Cyborg Nation by Kaitlyn O'Connor (english readers TXT) 📗

at the single word, made significant both by the pause that went before and the deep, almost husky inflection of his voice. Dismayed by her body’s instinctive reaction, Bronte said no more as he moved past her at last and the other cyborg removed his harnesses, rose, and followed him.

When Bronte glanced toward the man at the controls of the ship, she saw that he was still studying her. He met her gaze for a long moment and finally turned away.

Released, Bronte drew a shuddering breath into her burning lungs, unconscious of the fact, until that moment, that she’d been holding her breath. She’d been dismissed, very coolly at that. She sat staring at the view beyond the ship for some time, trying to marshal her scattered wits. Why, she wondered, had they taken her when they appeared not only to have no use of her services, but no trust or liking for humans in general?

She frowned at that. Liking, or disliking, were emotions. He’d pointed out the obvious, that they were machines and had no ability to feel as their creators did. And yet she wasn’t entirely comfortable with that conclusion. Maybe it was just that they seemed so human-like that she expected them to behave like humans? Then again, they had been designed to blend with humanity, to interact with them, because humans weren’t comfortable being around great, hulking, powerful machines that utilized artificial intelligence.

Some of the older models, which had merely been humanoid in design, had been just plain scary. The manufactures had discovered they were never going to fill every household with two or three if they looked so ‘threatening’, which was why they’d really gone overboard changing the whole look of the robot, not only making them appear so human-like that they blended seamlessly with the population, but making them feel human, as well, so that they’d found a whole new market for them as sex toys.

As that thought congealed in her mind, Bronte wondered abruptly if these had been designed specifically as human sexual companions. She couldn’t prevent either the blush or the heat that rose inside of her as it dawned on her that she was already well aware that they were anatomically correct … which seemed to support that theory. And yet, if that was the case, why had they been built like … soldiers? Maybe they--the company--had merely figured one design would do, at least in the sense of making them multi-purpose so that the model worked equally well for either job?

That seemed likely. Why go to the expense of building a dozen different models for different jobs when they could build one to do any job the customer might want?

Could they all be the same model, though, when they looked as distinctly different as three different, unrelated humans would look?

Why did that matter, she thought abruptly?

It didn’t because it had no bearing on her situation that she could see.

They had a use for her. They must. There was no reason in the world for them to seek her out, and they obviously had, unless they did have some use for her. She could understand a drive in them to destroy the people they knew were hell bent on destroying them. They didn’t actually need anything more than a will to exist--and obviously they did have that—and a firm grasp on logic to realize that they must eliminate the threat to their existence in order to continue. But she was no threat to them. She was a doctor. She had never worked for the company in any way, shape, or form.

Besides, it would have been easy to kill her if that had been the objective. They’d caught her completely by surprise. One of them could have snapped her like a twig before she could have even gotten out a cry for help.

Without consciously coming to a decision, Bronte unfastened her safety harness and rose a little unsteadily. The blond cyborg turned to look at her, but he neither said anything nor made any attempt to stop her as she headed from the cockpit in search of the injured cyborgs. It wasn’t hard to find them. The ship was designed as a short range ‘hopper’, or at least in the vein of those crafts that had no need for a good deal of space. Beyond the main cabin/cockpit area, there was a small food preparation/eating area, a bathroom, or ‘head’, and beyond that only a single cabin. Bronte froze in the doorway once the hatch/door had opened.

Both men were stark naked and she’d never in her life seen that much naked male flesh. Prod her mind though she would to accept ‘cyborg’, her brain refused to give the lie to what her eyes saw. The one with black hair turned to stare at her. The other one glanced at her, but he was intent on cutting the charred flesh from the other man’s wound. Blood dripped from his hands, effectively distracting Bronte. Her belly clenched.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, surging forward.

“The laser cauterizes as it cuts,” the patient, or ‘victim’ said through clenched teeth. “The flesh can not mend together as is.”

Bronte didn’t realize she’d grabbed the hand of the cyborg cutting until his hand stilled beneath hers. “You can’t just … filet his entire chest and torso! He’ll lose too much blood … especially at the rate you’re going. To say nothing of the fact that it’ll leave a horrible scar! What did you use to deaden it? What do you have to close the wound with?

“You,” she said to the brunette, “move. You,” she added, grasping the other man’s hand, “sit down before you fall down and break something.”

Neither man moved and Bronte quickly discovered she couldn’t budge either one so much as a hair. Finally, the dark man nodded. He sank heavily onto the bunk when the brunette moved away, placing the scalpel he held in Bronte’s outstretched, demanding, hand. “I need antiseptic, something to deaden the area,