Chapter 12

There's hope in a place, however dark,
 . There's hope in a prison cell.
'Twas hope that lightened up Noah's Ark
 . When the raging waters fell.
And there's never a breast so bleak and bare
But the spark of hope is glistening there.

Hope can shine through a gray stone wall
 . And barriers strong and stout,
And hope can answer the faintest call
 . And no power can shut it out.
Though a man be shackled and locked away,
Hope sings to him of a better day.

- Edgar A. Guest, Old Earth

00000

Dylan was going nuts.

He'd been on the Nietzschean ship upwards of five days now, at least as far as he could guess, and he had yet to be let out of this cell. Worse, he had yet to even be spoken to! No demands, no smug gloating, no abuse; in another example of the universe's sick sense of humor, Harper had been dragged off to bear all that, and Dylan had simply been shut up in a room and forgotten.

Well, not totally forgotten. Someone had brought water twice a day and something brown and gooey that was apparently supposed to be food. Dylan had finally broken down and ate it the second time, figuring he needed to keep his strength up, although for what he wasn't sure. It had been over two days since they'd taken Harper and as much as he hated it, he had to admit the chances were slim the boy was still alive. Harper's mouth and background plus a Drago-Kazov were a bad combination any day, and a Dragan on a mission to get information was even worse. Plus, the way Harper had been acting ever since they were captured, it was almost as if the boy had somehow known he wouldn't live through this encounter. Still, Harper had survived a lot before…

Frustrated, angry, sad, and bored, Dylan once again paced the cell. There wasn't anything else to do. The cell was equipped with facilities to relieve nature's needs but nothing else, not even a mattress to jump on. Typical Nietzschean design. Facilities added to the Ubers' comfort level in the sense that they didn't have to deal with a mess; blankets and mattresses only added to the prisoner's comfort, something Nietzscheans stoically ignored.

With a sigh, Dylan changed directions. Might as well vary the view.

Ten minutes later, he'd had enough. If they refused to let him out to say his piece, he'd make them listen right here. He was in a prison cell! What self-respecting Uber didn't monitor his prisoners? If they were going to watch and listen to him, he was going to make it worth their while.

"All right, listen up! I know you're listening, and I've had it! I want to talk to Commander Felix right now, and I want you to return my engineer this instant and never touch him again! You people consider yourselves the most advanced and developed race in the universe and yet you have to pick on those who are smaller than yourselves and indefensible to make you feel big and strong? That tells me you're weak, weaker than the humans you torment and play with. Now, I'm a High Guard Captain and –"

He stopped abruptly as he heard many feet approaching the cell and the door being unlocked. Maybe he had gotten someone's attention after all!

He faced the door, wondering if he was finally going to see Felix face to face. Instead, two Ubers entered the room dragging a limp form while another waited in the doorway, gun fixed on Dylan.

"You asked us to return your engineer?" one guard sneered. "Very well, here he is, or at least what's left of him. I doubt he'll be much good as an engineer anymore, but take him and enjoy the time you have left together."

With that, the men dumped Harper roughly on the ground, turned and left. Dylan didn't even wait for the door to close before he rushed to the young man's side, thinking angrily that this particular scene was becoming all too familiar.

Even with the lack of light, Harper looked horrible. Dylan was afraid he might be dead until he saw him move slightly.

"Dylan?" Harper moaned quietly, sounding unsure and almost scared.

"Yeah, Harper, I'm right here," Dylan assured gently, kneeling by his friend but afraid to touch him or move him. Every time he'd tried that in the past Harper had freaked out. At least he was awake and talking, even if he sounded confused.

Slowly, painfully, Harper tried to push himself up off the floor but he couldn't. With a groan, he sank back down and curled up, cradling his broken hands to his chest, his chains jangling.

"Ahhh…" he gasped softly, and Dylan's heart broke. His friend was suffering terribly and he felt so useless just sitting there, not sure how to help.

"Harper, what is it? What can I do?" he asked, his hands hovering as he helplessly watched Harper shaking on the deck with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

For a long time, Harper didn't answer. Finally, after several moments his breathing calmed and he rasped out a few words. "It's all right. I'm good – I'm okay."

Dylan sighed, frowning at the obvious lies.

After a bit, Harper spoke again. "Boss, can you help me up? I can't do it myself," he admitted reluctantly.

