There was a rock-cracking pop! The tunnel filled with pressure and both Finn and Goblin were forced forward, shot like wads of wet paper blown through a pipe-straw. Their shirts were torn to ribbons and their chests and backs were ripped by the rough stone. A massive amount of fresh air rushed around them, whistling through the narrow gaps their bodies formed. The oxygen expanded Finn’s lungs to a painful size. So as to not choke, he coughed out the Aquamarine Tear still in his mouth. The crunch of stone and rock doubled as the tunnel behind them collapsed. A pained haunting groan reverberated around them. The vat-worm had bitten the Miner’s Pumice.
He didn’t let the moment go to waste. Instead, he shoved at Goblin, who lay in the tunnel, dazed. The boy twitched, then darted forward, crawling without caution. Finn followed, ears listening to the commotion behind him. The beast sounded more distant now, bellowing and sliding about as it tried to find where its prey had gone. The chances of it crunching its way toward them were still high, so Finn continued to move, not letting up.
The farther they crawled, the more distant the noises of destruction became. After a while, Finn knew the vat-worm had either changed its course, going the wrong way, or had given up the chase. Goblin came to the same conclusion, slowing his pace. The two boys stopped, laying on their bleeding bellies and shivering in relief.
“You did it. You're okay.” Finn croaked, patting the younger boy's leg.
The tunnel grew uncomfortably hot and Finn flicked Goblin's Sponge-Marble sandals, indicating they should keep moving. They readied their bodies and once again wiggled forward.
Sweat poured from Finn’s face and he reached back with a pinned arm, maneuvering to get at his pouch. He had a score of Aquamarine Tears left, but no Miner’s Pumice to give them fresh air. He popped one of the light blue stones into his mouth and sucked, then passed another to Goblin. The magical pebbles raised their energy and they maneuvered forward, crawling for what seemed an eternity.
Ahead of him, Goblin disappeared. Finn heard the boy slide free, his body echoing as it hit the floor of a larger chamber. Finn did the same, pulling himself out like a creature birthed from the dark. He stood, wavering, and with blood rushing to his head. He adjusted his goggles, regaining his orange-tinted vision, and grinned at Goblin. They’d made it.
Finn came forward and patted the new cave-diver, forgetting the restraint he was supposed to maintain. “I can’t believe that happened on your first dive! And we’re still breathing!”
Finn was impressed with the amateur. Most on their first day panicked going down the main mineshaft, much less the tunnels. When Finn had first started, it’d taken him four dives before he'd worked up the courage to crawl through a chamber the size of his body.
Finn stopped himself from praising the boy. Cave-divers couldn't have friends. As the vat-worm had proved: death was all too near in the Crust. Losing someone was a lot easier if you didn't know them. Like when Mudd had died. There was a brief moment of sadness, then acceptance.
Goblin, not knowing friendships were taboo, grinned back, his innocent dirtied face looking relieved. Finn bit his lip and turned away without a word. Instead he took lead, heading back to the mineshaft. He knew the action must have hurt Goblin's feelings but he clamped on his hesitation and squeezed it to non-existence. No friendships.
The returning trek was quiet but for their footsteps. Caves and tunnels passed around them and Finn's experience took them in the right direction without getting lost. When they stepped out into the bottom of the central mineshaft, they were greeted by the other cave-divers, who’d already returned, holding their etched parchments full of notes on their explorations. Finn knew they noticed Mudd's absence and their torn clothes but none spoke out. Just another death.
The cave-divers each handed Finn their parchments and fastened their belts to the hanging ropes attached to the pulleys far above. Finn watched as Goblin struggled with tying himself up. The boy looked to Finn, eyes asking for help. Finn worked his jaw and forced his gaze away. Goblin eventually figured it out and had himself strapped in. Finn attached his belt to the last rope and called to the mineshaft roof, voice swimming up the chamber. “Cave-divers ready!”
