Chapter 52
Close every door to me,
Hide all the world from me
Bar all the windows
And shut out the light
Do what you want with me,
Hate me and laugh at me
Darken my daytime
And torture my night
If my life were important I
Would ask will I live or die
But I know the answers lie
Far from this world
Just give me a number
Instead of my name
Forget all about me
And let me decay
I do not matter,
I'm only one person
Destroy me completely
Then throw me away
- Tim Rice, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
00000
"Patch!" Beka cried, barely waiting for the airlock of his ship to open before she threw her arms around the big man in a tight hug. Then she seemed to remember that she was not only more than thirty years old, but also the captain of a Glorious Heritage Class Warship. She let go of her friend and backed up, coughing with embarrassment as she ran her hands down her pants. "Um, welcome to the Andromeda," she said, purposely ignoring Rommie's raised eyebrow and Tyr's amused half-smile.
"Ah, Becky!" Captain Patch Parkington laughed, a deep comfortable sort of sound that was at odds with his rough appearance. "The pig-tails and red hair might be gone, but you haven't changed a bit, girl! And to think you're a real captain now!"
"Hey!" Beka cried, indignantly. "I was a real captain before!" she protested. "And of a much better ship than this piece of junk!" she added, giving the Miss Kitty a critical glance. "What have you been doing with her, using her for target practice?"
"Something like that," Patch laughed again. "You know me and danger… Like a moth to the flame."
Beka laughed. "Guess you haven't changed that much either, have you."
"Not really, but then again, I'm not the one with my own warship," he winked, walking forward toward the rest who were waiting in the doorway of the docking bay. "So, are these your minions, waiting to do to your evil bidding?"
Rommie's eyebrow almost disappeared into her hairline, and Tyr shifted to a less relaxed position, growling slightly. Trance just smiled brightly.
"No, these would be my friends and fellow officers: Rommie, the avatar of this warship, Tyr, the former Nietzschean mercenary, and Trance, the mysterious golden girl who could kill you with her little finger…"
"Ah," Patch said, bringing a hand to his chest and not the least bit disturbed by those introductions, "A crew after my own heart. Ignatius would proud, Becky-girl," he said, winking at Beka.
"Becky?" Rommie asked, leveling a pointed gaze at her captain.
"Don't ask," she muttered. "And you," she added, punching Patch in the shoulder, "stop calling me that."
"Aw, Beka, I think it's cute," Trance said with a smile, stepping forward. "I'm Trance Gemini," she added, holding out her hand to Patch. "Glad you came to visit us. It's always so nice to meet old friends of Beka."
"Yes," Tyr added, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway, "because that always works out so well for us in the end. They never try to kill us, or scam us, or blow us up. So tell me, Mr. Parkington, why exactly are you here?"
Beka glared at Tyr but decided it wasn't worth the trouble, not right now. "Don't mind him, he's just grumpy because…well…he's always like that. But, I'm wondering, too. Why the sudden urge to visit. The last time I saw you in person was when you got the news Daddy had died and stopped by to see how I was."
"It's not every day you get to see your godchild at the helm of a warship. I figured it was time for a visit!" Patch said, still smiling. "Can't that be reason enough?"
"For most people, yes. For you, no. Come on, I know you, Patch. True, you are the most decent and caring, not to mention somewhat moral, of my father's old friends, but you don't make social calls. What's up?"
"Okay, you're right, as usual. I've got something for you."
Beka grinned broadly. "I knew it! Come on, give it here then, I love presents!"
Patch's smile disappeared, and his face grew solemn. "Can we go somewhere else?" He didn't say 'more private' but Beka caught the message just the same from his sudden change of demeanor. Her good mood faded away.
"Um, yeah. I have an office. We can go there." She turned to her watching friends, suddenly the captain once more, the excited, bubbly girl of the past hidden. "I'll be in my office. The rest of you stay on Command for now. Rommie, keep an eye on the science team for me, would ya? They have a new experiment and you know how they sometimes get when excited…"
"Aye, Captain," Rommie agreed turning smartly and leaving, the others trailing after her on their own time.
