The Council should’ve never sent us back. It was a doomed expedition from the start. Of course, nobody asked me. I could’ve told them. But it was too late now. Too late to rethink the idea, too late to recall the mission, too late to save anyone.
I’m the last. The sole remaining survivor of the scouting mission back to Old Home. Our instruments were damaged in the landing, but even if they hadn’t been, Old Home’s atmosphere would’ve kept any messages or data from getting through, anyway. I just hope the loss of an entire twenty-six person scouting crew will make the Council rethink the initiative. Old Home’s not worth any more lost life.
I’m in the middle of what was considered a city on Old Home. It’s nothing compared to the cities of New Home. The oppressive gravity on this planet wouldn’t let anything remotely like a New Home city work here. The buildings here are squared off, stubby at only 60 or 70 stories tall, and dense. There’s no aesthetics here, no beauty in any of the ancient architecture.
Flora of all kinds has taken over wherever it could find a foothold. Trees, like I’ve never seen before, twisted over and pushed through the man-made stones of the buildings. Soil, grasses, and other plants covered ancient artifacts, not entirely in some places. Some mounds of archaic alloy showed through the dirt and mosses.
The atmosphere here won’t support life, not anymore. Maybe once, before our ancestors fled, but I don’t know. Maybe that’s why they left this planet, too much oxygen. My auxiliary tank is still running right, with plenty of the right mix of breathable air. But I don’t think that’s what’s going to get me.
No, I’m pretty sure it’ll be the mutants. All the other expedition members were taken by the mutants. I’ve had to watch while each one had his legs torn off, one by one by one, and eaten.
History on New Home doesn’t tell the whole story. I know that now. History files say no one was left behind. My crew found out the hard way that that’s a lie. What else have our leaders lied to us about?