Chapter Text
'The Pilt. The weave that ties us all together, that lets us travel and see each other, that lets us breathe, wherever we are in the system, that holds us and lets us move as one.
Compatriots, friends, I'd like to toast in its name today! I'd like all of us, moons, river-dwellers and planet to raise our glasses in conmemoration of the Formation!
In the name of progress, faith, and family, of where we stand today, where we were yesterday, and where we will be tomorrow, may the Pilt hold us for many more years to come!
Now, on with the celebration! I hope you all spend a lovely evening, and do remember to enjoy yourselves!
My boy, how did one turn off this thing aga-'
- Councillor Heimerdinger, opening speech at the Triage Formation's Commemorative Ceremony, 311th aTF
INSTALLATION V-I-VI, SKY STATION, THE SUMP, Wednesday, First Week of the First Month, 294th aTF
It doesn't dawn, in the morning. Some problem with a gyroscope has the whole station stuck to the rotation of the Five-One-Six installation, which is no rotation at all, and that means Silco has to rely wholly on the tenous emergency lights to get ready in his empty bunkroom.
He tries to enjoy the last seconds of it. When he comes back, it won't be empty anymore, after all.
He closes the clasps of his jumpsuit quickly, slips on his boots without tying the laces and grabs his helm and belts from the rack as he goes to the door.
It's Progress Day, and that means Silco can't be late.
There's fresh blood hitting the docks today. He has to pick up his new team.
He moves through the corridors with ease, them being all but engraved into his mind's eye at this point, and is soon climbing the stairs to the docking platform.
He's the first one there, only the personnel of the night shift setting everyting for the landings and him on the outside of the base, the shimmering shields high above them a barrier between them and the nothingness of space. It isn't surprising, he did skip breakfast to sleep in.
It will, hopefully, pay off.
He spies the overseer -a burly vastaya named Darago, almost twice as tall as him and definitely twice as wide- sauntering in from the control tower, a gun already strapped to his thigh.
Show-off. Silco has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
There won't be any trouble this morning. The miners are always agreeable, on their days off, and the newbies won't even think of causing problems until they've spent at least a week trekking the guts of Five-One-Six and burn through their palms by grabbing their picks incorrectly.
Silco stays where he is, calm and quiet with his back to the wall. His fingers itch for his lighter, but to use it on the docks is as good as asking for a beating in the middle of the cafeteria, so he only waits and watches, keeping to himself as some of the other miners slowly trickle in, all of them as lonely as him.
There are no familiar faces, or at least not nearly familiar enough, so Silco doesn't try for small talk. He doubts anyone would appreciate it, anyway. They're all mourners here; if any of them wanted a shoulder to cry on, they would be wailing by now.
So they stand, patient, arms crossed. One dares to go as far as to take a cigar out of his pocket, though he simply lets it hang from the corner of his mouth, not lighting it.
It all goes to show how only the smartest survive, when it comes to the depths.
Darago comes up to them, then, an interface that has to be as old as him already connected to his neck ports, and traces his eyes over all of them as he types, checking his list, Silco is sure.
Someone fidgets by his left, and a voice pipes up, "When's the ship coming in, sir?"
Darango, with all the decency and care he posseses, which is litte, takes a deep breath and says, "It should already be here, son." and falls silent again, focusing on his task until the interface pings, which is when he frowns and turns on his heel, heading towards the control tower again.
Sighing softly, Silco looks up, and doesn't look down until a buzz makes his teeth begin to chatter and the port's alarms start blaring.
They're here, then.
He stands very still while he waits, as do the rest of the miners, not getting in the way of the preparations or, Janna spare them, the ships themselves.
Then, the first shuttle breaks through the darkness and crosses the shields, and the alarms are almost deafened by the thing's motor trying to exit through its plating.
Another shuttle is quick to follow, just as noisily, and then another, and, soon, their little flying space is occupied by a small fleet. Not all of the miners will stay in Five-One-Six, of course, both the station and the actual exploitation too small for it, instead will fly to their neighbours, to the Tower Base, the Seven-Eight-Three or join the -in his opinion hopeless- efforts on the rescuing of the Dredge.
Whatever it is, all of them dock, slowly touching down, and Silco has to cover up his eyes to protect them from the dust they raise on their wake.
Finally, once the last shuttle has landed, the ramps begin to lower, and the staff hurry to help the pilots out of the cabins as the overseer drags himself back over, face twisted in a disgusted grimace.
