinforce their perimeter and push the enemy back. Nothing about it would be simple.

Day 3: Contact

We never made it to the garrison before the first engagement. A sharp, high-pitched whine cut the air — then plasma fire erupted across the ridge. The ground exploded around us, dirt and glass raining down. We dove behind the rocks, scanning for targets. That’s when I saw them.

Tall, slender figures moving with impossible speed. Their armor looked organic, alive — shifting in color and texture as they moved. Their weapons were sleek, silent, and precise, cutting through steel and flesh alike. I shouted for the squad to return fire, but it felt like shooting shadows. One of our Marines dropped beside me, his chest plate melted through like wax.

We fought our way back to the garrison, firing and falling back in bursts. It wasn’t a battle. It was a hunt — and we were the prey.

Day 4: Defensive Line

We have been pinned at the garrison for more than twenty-four hours. The attacks come in waves, one after another, never giving us time to breathe. The MDF troops fight hard, but they are running on fumes. Every few hours, we regroup, patch our wounded, reload, and brace for the next assault.

These things learn. Every tactic we use, they adapt. Their weapons slice through armor like paper, and their speed defies belief. From my position on the line, I have watched them outrun bullets. Captain Duvall, the MDF commander, briefed us this morning. Reinforcements are still days away. He told us to hold. His face said something else — that he knows we may not last that long.

Day 5: The Night Attack

They came after sunset. Plasma fire painted the sky blue and white, shaking the walls of the garrison. I was on the eastern perimeter when they breached the outer barricade. One of them came at me — seven feet tall, armor rippling like liquid metal. Its eyes glowed cold blue as it raised its weapon. I dove behind cover an instant before a beam cut the air where I had been standing.

We fought in total chaos — shouting, explosions, the flash of energy weapons lighting the dark. We managed to repel the assault, but at a terrible cost. Dozens of Marines are gone, and supplies are running low. We are holding the line by sheer willpower now.

Day 6: Close Call

The northern barricades fell this morning. We were there when the enemy broke through, fast and silent as ghosts. The fight turned to close quarters — knives, rifles, fists. Their strength is unreal, their weapons surgical. Three more Marines died beside me before we pushed them back.

I have not slept in days. None of us have. The adrenaline keeps us upright. Every lull feels like the calm before extinction. We fight, reload, and fight again. There is no room left for fear — only survival.

Day 7: The Turning Point

We thought we had seen their worst. We were wrong. Scanners picked up new energy readings just before the next wave hit. When they came, we saw why. Massive figures — heavier, armored, and armed with weapons that emitted a deep vibration before firing. We call them Bashers.

One of them hit the western wall, tearing through concrete and steel as if it were cloth. We threw everything we had — rifles, rockets, grenades — and still it kept moving. Somehow, by the end, we forced them to withdraw, leaving behind only wreckage and the smell of ozone. The garrison still stands, but barely.

Day 8: The Plan

Captain Duvall gathered what is left of us this morning. Reinforcements are still too far away, and our defenses are breaking. But he has a plan. Our sensors traced the Bashers’ energy signatures to a source deep in the mountains — an alien command site. We are going to hit it at dawn.

It is a desperate gamble, but better to strike first than wait to be wiped out. My company has been chosen to lead the assault. If this is my last entry, let it be known that we fought with everything we had. Pittman will not fall quietly.

— Sergeant Michael Raines, United States Marine Corps, Forward Detachment, Pittman Surface Campaign

Business on New Atlantis

Day 1: Arrival on New Atlantis

The descent to New Atlantis was smoother than I expected. The orbital shuttle glided through the planet’s thin atmosphere with almost no turbulence. From the window, I caught my first view of New Europa — the sprawling capital city nestled in the Thames Valley. It is strange to think that this land was once barren, transformed through decades of terraforming into a thriving metropolis. When I stepped off the shuttle, the lighter gravity was noticeable but still firm enough to feel grounded. It will take some adjustment.

The city is a seamless blend of sleek modern architecture and Earth-inspired design, as if its planners wanted to keep one foot in history. I am here for a convention on bioengineered crops, one of the fastest-growing industries on the planet. New Atlantis has become a leader in agricultural innovation, developing crops uniquely adapted to the planet’s soil and climate. The potential for this field is enormous, and I am eager to see the latest developments firsthand.

First order of business — check in at the hotel.

Day 1: The Royal Horizon

The Royal Horizon is more luxurious than I imagined. My suite sits high above the valley with wide, circular windows that open to a sweeping view of New Europa and its agricultural belts. From here, I can see the green fields stretching into the horizon, a living patchwork of crops shimmering beneath a pale sun. It is hard to believe that this land was once dust and stone.

