The Price of Freedom

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 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 would 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.

Unable to control her curiosity, she dropped one finger to his stomach, trailing it along the line of hair. His skin was soft, but the hairs were stiff and wiry. The sensation was intriguing; she flattened her palm just above his skin, allowing the tiny hairs to tickle her hand as she moved it. A shiver went through her, and for some reason she felt tense. She snatched her hand back from his body, stood up quickly and picked up the bucket. It was time to clean him.

Moving as efficiently as possible, she wiped down his upper body. It was hard not to touch him with her bare skin, but she managed to keep the rag between them the entire time. His arms were thick with ropy muscles, his stomach tight and hard. Just looking at him made her feel dizzy. All too soon, his upper body was clean. Time to deal with the rest of him.

She looked speculatively at his lower body, still clothed in filthy trousers. She was going to have to cut those off, too. Stifling a sigh, she started cutting carefully along the right seam. As she moved down the length of his leg with her scissors, his flesh was revealed. Like his arms, his legs were thick with muscles, and small dark hairs bristled against the backs of her fingers whenever she touched him by accident.

She finished the seam, then moved around to the other side of his body. Once again she attacked the rough threads of his garment, determined to preserve the fabric. She would wash it and stitch it back together for him.

When both sides were cut, she gathered a deep breath and started to pull the fabric off his limp body. Fortunately, she was able to get the pants off without moving him too much, although she did have to reach one arm under his back to lift his lower body slightly. She kept her eyes averted from his genitals, embarrassed by how much she wanted to look at him. The air was chilly, and before her eyes small bumps rose on his leg. He was cold, she realized. She needed to get him covered.

She looked around the storeroom and found a blanket, folded neatly beside the pallet Bragan had made up for himself. She brought it back out to her patient, and draped it across his upper body and groin. In doing so, she couldn't help but notice the smooth length of his soft penis. Even at rest, it was much larger than her husband's had been. What would it look like fully aroused, she wondered? A shiver passed through her at the thought. Blushing, she forced herself to look away. Then she attacked his lower legs with her water-soaked rag.

His feet were huge. That was her first thought—so much bigger than her own. Her husband's had been smaller than this, too. This slave was tall, she remembered, from when she'd seen him the barracks.

Much taller than any of the Pilgrim men. Around each ankle were vicious scars. The manacles used to restrain him must have caused them, she realized. She trailed one finger along the ridge of twisted skin, a mixture of old, white scars over-laid with newer red ones. He had suffered a long time. She shuddered, thinking of the pain those scars represented. Don't think about it, she reminded herself. There's nothing you can do about that. It's just the way things are.

Both feet clean, she started working her way up. His calves were lean and tight. The tiny hairs bristled at her touch as she washed him. The further she moved up his body, the more mesmerizing she found her task. His skin was smooth, but still much rougher than hers. She shivered, wondering what was wrong with her. It was hardly cold. She felt hot and restless. If anything, she wanted to loosen her collar and get some fresh air.

By the time she reached his knees she had grown short of breath. There was something about the feel of his skin that made her feel almost lightheaded. Each muscle in his leg was sharply defined; not an ounce of extra skin to be found anywhere.

All too quickly she reached the point where she had to move the blanket aside, exposing his groin.

She tried not to look at his penis, moving briskly and efficiently. But her eye kept catching on it, and she just had to find something out…was it as soft and smooth as it looked? Glancing behind her quickly to make sure no one had magically appeared to watch her, she touched the length of it. The skin was incredibly soft. Much softer than she would have dreamt possible on a man as hard as this one. It was longer than her hand, and she allowed her fingers to drift down the length toward the smooth head.

Tracing the flared tip, she realized that it was changing slightly. He was hardening under her touch, and she jerked her fingers back in horror. But when she looked at his face, she realized he was still completely unconscious.

Of course, touching him was wrong, but when would she ever have another chance like this one?

For all she knew he would never wake up again. And if he didn't, she would be dead in two weeks.

Startled by her own daring, Bethany reached toward his penis again, lifting it gently with her fingers. She stroked it up and down several times, and was rewarded by the sight of it growing longer and harder under her ministrations. To her fascination, the head turned dark red, and then a small bead of moisture welled from the tip.

She was feeling fluttery, her breath coming quickly. Under the harsh fabric of her tunic, she could feel her nipples peaking. They were so sensitive that they almost hurt as she leaned further across the man to examine his face. The fabric of her dress was intolerably rough. She shook her head, trying to regain control of herself. But instead she leaned in closer to his face, studying it. It remained completely blank, but his lips looked so soft and inviting she couldn't prevent herself from wanting to touch them again.

Without pausing to consider her actions, she lowered her lips to his, kissing them gently. She brushed against them once, twice, then sat up and pulled the blanket over his body. Flushing deeply, she took a few deep breaths and sat back on her heels.

She knew what she had done was wrong. She sat there, examining her feelings for a few minutes, and realized that she didn't regret her actions one bit. In fact, just thinking about touching him excited her in a way that was totally different from anything she'd ever felt with her aging husband. This man was young, and strong. He was sick, but he was still more interesting than any of the Pilgrim men she'd ever met. Saving him had been the right thing to do. A sensation of calm came over her. Whatever happened in two weeks, she wouldn't regret her decision.

It took more than an hour to ferry all three carts of food to the barracks at the end of the slaves'

work cycle. It would be cold by the time the men came in from the mines, but that didn't really matter. It was still food, and they would be hungry. She had their dinner ready and waiting by the time they arrived back from work, escorted by several Pilgrim men she had known in her childhood. Of course the men didn't even bother to acknowledge her presence now. Several of the slaves looked toward the storage room with vague curiosity, but none seemed inclined to go over and visit. They seemed too tired to care about their fallen comrade.

Bragan came over to check on him as soon as he pulled off his pressure suit and stowed it in a locker. She could see the fatigue in his face, but the doctor still took his time while checking his patient over. Bethany searched his face anxiously for some sign of what to expect.

"There's no real change," Bragan said, sitting back on his heels. "He's dehydrated, though, and if he doesn't wake up soon he never will. Of course, if we had even the simplest of equipment here I could do something about that, but I don't even have a way to get fluids down him as it stands."

He sat back and sighed heavily. "I'm too old for working in the mines. Usually I don't have to do the heavy labor, but they've got me substituting for him right now." He gestured toward the man with his chin.

"I'm going to get my food now. Is it all right if his bunk mate visits him for a minute, before the lock they barracks down for the sleep cycle?"

"Sure," Bethany said. She stood and stretched tiredly. "It's been a long day. You must be eager to sleep."

"That's the truth," Bragan said. He stood and walked out of the room. A few seconds later a tall, muscular man with deep black hair came in. His face was streaked with dirt, and he scowled at Bethany.

