Joanna Wylde - The Price of Freedom

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THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

An Ellora’s Cave publication written by

JOANNA WYLDE

MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-022-6

Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-098-6

Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), & HTML

Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc. USA

Ellora's Cave Ltd, UK

This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax,

or any other mode of communication without author permission.

Edited by Martha Punches

Cover Art by Darrell King

Part I: The Mine

Chapter One

Damn, he ached.

Jess stared into the darkness above his bunk, willing himself to sleep. His body wasn’t cooperating.

He was exhausted from his work in the mines that shift—fourteen hours of pure hell. His cock didn’t

seem to understand that, though. He was rock hard, and his mind kept filling with picture of her.

He had seen her for the first time a week earlier, pushing a cart loaded with food into the

dormitories. She had been wearing a long, shapeless dress and a head scarf, like all those damn women

did. She pushed the cart with slow, steady steps, refusing to look at any of them. A hundred men starved

for food and sex surrounded her. No wonder she'd been afraid to look at them.

Their guards hadn’t treated her with any respect. Of course, they never treated any of their women

with respect, but this had been somehow different. It was as if she was an outcast even among her own

people. They didn’t speak to her, they didn’t joke among themselves. They looked at her with disdain, as

if she wasn’t worthy to call herself a Pilgrim.

He had known she was different from the others, too. Even swathed in dark fabric, he had felt her

presence across the room. He could sense her, smell her. She smelled like woman, and that first instant

he saw her, he knew he wanted her.

Of course, they all wanted her. They wanted her even though her fear of them was palpable, as was

the fear of every woman who brought them food. Twice a day, one of them would wheel a loaded cart in

to the mass of starved, frustrated, angry men. The women would be escorted by two guards, men who

carried instruments capable of killing any of the men instantly, but the fear was still there. After all, men

under enough pressure will do desperate things, even if it leads to their own death. The women had to

know that…

He had been at the far end of the barracks when she entered, but there was something about her

that drew him to her. Maybe it was the way she carried herself; she was surrounded by a hundred men

starved for a woman's touch, yet she remained calm and poised. Distant. As if she were walking through

a world of her own. He had moved through the ranks of waiting slaves until he was in front of her, taking

the cart and pulling it away gently. She looked up at him, startled by his action. The guards watched in

silence, hands on their weapons, but he did nothing threatening. He simply eased the cart out of her

hands.

Her eyes had been wide with surprise when they met his. They were a brilliant green and

almond-shaped; feline, like a cat. He had felt like he was falling into them. Her face was pale, slightly

dirty, as if she had been working all day. Perhaps cleaning. There was exhaustion there, and a bit of

defiance. She hadn’t ducked his gaze, but met it head on. She might have been afraid of him, but she

wasn’t going to show it.

In that moment, he’d known she should be his. Of course, he had no idea how he’d ever get her.

She was probably married—all Pilgrim women married young. She had to be in her mid-twenties, so she

might even have several children, and a husband who had a right to touch her body whenever he wanted.

Jess’ fists clenched at the thought, and he pushed it from his mind, frowning into the darkness. He didn’t

want to think about another man with his woman. Instead, he imagined what she looked like under her

robes. Her hair was dark brown, he knew that much. Her face was pretty, pale skin, luscious ripe lips.

She was thin, her hands roughened from hard work.

What would her hair look like, loose and hanging around her naked body? He formed a mental

image of her standing before him. Her breasts, high and pert, would peek out between the long locks.

She would smile up at him, those green cat-eyes filled with secrets. She would lick her lips and they

would shine with her moisture. Then she would run her eyes up and down his own powerful, naked form,

smiling at him with a sultry question written on her face. How did he want her? On her knees before

him…under him…riding him?

Unable to help himself, Jess slipped one hand under his ragged blanket in the darkness of the

barracks. Reaching into his pants, he found the long, smooth length of his cock. His eyes closed as his

fingers grazed the head, a tingle of sensation stabbing through his groin. He touched the groove on the

under side, rubbing one fingertip across it. His muscles clenched; he stiffened. The delicate touch was

almost painful in its intensity.

