Chapter 26
"You have to learn, Cody - you boys, too - the difference between pride and self respect. Pride is a cheap commodity. Pride leaves a man when he's been whooped and kicked. Pride goes on and off easy, like that hat. Self respect, no one can take that from ya, goes clear to the bone."
- Teaspoon Hunter, The Young Riders
Before Dylan could move, Harper squirmed out of his hold and latched onto the Captain with his own death grip. Perhaps the young man was afraid Dylan would let go and leave him alone in the dark, or perhaps Harper just felt some small measure of control like this. Either way, since the boy couldn't really speak at the moment and it didn't much matter anyway, the captain decided it was pointless to ask. He could feel Harper trembling through his vise-like grip on his arm, whether from cold, from fear, or from both, he couldn't tell, but he knew the boy was trying desperately to hold it together. Harper had been blind for a month now, but adjusting to the dark while being dragged around on a chain is not the same as being truly blind in a place you have never been before, with nothing to anchor or guide you; a place filled with dangers and terrors.
"You ready now, Mr. Harper? The sun's gone behind the mountains and it's gonna get real dark real quick. I think we'd better hurry."
Harper nodded, so Dylan started walking. Not that he had any real idea where he was going.
The coming chill of darkness was settling around the camp, casting shadows everywhere. Waves of hopelessness and despair rolled off the filthy ground, the foreboding buildings, and the huddled, wretched shapes that were vaguely alive. They were men, but they appeared almost ghostly in the gloom, skin shallow and shrunken, with dark eyes that pierced straight through him, ragged clothes fluttering in the chill evening breeze. They looked…faded; like they'd been washed one too many times. Dylan thought he might be able to see right through them if he looked hard enough. The Captain felt an involuntary shiver creep up his spine that had nothing to do with his wet clothes. There were hundreds of them; they sat or crouched in scattered groups around the buildings, blending in with the shadows. Hushed pockets of conversation drifted through the dusk, always fading away as Dylan lead Harper by, pale faces turning to stare at the pair, expressions giving nothing away.
They all had the same shaved heads and horrible prison clothes, but no one else bore the cumbersome chains, Dylan noted with a flash of anger. He could actually understand the reasoning behind the Niets leaving them on him, but to keep Harper chained up was just plain idiotic. The boy couldn't even see! The clank of said chains was grossly loud in the silence that surrounded the pair as they trudged past one dark building after another. After ten minutes, Harper's grip on his arm was nearing amputation levels and Dylan had yet to find Barrack 6B.
It was getting darker by the second and every time Dylan stopped and turned them a different direction, he could feel Harper's heartbeat quicken. They were hopelessly lost, and not only did he know it, but he could tell Harper knew it as well. The kid's breathing was racing now; much longer and he'd hyperventilate. Dylan swallowed his pride and a small bit of fear; they needed help.
Just then, a shrill whistle suddenly pierced the air, causing them both to jump. Instantly, the pathetic excuses for men stood up and moved about in a jumbled swarm toward the ugly buildings. Curfew, Dylan realized. They had just run out of time.
People were still avoiding them like there was some invisible force-field that was keeping them five feet away. Oh well, what was the saying, if Mohammad won't go to the mountain...
"Harper, I'll be back in two seconds, I promise. Just stay here, okay?"
He didn't wait for an answer but pried the boy's fingers from his arm and dashed to the entrance of the nearest building, determined to get some directions.
Men were moving into the buildings like ants into cracks in the sidewalk. They weren't running, but there was an air of urgency in their movements.
"Excuse me –" Dylan reached out to one slave, only to be ignored.
"Can you help –"
"Could someone please tell –"
"Look, I need some help here!" Dylan finally lost his patience. A boy, even younger than Harper, stopped short at his shout and looked at him, really looked at him.
"What do you need?" he asked in a whisper, glancing nervously around.
"Thank you!" Dylan muttered, whether to himself, the boy, or any eavesdropping deity, he wasn't sure. "Can you please tell me where Barrack 6B is? My friend and I need to get there."
The ragged boy thought for several seconds then pointed across the compound. "It's on the other side, third building from the gate." A second whistle blew just as he spoke and the boy paled, something Dylan though amazing considering his already transparent complexion. "Run!" he whispered fervently, then rushed into his own prison.