She shivered, and suddenly realized she was alone with him. His eyes roamed up and down her body, stripping her naked, then looked away from her dismissively.

"How is he?" he asked in a low voice.

"Bragan doesn’t know how he's doing," she replied. To her disgust, her voice cracked. There was something about this man that scared the hell out of her, but she stood her ground, watching as he knelt beside the man and touched his face with surprising gentleness. Then he stood again and walked out of the room without speaking. Bethany exhaled heavily, and sagged against the wall. It was all too much, she thought. Far too much for one day.

She shook herself, then turned to her patient and made sure he was tucked in for the night. She went back out into the main room and started hauling the empty food carts back to the kitchen. The few men who weren't in the barracks watched her with blank eyes as they patched their pressure suits and checked their equipment. Finally, her work completed, she watched in silence as the guards locked the men in. Then, walking behind them as a good woman should, she made her way out the main door of the slave compound and into the tunnel connecting it to the main habitation bubble. Another cycle was over.

That night as she slept, she dreamt again and again of the man's injuries. Each time they were slightly different. At one point, his leg was crushed, and he was crawling toward her, one hand outstretched and pleading for help. Another time he was blind, stumbling through the mine, trying to find her. She tossed and turned as dream after dream hit her, buffeting her with their intensity. Every time his injuries were worse and she never managed to help him. All the dreams ended the same way, though. Her father, leading a group of Pilgrim guards, would drag them to an airlock. The doors would slide shut and the air would be pumped out with a wheezing, hissing sound. Then, their lungs bursting within them, she and the slave would die.

Chapter Three

One cycle after the mine collapse

Logan had trouble sleeping that night, his mind spinning with possibilities. If removing Jess' implant worked and Jess survived, they had a whole new hope for survival. If Bragan could remove one in an oxygen tent in the mines, he could remove more. They could escape.

He forced himself to stay in his bunk, conserving his energy despite the restless tension that filled him. When the wake-up sounded, he jumped to his feet. Time to find Bragan. The doctor came into the main barracks to get his food a few minutes later, and Logan pulled him to one side.

"How is he doing?"

"He's doing great," Bragan said. "He woke up in the night. Seemed a little confused and in a lot of pain, but I managed to get some water into him. I told him about the implant, too."

"What did he say?"

"He was glad we'd done it," Bragan said, wiping one hand across his forehead nervously. "Started talking about escape right away, about rescuing his sister. I was relieved to hear it, I have to admit."

Logan nodded. No point in rubbing it in.

"How long was he awake?"

"For about an hour, on and off," Bragan said. "He woke up several times during the night. We've decided that we'll keep him 'unconscious' for several days. That way he'll be completely free to listen and spy on them without any suspicion. He'll report what he finds out through me, and together we can come up with a plan."

"That's great," Logan said, grinning fiercely. "I want you to take out my implant today. We'll switch partners in the lift. I know someone who owes me a favor. He'll cover for us."

Bragan stared at him.

"I won't do that," he said. "It's completely irresponsible. For one thing, I'm not a surgeon. We don't even have any anesthetic. There's a good chance I could kill you!"

"I don't need anesthetic," Logan said coldly. Bragan laughed.

"You think you’re pretty tough, don't you?" he asked. "Well I won't do the surgery without some way of sedating you. You think you don't need any pain killers. You're wrong. Even the slightest movement during the surgery could be disastrous, and then I'd have a body on my hands. Not only that, you need to be able to work the next day. There is no way you'd be able to do that without some kind of medication. Even with medication, you'd be doing well to be up and walking around."

"How did you get the alcohol?" Logan asked. "Wouldn't that work?"

"It's a very poor substitute and I doubt I could get any more," Bragan said. "And what little I do have needs to be saved for emergencies"

Logan smiled at him, baring his teeth.

"I think you should reconsider," he said. "I know what I'm capable of handling. Life could get very unpleasant for you if you refuse to help me with this."

Bragan shrugged.

"Life is already very unpleasant for me," he said. "And you can't force me to do anything.

Remember, if I don't like you all I have to do is agree to the surgery. You have no way of controlling what I do inside that tent. I could have you dead in seconds, and don't think I wouldn't do it. No anesthetic, no surgery."

"What about the girl?" Logan asked suddenly. "She seems to like you. Can you convince her you need pain medication for Jess?"

"I do need pain medication for Jess," Bragan said. "And I've already asked her about it. She says she can't help, but I'll keep working on it."

"Do that," Logan said. "And be prepared. If we're going to do this, you'll have to operate on all the men eventually. And we'll have to do as many as possible before the escape attempt. I'm starting to put a plan together, but we'll need Jess on the outside to help us. That means we have less than two weeks to pull this off…"

Third cycle after the mine collapse

Beth brushed out her hair and braided it quickly before leaving her room. It was strange, getting used to her new schedule. She was waking up just as everyone else got ready to sleep. But in many ways she enjoyed that. The less she saw of her father, for one, the better.

She was early, but she needed to get breakfast for the slaves before they left for the mine.

Fortunately she wasn't responsible for actually cooking it—that was done in the communal kitchen which served most of the station. Still, carting enough food for a hundred men took quite a bit of time. She was also eager to check on her patient. Would he show any improvement after resting?

For the past three days she had checked him carefully each morning, wishing desperately to see some sign that he might wake up. He was getting painfully dehydrated; at least that's what Bragan told her. She actually thought he was looking quite well, given his situation. According to Bragan, there was little hope for him if he didn't wake up within the next day. Her hands trembled momentarily as she raised a hand to open the apartment door. If the man died, would Boze have her killed immediately? She glanced around the room. It was bare, gray, anything but comfortable. At the same time, it was her home. Would this be the last time she saw it?

As she stood there, a woman padded softly out of Boze's room toward the fresher. It was Moriah, a young widow who worked in the kitchens. Beth stared at her, shocked by her presence. What had she been doing there?

Moriah seemed equally horrified to see Beth. She was caught, and she knew it. Regardless of Boze's stature as station leader, Moriah's punishment for being caught in his apartment would be terrible if she were discovered. Beth tried to think of why the woman would do such a foolish thing. Moriah raised one hand tentatively, pushing a lock of black hair behind one ear. She fingered the side of her neck softly, and then Bethany saw it. An ugly bruise, red and new, circled Moriah's throat. A wave of nausea came over as she realized Boze had forced the girl.

Walking quickly across room, she silently took Moriah into her arms. The woman trembled; silent sobs shook her body.

"He says I have to marry him," she whispered into Beth's shoulder. "I don't have a choice. He says I could be pregnant already, and if that happens while I'm unmarried we all know what will happen to me."

There was nothing to say, so Bethany simply held her a moment longer. Then Moriah pushed away from her and wiped her eyes.

