Chapter 47

I hope and hoping feeds my pain
I weep and weeping feeds my failing heart
I laugh but the laughter does not pass within
I burn but the burning makes no mark outside

- Niccolo Machiavelli

00000

Working swiftly, Alfred tethered the horses and got the animals settled for the night. The tall, dark-skinned slave then took a moment to gaze out in the distance at the mountains they'd left behind. Since they'd all been riding, the caravan had made good time. They'd been on the road for a little over a week and a half and would be in the city the next day. The return trip, with lines of shackled slaves, would not be nearly as fast. It usually took over three weeks.

Thinking of the port city they approached, Alfred unconsciously put a hand to the front of his shirt. The letter and packet Master Marcus had given him was hidden there, feeling like a dead weight. Sometimes, he thought it would burn a hole through his chest, and surely there was no way his own master could fail to see the bulge, but so far the Nietzschean had been too busy and too secure in his slave's obedience to notice. Still, Alfred would be very grateful to be rid of this burden he didn't understand as soon as possible.

"Slave!"

Alfred jerked up at the sound of his master's voice, realizing he'd allowed himself to daydream far too long. Quickly, he walked to his master's side, keeping his head bowed.

"Yes, Master?"

"How are the supplies holding up?"

Mentally, Alfred went through the list of what they'd brought with them. There were ten Nietzscheans making the trip and they were accompanied by sixteen slaves, plus horses for them all. But he'd packed well, a veteran of these annual trips.

"The supplies are sufficient for quite a while yet, my lord. We should be fine."

"Good. Then I've decided we'll journey to the neighboring villages and gather slaves there first before picking up more supplies and the slaves brought from off-world in the city."

"Yes, my lord," the slave replied, bowing again even as his hope sank. Going to the villages first would mean it would be at least two more weeks before they entered the city and he could fulfill Master Marcus's orders and deliver his message. Two more weeks of danger, fear, and worry… Only sheer willpower held back the deep sigh.

"Go help the others prepare the meal," his master ordered by way of dismissal, and Alfred nodded, backing away with a heavy heart.

00000

Dylan strained against the ropes of the cart, breathing heavily. Beside him, Harper was struggling as well. It was only his third day back in the mines and, while he'd appeared much better after his stay in the hospital barrack, Dylan was now realizing how much the drug and consequent illness had actually sapped his lingering strength. He was just glad that for the last two days their barrack had been assigned cart duty so he'd been able to help the young man.

"BREAK!" came the yell from the guard up ahead. It was repeated down the tunnel like some freakish echo.

Gratefully, Harper and Dylan sank to the ground where they were, panting. Harper pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his bound arms around them, staring off into nothingness as he let his head slump forward. Dylan leaned back against the wall of the cave, placing one hand on the ground behind him and letting the other rest in his lap since the chain prevented it from moving any farther from the other.

"You okay?" the captain asked.

"Peachy, you?"

"Fine."

Conversation died. There was really nothing else to say now that the requisite lies had been exchanged. At least it was the second break, meaning the end of the day was only a few hours away.

Waiting for one of the young boys to arrive with the water bucket, Dylan shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"Ow!" he suddenly hissed through his teeth, pulling his hand off the ground quickly. He'd leaned down on something sharp. Bringing the hand back around, he noticed a deep cut running across his palm, leaking blood.

"What is it?" Harper asked, straightening and turning in his direction, worry evident in his voice.

"Nothing, Harper," Dylan hushed quietly and brought the bleeding appendage to his mouth, even as his mind whirled. He shifted around so he could see the ground behind him, right next to the cavern wall.

"What happened?" Harper pressed insistently, hearing the captain's movements and hating not knowing what was going on.

"Just put my hand on something sharp," Dylan said quietly, trying not to draw attention to their conversation.

"Oh, probably the same thing I stepped on a while back," Harper replied, his face thoughtful. "Cut yourself?"

"Yeah," Dylan said distractedly, searching the ground while trying to look like he wasn't. There, back in the shadows mostly buried under loose rocks and dirt, something glinted dully in the torchlight of the tunnel. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was looking, he pulled it out, his bleeding hand forgotten.

