Trinity

by Patrick Morgan

  ‘Those are your boggers, or LHDs if you like,’ said Beth, pointing at the two loaders. They resembled the front-end loaders JT was familiar with from Hellinar Research’s warehouses on the western outskirts of Skala, facilities like T24. They were low with centre-pivot steering, the cab and bucket up front, a diesel engine that revved with the demand of the hydraulics at the rear. The combined noise of the engines, the scraping of metal across the rock and the crashing of the aggregate was as oppressive as the heat, soot and diesel fumes.

  ‘There’s no ventilation down here?’ JT shouted ahead to Beth over the din.

  ‘Yeah, it’s ventilated,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘The decline’s pressurised to keep the gases moving. This atmosphere is actually not too bad.’

  The two men shared a look, wondering what bad air could be like. They followed Beth out past the boggers and down a smaller, darker side tunnel. The din faded behind them, giving way to the sound of flowing water accompanied by the unmistakable ripping of metal violating rock. Lying before Beth, drowned in glare, was a multi-limbed mechanical manifestation of a Hellinar tarantula spider. What appeared as a corpulent thorax was suspended just off the uneven ground by four sturdy legs that arched out, clawed tips forced hard against the rock floor. High above them, three articulated arms probed high on the walls in an unsteady myopic examination.

  One of the arms found its mark and drove itself hard against the rock face above. From halfway down its length, a sliding ram engaged and the high-pitched metallic ring of a spinning rod became audible. The slide moved forward and hydraulic supply piping unwound from a spool mounted behind it. On contact, the rod bowed under load as a hissing spray of water from the drill tip fanned out to cool it. A moment later the fan became an opaque, gushing flow from inside a rapidly deepening borehole.

  The atmosphere was even more oppressive than it had been in the main drive behind them. Coolant pouring from drill heads increased the local humidity above already unbearable levels. Sweat mixed with condensation formed a layer of clammy slime on the skin that began to soak slowly into their clothes.

  Seemingly oblivious, Beth shouted, ‘That’s a jumbo’ during a pause while the drilling arm probed for its next spot. ‘We use them for securing the stope, ‘case you’re interested. The arm that was just drilling, that’s moved on while the other two raise the mesh and drive rock bolts into the holes.’

  As she said this, the two men could see a figure off to the side hooking a flexible section of mesh onto a lowered arm. ‘That’s the nipper. He loads the mesh, the rock bolts and takes care of any other jobs to keep the jumbo operational. He changes drill heads, stops up any coolant leaks and services the chassis. Having a good nipper is the key to making progress down here. They struggle at first, but this guy’s pretty good.’

  The men nodded as they watched the fluidity of the nipper’s work with admiration. A few moments later their attention was pulled away by the sight of a fourth arm carrying a fenced platform on which stood a single female figure.

  ‘That’s Desiree Angelo,’ said Beth, with a reverence that was hard to miss even above the racket of drilling and splashing. ‘She’s one of our best. Didn’t know she was down here this shift.’

  From where they stood they couldn’t see exactly what Angelo was doing, but she appeared to be working levers and a keyboard with assured dexterity.

  ‘It’s pretty advanced tech,’ said Beth. ‘Once the pilot hole is sunk, the bolt goes right in there without any assistance. The mesh arm’s manual and so is the drill.’

  ‘That’s still quite a workload to manage,’ shouted Ira.

  ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ said Beth. ‘You seen enough? We can go find you another one to tick off your list soon as you’re ready.’

  JT nodded vigorously and Beth turned back to step between them. Both men took a last look at the arachnid-like form of the jumbo before turning to follow her.

  *

  A second jumbo had been folded and parked up in one of the many drives that made up Level Four. On its wheels, with its three arms folded and thrust in front of it, it looked more like an insect than an arachnid. JT took a moment to examine it more closely, with the benefit of much-reduced ambient noise.

  ‘You know this one is actually ours,’ called JT with delight. ‘It says so right here.’ He pointed to a plaque attached to the chassis.

  ‘That’s great,’ replied Beth, with a feigned enthusiasm that made Ira smile. JT, clearly oblivious, joined them to move on down the tunnel. The two men were now breathing hard simply with the exertion of walking.