"We need to get to the kitchens," she said. "I'm supposed to help prepare the slaves' meal tonight. If I'm late, someone might suspect. Will you help me leave? If you can check the corridor to make sure no one is out there, I can slip away…"

"Of course," Bethany said quickly. "I'll check for you."

They crept softly across the room, and Bethany opened the door. She stepped out into the corridor and looked carefully each way. No one.

"It's safe to come out," she whispered, and Moriah crept out behind her. Quickly, the younger woman scuttled down the hallway toward her own apartments. She had a child, a daughter less than a year old, Bethany remembered. Hopefully someone she could trust had been with her. Another wave of nausea came over her as she realized it was entirely possible that Moriah had been forced to leave the baby all alone. Forced to do so by Bose, her own father.

She started toward the slave complex to pick up the food carts. It was better not to think about these things. They were entirely out of her control. The day guards were still on duty, lounging outside the main entrance to the complex. The men had been locked in the barracks the cycle before, so there was no reason to leave anyone stationed in the main room or the mine. The two men opened the locked and barricaded doors for her without comment, closing them behind her with a loud, clanging noise.

She made her way quickly down the short corridor into the main room. To one side was the tunnel leading to the mines, but all she could think of was checking on the slave. Opening the storage room door, she flicked on the light and moved quickly to his pallet. Bragan groaned, rolling over to cover his eyes with his arm.

"Couldn't you knock first?" he moaned.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean to startle you. How is he doing this cycle?"

"He's fine," Bragan muttered. "I'm going back to sleep. I've still got several minutes before I need to be up and I'm going to use them."

She nodded, and stepped over the sleeping man to check on the slave. His name was Jess, she reminded herself. Bragan had told her the cycle before. Calling him by name was infinitely better than "the slave". He was lying in the same position she had left him, looking so weak and pale that it scared her.

How could he still be alive? He hadn't had any food or water for days, yet when she checked his pulse; it was still strong. She gave a sigh of relief for that—she had at least one more day to live. She shook her head, clearing away the morbid thoughts, then stood and left the storeroom.

There was no time to waste. She had to get the carts to the main kitchen. They would wake the slaves in less than an hour, and the food had to be ready for them. Pushing the first of the three large carts, she made her way back through the main room and down the corridor. The guards let her back through the re-enforced doors, and she walked briskly toward the communal kitchen area.

Unlike her father's apartment or the slave complex, the kitchen was a sea of activity. All around her, women and young girls were chatting and laughing together as they cleaned up from the last meal of the day. The kitchen was usually like this, at least as long as the kitchen supervisor, a stern and humorless woman named Magda, wasn't around. She usually left just as the evening meal was being served. For many of the women—Bethany included—hours spent in the kitchen following that meal were the most pleasant on the station.

She didn't have many female friends here. She had left so many years ago to be married that few of the girls she grew up with were still around. Most had moved to various other mining stations to be with their husbands. As a widow without children, she didn't fit in the rest of them. Some of them scorned her, but others looked on her with kindness. She might not have friends, but certainly she wasn't among enemies in the kitchen. At least not in the evening, when the younger women worked.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Moriah. She was wearing a high-necked tunic which completely covered the bruises Bethany knew were on her neck. Moriah shot her a quick smile, and Bethany gave a sigh of relief. If someone had caught her sneaking out of the apartment she wouldn't be smiling.

Pushing the cart over toward the big kettles at one end of the kitchen, she steadied it as two of the women poured nutritional gruel into the large tubs. As soon as they were full, she headed back with the cart. It was heavy now, but she didn't allow herself to think about it how hard it was to push. She still had two more trips to make before she ate her own breakfast, and then it would be time to wash everything again.

She was back. Jess forced himself to lay utterly motionless, in the same position he had been when she left him earlier. It was hard to ignore the smell of the hot food she had wheeled into the main room.

Her name was Bethany. Her presence had filled his senses from the moment he'd awakened three days earlier. Everything about her seemed beautiful to him—amazing. Bragan seemed to have no appreciation for the beauty of her name when he'd mentioned it, yet Jess repeated it to himself over and over like a mantra. Bethany. He loved her clean smell, loved listening to the soft songs she would hum as she cleaned and worked. He also loved the occasional touches she gave him, checking his forehead or wiping his face as he feigned sleep.

Bragan said she was an outcast among her own people. He seemed to feel she could be trusted, and the story of how she'd saved his life was certainly amazing to Jess. Still, he wanted her to believe he was unconscious for another day. The longer he was incapacitated, the more likely he was to learn valuable information. Bragan had often tried to spy on the guards at night, but he was too tired to stay up much.

Fatigue could kill a man in the mines. Jess' injury had given him the perfect excuse to rest all day and plot all night.

He waited quietly she wheeled the heavy carts of food in to the men. He could hear their activity.

Fifteen minutes to eat. Then they were pouring out of the barracks and suiting up for their work in the mine. Another day, just like all the others before it.

Bragan stopped in, followed by the woman. Jess lay still as he took his pulse, then spoke to the woman.

"He seems to be stronger," Bragan said cautiously. Jess held back a snort of amusement. He was better all right. Last night he and Bragan had talked for an hour, planning his slow process of "recovery"

and the escape they hoped would follow. In all honesty, he was still weak. But there wasn't any reason he couldn't have gone back to the mine in a day or so.

Instead, they were going to keep him out for almost the entire two weeks. It was a delicate balance.

If he were too sick the Pilgrims would give up on him. But he couldn't go back to work until the last minute. He needed every moment of precious freedom to plan and plot the escape. If things went well, he would be free in less than two weeks. Free or dead.

Jess was relatively certain that if he could come up with a decent escape plan, the men would follow him. Logan was covering his end; already they had ten volunteers who wanted their implants removed. If everything went off just right, that might be enough. They were willing to risk death to get out. But up to this point, no one had been able to find an avenue of escape that had even a chance of success.

He was determined to do it, or die trying.

The men had left for the mine now. She was moving around in the room, and he could hear the rattling of the carts. He was so damn hungry—Bragan had promised to leave him some food in his locker. He had to wait until the men were all in the mines and she was gone to get it, though. The carts rattled again, and he could hear her washing the trays. It seemed like forever… he imagined the tiny bits of porridge left on them, being washed into the station's recycler. They would be used again, perhaps for dinner that night. But he needed food now…

Finally, she finished. She loaded the carts up and then rapped on the outer door. The guards on the other side opened it, letting her out. He heard the door slam shut, and slowly raised himself from the pallet.

Opening the door slowly, he peeked out to make sure the room was empty. It was.

He crept over to Bragan's locker. Nothing. He pawed through the contents, and then he found it.

Damn, but the man was resourceful.

