Chapter 27

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them: "Hold on!"

- Rudyard Kipling, IF-

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A shrill whistle jerked Harper from his sleep and he sat up quickly. Too quickly. His limbs snapped harshly against forgotten restraints, and his still healing and aching body protested the impulsive movement violently. He couldn't stop the groan from escaping his dry lips.

It took him a moment to get his brain in gear; to remember where he was, why he hurt so badly, why his hands and feet had such a limited range of motion, and why everything was so freakin' dark. But not that long. The smells and sounds of the prison slammed into him and he remembered. Everyday it was easier, came quicker. It frightened him to realize that. Would he soon forget what it had been like to see? Would he wake up expecting the all-encompassing darkness, accept it as normal? Would he become so used to this horrible life that he'd forget he had once been free? Already he'd learned to dismiss the ever-present twisting knot of hunger in his stomach, falling back on old habits he'd hoped never to revive. It was scary how easy it came! As much as he preached to Dylan the need to think and act as a slave, Harper realized he desperately didn't want to really accept it, to lose himself to that life once more.

As he sat there thinking, all around him he could hear the sounds of the other slaves getting up quickly, pulling on shoes, gathering mess-kits. He knew he should move, too; it would only make life worse if he drew more attention to himself by being late, but he was so tired. It felt like he'd only been asleep for minutes, which, he reflected, was probably true.

"Harper."

Harper felt the captain's hand on his shoulder and it saddened him that he didn't even jump at the touch.

"Harper, everyone's lining up at the door with their mess-kits. I think we should join them."

"Sure, whatever," Harper muttered gloomily, not at all excited to find out what his job in this camp was gonna be. "Could ya give me a hand up?"

Harper held out his arms and Dylan grasp him by his forearms, pulling him carefully to his feet. There was silence and something about it told Harper he was being studied.

"What?"

"Did you sleep at all?" Dylan asked gently.

"Not really." There was no point in denying it.

Dylan sighed and led the young man to join the other slaves waiting for their prison to be unlocked.

The sound of the iron bars being pushed out of the way told Harper their day was really beginning.

"Come on, I'll show you where the latrines are," a new hand on his shoulder announced Simon's presence at their side. "But we have to hurry. We're only allotted ten minutes."

"What's with the hats everyone's sporting and why didn't we get any?" Dylan asked, cluing Harper in to the fact their wardrobes didn't quite match everyone else's.

"You made Rosie mad. She probably purposefully forgot," Simon replied. "Don't worry, you'll get them later, I'm sure. Now come on, we don't have much time."

"The latrines" turned out to be five long buildings consisting of forty or so open holes in boards set over one huge, foul-smelling pit. Privacy? Yeah right. Being blind was a plus here; he could only imagine how hard this was on Dylan. Good ol' communal latrines. Breed camaraderie, togetherness, and infectious diseases. Harper shuddered.

Next, Simon led them to the center of the large, open compound that filled the middle of the camp. He felt Simon pull him into a position sandwiched between the two bigger men and Dylan handed him his mess-kit.

"We line up here for breakfast, always by barrack. A barracks on the left side of the compound, B on the right, in numerical order. And since I've got you standing by me, make sure you always get in this same place in line. This is your position forever now and the Ubers will punish disorder, no matter what the excuse."

Harper slowly shuffled forward in the line as he listened to Simon explain, Dylan's hand never leaving his shoulder.

"We have forty-five minutes to get breakfast, eat it, wash our dishes in the big barrels at the end of the serving area, and return them to our barrack. Then it's roll-call. Again, we line up by barrack in rows five deep, same order as now. That's where we get our assignments for the day and any equipment we might need. It's also where any discipline or punishments are meted out. And roll-call lasts as long as the Nietzscheans want it to. Usually, it's over in fifteen minutes or so, but sometimes the Ubers feel the need to make us stand there for hours, even days, never mind the sun or weather. And you must stay standing, no matter what. That's very important, okay."

