Author's Note: I've had some very helpful replies about medical issues and camps such as this. I have to admit my own medical knowledge is pitiful, and I'm sure it shows. I took the comments into consideration and I've tried to amend somewhat. That said, I already had the plot figured out based on my bad assumptions and I don't want to lose what I had planned. Therefore I've tried to, probably rather lamely, justify my mistakes. Hope this works as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. Thanks!
Chapter 36
Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.
- William Pitt
00000
"Hey, Boss?"
Harper's quiet voice drew Dylan's attention to his friend. It had been a hard, slow day in the mines, worse than usual. Their barrack had joined Harper on cart duty today, and Dylan had shared the cart with him. With the engineer limping horribly from his re-injured foot, Dylan had to take most of the weight and they were both exhausted now. Too tired for much conversation, they were just leaning wearily against the wall as they rested on their pile of straw, so it startled him when Harper spoke.
"Yes, Harper?"
"I was just wondering," the boy said softly, turning his head in the direction of Dylan's voice, "do you still have it?"
"Have what?" Dylan asked, his expression puzzled.
"You know, my rabbit's foot."
"Oh. Of course I do. It's right here," Dylan patted his chest out of habit even though Harper couldn't see it, "around my neck."
"Could I…" Harper's voice was small and hesitant, almost embarrassed. "Could I see it for a bit? I mean, touch it?"
"Harper, I'm only keeping it for you; it's still yours. All you have to do is ask." Dylan quickly pulled the cord over his head and carefully placed the furry item in Harper's outstretched hand. As soon as it touched his skin, Harper's hand closed around it and his fingers instinctively started to rub it. With a sigh, he let his head fall back against the wall and his eyes close.
The captain continued to watch his friend for a while, trying to picture a young man with wild, spiky hair and loud clothes instead of the dirty, drab figure that sat beside him and tried to hide his bald head under his cap night and day. It was getting harder and harder to bring up that old image, he noted sadly.
"I know you probably think I'm nuts," Harper spoke suddenly, gesturing with the hand caressing his lucky charm, "but it helps me think and is kinda, you know, comforting. This rabbit's foot has been with me through a lot of rotten stuff. Besides, even if the whole rest of my life is horribly different now, it still feels the same despite the fact that I'm blind and a slave. Like touching a tiny bit of home," he explained, ducking his head a little.
"No, I don't think you're nuts, Mr. Harper," Dylan said earnestly. "Actually, it makes perfect sense." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "You're not the only one to ever draw comfort from little things. When I was a cadet, we had to wear these uniforms. They were similar to the High Guard uniform I used to wear when I first met you, but less dressy and more practical. Anyway, the cuffs on the sleeves were fastened with buttons bearing the High Guard Crest. You could feel the emblem with your fingers without even looking. It wasn't until I graduated and got my first real uniform that I realized I'd developed the habit of rubbing those buttons when I was thinking or stressed." He stopped again, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I've always kinda missed those buttons," he said sheepishly.
"You could rub your chains and pretend they're buttons," Harper suggested, straight-faced. "I mean, I assume they're smooth and shiny, just like your buttons…"
"Somehow it's just not the same…" Dylan laughed tiredly.
"No, I guess not," Harper agreed. After a few more moments, he reluctantly held out his treasure for Dylan to take it back. Wordlessly, the captain replaced it around his neck and hid it under his filthy shirt. He wished Harper could keep it himself since it was so important to him and touching it somehow seemed to give him renewed resolve to go on, but he'd seen how the young engineer was treated by their Nietzschean guards. He knew it would never stay hidden on the kid, just as Harper had told him back on Felix's ship. For once he truly wished his friend had been wrong about something.
"All right—"
Harper's voice broke into his thoughts once more and he looked up to see that the engineer had shifted around so he was facing the older man.
"Dylan, I want you to level with me here. Are you all right, Boss? How're you holding up for real?" And don't skirt the issue or outright lie because I'm blind and you can get away with it. That's not fair. Besides, I can hear how tired you sound when you talk and how much slower you move now, and your arm is a lot skinnier when I hold on than it used to be."
Surprised by the sudden change of topic and the seriousness of the questions, Dylan didn't answer right away. Finally, he just shook his head and said, "I'm fine."