There was an empty blast casing, the type the Pilgrims used to form the plastic explosives used in the mining. They were careful never to allow the slaves access to the explosives, of course. All the blasting was done during the slaves' sleep cycle.

But the forms they used sometimes got lost. There was a bounty for returning them, an extra ration of food at night. But many of the slaves kept them, using them for other things.

Bragan had filled this one with porridge.

It was cold and gelatinous. It wouldn't flow out freely, so he dug his finger in, digging at it and stuffing it into his mouth. Nothing had ever tasted better in the history of time. Nothing.

All too soon it was gone. Bragan had warned him he needed to be cautious about over-eating, and his stomach was full. Hunger satiated, he was suddenly aware of the low, painful throbbing in the back of his neck. There was nothing they could do about the pain. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to ignore it.

Quickly, he cleaned out the empty tube and put it back in Bragan's locker. They would need it again that night.

He crept back to the storage room, uncertain of how much longer he had before she returned. He needed to find a way to time the guards' movements during the work cycle. The bastards had to have a weakness, and Jess was going to find it.

Bethany ate her own small bowl of porridge in the kitchen. The kitchen crew was cleaning up the last of the main evening meal, as well as preparing special food for the blasters returning from the mine.

They worked in two shifts, blasting by day and guarding the slaves by night. Of course, the elders, such as her father, weren't directly involved in the mining efforts. That would hardly be appropriate for their dignity. There were also groups who traveled between settlements, and a very small number who traveled to Discovery Station, where the ore was processed.

Eventually, even that small bit of contact would be curtailed.

The cost of the ore-refining equipment was very high, but for a decade the elders had been saving and planning for the day when they could start their own refining operation. Then they would be able to send shipments directly to the central temple on Karos, where the Celestial Pilgrim himself had lived. All part of some glorious plan she had never been worthy of sharing, she thought darkly. How many women like herself had spent their entire lives working in service of that plan? Did any of them every really understand what they were working for?

Her train of thought was broken when someone sat down beside her. It was Moriah. The girl smiled at her nervously.

"Thank you for your help earlier," Moriah said quietly. "I hope you don't mind me sitting with you."

She looked unsure of herself, almost as if she were afraid Bethany might stand up then and there to accuse her of immoral behavior. Bethany smiled, wanting to ease the younger woman's fear.

"It's nice to have company," she said softly. "I grew up here, but I left when I was fourteen. I don't feel like I really know the people here anymore."

"Yes, I remember hearing that your husband had passed," Moriah replied. "Was it terribly hard for you? I felt like my life was over when they told me Ger—my husband—had died in the mines. I was seven months pregnant…"

"I'm so sorry," Bethany said. She could see the girl was still troubled. It was hard to understand why a woman would be sad over losing a husband. Then again, not all husbands were like Avram had been…

"I take it you had a love match?"

"Yes," she replied softly. "I was betrothed to his older brother, but he died before we could marry. I practically grew up with Ger. I fostered with his family after the betrothal. I hate to admit it, but part of me was happy when I heard his brother was dead. I don't think I could have stood living so close to Ger as his sister-in-law…I guess I should just be glad for the time we had."

"Was he a blaster?" Bethany asked. Setting explosives in the mine was one of the most dangerous jobs on the station. Unlike other dangerous jobs, it couldn't be given to slaves. As an elder, her own father had managed to avoid working the mines for many years.

"Yes, a blaster," Moriah said, her voice trailing off. "I never thought things would turn out like this,"

she added in a bitter voice.

Bethany nodded. There was nothing else to say. Her father had hurt this woman and would probably hurt her again. There was nothing either of them could do to prevent that from happening.

They sat without speaking for several minutes. Finally, her food finished, Bethany set down her spoon and looked intently at Moriah.

"I realize I can't help you much," she said quietly. "But I just wanted to let you know that you aren't totally alone, here."

"I realize that," Moriah said smiling at her shyly. "It's good to have a friend."

Bethany nodded. They shared a situation, and now they shared a secret. It was good to have a friend.

Jess lay quietly. He'd been resting, and listening, all day. One time she’d nearly caught him. She'd been cleaning out in the main room, and had abruptly walked into the storage room to get something.

Fortunately, he had just returned to his pallet after getting a drink of water. If she caught him up and moving the game would be over.

It was easy enough to track movements through the area during the day. There were very few visitors. The blasters wouldn't come through until the slaves had returned from the mines; to Jess'

surprise, there didn't seem to be any regular guard patrols. Just two men who stood outside the slave quarters, and those stationed at the head of the mineshaft.

Of course, the slaves were usually far too tired to do anything that might upset their captors in the first place…

A plan was starting to take shape in his mind, but he still had quite a few details to work out. He had realized not long after he'd first arrived that it would be relatively easy to overpower the guards watching the mine if their slave implants were out of commission. While armed, they were vastly outnumbered.

Their communication equipment was poorly maintained. Failures had become commonplace, and no one gave it any thought if they fell out of touch with each other. If he and the other slaves could jump the guards one by one, no one would notice their absence for an hour or more.

But once they got rid of the guards, they faced a whole new set of challenges. There were only two ways out of the mine. One was with the ore, which ran on a large conveyor up and out to the transport ship, where it was loaded and taken to the processing plant. Unfortunately for the slaves, the conveyor ran through the same area that housed much of the equipment used to produce a protective force shield over the settlement. It kept them from being destroyed by other asteroids. But the base equipment also produced a disruptive electro-magnetic field that would kill any human who came too close to it. The entire system had to be powered down before it could be serviced. There was no way they'd be able to get out that way. Of course, if they could disable it somehow… So far, he hadn't been able to come up with a way to do that.

But their other option, the main doorway, was a great deal more promising. It was locked from the outside, and guarded by two men. The tunnel was narrow, designed so those two men could defend it easily against a large group of escaping slaves.

Assuming those men were paying attention to their duties.

But every time Bethany went to the doorway and knocked to be let out of the slave quarters, he noticed that they took several minutes to respond. What were they doing? He suspected they abandoned their post regularly. After all, it had to be incredibly boring to simply stand guard at the end of a narrow tunnel day in and day out. That boredom could make all the difference for the slaves as they tried to escape.

Yes, there were possibilities all right. It wasn't time to give up and die just yet…

Fifth cycle after the mine collapse

"Can I have some water?" Jess whispered as she came into the storage area at the beginning of the next work cycle.

She gasped, and dropped the bucket she carried.

He was awake.

She realized Bragan was sitting up next to him, smiling.

"Look who woke up during the night," Bragan said, waving an arm toward Jess. "I'm out of water, though. He needs more and I have to get ready for work. Can you help him?"

"Of course," she said, eyes lighting up.

The sudden relief was incredible. She felt light, almost giddy, so excited that she could hardly think.

