Introduction 187 had been with the Byter Co. for more then two years. Unlike the Outsiders, he had been born under the ground, raised in the endless black of the tunnels. Unlike the Outsiders and the Rest he had not been enslaved for the first year of his life, he had run into the dark and hid, and only his instincts had lead him back to his mother each night. The mother that gave him to the Masters in the end. He was strong and capable, the only thing that had kept him alive during the first month, but soon he knew the way of the Belt. The Belt was a long sandpaper-like devise that ran down the central tunnel, pulled along slowly by a pulley system, something that the Workers had never even dreamed of seeing. The central tunnel was a wide, stale chasm that branched off into the honey combs that the Workers spent the meager hours of rest before the Masters came to whip them into work once again. Riding the belt were endless piles of broken stone, an assortment that came from somewhere in the depths of the opposite end of the Belt then the pulleys. The Outsiders often grumbled about how much there was, but the Rest knew it was useless to grumble, what was, was, and broken stone was. 187 was part of the Rest, he had been born Below. All day the would sort, the yellow rock that left teeth marks when you bit it went into you sack, as much a part of you as your own arm, and if anyone tried to take your sack you strangled him with his; your life was your sack. The stone would cut into your hands and fingers and leave scars; every Worker's hands glowed white in the dark with scars. The stone would get so heavy in your sack that you would wish so very badly that you could take it off and drag it along, but then someone could steal it more easily. You left the gray flaky rock on the belt for someone else to find, but the soft yellow you snatched for yourself, and you would do anything for it, even kill. For it was the yellow soft stone that you took from your bag when the Masters came, placed in their oily hands when they offered them to you, for it was only for the one who had enough gold did the Masters give food to. Only them. This was done before the Belt stopped and you could crawl back into the tunnels to rest, and if you were lucky, to eat. It was always a debate either to try to crawl as far as you could into those tunnels so the Masters would be longer in getting to you or to stay as close to the central tunnel so they wouldn't have as much time to whip you. This was called Between time. The Masters loved their whips, but the Workers did not. The whips would cut into you back and neck and leave scars; every Worker back glowed white in the dark with scars. The Masters were not kind, but nobody should be. Those who were kind were killed. It was the way of things. Only the cruel and selfish survived, because if didn't think for yourself and only yourself, someone else would, and they wouldn't want to do it a favor. 187 had been working for two years, and hadn't been killed. He knew the way of things. Life was a pattern, in which he must play and his part was chosen for him. It was his mother who had told him this, before she died, but he hadn't known what a play was. He knew what food was. He knew that sleep was. He knew what warmth was. He knew what all the things he couldn't have were, but that didn't make a difference, so why should the play? The Masters did not like it when the Workers talked, so the only time for talking was the Between time, and if one wanted to live, one slept in Between time. 187 had learned this from the Outsiders, Workers who had not been born in Below. The talked to each other in Between time, and on the Belt, and did not live long at all. He wasn't sure he could speak, but it made no difference. He thought in words, and that was enough literature for him. The Outsiders were strange. They looked different, especially when the first arrived. When they first arrived they were often filled with rebellion, talking fiercely and hitting at the Masters, and were killed. Sometimes they made strange noises when they were happy, and bared their teeth. This didn't make sense to 187, bared teeth meant 'leave my sack alone', not 'I am happy.' Happiness itself did not seem real to him. The Outsiders were strange when they first came, their faces lacked dirt and blood, and their clothes were not tattered or stained. It was lucky if you could steal their clothes, for then you could rebandage you hands and knees. The Rest were like him, and they stayed away from the Outsiders. 187 had seen many things in the tunnels, but a Master die he had not. The Masters were invincible, and frightening. The carried their long hide whips with the rock chips weaved into them twisted about their arms, ready for use. When a Master stalked by you kept your eyes lowered on your work, kept your hands busy with the rock and prayed they would pass you by. The Masters were large and powerful, and no one contradicted them. No one even thought of it. They wore heavy clothing and stiff boots to the knee, and never worried about stepping on your feet. The Masters were everything, your provider and your penalty, and sometimes your death. Not only did you quake inside when they walked past, or ran when you couldn't even crawl when you heard them stumping through the branch tunnels, but you prayed even harder to please them, you lived for it. It was the contradiction of these two; to curse or to worship that tore the Workers, and made their lives miserable. Every Worker had a number. 