Private The Stormy Present

[Ariadne Celik]

FAR RIDGE - THE PITS - IRVULIX
MINE 17
​

The thrumming of the air filtration system was rough, but Ariadne Celik didn't mind. If she could hear it whining and groaning and coughing and sputtering, that meant it was operating. It was when the mine was silent that the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she worried. "I don't know," she confessed to the administrator standing next to her as she crouched to examine the machine. "Can't, really, without taking the thing apart."

"Filter, maybe?" the administrator asked, crouching next to her. His brow was wrinkled with concern. Ariadne could already see the arithmetic figures spiraling in his mind.

The filter would be the easy solution, she knew. Quick. Ten minutes' down time meant the mine wouldn't have to close for a shift. It meant that The Pits could hope to meet its production goals and The Crucibles wouldn't be up their asses about the refining, and all the follow-on districts would get what they needed, too. It all started and stopped there. "Can see why you'd hope that," Ariadne said. "A new filter will always do something. But a dirty one isn't going to cause this racket. Besides, we just had a new one installed, what, nine months ago? Fresh from The City." A beat. "The Hall, I mean."

"Damn."

"Yeah." Straightening, Ariadne moved anticlockwise around the machine, trying to see if she could diagnose it from the outside. But it was not to be. "I guess -- keep an eye on it. If readings fall into the orange we'll have to take a shift down to open it up. In any other shaft, you might be able to get away with it for a day, maybe two, but Seventeen needs the scrubber. At least until the source of the air rot is found and patched."

The administrator scratched his bearded chin. "Hate to do it, but I think you're right." He tugged his ear thoughtfully. "Maybe I can see about moving a shift to one of the other shafts. Or two. So production isn't hollowed out."

Ariadne stood shrugged. "Not really my department. But remember the scrubbers are programmed based on the capacity of the mine. So, y'know, keep an eye on 'em."

They were interrupted by heavy footfalls from the main shaft, and both turned to look. "What is it, Kayali?" The runner was a youth, Anya Kayali, all of twelve years old.

"Demir wants a word," Anya said, voice full of the awe appropriate to the man who had overthrown The City's tyranny and still lived in the village. When the administrator frowned and turned to head back to the surface, Anya said: "Not you. Her." Chin jutting at Ariadne.

"Me?" Ariadne said, eyebrows furrowing deeply. "Why me? What did I do this time?"

"Didn't say," Anya said. "Didn't ask." And she turned and hustled off. Ariadne and the administrator exchanged a look, then both turned to follow her.

Antares Demir​

 

[Antares Demir]

Dark eyes warily watched the grey, almost-black, vaguely green-brown clouds in the far distance, hovering somewhere between Harra Hollow and The Score, his hands at his waist, thumbs hooked into his belt. A voice sounded from behind him. "Gonna be weather." Antares turned to see the stick-thin figure of Old Het, sagging under the weight of a yoke and two water pails, watching the same clouds. "'Less the winds change."

"Sure will," he agreed grimly, before he reached over and took the yoke from Old Het's shoulders. Situated it across his own. The old woman protested, but Antares had already started walking. "Where are we taking this?" he asked over his shoulder.

Old Het was surprisingly spritely when she wasn't weighed down by heavy yokes, and caught up to him in a handful of steps. "The canteen," she said. "For tonight's stew. Your favorite, Demir, slagshrooms."

He barked a laugh. "My favorite, huh? Loathe the things."

Old Het cast a knowing glance at him. At least he thought it was knowing. With all her wrinkles and crinkles it was hard to tell. "We all do, lad, but gotta take the protein where you can. Ain't you got more important things to do than carry an old woman's water?"

"No," Antares said, matter-of-fact. "What could be more important than that?" Old Het made to slap him on the shoulder, but didn't. She followed him to the canteen and let him pour the buckets into a large pot, where it would be boiled to make it just this side of potable. "How much more do you need?" he asked her, peering into the cookpot curiously. It looked pitifully close to empty.

"Oh... five, six more trips," Old Het said, moving to take the yoke back.

"Get started on those slagshrooms and let me handle the water," Antares said gently.

"What am I, some kind of -- City lady of leisure?" Old Het demanded, trying to sound cranky, but Antares did not relent and eventually she waved him out with metal ladle.

Antares emerged back into the muted gloom of Irvulix's environment. He saw Ariadne Celik by the mine entrance, and both raised their chins in silent greeting before coming into vocal range. "Celik," he said when he came close enough. "Take a walk with me, wouldja? How's it going in there? Toram is asking for a new filter but it's only been, what, ten months? Supposed to be eight more months left in that thing."

 

[Ariadne Celik]

"Yeah," Ariadne answered, nodding her agreement. "Seals were good on the box and everything. I never saw anything so clean in my life. But you know Toram. When it's been naff filters your whole life, the first thing you'll always think is: naff filter." She shrugged and glanced at Demir. "It's just a little rough right now. Could be water got in the oil line somehow. Could be dust got into the motor. Not like we are either watertight or dust proof in any of the shafts. Seventeen is no exception."

She fell into step beside him, following along. "I told him he'll need to keep an eye on the readings. It's not even into the orange yet. Barely into the yellow. If it gets into the orange he may have to shut it down for a shift and I'll crack it open and see." Ariadne lifted her arm and coughed something fierce into the crook of her elbow. "Storm's kicking up all sorts of gunk," she said irritably. The back of her throat burned from whatever the hell made up Irvulix's environment. "The thing sounds like hell, but he's an administrator. He doesn't know that sounds like hell doesn't have to mean broken."

Her dark eyes glanced over at him, settled on the yoke across his shoulders. "You shouldn't be doing that," Ariadne said, moving to take the yoke from Demir, who flinched. "How's it going to look when we send the -- what are you, again, high chair of the whatsit? -- we send the king of Irvulix to the City with bad shoulders?"

Antares Demir​

 

[Antares Demir]

"I'm surprised you got him that far into the shaft," Antares said grimly. "Normally administrators like to stay where they can see the sky. Or what's left of the sky." He continued along the main drag of Far Ridge, keeping one wary eye on the storm, seeing which way it would go. If the winds blew it north, it would sweep across The Score -- so named for being the largest, most productive ore find in The Pits -- but if it came south, raking over Harra Hollow and then possibly into Far Ridge, it would be quite a nuisance.

"There are filters in storage and we can afford to replace it," Antares reminded Ariadne. "But it doesn't make sense to do it just to make Toram feel better."

He waved away her concern. "My shoulders will survive it," he told Ariadne. "I've carried heavier things. But, uh, do me a favor, Celik, huh? Cool it with the king thing. We don't do kings here. I don't want people thinking I'm too big for my britches." They stopped at the well and Antares began to pump water into the buckets. "Besides, I'd be a pretty shit king if I was one. Hard to get anything done, how much democracy we've got going on in The City. The Hall, I mean."

He glanced at her suspiciously and cleared his throat. "That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Next session of the Eight is coming up and Orrek Valin has declined to stand again." He filled the other pail, then hoisted the yoke back onto his shoulders, turning back toward the canteen.

Ariadne Celik​