by Clayton Wood
“Of all three ores?” he asks. The ambassador shakes his head.
“Twenty tons of diamonds,” he corrects. Sabin's jaw drops.
“You can't be serious!”
“Impressive, isn't it?” the ambassador replies. “That's five times the annual diamond production in the entire Empire.”
“How is that possible?” Sabin presses. “The amount of manpower to mine that volume has to be...”
“Enormous,” the ambassador agrees.
Sabin gives a low whistle, then glances at his surroundings. They've made it to an intersection in the street; there are rows of immaculate-looking buildings as far as the eye can see, in all four directions. Sabin can't help but notice that the streets are almost entirely empty.
“Where is everyone?” he asks.
“We've concentrated most of our people around the mines,” the ambassador replies. “We don't have enough people from the Empire to populate Verhan yet...not even close. Place was like a ghost town after the plague. The city is huge...three times the square mileage of Stridon.”
“I'd like to see one of the mines,” Sabin declares. The ambassador nods.
“I thought you might,” he says, stopping in the middle of the street. “Not much to see here anyway...not until night-time, when the soldiers come back to relax and have a good time. They throw a hell of a party, let me tell you.”
“How about we go now?” Sabin presses.
“Sure,” the ambassador replies. “We can come back here at sunset,” he adds. “Show you the nightlife, if you're interested.” He winks then. “We can even have you get to know a native or two, if you know what I mean.” Sabin gives an obligatory smile. He knows exactly what the ambassador means...and has no intention of taking the man up on his offer. A few years ago, he might have been tempted. But now he is the Elder Runic, the third most powerful man in the Empire. Such indulgences are below the sanctity of his office.
“One thing at a time,” he states noncommittally.
* * *
The hovership doesn't take long to bring Sabin and the ambassador from the white marble streets of Verhan to the lush, rolling hills of the countryside. It is a beautiful sight, the untamed wilderness so markedly different than the manicured gardens of the Secula Magna's campus. He stares out of his window, spotting a wide dirt road cutting through the tall trees. Even from high above, he can see that it is well-used, marked with deep ruts from the vehicles that have traveled on it.
“We're almost there,” the ambassador announces, leaning over to point out of Sabin's window. “See that clearing?”
Sabin follows the ambassador's finger, spotting a sandy break in the tree line ahead and to the left. As the hovership curves smoothly through the air toward it, he realizes he's staring at a massive, spiraling pit in the ground.
“That's the fourth-largest diamond mine in Orja,” he informs. “Two miles in diameter, and a half-mile deep.”
“Incredible,” Sabin murmurs.
“Four tons of diamonds were mined from it last year,” he adds. “The natives have Weavers that specialize in mining operations...we managed to win a few over two years ago. That alone tripled our output.”
“I'd like to meet one of them,” Sabin replies. The ambassador frowns.
“It'd be a bad idea to do that on site,” he cautions. “The natives aren't too happy with those Weavers...call 'em traitors.”
“Traitors?” Sabin asks. “Why?”
“Natives aren't too thrilled about having us here,” the ambassador admits with a smirk. “You'll see.”
The hovership slows, then stops, hovering a few hundred feet from the rightmost edge of the pit mine. They descend gently, until the aircraft is levitating a foot above the rocky ground. The ambassador stands, and a gravity shield immediately appears around him. The Battle-Weavers stand as well, activating their own shields. Sabin frowns.
“Why the shields?” he asks.
“Standard precautions,” the ambassador answers. “The savages would like nothing better than to off a high-ranking government official.” He nods at Sabin. “You brought your armor?”
“As requested,” Sabin confirms. “Is it truly necessary?”
“I wouldn't go near the natives without it.”
The hovership's ramp lowers itself to the ground, and the Battle-Weaver in front of the ambassador steps out, followed by the ambassador and Sabin. The other Battle-Weavers come in behind, then immediately position themselves to surround the two. A large, multilayered gravity shield appears around the entire company.
