Claiming Cure (Dauntless Cyborgs #3)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Cure and Drift were cyborgs. They had enhanced speed and strength. It didn’t take them very long to unload all the medical equipment and supplies.

Four lifeform-scan-blocking cloaks had been stored in the cargo hold of the modified freighter. Cure took two of them. He didn’t project utilizing them, but they took up very little space, and unprojectable events happened.

He also claimed 33.3333 percent of the containers of nourishment bars and containers of beverage. Cancri B was a dry harsh planet. The locals would welcome those goods.

Then he waited with Drift for his contact to arrive.

And they waited. And waited.

The planet’s one sun lowered.

Cure’s annoyance ratcheted upward.

C’s lateness was disrespectful. And embarrassing.

Drift was visibly amused at the situation and at him.

That was unacceptable. Cure paced back and forth in front of the Rayan Skin Restorer. He was a medic. Beings had to trust he was competent or they wouldn’t give him their damage to repair.

“We have to leave soon.” Drift shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other.

“ We aren’t leaving,” Cure snapped. “I’m staying here.”

Drift studied him. “If your contact doesn’t arrive?—”

“He’ll arrive.” Cure jutted his jaw. “This is his only opportunity to use a Rayan Skin Restorer.”

Drift gazed at him for another moment.

“Transmit when he arrives,” his mission partner finally said.

“I’ll transmit when he arrives.” Cure nodded.

Drift returned to the modified freighter. The ramp retracted. The doors closed.

The ship flew off.

Cure was left standing, physically alone, in the middle of desolate terrain on a new-to-him planet. But he was a cyborg, and the transmissions of millions of his brethren flowed through his processors.

He also had patient files from the Dauntless to review and advice to relay to Statis, his temporarily replacement.

Those weren’t urgent tasks. Statis was competent and could progress without his input. But Cure did have things to do.

Waiting shouldn’t be a big inconvenience.

Yet C’s lateness and the medic’s lack of communication concerning that state rankled. The sooner Cure completed his mission, the sooner he could return to the Dauntless and his patients.

He couldn’t do that until he met with C.

Cure donned his white medic jacket.

Its color would draw attention, and that could place him in danger.

But, according to his scans, there were no lifeforms around him to spot it.

He didn’t share Drift’s projections that there could be beings situated under the scan-blocking ground. That was improbable. They would have surfaced by now.

And the jacket identified him as the medic he was. C would see it and process his identity immediately.

If the male ever arrived.

Cure paced and communicated with Statis and monitored the terrain around him. A hot wind blew over his exposed skin. Granules of sand pinged against his boots. The mountains situated around him shortened his visual system’s range. They could also impede his scans.

He increased his surveillance.

Moments stretched. The shadows grew deeper. Cure’s visual system adjusted to the lower illumination. He paused in front of the Rayan Skin Restorer. It remained wrapped in the buffering materials. He could remove that and?—

There was movement on the edge of his monitoring systems. It originated from the south and was heading in his direction.

He turned toward it. C must be arriving.

Except…he frowned. The lifeform in the land transport was human.

Fraggin’ hole. Drift had been right. C wasn’t a Cancri.

Cure then caught a whiff of the most-enticing scent. And he processed that hadn’t been the only projection his mission partner had been right about.

C was also female.

Based on his immediate reaction to her aroma, she was more than that. But that revelation wasn’t relevant to their mission, only to him.

My contact finally arrived. He relayed that update to Drift through a private transmission line.

Is there a problem? His mission partner inquired.

There was a problem. Several of them.

She’s human. Cure started with the most trivial of his issues.

Oh. Drift, predictably, found that amusing

Because he didn’t process the full extent of Cure’s predicament.

And Cure wouldn’t illuminate him. Not now. Not yet. I can handle this.

Handle it carefully. Drift’s tone turned serious. I have visual confirmation the Humanoid Alliance is operating on the planet.

The enemy was close. Cure straightened. Include me on your communication with Captain.

Their captain would have to be informed of that development.

I’ll update him at sunrise. Drift, for some unprojectable reason, decided to delay the communication. You’ll be included in that information relay.

Thank you. Cure ended the transmission.

Then he reviewed his own status.

His cock was hard. The part of him pressed against his body armor.

Need rushed through his circuits.

His heart rate had increased.

He breathed deeply and leaned slightly forward.

