See Prologue for Ratings and Disclaimers.
Success! I bring you greetings from San Ignacio, Belize. And yay me, after a week in the field, I get sick with at least 2 separate illnesses - and no, none of them exotic, which is even worse - no memorable souvenirs, just a cold that is kicking my ass while I try to march up the nice, giant hill to our Mayan site at Minanha'. Slowly getting better, so I can hope. But enough about that. You've been waiting for this part (I hope) so here you go! This is the first thing I checked out, I haven't even looked at my e-mail yet. And I took a quick look at the fic listings - so many updates! It's going to be an expensive internet session, I'm sure! I should (barring any problems) be able to get the next chapter out next weekend.
I had less time to check read over this one, so once again, any and all mistakes are mine alone. And thank you all for the reviews! Made my day better.
PART SIX - Crash Course in Reality
"Beka?" he called quietly, barely able to move the air through his lungs. His eyes darted around the ceiling in a panic, breathing picking up, bringing him back to a state of hyperventilation.
They quickly made their way across the room. Beka arrived first and reached for one of his hands, grasping it firmly but gently, trying not to touch the bandages wrapped around his wrist, where the chains and dug into the skin. Dylan and Trance wound their way to the other side of the pallet, the latter checking the readings on the nearby machines.
"Rhade," Beka commanded. His darting eyes finally locked on hers and his breathing immediately slowed, but remained heavy. "Relax…."
And he did, bunched muscles slumping against the bed. His eyes became heavy - despite his sudden burst to consciousness, Rhade was suffering from the sedatives he'd been given, not to mention the trauma. The momentary adrenaline rush hadn't been enough to completely overcome the effects.
"Welcome back," Captain Hunt said warmly.
It took all of the Nietzschean's strength to nudge his head to the side as he looked for the owner of the voice. He pulled his hand from Beka's and reached it across himself - the right was too painful to move - to grip the other man's forearm, as if reassuring himself he was real. "Dylan?" he rasped through ragged breaths.
"That's right."
Rhade let both his arm and head drop back to the exam bed, his strength giving out. He closed his eyes. "H…how?"
"We, uh," Dylan looked around at Beka and Trance before settling back on his crewman, "We found where you'd been taken."
The patient opened his eyes again, only managing halfway, and slowly focussed on his captain. An attempted frown crossed his swollen features. "Taken?" he shuddered.
Dylan opened and closed his mouth, not knowing how to proceed. It was Beka who answered. "Uh, yeah, six weeks or so," her voice was oddly subdued. Rhade slowly turned to her, catching her gaze. "On Makhoiian Drift…."
There was a pause, then she saw his eyes widen momentarily and she knew that he was remembering. The only sound that could be heard in Medical was his heavy, laboured breathing as the muscles in Rhade's neck relaxed and his head rolled back on the small pillow. He lay there staring at the ceiling, focusing on nothing in particular, as the memories came flooding back.
-o-
"Finally!" Harper exclaimed as he gained access to the freighter's central computer. It had been slow going due to damages - from what he'd been told, the corpse of the pilot has been found slung over the main console, presumably flung there when he'd been attacked. That and the fact that this bucket'o bolts hadn't been maintained for several days. Archaic tugboats like this couldn't be treated that way and be expected to work properly. The medic team had removed the body earlier so he could get to work.
He spent the next several minutes downloading anything relevant he thought Dylan would want, when suddenly he came across personal crew files. He hesitated, then accessed the captain's file, and looked for the date of when Rhade first went missing.
"Personal account of Captain Tycho Colis of the freighter Majalla's Heart. I --"
Harper scoffed and made a face. "'Captain's Personal Account?' Oh please, get with the times, why don't ya!" He watched a few seconds longer and then skipped ahead, realizing there was nothing but little tidbits on what they were hauling and who had shot at them that day.
He found what he was looking for several days later. He resumed playback.
"--On board three hours ago," the sneering recording of Captain Colis was saying. "He was an entire months' payload, but the whole crew agreed it was worth it. This is for you, Majalla, and everyone else back on Amayaúna - we'll make that Nietzschean bastard pay for his family's crimes, you can count on it."
Harper stopped the playback and quickly downloaded the rest of the logs, wanting to be sure he got them all before the fragile connection he'd established finally gave out. Once he was done, he went in search of Rommie and the rest of the team, wanting to get recording analyzed as soon as possible.
-o-
Trance stood next to Dylan as she finished a quick follow up on her patient. He was still breathing heavily and fighting to keep his eyes open, and while she was certain the sedatives were at least partly responsible, she also suspected the pain he must be going through was also at fault. He seemed to be using the deliberate flow of air into and out of his lungs as a way to focus his mind on something else.
The golden alien gently placed a hand on his cheek and guided his head so that he was looking up at her. "I'm going to ask you a few questions now, alright?"
Rhade slowly nodded his head as much as his injuries would allow. Trance was glad to see that his returning memory hadn't caused a reversion to his earlier wild state. He seemed to be coping, at least for now.
