The Tribari Freedom Chronicles Boxset

by Rachel Ford

  “I am,” Dru answered.

  The defender nodded. “Good. Then, in light of the circumstances and your untarnished reputation, we are dropping the charges.”

  For the first time since his captivity, Brek breathed easy. “Thank you, sirs.”

  “You seem to be an upstanding young man, and a model Tribari laborer. So I will give you a piece of advice, Brek Trigan.”

  “Sir?”

  “If I were you, I should return home on the next shuttle. This isn’t a business you want to be linked with. Certainly, you do not want the Consortium getting wind of it.”

  “No sir,” Brek agreed, a bit crestfallen by the idea of cutting his vacation short. It didn’t seem right that he should be made to sacrifice what he’d earned, when he had nothing to do with the trouble. Still, he could not argue with the public defender. “I suppose not.”

  “No. A good reputation is worth its weight in silver. But nothing tarnishes quicker, either, than a reputation.”

  Brek swallowed. “Understood. I will be on the first shuttle of the morning.”

  This satisfied the men behind the glass, and he was released to Protector Gis. The officer escorted him through another set of corridors, to an office, where he was made to apply his palm print to a set of documents. “This signifies that you were treated according to your rights under Tribari law, and that now we are releasing you.”

  Then, when that was done, he was released. “I’ll let you out the back way,” Gis said, gesturing to his vomit stained garments. “There’s cameras out there.”

  “Thank you,” Brek said.

  The officer led him out the back, and wished him well. He stood there, on the backstep of the Office of Protection, and for a moment allowed himself to breathe the afternoon air as a free man. He was, he realized trembling a little.

  He set his steps toward his lodging. He’d need to gather his belongings and check out early in the morning. It meant he’d miss seeing the countryside, where his mer and der had labored. He was sorry for that; profoundly sorry.

  Still, it couldn’t be helped now. He couldn’t have the Mining Consortium thinking he was mixed up with anarchists. In his head, he cursed the young man Grel Idan. Damned reckless fool. It was his riot that robbed Brek of a leave he’d earned. It wasn’t right that the pigheaded demands of a man who didn’t work should strip away the benefits for which he’d worked so hard. How long, he wondered, would it be before he could afford to return to Central? Would – after being mixed up, innocently though it was, in a riot – he even be allowed back on planet?

  He didn’t know, and the question weighed heavy on his mind. And with it, his disinterested dislike of the revolutionary grew to a proper loathing. No wonder the authorities were so concerned about men like Idan, he thought, looking at the chaos he’d caused in his own life. If just crossing paths with Grel as a stranger could be so disruptive, what was he capable of given free run of the City?

  Brek slept poorly, and rose feeling rather low. Still, he made it to the shuttle on time, and even managed to snag a window seat. From this, he watched their departure, seeing Central through the fiery pull of the atmosphere and the cover of clouds. He watched the planet grow smaller and smaller, until it was a tiny, beautiful green orb, far below him.

  Then he turned his eyes to Theta moon. It seemed cold and grim by comparison to that great jewel of a planet he’d just left. It was home, of course.

  And yet there was no warmth of happy memory, no flush of sweet regard, that overwhelmed his senses. The barren grays of stone and uninterrupted blues of ice fields evoked no such tenderness in his heart. That surprised him, in a way.

  Theta was his home, and would probably be home for the rest of his life. A man should love his home, for home was where the gods meant you to be. This apathy, he decided in a space, was just disappointment at having his time on Central cut short.

  He would get over that. He must get over that. He would be returning to his duties on the morrow. The Consortium had re-shifted him as soon as he’d acquired a return ticket. No sense having an able body linger idly when there was work to be done.

  Still, a part of him regretted it. He’d enjoyed setting his own schedule, managing his own time, deciding his own days. He’d enjoyed leisure, too. He’d appreciated the novelty of rising simply for the purpose of enjoyment. He’d marveled at sinking into bed without aching from head to toe with exhaustion.

