CYBORG PLEASURE; the Space Madame's Warrior

by Cathryn Cade

  Her brows shot together. “Him, who? I'm working with my team—Bek, Playa and whoever, I can't remember the rest of their names.”

  Suspicion was the teeth of the serpent still crawling in his middle. “And Dr. Bu? You work with him too?” The Indigon who had enslaved Var, and the other males and females he kept caged, drugged and controlled to do his bidding.

  “No!” Ilya stared at him as if she couldn't believe her eyes and ears. She emanated a wave of hurt so strong it nearly drove him to his knees. She lifted her hands and then dropped them, shaking her head vehemently. “I don't even ... I can't believe you'd think—” Her voice choked off and she lifted her hands again, this time covering her face.

  Buffeted by images smashing through his mind, erupting and then disappearing only half-formed, Var shook own his head to clear it. He couldn’t afford to feel guilt. Not now, maybe not ever, until he had sorted out who he could trust—hells, he didn't even know which of his own memories he could trust.

  “How do I know what to believe?” he demanded. “I've been a—a prisoner in my own body for months, Ilya. Made to do things—things that make me wanna rip off my own skin to get rid of the memories.”

  He eyed her. She stood before him in the gaudy bedroom like a lovely little queen, her face and hair enhanced, her skin unmarred. “And where were you then? Where were any of you—where was Joran Stark? Haro, Qala and the others? Why did you leave me here?”

  Only when she stepped back, her face going pale, did he realize his own voice was the bellow that shook the walls. By then, it was too late—his rage was out of control, and it felt good to let go. So good.

  Whirling, he grabbed the nearest object, an ornate metallic lamp, and hurled it as hard as he could. It hit the wall with a smash, and bits of crimson glass and crushed metal tinkled to the floor.

  With a roar of primal rage, he went after the bed next, the duvet cover ripping in his hands, the lining spraying forth in shreds that drifted in the air. The air bed shook and crumpled under his fists, an unsatisfying opponent.

  But the wood and cerametal furniture—that cracked and splintered when he kicked it, like kindling for a Frontiera campfire. The largest pieces smashed into the doors and smaller ones sailed through an open hatch.

  He glowered at this through a red haze. It led to the passageway ... one of the many he'd traveled under Blu's orders, servicing wealthy perverts, and the blood-lust of spectators who ringed the gladiator pit.

  With a roar, he surged toward it.

  Only to be faced with his Ilya, clutching a robe before her, and wearing a shattered look on her face. Beside her was a small, familiar woman in a hoverchair.

  “Var,” Playa said in a voice as soothing as a gesic compress laced with mint. “Var ... all is well. Be calm now.”

  The soothing calm spread, easing through his mind, and enveloping the jagged, hot edges of fury and pain ... pushing them back and away, leaving him swaying on his feet.

  Without his fury to drive him, he staggered, and began to crumple. He landed on his knees with a thud that shook the room. Bracing his hands on the floor for support, he curled his fingers into the plush carpet. It was soft ... like her. His Ilya.

  With a mighty effort, he lifted his head and squinted at Ilya through the sweat running in his eyes. “I ... hurt you?” he rasped.

  “No,” she said, but her voice shook. “Only the furniture. Didn't much like it anyway.”

  She looked away, already moving past him. “Playa, if you'll stay with him until Stitch gets here, I'm gonna, uh, get cleaned up and dressed. Got—got a lot to do today.”

  She was walking away, leaving him—and he couldn't blame her one iota. He'd seen the fear in her eyes—and relished it.

  Var dropped his head again, shame rushing into to fill the empty places left by his rage.

  “No,” he rasped. “I'm sorry ...” he stopped himself before he begged her to stay with him. Four years, they'd been together, never spending more than a day apart. And now he'd lost her.

  “Be calm,” Playa repeated, her voice slipping around him again like a soft, warm hand laid on his forehead. “She knows you aren't to blame for any of this. Remember that. This lies on him.”

  He shook his head, then sank back on his haunches and swiped a hand over his wet face. He looked up at her.

  “I don't know what's real. It's been like this since ... since I took off the helmet. All ... mixed-up, a storm in my head.”