He turned his thoughts to her again. She would kneel before him, and smile up at him with that

peculiar look only a woman could give. As if she existed to rule and serve him at the same time. Then she

would lift one hand and take his cock into her grasp, running her fingers over him. He moved his own

hand against his skin, pretending he wasn’t in a dark barrack, filled with a hundred slaves. Instead he was

with her, and they had all the time in the world…

She gently touched her lips to the end of his cock, running her tongue around the head. He fought to

control a gasp as she sucked his length into her hot, wet mouth. Then she started working her head back

and forth. She raised one hand, firmly gripping the based of his erection and squeezing him in time with

her movements. Her cheeks hollowed with each stroke, the suction of her mouth tugging on him in a

slow, steady rhythm that was mesmerizing.

In the darkness of the barracks, it was easy to imagine that it wasn’t his own hand stroking his hard

length. Instead, she was with him, sucking him, pulling him. Each time her lips slid down the length of him,

the pressure in his balls built a little higher. In his mind, he imagined what it would feel like to pull her up

until she stood before him. He would kiss her mouth with strong, penetrating strokes of his tongue. Then

he would raise her in his arms and thrust his length into the hot, wet opening between her legs. Hard.

He could feel her wet lips, feel himself sinking into her again and again. His hand moved faster,

roughly stroking up and down the length of his cock. He squeezed his fingers, imagining it was the

pressure of her body around him. She would pulse under him, and when her own pleasure overtook her

she would cry out in ecstasy. She’d go wild, muscles clenching his body. He pressed himself harder

against his hand, imagining shooting his seed deep into her body. Again and again he stroked himself and

with each touch the pressure grew until his balls tightened, ready to release. Orgasm hit, and his entire

body stiffened. He stifled his moan, not willing to let the other men know what he was doing. Of course,

it wasn’t as if they weren’t doing the same thing. There were very few secrets in the barracks.

Slowly, the pleasure of his release left him. Once again, he was alone in the darkness. Around him

were the snores, sighs and soft moans of a hundred other men. For all he knew, they were sharing the

same fantasy he had. In all likelihood he would never have sex with a woman again, let alone this woman

he had come to think of as his. Hell, he didn’t even know her name. He was a slave, and she belonged to

one of his captors.

Morning would come all too soon, and with it another day of back-breaking labor in the mines. This

was his life now, Jess told himself firmly. There was no room for self-pity, and there was no room for

obsession with this woman. He closed his eyes and, for the thousandth time, willed himself to sleep.

* * * * *

Bethany pulled the brush through her long hair. Every sleep cycle, since childhood, she had

performed the same ritual. Her mother helped her when she was young. She had always imagined that

some day she would do the same with her own daughters. There were no children, however. She had

been her husband’s third wife, and the first two had given him strapping boys and lovely girls. She had

given him nothing…

Shaking off her thoughts, she separated her hair into three equal parts, braiding rapidly. When she

finished, she stood and pulled off her drab brown dress, hanging it carefully on a peg near her door.

Wearing only her shift, she padded softly across the room to her bed. It was small, and she was often

cold, but she realized how lucky she was to sleep alone. For ten long years she had slept beside Avram,

a man 30 years her senior. Every night, as she had prepared for bed, she had wondered if it would be

one of the evenings when he reached for her. One of the times when he would pull up her shift and thrust

his stiff penis into her unwilling flesh. As a frightened bride of 14 his touch was terrifying; in later years it

simply became unpleasant. She could not bring herself to mourn his death as she slipped under the

covers.

Avram was dead and she had other worries.

She was lucky to be back with her father, and in a way, she was lucky to be barren. She certainly

didn’t have to worry about getting married again. No Pilgrim man would have a wife who couldn’t give

him children. Her father may not be the most pleasant person to live with, but at least he ignored her most

of the time. Of course, he would only keep her around as long as she could make herself useful.

She had almost fallen asleep when a harsh knock on her door startled her awake. She sat up in bed,

breathing quickly. Was she in trouble?

“Bethany, get dressed and come out here,” her father’s voice growled outside the door. “The

council meeting is over and I need to speak with you.”

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” she answered automatically. Her father didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Bethany jumped out of bed, pulling one of her two dresses over her head. She wrapped her braid around

her head in a coronet quickly, pinning it into place and making sure there were no loose strands. Her

father had no patience for sloppy women. He would cane her if he saw a hair out of place.

Opening the door, she walked quickly down the hall to their living chamber. Her father’s apartment

was one of the largest in the mining community; space in the habitation bubble on the asteroid’s surface

came at a premium. The fact that they had so much room was a testament to her father’s influence with

his fellow Pilgrims. Bose had been the official leader of their community for less than a year, but he had

dictated policy long before that.

