The Chronicles of Clyde: Unafilliated

by F. E. Arliss

“Yes, Sir. I will, Sir,” Arc promised a bit absent-mindedly, being preoccupied with thinking about killing her first alien.

  Quirke barked with laughter, “Doesn’t surprise you a bit, does it, girl, that we’ve got illegal cargo?” he asked grinning.

  “No, Sir. Not especially, Sir,” Arc answered, grinning stiffly back at him.

  The next ten minutes were the longest of Arc’s life. Though Arc could hear the turret guns firing, it wasn’t keeping the Dreasing from firing repeated torpedo rounds into the shield outside the cargo hold. They certainly knew what they were after and they weren’t wasting much ammunition on the bridge. Dag could do nothing but monitor systems and try to reroute power to the shields. “They’ve locked docking tubes, Commander,” came Dag’s terse progress report.

  Arc could hear the turret gun on this side of the ship firing. Probably Todd trying to puncture the Dreasing docking tube. A smart move. No sooner had Arc thought that, then a loud explosion rocked Clyde violently to one side.

  “Port side weapon’s turret is down, Sir. Docking tube is holding,” came Dag’s choked update. “Jayla doesn’t have a shot from her turret.”

  “Tell her to get her ass over to the weapons bay. Get a launcher and a breather. Get her up in that turret and strap in and blast those bastards! You hear me, Dag? Get her up there!” ground out the Commander.

  “Sir, Tad’s body…” Dag started to gasp out.

  “I know son, but she’s got to do it. Get her on it,” Quirke repeated firmly. “Now!”

  “Yes, Sir!” Dag replied, voice steady once again.

  A few seconds later the door to the cargo hold was breached by a titanium-burning welding-torch. Expensive. Arc guessed the Dreasing had been making some successful attacks if they could afford that sort of high-end equipment.

  “Steady, girl. Steady.” Quirke entoned beside her, his voice firm and quiet.

  Then the door came crashing down with a spine-rippling thud. Arc wouldn’t remember later if it was that impact that caused her trigger finger to curl, or the fact that a huge darkly-scaled warrior burst into the cargo bay with a laser pistol swinging wildly from side to side in his search for targets.

  He went down, though not by her shots. Arc was pretty sure she’d just wasted a bunch of rounds in a panicked mass of misses. Steadying herself, she targeted the next in line. He went down. Then the next.

  The first four were down, but they were coming in faster now. One got all the way past the side of her crate hideout before she brought him down. The Commander had leapt up and was trying to get an angled shot at the Dreasing taking cover behind the fallen cargo-hold door. It wasn’t working.

  Arc crawled backwards, rounding the back of her crate stack and trying to find an angle to fire into the crevasse behind the propped-up door. It was acting as a giant shield for the Dreasing behind it. Before she could get into place, a warrior she’d not seen rounded the side of the crate and laser fire ricocheted off the floor in front of her face. Shit, hot slag hurt!!! Quirke shot the bastard in the back and he fell forward barely missing Arc’s crouched position.

  Shaking the hand where the slag had landed, Arc forgot about the pain and focused on her desperation to get a good shot at the Dreasing behind the breached door. Trying to not think about any of the other warriors that might be advancing on her, she targeted the crevasse and fired at the only thing she could see...the assailant’s foot.

  It hit. The Dreasing lurched sideways into view. Arc continued to fire, practically cutting him in half with her constant barrage. A split second later, more hot slag burned the backs of her hands, causing her to drop her laser rifle.

  “Move, girl! Or you’re a goner!” Arc heard the Commander’s rough growl. A moment later, a tremendous blast rocked the cargo bay.

  “Jayla has a direct hit on the docking tube, Sir. I think she’s taken out the rest of the crew trying to board,” Dag reported tersely. “There’s one gunner left and he’s returning fire.”

  Throwing herself forward, Arc scrambled wildly over the crumpled Dreasing she’d just gutted. The smell was disgusting. Arc swallowed a hotly bitter, surge of bile as she groped for the Dreasing’s weapon. She came up empty, then saw the pistol several feet away out in the open. Shit, shit, shit, shit!

