Chapter 51

A level of despair is reached, where people are willing to die to punish their tormentors.

- William Kammeraad-Campbell

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Harper stashed Simon's glasses away in the corner by his dishes to keep them safe and tried to forget about the false hope the man had begged him to keep. Over the next several days his spirits sank to new levels of despair. His broken hand throbbed mercilessly and slowed down his work, leaving him with a bleeding back from extra floggings as punishment for his clumsiness. He hardly acknowledged or noticed the biting lash though; he existed in a sort of numb daze, letting Peter or Twig guide him and not really saying much at all. If Dylan or Beka or any of his former friends had been around all their warning bells would have been sounding. A silent Harper was never good. But they weren't there and so the young man slipped more and more into his silence. Despite Twig's clinging to him like Velcro, Harper couldn't ever remember feeling so lost and broken and alone. Beka, Trance and his friends on Andromeda were far beyond his reach, Ethan and Simon were dead, Dylan was locked away, maybe forever, and any of his remaining friends could be taken away next, even little Twig. He felt empty; his fiery, stubborn will to survive drained away. He was tired of caring, and he just wanted it all to end.

Three days after Simon's death, the weary engineer stumbled through the breakfast line in the chilly, pre-dawn air. He desperately missed the comfort and help of being sandwiched between Dylan and Simon in meal lines and at roll-call. Peter, Dakin, and Twig had their own assigned spots, and now that his two friends were gone, Harper was on his own in the dark. He would have hated it if he had the energy left for hate.

Someone dumped a cupful of watery gruel in his bowl and Harper shuffled forward. He wandered aimlessly in some direction for about fifteen feet and then sank to the ground. He had no idea where he was, but as he hadn't run into anything, he didn't care. It was cold again today and he shivered as he mechanically ate the bland breakfast. After a moment he heard and felt the others settle around him, Twig's small body pressed right up to his side, but the engineer barely acknowledged their presence.

He finished his dull meal and set his dishes aside, letting his head fall forward dejectedly. He hardly noticed when Dakin kindly gathered up his dishes along with his own and took them to rinse and put away. There were still several minutes before roll-call, but he had no desire to move or do anything.

"Harper?" Twig pulled imploringly on his sleeve, his voice sad and small. "Can I hear more about Jack? You never tell me stories anymore."

The engineer didn't answer. He wasn't trying to ignore the child; it was just that talking took energy he didn't have the will to find.

"Harper, please?" Twig sounded close to tears, and Harper sighed. He remembered that the little slave had lost as many friends and family in the last few weeks as he had, but even that couldn't pull him out of his melancholy.

"Twig, I don't have any more stories," he muttered, his face turned away from the boy.

Twig stayed quiet after that.

A little while later, roll-call sounded. Twig led him to his spot and then slipped silently away. Once again, Harper felt the hollow emptiness on either side of him that spoke of his missing friends. He stood there numbly, just wishing it would all be over once and for all.

Daily formalities complete, the slaves were ordered to the mines. With no one to help him, Harper awkwardly gathered up the chain that dangled from his waist and connected to his leg irons and let the flow of bodies around him guide him in the general direction of the entrance. But six weary steps of his bloody, bare feet later and he suddenly tripped over some unseen object in his path. He went down hard, landing partly on his crippled, broken hand and a very undignified whimper escaped from his lips as agony spiked through it. He slowly shifted so he was sitting, and tears of pain filled his eyes as he cradled the broken limb to his chest and sagged forward. The rest of the prisoners surged past him, but he didn't move and no one paused to help him.

After a while, the biting sting of the whip that he'd been expecting slashed down across his shoulders.

"Move, dog! On your feet!"

He listened to the harsh voice of the guard yelling at him but didn't answer or get up. He just didn't care anymore.

The whip lashed down again. "I said get up, Kludge!"

Harper simply closed his blind eyes and shook his head. "No."

There was a moment of stunned silence as if the guard couldn't quite believe that a slave would dare defy him.

"What did you say, little slave?" he finally growled menacingly.

"No," Harper repeated quietly as he threw caution to the wind. He knew he would be punished severely, but he found that didn't bother him anymore. In fact, he secretly hoped they would just kill him and be done with it. "No. I'm through. I can't do it any more."

He could sense a growing crowd around them; could feel the astonishment and fear rolling off the nervous slaves. He vaguely heard Peter and Twig nearby, begging him to stand up, but he ignored them all. He curled his legs up to his chest, rested his chin on his knees and sat there, staring off into nothing.

The months and months of tortured existence finally became too much for him and his brain just checked out of reality. He pictured the warm sands of Infinity at sunset, the huge, golden sun turning the waves to liquid fire as they lapped at the beach. He felt the cool breeze in his hair and the roughness of his surf board beneath his feet. Trance and Beka called encouragingly to him from the shore, and he smiled and waved back, then shifted his stance to prepare for the large wave that was moving in…

A hard blow to his side yanked him cruelly back from his escape and sent him toppling over in the dust again. He reluctantly returned to his dark, painful world, but still made no move to get up.