He was awake, and he was going to live.

She was going to live, too. Until that moment, she hadn't quite realized just how much she wanted to.

"Water," he whispered again. She laughed, and pulled herself together.

"Of course," she said. "I'll be right back with water for you."

She turned and hurried out to the main room. He would have to drink water out of the sink. Foul stuff, compared to the filtered drinking water they drank in the main compound. She'd always assumed the slaves got filtered water, too, but if that was the case, she didn't know where it came from. All she'd been able to find was water straight from the recycler, the kind she only used to clean at home…

None of that mattered. He was alive.

But he wouldn't be for long if she didn't get some fluids into him. He must be terribly dehydrated.

Not to mention hungry. With that thought, she realized she was already running late with breakfast for the slaves. And if she were late, they would be late to start their work for the day. Perhaps more likely, they might end up having to work without food. That was no good.

Moving quickly, she brought him the water. He leaned up feebly on one arm, but wasn't able to take the cup himself.

"I'm sorry, but I'll have to help you with this in a few minutes," she said. "Otherwise no one will get their food. I'll be back soon."

With that, she darted back out of the room and headed toward the entrance.

She had to get going with those carts.

He had made a tactical error, Jess thought. He'd wanted her to help him drink the water. It would maintain the fiction that he was still desperately ill. More importantly, she would be forced to touch him.

He wanted her to touch him very much…

He had listened to her, watched her movements as much as possible, all day yesterday. Her smell hung in the air around him. Her skin was pale, very white. It looked creamy and clean. He wanted to know if it tasted as good as he thought it might.

He liked her voice, too. It was soft, and she liked to sing little songs as she cleaned. They sounded sad to him, and he wondered what her life was like. Was her husband good to her? A wave of resentment washed over him. He didn't want to think about her husband..If she had one, it was likely he'd be killed during their escape attempt. For a brief moment he hoped he might be the one to kill him.

Hardly the way to win her affections, he thought wryly.

He could hear her coming back. First there was the screech of the outer door opening, and then there was the rattling noise the food cart made as she pushed it. A moment of silence, and the door screeched again. She would make the same trip three times, bring enough food for a hundred men. And the guards wouldn't lift a finger to help her—they never helped the women.

Finally she came for the third time. This time, there were others with her. They joked and laughed among themselves. Noises in the outer room grew louder, and Jess realized the night shift—the blasters—must be passing through, finished with their work. Blasting had ended quite a while back, though. Why had it taken them so long to come up from the mine? He had no idea if this was the normal schedule; the slaves were never allowed out until after the blasters were gone, and the entire complex was locked tight.

The noise died down, and then a new noise began. The main door to the slave barracks was opened, and suddenly the bustle of a hundred men preparing themselves for a day of work flooded the air. The barracks were fully sound-proofed, he realized. Interesting…

The door opened suddenly. He barely managed to drop his head in time, and for one minute he thought she'd caught him sitting up.

"You're safe, it's just me," Bragan said. "I've come to check on you. She's very excited that you're awake, you know…and concerned," he added with a laugh. "She wanted to make sure that I helped you with any 'personal' needs you might have before I leave for the mine."

Jess looked at him, startled. Then a sly grin stole across his face.

"I hadn't thought about that," he said slowly. "This is going to be even better than I thought," he said quietly. Bragan gave him a stern look.

"She's a sweet little thing," he said. "I have to admit, I like her. I don't want you hurting her…"

"I don't plan on hurting her," Jess said. "But remember, she's one of them. And they're the reason we're here. Don't be getting too soft on her just because she's a woman. If we're going to escape this place, people are going to get hurt. Some of them may be women, you know."

"I know," Bragan said. "And I understand what you're saying. I want to get out of here, too. But we're a long way from any kind of successful escape attempt. And remember, you're the only one who doesn't have an implant. We still need to figure out how we're going to be dealing with those, too…Logan wants me to do the surgery. I can't do anything without some kind of pain killer, and she insists she can't get any."

"I have great faith in your abilities, Bragan," Jess said. "You managed to get it out of me without killing me. I'm sure you'll be able to do the same for the others when the time comes."

"And suppose we pull this all off," Bragan said. "What am I supposed to do? There's no one to remove my implant."

Jess stared hard at him.

"We'll find a way to get you out too," he said. Then he grinned. "Look on the bright side. We probably won't survive the escape attempt. Don't borrow trouble, Bragan."

The doctor snorted, then looked to the door.

"I need to get going," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, all things considered," Jess said. "My head still aches, and I don't have all my strength yet. But I'm doing considerably better than you'd think"

"Well, try and pretend you're in terrible pain today. I want her to be worried about you, so worried that she'll risk stealing those pain meds," Bragan said. "Before I go, do you want me to help you with your 'personal needs'?" he asked, grinning. Jess glared at him in response.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I'll take care of myself."

"Just don't let her catch you doing it."

"I know what I'm doing," he replied. "You let me and Logan worry about the escape. You think about the best way to remove the implants."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Bragan replied, his tone turning serious. "Otherwise we're all going to die here."

"We're going to die here anyway," Jess said quietly. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather die fighting."

The slaves had eaten and were starting to put on their suits by the time she was able to get back to Jess. He looked so pale and weak…At least the bandage on the back of his head had stopped oozing.

Bragan said he would need to continue using the antibiotics for the next two weeks.

"How are you?" she asked softly as she came into the room.

"My mouth is dry," he whispered. "I can't drink by myself."

"Didn't Bragan come in to see you?" she asked. "I thought I saw him in here."

"Yes, he did," Jess replied. "But I'm thirsty again. Can you help me?"

"Of course," she said, kneeling next to him. Her breath caught, and she blushed. He was still naked under the covers; she was going to have to touch him. Not that she hadn't touched him before, but this time he was awake and alert. It was totally different.

"Can you raise your head at all?" she asked.

"No," he said, his voice thready. "My neck feels so weak. And it hurts. Bragan says I nearly died."

"Yes, you did," she replied. "It was horrible when they brought you up from the mine. I was sure you were dead."

"Can you lift my head a bit so I can drink?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers. They were dark blue.

Her breathing stopped. He was so handsome, better to look at than any man she'd ever met before.

Without thinking, she raised her hand and pushed his black hair away from his eyes. He gave a feeble smile, and she smiled back. Even the scruff of hair along his chin was mesmerizing.

"Water?" he whispered again. She started in surprise. She'd forgotten all about the water.

"Sorry," she replied, feeling a hot blush start up her cheeks. For some reason she just didn't seem to think very well around this man.

Now, how to do this? She was going to have to raise him, and support his head somehow with her arm. Otherwise the water would just choke him.

