Fully suited up, Lex crouched in the shuttle, peering over the bobbing heads of the recovery team toward the side window. Fine moon dust had scratched the glass over the years, leaving it hazy. Nearby rock formations slipped past like fleeting shadows, and everything beyond them was lost in the sandstorm. Outside, the Vortex storms raged and flashed. The shuttle was taking a detour through a trench—the winds on the direct route were too strong.

"How much longer, Quinlan?"

"I must look like a fucking satnav device."

"About five more minutes," someone else said.

"And how do you know?" Quinlan asked.

"I’ve made this trip a bunch of times."

"And now?"

"Now I’ve just got a feel for how long it’ll take."

Lex listened to the conversation, keeping his eyes and ears open. When one of the men glanced his way, he nodded at Lex. "So, you’re the new guy on the team?"

Lex shrugged.

Suddenly, half the crew started laughing. In the back-right corner, Devon Vasker was busy mimicking him. The beam of the overhead light cut across his grinning face. "Hey, Marrow! Did you enjoy your time in solitary? Hope you had plenty of time to think about your mistakes."

Lex flipped him off. Three weeks ago, they’d clashed and ended up facing off in front of an overseer in the living quarters. Vasker had walked away with a bloody lip, while Lex pressed his torn linen shirt against the gash over his eye.

"Which one of you started it?"

The argument that followed ended with Vasker’s friends swearing that Lex had started the fight and thrown the first punch. The latter was true, but he hadn’t started it. As punishment, they threw him into a tiny, pitch-black cell for two days, where the stench of excrement and sour urine was actually the best of his memories. The cell was so small he could lie down, but couldn’t stretch out his legs, and when he sat, his head touched the damp ceiling. At first, he killed time with push-ups. His growing hunger was the only thing reminding him that, despite the lack of space, there was still a timeline to cling to. But as the hunger faded, so did his sense of time, and he couldn’t tell whether a day had passed or just an hour, or even a minute.

Someone tossed a few old potatoes into the cell and left a glass of foul water. Eventually, panic crept in. The feeling tightened its grip on him, rising higher and higher until his heart pounded in his throat, his hands went ice-cold, and his forehead was slick with sweat. The fear wasn’t something he could control or reason his way through—he just had to ride it out. In the few moments he slept, he was plagued by feverish nightmares. By the end, he was utterly disoriented when a corporate officer opened the door and told him his time was up. Once outside, he had no idea if the time in the cell had felt like an eternity or just a fleeting moment. But one thing he was certain of: never again in solitary.

"Screw you, Vasker."

"Hey, Marrow, you know what?"

"Just drop it, damn it. Mind your own business."

"Do you know what mimosas are?"

Lex waved him off.

"They’re plants that used to grow on Old Earth."

"What do you care about Earth?"

"Not a damn thing," Vasker said, "but I know what mimosas are. And they’re just as delicate as you, Marrow. They’d wither out here just as fast as you will. This place is the end of the line for softies like you."

"Both of you, shut up." The man with the scarred neck, the one who called himself Quinlan, leaned forward so he could get a look at Lex over the other guys.

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"What that little speck of a loudmouth in the corner says doesn’t matter. It’s just noise, nothing but hot air. But what I say—you better carve it into your damn code of conduct. And if you don’t have one, you’d better make one just for me, because while you’re on my mission, I’m the top authority in your life. I’m in charge of this crew. So don’t slow us down by doing anything I didn’t tell you to do. You’re not even allowed to fart in your suit unless I give you permission. We’ve got just enough oxygen to make it back to the shuttle alive with no delays. That means no wandering around, no detours, no independent thinking. You leave all of that to me. We’re heading straight to the site, rescuing what needs rescuing, and then we’re getting the hell out of there like we were never even here. Everything’s coordinated. Every minute counts. Every step's planned. On your first day out here, all you need to do is exactly what I tell you. Same goes for every other day. You know your way around ore haulers, right?"

Lex nodded. Sweat trickled into his eye.

"Well, that’s a start. Our big ol’ Betty accidentally scooped up a 50-tonner about an hour ago." Quinlan clicked his tongue. "Must’ve looked like a toddler on a damn Ferris wheel."

"Ferris wheel, sir?"

Quinlan shook his head. "Forget it. Anyway, our job is to assess the damage Betty took and recover whatever’s left of the ore hauler. Including the dead driver. But don’t worry, the burial is someone else’s responsibility. Same goes for arresting the guy who was supposed to be driving Betty but was asleep on the job—that’s corporate business, not ours. Any questions?"

Lex shook his head. He was breathing heavily, staring at the reflection in his helmet’s visor. Beads of sweat glistened on his face. The pressure suit he wore was like a more agile space suit. The fabric was lined with aluminum fibers, and the solid parts were coated with the same metal, reflecting most of the freezing radiation. On his back was the power cell and life support system, which pumped an oxygen-rich fluorocarbon emulsion into his helmet through two hoses.

"We’re almost there," Quinlan said. "So listen up: This button here"—he pointed to a switch on the chest console—"press it after you’ve secured your helmet and connected the two hoses. That’s when your life support switches from gas to liquid breathing."

"Liquid breathing?"

"Out there, the pressure’s 70 bar. If you still have air in your lungs under that hellish pressure, it’ll compress so hard it creates a vacuum. That’ll cause your blood to flow from your guts into your lungs until they’re completely flooded. Not a pretty way to go. That’s why we breathe an oxygenated liquid out there. It’s not exactly pleasant—feels like a dump truck’s parked on your chest—but you’ll get through it. Just remember: it’s your only option if you want to survive."

"C'ptain, we’re approaching the final stop."

Quinlan nodded. "You idiots ready?"

A unanimous "Yes, sir" rang out as the crew stood up. Before putting on his helmet, Vasker shot Lex a mocking look. Then he attached the hoses to the fitting and pressed the button on his console. One by one, the helmets of the crew filled with clear liquid. The men bent over, hands on their knees, gasping and choking, their faces twisted in pain as their lungs filled with the fluid.

Lex was the last to put on the heavy, bell-shaped helmet. Inside, he could hear the echo of his ragged breathing. With gloved hands, he fumbled at his shoulders, searching for the hoses. Gripping them, he pulled them forward and struggled to screw the ends into the fittings on his helmet. It took a moment. His visor fogged up from the inside. When the hoses were finally secure, he slid his left hand over his chest console, feeling for the button that would release the liquid.

He found it—but didn’t press it.

He hesitated.

Fear paralyzed him.

Suddenly, a hard blow struck his chest. He stumbled back a step. Inside the helmet, he heard the gurgling as the liquid began to flow. It rose to his chin, over his mouth, and touched his nose. Reflexively, he tilted his head back and took one last breath before the helmet filled completely.

With his cheeks puffed full of air, he stared through the visor. Quinlan stood in front of him, looking grim despite his open mouth. Lex could practically hear his thoughts: Don’t waste our time, coward—just start breathing.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. After a minute, the urge to breathe became unbearable. Quinlan shook him roughly. Air escaped his mouth, bubbling up to the surface.

A minute and a half passed. His teeth ground together, and his lungs pulled in a vacuum.

You just have to open your lips.

He felt a tingling in his fingertips, and numbness crept into his feet. His blood was retreating from his limbs, rushing to keep his brain alive with the last scraps of oxygen.

Fresh air, he thought, just before everything went black. His body hit the shuttle floor with a thud. Fully suited, the boy lay motionless. His heart still beat, but the intervals between each pulse grew longer. The darkness between them, deeper.