Chapter 53
Who am I? Where am I going?
Here I sit, all alone not knowing why.
Brace me up, I'm so discouraged.
Help I think I'm gonna die.
How it hurts to be a no one.
How I wish that I was someone really loved.
Brace me up, I'm such a failure.
Heaven help me up above.
- Doug Stewart, Saturday's Warrior
00000
Sitting on the cold floor, Dylan flinched involuntarily as the cat-flap of his cell opened with a high-pitched grating sound. After so many days in the cramped, completely dark, little box, his body and mind were numb, and any little unexpected noise or disturbance sent his senses into overload.
He scrunched up his face in pain at the sound, the only thought his tired mind was able to form being that the Niets were early. He wasn't quite starving enough for it to be meal time again. A spark of curiosity and confusion tried to flare to life, but it couldn't quite make it past the numbness.
Then a beam of light pierced the cell through the narrow slot and Dylan's senses woke up whether they wanted to or not. It was the first bit of light – the first thing – he'd seen since they locked him in there, and it felt like an ice pick straight to the brain when it hit his sensitive eyes.
"Gah!" Dylan couldn't stop from crying out, clamping his eyes closed against the assault and bringing his hands up to his face, chains clanking loudly.
"What do you want?" he croaked to the unseen person beyond the door when he finally dared to open his watering eyes and squint around at his limited world again. He was in too much discomfort to remember to curb his tongue and bow to his new station in life.
"Three hundred years ago, the Nietzscheans were part of the Commonwealth. Why? What benefit could it possibly have held for them, for their survival?"
Dylan felt his jaw literally drop at the out-of-the-blue question. It was the absolute last thing he'd expected to hear.
"I…they…huh… What?"
The sound of an object scraping quietly across the floor came through the door, and Dylan imagined the guard was dragging something forward to sit on. He spoke again, and this time Dylan listened carefully, recognizing the voice of Marcus.
"I want to know why my ancestors found an institution as pedantic as the Commonwealth useful. Why would they allow themselves to become a part of, be subject to the whims of inferiors?"
"And you want to have this conversation now, through a cell door as I sit here your slave, in chains?" Dylan couldn't help asking, his voice rough from disuse but still incredulous.
"Yes."
Dylan snorted slightly, muttering, "I will never understand Nietzscheans and their sense of timing." He turned his face away from the painful light, shivering rather forcefully. "You know, since it appears that all irony aside, we are going to have this conversation, it would be a lot easier if I weren't half frozen and completely starved…"
"It probably would be, but I can't do anything about that. As you mentioned, Captain Hunt, you are still a slave. It would be wise to remember that."
The captain sighed. That was pretty much the answer he'd expected, but it never hurt to try. Well, come to think of it, around here it often hurt to try, but that was beside the point…
Dylan stopped his wandering thoughts forcefully, figuring the long solitary confinement must have adversely affected his brain.
"Fine," he said. "I've never talked politics in chains before, but I guess you get to try something new every day. What exactly did you want to know, again?"
"How is it, exactly, that you think the survival of the Nietzscheans in general, and the Drago-Kazov in particular, would be enhanced by becoming beholden to others?" asked Marcus.
Dylan sighed wearily. "Because it's not just about being beholden to others. Being a part of the Commonwealth means having friends – strong and loyal friends. When your survival is threatened, do you want to stand on your own against the universe, or do you want to win? Whether your people want to believe it or not, there is a Worldship of hungry Magog on the way, and when they get here, they aren't going to care one bit about the superiority of your genes or pureness of your family line. They'll mow you down, just like the rest of us, unless we join together to stop them. Allies make the difference between winning and losing."
The questions Marcus was asking, while well-masked in typical Nietzschean sentiment, reminded Dylan of how very young this guard was, and that maybe, just maybe, he'd found a way to form opinions beyond those he'd been fed since birth. Whatever the reason or cause, he had come looking to talk, asking questions, of a lowly slave no less. That had to mean something, if not for Dylan's own benefit, at least for the universe at large. The captain forced his stiff, cold muscles to respond and tried to sit up more and concentrate despite his hunger and misery.