"Come on," Beka said, gesturing. "It's this way."
They walked in silence to the captain's office and entered, the door sliding shut behind them. Beka walked over and stood behind the desk, turning to face Patch, her heart beating wildly. She had a pretty good idea what this must be about now, just an instinct her gut was giving her, and she suddenly wanted to make time slow down, or better yet stop. Anything to prevent what she feared she was about to hear.
It was especially hard standing there in that office. Except for a few flexi's and other necessities of the job scattered around, the office was basically unchanged from the way it was when she inherited it. It still screamed "Dylan Hunt," which was how she'd intentionally left it; one little act of defiance to the universe to show she still clung to hope.
Typical of the universe to have that office be the place where hope was crushed.
"Room doesn't look much like you?" Patch commented, breaking the stillness as he took in his surroundings.
"It's not really mine," Beka responded stubbornly.
"I heard about Captain Hunt. Shameful really, he was a good man. And wasn't there another crew member with him?"
"Harper," Beka said quietly, her voice catching. Patch opened his good eye wide in surprise.
"That skinny psycho of an engineer you picked up a few years back? The one you complained to me constantly about?"
"Yes," Beka's voice cracked.
"Aw, Becky, I'm so sorry! I didn't know!"
"How could you? Last time I messaged you, I wasn't even sure I liked the kid. Anyway, what's done is done. What do you have for me?" she asked, unable to hide the dread in her voice.
Patch reached into his vest and pulled out an envelope, handing it to her.
"Huh?" Beka asked, puzzled. She turned it over and noticed an ornate wax seal on one side, but nothing else. "Paper? Who the heck sends paper letters these days? Where'd you get it?"
"You know I've been ferrying supplies for various groups, all over. Taking the jobs no one else dares try, right?"
"Yeah, you've always done that…"
"Ever hear of a little planet called Rellim?"
Beka's heart stopped and she sank boneless into her chair. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I've heard of it."
"Made a run there, about a week ago. Not the most pleasant place to visit, but good pay because no one else will. Anyway, was outside, checking the ship over just before take-off and this timid, little man comes up and asks if I'm going off-world. Said I was and he gave me that and a whole bag of credits to deliver it to you on the Andromeda. He was a Niet slave, poor guy, and it was obvious he was scared to death and more than anxious to be rid of that paper."
Beka could hardly breathe. "What did he look like?" she whispered.
"About your height, dark skin, terribly thin, typical slave clothes and earring… Why?"
Beka's hopes crumbled again, but she tried to hide it. "Nothing. Just thought maybe…"
Understanding dawned on Patch. "You thought it might be that Harper kid?"
"Not really, but I had to ask. So, did the guy say who this was from?"
"Marcus out of someone by somebody or other," Patch said with a shrug. "You know, the typical Niet spiel. I'm sorry but I really didn't listen. Those all run together after a while."
Beka held the envelope in her hands, turning it over and over, staring at it but not really seeing it.
"You could just open it and find out," Patch said gently, pulling up a chair, sitting down across from her, and placing a huge hand gently on one of her own.
Beka didn't answer, just continued to stare at the envelope. Finally, she took a big breath and broke the seal, pulling out the paper that was inside and unfolding it.
Captain Parkington had known Beka Valentine since the day she was born, and while there had been long chapters of her life when they hadn't exactly kept in touch, he still knew her, could read her like an open book. So he watched with concern as all color drained from Beka's face as she read the message. By the time she finished the short note, her hands were shaking too much to hold onto the paper. It fell to the desk while she stared unseeing at a corner of the room.
"Becky?" Patch questioned gently, grasping her hand. "Beka, what is it?"
"All this time…" she whispered, horror in her voice. "Ten months… They were right there, and I just didn't look…" Her voice cracked, and she turned to Patch with a shattered look. Alarmed by the devastation he saw in her eyes, the confused captain snatched up the letter, reading it quickly.
