My suit canโt handle the heat down here. The outer layer is nearly melted through. Soon the second layer will go. Then the scanner blinks silver and Iโve got what I came for. I almost didnโt notice. Dizzy and frightened, I pull myself away from the drills. Hand over hand, I tug my body up, going fast away from the dreadful heat. Then something catches. My foot is jammed just underneath one of the gears near a drill finger. I gasp down air in sudden panic. The dread rises in me. I see my bootheel melting. The first layer goes. The second bubbles. Then it will be my flesh.
I force a long breath and choke down the screams that are rising in my throat. I remember the blade. I flip out my hinged slingBlade from its back holster. Itโs a cruelly curved cutter as long as my leg, meant for taking off and cauterizing limbs stuck in machinery, just like this. Most men panic when they get caught, and so the slingBlade is a nasty halfmoon weapon meant to be used by clumsy hands. Even filled with terror, my hands are not clumsy. I slice three times with the slingBlade, cutting nanoplastic instead of flesh. On the third swing, I reach down and jerk free my leg. As I do, my knuckles brush the edge of a drill. Searing pain shoots through my hand. I smell crackling flesh, but Iโm up and off, climbing away from the hellish heat, climbing back to my holster seat and laughing all the while. I feel like crying.
My uncle was right. I was wrong. But Iโll be damned if I ever let him know it.
โIdiot,โย is his kindest comment.
โManic! Bloodydamn manic!โย Loran whoops. โMinimal gas,โ I say. โDrilling now, Uncle.โ
The haulBacks take my pull when the whistle call comes. I push myself out of my drill, leaving it in the deep tunnel for the nightshift, and snag a weary hand on the line the others drop down the kilometer-long shaft to help me up. Despite the seeping burn on the back of my hand, I slide my body upward on the line till Iโm out of the shaft. Kieran and Loran walk with me to join the others at the nearest gravLift. Yellow lights dangle like spiders from the ceiling.
My clan and Gammaโs three hundred men already have their toes under the metal railing when we reach the rectangular gravLift. I avoid my uncleโheโs mad enough to spitโand catch a few dozen pats on the back for my stunt. The young ones like me think weโve won the Laurel. They know my raw helium-3 pull for the month; itโs better than Gammaโs. The old turds just grumble and say weโre fools. I hide my hand and duck my toes in.
Gravity alters and we shoot upward. A Gamma scab with less than a weekโs worth of rust under his nails forgets to put his toes under the railing. So he hangs suspended as the lift shoots up six vertical kilometers. Ears pop.
โGot a floating Gamma turd here,โ Barlow laughs to the Lambdas.
Petty as it may seem, itโs always nice seeing a Gamma squab something. They get more food, more burners, more everything because of the Laurel. We get to despise them. But then, weโre supposed to, I think. Wonder if theyโll despise us now.
Enoughโs enough. I grip the rust-red nanoplastic of the kidโs frysuit and jerk him down. Kid. Thatโs a laugh. Heโs hardly three years younger than I.
Heโs deathly tired, but when he sees the blood-red of my frysuit, he stiffens, avoids my eyes, and becomes the only one to see the burn on my hand. I wink at him and I think he shits his suit. We all do it now and then. I remember when I met my first Helldiver. I thought he was a god.
Heโs dead now.
Up top in the staging depot, a big gray cavern of concrete and metal, we pop our tops and drink down the fresh, cold air of a world far
removed from molten drills. Our collective stink and sweat soon make a bog of the area. Lights flicker in the distance, telling us to stay clear of the magnetic horizonTram tracks on the other side of the depot.
We donโt mingle with the Gammas as we head for the horizonTram in a staggered line of rust-red suits. Half with Lambda Ls, half with Gamma canes painted in dark red on their backs. Two scarlet headTalks. Two blood-red Helldivers.
A cadre of Tinpots eye us as we trudge by over the worn concrete floor. Their Gray duroArmor is simple and tired, as unkempt as their hair. It would stop a simple blade, maybe an ion blade, and a pulseBlade or razor would go through it like paper. But weโve only seen those on the holoCan. The Grays donโt even bother to make a show of force. Their thumpers dangle at their sides. They know they wonโt have to use them.
Obedience is the highest virtue.
