Before the war, while the Republic and the Empire co-existed, ranite was only used by the Hutt Cartel and other lesser-known crime syndicates. But then, almost exactly on the day that the Sith emerged from hiding and proclaimed their loyalty to the Empire, the demand for ranite became astronomical.
Tomaras Garro saw the results now as he knelt behind a low blast panel a thousand metres below Ilum's surface. Pebble-sized crystal fragments of ranite littered the floor, and his boots crunched with even the slightest movement. Big industrial lights illuminated the cavity; the ceiling couldn't be seen at all in the smoky haze above. A suffocating, putrid burnt odour, which not even the face masks could fully filter out, hung in the air.
He was positioned in the northernmost zone of the Il Torga mine, Zone Sixty-Six. It was the largest chamber yet opened, and more importantly, sensors had found large recesses hiding behind its walls, other areas sure to be thick with minable crystal columns of ranite. Unfortunately, the mine's only tunneler had been out of order for months. In its absence, various teams had triggered controlled blasts—barely audible over Yorst's objections—trying to get at the rich deposits.
The need for explosives had given a lot of the miners a cause for concern, Tomaras being one of them. But some were more vocal than others. And a few were downright loud about it.
Like that guy, Tomaras thought, recognising the voice coming from the tunnel at the far end of the work zone. Oh, brother. Yorst.
"You're not listening," the bald man declared, multi-coloured dust puffing from his vest as he waved his arms. "You're not listening!"
In the perfect echo chamber the cavern provided, no one could help but hear Yorst, and if there were any stalactites left intact, Tomaras half expected Yorst's voice to bring them down.
Tomaras glanced sideways at his co-workers and grimaced.
Short and compactly built, Yorst had one mode: intense. Tomaras was vaguely aware of the fortyish man's war record; the scars and pockmarks on his face read like a walk through recent military history. But while Tomaras felt for anyone who'd gone through all that, he had little patience for the way Yorst always talked as if he were trying to yell over a barrage.
But Tomaras saw that the target of Yorst's harassment wasn't paying him much mind, and he couldn't blame him. "I am listening, Yorst," Qweg said absently, "I could probably hear you from inside the cantina."
I'm sure he wishes he were there now, Tomaras thought as he regarded his uncle. Qweg's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The bottom half of his face was short and mashed as if he had rested his chin on a grinding wheel. His skin was a smooth reddish-brown, much like Tomaras' own. Tomaras also observed that he was not wearing a face mask, again, and instead, he could see the older man's tired gap-toothed grin.
"I'm trying to save people's lives here," Yorst said, busy auburn eyebrows lowered in all seriousness. "Your company, too." Seeing Qweg return his attention to the electronic manifest in his hands, Yorst shrugged. "No one listens."
Tomaras knew Yorst worked as a demolition's expert, one of the very few to travel out so far from the galactic core. Qweg had explained that Yorst had been fired by every major mining firm in the outer rim in the last five years. The only one Yorst had stuck with was Il Torga. It wasn't too small of an operation, but they couldn't afford to let him go. Tomaras agreed. Yorst knew what he was doing with a demolition charge, and who knows how long it would be before they could find a replacement, but a variety of neuroses came with the package. And he always looked as if he'd slept on the floor. Even when Tomaras did that for real, he made sure he looked presentable.