  Creeping further back, Arc checked the area behind her. Her burning hand touched something hard and hot. It was the titanium cutting torch. Desperately she fingered the trigger. How hard were these things to operate? Pulling it to her, Arc steadied her hands and wiped the sweat from her stinging eyes.

  She could hear the Commander swearing and firing at the remaining Dreasing. Pressing the trigger on the torch it fired to life. An alien boot came into sight at the opening where the cargo door lay propped against the bulkhead. Arc’s trembling hand pressed the torch forward and swiped the now blazing end across the boot’s instep.

  A crumpling sound ripped through the bay just as the stink of burning Dreasing flesh gagged her. The warrior’s toes shriveled and smoked. Screams deafened her ears as she pressed forward, emerging in a rush from behind the fallen door to swipe the torch across the stumbling Dreasing in a desperate follow up. The torch cut through his armor far more easily than it had cut through the hull of their ship.

  Silence ensued.

  Arc looked around. Dead Dreasing seemed to lay everywhere. “The Dreasing vessel isn’t moving, Commander,” Dag’s voice came along her comms. “I believe Jayla took out their oxygen system. If there were any left onboard, they’re dead now.”

  “I reckon they all came down here. Thought they’d take us easy to begin with, but then had to come as back-up when it didn’t go down that way. Looks like we might be taking on some extra salvage,” Quirke added dryly.

  “Sir, Jayla was hit too. Both she and Todd are gone,” came Dag’s quiet voice. “We’re shot to hell, Sir.”

  “I’m sorry about Tad and Jayla,” Quirke muttered with a heavy sigh. “The Clyde will fix. He always does.”

  Arc was propped against the wall of the bulwark where she’d slid down, her legs suddenly weak. Her mind blank.

  “Come on, girl. Up you get! We need to see to our dead and heave these bastards into space,” Quirke said, coming over and kneeling down in front of her. “You did well. Good job. Now, move your ass,” he added, leaning down and grabbing both her hands to haul her to her feet. “You did real good, girl. Real good.”

  Arc’s gasp of pain and sudden wrenching of her hand from his grasp, caused them both to stare in dismay at the bubbled, bleeding back of her right hand. Bone glinted from the center of the riddled, pulpy mess. “Jaysus, girl! Why didn’t you say something?” Quirke grumbled at her, heaving a heavy first-aid kit off the wall.

  Seconds later a soothing burn wrap swaddled her hand and a nanite injection with her own plasma and stem-cell profiles pricked her vein. With painkillers and antibiotics surging in her system, Arc was numb elbow to fingertips. Quirke produced a dented flask from beneath his wrinkled Commander’s jacket. Forcing her to take a swig, ‘for shock’ he said, Arc let her head fall back against the bulkhead in relief.

  “I reckon that’ll do for a while. We’ll see to reconstruction when we get into station. For now, we’ll keep those changed out and the pain down,” Quirke rumbled, his usually rasping growl deeper with worry and grief.

  Arc simply nodded numbly.

  Tad and Jayla Wyatt were given a space burial and their loss recorded with the Interstellar Registry. Clyde was cleaned and repaired the best they could in deep space. Quirke, Dag and Arc salvaged everything they could from the Dreasing vessel, most of which stunk to high heaven. After a brief refuel and restock on the Jife platform, they limped into Zabados 9 three weeks later battered, beaten, heavy of salvage and heart.

  Now that there were only three of them, Arc was First Mate and Dag had been given Second Mate. The necessity of the promotions didn’t make them feel like celebrating their good fortune and increased income. It was just sad. Neither moved to the larger, now va
cant quarters, the Wyatt’s had shared.

  The illicit cargo turned out to be Tyberian rum. Though it was thought to cause brain tumors, it still brought exorbitant prices from those stupid enough or daring enough to drink the highly intoxicating brew. It brought a small fortune, as did the salvaged cargo from the Dreasing vessel. Plenty of bounty to send money to the Wyatts’ family and for Arc to get her hand plasti-built back to some semblance of normalcy.

