“Merciful Gods.”
Looking around them, it was obvious that the Gods had been anything but merciful. It had been Natalie Durant who’d put a voice to her shock and horror, but the faces of the rest of the team looked equally stunned.
The National Institutes of Health team, headed up by Dr. Stephen Connor, had been on the trail of an outbreak of bacterial meningitis. No one was really surprised when their search brought them to a large encampment of farming slaves. This type of camp migrated with the readiness of the crops, the slaves being used to pick and sort the various fruit. It was menial, unskilled labor and the slaves who ended up in such operations were not highly valued. As a result, conditions in such migrating slave camps were notoriously bad. Even so, the devastation facing the NIH team was beyond anything they’d anticipated.
From what they could see of the camp as they approached, it
was organized in quadrants. Lumps of
what looked like discarded rags dotted the ground. It was only as they drew closer that the
medical team realized that these lumps were actually bodies. They were bloated and rotting in the hot
“Stop where you are,” a voice amplified by a bullhorn ordered. “You’ve entered private property.”
Frank Powell pulled the team’s SUV to a halt, exchanging a knowing glance with Stephen, who was currently riding in the passenger seat. Connor had anticipated the presence of territorial guards and came prepared. Whenever this many slaves were gathered, an owner typically made arrangements to protect his investment, even if said investment was kept in such abysmal physical condition that making an escape attempt was virtually impossible. A convoy of the National Guard accompanied the NIH team and, from the looks of it, they were going to be needed.
As Frank and Stephen exited the vehicle, Stephen took charge. “Move aside. We’re from the National Institutes of Health.”
The guard, looking ridiculously young in his body armor, licked his lips in obvious nervousness. “The NIH?”
“Yes,” Connor responded, the intense color of his vivid blue eyes almost glowing as his impatience started to brew. “We’ve traced a deadly outbreak of an infectious disease to this compound.”
“Outbreak?” The guard’s voice cracked and he took a step back. More guards began to gather and they started to shift uneasily as they observed their comrade’s agitation.
“Yes, several Citizens have died and a dozen more are sick,” Natalie had gotten out of the vehicle and joined them. “We need your help to make sure no one else falls ill.”
The guard calmed marginally. Like many men, he found a plea from a pretty woman less intimidating than Connor’s typical aggressive approach.
“Look, we weren’t told anything about an outbreak,” the young man explained earnestly. “We were just assigned here this morning to replace the normal guards.”
“Because they were sick?” Connor jumped in to ask.
The guard shrugged. “Not that I was told. The overseer just said the other guards had been compromised. When me and the rest of the replacement crew got here, the overseer and one other guy were patrolling the parameter themselves.”
Frank scowled. “Just the two of them? That’s not very much security for a camp this big.”
“They were using trucks so they could cover more ground,” the guard explained. “Besides, it’s been dead quiet ever since we got here.”
He winced at his own choice of words. Obviously, the guards had not looked carefully at just what they’d been guarding. Or, if they had, they hadn’t realized it had been a disease that had caused all the corpses. The fact that dead bodies hadn’t overly concerned them was not entirely unheard of, considering they were slave bodies. “Hey, we’re not gonna get sick, are we?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Connor answered briskly. “I’m assuming you won’t be giving us any more problems about entering to investigate?”
“Gods, no,” the guard exclaimed. “Help yourself; just give us a shot or something to make sure we don’t get sick.”
“Or something,” Connor agreed. Dismissing the guard from his mind, Stephen addressed his team. “Okay, people, we need to get started. Natalie, have some of the Guardsmen set up the hospital tent, we’re going to have to do triage as well as testing. We’ll soon have plenty samples for you to work on.”
He nodded at Powell. “Frank, you’re with me. We’re going in and see if there’s anyone left alive. And I want everyone in full protective gear. From the looks of things, I’m guessing that bacterial meningitis is only the beginning.”
Connor next directed his attention to the National Guardsmen that had been assigned to him. “Lieutenant Estwell, choose a squad to accompany Inspector Powell and myself.” He looked briefly at the camp and then back at the officer. “Better make sure they have strong stomachs.”
While everyone hurried to carry out Stephen’s orders, Connor turned to the remaining member of his team. Eva Rossi was leaning against the SUV and her eyes were haunted. Natalie stopped and spoke softly in the young woman’s ear as she started to implement her own assignment. After squeezing Eva’s hand briefly, however, Natalie moved to the rear of the SUV to start unpacking equipment.
Stephen walked over to the team’s publicity liaison. Eva was a vivacious woman, so her current disquiet was in stark contrast her normally brash demeanor. Stephen hadn’t seen that type of troubled look in her eyes for a couple of years, not since the day that Natalie had freed her.
“You okay?”
There was a lag of a few moments and then Eva shook herself all over. After taking a deep breath, she turned to meet Stephen’s gaze calmly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Connor looked at her steadily. This was hardly the first case they’d worked that involved slavery and Eva had handled them well. Despite his fondness of the former slave, he wouldn’t have her on his team if she couldn’t. Stephen suspected that this scene was affecting her so badly because the conditions were appalling, hitting home just how lucky Eva was to have gained her freedom.
“All right,” he said after considering her carefully and ultimately deciding to trust her self-assessment. “I want to find out the name of the person or persons that own this camp and the slaves in it. Citizens died because of its squalor and I want to know who’s responsible.”
Eva brightened at the prospect. “It’ll be my pleasure, Boss.”
“Dr. Connor?” Lt. Estwell had returned with additional soldiers, each outfitted in biological protective gear. “We’re ready when you are, Sir.”
Frank approached from the other side and handed Stephen a white suit of his own. Connor wrinkled his nose at the sight of it, but he sighed and made quick work of donning it. The things were hot and stuffy and didn’t breathe, making them quite possibly the most uncomfortable garment ever invented. In the conditions facing them, however, they could literally be a life saver.
Connor gave the troops orders even as he was pulling the protective suit over his street clothes. “All right, your primary purpose is to watch our backs. In situations like this, those that are sick, or even those that are afraid that they’re going to get sick, can panic.
“But they’re slaves, right?” One of the soldiers asked. “They’re not armed; it would be suicide for them to attack.”
“The fact that they’re slaves makes it that much worse,” Connor disagreed. “They have nothing left to lose and that can lead to a mob mentality. If you come across anyone that’s alive, inform Powell or myself. Your PPE will protect you and you were given inoculations as a precaution before you left the base. The next few hours aren’t going to be pleasant, but you’ll be perfectly safe from any diseases.”
Stephen shouldn’t have wasted his breath. The soldiers, as they wound their way through camp, were jumpy. He supposed he couldn’t really blame them. Their training was all about the act of killing, most of them probably hadn’t had to deal very much with the aftermath of death before. More than one had to remove their face mask in order to throw up, causing Connor to make a mental note to make sure there was a decontamination tent set up.
“I think it’s safe to assume we’ve found the origin of our bug,” Frank said quietly. With his dark skin, the medical investigator couldn’t exactly turn pale, but his complexion had turned somewhat gray.
“Natalie’s pathology tests will tell for sure, but I think you’re right,” Stephen responded, equally subdued. During his time with NIH, he’d become used to dealing with dead bodies, but the shear mass of it was getting to him too.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The sound of his own begging lingered shamefully in Miles’ head and the tears still fell as he was dragged from the main house to a truck where he was thrown into the back like a sack of potatoes. It didn’t matter that he’d begged and pleaded with his Master not to be sent to the fields, it had happened anyhow. A lesson well learned, both in the man’s cruelty and intractable nature.
*Break him.*
Two words that had sent icy fear through him in a way that the orders to be sold never had. Miles had had hope, in the beginning, that he would be sold to a caring Master. Someone who would see that he was more than the locator chip planted in him. Someone who would know that none of this was his fault. That hope, however, had long since been banished. He’d gone through several owners since his first and this newest one was a cold man, a businessman who had ample time for an ill-trained slave who hadn’t been meant for such a life.
More than enough time to play with breaking Miles in.
It had proved a fun exercise for the Master, devising new torments to heap upon Miles when he didn’t perform according to expectations. He’d been raped more times than he could remember; Claimed was the official term, but it was rape all the same. Passed around to his Master’s friends and used whenever anyone wanted him. Few on the household staff ventured to make friends with him, adding to his loneliness, though he understood it. They probably all figured that he wasn’t long for this world, with the way he was used by the Master.
And then it had gotten inconceivably worse with those two words.
*Break him.*
Miles had begged not to be sent away, knowing just how horrendous conditions were in the camps from his time as an abolitionist volunteer. He’d clung to his Master’s feet, crying and flushing with shame, but persisting, knowing that he would find his death in the camps. None of it had mattered, of course. His Master was not a man who repealed decisions, nor someone who cared if a slave was killed in line with his orders. He’d taken offense to an accidental comment from Miles and decided that he wasn’t ‘housebroken’ and couldn’t be ‘dealt with civilly’ anymore.
The ride there was bumpy and painful. He was thrown about in the back of the truck without anything to hold on to, bracing himself as best he could. They wound up on a dirt road and he was brought to directly to the field to work picking strawberries of all things. It was an activity he’d enjoyed with his family and friends, before the disgrace, but this was nothing like those times. There was no laughter, no water fights, no water at all, save a small mouthful of lukewarm, dirty water brought every few hours to keep them alive in the summer heat.
His concubine-like clothing was completely inappropriate and fast grew useless, tearing easily and exposing him to more sun than was good for such a pale complexion. They got no sunblock lotion and by the end of the day, Miles’ skin was red and tight with a burn. No one spoke to him, though that was no change, but he got a few sympathetic glances now and again, which comforted him a bit.
Then it was nightfall and he discovered that working in the fields was preferable to pleasuring the guards.
