by Joanna Wylde
“What’s that?” he asked.
“His spinal column,” Bragan said. “Don’t worry, it looks like it’s intact. The rock seems to have sheared right along it without doing much damage. Practically shaved the flesh off…”
Logan stared, unable to stop himself. He had studied anatomy in school, but it was different to see it on a living, breathing person. Then something caught his eye. Right at the edge of the wound, atop the spinal cord, was something metallic.
“What’s that?” he asked. Bragan paused, peering closely into the wound.
“It’s the control implant,” he said softly. “I’m sure you know what they are. We all have them.”
“I know what it is,” Logan said dryly. “At least in theory. They wave the wand at us, we die. Pretty damn simple. What’s it doing on his spinal cord? I was told they were actually implanted within the cord. That’s why you can’t dig them out. But this is on the cord.”
“It’s probably the control unit,” Bragan said, poking at it gently with the tiny metal pincers he was using. “This is what they implant. Then they activate it, and thousands of nano-machines expand out and go to work, spreading filaments through the nerves. That’s why you can’t remove it. Those filaments are braided directly into his nervous system on a molecular level.”
Logan nodded, thinking. Bragan continued his work silently. After a few minutes, Logan spoke again.
“So that little unit is the hub, the processor, right?”
“Uh, huh,” Bragan replied absently.
“So if that unit stops functioning, what happens to the filaments?”
Bragan looked up at him in surprise. “Nothing. They’re still there.”
“But are they active?”
“Define active,” Bragan said, voice filled with dark humor. “They aren’t active any time, unless they’re activated by a control wand. The main unit serves as a control device and the filaments are what directly cause pain or death, depending how the wand is used. The rest of the time they just sit there.”
“Does the wand activate the filaments directly, or does it simply interface with the control unit?”
“I would imagine it interfaces with the control unit,” Bragan said. “The filaments are very simple constructions. They don’t have any processing power of their own. Why?”
“I have an idea,” Logan said quietly. “He’s already unconscious, and there’s already an opening on the back of his neck. I want you to take out the control unit.”
Bragan grew still. Then he replied, very softly.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because everything I’ve told you is hypothetical,” Bragan said, his voice tense. “Just because I’ve speculated on how these things work doesn’t give me the right to experiment on this man. And you don’t have the right to make a decision like this for him. Taking this out could kill him. It could paralyze him, even stop his heart from beating. I don’t know what the hell might happen. There could be a thousand different booby-traps built into the system to prevent tampering. It’s wrong.”
“It’s wrong?” Logan asked, his voice harsh. “Wrong is working to death in a mine on an asteroid that doesn’t even have a name. Wrong is never having sex again, never even eating real food. Wrong is slavery. If we can find a way to get rid of these implants we have a chance at escape. This is the best opportunity to find out if it’s possible that we’ll ever have.”
“And what if it kills him?” Bragan asked, his voice caustic. “We don’t have the right to make that decision for him.”
“Do you know this man at all?” Logan asked, his expression intense. Bragan shook his head. “Well, I do know him. We’ve been bunkmates and we’ve talked. He wants to escape. He has a sister, he wants to get back to her.”
“We all want to escape,” Bragan replied. “And we all have families.” He paused. “Or at least, we did.”
“Yes, but he and I have been discussing escape plans from the moment we met,” Logan continued. “This is an opportunity for him. He may die. He may live. But if he does live and he missed a chance to have his implant removed, I can guarantee that you’ll hear about it. You have to do this.”
“Just answer one question,” Bragan said coldly. “And I want you to look me in the eye while you do it. If I did this, would I be doing it for him or for you?”
“You’d be doing it for all of us,” Logan replied, meeting his gaze with cool certainty. “We’re all going to die here, Bragan. And most of us will die within months, not years. We have a chance to save him, and ourselves. You have to take that chance.”
Bragan closed his eyes without speaking. Then he nodded, once.
“I’ll do it.”
* * * * *
Bethany stared in horror as four of the slaves carried the man in from the mine.
He was covered in blood and black dust. His dark hair was matted with filth, and his breathing was fast and shallow. The guards had warned her that an injured man was coming, but nothing had prepared her for this…
His fellow slaves had found him in the rubble of the cave-in. Blood vessels in his face were broken from the low air pressure in his leaking suit, but somehow he was alive. It was nothing short of miraculous. His partner hadn’t been so lucky. The other man’s body had been crushed almost beyond recognition.
It was the same man who had taken the cart from her, the man with the penetrating stare. But he wasn’t able to look at anything right now.
Bragan, the slave who was also a doctor, guided the men into the storage area where they careful laid the man down on Bragan’s own pallet. The doctor gestured for her to join him, then knelt by the man’s side, carefully checking his vital signs. Standing over both of them was her father, Bose. He stared at the injured man with distaste, and Bethany felt cold fear for the slave.
“How soon will he be able to work again?” Bose asked Bragan coldly. “If his recovery takes longer than two weeks, it’s cheaper to import someone new.”
“It’s hard to know with a head wound,” Bragan said, careful not to meet Bose’s gaze. Bethany studied the doctor’s face carefully, trying to determine how serious the man’s condition really was. “He could wake up at any minute, and the rest of his injuries don’t appear to be that serious.”
