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 (especially in this chapter and the end of the previous one, during surgery') 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. There are nods to some episodes in later chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers.
*** 3 ***
Fresia Galla was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a reputable port of commerce. There were legitimate haulers and engineering docks and refuelers here, of course, and many of them were, if not oblivious to the half of their populace who existed beneath the system, then separate from it. The mysterious owners of the docking station allowed the above-board dealers their space, happy to use their business practices as a smokescreen for the underground drugs trafficking and stolen ship refitting. It was a convenient existence for all.
Beka had no problem with either half of the population, although for the purposes of this trip she was strictly going straight'. Rev found the illegal undercurrent deeply saddening and had bound her with a million persistent promises and more than a handful of warning anecdotes before they docked, just to make sure she didn't stray away from their current, legitimate deal in favour of an easier one. All it took was a brief moment of recall for Beka to agree with him; she didn't want to wind up like Rafe.
So...did you figure out who intercepted our transmission yet? Beka asked as they strolled along the gritty, gloomy promenade, passing open fronted bars and service stations that reeked of alcohol and engine oil, respectively. Her hand hovered possessively over her weapon holster, ready to draw, fingers splayed and itching. Her eyes had barely lighted on the Magog since they left the Maru; they darted through the shadows and between, looking for signs of trouble.
If you go seeking trouble, you can be sure that trouble will find you, Rev said in return, a hint of a smile peeping through his facial fur, the bark-like brown skin crinkling with amusement.
I just don't trust this place. And neither would you if you'd been here before, she shot back.
Alas, I never had the pleasure before. It is proving most...enlightening. The smile hadn't left, but it matured a little, displaying a hint of his sorrow at these people's wayward attitudes. They were for the most part dirty, scarred, ill, and their movements, in the majority, were stealthy and quiet. They didn't walk; they skulked.
Yeah? Wait till one of em enlightens' you of your wallet, Beka said.
Rev turned his head down, hiding his continued amusement. To answer your question, Beka, no, I don't know who intercepted us. But the trail was quite clear; it originated from this station.
Beka shrugged. Well, I sure hope you're right about that, Rev. Randall Stamp isn't paying us to deliver an interesting story of how we lost his blueprints.
Rev sighed, allowed himself an indulgent laugh, and followed the headstrong young woman into the crowd. Despite her checkered past, there was something undeniably direct and to-the-point about Beka Valentine that he had found, in the past couple of years, he liked.
Beka and Rev were supposed to deliver Stamp's blueprints to a woman named Ambrosia Price, located somewhere in the Favran System. They had entered orbit around Favra Prime and keyed in her co-ordinates to download when the stream was interrupted, effectively re-directing the blueprints to an unknown source; unknown, of course, until Rev's background check led them here, to Fresia Galla. The trail was vague, but it seemed to emanate from the lower decks. Beka led her crew of one there with frightening resolve and an even more frightening lack of forethought. Rev honestly believed her only plan lie within the reach of those twitching fingers, a direct and final approach, the gun in her holster. Rev had other ideas, but these he kept to himself until the time came. He would not condone senseless violence when it had yet to be proven unavoidable.
So, Rev, with all this black-market background are you regretting ever joining the Maru?
With you piloting her, Beka, there is never a dull moment.
Beka laughed, abruptly, and slapped the back of her free hand lightly against his robed shoulder. Man, I knew there was a reason I took you on. Humour and hero-worship. What more could a captain want?
Perhaps, some idea of where her cargo went. But I suspect you have already taken that into consideration.
I'm not going to shoot anyone, Rev, she bridled. Then, under her breath in a mumble he was not intended to hear: Not unless they shoot first.
Rev nodded knowingly, and followed.
In the lower decks, the crowd was dense, and the air thick with smoke and steam, heavy with oil fumes and gas. The deck was dirty and often slippery with pools of what Beka assumed to be oil, but which Rev knew by the smell to be blood. Something inside of him would always recognise that smell, and thrive on it for one blissful moment of unrestraint before his sense returned, making him shameful of the passing hunger. What he wished to banish would only ever, at best, be repressed.
Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like our new Beka complained, as a ragged, bent old woman with matted hair and missing teeth pushed past her, leaving an unpleasant after-taste in the air.
I don't know, a voice said from behind them. Why do you get that feeling?