The second day was worse than the first because he had to
contend with hunger, the sunburn, and a mass of bruises and aches from his time
with the guards and sleeping on a tattered blanket on the ground. By
By the third day, he thankfully started peeling and his stomach had begun to shrink, minimizing the hunger pangs.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of back-breaking labor and ‘obedience training’ by the guards. He knew that he was growing dissociative, but couldn’t help himself. Miles wondered briefly why more slaves didn’t go crazy, if this was what went on at all the labor camps. Even knowing that he’d been singled out by the guards for repeated use, to be broken, he saw that the others weren’t treated much better.
The conditions were ripe for some kind of outbreak, his medical training noted dispassionately. Women had nowhere to dispose of their monthly rags. The human waste was officially kept in a few limited spots, but if a slave had to go while picking, he or she just went where they stood. It was humiliating, but practical, because asking the guards to go to the bathroom, such as the facilities were, was just stupid. Contagion was just a matter of time and Miles found himself looking forward to it, praying for an end to his own personal hell.
Time passed, as it always did, and Miles found himself fixing broken bones, stitching cuts, treating whip wounds, listening to the barely vocalized words that needed to get out from each and every slave. That need with him, too deep-rooted to ignore, surfaced through the fog of his slavery and Miles responded to those who sought him out. He soothed with a soft touch and gentle words, offering what the guards took so brutally. He healed what he could and gave comfort to the dying.
Slave, healer, and whore; it was a combination that he tried not to think about.
And then the contagion that Miles had at first prayed for arrived with a vengeance. At first he didn’t realize there was anything wrong, it was so subtle. People complaining of headaches and developing fevers. He was too engrossed in his own misery to recognize there was a real problem until one of the slaves fell into seizures. The old man was too far gone for Miles to help, he died from the second round of seizures right there on the field.
When a guard came to see what had happened, Miles risked the lash by saying, “It’s a contagion, Sir. Please, Sir, we must see who else is sick before it spreads further.”
He got a boot in the gut, but no lash, thankfully. From the ground, he watched the guard stalk away, towards the other guards along the sides of the fields. They were at least a hundred miles from where Miles had originally been brought, further in the middle of nowhere, and picking the latest wave of strawberries. A whole new farm of them, so far as Miles could tell, but the deplorable conditions came with them.
There was no change in the work schedule, not that he really expected one. Miles had thought that his temerity in telling the guard his opinion had been overlooked, but he was whipped to within an inch of his life that night and left bleeding in the dirt. He was dragged to D Tent by one of the other slaves as soon as it was dark. He knew they were doing their best to protect him, bringing him to the tent that was farthest from the others, hoping to keep him out of the guards’ view for as long as possible.
That night was spent in misery such as he hadn’t felt in a long time. The guards mostly ignored him now, believing him broken, only occasionally taking a turn with him and never bothering to go one right after the other. He would’ve been worried about STDs except for the fact that the guards had to be in perfect health for this particular job and didn’t really figure on surviving his time in the camps anyhow.
Gentle hands washed his back clear of blood, the water and bandages boiled per his instructions, risking the fire because it was so small and behind the tent at night. Miles had to bite his arm not to cry out as he was cared for, but knew he had to take it so that he could prepare the others for what was coming. They were all intimate with death, but this wasn’t the kind of death they were familiar with and if they weren’t ready, a panic would spread.
That was the last night that Miles got any real sleep until he collapsed two weeks later, a victim of the plague that had taken so many others. As he succumbed to the fever, headache, and vomiting, feeling like his insides were coming out, Miles knew that it wouldn’t be long before he made the journey to the afterlife.
He only hoped that his father had proceeded him there, because pacifist or not, Miles fully planned to kick the other man’s ass.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By the time, they’d made their way through Quadrants A-C, it had quickly become apparent that the soldiers were, in fact, unnecessary. There were precious few survivors and those that were still alive were in no condition to attack anyone. In fact, they were so far gone that Stephen doubted there was any chance they would live. He called Natalie anyway, pinpointing their location so that help could be sent and leaving a soldier behind at each quadrant to help direct the incoming teams when they arrived.
It wasn’t only the slaves that decimated by the meningitis strain, either. Guards numbered among the dead. Unlike the slaves, who remained sprawled where they had died, the camp’s guards were primarily located in the same tent, one that was noticeably superior to the glorified tarps that housed the slaves. Perhaps it was the better shelter or perhaps it was their better physical condition, but a higher percentage of guards had survived than slaves. Connor was grimly pleased; the guards would be more likely to know who was responsible for this mess and he was determined that someone would be brought to justice for the destruction of so many human lives.
In contrast, there were no survivors in the Overseer’s tent, but disease had nothing to do it. The tent, substantial enough to be more of a fabric building, was at the center of the camp. When Stephen and Frank entered it, they were greeted by the smell of blood. There were three corpses inside, two men and one woman. The older of the two men had a stained knife still clutched in his hand. It was hard to cut your own throat and his death must have been painful, judging by his expression. Not so the other two, whose faces were serene above the bloody grin of the slit in their throats.
The Overseer had obviously known who would be blamed for the sickness in the camp.
Stephen figured that the Overseer had probably been wise to take his own life and that of his family. The man’s negligence had led to the deaths of other Citizens. It was one thing to keep your slaves in squalor, it was quite another for it to impact other freeborn and unheard of for it to lead to Citizen deaths. Suicide was merciful compared to the punishment the Empire would mete out for such a crime.
Connor had left one soldier behind to guard the Overseer’s tent. Slave camps such as this migrating group were usually owned by corporations. With any luck, there would be evidence left behind that would implicate additional responsible parties and he would take no chance that it would be tampered with.
“Three down and one to go,” Frank said, voice weary.
Stephen sighed. “Let’s do it then.”
The last thing either man wanted to do was enter another quadrant full of dead slaves, but they had a job to do. With heavy hearts, they got started, getting ready to wind their way through the maze of torn tents and tarpaulins that the quadrant housed. They hadn’t even entered the last quad, however, before they realized something was different about this last section of the camp. It wasn’t just that it was the furthest set back from the main gate.
There were people and they were not only alive, but alert.
A group of slaves watched Stephen, Frank and their military escort arrive. The tents were every bit as ragged as those in the first three quadrants, torn and dirty fabric fluttering in the breeze. Thin and equally ragged people shuffled around the outskirts. Their eyes were downcast, but they were observing the newcomers carefully.
Other conditions in the quad were as different from the previous three camp sections as night from day. Where corpses littered the other areas, in this one there was a row of neatly dug graves. Campfires were burning and well tended, with vats of water being boiled. The conditions were still bad and the people living in them were obviously ill-treated, but they were alive. Sick slaves languished on the thin cots that served as beds, but not nearly in the numbers that had been seen in the other three quadrants.
Stephen walked unimpeded through the quadrant, seeing with something akin to awe that the slaves were taking care of one another. Even more surprising, they were doing so properly. Granted, they had limited resources, but even so were taking care to minimize the chances of spreading the infection.
Connor conducted a few rudimentary exams. Looking into a couple of the sickest patients’ eyes with his pen light was all he really needed to know. Their brains were swelling.
“Frank, call Natalie,” Stephen instructed. “Let her know we’ve got some more survivors who are going to need treatment.”
“She’s going to need confirmation,” Frank reminded him. “The NIH won’t authorize distribution of vaccine to slaves without the proper tests done.”
“Damn,” Connor swore. He’d forgotten about that. The other slave survivors had been so far gone that it was really a moot point for them. Disturbed, the doctor ran his hand impatiently over his short, blond hair. “Send a pair of soldiers back for a couple of the dead bodies, she can start the pathology on those. I want you back in that Overseer’s tent, looking for anything that will link this camp back to its owners – all of them.”
“What about you?” Powell asked.
Stephen smiled tightly. “I’m going to choose a live patient from here to bring to Natalie for those tests she’ll need to run. We need to show that we have an outbreak in all stages of the disease.”
Frank nodded and turned to leave, taking several soldiers with him. Stephen shooed the remaining Guardsmen out of the tent. They refused to completely leave, but he needed them out of the immediate vicinity if he had any hope of getting the slaves to trust him.
Stephen waited the soldiers had moved out of sight before turning to address the slaves. Confident now that the contagion was the meningitis and that his inoculation would protect him, Stephen unfastened his hood and pushed it back. Hopefully, his bare face would make him seem more human and approachable. “I need to know who taught you how to take care of the patients.”
Connor could almost visualize what had happened. The first wave of sickness had swept over this quadrant of the camp, just as it had in the other three. That explained the row of graves he’d seen. However, someone in *this* camp had known how to mitigate the worst of it. Transmission of the disease had been slowed down, although not entirely stopped. Now a second wave of slaves was sick and was being cared for by those that were still disease-free. Stephen would bet his last dime that his mysterious healer had tended the first who were ill and was among those that were sick now.
Stephen had to hope that even human beings who had been so ill-treated could sense when someone was trying to help them. He tried to make contact with the strangely silent and passive group, but none of the slaves would meet his gaze. Even those taking care of the sick stood mute, eyes downcast in a perfect show of submission. Stephen didn’t want submission, however. He wanted answers.
“Look, I promise you,” he tried again. “Whoever he or she is, they’re not in trouble. I know this disease has killed a number of you here, but it’s nothing compared to what happened in the other three quadrants.” A moan was quickly muffled and Stephen realized that the slaves had no real idea of how badly the rest of the camp had been hit by the disease. “Whoever taught you saved a lot of lives – your lives - and I’m guessing that he or she is one of those that are now sick, if they’re even still alive. Let me help the person who helped you. Please.”
His pleas were met with silence and Stephen almost turned away.
“It was Doc.”
“Molly, hush.”
Stephen whirled around to face the woman who’d spoken… and her fellow slave who’d tried to suppress her.
“Who is Doc?” He asked, keeping his attention on the woman. “I promise, I only want to help.” Stephen stepped closer to her, but she refused to look at him until he put a hand under her chin and gently lifted her face until he could look into her eyes. “On my word as a healer.”
She nodded stiffly to the area behind Connor. He turned around, realizing for the first time that the corner was actually curtained off. Whoever this Doc was, he or she was evidently highly regarded by the other slaves. Stephen lost no time, stepping quickly to it and carefully pulling the curtain aside.
