Chapter 42
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue-
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place-
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.
- Eugene Field
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"He's gone," Simon said, gently closing the slave's eyes.
Harper was mumbling incoherently now, strange things about doorknobs and sprinklers and purple fairy-dust. Dylan shoved him at Peter and hurried to where Simon was kneeling.
"Move!" he ordered quickly. "I've got basic first-aid training. Let me try and resuscitate him. I'm not gonna just let them kill him!" he said, arranging his hands.
"No, don't," Simon said quietly, carefully pulling Dylan's hands back. "Just let him go. He's free now; don't bring him back to this."
Dylan closed his eyes as he fought the urge to argue with his friend but finally nodded. He opened his eyes and studied the dead slave. The lamps in the barrack had burned out some time ago making it difficult to see, but his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the dark. It was hard, but he could still make out the slave's features. Some people looked peaceful in death, but he just looked worn-out, used-up, cast-away. And he couldn't have been over twenty years old.
Tenderly, Simon straightened the young man's body and covered it with a blanket. "His name was Helam. He was seventeen and he liked reading. He missed his brother," the Wayist said calmly, turning the nameless slave into a person in three short sentences. Simon then placed his hand on the slave's forehead and bowed his own, falling silent for a few minutes. Out of respect, Dylan bowed his head as well and followed suit.
"Eternal life grant unto him, and may his journey be to a better place than here." For several seconds he didn't move, then he reached down and pulled the blanket up over the dead boy's face. "Go and find peace, Helam."
Dylan stared at the blanket covered shape, picturing Harper there instead. "Simon," he choked out, "this has happened before, hasn't it?"
The other man nodded.
"They're all gonna die, aren't they?" he breathed fearfully.
"I don't know. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't."
"What is all this for?" Dylan was angry. "The Uber betting pool?"
"The more suspicious of the slaves say it's a curse: the more cynical call it thinning the crop… Personally, I just think the Nietzscheans use us as lab rats. It's never the same thing, never the same group, and never the same numbers, although usually not this many. Judging by these poor souls, I'd say the criteria this time required youth and small stature."
He was right about that. All four slaves were extremely young and none were taller than Harper.
"I think," Simon continued after a while, "Helam died of a heart-attack. Or a stroke. His heart or his system in general just couldn't put up with the strain. Perhaps, if we can keep the others relatively calm and still, we can save them? I'm no doctor, but it couldn't possibly hurt."
Dylan squinted through the darkness and looked around; looked at the slave on one end of the barrack trying to convince his friends to strip down and go swimming with him, looked at Twig rocking back and forth, sobs reduced to dry-heaves as his little body ran out of energy and moisture to support them, and finally looked at Harper who was making seductive overtures to Peter, whom he was calling Shandra. Dylan shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. Keep them still and calm? Perhaps he could pull a rabbit out of his hat while he was at it as well.
"Okay, let's do it. I'll try anything at this point."
Simon quickly went to help the friends of the other slave, and Dylan returned to the little group gathered on his and Harper's pile of straw, his heart heavy and hope, like the morning, still far away.
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"Boss, ya gotta let me go! The walls are closing in! I'm gonna be trapped!" Harper squirmed in his grasp but Dylan held on firmly.
"No, Harper. The walls are staying right where they should be, and I need you to just stay here and take deep breaths for me, okay? Just stay still and breathe."
Harper's body twitched restlessly in Dylan's arms, but he didn't try to get free again. "No moving walls?" he checked carefully.
"None. I promise."
The boy breathed deeply and closed his eyes, obviously trying to do as Dylan asked. The captain was moved by the depth of his trust. He could tell the kid was still terrified, and yet he trusted his friend enough to try anyway. And so far, he was still alive. That was all that mattered.
Dylan leaned his head back against the rough, log wall of the barrack and closed his eyes for just a moment. He was tired, oh so tired. Even after grueling training sessions or special-ops missions gone wrong, he couldn't remember ever being this tired…
…but he couldn't sleep now. He forced his bleary eyes open again and tried to adjust his position without disturbing the friend who was cradled against his chest. Dylan's legs had gone numb forever ago but he ignored them. Instead, he tried to get a more comforting hold on the young man and, for the millionth time, cursed the chains binding his wrists. Arrogant Ubers, taking even free movement away from them…
Thankfully, this time Harper remained still. It helped that the hours of insanity had drained what little strength this camp had left him with. His mind might still be tripping, but his body just physically couldn't keep up anymore.