The Gray captain, Ugly Dan, a greasy bastard, throws a pebble at me. Though his skin is darkened from exposure to the sun, his hair is gray like the rest of his Color. It hangs thin and weedy over his eyesโtwo icecubes rolled in ash. The Sigils of his Color, a blocky gray symbol like the number four with several bars beside it, mark along each hand and wrist. Cruel and stark, like all the Grays.
I heard they pulled Ugly Dan off the frontline back in Eurasia, wherever that is, after he got crippled and they didnโt want to buy him a new arm. He has an old replacement model now. Heโs insecure about it, so I make sure he sees me give the arm a glance.
โSaw you had an exciting day, darling.โ His voice is as stale and heavy as the air inside my frysuit. โBrave hero now, are you, Darrow? I always thought youโd be a brave hero.โ
โYouโre the hero,โ I say, nodding to his arm. โAnd you think youโre smart, doncha?โ โJust a Red.โ
He winks at me. โSay hello to your little birdie for me. A ripe thing for pigginโ.โ Licks his teeth. โEven for a Ruster.โ
โNever seen a bird.โ Except on the HC.
โAinโt that a thing,โ he chuckles. โWait, where you going?โ he asks as I turn. โA bow to your betters wonโt go awry, doncha think?โ He snickers to his fellows. Careless of his mockery, I turn and bow deeply. My uncle sees this and turns from it, disgusted.
We leave the Grays behind. I donโt mind bowing, but Iโll probably cut Ugly Danโs throat if I ever get the chance. Kind of like saying Iโd take a zip out to Venus in a torchShip if it ever suited my fancy.
โHey, Dago. Dago!โ Loran calls to Gammaโs Helldiver. The manโs a legend; all the other divers just a flash in the pan. I might be better than him. โWhatโd you pull?โ
Dago, a pale strip of old leather with a smirk for a face, lights a long burner and puffs out a cloud.
โDonโt know,โ he drawls. โCome on!โ
โDonโt care. Raw count never matters, Lambda.โ
โLike bloodyhell it doesnโt! Whatโd he pull on the week?โ Loran calls as we load into the tram. Everyoneโs lighting burners and popping out the swill. But theyโre all listening intently.
โNine thousand eight hundred and twenty-one kilos,โ a Gamma boasts. At this, I lean back and smile; I hear cheers from the younger Lambdas. The old hands donโt react. Iโm busy wondering what Eo will do with sugar this month. Weโve never earned sugar before, only ever won it at cards. And fruit. I hear the Laurel gets you fruit. Sheโll probably give it all away to hungry children just to prove to the Society she doesnโt need their prizes. Me? Iโd eat the fruit and play politics on a full stomach. But sheโs got the passion for ideas, while Iโve got no extra passion for anything but her.
โStill wonโt win,โ Dago drawls as the tram starts away. โDarrowโs a young pup, but he is smart enough to know that. Ainโt you, Darrow?โ
โYoung or not, I beat your craggy ass.โ โYou sure โbout that?โ
โDeadly sure.โ I wink and blow him a kiss. โLaurelโs ours. Send your sisters to my township for sugar this time.โ My friends laugh and slap their frysuit lids on their thighs.
Dago watches me. After a moment, he drags his burner deep. It glows bright and burns fast. โThis is you,โ he says to me. In half a minute the burner is a husk.
After disembarking the horizonTram, I funnel into the Flush with the rest of the crews. The place is cold, musty, and smells exactly like what
it is: a cramped metal shed where thousands of men strip off frysuits after hours of pissing and sweating to take air showers.
I peel off my suit, put on one of our haircaps, and walk naked to stand in the nearest transparent tube. There are dozens of them lined up in the Flush. Here there is no dancing, no boastful flips; the only camaraderie is exhaustion and the soft slapping of hands on thighs, creating a rhythm with the whoosh and shoot of the showers.
The door to my tube hisses closed behind me, muffling the sounds of music. A familiar hum comes from the motor, followed by a great rush of atmosphere and a sucking resonance as air filled with antibacterial molecules screams from the top of the machine and shoots over my skin to whisk away dead skin and filth down the drain at the bottom of the tube. It hurts.
