Chapter 44

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

- Emily Dickenson

00000

Gradually, Harper became aware of the world again. Sounds filtered in and displaced the fogginess of drugged sleep. The engineer didn't bother to open his eyes as he lay perfectly still, trying to get his fuzzy brain up to speed.

The first thing he noticed was the smell; or more appropriately, the lack thereof. The stench of the camp and barrack were missing; even the rancid odor of his own body had diminished.

The next thing that struck him was that something warm covered him, and what he was laying on was almost soft. Curious, his fingers traced the unthinkable item: a mattress! Thin, worn, a bit scratchy, but a mattress nonetheless.

His eyes popped open in amazement only to meet the anticipated darkness.

"So, you finally decided to come back to us. It's good to see those baby blues again."

The voice came from above him and to his right. Out of habit, he swiveled his head toward it. "Did I die? Is this Heaven?" he croaked hoarsely.

There was a short, mirthless laugh. "Hardly," the voice said. The engineer felt a hand slide gently under his head and lift it up to meet the metal cup that touched his lips. Grateful, he drank the offered sips of tepid water, letting it sooth his parched throat. "You're still in the slave camp," the voice finished as his head was carefully lowered back down.

"But I'm warm…and it's soft," Harper insisted in confusion.

The other slave chuckled for real this time. "If you can call these old rejects soft, Mr. Harper…"

"Doc Barty?" Harper asked hesitantly, having finally placed the voice as belonging to the kindly, old doctor who had helped him on the long march to the camp.

"Yes, son, it's me."

"Where am I? What happened?"

"You're in the hospital barrack. You reacted badly to a test drug you were given."

"Ah, hence the killer hangover," Harper muttered. He remembered the injection now, the terror and fear of the unknown that went with it. It was just everything after that point that was missing from his memory.

"Be thankful that's all you have," Dr. Bartholomew Kesler said solemnly. "You're one of the lucky ones; most of the other slaves died."

That sobered the engineer quickly. "Crap," he cursed quietly, running a hand over his hairless head. "Lousy Ubers…"

"Hush," the doctor warned. "You're not as unobserved here as you're used to being in your barrack. I just put you back together; I'm not anxious to see them undo all my hard work."

"Sorry, Doc," Harper said quietly, now wondering who else was in the room that he couldn't see. He rubbed his aching forehead and as he did, something tugged against the back of his hand. His face wrinkled in confusion and fear.

"Don't pull on it, son," Dr. Kesler admonished, replacing the young man's hand at his side. "It's just an IV, nothing harmful I promise."

While the doctor was talking, Harper had made another observation. His arms were moving freely and independently. Marveling at the sensation, he carefully stretched them a bit. Out of curiosity he wriggled his feet as well and heard the familiar clank of metal.

"Your leg and waist irons are still there," the other slave explained sadly, "and the others will be returned soon, but I couldn't have you injuring yourself more with those horrible chains while you were thrashing around." Harper felt a light touch to his wrist and realized they were bandaged. "Your wrists are really a mess after so many months of the chains rubbing and then what you put them through these last few days. I did what I could."

"I'm clean, too," Harper marveled.

"Cleaner," the slave doctor qualified. "I only gave you a sponge bath, and I couldn't do much for your clothes."

Harper didn't care. It was more than anyone had done for him in months and way more than he'd dreamed of. "Thanks, Doc," he said sincerely.

The doctor gently squeezed his good hand. "Now, how are you feeling?"

"Like death warmed over," he admitted.

"An apt assessment considering how close you came to it, but then I should have known you'd fight through. After all, you've survived everything else. Believe it or not, you're actually looking much better than you did. Now, the question is, do you feel like you could get up for a bit, son?"

"Let me guess," Harper sighed wearily. "You have to kick me out now and it's back to the trenches…" With resignation, he held out his wrists.

