The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [47]
A voice, rasping and breathless, suddenly crackled through the overhead com and echoed through the long, narrow corridors.
“Emergency crews to Level Sixteen! There’s been a collapse in the secondary access shaft!”
Xelia turned with the others and began running away from the catacomb of tunnels, toward safety. As she did, one of the guards struck her shoulder with his rifle, propelling her forward faster. She cried out; the sound was animallike, unrecognizable to her own ears.
The com voice continued over the sounds of panic. “Protecting the trellium flow must take precedence over any rescue attempts!”
Miners would be left to die, Xelia knew. The lucky ones would perish almost immediately from the trauma of being crushed beneath layers of bulwark and trellium; others, knowing no action would be taken to save them, would be left to suffocate over a matter of a few hours.
Xelia envied them all. She only wished she had the courage to turn and run—not away from the disaster, but into the very heart of it.
Several meters above her on the planet surface, the foreman of the mining complex stood in his dark office, lit only by an oil lamp and two flickering monitors covered with blue soot and grime. His name was Baloran, and he, too, had not seen the sun for several years. The planet’s surface had long ago turned into a windblown desert, its natural sky blotted out by thick blue clouds composed of trellium particulates. If there was a name for the planet, Baloran had never learned it either; the world he and his business cohorts raped for its main resource was inconsequential. He never referred to it, only to the mining complex itself as the Base.
At the moment, Baloran was still shouting—as best his damaged lungs permitted him—into the filthy com unit that hung from the ceiling of his office.
“Production must not be delayed!”
On the last syllable, his voice cracked; he let go the microphone, which automatically ascended back to the ceiling. Baloran leaned forward, hands on thighs, and coughed until he very nearly retched, then swiped an inhaler from his desk and sucked in a deep breath.
The tightness in his throat and lungs eased immediately; grateful, he drew in another breath, then scratched at the boils on his neck and jawline.
Damned nasty place to work. The trellium got into everything, despite what his superiors told him. Minor irritation, the man who’d hired him had said. You’ll get used to it.
It was all a lie, of course; it wasn’t until Baloran got to the Base that he’d seen just how toxic trellium was. Even his fingernails were stained a permanent blue now. The others had all told him to wear a rebreather, but he’d refused it. I don’t need that thing—I won’t be here all that long. Besides, I’m tough. Got good lungs.
He was too embarrassed to admit the very thought of putting a rebreather on his face made him shake with claustrophobia. He’d put in his time, then take the money—good pay it was—and get out.
Behind him, the metal door clanged open; he turned to see the head guard enter.
Baloran was no good with names. The head guard was named something like “Xathar” or “Xaran,” but Baloran gave up trying to remember and instead just avoided addressing him altogether. He hadn’t bothered to learn about the guards’ species, either; he wasn’t here to make extraterrestrial friends, just to make some money. All he knew was that they were tall bruisers, and he had no desire to mess with them.
Fortunately, they had a well-developed sense of hierarchy, and treated Baloran with respect. Even now, the huge alien bowed slightly and said, with an officious air, “The starship’s entered orbit. They’ve asked to see you.”
Baloran set the inhaler down and smiled faintly.
“Send them our coordinates,” he said.
If he hadn’t had the scanners to tell him otherwise, Archer would have thought the foreman had given him the wrong coordinates; as the Captain maneuvered the shuttlepod down toward the planet’s surface, he had absolutely no visual of the mining complex until he was right on top of it.