If the young man on the cot was old enough to be a doctor, Connor would eat his stethoscope.
Dark hair was plastered against the young man’s forehead and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on the pale skin. Stephen reached out instinctively and brushed the slave’s bangs off his face. The fever was easily felt through the plastic of his protective gloves. Connor knew what he would find, even as he took out his penlight. He peeled back the young man’s eyelids and peered in. It was the same disease and, even though this patient probably only had a few hours left, Connor was confident that, with medication, he could be saved.
Connor started to reach for his phone, but was stopped by a hand on his wrist. The grip was fragile and he could have easily thrown it off… if he hadn’t looked into the young man’s eyes. One look in those dark, pain-filled orbs and Stephen merely shifted until he was holding the other man’s hand.
“You’re a doctor,” the slave whispered in a cracked voice, “you have to save them.”
Maybe the woman, Molly, had been right. This slave looked far too young to be a doctor, but he certainly had the attitude of one.
“I’m Dr. Stephen Connor, from the National Institutes of Health,” he introduced himself. “We’re aware of the other patients; they’ll be well cared for, I promise.”
The young man relaxed and closed his eyes. “Good… tried to save them….”
His voice trailed off as he lost consciousness again. Stephen heard a noise behind him and turned to find that he had an audience. “What’s his name?”
Molly, the woman who’d spoken before, seemed to be the bravest of the lot. “Don’t know. I’ve just always called him ‘Doc.’”
“His name is Miles,” a man stepped from the back. “He helped patch me up after a whipping and when I asked who I could thank, he said his name was Miles.”
“He hasn’t been here long.”
“He set my boy’s arm when the Overseer broke it.”
Once their silence had broken, the slaves were eager to talk. Mostly about Miles. Stephen looked down at the unconscious young man as the other slaves finally wound down, impressed by the stories of compassion he’d just heard.
“Thank you.” Connor nodded at the slaves. “The soldiers outside will remain, to help direct help to you when it arrives. It shouldn’t be too long.”
“They won’t burn us?” It was an old woman who asked the question in trembling voice. From the sweat on her face, Stephen guessed she soon would be among those on the cots.
Unfortunately, the slave was right to be worried. These were unskilled slaves of little value. If the return on investment wasn’t great enough, the owners might in fact choose to terminate them rather than pay for the medicine.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Connor vowed. Slavery was a needed institution in the Empire, but he loathed owners who put such low value on human life.
“In the meantime,” he instructed the slaves, “keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll get help out to you as soon as possible.”
Confident that he’d done as much for these people as he could at the moment, Stephen turned back to the young man on the cot. Miles. He bent and gathered the slave into his arms. Miles was a tall man and, under normal circumstances, Stephen wouldn’t be able to pick him up. As it was, though, the sick slave was gaunt to the point of being skin and bones. He moaned softly as Connor lifted him, but seeming to sense he was safe in the doctor’s arms, Miles settled. His head fell limply onto Stephen’s shoulder, only the soft puff of his breath showing he was still alive.
“Take care of him,” Molly said softly.
“God speed,” a man added, sketching the shape of the cross in the air.
Stephen nodded, his throat suddenly too tight to speak. To find a pocket of caring and hope in the midst of so much death and desolation… it was more than he dreamed possible.
Perhaps Natalie was wrong. Maybe the Gods were merciful after all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Stephen ended up carrying Miles all the way to the medical tent. He had offers of assistance from various soldiers along the way, but he didn’t take them up on it. The slave was too thin to cause much muscle strain and Connor was reluctant to give up the warm weight in his arms.
By the time he made his way beyond the borders of the camp, the open space in front of it had been transformed into a staging area. One hospital tent had already been erected, the large arch-shaped airbeams holding the weight of the olive drab fabric that made up the structure. A soldier was posted at the entrance and, at Stephen’s nod, the man held the door open for him so that Connor could enter without having to juggle it and his burden both.
“Natalie,” Stephen called out as soon as he was inside.
The other doctor had been on the far side of the tent’s interior, but hurried over when she saw her colleague. “Put him down here,” she gestured to a nearby cot.
Connor obeyed, gently placing the slave on the cot that served as a medical bed. The young man whimpered a little at being jostled and Stephen automatically soothed him by placing a hand on his forehead. Natalie gave Connor an odd look, but didn’t say anything as she conducted a basic exam.
“Gods, he’s burning up,” Durant exclaimed as she checked his
temperature. “Do you have any idea of
when he started presenting?”
Stephen shook his head. “No. He’s from the second wave of infection, I think.”
“Frank said that the last quadrant wasn’t as decimated as the first three?” Natalie asked.
“No. They still got hit, but according to the other slaves, the knowledge this young man had kept it from getting totally out of control,” Stephen explained as he shed his PPE. “The disease still reached them, but the death toll isn’t nearly as high. Miles here helped keep them alive long enough for help to arrive.”
If Natalie thought it odd that Stephen already knew the slave’s name, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she asked for information about the camp. “It’s that bad, then?”
Stephen shuddered and closed his eyes. “You have no idea.”
He opened them again when he felt a hand on his arm. Natalie’s eyes were even more kind than normal when she looked at him. He tried to smile, but was too emotionally exhausted for it to be very successful.
“Well, if this young man saved so many people, he must be pretty special,” Natalie stated quietly. “We’ll have to make sure he gets the very best of care.”
Connor looked around the tent. There were a few cots already occupied, with camp guards, judging by the relatively good condition of the men. Durant followed his gaze.
“I’ve started pathology on a sampling of the corpses,” she explained. “And have tested these patients here. I just need to confirm we have active infection in the remaining part of the camp.”
They both looked down at the young man on the cot.
Stephen sighed and ran a hand over his short, blond hair. “I know, it’s just that he’s so ill, I hate to put him through more.”
At this statement, Natalie’s surprise did show. Stephen was a compassionate man, but it was unusual for him to be so deeply concerned about a patient in such a short amount of time. One elegant eyebrow went up as she commented, “Try and think of it as one more way he’s helping the other slaves.” When Connor didn’t look convinced, she added, “Besides, you know HHS won’t distribute vaccine to slaves without positive proof that it *is* bacterial meningitis. One way or the other, he has to be tested.”
“Let’s get it over with quickly, then,” Connor conceded.
A more substantial medical bed had been set up in a curtained-off corner. As Stephen carried the young man there, he couldn’t help but be struck by the parallels to the slave tent. Here, though, Miles would receive treatment that would actually save his life, he just had to get through an unpleasant test to receive it. If the Fates were kind, Miles would sleep through the procedure.
In order to prove bacterial meningitis, sample fluid would have to be drawn from the spinal column. Stephen gently laid Miles on the bed and with Natalie’s help, turned the unconscious man to his side. He held Miles in that position while Durant cut away the rags that served as the slave’s clothing, starting with the dirty length of rope that served him as a chain. As Natalie worked on the rest of his garments and pulled the remnants of a faded t-shirt from Miles’ torso, she gasped. Connor frowned, but from his position, he couldn’t see what had caused the other doctor’s distress.
“What’s the matter?” He asked impatiently.
Durant’s lips were pursed with disapproval. “There are a lot of … marks … on his back. This young man has been beaten. Frequently.”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say any more. He believed in slavery, it was better than having convicts languish in prisons, where they weren’t productive to society and where they didn’t learn anything. One only had to look at the crime rate in non-Roman countries to see that slavery was a good deterrent. As for those who ended up in chains because of debt, slavery gave them the option of working their way out of it. Even those who were born slaves could rise in Roman culture. However, although he believed in slavery as an institution, Connor also felt strongly that those who owned slaves had a responsibility too. If you were willing to hold ultimate power over someone else’s life, Stephen thought, then it was not something to take lightly. Unfortunately, in his opinion, far too few Roman Citizens took that responsibility to heart. Stephen couldn’t abide human abuse, slave or not.
Without further comment, Natalie removed the rest of Miles’ tattered clothing and, together, they turned the young man to his stomach. From that position, Connor got a good look at what had upset Natalie. Miles was so thin that his spine all but stuck out and every muscle could be seen. Whip marks crisscrossed his back, some old scars and others relatively fresh with bruising. Stephen didn’t know who Miles was, other than he was a compassionate man with some medical training, but Connor was convinced that Miles had been badly treated. His temper disintegrated rapidly as they fastened the restraints across the slaves’ abused body.
“Let’s get this over with,” he instructed Natalie grimly as he took up a position at Miles’ head.
The other doctor nodded and took a large syringe out of a box. Unwrapping it, she approached the bed.
“No.” The plea was soft and muffled. Stephen probably wouldn’t have heard it if Miles hadn’t started writhing weakly in his restraints. “Please, Master.”
“Damn,” Natalie exclaimed in dismay. “Stephen, he has to stay still or the needle could hit the wrong spot.” She didn’t need to explain the danger involved if that were to happen. Miles could end up paralyzed or worse.
Stephen crouched down so that their patient could see his face. “Miles, it’s all right. You’re in a hospital tent; we’re going to take care of you.”
Brown eyes that seemed all dark and pain-filled pupil regarded him with fear. “You’re, you’re the doctor.”
Connor was impressed. The slave was so ill, he hadn’t expected Miles to remember him from earlier. “That’s right. Dr. Stephen Connor, from NIH. Dr. Durant and I think you have bacterial meningitis, but we have to be absolutely certain. Then when can get you the medicine you need to make you feel better.”
“The others,” Miles pleaded. “They’re sick too.”
“We know and we’re going help them too, but before we can do that, we need to verify that our diagnosis is correct,” Stephen explained. “Will you let us do that?”
Miles tried to nod, but was brought up short by the restraints. He whimpered softly. “Please, Master,” the slave begged, “don’t tie me. I’ll hold still, I promise.”
“Stephen,” there was a warning tone in Natalie’s voice. “We can’t risk that. He has to stay perfectly still. He’ll only be bound for a few moments more.”
“Please, Master,” Miles implored. “I won’t move. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please don’t tie me down.”
