Chapter 13

Let us pause in life's pleasures to count its many tears
While we all sop sorrow with the poor:
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears,
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay
There are frail forms fainting at the door:
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.

'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
"Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore,
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave,
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.

'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more:
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door,
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.

- Stephen Foster, Old Earth

00000

Harper was dreaming.

He was dreaming of beaches and babes and soft sand under his toes. He was dreaming of warm waves washing in and of riding those waves as the sun melted into the horizon, scattering golden rays like fall leaves.

And then he woke up.

His eyes snapped open and he instantly went from a world of Technicolor pictures to a world that was a pitch black, empty void.

The shock of that first dark waking, combined with the wall of pain that slammed into him as his senses came alive again, was so great he couldn't help but panic.

"Dylan!" he yelled, not caring if he sounded like a baby.

He heard footsteps and felt a hand land gently on his arm.

"Sh, Harper, it's alright. I'm still here and you're still in the cell with me," he explained, thinking Harper was confused by his fever and assuming he was back in the torture chamber.

Harper lay still, trying to control his breathing and his panic. Oh, how he wished he hadn't woken up! To go from surfing in the sun to gasping in agony in the dark was almost too much for him. He wasn't sure how to react.

Truth be told, he was terrified. Yesterday he'd been too much in shock to really dwell on his blindness, but waking up in the dark had brought the horrible fact home. He had no idea what he was gonna do; he only knew he desperately didn't want Dylan to find out.

As he slowly adjusted to the lack of sight, he realized just how much he hurt. It was even worse after a couple hours of sleep because everything had been given time to stiffen up. He had bruises everywhere, compliments of the expert beating Felix had subjected him to a few days ago, and he was pretty sure some of his ribs were at least cracked. He hadn't paid much attention to the beating and the bruises because of other events which had driven it out of his mind, but now his body forcefully reminded him. His time on the cross had caused other damage; his arms and shoulders gave a new definition to the term agony, and his hands throbbed constantly, a throb that changed to a scream if he tried to move them. He wondered vaguely exactly how many people there had been throughout time that could give a first hand account to the aftereffects of crucifixion; certainly not a group he was glad he'd signed up for.

Then there was his head. It was pounding out the 1812 Overture inside his skull, making it very hard to concentrate what with the added disorienting darkness. And his eyes were in agony. They felt scratchy, dry and puffy, like he'd been sitting and staring directly into the smoke from a fire for hours. Vaguely, he wondered what they looked like; if they still appeared normal from the outside. He figured they must or Dylan would've called him on it by now. He could also tell his fever was still rising and he was pretty sure he knew the cause. His back was on fire; the lacerations from the whip raw and oozing infection. He knew without having to look because his shirt was stuck stiffly to his skin. He really should have let Dylan tend to it and the wounds on his chest, but he just couldn't face anything else right now. It's not like it was gonna kill him, anyway. Felix had already shown quite clearly that even the luxury of death had been stripped from him. Been there, done that, had the T-shirt taken away. They wanted him to suffer, but apparently they would take measures to make sure he stayed alive. Besides, soon Dylan would be gone, he would be a slave in a mine, and the whippings would just simply resume, so why dwell on it?

"Harper? Are you okay?"

Dylan's voice penetrated Harper's dark world. He realized it had been some time since he'd said anything or even moved.

Hello, brilliant captain! Do I look okay?

"Offer me another option and I'll answer that," he mumbled.

"Okay, yeah. Dumb question," Dylan admitted. "How about, do you need me to help you up?"

Yes, Harper thought but he stubbornly shook his head. Somehow, he had to get use to doing this himself. He was tired of being helpless. Gasping with the effort, he used his elbow to push himself partway up only to realize he was stuck. He needed an arm to balance the effort of getting to a sitting position and that arm was chained to the one pushing him up off the floor. He couldn't hold himself there for long, but before he could collapse back in a heap he felt strong hands grasp his shoulders and steady him so he was sitting, his back once again throbbing against the wall.

"Thanks," he said weakly after a moment to steady his breathing.

"Harper, you don't have to keep thanking me. I'm your captain and your friend; I want to help you. You'd do the same for me if the situation were reversed."

"Okay," Harper admitted somewhat reluctantly. Even though he knew he should be grateful he still hated needing help, especially for something as basic as sitting up.

"So," Dylan broke the silence a little later, "You feeling up to some breakfast?"