The ropes tightened and the boys were lifted off their feet, pulled high above the working miners and their mine carts lugging precious materials though the network of tunnels. As they neared their individual Mole-Holes, Finn could see a miner working a lever in a nearby tunnel. The man controlled the pulleys via intricate gears and weights, allowing the cave-diver to return to the surface. The ropes came to a stop and Finn grabbed the edge of his Mole-Hole by a worn hand-hold, pulling himself out. Light blinded him and he yanked off his goggles and detached his belt. As his vision cleared, he watched Goblin struggle to pull himself out. He finally succeeded and staggered in the harsh light.
Finn noticed that the boy's dark skin color was like an umber stone—a unique exotic color. Finn liked it, contrasting it to his pale skin earned from so many years underground. With enough time, perhaps Goblin would be as pale as him.
He approached the boy—formally—and got his attention. “We need to report Mudd's death and the vat-worm to one of the supervisors. And we need replacement shirts as well, we’re drawing attention. Come on.” The boy nodded, detaching his rope and following Finn.
“Hey look!” a voice called out, “Talc's got himself a pet grub!”
Gunther, sneering at him from a crowd of miners, approached the mine holes for his shift of rock-chipping. The men around the bully chuckled as they attached their belts to the mole-hole ropes. Gunther pointed to Goblin with his chin. “Hey newbie, I’d watch his back if I were you. Finn’s got his head in the clouds. If he dies, you’d be all alone!”
Goblin furrowed his brow, looking back and forth between Finn and the miner.
“I'm talking to you, newbie!” Gunther growled.
Goblin, as silent as the moment Finn met him, didn't reply.
Gunther dismissed them with a wave of his hand, attaching his rope and dropping through a hole. Finn shook his head in disgust and walked toward a sand-colored complex. It resembled a box-shaped fortress, with thick pillars supporting balconies and wide stairs leading to various entrances. It was nestled against the massive sandstone crags sitting upon the edge of the Slaglands.
Approaching the large yellow structure, the two boys wove between miners and cave-divers leaving and entering the building to make their reports. Some took the time to rest against the cracked pillars lining the entrance before hurrying off, hoping to not get caught. A group of men who were known for sneaking gems into their supervisor’s pockets gambled in the shade of an archway, rolling dice and betting work shifts. If regular miners like Finn were ever caught doing relaxing, they’d lose all privileges—including breakfast and lunch. Finn would never kiss up to a super, the thought alone making his fists clench.
Finn explained to Goblin that the outpost headquarters was a hub of operation where House Crumm kept organization over the mine. Finn knew of two other structures like it, both to the South across the spine of the Crust. Orphans, those running from the law, or men who couldn’t pay off debts all ended up in the mines, working under the careful eye of the operations office. Finn and Goblin were nothing more than property, investments.
Goblin stared at the dusty high-walled building in amazement. Far above, curtains blew out from oval windows and the smell of cooking meat wove down, teasing hunger.
“Don't get your hopes up. You'll be living in a limestone hut like the rest of us.” Finn told. “Don’t get caught staring or someone might think you’re planning on stealing something.”
They walked below a large arching doorway, cool shadow hitting their faces, protecting them from the desert heat. Finn's feet stopped treading on sand and instead tapped across ceramic paving. He pointed out to Goblin the various earthen-toned halls, stairs, and landings. “Those offices are for finances. These rooms are for incoming merchants buying stones in bulk. They'll have negotiat
ions with a supervisor to determine prices.” Goblin took everything in without a word.
Finn led Goblin past a group of orphan sellers who eyed them coldly. Women with bruised faces and eyes cast down served drinks to hooded men. Three men from another House looked around sneakily before swiping a silver urn into a sack. Finn guessed House Abhurdean based on the symbol of two hand-palms, one above the other, adorning their travel cloaks. So even the Noble Houses outside of the Crust were willing to stoop to petty thievery and accepting to slavery. Finn wondered as to how far the corruption spread. To all nine houses perhaps? To the King’s throne room? Not staring at the scenes around him for too long lest he got sick to his stomach, Finn climbed a set of stairs to a second-floor terrace. Turning a corner, they entered a small domed room smelling of incense. Inside, a lean man wearing a turban sat behind a desk counting on a mechanical abacus. Finn watched little magnetized beads slide back and forth within the metal contraption, assisting the supervisor with his duties. Thick purple carpeting, designs painted on the ceiling, and dark wood furniture decorated the room and boasted of a pampered lifestyle. The man stopped his work and beckoned them forward. On his turban was an embroidered rectangular badge, signifying his blood relation to House Crumm. Basing on the size of the man’s office, Finn guessed him perhaps a distant nephew to the Noble Lord, nothing more.