Connor came to a decision. “He’s too weak to move around much anyway,” he justified to Natalie as he stood to remove the bindings. “And I’ll help hold him.”
Durant’s lips tightened. “Very well, but it’s on your head if anything goes wrong.”
Stephen crouched again, noticing that Miles was calmer now that the restraints were removed. “All right, Miles. You need to hold perfectly still.”
“Yes, Master.”
Connor stood and put his hands on Miles’ shoulders, careful not to press down too hard. He didn’t want to panic the young man, but needed to be ready to interfere if Miles moved. Natalie swabbed the area with alcohol and both doctors were relieved that the slave didn’t so much as twitch at the unexpected cool sensation.
Durant took a deep breath. “All right, Miles, I’m going to insert the needle now. Stay as relaxed as you can and don’t move.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Stephen knew the instant the needle went in, not just because he saw it, but because of the way the body beneath his hands went utterly still. “Breathe, Miles,” he instructed.
“Yes, Master.”
The acknowledgement had been barely more than a breath
itself. Durant had inserted the needle as far as it needed to go by that time
and was slowly withdrawing the required fluid.
Seeing that Miles was keeping his promise to hold still, Stephen shifted
his hands. Instead of being ready to grab the slave as necessary, he instead
rubbed circles of comfort across Miles’ shoulders.
”Good, Miles,” he reassured the young man.
“We’re almost done, young one. You’re doing great, just a few moments
more.”
Finally, Natalie had enough in her syringe and just as carefully removed it. “There, we’re finished. You can move now, Miles. Good job.”
Miles moaned softly and curled up on the bed. Stephen combed his fingers through the sweat-dampened hair. “Bravely done, young one.
Natalie’s hand was back on Stephen’s arm. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to get him settled?” She suggested when he glanced at her. “I think it would do you good to remind yourself that you were able to save lives today.”
“Thanks, Nat,” Stephen’s smile was genuine and he immediately took his colleague up on her offer. Miles couldn’t stay where he was, however. The bed might be needed if any more patients required testing.
As Connor bent to pick up to pick up the slave again, he was surprised when Miles made a mild protest. Stephen had assumed that the young man had lapsed into unconsciousness again.
“I can walk, Master.”
“I doubt that, although I appreciate your willingness to try,” Connor responded. He hefted Miles’ nude form into his arms.
Whether it was embarrassment or a simple need for human comfort, but Miles hid his face in Stephen’s neck. The doctor would have found the action endearing if he wasn’t worried about the heat pouring off Miles. The concern caused Connor to frown as he returned Miles to the original cot.
As the slave settled on the narrow bed, Miles misunderstood the other man’s expression. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, Master.’
“I’m a physician, Miles, it’s my job to take care of the sick,” Stephen pointed out to him. “Don’t waste any of your energy worrying about causing me work – you just rest and concentrate on getting better.”
Connor left Miles for a few minutes. He did a brief check on the other patients before obtaining a basin of water and a clean rag. When he returned to the young man’s side, Miles was sound asleep.
“Well, I guess there’s something to be said for having a slave as a patient,” Stephen murmured to himself. “They certainly are obedient.”
Miles didn’t wake as Connor gently cleaned him. Natalie was right; someone had abused the young man badly, the mistreatment was evident in the scars and bruises that marred his young skin. As pleasurable as Connor found the task itself, by the time he was through, his lips were thin with anger.
“Stephen.”
Connor looked up at the sound of Eva’s voice. “The HHS director is here and asking for the person in charge.”
Stephen put aside the basin; he’d done all for Miles that he could anyway. What the young man really needed was strong antibiotics, but those wouldn’t be forthcoming until the results of the test were back. He gently pulled a sheet up, offering the unconscious slave some modesty. With that accomplished, he gave his full attention to the publicity liaison’s comment.
“Well, let’s not keep him waiting,” Connor responded to Eva.
With a final glance at Miles, Stephen left the tent. It was time to get back to the business of figuring out who was responsible for this mess and making them pay for it. And if the person responsible happened to be the same one who’d put those marks on Miles… well, that would suit Stephen just fine.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The first thing that penetrated the miasma of pain was the voice. A strong voice. Honest. Caring. Worried. Sickened. Asking questions. And then there was a light touch to his forehead, strange sensation, not skin, which brought him further out of the delirium.
Opening his eyes, forcing them to open though even the dim light hurt, Miles met pale, pale blue eyes set in a handsome face. Barely able to make the words come out, he pleaded, “You’re a doctor, you have to save them.”
Those eyes were so caring as the man answered, “I’m Dr. Stephen Connor, from the National Institutes of Health. We’re aware of the other patients; they’ll be well cared for, I promise.”
Relaxing, sensing that the man was telling the truth, Miles muttered, “Good… tried to save them…”
He slid back into darkness for an interminable time, waking again when he was settled onto a bed and his body protested the jostling. Miles tried not to make noise, but a soft whimper escaped. That same, gentle touch brushed over his forehead again, soothing him. He drifted in and out of darkness until an all-too-familiar weight on his wrists told him he was being cuffed. He pulled at them, even knowing he was in no condition to get free, and begged, “No. Please, Master.”
A woman’s voice exclaimed, “Damn! Stephen, he has to stay still or the needle could hit the wrong spot.”
The doctor crouched down so that Miles could see his face and promised, “Miles, it’s all right. You’re in a hospital tent; we’re going to take care of you.”
“You’re, you’re the doctor.”
“That’s right. Dr. Stephen Connor, from NIH. Dr. Durant and I think you have bacterial meningitis, but we have to be absolutely certain. Then when can get you the medicine you need to make you feel better.”
“The others,” Miles pleaded. “They’re sick too.”
“We know and we’re going help them too, but before we can do that, we need to verify that our diagnosis is correct. Will you let us do that?”
Miles tried to nod, but was brought up short by the restraints. He whimpered softly. “Please, Master, don’t tie me. I’ll hold still, I promise.”
“Stephen. We can’t risk that. He has to stay perfectly still. He’ll only be bound for a few moments more.”
But Miles couldn’t abide it any longer, his heart felt like it was going to pump out of his chest and all he could see were the guards, leering and mocking him as they waited their turns. “Please, Master. I won’t move. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please don’t tie me down.”
“He’s too weak to move around much anyway. And I’ll help hold him.”
“Very well, but it’s on your head if anything goes wrong.”
Miles breathed a sigh of relief as the restraints were removed.
“All right, Miles. You need to hold perfectly still.”
“Yes, Master.”
The doctor stood and put his hands on Miles’ shoulders, careful not to press down too hard. Miles felt area swabbed with alcohol and had a brief moment of relief that his lashes were healed enough that it didn’t hurt.
“All right, Miles, I’m going to insert the needle now. Stay as relaxed as you can and don’t move.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Miles felt the needle puncture his spine and tensed, but didn’t move. The pain was agonizing, but he knew the consequences if he so much as twitched.
That strong voice murmured, “Breathe, Miles.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, Miles. We’re almost done, young one. You’re doing great, just a few moments more.”
“There, we’re finished. You can move now, Miles. Good job.”
Miles moaned softly and curled up on the bed barely feeling the fingers that combed through his sweaty hair. He did, however, hear the soft, “Bravely done, young one,” and felt something inside warm.
The woman suggested, “Why don’t you take a few minutes to get him settled? I think it would do you good to remind yourself that you were able to save lives today.”
“Thanks, Nat.”
As the doctor bent to pick him up again, Miles protested, “I can walk, Master.”
“I doubt that, although I appreciate your willingness to try,” the man countered, dry.
Thoroughly mortified by the condition of his body, both its filth and its weakness, Miles hid his face in Stephen’s neck. As Miles settled on the narrow bed, he caught sight of the frown on the doctor’s face and couldn’t help his fearful, “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, Master.’
“I’m a physician, Miles, it’s my job to take care of the sick. Don’t waste any of your energy worrying about causing me work – you just rest and concentrate on getting better.”
And though the words were just words, knowing that it wasn’t all that likely that he would survive without the right antibiotics, Miles couldn’t do anything except obey.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“I cannot thank you enough, Dr. Connor, for NIH’s fast
response in this matter. Not only for
minimizing the loss of life, although that, of course, was the paramount
concern. Beyond that, though,
The state’s director of Health and Human Services was a small man, given to using quick, nervous gestures that made him look almost bird-like. Larry Miller’s forehead was wrinkled in concern, but whether that was due to the tragedy itself or the work it had generated, Connor didn’t know. Given his experience with bureaucrats, however, he suspected the latter.
“We were glad to be of service,” Stephen responded. He wasn’t prone to false modesty, but an inkling of a plan had begun to form in the back of his mind. For it to work, he’d need this man’s cooperation; a little humility was a small price to pay.
“We will find those responsible for this travesty,” Miller vowed. “We will find the ones whose negligence led to Citizens’ deaths and when we do, I will personally see to it that they are brought to full and bloody justice.”
Connor didn’t doubt it. Miller sounded like he had the conviction of a man planning on running for public office.
“Frank Powell, our investigator, has determined that the camp and its slaves are corporately owned,” Stephen informed the director.
“Not any more they’re not,” Miller shot back. “Based on the information your team
forwarded, I’ve been authorized to take possession of the entire
operation. As of two hours ago, the
slaves, the camp, the whole kit and caboodle, belong to the state of
“Tracing the true owners might prove difficult,” Stephen cautioned. He’d chatted with Frank via cell phone on the way to meet the HHS director. “Powell said that the overseer left a letter that implied that the responsibility for the camp went higher up than was obvious.”
Miller sighed and scratched his forehead. “Isn’t that always the case?” The man no longer sounded like a politician, merely like a tired public servant. “We’ll have as many of the slaves questioned as possible before they’re put down. They probably don’t know much, this type never do, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Put down?” Eva repeated softly. The publicity liaison had been mostly silent since introducing Miller to Connor.
“The antibiotic isn’t that expensive, Mr. Miller,” Connor quietly pointed out. He lightly stepped on Eva’s foot as she leaned forward. He needed the young woman to stay in check. The situation wasn’t irretrievable, not yet.
