Claiming Cure (Dauntless Cyborgs #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Cure had been manufactured for killing.

He was a cyborg. The Humanoid Alliance, their cruel creators, had designed his kind to fight their endless wars.

Ending lifespans had been his assigned purpose.

He chose to save them, to repair beings.

Over his lifespan, that role had led him to some…unprojectable places.

He was currently situated on the bridge of a modified freighter bound for Cancri B. A not-yet-processable threat was facing every cyborg in the universe. The Humanoid Alliance, their enemies, might be involved. More information about the situation could be found on the planet.

Cure had a contact situated there.

He’d projected helping the humanoid medic would come back to bite him in the ass. His lips twisted. But he couldn’t ignore the call over communication lines. The male had begged anyone anywhere for any possible repairs for an outbreak of tumors amidst the Cancri B population.

There were no repairs that he processed for that damage. But he had given C, his contact, some suggestions to slow the growths.

Those replies had resulted in Cure being sent, by his captain, on a mission to extract intel from C. He had been forced to temporarily relinquish his role as chief medic on board the Dauntless to undertake the assignment.

Statis, his second-in-command, a being he’d trained, had been placed in charge of the functionality of the crew of the battle station. The male had been ecstatic.

As he should be. Cure’s lips flattened. The male now held a role any medic would want. He was responsible for the well-being of thousands of cyborgs plus one human female and one Valkyrie.

Cure, in contrast, held a role any hardworking medic would dread. His patient load had been reduced to two beings—Drift, his mission partner, and himself.

And both of his patients were fully functional.

Drift sat in the captain’s chair and was flying their vessel. Sensors had been attached to the G model’s face and form.

Cure glanced down at his handheld. His mission partner’s specs were within range.

Though… “Your heart rate has increased.” The variation was slight but notable.

“Fraggin’ right. It has increased.” Drift grinned. “I’ve detected another planet.”

A circle appeared around the planet displayed on the main viewscreen. His mission partner’s find was barely detectable to Cure’s enhanced visual system.

“I’m calling this one Big Blue 2.0.” The pilot tapped his fingertips against the controls embedded in the console. “And I’m adding it to the chart.”

The area they were transversing was poorly documented. Many of the planets and stars and other celestial bodies didn’t appear in any databases.

“It is big…for a planet.” Cure studied the new discovery. “And it is blue. And the 2.0 differentiates it from Big Blue.”

“I’ve modified the name for Big Blue to Big Blue 1.0.” Drift’s eyes gleamed. “I hadn’t projected we would detect multiple big blue planets.”

“That modification is logical.” Cure noted the reason for Drift’s increased heart rate in the male’s file.

The voyage wouldn’t be a complete waste of time medic-wise. Cure’s monitoring of his mission partner would expand his intel about cyborgs in general and G Models specifically. And that could assist him in repairing them in the future.

62.2365 percent of his medic knowledge had been derived from his own experiences and tests.

While Cure had been under Humanoid Alliance control, he’d hacked into the humans’ databases. The intel he found there about repairing his brethren was limited. And some of it was wrong. But it had formed a base for the process.

Then he had added to that knowledge. During their grueling training sessions, and later, in battle, he had stealthily and speedily repaired his fellow cyborgs. Being warriors, they were constantly incurring damage, and those malfunctions put them at great risk of being decommissioned.

By repairing his brethren, he had sought to spare them from that horrid death.

51.4586 percent of the time, he had been unsuccessful at doing that.

The warriors he had failed to restore to full functionality had been sliced and diced into pieces. Their parts had been salvaged by the Humanoid Alliance while they remained alive.

Their screams had shredded his big cyborg heart to pieces. Those sounds of pain, of horror, would echo forever in his databases.

He had learned to manage the emotional organic part of himself. Because his self-assigned patients were dealing with their own emotional damage. They shouldn’t have to deal with his.

And he had more cyborgs to repair. 48.5414 percent of them would survive. He couldn’t help them if he was stricken by grief.

Or if he had insufficient knowledge. The readings from the sensors attached to Drift might be the difference between a cyborg living or dying.

“Your heart rate continues to be fast.” According to Cure’s previous observations, the excitement from the discovery of a not-yet-charted planet should have waned.

“Strike relayed the specs concerning my meeting with my contact.” Drift leaned toward the main viewscreen, acting as though that position would convey them to Cancri B faster.

It wouldn’t do that. The male’s reaction was illogical.

“Those specs were sparse.” The pilot tilted his head to the side. “I was given a time and a location. My contact is male. He’s Cancri and he calls himself L.”

Cure’s contact called himself C. Utilizing an initial must be a Cancri B custom.

“I wasn’t given a physical description for him.” Drift frowned.

“He’s Cancri.” Cure studied his handheld. “He would have black hair and orange skin like the rest of his kind.”

Drift rolled his eyes. “I require more data than that.”

Cure could relay more data. “His functionality would be similar to that of a human of the same size and sex except his heart would be 8.2356 percent larger, he would have three lungs, not two, his sweat rate would be 15.2896 percent lower, his?—”

“A scar or distinguishing facial feature would be preferable.” The pilot’s humor returned. “I require something that will differentiate him from every other Cancri male on the planet.”

