Her stomach clenched, and she swallowed heavily against the nausea that rose in her throat. “Ema, how is he?” she whispered, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder at the sleeping girl behind her.
"About how he was fifteen minutes ago,” Ema's annoyed rasp answered her. “He hurts, he's got a high fever, and his body's doing its best to reject the changes. In other words, about normal for this procedure."
"It's been longer than fifteen minutes,” Mea mumbled in self-defense.
Ema made an exasperated noise. “Okay, sixteen. Stop watching him, girl. All you're doing is making yourself sick. Leave it be—he's coming along just fine."
"Mom?” Regan's sleepy voice interrupted, and Mea quickly changed the viewscreen.
"Yeah, baby,” she answered, turning in her seat and smiling to see her daughter sitting up on the couch, rubbing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
"How's Dad?"
"He's doing great."
Regan yawned and blinked at Mea with drowsy eyes. “Will he be done soon?"
"Not for a couple more days, I should think. Then he's got therapy to go through, which won't be fun for the first few days, so we're probably looking at a week before he'll let us see him."
Regan's frown looked much older than her years. “Why's he gotta be so stubborn?"
Mea chuckled. “A universal mystery."
"Whatcha doin'?” the girl asked, noticing the active viewscreen in front of Mea.
"Just monitoring how the patrols are coming along,” she lied smoothly, watching Regan stand and stretch with a fond smile. The girl had been a real trooper the past few days, accepting their cramped visitor's quarters and painful wait with a child's flexibility.
"Chasing down slavers? How are they doing?” Regan asked, her eyes brightening with an interest that seemed much too mature and focused.
Mea suppressed a frown, as the girl moved to her side and peered down at the viewscreen. Regan's active interest in all things hunter was disconcerting to say the least, especially her absorption in the current effort to eradicate the slavers. Mea was pretty sure children shouldn't be interested in such things.
"As well as can be expected, considering us hunters are hopelessly undermanned for the job. The Coalition is still refusing Uncle Mike's demands for mobilization of the military."
"Ugh, Grandpa's probably freakin'. But the Coalition's gotta cave, right? I mean, they're slavers," she stated with a child's confidence, as she took in the stats and locations of the hunter ships in slaver space. Before Mea could comment, she pointed at the screen with a cry of discovery. “Hey, isn't that Uncle Kef's ship? Looks like he's got a full load."
Mea snorted a laugh before she could stop herself. Regan's spontaneous adoption of the young hunter still struck her funny bone, especially when she remembered the stunned, slightly sick expression on Kef's face the first time the girl had breezily named him Uncle. “Yes, Kef's doing the Corp proud,” she managed.
"Pretty soon we'll be out there, too,” Regan said in a wistful tone that drained all humor from Mea.
The idea of exposing Regan to the worst parts of the galaxy still woke her in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Thinking about putting her in harm's way again, especially with the slaver threat, gave her nightmares. The concept of Regan wanting to be out there, of someday becoming a hunter like her adoptive parents, made Mea sick to her stomach. She would be much happier if Regan decided on a nice, safe planetary job on a world far away from slaver space.
"As soon as Bay is ready,” she murmured in response, slipping an arm around her daughter.
Regan nodded, slinging a thin arm across Mea's shoulders. “He won't look any different, will he?"
"Oh, yeah. Ugly as sin and big as a house."
Regan's high, sweet laughter echoed around the small room. Then she slanted her mother a mischievous grin, suddenly looking younger than her years. “So, no different, then."
It was Mea's turn to laugh, as she wrapped her daughter in a hug, her heart expanding with love and humble gratitude that she could call this special little person her own.
* * * * *
"Christ Jesus!" Stone exploded, clutching the edges of the bed with desperate fingers. “You do that again, I'm rippin’ off your arm!"
"Dave's the name,” the young man with the easy smile and blonde hair quipped, apparently not seeing the seriousness of the threat. “I'm your therapist, not the son of God."
"You're the fuckin’ anti-Christ, and you know it,” Stone growled as the young man torqued his abused leg once again. With a snarl, he jerked his leg away and pistoned it back out, kicking the therapist square in the chest.
With a yelp, the young man flew over backwards, disappearing from sight. Stone could hear him coughing, so he wasn't worried that he'd killed the evil bastard.
"Well,” Dave wheezed, as he pulled himself up to lean against the bed, clutching his chest with one hand, “that's progress, anyway. I think you cracked a rib, though."
"No more than you deserve,” Stone muttered, turning on his side and pushing himself slowly to a sitting position, legs sliding over the edge of the bed. The room spun lazily for a moment, before it righted itself again. The drugs that kept the ache in his entire body down to a dull throb also messed with his head.
"That's great. Looks like you're starting to regain coordination. Didn't I tell you your muscles would relearn their jobs, that they'd acclimate to your new weight and enhancements?"
Stone grunted in response, shifting forward to settle his feet on the floor. It felt almost unbearably cold against his hot skin. His fever was nearly gone, but it still felt like a furnace was stoked in his center. Glancing up at his therapist, he marveled again at the painless clarity of his sight without the goggles. Either the nanytes had adjusted his sensitivity, or the pain he'd experienced with the rest of his body had overwhelmed whatever discomfort was left in his eyeballs as he'd adjusted to light himself.
Dave had a faint frown on his face. “Ah, if you're thinking of standing, don't. You aren't ready for it."
