"They think I'm going to rape and kill you. Or kill and rape you," a dry voice
commented. "Of course, how they think I'm going to do that with my hands behind my
back eludes me."
Startled, Samara looked back up at Green-eyes. At the same time she started to
notice more. Like the fact his hands were manacled behind his back and that his ship-
suit was gray with the orange line of a prisoner down the sides of his arms and legs.
Her lips pursed into a small "O" of surprise as she studied him further. His dark
hair was cropped close to his skull, casting the strong lines of his face into sharp relief.
He turned his head to glare at the marines and she caught her breath. There, on one
cheekbone, was a small tattoo. It was a distinctive tattoo. One that every free person in
the sector—hell, the galaxy and beyond—would recognize. A combination of six letters
and digits… The alphanumeric code of a cyborg.
"Shit."
Samara couldn't help the epithet that crossed her lips as she backpedaled. She'd
heard the horror stories. Everyone had. Cyborgs were merciless killers, apt to kidnap
innocent women for their breeding experiments. Oh and they ate babies.
"Lyon, actually."
His lips quirked wryly, but she caught the flash of something in his eyes as she
backed up. Anger, or hurt? Embarrassment flared hot across her cheeks and she
stopped, standing her ground. Her grandmother's voice filled her head. Don't judge a
book by its cover, young lady. You never know what treasures lie beneath the cover.
"That was ill-bred of me. I apologize. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work."
* * * * *
She'd apologized. A human had actually apologized to him. Lyon's surprise lasted
all the way down to the medical bays and right into the detention cell that awaited him.
Of course, he was a soldier first, so that surprise didn't stop him from scanning the local
area for an open connection to the communications array.Bingo. As the guards shoved him through the door to the cell, he found an
unsecured port. It took him less than a second to hijack a medical report and piggyback
his message. Once off the ship, the message would detach and ping out the ether until it
found a route to the Chameleon, cloaked and waiting to strike from the shadows.
Three days after sending his message, Lyon was shoved back into his cell, bloody
and bruised from the latest round of "tests". He was beginning to wonder if his
message had managed to make it off the ship. Stumbling from a vicious shove, he
caught himself against the opposite wall and pushed upright. He glared back over his
shoulder, a look of dire retribution and hatred. Just five minutes out of the mag-cuffs,
that's all he needed. Then he'd show these researchers and their pet guards what a
cyborg was truly capable of.
The guard paled at the look and disappeared. Alone, as much as he'd ever be with
cameras watching his every movement, he sank down onto the narrow bunk. It was
barely wide enough for a child, but he managed to wedge his shoulders between its
hard surface and the wall at night to get some sleep.
Closing his eyes, he let his head drop back. Without moving a muscle, he activated
several circuits and subroutines in the bio-cybernetic systems that laced his body. His
lips quirked as the guard down the hall swore.
"Crap, the cameras are playing up again."
"Does that mean I'll have to wait? I do have other things to do, you know."
Lyon stilled at the new voice. A female voice. The voice he'd been waiting for. It
was her. The nurse who'd apologized to him in the corridor. Despite himself, he sat up
a little straighter. His male pride wouldn't allow him to show anything that might
indicate defeat. Not that it made any difference. She was human and he was a cyborg.
She was a nurse here and he was a prisoner. No matter what his male instincts and
drives were hinting at, nothing was going to happen.
"No. Go ahead. He's still got the mag-cuffs on. Just shout if you need anything,
okay?" Lyon released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Her footsteps rang out
against the deck plating as she made her way to his cell. Lyon found himself listening to
them. Light, delicate and precise, they were much like the woman herself.
She stopped at the front to his cell. Lyon kept his eyes closed. He knew she was
studying him. He opened them as she released a hiss of frustration, her breath whistling
over her teeth.
"Christ. They've really given you a good going-over this time, haven't they?" She
snapped off the force field sealing the front of the cell and stepped in. "Now, you have
to be a good boy for me. The cams are off again and Hawkins out there is as jumpy as a
cat on a hot tin roof. I'd rather treat you without half the marine detachment breathing
down my neck."
She paused in front of him and looked down with a firm expression he found as
cute as hell. Lyon surged to his feet. Her gray eyes widened in surprise, but to her
credit, she didn't scream or run. Reaching out with his manacled hands, he tucked a
stray curl of her hair back over her ear.
"You're perfectly safe with me," he promised. Just not safe from me. "After all, why
would I want to hurt someone who's helping me?"
His onboard sensors registered the hitch in her breathing and the sudden increase
in her heart rate. She was standing there looking so calm and collected, but he could tell
the effort was costing her. Taking pity, he sat down.
"There. See? Good boy. Happy now? Or do I need to roll over and play dead?"
He had no clue where all these words were coming from. Normally he wasn't the
most garrulous of men. Not by a long shot. In fact, it wasn't unusual for his squad to go
days without getting a full sentence out of him.
She smiled. It was just a hint of a smile, the merest quirk of her lips, but Lyon's
chest filled with triumph. He'd made her smile. It was the highlight of his day.
"No, you'll do as you are. Let me get a look at those bruises."
He sat back as she worked, ignoring the sudden cold of the antiseptic spray and the
heat of the regenerator as she ran it over the large purple and black bruises covering his
torso. The worst damage was on his back, particularly over his kidneys, although why
they were bothering to concentrate their blows there he had no idea.
He didn't have the usual human weaknesses. His bones were laced with
duerineium alloy, his joints replaced with cybernetic constructs. His organs, arterial
pathways and nerve clusters were all protected by heavy-duty sub-dermal synthmesh
that would absorb any blow an unaided human could dish out. He'd been designed to
play chicken with a shuttle and still walk away.
They literally couldn't damage him outside the operating theatre, so the only reason
for the beatings was to inflict pain. Some of his people mourned the humanity they'd
lost in the in vitro tanks when their cybernetics had been implanted. He didn't. The
more he learned about the race which had created his, the less he liked them. Apart
from the pretty little nurse standing in front of him. He liked her way too much for
comfort.
She hit a particularly sore section and he flinched. Swearing under her breath, she
flicked a glance to his face.
"Sorry, I'll try to be gentle. I can't believe they did this, what's the bloody point?"
The pressure from the regenerator eased up. He breathed a little deeper as the band
of pain around his midriff disappeared.
"Making a point. The sheer human joy in causing pain and suffering." He
shrugged. "Don't ask me. I'm not human."
Easing farther down on the bunk, he spread his thighs to get comfortable. Without a
break in her movements, she moved between his legs to get at the remaining
discoloration on his stomach.
"Bloody stupid. I'd like to get hold of them and give them a taste of their own
medicine," she grumbled, dropping to her knees to look critically at her handiwork.