Yalda was growing tired of these laborious preparations, shift after shift, but she kept her frustration to herself. Three more stints, and she’d never have to go through this rigamarole again.
Fatima entered the airlock and began working the pump energetically, bracing herself with three hands against the clearstone walls.
By the time Yalda was through onto the slope, Fatima and the rest of the team were already out of sight. Yalda swung herself between the guide rails and set off down the mountain, moving briskly but always keeping at least two hands on the rails. In the absence of gravity she ought to have been oblivious to the gradient of the slope, but the rim of the inverted bowl of garish color trails above her matched the old horizon perfectly, making it impossible to think of the ground as level.
The new horizon was a dazzling, multicolored circle where the fastest ultraviolet light from the old stars was shifted to visible frequencies before giving way abruptly to blackness. Straight ahead of her—“downhill”—the more modest trails of the orthogonal cluster shone sedately. Away from the guide rails, silhouetted in the starlight, dead trees sprawled at odd angles. Notwithstanding the high altitudes to which they’d been accustomed, their roots had not been enough to keep them cool in the complete absence of air. Patches of red moss had colonized the deadwood, but its faint light suggested that it was struggling.
A few saunters from the airlock, Yalda reached the pit. Lamplight from deep within the tunnel shimmered off the dust emerging from its mouth. At first glance it was easy for a planet-trained eye to see these motes as being borne on some kind of breeze, but then the thumb-sized fragments of rock scattered among the specks—moving more slowly, but just as freely—put an end to that illusion. Nothing was propelling the dust; it was flowing out of the tunnel for no other reason than its own chance collisions, inexorably driving it to occupy more space.
The guide rails, dating from before the launch, ran right past the tunnel’s entrance but couldn’t take her in. Yalda shifted her grip to a pair of ropes anchored to a series of wooden posts that veered off into the light. The floor of the tunnel sloped gently down into the rock; it was another half saunter before the roof was above her.
The haze of dust and grit thickened. When Yalda gripped the rope close to the posts, she could feel the vibration of the jackhammers. When she raised her hand, backlit motes of rock swirled away from it, driven by the air slowly escaping through the fabric. Fatima was right to be dissatisfied; it was a crude business when the only way they could cool themselves was to throw warm air away.
Gradually the rock face came into view, ringed by blazing sunstone lamps. Seven members of the team were working it with jackhammers, braced against the rock within their cages. Three taut guy ropes ran from the top of each cage to the tunnel wall, holding worker and cage in place against the tool’s relentless kick. Yalda had done that bone-shaking job for two stints, and then finally conceded that she was past it.
Four other workers were moving between the cages, clinging to the guy ropes and dragging the open mouths of their rubble sacks over the fragments of broken rock that were bouncing away from the hammers. It was impossible to scoop up all the debris, but their efforts kept the workspace more or less navigable.
Fatima spotted Yalda and waved to her, then turned her attention back to the rubble she was chasing. With the cooling bags covering everyone’s skin, communication was reduced to glances and hand gestures. If you brushed against someone you could exchange a few muffled words, but mostly the shifts were spent in a kind of tacit camaraderie, where the rhythms of the work itself—shifting the hammer cages, re-pinning the guy ropes—had to take the place of friendly banter.
There were already two full sacks waiting to be removed, the drawstrings at the top pulled closed and used to tie them to hooks on a pulley line that ran the full height of the tunnel. Yalda dragged the line around to bring the sacks within reach, slipped their drawstrings over her shoulders, then set off back to the mouth of the tunnel.
The catapult sat on the other side of the guide rails. Yalda put the rubble sacks on holding hooks at the side of the machine, grasped a nearby support post with her two left hands, then started turning the crank that ratcheted the catapult’s launching plate back along its rails, stretching a set of springs below. As the crank began stiffening its resistance, she could feel the support post working itself loose from the ground. Cursing, she shifted her lower hands to the catapult, dug a mallet out of the tool hold, and bashed the support post half a dozen times.
Yalda checked the post; it felt secure now. But as she bent to put the mallet back in the hold, she could feel a tiny rocking motion in the catapult itself: she’d managed to loosen some of the tapered wooden pegs that held its base against the ground.
Never mind; she’d deal with that later. She swung the first sack onto the launching plate, checked that it was properly closed and sitting squarely on the plate, then reached down and released the catch. The plate shot up a full stride before the springs stopped it, leaving the whole machine reverberating. The sack continued on, gliding away smoothly into the void. Yalda had had her qualms about disposing of the rock this way; who knew what demands their descendants might have for even the most mundane materials? But the effort that would have been needed to secure the rubble on the slopes—let alone cycle it all through the airlocks and stash it somewhere inside the mountain—was more than they could spare.
She launched the second sack into oblivion, then headed back down the tunnel.
The haze was growing thicker. Two of the hammers had hit a lode of powderstone, which left no solid pieces to collect and just wafted out like smoke, coating everyone’s faceplates with gray dust.
Four more sacks were waiting on the pulley line. Yalda brought down two of them, then paused to wipe her helmet clean and squint up at the rock face. The crumbling powderstone was a nuisance, but it would speed progress. Once the main excavation was completed, half a dozen small feed chambers would be constructed behind the rock face, accessible through a separate tunnel leading straight up to the surface. Apart from Benedetta’s probes, this would be their first real test of an engine that wasn’t gravity-fed, with the liberator pushed through the fuel by compressed air. Yalda was already feeling anxious about that, but in some ways the test would be forgiving. The geometry of the engine placement would be the most important thing; small variations in the thrust wouldn’t be critical.
She slogged her way back out to the catapult. As she cranked it, the support post she was holding came loose again. She fumbled for the mallet—the simple task of retrieving it made harder by the streaks of gray powder still stubbornly clinging to her faceplate—then she realized that one of the sacks was actually blocking the front of the tool hold, so she shifted it onto the launching plate. Then she gripped the base of the catapult with her lower pair of hands to brace herself, and started bashing the support post.
Yalda was upside-down and two strides above the ground before she felt the tightness around her lower wrist; she dropped the mallet and reached down frantically toward the catapult, but it was already too late to grab any part of it. With her rear gaze she stared up at the sack’s drawstring, twisted around her hand. She must have left the drawstring protruding from the side of the launching plate, and then slipped her arm through its loop.
Her first, idiotic, impulse was simply to disentangle herself from the sack—as if it alone were the cause of all her problems, and if only she were free of it she’d drift gently back to the ground. Her next thought was to pull it closer to her body, which she did. Then she freed her wrist from the string and clutched the coarse fabric of the sack against her chest, but she managed to stop herself from completing the plan: tossing the sack upward in order to propel herself back toward the mountain. Her instinctive sense that this tactic ought to work was almost overpowering; had she been stranded in the middle of a chamber inside the
Yalda glanced back at the receding light from the tunnel mouth. If she panicked and acted without thinking, she was dead. Her rapidly increasing distance from the ground was terrifying, but it was not her real enemy. It didn’t matter how long it took her to reverse direction; once she was headed back to safety, the length of her trip would be irrelevant. Or very nearly so: the sole criterion was that she needed to return before her air canister ran out—and it held enough for an entire six-bell shift.
