“Thank you,” she made a point of saying, squeezing his hand.
They passed other couples, not all quite as amorous as Blake and her, a few men greeted Blake by name and grinned. “When?” asked one man with a scar down one cheek.
“A few hours,” replied Blake.
“Good for you, Blake. Bring her over to our pod sometime, introduce her to Sym.”
“Thanks, Craig.” Blake led Lysa away down another long tunnel. They paused by a portal. Lysa could see lights in the distance—another huge complex.
“The processing plant?” she asked.
Blake pointed. “On the left. The ore is processed before shipping out in a huge freighter. Then there is the geotherm plant for supplying energy and the small structure is a basic recycling plant. Once I’ve finished two years underground, I spend the last year working in the plants.”
“Must be better than being down there,” she remarked peering at the other buildings.
“Yeah, some reward.” He laced his voice with sarcasm. “It’s all hard work. This way.”
Lysa turned and before following Blake, spotted a doorway. An imposing double door with a sign above displaying two bold letters ‘PB.’ “What’s this place?” She moved to open the door.
“No. Stay out. I don’t want you to go there. With any luck, you’ll never have to go in there.” He grabbed her hand, yanking her away.
“Why?”
“Another time,” he muttered. “I don’t want to talk of that place, not today.”
She huffed. His vague response wouldn’t fob her off. She would come back and investigate for herself.
At the end of the tunnel, he opened a bare metal door and let Lysa pass in.
She gawped, eyes wide open at the structure. “Wow,” she gasped. They entered what looked like a huge dome shaped plant house. The air smelt strange, not unpleasant, but ripe as if the aroma of silage had flooded the room. All about were plants of various shapes and sizes. She recognised some—sweet peas, runner beans, carrots and tomato plants. The air was warm, humid and a fine mist sprayed over some plants.
“You like it?” asked Blake fingering a nearby leaf.
“Yes, how, I mean, who created this?” She crouched down and ran her fingers through the soil. It felt real, like proper dirt.
“Ridley is quite enlightened. He believes good sustenance is important for our health, rather than a constant diet of dried food. He insisted the Corporation provided a facility, the Green Dome, as this is known as, for growing fruit and vegetables. And a chicken coop too.”
In the far corner was netting and she heard the cheeping of chicks. “A cockerel, too, I assume.”
“The only offspring allowed. The eggs, as with most produce, are rationed. I’m allowed half a dozen eggs a week. That will rise to a dozen once we’re married.”
“How is this place maintained?”
Blake kicked the dirt at his feet. “Compost from leftover food. The lights above provide natural daylight…”
“I mean labour?
“Ah. I’ve brought you here because it will be in your contract. After a twelve-hour shift, nine days on, three off, us men are beat. So all wives are required to work in here six hours a week. It’s compulsory.” He indicated a small group of women huddled in a corner with spades. “Not a problem?”
“Hell, no. I’d love to work in here. It reminds me of my grandmother’s garden.”
“Great.” He clapped his hands together. “The consequences of not complying.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Let’s not go there.”
“I bet it’s popular.” She strolled amongst the vines, examining the ripening pea pods.
“Uh, not. There have been a few unfortunate incidents when wives have missed the quota.”
“Really? I’d thought… who are they then?” She pointed at the women busy digging.