I am Marcus, son of Adoniram, cousin of Gaius Felix. Your officers are being held as prisoners in the slave camp on Rellim. Trust my word or not as you like, but know I take no satisfaction from seeing what my Pride has done to humans, here and elsewhere, and I have better things to do than lay traps for antiquated warships and their substitute captains. If they matter to you at all, you should come promptly. They are alive as I write this; beyond that I can guarantee nothing.
It ended there; Nietzschean through and through in its bluntness. Patch read it again, to make sure he hadn't misunderstood, then glanced back at Beka. The blonde captain was as close to an emotional break down as he'd ever seen her.
"This is good news, Becky-girl!" he stressed, forcing her to face him. "That miracle you've been holding out for!"
"Patch, they've been held as slaves! In a prison camp! For ten months…"
"But they're alive, Beka! And no matter what's been done to them, alive is so much better than dead!"
"But – "
"No buts," Patch interrupted, his face stern all at once. "You're a Valentine, Beka. I've never known a Valentine to give up or fall to pieces, especially not when family was on the line. You know they're alive and where they are. What are you waiting for? Let's go get them! I'll help anyway I can, but it's gonna take at least a five days to get to Rellim even if we leave right now, and it sounds like they don't have time to waste, so you need to get moving."
Beka seemed to hesitate between objecting and crying for a moment, but then she straightened her shoulders as an angry, determined look came across her face.
"Rommie?" she called, knowing the avatar would respond. "Find someone to watch Command. I need you, Trance, and Tyr in my office five minutes ago!"
00000
Harper drifted in and out of consciousness, for the most part unaware of the passage of time. He had nothing to gage the hours by, and no desire to if he had. He was waiting to die, waiting for the excruciating horror of his existence to end. He didn't much care about anything else, and he was in too much agony to try anyway. He spent his moments of lucidity riding through the pain and waiting for the blessed blackness to encompass him once more.
However, when his weary, battered body dragged him back against his will to the land of the living this time something was different. It took a long time to figure it out, much longer than it should have, but it finally came to him. Instead of the lonely, chilled silence he'd been surrounded by all day, this time there was noise. Voices, movements, footsteps…all around him, surrounding him, coming from many sides, seeping into his sensitive ears. And one very soft, hesitant voice was coming from just in front of him.
"…and so Jack told the three, little Bigs that he was gonna huff and puff and blow their ship up if they wouldn't give him their portage. The little Bigs were mean though, and wouldn't share, so Jack got out his magic flute and blew up their ship…"
Apparently the pain and depression hadn't completely turned off Harper's emotions because those quiet words went straight to his very broken heart. Twig was telling him stories, and slaughtering the tales even more than he had, but that didn't matter. Harper had used stories to raise the child's spirits in a place meant to crush them, and to provide comfort and hope when things were the very worst. Now the little boy cared enough about him to sit there in the cold beside his cage and return the favor – offer comfort the only way he could. It touched him deeply in a spot he'd thought was dead.
Slowly, the engineer opened his eyes and turned his head toward the boy's voice, unable to stifle a groan. The words stopped instantly.
"Harper?"
"Twig," Harper croaked out, his throat still raw from screaming.
He heard what sounded like a huge breath being sucked in and then Twig's words came in a rush, the sobs barely hidden behind them. "I thought you were dead. They hurt you so bad and I had to watch them, and I can't fit though the bars to touch you and I thought you were dead like Ethan and Simon but I wasn't sure so I just kept telling you about Jack, like you did for me, hoping maybe you would come back!" Twig's voice finally broke and the next words came out in a wail. "Please don't be dead again, Harper! I don't want to be alone like before!"
The rapid words made Harper's brain spin in his head, and he closed his eyes again, willing it to stop.
"You shouldn't be here," he finally whispered, purposefully not answering Twig's pleas.
"It's still free time."
"But the Ubers won't like it. I don't want them to hurt you, too."
"I brought you something," Twig said, ignoring Harper's words in return and proving he'd learned more than just how to tell stories from the engineer.
