Mars had always been a romantic place, shining red jewel sitting in the night’s sky: a world of mystery and wonder the fourth rock from the sun, and the focus of countless old science fiction movies. It had also looked like a place to escape.
Ultor. “Building a Better World”, and all that shit. Ultor was the monolithic Zibatsu like mega-corporation that had sole mining and developmental rights to mars, and according to the sign, they needed miners.
A year in Ultor’s Martian mines has seemed like a excellent idea. Some time away from all the pressures of home to straighten himself out. A chance to expand his horizons and center himself.
High Pay. High Risk. High Adventure.
What bullshit.
He was in hell. Living hell. He and his fellow miners were treated like slaves. He’d come to Mars to have some time to himself be he hadn’t been alone since he’d gotten there.
The barracks were a nightmare. Narrow bunks in dark rooms, graffiti covering the walls, trash every where. Every miner shared the bunk with another. It was absolutely disgusting but you got used to it. There was no other choice. One minor slept while the other one worked. He didn’t know what they did with the other eight hours, but he had a good feeling that they sure as hell were not changing the linins.
He scoffed. He wouldn’t even get started with the communal showers and urinal troughs. It was like being in a prison except he committed no crime except being dumb enough to sign up.
The guards didn’t help. They were psychos and they were everywhere and their own pleasure in life seems to be pissing off miners. It was not like they actually did any work. Fights and even murders were everywhere and they did absolutely nothing about the drugs.
In the barracks the only thing that spread faster then the flees and lice were drugs. He bet that Ultor had a hand in it: A mind fucked minor was less likely to kick the doors down then a healthy and angry one.
Worse of all was the plague. Miners keeling over left and right. One minute the guy next to you is a okay, the next he’s dead on the floor. You never knew if your ticket was next to be punched.
The mines at least it got him out of the barracks. The envirosuits are hot as hell, and to make matters worse three people share one suit. One per shift. Sure they hose them out between but it doesn’t help. All it does it make it even a little more humid.
The work is pure grunt work. Eight hours a day slaving. He wondered why they even bothered with human miners. They had robots everywhere.
Everyone was at their breaking point. Some person had even begun sending pamphlets around claiming Ultor was responsible for the plague and that the miners should be ready to revolt. He didn’t know what was going on, but if the shit really hit the fan…
“Looking back, Nerima was looking pretty sweet.
“Work shift ended. Miners in Mine C-4 please return to barracks.”
He shook his head. Great, back to the trash heap. He’d almost rather keep working in the mines than to go back to that scum pit.
Almost.
With a sigh he began to return to the barracks.
In the corner of his eye, he saw another miner arguing with a guard.
Great, another prick guard. Nothing he could do. He just kept walking.
Bang! Bang!
He flipped around in shock. Gunshots!
The miner had been shot shot, but the guard was down too, a shiv through his suits neck crease.
The guards were just shooting randomly into the miners.
A bullet bounced off the wall next to him, and he ducked behind an out cove for cover.
The shit had hit the fan.
The miner cursed and fumbled for a control baton that had fallen to the ground.
He was not going to die here. He'd survive. They wouldn't take down…
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(Posted Tue, 28 Jun 2005 21:52)
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