"So, our little blind slave thinks he deserves a day off, does he?"

This time Harper recognized Adoniram's voice but he didn't reply. The Nietzschean captain must have been called while he was daydreaming. From the sound of the heavy, full silence that surrounded him, he figured the rest of the camp had been recalled as well. Other than a passing wish that Twig wouldn't have to witness what he knew was coming, Harper found he really couldn't summon any emotions at all, except for maybe a little relief.

Adoniram kicked at him with the toe of his boot. "Have you gone mute and deaf as well?" he demanded, angrily. "I asked you a question."

Harper stayed silent.

"Months of speaking when you shouldn't and now you finally learn to hold your tongue, only to use it for more defiance?"

Not defiance, Harper thought as Adoniram toed his unresisting body like one would a reeking carcass. Just apathy.

A bated silence filled the camp for several long minutes before the Nietzschean spoke again.

"Secure him to the flogging post and then go fetch the Kludge doctor. Tell him to bring his bag."

Harper offered no resistance as he was pulled to his feet and dragged over to a post sunk deep into the ground. Rough hands whirled him to face the wood and yanked his chained hands above his head. For a moment his hearing faded as the harsh treatment of his broken hand sent him to the edges of consciousness. By the time he managed to ride through the pain and get his mind back on track, he was bound to the post and Adoniram was already speaking to him again.

"…been too indulgent for too long already. You should have been taught a lesson long ago."

The rag that Harper called a shirt was already mostly shredded in the back from multiple floggings, only held together by a few threads, so when a cold hand grabbed it at the base of his neck and yanked, it gave way with pitifully little resistance. The weary engineer simply leaned his head forward and let his forehead rest against the rough wood of the post he was tied to, standing still as his shirt was ripped off and Adoniram's sneering voice washed over him.

"You're a spoiled brat of a Kludge who refuses to accept his station in life. I'm going to personally punish you this time, and maybe after seventy lashes you'll finally figure it out."

Seventy lashes? Harper knew there was no way his weak, starved body could stand up to that kind of severe abuse, and strangely that didn't bother him. For the first time in his existence he wasn't fighting tooth and nail to stay alive, instead he just felt an odd sense of relief that no matter how much the next several minutes hurt, it would all be over soon.

Time seemed to stretch out in slow motion as he waited there in his darkness for the first blow to fall. He could sense the sorrowful, heavy expectance of the watching rows of slaves. He heard the sound of muffled sobs from nearby and felt a spike of guilt as he knew it was Twig and the boy was waiting to watch yet another of the people he loved die. In the loaded silence he could also almost imagine Adoniram rolling up his sleeves, grasping the handle of the offered whip firmly, surveying his naked, scarred back for the best place to carve out his signature…

And then the waiting was over and Harper shattered the strange silence with his screams.

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One-time doctor Bartholomew Kesler watched the young man sag heavily against the chains that bound him, his body no longer able to support his own weight, and blinked furiously to keep back the tears that threatened to crest his eyes and fall down his wrinkled, worn cheeks. How it hurt to watch this, to stand there and do nothing, be party to this torture by his silence. He'd seen many, many atrocious things in his years as a slave in this camp, but no matter how he tried to harden himself to it he could never stop the pain it caused him to watch, but this…this was like a knife to the gut to witness. The young man who refused to give up despite overwhelming hardships had renewed his faith in life and humanity, and it hurt to see the one who had helped him find hope again lose his.

Bartholomew heard the sound of badly stifled sobs and discreetly glanced around. About three rows back in one of the blocks of slaves he saw the little boy he'd treated so carefully, the one who had clung with open love and admiration to the young man currently being punished so severely. Twig's face was completely wet with tears, and his little body shook with the effort to hold back his wails and cries. The doctor's heart broke at the sight and the thought of what watching this must be doing to that poor child, and he found he had to look away again, unable to bear the open grief he saw.

Not that the other sight was any better. The old slave watched as the engineer's head fell forward, his eyes closed. They were only twenty-six lashes into his punishment and already the boy was either unconscious or close to it. The medic in him screamed that there was no way the boy could survive much more of this. Adoniram noticed this as well and let the hand holding the whip drop to his side. He gestured to one of his guards and was handed a metal bucket brimming with liquid. Bartholomew cringed, knowing exactly what that bucket held and the agony it would induce.

Adoniram doused the dangling slave, and the boy screamed as the saltwater invaded the open wounds and brought him harshly back to the world. As the young man struggled to his feet, gasping, the doctor clenched his fists and tried to tell himself that at least some good would come from that cruelty; the saltwater might stave off infection.

