Chapter 49
what will be left when i've drawn my last breath
besides the folks i've met and the folks who know me
will i discover a soul saving love
or just the dirt above and below me
i'm a doubting thomas
i took a promise
but i do not feel safe
oh me of little faith
sometimes i pray for a slap in the face
then i beg to be spared 'cause i'm a coward
if there's a master of death i'll bet he's holding his breath
as i show the blind and tell the deaf about his power
i'm a doubting thomas
i can't keep my promises
'cause i don't know what's safe
oh me of little faith
can i be used to help others find truth
when i'm scared i'll find proof that it's a lie
can i be lead down a trail dropping bread crumbs
that prove i'm not ready to die
please give me time to decipher the signs
please forgive me for time that i've wasted
i'm a doubting thomas
i'll take your promise
though I know nothing's safe
oh me of little faith
- Chris Thile
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A shiver ran down Harper's spine as the chill wind picked up a bit. Hunching over, he pulled the edges of his thin, ragged blanket tighter around his body and tried to finish eating his tasteless dinner. The weather had taken a cold turn, reminding them all that winter was coming quickly, and he could feel the cold in his bones. It made his mended ribs and crippled hands ache deeply. Food was never allowed in the barracks, so Dylan and Peter had brought all their blankets out and now they huddled in a group on the ground, their backs to one of the barrack walls as they tried to stay warm. The metal collar around his neck refused to warm up, sending those random shivers up and down his spine when he shifted position and it touched his skin. And, in keeping with his crappy luck, not even the food was warm today; just cold, lumpy mush and dry, hard bread. Harper sighed and pushed it around on the mess-kit he couldn't see.
A series of harsh, deep coughs next to him reminded Harper that he wasn't the only one feeling the effects of the cooler temperatures. Simon sounded particularly bad tonight. The engineer could tell that the others were keeping something from him, something they could all gage by sight. It worried him; a lot.
The longer he sat there, pretending to eat, the darker his thoughts sank. The cold, the hunger, the constant pain and weariness… Friendship, warmth, comfort…goodness, those things seemed a million miles and a lifetime away.
"Simon," he asked quietly, turning his head suddenly toward the Wayist's position.
"Yes, Seamus?"
"How do you do it?"
"Do what?" The man's hoarse voice was laced with confusion.
"Go on," Harper muttered. "Have faith, believe in goodness and kindness and people when everything around you just screams evil."
For a long time, the man didn't respond, but Harper knew that was just because his friend was thinking, giving Harper's question the serious contemplation he felt it deserved. Dylan, Twig and the others were engaged in their own conversation, so no one paid the two any mind.
"You are not evil," Simon finally replied, his tone gentle. "Nor is Twig, or Dylan, or the others, so it's not true that we're only surrounded by evil."
"Okay, but still. I may not know a whole lot about this spiritual stuff, but I do know the basics of right and wrong." Harper held up his chained, crippled hands. "This is wrong, keeping people like this. This whole camp is wrong," he added, gesturing blindly around. "If there is a Divine, how could He let people do this to other people?" Months of pent up frustrations were pouring out of Harper's soul now, and he was totally unable to stop it.
"I'm not sure," Simon replied honestly. "I know what comforts me, what I believe, but I also think that's something each person has to figure out for themselves. I do remember something I read once. It might not give you any comfort, but…"
"What?" Harper asked.
"That bad people are sometimes allowed to do horrible things to good people so the judgments of Heaven against them may be just. So that people with wicked hearts don't slide by because God always stopped them from acting on that wickedness. Sometimes the blood of the innocent is required to stand as a witness against their evil."
Harper was silent as he digested that for a moment. "Sounds like something Rev would have told me."
"Rev?"
"An old friend, a Wayist, like you. I used to go talk to him sometimes, about stuff like this."
"He sounds like a wise person."
"Yeah, he is," Harper replied firmly. "Still doesn't seem very fair, though," he said, softly, getting the conversation back on topic. "Innocent people having to suffer to prove others' evilness."
"No, it doesn't," Simon agreed and then was forced to stop as another round of coughing shook his whole frame. Once it passed, he gathered enough breath to speak again. "There is the other school of thought as well, Seamus. That good people sometimes have to pass through bad things to find out what they're made of. Perhaps this is our 'refining fire,' so to speak."