"Bragan tells me you don't have any paralysis. You're lucky," she said, leaning over him. He nodded, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Moving carefully, she rolled him to one side and slid her arm under his back. She lifted a bit, allowing his head to rest against her shoulder. It worked; he would be able to drink now. But his cheek was pressed squarely against her breast…

She grabbed the water with her other hand, roughly sloshing some of it onto the floor. He didn't seem to notice, she realized with relief. Instead, he drank deeply as she held the cup to his mouth, lifting his head slightly as he did so.

Even though the cloth of her dress separated his body from hers, it felt as if a red-hot brand were touching her chest. She knew she must be blushing brightly. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be noticing.

He was focused on the water.

Then his head sank back against her softness. She started to lower him, but he spoke.

"No, I want more water," he said. "But even this is very tiring, and I'm in a lot of pain. Can I just rest for a moment?"

"Of course," she said, feeling guilty. She'd been so eager to get away from his touch that she hadn't even thought of his needs. Some nurse she was turning out to be.

They sat there like that for at least five minutes. At first she was tense, but he seemed to be completely unaware of the inappropriateness of their position. He might be naked, she reminded herself, but only because he's so sick. She must be some kind of pervert for reacting so strongly to his body.

Why, he could be no more interested in her than a newborn baby was interested in its mother, she told herself. He needed food, water and care. She would provide it for him. If she did a good enough job, they would both survive this ordeal.

He was breathing slowly and steadily against her breast. Was he asleep? It seemed strange that he would drop off so quickly, and while he was thirsty. On the other hand, he did have a serious head injury, she reminded herself. Probably maintaining consciousness even briefly was difficult for him. She looked down at him with interest. He certainly seemed to be asleep.

She should really lay him down and get back to work.

But his breath against her breast was warm. Not warm, hot. She could feel his heat penetrating her clothing each time he exhaled. Her nipples hardened in response and she felt a tingle of sensation start right at the tip. Giving in to temptation, she closed her own eyes and leaned back against a storage unit, still holding him cradled against her body.

She told herself she was just taking care of him. She knew she was lying. Each breath sent a new tingle of sensation winding through her. They started at the peak of each breast, then shimmered down through her stomach toward that secret spot between her legs. Oh, it was wrong. He was sick; he wasn't even conscious. But just holding him was so good she couldn't make herself stop.

Feeling very daring, she raised her free hand and touched a strand of his hair. It was soft, and would hang around his shoulders when he was upright. Of course, she knew that from before. But somehow seeing it so close was different. Each strand was like silk. Bragan must have been helping him keep it clean somehow, she realized. She rubbed the lock of hair between her fingers. It was thick…what would it feel like to stick her fingers into it? She shivered.

He gave a little moan in his sleep. Guilt washed over her.

The poor man was probably in pain. His neck was injured; there was a terrible wound on the back of it. What kind of sick person would hold him this way and cause him more pain?

Moving carefully, she lowered him to the pallet. He was difficult to maneuver, and at one point she accidentally pressed both breasts against his face. He moaned again. Such suffering… She felt so bad for him. Perhaps she could find a way to steal some painkillers like Bragan had suggested. They were locked up, but still, she owed it to him after the way she'd hurt him.

Leaving the cup of water next to him, she stood and brushed herself off.

She had work to do. And when she finished, she was going to find him some painkillers. It was the least she could do, under the circumstances.

Jess gave a moan of relief when she closed the door behind her. Touching her was heaven and damnation all at once. The softness of her breasts against his cheek was the most wonderful thing he'd felt since he'd come to this hellhole. And when she'd almost dropped him she'd crushed his face against both her breasts. It had taken everything he had in his body to keep from reaching his arms around her, pulling her down to him.

Of course, his neck still hurt. He was weak. But he wasn't dead.

She was incredibly naive. She had no idea the effect her touch had on his body. No one could have missed an erection the size of his under the blanket, yet she had been oblivious. It was a good sign; she may not be a virgin, but she wasn't used to a man's body. That meant she probably wasn't married. It had been a long time since she had had sex, if ever.

One less person for him to kill, he thought darkly.

Because if she did have a husband, he would kill him. Of course, if their escape plan worked he'd have to kill a lot of the Pilgrims. This was about survival. But killing Bethany's husband would have been more.

He reached down under the blanket, feeling his rock-hard cock. He was swollen, close to exploding. It was a mixture of exquisite pain and terrifying pleasure to be near her. Hopefully she would be checking on him regularly during the day, he thought with a grin. He had a feeling he would be very thirsty, and he would need a lot of help with his slow recovery. A part of him—the part that used to be human rather than a disposable life on a mining station—reminded him that he probably shouldn't manipulate her like this.

Fortunately, that part of him was no longer in charge. She was all his, whether she knew it or not.

Chapter Four

Stealing the painkillers was much easier than she'd thought it would be. Just as she was waking the next cycle, her father came home drunk. Within seconds, he was bellowing at her to find "something to make his damn head stop hurting." She had her excuse.

There were a few pain tabs in fresher, but she quickly pocketed them and went out into the living area. Careful to keep her eyes downcast, she folded her hands before her and waited for permission to speak.

"Where the hell are my pain tabs?" Bose demanded.

"You used them all last cycle," she said quietly.

"You're lying," he said, words slurring together. "I would have remembered to get more. I never forget them. There were two left."

"I'm sorry, father," she replied quietly. Her heart raced. If she got caught in her lie, she was done for.

But she owed it to Jess to help him… "But you called me late last cycle and had me bring you the rest of them. I believe you had more to drink, then."

Bose wrinkled his forehead. She knew from experience that he had occasional blackouts. Not that he would admit it, of course.

"Oh, I remember now," he said expansively, and she gave a sigh of relief. He was too proud to admit he might have blacked out. How much of his life was he missing, she wondered? He drank every night. What else could she get away with?

"But that's no excuse for not having pain tabs when I need them," he said, his voice growing angry.

"Father, I am not authorized to get pain tabs from the medical storage area," she replied quietly. "I want only to serve you, but I can't get you the medicine unless you give me that authority."

He glared at her.

"I'll take care of it," he finally said, his voice tight. "You go to the infirmary and get the damn drugs.

I'll call ahead and let them know you're coming."

"I believe they're closed for the cycle," she added in a soft voice. He threw his glass at her, grunting in disgust. She ducked, and the clear liquid splattered against the wall behind her. It had been a mistake to provoke him, but failing to bring back his pain tabs would be a bigger mistake.

"I'll call the medic in his rooms," Bose said. "Now get my pain tabs, and then clean up this damn mess."

"Yes, sir," she said, making for the door. She had to hide a smile. The first part of her plan was working out just fine.