Cure couldn’t assist him with that.

“I do have an initial and a meeting place and a time.” Drift paused. “And I process with 100.0000 percent certainty my contact is male.”

“My contact is male.” Cure deleted all irritation from his voice.

“Your contact utilizes a manufactured voice while communicating with you.” His mission partner countered. “You can’t be 100.0000 percent certain he’s male.”

The attributes of the manufactured voice C chose aligned with those of a male speaker in 86.1482 percent of all instances. And 88.2235 percent of beings chose a voice that originated from the same biological sex as they did.

Cure was confident his contact was male. But he said nothing because Drift already processed those inputs and he had derived a different projection.

“Is your contact Cancri?” Drift pressed for more intel. “Do you process that?”

Cure hadn’t seen C’s medic files. But… “He is Cancri.” The planet was isolated and harsh. Few other beings would choose to live there.

“Are you 100.0000 percent certain about that?” Drift questioned that also.

“He lives on Cancri B. He’s Cancri.” Cure had never posed queries to his contact about himself. The male was a medic. As Cure was. That was the sole important detail.

“You’re making another assumption.” Drift chuckled. “I project you’ll soon uncover the universe isn’t always logical.”

Cure had already uncovered that. But he preferred to base his projections on probabilities.

And the odds were high that his contact was Cancri and male.

Silence stretched.

Drift flew their modified freighter toward Cancri B.

Cure reviewed the bits of medical data C had shared with him. He didn’t speak.

That was his default setting. Excessive chatter added 11.4599 percent more time to a repair. He could save a lifespan in that duration.

Or, in the current situation, he could complete an analysis.

The tumors inflicting the Cancris were similar to those found on humanoids inhabiting planets hosting previous world-ender manufacturing sites. The differences could be explained by Cancri biology. They?—

Are you there? C opened a communication line with him.

Cure had programmed the messages to flow directly to his auditory system. Define there. He tapped his fingers against the surface of his handheld to enter his response.

The humanoid wasn’t utilizing his authentic voice.

Cure wouldn’t utilize his either.

You’re a joker. C’s laugh was equally manufactured. And his reply was illogical.

Cure twisted his lips. He hadn’t been joking. His request had been sincere.

I’m one of the best medics in the universe. He warranted respect.

Wow, that’s a coincidence. So am I. C showed him no deference. We’re two of the best medics in the universe, yet the change we made to the tumor-slowing formula didn’t work.

We didn’t make any change. Cure corrected the male. I suggested a modification. That was the extent of my involvement.

What? You don’t want to take credit for this brilliant failure? The male’s tone lilted with teasing.

C treated him like a friend, not like the professional he was. Cure didn’t like that. It increased the challenge of maintaining emotional distance between them.

The modified formula didn’t work. He steered the conversation back to that safer topic.

It didn’t work, C confirmed. The patients are now ten planet rotations past the point of the previous formula’s ineffectiveness. The tumors in the test group, in the patients taking the pills created with the altered formula, are growing at the same rate as the tumors in the control group. I see no decrease.

The male sent him the results.

Cure reviewed it and he was forced to agree with the medic. There were no notable differences.

What should we do next? C asked.

There is no we. Cure told the male yet again. I’m traveling to Cancri B.

That was what he was doing next.

Are you? That’s great. The male’s enthusiasm surprised him. How far away are you?

There are 23.1462 planet rotations remaining in the voyage. Cure based his projections on the assumption the modified freighter’s current speed would be maintained.

Curse it. You won’t get here fast enough. C’s excitement dimmed. The tumors in these patients will have progressed too far by then. We won’t be able to save them.

They’ll die, Cure stated bluntly. Based on the data, that was inevitable.

Not if we can help it. C hadn’t yet reached that conclusion. We could increase the Hydii protein in the formula. That’s worth a try.

You’re expending time and energy on patients you can’t repair. Cure tapped that message into his handheld. Both of those resources are limited for your kind. Unlike cyborgs, humanoids didn’t have the ability to repair the damage inflicted on their forms by time. They aged and, eventually, their lifespans ended. Your response isn’t logical.

The male should reallocate his time and energy to patients he could repair. That would benefit the most beings.

Cure had made that same decision on the battlefield. 129,258 times.

Some of the warriors he chose not to repair had been manufactured in the same vat as he had been. Their deaths often replayed in his processors. The guilt lingered.

But he refused to allow it to influence his decisions. He had to focus on the beings he could save.

I can’t abandon them. They deserve a chance to live also. C wanted to save everyone.

That was an impossible task.

They already had a chance to live. Now, they’ll die. The average humanoid’s lifespan was short. Theirs would be shorter.

Fates. Are you certain you’re a living being? C’s manufactured tone held disbelief. I’ve dealt with scanners with more empathy than you have.

The male had relayed that same communication in the past. Cure glanced at Drift. His mission partner had claimed it was an insult. Grid, the Dauntless’s navigator, had held the same processing.

Cure viewed it more positively. Thank you.