  Chapter Three

  Built

  Dag and Quirke stood next to Arc while they listened to the surgeon at the plasti-build center lay out her options. The hand was not really salvageable. Some of the fingers could be saved, but the attachments to the palm of the hand wouldn’t be as strong if she retained her own fingers. In the surgeon’s eyes, this would lower the efficacy of the new prosthetic hand.

  Along with his easy dismissal of her human fingers, he’d remarked that to a young, beautiful woman like her, the synthetic hand would only give her a certain cache. Arc wanted to kick him in the nuts for that remark.

  Arc knew she would choose the whole prosthesis over keeping her own fingers, but the manner of the physician, so sure and arrogant in his assessment, made her angry. She made him wait two hours while she had lunch with Dag and Quirke in the med-unit cafeteria, as she supposedly mulled over her decision. Arrogant prick. He was right. He just didn’t have to be so condescending about the uselessness of her human fingers. Something about that didn’t set right with her.

  Quirke and Dag listened patiently to her and let her vent. Quirke, uncomfortable with his usually steady First Mate being so unsettled, began ribbing her about her name. She’d ‘arc’ welded those Dreasing, that was for sure. But he had considered calling her ‘Boots’ as she’d cut off two sets of them in the battle.

  Then he started in with the fact that she was going to be ‘built’ now, as he gestured at her bandaged hand, then the proto-type prosthesis. Looking down at her flat-chested torso, Arc had to smile, in spite of her irritable state, at Quirke’s unusual attempt at humor.

  Having cheered her significantly, they went with her to the med unit and helped pick out the new prosthesis. Dag and Quirke were like little kids choosing the options. Arc thought moodily that she was glad somebody was having fun.

  As an orderly ushered Arc to the back of the med center and helped her into the sani-gown for the operation, Arc’s wandering glance caught sight of a large Vanguardian warrior sitting in one of the plexi-glass-fronted repair bays. The warrior had long brown hair pulled back and braided down his spine.

  He was having a synthetic arm upgraded and spoke easily to the technician as the arm was re-calibrated. Arc wondered how he took it so easily for granted. Especially as he was from such a ‘perfection’ crazy culture.

  The large Vanguardian looked up as she passed. His eyes swept down to her bandaged hand then up again to her strained face. His amber eyes seemed to see right through her. At his slight smile and nod of empathetic acknowledgement, Arc felt a lump rise in her throat and her eyes teared up. Geez, what was the matter with her? It was just a hand. Easily replaced.

  Waiting outside the operating theatre for a moment, as last-minute preparations were made, Arc saw a beautiful, redheaded human woman stalk confidently into the repair bay where the Vanguardian warrior was being assisted. Arc swallowed another lump in her throat at the thought that the handsome male had found a mate, even outside his own society. Not allowing herself to feel disappointed that he had someone, Arc straightened her shoulders and went forward to meet her new hand.

  Five hours later Arc was out of surgery and laying in the recovery area with her right arm submerged in a nanite healing bath. She couldn’t feel anything yet. Hopefully, that wouldn’t last.

  When she did start to feel something, she wished she hadn’t. Now out of the nanite bath, the hand was alive with intense pain. Gasping, Arc flopped back and cradled the new appendage against her chest.

  A large hand shoved back the curtain on her recovery bay, and a pair of bright amber eyes peered around the edge. It was the large Vanguardian warrior she’d seen earlier. “How are you doing?” he asked. “I remember this part hurting like hell!” he added with a grin.

  “Yes! It hurts! I feel like swearing a blue streak!” she added, banging her other hand repeatedly on the bed next to her in agitation. “I’ve rung for a nurse. Surely, they have something for this horrible tingling?” Arc asked, glancing down at his lower arm.

  “He’s coming. You’ll love the shot! Very spacey, floaty, happy making, they are! I’m Caja of Renegar,” he added quietly. “May I know your name?” he asked.