  Entering another stope, they recognised the unmistakable form of a drill rig. Beside it stood a short run of freestanding racking filled with metal tubes on one side and labelled rock slugs on the other. A man and woman conferring over the slugs caught sight of the approaching visitors and turned.

  ‘Beth, hi. You come for the slugs? We’re not quite done yet,’ said the woman. ‘Who are these guys?’ she asked.

  ‘The slugs can stay a while,’ said Beth and looked back to Ira and JT. ‘These gentlemen are from Skala. They’re down here to account for some equipment on loan, if you can believe that.’

  ‘Really? Well, okay. Good luck with that,’ said the woman.

  ‘Can I look at your drill rig?’ asked JT. ‘Just to take the serial number?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the man and showed him over to the rig. JT found the chassis plate easily and wiped away cycles of crusted dirt. He took down the number and nodded his thanks before making his way over to the two women, who were chatting casually while Ira looked on uncomfortably.

  ‘So you’re drilling for metal ore?’ asked JT.

  ‘Yeah, the usual. Iron, copper, precious metal if we’re lucky. The big money’s in bauxite, but you have to go a long way north for that,’ said the woman nonchalantly. ‘I’m Jo, by the way.’

  ‘JT Gilbert,’ said JT. ‘So is Mal-Kas rich in ore? Do you find a lot of it?’

  Jo gave a short, ironic laugh, spat and moved to lean against the drill rig. ‘Not likely. We’ve been drilling mother-and-daughter holes for cycles, established a meridian reference, but found zip. That’s not what the geologists say, of course.’

  JT frowned. ‘What do they say?’ He noticed Beth stiffen and shoot Jo a cautioning look.

  Jo, however, either didn’t pick up on the warning or chose to ignore it. ‘They say we’ve been extracting ore left, right and centre, but there’s no way we have.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Ira, who had also noticed Beth’s posture and posed the question as deferentially as he could.

  ‘You can tell without having a geologist here. When you strike ore you know about it. It’s much softer than rock, for one thing, so the torque demand on the rig drops rapidly when you hit it. And you can tell from the coolant. When you’re boring through rock, the coolant’s a dull grey colour and it’s gritty. When you hit ore it turns black. We’ve not seen black coolant in a long old time.’

  She seemed to be about to say something else when she caught Beth’s eye and reconsidered.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ she said, and shrugged at Beth.

  Beth relaxed in supplication. ‘Yeah, all right. But enough of that now.’ She turned to JT and Ira. You seen all you want?’

  ‘Just Connor,’ said Ira, who suddenly seemed unnaturally on guard.

  ‘Connor?’ said Jo in surprise and a little disgust. ‘Why would you want to see him?’ JT was about to answer when he caught her narrowing eyes and reassessment as she looked him up and down. ‘You look like him,’ she said with disapproval. ‘You related or something?’

  ‘No, but I’m getting that a lot.’

  ‘He’s down Drive 8,’ said Jo. ‘At least that’s where he seems to ‘hang out’ at the moment.’ Again, she seemed to want to elaborate, but hesitated.

  ‘Okay, well, thanks Jo. I’ll be back for those samples just as soon as you’re ready,’ said Beth in a forced, cordial tone before leading the
two men back towards the decline.

  022: The Descent

  Below Skala

  Knowing nothing of the dark abyss beyond the reassuring glow of the robed man’s staff, Megan and Olson were guided in silence through the dark, open space of the Siphon. With the rest of the group behind them, they followed the light through a low arch and into a narrow passage that led steadily down. Flaking white emulsion clung to rough brickwork eaten away by damp and mildew.

  ‘I don’t remember this passageway being on the map,’ whispered Megan.

  ‘I don’t remember it either, but then we weren’t looking for it,’ replied Olson in the same hushed tone.

  ‘Have you noticed there are no power cables or pipes on the walls? How long do you think it’s been here?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s pretty old, that’s for sure. I can’t remember anyone whitewashing walls in my lifetime.’