  He wondered, sometimes, if that was what it was like to live as a Grand Contributor. That, he supposed, was probably better than even the fine houses and rich clothes.

  But he was not envious. Brek Trigan understood that what the Grand Contributors had, they’d earned; and what he did not have, he had not earned. He marveled, he longed, but he did not envy. He knew that, with enough work and dedication, and if the gods willed it, some measure of that prosperity might some day be his.

  After checking in with Consortium planetary headquarters to confirm his safe return, Brek went to his own home. He slept most of the day, though the room felt colder than he remembered. That, of course, was because of the difference in climate between his home and Central.

  No wonder, he thought, men like Idan struggled with the realities of life. Just a few days on Central had made him weaker. What would a lifetime in such a soft climate do to a man? What could it do, but make him soft too?

  He rose feeling a little better about himself, and about life in general. He’d not forgiven the radicals for causing him difficulties, but he had at least come to terms with the situation. It was beyond his control, and the gods expected a man to make the most of his circumstances, to accept what was beyond his power to change with grace and dignity and gratitude.

  Brek endeavored to do so. Whatever the anarchists were up to, they weren’t his problem now. His problems were the mines, and the thousand and one apparatuses of his profession.

  The day began much as any other day in the mines: cold, dark and frantically paced. The exploratory drills in the new east tunnels were in a cool down state when Brek clocked in. “They’ve been giving us some trouble,” one of outgoing shift hands cautioned. “We lost two bits. Put everything behind schedule.”

  Those were words no one wanted to hear coming onto a shift. It meant overworked, disgruntled miners. It meant irritable, anxious managers. It meant irate comm calls from Consortium leadership. It meant, in short, a particularly long, miserable day for Brek Trigan, whose job it was to keep the machines running.

  He tried not to remember that he might still have been in the Star shine on Central, were it not for the trouble he’d met with there. He tried to ignore the fact that his body still ached where the submission prod had sent a blast of energy through him two days before.

  He focused on the job, as a dutiful laborer should. The day ran long, the hours bleeding slowly one into another. Day passed and night began, though he couldn’t have said when. The machines were stubborn today. The Specialist Apprentice who has filled in during his absence, Tri Gul, had missed maintenance he should have performed, and run the machines too long without coolant swaps. They’d need a full flush before the week was out.

  And, all the while, Consortium leadership was checking in to see where they were in recovering the lost time.

  Brek worked past his shift. When he finally left for his quarters, he collapsed into bed too tired to eat. His sleep was the deep, dreamless sleep of the exhausted, and it was interrupted all too soon by the blare of his alarm.

  The second day back on the job was a little smoother. They managed to make up most of the lost time, and Brek got authorization to cycle drills seven through ten for full maintenance the next day.

  But as the third day dawned, his plans were thrown into disarray. Drill eight stalled during the night, and he had only just pulled off the motor casing to look at it when the entire eastern tunnel grid went out. His pager buzzed. The overhead warning system sounded, and half a dozen men shouted his name.

  “Eight’s going to
have to wait,” he told the operator. “I need to find out what’s going on in East sector.”

  He crossed the camp at a run. Smoke was billowing out of the eastern tunnels by time he reached it. “What’s going on?”

  “One of the drills overheated,” someone choked out.

  Dammit! He’d been afraid this would happen. It always happened when the full coolant flush was skipped. He’d tried to make that point to management. He’d tried to convince them that the wait would be worth it in the end. But their numbers had slipped, and management couldn’t see past the red in their metrics. There’s going to be a lot more red now. “We need power back in this sector. We’re going to need the ventilation systems back on before we can send anyone in there.”

  The orders were relayed, and in a minute Brek was connected to Theta’s power plant manager, Lem Alred. “We registered a big surge from one of your drills. It took out a transformer. It’s going to be half an hour before you’re online, minimum.”