Harper snorted slightly. "Fire's getting a little too hot for me, then. I want out."
"Be careful what you wish for, Seamus," Simon warned gently.
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From a few feet away, Dylan wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and pretended to pay attention to Dakin and Peter playing guessing games with Twig while really listening intently to Harper and Simon's conversation. He hadn't realized how low Harper's spirits were sinking again. It kind of hurt that Harper had turned to Simon instead of him, but at the same time he understood it. When it came to spiritual things, the captain was pretty much just as lost and angry and confused as his engineer was.
The two fell silent, each thinking and just trying to endure the cold. Dylan turned away and let his gaze drift aimlessly around the camp. It's not like there was anything new to see. Same dirt, same ugly buildings, same miserable people, same Ubers harassing the female servers…
Dylan's head jerked back around and his eyes narrowed. One of the nameless Nietzschean guards that kept the camp functioning and helped make their lives pathetic was getting a little too touchy with one of the few female slaves. She was thin, pale, and obviously terrified. As the man backed her up against a barrack wall, her frightened eyes found Dylan's and locked on them. Dylan's breath froze. Those eyes…they were so scared…so real…so pleading…so like Sara's. Suddenly, his vision shifted. The woman was not some unknown soul, she was Sara. She was his mother. She was his sisters. She was every woman he'd ever loved.
He snapped.
The blanket fell forgotten from Dylan's shoulders as he surged to his feet, swearing hotly. Every head in their small group swiveled toward him but he didn't even notice.
"Dylan?" Harper called, struggling to his own feet when he got no answer. Twig suddenly nestled up to his side, his small hand slipping into Harper's good one.
Dylan didn't even hear his engineer. He was across the compound and pulling the Niet off the cowering, crying slave girl before he even thought about it, chains clanking harshly.
"Leave her alone!" he snarled, spinning the guard around and smashing his fist into the man's face. The guard was so startled that a prisoner would actually hit him that the captain got in several more good blows before he knew what was happening. Terrified, the girl took the opportunity to flee.
Standing with his friends, Harper heard their sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses. "What's he doing?" he demanded.
"One of the Ubers was tormenting a young woman," Simon answered quietly. "Dylan just attacked him…"
"Oy!" Harper hissed, a harsh word slipping through his teeth. "Captain Terrific's back, with lousy timing as usual." He pushed Twig at Simon. "Whatever happens, keep him here," he ordered the older man darkly. "Take him inside if you have to." Then, before he could really think about what he was doing, Harper set out through the darkness toward the sound of striking fists.
"Dylan!" he yelled harshly, needing to get his friend's attention quickly. "Stop! Just stop! You're gonna get yourself killed! You're gonna get us all killed!"
Dylan's flying fists were fueled by months of pent up frustrations and rage so that he hardly knew what he was doing, but he paused when he heard Harper shouting at him and turned toward his friend. The boy was shuffling hesitantly toward him, alone, with his hands stretched out before him in a desperate attempt to find objects before he could walk right into them. The captain looked at the almost unconscious guard in his hands and realized what he'd done. Even if it had been the right thing to do morally, he'd just been incredibly, incredibly stupid.
Suddenly, Dylan heard shouting and the sound of many pounding feet. Hands grabbed him, guards surrounded him, threw him to the ground. A fury of fists and boots and curses started to rain down on him from all directions. As he tried to curl up on himself in the dirt, he saw other guards seizing Harper and dragging him over.
"No, wait!" he gasped. "He wasn't even involved. Don't punish him, it was all me!" Not one of the Nietzscheans even listened to him and the blows left Dylan too breathless to speak again.
"Stop!"
The guards reluctantly ceased and backed away slightly as Marcus pushed his way through.
Dylan slowly levered himself to a sitting position, wiping the blood running from his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced quickly to his friend and was relieved to see that Harper appeared shaken and confused, but unharmed.
"He attacked one of ours," a guard grumbled darkly. "Why did you stop us? He's going to get more than just a beating before the day's done."