Most of the corridors were deserted as she made her way to the infirmary. The only people still awake were the women who prepared food for the returning blasters. They also prepared the gruel for the slaves. Bethany knew the tasteless mixture that formed their entire diet was nutritious. But it was also disgusting. Until she had started caring for the slaves on a regular basis, she hadn't realized how good her life was, she mused. They certainly had a more difficult time of it than she did.

Garand, the station's medic, didn't look happy to see her when she arrived. He paced nervously outside the infirmary door, pausing only to glare at her.

"You shouldn't have let your father run out of pain tabs," he said tightly. "He's a dangerous man when he's angry."

"I realize that," she said dryly. "But if I had come to you before now, would you have given me pain meds? I was under the impression that all narcotics are restricted."

"Well, they are," he acknowledged. "But in your case I would have made an exception. We both know your father goes through a lot of them. From now on you can come here and get what you need.

I'll key your thumbprint to the lock. I can't afford to have your father angry at me again."

Bethany stared at him, shocked. Without thinking, she blurted out a question.

"What did he say to you?"

"He threatened to have me put outside the airlock," Garand said, hands trembling. "He said he'd do it without taking me to the council first. I believe him, too."

"I didn't realize that," she said slowly, mind spinning. Bose's actions were completely out of line, even for an elder. "I can't believe he'd do that. It would be crazy; it could cost him his seat on the council."

"Do you really think he's still sane?" Garand asked, his voice bitter. "I don't."

"I can't believe you just said that," she replied. "If Bose heard that he'd—"

"What? He'd go crazy?" Garand gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Too late. Beside that, you're the only one who's heard me say it. It would be my word against yours. Bose hates you and the entire station knows it. I don't have anything to fear from you. You'd better keep him happy or you'll be the first to go."

With that, he thrust a bottle of pills into her hand. She backed out of the infirmary, shivering. Garand hated her father, and he seemed to hate her, too. How many others here shared that malevolence?

Suddenly, she didn't want to know.

Turning away, she started walking quickly back toward her father's quarters. She palmed the door open, only to find her father holding Moriah in a tight embrace. She gave a little gasp of surprise, and he turned to her.

"Good, you're back," he said. He wore a broad smile, seemingly unaware of the impropriety of the situation. His features were flushed red, and he wobbled unsteadily. Moriah looked terrified, but she stood beside him, propping him up as best she could.

"I have good news for you," Bose said. "You're going to have a new mother. Moriah and I will be marrying soon."

Bethany looked at Moriah, compassion for the younger woman filling her heart. She didn't deserve this. But there was nothing she could do about it…

"Congratulations, father," Bethany said. "I look forward to your wedding."

"Oh, you won't be there," Bose said. Her heart froze. Why wouldn't she be there? Was he planning to put her outside the airlock already? Had he changed his mind about giving her two weeks?

"You'll be sleeping," he said. "You’ve got work to do while the rest of us sleep. I won't have you neglecting your chores because of a wedding. Now where are my pain tabs?"

"Here they are, father," she said, quickly taking two out of the bottle. "Shall I get you something to wash them down with?"

"No, Moriah will do that," Bose said. He wavered, then stumbled over to his chair. Collapsing in it, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Moriah will be taking care of me from now on. You'll stay here for now. Until I find a better place for you. Now get to work."

Shivering, Bethany handed Moriah the two tabs and then quietly opened the door to leave. Moriah clutched her hand, and leaned over to whisper, "Please don't tell anyone I'm here. You know what will happen if they find out."

"I won't tell," Bethany said, squeezing the younger woman's hand. "Don't worry about me. Worry about him."

"I do," Moriah said, a tear welling up in her eye. "I worry about him all the time."

There was nothing Bethany could say in response. Moriah would have to find her own way through this.

Sixth cycle after the mine collapse

Jess had just about figured out the routine. Bethany would arrive each cycle as the blasters were coming up from the mine. She would check on him briefly and then go to get the food.

By the time she came back with the second cart the guards would have arrived. They sounded the wake-up, and the men would hurry to get out of bed and get ready. Then she would arrive with the third cart and they would eat.

Fifteen minutes later the men spilled out of the barracks and suited up. They would go down into the mine for the day's work and stay there for the next fourteen hours.

The most valuable piece of information he had gleaned was that even as the slaves were working, the majority of the Pilgrims slept. And there were very few guards at the mine. He'd always assumed that the entire contingent was there throughout the cycle. But within minutes of the last slave entering the mine, all but two of the guards left. Halfway through the slaves' work cycle the guards were relieved by two new men. Other than that, the compound was left empty.

Empty except for him and Bethany.

It was perfect for his plans.

She popped her head in to check on him even before the blasters came up. He heard her coming, and pretended to sleep. She was more likely to touch him if she thought he was unconscious; when he was awake she seemed nervous. If he had been less honest with himself, he could have rationalized pretending to sleep by saying it was so he could spy on her. But he was more than willing to admit his real purpose. He wanted her to touch him. He wanted to smell her scent, to feel her soft warm flesh against his. When she'd given him the water the night before, it had been like touching heaven. He wanted more of that heaven.

He could hear the faint swish of her skirts as she approached his pallet. Her breathing was light, as if she were afraid to disturb him even in so small a way. Then she was kneeling next to him, and her cool fingers were touching his forehead.

It was all he could do to keep from moaning aloud.

Instead, he fluttered his lashes and looked up at her sleepily. Her green eyes blinked, and a soft smile stole across her face.

"How are you today?" she asked, her voice a smooth purr in his ears. As always in her presence, he hardened. How much more of this torture could he take? He didn't care how difficult it was. He wanted to listen to her talk forever.

"I'm all right," he whispered, voice raspy. "Can you help me with some water? I'd really like something to eat, too, if you've got it."

"I'll help you with the water," she said. "But we'll have to wait for Bragan to make sure it's all right for you to eat. I don't want to do anything that might hurt you."

"You could never hurt me," he said without thinking. She blushed, then looked away from him. She was like a beautiful flower he'd once seen, grown hydroponically in a station greenhouse. Shy and flushed, almost afraid to look straight at him. So lovely…

"I have good news for you," she said. "I managed to get some pain pills. Once Bragan says it's all right you'll be able to take some for your neck. I'm sure that will help."

"I'm sure it will, too," he replied.

"I need to get more water, I'll be right back."

She stood and left the small room. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Her smell was still in the room. Soon she would be touching him again. If there was one thing he'd learned during his time in the mines, it was to take each moment and savor it.

Being with her was definitely worth savoring.

She came back after a second with the water and knelt beside him again. Then she was lifting him in her arms again, cradling his head against her breast just as she had the night before. It was wonderful, even better than he remembered.

This time he sipped slowly at the water she held to his lips. The longer it took him to drink, the longer it would be before she left. At least that was the theory. Unfortunately they were interrupted all too soon by the sounds of the blasters returning from work. She gave a startled little gasp, then lowered him quickly to his pallet. Of course, there was one good thing about her self-consciousness, he told himself.