Bethany looked at the patient again, then bit her lip. His condition looked pretty bad to her. Bose wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of the slave if it was his cheapest option. The poor man had suffered through so much…he deserved a chance at life. Sudden determination to save him filled her.
“Father,” she said quietly. Everyone around her went still. It was rare for a woman to speak in the presence of men on the station, and even more rare for one to speak to Bose. “I believe this man’s survival may be a sign from the Celestial Pilgrim. How else would this man had lived, if our great leader didn’t reach his hand out to save him?”
She held her breath, waiting for her father’s reaction. Invoking the name of the Celestial Pilgrim, the prophet who had founded their sect a thousand years earlier, was not done lightly. Bose might react to her bold words with rage, or he might be moved by her bravery. His temper was too volatile to judge at times like these.
“How dare you speak of such a thing?” Bose asked her in a startled voice, the slave before him forgotten. “How are you worthy to speak the name of the Pilgrim?”
Bethany thought quickly. Bose was surprised, but didn’t seem that angry. What should she say to him?
“Father, I do not know what moved me to speak,” she said finally, trying to look as humble as she possibly could. “I can only imagine that the Pilgrim himself wishes this slave to live. Otherwise, why would he have compelled me to speak? I have never participated in such discussions before.” She held her breath once she was finished speaking, staring at the floor and murmuring a silent prayer to the powers above her for mercy.
Bose stood silent for several seconds, then glared around the room at the open-mouthed
slaves and guards.
“It is true that you are not one of those women who speak out of place,” he said slowly. “But you are also a sinful woman. Why would the Pilgrim work through you?”
“I do not know, sir,” Bethany whispered, truly filled with fear now. What had she been thinking, speaking up for the slave? Had she lost her mind? Her situation was tenuous enough as things stood…
“I do not believe that the Pilgrim would use a vessel such as you to communicate with his children,” Bose said finally. “But it is truly miraculous that this slave survived. If the Pilgrim wishes him to live, then he will heal him. But if you’re lying, and the man doesn’t heal, then you will die with him. Do you understand me, daughter? We cannot tolerate a woman who would lie about something so important. You have two weeks.”
Bethany breathed a sigh of relief as Bose turned and strode out of the room, gesturing for the guards to follow him. She was left alone with Bragan and the slave. Apparently she was no longer worth guarding, she realized. She’d never been alone with any of the slaves before.
“This man may die,” Bragan said quietly. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”
“How bad is it?”
“If he doesn’t have brain damage or a skull fracture it won’t be bad at all,” Bragan replied. “I have no way of knowing whether he does or not, though. Not without better equipment than we have here. All I can do is treat the obvious wounds and try to keep him from getting an infection.”
“Do you need anything?”
He gave a harsh bark of laughter, and she blushed. It was a foolish question.
“I need all kinds of things,” he said finally. “But I doubt you can get them for me. How about some painkillers? If he wakes up he isn’t going to be feeling very well.”
“I don’t think I can get that for you,” she said softly. “My father has some, but he keeps a close eye on them. He would never give any to me.”
“I didn’t think you’d be able to help,” he replied with bitter humor. “I assume you’re willing to help take care of him, given the little bargain you just made with your father?”
Bethany looked at the doctor and nodded. He looked tired, and a little sad. He had been friendly enough in the days since she had started working with the slaves, showing her supplies and helping lift the heavy trays of food from the communal kitchen. Now his eyes were filled with compassion, and she realized he didn’t believe the man was going to live.
“What’s his name?” she asked, turning to the man again. He hadn’t moved since he’d been brought up from the mines, not even when the doctor had pried his eyes open and gazed at his pupils.
Bragan seemed startled by her question. With a wry smile, he said, “I have no idea. I try not to get to know the new slaves any more, because they don’t last very long. It’s hard enough to survive, let alone waste energy on friends.”
“I know what you mean,” she said bitterly. Bragan lifted one eyebrow questioningly.
“That’s a strange sentiment for a young woman like you,” he said slowly. “Although I’ve noticed the guards don’t treat you with much respect…”
“Why should they?” Bethany asked darkly. “My husband is dead, and I have no children. I don’t serve any purpose here and they all know it.”
“Couldn’t you get married again?”
“No,” she said, closing her eyes against a sudden rush of tears that threatened. “You don’t understand. I can’t have children. My husband had two other wives, both of whom had children. There’s something wrong with me. No Pilgrim would ever take a woman like me to wife, and there’s not much else for me here,” she added. “I was living on borrowed time before this.”
“I see,” Bragan said quietly, looking uncomfortable. Changing the subject, he said, “Let’s get him cleaned up. Want to help? I’m sure he’ll be more interested in a woman’s touch than mine. He might still be able to hear, so you should speak to him. Encourage him to wake up. It just might save your life.”
“All right,” she said, looking uncertainly at the slave. “Hello, there, um…well, whatever your name is. You’ll have to wake and tell me.”
“I’ll make up a second pallet here on the floor,” Bragan said. “That way, if he needs anything during the sleep cycle, I’ll be there for him. You’ll have to watch him while we’re all at work.”