"He stays alive," Marcus shot back sharply. "Commander Felix's orders!"
The young guard crouched down before Dylan. "That was an incredibly stupid thing to do, Captain," he whispered angrily. "And there is nothing I can do to stop what's coming." Then he rose quickly and spun on his heels.
Somewhat forgotten in the middle of the action, Harper listened carefully, his gut twisting with anxiety. He breathed gratefully when he heard Marcus order that Dylan live, but didn't let go of his panic. He knew first hand that death was not the worst punishment out there.
"On your feet, slave," Marcus said firmly, staring coldly at the captain.
Painfully, Dylan climbed to his feet. Next to him, two Nietzscheans still gripped Harper tightly. His head was lowered, but Dylan knew that was because the boy was listening hard, desperately trying to follow what was going on. All around, the other slaves in the camp watched wide-eyed and fearful, frozen in place at the edges of the commons. Simon still stood next to their barrack, clutching a terrified Twig to him gently while Peter and Dakin watched from a few feet ahead of them, expressions of helpless anger on their faces. Dylan sighed and squared his shoulders, bringing his eyes back to Marcus.
Nearly every guard in the camp was there by now, and a deep rumble of discontent and mutiny was growing.
"So, the piece of trash gets to assault us and then go unpunished?" someone shouted hotly.
"I never said there wouldn't be punishment," Marcus growled. "But it's not your place to decide that punishment, or do you think yourself fit to take charge while Captain Adoniram is gone?"
The hateful glares continued as Marcus waited for a moment, but when the silence held, he turned back to Dylan.
"Both Commander Felix and Captain Adoniram anticipated that you would cause trouble," the young Nietzschean said, his voice emotionless. "Thought you'd get to it a bit sooner, but they knew you'd get around to it eventually. Only Felix's orders that you remain alive for as long as possible save you from the hanging you rightly deserve." He let that sink in for a while as he gestured to another guard, whispering for him to go fetch something. "Felix gave somewhat specific instructions for punishment should something like this occur." He stared straight into Dylan's eyes, unblinking, and the captain got the distinct impression he was trying to tell him something. He also felt his insides freeze up with fear.
Then the guard broke the gaze and coolly turned to the Nietzscheans holding Harper. "Bring the little one here and lay him on the ground."
Harper squeaked with surprise as he was abruptly manhandled forward, the change of attention from Dylan to him a complete surprise.
"What!" Dylan cried as he watched the guards push Harper to his stomach on the hard earth. He was beyond mad now, beyond furious… He was seeing red. "He didn't do anything! Leave him –"
"Silence!" Marcus roared, cutting through his protests. "Of course he didn't do anything! You did! You lash out, you break the rules, and he takes the punishment! Do you get it now, Captain!"
He got it. Got it like a shot to the heart.
All he could do was stand there and watch as one of the guards kicked Harper's feet out straight and stood on the chain between them, immobilizing his legs. Another did the same with Harper's hands, leaving him face down in the dirt, his whole body stretched out and exposed. The engineer just closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, not sure what was coming but knowing he wouldn't like it.
A Nietzschean approached Marcus and handed him something. The young guard nodded, then turned back to the captain. For a moment, his voice sounded almost sad and his eyes were laced with pity. "In this camp, slaves have no rights and nothing goes unpunished. You should have learned that by now."
Then he shifted and Dylan finally saw what he was holding: a sleek wooden club, much like a baseball bat from Ancient Earth. Without warning, he brought the club down hard on Harper's left hand.
Harper couldn't stop the scream that ripped from his throat as, out of nowhere, pain exploded through his crippled hand. Even worse was the sound of the badly healed, delicate bones crunching again; even his own screams couldn't block it out. He wanted to curl up and bring the injured limb to his chest, but he couldn't. He was held down so he couldn't even move.
Dylan gasped in shock as his friend screamed. Instinct made him lurch forward, but three Nietzscheans were instantly on him, holding him back. "Stop!" he yelled, straining against them, his eyes flashing. "Just leave him alone!"
Marcus just looked at him with an unreadable expression while Harper's screams died to whimpers. Then the guard turned away, raising the club again.