Dylan didn't need to be told twice. He dashed back to Harper's side. The young man was clutching their blankets and mess-kits to his chest and shaking uncontrollably, his eyes jerking around, terrified, as though he could will them to penetrate the darkness. Dylan felt a pang of guilt for leaving him so suddenly alone in his sea of black, but he didn't have time to apologize right now.
"Come on, Harper!" he said, grabbing the engineer's arm. The boy jumped like a spooked horse at the unexpected touch and voice, but Dylan kept him upright. "We've got to hurry!" he said, tugging him forward into as much of a sprint as their chains and Harper's ruined feet would allow.
They ran awkwardly across the open area, Dylan dragging Harper along. Arriving at the correct building, they slid to a stop before the door just as a third whistle shattered the night air.
A Niet guard was glaring down at them, blocking the large, open doorway into the prison barrack. Two thoughts struck Dylan at once: first, how terribly young he appeared, and second, how terribly dead they were.
Dylan sucked up all his pride. There was no way he was going to be the cause of Harper getting another beating today.
"Master, we're sorry! We couldn't find the right barrack." he said, lowering his head and trying not to gag on the word his mouth couldn't help rebelling over. Harper leaned heavily against him, attempting to take some of the pressure off his abused feet, Dylan's words telling him that they were in some kind of trouble.
The Nietzschean said nothing and grimly, Dylan waited for the blows to fall, or the others to come drag them away for punishment.
Silence stretched for what felt like an eternity until Dylan couldn't help raising his head and risking a glance at their guard. He was staring at them with an unreadable expression. Finally, he spoke.
"Third whistle is curfew. Next time, don't be late." He pushed the pair into the building and once they were in, he pulled a set of sliding iron bars across the doorway and locked it, effectively sealing everyone in. He then walked away into the night.
Dylan couldn't believe they had escaped punishment, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He would ponder their strange luck later; right now they had just been thrust into a prison barrack and his military training was warning him to be alert and do a little recon.
The building was long and dark and filthy. Dylan had been in barns that smelled better. It was constructed of heavy logs stacked cabin-style, with a cold, concrete floor. Roughly one hundred yards long, there were no windows; the only air came through the open doorway, about the width of the Command Deck's entrance and blocked only by the steel grating the guard had locked in place. Nothing else was used to protect the entrance of the barrack from the elements and a cold, night wind blew through it, chilling the whole building. Rough, wooden bunks lined the wall opposite the door, stacked three high and filled with thin, straw mattresses and barely living shades of men. Dirty piles of straw ran along the other wall, more pitiful boys and men huddled in their blankets on top of them. Two smoking lamps hung from the ceiling at either end of the barrack, barely giving enough light to highlight the wretched room.
It was quite possibly the most horrible place Dylan had ever been.
"Where…"
The harshly croaked word jerked Dylan's attention back to his friend. The boy tried again.
"Where...(cough)…are we?" Harper finally managed to croak the words out past his abused throat.
"Home sweet home," the captain muttered depressed, still not sure this was real.
Harper was clinging to his arm again with his sore right hand, and Dylan could still feel him trembling with cold and fright. Looking closer in the dim light, the captain was startled to see a simmering rage as well, only made stronger by frustration at his lack of communication.
"Don't…do…(cough)…again!" the young man seethed. "Ever!" His voice broke and cracked but his expression was furious.
"Don't do what, Harper?" Dylan asked quietly, confused and not sure what he'd done wrong.
During the last couple hours, Harper had been humiliated, half strangled, and pushed out the back door into a huge, undefined, black void where he'd been dragged around and then abruptly abandoned by his only friend and connection to the unseen world. He was tired, cold, wet, hurting, and terrified and he couldn't do anything about it, so it all unintentionally boiled over in rage directed at Dylan.
"Leave…no (cough) warning…nothing for me…to feel! (Cough) Didn't know …where I was!"
"I'm sorry, Harper, but we were running out of time," Dylan said, finally understanding what he was upset about. "I had to do something quick."
"You…could have…told me! Or…given something…to hold onto!"