"Good," she stated warmly. "Can you tell me where you are?"
There was a short pause, then, "Med deck." He stopped to take a few quick gulps of air. "Andromeda…Ascendant."
"And who am I?"
He coughed and winced at the pain before raising a shaking hand and gesturing in her general direction. "Trance…" he turned to the man beside her, "Dylan." He waved the hand back over and down beside him, grazing the First Officer's arm as he did so. He swallowed hard and finished, "Beka."
"Good," Trance smiled at him. "Now, who are you?" The joking expression fell from her face when he didn't respond right away.
Rhade moved to stare back at the ceiling, his expression devoid once more of expression, except for a puzzling hint of guilt. It was accompanied by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
"Come on," Trance prodded gently, "Answer the question."
He briefly closed his eyes, then managed to answer in his ragged voice, "Gah…Gaheris Rhade."
The proverbial pin dropped. The three of them looked to one another, expressions clearly stating their confusion and concern.
Dylan spoke first. "I think you hit your head there, buddy," the irony was not lost on any of them, "Your name is Telemachus, not Gaheris. Gaheris Rhade died over three-hundred years ago."
Rhade slowly shook his head and swallowed again, which caused another coughing fit. Trance placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, ever careful to stay clear of the mosaic of cuts and bruises that adorned it. Finally the fit subsided, leaving a combination of stabbing and aching pain in its wake, evidence of which they could clearly see on his face.
"Doesn't matter," he finally croaked out.
Beka looked over to the other two across from her and asked quietly, "Uh, am I missing…" she trailed off when Dylan, who hadn't bothered to look away from the man lying before them, held up a hand.
"Why doesn't it matter, Telemachus?" he stressed.
"They didn't…care. We…we're the same." Rhade was once again fighting to stay awake. "Didn't care…" he repeated, whispering more to himself than to any one of them.
"Who didn't care?" Dylan prodded. "The freighter crew?" The battered man nodded weakly. The Captain went on to his next question. "Why are you and Gaheris the same? You're both Nietzschean?"
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, interrupting the rhythm he'd had going. They'd become so accustomed to it that all three Andromeda crew members noticed it and tensed, relaxing only when it returned. "No," he breathed, then paused to think. "Rhade…."
Beka and Dylan both wore faces of confusion, not following where their friend was going. Trance, however, was beginning to understand. "You were both of the Rhade line," she stated gently.
Dylan briefly looked to Trance with interest, then turned back to the Nietzschean in time to see him nod in the affirmative. "Why does that matter?" he asked after a few moments of silence - he wasn't skeptical, just puzzled. "What did they want?"
Rhade blinked several times, but not matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his eyes to focus for longer than a few seconds. It was starting to make him feel sick. "G'heris Rhade…destroyed true Commonwealth. Three…hundred years 'go. Telem…chus…Rhade destroyed New Common…wealth…." It had been his longest string of words, and had taken most of his strength with it. He closed his eyes and tried to conserve what he had left.
Dylan just stared down at him, his expression an amalgamation of astonishment, disbelief, and disgust. "What? That's ridiculous! Gaheris didn't single-handedly take down the Commonwealth, and you sure as hell didn't do it either." He voice had risen, but he couldn't help it. Someone had justified the repeated torture of his senior officer because of events he had no control over? Because of an ancestor that diedthree-hundred years ago?
The officer in question gave his captain a drugged look. "Didn't matter…." They had to strain to hear him.
"Convenient scapegoat," Beka muttered softly, more to herself. "One family at the center of both conflicts, one face. To them it was reason enough."
"I don't care if the Vedran Empress herself condoned it, there's not justification for this!" Dylan snapped. He focused back on Rhade. "Did they ever mention where --"
"Dylan," Trance's voice was forceful but calm, grabbing his attention. "That's enough for now, he needs to rest if you want him to make a full recovery."
Dylan turned from her back to the man lying in the medical bed and sighed. She was right, he looked more worn out than when he'd first awoken, if that were possible. His eyes no longer remained open unless to answer one of their questions, and he thought Rhade's shallow breathing might have even begun to increase in frequency. It was a miracle his officer was alive, and he didn't want to tempt fate.
"Right," he acquiesced. "It's good to have you back, soldier. Hurry up and get well, we miss you up in Command."
Rhade sluggishly nodded his head, managing a quiet, mumbled, "Yessir."
With that, Dylan inclined his head, nodded to Beka and Trance, and briskly walked out of the room.
"Feel better, Telemachus," Beka said softly, then turned to go. She stopped when she felt a shaking hand grab her own, cringing internally at the weakness of the grip. She turned back and looked down where he had a hold of her. Scratches marred the skin, skin that ended abruptly in white gauze bandages that wound around the wrist, faded in places by crimson patchwork. Her gaze found his.
He swallowed. "Thank you…."
She gave him a hint of a sad smile. "Anytime."
Rhade let out a breath and dropped his hand back, limply, to the bed. Beka gave a final nod and walked out.