Twice more the club fell on the battered hand, until Harper was left sobbing in the dirt, curled up in fetal position once the guards finally released him, his broken hand cradled to his body. Dylan had struggled so hard he was exhausted and his throat raw from yelling, but it hadn't done any good.
Silently, Marcus handed the club back, then, ignoring Harper, walked right up to Dylan. "Do you get it now, Captain? Do you understand just how much of his safety rests in your hands?" he whispered fiercely.
Numb with rage and shock, Dylan nodded.
"Put him in the box," Marcus then said out loud, gesturing to the guards holding the captain. "Let him ponder on this for a week or so. Everyone else," he yelled darkly, finally addressing the rest of the camp still staring in horror, "go to your barracks! Free time's over!"
Completely helpless, Dylan was forced to leave Harper lying there, still sobbing, as he was pulled away toward the main building. Refusing to go willingly, he dragged his feet and glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of his friends, glad to see that Simon and Twig were nowhere in sight. Peter threw him a grim look.
"We'll look after 'im," the other slave called firmly, nodding solemnly to the captain as he gestured to Harper.
Grateful, Dylan nodded back, and then he was pulled around a corner and everyone disappeared from his view.
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Pain swallowed Harper. He knew he was sobbing in a heap on the ground, but he couldn't stop, couldn't do anything but hug his hand to his body and wish for the hurting to stop. He was completely unaware of anything else going on around him, so he was startled when he felt a hand touch his shoulder lightly. Instinctively, he flinched.
"Seamus?"
The voice sounded familiar. He sucked in a great gasp and tried to calm his breathing.
"Seamus? Can ya 'ear me?"
Despite his efforts to shrink away, the hands stayed, touching his face and arms, and Harper realized they were gentle and not hurting. Through the haze of anguish, the young man gradually understood the voice calling him.
"Seamus! Come on, mate, stay with me."
"Dylan?" Harper whimpered, pain still clouding his senses.
"No. It's Peter. Just let me 'elp ya to our barrack an' I'll explain."
The hands gently gripped his shoulders, and Harper let them pull him up until he was sitting. Out of desperation, he reached out to clutch Peter's arm with his good hand, trying to ground himself in the dark and moaned when the movement jerked his shattered limb.
"Don't move it, Seamus," Peter cautioned quickly.
"Can't help it," Harper breathed. "Attached to the other." Gathering his scattered wits as Peter helped him to his feet, he forced himself to ride through the pain and try to function. "Where's Dylan?" he ground out through clenched teeth.
"Took 'im away," Peter answered shortly. "Now walk with me 'fore they take you away, too."
Harper hurt too much to argue. Weakly, he let Peter lead him forward, shuffling his chained feet along the ground until he felt the slight change in temperature from frigid to chilly that told him they were inside. "Where's Dylan?" he repeated desperately as the bars clanged shut behind them.
"Marcus threw 'im in lockdown for a while," Peter finally answered.
"But he's okay, right?" Harper pressed stubbornly, clinging to Peter to stay upright.
"Yeah, when they took 'im 'e was fine. They'll keep 'im alive."
"And Twig? He didn't see that did he?"
"No," Peter hurried to assure him. "Simon took 'im in when things went south. Didn't see nothin', but it won't take 'im long to figure it out…"
"S'okay, as long as he didn't see it…" Harper slurred, and then, now that he knew where everyone was, he let the encroaching blackness take him. His knees folded up and he was only vaguely aware of Peter yelling his name as his consciousness fled.
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Harper woke suddenly. One instant he was deep asleep and the next he was completely awake, his hand throbbing mercilessly. The barrack around him was silent except for the small sounds that told him it was night and the other prisoners were asleep. He was chilly, but not as cold as he could have been. Someone had covered him with several blankets, and there was something oddly warm and comforting pressed up against his side, curled right next to him. Twig, he realized after a moment. The boy's head was resting partly on his chest. He opened his blind eyes and carefully raised his uninjured hand to touch the child's face.
"He refused to leave you."
Harper turned his head slowly toward Simon's quiet, rough voice.
"We tried but he wouldn't budge."
"He's fine. I don't mind," Harper replied softly. "You should be asleep though. You'll get sicker."