187 didn't know if it was his name, but often in Between time when a wound or hunger kept him awake he would run his finger over it, trace it and treasure it. The brand 187 had been on his upper left fore arm since before he could remember, and he was glad it was faded and pale, the Outsiders screamed and wailed with their bright red ones for days, especially when they fell and it got dirty. It was his; him. That brand. It separated him for every one else, made him unique. Nobody else had 187. He did. He would have given his life to be the only one to have that number. It made him him. 187 woke up slowly, the whip already stinging his back, already breaking into the dream. He hated the whip. Like a coiled spring he was up on his feet and his hands over his face, protecting himself. The thick braided hide was already wet with blood and sweat from other Workers, and his blood ran along it as well. He hunched himself, numb to the blows. The Masters let the whip fall slack and moved on, but when 187 moved forward it came in an arch, cutting deeply into the backs of his legs. 187 knew it was for guarding his face. He stumbled on, eager to please the Master by hurrying. The ache of his limbs and the pain of his new whip wounds only a distant sensation, so often had he felt it. The tunnel was black, as was the world, but his eyes had long since adjusted, and yet still his stiffly cracked fingers trailed along the wall, a habit he had forgotten to correct. He broke out into the central tunnel, already filled with shadowy Workers crouching fearfully over the Belt. He tugged his pack to the front. His sack was a course straw-like material that scratched his skin, a deep bag that hung off his shoulder. Compared to the other tattered rags that were once his clothes, the sack was in good condition, of which he took much pride. He dug his way roughly closer to the Belt, snatching and fumbling for likely looking rocks before they disappeared for someone else to find. He pocketed a piece of lightly glowing yellow and clawed a bot next to him to steal his. The back of his legs stung as his thighs pressed against them, but he hardly felt it, intent on the days earnings. Stamina was necessary. Hours on end of picking up shard after shared, defending him against prying fingers and battering teeth, while still inflicting his own. Just before Between time the activity slowed more or less and 187 relaxed into the dart and snatch of his hand to the quick swiftness of his eye. He would get a good meal tonight. Something was niggling at his attention. He tried to flick it away like he did a flack of gray rock, but it would not. Finally he dropped the stone he was holding and turned to look. It was a boy, but not a Worker. Suddenly all the Belt stopped in silence to stare at this boy. He was dressed in high boots and a stiff hide shirt that looked to big for him. 187 cowered back in fear, it was a Master! But not the right way a master should be, not the right way. The Master looked over the assembled with eyes that resembles those of a boy who found a lump of gray flaky stone where he was sure hid a lump of yellow. His grip tightened on the whip in his hand, and more then 187 flinched as if it were already lashing onto their backs. He saw the Masters throat tighten. With a flourish the Master turned on his heel on walked stiffly toward the pulley direction. 187 turned back the Belt, already intent on the next boys pack. His fingers worked their way quietly and quickly into the woven bag, snatched up two chunks and slid them into his own sack before the boy knew it. He slunk away, wary for dipping fingers like his own. His eye cast over two Outsiders huddled together at the side, looking scared and confused. Fools! Was all he thought, and moved on. Soon the other Masters would be here, he thought eagerly. They will be pleased that I have collected so much! The Masters did not come as soon as he expected, and when they did come they clubbed 187 on shoulder, making him drop his sack. They pawed through it quickly, throwing him a heel of moldy bread and pitching his sack back at him, making him stumble and fall. Gleefully 187 crawled away into the branch, clutching the bread to his chest as if it were his heart. He curled up tightly and chewed it with relish. He rested his head on his knees and fall into a calm sleep. When the Masters whip was laid onto his back he leaped, startled. In one motion he was up on his feet and moving toward the central tunnel, but still the sting sliced his back and neck twice before he was unhounded. He stumbled into the line, already clawing at the pile of rubble. His stomach clenched with hunger, but hunger was the only thing that kept him awake, and he was bitterly glad of it. Luck was not with him as much as yesterday, but the grueling Masters made him steal and fight for his share. He was exhausted and miserable, nursing his hurts on the wall of the tunnel when the weird Master appeared again. 