It was the sixteenth year of the war; I was on the Endurance. She was ripped apart near Korisk, and I ended up in an escape pod on its side down on the surface.
I was alone, though I ran into a stranded Woolie on the second day. His ship must have been killed in the same action. He appeared at my campfire, knew a couple words Standard, tried to ask to share my rations. I killed him, of course. Made a rug out of the Woolie’s fur. I have it at home on Mars. Hell of a conversation piece.