Damn, Sabin thinks. You'd think we were entering a war zone. His itinerary had requested he wear a nondescript, drab uniform over his armor. He'd been perplexed at the time, but now he understands; it makes him less of a target.
“Turn your communicator to receiving only,” the ambassador orders. “No point in having them understand what we're saying.
“They don't speak Imperial Standard?” Sabin asks. The ambassador shakes his head.
“Not the ones working the mines,” he replies. “The plague took out most of the educated people, the ones living in the cities. All that's left are country folk...dirty, dumb, and dangerous.”
The Battle-Weavers lead them across the rocky terrain, toward the massive open pit mine. A hundred feet away, a line of shirtless men shuffle out of the mine, each carrying a bulging sack slung over their backs. The men are unlike anything Sabin has ever seen; they have dark brown skin, unheard of in the Empire. Most are shaved bald, and all – the men and the women – are covered in colorful tattoos from head to toe. Sabin stares at one of the women, following her as she shuffles toward them. Her head is bald, white and green tattoos forming intricate patterns across her temples. These extend in flowing curves down her neck, and explode into wondrous designs that leave not an inch of skin unmarked on the rest of her body. For she is shirtless as well.
“Like I said,” the ambassador murmurs, having followed Sabin's gaze, “...I can have a couple of them brought to your room tonight.” Sabin says nothing, disturbed by the woman's figure. She is dreadfully thin, her ribs prominent, her eyes sunken. Her flesh hangs from her bones like clothes on a line. She notices his stare, and turns away. Sabin glances at the ambassador, notices his hungry stare.
Sabin turns away, disgusted.
“Come on,” the ambassador says. “I'll show you the mining process.” They pass the line of natives, staying well clear of them. All of the natives are like the first woman, thin to the point of being skeletal, staring dully at the backs of the people in front of them. Very few even glance their way.
They reach the wide ramp traveling in a massive spiral down the pit, and stop a few feet from the edge. Sabin stares down at the endless spirals, his jaw dropping.
“I know, right?” the ambassador says with a grin. “Amazing, isn't it?” Sabin says nothing. Is unable to say anything. A strange sensation comes over him, a detached feeling. As if he is suddenly no longer there, as if this is happening to someone else.
There, in the countless miles of spiraling dirt pathway extending all the way down – a half mile – into the earth, two unbroken lines of humanity walk. One down, one up. Thousands...no, tens of thousands of men and women, all carrying a single bag slung over their backs.
All of them like the woman he'd seen. Dark skin, colorful tattoos. Nothing but skin and bones, their eyes dull, lifeless.
Broken.
Sabin turns away, swallowing back a sudden surge of a bile that gushes into his mouth. He stares at the ground, a wave of numbness passing over him. He swallows again, then looks at his hands, realizing they're balled into fists. Knuckles white. The ambassador stares at him, a confused look on his face.
“Sir?” he asks.
“I'm done here,” Sabin declares, forcing the words from his throat. He refuses to look up at the ambassador, finds himself unable to do it. He is ashamed to be here, to be seen by these people.
“I thought you wanted...”
“I'm done,” Sabin growls. He feels a spike of anger, raising his eyes from the ground and glaring at the ambassador. “Bring me back.”
“But...”
“Now!”
“Yes sir,” the ambassador stammers. The Battle-Weavers exchange nervous glances, but they respond immediately, leading the company back to the hovership. Sabin stares at each of the natives they pass, wanting to burn their faces into his memory. When they pass the last native, Sabin turns his eyes straight forward. He ignores the ambassador's questions, walking up the ramp to the hovership, then taking his seat. He feels the gravity fields suck him firmly into his seat, then stares at the notebook lying on the fold-up table to his right.
“The Newly Liberated Colonies of Orja.”
He closes his eyes, resting his head on his seat-back.
Right.
Chapter 15
Ariana stared down the long barrel of the rifle pointed at her head, following it to the large, dirt-caked hand that held it. Beyond, she saw a square-jawed man with a short beard, a long scar running across the left side of his face.
The man stared down at her, leaning down until the butt of the rifle pressed against her forehead.