  “The helmet,” the little Indigon repeated, looking troubled. “Yes, perhaps it's some kind of barrier. I don't know much about that—I didn't get to go to the Academy to finish my studies. Are you in pain now?”

  He shook his head again. “No. She gave me gesics. I'm just—when she gets angry, so do I. And then, I can't control it. I'm like ... a fucking baby.”

  “Oh, my,” Playa murmured. “I'm sorry you must go through this, VX—I mean, Var. But in time, you will regain control. I think ... it's like a muscle that must be retrained again.”

  “That's just it,” he groaned. “Which one am I—Var or VX? How do I know for sure I'll even get back to being myself again? Will I regain control, or will they have to lock me up to keep everyone safe from me? I don't know how long I've been here ... I don't even know why I'm still alive.”

  He gestured aimlessly, then let his hands fall to his thighs, palms open. “God beyond ... why didn't he just let me die?”

  “Because,” said a gravelly voice from the open hatch. “You're the one who must help free the rest of them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Walking out of the lav into her dressing room, Ilya heard Stitch's words clearly through the partly open door. She stopped in the middle of the lavish dressing room, and waited, holding her breath. Would Var lose control again? And what was the medic doing, coming here to tell someone as messed up as Var that he had to rescue the other cyborgs—couldn't he see that Var was barely holding himself together, much less mission-ready?

  Well, she'd better be ready for anything. Quickly, she grabbed the first garments she came to, then eyed them dubiously. She held a knit ensemble styled like a flightsuit, with fitted tights, singlet and short jacket all in soft blue, embellished with silvery fasteners and bits of corded silliness on the collar and shoulders.

  But a scan of the racks reminded her that the rest of the apparel the Palace fashionistas had chosen for her was equally as unsuited for battle. Ack, she was thinking like one of Il Zhazid's band again. You could take the girl out of Frontiera ...

  Never mind, the kind of battle they'd be doing here didn't involve hardy clothing. She yanked the outfit on as quickly as she could with shaking hands, listening for more from the room beyond.

  “The others,” Var said at last. “They're still down there.”

  “Still trapped,” Stitch agreed. “As you were, VX. And so they'll remain, unless you help get them away from him.”

  Ilya shoved her feet into a pair of silver booties and peered out into the bedroom.

  Stitch stood in the midst of the destruction as if all was normal, Playa seated in her chair. Var still knelt in the middle of the littered carpet, but now his head was up, and he was looking to Stitch as if the medic was a seer offering a quest. As Ilya watched, her husband's wide jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, and he climbed to his feet. He nodded. “You're right. We gotta get them away from him—out of his control.”

  Playa's cheeks were flushed, and she was looking anywhere but at Var. “Um, yes,” she said. “Perhaps, VX—I mean, Var—you should don some clothing before planning further. I'll wait in the office.”

  Ilya had to bite back a snicker as the little Indigon zipped from the room. Poor Playa, faced with all the male magnificence that was Var. And he was Var—not VX, not a stranger, she reminded herself.

  He was her husband, who had been through hell, and now needed her. She took a breath, and opened the door, stepping into the ruined bedroom. Her knees might be shaking, but no one else need know that.


  As she appeared, Stitch blinked—or winked, she wasn't sure. “I'll be near if young Var needs me.”

  “No, stay, please.” Ilya looked to her husband. “Var, would you like a showerdry before you get dressed?”

  His heavy brows shot together, his gaze turbulent. “I ... I would. Thanks.”

  He bent to swipe his pants from the floor, and cast a guilty look around the room, his cheeks darkening. “I'll clean this up.”

  “We have staff for that,” she said. “Although maybe you could sort the heavy pieces. You did make a mess worthy of a three-day drunk.”

  Stitch chuckled, and Var gave a snort of amusement, but all too quickly his jaw clenched again. “I'm sorry. I don't ... I can't—I'll try harder, I swear.”

  Her heart squeezed. “It'll get better,” she said. “You'll settle. Playa ... knows about, uh, situations like this. She says you'll straighten out, get your bearings.”

  “Right,” he said.

  He didn't sound any more certain than she of the truth of her words. But Playa must be right ... because if not, Ilya couldn't bear to think about the consequences. They were in enough trouble without Var going off like a flashbomb every time someone in his vicinity became emotional.

