like_jonah_from_the_whale2

Like Jonah From The Whale
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.

*** 2 ***


He slept, but fitfully, a thin slice of his awareness awake and alert at all times, the rest of him slipping in and out of a delirium that was neither restful or unpleasant. At least, in those half dozing moments, he couldn't think about how parched his throat was or how sore he felt lying rigid and bruised on an unyielding deck.

They hadn't been back, not a single one of them, and the doubt, the notion that perhaps they had no plan for him at all and simply intended to leave him out of sight and out of mind for the duration of their journey was not a nice one. He had no idea how long that journey would be, or what would be waiting at the end of it.

His stomach had growled with acid earlier, but had fallen silent, past being merely hungry. This, at least, wasn't something that bothered him so much, as he was used to it, almost expecting it. The bruises and cuts, too, were old news to him, even though they were fresh and throbbed like a heartbeat under his skin. What bothered him, and it was a silly thing, was that dripping water, and the heavy rattle coming from inside the tank.

He knew what the problem was, that the wasting water from the cooling tank was causing the pipes inside to overheat, the metal expanding until they grated together, probably wearing their sides thin with the friction. If the tank was not patched up and refilled soon, the pipes would probably burst, shorting out their engines. And because he knew instinctively what the problem was and was prevented from fixing it, he was bothered by it. He wondered where their engineer was, or if they even had one, sure that even the most green and wet eared novices knew to check for leaks. It was one of the first things he had learned back in his uncle's workshop, fixing up very basic machinery such as land haulers and heating systems...he had since picked up quite a lot more, keeping his ear always to the ground, collecting information...

He quite literally had his ear to the ground now, and it was starting to hurt, but with his hands tied he couldn't reach to rub it. He could feel the thrum and burr of the ship's engines vibrating through the deck, almost alive, a living, breathing hum. That was it, what had always sounded so pleasant and comforting about machines, and engines in particular...it sounded like the ship was breathing.

He had heard rumours of sentient ships, once, ships with Artificial Intelligence unparalleled by any vessels these days, and though his peers and his uncle invariably laughed them off as fables or else as extinct and the technology lost, Harper had secretly harboured another idea...that what was lost, could be found.

The trek continued without a break and he dozed again, falling into vivid dreams where the ship spoke to him in a female vibrato that conjured up visions of the sort Harper indulged in whenever the stress became too much. And slowly, the doze descended into sleep.

***


Harper was woken forcefully by a brutish shake of the shoulder, opening his eyes to see light and the leering face of the captain looming over him.

Get up, he said, gruffly. Harper blinked into the flashlight shining into his eyes, still in the clutch of those unexpectedly pleasant dreams, and barely aware of where he was or who it was that had woken him.

he said, groggily. I'm coming, Mom.

The captain gave him another, more vicious, shake, smiling pleasantly. A crocodile smile. I said get up. I've untied your legs, you can walk.

The captain pulled Harper to his feet before he had a chance to attempt it alone, and urged him through the small, low doorway leading to the midsection. There four of the other crew members were assembled in a circle, presumably leaving the last to pilot the ship in the cockpit.

The captain pushed him down into an empty chair, and took the last himself, lacing his gnarled, brown fingers together with his elbows on his knees.

What's your name, kid? he asked. It was put without anger, and without any real interest; an afterthought to the real purpose of the proceedings.

Seamus Harper, he replied, seeing no reason to deny it. It wouldn't matter to them what his name was; it was a formality, and nothing more.

The captain nodded, blandly.

Do I get a name now? Harper dared. He was screwed anyway, it wouldn't matter one iota if he asked a few questions of his own in return. Although the answer would tell him everything he needed to know about their plans for him.

That's not important, the captain returned.

Harper breathed an inward sigh of relief; whatever they were going to do, they weren't going to kill him, judging from the man's reticence. It would make no difference what he knew if his only destination from here had been the airlock.

The captain leaned back and took a small box from an open locker behind him, extracting a small, circular metal object from it. It was a disc, perhaps two inches across, with an elongated, wire encrusted spike sticking out from the back. He rolled it restlessly between those work worn fingers, eyeing Harper thoughtfully as he did so. Instinctively, Harper gulped.

You know what this is, kid? Mr.Harper, I should say?

Thankfully, Harper did. Yeah. It's a cerebral port. An interface. Whatever you wanna call it. It's a jack-in ride on the roller coaster of every machine in the quadrant, correct? He thought fleetingly of the voice in his dream, the legends of sentient, mostly female ships who interfaced with their engineers to complete repairs. Taken like that, Harper's naturally perverted mind insisted on calling the port a Joystick', privately. Those puppies cost an arm.

I have no use for arms, the nameless wonder opposite Harper replied, dryly. You whole, on the other hand... He straightened, placing the cerebral port on his thigh. Do you know what we're doing on this trip, kid? Of course you don't, what am I thinking.

Well I highly suspect that it's not just about wood, Harper put sarcastically, feeling a little more secure that his life was in no immediate danger. But he hadn't liked the implications of the captain's whole' statement, not one bit. You got me, give me a clue.

One of the pirates moved to hit him, but the captain halted his crew mate with a wave of his hand. His eyes never left Harper's. No. Can't have any bruising to his head, especially now. Later.

Can't have bruising? What the hell is going on here?