  “Half an hour’s too long,” the Machine Specialist said. “We’ve got men in those tunnels. And they’re going to want the drills back-”

  “Look,” Lem answered, “my people are good at their job, but they’re not miracle workers. Half an hour is optimistic. My advice is, get your people out of there and sit tight.”

  Sitting tight, though, was easier said than done. The evac order had only just been issued when his pager sounded again. It was the plant manager, Head Daj. “Trigan! What in the names of the gods is going on down there?” Brek tried to explain, but was quickly interrupted. “Half an hour? My gods, we’re already in the shit from the other day’s fiasco. You want the entire eastern sector down for half an hour?”

  “No sir, I don’t. But that’s how long it’s going to take for the power to come back. And then we’re going to have to flush the drills. That’s another twenty minutes per machine.”

  Even through the little screen he could see that his boss’s golden eyes had gone quite dark, and were staring back at him with a gray the color of the kleja rock that was so common on Theta. “You’re talking hours of downtime,” Head Daj said, his tones icy.

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s unacceptable.”

  “We don’t have an alternative. We can’t do anything with the machines until the ventilation’s back online. And we won’t have ventilation until-”

  “You don’t need ventilation to drain a godsdamned coolant repository!”

  Brek felt his own eyes narrowing. “The shafts are full of smoke. We can’t have men in there with that smoke. They won’t make it out alive.”

  “Send some shaft monkeys in.”

  “Kids?” Brek was aghast. “You want to send kids in there?”

  But Daj was unmoved. “I can’t afford to lose good men, not if we’re going to make up our time. Monkeys are cheap. They can get the coolant drained, so once the ventilation is back, you’re ready to go.”

  “I’m not sending kids in there,” Brek said. “It’s a death sentence.”

  Head Daj’s eyes darkened still. “Trigan, you’re on my list already. This happened on your watch. You either get some monkeys in those tunnels, or you pack your bags. And get ready to face charges for negligence.”

  The transmission ended, and Brek stood rooted in place, stunned.

  “Should I…put the call in?” a voice to his side asked.

  The machine specialist glanced up. It was one of the site leads. “What?”

  “The call, for monkeys.”

  Brek shook his head. “No.”

  “But Daj said…”

  “I heard what he said,” he snapped. The other many studied him with troubled eyes. Brek knew well enough what he was thinking. There’d be fallout that would extend beyond himself if Head Daj’s orders were disobeyed. So he moderated his tone, and said, “I’ve got it covered.”

  “Alright,” the lead answered.

  “You keep working on the evac,” Brek said. “Make sure there’s no one else left there. I’ll take care of the drills.”

  “Got it.”

  Brek turned his attention to the tunnels now. Strapping on a breather and goggles, he headed for the smoke. The apparatus wouldn’t do much, not against the billowing plumes of toxic spew spilling out of the shaft. But it would keep him functioning longer than he would be without it.

  The machine specialist took a breath, and then pushed forward. He passed men rushing out of the tunnels, gagging and choking. One was barley conscious, vomiting as his friends hauled him on.

  The sights terrified him. The inky weight in the air obscured his vision and seeped through his breather to burn his nostrils. But Brek gritted his teeth, and fought down the fear. He focused on his work. If Daj wanted the drills drained, dammit, he’d get them drained.

  But he’d be damned if he was going to send a kid down here to choke on these fumes. There may be hell to pay if he made out alive. There’d be hell to pay if he didn’t get it done, though. And the fact was, Brek didn’t anticipate surviving long enough for it to be a problem he’d have to face anyway.

  Not that he concentrated on that part. He put his mind to the job. The rest registered vaguely, in the back of his thoughts.

  He found the first drill. It was hot to the touch, but not the source of the smoke, at least. It was quick work to get it draining – position the runoff pan, turn a few screws, and pull the plug.

  The coolant, thick and purple with pollutants, oozed out. Brek moved on.

  The acrid air seemed almost to cut his nostrils now. Every breath burned, and his lungs felt as if they were coated in acid.

  He reached the second drill. It was in better shape than the first. As he flipped the drain plug, a stream of thin, silvery blue coolant poured out.

