by Xenutia
Disclaimer: While I'd like to at least say the plot is mine, if not the characters and universe involved, I can't even say that. The idea of delving into Harper's past, and how he came into contact with Beka, is hardly exclusive to me. But this particular version of events is mine. The characters, ship, and other aspects of Andromeda's universe belong to Tribune, except Eric Guldavian, who's mine. Knowing my luck the show will tell its version before I get this finished, but oh well.
Rating: It's an PG-13, probably. Some of the story involves violent scenes (not graphic, though), and the angst level probably deserves this rating. The subject matter isn't something I'd like little kids to read, but they'd probably be bored anyway.
Summary: In a sense this is a sequel to Let There Be Light'. It's not essential to have read that as this takes up years after those events...but for anyone that read it, yeah, consider it a sequel. Another pretty awful chapter in Harper's life, but this time...will it have a happier ending?
Spoilers: I'm not aware of any, if anybody finds anything I should have warned them about let me know.
*** 1 ***
It was going to drive him insane.
Drip...drip...drip...an incessant beat, tattooing the deck where each drop fell, kicking up a fine rain of spray which touched onto his face in cold, hard spatters.
Drip...drip...drip...if this was their idea of torture, then it was a good one. Every drum of the water leaking from the tank above him struck like a hammer, driving a nail under his nerves, leaving a fine dew on his lips. Harper licked them absently, so far beyond the point of thirst that he cared nothing for the lost dignity of the action. If he had ever even possessed such a luxury as dignity in the first place, something he seriously doubted. He was thirsty, starved, tired, and every muscle ached with the kind of deep, damaging pain that would not be fixed simply with rest. His clothes hung tattered from his thin shoulders and scrawny limbs, stained with not a few fading patches of blood and grime under the new. His hair, the last time he had seen a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the aft cabin, had been so dirty it was impossible to tell its original colour.
Not the worst state he had ever been in, not when he counted all the broken bones and pain ridden fevers he had taken as a child, but perhaps the worst situation he had been in since the Magog attack six years ago. The one that killed his father, and left so many of his friends and aunts and uncles maimed or dead along with him. He wondered, not completely without purpose, whether this new kind of purgatory could be justified simply by its being his route from earth.
He had tugged uselessly at the rough ropes binding his hands in the first couple of hours down here, but that had long since been abandoned as useless, succeeding only in chafing the skin from his already raw wrists. His ankles, too were tied, and as he had come aboard this crate without notice and barefoot, they had fared no better and hurt just as much. Fresh bruises mottled his torso, and an ominous, sharp pain in his skeletal ribs suggested that they had been fractured by the crack from the butt of the freight Captain's rifle.
He had once thought that the only way off earth was as a slave or a corpse, and at the time, he had been right. But this one time, he had almost believed he had lucked out - a cargo ship had landed near his camp, felling the trees about the perimeter to feed the rich's taste for real wooden furniture in their penthouse offices and skyscrapers. Things he had only heard of, but never seen. And at the sight of that ship, Harper had felt the first beginnings of this insane plan for a way off that God-forsaken rock. By the time the sound of high-powered chain saws and laser cutters had begun over the camp, the plan had been completely formed, and he had snuck unnoticed into the hauler's open cargo bays in the clothes he stood in. He had felt no remorse at leaving without saying goodbye - the last of the people he might have owed that to had died some months before in the harsh winter that had just passed.
He had snuck as far back as he could, hiding between the logs already stored there in regimental lines, getting splinters in every inch of unprotected skin. The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet, particularly, had suffered. But that hadn't mattered, not when the promise of a one-way ticket out of there was in the offing. If he could just stay undiscovered until they put down to refuel at the nearest space dock or orbital station, again things he had heard of and seen flexis of but never experienced in the flesh, then he could sneak out, and be gone before they ever knew he was there. A faint warning bell in the back of his psyched and terrified mind had told him how foolish this was, that they could be in space and not dock anywhere for days, even weeks, that he had no food and no water with him...but in the end, seeing the alternative, that had been a gamble he was willing to take. Starving here, and quickly, was better than staying there to be taken for Magog food.
