Page 2 of Protected by the Alien Warrior Triad

Their pincer claws are bad enough. They can rip you in half like your body is made of parchment paper – and, if you’re lucky,that’swhat will kill you.

But if you get stung by the barbed tail of a Scorp, your fate is so awful it makes my knees quake just to imagine it. Onetouchof their dripping barb and you’ll die a horrific, agonizing death from the venom they secrete.

Fortunately, Scorp aren’t native to Independence. They land seemingly at random. The species travels through space in massive, organic ships that look like asteroid-sized eggs. They infest the galaxy like roaches – only towering, deadly, venomous roaches.

Their incursions are relentless, and those organic ships appear in our atmosphere almost weekly. If our anti-air defenses don’t stop them from landing, people die.

Lotsof people.

My parents are gone because of the Scorp – so if there’s one thing in this universe I hate even more than those arrogant Aurelians, it’s the red-eyed, reptilian bastards that live to kill.

As much as I blame them for our suffering, it wasn’t the Aurelians who destroyed my family and my future. It was the Scorp.

It hurts to remember my family – which is why I have to force myself to do it regularly. We once lived near the Capital itself. The Capital is the one place on planet Independence still seemingly untouched by the ravages of the Aurelian embargo. It’s the only remaining paradise on this now Gods forsaken planet.

I was supposed to be a nurse there. If everything had gone well, I’d have completed my internship and been working in the Capital hospital right now.

My family had owned a small refinery, servicing the local farms near the Capital.Had.One night, a Scorp organic ship landed in the darkness, unseen and unnoticed by the anti-air defenses. I still feel guilty that I lived while the Scorp interlopers slaughtered my family.

I know it’s foolish to think that way – but survivor’s guilt still haunts me every night, right before I fall asleep.

I’d only escaped because I wasn’t there that night. I’d been the only one in the entire village with high enough grades to get into the Capital’s university system – with a full scholarship for nursing.

That’s why I’d been safe in a city dormitory that night. If only I’d been there when that Scorp ship landed… Maybe I could have saved some of the wounded with my medical training. Maybe I could have helped…

But I was safe and asleep in my bed, and I didn’t even hear about the tragedy until the following morning.

I carry the guilt constantly. The only time it dissipates is when I’m setting a broken leg or bandaging a cut for one of the street kids. When I’m healing other people, it heals part of me – temporarily, at least.

Those poor kids. They take such awful risks. Earlier this year, one of my street brats named Tod tried to snag a useful piece of metal from the tracks of the ancient rail system, but his leg was snapped when a shifting piece of metal fell on him. He was so tough, he wasn’t even crying when they dragged him to me. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't be walking today. I know that the other orphans would have helped take care of him, especially Stacey, but it would have been bad. Really bad.

Even when it’s not a serious injury like that, the street kids constantly have bite wounds on their body, from when the many savage dogs that hound them finally catch up. Others wear black and brown bruises from the beatings they receive when their shoplifting and thievery is discovered.

The street kids are a reminder that the dark underbelly of Barl can eat you up if you aren’t careful. Stacy, Tod, Tyler and Runner are the four kids that I take care of. They’re like my own children, even though I’m far too young to be their mother.

The street kids. My slaughtered family. Life certainly is grim here, but if you let it get you down then you'll give up, and giving up isn't an option.

I shudder, trying to push out the dark thoughts of Scorp Warriors from my head. I think of those murderous reptiles daily, but at least they haven’t attacked this close to the city in over a decade. Yet, even as I remember that, I feel a constant anxiety that these uneasy peace-times will soon be broken.

“Oi! Tammy! How’s that order coming along? Almost done the fucking thing?” It’s my boss, Edgar. His voice is gruff and curt. I shoot him a glance from across the grimy mechanic’s shop.

Edgar claims he once had a fancy downtown showroom for luxury cars, long before I was born. Now, though? He runs a chop-shop – selling used parts and rebuilt vehicles that we don’t ask too many questions about. It’s better to keep ignorant, given the shady characters who bring in cars, hoverbikes, and anything else they think we can chop and flip.

For example, right now: When Edgar asked about theorder,he really meant: “How’s it going stripping any identifying materials and serial numbers from those parts, so we can flip the stolen goods without getting caught?”

“Give me five minutes!” I shout back at Edgar, grimacing as I open the engine back up, exposing its valuable guts to me. The cloth bandage around my palm is soaking through with blood, and as I work I realize the cut is a lot more painful than I was expecting.

I still won’t waste a charge of the sealant gun on it. I don’t have the money to recharge the gun, and if something horrible happens to Stacy, Tod, Tyler or Runner… I’d hate myself forever if I’d wasted one of the last charges on myself.

I scan the innards of the engine. Engines are simple – not like people. They all work roughly the same way. At least, the ones on Independence do - because we can’t afford fancy Orb-powered machines here, like the Aurelians have.

Other than that, being a mechanic is somewhat akin to being a nurse. It’s all about knowing which bits go where, and making sure all the leaks are plugged.

The advantage of machines over people, of course, is that when something’s wrong with an engine on Independence, you can poke around inside it without causing it any pain. Surgery on people isn’t quite as simple as that.

But simple doesn’t always mean better. I think back to my days in the Capital, working my internship in nursing. I wish I could go back there – but without my parents to help with rent, and with seventy-hour work weeks expected in my unpaid practicum, there was no way I could afford to continue.

Which was ironic – that I couldn’taffordto help people. Surely you shouldn’t have to pay for that. People in Independence desperately needed help.

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