His initial diagnosis held. There was an 89.2563 percent probability the human female flying the land transport in his direction was C.

And there was a 100.0000 percent probability she was his genetic match, the one being he’d been manufactured to be with.

Cure stifled a groan.

Most of his brethren would be thrilled to have located their genetic match. But most of his brethren didn’t have a mission to complete and a battle station filled with patients to tend to.

Cure didn’t have the time for a complicated relationship. And any relationship with C would be complicated. Frag. A should-be-simple conversation with that being was complicated.

The only solution was…to ignore his yearning to breed with her, to claim her.

Yes. He warmed to that prospect. There was no reason he had to view her as anything other than a fellow medic. He would maintain his emotional distance as he did with every other being. They would keep it professional.

As professional as any relationship with C could be.

Confident in his decision, Cure widened his stance and braced himself for the medic’s arrival.

Heartbeats passed.

He breathed deeper than spec. That could be attributed to the cleanliness of the planet’s air.

His erection hadn’t abated. He ignored that malfunction.

Cure spotted the approaching land transport. The medic hadn’t lied about it being beat up. The bottom of it appeared to drag over the tops of boulders. The front portal was partially cracked. The panels were dented. The symbol and text denoting it as a medical vessel were severely faded.

The cargo hold the land transport was towing was in better shape. That was a relief as it would convey most of Cure’s valued equipment, including the Rayan Skin Restorer.

The land transport stopped in front of him. The door opened.

A very short female in a rumpled white jacket and equally creased flight suit stepped out of the vessel. She had black skin and big brown eyes. A smile curved her lips. “You must be Cure.”

His name on her tongue, spoken in a cheery and exquisitely female voice, caused a ripple of wanting to sweep over him.

That emotion was edged with alarm.

Because there were streaks of crimson along the edge of her clearly simulated black hair. Cure inhaled fully. The metallic tang of blood scented the air.

Red smears also decorated the jacket.

Anger gripped Cure, dark and wild and dangerous. “You’re damaged,” he roared. He was unable to moderate the volume of his voice. “Who damaged you?”

She stared at him. “What are you talking a?—”

He moved at cyborg speed, closing the gap between them. With one yank of his hands, he removed her simulated hair. And he felt along her smooth scalp.

“Hey.” She batted at his fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I’m a medic.” Though he felt more like a purely organic male than a medic as he touched her. Fraggin’ hole. Her skin was soft. “I’ll repair you.” There was no hair…or wounds on her scalp. “Your head isn’t damaged.”

She frowned. “I’m not?—”

He ran his fingers down her neck.

And her eyelids partially lowered. “Fates. That feels nice.”

It felt more than nice.

Cure performed another sweep of her nape. That part of her was more unyielding.

But there was no protrusions and no breaks in the skin.

“You’re touching me.” C swallowed hard.

Cure felt that motion against his right palm. He slid his hands along her shoulders. She was fully functional there also.

“ Why are you touching me, medic hottie?” Her tone was bemused. “Don’t you have a handheld?”

He had a handheld. Frag. He was a handheld.

And scanning beings was his default. He scanned everyone. Numerous times.

But she was his genetic match. She was damaged.

And he wanted to touch her.

“I can examine you this way.” He skimmed his fingers down her jacket-covered spine. It was intact. There was no sticky dampness. “I didn’t have a handheld on the battlefield.”

He moved his hands to the front of her, spanning her fabric-concealed stomach.

She trembled. “You…” She licked her lips.

Cure’s craving for her flared hot and bright. He glided his fingers upward.

“You don’t need to examine me.” She arched her back.

“You need to be examined.” He felt along her ribcage. Nothing appeared to be fractured. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not bleeding.” Her breathing turned ragged.

“You were bleeding.” He amended his statement. “Significantly.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Her eyes were slightly unfocused. “I cut myself three planet rotations ago, but that injury was minor.”

Cure paused and stared at the female.

During their previous communications, C had been stubborn, disrespectful, and foolish, but she had never lied…that he processed.

“You can continue examining me, however.” She gave him a saucy smile. “It was just getting interesting.” She wiggled her hips.

That was not the act of a severely damaged being.

Yet Cure had seen the proof with his own visual system.

He reluctantly drew his hands away from her form, picked up her simulated hair and showed her the stains on the edge of that accessory. “This is blood.”

