Outwards

My name, I am getting used to the concept of a name, is Alex, from the first two letters of my identification number LX80.

I am, by my very nature, a mine worker; one of those genetically designed by the Mirrorclass mining corporation to work underground in the Uranium mines of the delta asteroid belt but, three years ago, I was made redundant. The availability of cheap artificially made uranium combined with the ban upon asteroid uranium mining meant that there was no longer a need for us ‘Knockers’ anymore.

Now I am trying to adjust to a life above ground and, thanks to the encouragement of workers at the readjustment centre, have joined this creative writing class so that I can put my experience of the problem of readjustment into words.

Like the other ex-mining clones, I wear a protective visor to filter out the suns rays. Without them, I would be completely blinded by the sun. But also, the visor allows me to see, as much as is possible, the world that ordinary human beings take for granted; to see things like grass and flowers.

We also wear sunblock on our faces and protective hats and gloves most of the time because, unlike normal humans, our skin is a lot paler and less resistant to the sun’s rays.

The doctors at the centre also explained to us that if our skin is exposed to the sun for too long we have a 75% higher risk of skin cancer than normal humans.

I also, like the other ex-miners, take pills for agoraphobia; the fear of wide open spaces; like agoraphin and horizamol. I remember the first time that I tried to look up at the open sky, my head started spinning and I fainted right in front of one of the doctors who work at the centre, Dr Millsom.

I remember we used to hear a lot of stories from visiting inspectors to the mine about life on the surface of other worlds and even sometimes I would see photographs and would dream about them but the worlds in my dreams were always more enclosed; never as bright or as wide open as the world I see through my visor.

There are some things though that the visors and the suncream and the pills can’t shield you from, like the hate; the prejudice of some normal humans towards us.

They really don’t see us as human like them at all. They see our small bodies and our bent backs; our large eyes and the visor in front of them and all the clothes we wear and they think we’re like something from an alien species.

Even the little kids, though they’re closer to our height, seem to have hate or fear or derision in their eyes when they look at us, they laugh and ask their parents, “What’s wrong with that man?” and their parents just pull them away as if we’ve got something infectious that they don’t want their kids to catch.

Still, I suppose it could be worse. I’ve never been attacked like some of the other ex-mineworkers. I know one that was cornered in a shopping mall by a gang of teenagers and dragged outside, his visor torn off and his hat and top stripped away. He just collapsed on the ground, cowering while his skin was fried by UV rays and the kids all stood about laughing. Luckily for him, there were some people nearby who called the police so I guess that they’re not all so bad but I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to me and sometimes I get frightened when I pass a gang of teenage boys.

The more I think about it, I guess they’ve always looked down on us a little. Even the mine inspectors who used to come and visit us never really saw us as being like them; more like something from a old-fashioned slave class although I never really noticed it at the time.

I wanted to put something in about mine culture because we had culture the same as normal humans although some, the ones who hate us, would probably like to think that we’re incapable of creating anything; that we’re just redundant beasts of burden.

Inspite of living in constant darkness we have a long tradition of lazer chisel rock and crystal carving and, something I think which is completely unique to the culture of mine clones, luminous cave painting although the introduction of luminous paints is something we really have to thank the normal humans for; given to us originally as a gift by the famous cloneworker reform campaigner Duriel Clapman back in the days when the life of a clone miner was one of unbearable deprivation and hardship.

But also we have a history of song and story telling and myth making, all born out of our subterranean environment.

Although dancing is something completely foreign to us and the sight of dancing people often a source of curiosity and amusement to our people ; early on, mining clones on the Delta learned to make music suited to the acoustics of underground caves and tunnels and even today, within the rhythms of mine music you can hear the sound of the tools we used; the hammer of the pneumatic drill for instance in the song, “Working for the corporation”.

Oddly, in a way, I feel sort of blessed by the fact that we have a culture because its something we have left now that the mines and the work have gone and, when I hear the synthetic pop music
that the normal humans listen to it makes me think that, even though we were the product artificial reproduction, our culture that is part of our soul is a totally organic and natural one.

There is one thing though; a great love and wonder that we share with humans; infact our reverence for it might even be far deeper than the reverence of those who take it for granted.

Delta Clone miners love the night sky. It doesn’t hurt our eyes or give us that same fear and nausea that the day sky does. Few ex- miners can bear to look up at the sky in the morning but, after dark, the night sky is like the high ceiling of an enormous cave studded with shimmering crystals.

The night sky also seems to symbolize the future of our people. We came up out of the ground into a new and somewhat hostile world but looking out at all the world beyond gives me a lot of hope.

They say, you see, that there are planets out there in space with nights that go on for decades; the sort of planets where we could settle and have a world of our own and that’s my dream now, to go to one of those places and make a new start, perhaps farm something; something that grows in darkness. I often imagine growing luminous flowers; whole plantations that glow in the dark.

It sounds a bit like a silly sort of dream, I know but, as one of our people, the Union leader ZN-28, once said, “The greatest mine of all is your imagination”.