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His face almost mirrored her own, with the same honeyed skin and luminous astral eyes, but heavier, more burdened, yet younger than she was.

Behind him, the emerald hinterland of Dunia stretched into the horizon, with verdant fields and massive bioluminescent forests beyond, with vines shifting like breathing organisms.

A storm was hovering in the skies above, a gale was blowing, and trees were bending over, lashed by Mother Nature.

The emerald was alive and sentient in ways no other in the universe was. Its tempest reflected in the weariness and rage in her brother’s eyes.

Issa’s chest tightened.

‘How is Father?’ she asked.

Iyanda exhaled, gaze darkening. ‘We’re keeping him stable, but the clock is ticking.’

Issa pressed her lips together.

Her mission was to buy her father more time. She couldn’t afford to fail.

‘Stay hidden,’ she reminded him. ‘The Sacra High are hunting us.’

‘We know; we sensed them in the system. Our shield holds, and we don’t think they detected us. We also discerned your battle and victory over the venators. Were you hurt?’

Iyanda’s expression softened. ‘Nada. You’re all safe, and that’s all that matters.’

She hesitated. ‘For now.’

He didn’t press her further.

They both knew she was lying.

What mattered was her father’s salvation.

As the call ended, Issa lingered by the window, staring at Dunia’s emerald sphere in Eden II’s panoramic view.

Aching, yearning, longing for those she loved.

She slipped into the city’s underbelly an hour later, cloaked in a dark-hued hooded shroud.

Her chrono ticked, with just two hours reprieve, so her footsteps were fast as she raced toward the Pika settlements, where the radiance of Eden II’s gleaming skyscrapers never reached.

The tunnels under the moon’s surface were so deep and murky that one had no idea whether it was day or night.

Shadowy figures and skinny silhouettes slinked along the gloomy rock faces, their pale, drawn visages obscured by anti-regolith masks, catching the light here and there.

They were the Luna Pikani, dressed in sand-colored robes stiffened with wiring.

Their hands were gloved, and their feet were strapped to prevent any sand from getting through.

Over time, they earned another moniker, the ‘whistling Pikas,’ because of the unique fluted trill language they used to communicate.

These distinctive calls helped them find each other during harsh storms that tore through the astral scape.

Tis when the silver moon dust whipped through the tunnel shafts at incredible speeds, forceful enough to shear skin off and whip one away in seconds, flinging them into the lunar desert beyond.

Yet still, the Pikas endured, building rugged shacks and wearing reinforced clothing to battle the most extreme conditions the rock might throw at them.

Energy shields from the biomes stopped the worst severe squalls from penetrating the tunnels.

Some Pika camps had been erected deep into the regolith to escape the raging winds.