He has entered a mammoth, darkened, ovoid chamber, its dimensions rivaling the New Orleans Superdome if the arena were gutted. Licking the surface of the surrounding walls is an inundating layer of searing-hot, crimson red flames which rise in ripples like an inverted waterfall along the sizzling perimeter, disappearing into an oblivion of darkness above.

But not darkness! Swirling hundreds of feet above his head, illuminating the very center of the gargantuan abyss is a brilliant, emerald green vortex of swirling energy—a miniature spiral galaxy rotating in a slow, omnipotent, counterclockwise sweeping motion like a cosmic ceiling fan, pulsating with power.

Mick stares at the galaxy’s unearthly radiance, transfixed by its beauty, humbled by its magnificence, and absolutely terrified by its implications. He forces his eyelids to close over his burning pupils, trying desperately to clear his head.

Dominique …

Struggling to his feet, he reopens his eyes and takes in the rest of his ethereal surroundings.

He is standing on a perch, a metallic grating supporting the hatch that had sealed the cylindrical shaft. Four feet below, filling the entire chamber like a lake in a mountainous crater, is a billowing, silvery, mercury-like liquid, its glistening, mirror surface reflecting the dancing vermilion flames. Ebony whiffs of smoke drift above the undulating sea of molten metal like steam escaping from a boiling cauldron.

Mick turns to face the glowing wall of red-hot embers. Situated just below the flames is a grillelike façade that rings the entire interior of the chamber. Distortion reveals invisible gases gushing out from tiny pores along the facing like heat rising along a desert tarmac road.

The intake burrow … a ventilation shaft?

Mick stares at the surreal wall of flame, which neither burns nor consumes, but flows straight up the vertical enclosure like a raging river of blood. Feverish thoughts swirl through his mind. Am I dead? Maybe I died in the minisub? Maybe I’m in hell?

He collapses onto his buttocks, half-sitting, half-lying along the edge of the platform, too weak and dizzy to move. He manages to spit into his face mask and reposition it, then remembers the smaller tank. Unfastening it, he sucks in several breaths of pure oxygen, managing to clear his head.

That’s when he notices the tear in his wetsuit. The skin of his right knee is exposed, the wound bleeding profusely. Baffled, he touches the hot blood, scrutinizing it as if it is some kind of alien broth.

His blood is bleeding blue.

Where am I? What’s happening to me?

As if in response, a violet surge of energy ignites like a bolt of lightning from somewhere across the lake. He leans forward, struggling to see through his mask, which has fogged again despite the fresh coating of saliva.