In the Queen's Service

[LancerZero]

Two Weeks Ago

Martin Barclay, former commander in Queen Carina's Own, formerly commanding officer of both the gunboat Defiance and the destroyer Exeter, was depressed. Not for the first time, he was killing time in New London's spaceport bar. Not for the first time, and not for the last, he looked down at his missing left leg. It was a metal stick with springs now, essentially - purely mechanical, though covered by his trouser legs. Worst part is, wasn't even a battle that finished it off...just an accident. While inspecting the work being done on the Exeter after a particularly nasty skirmish, he'd tripped and - in a freak accident - broke his fall on the jagged edges of a hole in the bulkhead.

Trying to grab hold of sharp-edged torn metal was a bad idea...he'd not only ruined his hand, but when his flesh had been torn his hand had slipped, and his bad leg had been unable to catch his weight. It got ripped into by another jagged piece of armor sticking out of the hole. Even Navy insurance wouldn't pay for the suite of cybernetics required to replace his leg and hand, so he'd simply had to have his left leg - the one that'd been mangled early on in his service to the Crown - amputated. They'd fought to save his hand, but an infection ensued, and they were forced to amputate his left arm just below the elbow to keep it from spreading.

I just tell whoever asks that the Kusari did it. It's true, in a roundabout way... He tapped the wooden counter with the simple hook he'd gotten for a left hand, indicating he wanted another of the usual. He could've gotten an artificial hand that looked "real", but he'd tried it and hated it. It was clumsy, awkward, and a poor substitute. Same for the leg, though for the sake of being able to move about without a wheelchair he'd accepted a skeletal prosthesis. He'd also accepted an honorable discharge for medical reasons. While he waited, he glanced up at the holovid that was set to a Bretonian news station.

An image of a motley collection of fighters and bombers - some civilian, some Bretonia - flashed through space, the distinctive trails of Bretonian tachyon and particle guns (and a few SNAC torpedoes) lancing out at their target: a Kusari Train and its escorts. In the bottom-right hand corner, tiny words proclaiming "Simulation" flashed. As the escorts fell, a voice-over began. "Today another Kusari convoy supporting their war efforts in Leeds was stopped dead in the Taus by the efforts of Queen Carina's Privateers. To date, they have-

His attention was broken by a voice next to him. "Brilliant, aren't they?"

Martin didn't have to turn to know who it was, and didn't have to guess to know how this conversation would go. He'd had it before with his BPA sister. She'd turn the subject to his wasting his life - and pension - at the bar, and he'd dare her to come up with something good enough to pull him away, and she'd give up and storm off. With a mental sigh, he decided, Suppose I may as well play along...though we both know how it will end. With a real sigh, he scratched his unshaved chin and replied, "Yes...some of my old QCO squadronmates are in that outfit."

"What if I told you I had a message from the leadership of the QCP asking for you by name, saying they want you to come back and fly for them?"

He snorted. "First, I'd say you're mad. Second, I'd point out the minor obstacle of the fact that I appear to be somewhat short on body parts. I didn't join them before because I felt I could do more good holding the line at the conn of the Exeter, and I didn't ask to join afterwards for fairly obvious reasons." The bartender finally came by with a glass of the whiskey he preferred; he nodded in thanks, and took a drink.

Heather leaned closer, pulling a piece of paper from her uniform pocket. "Okay...now, what if I told you the QCP anticipated your objection, and offered to pay for a cybernetic arm and leg with funds taken from Kusari shipping?"

"Beg pardon?" Martin gingerly took the paper from his sister, unfolding it with practised ease in spite of his hook. He skimmed over it, took note of the seal and name in the signature, then favored his sibling with a far more serious look. It's for real...how about that. "Well then, I would then say you have my undivided attention. But I would also ask: what makes me the man for the job? I'm just a washed-up commander...I had my time in the fight, and did what I could. It wasn't enough."

"I know some pilots that would beg to differ...you're a good pilot, a good man, utterly loyal to the Queen and Bretonia," she lowered her voice to just over a whisper. "...and you know firsthand that conventional tactics aren't winning us this war."

The former Bretonian officer stared at his half-empty glass in silence for a moment, gently rapping its side with his hook as he considered his options. Perhaps I've wallowed quite long enough. I can't deny, it is an appealing proposal...becoming a sneaky bastard, and putting the hand that feeds right on the chopping block. It took him all of thirty seconds. "Now, what if I told you I was exceedingly interested in said proposition, and wished to know where to begin?"

Heather tried not to smirk, only partially succeeding. "I rather hoped you'd say something like that. Clean yourself up and catch a shuttle to Cambridge. You've already got an appointment to be fitted for cybernetics by one of the best doctors in Sirius. Once they've patched you up - might take a couple of weeks - notify the address listed on the paper. They'll have a reasonably-equipped Falcon heavy fighter waiting for you on the launchpad. You can exchange it for some other civilian fighter if you wish. Fly it, get used to your new parts. Once you feel you're ready for it, get your letter of marque from Salisbury and it'll be time to trade your fighter for a bomber, and the lads & lasses there will be able to tell you where to go."

Martin nodded. "Sounds grand. Finish the whiskey on me, will you? I've an appointment, and would rather not be late." Heather grinned, and downed the liquor in one gulp - feeling the fires of alcohol and pride as her brother left the bar with a straighter back and clearer eyes than he had in many months...not for the first time, and not for the last, a Barclay was going to war.

---

Current Stories
Linus' Lackadaisical Logs(upd.3-1-10)
Archived Logs
In the Queen's Service(upd.4-21-10) | The Finer Things in Life (upd.4-8-10)
Silvy's Story(upd.2-29-08) | Conrad's Flight & Fight(upd.1-14-08)