Facedown and bleeding on some dank, cold dungeon floor, Joseph carefully tested his bonds. They seemed to be iron, and heavy as hell's wrath. Not that he could have cut them if they were rope, anyway. His knife was gone, among other things. He'd been stripped naked, and since their 'scientific' exploration of 'geologically interesting rock formations' wasn't supposed to be the way it was now, he didn't have any suitable weapons or tools hidden inside any crevices. Wouldn't have mattered anyway - they'd been in the process of checking them when he'd passed out. Well, this day has been unusually interesting, a little voice in his head told him. It sounded suspiciously like a sister's voice, actually. He told her to shut up, and tried to figure out what the hell to do.
You are way out of your league, liddle bro. Told you watching Star Trek would be good for you. But nooo, you had to STUDY for the NAVY ADMISSIONS EXAM. Nyaaahhh.
"Ayda, be quiet," he wheezed out. The effort used made his ribs hurt even more.
Either I've gone off the deep end in the metaphorical instead of the physical sense, or sibling voodoo actually worked. Neither option was much better than the other. Where the Hell am I?
Way, way past the deep end of trouble. The pain, as well as the other sensations, were too clear for this to be a dream, fever, or even a really really bad science fiction movie. They - they? Who the F-ing Hell are THEY - had killed Frank and Paulo. Okay. Either this concussion is worse than I need it to be, or I've been dumped into an old flash gordon serial. I need to think. I need to stay awake. I need to put whoever said aliens didn't exist six feet under the daisies, and that's impossible at the moment.
Joseph dragged his torso into up into a sitting position, then stopped thinking long enough to catch his breath. This is not happening. He had to think. He had to gain control of the situation. Facts. I need to figure out what the facts are, and what's from blunt head trauma. It was hard to think when he could feel himself bleeding to death, but the blood was not visible in the pitch-black in the cell he'd been literally thrown into.
Paulo. Sweet mother mary, some of the blood he was smattered with was Paulo's. Where the hell was that pistol from? Firearms in a full-sized submarine was bad enough, but which idiot actually brought a rusted antique like that one into a narfed-up 3-man mini-sub? Right. So that meant the gun was already here. Think, man - oh. All that stuff on the walls. A redneck alien, complete with mounted weapons and taxidermy for decor.
The leader - that was obvious - had looked like the WWF's Undertaker in a b-grade 50's-style movie evil emperor suit. Complete with corpse for atmosphere. That old woman, poor thing. She had to have been a prisoner, unless 40-plus pounds of chain was the local fashion. Half the people there had been chained like death row inmates being moved - only thicker chains, what appeared to be heavy medieval iron. And had their heads badly shaved. The rest wore cleaner clothes and hair, and a few with helmets had light armour and pointed weapons at him. Added were the dozens more of - things - people? - that had swarmed the sub and dragged it down way past it's safe diving limits into an abyss. How had they gotten him out of the sub?? He could not remember. And why hasn't the pressure here killed me the way it did Frank, and Paulo was dying - before having his head blown off. Shit! He could feel the pressure, all around him, but for some completely unknown reason, he was still breathing. Sortof. He was badly hurt from the fighting. They were a mean bunch, definately. Instantly obeying orders, no discussion, no vote. The fellow in charge . . . Ming, was it? In the old movies? Might as well call that freak the evil emperor Ming for now, It's not like he spoke english to know. Wait. That green-haired kid near Ming - the boy attached to the wall. He had hair, longer than anyone else there. And if he wasn't chained in gold I'll eat my shirt. Oh. Yeah. I'm not wearing a shirt. Even prisoners of war are allowed clothes. It's damn cold in here.
The report that came from this would get him into the psych ward for sure, complete with a nice white coat that kept him hugged all day long. Medieval Aliens living a mile down under the Pacific. Ayda would think it hilarious, no doubt. She knew tons about places that didn't exist and things that didn't really happen. The room chose that moment to tip around him and he crashed back to the floor, winching and coughing and hurting more than any sort of training had prepared him for. And he'd trained hard, too. Don't pass out you bastard you'll die from that last blow you can't even sit up you've got to focus you need to stay awake I refuse to die in this black smelly hole I'm not going to die until I'm at least 80 and warm in bed focus on something. Ignore the pain. Push past it. Figure out how to get out of here and tell the boat there's a alien madman Ming down here who obviously enjoys killing for pleasure who's got more soldiers than satan - they must have gills, they had no breathing equipment, but there's air in here so what gives? Lord there was so many big black-eyed aliens at once they've destroyed the mini-sub. How the hell do I get back? The boat will be back in 12 hours - 14 when it left, we were out for just over 2 then the spear-spiked fish people appeared and smashed the hull in.