Now, if Dylan could just keep him calm without letting his weakened body come down too fast. It was a very fine line to walk…
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"How's he doing?" Simon asked, stopping by Dylan and Harper's side.
"Better, I think. He's still in mental la-la land, but his body has finally agreed to just lay here while his mind floats," the captain replied. "The others?"
Simon looked pale and drawn in the moonlight that lit the prison. Deep shadows under his eyes reminded Dylan that the man was ill himself and should be resting, not tending to others. "Zane's about the same as Harper, although he's started complaining of nausea, so I'd be prepared if I were you."
"And Twig?" Dylan pushed.
Simon sighed. "Twig's not doing so well…"
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"Come on, little guy, in an' out…in an' out… That's right…"
Ethan rubbed the tiny, emaciated chest with his big, rough hand as he coaxed the boy to keep breathing, to take just one more breath. Peter sat beside them, holding the child's fragile hand and trying to contain the anger that was burning through him.
The calmest of the four insane slaves right from the beginning, Twig had started to slip quickly downhill about an hour after Helam's death. Now, as the time for the morning wake-up call approached, he was in serious trouble. His heart was pumping erratically, sometimes going too fast, sometimes skipping beats all together, and his breathing was shallow and labored, as if he could never quite drawn in enough air. The little slave lay on his back in Ethan's lap, propped up against the big man's chest to help ease his breathing. As he gasped frantically for each breath, his scared, pain-filled brown eyes bored straight into Peter's.
The boy knew he was dying and was obviously terrified, unable to draw in enough air even to speak.
It made Peter's blood boil. He wanted to rant and rave and throw things at the wall, but a quiet look from Ethan reminded him that now was not the time. So instead, he held that frightened gaze and tried to keep the anger from his voice as he added his own whispered words of comfort to their little friend.
And he never let on that he saw the small tears that leaked from the corners of Ethan's eyes.
"We should get Dylan to bring Seamus over here," Ethan finally whispered quietly to Peter. "Twig adores them and loves Seamus like a father. He should get to see them again…say goodbye…"
Peter glanced over at the pair and shook his head sadly. "Not gonna 'appen," he replied in a hushed voice. "Seamus 'as started puking his guts up and Dylan's got 'is 'ands full with him."
Then suddenly everything else was forgotten as Twig's heart skipped again. He let out a rattling sigh and lay still, eyes dropping closed.
"No, ya don't, Kid! I ain't letting you die on me! You can't spend your whole life here!" Ethan growled, frantically rubbing the boy's chest. For a moment there was nothing, but then the tiny heart-beat sounded once more and finally Twig drew in a small, weak breath.
"Good boy! Now just keep it up. In an' out…in an' out…nice and steady…"
Ethan and Peter kept up the charade, rubbing comforting circles on the boy's chest and offering encouraging words, all while they watched their small friend slip farther away with each shallow breath.
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The morning whistle pierced the air and weary, sleep-deprived slaves began to stumble from their barracks as the bars were thrown open. In the darkness it was hard to tell, but some carried heavy bundles that they placed with resignation on the ground. Most of the bundles were unmoving.
One guard watched for several moments from the shadows, his face unreadable. Then he stepped forward.
"You," he ordered, pointing to a lesser-ranked, fellow guard. "Go bring the slave doctor. Hurry!"
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"Report."
Marcus snapped automatically to attention as he stood in front of the desk.
"The slaves are in the mines now, sir."
"What was the final outcome of the project?" Adoniram asked, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning languidly back in his chair as he watched the young Nietzschean before him.
Marcus handed over a folder. "This time the sample population was chosen from those in the smallest weight category, as well as the younger end of the age range, those believed to be under thirty-five. The drug was administered to sixty-five test subjects."
"Hmmm," Adoniram said as he rifled through the contents of the folder. Then he looked up again. "Did it work as expected?"
"All subjects did reportedly have increased stamina and output in their work during the day, but the after-affects outweighed any benefits."
"How many did we lose this time?"
"Forty-three didn't make it, sir. We lost almost all of those under the age of twenty, and of the total slaves who did live, all but five are too ill to work."
"Unfortunate results, but that happens," he shook his head. "File your report and inform Dr.'s Negla and WoOlrik that the project has been suspended. They will have to find other means of increasing the output in the mines."
"Yes, sir," Marcus said, taking back the offered folder.
"Incidentally," Adoniram added, "what did you do with the sick ones?"