"Kiss my ass,” Stone responded absently, concentrating on making his sluggish, protesting muscles work. With grim determination, he leaned forward, placing his weight on his legs, and slowly pushed to stand. It was strange how awkward and heavy his body felt, but he made it to vertical. How long he'd stay that way was anybody's guess.
"Hey, nice work. Now sit back down before you fall,” Dave ordered in a mild tone at his side.
Throwing out a hand, Stone grasped the man's shoulder for balance as his legs wobbled a bit. He was surprised to see his therapist wince at his clasp, since he hadn't thought he'd gripped him very tightly.
"I see I'm going to end up a mass of bruises before we're through with you,” Dave grumbled, but didn't brush off his hand, standing firm and bracing his arm instead.
"You wanna get rid of me, get me to a shower, get me some clothes, and bring me my family,” Stone rumbled.
Family. The word struck him like a blow, and he sat abruptly as the strength ran out of his legs. He'd said it without thinking, but the concept was terrifying. He wasn't exactly family material.
"I can get your family here, but that shower will have to wait. We can do a sponge bath."
"Sponge bath?” Stone murmured with some interest.
Dave grinned and folded his arms. “You scared all the pretty young things away, so it's just you and me, pal."
"Fuck that. Get me up; I'm havin’ a shower."
The therapist started laughing, but quit when Stone rose to his feet again. “Look, you're just not ready yet—"
Clenching his jaw, Stone focused his whole attention on his uncooperative legs and managed to shuffle a step forward without falling on his face. “Like hell I'm not,” he gritted through his teeth.
Dave shook his head, but stepped closer, bracing Stone with an arm around his waist. “Don't get ideas, now. You're not my type."
Stone grunted, slinging an arm over the young
man's shoulders and shuffling forward another step. “Smartass,” he muttered.
The shower was hell. The trip back to his bed was worse. Having Dave help him dress like he was a child was the final humiliation, but the prospect of seeing Mea and Regan held him together.
His therapist declared that he had to do his reports before he could retrieve Stone's family, but Stone suspected the man was giving him time to rest. He supposed he should be grateful—he couldn't tolerate the idea of having them see him so weak and helpless.
When he felt strong enough, he slung his legs over the edge of the bed—a feat that seemed easier than before—and growled, “Stop wastin’ time and go get ‘em."
Without comment, Dave flashed him an easy smile and left the room with an unhurried stride.
A moment later, the door opened, and Stone was astonished at the sensation that swept over him when Regan bounded in the room followed by Mea. Without thought, he opened his arms.
"Dad!” Regan shrieked, her face lit like a sunrise, as she raced across the room and flung herself at him. Her momentum toppled them both backwards onto the bed, her giggles mixing with his surprised oof.
What was even more surprising was that he didn't feel like recovering his dignity and trying to sit back up. He chuckled right along with Regan, grinning at Mea when she reclined next to him on the bed.
"Hi there,” she murmured, eyes bright with warmth and crinkling at the edges with humor.
"Hey, green eyes. I got ambushed,” he rumbled, thinking again, family.
Regan lifted her head, her dark eyes twinkling as she grinned down at him, arms still wrapped around his neck. “I gotcha good this time."
"Don't get cocky, small stuff,” he growled at her, and she snickered.
"You look okay, Dad. When can you leave?"
"How ‘bout now? Race ya to the Starfire."
"Don't get started, you two,” Mea admonished. “He's still got some therapy to do, sugar."
Regan glanced at her mother, then gave Stone an exaggerated grimace, which he returned, setting her off on another bout of giggles. In between, she asked, “You do feel okay, right?"
"Sure,” he rumbled. “Good drugs."
"Good,” she said with a contented grin. Then a quick frown pulled at her brows, as she exclaimed, “Oh crap, did I hurt you? What did I bust this time?"
"Just my dignity, kid. Little thing like you can't bust metal."
"Maybe you should get off him and let him breathe, though,” Mea added with a chuckle.
With a grin, Regan wriggled away, giving him a quick moment of terror as her sharp knee came close to increasing his pain exponentially. Oblivious, she bounded to her feet and shot her mother another look. “Food?” she asked with exaggerated casualness.
Stone glanced at Mea to see her hiding a smile. “He's probably sick of hospital stuff. See if Warren can do any better."
"'Kay!” Flashing Stone a grin, she dashed from the room.
Lifting himself with slow care onto his elbows, Stone studied the woman next to him with a mock glower. “You two conspirin’ against me again?"
"We women have to stick together,” she murmured, smiling at him through ebony lashes. Slipping a hand inside his shirt, she ran teasing fingers over his abdomen to the middle of his chest, and then pushed him flat again. With a quick, predatory move that ignited fire through every part of him, she straddled his hips. “My turn to ambush,” she murmured with a wicked smile. “It's important to check your strength and stamina, see how you're recovering..."
His body promptly forgot what it'd been through, signaling Stone that it was more than ready for a show of strength and stamina. With a groan, he slipped a hand behind her head and brought her face down to his. “I missed you, woman,” he growled against her lips. “Let me show you how much."
She melted against him, pulling back only long enough to say, “Some privacy, Ema,” in a husky voice. Then she lowered her mouth to his and proceeded to drive him crazy.
He didn't hear Ema snort, “Humans,” or see her golden light flicker out.
About the Author
Michelle O'Leary is the author of The Huntress, Angels and Ministers of Grace, and a growing collection of short stories. She is also a contributor to Clerestory, a windowed wall and The Insomniac Tales by Chaucer's Women.
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Visit www.dlsijpress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
A Stone's Throw Page 2
