10

Pennsylvania City-State, Anthracite Field Wasteland

Lord Rothfair stood amid the wreckage, the condensation on the glass of his gas mask obscuring all but the carnage at his feet. Bodies, the remains of workers and miners lay strewn on the barren ground. Above him, the impurities in the air made the sun appear mottled, dark crimson with pocks of black smoke scarring the surface. He stood outside his mining operation. Once called a technological wonder by his contemporaries, the buildings now smoldered with the remnants of a colossal explosion. One he’d been told was felt miles away.

The Rothfair Power and Works sign lay burnt and twisted against the metal siding of the buildings destroyed in the blast. The mining operation’s tunnel entrances and living quarters shared space under a containment hood with the factory, but the scene no longer resembled the original design. Multiple detonations obliterated the enclosure, flooding all areas with the vile slag that constantly fell from the sky like an ashen winter. New chasms had opened up since his last visit, their seething yellow vapor billowing out and adding to the low visibility.

He adjusted the leather and glass mask encompassing his entire face already feeling the slick of sweat along his brow. He skirted another pile of twisted machinery and noted the shards of glass from the containment shield looked to be as large as grown man. He knelt, squinting at a residue on what was left of a personnel transport buggy. Scraping at it with a gloved finger, he chewed on his inner cheek, thinking. A figure appeared in the corner of his mask and he stood, rising to meet the official.

“This must stop, Lord Rothfair.” Michelson sidled next to him. The Union Safety Commissioner looked absolutely appalled to have been forced to leave the security of his desk. “This is the third of your establishments, is it not?”

“And the fifth overall,” Rothfair corrected. “Let us not forget that the other two members of the Eastern Mining Consortium were affected as well.”

Their voices sounded muffled by the tube snaking to the filter canister on their backs.

Rothfair checked the meter, noting the time left before they needed to get back inside. “We’ve all been targeted.”

“But the bombers seem to prefer your facilities above all.” Michelson glared at him through the face mask. “Perhaps there is a reason they focus their dissent?”

“Lizzie Frances and her Defiance group know that I’ve thrown money and influence toward efforts to stop their rebellious acts. It stands to reason she would target me specifically.”

Michelson shrugged, seemingly unconvinced. He toed a disembodied arm with his outlander boot. “Yes, but there are more casualties this time. Why would she destroy her own kind, people she claims to defend and speak for?”

“They continue to work for the Peaceful Union, her perceived enemy. Perhaps she intends to send a message to those she believes betray the cause she claims to embrace.”

“But to protest against the union by crippling the power system that protects all citizens…surely she sees the insanity—”

“Yes, well, Mrs. Frances has never been accused of rationality,” Rothfair cut across him.

“Still…”

“You sound like a sympathizer, Mr. Michelson,” Rothfair snapped. “Do you object to a working Tesla Dome and lighted homes? Perhaps we should return to the horror of the darkened streets?” Michelson had lost his eldest son to a horde of looters before the dome was fully functional. Perhaps the mention might push the man too far. He needed Michelson on his side.

Michelson stood ramrod straight for a moment, then mumbled something, held up the vapor wand, and shook his head at the gauge readings. “At any rate, there’s more. Come, I have something to show you.”

Reluctantly, Rothfair followed Michelson across the grounds. They stopped at the containment shield. The glass, normally clear and wrapping around the front of the main building, now laid in shattered pieces.

Michelson bent down, climbing over the broken façade and into the space that housed the processing turbines, dividing chutes, and re-blending conveyor belts. Charred bodies littered the walkways, their blue uniforms smeared with black grease and blood. The explosion had ripped limbs, burned away hair, and seared skin.

Rothfair was grateful for the blurred view from his mask. Further in, they went past the shaft terminals to the filtration system. A black cloud of coal dust still lingered near the top of the two-story structure’s ceiling. “What are we doing in here, Michelson?” Rothfair asked, his gaze traveling to the listing support beams. “This structure will not stand for much longer.”

“Just in here,” Michelson’s breathing, accentuated by the filter apparatus, sounded panicked. He pulled a bulkhead door.

Rothfair thought the rooms there were used for storage and he nearly stopped Michelson before he opened it. “There’s something quite…” He did not finish, nor did he have to. Rothfair’s stomach turned at the sight.