They turned, Rev out of curiosity, but he could see the voice meant more than that to Beka. An array of emotions passed fleetingly across her face before she settled on one, and he swiftly struggled to catalogue them. The first, surprise, gave way to pleasure, wistful reminiscence, and finally to downright anger. But the anger faltered, and in the end, the pleasure won through. Rev noted this last with a faint nod, unable to help it. The man was tall, broad, perhaps (although Rev was a poor judge of humans' ages) in his mid thirties, with flaxen hair and a broad, charming smile. A single, ornate rose embroidered the smooth skin of his right arm, a strange token for anyone willing to set foot aboard this station.
Beka Valentine. Who'd have thought I'd see you here?
I don't know, Eric, who'd have thought? she smiled back. She turned briefly to Rev, including him in their greetings. Eric, this is my science officer, Rev Bem. Rev, this is Eric Guldavian. An old friend of mine.
Now, now, Beka, Eric smiled, flashing startling white teeth and a broad grin which had no place on this station. You know damn well neither of us is that old.
So what are you doing here, Eric? Still looking for the Big Score?
I could ask the same thing about you. But this is really no place to be discussing these things. My ship is in dock, would you join me for dinner later? Your friend, too, of course. And Eric offered Rev a small smile.
Beka replied promptly.
Rev wavered. Regrettably, we are here on business. It seems only right that I continue with our task to allow Ms.Valentine some free time. It is well deserved, he said, finally. He hoped the excuse was opaque and subtle enough that this human would not pick up on it, or its reasons. But Rev suspected that Beka wished to be alone with her old friend'.
Eric beamed at Beka, and gestured the way ahead with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. This way, lady, he grinned.
I warned you about that, Eric, Beka laughed. Nobody calls me a lady and gets away with it.
***
Harper awoke to acute discomfort for the second time in as many days...or had it been longer? The endless, unbroken hours, first stowed away in the hold and later locked in this dark little cabin and lastly under the awful, syrupy glare of that butcher's light, had stretched on with no way to measure them. But one thing he had been able to measure, albeit with no real degree of accuracy; it had been some time before he passed out.
His dreams had been swooping, silent, bearing down on his unconscious hours like a bird of prey, wings beating the air like silk fans. Glimpses, flashes of the evening past he had done his best to forget, like so many things, blinks of horror in the darkness...like single colour frames in a black and white display, flashing by almost too quickly to see.
...a needle, first pinching against his skin, cold and surgical, the pinch gnawing away until it became a sharp, very real pain, thin metal sliding into his neck like he was butter...the table opposite, an array of surgical implements aligned in regimental rows on a dirty blue cloth...
Harper shook himself. He was awake now; he could choose not to think about those things, if he wanted to. It was the reason he hated sleep, and put it off every night for as long as he could manage...because sleep meant relinquishing his control over his memories. Sometimes he was lucky and the nightmares didn't come; other times, he would wake up in a tangled puddle of blankets and chill, stale sweat.
His situation came back to him immediately, from the instant he woke. He hadn't survived twenty years on earth by being slow to catch on. He was lying on a pile of threadbare blankets in the same aft cabin, the lights on but low, and his neck felt as if it were on fire. He tried to sit up, but abandoned the attempt when a wave of dizziness not unlike vertigo overcame him, and he let his heavy head fall back to the deck, fighting not to heave. There was nothing in his stomach worth throwing up, but the sensation still came, and showed no sign of passing.
Lying as still as he could, Harper raised tentative fingers to his screaming neck and explored the area that was hurting so badly. It was bandaged, a heavy square of gauze or some such thing taped over the inflamed wound. Whatever they had done after he passed out from the needle, and no matter how badly or uncleanly, his wish had come true. It may get infected or he may be killed by bounty hunters for the information stored in there, but it was there. It was his, and no-one could remove it now.
He had a port. Finally, he had a chance to make something of his life.
Just when they thought it was all over, he pulls himself out of the slump, Harper muttered weakly, a slow smile taking over his face for the first time in what felt like forever. It felt good to have something to smile about again. His cousin Declan had once told him that sometimes, when there was nothing to laugh about, you had to make something. You had to find a reason. Maybe Harper had found his, right here.
***
The drip had lessened, he noticed. Maybe the tank was empty by now. Maybe their next jump to slipstream would tear the psychos into itty bitty pieces. So long as he wasn't still onboard when that happened, well, he sure as hell wasn't going to be shedding any tears.
