The Stoneworks

The sun blazed over The Pit, its light hot and unyielding upon the workers. Their bodies (often bare to the waist) were slick and glistening with sweat from the exertion of the work, their muscles tensing and flexing as they split blocks of stone from the earth. Their sledgehammers sang a chorus of of ringing steel as they drove wedges into gaps in the stone, each blow stinging the hands of those unlucky enough not to have gloves. It was hard, unforgiving work, all the more so for those not there of their own volition. The convict laborers groused and grumbled, staring enviously as their volunteer counterparts took extra breaks and ate their lunches in the shade. 

Not everybody in The Pit performed such hard labor, of course. Many of the overseers earned the scorn of convicts and volunteers alike by always offering unsolicited advice or critical comments while never lifting anything heavier than a notebook. Work crews complained about such bosses constantly, bringing crewmates closer together in a sort of camaraderie of hatred. A contingent of the guard could be found in the pit as well, but often had a more congenial relationship with the workers. They chatted and joked with the volunteer workers from time to time while keeping a watchful eye on the convicts. The Inquisition's presence was more subtle, but every worker felt the eyes on their backs. Dark-cloaked inquisitors lurked in the shadows and within the mineshafts, never speaking or interacting with any worker or guard. Nobody dared to complain about them, at least not openly. Speak ill of the inquisition, it was said, and you'd find yourself staying overnight in the barracks and wearing the striped pants in the morning. Nobody knew whether it was true or not, but they certainly didn't want to find out. The inquisitors themselves did nothing to dispel the rumors.

One man, however, was neither convict nor volunteer, worker nor guard. He did not wear the black robes of the inquisitors, nor was his notebook full of the figures and reports of the overseers. In a remote corner of the quarry, Dr. Ribello Quine stood in the depths of a dark mineshaft and watched a man dig a hole. The subject of his interest was a former hunter who'd seen fit to put an arrow through his hunting partner's head in the woods. He'd butchered the body, carving it up into cuts of meat and bringing it back to the settlement with a wild tale about his partner tripping and falling down a waterfall. The story hadn't held up to scrutiny, and the evidence of the man's crime was soon discovered. None of this mattered to Dr. Quine, though. The only thing that mattered to him was that the man in the hole had been sentenced to life and would never be released from The Pit. Thus, the good doctor was allowed to carry out his research upon the man as per his contract with the New Isran government. Leaning over the edge of the hole, he raised a bright bullseye lantern and peered down at the man below. The man was a good 60 feet down, toiling way with a shovel and pickaxe as he burrowed deeper and deeper into the ground. Every now and then he would load the broken-up rocks and earth into a small bucket, which he would hoist to the top of the pit with a pulley. Another convict, an old blind man who'd attempted to make a coat of cat skins, emptied the bucket into a cart and attached a new one. For his benefit, the buckets were fitted with a small bell that jingled as it was raised.

"How do you feel?" called Dr. Quine, staring down into the hole. "Have you begun to tire yet?"

"Not yet, sir," shouted the man in the pit, squinting and shielding his eyes from the blinding light. "I'm getting quite deep, though. How much further do I have to go?"

"Just keep at it," replied Quine, nodding with satisfaction. "You've been digging for almost seven hours. It's quite remarkable. The tonic is working wonders."

"Are you sure?" asked the man in the pit. "It feels like it's been longer."

"I'm sure," snapped Quite, abruptly closing the shutter on the lantern. "Get back to work. Dig the hole, hole digger."

The man grumbled, but got back to digging. Quine, meanwhile, retreated to a small desk and began making notes. In truth, the man in the hole was right. He'd been digging for over four days without stopping for food or drink, simply toiling away without regard for time. Dr. Quine had chosen to perform his little experience in the pitch-black tunnel in order to disorient the man, robbing him of any sense of time by depriving him of sunlight. He'd been given nothing to eat or drink, as to not allow him to track the passage of time by his meals. Not even the buckets could be used to gauge how long he'd been there, as a bucket of a different size was lowered every time. Keeping him in the dark had another benefit - it kept the man from seeing exactly what was happening to his body. While he'd shut his eyes against the dazzling light after so long in the darkness, Dr. Quine had taken the opportunity to look him over. His hands were bloodied and raw, the flesh worn almost to the bone from the constant labor. The man's face was gaunt, his eyes sunken into his head and lips shriveled back to expose the man's broken teeth and blackened gums. His entire body was nearly skeletal, covered in dark bruises from where blood vessels had burst. Still, the man felt no pain or tiredness. The tonic that Quine had concocted seemed to be a success...at least, so far. Once the convict's body finally gave out and he collapsed, he'd have to perform an examination and see the exact extent of the damage. Still, the experiment seemed encouraging so far. The Laborer's Draught, as Quine called it, showed great promise. Despite the fact that he was half employee, half hostage of the state, Dr. Quine still took pride in his work. It didn't matter to him that the inquisitors watched his every move. They could watch all they liked, as far as he cared. So long as he could perform his research unimpeded, Dr. Ribello Quine was a satisfied man.