Four male bodies hung from ropes fastened to the wall much like a medieval dungeon. Rips marred the skin of their faces and arms and their scalps bore bloody and bald spots where chunks of hair were missing.

“What on earth—”

“Do you see? The breaks in the long bones, the cracked and missing teeth?” Michelson pointed with the wand at the malformed limbs. “It’s as if they were shaken to pieces with a giant fist.”

“Yes.” Rothfair swallowed hard against the disgust and sudden panic. “Have you seen this before? Written about it at the Safety Commission?”

“No, but I sent out word to my colleagues. I heard there was a man in Manhattan the other night. He had a similar way about him. I intend to petition to examine his body. There’s something more to this explosion, Rothfair, I’m sure of it.” He pointed to the ceiling. “The coal dust didn’t ignite. This explosion was deliberate.”

“I told you who is at fault here,” Rothfair said, his eyes narrowing. “Or don’t you agree?”

Michelson gestured at the monstrous figures in bondage. “Those bombers didn’t do this. Why would they? These men look as if they’ve been here for days. No, their own colleagues did this. The mine workers restrained and locked these poor souls in this room for their own safety, I suspect.”

“Perhaps a horde of plunderers. You know how dangerous this wasteland is. They most likely happened upon the mining operation and decided to attack only to have the miners subdue—”

“They are wearing company-issued uniforms, Rothfair.” Michelson had a look of utter exasperation on his face beneath the glass mask. “These men—and what happened to them—must be investigated in addition to the explosion.”

“Perhaps the explosion itself caused this sickness?”

Michelson froze, then turned to face Rothfair. “Sickness, you say? Have you seen this before?”

Rothfair pushed on, ignoring the question. “The chemicals involved in the making of the explosion. Could they have caused this?” Rothfair realized the absurdity of the statement even as he said it, but the words left his lips nonetheless.

Michelson’s dubious pout sealed his fate.

Rothfair reached into the pouch at his hip, fist closing around a handle.

“The explosion only just happened.” Michelson shook his head, his gaze on the bodies. “How could they then be here, locked up, for more than—”

Rothfair slashed with the knife, severing the hose of the gas masks filter.

Michelson gasped, his eyes widening behind the glass as he flailed frantically to catch the whipping tube.

Rothfair swung again, crushing the glass of Michelson’s mask.

“Roth−fair,” Michelson coughed, gasping as the toxic vapor seeped behind the splintered face shield. He thrashed, reaching for Rothfair, who caught the smaller man’s wrists, holding him immobile.

Pink foam frothed at Michelson’s lips, the decimation of his lungs rendering him limp. It would not be long now. The vapor here etched away the metal siding of the building in just a few months. The human body did not stand a chance. Eyes rolling, Michelson shuddered and went still.

“Shh,” Rothfair said and shifted his weight, lowering Michelson’s body to the floor. “It’s all done with now.” He struggled in the outlander suit, going through the bins in the room looking for the explosives. The filter alarm buzzed, and Rothfair bit back the surging panic as he fought to finish his task. He located the bars of keg powder, cut a hole in the wrapping, and walked backwards out of the room as he left a trail of dark grains in his wake. Once a safe distance to the front, he stopped, gasping with the overtaxed filter. He bent down, tore a piece of cloth from a fallen miner, and twisted it into a wick. Lighting the end with an igniter, he dropped it at the edge of the powder and ran.

Lungs burning, eyes watering with the sting of the ambient poison, he ran across the grounds toward the waiting transport carriage. He pulled the door closed, securing the windows shut and enclosing himself in filtered air before ripping off his mask. As he started the engine, the mine factory exploded for a second time that day. The force of it rocked the transport carriage sideways on two wheels, and sent Rothfair slamming against the inner wall. He held on, gritting his teeth, riding it out. When it subsided, he panted against the door, rubbing the pain from his neck when the piece of paper caught his eye.

The aether missive lay on the floor of the carriage, a message received at his office earlier, and he stared at it, incredulous.

We have information placing her in Outer City. Please advise.

He wondered how she’d managed that. She could not remain out there. Not among those people. Something must be done. His son, Cornelius, might know more.

The vapor cloud billowed over the remains of the factory. Far off flames glowed blue along the anthracite seams.

Rothfair could still feel the heat of it through the window. He drove away, but glanced back. This time, the secrets needed to stay buried.