"Twig…" Harper sighed, even this small conversation sapping his strength.
"Sit up," Twig prodded. "Please, Harper."
"Twig, I can't. That would make me hurt a lot more than I do right now."
"I don't wanna hurt you," Twig's voice cracked, "but Peter said I had to get you to sit up since he's too big to come over here and tell you himself. The Ubers would notice him. He said you have to sit up or you'll die!"
Harper turned his face away, even though his blind eyes couldn't see the boy pleading with him. "Twig," he whispered, "I'm already dying. Can't change that."
The sobbing started in earnest now. "No!" Twig cried. "No! You can't die! It's not fair! Everyone else died, you don't get to, too!"
"You don't always get a choice about dying, Twig."
"But you do!" Twig sobbed, his voice getting louder. He actually sounded angry now. "You could live if you wanted to, but you're being stupid and mean and just don't care! That's not fair! I wanted to die, when it hurt so bad! I wanted to go to that warm place with the nice people in my dreams, but you wouldn't let me! You made me stay even though it hurt really bad. You said you loved me and wanted me to stay, so I did. Even though I still hurt and just don't tell you! So you don't get to die either, even though you hurt, because…because…I love you, too! And I need you! So please, please sit up!"
Harper listened to Twig's fervent, desperate voice in shocked surprise and found tears that had nothing to do with the pain he was fighting filling his eyes. He'd wanted to die to stop all the suffering, but also because he'd thought there was nothing to live for. The first time he'd found himself in slavery, he'd fought tooth and nail to survive, knowing he had to, but this time he'd come to the conclusion everyone would be much better off without him, that no one needed him. Maybe he'd been wrong.
"I really don't know if I can sit up," he whispered to the little boy, anguish in his voice.
"Please try," Twig begged. Harper heard him shifting around and could almost imagine him kneeling there, his tiny hands grasping the bars of the cage, his eyes pleading. "Peter says you'll freeze tonight if you don't move a little!"
"Okay," Harper sighed wearily, "I'll try."
Peter and Twig were right, of course. His body had already gone stiff from the cold. He'd been counting on that before, but now he knew he had to keep moving a little, fight back against the temperature. And that meant doing as they asked and sitting up. So he forced himself to try. With anguished fire coursing through his ravaged back and his broken hand, Harper slowly started moving. Several times he managed to choke himself as the chain attached to his slave collar pulled tight, but he kept at it doggedly – for Twig – until he was on his knees, gasping.
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
For a very long time, Harper just knelt there, fighting the urge to throw up. The pain was so intense it made him physically sick, and it took all his will-power to keep from passing out or just collapsing back to the ground. The cold had seeped deep into the bones of his broken hand, and it hurt almost as bad as his newly lacerated back. The torment he was in must have shown in his posture and on his face because Twig was sobbing again.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he kept repeating over and over.
"Not…your…fault," Harper finally managed to ground out around tightly clenched teeth.
Gradually, Twig's hiccupping sobs faded out of Harper's hearing as his own pain receded enough to allow speech again.
"Go back to the others now, so you won't get in trouble," he whispered weakly as he carefully eased off his knees so that he was sitting on the ground instead of kneeling.
"Wait," Twig cried softly. "Hold out your hands first, like when we played catch."
Too exhausted to protest, Harper limply held out his good hand. Three light objects hit him gently in the chest and arms, landing in his lap. Obviously, Twig had been practicing his aim. He reached down and picked one up, feeling it with his fingers.
"Your bread?" he breathed. He wanted to say he wasn't hungry, but his aching, empty stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. Even such horrible injuries and the churning nausea couldn't stop his starved body from wanting, craving food. But he tried to anyway. "No, Twig…"
"We all saved it for you, me and Peter and Dakin. Please eat it!"
Before Harper could think of any answer to that, the first curfew whistle pierced the air, and he heard Twig scamper quickly to his feet.
"I'm gonna pray for you tonight, like Simon taught me, so please don't die, Harper!" the boy whispered one last time, and then he was gone.