Her father was sitting in the one comfortable chair they owned, staring moodily at a report in front of

him. His dark, swarthy face was mottled with color, his large nose flushed red. There was a bottle of the

homemade bakrah he loved so much on the table next to him. She came to stand before him, eyes cast

down modestly. He ignored her for several minutes, then looked at her with bloodshot eyes. He was

drunk again.

“The council and I met tonight,” he said. Bethany bit her lip, trying not to do anything that he might

interpret as disrespectful. Bose was violent when he drank; she didn’t want to provoke him. She’d had

ample experience with his temper. He and the council met every cycle following dinner, mostly to drink,

and he often came home in a foul mood.

Bose looked her up and down, an ugly look in his narrow, beady eyes. Her breath caught; fear

washed through her. What was he thinking?

“It was brought to my attention—again—that a woman of your age should be married,” he said.

“But of course, that won’t be possible. Your sinfulness is apparent to all of us. You have no children,

despite ten years of trying with a good man who proved his virility with his other wives. The men are

concerned that you might corrupt their women with your presence. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with

them. Since you came from your husband’s home you’ve been nothing but trouble to me.”

Bethany said nothing, eyes still cast downward. She kept her face impassive, biting back the angry

words filling her thoughts. She had worked hard all her life, yet they all considered her a burden. Even

now her fingers were raw from scrubbing the floor in Bose’s room. He’d vomited there the night before,

leaving the mess for her to clean.

“It was suggested that we expose you,” Bose said, lifting his bottle to his lips and taking a long pull

of the alcohol. Bethany stopped breathing. Exposure would mean death, slow and terrible from

starvation. Assuming they gave her a pressure suit before shoving her out the airlock onto the asteroid's

barren surface. If she was lucky, they wouldn't. At least that way death would come quickly. Would her

father really do something like that to her? “After all, you have nothing to offer us, and it’s a waste of

good food to keep you around. Of course, I hate to think of doing something like that to my own child,”

he added, sighing piously. “But we do what we must for the good of the community. Sacrifices must be

made.”

Bitter fury welled up within her, but she kept her composure. If Bose sensed her anger, he would

hurt her. She needed to stay calm, explore every option. Her mind worked quickly, trying to think of how

to change his mind. She had talked her way out of difficult situations before…

“Then we had another idea,” Bose said. Her heart leapt. “It occurs to me that good women are

being exposed to the slaves every cycle, delivering food to them and caring for them when they’re

injured. Someone suggested that we have you work with the slaves instead. I know you've been part of

the rotation, but from now on you would be in charge of them completely. That way no one will be

further tainted by their presence. I’m inclined to see this as the best solution. What do you say?”

Bethany bit her lip, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t set him off. Working with the slaves

would make her valuable to the council. It meant survival, but she didn’t want to look too eager.

“Whatever you feel is best for the community,” she whispered, trying to look as submissive as

possible. She dared to look at him, and he glared back at her. Bastard, she thought. She’d like to see

him do half the work she did.

“Well, it’s a good solution,” he said. “We need someone to feed them, and we need someone to

supervise their laundry and other womanly tasks. Decent women have been doing the work for too long.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Bethany said meekly. She wasn’t going to die after all, at least not for now.

She could work with the slaves, she thought. They scared her, particularly the one who had taken the

cart from her the last time she was there, but she would have guards to protect her from his intense gaze.

To protect her from all of them.

“Go away,” Bose said, taking another drink. “You’ll start your new work during the next cycle.

You'll follow the same schedule as the slaves. I suggest you get some sleep, because it may take you a

while to get used to sleeping while the rest of us are awake. I don't want you shirking your duties because

you're tired.”

Nodding her head, Bethany moved quickly down the hall to her bedroom. She’d dodged disaster

once again. Her life had been full of such crises since her husband’s death, the first of which had been his

family’s decision to turn her out. She had made it back to her father’s house, and she was prepared to do

whatever it took to survive. Bose and his council had no idea how determined she was to stay alive. She

wouldn’t go quietly. If they tried to expose her, she’d take as many of them as she could with her.

Pulling off her dress for the second time that night, Bethany hung it on the peg. She crawled into bed,

pulling her knees up to her chest and staring into the darkness. She wasn’t going to sleep for a long time;

she was too filled with adrenaline for that. Her life had been in danger once again, simply because she

didn’t have a husband or children. It wasn’t fair.

