Fires of Invention

by J. Scott Savage

  “Trenton,” his father scolded, interrupting his thoughts.

  He looked up, realizing he’d been imagining ways to improve the system—to change it. Why did his brain insist on doing that? Why couldn’t he leave things the way they were?

  Fortunately, at that moment, level three, where steam and coal were turned into power, came into view. Trenton gawked at the rows of buildings filled with pumps, smokestacks, and all sorts of moving equipment—grinding, growling, and squealing in a symphony of gears and pistons. He’d never seen so much machinery in his life. “This is where I want to work once I get out of school.”

  “We can always use a good mechanic,” Mr. Sheets said.

  Trenton wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It’s so hot down here. Is level four like this too?”

  “Level six,” Mr. Sheets said. When Trenton looked confused, he added, “Most folks think of the food-production level as one, the city proper as two, power generation as three, and mining as four. What they forget is—”

  But Mr. Sheets cut off when Trenton’s father shook his head and continued instead with, “What they’re forgetting is that this level feels hot because of all the steam and burning coal. Even with the exhaust fans, the temperature hovers around ninety degrees all of the time. Enough heat is fed to the city to keep it comfortable. Down below . . . well, see for yourself.”

  Trenton thought he must have missed something, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He studied the factories, stretching on tiptoe until the last plant disappeared from sight. As the elevator rumbled down to the lowest level of the city, the air quickly took on a chill.

  “There’s a reason miners are called ice rats,” Mr. Sheets said. “It must be sixty degrees down here.”

  “Closer to fifty,” Mr. Coleman said. “But after a few minutes of work, you warm right up.”

  At the bottom of the shaft, the car clanged to a halt. Chains rattled overhead, and a puff of steam shot up from beneath them. The security officer running the elevator slammed the lever to STOP and pulled open the gate. Unlike the city, which was hundreds of feet high and brightly lit during the day, or the power generation level, which was dim and not quite as tall, the roof of the mining level was so low it felt claustrophobic.

  Lamps near the elevator illuminated the area outside it, but the tunnels branching in different directions quickly disappeared into an inky darkness. Trenton couldn’t imagine working here every day like his dad did.

  “Put this on,” his father said, handing him a leather jacket from a rack on the wall. “It will keep you warm without being too bulky.” All three of them put on coats, filtration masks to keep them from inhaling coal dust, and helmets equipped with carbide lamps, which burned with a steady hiss.

  Trenton knew from school that the mining level provided ore, coal, and steam—all vital to the city’s stability. Their abundance was one of the main reasons the founders of Cove had chosen to build the city inside this mountain when the atmosphere outside had turned too foul to breathe.

  Trenton eyed the heavy mining vehicles nearby. Cars ran on metal wraparound tracks instead of wheels like the city trollies did. Several cars had one or more trailers hooked behind them, while others were equipped with digging claws at the front.

  “Are we going to take one of those?” Trenton asked.

  “No, it’s not that far,” his father said, his voice muted by his mask. He led them down a tunnel to the right.

  “Is this the coal mine?” Trenton asked as they passed a network of empty black rooms and pillars.

  Mr. Coleman nodded.

  Trenton studied the men and women operating the mining tools. Somewhere down here, a long time ago, a piece of equipment designed to hold up the walls and ceiling had failed. A section of rock and coal had collapsed, trapping his mother beneath it. Other miners had dug her out quickly, but her legs had been permanently damaged. Even now she could barely walk and had to wear bulky metal braces. His parents didn’t talk about it, and he’d learned not to ask.

  The deeper into the tunnel they went, the quieter his father became. Was he thinking about what had happened here too? Or was he immune to those thoughts after so many years in the mines?

  “There it is,” Mr. Sheets said, pointing to a spot where several vehicles loaded with chunks of coal stood idle in front of a belt that rose up through the ceiling.

  Trenton started toward the chute, but his father turned and gripped his shoulder so tightly it hurt. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Trenton said.

  In the light of Trenton’s headlamp, his father’s eyes narrowed. “That’s because you don’t know any better.” He pointed at the chute. “That thing can take a man’s arm right off—and it has more than once. Do you know what would happen if the feeder started up while you were inside it? The belt would pull you straight into the furnaces.”

  “Mr. Coleman,” Mr. Sheets began. “We’ve taken every—”

  “Bob, you’re a fine man,” Trenton’s father said, cutting him off. “But don’t try to tell me that this is a good idea.” He wiped his hand across his mouth and looked at Trenton again. “I don’t know why I let the chancellor talk you into this.”

  Trenton lifted his father’s hands from his shoulders. “I’ll be all right.”

  Before his father could say another word, Trenton adjusted his helmet and climbed up the chute.

  4

  If the coal mine had felt claustrophobic, climbing up the feed chute felt like entering his own grave. The chain mesh conveyor belt was covered with sharp metal ridges to keep the coal from falling back down the chute. Loose black chunks of coal slipped out from under his hands and feet as he tried to climb, making him fall against the ridges.