The hotel itself is an architectural marvel — glass, metal, and light in perfect balance. Service is flawless, every need anticipated before it is spoken. Standing at the window, I watched the sun fade over the valley, thinking about how far humanity has come. Entire planets reborn through science and patience. It is humbling, and beautiful.

Day 2: Opening Day of the Convention

Today marked the start of the Bioengineering Convention at the New Europa Convention Center. The building is massive, gleaming with white stone and blue light. As a representative for AstroGenetics, my goal is simple — secure contracts, make contacts, and return home with partnerships worth bragging about. The keynote speaker, Dr. Amira Shehzad, opened with a powerful message on planetary resilience through engineered agriculture.

Presentations covered new strains of crops that can withstand New Atlantis’s harsh conditions — high ultraviolet exposure, mineral-rich yet nutrient-poor soil, and sudden shifts in temperature. One of the breakthroughs unveiled today was a wheat variant that requires thirty percent less water and matures in half the time of its Earth counterpart. The energy in the room was infectious; everyone understood the potential. These innovations will not just sustain colonies — they will define them.

I met several researchers and business leaders throughout the day. Everyone wants in on the future of food. By evening, my notebook was full of names, proposals, and ideas. Tomorrow brings a deeper dive into the technical side of gene adaptation for alien environments.

Day 3: Exploring New Europa

After another long day at the convention, I took a few hours to explore the city. New Europa — or New London, as locals still call it — is unlike any place I have visited. The streets echo the charm of old Earth, yet the skyline belongs to the future. Hovercraft glide between towers draped in vertical gardens, and solar veins run like lifelines across every rooftop. The city breathes efficiency.

I walked along the reconstructed Thames, now a series of engineered canals feeding the crop zones across the valley. Locals take pride in the name, even if the river itself is more function than nostalgia. Still, the scene is peaceful — families by the water, vendors selling fruit grown under alien suns. Everywhere I turned, I saw the evidence of success: food markets overflowing, green fields in the distance, and the hum of quiet prosperity.

Back at my suite, I stood at the window again. The view never gets old. Those fields below are more than commerce. They are proof of our persistence — that life finds a way, even light years from home.

Day 4: Business and Opportunity

Today was all business. The convention floor buzzed with negotiation and ambition. I spent the morning in meetings with representatives from across the colonies. Everyone wants access to the new bioengineered seed lines — crops that can adapt to low gravity, thin air, or chemically unstable soils. New Atlantis has refined an art that the rest of the galaxy desperately needs.

My most promising lead came from Agritech Corporation out of Mars. Their representatives want to partner with AstroGenetics to test these crops under Martian conditions. If the deal goes through, it will redefine the food supply for every colony in the inner systems. In the afternoon, I attended a panel titled Sustainable Agriculture for the Next Century. The scientists spoke passionately about creating ecosystems that can support themselves — not just survive, but flourish. Listening to them, I realized we are not just selling crops; we are cultivating worlds.

I left the center that evening with a sense of purpose and quiet pride. This work matters. It always has.

Day 5: The Bio-Dome Demonstration

The final day of the convention was the most inspiring. We were transported to the northern bio-domes for a live demonstration. Seeing it in person — fields of alien wheat stretching beneath a transparent dome, wind turbines turning slowly under a foreign sky — was breathtaking. The crops swayed in rhythm, their emerald leaves shimmering under the light of a distant sun. It felt less like science and more like art.

The final keynote reminded us that New Atlantis is only the beginning. Every success here opens the door for other worlds — barren rocks waiting to become gardens. I stood among those engineered fields and realized how monumental this achievement truly is. Humanity has not just conquered space. We have learned to make it grow.

That evening, I watched the sunset over the Thames Valley from my room. The city glowed below me, alive with movement and light. I am leaving tomorrow, but I know I will return. New Atlantis is not just a market — it is the future.

Day 6: Departure

My shuttle leaves in a few hours. As I pack, I cannot help but feel reluctant to go. New Atlantis has a pull — a sense of purpose that stays with you. I did not have time to see much beyond the convention district, but I will correct that next visit.

The convention exceeded every expectation. The deals I made will carry weight back home, but what stays with me most is the feeling of hope. From dust and rock, we are building new Edens. Standing by the window one last time, I watched the sunlight stretch across the farmlands and realized that we are not just surviving among the stars.

We are thriving.

— Martin R. Hale, AstroGenetics Field Representative, New Europa, New Atlantis