She met up with Dylan outside the Med bay. "You think we should have asked him what happened over there? You know, when --"
"I think we all have a pretty good idea what happened three days ago," he interrupted, his voice grim. He took another look back, then led the way to Command.
Beka hesitated a moment and stared back. She saw Trance inject something into her crewmate's good arm, then place a comforting hand on his forehead. Turning away, she let out a loud sigh, her voice coated with dejected sadness. "Yeah…."
-o-0-o-
Red tears trickled down his arms, slowly reaching their final destination and dripping to the stained floor from his elbows. But he welcomed the sensation, it indicated his awareness. Awareness was survival, survival was life. Injuries would heal later.
He slowly slid his slotted eyes to the far corner, managing to refrain from moving his head - whatever he could do to conserve his energy, he would. He once again took note of the small circular mounting, ensuring to himself for the millionth time that the video feed was offline. One of his captors had come in - escorted of course - and deactivated the surveillance several days ago. Why, Lieutenant Commander Rhade couldn't say, perhaps they were regaining a piece of their so-called humanity, maybe they figured he was too far gone to be any threat.
But he was Nietzschean, and survival was life.
He glanced down at his wrists, bound by two sets of chains. One, about two feet in length, linked one hand to the other, while a second linked the first to a metal support behind him, securing him to the wall.
The second tether was far from new, quite obviously older than the first, and that was his ray of hope. His captors had been smart, testing the chains at regular intervals, ensuring the links were holding. And for his first week, before his own strength had had time to reach a curtained weakened level, they had kept him drugged just in case. When it might have been possible for him to manage against his bonds, they had ensured he couldn't. After many long days of beatings, done in shifts so they could continue on with their day jobs, they had stopped bothering with the tranquilizers, confident that he had been sufficiently weakened, and more than a little sadistically satisfied when he couldn't be shielded by the effects of the substances.
Yes, they had been smart.
There were few things Telemachus Rhade was capable of focusing on after the weeks of pointless torture, for it truly was that - his captors had not stated a purpose, not demanded information, they simply continued to drag him, day after day, through the ship and to the room that had served as the beating chamber, while they trudged on with their tireless cargo runs. Yes, after the long weeks, he could hardly remember his own name…but he focused on the poem, meaningless words floating through his consciousness, keeping his brain from shutting down.
As his conscious mind was kept awake, so too was his subconscious. And the subconscious was aware, it had been watching, listening. Through the jumbled verses of his childhood, these observations would bubble up to his conscious, enough to reawaken that part of his brain that was instinctive, that focused on survival. The part that made him Nietzschean.
Among the clouded fragments of his mind he acknowledged the blinking light of the old surveillance camera had died some days ago. The guards had checked the restraints with lessening vigour, often only as a passing thought. He also knew the constant wear on the clasp of the chain holding him to the wall, as it was continuously worked day after day, was beginning to compromise its strength.Despite the gradual decay, the chain hadn't been a factor even the day before - as the clasp had weakened, so had the man. True, his captors had provided medical assistance to the Nietzschean for no other purpose than to keep their prize alive, ensuring infection didn't spread and vital organs were kept just to the left of the line separating life from oblivion; occasionally the odd bone was mended, just enough. But for the most part the sadistic healing had been restricted to his vital areas, extremities were left to fend for themselves.
This latest round, however, had been a puzzling exception. The injuries had taken their toll since his last trip to the make-shift medical area, nearly five days ago. The captors' designated medical officer - someone with experience that without a doubt went no further than an advance first-aid kit - had decided to be a little more aggressive, probably to ensure more hours of fun for his crewmates. The man had set and allowed the bones of the Nietzschean's right wrist, which had been in the process of healing incorrectly before being broken once again, to partially knit together.
Rhade, had he been able to form coherent thought at the time, might have wondered if the partial healing of his weakened ulna and radius, both lined with small fractures, had been accidental or just careless thought by the "doctor," but in his current state it was beyond him. All he knew was that his right wrist and forearm felt stronger than they had in weeks, despite their far cry from perfection.And now, in his cell, all he was aware of was the pain of the clasp digging into the flesh as he used one set of chains against the other. In the struggle between the man and the metal, the man had been given an advantage.
After what seemed like an eternity of agony, of the feel of blood trickling down his arm while at the same time providing a lubricant for the sharp metal, of the endless mantra of verses dangling like a lifeline to keep him conscious against the blinding pain, he heard a loud crack. He felt the clasp give ever so slightly. It still held him, but it had been permanently damaged, it wouldn't take much to be free.
He stopped his determined struggle then, and relaxed against the wall, gingerly disengaging the metal from his exposed and bleeding flesh. He welcomed the pooling of blood that served as a cushioning layer between the two. He would save his strength.
Rhade allowed the words to consume his conscious mind once more. But he was aware. Awareness was survival, and survival was life.
To Be Continued...
And now, to read some updates before I retire to my hotel room (I must say, it's quite amusing when I can get the SciFi channel down here in Belize, but not in Canada).