"Tomorrow or the next day, yes," Dr. Kesler acknowledged sadly, "but not today. Today you're still my patient and that means no chains for now," the man said kindly, pushing his hands back down. "No, the reason I asked was entirely different. There's someone here who'd probably like to see you and could really use the encouragement to hang in there…"

"Dylan?" Harper asked, suddenly worried and trying to rise. He couldn't remember if the captain had received the shot as well; it was all too fuzzy.

"Dylan was not among those brought to me," the doctor said, "but he's probably fine. I think he's too old to have been included in the test. No, it's a little fellow, youngest in the camp, goes by the name Twig… He's been calling for you."

"Twig?" the engineer exclaimed. "They did this to Twig, too?" The anger was hardly hidden from his voice as he tried to sit up again.

"Mr. Harper…" Bartholomew warned pointedly, forcing the engineer to move more slowly and, once he was sitting, helping him swing his legs and chains to the side of the mattress. It was only then that Harper realized the mattress was simply lying on the ground, and Dr. Kesler had been sitting on the floor at his side.

"Sorry," Harper said again, catching the warning and clamping his lips shut, but his face still showed his anger. "Is he all right? Is he gonna make it?"

"Let me help you up and I'll take you to him. We can move your mattress next to his if we can just get you there," the older slave said. Harper knew he purposely avoided answering the questions which scared him even more.

Slowly, the doctor pulled the young man up. Harper swayed slightly on his feet and would have fallen right back down if the other man hadn't been there. It surprised him how weak he felt, and he missed the warmth of the blanket and mattress as the cool air hit his naked chest. He touched his bare skin hesitantly.

"Where's my shirt?"

Dr. Kesler snorted. "That rag can hardly be termed fabric anymore let alone an article of clothing," he said darkly. "But," he added in a more normal voice, "it's still here. I just removed it while I was tending to you." As he spoke, Harper felt the doctor wrap the blanket around his shoulders and draw it closed, placing his crippled hand in the center to hold it in place. "There, that should keep you warmer than your shirt ever could."

Finally upright and mostly standing on his own, Harper then felt the doctor press a pole of some sort into his right hand.

"Hold onto that for me while I help you navigate, okay? It's your IV pole and it needs to come with us."

Harper nodded and grasped it tightly, the effort of standing taking more energy than he'd anticipated. The doctor took him gently by the left elbow with one hand and lifted his chains with the other so he wouldn't trip, then urged him forward.

"Seriously, Doc, what's up with Twig? I gotta know," Harper asked between breaths as the other slave led him on a twisty-turny path through obstacles he couldn't see. He heard the doctor sigh.

"Honestly, I don't really know. I hardly have the equipment to make a real medical diagnosis, and even if I did, the Nietzscheans would never let me use it to treat slaves. I might as well rub sticks together and chant prayers to totem poles as claim what I do here is actual medicine. Bandaging, stitches, a few antibiotics and drugs, small doses of nanobots, the occasional fluid injection…that's about all I am allowed to do."

"But you have to have some idea what's wrong with him, don't you?" Harper urged.

"The drug taxed his system to the breaking point, and his heart and lungs have been terribly strained, far more than they should be. It's taken its toll. As far as I know, he's the youngest slave in the camp and has been for a long time. His little body just couldn't handle what they gave him. He's very lucky, though; he's weak and listless, but still hanging in there. Of those that were given the drug, all the others even close to his age died. It's actually only the diligence and encouragement of his friends that kept him alive at all. That, and I think, a strong devotion to you… You gave him something worth living for; something the other children simply didn't have."

Harper felt his cheeks flush a little and it wasn't from fever. "But he'll get better, right?"

"We'll have to wait and see…"

The doctor pulled Harper to a stop, and the engineer felt him brush something aside. A curtain, he realized a moment later.

"I've put him down here on the end where he can be by himself and hopefully rest. I know he's seen far too many horrors in his few years already and is accustomed to life here, but I didn't think he needed the added distress of watching the rest of you either fight off or succumb to the drug around him."

That simple, caring act made Harper remember that in a former life, one far removed from the terrors of this awful place, Dr. Kesler had been a pediatrician. Given the circumstances, Twig was in the best hands he could be in.