  The top of the tunnel was low enough that at times he had to half crawl, half slide to get through. No wonder they needed a kid to do this. The walls were so narrow and the ceiling so low that he kept banging his head and elbows against rocks that stuck out. It if hadn’t been for the helmet, his head would have been a mass of bumps and bruises. An adult would have gotten stuck a dozen times over.

  Every few feet, he stopped to examine the belt, looking for breaks or rocks jammed in the chain. After fifteen minutes of searching, his back ached, and even with his leather jacket and thick pants, his arms and legs were covered with cuts and nicks. He paused, resting his head against the wall.

  “Are you all riiiiight?” his father’s voice echoed up to him.

  Trenton pulled down his mask and shouted, “I’m fine. Just taking a break.”

  “Don’t be too loooooong,” his father called. “You don’t want your light to run out of fuel.”

  That could happen? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned it before? The thought of trying to crawl back down with no light was terrifying. He crawled up the belt again, pushing himself to move quicker and check more thoroughly.

  His father had said he didn’t need to do this, but Trenton knew that he did. Partly to make up for the swing, because it was true that he didn’t know how to put a brake on his brain. When he got an idea, he felt like he could only focus on that one thing. Never on what the consequences of his actions might be.

  More than that, though, he needed to do this for his mother. Their relationship had always felt strained. His father said things had been different before the accident, but Trenton had a hard time remembering that far back. He had a vague recollection of her singing as she cooked and dancing around the kitchen with his father. That could have been his imagination, though. She didn’t sing anymore, and clearly she couldn’t dance.

  He’d been only six when she’d been crushed from the thighs down. He remembered seeing her legs for the first time after the accident and thinking that he would come up with a device to make them work again. Later he’d sworn to find a way to make the mining equipment better so no one else would have an accident like hers. That was before he understood why creating anything new was wrong.

  If he’d bee
n injured because of faulty equipment, he would have wanted to find better technology. But his mother went in the opposite direction. When he told her he was going to find a way to fix her legs, she insisted that he mustn’t. She said the reason she’d been injured wasn’t because the technology wasn’t good enough; it was because there was too much technology in the first place. That if it weren’t for all the machines already in the city, they wouldn’t need so much coal. A simpler way of life was the key to happiness.

  He didn’t understand how she could think that way. To him, machines were fascinating things that made life easier. He couldn’t wait to find out how they all worked. But there was no use in arguing. Every time she saw him working on something with his tools, she shook her head. Hearing that he’d been charged with inventing would destroy her.

  He was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly missed a shiny piece of metal reflecting his helmet’s light back at him. It fit so perfectly between the mesh links in the belt that, for a moment, Trenton thought it was another ridge. But none of the other ridges were shaped like this, and none were so shiny.

  He brushed away the coal to get a better look. It was a cylinder of some kind—twice as big around as his thumb and three times as long, like a very fat metal pencil, but slightly curved. The reddish-gold color looked a little like brass and a little like copper, but not exactly like either one.

  What was it, and how did it get here? He’d been expecting to find a broken chain or a chunk of rock blocking the belt. This was definitely something else.

  Adjusting his helmet so the light shined directly on the cylinder, he reached down and touched it. It felt solid. It would have to be for it to shut down a feeder strong enough to take off a man’s arm. But it didn’t seem to have a scratch on it. He tried wiggling the piece of metal loose. It didn’t budge. Tilting his head at an angle, he could see the cylinder better now. It was exactly the right size to slip through the belt and catch in the chain below.

  “Have you found anyyythiiing?” His father’s voice sounded farther away than before, floating up like a disembodied spirit.

  Trenton cupped his hands to his mouth. “Found the problem! I’m trying to fix it.”

  “Okaaay.”

  Using a hammer and chisel from his belt, Trenton tried knocking the cylinder loose, but it was caught too tightly in the chain below. The easiest way to get it would be to take apart the chain. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time or tools for that. Even if he did, there wasn’t enough slack to do it without sending the whole works sliding down the chute. Then they really would need to dig the belt out.

  He studied the situation from one side and then the other, calculating the pros and cons of each approach. “You got yourself really stuck,” he told the cylinder. “Trust me, I know. I’ve been there myself. But I think I might see a way to get you loose.”

  The key would be to twist the cylinder from the top while banging on the chain from below. Easy to do if he had a second set of hands, a bigger wrench, and a sledgehammer. Since he had none of those things, he’d have to make do with two hands, a pair of pliers, and a little ingenuity.

  He needed something heavy to pound with, too. His hammer wouldn’t do the trick, but it might get him what he needed. He eyed the walls of the tunnel until he spotted a good-sized rock he thought he could break off.

  He worked at the wall, using the claw side of his hammer to dig and then the head of the hammer to pound the chisel.

  “What’s taking so loooong?” Mr. Sheets called.

  Trenton felt like yelling that if they wanted him to hurry, they should leave him alone and let him work. Instead he shouted that he was almost done.

  For a minute, he thought the rock might never come free and he’d have to think of another plan. Then, without warning, the rock broke away—and smashed his leg.

  He yelped in pain, but quickly called down, “I’m fine!” before the men could ask.