"I ordered them taken to the hospital barrack where the Kludge doctor is attending to them."
Adoniram looked up harshly. "Why?"
"I thought it would be more prudent to save those who can be saved, even if it requires the use of a few medical supplies and some days of rest, than to lose all the test subjects. We're also low on slaves right now, the new batch not due for a few weeks yet, and it might be profitable to keep them around, if only to study the long-term results of the test."
The Nietzschean captain was silent for a long time but finally nodded. "Fine. Just get them out of there and back to work as soon as possible, and make sure my soft-hearted slave knows he's not to waste time and supplies on any that are too far gone."
Marcus nodded. He turned to leave, but hesitated for a moment.
"Was there something else?" Adoniram asked, leaning forward.
"Permission to speak…"
"Yes, yes," Adoniram waved his words carelessly away before he could finish them. "Just say it. What's on your mind?"
"Why is it like this?" the younger Nietzschean asked. "Why must the slaves be so miserable? Isn't it enough that we are superior and they are clearly not? Must they live and die in misery as well?"
Adoniram's face hardened. "They;re slaves, animals, our property. What else would we do with them? You don't set a place for your dog at the table and offer to let him dine with you, do you?"
"No," Marcus agreed, but stepped forward intently, "but you don't starve him either. And you don't kick and hit and beat him if you want to get any kind of loyalty from him. Shouldn't that rule apply to all animals? Wouldn't the Kludges make better slaves if they weren't always ill and injured from the treatment they receive from our own people? Wouldn't they be able to work harder and have better results if they were actually fed, given clothes, allowed to rest once in awhile? Better treatment would make them more loyal and less likely to –"
"Enough!" Adoniram roared, surging to his feet. "I won't listen to anymore of this kind of talk. We are Nietzscheans, superiors! They're slaves! You disgust me with your weakness and concern for these inferior beings. It's detrimental to your own survival and especially unbecoming from one of your status! I gave you this posting to weed that weakness out of you! Don't make me regret it and withdraw the offer! Not many so young have been given so much authority!"
Something flashed through Marcus's eyes for a moment, but he ducked his head and it was well hidden when he raised it again. "Yes, sir."
"I expect more from you," Adoniram continued, frowning at the young man. "Your actions are watched by all. Don't disappoint me."
"I apologize." Marcus said crisply, a slight bite to his words. "And I will try harder, sir." Bowing again, he withdrew from the room.
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The sound of light knocking on the door of his quarters drew Marcus's head up from the paper he was studying on his desk.
"Come," he called.
A tall, dark-skinned slave entered and bowed. The typical slave tag graced his left ear, but unlike most of the other slaves in the camp, he was dressed neatly in a clean, pressed uniform.
"Yes, my lord. You asked to see me?" The slave looked puzzled and a little fearful as he kept his posture submissive.
"Come in and close the door behind you," Marcus ordered dismissively. He ignored the slave while he finished writing something on the paper, folded it neatly in thirds, and then placed it in a plain, unmarked envelope. Finally, he turned to the waiting servant.
"You're going with your master on the annual slave gathering in a few days, are you not?" he said without introduction.
"Yes, my lord," the man answered, nodding his head.
"You will spend time in the city?"
"Yes, my lord, we usually do."
"Good. I have a task for you then." Marcus held out the envelope and a small bag filled with something that rattled slightly. "While in the city, you will deliver these to a ship, any of the non-Nietzschean cargo ships that occasionally dock there to unload supplies. But it must be a non-Nietzschean one, understand?"
Looking puzzled, the slave nodded his head as he took the offered items.
"You will direct the captain of the ship to see that this letter is delivered to the Commonwealth ship, The Andromeda Ascendant. The letter is to go to the Andromeda's commanding officer and no one else. The bag and its contents, however, are for the deliverer's trouble. They may do with it as they wish."
Again the slave nodded.
"Do this, without your master knowing, and I will reward you greatly, perhaps with your freedom. Fail and the punishment will be severe. Understand?"
"Yes, my lord," the man whispered. He wondered what this was all about, but a lifetime of slavery had taught him not to think too much about what he was ordered to do. It was easier that way.
"If the cargo pilot asks, whom shall I say sent the letter, my lord?" he asked quietly as he backed toward the doorway.
"You will tell them Marcus Augustus out of Selena by Adoniram sent it," Marcus replied coolly. "Now go attend to your duties. I am busy."
"Yes, my lord." The man bowed again and then the door closed with a small click.