187 watched him with dull eyes. He cowered back, hoping the Master would miss him and not whip him back into the line. But this was even stranger then the last time he had seen him. The Master was not wearing the shiny hide, but a large loose cloak. He still carried the whip, tight in his hand, but in the other one was a thick book and a wooden stool. The Workers stopped work once more to watch him warily, and their eyes were wide with fear of something so different. The Master put down the stool and gathering up his robes stepped daintily onto it. He opened the book, although 187 didn't know what it was, and licked his lips. "My friends." The Master said, his voice very boyish and scared. "I bring you know harm, but comfort. My name is Josef, and though I am to young a be a preacher, my father is, and I would like to-" he broke off uncomfortably, noticing with embarrassment that all the Workers had returned to their work. He began again. "I would like to- hello? I would like to, breach the gape between us… If I may?" he asked hesitantly, gaining no further attention. Another Master roughly dislodged him off his perch and dragged him away. 187 noticed the other Master had not used his whip on Josef, and concluded that whatever Josef was, he was equal to a Master and to be avoided. He licked at his wounds some more before the Masters came to give out food. He showed his meager collections with hope, but the whip swung and he wheeled with nausea. Cradling his pounding head, his tried to limp into a branch, but his insides contracted and he wretched a thin strand of fluid onto the ground, bringing him to his knees. The last thing he saw was a whip handle square between his eyes. Water was being poured into his mouth. Cool water, not warm gritty water that dribbled from the tunnel walls, but fresh pure water. He had never tasted anything as beautiful. The rest of the jug was upended over his head. He didn't know which was better. His head pounded and his body ached, but he didn't mind. For the first time in his life he wasn't thirsty. He wanted to lay and treasure the new sensation, but curiosity made him crane his neck to see who was leaning over him. He saw a glowing white face, alight with joy. It had a mop of brown hair cropped to the chin, and dense blue eyes. Behind it loomed the tunnel, silent and still. Two hands gently cupped around his head behind the ears, supporting it. He slumped gratefully back, but his confusion made him raise it again. It was the boy Master! He trembled at the thought of a Master touching him, but the touch was nice and pacifying. Words were whispering. "Don't move, I have cleaned your hurts, I have more water, I brought food, I have bandages too, I thought you were dead, where do you hurt?" The boys words were a tumble of tension and relief, but 187 picked up most of them. He opened his mouth but wouldn't dare talk, not to a Master! The boy shook his head and held up a leg of mutton. "Eat!" 187 snatched the meat from the boy as he would a lump of yellow. He wolfed it down greedily, not knowing what it was and not caring. The boy bared his teeth like the Outsiders sometimes did. "Here, have some more." It said, offering more bread. 187 grabbed it warily and ate it, drinking also from the flask turned to him. He wiggled back against the wall and started to pick at the funny cloth that was wound around both of his legs, covering the whip slashes. He looked up to the Master guiltily, but the boy was only taking out the thick floppy cloth-like thing he had been carrying before. The Master leaned forward guiltily himself. "I'm not supposed to be here, friend, but I saw you when they hit you and I snuck out some things from the house to take you. You like them?" 187 nodded his head once quickly. The Master bared his teeth again. "Ah, so you can understand me! I thought you could-" 187 gave a small yelp and rolled with reflex instincts into the branch passage, seeing the massive hand the crashed down on the boys shoulder. 187 cowered back into the corner, listening to the loud voices and the crack of the whip. He wondered which whip was cracking. Finally everything was quiet. Slowly he snuck out into the main tunnel, fearfully peeking around the corner. Go back and sleep! His mind told him, put he shrugged it away, what had happened to the boy? Soon he found out. The young Master was sprawled abnormally limp beside the wall. After some hesitation 187 crept closer and laid a clumsy hand onto the Masters brow. He was breathing, but it was thin and shallow. 187 was at indecision. His fear and his experience told him to flee, this was beyond him, but the Master had helped him, gave him food and drink, and healed his wounds. In some strange way 187 felt he had to give that back. A debt. The Debt. 187 grabbed the Master underneath the arms, his mind made up and his fear forgotten. He hauled the heavy body into the small branch and shoved him into a corner. He heard the loud footfalls of another Master come to wake the Workers and scrambled hurriedly into the main tunnels. He fought and stole like mad with the other Workers, his limbs feeling free and stronger then he could have imagined, the cloth bandages clinging to wounds and seemingly making them disappear. He knew a different fear then he had ever before, not just from the Masters, but for the Master in the side tunnel, laying there like a dead man. He ripped some of the tough elastic bandage from his legs and wound them around his hands, protecting them from the sharp edges of the shards. The other Workers fell back and stared at his intensity, but he took advantage of it and wasted away at their strength, thieving and scavenging for every scrap or clump of yellow. When Between time came his sack was large and heavy, and the Masters were pleased. He scuttled into the side passage, praying it was the right one, grasping the loaf of stale bread lovingly. He gobbled a quarter of the food and searched the Masters robe for other findings. He found several flagons of the refreshing water, and a small round of cheese along with two crisp biscuits. He sniffed the cheese and biscuits suspiciously, but drank some more water. He picked up the large book and sat with it curiously, tracing the large capital letters with his finger like he did to his brand. B I B L E. He put the book aside. Kneeling over the Master he dribbled the flask over his head, hoping that the same technique would work on the boy. He dampened a lump of bread with some more and tried to feed it to the Master. He worked and massaged, pouring sparse amounts of liquid onto the face now and then fervently until a gurgle was produced. It was quick work then. He slowly rocked the Master forward into a sitting position, worried that it would hurt his head, he dribbled some more water onto his forehead. "That's…enough for now." Startled, 187 backed away, but came back when Josef motioned him forward. 