Mars the Divine (Empire of Time Series) by John Argo

Page 29.

Chapter 14. Under the Holy City

It was arranged that Trini and Sindi would take me down into the mines. The mines, although technically owned by the Holy City, were actually operated by the city, which drew out tons of valuable minerals and metals every year. The two priestesses arranged through an Upholder connection with the city that we would have fake identity passes and borrowed white safety suits. We would enter the galleries under the Holy City from the public sector side, through an Upholder syndicate called King City Mining & Recovery, PSTA (Public Stock Tendered Anonymously). What surprised me as the elevators took us down into private underground galleries was the size of everything down here. The surroundings were utilitarian and inelegant. Water dripped noisily from concrete ceilings coated with minerals. The lighting was biolume, sickeningly greenish in places, in long bulbs protected by sturdy metal grills. Hundreds of workers of all skill levels passed us willy-nilly, each going on his or her errand with a quiet sense of urgency. People working in mines are closer to death and mutilation that most other working people, and thus take their responsibilities more seriously. There were caution signs everywhere about a thousand ways to screw up.

Trini led the way, while Sindi followed behind me to watch my back. I had the precious item in a secret pocket in my boots. As we went deeper into the public mines, we met fewer people. It seemed warmer and more claustrophobic. The elevators seemed more cramped and moved more slowly. I felt uncomfortable standing in a dimly lit, dented metal box clanking slowly deeper and deeper through a raw concrete shaft.

We came to a level deep down that had a lot of bare rock showing. It was wet, and grilled lamps shone glaringly in puddles and on wet boulders. Men tromped by us covered with mud and grease as well as sweat, and some were bare chested. The pounding of muffled engines in the galleries was like a constant headache, and I wondered how people could stand working in these conditions.

Trini had us sit in a narrow gauge train, just wooden seats in steel boxes on heavy wheels, and driven by a gas engine operated by a skinny woman in blue overalls, we rolled laterally for about a mile until we came to an empty dock. The woman made the Horizon sign and quickly rolled away backwards down the tunnel. We climbed up on the dock and rang a bell.

Trini and Sindi's people had bribed a monk on the other side to let us in for some purported safety inspection. We waited in the dim light, in air that smelled faintly of machine oil and kaptan, a gas odorizer. Presently, a loading dock door rumbled open. A frightened young man in a long black soutane studied our papers and waved us in before lowering the door again.

We were in the Holy City mines. Beyond this point, the scene was much like that on the outside. Following the Abbot's directions, Trini led us along innumerable winding passageways, far from any other humans. We walked along dry, clean service corridors that were cramped and lit by biolumes. Everything was compact here, but clean and odor-free. Once in a while there was a whiff of fresh paint or soap, indicating that the area was carefully tended.

Gradually it grew dimmer, dustier, more abandoned, and it was clear we were coming into an area that few people ever trod. That was where the door to the great engine room was. Trini had a special pass key, an electronic embed in one fingertip, and she touched a heavy wooden door cross belted with brass staves like an ancient beer barrel. The door swung open, and we stepped into a void. A second later, some form of automatic lighting kicked in. As the light grew brighter, I said "Gods. What is this?" Trini and Sindi both stared at the huge machinery down here. "Nobody has any idea," Trini said.

We were in a hall at least ten stories high and so dimly lit that one could not really make out its limits. I saw level upon level of heavy machinery. Maybe it was one gigantic machine the size of St. Apollo Basilica. Huge cylinders or pipes spanned from floor to ceiling. Vents and harmonica elbows and flues and you name it created a visual tangle that the mind couldn't wrap around. It was all dead and still and mysterious. Not a light burned anywhere, just the metallic joints and elbows gleamed dully with reflected light.

"What now?" I asked.

Thank you for reading. If you love it, tell your friends. Please post a favorable review at Amazon, Good Reads, and other online resources. If you want to thank the author, you may also buy a copy for the low price of a cup of coffee. It's called Read-a-Latte: similar (or lower) price as a latte at your favorite coffeeshop, but the book lasts forever while the beverage is quickly gone. Thank you (JTC).

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