The Long Black (The Black Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Not that she felt all that different, well, most of the time anyway. She didn’t even think she looked all that different, certainly not when compared to Jane, at any rate. At the same time she had to deal with the apparent determination of boys near her age to be as stupid as possible. Morgan was almost convinced they were literally competing with each other to see who could take it the farthest.

  Still, her parents were clearly worried, so Morgan didn’t dare ignore them. There were times that she wondered if her parents really understood her at all, but she wasn’t silly enough to think that there weren’t things they did understand better than she did.

  Since she was already eating into her sleep time Morgan just sat at the first empty table and dug into her food. It tasted fine, or at least did at the speed she was eating it.

  Shoving the remains of her bread into a pocket, Morgan dumped the tray and utensils in the return chute and headed out, setting as brisk a pace as her aching legs permitted. That was another of the downsides to working the fields; she used different muscles walking about all day than she did crawling about in the tunnels.

  The town was laid out with the homes opposite from the gate, tucked behind a smaller fence. Well, most of the homes. The Tinnys lived in small buildings scattered about the rest of the town. Officially, that was so they were near the factories and so on in case something happened, but even the kids younger than Morgan knew it was to keep them out of the reach of the miners when they weren’t working.

  The corollary to this was that it was illegal for anyone to hang around in town anywhere outside the living areas. Officially, this was because of the danger of bystanders being hurt in any potential work accident. Unofficially, it was just another way to control them.

  The inner wall separating the homes from the rest of the town had a gate, not that Morgan had ever seen it closed. Given how much moss had grown up against it she wasn’t sure it even could close at this point.

  In front of the gate was the single biggest object in town, towering over the factories by ten meters or more and positively dwarfing the squat dwellings beyond. A single massive block of native stone had been carved over years into the likeness of Sam Hill, the founder of Hillman and the beloved Eternal Father.

  Morgan had her doubts that he had really looked quite so. . . statuesque, but then again, living on a high gravity world certainly helped people stay in shape and build muscle, so maybe he had.

  The statue was dressed in the same coveralls they all wore, though the statue’s clothes fit rather better than they did on the actual miners. Morgan had heard a few of the miners grousing that the statue was the closest he’d ever gotten to the mines, but that was – for once – actually unfair to the man. However things were now, in the beginning everyone had worked equally. They wouldn’t have survived otherwise.

  As she passed, Morgan touched the small bit of stone jutting out from the base as she passed by. It had been left unworked intentionally, and was slowly being smoothed and rounded as the people touched it each day as they came and went.

  When she had been little Morgan had asked Daddy why they had left that bit, and he’d explained that it was supposed to represent how everyone working together was what hat built the colony, not just the Eternal Father. Morgan thought it was actually a really nice touch, with the added benefit that it reminded Morgan that even something as broken as Hillman still had its good side.

  A steady stream of other people headed home, some going faster than her, others slower, but they were all just as tired as Morgan, nothing but a bunch of individuals shuffling along looking at their feet. Tonight the unity the statue was supposed to represent was conspicuously absent.

  The nearer buildings were the multi-family ones, big enough to fit three or four couples and all of their kids. These made up the majority of the structures, and helped the mothers take turns watching the children.

  All the way to the back were the smaller huts for everyone else, those with grown children and those who didn’t have any yet, widows, and the assorted others who didn’t fit the mold. As far as she knew Morgan was the only one living in that part of town who wasn’t an adult. Morgan didn’t know why her parents weren’t in a group home, but she suspected it had something to do with the reasons behind Morgan being their only child. She would have liked to know those reasons, but the pained look on Momma’s face when she had finally asked had kept her from asking again.

  As she turned onto the haphazard lane of moss that ran past the doors of that lane, including her own, Morgan heard voices chatting down the way.

  Grumbling Morgan turned aside and headed around back of the line of huts. This rule was iridium-clad. No one was to see her coming and going when her parents weren’t home. No matter that, as far as she could hear, it was just Betty and Valerie sitting in a doorway talking about bygone years.

  For as long as she could remember a flock of hens had lived between her home and the adjacent house, nests patched together with torn up bits of moss and various bits of trash the birds had appropriated. While corn was grown because it could actually survive Hillman they kept chickens because they thrived.

  The video record of the landing on Hillman – which they watched every year on Founder’s Day – had included some footage of the animals Sam Hill had brought with them. The only ones Morgan recognized were the chickens, for the simple fact that they were the only animal still found in the towns. Even then, compared to the animals in the recording, the chickens milling about were gargantuan, bigger and stronger in every way. It certainly didn’t hurt that they apparently found the local moss downright delicious, or at least parts of the plant.

  A couple of the chickens wandered over as Morgan trudged past them, cocking their heads at her. Morgan smiled. It didn’t matter how many times she’d seen them do that, the hens were silly things. Unfortunately, they were silly things who also had sharp beaks and claws. It was just as well Morgan didn’t have the job of collecting the laid eggs.