"Liar. Seriously, Boss, cut the crap. I know you're not fine. You're working fourteen hours a day on a diet that wouldn't be enough for a seven year-old, let alone a big guy like you! Because of me, the Ubers have it in for you, and you're surrounded by filth and disease. Me, I'm used to this, but you're not. I'm worried about you, okay! Contrary to what everyone thinks it's not the little guys who come off worst in places like this, it's the big dudes. You could be wasting away and dying on me and I'd never know and you're too darn stubborn to tell me!"
Dylan had to admit he was not in top form at the moment, not even close. He ached all the time, and the lack of food made him dizzy and light-headed, but he wasn't as bad as Harper was thinking. "Harper," he hurried to assure his friend, "I'm okay." Harper started to protest but Dylan cut him off. "No, really. Just listen to me. I'm hungry and tired and sore and filthy. Places hurt that I never even knew I had and I've gotten more familiar with the wrong end of a whip then I ever wanted to. I've got rashes and lice and fleas, but I'm still walking. You're right about these places getting to the big and strong and healthy first, but I have something most of them don't; I'm half heavy-gravity worlder, remember? That gives me a huge leg up in the survival odds."
"But it doesn't make you immune or invulnerable!" Harper stressed. "And your body isn't used to this!"
"I also have gene modifications, Harper, and nanobots to help combat infections and diseases. Nothing up to Niet standards; I'm still human, but enough to help. Honestly, I'm miserable just like you, but I'm doing okay. You don't have to worry."
"Someone's got to worry about you. You're too busy worrying about the rest of the universe to give a darn worrying about yourself and I'm too tired to bail your sorry butt out any more than I have to," Harper muttered.
Once again, Dylan was surprised by the engineer's words. He knew that beneath the flippant tone was real worry. He often forgot just how deeply Harper protected his friends. "Harper, I'll make you a deal. I promise you that if there ever is something seriously wrong with me, I'll tell you and not take advantage of your blindness to hide it from you, but in return you have to promise to stop worrying about me. You have more important things to concentrate on like keeping yourself healthy."
"Well, I can't promise to stop totally, since I am the only expert on slavery that you have, but I promise I'll try," Harper agreed.
"Good enough for me," Dylan said, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "Now, let's both get some rest. We need it."
00000
The shrill blasting of the whistle jerked Dylan awake, and he sat up quickly as the bars of their prison were flung open.
"Get up, dogs!" a Nietzschean guard they'd never met before yelled, stepping inside and cracking his whip at the dazed, blinking figures who were starting to scramble clumsily from bunks and up off the ground. "Move you worthless slaves!"
"Didn't we just go to sleep?" Harper muttered groggily as he tried to stand up without getting tangled in his heavy chains. Unfortunately, the guard heard him and whirled around, bringing his whip down harshly on the boy's ravaged back. Harper gasped at the sudden, unexpected pain and fell back to his knees.
"You wish to question your masters, mule?" the guard sneered, striking Harper again while Dylan watched helplessly knowing anything he did to interfere would simply cause the boy more pain.
Teeth gritted, Harper shook his head quickly.
"Wise answer, little slave," the Niet favored Harper with several more quick blows to make sure the lesson was driven home then returned to his task.
"Up you lazy, filthy beasts! Out in the commons for roll-call!" Whip cracking at their heels, the weary slaves began shuffling from their barrack.
"Are you all right?" Dylan whispered under his breath as he helped Harper to his feet and they joined their fellow prisoners, Harper limping strongly.
Harper nodded, but Dylan could see his teeth were still clenched in pain, from both his back and his foot.
"Note to self," he muttered after a moment, "shut up around Ubers."
The common area in the center of the camp was eerie and freakish at this hour. Torches flickered red against the black of darkest night, casting grotesque shadows off the scattered instruments of torture and pain that decorated the place. Nietzschean guards lined the square and a bonfire had been kindled, throwing fiery tongues of flame up into the sky like devils dancing.
Silently, the slaves took their places facing the flames, Dylan not even daring to offer descriptions to his friend. There was something about this silent, strange ritual that set his nerves on edge. They'd never been roused from sleep and dragged out in the middle of the night before. Nothing good could be on the agenda.