"No problem," Dylan assured him, glad to finally be allowed to help. Mindful of what happened the last time he touched the kid's back, he carefully grasped Harper around the shoulders and pulled him up so he was sitting. Even as gentle as he was, he still heard the hiss of pain the boy tried to hide.

"Do you want to lean against the wall again?" he asked softly and Harper nodded.

A few minutes later, Harper was settled against the wall breathing harshly from the effort, and Dylan finally had a chance to try and look him over.

Harper's face was cut, battered, and bruised and even in the bad light Dylan could see that his normally clear blue eyes were red and swollen, as if he'd been crying for hours. In fact, they still watered slightly, small tears leaking down his cheeks and getting lost in the dried blood and stubble on his chin. Dylan figured it was from the effort to mask the great pain he was actually in. The captain also noticed Harper's dataport appeared to have been irritated, the skin around it blistered and red.

Sadly, Dylan glanced at the poor bare feet stretched limply out, even the chains motionless. Deep lacerations wrapped around them, slicing both top and bottom. They reached in bloody, broken twists around his ankles and disappeared up under his pants, leaving Dylan to wonder what his shins looked like. The shackles had been clamped mercilessly over the cuts, and Dylan knew that between them and the slices on his soles, any walking in the near future was going to be murder for his crewman.

And then his eyes were drawn to the hands Harper was still cradling protectively to his chest. A ragged wound completely pierced each of them, still oozing blood. Dark purple bruises spread outward from each hole, covering Harper's whole hands and making it look as though each hand had been crushed in a vise. The still dripping wounds worried Dylan as much as they saddened and sickened him with their pointless cruelty. The captain was also certain Harper's stained and dirty clothes hid numerous other wounds just as horrid and painful, but he was just a sure Harper would never show him or complain about the discomfort.

The cat flap suddenly sprang to life, startling both of them. The evening ration of food and water was pushed through and Dylan was surprised and grateful to see two trays appear. It meant Harper was staying for a while, and he hoped it also meant the Nietzscheans wanted him to remain alive. Seeing the bowls of water, he made a decision. Quickly, he pulled off his red shirt and then the undershirt beneath it.

"Harper," he said in his firmest captain's voice. "I know you don't want to tell me what they did to you and you don't want me touching you, and I respect that." As he spoke, Harper's pain filled eyes moved to rest vaguely on his position. Dylan pulled his shirt back on as he continued, taking the undershirt and tearing it into strips. "But I can see your feet and your hands and I can tell they're badly hurt. I'm gonna clean them and wrap them the best that I can and you're going to let me. That's an order, all right."

"Boss –" Harper started.

Dylan cut him off as he continued tearing up his shirt. "Harper, it's been almost three days since I've seen you. I thought you were dead. I thought they'd dragged you away and killed you and it was all my fault. As it is, you're hurt terribly and that is my fault. At least let me do what I can to keep you alive and ease the pain!"

Silence broken only by the sound of tearing fabric stretched for several seconds before Dylan finally saw Harper nod.

"Good," he told him gently.

"You have water?" Harper asked hoarsely, his head falling back against the wall and his eyes drifting shut.

"Yeah," Dylan replied, wondering why Harper couldn't see that for himself but chalking it up to the pain making his brain fuzzy. "It's in those bowls they just brought."

"Can I have a drink?" he whispered, his voice sounding sore. With a start, Dylan wondered when the last time the boy had been given food or drink was and cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner.

"Of course!" Dylan answered him, quickly bringing both trays over to his small pile of rags. One bowl he would use for cleaning Harper's injuries; the other he gently held up to Harper's cracked lips and helped him sip from.

"Careful, don't drink too fast. You'll want to save some to go with your dinner. Trust me, it goes down easier if you know you have something to wash the taste away afterward."

Harper took two more careful sips and then Dylan set the bowl aside.

"Thanks," Harper muttered, his voice still sounding very dry.

"When was the last time you had a drink?" Dylan couldn't help but ask even though he doubted he'd like the answer.

"The last time I was here with you and they brought us some water," Harper answered after a moment.

Three days, Dylan realized. Three days without water! It's a wonder the engineer did survive. Carefully, Dylan poured half of the water from the second bowl into the first, leaving only an inch or so to use on the wounds. The injures most certainly needed to be cleaned but at this point Dylan figured the water would do Harper much more good on the inside than the out.