The radio - he tried to remember - had they gotten the call out - no. Frank had been saying something about no power to some part - fishies probably smashed it first thing. They must have some brains in them, to keep air contained, especially this far under. He sniffed experimentally before stopping to hack and spit out the bloody snot, then he carefully felt his nose. Not broken. 'mazing. A careful breath in, the sting of blood and pain. No helium? I can't tell. They couldn't keep it breathable otherwise - It hurts too much to try to talk. That's probably a good thing. I saw Ming with that pistol. Don't think about why he left you alive. You're not going to spill anything.
Especially your lunch. It's looong gone. Crud, the door! The creak and groan of the heavy, solid iron door as it was pulled out and slid aside was enough for almost a second's warning that the light was returning, but he didn't dare close his eyes, and he wasn't physically able to move a hand to shield his vision. Laying prone on the wet rock, his head was the furthest from the screech-rumble of slightly rusted, but greased, metals. Fully expecting it, he braced for trouble. Arguing was clearly audible outside, but the language was not a recognised one. It sounded close to the one in the throne room, but not quite the same. Two of Mad Ming's guards came in, business end of their spears touching his bare feet in warning. Then another came in, and set down a tray with a large bowl and pile of cloth. The second one hung up a iron-wrapped lamp - Open flame! Were they planning on burning him up in here? No, there isn't anything else in the cell, and wet rocks don't burn outside of the Old Testament. When they saw he was not going to move, the second one left, but only for an instant. He returned to throw in the green-haired boy that Joseph had noticed before, but now his tattered rag of a dress was soaked in blood, as was the boy's face. A snarled command from the first one, and the boy cringed where he lay curled up. The guards each gave Joseph a emphatic jab in the heel, and left. The door thudded heavily behind them.
This can't be good, he thought.
**** **** ****
Carefully, I braved a sniff under my hand to the stranger. He wasn't moving. He was barely breathing, and the stench of new blood was strong in the many old cell odors. His smelled different than Eliea's. More metallic. Nervously, I tried to look at him, and instantly I had to retreat against the stranger's pain. This really was a problem. If I gave anyone the idea that I might have even the slightest ability to sense others, what the Master might want to do with me was horrible beyond comprehension. But if I didn't take care of his wounds, he would die, and what the Master would do to me THEN was just as terrible. But I didn't know how to keep his pain from my head - I'd feel it just as long as he felt it himself, and I had to look at him. Suddenly I brought my head up, shocked into moving. If I could keep him from hurting, could I keep from feeling it myself? Bracing against the unavoidable, I carefully got to my feet. The stranger's eyes opened a little wider at the sound of chains, fresh blood glittering slightly in the dim light, and his breathing deepened. All Things Holy! He was as frightened of me as I was of him! I knew then that I had to help him. Even if it meant my own life - I was sure I'd be dead soon anyway, and if even one soul remembers a friend after their death, their soul stays free. This injured man who huddled before me in agony might be the only one who'd say a prayer for me - it wasn't like my family would be given the news of my death. So that was that, I decided. I'd endured pain as great, and Eliea had helped me survive. Slowly, not wanting to startle him, I moved back until I was kneeling beside his collapsed body. I picked up a cloth and dipped it into the bowl - I could smell a mild antiseptic soaked into the cloths. Wait - something was wrong - I smelled the bowl. The water was unholy! Why would someone collect condensation, instead of just taking some of the sea's bounty - then I remembered. The Master had ordered the same for me when I was first here. As part of the shaming, I was denied good water and only given fresh for days. It had made me quite ill. 'If you want to drink,' I carefully signed to him in childspeak, 'you can't have this. It is better to be thirsty than swallow this.' Then I began to clean his body, pressing the filth out of the cuts as gently as I could before wiping the pus and clotted blood away. It was hard to sign and clean at the same time, so I told him nothing until he wasn't quite so filthy. There was little I could do for the way he smelled, with only the bit of bad water and that was needed to flush his wounds. I couldn't do a thing for his nakedness, but I placed the largest cloth down on the floor and helped him to sit up on it. He was quite light, really. 'Your bones break easily, I'll wager.' It was a safe assumption, the way the bruises looked, he had cracked several fingers, split his forehead, and at least four ribs had been broken, plus things that only Above People had inside them, although I had no idea what those things might be. He didn't give any indication of knowing what I was telling him, but he watched me intently for all the long time it took - more than an hour, I would guess. He had said nothing all that time, and signed even less. He did not push me away or resist the bandages, however, though I'm sure the cleaning stung his wounds. 