In Dark Service

by Stephen Hunt

  ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ the female slave told Adella. ‘Just hold your arm out, the scanner won’t burn you. You’ll be glad enough to get scanned when you’re mining. Those bars on your arm will match you up to your team’s quota. The harder you work, the better you’ll eat.’

  Adella nervously extended her wrist. The male slave raised the gun and flashed a beam of red light against her skin, then checked the readout. ‘Adella Cheyenne. Apprentice seamstress. Biological age, eighteen. Blood type, AB. Clean for diseases, predisposition to diabetes beyond the age of fifty.’

  ‘May you reach that age, Adella,’ smiled the other slave woman. She felt Adella’s arm as if she was evaluating horseflesh at a fair. ‘May we all.’

  ‘How do you know my family has a history of diabetes?’

  ‘The imperium can read your blood sample like a book,’ said the male slave. He sported half a beard, dark stubble on his jutting chin and the outline of a moustache. The hair on his head was as dark as Carter’s own, but thick and bushy, as were the eyebrows over two narrow, clear eyes – like fire slits in a fortress. ‘A lot of the tricks they can do seem like magic to us.’

  ‘But they’re not magic, are they?’ said Carter.

  ‘You’re damn right,’ said the slave. ‘Even if their science sometimes appears that way. The ironic thing is, it’s not even the imperium’s science. Most of the empire’s technology is traded by other nations in exchange for the minerals blown out of that stratovolcano smoking down there. Anything new in the world gets to be traded here for a couple of tons of gold and iron, eventually.’

  ‘What work am I going to be given?’ asked Adella.

  ‘Only two sorts of labour for women in the sky mines,’ said the female house slave. ‘Working the processing belts, grading and sorting rocks; or climbing into shafts too small and narrow for men to work. You’re lucky, darling. Too tall and light for serious digging, so your butt is going to be warming a conveyor belt’s stool.’

  ‘There’s a third sort of work too,’ said the man. ‘But you’ll want to keep your head down for that duty.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means,’ said the woman, ‘when one of Princess Helrena Skar’s celestial-caste friends comes to the mines, checking up on our quotas and work, the pretty ones like you could get selected as house slaves. Get yourself bumped up to upper-hostile caste, although what you would need to do to earn the promotion isn’t anything a decent Weyland girl should contemplate.’

  She seemed amused at Adella’s look of repulsion, and pushed Carter back down on his cot as he rose to complain on Adella’s behalf. ‘That goes for you too, pretty boy. Though with that weal across your face, you’re probably an acquired taste, now. That’s a slaver’s whip, right? I think I already have you marked down here somewhere, as the feisty one… trouble.’

  There was something about the woman’s voice and manner. Carter suddenly realised that he recognised this woman – or at least, he knew of her. ‘You’re Anna Kurtain, aren’t you? James Kurtain’s sister?’

  Her jaw dropped, as shocked as if Carter had tried to punch her. ‘How—?’

  ‘Your brother was on the skel carrier plane that raided Northhaven, working as an engine mechanic and tending the slave pens. I gave him my word I’d look after you in the sky mines.’

  ‘James!’ She wiped away a sudden spill of tears rolling down her smooth cheeks. ‘When I couldn’t find him here, I thought he’d died in transit. Just wastage. He’s really alive? All this time…’

  ‘Alive and well,’ said Carter. ‘Way he told me, he was taken from the pens when the skels found out he was a clockmaker. They put him on engine maintenance duty and kept him for themselves. He’s still flying around up there in the clouds.’

  ‘James! He was always lucky. I’m glad he’s not here. If he’s keeping that bandit carrier in the air, he’ll be alive long after our corpses have been tossed off the station.’

  ‘I wish I could let James know you’re still alive,’ said Carter.

  ‘So, you’re going to look after me are you? Let’s have your arm and I’ll read your tea leaves for you. Bushy-tail here, his name is Owen Paterson. He was with me when we were attacked back home.’ Carter held out his arm and the male slave, Owen, scanned his forearm while Anna examined the readout on the device’s screen. ‘Yeah, you’re down here, Carter Carnehan, gold-grade trouble. Got a mark from an upper-celestial on your ticket for you and your friend, Duncan Landor. A little too feisty and full of beans? You’re both down as hitters.’