After, I part with Loran and Kieran as they go to the Common to drink and dance in the taverns before the Laureltide dance officially starts. The Tinpots will be handing out the allowances of foodstuffs and announcing the Laurel at midnight. There will be dancing before and after for us of the dayshift.
The legends say that the god Mars was the parent of tears, foe to dance and lute. As to the former, I agree. But we of the colony of Lykos, one of the first colonies under Marsโs surface, are a people of dance and song and family. We spit on that legend and make our own birthright. It is the one resistance we can manage against the Society that rules us. Gives us a bit of spine. They donโt care that we dance or that we sing, so long as we obediently dig. So long as we prepare the planet for the rest of them. Yet to remind us of our place, they make one song and one dance punishable by death.
My father made that dance his last. Iโve seen it only once, and Iโve heard the song only once as well. I didnโt understand when I was little, one about distant vales, mist, lovers lost, and a reaper meant to guide us to our unseen home. I was small and curious when the woman sang it as her son was hanged for stealing foodstuffs. He would have been a tall boy, but he could never get enough food to put meat on his bones. His mother died next. The people of Lykos did the Fading Dirge for themโa tragic thumping of fists against chests, fading slowly, slowly, till the fists, like her heart, beat no more and all dispersed.
The sound haunted me that night. I cried alone in our small kitchen,
wondering why I cried then when I had not for my father. As I lay on the cold floor, I heard a soft scratching at my familyโs door. When I opened the door, I found a small haemanthus bud nestled in the red dirt, not a soul to be seen, only Eoโs tiny footprints in the dirt. That is the second time she brought flowers after death.
Since song and dance are in our blood, I suppose it is not surprising that it was in both that I first realized I loved Eo. Not Little Eo. Not as she was. But Eo as she is. She says she loved me before they hanged my father. But it was in a smoky tavern when her rusty hair swirled and her feet moved with the zither and her hips to the drums that my heart forgot a couple of beats. It was not her flips or cartwheels. None of the boastful foolery that so marks the dance of the young. Hers was a graceful, proud movement. Without me, she would not eat. Without her, I would not live.
She may tease me for saying so, but she is the spirit of our people. Lifeโs dealt us a hard hand. Weโre to sacrifice for the good of men and women we donโt know. Weโre to dig to ready Mars for others. That makes some of us nastyminded folks. But Eoโs kindness, her laughter, her fierce will, is the best that can come from a home such as ours.
I look for her in my familyโs offshoot township, just a half mileโs worth of tunnelroad away from the Common. The township is one of two dozen townships surrounding the Common. It is a hivelike cluster of homes carved into the rock walls of the old mines. Stone and earth are our ceilings, our floors, our home. The Clan is a giant family. Eo grew up not a stoneโs throw from my house. Her brothers are like my own. Her father like the one I lost.
A mess of electrical wires tangle together along the cavernโs ceiling like a jungle of black and red vines. Lights hang down from the jungle, swaying gently as air from the Commonโs central oxygen system circulates. At the center of the township dangles a massive holoCan. Itโs a square box with images on each side. Pixels are blacked out and the image is faded and fuzzy, but never has the thing faltered, never has it turned off. It bathes our cluster of homes in its own pale light. Videos from the Society.
My familyโs home is carved into the rock a hundred meters from the bottom floor of the township. A steep path leads from it to the ground, though pulleys and ropes can also bear one to the townshipโs greatest
heights. Only the old or infirm use those. And we have few of either.
Our house has few rooms. Eo and I only recently were able to take a room for ourselves. Kieran and his family have two rooms, and my mother and sister share the other.
All Lambdas in Lykos live in our township. Omega and Upsilon neighbor us just a minuteโs worth of wide tunnel over to either side. Weโre all connected. Except for Gamma. They live in the Common, above the taverns, repair booths, silk shops, and trade bazaars. The Tinpots live in a fortress above that, nearer the barren surface of our harsh world. Thatโs where the ports lie that bring the foodstuffs from Earth to us marooned pioneers.
The holoCan above me shows images of mankindโs struggles, which are then followed by soaring music as the Societyโs triumphs flash past. The Societyโs sigil, a golden pyramid with three parallel bars attached to the pyramidโs three faces, a circle surrounding all, burns into the screen. The voice of Octavia au Lune, the Societyโs aged Sovereign, narrates the struggle man faces in colonizing the planets and moons of the System.