'Dry Lander. Do you understand?' He just watched me, silent but for labored breathing. I tried again, using the most polite words I still knew. 'Above Person. I ask if you know what I say to you.' I could sense that he didn't understand any of my meaning, but he recognised that the signing was an attempt at communication. His pain wasn't quite as bad, but he was still dizzy and exhausted. And thirsty - he was trying not to be, but the lost blood was too much to ignore. 'I would not have let you drink that. You would be sick!' I signed to him, then began to tie up the wounds that I could. There wasn't many cloths, not enough for even half the cuts. 'I would set your strange light bones if I knew how, Above Person. They feel stranger to my hands than any I felt before. Hard and brittle.' I sat back on my heels to examine him. The remaining guards had argued strongly as to which ones had to enter the cell with me (The High had stopped us halfway, ordering the other guard to make me walk, while he took up Eliea's body and carried it off to a place I did not yet know). Apparently this slender stranger had injured two handfuls (the Master's guards cannot count well, they are not allowed to learn) of the gilled soldiers, and a few might soon die from the wounds. Even if all three strangers had been healthy and fighting, that was still a large number to injure. Some strange weapon, maybe, they had used? No. The Master would not have had a trophy from his wall brought down to shame them if some mighty new weapon had been taken from the strangers. My wits had kept me safe thus far, but I didn't know how they would help me any longer. As long as the stranger was here, my use had ended. Well, no need to die just yet - I had before me a person who'd obviously been through more than I ever had, the strange things from the Dry and unholy lands that he'd seen . . . Both of us were cautious but curious. His eyes flicked between my shackles and his, and he hadn't stopped staring at me the whole time. Nervously, I reached out my hand - his eyes opened much more at the sight - and touched his hand. The fingers were even longer than mine, but straight out without connections past the palm. They were Above People hands, just as the images had shown, in pictures from books that had fallen to our depths, and from the glowing marvel. I found him as strange as he did me, it seemed, and he carefully felt to see if the webbing was real, the pad of one finger tracing the extended skin from one side to another. It tickled! His curiousity swelled into outright fascination, and - pain! - reached for my other hand to compare. I wanted to tell him about it, how it was better when I was healthy, how I was tended to on the Master's orders. My hands and feet were part of my display, and had to kept to acceptable conditions. I couldn't sign to him while he held my hands, even though his grip was gentler than most had, besides, he obviously could not understand childspeak. How was I to tell him how to behave, how to stay away from beatings, if he didn't know what every child in every realm was taught? His grip tightened slightly, for a heartbeat, as he saw the narrow, stitched- over scar on my wrist. I didn't flinch. I'd accepted since I had given it to myself that it was not my decision as to when I would be dying. He let my hands go then, and leaned back to stare at my face again. A raspy sound, and he made words vocally. I didn't understand any of it. The feelings I could sense were fading. He wasn't in any less pain, at least I didn't think so, but he was growing calmer, and the connection was fading. Why calmer, I wondered, then - oh no! 'Please don't die,' I signed to him, 'You need to live, at least until I am killed. I don't want to be beaten again, and I will be if you don't live as long as the Master wants.' He repeated his words, this time, pointing right at me. I backed away, concerned. What did he want? I didn't know, and I was worried.
**** **** ****
This isn't working, Joseph thought with a sigh. He doesn't seem to understand english, and I can barely speak. Ok. Think. Greenboy here could be an ally. He's important, right? Packing around what has to be almost 50 pounds of what looks like gold - even if it's chains - has to mean something. He's the only prisoner here with hair. Lots of hair. Thick green strands were bound into over a dozen cornbraids, and they reached to his waist. The braiding extended around the brace on his neck - those slits have GOT to be gills - but he's breathin' air right now! Maybe his nose connects to a set of lungs like the creature from the black lagoon, and the gills are separate. None of the others inside have gills. I think - and down, wrapping the heavy choker in their weaving. And webbed fingers. Toes, too, probably. When the boy had been turned to the side, Joseph could see that the hair also grew out of the back of his neck, just at the end of the slitted area, connected to the mottled green-bronze skin right down to the middle of where his shoulderblades would likely be. Oh, neat, Joseph noticed, there doesn't seem to be any ears on the kid.