  ‘Hitters?’

  ‘There are only three real stages in the sky mining process, Northhaven. Finding the rock, keeping the rock, mining the rock. Hitters do the “keeping” part. There’s one good piece of news; after you’ve completed your general training, your specialist training is going to be real quick. As in: take stick, swing stick. Training complete.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ said Owen, playfully prodding Anna in the back. ‘You’ll get plenty of training in how to fight to stake a claim. She thinks that anyone who can’t fly a transporter is only fit to swing a stick.’

  ‘Why the hell would I fight with just a stick?’

  ‘You’re sky mining labour, Northhaven,’ said Anna. ‘You think the empire’s going to give you a gun out here? You’ll get a pickaxe minus its axe head, because imperial law states no slave can fight with a bladed or ranged weapon outside the arenas, either that or called up as cannon fodder for the legion.’ She mimed swinging with a bat. ‘So, which celestial-upper marked you down for that duty?’

  ‘Princess Helrena Skar.’

  Anna Kurtain snorted with amusement. ‘And you’re planning to look after me? Damn, we’ll see how that works out.’

  Adella watched the two slaves moving on down the line of cots allocating work details, her eyes narrowing in anger. ‘She’s haughty and obnoxious.’

  ‘She knows her way around. Three years jump on us, learning how to stay alive in the sky mines. Time to work out the escape routes too, maybe.’

  ‘Escape? The woman’s still trapped after all those years, isn’t she, Carter? Just like us. Don’t trust her so easily.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Going to have to trust someone, said a voice in Carter’s head. Survival is a team game. It sounded a lot like his father’s.

  Carter turned up to the hitters’ training session with low expectations that might just be about to be exceeded. Owen Paterson was one of the old hands allocated to train the intake of new sky miners. There were more survivors from the previous batch of miners arriving in the station now, experienced workers reassigned from other holdings to bring the new recruits up to speed. Weylanders for the most part, with a handful of other nationalities mixed in. Carter was a little shocked to realise how long Weyland had been raided for slaves. And angry too. That his nation hadn’t proved better able to protect its people. But then, bandits, brigands, pirates, nomads and slavers always picked away at the margins of Weyland’s vast territory, especially along the eastern frontier. You never really thought about the victims until you became one yourself. The green Weylanders lined up in the high heat of an empty chamber to learn the craft of bashing in skulls; murdering other slaves to ensure their mistress won in the claim-jumping stakes. Like the others in the room, Carter clutched a pickaxe handle without its metal head attached.

  ‘Would it cost so much to put a cutting edge on the end of this?’ asked Carter, holding up his heavy length of wood.

  ‘Vandians would consider it a bladed weapon,’ answered Owen. ‘And that’d cost you your life.’

  ‘Seems to me that Princess Helrena Skar is the one asking us to fight. Least she could do is to send us into the fray properly armed.’

  ‘The Vandians are big on their caste system,’ said Owen. ‘Even the lowest caste of citizen is allowed to carry a dagger. If a lowborn Vandian saw a slave bearing a bladed weapon, it would be like that slave claiming they were the equal of an imperial citizen. They want a sky
mine up here, not an armed camp of slaves that might spark a revolt. That’s something they really fear, because there’s a lot of slaves in the imperium.’

  Carter shook his head. ‘I’m not their equal, I’m better than a dozen of them.’

  ‘Got an ego to match theirs, for sure,’ said Duncan from down the line.

  Carter shot him an angry look.

  ‘Never underestimate the Vandians,’ said Owen. ‘They live by their duelling code. It’s intended to weed out weaklings, make sure the sons and daughters of empire never get fat and complacent. Allows feuds to be settled without the empire collapsing into civil war every few years. Princess Helrena can be challenged by anyone of equal caste, or receive a challenge from above. No champions permitted; she has to be ready to fight to the death to keep what she has, every minute of every day. You face an adult Vandian in combat; you’re fighting a proven survivor.’