โSince the dawn of man, our saga as a species has been one of tribal warfare. It has been one of trial, one of sacrifice, one of daring to defy natureโs natural limits. Now, through duty and obedience, we are united, but our struggle is no different. Sons and daughters of all Colors, we are asked to sacrifice yet again. Here in our finest hour, we cast our best seeds to the stars. Where first shall we flourish? Venus? Mercury? Mars? The Moons of Neptune, Jupiter?โ
Her voice grows solemn as her ageless face with its regal cast peers down from the HC. Her hands shimmer with the symbol of Gold emblazoned upon their backsโa dot in the center of a winged circleโ gold wings mark the sides of her forearms. Only one imperfection mars her golden faceโa long crescent scar running along her right cheekbone. Her beauty is like that of a cruel bird of prey.
โYou brave Red pioneers of Marsโstrongest of the human breedโsacrifice for progress, sacrifice to pave the way for the future. Your lives, your blood, are a down payment for the immortality of the human race as we move beyond Earth and Moon. You go where we could not. You suffer so that others do not.
โI salute you. I love you. The helium-3 that you mine is the life-blood of the terraforming process. Soon the red planet will have breathable air, livable
soil. And soon, when Mars is habitable, when you brave pioneers have made ready the red planet for us softer Colors, we will join you and you will be held in highest esteem beneath the sky your toil created. Your sweat and blood fuels the terraforming!
โBrave pioneers, always remember that obedience is the highest virtue.
Above all, obedience, respect, sacrifice, hierarchy โฆโ
I find the kitchen room of the home empty, but I hear Eo in the bedroom.
โStop right where you are!โ she commands through the door. โDo not, under any condition, look in this room.โ
โOkay.โ I stop.
She comes out a minute later, flustered and blushing. Her hair is covered in dust and webs. I rake my hands through the tangle. Sheโs straight from the Webbery, where they harvest the bioSilk.
โYou didnโt go in the Flush,โ I say, smiling.
โDidnโt have time. Had to skirt out of the Webbery to pick something up.โ
โWhat did you pick up?โ
She smiles sweetly. โYou didnโt marry me because I tell you everything, remember. And do not go into that room.โ
I make a lunge for the door. She blocks me and pulls my sweatband down over my eyes. Her forehead pushes against my chest. I laugh, move the band, and grip her shoulders to push her back enough to look into her eyes.
โOr what?โ I ask with a raised eyebrow.
She just smiles at me and cocks her head. I back away from the metal door. I dive into molten mineshafts without a blink. But there are some warnings you can buck off and others you canโt.
She stands on her tiptoes and pecks me good on the nose. โGood boy; I knew youโd be easy to train,โ she says. Then her nose wrinkles because she smells my burn. She doesnโt coddle me, doesnโt berate me, doesnโt even speak except to say, โI love you,โ with just the hint of worry in her voice.
She picks the melted pieces of my frysuit out of the wound, which stretches from my knuckles to my wrist, and pulls tight a webwrap with antibiotic and nervenucleic.
โWhereโd you get that?โ I ask.
โIf I donโt lecture you, you donโt quiz me on whatโs what.โ
I kiss her on the nose and play with the thin band of woven hair around her ring finger. My hair wound with bits of silk makes her wedding band.
โI have a surprise for you tonight,โ she tells me.
โAnd I have one for you,โ I say, thinking of the Laurel. I put my sweatband on her head like a crown. She wrinkles her nose at its wetness.
โOh, well, I actually have two for you, Darrow. Pity you didnโt think ahead. You might have gotten me a cube of sugar or a satin sheet or โฆ maybe even coffee to go with the first gift.โ
โCoffee!โ I laugh. โWhat sort of Color did you think you married?โ
She sighs. โNo benefits to a diver, none at all. Crazy, stubborn, rash โฆโ
โDexterous?โ I say with a mischievous smile as I slide my hand up the side of her skirt.
โReckon that has its advantages.โ She smiles and swats my hand away like itโs a spider. โNow put these gloves on unless you want jabber from the women. Your motherโs already gone on ahead.โ