"Got it," Dylan replied, liking this place less and less.

"Talking is permitted during meals, like now, or while working, but never, ever during roll-call. Slaves have been shot for talking in roll-call."

Harper tried to listen and absorb everything that Simon was telling them, know it was important, but it was hard. All around him he could hear the rustling, whispering, and coughing of hundreds of people – people he couldn't see. He could feel Dylan guiding him along but he had no idea where he was going, or what he was supposed to do when he got there. His feet were throbbing as he shuffled forward, and he had to concentrate to keep from tripping on the chain that connected them and dragged on the ground. Worst of all, he could hear the shouts and orders of the Nietzscheans floating above all the rest but didn't know where they were or if they were yelling at him. It was all so disorienting and confusing and if Dylan hadn't kept his hand in a reassuring grip on his shoulder, he probably would have panicked.

"Here," Simon said suddenly, interrupting Harper's thoughts. He felt the other man take his hands and turn them. "We're almost at the serving table. Put your bowl in one hand and hold your spoon and cup in the other."

Harper tried to do as he suggested but his left hand refused to cooperate and he ended up dropping half his dishes. Frustrated, he swore strongly.

"Harper, it's okay," Dylan said soothingly, reaching down to retrieve the dishes. "Brace what you can't hold against your chest and I'll help you if you need it," he said, putting the tin dishes back into his hands.

"What happened to your hand?" Simon asked, his voice cautious and curious at the same time, as if he'd just noticed the crippled limb.

"Felix," Harper said darkly, not in the mood to get into a heart-to-heart discussion of crucifixion and its effects on the body. He struggled to arrange his dishes as Dylan had said, chained hands not helping one bit.

"I'll explain later," he heard Dylan whisper over his head to Simon, but then they were at the serving table and all his concentration was needed to keep his food from ending up on the ground as well. Especially since Dylan no longer had a free hand to guide him with, and he had to rely on the man's voice and his own sixth sense of knowing where the captain was to navigate.

Breakfast turned out to be a tin cup full of water and more of the thick, grey gruel that tasted like sawdust and gym socks, which they ate sitting in the dirt.

"Describe the compound to me, please, Boss?" Harper asked, trying to keep his mind off how foolish he must look, crouched in the dirt and trying to eat a meal he couldn't even see or hold onto properly. He had a feeling more of it ended up on his clothes than in his mouth and his face flushed with shame. At least he made sure to not spill the water. Water was like gold to a slave.

"Harper, just eat and don't worry about that right now," Dylan said from next to him. Harper could smell the stall technique a mile away.

"Dylan, don't take advantage of my blindness to try and shieldme from unpleasant things. I need to know."

He heard the captain sigh. "It's big and dirty and full of filthy slaves just like us, okay? The food's disgusting and it's served out of big pots by ragged, dead-eyed female slaves, and there are Nietzschean guards crawling all over."

"And…" Harper urged, sensing there was something Dylan was holding back.

"And there are cages, and stocks, and chains, and enough torture devises scattered about to make a Spanish Inquisitor cry with delight," Dylan gave in. "Think Nazi concentration camp with a medieval twist and you have it just about right."

"Figures..." Harper muttered, not at all surprised.

They didn't talk about it any more. Simon was once again urging them to hurry, and before Harper really had time to figure out the routine, his dishes were "washed" and stowed back by their blankets, and he was once again standing in a line between Dylan and Simon. This time, however, he was facing forward and not moving, with enough distance around him that he couldn't physically touch either man. He wanted to call out to make sure Dylan was still there, but remembered Simon's warning and didn't dare.

He could hear the crunch of many pairs of boots on gravel and figured it was probably the Nietzscheans roaming around, inspecting their property. They shouted orders like "bucket line!" or "picks and shovels!" to various groups, apparently the assignments for the day.

