Chapter 21

Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.

-Willa Cather

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Dylan glanced at his young engineer and sighed heavily. It was near the end of the third day of their forced march across this planet and he was beginning to seriously doubt the young man would last until they reached the mountains; mountains that never seemed to get any closer. Each night as they were tethered out like livestock and each morning before the guards came and dragged them back to the wagon, Dylan had checked his friend's wounds. While the brand on the boy's chest still festered and oozed, the doctor's medicine had done its job and killed the fever and infection in the rest. The whip marks and other injuries were raw and painful, but they were healing and would soon be just more scars to add to an already horrific collection. Even though he'd seen them several times now, the sight of his friend's tortured back and torso still made Dylan cringe and filled him with guilt. He'd lived with the boy for almost three years and yet he'd had no idea what Harper was hiding behind that cocky smile and under those flamboyant shirts; only twenty-three years old and already enough pain to fill several lifetimes.

Before his three-hundred year nap slavery had been something of the past to Dylan, a dark part of human history that teachers glossed over in school because surely no one would let civilization fall that far again? Even after his rude awakening into this messed-up universe, he hadn't really given it much thought; he hadn't needed to and it seemed so unreal. And yet, while he stoically ignored the uglier side of things, he'd unknowingly spent those three years serving side by side with a young man who literally bore the marks of slavery on his own skin. Felix might have robbed Harper of his sight, but Dylan had been blind as well. He was only starting to realize that, and he had no excuse.

Harper's chains jangled harshly, and Dylan prepared to steady him should he stumble even as he remembered his earlier train of thought. The boy's back was healing, his fever was down, even his hands were mending, although not as they should. The nanobots had done their best on Harper's right hand and the gaping hole had closed to a small scar. Harper had movement back in all five fingers now, but Dylan could tell it was still painful for him. The fragile bones and tendons had already started to heal incorrectly before the doctor's help, and the small dose of nanobots could only do so much. Still, Harper hadn't complained; it was better than the alternative.

Dylan couldn't stop a glance to the kid's other hand. It was healing too, but much slower and with no nice results. Felix's sick nail and hammer had crushed the tiny bones and wrecked havoc with the nerves and tendons. With no way to set the bones and keep them immobile, it was mending all wrong and leaving Harper with a hand that was both painful and useless, his fingers permanently curled in toward his palm. But, there was nothing the captain could do, and at least it was healing.

It was exhaustion and hunger that worried Dylan now. Even he was starting to really feel his age, all three-hundred plus years of it, as his joints protested the long days of walking and his stomach the lack of food. Hunger was not something he was used to. Sure, he'd missed a few meals here and there during battle, training, or a mission gone wrong, but nothing like this. For the first time in his life he was learning what it truly meant to go hungry; to have a constant gnawing in his belly that never went away and a thirst that he was never allowed to quench. They'd trudged mostly in silence for the last two days, Dylan too tired for conversation, and if Dylan, who was healthy, felt the toll of exhaustion and hunger, he could only imagine what it was doing to Harper.

And then there were the boy's feet; most of Dylan's concerns rested right there. Everything else was healing, however slowly, but the engineer's feet were steadily going from bad to worse. The original cuts from the wires had been aggravated to a bloody mess, and more cuts and scrapes had been added to them as Harper's feet snagged on sharp rocks he couldn't see or cracked and bled from the dry air and the dust. He could barely walk anymore and was reduced to a limping hobble as he desperately tried to keep up with the wagon they were chained to that never slowed its pace.

Just then Harper's foot found a particularly sharp rock and tears finally crested his eyes and ran down his sun-burnt cheeks.

"Come on, Harper," Dylan encouraged desperately. "The sun will be setting soon and we'll have to stop for the night."

"I can't do it anymore, Boss," Harper choked out as the lead chain jerked his shackled wrists forward and he had no choice but to hobble along.

Grimly, Dylan agreed with the kid and he moved closer to his friend, gently touching his arm.

"Then let me carry you," he whispered. "Put your arms around my head and climb on my back."

"The Ubers will never let you," Harper protested weakly, his sightless eyes turning toward Dylan out of habit.

"Your feet are gonna be bloody stumps by the time we get to this slave camp and then what good will you be? How will you work? Surely they can see that?"

"Dylan, don't you get it? They don't care if I'm fit for work or not, or even if I'm almost dead! I'm the trophy, the runaway returned, the slave in chains to parade around and show all the other slaves what happens to people who defy the rules. And the more pathetic I look the better the effect." Harper stumbled again and this time a small cry of pain escaped his lips. Dylan made up his mind.

"Well, I don't care what they think, your feet are practically ruined and I won't let them cripple your feet as well as your eyes and hands." He stooped and stuck Harper's bound arms over his head and around his neck before hoisting the protesting engineer bodily up onto his back, surprised at how light the boy was.

As predicted, their Nietzschean guard, whom they'd learned was named Javan, disapproved. He ordered their wagon to stop as he rode up beside them and roughly snatched Harper off the captain's back, throwing him to the ground. Harper cried out in pain and surprise, his blindness leaving him unprepared and confused. The Nietzschean then turned on Dylan, raking his boneblades across the man's cheek before bringing the horse whip down harshly around his shoulders – once, twice, three times. Dylan stubbornly stood his ground.