“Oh, it’s not the cost of the medication,” the director
explained absently. “It’s the recovery
time. Caring for sick slaves is very
expensive and fruit-pickers are hardly the cream of the crop, pardon the
pun.” Miller smiled at his own joke, but
when neither Connor nor Rossi responded in kind, the expression faded. “It’s a simple Return on that Investment
equation. With the state of
Stephen’s thoughts went back to Quad D and the care the slaves quartered there had given one another. Of their concern for Miles. Return on Investment didn’t cover their value, not by a long shot.
Connor opened his mouth to protest the director’s callousness, but Eva beat him to it. Her strategy, however, was unlike anything Stephen had contemplated using.
“If you’re measuring their value as field laborers, I completely agree,” she commented nonchalantly.
Miller tittered nervously. “They *are* field laborers, Miss. How else would you count it?”
Eva had him right where she wanted him – and she knew it. Stephen relaxed. Eva was the best at what she did and he had no doubt that her plan would work, even if he didn’t know what that plan was yet.
“Publicity,” Eva all but purred. “You can’t buy publicity like this. Conditions at the camp will get out, you know that. All it takes is one do-gooder with a camera phone. And when that happens, the abolitionists will be all over this scene like white on rice.”
Director Miller winced. He’d seen enough of the camp to know that Eva was completely right.
“If you terminate the surviving slaves now, it’ll just make
the state look like the bad guys,” Eva pointed out. “But, if you care for them, see to it that
they’re nursed back to health… well, the public – even the abolitionists - will have to assign the blame where it
rightfully belongs, with the owners of the camp.
“Hmmm…” Miller thought about it. “I bet we could even fine the camp owners for the fees involved in the slaves’ care.” His face brightened. No doubt some of those fines would go to his own coffers. “Miss Rossi, you’re a genius.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Eva responded demurely. “You’re the one making the wise decision to spare the slaves.”
Miller looked at her hopefully. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in a
job?”
Stephen hid his smile. Eva would never leave Natalie, but Miller didn’t know that.
“Oh, no thank you, Director Miller,” Eva turned him down gently. “I’m afraid I’ve grown to love the travel associated with my NIH work.” She took the director by the arm. “Come on, we’ve got a press conference to arrange.”
“Press conference?” Miller repeated. “Oooh. I like the sound of that.”
“You’re very photogenic, I can tell,” Eva assured him as she led the bureaucrat out.
Connor chuckled quietly enough that Miller couldn’t hear him. The director hadn’t known what hit him. Eva chose that moment to turn to look at Stephen, however, and the expression in her eyes killed his laughter. Her face reminded him of just how close those slaves had come to being disposed of.
“Good job,” he mouthed at the young woman.
She nodded minutely before returning to lavishing praise on a man who’d seriously contemplated exterminating several dozen people just because taking care of them would cost too much money. Eva obviously had no intention of letting the bureaucrat out of her sight before he’d publicly outlined his plans for the slaves and was unable to back out of it.
Eva had won a victory for the slaves whose status she had once shared, but it had cost the young woman. Eva was so good at playacting that sometimes Stephen forgot the toll the more unpleasant personas could take on her. Acting nonchalant about the extermination of slaves and then buttering up their would-be executioner would haunt her, no doubt about it. Connor could only hope that Natalie could comfort her later.
As fond as he was of Eva, however, Stephen didn’t regret what she’d done, not when he realized that Miles would have been one of the slaves “put down.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
For the next several hours, Stephen’s time was taken up with
coordinating efforts between NIH and HHS.
His team’s responsibility was discovering the disease’s origin. Others
would have the dual tasks of caring for the sick long-term and cleaning up the
site. Given the number of patients
involved, though, the hand-off was shaping up to be a bit trickier than normal.
The team would likely be in
Eventually, however, the doctor was able to pull himself away from administrative details and had a chance to go and check on someone that he’d already taken to thinking of as “his” patient. When he got to the hospital tent, however, Natalie was already tending to Miles. The slave remained unconscious and there were fever-bright patches of red on each cheek. The other doctor was sitting at the young man’s bedside, wiping his face with a wet cloth. Stephen was unprepared for the visceral reaction the sight caused him. He wanted to stride over and rip the cloth out of Natalie’s hands, despite knowing that she was devoted to Eva.
It took some effort, but Connor was able to stifle that response and speak to the other doctor in a normal tone of voice. “How’s he doing?”
Natalie looked up. “His temperature hasn’t broken yet.” When Stephen frowned, she hastened to explain. “He only received the vaccine about 45 minutes ago.”
Stephen sighed. He
knew as well as Natalie that the antibiotic would need longer than that to
work. “Are we going to have enough ceftriaxone
to go around?”
Durant put the cloth aside and stood, stretching her back until it cracked. “We weren’t prepared for this big of an outbreak. Eva’s arranging for those who are presenting to be sent here. Hopefully, we’ll have enough to inoculate them. HHS has got a larger shipment on the way. It should arrive with the relief team.”
“Good.” Connor looked at Miles regretfully. He wanted to stay, but duty took him elsewhere. “Can you handle things here? I want to work with Frank on the investigation.”
“I’ll be fine. Lieutenant Estwell is lending me his squad’s medic and I thought I would draft the slaves that aren’t presenting yet to help care for those that are too far gone.” Her face hardened. “Besides, if it means catching the bastard responsible, I’d be happy to handle the triage alone.”
Stephen nodded and, with a last look at Miles’ flushed face, he left the hospital tent. This time, as he made his way through the camp, he was prepared for what he saw. Or, rather, he was prepared for what he expected that he would see. Connor was surprised to find that the bodies had already been moved. It wasn’t difficult to remember the pathetic corpses of the slaves, however, and Connor’s mood as he approached the Overseer’s tent was somber.
“What do you have for me?” Stephen demanded to know as soon as he got inside and saw Frank.
Powell didn’t seem surprised, either by Stephen’s entrance or his abrupt manner. “The Overseer knew he was screwed, no doubt about that. I told you about the letter.”
“Where he indicated that the responsibility for the condition of the camp went pretty high up?”
“Yeah.” Frank handed a letter, encased in a clear plastic
evidence bag, to Stephen. He waited
until the doctor had read it before adding an additional comment. “Kind of cryptic, isn’t it?”
”I’d say so,” Stephen handed the letter back to Frank impatiently. “Why would he bother, if he wasn’t prepared
to reveal everything? It wasn’t like he
had anything left to lose?”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Powell disagreed with him. “The other two bodies found in here were his wife and son.” Frank handed Connor a framed picture. On the photo were the three people whose corpses Stephen had seen earlier and one other person, a young woman. The family resemblance was unmistakable. “My guess is that the daughter wasn’t involved in the family slave business, probably is even married. The Overseer would have to know she wouldn’t be pulled into the justice proceedings, but whomever *is* ultimately responsible could still kill her if the Overseer talked, even though the Overseer himself is dead.”
Stephen looked at the dried splotches of blood on the floor. What would it have been like to know that killing your wife and son was preferable to what the future held in store? He shuddered.
“Keep on it,” Connor instructed.
“Will do. I hope to have the replacement camp guards talking soon.”
Stephen was mildly surprised. “Really? They claimed not to know anything when we arrived. What makes you think they’ll offer up anything now?”
Frank’s grin was a flash of white against his dark skin. “I put them on body detail. It didn’t seem fair to make the soldiers pick up the corpses, not when we had some camp employees physically capable of doing it.”
Connor’s answering smile was not a pleasant one. “I’m surprised they didn’t make the slaves do it.”
“I may have told them that the slaves that were still alive were too sick to do it,” Powell looked at Stephen blandly. Both men knew that Quad D would have had enough able slaves to accomplish the grisly task.
Stephen nodded his approval. “Making them intimately aware of the results of their employer’s behavior might make the guards more inclined to talk. Especially since they could have gotten sick and died themselves.”
Frank shrugged. “That’s the idea. We’ll have to wait and see if it works.”
“Keep me updated,” Connor directed. At Frank’s ready acknowledgement, Stephen moved on to the next item on his internal to-do list.
It was not hard to find the Health & Human Services Director. The fact that it had only been a couple of hours since she’d proposed the idea, not to mention that the camp was located out in the middle of nowhere, hadn’t stopped Eva from organizing an impromptu press conference that was well attended by all of the major players. All Stephen had to do to find Director Miller was look for the bright lights.
Stephen knew from the pleased look on the man’s face that it
had gone well, but he asked anyway. “How
did the press conference turn out?”
Eva answered before Miller could. “Larry was brilliant. I was right; he’s very good at this kind of thing. A real natural in front of the camera.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Miller said with false modesty. Connor couldn’t help but notice that the man hadn’t protested Eva’s use of his first name. “But I think it’s safe to say that it was a success. Eva was right; the state came out smelling like a rose. Any outrage over this unfortunate incident should be directed at the camp owners.”
“Where it belongs,” Stephen concurred. He then went on to
use the opening that Miller’s statement provided him. “Speaking of owners, if I understand
correctly, the state of
“That’s right,” Miller confirmed. “The camp’s operation was deemed a hazard to public health and the owners, whoever they turn out to be, automatically have forfeited their possession to the state.”
“And how soon will they be available for re-purchase?” Connor ignored Eva’s startled reaction and instead focused on Miller’s response.
The director was studying him with a sly expression on his face. “Saw something that caught your fancy, eh?”
“There’s a young man with medical training,” Stephen explained stiffly. “He’s already proven that he can keep his head in dangerous situations. I could use a helper like that in my line of work.”
Miller stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I tell you what, the state is very grateful to you and your team for your swift resolution of this meningitis outbreak. It would be my pleasure to offer this young man to you as a token of our thanks.”
Connor shook his head. It was important to him that he own Miles outright. “That’s very generous of you, Director Miller, but NIH policy prevents me from accepting gifts for anything I do for my job, even from another public servant. I insist on paying for him.”
