Bad Luck Charlie: The Dragon Mage Book 1

by Scott Baron

  Just as when he had first captured him, Marban took the fabric Charlie had worked free and quickly wrapped it around Captain Tür’s collar once again.

  The pain ceased nearly immediately once the knot was affixed, held firm with whatever verbal command he mumbled. Then his world went black.

  Chapter Forty

  Once again, Charlie woke to the horrid stench of his cell, only this time he had one hell of a whopper of a headache to go along with the nasal assault. He couldn’t tell what time it was––the lighting in the corridor outside was always the same––but they had been kind enough to dim the light in his cell at least.

  Judging by how relatively quiet it was, he figured it was either night time or mealtime, but during the latter, there was always a bit of a ruckus.

  So, night it was. Or more appropriately, ‘off shift,’ seeing as night and day were relative in the constant dark of space.

  “Oh, my aching neck,” he grumbled as he pushed up to his elbow.

  Apparently, it wasn’t only his head that had taken a bit of abuse. The dueling control collars had made his body their battlefield, and ground zero for them both was just above his collarbones.

  He gingerly touched the skin beneath the two bands, expecting blisters at the very least, but was pleasantly surprised to find everything intact. Whatever the collars had done, it had spared his dermis from harm.

  “Score one for Charlie,” he said with a little chuckle. “But hot damn, I feel like I was on the wrong end of a pissed-off rodeo bull.”

  He moved a little more, forcing himself to sit upright though his body wanted nothing more than to just lie there and melt into the lumpy bunk. Some of the soreness, he reckoned, was from the heavy loads he had carried from the ruined ship. Lots of twists and turns, stepping over bodies and debris to and from the Rixana. He’d been without any form of exercise for days, so it was logical that the unusual motions would leave him sporting a bit more lactic acid in his muscles than usual.

  He didn’t want to do it, but Charlie knew he needed to move if he didn’t want that preliminary ache to develop into full-on delayed onset muscle soreness. The pirate crew were somewhat unpredictable, and he didn’t want his reactions slowed around them if at all possible.

  With a grunt of discomfort, Charlie forced himself up to his feet.

  “Great, now I’m making the old man groan,” he lamented. “Not good, Charlie. Don’t let yourself sound like a geezer. Get your shit together.”

  He peered at the door, realizing he was talking to himself out loud.

  And use your inside voice, for fuck’s sake. No telling if they’re listening to everything you say, he silently reminded himself as he began to move and stretch. There we go. Get the blood flowing. Loosen everything up.

  For ten minutes he limbered his tight muscles, working up to pushups on the edge of his bunk––no way he wanted his hands on that floor––and bodyweight squats, his knees and hips popping as fluid in the joints gradually worked free. Gravity, at least, would help with that.

  It was something mentioned briefly in training before their ill-fated mission, and as the one with medic training, though from many years past, Charlie found the detail interesting and quite logical. In space––or a low-to zero-G environment––the body had a hard time healing from trauma.

  While fluids normally worked their way out of a wounded area on Earth, without proper gravity, they would pool and stay put. This not only made swelling last longer, but greatly hindered healing times. And worse yet, injuries that would normally not be too big a deal back home could be life-threatening sans gravity.

  He quietly thanked his captors for the small comfort of the artificial environment that allowed him to heal, though he was quite sure it was unintentional, then finished his little workout with a set of bicycle crunches on his bunk. He was hoping to loosen his hip and lower back while getting some blood flowing, but it was more than his hips he loosened up.

  “Oh shit,” he said, lunging for his filth-crusted toilet as his stomach painfully rumbled.

  He desperately tugged at his waist fasteners, knowing full-well his captors would likely just leave him wearing shit-stained pants if he soiled himself. Fortunately, he managed to push them down just as his bowels lost control and voided explosively into the basin.

  It felt as though his guts had been run through with a pipe-cleaning device, then the lone cork holding it all in was abruptly pulled free. In seconds he was empty, but that didn’t stop the cramping.

  The automated bidet-like cleaning blast hit him as he squatted there, doubled over in pain, thighs burning from holding himself above the disgusting device. He still hadn’t figured out exactly how it worked, but at the moment he really didn’t care. Charlie just hoped it would finish its cycle quickly.

  Just as he accepted that his quads couldn’t take any more and he’d probably have to live with soiled bedding, the cleaning cycle ended, and none too soon. His legs gave out as he threw himself onto his bunk and curled into a ball. He was clean, so there was that to be thankful for, but the cramping continued for a full two minutes before finally easing up.

  After that, he just lay there for a good ten minutes before finally mustering the strength to pull his pants back up.

  Damn. Shit my brains out so hard, I think I lost some IQ points, he grimly chuckled to himself.

  The toilet had––as per usual––finished its auto-flush cycle then rocked back and forth a few times before giving up and staying put. The waste in the bowl had cleared, thankfully, but with all of the cells full of new occupants, the system it fed into was operating at high capacity. That meant the stench of dozens of prisoners’ bowels wafted up through the bowl.

  Charlie, exhausted as he was, felt a burst of anger flood his system.

