The ground beneath Adam’s feet was soft from the night rain.
He pressed his palm into the dark soil and felt the moisture gather between his fingers. It was good soil—deep, mineral-rich, alive with the faint sour smell of roots and decay. The kind of soil the instructors said they might find on Earth if the northern landing surveys were correct.
The kind they would have to recognise without instruments.
Across the stream, Eve stood barefoot in the shallows, rinsing berries inside a woven basket that had begun unravelling at one corner. Pale morning light moved through the silver-leaf trees behind her. It made the water look clean enough to drink.
The orbital shades should have softened that light. Lately, the sun seemed to find every gap.
IAN O'DOWD