"The Kludge is no longer your pet, Captain, to coddle and pamper. He walks like the slave he is or he gets dragged; his choice," Javan growled, leaning over his horse's neck to spit on Harper where he still lay tangled in his chains in the dirt.

"Make him keep doing this for much longer and he won't be able to walk at all; then he'll be a really useful slave," Dylan snapped back. "He's already crippled and blind, let's see if we can make him lame before we put him to work, too. Ah, those superior genes and brain cells, hard at work I can see!" Dylan seethed and then turned his head as the backhand came right on cue.

"What's going on back here?" a new voice asked. Both Dylan and the guard turned to see the wagon master and leader of the company approaching on his silver stallion. Adoniram was a cousin of Felix and the Master of the prison camp, Dylan and Harper had learned from listening, and he was returning to the camp from a visit with his wives in the city. Neither the youngest nor the largest of the group, he still left no doubt who was in charge. Dylan wasn't fooled by his age or stature; he saw the way his black eyes glittered with coldness and cunning and knew better than to underestimate the man. But he also couldn't back down.

"I asked what the problem is?" he repeated dangerously, leveling Javan with a cold look. "Can you not control two fettered slaves, one of whom is blind?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw Harper attempting to struggle to his feet but he dared not take his attention away from the two Niets to help him.

"I'm sorry, Captain Adoniram. The former High Guard was trying to carry the little one. I was simply disciplining."

Adoniram turned to Dylan. "You are a slave, he is a slave, both prisoners of the Drago-Kazov. Prisoners walk."

"Captain," Dylan ground the title out as he bit back his pride, "He can't walk anymore. Please, his feet are almost ruined!"

Dylan waited for the blow but it didn't come. Instead, the captain turned his attention to Harper who had finally found his balance again and snatched the startled engineer off his feet by the back of his shirt. With the air of a man judging cattle, the Nietzschean inspected the boy's feet, his attitude clearly showing Harper was no more than a possession that needed repairing. Coming to a decision, he stepped his horse up to the back of the wagon and dumped Harper in.

"It can ride for the rest of the day; it's holding us up. But slave," he added meaningfully to Dylan, "you will still be punished for your disobedience and cheek. Ten lashes, and if you do it again I will punish the boy instead."

Ten minutes later, the wagons moved forward again and Dylan alone followed on foot this time, his own back stinging and several tears visible in the material of his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Boss," Harper whispered after a minute as he listened to Dylan's heavy breathing.

"Don't be, Harper," Dylan tried to assure him. "First of all, it isn't your fault. Secondly, at least I got you off your feet for a bit. I can take a few blows for that."

Harper sighed. "Dylan, you really gotta lose that noble High Guard attitude now you're a slave. I'm warning ya, it's gonna get you, and probably me, killed." He paused and his voice lowered. "Still, I wish you hadn't done that. You're a freakin' hero in this universe; you shouldn't have to be treated like a Kludge."

"Neither should you, Harper," Dylan said quietly, his eyes sad as he looked at his friend.

They didn't speak again and another hour passed slowly as the golden sun set in the sky creating a stunning display of light and color. Dylan concentrated on the beauty of the sight and tried to ignore the deep weariness that was settling into his bones, but he was still dead on his feet when Adoniram finally called the group to a stop. Camp was struck quickly and the trusted slaves were preparing the evening meal when a guard finally came to chain them for the night. To Dylan's surprise, however, only he was lead away and tethered to their pole; Harper remained in the wagon, his blind eyes wide with confusion and his face tense as he strained to follow what was happening. Dylan tried to question the stone-faced guard but only got a kick to go with their meager rations and blanket instead.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Adoniram himself approached the parked wagon and undid the leading chain from its hook. Lifting Harper roughly from the wagon-bed, he set him firmly on his feet and tugged him forward like a dog on a leash. Harper limped after him, doing his best to keep up while the Niet never said a word. Dylan could tell Harper was close to panicking, not knowing who had him or where he was being taken, but there was nothing the he could do for him that wouldn't result in more suffering for the young man.

This camp was bordered by a small river and the Captain stopped at a large bolder that stuck out into the riverbed, roughly twenty feet from Dylan's position. A tall tree stood over the rock, its branches old and strong. Harper could hear the running water and his fear at not being able to see caused him to instinctively dig in his heals and struggle against the chain pulling him forward.

"No, where are we going? What are you doing to –"

The blow to his face caught him completely off guard, and he clamped his mouth shut in terror.

Adoniram pushed him down on the bolder so he was sitting and facing the stream. Then he took the leash still attached to the center link of the engineer's manacles and looped it up over a branch of the ancient tree. When he was done, the chain was secured and Harper's hands were pulled above his head, elbows slightly bent but still immobile. Dylan could see that his friend's heart was racing and his blank eyes were darting wildly like a skittish horse; the captain's own heart was beating sharply as he stood up, unsure what was being done to the boy now. Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

Still, the Nietzschean said nothing. He went about his work with the manner of a man changing a tire, not someone dealing with a very frightened young human being.

"Please, what are you going to do to me?" Harper begged, all bravado gone in the ever encompassing darkness. His only answer was another slap across the face, and Dylan fumed silently.

Then the Nietzschean pulled out his knife.