Amal El-Mohtar

They bring daughters of earth back down to the land of death—but death does not claim them.

She holds a corpse that was once a man, her hands gloved in its guts, her fingers clutching its alloy spine. She lets go, and the exoskeleton clatters against rock. Crude technology. Ancient. Bronze to depleted uranium. He never had a chance. That is the point of Red.

A fugitive becomes a queen or a scientist or, worse, a poet.