"I am - or at least I was - the captain of a warship," he continued, his voice still weak from days without use. "Battle, strategy, these are my strengths. Believe me, there's nothing weak or sentimental about being a part of a Commonwealth, or going to the aid of others, when it means you will survive odds you never would on your own."
"And yet here you sit, dying in chains," said Marcus pointedly, unable to keep a slight trace of disgust and scorn from his words. "Where are these powerful and mighty friends of yours now?"
Dylan had wondered the same thing himself, on many occasions. "I don't know," he answered honestly, his voice bone-tired. "But I don't question their loyalty. Me still being here isn't so much a mark of their disloyalty as it is of your peoples' subversion of justice," he added bitterly, then paused, realizing he was treading on very thin ice. Searching questions or not, he was still having this conversation from the wrong side of a prison door, with a man who held the power of life, or death, or excruciating pain over him.
There was silence for a long while, long enough that Dylan was starting to wonder exactly how much extra time in his little box he'd just earned, and if he'd ever see the sun again, but finally Marcus spoke.
"Are you saying you shouldn't be here?"
"None of us should be here," he answered firmly without a moment's hesitation, "and I think you know that."
"What I might think, and what I have the power to change are two very different things," the guard added, the hint of compassion in his voice revealing what might be true regret.
"And I know that as well," Dylan added sadly. "Believe me, I'm in a position to understand being powerless. Got that down to an art."
"So," Marcus continued after a moment, "even if your great Commonwealth never rescues you and you die here, you would still champion its cause, spout its ideals of justice and honor? Would still remain loyal to your friends, even though they failed you?"
"You know, I would bet my life, pitiful though it may be right now, on the fact that my 'disloyal, failures of friends' as you call them have spent the last, oh however long we've been here, tearing up the universe trying to find us. Bet they kept looking long after it was logical to do so, even long after I would have told them to give up, had I actually been able to," Dylan couldn't help saying, a small smoldering of annoyance leaking out. "So, tell me, if you'd gone missing or been captured by enemies, exactly how long would your Pride spend looking for you?"
There was no answer. "That's pretty much what I thought," Dylan said quietly, just a trace of smugness in his voice.
"You failed to answer the questions, Kludge," Marcus said after a moment, his voice short.
"Ah, yes, let's see. If I die in here, well -" Dylan chuckled slightly. "It's a death that would have come long ago without them. I've been living on borrowed time for three-hundred years."
He shifted, trying to ease the pressure on cold, aching bones, even though he knew it was pointless. The cell had been designed for discomfort, and it did its job extremely well. With his eyes finally starting to adjust to the weak light, Dylan got his first glimpse of his surroundings, and he had to admit he wasn't impressed. He sighed and let his head fall back against the stone wall, chained hands sinking limply into his lap, and tried to ignore the gnawing in his belly as he continued talking.
"To answer your question," he said tiredly, "yes, I will still remain loyal to the Commonwealth and my friends, even if I stay here in this miserable pit for the rest of my life. First of all, as I mentioned before, if I die here, it's not because they failed to care, it's because Felix, the Drago-Kazov, and your people perpetrated a wrong they chose not to fix. And secondly, even if I die, the very fact that my friends do care and are still out there insures that the Commonwealth will go on – strong – and maintain our ideals. Because that's what the Commonwealth is. It's not about one man – me – or even one race. It's about all the races and all the individuals who chose to join it. It's built by all of them joining together and giving their all, but it won't fail if one man goes away. No government is worth anything if it crumbles with the loss of one man."
"You speak intelligently, for a man in chains, as you put it," said Marcus.
"And what about your chains?" Dylan asked suddenly, his voice quiet.
There was an indignant sputter from the other side of the cell door. "I'm not a slave, Kludge!"
