“It’s a beautiful workplace,” I say.
“We all take pride in what we do,” Josiah says. “Justus told me you have impressive skills, and he showed me a sample of your work. It was excellent. But everyone begins in here.”
I nod. Because I’m new, my job will be the easiest task of all—quick fixes and polishes for mining drones that have suffered less substantial damage. The drones are steel-strong and complicated, and they often need repair thanks to the difficult nature of their task of extracting ore. I can’t help but feel a little bit of interest in the drones.
“Word spreads quickly,” Josiah says in a low voice. “Everyone here knows that you’re Oceana the Minister’s daughter, but I’ve asked them not to talk to you about her.”
Of course. It’s as Nevio insinuated yesterday in his office. My mother is no longer a leader. He wants everyone to let her go.
Josiah pauses near another room full of well-lit workstations. I see a heavy, round portal door at the opposite end. “We call that the ocean room,” he says. “It’s where we do the more difficult repairs. That door is where the drones come inside.” That’s why everything smells like salt. This is one of the few places where Atlantia opens up, and we are very, very close to the ocean.
I have to hide a smile. Maybe this is a way to get to the Above.
I’ve never been so deep, or so close to the sea.
“I can tell you’re itching to work in the ocean room,” Josiah says, laughing, and I realize that I’ve forgotten myself and I’m staring at the portal. “Don’t worry. You’ll move in there quickly if you’re as talented as you seem to be.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Josiah’s expression grows serious. “The most important part of the tour happens right now,” he says. “I need to tell you about the mines.”
I wonder why. We don’t actually work in the mines or see any of the metals harvested there. That’s what the drones are for. They’re programmed to take their payloads somewhere else, some other part of Atlantia. They only report to this bay if they’re in need of repair.
My face must register my confusion, because Josiah begins to speak more slowly to me. Already he’s forgotten how good I supposedly am at metalwork. This always happens after people have heard me speak.
“There are two kinds of mines out there,” he says. “There are the mines where the drones get the ore, and then there are the other mines—the floating bombs—between the walls of Atlantia and the ocean floor where the drones work. That’s how the drones get so beat-up.”
“I assumed it was from working,” I say.
“That’s what most people think,” he says. “But if you’re down here, you need to know the truth. In fact, all of the water around Atlantia is mined, not just the water down here.”
“But why would we do that?” I ask. “Why would we put mines out there if it results in damage to our drones?”
“The drones can be fixed,” Josiah says. “People can’t. The mines are here to make sure that no one tries to leave.”
When Justus told Josiah what a good worker I am, did he also say something about Bay? Did he tell Josiah that I tried to follow my sister the day she left?
“I tell this to every new machinist,” Josiah says, watching me intently, “because now and then we get someone who thinks this is a way to get Above. They want to find someone who chose to leave, or sometimes they want to go themselves because they feel like they can’t live down here any longer. They buy some of that illegal canned air in the deepmarket and strap it on and go up. But we’re down so deep your lungs could explode the second you get out there. The mines exist to keep anyone from trying a route that would lead to death.”
“I would never have thought of trying to leave,” I say, and my voice is so plain and bland that I am quite sure Josiah will believe me. But, in spite of everything he’s said, I still see a way out. I’ll have to learn more to decide if it’s at all viable, but I’m not ready to give up yet.
“Well,” Josiah says. “That’s everything. Let’s get you started.” He pulls down his visor and I follow his lead, glad for the layer of smoky-colored plastic that hides my face.
I work all day next to a girl named Bien, who is efficient and caustic, and a woman named Elinor, who is quiet and kind. We smooth out metal that has been scraped or bumped and put a protective sealant over the repairs. There is a brief moment of unpleasantness when one of the other workers begins humming to herself in an off-key tone and Bien makes a snide remark about the tune being as painful as a siren’s song.
“The sirens are miracles,” Elinor says, a gentle warning in her voice. “We should be careful how we speak of them.”
“They’re no more special than the bats,” Bien says.
But the bats are special, I think. Even though I had to clean up after them, it was worth it for those rare glimpses when they soared past the window in the temple, completely out of place and yet perfectly at home in our world.
When we finish our shift, Elinor falls into step with me as I leave the building. “You did well today,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, and I slide up the visor because it would be strange not to, since we’ve finished and are walking to the gondola stop together. I pull my helmet all the way off and feel the breeze against my hair, sweaty and still-braided.
Elinor stares at me. “Oh my,” she says. “You look like her. Oceana the Minister.” Then she puts her hand over her mouth as if remembering that she’s not supposed to discuss this with me.
But I want to talk about my mother. “No,” I say. “She was small. I’m tall. Our coloring is completely different.”
“No, really,” Elinor says. “Something about your eyes. How you’re seeing everything. That’s how she looked at people.” Then she leans closer, glancing around to make sure no one can hear. “I know we’re not to bother you about it,” she says. “But I have to tell you how much she meant to me. I loved her sermons. I looked forward to them all week. And, once, I brought my sick child to the temple and your mother came past and touched my son’s hand and he was better the very next day.”
“She never claimed to perform miracles,” I say, but I’m thrilled at what Elinor thinks of my mother, how she remembers her. “It’s blasphemy to say that she could.”