Chapter 30

Two men look out from the same prison bars; one sees mud and the other stars.

- Frederick Langbridge

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Days passed, swam by, pooled together and became one. The slave camp became Harper's life, his whole world. Nothing existed beyond the barbed wires that surrounded the camp, and things barely existed inside of them.

He forgot what it meant to see, to know color, shadow, depth. He no longer thought about the sky, the stars, the unexplainable beauty of a sun. He forgot what warmth was, softness, comfort. He forgot what it was to be cared for, loved, valued – human.

But he also remembered.

He remembered starvation, pain, exhaustion and his body adjusted. He remembered how to sleep wherever you could, whenever you could. He recalled how to think like a slave, act like a slave – be a slave.

And he learned.

He learned to no longer try and move his hands or feet too far apart. He learned to judge the hours of the day by the bite of the lash. He learned to hear, to smell, to feel, but never too much, because there were things he didn't want to know.

He learned practical things as well.

His always-aching bare feet learned to distinguish his location by the feel of the ground beneath them. He learned to work with one hand when he could, and make clumsy use of a useless, crippled limb when he couldn't. He realized that the lice and insects that burrowed into his skin and left his body covered in angry, red spots would never go away, no matter how much he scratched. He quickly found that he liked it much better when he took Dylan's arm to be lead around rather than Dylan taking his, and he learned to locate the older man by the clank of his chains. He was startled one day to realize he knew his way around their barrack and from then on refused to let Dylan guide him inside. He also learned that the common area outside was a dark, dangerous void full of horrors and pitfalls that he couldn't navigate without help. Without Dylan to guide him it didn't matter if the iron bars on their prison were open, he was still trapped inside.

He gradually started to make sense out of this world made of sound. Names became voices, voices became people, people became friends – or enemies, as the situation demanded.

There was Simon, their first friend and best help. He came from a world where humans were free, but his choice to follow The Way had lead him to worlds where they were not, and his pesky instance that slavery was wrong finally got him sent to Rellim to study slavery first hand. His voice was soft and low and his words always kind.

There were Ethan and Peter, fellow Earthers, both sent to the mines for causing trouble. Forty-one and thirty-five respectively, both talked with sadness of families left behind. Ethan spoke with a slight western drawl while Peter dropped his h's. Their voices reminded Harper of home.

There was Dakin. A Rellim native of roughly Harper's age, he'd been rounded up in the annual fall slave grabbing and sent to work the mines because he was strong and healthy. Now, a year later, he was neither, but he was still breathing, too stubborn to let the Ubers win. He spoke with a strange accent, his words few but strong when they came.

Then there was Twig, barely eleven and already waiting to die. He'd been in the mines so long he could hardly fathom a time before. All he knew was that his dad had broken some minor Uber law and he'd been taken as punishment. He vaguely remembered a small house in the country, a mother and sisters, but their names were long gone, as was his own. The only identity he recalled was his slave number, so the others had dubbed him Twig. Harper had taught him how to play a little game with sticks and pebbles one evening after dinner, and the little guy had stuck to him like glue ever since, his tiny voice peppering him and Dylan with questions and revealing a curiosity even slavery couldn't stamp out.

There were also the "others."

Rosie, with her man's voice and iron fists, a force to be avoided when at all possible.

Erik: a fellow slave in their barrack who had learned well the lessons taught by the Niets. He preyed on the weak to insure his own survival. His voice was low and malicious and his hands sneaky.

Adoniram: cold, cruel, and cunning, just like his words.

And Marcus, their barrack guard. He left Harper confused. His voice was strong and proud, but it lacked the meanness of the other Dragans. Things turned up in their barrack that shouldn't have: playing cards, a few books, a trinket or two for the young ones. If even Harper with his useless eyes knew they were there, surely Marcus had to be aware of them, but he said nothing. Was he toying with them, did he feel sympathy for his pathetic charges, or was he just bored? Harper had no idea, but kept Marcus in the enemy category just to be safe.

As the days passed, Harper wasn't the only one who learned. Dylan did, too.

He learned what hunger meant, boredom, hopelessness, injustice… He learned the indignity of zero privacy, no bathing, weekly shaving fests done for him like he was incompetent. He learned to bite his tongue, duck his head, swallow his pride. And he learned to keep the anger locked inside, even though every day it got harder.

He sadly watched the pounds slip off his young friend's body, counting each rib as it appeared, seeing his skin stretch and fade to resemble the other living wraiths around them. He watched the boy hobble around on bare feet and realized it no longer surprised him. He no longer forgot the kid was blind, and he got used to seeing Harper in chains, dragging and lifting the heavy weight. He watched the back of the engineer's shirt become shredded little by little, but he never asked to check anymore. What was the point? And he watched a deadness settle in the boy's eyes that had nothing to do with being blind. If he'd had a mirror, he might have noticed a similar change in himself, albeit much slower, but he didn't and so he saw only Harper.

But he did more than watch his friend, he also observed, something only he could do now.

He observed the camp, its structure and layout, its weaknesses and strengths. He watched the Nietzscheans when he could, memorized their patterns, habits, faces. He watched the supply wagons roll in and the rock laden ones roll out. He observed the schedule, the guard shifts, the weapons…

In his mind he planned a million escapes, rejected each one, and started over. He was patient, he had to be. There would be no second chance.

So he waited, and watched, and worried…and tried to keep them both alive.

And in the meantime, a strange thing began to happen. In the midst of misery and death, they both slowly let the locked doors of their minds fall open.

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Author's Note: Thank you, thank you to everyone who is reading this and reviewing. You don't know how much I appreciate the support and the comments. Your comments help me gage whether this story is still on track and if it's doing what I hope it's doing. Once again, thanks so much!