The other man shrugged. “So be it.” The director dug in his suit jacket and, finding the business card he needed, handed it to Stephen. “This is the assistant that is handling the slave paperwork back at the office. Call her with the slave’s identification number and I’ll have her draw up the contract. I’m assuming the average price for a slave his age will be acceptable?”
“Very,” Connor confirmed.
Stephen stood and looked at the card in his hands as a stunned Eva led the director away. He couldn’t really blame the young woman for being surprised. Connor had showed no inclination to own slaves, not since Manfred had died. The old man had been with Stephen’s family while he was growing up and Stephen’s parents had made a gift of him when Connor graduated medical school. He’d offered to free the old man, but Manfred had begged him not to. After a lifetime of servitude, he just wasn’t capable of dealing with life on his own. Stephen had seen to it that the old man’s later years were filled with enough tasks to feel useful, but not so many to tax him past his endurance. Manfred had died before Eva had been around and Stephen had just never seen the need to replace him.
Not until now.
Connor hardly knew Miles, but something told him that the young man would be important to him. Stephen hadn’t stopped to analyze his feelings, just acted on them to make sure that Miles would be coming home with him. Now that he’d made the arrangements, though, Stephen was almost as stunned as Eva had been. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do with a slave, although his reasoning to Miller had been sound. Stephen didn’t know if helping would his NIH investigations would be the only capacity that Miles would fill in his life – but he was looking forward to finding out.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Unfortunately for Stephen, he didn’t have a lot of time to explore his new status as Miles’ owner. The couple of days following his discussion with Miller were every bit as hectic as Connor had anticipated and he didn’t have nearly as much time to devote to the slave as he would have liked.
The investigation had yielded limited results. The necessary permits for the placement of the camp had been in the Overseer’s name, but the contracts for the slave labor had been made out to a company called Sweet Pickin’ Farms. Keeping in mind what the Overseer’s note said about someone with a lot of power being involved, Powell had kept digging and finally turned up a holding company, West Coast Labor Limited, but that was as far as he got.
The replacement camp guards had known something of value after all, the name of the middle manager at the holding company who’d sent them out to take the place of the original guards. The middle manager, however, wasn’t saying a word, even under some rather intense ‘persuasive’ questioning. A judge was in the process of determining whether the man would be allowed to commit suicide or whether his whole family would help him pay for his negligence.
The means by which the meningitis had spread had also been determined. All it had taken was one slave with weakened immunity to develop the meningitis and the close, filthy quarters had helped the virus spread to the rest of the slave community. As for it getting out to the Citizen population, that was attributed to the farm’s truck drivers. The men were often rewarded for a speedy run by being allowed to choose a slave for an hour or two’s pleasure. The close contact and exchange of fluids allowed the virus to infect the truck drivers, who then infected those they came into contact with.
Since the practice of rewarding employees with access to slaves for sex was typical, Connor hoped that this incident would lead to new legislation. Immunizing slaves was common sense as far as he was concerned. Besides the benefits to public safety, even the most mercenary owner should realize that keeping his property healthy was only protecting his investment.
Caring for the sick had taken longer than Connor had expected. It was a sad truth that normally this many slaves that were ill would have been put down and it was hard to find medical personnel willing to take on the project. Eventually, however, the HHS had ordered their medical relief staff to step in and take over, in large part because Director Miller had made such a public announcement that the state government would be succoring them.
The press conference Eva had arranged for Miller had worked even beyond her expectations. Not only had the abolitionists not blamed the state for what had happened, but they were also actually praising the government for a change. Stephen was heartily glad that his own purchase of Miles was finalized and official. Because of what this group of slaves had gone through, they’d become symbols for the abolitionists’ cause. When they went up for auction, they’d no doubt be purchased quickly by abolitionists and Connor was glad he hadn’t had any competition for his ownership of the young man.
As for Miles, Stephen had been too busy to spend much time with his acquisition. Not that Miles was aware of his new status anyway. The slave’s fever had broken and he was on the mend, if weak. Every time that Connor came by, Miles was sleeping peacefully. It was the best thing for him, but still Stephen was frustrated. Miles didn’t even know that he now belong to Connor and Connor was eager to see his reaction to the news.
Stephen had been pleased at his team’s response to the purchase. Natalie had kissed Connor on the cheek, exclaiming happily that Miles was a ‘real sweetheart’ and she was glad that he would be owned by a person who would treat him decently. Stephen wasn’t really surprised that the other doctor had grown attached to the young man. Natalie had cared for Miles while Stephen was too busy to attend to him and, at this point, probably knew the slave better than Connor did. Whatever jealousy flared at that remark was dampened by the fact that her comment actually verified his judgment, since Natalie had a good sense for character. Frank had grinned and slapped Stephen on the back, claiming heartily that it was ‘about damn time’ that the doctor had indulged himself. There was little doubt, apparently, in the investigator’s mind of what use Connor would be putting his slave to. Eva, once she got over her initial shock, was even happier than Natalie. Seeing the camp and its occupants had affected the ex-slave badly. No doubt she was glad that at least one of abused slaves would be in happier circumstances.
The two days after Stephen had purchased Miles passed
slowly, full of excruciating administrative details and inconclusive
investigations. Finally, though, the team had been given the go-ahead to leave
for home. With a lighter step than he’d
had for days, Stephen walked through camp on his way to inform the rest of his
staff. After that happy task was
completed, he could start preparations to move Miles. The slave was no longer contagious and it
would be safe to transport him. He was a
bit worried about Miles being strong enough to travel, but had already decided
he would take time off and stay in
“Stephen, wait up a minute.”
Connor slowed but didn’t come to a complete stop. It was Eva who made the request and he was anxious to talk to her. The only information in the records about Miles had been his registry number and Eva had offered to do some digging. Stephen was happy to be the young man’s owner whatever the slave’s background information turned out to be, but was eager to learn the details.
“Did you find anything out?”
Stephen’s steps slowed even more as he saw the dismay on Eva’s face. He finally stopped completely and pulled the young woman to a space between two tents that had been set up for the NIH team’s use. “What’s wrong?”
“Miles’ full name is Miles McCabe,” Rossi stated quietly.
Connor frowned. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Eva took a deep breath. “McCabe as in Montgomery McCabe, his father. Papa McCabe was part of the Freedom for Everyone abolitionist cell.”
Freedom for Everyone. The abolitionist cell that had been
behind the bombing of
Denied permission to commit suicide, they and their families were condemned to slavery. That wasn’t the worst of it. The cell members themselves were castrated or neutered, depending on their gender. Then, once their Chains were permanently welded around their necks, they were forced to watch while each member of their families were publicly Claimed by *their* new owners. The whole event had gone on for weeks and had been televised, eclipsing the Olympics in the ratings. Even now, almost three years later, the DVD set of the highlights was on the best seller lists. Stephen even had a copy, although he’d never watched it. It had been a birthday gift from his wife; yet another piece of evidence of how far apart they’d drifted as a couple.
“Was Miles involved in the cell itself?” He asked Eva, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat.
“No.” She didn’t point out that if he had been, he would have been castrated too. Eva had helped care for Miles and knew that he was intact. “According to the records, he’d had a falling out with his father and hadn’t even seen him since starting college. He was barely 20 when it happened.”
Stephen closed his eyes. At the age of 20, Miles would have legally been his father’s property, regardless of how long it had been since they’d even spoken.
“Does his record show anything of medical training?” Connor asked.
“Only that he’d just finished his second year of medical school when the bombing happened,” Eva replied.
“At 20?” Stephen quizzed. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Rossi asserted. “Apparently he was some kind of child prodigy.” She brandished a folder. “I have the whole thing here if you want to read it.”
Stephen did, but not at the moment. He was having a hard enough time adjusting to what he’d just learned. “Later.” Suddenly, Connor was more eager to see Miles than he was to break the homecoming news to the rest of the team. “We’re officially done here and our plane leaves early this evening.”
“Stephen, that’s wonderful.” From the relief in her tone and on her face, Eva was just as eager to leave this place as Connor was.
“Do me a favor and tell Natalie and Frank?” Stephen requested. “I want to check on Miles.”
“Sure, Boss,” Rossi answered. She tucked the folder under her arm. “I’ll just save this for you to read on the plane.”
“Thanks, Eva,” Stephen responded, but his mind was already elsewhere as his feet eagerly took him in the direction of the hospital tent.
By this time, there were several hospital tents. The original tent housed the guards and Miles, with the rest of the slaves segregated in the other tents. Thanks to the antibiotic, no new patients had started presenting symptoms and there had been no further fatalities. Guards were placed around the slave tents, but so far hadn’t been needed. It was unlikely that they would be. These people were too happy to be alive to rebel.
As Stephen entered the tent that Miles was in, he was thinking of ways to break the news to the slave that he’d been purchased and was about to be moved across the country. The thoughts so preoccupied him that he didn’t realize at first that Miles’ cot was surrounded. Connor stopped abruptly. He recognized the group of men standing around Miles as the guards they’d been treating for meningitis. They hadn’t been nearly as sick as Miles and were already much improved. Earlier he’d been pleased that they were recovering so well, but now he wasn’t so sure. The men didn’t look like they’d approached Miles for any friendly reason. Wanting to learn more about the situation before stepping in, Connor was silent as he approached the tableau.
“What kind of uppity slave are you, thinkin’ your good enough to be in the same tent as free men?” The first guard asked.
Stephen heard a murmur from the cot, but couldn’t distinguish what Miles had said.
“Not good enough, boy.” The second one said, evidently not pleased with Miles’ answer. “What do you think, gentlemen? Think we should find something else for this pretty boy’s mouth to do?”
All four of the men were opening their belts just about the time Stephen reached the group. He dropped a hand on the shoulder of the nearest one and spun him around.
“You didn’t ask what *I* thought,” he snarled.
“Aw, hells, Doc,” The first one said, recognizing Stephen from the times he’d checked on the patients. “The boss lets us help ourselves to the merchandise whenever we got a need. Figured that’s why the boy’s here, to comfort us while we recover.”