  The third machine, though, seemed to be the source of the sector’s problems. The stone cavern in which it was housed was filled with a thick, black smoke. The beam from Brek’s headlamp could barely penetrate the smog. It was enough, though, to see that the drill was still leaking great billows of smoke.

  Brek’s eyes, even under the goggles, streamed. Breathing felt like swallowing knives, and his stomach roiled.

  Help me, he prayed. Help me get through this.

  Somehow – by the grace of his gods, perhaps – Brek did get through. His hands were singed, even through his protective gloves, from handling the hot machinery. Blood trickled out of his nostrils, pooling at the base of his breather, as he stumbled from the drill.

  But he was still alive, and still conscious. He had one quad left, one drill remaining. If he could make it there, and out again…

  But he refused to entertain that speculation. False hope was as dangerous as despair. Right now, he needed neither. He only needed to concentrate on the work, on taking one step after another to get him where he needed to go.

  He’d taken about fifteen of those steps out of the smoke-filled cavern when a tremor passed under his feet. He froze, his very blood going cold. For a miner, nothing was quite as terrifying as feeling the shaft underfoot tremble. Not when you were hundreds of meters underground.

  All was still. He wondered for a moment if he had imagined it. But there was no mistaking that sensation. No, he had felt it alright.

  His first instinct was to retreat, to head back out of the tunnels and toward the main camp. But Daj’s orders rang in his ears, and so did the threat. Get ready to face charges for negligence.

  Whatever was happening under his feet, it wouldn’t – couldn’t – be as bad as that. Charges of negligence meant the frozen penal colonies on Zeta. It meant a protracted death of frostbite and hunger. It meant losing piece after piece of yourself to the cold, to the cruelty of the Protectors assigned to that frozen world. He’d heard the stories, of men and women who lost toes and fingers, then feet and hands, to the eternal winter. He heard of guards who left them out for the wolf packs, taking bets on how long it would take a gimp to die, placing wagers on whether the wolves would find her before the weather
did. He’d seen the survivors – those rare Tribari who lasted out their sentences and returned, sometimes intact, sometimes missing pieces. Their haunted eyes and fragile forms were warning enough about what waited on Zeta. Frozen shells of men and women; that’s all that came back from the penal colonies.

  Brek forged into the tunnel. He only had one quad left, after all. If he got the job done, Head Daj would be appeased. Appeased enough, at least, not to press charges.

  He’d almost reached quad four when the tunnel shook again. This time, it wasn’t just underfoot. The entire passage seemed to shift. The beam from Brek’s headlamp danced and jerked through the smoke and darkness. He caught hold of the side of the tunnel to keep his footing. And all the while, there was a great, rumbling sound, like stone tearing itself apart.

  The machine specialist turned, his miner’s instincts driving aside all else. Zeta Colony and all its horrors were far, far away at the moment. Right now, all he knew was that the mines were trembling and screaming below him, and he needed to get to safety.

  The tunnel roared again, and this time shook so violently he was pitched onto his stomach. He tried to rise, but the ground underneath him undulated and thrashed. Every time he pushed upward, it pitched down.

  And then, to his horror, Brek felt it give way altogether. He was falling – free falling – into the darkness below him.

  He reached out, trying to grab onto something, anything. For his efforts, he was rewarded with a few smashing blows as his hands and arms impacted with rock; but he was moving too quickly, and it was too dark, to catch onto anything.

  Then he landed, with a force that knocked the air out of his lungs. His headlamp flickered and then died with the impact, leaving him stranded in darkness. A moment later, he was pelted in debris from above.

  “Oh gods,” he groaned, clawing to pull himself out of range of the falling rocks and dirt.

  Once he’d reached relative safety, he pulled off his goggles and breather. Blood was running freely from his nose, and down his face. He could feel it seeping, hot against his chilled flesh, out of new wounds all over his body. But, it seemed, he’d broken no bones. That, at least, was a cause for relief.