Be that as it may, two of her people remained trapped by—or dead under—tons of rock.

Everything on Donovan is a fight, Kalico thought, her chin propped on her knotted fist as she contemplated her small settlement. Didn’t matter if it was the mine, the forest, the geology, the climate, the ancient and forever-breaking equipment . . . or the fucking Maritime Unit.

Now she faced her first cave-in. Worse, this time it wasn’t just statistics, but names, women she knew: Alia and Stana. In her hurried communications with Aurobindo Ghosh, she’d learned that any chance that they might be alive was either little, slim, or most likely, none.

“Supervisor, we’re still at the beginning of this. We’re just getting an idea of the extent of the roof fall. Since we talked to you last, we’ve had more rock come down one hundred and fifty meters back from the face. The shoring just keeps giving way.”

One hundred and fifty meters.

She could see it in her mind’s eye: The rotten and cracked rock, the water dripping through the elaborate wood shoring, the timbers giving way. See—as if in slow motion—the cascade of splintered wood, the falling tons of broken and cracked rock . . . crushing the very light out of existence.

The notion was mind-and-soul-numbing.

What if Alia and Stana were still trapped in there? Clinging desperately to a small pocket of air? Crouched in the darkest of black and soundless eternity? Knowing that with each breath, they were exhausting the last of the air?

Kalico ground her teeth, wondering if she was a monster to hope that they’d been crushed instantly.

“Coming in,” Makarov called as he banked hard, g-force pressing Kalico down into her conforming seat. She watched the forest rise to meet her as Makarov eased up on the thrusters at exactly the right moment to settle them with a feather-lightness onto the red soil of the smelter landing pad.

“Give me a moment to spool down, Supervisor,” Makarov called as Kalico unbuckled from her seat, grabbed her small bag, and made her way to the hatch.

As the ramp dropped, she called, “Thanks, Juri. Superb job, as usual.”

“Hope it turns out well, ma’am.” Makarov called back. “I’m going to sit tight with the shuttle until, one way or another, this thing is over. You need me and the bird for anything, we’ll be ready to lift within five minutes.”

“Appreciate that. It won’t be forgotten.” And she was out the door, smelling the stink of exhaust mixed with dust.

Overhead, Capella burned down with glaring white intensity. She could see the heat waves rising over the packed crowns of the trees where they towered on all sides. A constant reminder that her little settlement with its fragile perimeter of pines, walnuts, and other terrestrial trees held but the most precarious of toeholds.