  Still, a small distraction was in order. Luckily, Morgan had planned ahead. Out of her pocket she grabbed the crumbs of her dinner along with whatever other bit of debris had been lurking in there, tossing it off towards their nests.

  Losing interest in her completely, the hens went after the food, ruffling their feathers with some loud clucking for good measure. Morgan wondered if they kept coming over because they were territorial or because she fed them. As she approached the back window of her home she decided she’d rather not know than find out the hard way it was the former. Especially with the red one Morgan had mentally dubbed Bertha. That hen had been there for as long as she could remember, and was probably older than Morgan was.

  From the outside, their family hut looked fairly spacious for only three people, especially when put up against the family homes that held upwards of a dozen or even twenty people, but this was somewhat deceptive. For one thing, the largest room was dedicated to the tools Daddy used in his work. Two small sleeping rooms, a bathing room, some small storage space and the large common room rounded out the building, and combined took up slightly more space than the tool room.

  The tool room was also the only room of the house that had a locking mechanism. Indeed, it was the only room in any of the houses Morgan knew about that did. That was why Morgan didn’t head for the back door, but to the small window next to it, after checking to make sure no one was around. It also locked, but Daddy had long since shown Morgan the trick to opening it. Once it was open Morgan pulled herself through the small opening onto the empty table pushed up against it. Securing the window behind her, Morgan hopped down from the table onto the floor. She sank a couple centimeters into the foam floor, the same padding that edged all of the rounded tables and chairs.

  The first thing Morgan did was lean against the table and pull off her boots and socks. She plopped them on the floor under the table, right at home among the months and years of accumulated dirt and rocks dislodged from her boots day after day.

  P
adding over to the door in her bare feet, Morgan sat and listened for long seconds before unlocking it and peering into the rest of her home. The building’s exterior reflected heat well enough, but it was still hot and humid in the house, the smell of the moss outside mingling with the oil and metal tang of the tools.

  Moving purposefully, Morgan grabbed her improvised nightgown. It was a discarded pair of coveralls that Momma had cut the legs and most of the arms off of, as well as the inner layers of padding. It had been Daddy’s, so it still hung down to her knees, and was patched and mended in many places. It smelled of Daddy rather than the mine though, which was comforting for Morgan.

  Since she didn’t have any scrapes or cuts serious enough to need tending, Morgan just took a quick shower. The water was welcome after the day’s work, the persistent itch she’d been ignoring from the grime and dirt giving way to a dull numbness from the cold water.

  The water was always cold, no matter how hot it got outside. In an effort to reduce evaporation and wasted water, the storage tanks were buried deep below the buildings. Chattering teeth and numb skin were viewed as acceptable losses to efficiency, if they were thought about at all. Of course the cold also dispelled much of her drowsiness, but it was still better than going to bed dirty.

  Shoving her dirty clothes into the basin to soak, Morgan returned to the tool room, locking the door behind her.

  Yawning she walked around the various benches and racks of tools, as well as a couple tables littered with dismantled bits of machinery Daddy was working on. She stopped when she reached the wall opposite from the window. It was dominated by a long row of larger tools in inset hooks, the tops of which were a half meter or so above her head.

  Crouching down, Morgan pushed against the edge of the mounting which gave way after a few moments. Folding it down revealed a narrow compartment – perhaps two meters long and a bit less than a meter deep. Since the rack had been placed there after the room was finished, it still had the foam beneath. This was just as well, as it served tolerably well as a mattress. The pillow and sheet had been added later, as had the tiny doll made from scraps of clothing and stuffed with padding.

  Morgan crawled in with a sigh, easily moving the mounting back in place with the help of small handles concealed on the inside surface. At her head and feet the sides of the tool rack had been modified to replace the original paneling with a tight mesh, vastly improving the airflow through the small space.

  The airflow didn’t help much with the heat, but the metal construction of the rack did, acting as an impromptu sink for Morgan’s body heat. That helped less when the ambient temperature of the whole building was already high, as it was then, but it was still better than nothing.

  Lying with her back to the wall, Morgan closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, wishing she could fall asleep faster.

  CHAPTER 02

  It is true that many thieves do it to survive. They can be rehabilitated, certainly. Make no mistake though; there are ‘people’ out there who do it for no other reason than because they can. To them we’re just as much things as the trinkets they’ll harm others for.

  - Police Chief Jacob Watanabe, Danan province, planet Trimbol.

  IT TOOK A LOT to wake Morgan up when she slept in the hidden compartment. She wasn’t a heavy sleeper. Not by any means. However, outside sounds simply didn’t reach her in the enclosed hidey-hole.

  So to say that she was startled to be woken by a loud banging noise coming from the other room was somewhat an understatement. Without any conscious thought she froze, barely breathing as she listened intently. It was hard to be sure, but it certainly sounded like someone was messing around with the tool room door. Morgan told herself that it was just Momma back from her shift, and maybe she’d dropped the key or something.