It was a knife! An actual, real-life, honest-to-goodness knife! Perhaps there was a Divine after all! Heart pounding, he glanced around nervously again, knowing it would mean death or worse to be caught with a weapon, no matter how small it might be. And he could attest personally to the fact that it wasn't dull and worthless. Covertly, he palmed it.

"So, Harper, when do you think Twig will come back?" he asked, trying to use normal conversation to cover his actions.

"I don't know," Harper answered, either fooled by Dylan's question or sensing the need to play along. As the engineer talked, Dylan leaned forward and casually slipped the knife into his boot, pretending to be adjusting the cumbersome shackle. It was a huge risk, keeping it, but it was also a tremendously unexpected gift and not one he was going to let slip by. That one object tipped the odds of escaping significantly better in their favor. "I hope Doc manages to keep him there for quite a while, though," Harper continued rambling, just what Dylan wanted. "The kid needs the rest and getting out, even though we get to be with him again, just means he gets sent back to this…" Harper gestured vaguely to the unseen mine with all it's horrors around him.

"Yeah, rest would be good," the captain mumbled, only half paying attention to his blind friend. The guard and the little water carrier were almost to them, and he wanted to make sure the knife was well hidden and nothing was suspicious or out of the ordinary. Finally convinced the object was safe, he schooled his features to show only the usual weariness. "Water's almost here," he told Harper.

The boy nodded his thanks for the warning. It was natural for them now, little things like that, to help ease the burden of Harper's blindness.

With the Uber guard standing in the background, never far away, the little slave approached with the bucket and ladle. He was one of the older ones assigned this duty, maybe around fourteen but, like all the children unfortunate enough to call this place home, he was tiny and looked exhausted. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his skin was pale and transparent.

"Here," he said softly, carefully placing the ladle in Harper's good hand so that none of the precious liquid could spill. There weren't that many of the little water carriers and by now they all knew Harper and his special problems.

"Thanks," Harper said, bringing the water to his lips and drinking gratefully. When the last drop was sucked out, he handed it back to the child who refilled it and gave it to Dylan. The captain took it, but his thoughts were still preoccupied. Could the Uber tell he was hiding something? Would the man's super-senses give them away, pick up his elevated heart rate? Or would he put it down as pure exhaustion? Absently, he drained the ladle and returned it to the little slave, knowing that their few minutes of break must be almost up.

So far, his miracle find had gone undetected, even by Harper. And that brought up a new issue… Should he tell the young man? Harper knowing there was a weapon within his reach might come in handy for the boy sometime, but it also might prove deadly. And if the Ubers came around questioning slaves about a missing knife, the less Harper knew the better it would be for him. Besides, there was no way he could ever be sure no one would overhear their conversation if he did share his secret with the engineer. No, Dylan decided, for the time being, he'd best keep this to himself.

The guard and the young slave moved on, and Dylan was still lost in his own thoughts. He was so consumed by them that it took him several times to realize Harper was speaking to him.

"Huh?" he asked, blinking at his friend.

"Hello, earth to Dylan," Harper teased, poking him lightly in the ribs, but there was concern in his voice as well. "I asked if the hand was okay?"

Dylan looked at his hand, suddenly remembering the cut. It was rather deep, painful, and still bleeding, but as there was nothing he could do about it, he just shrugged. "It's fine, Harper," he replied.

Harper frowned, clearly not believing him, but Dylan was saved from further questions as the order came to resume their work. Sighing, they both stood and shouldered their grueling task once more, but this time as they pulled and strained, Dylan felt the heavy, comforting and yet dangerous weight of the knife against his leg. It certainly gave him something else to think about.

00000

The shrill, morning whistle cut through the darkness, dragging the slaves back to awareness.

"What?" Harper grumbled, rolling over onto his back and scrubbing an aching hand across his face. "It can't be time to get up yet?" he whined sleepily.

"No, it's not," Dylan answered firmly, sitting up, his face creased with worry. "It's too early. We've only been asleep for a few hours." The knife felt hot inside his boot as he spoke and his stomach twisted in fear. "Something's going on…"

Harsh coughing announced Simon's presence at their straw pile. The Wayist was looking decidedly ill these days, something that worried and alarmed his friends.

"The camp feels odd tonight," he said solemnly as Ethan, Peter and Dakin joined them. "I sense that something is wrong."