  She motioned to Stitch to follow her to her office, where Var couldn't hear.

  “Stay with him,” she told Stitch. “Please. And ... tranq him a little if he needs it. Not to knock him out, just—stop him before he destroys any more of the station.” Or a sentient being.

  “I will do what's needed.” Stitch patted the medkit floating as his side. “I have calming gesics if needed.”

  Ilya nodded, then frowned at him. His lumpy skin looked ashier than usual. “You okay?”

  Stitch's eyes closed, his eyestalks wilting down toward his head. His wide mouth flattened, and his stocky form wavered.

  Ilya pushed him toward the nearest divan. She sure couldn't catch him if he fell—like all his race, he was solid.

  “What is it?” she asked once he was seated. “Talk to me, Stitch. If you're ill, let's get you some rest, and get one of your assistants up here.”

  Two of his eyes opened, and swung her way. “My assistants,” he repeated, and then made a strange sound, nearly a groan. “My problem is my assistants—one of them at least.”

  “The medtech who tried to steal a cruiser,” she remembered with an unpleasant jolt. She dropped to the chair facing him. “Yeah, what's that about?”

  “He is my nephew,” Stitch said, the words dragging from his mouth like stones. “And he ... he was here the day your husband Var died ... and VX-900 came into being.”

  Ilya stared at the medic, his words buzzing in her ears like annoying river flies. Stitch's nephew had been here the day Var was shot... the day he died in Joran Stark's arms ... and then was somehow resuscitated as a deadly mountain of cyborg muscle known only as VX-900.

  Which meant he'd know what really happened, the day Stark and the others left Var behind on this floating space barge, and came back to tell her that the love of her life was dead and gone forever.

  The main doors of her office slid open. Voices approached—her friends, back from the casino. Ilya ignored them. She was on her feet before she knew it.

  “I want to talk to this nephew of yours,” she told Stitch. “He's got some mighty big explaining to do.”

  “Don't blame Jomer,” Stitch pleaded. He shoved himself upright to face her. “Blu has ways of getting what he wants. Threats, bribes ... Jomer is very young.”

  “Oh, don't worry,” Ilya said. “I'm not gonna hurt the kid. We're just gonna do some persuading of our own on him. Prob'ly be hella less painful than Blu's work.”

  She cued her com. “Bek—are you in your office? I'll meet you there. Playa, you too. I want to question our prisoner.”

  “I'm in for that,” called a voice.

  “Me too!”

  Ilya tipped her head back and gave a sigh of exasperation as her friends piled in through her office door, almost before it was fully open. The others all disposed themselves about her office, Haro and Qala on one divan, Dano on another as Orson perched on the arm. Ryder stood wide-legged behind them, arms crossed.

  “Guess it was too much to hope that you'd all party for a few more hours,” Ilya said.

  Dano snorted delicately. “With all you've got goin' on, girlfriend? I think not. Anyway, we weren’t partying, we were getting the lay of this place.”

  “He's right,” Orson said.

  “You need us,” Haro said, his voice cheerful but his gaze fierce. “Chatted up a few of the employees. You've got a bigger mess here than we thought. And we're not letting you have all the fun sorting it out.”

  Qala nodded, one side of her mouth tipping up. “For once, he's right too. You do need us, Ilya.” Her partner rolled his eyes.

  “Playa and I will be right there,” Bek said, and broke the link.

  “Yeah, wouldn't want anyone to miss the fun,” Ilya muttered, but warmth stole through her as she eyed her friends. They'd come, not to party, but to check up on her.

  Then she lifted her hands to her head. “Uh, I have some other news. VX is ... uh—he's ... well—”

  A collective gasp of shock silenced her. Everyone's gazes were riveted to the open doorway behind her. Ryder and Qala held lasers, and Haro was drawing his.

  “No!” Ilya cried, throwing out her arms and moving to shield the opening to the passageway. “It's him, can't you see? It's Var.”

  She whirled, ready to take his hand. Then stopped dead, her heart stopping in her chest.

  The man filling the doorway was a cyborg—that was obvious. But he was a complete stranger—and he was even bigger than Var.