He stayed low when the ship's crew loaded more logs into the hold, listening with baited, anxious breath to their faint voices, daring to laugh and joke about this rat infested hole as they worked. While he agreed with the names they called it, the idea that they would laugh about the conditions they found here sickened him beyond belief. He liked a joke as much as the next man, and the truth be known, more - but there were some things that just weren't funny.
The loading process continued for some hours, and Harper could do nothing but lie still with cramp in his entire body and splinters needling his skin, and watch as the light died in the western sky. The sun boiled low on the horizon in a poisonous red, colour bleeding into the clouds in a wavering corona, and he watched it with a horrible apathy he had not expected of his last sunset on earth. He would probably never see it again, but it meant nothing to him. There were a lot of things he would never see again, like his parents and his cousins and all the friends he had lost over the years, but it didn't matter when the taste in his mouth was so sweet; he was leaving earth. With that in mind, he almost wanted to laugh himself.
It was fully dark and the sounds of insects were buzzing noisily in the night when the crew returned and sealed the hold. He felt a sudden, intense moment of claustrophobia, but it passed, and swiftly. The darkness in the hold was absolute, and the air was heavy with sap and the woody aroma of the bark lying close to him. There was a burnt understaste to the scent, the residue of laser cutters on the stripped trees.
The time after that was little more than a hazy dream - if not quite a nightmare, then prevented from being so only by the promise of arriving at civilisation soon. The darkness, the airlessness despite the slight conditioning down here, the uncomfortable tightness of the space he was wedged into, all made it seem endless and without reprieve. He was vaguely aware that he was hungry, but pushed the problem away.
It had not even occurred to him until after takeoff that many cargo holds were neither air conditioned nor heated, but he was lucky; he guessed these haulers carried live plants and maybe animals from time to time, as well as wood. He didn't like to consider the obvious implications, that these haulers also carried slaves.
He managed to sleep for much of the time, if only to take his mind off things; you didn't live on earth for twenty years without learning to sleep easily in uncomfortable conditions and in the face of hunger, thirst, or fear. He could switch off at will, and it was a blessing he clung to now like a drowning man clutching a buoy. But the hours he spent awake were hell.
It must have been almost twenty-four hours after their takeoff when the lack of air finally got to him. His lungs burned like twin torches in his chest, and he was feeling dizzy and light-headed from oxygen deprivation. He tried for a long time to control it, to endure it, knowing full well that even the slightest movement would cause the cylindrical logs to roll and clatter in a noisy chain reaction that would alert the crew to his presence; but in the end, it was too much, and he cautiously edged out of the gap he had crammed himself into.
His legs screamed with acid pain as he straightened, stiff and unbending after so long in one position, and the slivers of wood in his feet made it hard to walk. He would have to tip-toe over the logs to make it to the air vent pushing recycled oxygen between its bars, and would have many more to curse about before he was through. A small price to pay, for fresh air, for a chance to clear his head and stretch his legs and get the woody, dusty taste out of his mouth.
He stood still a moment, balanced precariously on the topmost layer of logs, the bark biting his soles and the darkness making him dizzy. All sense of direction was lost, and though he held in mind the interior he had memorised idly throughout the long day as the ship was loaded, that did him no good when he couldn't see. He waited a moment, feeling the slight rasp of air circulating the hot, almost desert like hold, trying to sense its direction from the feel of it on his arms and face. It was coming from his left, he decided. Faint, barely a whisper, hardly enough to support any life in here much less a human, but undeniably there. Feeling cautiously with arms outstretched and toes probing gently for purchase in front of him, Harper made his way in the direction of the vent. The rush of air grew stronger, encouraging him to continue, telling him he was going the right way.