  “I’m Arc Copperfield of the Clyde. Pleased to meet you Caja of Renegar,” Arc said smiling. “I saw you earlier getting your arm re-calibrated.” After a shy pause, Arc asked, “How do you accept it so easily? Your wife doesn’t seem to mind,” she added, thoughtfully, as the male nurse slid a needle into her rehydration drip.

  “Sasha is not my wife. She is my Captain and Queen,” he grinned at her. “Nor did I accept the arm easily when it first happened. My wounds turned me from a low-born, yet highly honored warrior, to a maimed, low-caste throw away. I met Sasha Kelty when I was ‘given’ to her as a reward for her honorable behavior. At the time, she had just been thrown out of the Intergalactic Guard.”

  “She was ‘thrown away’ when she insisted on doing the right thing in helping Vanguardian, human, and Soclaued prisoners on an asteroid mining colony operated by the Dreasing. Since we were both castaways, we found our own family of other misfits and have quite a successful business now and our own planet!” he added with boyish delight.

  “Wow! That is quite a story,” Arc said grinning, then shuddered. “The Dreasing are what took my hand. Or at least a battle with the Dreasing. We killed them all!” she added softly, stroking the now numb hand. “Bastards!”

  “Exactly our sentiments as well,” Caja added, his amber eyes serious. “If you ever have the chance to come out towards Renegar, please hail us. We would be happy to welcome you,” he said with sincerity in his voice. “May I send you the coordinates? What of the men who were with you earlier? They are your family or crew?” he asked, with more than a little curiosity.

  “The older one is Commander Quirke of our hauler Clyde. I’m the First Mate. The younger one is my roommate, Dag, the Second Mate. He’s into men. Better not let him see you!” Arc joked, then felt uncomfortable with her forwardness and inability to hide the fact that she thought him attractive. She hadn’t needed to explain Dag’s preference!

  “What helped you most when learning to accept your arm?” Arc asked quickly, desperately trying to redirect the conversation.

  “I won’t lie. I only came to appreciate it and feel it was part of who I was when I learned to love its added strength. When you start thinking about it as ‘my arm’ rather than ‘this arm’, that’s when you’ll be in the clear,” he added seriously. “It takes time.”

  “Thank you for stopping in to see me. Speaking with you has certainly helped. I appreciate it,” Arc said. “It was thoughtful of you.”

  “I enjoyed it. I hope to see you again, soon,” Caja said, then bowed slightly to her and disappeared from sight.

  Arc sighed sadly, then fell almost instantly into a sort of foggy trance, boosted by the injection the male steward had given her for the pain. The ‘happy making’ as Caja had called it, lasted for several days until the graft was more healed.

  Chapter Four

  Arizona Boys

  A few short, under-staffed hauls had an irritable Commander Quirke taking on two experienced deckhands. Coates and Cole were both hired on Gaiaca, an agricultural planet that produced huge quantities of food for the galaxies surrounding them. Quirke’s crew was often contracted to deliver agricultural products, mostly equipment and machinery, but sometimes animals, food, or fuel.

  Coates and Cole came as a matched set. One wouldn’t get hired on without the other, so they’d languished in the employment queue
longer than most other able-bodied crew, who were most often hired one at a time. Both were from rural Arizona and had been raised on isolated ranches. They were good with machinery, animals and guns, but bad with people. That was perfect for Commander Quirke. Coates was short, compact and had a small head covered in wiry, red hair. In contrast to his small head, he had shoulders as wide as he was high. It was a singularly strange look. If Arc and Coates walked together, her beauty was skipped over in favor of the sight of Coates’ awkward pin-headed, orc-like body. Arc also found it somewhat comforting to note that Coates was far more riveting than she without her human hand.

  Cole was tall and skinny with a shock of wheat-colored hair and medium skin tone. His hair and skin were almost the same color, and he reminded Arc of a type of dog she’d seen once at a dog show on Earth. Weimaraner they’d been called. They were a weird sort-of all-one-color muddy-brown dog with long legs. Cole was more wheat-colored all over and had the whippet-fast reflexes that made up for Coates’ stocky solidness. Like she and Dag, they made a good pair in a fight, each having skills the other simply couldn’t replicate due to height or mass.