Empathy wasn’t conducive to repairing beings. The energy that emotion utilized could be reallocated to restoring patients to full functionality.

That wasn’t a compliment, medic. C snorted.

Fraggin’ hole. Cure gritted his teeth. His brethren were correct. It had been an insult.

If he didn’t need the medic’s assistance with their mission, he’d cut off communications.

But he did need his help. That grated on him. I’m en route to your planet and will arrive in 23.1461 planet rotations. He tapped that message with vigor into his handheld. Designate a meeting place and send me the coordinates.

I didn’t ask you to come here. C ignored his request. Sure, you’re charming.

Cure processed he wasn’t charming . His skills at non-cyborg interactions were admittedly weak.

He had long accepted that malfunction. And he relished that there were only two non-cyborgs on the battle station he had been assigned to.

Having two non-cyborg patients wasn’t ideal, but it was…manageable.

The Cancris don’t respond well to outsiders, however, C relayed. I suggest you skip this stop on your cross-the-universe tour.

Cure’s certainty that the male was a Cancri increased. Based on past chatter, C’s patients responded very well to their medic.

I require intel. That was all Cure was willing to relay over the communication lines.

I’ll send you more data. C must have assumed the intel he required concerned his patients. I could increase the Hydii protein by ten percent. That might do it.

Relay the meeting coordinates. Cure tried to return the male’s attention to that matter.

I’m busy. That was C’s next protest. Much as I’d like to see your smiling face, I have things to do, patients to see.

C wouldn’t ever see his smiling face.

Cure maintained a blank expression when he was with others.

And…

You’re a medic. Busy is your default. Cure would be busy also…if he was situated in his medic bay. Send the coordinates.

Ten percent could be too high. C had circled back to a possible repair. It might kill more than the tumor.

Ten percent is too low. Frag. The male irritated him. Increase the Hydii protein by 13.7845 percent and increase the Yudiy compound by 4.1872 percent to offset it.

That could do it. C mused.

That will do it. Cure jabbed the handheld with his fingertips. He was losing his temper. Designate a meeting point, and ? —

An alarm sounded over the line.

It’s been a blast but I gotta go, medic , C informed him. A patient is coding out.

The male ended communications.

He hadn’t designated a meeting place.

Cure stared at the tiny screen on his handheld. If he had been another being, he’d release the roar of frustration building inside him.

But that would serve no one.

He checked Drift’s specs, losing himself in that data instead. “Your heart rate has slowed.”

“Our current speed won’t break any records.” The pilot expressed his dissatisfaction with their progress. “And Captain chose me for this mission because arriving at Cancri B as quickly as possible is critical for its success.”

Cure was chosen because he had a contact on the planet.

That contact, however, wasn’t keen on meeting with him. Unless that meeting resulted in a repair for the male’s patients.

“According to the charts, there’s nothing in front of us except open space.” Drift continued to talk through his processing. “But the charts have been extremely inaccurate thus far.”

The probability of a collision with a planet or star or asteroid belt was low—the male was a skilled pilot. But it wasn’t 0.0000 percent.

Cure reviewed the contents of the medic packs stored on the escape pods.

“It is too risky to increase our speed.” Drift’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll have to wait until the return trip to break speed records. We’ll document everything we come across and chart our route along the same path.”

Cure didn’t care about breaking speed records. That was solely Drift’s goal. But he liked the idea of returning to the Dauntless and his medic bay faster.

“Our ship will be lighter also.” Drift’s eyes glimmered with humor. “Especially if we leave the Rayan Skin Restorer with your contact on Cancri B.”

“The Rayan Skin Restorer will be returning with us.” Cure frowned at the male.

That piece of medical machinery had been a gift from Power, the leader of the cyborg council, and it was one of Cure’s most valued possessions.

If he’d had access to a Rayan Skin Restorer while he was under the Humanoid Alliance’s control, he could have repaired wounds faster. And 93.2563 percent of the warriors condemned to decommissioning would have escaped that fate.

Grief gripped him.

Temporarily.

He reviewed restoration rates, and that emotion receded.

“Don’t you want to gift the Rayan Skin Restorer to your humanoid male contact?” Drift’s tone indicated he was teasing.

“No.” Cure was serious about all medical equipment and the Rayan Skin Restorer in particular. “I’m not gifting it to my humanoid male contact.”

Nothing could convince him to part with it.

Drift laughed. The fool didn’t realize how important that piece of equipment was.

Cure didn’t bother to enlighten him. He ignored his mission partner and studied the data C had sent him.

A quick review of it relayed that any attempts to repair those Cancri patients were futile. 100.0000 percent of the tumors detailed were past the point of treatment.

And repairing the humanoids also wasn’t part of Cure’s assigned mission. They were to investigate if there was a Humanoid Alliance presence on the planet and whether or not a superweapon was being fabricated. That was the extent of their assignment.

But Cure was a medic first and foremost, and he would give the male his projections.

A life might be saved based on that intel.

That wouldn’t offset all the others that had been lost. He pushed those memories to the back of his processors. But it would make a difference to that one being.