She was clearly as aware of him as he was of her. He liked that idea.

"I have to go and get the food," she said, standing. "Bragan will be in to check on you soon. We'll find out about the food and the pain killers then. I'll be back."

With that she was gone, scurrying off to get the carts.

He listened quietly as she brought each cart. Then the noise level rose as the men came out to suit up. The door opened, and Bragan stepped in.

"We've only got a minute or so, she's coming back," Bragan said. "I have good news. She had no idea how much pain medication you might need, so she's brought ten tabs. She says she can get more if we need them."

"Will that be enough?" Jess asked.

"It will be enough for five men," Bragan said. "You'll have to convince her you're in more pain so she'll keep giving them to us."

"When are you going to start removing the implants?" Jess asked.

"I'm doing Logan's today," Bragan said. "It's the most risky, because I'll have to do it in the mine in a pressure tent. We've decided we can't risk doing this first one in the barracks. Once Logan's done, he can stand guard while I do the others during the sleep cycle. We don't know if this will work. If he doesn't recover enough in one cycle to keep working, they'll get suspicious"

"What if he doesn't recover?" Jess asked.

"Then he'll have a mining accident," Bragan said grimly. "I'm not willing to sacrifice myself for your plot. You know that already."

"Does Logan know?"

"Yes, he knows," Bragan answered. "And he's willing to take the chance. Remember, his wound won't be as serious as yours. Of course, taking out the implant may paralyze him completely, but I've been able to study yours. It wasn't as hard to remove as you'd think. I guess someone was feeling cheap when they ordered supplies."

Bragan started to say more, but he was cut off as Bethany entered the room.

"How is he doing, Bragan?" she asked quietly.

"He's doing all right, but I'm a little concerned," Bragan said, his face serious. "I've looked under his bandage and the flesh around the wound appears to be a little red and flushed. There's a bit of infection there. We'll have to keep a close eye on him."

"I think I can do that," she said slowly.

"How about the pain meds?" Jess whispered weakly. "Will I be able to take those, Bragan?"

"Yes, you will," Bragan said. He turned to Bethany. "I want you to give him one every two hours.

Preferably with food. Will that be a problem?"

"No," she said, looking surprised. "But isn't that an awful lot of pain medication? I've seen my father take two before, but they knock him out for hours at a time."

Bragan looked serious.

"The type of infection he's developing can be very serious," he replied. "And very painful. If he isn't given the meds he may hurt himself as it grows worse."

"Should I be crushing them and putting them in his food?" she asked quietly. "It might make it easier for him."

"No," Bragan said quickly. He exchanged a quick glance with Jess. "No, in fact you should let him take the pills himself. It will help him moderate his consumption of them. We don't want him to become addicted."

She frowned.

"Bragan, I don't want to seem difficult, but that doesn't make any sense to me. He can't even drink by himself, how will he take the pill?"

"You can place it in his hand and help him lift it to his mouth," Bragan said quickly.

"How does that keep him from getting addicted?" she asked skeptically. Bragan snorted, and stood up abruptly. His face grew cold.

"Are you an Imperially-trained physician?"

"No," she said quickly.

"Do you have any medical training at all?"

"No," she whispered. Jess bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Bragan was bluffing so hard it was almost pitiable.

"Well, then I suggest you don't question my methods," Bragan said coldly. "I saved this man's life and I'm keeping him alive now. I performed surgery on him in a pressurized tent, for love of the Goddess.

How can I possibly be expected to explain years of training and theory on addiction to you? You don't even have the vocabulary to understand the scientific reasons he needs to be taking his own medication.

Give me one of them right now and I'll show you how to do it. No, give me two. He's suffered all the past cycle. This will help get the pain under control."

She gulped, then nodded. Bragan took the tabs from her and knelt beside Jess.

"Place them in his hand like this," Bragan said, pretending to give Jess the pills. Jess played along, clutching his fingers around the imaginary drugs. As Bragan lifted his head, Jess winced. Somehow being helped by the doctor wasn't the same as being helped by Bethany. It would be nice to take one of those pain pills, although he wouldn't dream of doing it. If they were going to escape, they'd need every one of them.

"Then raise his hand to his mouth," Bragan continued. "This allows him to have control over the medication, to make a choice about taking it."

Jess obligingly pretended to drop the pills into his mouth. Next time he'd have to find a way to hide them in his hand during this…perhaps between his fingers? That might work.

"Now lift the water and let him wash it down," Bragan said in a condescending tone. "Can you do that, or is it too complex for you?"

"Yes, of course," she said, her voice tight. "I'm perfectly capable of helping him do that."

She sounded upset, and to his surprise he felt compassion for her. Ruthlessly he pushed the feeling aside, forcing his heart to grow cold. He couldn't afford to have warm feelings toward any Pilgrim.

"You see," Bragan said, lowering Jess' head. "It's relatively straightforward. I'm sure you can handle this. Remember, two pills every hour."

"I'll remember," she said, her voice soft. She stood and left the room quickly. Bragan shook his head.

"I feel so bad for treating her like this."

"Don't," Jess said. "She's one of them. She may be beautiful and she may be kind, but her people are the reason we're working ourselves to death here. I don't want to hurt her any more than you do, but I won't let compassion for her stop me from getting out of here. I would advise you to do the same."

"You're right," Bragan answered. "She is one of them. I just wish that she wasn't."

"So do I," Jess replied softly. "So do I."

It was a long day for Bethany. She helped Jess drink and take his medications. She fed him several times, always cradling his head against her body and feeding him herself. The cold porridge seemed disgusting to her, but he was happy enough to eat it. Of course it was slow going for him. Each session took at least twenty minutes, all of it spent with him lying against her breasts. She was so embarrassed.

Every time he touched her it seemed as if her heartbeat grew fast and fluttery. Her nipples responded to each movement he made. She was terrified that he would notice the two tight nubs under her clothing.

Thankfully, he seemed completely unaware of her discomfort. It was one small blessing.

By the time the day ended she was exhausted. Between trying to get all her chores done and caring for Jess, she'd barely had time to run to the infirmary and get more pain meds. He was getting sicker over the course of the day. She could see it in the confusion on his face, the way he turned to her without recognition. Several times he spoke, rambling and saying things she couldn't understand. At one point he started thrashing about, and she'd been forced to throw herself over his body, pressing him to the pallet with all her weight. He'd settled down after that, at least for a while, although he grew worse whenever she tried to leave him. Finally she simply gave up and snuggled down with him in the pallet.

The strange thing was that he didn't feel particularly warm or feverish to her. But then again, she wasn't a doctor, she reminded herself. Bragan knew what he was talking about. It wasn't her place to question.