  Megan leaned in, nodding towards their guide. ‘Who do you suppose he is? Their leader?’

  Olson narrowed his eyes, focusing on the figure striding in front of them, his ragged robe billowing out as he walked.

  ‘I don’t think he’s a “leader”, even if these Hadje people have one. If I were to guess I would say he’s a shaman.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Megan, unfamiliar with the word.

  ‘A shaman, a sort of spiritual man.’

  ‘He said they knew Myra, the technician from the Vault,’ whispered Megan with an urgent excitement.

  Olson cocked his head towards her in confidence. ‘I’d be reluctant to jump to that conclusion. I spent a few rotations with her and she doesn’t strike me as the sort to go wandering the underground of Skala. Myra’s not an uncommon name. It could just be a coincidence.’

  Sceptical, but not wishing to push her luck, Megan stayed silent. Reaching a second low arch, the Shaman came to an abrupt halt. He looked back over their heads and Megan could see his eyes searching. Was he counting? Seemingly satisfied, he looked to the two outsiders, the vertical pupils of his strange eyes narrowing down to slits. Megan sensed airflow from beyond the arch. The Shaman’s robes billowed as if being sucked out into the dark void beyond. His long fingers tightened around his staff.

  ‘This arch marks the descent into the Deep Wells, into Buni Sound. The descent is perilous. From here there is no going back.’

  Megan wondered at this, sure that they had crossed that point the moment they had entered the Siphon. To her left, she saw Olson straighten, accepting the challenge. His voice acquired a hard edge she had not heard before.

  ‘What will we face?’ he asked.

  ‘You will see soon enough,’ replied the Shaman.

  From behind them, a second man spoke up for the first time. His tone was level and strong, more human by far than the other-worldly speech of the Shaman. Megan picked up an inflection she didn’t recognise, a strange but beautiful lilt of pronunciation.

  ‘Watch your footing, there are steps missing. And don’t touch the indigenes, they’re poisonous.’

  ‘Poisonous?’ asked Megan, turning in alarm.

  ‘Leave them alone and they won’t harm you. If you stand on one, keep your foot on it and call for me, call for Jean-Louis.’

  ‘Jean-Louis,’ repeated Megan, finding the knowledge of a single name in this mysterious group infinitely comforting. The man himself was much shorter than the Shaman and had a clean, strong face. Like the rest, his skin was dark and had an ebony-like quality to it.

  ‘You were right,’ he said, looking at Olson then lifting his chin towards the figure standing in the archway. ‘He is our Shaman. I am his Second Spirit. What is it you are called?’

  ‘Megan Devin,’ said Megan hesitantly.

  ‘Tyler Olson,’ said Olson.

  Jean-Louis looked at him and nodded with an appreciation that Megan didn’t understand. ‘What is a Second Spirit?’ she asked.

  ‘I will explain,’ said Jean-Louis. ‘But not here. We should start the descent.’

  The Shaman turned to face the arch, lowered his staff and stepped through, disappearing down as if into the bowels of the earth.

  *

  Beyond the arch, the tunnel angled sharply downward and narrowed enough to force the group into single file. Hunched beneath the low ceiling, the Shaman led, with Olson directly behind him. Megan followed, occasionally falling back a little but never out of view of the yellowish glow from the staff. They came to smooth steps, worn by uncounted cycles of use. The walls became heavily angled, leaning in from the left, the path curving sharply to the right. It forced Megan to support herself against the right-hand wall and shuffle herself forward with the aid of her forearm.

  In the dim light of the staff she could see the construction of the walls; the brickwork was like no arrangement she had seen before. The bricks themselves were narrow rectangles laid at angles so they meshed perpendicular to each other. This formed a pattern that brought to mind the tyre tread of the desert vehicles Kyra had shown her, on the rare occasions Megan had accompanied her to the repair or storage yards.

  They continued in silence, winding ever downward. Megan began to notice breaks in the walls where bricks had either fallen out or never been laid. The exposed rock in these gaps was rough and at times harboured what looked like burrowed holes. Crawling from one of them was a creature the size of her arm, moving forward on a myriad of tiny legs. Its thick, fur-covered body bore bright red stripes running from its eyeless head to a bulbous tail. The legs moved in unison, forming a series of rippling waves down its length.