The ex-engineer tensed when he heard several pairs of boots approach and stop right in front of where Dylan and he were standing.

"Ah, I see our newest guests have made themselves right at home." Harper recognized the cold voice of Adoniram. "But your uniforms appear to be rather incomplete."

For the briefest of moments, Harper envisioned them presenting him with a lovely pair of warm, sturdy boots.

The hunger must really be getting to me if I'm thinking like that…

"Prisoners 6557 and 6558 step forward!" Adoniram ordered in a loud voice, making sure the whole camp could hear and know what was going on. Hesitantly, Harper shuffled forward in his chains, hearing Dylan do the same next to him.

Something was thrust into his hands. Startled, he grabbed at it to keep it from falling in the dirt. It was smallish and round, made of coarse, rough material. Ah, his hat. His fingers found the front and he imagined it must look something like an old newsie hat. He used his right hand to slip it over his bald head.

What next? he wondered. The sound of more chains clanking answered that question. Beside him, Dylan groaned and only barely managed to bite back a frustrated comment.

Uncaring hands were suddenly touching him, attaching more metal to his already weary frame. When the guard finally stepped back, Harper now had an iron ring, rather like the collar around his neck, attached around his shrunken waist. It rested heavily against his hip bones, bruising, and a long chain ran from it to connect with the middle of his leg shackles. He knew the purpose; they were supposed to use the new chain to pull up and carry the slack in their leg irons when they walked, so they didn't trip over them; a twisted form of Nietzschean practicality for slaves working in the mines. He supposed he should be thankful, as those unseen chains had sent him sprawling more than once, but all he could really think about was how much more uncomfortable this was, and how heavy they felt.

Being a slave really stunk.

"6557, you will join the bucket line with the rest of your barrack today," Adoniram continued, addressing Dylan. "Step back in line." Harper listened to the clank as Dylan obeyed. He could guess at the look of pure hatred and fury the captain was attempting to keep off his face and knew the man was probably harboring Tyr-like thoughts of revenge at the moment.

Harper waited for his assignment, but instead felt rough hands grab him by the arm and propel him forward, away from the line. He couldn't help tripping as he tried to keep up.

"Slaves!" Adoniram bellowed, dragging Harper beside him as he circled in front of the rows of prisoners, displaying his catch. "I want you all to look! Look at this pathetic excuse for a Kludge! Look at what happens when you defy your betters, reject their kind care! This boy used to be whole, now look at his crippled hands, observe him as he limps! He used to have sight, now he's blind! He ran from his master, thinking he was smart, but no slave is that smart! No slave can escape! And now he's here, condemned, to live a life in chains surrounded by darkness and pain! Remember him, and don't make the same mistake!"

Harper's face burned, whether out of anger or shame, he didn't know. What he did know was neither Dylan nor Tyr had anything on the thoughts he was harboring toward Adoniram – and Felix – right then.

The Nietzschean captain paraded him around for a few more minutes, allowing everyone a good, long look, then dragged him back and dumped him in his line.

"You get cart duty. And you get it today, tomorrow, and forever, so I suggest you learn to like it." Adoniram laughed as he walked away.

A whistle blew and roll call was over. The sound of clothes rustling said that the slaves were allowed to move again, and, suddenly, Dylan was at his side.

"Come on, Harper, get up off the ground. Don't let them win."

"I hate them!" he seethed, sitting in the dirt, the extra ten pounds of chains hanging from him feeling like an anchor. "I hate them all!"

"I know. I do too, but right now we gotta stay alive," Dylan urged, pulling him to his feet when he made no attempt to get up.

"I hate them for being able to treat people like this! It's wrong and someday I'm gonna make them pay!" Harper continued to rant, a month's worth of anger boiling over. "They're just stupid, dumb Uber freaks and someday I want them to know that Seamus Zelazny Harper is not a slave!"