"Thanks, Doc," Harper said. The other man lightly squeezed his arm and then led him forward again.

"He's on a mattress just to your right," the older man offered, lowering his voice. "He's dozing right now but you're free to wake him. He's been calling for you constantly, and occasionally even your friend, Dylan Hunt. Just seeing you will probably do him more good than anything I have to give him. Here, let me help you sit on the floor and arrange the IV; then I'll go back for your mattress."

Weary from even that short walk across the barrack and his head pounding, Harper sank gratefully to the ground, chains pooling in his lap. The good doctor fussed around him for a moment, fixing the blanket about his shoulders and straightening the IV cord, warning him not to use his good hand too much or he'd pull out the needle. Then he gently took his crippled hand and placed it on the edge of Twig's mattress.

"Be aware if you try to touch him that he has an IV in his right hand just like you. Took me ages to convince him not to be scared of it; I don't want to have to put it back in."

Harper nodded. A few seconds later he heard the doctor leave and the faint swoosh of the curtain falling closed behind him. For a moment, he stayed absolutely still, afraid to speak or maybe unsure of what to say. He simply listened – listened until he heard the tiny wisp of air that assured him Twig really was breathing, really was still alive. It surprised and alarmed him how attached he'd become to this random, ragged child. It brought back long buried memories as well; memories he both welcomed and deplored at the same time…memories of other times he'd sat by the edge of a small bed, coaxing, hoping, praying…

"Harper?"

The weak voice snatched Harper back from his thoughts. He realized Twig must have woken up while he was just sitting there.

"Hey, there buddy. Doc said ya wanted to see me," he said gently, turning his head in the direction the voice had come from.

"Yeah."

"How you feeling?" Harper asked, searching carefully with his fingers until he found the child's hand and slipped it into his. Desperately, Harper wished for his eyes so that he could look the kid over for himself, draw his own answers to that question.

There was silence for a while. "I hurt," Twig finally admitted in a scared voice, taking their joined hands and lightly placing them on his chest. "Right here…"

Harper tried to keep his heart from shattering. "I'm sorry, Twig," he said softly.

Harper suddenly felt small fingers rub across the back of his hand where the IV was stuck. "You're sick, too?" the little boy said as though just noticing it.

"Just a little," Harper replied, even though he actually felt rather horrid. "But don't worry about me. You just worry about getting better, okay?"

Silence followed again and Harper figured Twig must have nodded.

"The man let me use this blanket," Twig randomly broke the stillness after a while. "It's soft."

"Yeah, they're nice, aren't they?" Harper smiled, fingering his own blanket.

"Wish I could keep it…" the child's voice was wistful.

"I wish you could, too," Harper whispered.

"Am I gonna die?" Twig asked suddenly, his voice very quiet. Caught off guard, Harper sucked in his breath sharply before replying.

"Of course you're not gonna die. Doc Barty here's gonna patch you up good as new."

"Everyone dies here," the boy returned matter-of-factly. "Simon says when you die you go to Heaven. Where's that? Is it like here?"

Harper felt slightly panicked. He was NOT good at this kind of thing! This was Rev's department, or Trance's, or even Dylan's; not his!

"Heaven da-…um, darn well better not be like here or I'll petition to go to the hot place," Harper groused under his breath.

"What?" he heard Twig ask in confusion. He sighed and reigned in his mouth, but found he still didn't know what to say to the kid. All joking and his earlier confused comment aside, the engineer wasn't even sure he believed in Heaven, let alone knew how to explain it to an abandoned little boy. In desperation, he fell back on a source from a long time ago.

"My Nana use to say that Heaven was all around us, but just hidden from us so we couldn't see it. And it's just the opposite of the ugly, horrible world we see. It's beautiful and lovely and full of all the people we love and miss, just waiting to meet us there…" Harper's voice took on a far away quality as he spoke, and he sort of lost himself in thoughts he hadn't allowed to surface for years until the weak voice broke in again.

"But what if there's no one to meet you? What if no one remembers you? Or no one wants you? Can you still go there?"