"We get breakfast?" Harper asked incredulously.

"Well, breakfast is a rather generous term, but yeah. There's a little runny gruel here if you're up to it. And more water, which you really need."

"I guess," Harper lied. Food actually sounded revolting, but he knew from experience slaves ate when they could. You never knew when you might get to again.

Through the darkness and the pain, Harper heard Dylan pull what must be a metal tray over.

"Dylan, let me do it this time?"

"Harper, your hands need to –"

"Boss, please!" He wasn't even sure he could do it, but he needed to try. Dylan was his boss and his friend and he knew he didn't mind, but Harper couldn't help hating the fact that he even needed that assistance. If he told the truth, he just hated that his mask of "happy-go-lucky-Harper" was slipping and Dylan was there to see it fall.

There was a long silence and Harper for the first time really felt his loss. He couldn't see the captain, couldn't tell what he was doing or read the expression on his face to know what was going through his mind. He just had to sit there, acting like he was waiting patiently, trying to play along and guess at the appropriate facial expression to paste on.

"Okay," Dylan finally said, "but I really think you should just leave those hands alone and let them heal."

"And that will make it all better?" Harper snapped, his frustration and pain finally getting the better of him. "You felt them as you wrapped them up; they're a mess. The bones are in pieces. You know as well as I do that just leaving them alone to heal is not gonna make them work right again!"

Dylan sighed. What could he say to that? Besides, the anger from his engineer wasn't exactly unexpected; it was just the first time the young man had admitted he was hurting. And underneath the anger, he sounded very scared and tired. Dylan had hoped that the hours of sleep would do him some good, even if it was only a little. Instead, the kid almost looked worse. His eyes were still pain-glazed and they appeared to have trouble focusing. It was as if Harper were staring vaguely off somewhere just to Dylan's left, but he figured that was just a side effect of the high fever and the intense pain. Hopefully, it would clear up when those were gone. In the meantime, Dylan was much more worried about the boy's feet and hands, not to mention the injuries he knew the engineer was hiding.

Harper's eyes drifted shut and after a moment he spoke again.

"Look, Dylan, I'm sorry, okay. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. None of this is your fault and I really do appreciate the help."

"Harper, it's all right. You're hurt and scared and hungry, not to mention you're chained up in a cell. I'd be worried if you didn't snap at something once in awhile. Now, ready to try the cuisine?"

Hurt and scared and hungry? Oh, Boss, you don't know the half of it, Harper thought grimly. Out loud he said, "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I wasn't hungry?"

"I might, but I'd make you eat it anyway."

"That's what I figured," Harper muttered, reaching out with his battered hands for the bowl and gritting his teeth to hide the pain it caused him. At least the fact that everything hurt so much he could barely move meant Dylan thought nothing of placing the bowl carefully in his hands for him. He never would have hid the fact that he couldn't see if he had to go searching around the cell for it.

Clumsily, Harper used both hands to raise the bowl up and cough down some of the tasteless slop inside. He only managed a few swallows before the effort was too much for him. His broken hands screamed in agony and he couldn't hold onto the bowl any longer. Just as it was slipping from his grasp, he felt Dylan reach out and take it from him.

"I can't eat any more, Boss," he breathed, letting his bound hands fall heavily back into his lap. "I'm sorry."

"Fine, but you have to drink the water."

Groaning, Harper tried to reach out again, but Dylan gently pushed his hands back down. "Uh uh, I will hold it this time."

Harper conceded defeat and allowed Dylan to help him with the water, grateful as the murky liquid slid down his still parched throat. When it was gone, he leaned back and closed his eyes, exhausted from the small effort of eating, but he didn't go to sleep. He might be in agony but at least he wasn't chained to the ceiling being torture, or worse, hanging from a wooden cross. Relatively speaking, sitting in this cell was paradise. He finally felt coherent enough to carry on a conversation, and he didn't want to waste this time with his friend by sleeping.

Dylan watched his young friend and anger flared inside of him. He was a High Guard Captain, trained to handle every situation and protect his crew at all costs. It rankled against every value and standard he had to have to sit there, powerless to do anything as his crewman suffered. He believed in fair play and mercy and justice, but right now, looking at the boy sitting across from him, all he really wanted to do was dish out some serious pain on the heartless people who had done this to him.

"So, um, Dylan?"

