#0 Masquerading In The Dust
There was another fatal ‘accident’ in the mine today.
I don’t know why I’m writing about it, and it’s not a good idea. If these words were ever found, they would jeopardise my entire future… but I need an outlet for my growing frustration and anger. I can’t let this rage fester inside me during my next shift; otherwise, I’ll make a mistake. I’ll become the latest statistic, another needless death filed away as an unfortunate accident by the Spike Mining Company. It’s always an accident!
I didn’t witness the gruesome episode but was told what happened soon enough, several different versions, in fact. However, it’s always obvious which account is the real one. Whatever account doesn’t blame the victim… that’s what really happened.
The Company had brought new tools to boost productivity (not help us), but nothing ever actually helps in the dark, treacherous mines. They always try to take some kind of shortcut, and inevitably, lives are lost. We are expendable; their debens aren’t.
The newly acquired sonic axe malfunctioned just hours after it was issued. The unstable recoil shattered its user’s chest. A harrowing crunch that wasn’t cracked rock, but instead was splintered bone, echoed throughout the murky tunnel. I’d like to write that I couldn’t imagine such an awful sound, but I’ve heard it too many times before, always with the same outcome.
They were carrying his body out of the mine as I arrived for my shift. The dead miner’s name was Wallot, someone I knew in passing. He took my position on the opposite shift, which meant that if roles were reversed, he would have seen my shattered body being removed from the mine as I had his.
I hate that they didn’t even try to hide such a thing. They carried his body out in front of the new shift like it was a warning rather than a tragedy. Pay attention and work hard, or this could happen to you. Like we’re to blame, and they’re simply the clean-up crew… rather than the tyrants who put us in danger. They didn’t need to say the words; their message was clear.
They turned Wallot’s death into a public display. A spectacle. A cautionary tale. Otherwise, they would have covered up his body, giving him some dignity in death rather than parading his smashed corpse.
I worked the entire fifteen-hour shift in the same spot Wallot perished, wondering if the ‘accident’ had dangerously loosened the rest of the rocks in the immediate vicinity. Was I one swing of a regular axe away from suffering a similar fate? An avalanche of stone? The blade splintering into my chest? Would his replacement see my ruptured body being carted out in some never-ending cycle of misery and death? Or, as the Spike Mining Company would label it, ‘an unfortunate series of miner-related accidents.’
I felt selfish having those thoughts and concerns, but my death wouldn’t have revived Wallot, and the Company wouldn’t have done their due diligence and checked the affected area. I know the dangers. I’ve lost friends here, one not too long ago. My parents died in the mines, as have many others on this forsaken, cursed rock. I’ve become well-versed in the need for self-preservation. The Spike Mining Company wasn’t looking out for me; I had to look out for myself. Having these cautious thoughts was the right thing to do.
The newly acquired sonic axes that killed Wallot were recalled. His death wasn’t the only disruption during their first shift in circulation. Other fatalities had occurred in different sectors of the asteroid. There’d been reports of multiple broken arms, shoulders, and collapsed chests. Several concussions. Someone had lost an eye. The Spike Mining Company always paid compensation for the various ‘accidents,’ but this time it wouldn’t be coming out of their vast account.
Word around the colony was that the Company was furious with the multiple malfunctions. They had demanded an immediate refund and compensation package from the supplier, who was still stuck on Dust Bowl after overseeing the disastrous rollout. The compensation was for the lost time the incidents had caused, and the SMC’s overworked medical staff. They acted like they were the victims in this calamity, not the dead and injured miners.
How dare this faulty equipment cost them time and debens!
… oh, and also, “a couple of miners died.”
The injured miners would get two days off to recover, although I’m not sure how you recover from losing an eye. Any more time off than that, they’d be fined for their absence. The Company’s ironclad contracts clearly stated that absences of more than two days were prohibited unless granted by the Spike Mining Company’s doctors (which has never happened). This meant you had to be back within two days, or a fine would be added to your unpaid wages. In some extreme cases, they would even threaten to take back the compensation.
I had no love for the Spike Mining Company before I started my mandatory contract, but my contempt has grown exponentially since then. Yet, I can never outwardly display my outrage. If I wish to fulfil my dream of one day leaving the barbaric asteroid and travelling the Ellis System, then I have to obey their unreasonable rules.