Neither the lack-of-ears or green braids were the feature that had first caught Joseph's attention. The greenboy had HUGE eyes, almost all iris. Probably has great nightvision, the way they reflect back the lamplight. Creepy, though. Right out of an animé flick for size. Who is he? Only green-haired one there - wait. Think. All the ones chained to that wall - each one was different looking, and some seemed right out of a comic book.
Holy Shit! They were being kept on a riser like they were pets at a show! Dogs! Is that what this kid is? Some semi-human pet on a leash? He was scared spitless of me . . . maybe he's a deaf-mute. Whatever he is, an even hundred says that he wasn't hanging around Ming by choice.
Worry poked up in his mind. What the hell is that Madman going to want from me? There wasn't any questions asked, at least not yet, but he had all our equipment brought in with us, even the busted chunks of the mini-sub. If that Dictate wannabe thinks I'll play dog for him, to be part of some collection, he's in for a rude surprise.
All he needed was a plan. And a weapon, and a way to get away afterwards now that his ride was smashed, and some clothes. And a drink, he was going to pass out soon if he didn't get some fluids into him. Well, try and try again.
"Kid," he rasped out, winching at the pain in his sides.
Greenboy looked up from the corner he'd crawled to.
So you can hear me. Good. After not figuring out that I was asking for your name, you had me worried.
"Think you can talk the goons into bringing me a bottle of beer?"
Blink, blink, went the boy's huge green eyes. They almost looked feminine - except there wasn't any eyelashes. And the boy was too thin to be female - no chest, for starters - and even his baby sister had the light padding under her entire skin to round off the muscles and bones. The boy was almost a walking skeleton in a green suit.
Joseph, frustrated, pointed at the door, then motioned drinking from a cup. If he can't get something as simple as that! . . .
Greenboy looked between the door and Joseph a few times, visibly worried, then got up and walked to the door, tapping it with the thick shackle on his wrist. The sound barely echoed, the door was so thick and heavy. Yup. Flippered toes too, looks like 3 long ones. Weird.
The sound was enough, it seemed, because a moment later, the door was hauled open and a spear just about made the boy a shishkabob, except for the fact that the kid was already facedown on the floor, kneeling. Definitely at the bottom of the pecking order. Poor kid. He can't be more than twelve, at most.
A non-stop glare aimed at Joseph's location, and a growled set of sounds. Slowly sitting up - his face still aimed towards the floor - the boy made a few gestures, and the guard snorted, then called over his shoulder to another.
Joseph got his drink, a large bowl of clean, if stale-tasting, water. At least it's not salty. In this place, I wouldn't put it past them. Soon, he had emptied it, using the last to wipe his face and wet a cloth which he kept in his hand, hidden on the far side of his body from the guard. The boy returned the bowls, again kneeling face to floor, and the door closed with its heavy thud. "You can get up now, I won't hurt you," he said, his voice a little clearer from the drink. It might be a bad idea to have anything by mouth, he was probably bruised if not bleeding internally, but he didn't care too much by then. "Let's try again, eh? Since you don't seem to have a name, I'll just tell you mine. Joseph. I'll also give you my rank and serial number, but that's about it."
The boy just looked at him, sad. Then he made more gestures, their meaning lost on the Naval officer.
'Unholy water is bad, you must not drink it, Dry Lander.' The child stopped suddenly, stared for a moment, then made his guesturess more rapidly than before. 'You took it all - willingly - unholy water flows from the Dry Lands - can you take fresh?'
"Don't know a word, boy. Sorry. C'mere." He made what was to him a 'come' motion. It must have meant the same to his new friend, because Greenboy crept over and sat down in front of him.
Joseph held up the wet cloth he'd commandeered, and handed it to the boy. "For your face. You don't look to be cut, but if it's that old lady's blood, it still shouldn't be spread around. What did she say, to make Ming so angry?"