“That’s not my blood.” She snatched the simulated hair from him and slapped it onto her head. The accessory leaned severely to the left. “That’s…” She paused. Her lush lips twisted. “I don’t know whose blood it is.” Her voice was barely audible to his enhanced systems.

It wasn’t her blood. She wasn’t damaged.

Relief flooded him.

That alarmed him.

Because he was a medic. Emotions shouldn’t be part of any evaluation.

He was also on a universe-critical mission. That had to be his focus.

Cure needed to put distance, both emotionally and physically, between them.

He stepped back from C. “You should have communicated with me if you were called into an emergency repair.”

Her beautiful face hardened for a heartbeat.

Then her lips curled upward. That forced smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Ah yes. I should have told the Cancri male struggling to breathe to wait for a moment, I had to send a message to you.” She poked his body armor-protected chest with her right index finger. “A fellow medic.” She poked him again. “Someone who should understand about emergencies.” She jabbed him harder. “That I might be a bit late.”

“You were 1.1253 shifts late.” Cure frowned at her. “That’s more than a bit late.”

“I didn’t set the meeting time.” She leaned toward him. “You dictated it. You.”

He caught her finger before she could poke him again. The blasted female would damage herself.

His gaze flicked to that slender body part. She had no fingernail. “You shouldn’t poke beings.”

Humans were fragile.

“You shouldn’t be so pokable.” C pulled on her finger.

He didn’t release her. “I didn’t process I was being pokable.”

“You are.” She gazed up at him. “Extremely pokable.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

And he saw the moment her anger flowed to humor. The yellow flecks in her brown eyes lit up, glowing like distant stars. Tiny lines fanned from their corners. Her smile became genuine.

It was more fascinating than a scan of a C Model’s organic brain.

“You’re so pokable.” A laugh escaped her lips. “Pokable.”

She laughed and laughed and laughed. Her mirth bubbled all around him. She held onto his shoulders, bent slightly over and unloaded what seemed to be her entire being into that outpouring of joy.

They, two medical professionals, had been chattering about pokability. Cure processed the humor in that situation. But he didn’t convey it.

He remained stoic and enjoyed her jollity.

Her laughter finally stopped. “Thank you, Cure.” She straightened and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I needed that. This planet rotation has been…” She glanced around her. “Oh. It’s dark.”

The space was illuminated by her vessel behind her and the moon high above their heads.

“This planet rotation is almost over.” She shrugged. “I hope you didn’t have anything else planned for it. Because…” She met his gaze. “I was very late. I’m sorry about that.”

Her apology seemed genuine.

And Cure projected the reason for her late arrival was a situation that required a being with their skills, and it involved multiple patients. “We are medics, C.”

“We are.” She smiled at him.

He blinked. Her beauty, the life in her dazzled him.

“And I’m Cyra.” She didn’t appear to notice his reaction. “That’s my full name. And this is, of course, is my real voice.” She laughed. “Beings tell me I should change the voice on my system, but I’ve never gotten around to doing that.”

He liked her real voice. And he liked her full name.

“This is my real voice also.” He stated that obvious fact.

“I like it.” She licked her bottom lip.

And his unruly cock bobbed.

“Cure is your full name?” Cyra gazed up at him.

Cure couldn’t process what she projected it was a shortened form of. He nodded.

“You don’t look at all what I expected you to look like.” She surprised him with that shift of topic. “I thought you’d look…older. And shorter.” Her eyes sparkled. “And less muscley.”

The scent of her strengthened, relaying she approved of his physical appearance.

He stood straighter. “My height and muscle mass are within specs for a D Model cyborg.” The Humanoid Alliance had decommissioned any warriors who fell outside those parameters. He hadn’t been able to alter those characteristics of his brethren. “Our nanocybotics repair any damage caused by the passing of time.”

“When I first saw you, I thought you were a cyborg.” She beamed at him.

His systems flickered, threatening to malfunction.

“But I wasn’t certain.” She bumped against him.

That contact sent a rush of satisfaction through him.

“I’ve never met one of your kind before now.” His female relayed that as though it were a confession.

Cure already processed she hadn’t met one of his kind. Cyborgs shared almost everything. He would have observed that interaction and realized she was his genetic match.

“You viewed me as a medic.” As he had viewed her as a medic.

He should continue to view her that way.

Except he couldn’t process if he could do that. The feel of her form lingered on his fingertips. The scent of her coiled down deep inside him. The lilt of her voice, her real voice, was saved permanently in his databases.