  “Okay, fuck this,” he said, getting to his feet.

  He retrieved the sharp piece of metal he had secreted off the pillaged ship from under his bunk and began tracing the lines of the wall panel around the toilet system.

  If I can just get in there, maybe I won’t have to keep smelling this shit all day. I’m a goddamn engineer. If I can build a spaceship, I sure as hell can fix a stinking toilet.

  Charlie paused and shed his shirt and pants, carefully folding and placing them on his bunk, ensuring they would not become filth-coated from the work. His body he could wash far easier than the material, he figured. It was disgusting to even think about, but with all he’d been through, his tolerances were shifting regularly.

  Ten disgusting minutes had passed before he finally managed to work free a panel after scraping off the years of crusted buildup over the seams.

  What the hell?

  The workings were unlike any he had ever seen before. The mechanical aspects were clear. A few pivot joints to allow the unit to retract into the wall, and a simple tube leading into the depths of the ship, where waste was stored for eventual disposal. The rest, however, was, well, alien.

  Where he expected circuits and wires, Charlie found only small, ornate, embedded metal squares, no thicker than his little finger. Those, he quickly learned, would not budge.

  Okay, so these must be alien circuit boards of some kind. I guess it makes sense their tech would be totally different than ours, but still, this is just weird.

  He traced the different moving parts with his piece of metal, scraping crusty grime from the frozen parts as he did. He might not be able to access the circuit system––whatever they tied into, he had no way inside that flush-mounted piece of bulkhead––but he could at least see about getting the moving parts moving again.

  Charlie rinsed off at the sink for the umpteenth time since beginning his task, then carried a handful of warm water back to the system and began using it to help loosen whatever it was that had fouled the joints. It took hours, but after a lot of elbow grease, he had restored them to a functional, if not beautiful, degree of operation.

  He stepped back from the toilet and watched as the unit retracted into the w
all. He moved closer and it swung out again, ready for use.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said with a triumphant smile.

  Just one problem. The toilet itself was still filthy.

  He looked at his hands, already soiled from his labors.

  “Fuck it,” he grumbled, then set to work with his modified tool, manually breaking free the hardened shit and grime with his bare hands. Once that was done, he let the toilet flush away the debris. Then he carefully washed his makeshift tool and used it to cut a strip from his blanket, which he then soaked in hot water and used to scrub the remainder of the toilet until it was clean.

  He looked around. The cell wasn’t that big, and he was already dirty, so why not?

  For another hour, he scrubbed the floors by hand, gradually lifting years of grime, revealing the dull gray surface beneath. There was no waste disposal bin, so he cut another strip from his blanket and wrapped the foul cleaning cloth in that. He’d just dispose of it at mealtime, he figured, not wanting to risk clogging the toilet with something so large after all that work.

  Charlie then rinsed off in his sink, scrubbing and washing his entire body as best he could. There would be a communal shower soon, he figured, seeing as they’d all just worked hard emptying the captured ship of its wealth. But the pirate captors were unpredictable on that front, so it could just as easily be a few days.

  And if he’d once shied away from the group showers at the base on Earth, he had now been forced to see enough alien private bits to last a lifetime.

  With a clean body and a clean cell, Charlie finally lay down on his bunk and breathed a deep breath of satisfaction. The lingering smell was still there, but it would just take time to fade. With the toilet functionally retracted now, he drifted off to sleep, the constant assault on his nose having, at long last, come to an end.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Despite the relatively unappetizing smell of the slop fed to the prisoners, those with more sensitive noses turned their heads in an attempt to suss out where the foul stench wafting through the galley was coming from.

  Charlie––carrying his wadded up, shit-stained rag as covertly as possible––noted the searching eyes and anxiously watched the line move ahead of him. Once he had his food, he could easily make quick work of his meal, then toss the offending matter into the waste receptacle with the other trash.

  After so long with the constant smell of his living space, Charlie had almost learned to tune out the malodorous fumes, but now, surrounded by the others, he realized perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. He might be used to it, but no telling who might notice the odd human carrying a shit-smelling bundle into their eating space.

  He made it to the front of the line and collected his food with no trouble, then hastened to his usual spot, wolfing down his meal so as to throw his load in the trash as quickly as possible and finally be done with it once and for all. And he almost succeeded.

  Almost.

  A guard, a man Charlie didn’t recognize from before, stepped in front of him, placing a firm hand on his chest as he walked toward the waste disposal receptacle.

  “What the hell are you doing coming in here smelling like that?”

  Charlie had no idea what the man said.

  “Answer me,” the guard demanded, smacking the tray from his hands. The waste-soaked rags fell to the ground, unwrapping and unleashing their full stench. “You disgusting little shit. What were you thinking, bringing that in here?” the guard demanded.

  Charlie smiled and shrugged. He couldn’t understand a word the man was saying, but the gist was clear enough. A meaty hand swatted him to the ground, then yanked him back to his feet.

  “Think you’re so clever? You answer when you’re spoken to!”

  Again, Charlie was struck, but this time he managed to stay on his feet. An unfamiliar urge flooded his chest, and when the next blow fell, he found himself very much wanting to strike back.