“Hello missy,” the man growled.
Ariana stared at him mutely, her eyes wide with fear. The man above her smirked, obviously believing that she was afraid of him. But her fear was only for Kyle.
Where was he?
Ariana stayed where she was, clinging to the side of the tower of crates, some twenty feet above the floor below. She stared at the man with the gun silently.
“I suggest,” the man growled, “...you get down.” His smirk faded. “And don't even think about running,” he added.
“Where's my friend?” Ariana asked, breaking her silence. She stayed right where she was, staring the man down defiantly.
If he hurt Kyle, she thought. Images of what she'd do to him came unbidden to her mind's eye.
“Up above,” the man replied casually. “First Mate's got him now.” He nudged Ariana's head with the gun. “Like I got you.”
“Did you hurt him?” Ariana pressed, glaring at the man.
“Not yet,” he replied. “Didn't give us a reason to,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “Now I ain't a fan of asking twice,” he growled, pressing the butt of the gun harder against her. She resisted the pressure for a moment, feeling her shard starting to wake from its slumber. She eased back, knowing what would happen to this man if she let it react. If she killed him – inadvertently or not – Kyle's life could be at risk.
She made her way down the stack of crates, her eyes never leaving the man's. When she reached the bottom, she saw the man climbing down the opposite end of the stack. He hopped down the last few feet, training his rifle on her once again.
“Found the other stowaway!” he called out, walking toward her, then motioning for her to turn around. She did so, walking toward the open double-doors in the distance. She heard footsteps coming down the staircase beyond, saw another man walking down the wide hallway toward her. He was short and heavyset, with a ruddy cherub face and a shock of red hair peeking out from his hat.
“That her?” the short man asked, staring at Ariana with disbelief. “She's just a little thing.”
“Stowaway's a stowaway,” the man with the gun countered. “We got orders.”
“Put the damn gun down, Scar,” the short man ordered. “She's not going to hurt anyone.”
Oh how wrong you are, Ariana thought grimly.
“How do you know, Rusty?” the man behind her – Scar – retorted. “She ain't been Tested yet.”
“She'll be Tested soon enough,” Rusty replied, walking up to Ariana and reaching for her hand. She stepped back, then felt the cold butt of Scar's rifle on the back of her head. “Now now,” Rusty said, shaking his head. “Don't make this harder for yourself, darling.” He reached for her hand again, and she let him grab it this time. His eyebrows rose immediately.
“Damn,” he exclaimed. “Her hand's cold as ice!”
“Probably been on deck,” Scar reasoned.
“Poor gal,” Rusty murmured, leaning in and putting a hand on her cheek. She shrunk back – as far as Scar's rifle let her. “Come on Scar, have a heart,” he pleaded. “Let's get her to a fire to warm up.”
“She'll get to a fire soon enough,” Scar growled. “She can join her friend in the First Mate's cabin.”
“Come on then,” Rusty coaxed, pulling on her hand, leading her toward the wide hallway beyond the double-doors. She paused, then let herself be led, with Scar following behind. Down the hallway they went, then up the stairwell, and across the upper hallway, until they exited onto the deck.
“Come on,” Rusty urged, waving for Ariana to follow him around the corner, then across the long deck toward the front of the two-story structure. They turned the corner again, walking along the front of the structure. Ariana looked upward, seeing a long row of glass panels on the second story.
That must be the captain's bridge, she reasoned.
They came to another door, and led Ariana through a maze of corridors, then up a flight of stairs. She memorized the way, marking each hallway, each door in her mind. They eventually came to a door at the end of another hallway, and Rusty banged on it with his fist in a series of short raps. The door swung open, revealing a tall, muscular man with a fierce scowl. He was bald and clean-shaven, and dressed in a simple white t-shirt and shorts.
“Evening Grotes,” Rusty greeted. The man in the doorway nodded back tiredly, then turned to Ariana, stifling a yawn.
“This the other stowaway?” Grotes asked. Rusty nodded. “Bring her in,” Grotes ordered. “Put her with the other one.”
