Clang. Heads jerked as the latch slammed shut on the elevator doors. Thirteen new miners clung to each other, glancing around with nervous fear. Except the child, the smallest. Moriah stared straight ahead without reaction to the noise, staring through the gate bars into the small ante room from where they had just come.
The elevator jerked, metal on metal screaming in protest as it began the descent into the blackness visible through the deck grating. Hewn rock walls flashed past, lit by the elevator’s wane lighting. A disconcerting sway which no elevator ought have knocked passengers into each other, the miners remaining upright simply because they were packed in shoulder to shoulder. There simply was not any room to fall. However, the small Moriah made no attempt to catch herself on the legs of the surrounding adults and sat down hard. One of the adults attempted to catch her, but missed. The child showed no sign of noticing nor caring.
The elevator descended in an ever accelerating plummet into the depths of the planet, upending stomachs. Some miners squealed, some cried out their fear. Two men threw up, the wind spaying the stomach gunk to befoul the clothing of all. The miners terror-screams quieted to murmurs as they continued to descend, each casting terrorized glances at the single guard in his light-powered armor standing in a separate space at the elevator controls. The whine of cables and chattering of the rickety box dimmed in the face of the wind roaring through the floor’s grating. Moriah stared blankly at the rushing walls through the bars of the elevator walls, unperturbed and silent.
They descended at break-neck pace for an eternity, as if Hell itself were their destination. The twelve adult miners kept glancing at the single guard, but none considered attacking him. The wicked looking Gauss half-rifle would cut them all in half with its thousand rounds per second discharge rate, but even then the light powered armor simply made the man invulnerable to anything they could have done. But even if he had been weaponless and in casual clothing, they still would not have attacked because it went against the doctrines of their implanted programming.
“Girl, take my hand,” the woman coaxed the unnamed girl, reaching down to help the child up. Moriah did not respond, did not even flinch at the first words spoken by anyone since before entering the elevator car. Unable to bend over to reach the girl, the woman shook her head and gave up.
“No point,” the man she clung to said.
“I know, but it seems wrong not to try somehow.” The child looked no older than six and the woman had tried to befriend her, to protect her since the child had been brought to the complex a couple months previous. Protection she had managed, if only a bit. Befriending not so much.
During those months of training and conditioning for their new lives as slave-miners, Moriah obeyed every order. Absorbed the data forced into her mind from every magical knowledge-stone the instructors wanted her to learn from. Resisted no compulsion being implanted by will or deed. In all this, the small child never acted on her own, rather merely reacted to outside stimulus, the perfect automaton. The only indication she acknowledged the existence of anyone or anything had been her docile, blank following of instructions.
Nearly a minute into the descent, the screech of the elevator’s brakes accompanied the staggering pressure of deceleration, pressing the miners brutally against the floor. The car lurched and the group of miners as one collapsed, their legs giving out all at the same time. Only the guard remained standing, having braced himself. He enjoyed this part of the ride most.
Once the gangly crew extracted themselves from the tangle of arms and legs, the guard pushed them out into the cool, damp tunnel beyond the open door. Lights ran along the tunnel, the light sinking into stark hewn rock and dirt walls. The smell of dank, musty earth permeated all.
A single guard sat at a table a short distance from the elevator. She wore the same metal colored light-armor as the elevator guard. “Line up,” the seated guard snapped and glared at the new miners as they stumbled into line in front of the table. She hated in-processing new cattle, and her foul mood clearly came through the sharpness of her command.
The elevator guard picked Moriah up and tucked her under his arm as the other miners obeyed the seated guard’s command. Moving to the table, he set the child down roughly. Moriah stood where he placed her, staring ahead as if nothing had occurred. The guard stepped up to the table and handed an envelope to the processor. “This one comes with special instructions. No gnomes came available, so its going to be the new scrambler, at least until it out grows the position. Edicted.”
The processor accepted the envelope and opened it, reading as the guard spoke. The woman grunted. “Just as well. Such a small piece of candy would’ve been eaten in a day, and then thrown to the spiders as an offering.” The intake guard stared at the child - Walking Dead, she thought. Under edict, if anything happened to her, even an accident, the entire mine would be punished - half-rations and double quota the standard punishments for the miners. However, far more brutal punishments would descend on them because the guards would also be punished with an extended tour in the mines. None of the guards wanted to stay downside longer than necessary and the only judges in the mine were those self-same temperamental, easily upset guards. Trial nor lawyer held any place here and the guards would make the miners’ lives true hell because of the hassle.