  Be smart, Charlie. They’ll kill you, he reminded himself, forcing his fist to loosen.

  The guard had struck him yet again, demanding answers of the prisoner, when Marban entered the galley and saw the commotion.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “This one. He’s carrying around a wad of shitty rags and won’t tell me what the hell he was doing with them. So I’m reminding him who’s in charge.”

  Marban slapped the man. The dull roar of the galley’s mealtime chatter went silent.

  “You’re an idiot, Durral. The translation spell is not active. None of them know what you are saying.”

  A slight blush rose to the gray man’s cheeks. “Well––uh, I suppose. But I thought––”

  “You didn’t think. And that’s a problem. Now, you know I’m up for a good beating as much as the next man, but if you damage our goods for no reason, and right after we lost so many on a raid, no less, the captain will not be amused. And you know what happens then.”

  “I do,” he replied, the blush in his cheeks replaced by a far paler shade than he had sported previously.

  “Good. Keep that in mind and think before you start beating on our merchandise.” He turned his gaze to Charlie. “Now, let me find out what is actually going on here. Impezu ovusk.”

  The whispering voices in the galley suddenly snapped into clarity as the translation spell took effect.

  “What were you thinking, bringing your shit-stained rags into the galley? We may not be high-class men, but we eat here. This sort of thing is not only not allowed, it’s just plain stupid.”

  Charlie locked eyes with his captor. The scar running from his head to his shoulder seemed a deeper shade. Perhaps his anger made it darken. But that wasn’t important at the moment.

  “I needed to dispose of them,” Charlie finally said. “There’s no trash bin in my cell, so I rolled it up as best I could to throw away in the big receptacle we use at mealtime.”

  “That explains why you brought it here, but not why the hell you have those shitty rags in the first place.”

  “I used them to clean my cell after I fixed my toilet.”

  Marban looked at him oddly. “You did what?”

  “I cleaned my cell.”

  “No, the bit before that.”

  “I fixed my toilet, then used these to wipe everything down. I figured since I had already gotten dirty, I might as well clean the whole space. Really, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, I just wanted a clean––”

  “Shut up,” Marban interrupted. “Pick up that filth and throw it away,” he commanded.

  Charlie complied.

  “Good, now come with me.”

  The pirate ushered Charlie out of the galley and down the corridor back to his cell.

  “Show me,” he ordered.

  Charlie stepped up to the clean panel where his toilet was retracted. The unit swung out and locked into place. It still moved a bit jerkily, but it was nothing a little oil couldn’t remedy.

  Marban pushed him aside and examined the spotless basin. He then looked around at the rest of the cell. The walls were still grimy, but the entire floor was the cleanest he’d ever seen it.

  “You did all of this?”

  “Yes.”

  The pirate stepped back from the toilet and watched it retract back into the wall. He took a small device from one of his chest pouches and held it to his mouth.

  “Captain Saramin, this is Marban.”

  The captain’s voice replied. “Yes? What is it?”

  So that’s a comms unit of some sort, Charlie realized. Probably similar to the skrees Tür’s men used.

  “Captain, one of the prisoners did something to the waste disposal system in his cell. I think you may want to see this.”

  “Very well. Which cell?”

  “Section three, cell nine.”

  “I’ll be there momentarily,” the man replied, then the comms went silent.

  Less than two minutes passed before the captain strode into the cell.
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br />   “Look at this,” Marban said, gesturing toward the clean floor, and more importantly, the retracted toilet.

  The captain stepped up to the unit and watched as it swung into place.

  “Fascinating,” he said, then unfastened his pants and relieved himself in the spotless bowl.

  He can just pee on command. Well, that’s an unusual skill, I guess, Charlie mused with a little grin.

  No sooner had he finished, than the unit emptied and swung away once more, sealing itself within the walls out of sight. Captain Saramin turned to Charlie.

  “You did this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How? You have no means to carry out this kind of work.”

  Charlie decided it was best to come clean. It was a gamble, but he hoped one that wouldn’t bite him in the ass.

  “With this,” he said, slowly pulling the sharp piece of debris from under his mattress.

  Marban snatched it from his hand immediately, but the captain seemed more amused than annoyed.

  “This one shows some spirit, eh, Marban?” he said with a laugh.

  “Yes, Captain, that he does.”

  “Such initiative. Acquiring a weapon––that was your intent, was it not? I don’t think you took that planning on using it to clean a waste disposal system, did you?”

  Charlie nodded, silently.

  “I thought so. And yet here we are. And you have somehow done what none of the idiots on my crew have been able to accomplish. And with a useless little bit of metal, no less. You see this, Marban? All of those spells wasted, when a simple little piece of scrap could have solved our problem.”

  The captain tossed the shard back onto Charlie’s bunk.

  “I-I don’t understand. Am I in trouble?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” the captain replied. “In fact, you’ve just earned yourself a promotion.”

  How do you promote a prisoner? he wondered. “Promotion?”

  “Yes. You have a new job. Marban, get him what he needs to fix the others.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait. Others?”