Harper barely managed to wait for the sound of tiny footsteps to fade before he stuffed the first small piece of bread into his mouth – whole.
00000
From his place at the gate of Barrack 6B, Marcus watched the little slave slip away from the cage and race past him into the prison without comment. He let the last few slaves into the building and closed the grate behind them as the third whistle blew, but his thoughts were preoccupied. He stared at the captive, beaten slave, observing how the starving kid devoured the forbidden food the little one had given him. That simple act should have earned him another painful punishment according to the rules, but Marcus never considered giving it. He'd been watching the young man all day as he lay there in a haze of pain and agony from the terribly severe punishment he'd endured that morning, and he was amazed the boy was sitting up now. Frankly, he was astonished the slave was even alive! He'd been sure the human would die, despite Adoniram's efforts to prevent that. His father loved inflicting punishment and pain on the Kludges a little too much and, when he went overboard, often not even the wonders of modern medicine could save his victims.
It wasn't right. He didn't know for sure when he'd come to that conclusion, but he had. And he didn't feel like he was betraying his race and all that being Nietzschean stood for by admitting it anymore. His father had made him a guard here to strengthen his will and teach him how to live up to his genetic potential: be a true Nietzschean. But Marcus had studied on his own, formed his own thoughts, and somewhere along the line had begun to wonder how a race that had to use horror, pain, and fear to keep control could really consider themselves superior. If the Nietzscheans really were the best, they were falling sadly short of their potential. And, he thought, studying the bleeding, ragged human before him, for all their weaknesses, Kludges were stronger than the Niets were willing to give them credit for. How else could a blind and crippled young man thrown into a death camp cling tenaciously to life despite everything done to him?
Of course, this was far from over, he reminded himself, coming back to the present event. Winter was coming quickly and nights were cold for the Kludges. The cold and exposure alone might be enough to kill the weak human, and then with his injuries… And there was nothing he could do about it, which added to his growing discontent. It was terribly frustrating; he'd hoped the small slave with such stubborn determination would manage to survive long enough…
He stared for a moment longer before he strode with silent determination over to the slave's cage, gazing at the pitiful figure through the bars. The kid was shivering from the cold and pain, his bare chest and back unprotected and exposed. His father's whip had literally torn the slave's back to shreds, and although the doctor's drugs had induced rapid clotting and kept the young man from bleeding to death, the pain had to be excruciating. And yet he was sitting; sitting and rocking back and forth as much as his leash would allow, trying to keep warm, his chains clanking faintly in the eerie stillness.
"Kludge," Marcus spoke softly, hoping not to startle the human, but he should have known better. The young man flinched and stopped rocking. Fear crossed his face as he recognized the voice, and he unconsciously cradled the hand Marcus had crushed to his chest, bowing his head in resignation.
Marcus sighed and looked around to make sure they were unobserved. Then he crouched down so he was at the same level as the frightened slave.
"Seamus Harper," he tried again, his voice soft. The human raised his head in surprise. "I'm not going to hurt you. I know you probably don't believe me given what's been done to you in this place, what I've had to do to you, but I'm not."
The human cocked his head, listening, his pain-twisted face still fearful and untrusting as his blind eyes darted wildly around. "What do you want?" he finally whispered, shivering violently.
"To tell you that it would be worth your while to continue to fight for survival tonight." He pulled something from his jacket and tossed it through the bars to the young slave. "And to maybe give you a fighting chance."
"Why?" the slave croaked, fingering the blanket with distrust. It was thicker, softer, warmer than anything the slaves were ever given. "So you can keep your favorite whipping boy?"
"No. So that someday you can be something more than a slave," Marcus answered simply.
The boy turned his head in the Nietzschean's direction, an unreadable expression crossing his face. "I was something more than a slave and you guys took that away," he said bitterly.
"Nothing is permanent until you are dead, so I suggest you fight, Seamus Harper," Marcus stated, standing and brushing off his hands. The guard stared at the human for a few seconds longer, then turned and walked off.