"No?" Dylan returned. "Then why are you having this conversation where no one will see or overhear? Tell me you could ask these questions in the light of day and not be labeled a traitor? Tell me you could leave this camp, pursue a life of your own choice, and not have your courage questioned, your genes declared impure, and your posterity shunned? You already admitted to me that you're powerless to provide help or change things that bother you. Is that true freedom? Remember, Master, chains come in all shapes and sizes, and not all are visible to the naked eye."
Abruptly, Dylan heard the sound of the other man rising and realized he'd finally pushed too far.
"You should curb your tongue, slave! There has been enough punishment administered today."
As suddenly as it had appeared the small light vanished, plunging Dylan back into complete darkness and sending his spirits plummeting again.
"Master, wait," he cried softly as he heard the guard start to leave. "Harper and Twig? Can you tell me how they are?" He wasn't quite begging, but he was ashamed to admit he might if that was what it took.
There was silence for several moments before Marcus's emotionless voice floated back to him. "Tomorrow evening you can answer that question for yourself."
Dylan didn't know if Marcus was too angry to answer his question straight, disinclined to care one way or the other, or purposefully avoiding it, but at least he knew his solitary confinement might finally be coming to an end. It was enough to stir his broken soul to life slightly.
"Someone will bring food in the morning," Marcus added. "And now you will be silent, slave, and contemplate your station in life."
The cat-flap fell back down and the guard's footsteps echoed as he walked away, leaving Dylan alone in the cold and dark again, with only his painfully empty stomach and confused thoughts for company.
00000
"So, we go in with the Maru. Park far enough away not to lose the element of surprise, sneak into the camp under the cover of night if we can, blast in if we can't. Either way, we're getting Harper and Dylan out of there –" Beka broke off impatiently when she noticed Patch shaking his head quietly off to one side. "What?" she snapped slightly.
"You haven't been listening to me, Becky-girl," Patch said stepping forward into the small circle formed by the Andromeda officers that stood around Beka's desk, the gentleness of his voice at odds with his rough appearance. "No matter how much you want to, you can't just fly in and get them. I've been trying to tell you, the only access to that planet is through the port town Cisum, and then only with clearance and a permit."
"And so what? You want me to fly over and ask them for permission to land on their dirt ball. Maybe I should include a memo detailing our rescue plans so they can be ready?" Anger flashed through her eyes, but Patch didn't rise to it or get offended. He knew it was just her way of dealing with the bombshell she'd been handed, and if she let the anger go she'd just simply fall to pieces.
"Beka," the old captain said firmly, "if you try to land a ship on that planet anywhere but in Cisum, you will crash and you will probably die. I'm not saying that to stop you from going, or disagree with your plan, I'm just telling you the cold, hard truth. Ships and Rellim don't mix. That leaves the port city, which is monitored all day, every day. You try to fight your way in, you'll be outnumbered and outgunned and shot down before you get close enough to see who's firing at you. And then what? You're no good to your friends if you get yourself killed."
"Patch," Beka stressed, "for ten months my friends have been slaves on that planet. Ten months! Do you have any idea what Nietzscheans do to their slaves, especially ones they don't like very much? I only know what little I managed to coax out of Harper or stumble across on accident, but I know whatever it is they do it was bad enough to leave him screaming in his sleep for years afterwards, and that was just the first time around! Now I am not leaving them there even five seconds longer so we can stand here and debate how to form a rescue plan that meets all the safety codes!"
"So you would rather leave them there indefinably, because you failed to listen to reason and foolishly got yourself killed or captured in their rescue attempt," Tyr stepped forward, uncrossing his arms and piercing Beka with a stern glare. "History is filled with great and noble feats attempted, and failed, Beka."