We're a data convoy, the captain explained. This port was going to be fitted to one of my crew to carry blueprints from our employer to his customer. He doesn't trust direct data transfer links, they get intercepted too easily. But the installation procedure is dangerous, and ideally I would choose not to risk a member of my crew. He smiled again, his undeniably handsome and deceptively calm face responding only in part to the gesture. Not when I have an alternative right here.

There was that smile again. Seeing it, seeing the ominous size of the port, and of course seeing where this discussion was leading, Harper gulped.

***


He was taken back to the aft cabin, where the drip had now formed a pool beneath the tank; but this time, he was left unbound, and the pirate who shoved him through the door left him a light on and thrust a strange, square packet of some kind into his hands, and a water bottle. The packet turned out to contain some sort of high energy protein bar, a little too chewy for Harper to really enjoy it, but nevertheless food of a kind. He wolfed it down and later regretted having eaten too quickly.

Too worried and rested to sleep, Harper sat with his back against one cold metal wall and played back the conversation in his head. One thing he was sure of, despite the captain's attempts to imply otherwise; this was data smuggling. Whatever those blueprints were, they weren't legal, and shouldn't be heading - wherever they were heading. He assumed the pick-up hadn't occurred yet; since a port was effectively useless without a neural chemical housing and an organic brain to power it, the information couldn't already be downloaded to it. This ship was heading for the pick-up point, and there...

...there, unless he could somehow think his way out of this one, the port would be fitted into his neck and the blueprints loaded into his brain, making him a moving target for every law enforcement official and bounty hunter from here to the next galaxy.

But would having this port fitted be such a bad thing? Blueprints aside, bounty hunters aside, he hadn't been lying or exaggerating when he said they cost an arm. He had heard tales of people selling organs to raise the cash for installation...and now he was being offered one, free. He had no illusions that the captain intended to kill him when his use expired, and no real desire to have wanted data in his head...but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He had to assume there was a chance, just a chance, that the captain would believe he was dumb enough to buy the legitimate cargo' excuse and maybe let him live, once the job was done.

Head tilted up to the grey ceiling, his ears selectively blocking the ringing drill of falling water out of his brain, Harper laughed, silently. If he played this right, if he kept on his toes and played dumb and served his purpose - to a point - he might not only get out of here alive...

...he might make it off this ship with a cerebral port that would allow him to find a job anywhere in the galaxy.

He spent the next few hours playing out multiple scenarios for escape, and thereafter gainful employment via his new cerebral port, in his mind, occasionally allowing his thoughts to include women. Women loved men with good jobs, or else dangerous ones - and they didn't come more dangerous than data smuggling. For the first time since he climbed aboard this ship and hid amongst the official' cargo, Harper truly felt like he stood a chance for a decent future, after all. All he had to do was play along for a while, and survive this one last dangerous stretch.

He was startled from his somewhat colourful daydreams by the grate and swish of the cabin door opening, and the long-haired, dark-skinned man Harper had noted earlier entered, his weapon drawn, followed by two of the others. This time, it seemed, the captain had left the dirty work to his lackeys.

Harper had intended in his quiet, contemplative hours (and he didn't have many of those) to play along nicely and not to fight it; but the sight of these three, towering men with their firearms and their armoured clothing, one of them still clearly jazzed on flash and another missing one eye altogether, made him back instinctively into the farthest, shadowy corner, flinching away as they grabbed his arms and pulled him towards the door. A rag was stuffed in his mouth and a blanket, smelling musty and old and stale with unwashed months (something he himself was guilty of) was thrown over his head, stifling him and tangling around his thrashing arms and legs; then he was lifted bodily from the deck, thick hands around his sore wrists and ankles, and carried away.

The rag tasted foul, choking him, making him gag, and he prayed he didn't throw up because he would more than likely choke on it with his mouth blocked like this. The blanket wrapped around his limbs and pinned them down heavily. Eventually, he stopped his struggling, and remained quiet.

Blind and with no sense of direction without his feet on the floor, Harper found himself paying attention to the sounds that came; the whoosh of a heavier door, probably an airlock...boots on deck as they carried him forward...a muffled laugh from one of the men, the sort of high, insane chuckle which could only come from the flash fried one of them. Harper fought back an urgent surge of panic, hearing that airlock; maybe the captain had changed his mind after all, maybe they were going to throw him out of the airlock and watch him suffocate. He kicked and squirmed once more, futilely.

Then he was given a heavy blow to the head, and heard nothing else.

***


He awoke in a gloomy, saturating room, the air dull with smoke and hot with fumes; he was staring woozily at an expanse of greying ceiling, the only illumination from a fluorescent bar along one wall throwing grandiose shadows across it like blackened Magog claws. It felt as though they were reaching for him.

Harper coughed, gagging on the residue of the rag in his mouth and fuzzing his swollen tongue, and met resistance as he arched upwards from the surface he lie on. He was strapped down at the wrists and ankles, held prone to the table under that glaring eye of light. Shadows moved across it, silhouettes against the ceiling, bringing their own associations; of one night surrounded by flames, so long ago now. But these, he could see, were human forms, drifting around him like circling predators far too much like the Magog for comfort. Then, one approached.

A face he hadn't seen before loomed over him, a raised hand wielding a long hypodermic needle. Harper tugged at the straps and struggled at the sight of that needle, at the length and gleam of it, at the uncertain suspicion of where that needle was destined. It made the sensitive patch of skin beneath his ear swarm and crawl at the thought, and he yelled, uselessly, for them to let him go.

Then the needle slipped through the tender spot like a knife through butter, and it was lights out for Seamus Zelazny Harper.

To Be Continued...