Now Harper's heart really did crumble. At least with all the crap life had thrown at him, he'd always had someone who wanted him, even if they were sitting on the other side, strumming harps or flapping their wings or doing whatever it was people did there. To think this child thought he'd be alone, even in Heaven, was too much for Harper.

"Twig, I'll make you a deal. When the time comes, a long time from now I might add, for you to go to Heaven, if no one steps up for ya, I'll put out the word for my Nana to meet you, just to show ya around and such. How does that sound?"

"Okay," Twig answered. He sounded tired.

"But I don't wanna hear anymore talk about dying now, okay? Rest now… You're gonna be just fine."

The mattress rustled and Harper realized the boy had nodded again. He was too exhausted and in too much pain to remember Harper couldn't see it.

"Will you tell me more about Jack?" the little slave asked softly.

"Sure," Harper replied, hiding a yawn and ignoring the pounding in his head. "Did I tell you about the time Jack found a magic lamp? No? Hot dog, you'll like this one. Anyway, one day…"

He made it all the way to the part where Jack ended up in the Sultan's harem before Doc Barty interrupted, bringing his mattress.

"I didn't want to intrude before," he explained, "but I figured this child was going to learn things no eleven year old should know about if I let you ramble on much longer." He laughed softly and leaned down to whisper in Harper's ear. "Besides, he's been asleep for about ten minutes."

"Oh," Harper shrugged. "I thought he might be, but I couldn't tell." A huge yawn split his own face.

"And it looks like it's nap time for little engineers as well," the doctor said.

"Ex-engineers," Harper qualified tiredly.

"The title doesn't matter; resting does," Dr. Kesler replied firmly, moving him and all his accessories onto the mattress and covering him once more.

"Yeah, gotta go back to work tomorrow, right?" Harper replied wearily.

"Actually, no. I got permission to keep you here a few more days. Don't ask how," he cut off the anticipated question. "You don't need the details. Just know that you're officially still my patient. Unfortunately, the chains go back on tomorrow, though, so enjoy that while you can."

"Figures," Harper muttered, too tired to process his good fortune, but he fought off sleep for a few moments more. "Seriously, Doc, you think he's gonna make it?" he whispered, gesturing toward Twig.

"I honestly don't know. It could go either way, and even if he does pull through, there will be lasting complications from this. But you being here with him certainly tips the scales a bit more in his favor," the doctor whispered back gently. "We'll do all we can, both of us, and then leave the rest in God's hands."

"He'd better not drop the ball," Harper mumbled as his eyes slid closed. "He owes me big time… Never reads His complaint box…"

The doctor smiled, a sad smile full of years of grief and helplessness, and tucked the blanket around the young man's shoulders, watching his wasted chest rise and fall with sleep.

"He owes a lot of us, Mr. Harper."

00000

The hours of the day dragged by with immeasurable slowness now that Dylan had no one to endure them with. Sure, Simon and the others in the small circle of friends he'd developed tried to help, but it just wasn't the same and they were mourning their lost friends as well. The adage "you don't know what you have until it's gone" spun through his head, accusing him. It was true, though. Yes, he'd always considered Harper a friend, but he didn't realize how close he'd become to the boy, how much the young engineer had come to mean to him, until it was too late. Twig, too. The wide-eyed, little child with his eager grin and insatiable curiosity had skillfully wormed his way into the captain's heart…and all for nothing.

Numbly, Dylan went through the motions that constituted his life now, his body on auto-pilot and his mind withdrawing behind emotional barricades. Even escape held no real appeal anymore. It would only prove how much he'd failed when he returned without his crewmate and friend.

And then, four days after the dead and dying were taken away, hope sparked through his heart once more. Rumors ran through the camp, spreading like fire. Four of those who'd been taken away and presumed dead had returned, people whispered. And there were others, still too sick to leave the hospital barrack, but getting better…

Like a drowning man, Dylan latched onto those whispers and clung to them as a life-preserver. Maybe, just maybe, his young friends were still alive? Maybe there was still hope?