Holding up his heavy, cumbersome chains, Harper let Dylan lead him to their spots in the queue of slaves. His re-injured foot throbbed terribly, but he ignored it. He could hear the hiss of a fire crackling and smell the smoke; even without his sight he could tell this was bad. Something told him the Ubers weren't about to invite them to roast s'mores. Dylan squeezed his arm lightly to let him know he was in place and then he was alone, adrift in his now familiar sea of blackness with only the feel of the ground beneath his bare feet to anchor him and his ears and nose to tell him what was going on. He might be getting used to it but that didn't make standing there any less frightening; he hated it with every fiber of his being.
Dylan took his own place in line, chains clanking loudly in the solemn stillness that surrounded them. Everywhere slaves were gazing around as they filed in, fear and terror reflected in their eyes. Soon movement ceased and they waited.
And waited.
They stood in silent rows, still as frozen statues, gazing at the blood, red fire and hearts filling up with building dread. Finally, a good ten minutes later, Adoniram stepped into the flickering light.
"Slaves," he spoke loudly, but his voice was perfectly calm and controlled even as it echoed in the deadness of night. "You are lucky. You Kludges, you creatures who are little better than dumb animals should have been left to starve and die in misery. Instead your betters took pity on you. The Drago-Kazov have cared for you, clothed you, fed you, given you work and purpose. You should hold us in honor and gratitude." He paused for a moment, looking around slowly. Then suddenly he shattered the silence. "Instead we get insolence, mockery, contempt!" he roared. He gestured to two of his guards. They came forward dragging the cowed and terrified figure of a slave between them, his hands bound tightly in front of him with cords.
"This slave, after all the kindness and mercy that has been shown him, chose to repay it with ingratitude! He stole from us! Stole from all of you, an extra piece of bread! His greed must be punished and you will witness it!"
"No, please!" the poor man cried, falling to his knees before Adoniram and raising his bound hands in supplication. "Please! I'm sorry! I was just so hungry! I won't do it again! Please!"
"Silence!" Adoniram bellowed striking the slave across the face with a force that threw the gaunt figure to the ground. Dylan noticed Harper flinch at the sound of the blow and he clenched his teeth in frustration. Oh how he longed to break in there and stop this injustice! It tortured him more than physical pain to be helpless. If it had only been him stuck here he would have done something rash long ago, but it wasn't; he had Harper to protect and that held him back, but it got harder everyday.
The slave was sobbing on the ground at Adoniram's feet now, still muttering anguished pleas for mercy. Adoniram ignored him.
"Bring it," the Nietzschean ordered. Two of his men stepped forward into the sinister light. They carried what looked like a bench with stocks at one end. They set it firmly on the ground facing the large fire. It rested about a foot and a half off the ground.
"Secure him," Adoniram continued coldly. The guards pulled the hysterical slave over to the bench and threw him on it on his back. One pulled the man's bound hands roughly over his head and lashed them to the plank. The other lifted a board and placed his struggling feet into the holes of the stocks then lowered the board and secured it. The poor slave was helpless, fixed to the board, his feet jutting out over the end. His struggles died out, the little energy he had spent.
"This is my camp and I will maintain order!" Adoniram continued to address the terrified rows of prisoners while his guards removed the victim's shoes. "You're my slaves, beasts of burden. Like other beasts you must be driven and pushed; pain the only motivation you understand. Very well, I give you only what you deserve!" He turned to his men, "Proceed."
The first guard pulled a can from his vest. Opening it, he liberally smeared the contents on the prisoner's bare feet. The second guard turned to the raging fire.
With horrible clarity, Dylan realized what was going to happen. Sickened, he watched the Niet pull several flaming logs from the fire and move them directly under the poor man's immobile, well-greased feet.
It was slow, torturously slow, but soon the man's anguished cries filled the night air as the heat from the fire melted the oil and slowly roasted his feet.
The whole thing was horrible. The dark shadows, the light from the glowing fire and torches all around, the dead silence broken by piercing yells. It was like a scene from a holo-drama, an ancient pagan ritual to long vanished, vengeful gods. But this was no fictional tale to be turned off at one's leisure. As he watched the poor man writhe and suffer, Dylan almost envied Harper's lack of sight. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, but it didn't help. Nothing could block out the raw, tortured screams of pure agony or the putrid, heavy scent of burning flesh.