Bastards, she thought. Moisture welled up in her eye, but she forced the tears back. She couldn’t

afford to show any weakness. She had to be as hard as a rock if she was going to survive.

* * * * *

Jess woke the next morning a few minutes before the bell rang, every muscle in his body tense. He

always woke up like this, ready for a fight. His first sleep cycle in the barracks had been ugly—two men

had tried to jump him. Since then he had slept lightly. The last three months had taught him a lot about

protecting himself from all kinds of attacks.

Rolling out of his bunk, he moved quickly toward the back wall, where a fresher unit designed to

serve ten men at a time was installed. His bunk-mate, Logan, was already there. He nodded silently in

greeting. A tall, quiet man, Logan rarely spoke to Jess—but they shared a certain respect. Jess got the

feeling Logan would cover his back if needed, and tried to return the favor whenever possible. Both of

them slept better for their shared vigilance, and occasionally they discussed escape. So far they hadn't

come up with anything that seemed likely to succeed.

Jess relieved himself, then looked longingly at the sonic showers. Each man was allowed five minutes

a day, and he had long since learned to save his time for after his return from the mines at the end of the

shift. He never really felt clean, but he knew they were lucky to have the showers at all. Apparently the

smell of a hundred unwashed men was enough to overwhelm the settlement’s air filter system, so the

Pilgrims had put in the units to control the stench.

Rinsing out his mouth, Jess strode back into the barracks. At the other end of the long room were

several long tables, formed of plast-crete and bolted directly into the floor. The men were already starting

to form lines in anticipation of their breakfast. The door opened; two guards walked into the room. They

held their control wands before them, evil sticks with the power to kill any of the slaves instantly. Jess

looked at them with hatred, but the guards didn’t pay any more attention to the men before them than

they would pay to animals.

The food cart came in with a rattling noise. They could always hear it coming; one of the wheels was

loose. It was pushed by a woman; heavily draped as usual. But it wasn’t just any woman, it was the

woman he’d seen before. The one he’d dreamt of every night. His senses tingled as she approached. She

walked slowly, carefully keeping her eyes pointed directly ahead. All around her the men watched with

hungry eyes. They lusted for both the food and the body hidden under the folds of her clothing. His

stomach clenched; he didn't like them looking at her like that. Gritting his teeth, Jess walked toward her,

one eye on the guards. He had to get closer.

Her face was startled, wary, as he came and took the cart. His gaze met hers, and for one glorious

moment he was sinking into those cat eyes again. Then she turned away and walked quickly out of the

room, leaving the men to jostle for their food. Noise broke out and the tension eased.

The guards watched in sullen silence as the slaves ate, giving them fifteen minutes to complete their

meal. Jess shoveled the tepid gruel without thought, grateful for the energy it would give him. Then one of

the guards—a fat one they called Sluggo behind his back—gestured with his control wand, and the men

made their way through the open door.

Jess was startled to see the woman in the outer room. She was kneeling in front of the large cabinet

used to store medical supplies. Beside her was Bragan, a physician who had once been a free man. Now

he tended to the slaves between shifts in the mine. Bragan was occasionally excused from working in the

mines, so it was not all that uncommon to see him in the outer room. The sight of him with the woman,

however, startled him Jess. He’d never seen a Pilgrim woman talk to a slave before, yet these two

seemed to be engrossed in conversation. She even smiled briefly at the man. Jealousy filled his heart; at

that moment he could have happily smashed Bragan's skull in. His anger must have been written on his

face, because Logan elbowed him, shaking his head in warning.

The guards didn’t let them linger long enough for Jess to figure out what she was doing. They moved

quickly through the room to a large staging area. Along one wall were lockers containing the pressure

suits they wore to work the mines. Along the other wall—securely locked—were the lockers holding

pressure suits and equipment used by the Pilgrims. Jess had never seen those lockers open.

Each man shrugged silently into his own suit. Then he and Logan took turns checking each other’s

suits to make sure they were sealed properly. A suit failure could mean death. Jess tried to have two

different men check his—the week before one of the slaves had actually sabotaged another man’s suit,

killing him. None of them knew why he had done it, although Jess and Logan had been among those who

had “questioned” him. Shortly afterwards he had perished in a mining accident. Justice among the slaves

was swift and unforgiving.