"Every time I lay down my lungs fill up and I start coughing," Simon admitted. "I figured I might as well put my wakefulness to a good use."
Harper didn't buy that explanation one bit as he could literally hear the deep weariness in the man's voice, but he knew it would be useless to argue with his Wayist friend. He sighed, but didn't press it. Instead, he carefully tried to lift his injured hand and assess the damage. To his surprise, he found it incased in something and hard to move.
"What the…" he spoke, a little louder than he meant to, attempting to raise his hand off the blankets and ignoring the pain it caused.
"Peter and Dakin cannibalized some loose boards from one of the bunks and a worn-out blanket to make you a splint. It's not much, but it's better than nothing."
"So, what's the verdict?" Harper asked wearily, figuring his friends would have examined his hand as they tended it while he was lost in the land of oblivion.
"It's badly crushed, again," Simon answered honestly. "But probably no worse off than it was last time it was broken."
"Sweet…" Harper grumbled, rolling his head back to face where the ceiling would have been if he could see it. "That makes me feel so much better. And here I was just starting to think that maybe Marcus was on our side."
"It could have been much worse you know…"
"Are you saying I should thank the guy for turning my hand into mush?" Harper let anger seep into his voice.
"No, I'm just asking you to think carefully. Marcus had to exact punishment, and had to follow Adoniram's standing orders, or he would have had mass chaos on his hands. There are a lot of other things, more painful and deadly things, he could have done to you, and if he'd stepped aside and let the others take over they would have happened. As it is, you're left with a very painful and very broken hand, but it was already crippled, there are no open wounds for infection, and he didn't touch you anywhere else…"
"Are you trying to justify what he did?"
Harper heard Simon sigh which turned into a long, labored bout of coughing. Finally, the other man could speak again and he answered quietly. "Seamus, nothing that is done here can be justified. I'm just asking you to keep your head and your perspective and not dismiss something outright."
"Kinda hard to keep your perspective when you can't even see," the engineer seethed quietly. "Which, I might remind you, is also the fault of these goons you're asking me to think kindly of."
Simon didn't rise to the bait in his friend's words, knowing they were said out of pain and understandable anger. "Just think about it." He might have said more, but Twig chose that moment to crawl out of sleep's clutches and join them.
"Harper?" he asked, his groggy voice laced with worry and panic as he raised his head off Harper's chest.
"Sh, kiddo. It's all right. We're just talking."
"Are you okay? Simon says the Ubers hurt you again, and they took Dylan away."
"Yeah, they hurt me a little, but I'll be fine, Twig. And I'm sure Dylan will be back bugging us again really soon," Harper tried to assure the little boy, knowing there was no way he could beat around the bush for him, not here in this death camp, but still wanting to soften the blow. Gently, he reached out with his right hand and pushed the little slave's head back down on his chest, running his thumb across the scratchy stubble that covered his shaved head and trying to avoid bashing him with the dangling chain. "Just go back to sleep and we'll talk about it in the morning. All of us should go back to sleep," he added pointedly, turning in Simon's direction.
"Now that I know you really are planning on staying with us, sleep does sound nice," Simon agreed, "if you don't mind me sharing your corner with the two of you. I'm too tired to climb into my bunk tonight."
"Sure," Harper said, the effort of hiding his pain evident in the exhaustion in his voice. "Pull up some straw. There's bedbugs enough for all of us."
"Think about what I said, Seamus," Simon said quietly, settling back against the wall so he wouldn't have to actually lay down, "but don't hold it against me. Sometimes we can't always see the bigger picture…"
"And some of us can't see at all, Simon," Harper replied bitterly. "But we can talk more about your 'turn the other cheek, refiner's fire' stuff tomorrow," Harper said shaking his head. "Hurt too much tonight. Gonna sleep now."
Beside him, Twig snuggled back under the blankets and Harper gritted his teeth so he wouldn't cry out when the motion jiggled his broken hand. He'd gladly put up with a little discomfort before he'd ask the small boy to leave. Soon, the child was sleeping, and his soft breathing lulled Harper past the agony he was in until his own eyes slid closed once again.
After a while, neither of them even heard Simon's deep coughs anymore.