The grand heavy-duty cathedral of Mining Rig Omega, once a place of chains, toxic slurry, and corporate terror, had been transformed into a warm, echoing hall of laughter, sizzling food, and flickering firelight.
In the center of the vast chamber, three large iron hearths had been built from salvaged boiler drums. Inside the drums, clean firewood gathered from stone-hard underground driftwood crackled and popped. It sent spirals of aromatic amber sparks dancing toward the high stone vaults.
Suspended over the flames were four massive fifty-liter iron cooking pots. It bubbled with thick, hearty stew made from fresh underground river-trout, wild cave tubers, salted marrow broth, and dried mountain greens brought from the Iron Ark’s stores.
Eight hundred liberated commoner miners, dressed in clean wool jackets and flannel shirts distributed by Valerie’s logistics teams, sat in warm circles around the fire pits. Children who had spent months huddled in damp iron cages ran across the smooth dark rock floor, their laughter ringing off the granite walls like music that had been buried for a generation.
A little distance from the main celebration, near the entrance to the natural earth-heat spring canal, Arthur Vance sat upon an overturned wooden crate.
He held a battered tin mug of steaming chicory coffee between his gloved hands. He watched the firelight cast warm, flickering patterns across his vanguard coat. His ARC-7 mag-carbine was leaned safely against the wall behind him. Its action was locked open, cleaned and oiled.