00000
"Near as I can tell, I've been here about four years."
Harper rested his back gingerly against the barrack wall and closed his eyes, listening to the voices all around him and trying to block out the horrible memory of the night before. Tonight, Dakin, Ethan, Peter, and Simon had joined Twig at his and Dylan's pile of straw, and Dylan took the opportunity to get to know them better. That was just fine with Harper. His foot was swollen and throbbed mercilessly, and he could feel a small fever was burning through his body as firry tongues of infection crept up his leg from the wound. He was perfectly content to just listen to the voices of his friends tonight without having to contribute to the conversation.
There was movement on his right side and then the tiny form of Twig slid back into the corner and leaned against him. Harper smiled slightly; it was almost like having his very own puppy. Or, he thought with a little more alarm, his own kid. The boy was starved for attention and while he'd adopted both Dylan and Harper as his surrogate family, he seemed to latch hardest onto the small engineer. Harper didn't mind the attention but it did sort of scare him. He was in no way fit to be someone's role model, even in the good old days back on the Andromeda. Still, he did his best and it was nice to have the distraction from his constant pain and the all-encompassing darkness. As the boy snuggled closer to his side, Harper wished he could put his arm around the kid's shoulders but his stupid chains prevented that. He contented himself with patting Twig awkwardly on the knee and sending a tired smile in what he hoped was his general direction.
"How;d you end up here?" he heard Dylan continue, speaking to Ethan.
"The same way any of us ended up here, Nietzschean tyranny." He paused for a moment and then went on. "I was born and raised in Montana. It's always been mighty empty up there, even before the fall, and after occupation it cleared out even more. It was a harsh place to live, the weather could be brutal and the pollution and contamination made it hard to coax anything to grow, but it also had its advantages. For the most part, the Magog left us alone; ain't enough of us to bother with, and the Niets had better places to live and bigger populations of Kludges to control."
Like Boston, Harper thought bitterly.
"So what happened?" Dylan urged.
"Ubers came around on their annual patrol to collect most of our produce for the year and they noticed that for some odd reason we weren't as sickly or as scrawny as other Earth humans. Decided we'd make excellent slaves. They ordered us to turn over all of our youngin's between the ages of ten and eighteen to be properly trained and brought up as slaves."
Harper could hear the deep anger and sorrow in Ethan's voice as he spoke and he could empathize. Unlike Dylan, he knew stories like this one all too well.
"I had a family; Molly an' me'd been sweethearts since we was kids. Married her when we both turned seventeen. Had nine kids, five of them lived. When the Niets came demanding our kids, three of our five were over ten. They gave us two days to have them ready. Well, Molly and me and several other couples decided we weren't gonna turn over our families to the Ubers and condemn our kids to a life of slavery. We sent our kids to special hiding spots our families had kept for generations and our wives went to guard them, then we men waited for the Ubers to come. Of course it was never a fair fight. There were nine of us and a whole garrison of them. Six of my neighbors were killed and the three of us who lived were sent here for resisting Nietzschean authority and high treason. I'm the only one left now." He sighed deeply. "I just hope Molly and the kids made it through safely and she's moved them to a new place, maybe farther north. I miss 'em, ya know? My oldest, Janey'd be about nineteen now and the baby, Wyatt, about the same age as Twig there. Wonder if they remember me…"
"I'm sure they're very proud of you and what you did for them," Dylan offered confidently.
Sure, if they're even still alive, which on Earth is pretty doubtful, Harper couldn't help thinking. Few families on Earth survived more than a couple years intact; it was just a sad fact of life.
There was a moment of harsh coughing from Harper's left side and then Simon spoke. "They and you will be blessed by the Divine for your sacrifice, no doubt," he said, his voice strained and weaker than usual Harper noted.
"If the Divine wants to bless me, why don't 'e bless me right out of this 'eck 'ole?" Peter spoke up. "That'd be a blessing worth 'aving!"
A small laugh traveled around the group.
"What about you?" Dylan asked when it died off, and Harper assumed the question was directed at Peter.