At last his reaching fingers struck metal, and the murmur became a blast, oxygen churning from the conditioning vent like a gale. He breathed deeply, hauling great lungfuls of the crisp, sweet air into his tired lungs, his light-headedness escalating from the sudden flood of oxygen. He wanted to laugh from sheer chemical elation, but clamped down on it. Hard. If he was caught, he didn't know what these men would do. They may be reputable haulers, cargo carriers, and would only turn him over to the nearest dock - but the presence of air and heat in the hold, and its implications, hadn't left him. The evidence suggested they were pirates with a history of transporting life cargo. If they found him, there would be nothing to stop them selling him.
Reluctantly, Harper breathed his fill and turned away to negotiate his route back to his hiding place. Assuming he could find it in the dark. His feet were bleeding now but he barely noticed, heady with terror, hunger, and sudden oxidisation.
He misjudged the effect that air had had on him. Halfway back across the rolling carpet of logs, Harper stumbled.
The noise of clattering tree trunks rang away into silence, breaking the patient burr of the engines, and he froze, waiting with his heart hammering in his mouth to see if anybody would come.
***
He lie here now, eyes straining into the darkness, water spattering his face and bruises aching like fire all down his body, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to leave his hiding place like that. He could have made this work; could have stayed in secret until the ship went to port, and been away, been free. Instead, he had sold himself for a few struggling mouthfuls of air.
The noise had alerted the crew almost immediately, and vicious, glaring lights had flared to life overhead and illuminated him like a white marble among black. His first instinct had been to talk back, his runaway mouth and joking facade attempting to smooth the situation; but if he had had any doubts about the nature of this ship and its crew, he had none now.
The captain was a man in his thirties, a ship born human by the look of him, reaching as high as six foot two and filled out across the shoulders and chest like an athlete. A vivid tattoo of a rose emblazoned his right bicep. There was nothing weak or sickly about him, or his crew, but instead subtle indications of the opposite; they all wore leather and heavy gun belts, their weapons bared and ready in their hands, and the eyes of one long-haired, dark-skinned man were milky with flash. For a long moment the six of them stood around him in a semi-circle, poised like a firing squad, the tall, bronze skinned, square jawed captain centre to them all. Six pairs of eyes bore into him like a nano welder slicing metal. Then, without warning, the captain laughed.
Harper watched him tentatively, finding the raucous noise spreading amongst the pirates disquieting rather than soothing.
It's alright, lads, the captain declared, shouldering the wicked looking rifle that had been aimed at Harper. It's just some mudfoot kid.
Harper took exception to the label, true as it was, but bit his tongue. Better they think him a defenceless mudfoot kid than a serious threat to them.
The laughter died out, and four of the remaining crew holstered their weapons. The last kept his trained on Harper at all times, squinting to keep his target locked. What you doing here, kid? the captain asked, coming further into the hold towards Harper. I know you're stowing away and looking at that mud hole we just came from I don't blame you...but I think what I meant to say was who the hell said you could hitch a ride on my ship?
Harper had been tentatively optimistic when the man began, thinking he may do no worse than being put ashore at the first stop after all - their cargo seemed legitimate and he would pose no threat to them - but as the captain finished, his heart clamped with fear again.
I, uh...I thought it looked like fun?
Their blank expressions made him rethink, and quickly.
I was gonna ask but you were busy?
Still no response, only a slight narrowing of the captain's previously mirthful eyes.
I, uh...I fell in? And when I woke up we were in space? Two of the men closed in on him, and he squeaked: This isn't working, is it?
the captain said pleasantly, as his men captured the small, unarmed boy. No, it's really not.
The rest had happened quickly, and abruptly. Within moments he was caught. They bound him, clubbed him out of his struggling with the butts of their weapons, and threw him in this small, dark aft boiler room until they were ready to dispose of him, not sharing with him their plans for doing so.
The steady drip from the water tank had begun almost immediately, and counted down the seconds since then, slowly ticking off the hours, punctuating his thoughts. Except it was really only a single thought, being thrown up in his mind like driftwood tossed onto the shore by the tide. He had been right, after all; the only way a mudfoot like him ever escaped earth was as a corpse or a slave. He wondered, with a sick, churning sensation knotting his empty stomach, which it would be. The hours passed so slowly they seemed to move backward, streaming past him like the vapour trail in a ship's wake.
To Be Continued...