  Carter dropped the wood into his palm with a thud. ‘And am I allowed to challenge up?’

  ‘No,’ said Owen. ‘And the princess wouldn’t dirty her honour by challenging anyone lower to a scrap. Vandians don’t duel with slaves; they apply whips to our backs.’

  ‘You know a lot about their kind. Ever been off the sky mines?’

  ‘The easiest way off is to die, get wrapped in a shroud, and be tossed over the side. Try talking to the house slaves when they visit the station with the princess and her allies,’ said Owen. ‘You might pick up a few things to help keep everyone alive.’

  Carter swung the makeshift club around. ‘So this is it?’

  ‘This is it… and be glad of it. In the Vandians’ gladiator combats they’ll throw you bladed weapons inside an arena, for the few days you survive. Compared to a gladiator’s fate, labouring in a sky mine is a weekend fishing trip.’

  ‘I’ve fought with steels,’ said Carter.

  ‘And you think a pickaxe handle is below your station?’ said Owen. ‘Then we’ll start with you, Mister Carnehan.’

  Carter stepped out of the line, testing the heft of the wood, feeling the balance. ‘You want me to hold back?’

  ‘I want you to take this seriously. Just pretend I’m one of the Vandians that purchased your sorry hide for a handful of coins. If that doesn’t make you mad enough, let me know. I’m sure I can come up with some insults to help you along.’

  Carter laughed and faced off against the bushy-haired slave. Owen held his length of wood two-handed, one fist at either end of the handle, circling Carter as they manoeuvred around each other in the chamber. Carter kept his club clutched in his right fist, holding it forward, ready to jab and strike when he saw an opening.

  There was a shout from one of the other training groups – someone taking some lumps, and Carter thought he saw Owen’s eyes slide away for a second. He rushed in and aimed his club at the old hand’s gut, a blow to knock the air out of his lungs, then a tap to the head, and Carter would have made his play. Unfortunately for Carter, the distraction was simply a ploy. Owen stepped forward, moving to the side, tripping Carter up with the club and letting him sprawl onto the hard rock surface. Owen brought the weight of wood down towards Carter’s head, halting it a hair above the back of his skull to make the point.

  ‘Looks like I’m a survivor, too,’ said Owen. ‘One of my uncles ran a fencing hall back home and I helped with the business. Sabre and staff weren’t strangers to me when the skels came raiding. The corpses I planted in the ground just hung a higher price around my neck.’

  ‘You’re quick,’ said Carter, carefully picking himself up from the stone floor. Quicker than you look. The thing that smarted the most was his pride.

  ‘If I wasn’t,’ said Owen, ‘I wouldn’t be here.’ He turned to the other slaves ringed around the two of them. ‘Never underestimate your enemy. When you’re out there in the sky, trying to stake a claim to put rations on the table of your friends and family, you won’t know anything about the slaves attacking you. Not their names or their country. You certainly won’t know if they’re old hands or as green as a Weyland meadow. You want to stay alive, you’d better act as if they’re superior to you and plan accordingly. There’s no such thing as easy up here. Only dying is effortless. So make it and yourself damn hard.’ He pointed to a series of air masks stacked inside wooden crates against the wall. ‘Pull those on. You’ll be wearing oxygen breathers when it comes time to scrap, so you need to get used to fighting with restricted vision.’

  Carter took one of the masks by the strap and slipped it on, then spent a second or two getting over the smell of stale air from the air canisters on either side, choking down his gag reflex. Everyone else milled around, jostling for masks, some of the slaves swapping sizes until they got a respirator with straps that could be adjusted for a half-comfortable fit. Carter tapped the clear visor. Not quite glass, lighter and with a slight oiliness to the touch.

  ‘It’s called plastic,’ said Owen, his voice slightly muffled behind the air mask he had slipped on. ‘It’s shatterproof. Okay, Duncan Landor, you seemed to find the sight of Northhaven here falling on his tail amusing. Step forward. Let’s see if any of you northern country boys have anything to teach me.’