He paused as if gathering his thoughts and his voice took on a small shift in quality that only those who associated with him every day would notice as a welling of emotion. "I too recoil at the image of Captain Hunt and the boy reduced to chattel in chains. It sickens me at the very fiber of my soul, and I long to show the worthless creatures who have kept them as such what a true Nietzschean's will can do, but I will not throw my life away on a foolhardy, rash plan that not only risks my own survival but has no chance of succeeding!"
"They're right, Beka," Trance spoke up quietly for the first time. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks suspiciously damp. "Harper and Dylan need us to work together and be smart, not fight and argue."
The blonde pilot's shoulders sagged slightly. "But, what if every second counts?"
"If every second counts, Beka, then we're too late already," Rommie said, hating the logic of her own words. "But, Dylan and Harper are tough, tougher than most give them credit for. If they've survived this long, they will stay alive until we can get to them."
Beka deflated and caved. "So, what do we do?" she asked quietly.
"I'd like to help," Patch spoke up again. "And I have a plan, if you're willing to consider it."
Beka gestured limply for him to continue. "You can't enter the port city undetected, either in the Maru or one of the Andromeda's slipfighters. But the Miss Kitty goes there all the time when we have a scheduled drop or pick-up. If you're willing to wait a week, I can get you on the planet, no questions asked. From there it'll be difficult, but not quite impossible to leave the city and skedaddle across the planet to the prison camp."
"A week!" Beka cried, not at all happy.
"I know," Patch cut her off, "you don't want to wait because you don't want them to suffer any longer than they have to, but it probably is the only way you'll get on that planet in one piece, Becky."
Fighting back her instinctive reactions, Beka glanced at her friends and crewmates. No one seemed happy, but no one disagreed either.
"It's a sound plan, Beka," Rommie spoke up. "Not an ideal time-frame, but probably the best we'll get."
Beka sighed. "What about your crew?" she asked Patch. "They willing to risk this?"
Patch waved that question off, a broad smile on his face. "Dropped 'em all off on Infinity. Told 'em not to break too many laws and I'd pick 'em all back up in a few weeks, give or take a month or so. The ones that are worth anything will be there when I go back."
Beka ran a hand through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut for several seconds as she thought intently, but finally opened them and nodded reluctantly. "Okay, so we snag some junior officer to play captain on the Command Deck for a few weeks. The rest of us will go off in the Miss Kitty with Patch to – "
"I'm staying here."
Everyone glanced in surprise at Trance.
"Trance, you can't. You're our medic, and I do know enough about Nietzschean slavery techniques to know Harper and Dylan are going to need you."
"Once you've got them off the planet, Andromeda and I can meet up with you in less than an hour if we plot the jumps just right," Trance continued, firm resolve in her voice despite her worry. "And someone needs to stay with the ship. What if something goes wrong? Who will rescue you? Or what if someone decides to take advantage of the situation and attack the Andromeda?"
Beka studied the golden girl closely, wondering if she knew something they didn't, or was just acting on instincts like the rest of them. Finally, she gave up trying.
"Okay," Beka agreed. "At least Rommie will be there for emergency medical procedures. Just make sure you stock the Miss Kitty's infirmary with anything that might be needed, and I mean anything."
"Going, stocking!" Trance called, rushing from the room.
"Everyone else, I think we have just as much work to do," she said, glad to keep working so her mind didn't have to think at the moment. "Let's get busy people."
00000
Harper couldn't recall when during the night it started raining. He just knew that at some point in his mindless, agony filled rocking, he realized the blanket around his shoulders was soaked through and there were drops of water coursing down his face. And it was cold. Flesh-piercing, bone-chilling cold.
Gradually, despite Twig's impassioned pleas for him to live and Marcus's strange words of taunting encouragement, the cold got to him, along with the pain. He rocked less and less, drifted more and more.
In the end, he wasn't even aware of stopping, of sagging to the ground against his tether, of closing his eyes. No amount of willpower could get him through such insurmountable odds. All movement stopped and his mind flew far away.
He never even noticed the small hands that reached out to lift the blanket, holding it up as a shield against the rain.