“All right,” Bethany said. She rose to her feet, moving out into the main room to get water. The slave complex was simple in design, a barracks area, a main room, a storage area and two tunnels. One went into the mines, and the other led to the main habitation complex and was heavily guarded. Taking a bucket, she filled it with hot water and grabbed several clean rags. Then she went back into the storage room, where Bragan was checking the bandage on the back of the slave’s neck. He nodded at her, then moved out of her way. Kneeling beside the man, she daubed carefully at his face, wiping away the bloodstains.
“I’ll just move my things out of the way,” Bragan said. “I usually keep them on the shelf right next to my pallet, but if he does wake up and start thrashing he might knock them over.”
“What about his things?” she asked, looking down at the injured man.
“I doubt he has any,” Bragan said with a sad smile. “I’m treated differently because I’m a physician. I’m more valuable than the others, so they let me keep some odds and ends I’ve scavenged around. I have to go now, though. Just clean him up and keep an eye on him. When I get back at the end of the shift, I’ll check him again.”
Bethany nodded, then set back to work. Bragan walked out into the main room. She heard the squeaky sound of a locker opening, then heard him grunting as he pulled on a fresh suit. Within a few minutes, he had disappeared down the tunnel leading to the mine. She was alone with the slave.
“I wonder who you are?” she asked, wiping at the man’s face. His features were becoming clearer as she worked. His skin tones were darker than hers, although his face held an unnatural pallor from his injuries. He had thick, dark lashes, high cheekbones and full lips. There was something about his lips that drew her attention—her husband’s lips hadn’t been like those at all. She touched the bottom one briefly, wondering at its soft feel. Then she shook her head, and blushed at her thoughts. The man was injured, and a slave. She had no business touching him.
She managed to get his face and neck clean, and even sluiced some of the water through his dark hair until it was relatively free of blood. The rest of him presented a problem, though. He still wore the mangled remains of his pressure suit, which had been quickly patched in the mine so they could bring him to the surface. His helmet was already off, but she would have to get the rest of the suit off him before she could clean him up any further. She shouldn’t have let Bragan leave so quickly…
She looked at the suit carefully and realized there was no way it would ever be usable again. Bragan had already pulled the suit apart where it had been taped at the neck. There were other taped spots, too. She might as well cut it off him, she realized.
Bragan had showed her a storage locker earlier that held his limited supply of medical implements. It was locked, of course, but the guards had coded her fingerprint into all the locks when Bose first announced she would be working in the slave complex. Pressing her finger against the plate, she pulled door open and started looking for scissors. She found a pair, re-locked the cabinet and returned to her patient.
Moving quickly, she cut through the suit’s reinforced fabric easily enough. Bragan’s scissors were very sharp, sharper than any she had ever used before. They also seemed to be of higher quality…where had he gotten them?
The scissors blade slipped and cut her finger. For a minute it didn’t hurt, then blood welled up and it started to sting. She stared at it, startled by the pain. Without thinking she stuck it in her mouth, then got up to look for something to bandage it with. The blood, warm and salty, filled her mouth. She wondered if he was in pain, too. Probably not, at least not yet. But he wo
uld be when he woke up. If he woke up… Was there any way she could steal some pain tabs from her father? She’d have to think about it.
She found a small strip of fabric to wind around her finger. She wrapped it tight, and the pain seemed to recede a little. Nothing like a little pressure to make the blood stop, she thought. Time to get back to her patient. She finished cutting apart the pressure suit and peeled to either side. It was still trapped under his body, though, and now she faced another challenge. Underneath the suit his clothes were soaked with sweat and stained with blood—they looked and smelled disgusting, and she knew she had to get them off of him. She would have to cut them off just like the suit. It was a waste of good material, she realized, but if she cut carefully she would be able to salvage some of it. Unlike the suit, it was still largely intact. If she destroyed his clothing, she had no idea what he would wear if he survived. Such cloth was precious…
She started with his right arm, carefully slitting the seam of his shirtsleeve. She took care not to jostle him as she cut, following the seam to his armpit and down the side of his shirt. The rough fabric was stiff with dried blood, hard to maneuver. She finished one side, then carefully cut the seam around the arm and across the shoulder. One side was done.
She moved to his other arm, repeating her actions. Finally, she was able to pull the entire front of the shirt off him. Then, cradling his head in her arms, she lifted his upper torso just enough to slide the filthy fabric out from under his back. Lowering his head again, she rocked back on her heels to look at him.
His chest was like nothing she’d ever seen before. He was banded with strong, lean muscle, the result of his manual labor in the mine, she supposed. Lying against it was a crude necklace, a string holding a shiny round pendant. Lifting it in one hand, she looked at it curiously for a moment, then let it drop. His necklace was none of her business, she reminded herself firmly. His stomach was rippled, and a line of dark hair trailed from beneath his pants up and across his chest. His upper chest was covered in the dark, curly hair, another thing that was new to her. Her husband had been old—she had never even seen him without a shirt, she realized. This man was young, and his body was strong… The sight of him was compelling. She felt her cheeks growing warm.