The boy stared blankly at the cloth for a moment then back to Joseph's face.
*Sigh*
Joseph took the cloth back from the webbed fingers, and gently held the child's hair while wiping off the green-tinged skin. The boy held totally still, not even breathing through his odd-shaped nostrils until Joseph was done and had let go.
Then the kid did something that made every hair on Joseph's entire body stand on end. The boy shook his hair.
He didn't shake his head, or use his hand to move the braids.
The hair moved by itself.
The braids Joseph'd held when washing his face were writhing, the attached parts twitching and the loose ends waving back and forth like drunk little snakes, independent of the others. It was followed in less than a blink by the boy's abrupt scramble to the farthest corner of the cell, facedown again. His entire skinny body was trembling now, shivering. His hair had stopped moving, however.
"No wonder Ming has your hair grown out, a trick like that. Holy."
His cellmate didn't budge from the imitation of a small, round rock.
"Hey, kid, don't worry, I didn't turn to stone. I won't call you medusa or nothing. Hey, kid, don't do that, I won't hurt you if you don't try it to me first. Calm down, no tears, I don't like boys that bawl. Easy, kid, easy. Jeezus, I'm wishing Ayda was here to deal with you, she's into that strange stuff. She's a few bricks short of a wall, though, so maybe not."
No change.
"Want me to just shut up? Sorry, can't, I don't want to pass out. Death is not an option. The first duty of a prisoner is to escape, right? If you're not going to be able to help - and I really doubt it, you're like a whipped puppy around those freaks - then you need to stay out of the way. I don't like killing, and I'd rather avoid doing that to a kid. Deal? You stay out of my way, and I'll leave a.s.a.p. Deal."
He stopped shaking. Did he understand me?
**** **** ****
He said something I knew. I knew some of those words, I'd heard them on the glowing marvel back home. I'd hung onto the memory because it was about getting away. The stranger wanted to escape. Why tell me that? Maybe because he'd figured out I can't speak vocally. I would not tell on him anyway! And the last sound - he said it twice - I knew what that meant. He just asked for a pact. Oh Vast Holy Waters. He wanted to get out of here. Did he want me to help? I was so confused! I stopped to concentrate. He was shocked when I'd thanked him - did he not know a Sep'ath'nai when he saw one? Was that why he had stared so much before? But - he let the link back? That has to be by the choice of the other, right? - I can't remember! Why does it flash on and off like it does? I am a cripple, I should feel no link, ever again. Why is this Dry Lander different? Are all Above People linked like that? I didn't know, there was so much I didn't know. No. I knew one thing. He DID want to get away from this place. What was that - that thing he was thinking of? A way to travel, with others like him, air held in small metal things, other places - no. It can't be. Would he take me away? Take me home? Kill me? I decided then and there that it didn't matter, as long as I was away from the Master and his troops. I was already sentenced to death if I stayed. Slowly, I looked up at him, not afraid. 'I will go with you. They know me as broken. I give my pledge to you, stranger, that I will find what you need to get away. I remember a little from the books I saw as a child. Some of the prize taken with you, it has what you need to live under the water, yes? I will do all that I can to get it, and to get you away. I was not, am still not, able to go far enough fast enough to get away. But if your metal whale-ship you thought of will be out there, I will try to bring you to it. You are certain that finding it will mean getting away, so I will go with you, and follow the wishes of the fates in whatever comes afterwards. Eliea spoke of a link, we have a connection that has never been before - and you are of no mind to be a toy of the Master's. If I am the other half of the prophesy, then *I* must be the link.' I got to my feet, aware even with the sensing of him fading again, that he didn't know my meaning. It didn't matter. He intended to leave. I intended to help him. He'd figure it out, soon enough, and this bewildering new sense of purpose (back then, I did not even know what to call the strange emotion) was better, far better, then feeling nothing but fear. Straightening my hunched-over back for the first time in many years, I stood before him with a visible attempt at confidence. 'The world has shifted,' I signed to him, with a small attempt at a smile, 'and it will never be as is was. I will keep my vow.' I walked to the door, glancing back at him once, and tapped again. I knew I would look very foolish if I was not let out, but I was too dizzy with the newness of it all to care. I barely managed to hunch over again, looking meek again as I should, before the door fully swung open and the guard's armoured boots stepped into my view of the stones. With a grunt, the guard took my chain and let me walk out.