Suddenly, Dylan felt very bad. The boy was right. He jumped so quickly into captain mode – he couldn't help – and as such he expected his crew to be fit, capable, and able to respond and adapt to anything at a moment's notice. So far, they'd never disappointed him. But he wasn't a captain anymore, at least not in any sense that counted. He wasn't on his ship and Harper was anything but fit. Thinking like a High Guard Captain wasn't always going to work in this insane world of no rules and no reason. Expecting Harper to be his quick-thinking, spunky engineer wouldn't work either. Right now, Harper was just a scared, twenty-three year old kid who had been pushed back into the nightmare of his past. He was still brilliant, but he was also bound, beaten, bruised and blind. That blindness made this experience just as new and terrifying for Harper as it was for him, probably more so. Old rules and expectations between boss and crew, captain and engineer no longer worked or applied. Circumstance dictated that new rules be made.
"You're right, Harper, and I'm sorry. I'm new at this, too, and I'm still learning what to do and how best to help you without being too overbearing. Sometimes, I just forget and don't think, and I'm sorry. We'll have to talk about how you want to deal with this and what you want me to do, okay? But right now I think we should get out of the doorway and figure out how life works in our new home. Can we talk about this later?"
The anger drained from Harper's face and he nodded wearily.
"Excuse me?"
Both men started at the new voice and Dylan turned to face the speaker. The slave was pale and gaunt, like everyone else, dressed in worn and dirty prison clothes and scuffed leather shoes, but he smiled kindly and his eyes were clear behind a pair of scratched, bent, old-fashioned eyeglasses. He appeared to be around Dylan's age, three-hundred years excluded, but then it was hard to tell in this place that aged men prematurely.
"You're new here, aren't you." It wasn't a question.
"What gave it away?" Dylan returned the smile, grateful to find one friendly face even if it was only a fellow slave.
"Many things," the slave laughed softly, "but mostly because you look like you just came from a run-in with Rosie." He pointed at their soaked clothes, newly shorn heads, and the ever darkening ring of welts around Harper's throat.
"Yeah, we met her," Dylan grimaced, touching his own swollen eye. "Can't say I'd put her on my Christmas list, however."
The other slave grinned again, and Dylan tried not to notice how that act stretched the paper-thin skin across his protruding cheek bones.
"My name is Simon," he said.
"Dylan Hunt," Dylan returned, dropping both the captain and the handshake. "And this is –"
"Seamus," Harper croaked out before Dylan could.
"…Seamus," Dylan finished awkwardly, never having called the young man that before.
Simon nodded. "I'd say welcome, but who wants to be welcomed to this?" he motioned to the room around them.
"Well, thanks for the gesture anyway. You're the first person who has willingly spoken to us since we were turned out into the camp," Dylan told him truthfully.
"Don't judge us harshly," Simon asked wearily, taking Dylan by the arm and steering them out of the open doorway. "Life is hard here, very hard. It requires more energy than many have to simply find the will to keep living; most have none to waste on others. We're good people, we're just tired and beaten, forgotten souls. Stay here too long and you can forget you're human and should act according."
Eyes were staring at them out of the gloom as Simon spoke, and Dylan gazed into their dull depths with new understanding. So many forgotten people, of all ages. Boys who couldn't have been more than twelve – children locked away and worked to death before they even knew what life really meant. Others who should have been fathers, brothers, husbands. Here were also old men who should have been retired and enjoying the fruits of a life of hard work, instead left to wither until they broke like brittle leaves. All of them, crammed together – working, existing, waiting to die and be done.
"How long have you been here?" Dylan asked softly, morbidly curious.
"Long enough to forget how long I've been here," Simon answered firmly, "to forget there's anything other than what's inside these fences. And it would be better for you both to forget soon as well. In here, hope can drive you insane."
One by one, the pairs of watching eyes drifted off the newcomers. Some simply closed in exhausted sleep, but in other places, muted conversations quietly filled the stale air and life returned to "normal" in the barrack.
Harper hadn't said a word since he gave his name, but his breathing had evened out a bit and his head was cocked in the way Dylan had come to know meant he was listening, doing his best to keep up and stay on top of the situation and therefore do his part to help out. Still, the kid's feet must be killing him by now, and his grip on Dylan's arm was weakening. To all outward appearances, the hand was healed, but Dylan knew Harper hid the pain using it actually caused him, or how quickly it tired.
"Where should we put our mess-kits? And where can we sleep?" Dylan asked their new friend.
"You're welcome to share my bunk. There are only two of us in it right now."
Only two? Dylan glanced at the small, hard bunks and wouldn't have thought them big enough for one person, let alone for four to cram in!