“Special report, I assume?” the supervisor mumbled, a distasteful sour look to his face. It seemed he didn’t appreciate having a small office nor having cave-divers barge into his space. “It doesn’t take two people to turn in parchments.”
Finn handed over the mapped areas drawn by his young crew. “Yes sir, we have a report.”
“Well, spill it.”
“Tunnel fourteen—it's marked on my record—was destroyed on purpose. There was an Orpiment vat-worm. We were lucky and escaped with our lives, but we lost Mudd.”
The supervisor didn't blink an eye. He grabbed a piece of paper and took notes. “I see.” he drawled. “Anything else?”
“No sir.”
“Good. Get back, end your day, and stop at the practitioner for poultice. I don't want to hear word that your cuts spread an infection in the mine.” The man reached into a bin beneath his desk and gave Finn two copper vouchers which could be traded for new shirts.
Finn thanked the super, leading Goblin out of the room. There was no appreciation. No are you alright? Finn was used to it; the supervisors weren't his parents. They were unforgiving bosses who only cared for money and productivity. Finn could tell Goblin struggled with the uncaring detachment by the way he shot the man a frown. Leading the young cave-diver out of the building before they both got into trouble, Finn walked them back to the limestone field where huts, barracks, and medical tents awaited.
Finn had them both looked over by a practitioner, who cleaned and dressed their wounds. In a round stone building used both as a supply hut and a payment office, Finn gave his vouchers to a man with a crooked nose. In return, they were both handed gray shirts, the garments already looking pre-worn. Finn hated the building. Once a week he would make his rounds to the place, receive payment for his work, and immediately give it to a collector, owing every coin. The supervisors made sure rent for his hut and cost of his food and water equaled how much he made. Thus, he was indebted for life, stuck in the Crust until he withered or died in an accident. Finn knew that in the days to come, as Goblin learned his place in the outpost, the younger cave-diver would grow to hate the building as well.
He had them stop for food and water at an open shack with a sagging roof. The man behind the counter marked their names on a ledger and Finn knew his debt had increased by a few coins. He left Goblin there, munching on a piece of cactus-bread, forcing himself to not say goodbye to the boy. Why was it so hard to not be friendly? He’d never had problems distancing himself from others before.
Although his hut was in the far West limestone field near the Slaglands, he didn't complain. Being close to the border where it was hottest meant he had more privacy: less bored miners to kick-in one of his hut's walls, laughing as he scrambled out before being buried alive by limestone. It meant he could sleep at night without having to hear the snores, crying, and flatulence of a thousand men.
He approached his small modest hut, a white bumpy-walled dome made of poorly-shaped blocks. He ducked inside, pushing the curtain he used as a door back into place to hide the unforgiving sun. Laying on his straw mat, he gazed at his dark ceiling. There was nothing else to look at; no furniture, no decorations—only a failed half-finished attempt to etch an imaginary forest on his wall. No light filtered through; he had no windows. He was used to the dark; he was a cave-diver after all; always would be a cave-diver, hollow and without hope. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of Mudd, the vat-worm, Goblin, or the fact he’d never leave the Crust.
CHAPTER THREE:
A Quiet Friend
—Circa 5,599 E.E. (Economic Era-The 17th Era): King Tipidus the First takes 300 men up North to unmapped lands as part of a “holy quest” to bring knowledge of past historic events into light, hoping to shed truth on what has led to the extinction of ancient races whose existence is only recorded on the scrolls of Lyria’s Grand Library. He does not return and his young eight-year-old son, Tipidus the Second takes the throne. Men search for the old High King for years but only three ever return, none of which sane enough to explain what has occurred to them, others, or their King.—
The following morning, Finn awoke to the sound of deep clay horns bellowing a heavy tune. It was early and the hot sun was still to peak over the crags. Finn dressed and stepped outside. Other miners, ready for the day's work, yawned and looked to the barracks. Following their gaze, Finn made out shadowed forms stepping out of wagons and walking in lines to stand in front of a waiting supervisor. New workers.