Within minutes the men were suited. Under the watchful eyes of their guards, the line of workers

trouped out the far end of the staging area. In groups of ten, they passed through an airlock and into the

mouth of the mine. The walls gave way to rock, and the floor sloped noticeably as the tunnel went down

into the asteroid’s surface. They arrived at an elevator, and once again entered in groups of ten.

Jess waited his turn silently, gazing at the rusty, ancient elevator apparatus. Soon he would enter the

metal box, which would carry him deep into the mine’s depths. His partner, a young man name Trent,

stood next to him quietly. Jess could hear his heavy breathing through the two-way radio they

shared—their only way to communicate the entire time they were underground. Last week the radio had

gone out shortly after they started work, and Trent had a panic attack. Jess had to work twice as hard to

meet their quota, while his partner sat and cried. Trent was only 19 years old, enslaved for stealing. Jess

had already come to the conclusion that the kid probably wouldn’t last too long. He wished Logan was

his partner but bunk-mates weren't allowed to work together.

“Come on,” he said, giving his partner a push when it was their turn to enter the elevator. “It’s not

going to be that bad. We’re in one of the upper tunnels today. You can do this.”

“I know,” Trent said. He shuffled ahead of Jess, turning to face the front of the elevator with

slumped shoulders. The elevator door made a screeching sound as it closed, then the car started its slow

descent into the vast darkness of the mine. When they got to their stop, Jess flicked on his helmet light,

and stepped out of the car. Trent followed him, then the car door slid shut with another screech and they

were alone.

“Do you want to drill today, or do you want me to?” Jess asked, looking to his companion. They

traded tasks off regularly, one running a powerful drill to prepare for the blasting the Pilgrims would do

the next cycle while the slaves slept, while the other focused on removing the ore knocked loose from the

previous cycle’s blasts. When Jess had first arrived on the station, the sounds of blasting while he tried to

sleep kept him up. Now he hardly noticed…working at "night" had become normal to him.

“You can drill,” Trent said faintly. “I’ll do the ore.”

Jess nodded his agreement, then turned to the equipment they had left the day before. Picking up the

heavy drill, he hefted it over his shoulder and started carrying it down the tunnel, the cords that powered

it trailing behind him like a long, skinny tail. Normally he and Trent would work at the same end of the

tunnel, drilling and hauling ore together. It was certainly safer that way. But they had been ordered to

separate last week. Apparently their Pilgrims masters were having a disagreement over which direction

they should be digging. Until they figured things out, the slaves were going both ways.

The whole thing—like so many of the situations the Pilgrims seemed to get into—was ludicrous.

They were only accomplishing half as much as they could be, because they had to move the equipment

and start over each day, but that didn’t seem to matter to the idiots. Of course, Jess didn’t really care. All

he wanted to do was work just enough to meet his quotas and stay alive until he could figure out how to

escape. The Goddess alone knew when he would find the chance, but until then he was laying low.

The morning went by fairly quickly, although after six hours of drilling he was getting a headache. He

and Trent had taken several short breaks, discussing their progress each time on the radios. The last

break, he hadn’t heard anything from the kid. Finally, needing a rest from the drill anyway, Jess decided

to go and find him. The radio must have gone out again. Trent was probably catatonic with fear by now,

Jess thought wryly. He just didn’t deal very well with being alone.

The darkness of the tunnel before him was absolute, the only light coming from his head lamp. As

Jess walked down the tunnel he ducked his head several times to avoid overhanging chunks of rock.

Here and there were metal struts they'd put in to hold the ceiling together, although in the three months he

had been working in the mines there had been several times where the struts weren’t enough.

Jess passed the landing area, where the elevator shaft and ore shafts passed through their tunnel into

the mine's depths, then headed toward the far end where Trent was working. At first everything seemed

to be the same as usual. Then he saw the first bits of rubble. Pulse quickening, Jess started jogging down

the tunnel. His path was hindered, then blocked by rock and debris. Boulders blocked the tunnel—a

cave in. With a sinking feeling, Jess realized Trent was probably dead.

Jess keyed the com unit several times, trying to contact the boy. Quickly, he switched his transmitter

to the emergency band, calling his fellow workers to come and help him look for his partner. It would

take several minutes for them to arrive, though, assuming they could convince the guards it was a genuine

emergency. The Pilgrims operated the elevators from above; half the time when the men needed the

elevators, their guards didn't respond. There was some speculation that they slept, although no one knew

for sure. Jess looked at the ceiling carefully, trying to judge how safe he was. The normally solid rock

overhead was cracked and every few seconds a small chunk would break off and crash to the tunnel’s

floor. Not good.