"As for your dishes," Simon continued, unaware of Dylan's shock, "just keep them with you. You'll need them in the morning."
"Which bunk is yours?"
Simon led them a little way down the barrack to a set of bunks that looked just like any of the others. "Here, top one."
The base of the highest bunk was easily level with the top of Harper's head. Dylan sighed. They would never be able to climb up there with their stupid shackles on, not to mention the engineer's crippled hands and hurting feet.
"Simon, thanks for the offer, but," he held out his chained wrists to help make his point, "I don't think we'll be able to make it up there."
"Why weren't those taken off when you arrived? Slaves in the mines aren't kept in irons; makes them lousy miners and cuts down the Ubers' profits."
"It's a long story, but we're kinda special cases," Dylan offered tiredly, trying to run a hand through his hair out of habit only to be shocked when his hand met with smooth skin. "Anywhere else to sleep? Somewhere lower?"
They returned the way they had come, almost to the doorway again, and Simon gestured to a filthy pile of straw against the wall. "It's closest to the door," he said apologetically, "but everywhere else is full and the others are reluctant to share with strangers."
"It's great, we'll take it," Dylan said, trying not to gag at the smell. He took the mess-kits from Harper and stashed them between the straw and the wall, forcing himself not to grimace as he touched their new "bed." "Give me the blankets, Harper, and I'll spread them out. Then we should get some sleep. I'm guessing this is a crack-of-dawn kind of establishment, am I right?" he asked Simon over his shoulder.
"I haven't seen dawn in years," Simon replied sadly. "By that time, we've been in the mines for hours."
"Lovely," Dylan muttered, taking the blankets Harper held out to him and spreading them on the damp straw.
Harper, meanwhile, was tired of not knowing what this place was like. If he was going to be living here indefinitely, he was going to know his way around. He held his arms out before him and slid his aching feet slowly forward across the rough concrete until his fingers touched the log wall. Then he paused for a moment until he felt the cold breeze blow across his face and turned his body in that direction. Stepping carefully to avoid tripping on the straw mound or their blankets, he painstakingly felt his way along the wall until he found the first bar blocking the open prison door.
Dylan simply watched, choosing not to interfere until Harper called for him or needed help.
"What's he doing?" Simon asked, his expression puzzled as he observed Harper touch each of the cold steel bars, his lips moving silently as his chains clanked harshly against the metal.
"Counting the bars, so he knows how many there are," Dylan replied sadly. "He's learning his way around."
Simon's dark eyebrows rose in confusion and Dylan sighed.
"Simon, Harper – Seamus," he corrected himself purposefully, "Seamus is blind."
"Blind?" the slave asked in disbelief.
"Yeah," Dylan replied bitterly as Harper started to hesitantly hobble across the floor, pacing out the distance between the barred door and the bunks on the other side of the room.
"And they sent him here! Barefoot and in chains?" Simon was incredulous.
Dylan said nothing; there was nothing to say. After a moment he felt a hand flutter on his shoulder and looked over to see Simon standing right next to him. "This won't be easy, you know, keeping your friend alive here. It's impossible, really," he shook his head again in disbelief.
"Yeah, well I don't care, I intend to do it. What am I supposed to do, just sit by and watch him die?" Dylan said, anger rising.
"No, of course not," Simon hurried to assure him. "I never meant to imply that; you interrupted before I could finish. I was saying it will be very difficult, but I'll help you, both of you, all I can," he said firmly, catching Dylan's eyes and holding them with his own.
"Why?" the captain couldn't help asking. "Why are you helping us, even talking to us? You're just as tired as the rest; why bother?"
"Because that is the Way of the Divine," Simon replied with a small smile. "Now, get some rest. You will both need all your strength and more to get through tomorrow. Believe me, there will be many more nights for Seamus to learn his way around."
Sometime later, Harper and Dylan lay on their disgusting pile of straw, wrapped in their blankets and huddled close together to keep warm in their still damp clothes. The lamps had burned out long ago and the morning wake-up call couldn't be many hours off. The barrack was completely silent except for the sound of ragged breathing and the occasional harsh cough.
"Boss?" Harper whispered hoarsely. His voice was still scratchy, but at least he could speak again.
"Yeah?" Dylan replied quietly. Neither one of them were asleep, there was no point in pretending.