“Yes sir,” Scar replied. Ariana felt Scar grab her arm, yanking her from Rusty's grasp and pulling her into the room past Grotes. She found herself in a large room with expensive-looking rugs and fine wooden furniture. A fire crackled in the fireplace to the left, and at the far-right corner sat a large red couch. And lying on it...
“Kyle!” Ariana exclaimed.
* * *
Kyle groaned, opening his eyes. He found himself lying on a red couch, drool on the side of his mouth, his head resting on his dreamweaver pillow. He sat up, wiping the drool away, and looked around. He was in a small but luxurious room, and several strange men were standing near him...as well as a very familiar girl.
What the hell?
He stood from the couch, or tried to; a bald, muscular man stepped between them shoving Kyle back with one brawny arm. Kyle stumbled back onto the couch, glaring at the man.
“Sit your ass down,” the man growled. He turned to Ariana, who stared back icily. “You, get on the couch next to him.” Ariana just stood there staring at him, until the man behind her – a burly man with a long scar down the side of his face – shoved his rifle into the small of her back. She took the blow without moving or saying a word, her eyes still locked on the man who’d shoved Kyle.
“Touch him again,” she warned, “...and I’ll break your hands.”
The bald man stared at Ariana, then sighed.
“She’s got fire in her, doesn’t she Grotes?” the man with the scar on his face declared. The bald man – Grotes – ignored him.
“Just get on the damn couch,” Grotes ordered. Ariana glared at him, then finally walked – slowly – to the couch. She sat next to Kyle, grabbing his hand in her own.
“You okay?” she whispered. Kyle nodded.
“What happened?” he asked. The last thing he remembered, he’d fallen asleep on top of the crates, Ariana at his side.
“Shut up,” Grotes ordered tiredly. He stood over them, rubbing his face for a moment, then pointing at Kyle. “How did you get on the Defiance?” Kyle stared at him blankly. “This ship,” Grotes growled. Kyle paused, then glanced at Ariana. Grotes walked up and slammed his hand into the wall near Kyle's head with a terrible bang, glaring down at him. “I asked you a question,” he growled.
“L
ast night,” Kyle answered.
“That's when,” Grotes retorted. “I asked how.”
“We snuck on,” Ariana interjected. “We hid in barrels,” she added. Grotes turned his glare to her.
“I wasn't asking you.”
“She's telling the truth,” Kyle insisted, squirming in his seat. He glanced over Grotes' shoulder, at the man with the rifle. Would a gravity shield stop a bullet? He had no idea. They couldn't hurt Ariana, but if they fired at him...
“Well that's just dandy,” Grotes growled, stepping back and standing straight up. “Because you two just confessed to a crime.” He smiled grimly. “Let's see if it's a felony.” He turned to face the short, pudgy red-haired man. “Rusty, get me the orb.”
“Yes sir,” Rusty replied, leaving the room. Grotes turned back to Kyle and Ariana. He was about to say something when the door burst open.
“What's going on?” A voice demanded. Kyle leaned to the side, seeing an older man striding into the room. He was perhaps six feet tall, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard, dressed in a blood-red uniform. Various medals glittered on his chest, and affixed to his belt was a sword on his left, and a pistol on his right. Everyone in the room stood a little straighter when the man entered, saluting him instantly.
“Captain!” they said in unison.
“I believe I asked a question,” the captain stated wearily. He turned a quick eye on Kyle and Ariana, then turned to Grotes, clasping his hands behind his back and staring at him impatiently.
“Stowaways Captain,” Grotes answered. “We found them hiding in the cargo bay.”
“How did they get there?”
“They claim to have hidden in barrels Captain,” Grotes replied. The Captain sighed.
“All barrels and crates were to be visually inspected and Tested per my order,” the Captain stated. “You will instruct the inspection crew accordingly and dock their pay at your discretion.”
“Yes Captain,” Grotes replied. The Captain turned a weary eye on Kyle and Ariana.
“Have they been Tested?” he asked.