Gray is the color of death. It is the desolate plain Dominique and her transhuman companion have been walking on for hours, its solder gray, parched surface scarred with deep fissures and charcoal-tinged boulders. It is the brownish gray clouds rising from distant funeral pyres, smoldering like toxic smoke from a petroleum inferno. It is the muddied gray of the mountainside looming before them, its barren, clay-colored escarpments smooth and twisting, like cooled magma. It is the lead gray backs of the foot-long beetles that continuously scamper between their boots like restless vermin.

Red is the color of heat. It is the sliver of rose-colored horizon peeking between the mountain’s summit and the roof of the subterranean habitat. It is the orange-red glow of embers twinkling like stars upon the cloud-covered ceiling.

Red is not the color of blood. Blood bleeds blue in this godforsaken carbon-dioxide habitat, appearing violet in the pinkish hue of everlasting twilight.

Violet is the shade of red Dominique sees every time she squeezes her eyes shut. Violet is the dull, aching, maddening pain that presses against the back of her eyeballs. It is her feet, throbbing inside her boots. It is her lower back, which still aches from a prolonged menstrual cycle. It is her overwrought nerves, which cringe at the perpetual squish-squish sound of recycled water being pumped by her leg muscles as she moves in her constricting environmental bodysuit.

But worse than the pain, worse than the colors of the Underworld, is the terror that gnaws at her brain, the anxiety of knowing her soul mate is close, but her son is in great danger.

They reach the base of the mountain. Dominique stares up at its twisting forty-degree incline and escarpments, seeing only violet.

The mute transhuman points.

‘Guess it’s not too bad,’ Dominique lies, straining to see the summit. ‘Almost looks like an extinct volcano.’

Dozens of beetles scamper across the tops of her boots. ‘Go away!’ She kicks at them, nearly losing her footing.

The transhuman starts up the slope.

Dominique follows, using the sword as a cane. Jake’s strong, he’ll be okay. If they wanted him dead, they would have killed him back on the beach.

Her thoughts turn to her other son.

At least Manny’s safe …

And then she stops, tears welling in her eyes as the reality of her situation finally hits home. Manny’s not safe, Manny’s dead! He died on this rotting hellhole millions of years ago, along with the rest of our godforsaken species.

Leaning against a boulder, she sobs uncontrollably, choking into her regulator.

Her transhuman companion stops. Climbs down to her and takes her hand, squeezing it.

Have … faith.

The message, delivered telepathically, is but a faint whisper in Dominique’s brain, but it speaks volumes.

Yes, she is marooned and desperate, but she is not alone. There is her other son, and maybe there is Mick.

And now—a friend.