The pickaxe digs into the crevice. With a practiced twist, I remove the axe while widening the hole. After two more strikes, a chunk of ore two handspans long tumbles to the ground at my feet. I absently push it to one side with my foot, already locking my eyes on the next spot.

Just as I start the downswing, the horn blares. I drop the pickaxe and bend to gather my ore. It makes a knee high stack - master will be pleased. He moves along the line now, stopping at each worker, counting their ore, complimenting or punishing, marking their tally on their chest with a piece of charcoal. The new workers have the least amounts, of course. It is easy to tell they are new - they still wear gags, still show signs of strain, haven't yet learned how to pace themselves. Still have hope in their eyes. I don't like to look at them, see the fire that burns in their bellies. That fire will soon be banked, then extinguished. I still remember a time when I had such a fire.

No. I don't. I remember dreaming of such a time. An empty echo, the tattered remnants of an imagined life. A husk. Fanciful images of a world that doesn't exist, cannot exist. Master comes to me, compliments my work, tallies my ore on my breast, moves on to the next. I gather my ore in buckets and carry them to the smelter, dump the ore into the pile, then resume my place.

The horn sounds again and we shuffle in a straggling line to the dining area. I take my place, kneeling in front of a trough. I am rewarded this meal - a small piece of crusty bread has been added to the usual assortment of lettuce, radishes, and wiry meat.

Once the meal is finished we shuffle to the bathing room. We take turns on the chamber pots, then are chained standing along the wall. Masters douse us with buckets of water, rinsing away a layer of black dirt.

On, then, to the sleeping cell. I kneel on my pallet of straw and wait for master to lock my collar to the ring on the wall with a length of chain, then settle into itchy, dreamless sleep. Some undetermined time later I am awakened by a touch on my back. I shift my weight back, raising my rear into the air and spreading my legs. I feel master enter me, hear his grunting, press my face and arms into the floor to brace myself. Master finishes with a long groan, removes himself, and I crumble back to the ground, already nearly asleep again.

The horn wakes me, and I kneel, waiting for master. He comes by presently, detaches the chain from my collar. I stand and wait until all the workers are in line and chained together. We shuffle back to the mine and take our places. I pick up my pickaxe and, when the horn blows, I strike. The pickaxe digs into the crevice. With a practiced twist, I remove the axe while widening the hole. After two more strikes, a chunk of ore two handspans long tumbles to the ground at my feet.

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