Without warning, several large blocks of rock crashed down within inches of Jess. Reacting

instantly, he turned and sprinted down the tunnel toward the elevator. Behind him rock collapsed with a

roar, the noise muted by the thin atmosphere in the mine. The rock beneath his feet shuddered. How

could he have missed this terrible noise earlier? Was the drill he used really that loud?

He was only halfway back to the elevator shaft when the rock hit him. Pain exploded through his

head, then everything went black.

Chapter Two

Logan tore through the rubble, flinging rocks and debris behind him. It was almost impossible to

hear anything on the radio because everyone was talking at the same time. It occurred to him that if he

found Jess, it would be best to have the doctor on hand. Turning, he grabbed another man’s arm.

Leaning in close, he toggled the man’s radio to a new frequency.

“Find Bragan.”

The man nodded, and took off toward the central corridor. It would be a while before he returned;

the guards at the top weren’t running the elevator very fast.

All along the tunnel, men were frantically screwing new supports into the rock walls. It had been

nearly an hour since the cave-in, and they were all more than aware that another one could happen at any

time. Logan had no idea if Jess and Trent were alive. In all honesty, he didn’t care much about Trent. But

Jess was his bunkmate; he had guarded Logan’s back on more than one occasion. Logan wasn’t going

to leave him if there was even a chance he was still alive.

He pulled a medium sized rock out of the way and a spray of rubble showered down on him. He

jumped back as a larger rock rolled toward him. Then he saw something, a stripe of reflective tape

shining ever-so-slightly through the rubble. It was part of a man’s pressure suit.

Logan gave a cry of triumph, and waved several of the others over to help him. Together they

worked to free the man. Soon they had one arm loose. Following it, they dug toward his head. To

Logan’s relief, the faceplate was still intact. It was Jess. He was still alive; there was a slight clouding of

moisture on the clear plastic in front of his mouth with each breath. But he didn’t seem to be conscious.

The others started working to free his limbs as Logan carefully cleared the rubble from around his

friend’s head. He reached around to the back of Jess' neck, and his glove came back covered in blood.

Jess was hurt. Even worse, there was a hole in the suit. The Goddess only knew if he was getting enough

air…and the odds were pretty good that even if he was, his air tanks were depleting fast. They had to get

him out of there or he would slowly smother in the thin atmosphere.

Logan felt something against his shoulder. He turned at the touch; it was Bragan. The doctor had an

emergency medpack slung over one shoulder and Logan gave a sigh of relief. He toggled his radio.

“His suit has a slow leak and there’s some kind of injury on the back of his neck.”

“I’ve got a pressure tent,” Bragan said. “If you get him free, we can put him in there. It should have

enough oxygen for several hours. We’ll need to keep his neck braced. He might have a spinal injury. If

so, he’ll be paralyzed if we move him wrong.”

“If he has a spinal injury, he’s dead anyway,” Logan said, his voice tight. “They’ll never give him

enough time to recover from that. Where the hell did you get a pressure tent?”

“I have my ways,” Bragan said, turning and setting the pack down. He started rummaging through it.

Within seconds he had pulled out a long, orange tube. He laid it flat on the ground and unrolled it. Then

he activated a switch and the thing started inflating.

“Pay attention to your digging” Bragan said sharply, turning back to Logan. “You do your job and

I’ll do mine. Get him out of there. I’ll get things ready for him.”

Logan turned back to Jess. Holding his head carefully still, he and the others cleared more of the

rubble away. Then Bragan was back, pushing one of the men aside to get to Jess. Following his lead,

Logan helped the doctor lift Jess away from the rubble, keeping his body as straight and stiff as they

were able. It was a token effort, of course. If he were seriously injured he wouldn’t be given a chance to

recover. It was easier for their captors to import new slaves than care for the ones they already had.

The tent was fully inflated by now. There was a little tunnel at one end serving as a primitive airlock.

“There’s not enough room for all three of us in the lock,” Bragan said. “Help me get him in. I’ll pull

him into the tent, and then you can join us. The medpack is already inside.”