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The seated guard upturned the envelope, dropping an edict badge into her hand. She handed it to the other guard and let him pin it on the girl. As he did so, the seated woman looked past him into the girl’s lifeless eyes and wondered what had happened to the child to make her like this. Then she looked away, dismissing the walking-dead from her mind as utterly worthless tripe. Cattle was cattle when all was said and done, and what happened to them did not concern her as long as her downside shift ended on time.
The intake guard logged each miner by name and number, and then marched them from the elevator down the tunnel into a small cave. Another chair sat on a raised platform in the center of the new cave. This time a gleaming red lit visor in a jet black light-armor glared at the new miners. The truth was, without the visor’s sinister gleam, the black armor would have been nigh invisible in the dim lighting.
“Okay boys and girls. Listen up carefully.” The man’s voice rumbled through the cave, causing the incoming miners to jump. “I’m only going to explain this stuff once. If you break a rule down here, you will be punished. If you do not learn quickly, you will be killed. Do not hurt another slave so that they cannot meet quota, or you will be required to meet their quota in addition to your own. Otherwise we don’t care what you do to yourselves. Just bring in your quota.
“Now, there are several quotas you will be expected to meet. First,” he raised a fist, “Daily quota. If you meet it, you get fed. If you don’t, you will be punished and get half rations for that day. Second, weekly quota.” He dropped his hand. “If you meet it, you get one extra ration. If you fail to meet it, you will be punished and your daily quota for the month will be increased to cover the shortfall. Third, monthly quota. If you meet it, you will receive one extra ration and one chit allowing you to fail a quota without punishment. If you fail to meet it, you will be punished and you’ll be placed on probation. If you fail to meet daily quota three times in a week, you will be placed on probation. If you fail to meet weekly quota twice consecutively, you will be placed on probation.”
“When you are on probation, all penalties are doubled. Get placed on double probation, and you’re not worth the trouble. You will be sent into the back tunnels where crystal spiders roam free. You will not be allowed back to the base until you have enough ore to meet your monthly quota. No one has ever returned. Becoming a zombie is not a pleasant way to die, I assure you, so meet your quotas.”
The black guard signaled the female guard that had accompanied the new intakes after she finished the in-processing. She opened a side door none of the miners had noticed up till then. Ten rough looking men and women in light-grey coveralls filed in and stood along the wall to the left. As they entered, the red-visored guard continued, “You will be assigned a mentor. You will be with that mentor for one week to learn the way of things. Your mentor will be responsible for you and your safety. You will obey every demand, every request of your mentor. You belong to them for the next week. Everything you produce will be credited to your mentor’s quota.”
“After that week, if you ever manage to double your monthly quota, you will be eligible for excess quota credit. Under that status, you can bank up credit by producing double your quota or better. Having a big credit in your bank can save you from lean times, so strive hard to get one. It’s not easy, but it is possible.”
“One last thing. The guards are not here for your convenience. We are your gods. If you endanger one of us, are disrespectful to one of us, if we decide you are ugly or distasteful, you will be punished. Do not address us unless you are asked to, except for emergencies. But you better damn well be right about it being an emergency. We don’t care what happens to you, as long as you meet quota.”
The speaker jabbed his finger at Moriah. “Klorachamol, that one’s the new scrambler. Take care of her or I’ll have your head.”
A lanky man in black coveralls, possessing deep mahogany skin and long black hair, detached from the shadows, increasing the number of mentors by one. The predator’s natural gait stalked with panther grace to the dead-eyed girl and stared down at the top of her head, observing the multi-colored paint on silver-moss. Moriah stared straight ahead.
Klorachamol frowned. He fingered the black collar gracing his neck. He did not like mentoring - too much work. If he failed to meet quota even once while in charge of the whelp, he would be on probation. Of course, there were advantages to mentoring too, but several were not reasonably available with a girl this young.
“Girl, what’s your name,” he demanded. Moriah stared straight ahead showing no acknowledgment. Several of the other mentors glanced at the pair, but averted their eyes lest the man notice them. They glanced at the guards, but averted their eyes from that danger as well.
The man reached out and grabbed the girl by the chin with painful strength, turning her unresisting face upward. After looking into her eyes for a long moment, his scowled at the black guard for a moment. The girl had withdrawn deep inside herself. He could not touch her psyche, except a superficial edifice which allowed her to interact with the outer world enough to stay alive. “Damn,” he muttered and straightened. One wrong turn and the whelp would shatter into a billion pieces, half disintegrating to vapor.
Louder, “Damn. Very well, your name is now Ker. Come with me, Ker.” He turned and strode from the room, the girl following, her eyes straight forward without even a single glance of curiosity. Guards and mentors alike relaxed a notch. If Klorachamol had killed the girl . . . .