The other three snickered and one of them piped up with, “He’s camp merchandise and we’re camp employees. We got a right to pleasure ourselves on him.”
Stephen bullied himself so that he was between Miles’ cot and the nearest of the guards. “That’s where you’re mistaken. I’m his lawful owner and have been since shortly after he was placed in this tent.”
The men shuffled and stared at one another. Three of them seemed cowed, but the second one set his jaw belligerently. “Our job is to protect Sweet Pickin’s property. How are we supposed to know that what you say is true?”
Obviously, the guards were not privy to updated information about the camp’s status. Stephen didn’t find that reason enough to be reasonable, however.
“I can prove it on your body if you like,” he growled, pulling himself up to his full height, “Are you Challenging me?”
The guard took a good look at Connor. Stephen might be a healer and a man who used the strength of his mind to do his job, but he was still athletic. He hadn’t let his physique decline since he played college football and cut an imposing figure.
“Um, no Sir.” The guard said, backing down and stepping away from the cot. “No Challenge at all, Sir. He’s all yours.”
“I’m glad we have that settled. I suggest you don’t forget it again.” Stephen looked at them coldly. “Now, since you’re feeling well enough to gang up on a sick man, I think you’re ready to leave your beds. Get out. Now.”
He watched as the four men trailed out of the tent, not relenting an inch until they were gone. The door flap had barely slapped closed when he sensed movement behind him. Connor turned just in time to catch Miles as he fell from the bed.
“What are you doing?” Stephen asked sharply. He hadn’t meant for the question to come out quite that roughly, but was still high on adrenalin from the showdown with the guards.
“I heard you say you were my new Master,” Miles stated. He slid out of Stephen’s hands and fell to the floor. Once there, he did his best to prostate himself, but he was too weak to do much more than lie there and pant.
“That’s not necessary,” Stephen tried to explain. He reached for Miles again and, this time, managed to keep a grip on him. Even the minimal effort of trying to get out of bed had exhausted the young man and he lay limply in Stephen’s arms.
Connor set Miles back on the cot and watched while the slave tried to get his breathing under control. He’d gotten into the habit of brushing Miles’ hair off his forehead in order to check his temperature. Stephen stretched a hand forward to do the same thing, this time with the intention to comfort, but Miles flinched away from him.
“I’m sorry about that,” Connor apologized. “I should have told them that you were mine before now. They never should have laid a hand on you.”
Miles wouldn’t look at him. “It’s all right, Master. I’m used to it.” Stephen could see one tear running down the side of the slave’s face. “I c-c-an pleasure you now if you like, but you might find the ride a bit bony.”
Stephen put a hand under the younger man’s chin and forced Miles to look at him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Miles. In fact, you’re only now recovering from a serious illness. The only thing I’m going to ask of you for the time being is to rest and concentrate on recovering.” He smiled kindly at his new possession. “Think you can manage?”
“Yes, Master.”
Connor would have like to have seen a glimmer of belief or trust in the young man’s eyes, but there was none. In fact, even delirious with fever, Miles had been more comfortable with Stephen when he was ill. There was nothing Connor could do about it for the moment, though, except try to prove to his slave by his actions that he was a kind master.
“That’s great,” Stephen pretended that Miles’ response had been more enthusiastic. “We’ll be leaving for home soon. I’ll see if I can find you some clothes; the last thing we need is for you to catch a cold now.”
“Yes, Master.”
Stephen sighed and decided not to push it. He patted Miles’ shoulder in a friendly way, trying not to let it hurt when the slave flinched again. Without a further word, he got up to leave the tent. A last look over his shoulder before he walked out showed Miles laying flat on his back, staring at the tent’s top. The totally expressionless look on the slave’s face was at odds with the trail of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and disappearing into the dark hair.
Not the most auspicious of starts, but Connor refused to let it deter him. This was, after all, only the beginning. If his master/slave relationship with Miles hadn’t started out on the best foot, at least they had nowhere to go from here but up.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Rather surprised to wake, some unknown time later, Miles found himself on the receiving end of gentle attention from the pretty, long-haired doctor who worked with Dr. Connor. He knew that he was free and clear of danger from the lack of lethargy in his limbs and the clear-headed way he could finally think again.
Smiling at him, the woman introduced herself as she took his temperature and brushed elegant fingers through his hair. “Hi there. I’m Dr. Natalie Durant, but you can call me Natalie.”
There was no way he could do that, so he just nodded, figuring that silence was better than risking an inappropriate remark. But then he had to ask about the others and dared a soft, respectful, “May I ask how the others are doing, Mistress?”
“A good many of the ones in your quadrant were saved, Miles, and it’s all due to you. They’ve been treated and are recovering fully,” she replied, her smile growing.
Relieved, Miles managed to return the smile.
“I’m going to get you some broth to drink, see how your stomach handles it.”
And while he’d been a vegetarian from an early age, Miles knew better than to turn down any form of sustenance. The meat never sat right, metabolized poorly, and chicken was even worse, but he would eat what he could get.
The next couple of days passed quietly and while he wondered why he was being kept from the others, Miles didn’t question it. He never saw Dr. Connor, which was a vague kind of disappointment, but Dr. Durant was pleasant, soothing company. She always seemed to know what he needed, even before he did. And when Miles met her lover, a freed slave named Eva, he understood where her compassion and patience with him came from.
It was towards the end of the third day after his fever broke that trouble arrived in the form of the healed guards. One minute he was alone and resting comfortably, and the next, his cot was surrounded by the faces from his nightmares. They weren’t the same guards as before, the others were all dead, but they wore the same uniform and had the same hard, sneering expressions on their faces.
“What kind of uppity slave are you, thinkin’ your good enough to be in the same tent as free men?”
Knowing that nothing he said would make a difference, Miles answered respectfully, “I’m sorry, Sir, I was kept here by the staff. They didn’t tell me why.”
Miles’ heart sank on hearing the angry answer…
“Not good enough, boy. What do you think, gentlemen? Think we should find something else for this pretty boy’s mouth to do?”
He could hear the terrifying sound of belts being undone when an unfamiliar voice snarled, “You didn’t ask what I thought.”
Miles listened in stunned amazement as the doctor argued with the guards over who he belonged to. And then his heart just about stopped when the phrase ‘Challenging me,’ echoed through the air. The guards backed down, but Miles was too far into his panic to think about anything as they left except that he needed to show the proper obeisance. His muscles were too weak, of course, and the other man caught him as he fell.
“What are you doing?”
The panic grew at the sharp tone and he said, “I heard you say you were my new Master,” as he slid from the doctor’s arms to try and prostrate himself, but could only lie there and pant.
He was grabbed carefully but firmly about the shoulders and hauled back onto the cot as Dr. Connor said, “That’s not necessary.” When the other man reached for him, Miles instinctively flinched away, anticipating a blow that never came. And then, to his shock, came an apology.
“I’m sorry about that. I should have told them that you were mine before now. They never should have laid a hand on you.”
Miles wouldn’t look at him, the tears slipping out despite the fact that he should have known this was coming. “It’s all right, Master. I’m used to it. I c-c-an pleasure you now if you like, but you might find the ride a bit bony.”
A hand lifted Miles’ face so that their gazes met, and the doctor promised with a smile, “I’m not going to hurt you, Miles. In fact, you’re only now recovering from a serious illness. The only thing I’m going to ask of you for the time being is to rest and concentrate on recovering. Think you can manage?”
There was no way that was possible, but he agreed, “Yes, Master.”
He stared up at the ceiling as the other man left the tent, willing himself to feel nothing and feeling fairly confident that he showed far less than he did actually feel. If only he could stop crying.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Stephen closed the file quietly. Eva had been true to her word and given him Miles’ dossier once they were on the plane. It had made for disturbing reading. Eva had already told him the worst of it, the horrific way that Miles had been introduced to slavery. In the three years that the young man had been Chained, he’d had a series of owners. Nothing indicated that their interest in him had anything to do with his medical background and, given the scars that the young man sported, it didn’t take much imagination to figure out the uses that Miles had been put to. The last owner had been the holding company that owned the camp where Miles had been found. According to the records, Miles had been purchased by West Coast Labor nine months ago. Stephen couldn’t figure out what Miles had been doing in that agriculture camp. As either a pleasure slave *or* a partially trained doctor, he was far too valuable to be in that type of operation.
Miles himself was sleeping as their plane winged its way
back to
After conferring with Natalie, Stephen had opted to sedate Miles for the flight. The slave’s face had been expressionless as Connor injected him, but his eyes were worried. Stephen had done it anyway. It wasn’t because the young man was out of control after his run-in with the guards. Connor would say that the slave was almost *too* much in control of his emotions. Rather, it was due to the meningitis. Miles was still recovering and in a lot of pain. The recovering man wouldn’t admit it, but he clearly was suffering from a massive headache and probably would be prone to them for the near future. Miles had come close to death because of meningitis and his recovery would take some time.
Miles moaned softly in his sleep and Stephen patted him in reassurance. “It’s okay, Miles. You’re safe with me.”
His voice soothed the young man and the slave subsided back into deeper slumber.
The slave was dressed in Stephen’s extra clothes and they were much too big for him. The two men were close in height, but Miles was painfully thin and Connor’s clothes were far too baggy on his lean frame. Frank had had to use his pocket knife to poke a new hole in the belt, otherwise, the jeans would have slid right off Miles’ slender hips. There had been a few moments of embarrassment at the airport when Stephen realized that Miles’ was no longer Chained since they’d removed the rope back at the camp, but a quick trip to the gift shop had taken care of that. A simple silver Chain was now around Miles’ neck, but it was only temporary. Connor wanted to put more thought into what kind of Chain to use with Miles on a permanent basis. This one would make do for now.
The clothing and Chain issues brought home to Stephen just how ill prepared he was to own a slave… and they were just the beginning. He was barely settled into his apartment himself, now he would need to make it comfortable for two. Not to mention, he had yet to assess Miles’ medical skills and how they would best fit into Stephen’s NIH work.