  He wore a dark green helmet with only his lower jaw revealed, a heavy leather suit and boots. His huge hands were covered in leather mitts, and like his suit and helmet, they were green, and covered with short, gleaming silvery blades. He was a fearsome sight, especially at such close range.

  “Where is he?” he demanded. “Bring me VX-900.”

  “Why?” Ilya managed, through her dry throat. “So you can kill him? Or take him back to the hell-hole you came from?”

  The 'borg turned his head just enough that his gaze could meet hers through the eye holes of his mask. “He must return with me, or I will kill you.”

  Ilya's heart hammered, adrenaline surging through her blood.

  Once on the Frontieran prairie, she'd walked over a hilltop outside camp and met a full-grown skrog grazing its way along—and this time she hadn’t been inside a sturdy cruiser. The rest of the herd had been a few hundred meters distance away.

  The skrog had swung its massive head toward Ilya, long tusks gleaming in the sun, small eyes glittering. For a long, suffocating moment it studied her, as if deciding whether she was worth the trouble of trampling under its huge, drum-size feet. But finally, instead of charging, the huge beast dropped its head and lumbered away toward the herd.

  She was that scared again now, with one crucial difference. This 'borg wasn't going on his way peacefully. And if Var walked in now, she might have to watch him murdered all over again.

  The warrior advanced into the room, his long legs eating up the carpeted distance between them.

  “No sudden moves, babe,” Ryder murmured behind her. “We've all got a lock on him.”

  “VX isn't coming anywhere with you,” Ilya said to the cyborg, backing carefully toward her armed friends. “So you need to—”

  Var's deep voice boomed from the passageway, cutting hers off. “DR-700. I'm here, my friend.”

  “Var?” one of the pirates said in a choked voice. “What the hells?”

  No one else had time to speak, as Var appeared in the doorway. The other cyborg turned on Var, and Ilya reached for her own laser weapon and then cursed herself for her stupidity—it still hung in her showerdry. She never forgot her kit ... now was the worst possible time to start. Later, she was gonna smack her own head.

  The two m
en were at an angle so she could see Var clearly. He was dressed again, in the dark pants and shirt, with soft boots on his feet, his hair damp. His gaze was fixed on the other cyborg, and her heart quailed anew at the look of utter determination on his face. He was going to fight.

  “You can’t hide anymore,” DR said to Var. “He wants you back where you belong—dead or alive.”

  Var shook his head, his jaw clenching. He moved his hands out from his sides, and Ilya saw that he held two long cerametal bars—pieces from the broken bedroom furniture. “Don't do this, DR. Fight him, not me. I'll kill you if I must.”

  The borg in green crouched into a fighter's stance, huge paws clawed. “I'm faster and stronger than you, old man. You die here—and then we—we share your woman.” He shook his head once, as if his threat was bitter as bile.

  Var gave a deep, chilling growl and hefted his makeshift weapons. “I know whose words those really are. And they're lies, just like all he's told us.”

  The green-suited borg charged Var, and Ilya shrieked. “Haro, Qala. Shoot him!”

  Var struck first, slamming one bar full across DR's helmeted face. The taller borg reeled, but with a roar, grabbed Var's other arm, reaching his long arm for Var's throat. Var kicked him so he gripped Var’s arm instead, and the two men jolted across the room in a mighty tussle.

  “Can't shoot,” Qala yelled. “We might hit Var!”

  The fighters hit the huge desk and rolled across it, Var on the bottom. The structure groaned under their weight.

  “Now!” Ilya and Haro shouted.

  Two streams of laser fire shot at the broad, green back heaving above Var. Both hit home, but although the warrior bellowed in pain, the fight went on.

  Var heaved, they rolled, and landed on the floor, Var astride the other cyborg like a rider. He drew back his fist, and smashed it into the face of his opponent, then the other fist, making a sound like a mallet smacking meat.

  “Stop!” Playa called. Her voice rang through the crowded room like a horn, calling them all to attend to her. “VX, let me have him.”

  Under Var, DR-700 groaned, and went limp. Var poised over him for a long moment, his broad back heaving with his hard breaths, his mighty fist still poised to strike again.