“I viewed you as a medic.” She nodded. “Where’s your ship?”

“With my brethren.” Drift had transmitted that he’d met with his contact also. “He dropped me off here.” And he’d return for him once Cure had completed his part of the mission.

“Then I assume you’re coming back to the settlement with me.” His female looked around them. “All this is your stuff?” Her eyes widened. “You said you were bringing medical equipment and supplies, but I didn’t realize you were giving us all this.”

“I’m giving you access to all this.” It was a loan. He wasn’t giving her the medical equipment. “This is the Rayan Skin Restorer.” He moved closer to that prized possession.

“Much like cyborgs, I’ve heard of the Rayan Skin Restorer but I’ve never seen one.” His female examined it. “You find it useful?”

“I find it extremely useful.” He patted one of its padded sides. “It can erase any signs of damage to any type of skin quickly.”

Her gaze returned to him. “What type of damage?”

Footage of a specific repair replayed in Cure’s processors. “A cyborg’s limbs could have been removed. His head could have been 98.4555 percent severed. The skin in those areas would also be damaged.”

“Those wounds would take a long time to fully heal.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why does it matter that the skin is healing slowly also?”

“If the skin is repaired, beings will assume the rest of the cyborg is repaired also.” The Humanoid Alliance handlers never looked closely at the cyborgs they managed. They assumed a perfect-looking warrior was a fully functional warrior. “The cyborg wouldn’t be decommissioned.”

“Decommissioned is…bad?” She lifted her simulated eyebrows.

“It’s very bad.” It was a struggle for Cure to maintain his blank expression. “The cyborg is sliced and diced, his form raided for parts while he is alive. It’s the most horrific of deaths.”

The cyborg’s screams would be etched in his medic’s databases forever.

“That is bad.” Cyra turned her head away from him but not before he saw the flash of sympathy in her eyes. “To lose a patient that way, especially after successfully reattaching his limbs and head would be…hard.”

“It would be the hardest loss a medic could ever experience.” Especially as the cyborg had been a close friend of his.

Binding had been hit by a missile late in a battle. Cure had worked as quickly as possible, piecing the C Model back together.

His friend had regained functionality. He would have been able to fight as he’d always fought.

But the Humanoid Alliance handler saw the damaged skin and condemned Binding to decommissioning.

“If the medic had a Rayan Skin Restorer, that loss would have been avoided.” Cyra touched the wrapped machine.

Cure resisted the urge to step between her and the Rayan Skin Restorer. “Lives would have been saved.” His friend would still be alive.

“I see.” Cyra’s voice was soft.

Cure projected she saw more than he wanted her to see.

Silence stretched.

“A Rayan Skin Restorer would be useful then.” Cyra almost downed his visual system with her smile. “Though it’s very…plain.”

The gold glinting in her eyes relayed she was teasing him.

He treated it as a sincere statement. “It’s wrapped in buffering materials. Once we arrive at the chamber you designate for it, I’ll unveil it.”

“The medic bay is small.” She shook her head. “We emptied a storage space for your private chambers. We don’t have any extra spots to dedicate for one piece of medical equipment.”

The Rayan Skin Restorer wasn’t merely a piece of medical equipment. “I don’t require private chambers.”

“Don’t assume you’ll be sleeping with me, Medic.” Cyra’s laugh was wobbly.

“I won’t be sleeping anywhere.” Cure turned and studied the additional cargo hold attached to the land transport. “That’s not a cyborg requirement.” He calculated the available space.

All the medical equipment and supplies should fit.

“You’re a medic who doesn’t need sleep.” Cyra gazed at him with awe. “Woo wee.” She whistled. “Do I envy you. Especially after the planet rotation I’ve been having.”

Her tone implied the planet rotation she’d been having was bad.

That rankled. He had shared part of that duration with her.

But Cure didn’t allow that emotion to show.

He’d already displayed too much of his organic side to the human medic. That lack of restraint wasn’t conducive for the professional relationship they had to maintain.

“I’ll transfer my stuff. ” Cure turned his back to Cyra.

He could still smell her. Her scent filled his simulated lungs with every breath. And he could still hear her. Fabric brushed against fabric as she moved.

But having her out of his visual range should help his control.

He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder at her beautiful face.

Instead, he grasped the Rayan Skin Restorer.

That piece of medical equipment would be loaded first.