"Same kinda stuff," Peter said matter-of-factly. "I 'ail from London. Grew up living 'and to mouth, like any other mudfoot. Got my kicks from tickin' off the Ubers. Settled down in a nice, cozycellar with my girl an' our two kids. Then a cholera epidemic came through about six years back. Took Tess and the youngest, so it was just me and Davie left. I didn't know much about raising a kid alone so we moved in with my sister Ellen and 'er 'usband Derek and their kids. He got me involved in this resistance group called the London Underground. Then, about a year ago, we got a transmission from some blokes in America. Our mates at Bunker 'ill were staging an all out rebellion. Naturally, we wanted in. Too bad it didn't turn out how we wanted. Most of my mates and Derek were killed and I ended up 'ere. End of story. I just 'ope Ellen kept Davie out of it."
Harper felt a huge shiver of guilt run up his spine as Peter told his story, and he clenched his good hand. He hated to think about that transmission he'd been part of. He never forgot the millions of people who'd died or, as Peter, been imprisoned because of his words. It only piled on top of the grief he already felt about Brendan and weighed heavily on his mind, adding to his already plentiful crop of nightmares.
Without his sight he had no way of knowing how Dylan took this news, but he hoped the captain realized they were pretty much responsible for Peter being stuck in this camp. Hopefully, that whole incident gave the good captain at least a few nightmares of his own, but he doubted it.
Harper wondered if Peter recognized him as the one from the recording. He had changed so much in the last few months he wouldn't be surprised if Peter hadn't. Still, he wasn't gonna bring it up to find out.
"I'm sorry," he heard Dylan say softly.
"Don't be. I'm a Kludge, it's what happens," Peter answered as if that explained everything. For Harper it did, but he figured his captain still wasn't ready to accept that. At least Dylan didn't press the issue right now. Still feeling horribly guilty, Harper forced himself to relax and his stiff hand to unclench. It hurt bad enough as it was; he didn't need to add to it. The conversation moved on, Dylan asking Dakin for his story next.
"There is not much to tell," the young man said in his quiet voice. "The slavers came to my village in the fall. Autumn is the season of their annual gathering and every few years or so they visit each village to take slaves. I was of age and healthy; I had no choice. Now my sisters will help Father with the crops."
Harper was only half listening to the voices now. Simon, because of his hacking cough, offered very little about himself that they didn't already know. Twig had nothing to tell and so he just sat beside the engineer, listening and enjoying a moment of feeling safe and wanted. After a while, Harper felt Twig's small hand slip into his own, the boy's fingers softly tracing the ugly scar in his palm. It felt weird to Harper who wasn't used to being touched, but he didn't think Twig even realized he was doing it so he didn't have the heart to tell him to stop. Instead he listed half-heartedly while Dylan shared an adventure from his glory days on the Andromeda before the fall and tried to ignore his rising fever.
"Harper?"
Twig's voice caught him by surprise.
"What happened to your hands?"
"Um…" Harper stammered, caught off-guard.
"Yeah, what 'appened to you?" Peter asked, picking up on Twig's question. "You know all about us now, but you still 'aven't told us what 'appened to you."
"I made Felix mad," Harper said evasively, hoping to avoid the topic.
"Yeah, we figured that out from the collar and the chains," Ethan said with friendly sarcasm. "But like the boy asked, what's wrong with your hands?"
Harper sighed deeply. "I was crucified, okay." He couldn't stop the bitterness and pain from creeping into his voice.
Complete silence followed his words until finally Dakin broke it. "Then you should be dead."
Harper didn't bother to mention that technically he had been, for a few minutes. "Near the end of it, Felix decided I was too annoying to get the easy way out," he explained. "Pulled me down, blinded me, and sent me here instead. Didn't bother patching my hands up, however, or anything else for that matter," Harper grumbled.
"'ow'd you two get caught, anyway?" Peter asked.
Harper sucked in a deep breath and let his head fall back against the wall again. "You tell them, Dylan. I'm totally wiped and gonna go to sleep now." The engineer really didn't want to go over all that again. He was tired and sore and it took more energy than he would have ever guessed to keep up with a conversation in a group of people he couldn't see. Besides, Dylan had initiated this little spill your guts session; he could give them all the juicy details.
"Harper?" Twig said quietly from next to him while Dylan launched into the Reader's Digest version of how they ended up in this pit, "What's crucified?"