My auntie reminds me every day to keep calm and quiet, no matter what horrors I witness. The Spike Mining Company controls who leaves Dust Bowl; they have sole jurisdiction here. Any signs of insubordination or disrespect (like writing this), they would deny me permission, whether I could pay or not. If I want a future away from them, I have to remain on their good side.
It’s a difficult notion to balance. Smile at my oppressors. Comply with the very Kemps who I believe are trying to kill me, and everyone around me. Plenty live where we come from. There’s always new Kemps coming of age on Dust Bowl, ready to begin their mandatory four-annum contracts. Always outsiders looking for a guaranteed payday, not fathoming the real risk to their lives. They’ll soon find out, but by then it will be too late; the Spike Mining Company would own them.
I have to thank them for the forced labour and poor wage like they’re doing me a great service. Work and opportunity at such a young age, that’s their gift, not broken bones. Not disability, nor death. Not ruined families and extinct bloodlines. I detest everything about the masquerade, yet… I know my auntie’s right. I have no choice but to be a model duster if I ever want to leave (which is the only thing I want).
I still have two and a half annums left of hiding my disgust. Two and a half annums to survive the daily dangers caused by their gross incompetence and astonishing negligence. One thousand-two-hundred-and-fifty fifteen-hour shifts of back-breaking, suffocating labour for a bare minimum wage, and the hope that it will be enough to get me off this rock.
And, if I don’t have enough saved to leave by the end of those two and a half annums, I’ll be left with little choice but to sign a new ironclad contract, which will be longer than four annums. For dusters like me (born and raised on Dust Bowl), the next contract is normally for ten. I wouldn’t survive it. If my body wasn’t crushed, my soul would be.
Most days I try to remain upbeat about my future. I think about seeing an endless sky for the very first time, or the enormous Ellis sun. The delicious food I could eat, rather than the bland slosh served repeatedly here. I dream about the amazing adventures I could go on, and the fascinating Kemps I’d meet along the way. The various ships I could be aboard: transport vessels, cargo ships, shuttles. Small ships owned by the incredible, kind new friends I’d make. The possibilities feel endless, if I can reach the beginning of that life.
Normally, that’s enough to get me through the darker moments, when fear takes hold. When my anger threatens to boil over. When my loathing and animosity rise to the surface and I struggle to contain the emotions I have to keep hidden. My future is what calms me. The knowledge that my life here is counting down, and I will leave.
But that didn’t work today. Their dismissive nature of Wallot’s avoidable death provoked a new anger in me, one that burned brighter than normal. One which I struggled to control all shift, and haven’t been able to shake since. Maybe it’s partly because I realized how easily that could have been me, but then, I often think that. Every shift is fraught with danger. Every slam of the axe, vibration of the drills, or cut of the laser feels like they’re about to set off a deadly chain of events.
I just know that whatever the reason, I need to make peace with the non-accident before my next shift, and maybe that peace can come from this writing. I already feel like it’s starting to help. I don’t know why committing words to a page would lessen the burden, but it has. It’s what I hoped would happen when I started writing. A form of self-medication.
If it has helped, it can only be a short-term solution. A one-off. I don’t think I can continue to express my thoughts like this while I’m still on Dust Bowl. It’s too risky. My words would be considered defamatory towards the Spike Mining Company. While that wouldn’t be enough to send me to the deep mines, it would be a good enough excuse for them to decline my application to leave the asteroid at the end of my contract. It would be enough for them to offer me a lesser wage to stay, knowing I had nowhere else to go. They’d probably add on extra annums too. There are other jobs in Dust Bowl, but none of them pay close to the mine. They already have all the leverage; discovering my words would give them even more.
I could try harder to hide my discontent for them on the page, but then, what would be the point in trying to express myself in the first place? It’s either an outlet, or it’s nothing.
At least this brief example has shown me that writing can help. I’ve always enjoyed writing, and this has been therapeutic. While I can’t continue to write while I’m still here, maybe it’s something I could do when I leave Dust Bowl. A way to record my adventures, and express my thoughts as I travel the Ellis System… I’d like that.
I just need to make sure I survive long enough for it to become a reality.