Doctor Kesler watched the engineer forcefully control his cries and then let his head drop forward again, submissive. For the first time, the doctor realized the boy just wanted it to be done, that he was waiting to die. Deep sadness filled the kind, old man as he observed the Nietzschean captain step up to his prisoner and grasp him roughly by his bleeding shoulders.

"I know what you're doing," the man said right in Harper's ear, his voice filled with cruel taunting. "You want to die. You think by dying you can end your pitiful existence and suffering and rob me of my fun all at once. What is that Kludge saying, kill two birds with one stone? Well, I'm sorry to tell you that is not what's going to happen. Teaching you a lesson serves no purpose if you don't live to learn it."

He stepped away, gesturing for the slave doctor to approach. "Give him enough drugs and stimulants to survive the procedure," he ordered callously, "but don't worry about keeping him awake. I have effective methods for that," he smiled, glancing at the bucket that had been refilled.

Doctor Kesler moved up beside where Harper was stood with his head lowered. He hated his inability or lack of courage to refuse his orders, but what actually shamed him more was the spike of gladness he felt. He in no way wanted to cause the young slave more pain, and he knew he would suffer horrendously before this was over, but he really didn't want to see the boy die and was grateful Adoniram had ordered him to take measures so that he didn't.

With care, he prepared the first syringe filled with drugs. He tapped it once to make sure the bubbles were gone then searched the boy's body for the least abused place to administer it.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Mr. Harper," he whispered as softly as he could as he leaned in close.

"Just do what he said and get it over with," he heard the young man croak back with lips that bled from where he'd bitten through them. He sounded like his last hope had just been shattered, and Doctor Kesler sighed with deep sorrow as he settled the needle against the boy's shoulder and pushed it in as gently as he could. As he readied the second injection, a moment of rebellion seized him and he slipped in a small dose of highly forbidden pain medication along with the stimulant. It wouldn't do much, but the boy deserved every bit of help he could get.

The second syringe emptied, Adoniram gripped the whip firmly in his fingers and ordered him to move back once more.

"Shall we continue, then, little slave?" he mocked, closing the space between him and his prisoner again.

"Whatever you want," came the bone-weary, despondent reply. Adoniram grinned and raised the whip, counting off stroke number twenty-seven as the young man cried out sharply in pain, and Doctor Kesler knew this was going to be a horribly long morning.

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It was the cold that finally woke him. The cold and the pain that coursed through him each time his body reacted to it with a shiver, but gradually, Harper became aware of other things as well. The rough gravel digging into his face and shoulder, the dull, throbbing ache in his left hand, the after-taste of salt on his lips, and the fire of agony burning across his back.

It was at least several minutes before he was able to even consider a task so monumental as turning over, and then when he finally tried it, he was brought up short by a harsh jerk around his neck. Memories that seemed rather foggy and distant flooded back.

"…wanted to sit down so badly, now you get to. See how a couple of days and a night in the open affect your attitude. Consider it a vacation. Maybe I'll even feed you."

He remembered now what had been described to him in giddy detail and gave up trying to roll over, sagging back onto his side in the dirt with a groan. Adoniram had pretty much staked him out to be on display for a few days. His slave collar was attached to a chain that was in turn locked to a steel ring fixed into the ground. He could lie down next to it, or sit up at its base, but that was the limit of his movement. And all around him, about three feet from his reach, the sides of a metal cage had been erected; not to keep him in, but to keep the others out. The Nietzschean captain wanted to make sure he was good and alone as he pondered his situation in life. No roof though; he distinctly remembered that being mentioned. No protection from the elements of any kind. The Ubers had even taken the lousy splint off his broken hand and the rags from around his feet. All he had left were his ripped, filthy pants. And his chains, but somehow they didn't really provide much warmth and comfort.

Plus a whole lot of hurting.

He'd received a lot of whippings in his life, but none as bad as this one. He knew without a doubt that he would have been dead if it weren't for the doctor's drugs. Had really hoped he would be dead when it was over, actually, but with typical Seamus Harper luck, he never got what he wanted.

A chill breeze blew across the compound and he shivered violently again, stifling a scream as the ravaged skin on his back and shoulders stretched and pulled. He had no idea how long he'd been there, but the quiet of the camp told him the other slaves were still in the mines, so it couldn't have been more than a few hours. Besides, his pants were still soaked from his last saltwater bath, courtesy of Adoniram himself. The phrase "rubbing salt in an open wound" had taken on a whole new meaning in the last few hours.

Ignoring the sharpness of the gravel against his bare skin, he let his face sink limply to the ground again. It was a cold day, the night promised to be even colder and he was totally exposed. Maybe he would still get what he wanted before this thing was over. He certainly wasn't going to do anything to stop it.