Ice

For seven days, the pounding against the shield doors made it hard to even think. Five times we exchanged the bright, blue-white light of the Cave's grid-powered lights for the sickly yellow of the emergency lights when exposed substations were hit or enough water got into the Cave's ventilation systems to trip the emergency shut-offs.

Most of the time, I didn't even have the yellow lights; I sat in the darkness of my closet of an apartment. When I could think, it was about how small my bank account was and how soon the rent was coming due. The only saving grace of being cooped up for so long was the opportunity that would come after it. When the shield doors opened again, all kind of income opportunities would open up: pebble-packers would be out to harvest the choicest ice for the higher-end bars, gravellers would clear the areas too small for even the littlest bulldozers to reach, and of course, diggers out be out to dig up art.

I was out as soon as the shield doors were open enough, dashing ahead of the bulldozers queued up to go out and clear off the approach road to Culver Cave. I knew the nearby Caves, Silver Dollar and Reno, would have opened their shield doors earlier, so their diggers would have a head start on me.

The whole landscape glittered like a sea of diamonds, or as if the gods were a team of glass-blowers, but it was the real sea I was headed for, and real glass I hoped to harvest.

As expected, dune buggies from other Caves were already scattered over the beach marking impromptu claims. I had considered using my own buggy, but then decided I could get out quicker on foot. The beach wasn't that far away.

I picked a point that didn't seem too crowded and started near the waterline, where it was easier to reach the sand. I scooped and scooped, both with my hands and the small shovel I carried, working my way up the beach as the tide came in. Digging was easier this way, but though my hands grew red and numb, my digging was still fruitless.

After four hours and what had been the length of my shadow, I dropped my shovel and stretched, wondering if it had been a mistake to dig from the waterline. Now I was closer to other diggers' claims than I cared to be. Should I try to make another waterline dig, or try a dig further inland?

On a hunch, I headed toward the Ridge--a cluster of stone too big to call "rocks" and too small to be a proper "cliff." Usually not a fruitful area, which was why so few diggers bothered with it.

My hunch paid off within a half hour. I felt something hard under my shovel, switched to digging with my hands, and there it was: a beautiful 4.2-gigahertz stroke of Mother Nature's artistry.

I had to excavate a hole nearly as deep as my arm before I could get it out, but when I finally held it in my hands, I could see it had all been worth it.

The glass tree was the biggest I'd seen (except for the "Jademan's Cedar" I'd seen in the Dior Museum)--bigger than my head--with five major limbs and nearly forty smaller branches. Maybe more, once I got the rest of the sand cleared off it. Cleaned up, it could fetch over 500 risals--enough to live off of for a month, easy.

I'd been so absorbed in digging it free and admiring it that I hadn't notice anyone approach until a shadow muted the gleam of its scintillating branches. My stomach fell as I slowly turned to the source of the shadow.

Three very large "gentlemen" (and I use that term loosely) stood over me, so close together that they cast a single shadow. "Nice tree." I wasn't even sure which of them said it.

"Fragile tree," I pointed out. "Easy to break."

The one on the right chuckled. "Best we relieve you of it, then," the center one said while the one on the left pulled something out of his pants.

I had just enough time to realize it was a stunner before the bolt hit me. The other two rushed in and grabbed the tree as my fingers went numb.

I could only lay there and drip tears--not even properly cry--until the stun blast finally wore off. Six hours of work, and all for naught. I may as well have joined the pebble-packers harvesting water for the Cave's cisterns. I slowly rolled over and started to push myself upright, still tingling like I'd hit a whole-body funny bone, when I saw the flash of blue.

Hesitantly, I brushed at the area. More blue appeared, almost under the rocks. I surreptitiously glanced about, not getting up, acting like I was still working off the effects of the stunner. "Once bitten, twice shy," and all that.

The glass tree I finally dug out was smaller than the first, but it was colored--not only flashes of blue, but smudges of reds and traces of green. There must have been minerals in the sand that had leached out from the rocks.

I didn't bother trying to clear the sand out of the branches. No matter how many, colored trees always fetched a premium. I could easily see such a rarity fetching 800 or 900 risals, even though it was barely half the size of the clear tree.

By now, the once crystal-covered land had returned to its yellow sand, green hills, and gray rocks. The diggers had churned the beach into something resembling a farmer's furrows, and, for the most part, gone back home. A few stragglers were digging in the remaining unchurned stretches, but most had already left.

Even so, I was careful. I tucked the tree, still half-hidden in its wet-sand ball, under my shirt and started back home, trying to look dejected. This one wasn't getting away from me.