"Oh gee, you sure know how to make a guy feel better," Harper groused, struggling to his feet. He didn't mean to snap at the man, but he was tired and grumpy and it showed. And the truth was, Simon wasn't the only one who felt it; a growing sense of dread filled the air as the slaves waited for their prison to be opened. Everyone but Harper could see that the bonfires were being lit once more. And Harper? He could smell the smoke.

"Back home, we'd roast s'mores on bonfire's like them," Ethan mumbled once to break the growing tension in the air. "Nothing beats a good, flame roasted s'more." A few people laughed feebly at his words, but without any real heart. No one really wanted to think about what would be roasting on these fires...

Eventually, Marcus came and dragged open the bars, ordering them to roll-call position. Fearfully, the slaves obeyed, terrified to find out what this was all about. But no one was more anxious than Dylan. The knife in his boot was like fire against his skin now, and he wondered how none of the Nietzscheans could sense it. Or maybe they had, and they were just playing with him… Maybe this was all for him…

And then the small line of bloody, battered slaves were lead out in front of the group and forced to their knees, their hands bound behind them, and Dylan knew this was much bigger than him. Adoniram strode briskly after them and stopped before the waiting masses, his face stern and cold. The absence of the usual haughtiness somehow made the man that much more frightening. The Nietzschean captain was angry; very angry, and for the slaves wholly at his mercy that could be nothing but bad.

"An escape was attempted tonight!" he spat without introduction. "These twelve men thought they had the right to try and leave this place, thought they deserved a better life than this! Well, they were wrong! They were wrong and they were caught and now they will suffer! They will learn that they are mine! You're all mine! Your lives are mine to dispose of as I please! No one leaves this camp unless you're a corpse!"

He paused for effect, his face red and his eyes blazing. The camp was deathly silent, the slaves hardly daring to breathe. No escape of this magnitude had even been attempted before; they had no idea what was going to happen.

"In this camp, every action has a consequence," Adoniram continued, his voice calmer now but much more chilling. He pivoted so he was directly addressing the pitiful creatures that were trembling on their knees before him. "Every action affects those around you. That's the lesson that I'll teach you here today. I know you're terrified, waiting to die; I can smell the fear from here, but you will not die. You'll live and remember the consequences of your choices." Then he turned to his waiting guards. "Twelve tried to leave, so twelve will be the lottery number. Start at that end," he gestured dismissively to the right side of the gathered rows of slaves, "and start counting. Shoot every twelfth one."

An audible gasp rose from the ranks of waiting slaves and some trembled visibly. A few closest to the end who could count, fell to their knees, eyes wide with horrible realization. Their fate sealed, they could only watch death approach.

The first gunshot echoed through the early morning blackness with sickening clarity, an audible symbol of ultimate evil, power, and helplessness. For Harper, it was also the sound of true, gut-gripping terror. To stand there in the dark and not know…not know if someone you talked to five minutes ago was next…not know if your friends were lying dead around you. To hear the stomping of the Nietzscheans' boots coming nearer and have no way of knowing if they would stop in front of Dylan, or Peter, or Simon and pull the trigger… Or if the count would end on him and his crushing blackness would all dissolve in one brilliant flash of light… His one redeeming, grateful thought was that Twig was not there…

The stomping, the strangled cries and wails, the echoing explosions and dull thuds…they all got closer and closer until they were right beside him. He sucked in his breath and closed his eyes, waiting. The shot was almost deafening but he felt no impact of freezing pain. Then the sounds moved away in the other direction and he was still standing; spared.

He forced himself to breathe again.

Eventually – minutes, maybe hours later – the gunshots ceased. The smell of death was thick in the air, and the survivors whimpered in shock and fear, gratitude and sorrow. Adoniram said nothing, just surveyed his work and walked away.

Harper felt the first rays of morning sun hit his skin and turned his face toward it, searching for any small measure of comfort. And yet, still they stood there in their lines, statues among the fallen. Harper heard a terrible, half-smothered series of coughs from his left and his heart rejoiced briefly. Simon was alive.