  ‘Millipede,’ said Jean-Louis from behind her. ‘The red ones are poisonous but rarely deadly. If you hop your arm across, it won’t pay you any attention.’

  Megan did so and was aware of Jean-Louis doing the same behind her. ‘So there are others that are deadly?’ she asked with nervous humour.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied in his elegant, clipped tone. ‘It’s the bigger, darker ones that live lower down that you need to look out for. The centipedes, the ones with less legs and segmented bodies are dangerous as well.’

  Megan was unsure what alarmed her more – the idea that as far down as they had travelled was considered high, or that the creepy-looking monster on the wall was apparently small and docile. Up until this point she had pushed any feelings of claustrophobia back in her mind but now, knowing she would be surrounded by deadly, freakish-looking creatures in such a confined space, it rushed up at her full force.

  Recognising her momentary fear, Jean-Louis spoke from behind her, ‘Don’t worry, the walls get easier to manage the further down we go.’

  And this proved to be the case. As they continued to descend, the walls became noticeably more upright and their curve shallower. Conversely, encounters with the red millipedes became more frequent and Megan found herself stepping over and ducking under them every few steps. From in front of her, the Shaman made what seemed to be a short lunge. Olson did the same, performing more of a jump due to his shorter stature. Moments later, when Megan came to the place, she saw a gap in the steps.

  Jean-Louis grasped her forearm with a warm, dry hand to steady her. Without knowing it she had stared down through the gap and nearly fallen forwards. There was a distinct glow of violet emanating from deep below where she had expected only darkness.

  She looked back at the Second Spirit, who merely said, ‘Steady. There are a few of these.’

  Vaulting the gap, she took a few hasty steps to make up a little ground on Olson, who was now further ahead than she was comfortable with. Without warning, she felt a soft crunch under her left foot and heard a screech of such high pitch it was barely audible. Realising at once what she had done, she fought off every instinct to move and with committed control kept pressure on her left leg. The screech came again and she shut her eyes, tilting her head to the ceiling as if for divine intervention. She could feel the creature squirming, its soft fur brushing the side of her calf. Before a rising panic took her, she managed to speak.

  ‘Jean-Louis?’r />
  To her relief he was there already, calmly bending to reach around her. She heard him grunt, then a soft squelching sound accompanied by yet another screech on the limit of her hearing. Then the squirming stopped.

  ‘Lift your foot slowly,’ said Jean-Louis with a level voice. ‘You don’t want to get poison on you. It stays active for a few hours and it’s very easy to get contaminated later, when you remove your clothes.’

  She heard the scrape of a knife against the rough rock of the wall and supposed he was cleaning the blade. She became aware of a scuttling around her, as if many creatures were fleeing, winding themselves into the hole-ridden walls.

  ‘Try not to do that again,’ he said in mild rebuke. Then, returning to his matter-of-fact tone, ‘We should get moving. Others will be attracted to the body.’

  ‘Because of the sound?’

  ‘You could hear it?’ he asked, surprised. ‘No, not because of the sound – they are attracted by the smell. They are cannibalistic, they eat their own.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Megan absently and, with eyes wide open, moved forward once again. ‘You said the poison stays active for an hour. What’s an hour?’

  ‘It’s an older measure of time,’ said Jean-Louis. ‘It’s roughly what you would call a rotation.’

  ‘Okay…’ said Megan, confused.

  They continued navigating the occasional gaps with care. As the walls became near-vertical, Jean-Louis moved more confidently and she felt able to do the same. Their progress became faster the further down they went and Megan found that, without the distraction of the odd walls, she was able to negotiate the scuttling creatures with greater ease.

  Their progress continued at this pace for an indeterminate time before the Shaman abruptly stopped ahead of them. He drew himself up to his full height, letting out an audible breath.

  ‘Beyond this doorway lie the Deep Wells. This passage you have travelled is sacred and I wish you to know that only few have been granted a right to it. Fewer still have set foot in Buni Sound.’