  Getting the rock around the feeder to the chain below was a trick, but he managed to move it into the right position to bang on the chain. At the same time, he clamped the pliers around the cylinder from the top.

  He tried to imagine how he must look lying facedown on a conveyor belt of coal, covered in dust from head to foot, with his arms and legs stretched so far that he probably looked ready to tear himself in half. Not quite the way he’d expected to impress Simoni. The thought of her seeing him like this made him chuckle, and he had to stop before his father called up again.

  He raised the rock, pulled on the pliers, and slammed the chain. The clang echoed all through the tunnel. But nothing moved. He tried again. The cylinder was still stuck. One more time. He lifted the rock until his arm shook, yanked on the pliers, and plunged the rock down.

  As if it had been toying with him the whole time, the cylinder shot free. The rock bounced off the chain and smashed his thumb. The belt jerked beneath him, and, for a terrifying second, he thought it was coming to life. He held his breath, bracing his hands against the walls, but nothing happened. It must have been the feed chain settling.

  After placing the rock on the belt, where it would get harmlessly carried up to the furnace instead of causing a new jam, he examined his thumb. Blood seeped from the nail, which was probably going to fall off; the skin around it was already turning purple. But at least nothing appeared broken.

  The belt jerked again.

  “Get out of there!” his father screamed.

  The belt rumbled forward for a second, carrying him upward with the coal—toward the furnace—then stopped. Trenton shoved his tools into his belt and began scrambling down the chute. The belt moved again, the metal ridges banging his shins and carrying him up a few more feet.

  “What’s happening?” he yelled, scrambling and tumbling downward.

  “Emergency shutoff’s not working,” Mr. Sheets called, sounding panicked. “You have to get out of the chute now.”

  He was trying to do just that. But as hard as it had been to climb up, getting down was even harder. It wasn’t like he could just slide.

  The belt started again, and his helmet slammed against the wall. The light went out, plunging him into darkness.

  “I can’t see!” he screamed.

  The belt moved him upward.

  “Hurry,” his father shouted. “Get out!”

  “I can’t turn it off,” Mr. Sheets yelled. “I can’t stop it.”

  The feeder jolted to life. This time it didn’t stop. Trenton couldn’t see, but he could feel himself moving upward. With no thought for metal ridges, broken bones, rocks, or anything but getting out, Trenton launched himself downward with a strength brought on by terror. He jumped, rolled, and leaped through the chute.

  Lights flashed in his eyes. His head bashed against something hard, and he lost all sense of direction. Was he moving up or down?

  Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him out. He looked up to see his father’s terrified face on one side and Mr. Sheets’s on the other. They were squeezing his arms so tight he could feel the circulation getting cut off. But he didn’t care. He was out.

  “You’re safe,” his father said. “You’re safe.”

  5

  Trenton paused outside the apartment door. “Do you think Mom heard about what happened?”

  His father took off his mining helmet and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll talk to her if she has.”

  Trenton’s mother was cooking when he and his father walked in the door.

  She turned from the stove. “Where have you—” Her mouth dropped open, and her metal braces clanked as she stumbled toward them. Trenton leaped forward and wrapped his arms around her as her legs gave way.

  “Let me,” his father said, lifting her frail body and helping her to the table.

  “What happened to you?” she asked Trenton as her husband eased her into a chair. “Did you have an accident when the power went out?”

  “I, um . . .” Trenton looked to his father, unsure of what to say.


  “Go into the bathroom and wash up,” his father said. “Put something on that bump.”

  Inside the bathroom, Trenton looked in the mirror and could barely recognize himself. The reflection showed a boy with coal-black skin, wild hair sticking out in all directions, and a lump on the right side of his head, which had swollen so much that it nearly forced his eye closed.

  In the kitchen, he heard his mother’s voice rise. “The mine? What was he doing in the mine?”

  His father said something too soft to hear, but her response was impossible to miss. “I don’t care what the chancellor said. I will not have my son working on mining equipment. I won’t have him working on any filthy machinery at all.”

  Trenton filled the sink with water, using the sound of the faucet to drown out the arguing in the kitchen, which grew louder and louder. She hadn’t always been like this, but lately, on more nights than not, his mother found something to go off about.

  He peeled off his shirt and carefully scrubbed his chest and arms. It was hard to find a patch of skin that wasn’t cut or bruised.

  He was finishing up when his father knocked on the door. “Put on a clean shirt and come to the table.”

  Trenton did the best he could to tame his hair and then changed clothes. He was tucking in his shirt as his father carried food from the stove.

  “Mom?” Trenton asked.

  His father glanced toward the hall. “Your mother will be eating in her room tonight. She’s not feeling well.”

  Trenton nodded silently and dished himself a piece of fish and as few peas as he could get away with. He hated peas and fish. But like almost everything else, the city controlled which foods were eaten on which days. It was all part of keeping the machine running smoothly.

  “Is she mad?” he asked, cutting off a piece of fish.

  His father chewed a mouthful of peas and swallowed. “She’s worried about you. She wants you to be safe. Her accident . . . It makes her much more aware of the dangers around us.”