Harper broke the silence, raising his head to face the captain's position.

"What have you been doing while I was…um…chatting with the Ubers? You okay? I should have asked earlier, but I wasn't thinking too straight. Put it down to Sparky withdrawal…"

"I'm fine. Bored out of my mind, but fine. I haven't actually left this room since they put me here five days ago," Dylan answered, slightly touched Harper had thought to ask about his wellbeing given the pain the kid was currently in.

"Lucky you…" Harper muttered, not completely in jest.

"Harper?" Dylan scooted closer to his friend, needing to know, "What did they do to you?"

"Gave me tea and cupcakes and asked me to join their Bridge Club," Harper deadpanned, sounding so much like the old Harper that if it weren't for the ever present grimace of pain, Dylan might have laughed. Instead, he ignored it, knowing Harper was trying to distract him.

"Harper," Dylan pressed, "what did they do?"

With a sigh, Harper leaned his head back again and let his eyes slide closed once more. "A lot of things that we're not gonna talk about right now, okay?" he said darkly, the joking tone instantly gone.

"Mr.-"

"Boss," Harper cut him off, "Trust me. Just don't go there right now, please!"

The words sounded almost desperate and Dylan cursed his need to know, realizing he was pushing too hard.

"Sorry," he said earnestly, sliding back to settle against the wall directly across from Harper.

There was a rather strained silence for several minutes. Dylan thought of suggesting Harper get some more rest but he'd already mothered enough for a while; he knew Harper wouldn't take kindly to anymore.

"When we get out of this, you're taking a long shore leave, Captain's orders," Dylan said trying to lighten the mood, but somehow, it only seemed to make his engineer's frown deepen.

"Boss," Harper finally said, "you need to promise me something."

"What?"

"If you get the chance to escape, promise me you'll take it and just go?"

"We're both getting out of here, Harper," Dylan stressed.

"I'm serious!" Harper pressed, shifting to try and sit up straighter and face the captain, grimacing as angry hurts protested the motion. "I'm not getting out of here anytime soon; I can barely move. If you see the chance, just take it and don't worry about me!"

Now Dylan was really getting angry. He would never leave a crewman or a friend behind; and he wasn't about to let Harper's pain cause him to become a martyr.

"Harper, I'm not leaving you here so don't ask me to make a promise like that. We'll both leave here, together, got it?"

"Boss, you still just don't get it, do you!" Harper exploded with as much pent up rage as his battered body would let him. Fiercely, he gestured vaguely with a broken hand to his left ear, ignoring the pain that motion cost him. "There's no way in the universe Felix is ever gonna let me go now!"

For the first time Dylan noticed the piece of metal attached to the boy's left ear; in all the worry over Harper's injuries and fever he'd failed to see it in the dark cell. Suddenly, the light went on and the understanding that had been teasing him, just out of reach since Harper had first paled at the mention of Sommer's Drift, clicked into place. He remembered that short recording of a five-year younger Harper, the brief flash of a metal earring, and the later eye-opening conversation with Beka, and he found he was left with no words to speak.

"I'm a slave, Dylan," Harper spoke again, much quieter. "A slave."

"Oh, Harper…" Dylan finally managed to find his tongue. "You mean Felix is your ma-" He stopped abruptly, realizing with horror what he had been about to say as a look of pure hatred and humiliation crossed his engineer's face.

"My master? Yeah. Go ahead and say it because it's true. I, Seamus Zelazny Harper, am nothing more than the property of Gaius Felix, and rather worthless and damaged property at that."

"Harper, that's not true!"

Harper was tiring rapidly and the little breakfast he had managed to eat didn't feel entirely settled in his sore stomach. He didn't have the energy to argue with the captain anymore.

"Dylan, I'm stuck on his ship, wearing his chains and his slave tag. It doesn't get much more straightforward than that. Besides, been there before, remember? I know slavery when I see it."

Dylan was silent for so long Harper wondered if he'd made him angry. When he finally spoke again, Harper jumped slightly.

"You knew, didn't you?" Dylan said quietly, gazing at his engineer with an expression Harper wouldn't have been able to read even if he could see it. "You knew Felix would be on that drift and that's why you didn't want to go."

Dylan felt slightly sick as he realized exactly what had happened, what he'd done. The boy's terrified and strange behavior of the last few days suddenly made sense. Harper had known Felix would be waiting for him on that drift and had come with Dylan anyway out of loyalty and friendship, something he often accused the boy of lacking.