"Something you don't need to know about, okay," Harper said firmly. "Now I'm gonna sleep now, but maybe tomorrow we can have more Jack and the Beanstalk." That said, he curled up right where he was on his side, his back against the barrack wall, and closed his eyes. Sleep claimed him before Dylan even got to the really gory parts of the story.
00000
The next evening after eating their pitiful dinner and rinsing their dishes, Dylan led Harper slowly back to their barrack, Twig walking beside them. Harper's limp was worse than ever, and Dylan could feel the fever in his skin. He was worried, very worried.
"Hunt!"
Both Harper and Dylan stopped in surprise and Dylan looked quickly around. It had been months since anyone used that name.
"Hunt, come here. I want to talk to you."
It was Marcus, their guard. He was standing in the shadows of a nearby barrack, waiting for him. Dylan didn't know what to think. Nietzscheans around here, if they wanted to address a prisoner as anything other than slave always used their numbers.
"Is that who I think it is?" Harper asked quietly, his voice filled with surprise and suspicion.
"Yeah," Dylan said quietly. "I'd better go. Twig, can you get Harper back to the barrack?"
The boy nodded solemnly and held out his arm for Harper to grasp. "Be careful," Harper warned as he took Twig's arm and limped painfully off.
Wary, Dylan approached the young Niet. "Yes, Master?" he asked, purposefully keeping his head slightly bowed. Oh how his enemies would laugh to see how quickly the great Dylan Hunt learned how to be a slave.
Marcus studied him for a long time, his expression unreadable. "Are you really Dylan Hunt, from the Andromeda?" he finally asked. His voice was schooled to give nothing away, but Dylan still thought he caught a bit of honest curiosity.
"Yes," he answered studying the Niet himself this time. For a moment, they just stood there, eyeing each other. Then the guard spoke again.
"Here, take this," he said, thrusting something into the startled captain's hands. Dylan looked down to find a thick pair of socks, all rolled up.
"Why?" he blurted, forgetting to be a submissive slave.
"For the small one, Harper, who's hurt. The one the others love to torment."
"I don't understand," Dylan said, shaking his head. "Why do you care?"
"Faulty objects are worthless. When one's property is damaged it should be repaired," he said coolly.
Dylan just gaped at him for a long time. Then he turned the gift over in his hands, not sure what to do. Harper needed them desperately, but what would be the price? Would the cost of such a gift from their tormentors be exacted from the young man later?
"Thank you," he finally replied, hoping the gift was only what it seemed.
"Return to your barrack," Marcus replied curtly. "Curfew will sound soon." Then he walked off, never looking back.
Harper was waiting for him on their bed when he entered the prison.
"Where's Twig?" Dylan asked.
"I sent him to check on Simon. He's not feeling very great tonight," Harper explained in a rush. "What about you? What happened? Are you okay?"
"Whoa! Slow down, Harper. I'm perfectly fine."
As he spoke, he unrolled the thick socks and discovered a second surprise. Hidden within was a roll of bandages, a paper wrapper filled with the same fluorescent goop Adoniram had sprayed on Harper's feet before, and two clear pills.
"So, what happened? What did the Uber want?" Harper asked impatiently.
"I honestly don't know what he wanted, but right now who cares. The point is, your day just got a little better."
"Huh?"
"Here, feel this," Dylan said with a genuine smile as he placed the socks in the engineer's hands. Puzzled, Harper let his fingers explore them. After a minute, his face lit up with understanding.
"Socks?" he asked, shocked.
"Yep."
"For me?" he was incredulous. "He gave you socks for me?"
"And medicine and bandages, too," Dylan added.
Harper's expression darkened. "What do you hafta do for him in return?"
"Look, he just called me over and gave them to me and told me to give them to you. He didn't demand anything in return."
"Yet…" Harper warned.
"Well, there's no point worrying about that now. You need the socks. They aren't quite shoes and they won't last long, but take them while you can. Any strings they come attached to we'll worry about later. Besides, there's something different about Marcus. Maybe he's a decent guy."
"Boss, he's an Uber."
"So is Tyr," Dylan countered. Then he placed the two pills in Harper's hand, hoping against hope they really were the antibiotics he thought they were. "Now swallow those while I fix up your feet.