That ping wasn't good news, then, Silco muses, and then doesn't have any more time left to muse because the new miners start to trickle down and they have to fall to formation to greet them.
They fall in line swiftly while the newcomers try to find their land-legs, stumbling out into the docks clumsily save for a couple of cases, and Silco gets its first good look at them.
Only two dozens get out in this stop, it turns out. They plan on making small teams, then, which has to be what has soured Darago's morning; it means that the cave in didn't just cost them time and money, but manpower too, and that doesn't bode well for the profit of the mine.
Silco can't help but bite his cheek at the thought, face betraying nothing as he considers just how ill it might bode for them as well.
It takes them some time, but the new additions finally arrange themselves into a semblance of a row, and then all that is left to do is look at Darago and try not to shift on his feet too much.
With another heaving sigh, Darago straightens to his full height, and then the introduction begins.
"Good morning, recruits," he says, and Silco bites his cheek harder, because the fact that the man still behaves as though he was still an enforcer won't ever not be funny. "My name's Darago Capal, and I'll be your supervisor as long as you stay on the Installation V-I-VI,"-Silco swears he can hear him say the numbers properly-"of the Ferros' House, the second Refinery in the nebula and oldest settlement in the River."
Then comes a quick rundown of the station and basic rules that Silco ignores in favor of looking.
It sometimes surprises even him, how much you can tell of someone only by their looks. There are three girls that huddle together by the left end of the row, barely old enough to work, standing next to a half vastayan with clumped feathers older than all of them put together. Next to them sit another seven new recruits, all of them clad in working clothes, some already stained, even; a transferring group from the Four-Seven-Oh, then. The only ones left from there on are a bunch of what can only be Entresol-born, all of them standing tall, not a single back bent, occupying the most of the space they can. One particularly burly, taller than the rest by almost a head, is currently ignoring Darago in favor of looking around the place, paying more attention to the ships rather than his peers.
Silco doesn't envy whoever gets paired up with him. Unobservant miners bury teams.
"With that out of the way," Darago sighs, tapping his fingers against the interface, "I will now be calling you by name to add you to our roster. Follow your new teammates, they'll show you the ropes, and tomorrow you'll be going down for the first time, understood?"
He gets some nods in reply, though he doesn't wait for an affirmative before he begins to call out the new teams.
The kids get shoved in the first team with the vastaya that was standing next to them, being the only ones to complete a full ensemble. The rest are all called simply to fill in spots left by dead miners, patch up the holes left on already formed teams, and quickly follow their new companions and the first team out of the docks as they are, eager to meet their new bunkrooms, apparently.
Silco begins to frown once they reach the middle of the list, and he still hasn't been named.
His brows are fully drawn by the time he realises, cautiously wary, that it's only the big guy and him left.
Darago sighs, looking at the interface like it's the source of all miseries -which, for all that Silco knows, could be true- and says, "Alright, and you two are our new Canary."
Silco, without a single thought, snarls, "What?"
"We lost the last pair in the collapse, boys," the overseer sighs again. "You're gonna have to pick up their slack."
And no. Absolutely not.
"I've belonged to the Ferros' Clan for three years now," Silco insists.
Darago huffs. "The other guys had been here for seven."
This has to be a fucking joke.
"Sir-"
"Look, Silco,"-Darago meets his eyes, almost apologetic-"there's really nothing I can do."
Silco curls his hand into a fist to stop it from reaching for the knife.
At his silence, Darago nods, mouth twisting into an unhappy grimace for an instant, and then glances at the interface one last time.
"Right, so, Silco and… Entresol. New Canary Pair," he tells it. The thing pings back, and, with that, their fates are sealed.
And, finally, giving them one last strained smile, he leaves.
And fuck.
"Fuck," Silco breathes, dragging a hand through his hair.
Standing by his side, Entresol looks so lost it's almost pitiful.
He clears his throat. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Silco digs his hands into his eyes before replying, willing himself not to bark insults at his new partner on the first day.
"It means we've just become the cannon fodder of the cannon fodder, Entresol," he says, "We're now stuck at the bottom of the chain."
Fucking Canary.
Entresol shifts on his feet, all padded gloves and muscle, looking like he's never touched a pike in his life.
They're gonna be dead within the week.
When it looks like he's considering opening his mouth again, Silco snaps, "Let's go," and turns to head towards the cafeteria. Maybe eating will help him forget he's now a dead man walking. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Keep up, Entresol."
And Entresol stumbles, still lost, but follows anyway.