Harper felt Dylan take his arm and he let him lead him forward. He must sound like a crazy man, hissing with rage, but Dylan said nothing, and even if he had, Harper was too angry to care.

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The mine was actually many smaller mines, all connected by one, long shaft that ran down the middle. Slaves were expected to chip away at the walls and tunnels with picks and load the smaller rocks into buckets that they handed off to each other until they reached the main shaft. A small railroad gage ran down the center of that shaft and wooden carts waited there to receive the broken rocks and pull them to the surface, where more slaves unloaded them into wagons that were taken to another slave camp for processing. Now, in the absence of any electricity or modern technology, muscle was needed to move those carts. The obvious choice was pack animals, but for some odd reason, animals have a dislike of toiling for hours underground in close quarters. They require someone to watch and guide them. Not wanting to waste any slaves, the Nietzscheans, in their infinite wisdom, just eliminated the middle-man and put the slaves to work pulling and pushing the heavy carts in the animals' stead.

The result was that Harper found himself fulfilling his life-long dream of being a mule. Partnered with another slave, he was forced to strain up and down the mine shaft pushing and pulling tremendously heavy loads of rock on feet that had never quite healed and with hands that ached horribly at best and refused to work at worst. There was a wooden handle that jutted out in front of the cart connected to it by another tongue of wood and there was just enough space for a slave to stand behind it and push, as Harper soon learned. He was also strapped into a sort of harness that fitted across his chest and attached to the cart, giving him added leverage against the weight of the cart and taking some of the pressure from his ruined hands. After only an hour at his new job, Harper had to resort to using his left wrist to push against the handle because he couldn't endure the agony using his left hand caused him.

Cart duty, he quickly realized, was just a sort of prolonged, slow torture; the job every slave hated the most. And they only had to do it once every two weeks or so; Harper was going to have to endure it every single freakin' day for the rest of his life, unless Dylan thought up some magnificent scheme to get them out of there.

In the moments when he wasn't panting in pain or ready to faint from exhaustion, Harper did have to admit he could understand the Uber's reasoning, beyond the constant torture and punishment part, that is. The carts were fixed to unchanging, unmoving tracks, and he himself was harnessed to the cart. It was probably the only job in the mines a person could do without sight and not endanger himself or those around him. Once he learned how to pull his chains up and tuck the slack around his new, shiny belt to clear his path, and his tired, swollen feet memorized the route, he was set.

That didn't mean he was lining up to express his undying thanks to the Nietzscheans for their thoughtfulness and foresight any time soon because, frankly, his new job stank big-time. The mines were freezing, but he had to strain so hard his body was covered in sweat despite the temperature. All except for his feet and hands; they were ice cold. Only when one of the youngest slaves came around twice a day with a dipper of water was he allowed to rest, and then only for ten minutes. Otherwise, he worked straight through, up and back, up and back, one agony filled hour after another with the Nietzschean guard's whip lashing at his back, arms, legs, and ankles.

Fourteen hours later, Harper staggered blindly out of the mine with the rest of the slaves, too tired to even call for Dylan. He simply waited for the captain to come find him and lead him to their place for evening role-call. When Dylan did find him, Harper heard the deep weariness in the older man's voice and knew the day had been hard on his friend as well.

He stumbled through roll-call, supper – or the watery soup and hard lump of bread that passed for it – and evening clean-up in a daze. The time between clean-up and curfew, usually about two hours, was graciously given to the slaves as free-time. Harper only knew one thing he wanted to do with that time. He asked Dylan to guide him back to their barrack where he promptly collapsed onto their filthy bed. Not that the captain seemed to mind. Harper heard him sink slowly down next to him with a bone-weary sigh.

"Don't worry," Harper heard Simon telling them gently as his eyes fell shut. "It sounds horrible to say, but it will get better. The first week is always the hardest. You'll see."

All Harper could think as he drifted into a painful sleep was that he desperately didn't want to go back. He just wanted to go home.