Three Who Fell First

The pod hisses open and you step onto soil for the first time in your life. The ground is uneven beneath your boots—nothing like deckplate. Wind tugs at your hair, carrying scents no recycler ever made.

On the ridgeline, a figure raises a hand. You raise yours. Carefully, together, you whisper. Above, the Perennial waits—patient, watching. Humanity has chosen, and the choosing was yours.