By their build, they were all male, meaning the women must have already been separated and taken to the Hub to become maids and servants. The Crust had ensnared more victims: fugitives, vagabonds, criminals, and debtors. Men and women with history. Yet Finn didn’t fear them. They may have gotten away with crime wherever they’d come from, but in the Crust, if you got caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, there was only one punishment: banishment into the Slaglands. No one was stupid enough to risk that.
“Welcome to the edge of the world!” one of the miners shouted with a laugh. “You can't get any farther West than this! Hope you're ready to die under a rock!”
Some of the miners snickered and Finn let out a smile. He’d seen this scene play out a thousand times. Some of the forms—difficult to define in the low light—shifted in discomfort, yet others stood straighter. Those were the ones that had come willingly. They were the ones with nothing left to lose or crazy enough to think the mines would provide safety.
Finn looked forward to when new workers arrived. They always brought in word of the outside world. They described strange and magical locations, odd cultures, and fascinating people. Heart beating faster, Finn went to breakfast wishing for his two work-shifts to pass quickly. Hearing new stories was a treat. It was his only sweet taste of freedom.
He spotted Goblin leaving his hut, a spot near the center of the limestone field. The boy looked exhausted, as if he hadn't slept all night. Finn grimaced; Goblin had chosen the worst location to make residence. The miners lived miserable lives and many cried and wailed in their sleep. Goblin, with his hut in the middle of the field, would have to accustom to the sound. It was something that would take a long time.
With the consistent amount of death in the mines, homes were often freed-up. Most surviving miners were ones who’d been raised by the Crust. It was rare for adult recruits to last long. They didn't move through the system like the orphan boys did, gaining experience from an early age. Unused to the dangerous labor, the new miners would get themselves killed. In contrast, the orphans would be trained in the Hub by veteran miners until they turned seven and could be promoted to cave-divers.
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Although they were coached thoroughly, seven-year-olds sometimes died on their first dive. It was no wonder trainers often committed suicide. They interacted with the young boys for years, finding fragile solace and joy. Out of all the jobs in the Crust, being a trainer was the task no one wanted. Finn's instructor—an elderly veteran by the name of Glob Sumtick—had died years ago. The man had suffered a heart attack in his hut. Whether the cause had been sadness or old age, Finn didn't know. The only memory he retained of the white-bearded man was one of him laughing as Finn crawled through a wooden tunnel made to represent a lava tube. He'd been practicing for his first dive and didn't know why the trainer hooted. Finn shook the nostalgia away. It wouldn't do him any good to focus on the past.
After a breakfast of stringy meat, brought in with the batch of recruits, Finn hiked to his Mole-Hole, skirting around a sour-looking Gunther who seemed to have gotten about as much sleep as Goblin. Using his belt and the pulley system, Finn was lowered to the bottom of the mineshaft. He gave his cave-divers their assigned locations, finding by accident he’d left Goblin in his group once more. Hoping the boy wouldn't grow even more attached, Finn tried his best to ignore him, instead focusing on the other two cave-divers tagging along.
They mapped out a large chamber shaped like a basin. The room could have housed ten-thousand people, and using their orange-tinted goggles they found traces of titanium veins painted along the walls. He was disappointed to not come across anything unique in the awe-inducing space—a change in pace could have made his day pass faster. Although the mines were old, new types of magical stones and colored crystals were discovered every year. The most prized material on the market were Solar Stones, which were shaped like thick white staves with rounded ends. The superstitious rumored them to imbue positive magnetic energy, and anytime Solar Stones were brought out of the mines, merchants lined up to place their offers.
SunRider: Book 1 (The SunRider Saga) Page 3