"You asleep?"
"Would I be answering you if I was?"
A slightly embarrassed "oh" escaped followed by a long span of silence.
"Mr. Harper?" Dylan broke the stillness as he shifted onto his back to stare at the blackness of the unseen ceiling.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"Why Seamus?"
There was an even longer pause this time.
"It's my name," the quiet voice finally answered.
"I know, but why not Harper, when you've always insisted that we call you Harper? Why don't you go by Seamus anyway?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes, I do."
There was another pause as Harper shifted carefully to face the ceiling as well and opened his eyes, although it was only a token gesture. He moved slowly, the skin on his back still raw and tender. Settled, he finally spoke.
"Seamus was what my family called me: my parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins. I guess that's why sometimes Beka or Trance gets away with calling me that; they're like family. Growing up I was always Seamus, or more often, Shay. But, then my family died, one by one, and a little bit of Seamus died with each of them, until there was not really anything left of him. Seamus got left behind on Earth and Harper went with Beka into space."
Dylan listened intently to Harper's quiet words, giving them careful thought. It wasn't often the young man spoke of his past, and never so profoundly.
"That explains why you go by Harper now," he said, nodding, "but I still don't understand why you are suddenly asking people to call you Seamus here, of all places."
Harper sighed. "It's complicated, and I'm not sure it makes a whole lot of sense, even to me…"
"I don't have anywhere else to be right now," Dylan reminded him with a shrug. "Try me."
The engineer brought his hands up to rest on the top of his smooth scalp and raised his knees up so they were bent. His voice was quite with a far-away quality when he spoke again. "The Ubers on Earth, they make a point of never giving up an ounce of respect to a Kludge, especially one who's a slave. There are no Mr. Harper's or Mr. anyone's; it's only Jim or Bill or Nate, or worse - boy, no mater how old you are. So, when I became a slave I also became simply Seamus. Not Seamus Zelazny Harper, or even Seamus Harper, just Seamus – Felix's slave. My identity ceased to exist, my last name was gone, and the Ubers tried hard to keep it that way. They said Seamus like they would say the word chair, only used to tell one slave from another and to show how worthless and stupid we were compared to them."
He paused, but Dylan sensed he wasn't done and waited patiently for him to come back from the memories enough to finish.
"Being a slave was…not the high point of my life, I can tell you," Harper said with a vague smirk. "By the time I got away, I hated the name Seamus. I never wanted to be him again. And I hated the Ubers even more for taking even that good thing away from me. Being called Seamus reminds me that technically, I still belong to someone, like a shirt, or a chest of drawers. Beka doesn't understand that, so it doesn't bother me when she uses my name, because she's doing it out of friendship. Others, however, like Bobby, did understand. When he used it, he was being deliberately condescending and arrogant."
He paused again, giving his still strained voice a short rest.
"Anyway, long story short, Seamus belongs on Earth with all the crappy, and the few good, memories from there. But, in true poetic Harper justice, look where I am again? Back to being a groveling slave once more, Seamus The Nothing. I guess I figured I'd just contain all the bad memories to one name."
It made sense, Dylan realized, in the horribly awful way their new world made sense, and he felt rather honored that Harper had felt safe in confiding all that to him. "So, would you like me to call you Seamus now?" he asked tactfully.
"Naw, you don't have to. Gotta have something to remind me this crap isn't the only option out there. I just didn't want the Ubers using it, or really the other slaves. Gotta keep one name that has a little self-respect."
"Okay. Harper it is, then. Although, our new bunkmates might think you have something of an identity crisis, with the two different names and all."
"Who says I don't?" Harper gave a small impish smile that Dylan wasn't entirely sure was all a joke. "But anyway, the other slaves won't really care one way or the other. They're too busy trying to stay alive, just like us."
"Very true. And speaking of staying alive, Mr. Harper," Dylan deliberately used the title, trying to show Harper that he at least thought the boy worthy of respect, "we should probably try and sleep. I think tomorrow will be a very, very long day."
"Amen," Harper sighed. Closing his eyes, he brought his shackled hands down under the thin blanket once again and pulled it to his chin, trying to get warm. Soon, despite the discomfort and the cold, Dylan's snores were filling the air. But beside him, Harper still didn't sleep. He lay awake staring into nothingness and wondering just exactly what would happen to him in a few short hours.