"Although, I think I was given some fluids earlier today through an IV, along with a bunch of other junk," Harper admitted quietly.

"An IV?" Dylan questioned. Alarmed, he remembered Harper's words from days ago on the drift as he admitted he couldn't go through the doorway.

"Yeah…" was all Harper said.

Silence filled the cell and Dylan finally decided Harper had said all he would for now.

"All right, Harper, I'm gonna clean and bandage your hands now. Are you ready?"

He looked far from ready, but Harper nodded bravely and held out his chained hands so Dylan could reach them.

The next fifteen or twenty minutes were not pleasant for either of them. Dylan worked as quickly as he could and Harper concentrated on staying conscious. The captain took each battered hand and tried to clean the wound gently. As he worked and then carefully bound the improvised bandages around them, he could feel the small bones moving around underneath the skin and the moans of pain Harper couldn't hold back. He could tell Harper's left hand was pretty much trashed, most of the bones splintered and probably several nerves and tendons severed as well. He thought his right hand might have faired slightly better, if you could discount the gapping hole gouged through it. Only one bone appeared to be broken and when he asked, Harper had been able to move three of his fingers. As he softly tucked the last corner in on the bandage, Dylan couldn't help but wonder what unspeakable torture device could have caused what he'd just seen and felt.

He gave Harper a few minutes to recover before he gently asked if it was okay for him to start on his feet. Harper was pale as a ghost and sweating, but he simply told Dylan to get it over with. As there were no broken bones here, this part went much faster, but it was still painful and Dylan had to work around the pointless shackles.

Finally, ten minutes later, Harper was leaning against the wall with grey strips of T-shirt wrapped carefully around his hands, feet, and shins.

"Are you sure you don't want me to check out anything else?" Dylan asked one last time.

"No, just leave it please," Harper pleaded, his voice breathless with pain and his body shaking. Dylan noted the boy's skin was flushed and his eyes weren't tracking. Without asking permission, he reached forward and laid a hand on Harper's forehead. As he suspected, the kid was burning with a fever.

Of course he was. Dylan sighed. Why should he have expected any less, what with the amount of injuries Harper was sporting and the crappy immune system he lived with.

Startled by the cool hand, Harper tried to duck away.

"Harper, you have a nasty fever," Dylan said worriedly.

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," he muttered, for the first time sounding vaguely like himself.

"You need to eat something, drink the rest of this water, and then you should try and get some rest."

"Dylan, I –"

"Ah!" Dylan held up a finger, interrupting Harper's weak protest, "No buts. Captain's orders."

"Yes, Mom," Harper sighed, attempting a smile that was closer to a grimace.

"Okay, one tasty bowl of glop coming right up."

"Yummy…"

Dylan brought the bowl to the young man's lips and tipped it slowly, making sure not to rush him. Harper had swallowed barely a third of it when he reached up with his right hand and weakly brushed it aside. The captain had hoped he'd manage a bit more but decided not to push him.

"Ugh," Harper muttered, pulling a face. 'That tastes even worse than I remembered," he said feebly, dropping yet another mystery for Dylan to file away in the mental folder that was Seamus Harper's past.

"Here, have some more water to wash it down."

He again held the bowl to the boy's mouth and let him drink, this time urging him to finish it despite his protests that Dylan needed to drink some as well. As he helped him, Dylan could see that Harper was totally exhausted from battling the pain and the fever. His eyes continued to refuse to track motion and he dripped with sweat. Setting the bowl aside, he decided to take another risk and breach yet another point of Harper-etiquette. He pushed the trays out of the way and moved over to lean against the wall so he was sitting next to his friend, directly to his left.

"Boss, what are you doin'?"

"You are going to get some rest and you can't do that sitting up against this hard wall. Now lie down and put your head on my legs."

It was a mark of how badly Harper really felt that he offered no protest. He simply sighed.

"You'll have to help me again. I'm not sure I can even move."

Gently, Dylan helped the young man slide down onto his side and place his head in the captain's lap. Instinctively, Harper curled his hands in toward his chest again, protecting them the only way he could.

It only took him thirty seconds to drift into a deep sleep. Dylan counted.

Shifting slightly, careful not to disturb his friend, Dylan placed a hand on his sweaty forehead and settled in for a long, watchful night.