  The banging came again, this time accompanied by the door rattling a bit on its hinges. The faint hope that it was Momma or Daddy vanished as whoever it was grunted, muttering something that sounded like a curse.

  “Keep it down. Neighbors.” The voice was muffled, of course, but Morgan could at least tell it wasn’t someone she knew.

  “Must be valuable. Good lock.”

  The door rattled again, but without the banging this time. With everything else momentarily quiet she could hear something scratching at the handle, poking around in the workings.

  They weren’t in yet. If she could get to the window, run to the next house. . .

  Panic welled up in Morgan’s chest, her breathing quickening at the mere thought. She’d have to navigate the whole of the cluttered room first. They’d surely hear her, and the back door was a few steps from where they stood. Even if she got to the window she’d still have to grab her boots and get them on. She wouldn’t make it a dozen steps barefoot across the moss, not in seeding season.

  But if she stayed where she was there was nowhere to run, nothing to protect herself with. Daddy had designed it to be secret. Secret and quiet, but it had never been tested. What if they heard?

  Morgan had expected to hear the click when they got the door unlocked, but she didn’t. Her only warning was the door creaking while it swung inwards. Morgan could feel her body shaking, but she put all of her focus into breathing as quietly as she could. She was sure they were going to hear the pounding of her heart, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  There was nothing she could do at all.

  “What is all this stuff?” The voice wasn’t muffled anymore. They were in the room with her.

  “You idiot. You forget everything from being a tunnel rat? Tools.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Why lock that up?”

  “Eh, just a front. There has to be something hidden.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “Here, dummy.”

  Every moment they dug about in the chests and racks was unbearable, the noise ever so slowly getting closer to where Morgan lay.

  What started as careful searching, clinks and thuds as tools were picked up and moved, was gradually replaced with wholesale clatter as the carefully organized instruments were shoved to the side or dumped onto the floor.

  They were still meters away when Morgan could smell them, the musty dust of the mines mixed with the whiskey made with any excess corn each season. Wrinkling her nose Morgan tried to ignore it, but it felt like it was saturating the air, choking her. All she could do was bury her face in her pillow and hope they got frustrated enough to leave.

  Morgan was trying to track them through the room, but the soft nature of the floor worked against her. They seemed to have no definite pattern to how they were ransacking the room. They were lurching from one spot to the next, bypassing areas Morgan would have thought obvious, only to go back to them halfway through whatever they were digging through.

  And then they got to the rack above her.

  “What are these massive pieces of junk?”

  “Probably for the fabbers.”

  The rack vibrated, one of the tools moving in its mount.

  “Valuable then?”

  “Sure, but who would buy it?”

  “Useless then.” One of them kicked the rack. The rack as a whole didn’t move much, but the false panel shifted on its mounting.

  Afraid it would come loose, Morgan grabbed for the handles, her knuckles bouncing off the metal as she fumbled about for the straps.

  “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “Is something loose in there?”

  They kicked the rack again, but this time the panel didn’t move as much with Morgan holding onto it.

  “There’s nothing here.”

  Something smashed into the opposite wall, thrown no doubt, hitting something else metal as it fell to the floor.

  “Let’s go. Running out of time anyway.”

  Running out of time or not, the pair didn’t seem to be in a hurry. The noise they made as they retraced their footsteps out of the room was much more cacophonous than their searching had been in. It sounded like th
ey were throwing about everything they could get their hands on, even tipping over tables and containers.

  At last silence fell, announced with the almost quiet closing of the back door. Morgan slowly let go of the handles. She suppressed a wince as she realized just how badly they had been digging into her hands thanks to her death grip on them. She did not, however, try to open the compartment.

  In fact she waited, as best as she could determine in the dark confines of her hiding place, a half hour or so before trying it.

  Letting out her breath in one big worried whuff, shuddering from anticipation and paranoia, Morgan pushed out on the panel. . .

  . . .only for it to budge a few centimeters at most. Shoving harder Morgan was rewarded with a lot of noise, metal and foam and wood banging against each other, but the panel didn’t move any farther out.

  Several more attempts yielded identical results. Something must have fallen against it, pinning the panel between the rack and whatever had fallen against it.

  Morgan was quite strong, especially for her size, but then again pretty much everyone was when you lived on a world with twice Earth’s gravity. Leverage, however, was another issue entirely.

  Wiggling about in the narrow confines she braced her back against the panel. She then worked her feet up against the opposite side, just barely possible if she wedged her knees all the way up against her chest. Morgan took a few slow measured breaths then pushed. She started off modestly enough, slowly ramping up the force. More groaning from the metal, but there was still no give.

  Or at least none in the panel. Morgan could feel her muscles straining, her vertebrae popping as she shifted a bit and threw more into the effort.

  Abruptly the bottom half of the panel slid outwards, accompanied by a metallic grating sound of whatever was holding it in place shifting. The frame kept the top half from moving inwards, and the opening wasn’t nearly big enough for Morgan to fit through.