187 struggled with his voice, he had not spoken in so long! Finally a strange hoarse whisper escaped. After several minuets of working up to it he finally produced a word. "Stay …. Here." He rasped. Josef nodded politely. "Right. Do you have to work?" "Between time." 187 said, the words coming easier now. He coughed in convulsive spasms. He should be sleeping. Instead he took the soggy bread and fed it to Josef. After he gave the boy more drink. Josef raised his hand to stop it. "Leave some for yourself, friend. The day will be a long one." 187 did not know what the word 'day' was, but he did know that the Masters foot falls were sounding in his ears once again. HE motioned jerkily for Josef to lie as if dead and ran away on hands and knees. He felt the whip lash against his bare back and pull along it. He arched in pain, but dug in his heels and kept moving. When he got to the Belt he was already exhausted. Wearily he plucked for pieces of value, but they fell from his shaky fingers. His shoulders sagged with weakness, and his legs sank to the ground. Another hand tugged into his sack, searching for yellow. A sharp blow fell on his ear when the culprit found none. He bent beneath it and lay still. Suddenly a cord was snaking along his body, carving his flesh. He wailed and straightened to claw clumsily at the jagged piles slowly moving away from his grasp. The whip kept at his back, flicking and wreaking pain. 187 took the abuse with muffled cries, fervently scraping at the flaky stone. Where was the yellow? Finally the Master moved on, flailing his whip on another slacker. 187 heaved a shuddery sigh and continued to work. Snatch toss, snatch toss, snatch toss, snatch pocket, snatch toss, snatch toss, snatch pocket… The tunnel rang with the underlying hum of the pattern, it filled the beings crouched miserably over the sliding Belt. Snatch toss, snatch toss, snatch toss, snatch toss, snatch pocket…..He stumbled toward the Master in terror, had he collected enough? He received a whip lash and a crust of bread. Pulling himself into the branch where Josef waited, 187 mouthed the bread, swallowing what he could. Josef's bright and fearful eyes caught him and a whisper broke the tunnels stale air. "What happened? Friend?" 187 hurriedly crept over to him, gathering the courage and the strength to speak. "Whip… fine." He croaked uncomfortably, and Josef tried to reach him, but he shrank back. Josef shook his head. "Alright. Are you hurt?" 187 shook his head, they had no time for this! "Go!" he choked tensely, his gaze flicking to the shadows. Josef cocked his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't quite catch your meaning." "Go!" 187 repeated louder. Josef protested in a fierce whisper. "But I can't, I can hardly move!" It was 187 turn to shake his head in disgust. "No, me too." He summoned his strength to grasp the Master under the arms once again and dragged him along. He did not head further into the branch tunnels, that was not the way out. He scurried along the central tunnel, hoping fearfully that this was the pulley way. His adrenaline pumped in feverish frenzy. This was it! He was leaving Below. Or would get killed trying. Josef did not belong here. His mind raced, he didn't think he had done so much thinking in all his life! The very fact he was carrying a Master, dragging him along the muddy ground was shocking enough, but to think of leaving! Leaving! How could he leave? Below was all there was! But where had the Outsiders come from? With their nice clothes and clean faces and red brands? He had thought of this many times before, and now the yearning to know filled him, gave him the strength to continue. The tunnel flowed by in a blur, never ending. Suddenly 187 perked in startled alertment. Foot falls! He quaked, they had not made it! In a second he swiveled and started hauling Josef into the nearest branch, but his limbs felt like the flaky stone, no good! He pushed Josef against the wall and turned towards the Belt. It was time to work. A word stopped him. "Wait." He turned to look at Josef. "Stay here. Two faked dead won't look any more suspicious." 187 only turned once more to the Belt. That was not the way. He was a Worker. He was a Worker. He had to go to the Belt. It was his life, it was him. Josef watched him go and fell back, defeated. 187 was like a cripple trying to run a marathon. He was swept along with the other Workers, a trained puppet of the Masters. His faith chained him to the sinking ship, and he strained eagerly to please the Masters again, even though his body would not obey. His hand bandages fell to the mud, and the scarred and callused palms ran free with gritty blood, plucking up piece after piece and throwing them back in a rush of monotone routine. The routine of the Workers life. His breath was labored and weak, his eyes a bleary stare, no longer seeing. His arms worked unconsiely in the endless work that was his life. His life. The whip found him more then once, but 187 kept going. He had to. He got no food for his efforts, and only barely managed to get back to Josef at the beginning of Between time. He fell gasping onto the Master, his head a whirl of black and sickness. Then the black won. Above