As that thought crossed his mind, Dylan instantly regretted even thinking it. He remembered the last time they'd gone on one of these adventures together and how Harper had been willing to step in front of a bullet for him. How could he ever think that Harper wasn't loyal? Just because Harper had no great loyalty to the new Commonwealth did not mean he wasn't loyal to his friends. And who could blame the boy if he sometimes had an "every-man-for-himself" attitude? Look at the circumstance he grew up in! Once again, Harper had surprised him and caught him off-guard with a show of great friendship the captain wasn't even sure he'd done anything to deserve. And this time, Harper had done it all knowing that if they got caught he wouldn't simply be captured by a bunch of angry Dragans but actually thrust right back into the hands of the master he'd barely escaped from years ago, to be tortured, beaten and enslaved once more.

"Well, I didn't know for sure he'd be there, but I knew there was a good chance," Harper admitted reluctantly, continuing the conversation even as Dylan's thoughts were running off on tangents. "I'd never personally been there before. Felix is from the family of Ubers that rule Boston, and even as a slave I never left his compound or the ghetto on Earth. But his father was one of the most important Dragans in the whole empire and Felix inherited several of the worlds and drifts that he once commanded. As soon as Beka and Bobby got me off Earth, I made a point to look them all up and add them to my "never-vacation-there" list." And Rellim was always the most feared, an extended death sentence to any slave unfortunate enough to get themselves shipped there, Harper couldn't help but add silently.

Harper quit talking as a spasm of pain swept through his slight frame. He really, really didn't feel good right now.

Dylan noticed that Harper was shaking slightly, his face pale and sweaty. Alarmed, he reached forward and felt his skin again, finding it even hotter than before.

"Harper– " he began, wanting the boy to lie down again, but Harper cut him off.

"Boss! Help me to the toilet; that breakfast wants out!"

His voice sounded suddenly desperate and his face was slightly green, spurring Dylan to act without questioning. As gently as he could in his rush, he grasped him around the arms and pulled the young man to his feet, half dragging and half walking Harper to the corner.

They barely made it.

When Harper had finished emptying the pitiful contents of his stomach, he sank into a heap on the ground, exhausted from the effort and in agony from the short trip.

"Harper, let me help you back to the wall," Dylan coaxed gently.

"Just a sec," Harper breathed heavily, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, "Just give me a sec…"

His voice faded away and Dylan panicked. "Harper!" he called loudly, grabbing his shoulder, "Stay with me here!"

"AHH!" Harper cried as Dylan grabbed him, "Don't touch me, please! I'm still here…still here…just don't touch me!"

Dylan quickly withdrew his hand, cursing himself.

"Harper, I have to touch you to help you back to the wall. I'll try to be careful but I'm not gonna let you lay here, curled around the toilet!"

Just then, the door to their cell clanged open and the friendly neighborhood brute squad strode in.

"On your feet, Kludge!" one of them barked at Harper and the boy groaned. "Commander Felix wants to talk some more."

The Uber grinned evilly and Dylan seethed inside. He looked at Harper shaking on the ground and made a firm decision as he once again remembered Harper jumping in front of him, willing to take a bullet for his captain. It was something he should have done days before.

"No," he said simply, standing up and moving to face the guards, placing himself between them and Harper.

"What did you say, Captain?" Brute number one asked, turning his gun on Dylan.

"I said no. You're not taking him again. You're killing him and I won't let you! Shoot me if you want but I'm not moving. And I'm betting Felix would be very upset if his important prisoner was killed on your watch," Dylan added meaningfully. "I want to talk to Felix now and you are gonna take me to him."

The three Nietzscheans almost looked stunned. Apparently, they weren't used to dealing with prisoners who refused to be intimidated. Finally, at a motion from the leader, one of the guards stepped out and spoke quietly over his wrist comm. for a moment. When he came back in, he nodded slightly.

"Well, Captain Hunt, it appears you will get your wish. The Kludge stays here and the Commander would like to speak with you." He gestured for the captain to leave the cell.

"I'm so glad we could come to this understanding. See, communication really does work," Dylan said sarcastically. Then, with one last backward look at Harper, he exited the cell with the guards, leaving Harper alone on the floor. There was no one to help him up, but Dylan hoped he'd spared him another beating, at least for now.