“Buyer’s remorse?” Frank asked.
Stephen looked across the aisle at Frank. Director Miller’s office had booked them on a commercial flight and Stephen hadn’t had the energy to protest when he realized the seats were in First Class. It was only the NIH team that occupied the area and Stephen had his suspicions about that too. He and Miles sat on one side, with Frank on the other. The women were behind Frank, cuddled together underneath a blanket.
Frank’s question prompted Stephen to look down at Miles. The young man was again sleeping soundly, curled up against Connor’s side. Compared to that sensation, the issues Stephen had just been thinking of didn’t see quite so important.
“Not a chance,” Connor replied to his colleague, a smile playing around his lips. His expression turned suddenly sheepish. “Haven’t figured out what I’m going to tell Lisa yet.”
Frank’s answering smile faded. “I thought she was in
Stephen shrugged, not appreciating the reminder that his estranged wife and son were off the continent for another month. “She’ll have to come home sometime.”
“Your problem was letting her talk you into moving out of the house in the first place,” Powell pointed out. “She’s *your* wife, that’s your decision, not hers.”
“It was an arranged marriage,” Stephen pointed out. “She’s already given me our son, Jack. I’m not expecting her to love me. That would be greedy.”
It had been a hard realization to come to, that Lisa didn’t love him the way he’d grown to love her. She might claim that his job took him away too much and prevented them from being close, but Stephen didn’t entirely believe it. Love would have found a way. It had with Stephen’s parents. They were so utterly in love that it was hard to realize that theirs had been an arranged marriage and they hadn’t even met until the day of the wedding.
It saddened Stephen that his marriage hadn’t turned out the same. At least he had his son Jack… and maybe, now, Miles too.
“The woman don’t know how lucky she has it,” Frank grumbled, flipping his magazine open with a snap. “You ought to give her that divorce she wants, that’d teach her.”
Connor shook his head. “No. Jack deserves to have two parents. I’m not going to cut her out of his life.”
“So you’ll live half a life yourself?” Frank asked skeptically. “Sounds damn lonely to me.”
As Powell turned back to his reading, Connor couldn’t help but silently agree. His separation from his wife *was* lonely, but no more lonesome than their marriage had been. Miles shifted more closely in his sleep, causing Stephen to smile, despite his melancholy.
He had a gut feeling that, with Miles, his days of being lonely were over.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Miles made it to Stephen’s apartment under his own power, but it was a close call. Stephen had insisted on a wheelchair at the airport, but seeing how uncomfortable using it made the young man, had let him walk from the cab inside. Miles was still ridiculously weak and the sedative in his system didn’t help his coordination either. Even so, the slave had been doggedly determined about not letting Connor carry him. He was panting and shaking by the time they got there, but he made it on his own.
Stephen set his bag down by the door, giving Miles a chance to catch his breath. As he did, he looked around his apartment, trying to see it from the slave’s eyes.
He had to admit that it was pretty bleak.
Connor had only moved into the space a couple of weeks before. He’d left his house when his wife, Lisa, asked him to, but had done so reluctantly. At first, he’d lived at NIH headquarters, but eventually gave in to the inevitable and rented a place. At the time, he thought the three bedroom apartment had been a bit excessive, but he’d fallen in love with the view. He had really only needed two bedrooms, one for him and one for his son when he visited. Now that extra bedroom would come in handy. Or, it would be if it had a bed in it.
Stephen hadn’t been in the apartment long enough to settle in. So far, the décor consisted of a stereo, a beat-up leather couch and piles of unpacked boxes. There wasn’t even anything on the windows and, even though he hadn’t checked yet, he knew the refrigerator was empty. Not exactly the most welcoming of homecomings.
“Pretty bad, huh?” Stephen said awkwardly to Miles.
The slave was slumped against the closed door. “I’ve seen worse,” he responded quietly.
Stephen just bet he had.
“Look, let’s get you to bed,” he suggested, noticing that Miles was swaying with exhaustion.
Connor took the young man by the arm and led him down the hallway. Miles followed docilely until they reached the bedroom. Once Stephen turned on the light, the slave led the way to the bed and flopped face down. Connor thought that perhaps the exhausted man had simply been overcome with weariness, but that idea was belayed by the way Miles lifted his ass into the air.
Miles was still ill, partially sedated, and obviously apprehensive about his new owner. What he was displaying was nothing more than a survival instinct. Stephen knew that, but he had to admit that he liked what he saw.
“Hey, none of that,” Connor said. He walked over and patted Miles on the ass before gently pressing the young man flat to the bed. “You’re in here tonight because it’s the only bed I have at the moment and I am not putting a meningitis patient on the couch or the floor.”
Miles half turned to look at him, eyes wary. “Why are you doing this?” The slave belatedly realized that he’d not only questioned his master, but had neglected to address him properly. “Master, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-…”
“It’s all right, calm down.” Stephen smiled and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I know you haven’t had much evidence to the contrary lately, Miles, but there’s still kindness left in the world.”
The young man didn’t look convinced. As tempted as Connor was to stay and continue trying, he knew it was fruitless. Miles had been though too much to be won over by mere words. He would have to hope his actions eventually persuaded Miles that he meant him no harm.
“Try and get some sleep,” Stephen instructed. “It’ll all make more sense tomorrow.”
He got up and headed to the door. Once there, Connor turned around and took one last look. Despite his distrust, Miles’ eyes were already half-lidded with exhaustion and Stephen didn’t doubt that he’d be asleep within moments. Stifling a smile, Connor turned the light off and closed the door.
Yawning, the doctor made his way down the hallway. He felt woefully unprepared. Viruses, he could deal with. Outbreaks? No problem. But a half-starved, emotionally scarred slave was a little out of his league.
Once in the kitchen, Stephen went to the refrigerator and opened it. It was as cold and empty as the rest of the apartment. He was still staring into its interior when a knock came on the door. Too tired to be more than mildly curious, Connor went to answer it.
“Don’t you ever make any offerings to Hestia?” Natalie asked as she brushed by him. “This place is awful.”
Stephen watched with bemusement as Eva followed her lover into the apartment. Both women were carrying laden grocery bags and were halfway to the kitchen before he could even offer to help carry anything.
“What are the two of you doing here?”
“We know you too well, Stephen,” Natalie answered. “There’s probably nothing edible in this place.”
“We stopped and picked you up some essentials,” Eva added as she set her bags down and immediately started unpacking them. “We figured you had enough to deal with right now.”
Connor leaned against the doorframe and watched the women make short work over storing the groceries, Natalie tisking under her breath as she got a look at the state of his kitchen. He didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated that they’d been right, his shelves were pretty bare.
“You know, we’re gonna have to start calling you ‘Old Mother Hubbard.’” Eva teased. “You’d think a doctor would be more concerned about nutrition.”
Stephen took the joking in good stride. He couldn’t help but compare Eva’s easy manner with Miles’ wariness. Then again, Eva wasn’t a slave anymore.
“Eva,” Connor started carefully. “Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions? From before you were free.”
From the quick glance that passed between the two women, he had a feeling that this had been anticipated too.
“That’d be fine,” she replied. Leaving Natalie to finish fussing with the groceries, Eva leaned against the counter and gave him her full attention.
“When you came into the household of a new owner,” Stephen asked, “What worried you?”
Eva smile had a shadow of bitterness in it. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific, Stephen. A slave with a new Master is worried about everything. Will she be Claimed by just him or his friends too? What prompts a beating and what prompts a whipping? Will there be enough food?”
Stephen started pacing. “Fair enough. What worried you the most, then?”
She bit her lip as thought about it. “Honestly? Just knowing what to expect. Even if your new Master is a bastard, you can deal with it if you’re prepared. It’s the not knowing that keeps you awake at night.”
“I’ve reassured Miles that I’m not going to hurt him.” Connor sighed. “But somehow I don’t think that’s enough.”
“A slave’s definition of ‘hurt’ isn’t always the same as the Master’s,” Eva shrugged. “You’ll just have to keep showing him that he’s safe with you until he believes it and that might take a long time. In the meantime, tell him specifically what his responsibilities are.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Stephen responded, half in exasperation and half in hope.
Natalie had finished putting the goods they brought away and came to stand next to Eva. Wrapping an arm around her lover’s waist, the doctor nuzzled behind Rossi’s ear for a moment before addressing her colleague. “Nothing about this is going to be easy, Stephen, but then nothing worth doing ever is.” She watched him in concern. “I thought you’d owned slaves before?”
“Never like this,” Stephen responded, shaking his head. “My family always had them, but our slaves weren’t so badly mistreated as Miles. At least, I don’t think they were. I wasn’t involved in any of the actual purchases.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Natalie stated. “You have a good heart, Stephen.” Seeing Eva yawn, she smiled fondly. “We better get going. It’s been a long week.”
Stephen saw them to the door and said goodnight. Eva kissed him on the cheek. “Miles is a lucky man.”
“Thanks, but I don’t know about that,” Connor refuted.
“You care,” she countered. “That’s probably more than he’s had since he was Chained. Everything else you can work out.”
There didn’t seem too much he could say to that and, in a contemplative mood, Stephen bid the ladies a good night. After they left he wandered back to his bedroom and peeked in. Miles was curled up into a ball and sound asleep. Connor stood and watched him for a few minutes, but left when the slave started to show signs of restlessness. Miles needed sleep more than Stephen needed to drink in the sight of him.
Still restless, he wandered to the spare room closest to his. It was the one he’d determined would be his son’s. Nothing of Jack was in the room yet and it ached with emptiness.
Moving with a purpose, Connor returned to the living room and picked up the phone. His boss, Kate Ewing, was going to be surprised to hear from him this late at night and she was going to be downright shocked when he asked for two weeks off. Stephen didn’t care. He’d already made the mistake with his wife of not putting her first and Lisa had not hesitated to make it clear it was too late for a second chance. Miles wasn’t his wife, of course, but something was telling Stephen that he would be every bit as important in his life. Connor wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
end part 1