Sean Williams - A Map of the Mines of Barnath

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A Map of the Mines of Barnath

Sean Williams

The Manager of the mines was a small, grey man named Carnarvon, wiry with muscle and as tough as

old boots. A slight accent betrayed his off-world origins; one of the older colonies, I thought, or perhaps

even Earth. He was sympathetic in a matter-of-fact way, as though my position was far from unique.

"What was your brother’s name?" he asked.

"Martin Cavell. Do you remember him?"

Carnarvon shook his head, tapping into a terminal. "No, but his records should . . . yes. This’ll tell us

something."

I tried to wait while he read the file, but impatience soon got the better of me. "What happened?"

"It seems he took a three-day pass to the upper levels, then chose to continue deeper when the pass

expired." Carnarvon skimmed through the file to the end. "Your brother died on the fifth level."

"How?"

"The exact details are unknown. There was no body, no witnesses, and no inquiry. Assumption of death

is automatic under these circumstances."

"A pretty large assumption, I would’ve thought."

"Nevertheless."

He seemed quite content to leave it there, but ten thousand kilometres of travel prompted me to dig

deeper.

"Would it be possible to see the place where he died?"

"Possible, yes, but . . ." He looked at me oddly. "You don’t know the mines, do you?"

"No. This is my first time here."

"Nobody’s said anything?"

"I only flew in this afternoon." It was my turn to look puzzled. "Is there something I should know?"

Carnarvon shook his head slowly. "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."

"So show me. Or have me shown. You don’t have to take me personally —"

"No. I’ll take you. It’s been a while since I went all the way." He looked around the office, eyes itemising

the contents one by one until they finally came back to me. "If you want a Grand Tour, I’ll give you a

Grand Tour."

"Thank you." His capitulation was both unexpected and total; he made me feel slightly guilty for

inconveniencing him. "As soon as I find out what happened to Martin, I’ll be out of your hair, I promise."

"That could take longer than you think."

"I’m in no hurry."

He sighed and called his deputy into the office. "I’m going Down, Carmen," he told the woman. "You’re

in charge until I get back."

They shook hands gravely and I thought for an instant that she was about to say something. But she

didn’t. She just watched as we left the office, her eyes filled with something oddly like grief.

Carnarvon led me to an elevator shaft, handed me a hardhat and a dirty blue overcoat. He looked

around the surface level — at the swarming clerks and technicians, at the administration buildings and

bulk-transport containers — and shook his head a third time.

"Let’s go," he said wearily, and hit ‘Down’. The cage door closed and the floor fell away.

The Mines of Barnath are the biggest in known space, and rumoured to be inexhaustible. Discovered a

century ago, they have turned our previously struggling, pastoral world into a major mineral exporter. The

five thousand people — according to the unofficial tourist brochure — who work its seven levels are

capable of extracting over a million tonnes of any given ore per month, plus the same again in refined

materials, most of which is exported off-world.

Yet, strangely, the mines are completely independent of the rest of the planet, like a distant country or a

very large corporation. Visitors are rare, especially to the deeper levels, and the flow of information to

the world outside is often restricted, as it was regarding my brother’s fate. But the official policy on the

surface is to let the status quo remain. The fate of the planet depends on a constant if not large supply of

Barnath metal — so, while ore comes out of the upper shaft, any situation, no matter how unusual, can

be tolerated.

Carnarvon, if he was aware of his awesome responsibility, didn’t let it show.

"We don’t get many people here," he said, pausing to light a cigarette. "Usually from off-planet — those

who have heard rumours and want to check for themselves. Most are satisfied with a few pamphlets and

a quick tour of the upper levels."

"What about Martin?"

"He was an exception, like you."

I nodded, allowing him the point. "What about the other miners, then?"

"A handful — the ones called ‘skimmers’ — live nearby. Drifters and no-hopers, usually. They only go

as far as the third level, where we do the refining. More permanent miners work the deeper levels. The

deepest ones never come Up at all."

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