Logan did as he was told, trying to gage Jess’ condition from Bragan’s face. The faceplate on the

man’s suit made that impossible. Then the flap was closing and the little airlock sealed itself off. The

pumps kicked in and Logan was left to watch and wait. The little tent was designed to provide safety in

an emergency, but it was far from efficient. A full cycle of the lock would take at least 20 minutes.

Brooding, he turned to survey the scene in front of him. About 20 slaves were there, half still digging

through the rubble to find Trent and the rest shoring up the walls of the tunnel. No sign of the guards. He

assumed they were too frightened of another cave-in to come down and check on their workers. It was

just as well; they might have called off the rescue efforts. The tunnel, seemingly identical to any other

tunnel in the mine, offered no clues as to why it had collapsed. At least he could see well for once—every

man present carried a powerful lantern on his helmet. The helmet had probably saved Jess’ life, although

it hadn’t extended low enough to protect his neck. A small light on the tent’s entrance turned from red to

green, and he dropped to his knees. Time to go and see how Jess was faring.

Ever so slowly the lock cycled. Finally he was able to crawl into the tent. Bragan was kneeling next

to Jess, examining him carefully.

“How is he?”

“The only injury I’ve found is to the back of his neck,” Bragan said. “He got lucky; his suit was

punctured, but the dirt and powdered rock kept it relatively well-contained until you freed him up. His

oxygen levels are good, so that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about for now.”

“So why isn’t he awake?”

“I don’t know,” Bragan said. “But it isn’t a good sign. He’s got a concussion of some kind, and

since the impact seems to have hit him right on the base of his skull, in the back, it could be very bad. His

brain stem could be injured, particularly if the bones in there are shattered. There’s no way of knowing,

though, not without better equipment than I have here.”

“What about his spinal cord?”

"As far as I can tell it's all right," Bragan replied. "We need to roll him over to get a better look. It

will need cleaning, and probably some sutures. There's a risk that we'll cause further injury, but that's a

moot point by now. For all I know he's brain dead. Can you help me?"

Logan nodded, and together they rolled Jess on to his side. Bragan turned the powerful lamp on to

the wound, and Logan hissed. A sharp rock must have penetrated the man's neck. There was a deep

gash and the entire wound was filled with a mixture of blood and dust, as well as tiny scraps of fabric.

"Fortunately I have antibiotics," Bragan said softly. "Their medic synthesizes them himself. He keeps

me supplied. If we can clean this out we may be able to keep it from getting infected. If he's not brain

damaged, he'll have a chance at survival. Doesn't look like it hit any arteries…Hold him for me."

Logan did as he was told, watching Bragan as the man muttered to himself. He pulled a small bottle

of something out of the bag. Liquid of some kind…

"What is that?"

"It's a disinfectant," Bragan said, pulling the pressure suit's fabric away from Jess' wound with gentle

fingers.

"What kind of disinfectant?"

"It's some of that Pilgrim moonshine," Bragan said. "Bakrah. I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut

about the fact that I have it. It may save your friend's life, but I won't have much of it left if the men in the

barracks find out about it. Antibiotics are easy to find, but alcohol comes at a premium."

"Is it strong enough to work on a wound?" Logan asked. "I thought you needed virtually pure

alcohol for that."

"Let me put it this way," Bragan said, a note of dark humor in his voice. "I suspect that most of the

Pilgrim men who don't die from liver disease die from alcohol poisoning. I take some comfort in that,

actually. Think about it a lot…"

"How the hell did you get it?"

"I have my ways," Bragan said again. "You don't need to know."

Logan grunted, and turned his attention back to Jess. Slowly the wound was coming clean. Bragan

had flushed it out; now he was picking out the larger pieces of dirt. He worked in silence for several

minutes, then cursed.

"I need to take my helmet off," he said. "I'm starting to sweat in here. It's hard to see. Can you do it

for me? I've already washed my hands, and I don't want to touch anything."

Logan lowered Jess' body carefully, then reached over and pulled the man's helmet off. He pulled

off his own as well; otherwise he wouldn't be able to talk to Bragan. Besides that, it was easier to see

Jess. He lifted his friend again, and Bragan went back to work. Logan watched, mesmerized by the slow

and patient way the man picked through Jess' flesh. Occasionally he would flush the wound, washing

away the fresh blood that oozed up steadily. Then he saw something whitish, and his stomach heaved. It

looked like…

"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

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