“So, that’s home?” Dek asked, eyes squinted against the pain in his remodeling retinas as he sat hunched on the worn passenger seat beside her. “It’s so beautiful, it’s stunning. This has to be one of the prettiest places in the universe.”

With the vertical mountain wall topped by high clouds and tumbling white waterfalls as a backdrop for the thickly forested Donovanian foothills, it looked like a vision of Shangri-La. Some of the most stunning scenery she’d ever laid eyes on.

“That’s it. At least for the next couple of weeks. Maybe a month. No one but you, me, and the quetzals rampaging through our bodies. As long as you don’t shoot the solar collector or blow a hole in the dome that lets in sidewinders and slugs, we’re in good shape. You are welcome shoot the hell out of the forest, and no one will care except the trees.”

“How’s the charge?” He nodded toward the gauge in the dash.

“Thirty-eight percent. That’s why I’ve got a spare power pack. The only pisser will be if the main battery at the station is flat. If that’s the case, we’re headed south to find a way through the Winds, and then west to Rork Springs. Not my favorite place given what happened to Trish out there, but at least we know the quetzals are friendly and the station still functions.”

“I really apologize for causing you all this grief. Wish I could think. I mean, this really sucks toilet water. Every time I try and hold onto a thought, some part of my past starts happening again. Like I’m right there back in Transluna or stuck in some dark crawlway on Ashanti. Hard to keep it all straight.”

“Yeah, I know. I ended up in my mother’s kitchen back in Chiapas. Turned out it was Xibalba.”

“Where?”

“I told you. That’s the Mayan version of hell. It’s in the underworld and ruled by the Lords of Death . . . who turned themselves into quetzals. Psychotic hallucinations can be so creative. Think of the Lords of Death as a delightfully colorful and ethnically charged alternative to the more traditional pitchfork-wielding red devils with spike-tipped tails, horns growing out of their heads, and cloven feet standing in a super-hot fire.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “So, what’s your version of hell?”

“Transluna,” he whispered, eyes gone hollow. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I had a really shitty life. I mean, you’d think if I was going to conjure a version of hell, it would be on Ashanti. Maybe the old nightmare of the Unreconciled sneaking up from Deck Three to cut me apart alive.”