Morning crawled by. The small sounds from the slaves died out to be replaced by the buzzing of insects. Now they just endured as the gentle morning light turned to the beating heat of day and the stench of death grew. A slight, purposeful clanking of iron chains on his right fortified him for a few more hours. Dylan was alive.

Finally, well into the hot afternoon, loud footsteps heralded Adoniram's return. To Harper, the silence seemed to stretch for eons, and he could imagine the Uber's cruel eyes sweeping the carnage before him. At last he spoke.

"Lesson received," he said coldly. "Gather the dead. Tomorrow you work again."

Then he was gone.

There was no food that day. Only water and a return to the barracks, silence pervading all. The knife was still heavy in Dylan's boot, but it was weighed down by more than fear now. How could he lead Harper and Twig on a great escape after that? How could they go knowing what would happen to those left behind? How could he live with that many innocent lives on his hands, that much blood staining his soul?

As soon as they were inside their barrack, Harper sagged against him. "We made it," he whispered, but his voice sounded more shocked than celebratory. "We all made it."

Dylan looked around at the sorrowful, weary faces of his friends and companions, and the glaringly empty space…

"No, Harper," he said sadly. "Not all of us…"

00000

"Harper!"

The engineer raised his head and turned it in the direction of the distant shout, his last bite of bread forgotten in his hand. The sound of pounding feet echoed across the compound.

"Harper, Harper, Harper!"

The happy cry got louder and closer and suddenly, Harper found himself swallowed up in the biggest bear-hug two tiny, spindly, little arms could produce.

"Twig!" he cried, a huge smile splitting his face as the arms wrapped tighter around his neck. He returned the hug as best he could.

"Harper," the boy repeated contentedly. "I'm so, so, so glad to see you again."

"Yeah," Harper laughed. "Me too, buddy. You sound a whole lot better, now. You're even running again!"

"The Doc says I'm almost good as new!" the boy gushed. "I'm not supposed to run lots, or play hard like we did before, but I can breathe good again and it don't hurt no more!"

Harper laughed again. "That's great, Twig. Now, think you could stop squeezing my neck so I could breathe, too?"

Instantly, Twig let go. "Sorry," he mumbled, sounding embarrassed.

Dylan took that moment to cut in. "Hey there, Twig," he interrupted with smile and a little wave.

"Dylan!" the little boy cried, instantly descending on the captain with another bear-hug. Dylan laughed.

"I've missed you," he told the boy, ruffling the fuzz on his head. "It's just not the same around here without you."

"We've all missed ya," Peter added, patting the little slave on the back. Dakin nodded in agreement, a gentle smile on his face, and Simon allowed himself to be smothered up in a chest-squeezing hug as well. Twig pulled away from the Wayist and beamed.

"The Doc was nice and that bed was warm and soft, but I got really bored after a while," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "No one would tell me stories anymore."

Everyone laughed, glad to have the youngest member of their odd little family back with them, safe and mostly sound. Twig looked around at each of them and smiled again, but his smile changed to confusion after a moment.

"Harper?" he asked, turning to his role-model instinctively. "Where's Ethan?"

Harper sighed and lowered his head briefly before gesturing for Twig to come sit beside him. The little boy sensed the change of mood instantly.

"What?" he asked fearfully as he sat in the dirt next to his friend.

"Twig," Harper said carefully, willing his throat not to close up on him. "Twig, Ethan's not here anymore." He felt Twig's little hand slide into his and squeezed it gently as he forced himself to continue. Twig had turned to him…to him, not Dylan, not one of the others; he would be the one to tell him. "Ethan died a few days ago, Twig," the engineer continued gently. "He's gone now, Kiddo."

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then suddenly, Twig sucked in a huge breath and started to cry. The cries quickly turned to wails and then wracking sobs that shook his whole frame. Gently, Harper pulled the little boy toward his chest and held him close, rocking slightly. Around them their friends watched and sat silent vigil, knowing the tiny slave's tears were the only memorial their dead friend would ever get. As he cried, they each remembered the big, gentle man with a slow, western drawl…the man who loved his children enough to become a slave in their place…children he would never see again now…

"Get it all out," Harper whispered, holding the boy as his sobs deepened. "That's it. Go ahead and cry. No one deserves to more."

They sat that way until evening curfew sounded, and long before that Harper's shirt was wet through with tears.