  Carter was pleased to see the heir to the Landor fortune hadn’t, and the harsh ‘instruction’ the rich boy received made Carter glad he’d cleaned his visor for the lesson. Until now he would have laughed if anyone had told him there could be so much finesse and craft behind swinging a club. Owen could make that simple shaft of wood a short staff, a wooden sabre, a billy-club or a stave. And he made it dance in his hands, as well as painfully administering cracks and impacts across his victim’s form. The trainees went at it for long hours, and by the time they’d finished, the new slaves were limping back to their barracks with a constellation of purple bruises across their bodies. The next day the training began anew, and the next day, and the next. Owen was as underfed as the rest of them, nothing but water and subsistence rations to keep him going – he was hungry, and always absorbing blows on his lithe, bony body when someone, usually accidentally, connected with him. He’s putting his heart into it, that’s for sure. It was obvious that it meant something to Owen to help his fellow Weylanders becomes as skilled as possible, ready for the day they would need to fight. Carter doubted he would have been as passionate, if he had seen so many fresh intakes arrive from home and then disappear into the heartless maw of the sky mines. It was obvious that with a few exceptions – Owen and his friend Anna among them – most of the old hands had been blunted by life out here. Carter would have to survive for a good few years or so before he would be considered worth talking to. As far as the veteran sky miners were concerned, getting to know Carter Carnehan would be an emotional investment in a walking corpse.

  Training on the station wasn’t easy for any of the greenhorns. Willow and Adella had been set to learn the sorting lines. They were given a crash course in identifying minerals being run at speed down conveyer belts. For every valuable ore they missed or failed to sort correctly, there was a sharp lesson from an overseer that Adella described as a bitter old harpy. Another long-term survivor, but one without Owen’s core of decency, it seemed. Only Kerge seemed to have landed on his feet – his uncommon mechanical skills bringing him a job in the repair bay, maintaining the heavy mining machinery.

  If there had been any fat on the slaves when they were been taken, there certainly wasn’t now. Carter got used to getting up hungry, training ravenous and collapsing, sweating, on his cot with his stomach still grumbling. The training was exhausting, especially on short rations. When the slaves weren’t learning combat as hitters, they were taken to mining training – fewer lumps, but it was even more backbreaking. Cutting new tunnels in the station’s rock just for the hell of it. The skills of tunnelling and shaft sinking, ore haulage and hoisting, stopping supports for the passages, air pumping, blasting powder safety. Adella, Willow and many of the women captured at Northhaven were taken away to master the grinding and crushing lines, classificat
ion and screening. They came back with their hands and arms raw and bleeding, complaining about lessons in electrostatic separation, gravity separation, dense medium separation, magnetic separation and froth flotation. The distracting effect of this harsh regime was, Carter realised, probably largely the point of it. No one had time to brood over their lost lives, though from the sobbing he heard rising from cots at night, that strategy wasn’t always successful. Sometimes, Carter had to work hard not to join that sad night chorus. Agonising over his last moments with his parents. Remembering his mother’s blood pooling around her stretched-out body, his father’s body vanishing in the exploding shell flash. It was odd. He could feel pain for the family he had lost and the comfortable life he had known. But the station’s grinding toil didn’t really leave much room for self-pity or fear. There wasn’t hope. Or ambition. Nor much in the way of glimpses of joy. There was just a weary grind until Carter lost track of the days, each the same as the last. Until it was a relief to let fatigue prise him from his thoughts and send him spinning into darkness. And asleep he dreamed of food. Real meat and vegetables, not the thin barley gruel that barely covered the bottom of the bowl pushed across the counter towards him in the station’s refectory cave. The dreams seemed far more tangible than his meagre rations; memories of the wholesome smell of his last meal in Northhaven. But you couldn’t live on happy reminiscences, and the contrast with life back in Weyland and his existence here in the sky mines was too stark to dwell on without going mad. In the end, his former life drifted away into the perpetual mist of volcanic vapours surrounding the station. This was his life, here, or at least it was base survival.