Harper had lain listening to the hum of the engines and the increasing rattle of the pipes for some time, unable to sit or stand without wanting to vomit. Whatever they had injected him with, it had left him feeling giddy and disoriented, and after two hours or so it only just seemed to be wearing off. A part of him wanted to know how many people had undergone that little operation on the station before, but a bigger, saner part told him it wouldn't be a good idea to know anyway. The question wasn't how many had tried; the question was how many had survived it. How many had gotten away without infection.
That was his danger, if there was one to pick out amongst the many. His immune system had been battered into non-existence, one disease or cold or food poisoning after another killing his white blood cells, maiming his ability to eliminate invading cells. If this got infected, and judging by the dingy conditions it had been installed in that was likely, then it would probably kill him.
But why was he worrying about that? It was too late to think such things now, and if it happened there was nothing he could do to stop it. He should be worrying about the captain of this ship, and where they might be headed. Most of all, what these blueprints were, who wanted them, and why.
He could sense them in the back of his mind, he fancied. It was early days and the connections between his brain and the port were sluggish, the relays only barely exchanging information; he couldn't view' the blueprints or even determine what they were without jacking into a computer of some kind. It would be some time and take some serious practice before he mastered even the simplest of the equipment's functions. But he could feel them sitting there, unopened and ominous, like a parcel that may contain a bomb. Just waiting to be delivered.
He was disturbed from his rationalising by a shuddering, jarring force tearing through the ship. It quaked, metal grinding darkly on metal, and then abated, bolting back to normal abruptly enough to send him reeling back against the wall. His stomach flipped and knotted, and his head screamed, wanting to throw up despite his empty gut, but he clamped one hand over his mouth and another to his belly, willing the sensation and the dizziness away, and slowly, dimly, he regained the little control he had had before it happened. Somewhere, but distant, a siren was screeching incoherently. The squealing of the ship's hull had ceased, but the rusty, clattering squall of the pipes in the tank across from him continued to wail in the sudden calm.
He looked up at the swishing, uneven glide of the door, obviously in bad need of maintenance, and he wondered again if they even had a engineer on this crate. He was about to ask the question of the crew man that entered, but when he saw the long hair and milky eyes and the jittering twitch in the man's quick step, he withdrew it, quickly. Flash fryers were not usually up for polite conversation.
The man ignored him lying on the floor and went directly to the leaking tank, muttering under his breath impatiently as he unlatched the tank's cover, and looked inside. Harper waited with baited breath for the realisation to kick in.
The man peered in, growled, and in one smooth, drug-enhanced reflex, turned and flung something towards Harper. The wrench struck the wall with an echoing clang only inches from his bandaged ear, and Harper sucked in his breath, terrified, and cringed back into the corner as far as the cabin's walls would allow.
Should he say something? He had never been good at math, except the kind which saved him money, but this was one equation it would be difficult to miss, or ignore. He had been looking for a way off this crate, once the deal was done, some way to convince the captain not to kill him. They needed this tank fixed and he knew how to fix it, he had known all along what was wrong and what would happen. It was only a matter, now, of whether he was brave enough, or desperate enough, to speak.
Excuse me?
The man turned white, filmy eyes on him, staring from them with no indication of receptiveness on his grizzled face. It was hard to make the distinction between flash and cataracts, that same misty texture and blank, directionless gaze...but it would be fatal to confuse the two. Cataracts blinded; flash, if anything, made a person see even more than what was really there.
I couldn't help but notice you having a little problem with your coolant tank there, and uh, well, if you don't mind me saying so...you kinda suck. Way to go, Einstein. Maybe next time you can insult his mother.
And if I were, I can't see it's any of your business, the man hissed. What're you gonna do, kid? Patch it up with bubble gum?
I was thinkin' of saving your butt, but I guess if you don't want my help, well, who am I to argue?
The man tilted his head thoughtfully at that, and the grim, volatile shadow lying on his scarred face lifted, a little; but suspiciously, all the same. You're an engineer? A little mudfoot brat like you? Now why the hell don't I believe you?
Only one way to find out, Harper insisted. Of course, I can't be trusted and I'll probably blow you sky-high, but hey, I'm on this box of bolts too...and it don't look to me like you got a lot of choice.
The man stared at him, a decision resting on his lips but left, for a moment, unsaid.
Harper sat rigid and defiant, chin lifted challengingly, feeding and thriving on the sudden rush of confidence pulsing through his weakened body, and stared back.
To Be Continued...
Watch out for a legendary first meeting in part 4!
