Warrior's Wife (12 page)

Cold rain seeped through her jumpsuit and joined the clammy sweat trickling along her backbone. The icy drizzle did her no good. To lose the droid, she needed a river. She didn’t have one and the cyborgs were too close to risk the road. She whirled, frantically seeking a hiding place. The house’s roof dipped alarmingly and the front porch tilted, but the slanting structure beat the hell out of standing in the low brush, just waiting for capture.

She sprinted through the undergrowth. Her bad leg ached, but held. Thank God for small miracles. The porch held under her. The front door hung slightly ajar. She pushed inside and shut it quietly behind her.

The stench nearly knocked her back. She swallowed hard, forcing down the gorge rising in her throat and breathed through her mouth. Corpses held the nasty-smell championship. Judging by the missing bits of leatherlike skin and protruding dry bones, the couple leaning into each other on the couch had been gone for a long time, but thinning hair, a few strips of tattered clothing, a swath of plaid blanket and the odor of their rotting flesh lingered. The smell echoing the unimaginable agonies they’d suffered. Their bony limbs had tumbled together as if they found comfort in each other, even in death.

She edged past them, feeling like the worst kind of invader—a grave robber plundering their last tiny scrap of human dignity—and bumped against a doorknob. Eager to leave the macabre living room, she twisted the handle and plunged into blackness. She teetered on the first step, tried to catch her balance and fell.

Unforgiving risers and treads banged her legs and bottom. Finally one of her flailing hands grasped a rail and stopped her descent. She hung there until her feet found the solid wood of the plank step. Cautiously she moved lower.

Masked by fetid water, mildew and rust, the stench of human decay grew fainter. Cold water met her already soggy boots before she ran out of stairs. Not exactly the dry, cozy hiding spot she’d been hoping for, but if this place didn’t camouflage her scent nothing would.

She crouched on the stairs, wrapped her arms around her legs for warmth and rested her head on her knees. A thud of rotting wood parting under heavy metal warned she had company.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s a fucking dump.”

She held her breath through more cautious steps and the scrape of rusty hinges.

“Damn droid sniffed out a couple of corpses.” The front door creaked shut.

Tori let the stale air out of her lungs. The fake dog she used to care about whined and scratched at the entrance to her safe haven. She clutched the railing with both hands—her arms so tense they quivered like stretched bowstrings.

“If we’re recalled without her, we face instant termination. Let’s take the droid back to the vehicle. Let him get a good whiff of the trunk and try again.”

“No fucking way, turn it off. Stupid toy’s been on too long already. We don’t want the mechs crashing the party.”

“She can’t have gone far. Check the shoulder. We’ll trail her ourselves. John’s right. The mechs are going to pick up the pet’s signal same as us. Turn off the droid.” The third monster seemed to be the one who called the shots, disruptions, whatever.

She shivered and clamped her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Their footsteps left the porch and disappeared on the soft ground. She was still too afraid to move. Had the whole conversation been staged to draw her out of hiding? She gnawed her lower lip, finally deciding she had to leave. A tentative stretch didn’t make her bad leg cramp so she experimented, gradually adding more weight. Her knees trembled but held. She sank back onto the step. A slow count to one hundred then she’d go.

* * * * *

Wedged between Gideon and Marcus in a vehicle compartment designed for much smaller specimens, Horace sifted through the facts for clues.

Tori had been taken prisoner. The depth of the footprints and the missing droid all pointed to the cyborgs. Sending a third group of the enhanced soldiers to retrieve a survivor set a precedent. Tori was special, no argument from him. But what made her so critical to the enemy?

He didn’t have answers, but asking the right questions might help. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Tori die while being held by the restorers?”

“True, but that was before our mission,” Marcus said. “A large part of why we’re here is to change that reality.”

“That’s what I thought too. It follows we must’ve succeeded in changing the outcome, because the restorers keep sending more teams. I just don’t get why.”

“Why what?” Gideon muttered.

“Why they risked a third set of soldiers to retrieve Tori. The vaccine they developed from her blood made the surviving males more aggressive and left them sterile. Their political party suffered a backlash from their own members when the circumstances of Tori’s death came out. The founders took the reins for the next couple centuries. Given those less-than-stellar results and the chance for a do-over that time travel provides, why would they spend so much of their resources pursuing Tori? It would be more logical for them to go after another female survivor.”

Marcus whistled. “You might’ve hit on something.”

The information Horace needed teased the edge of his mind. He closed his eyes in an effort to catch the elusive thought. “Hold on, the droid’s signal flashed.”

“Coordinates?” Gideon asked.

“No.” Horace shook his head with regret. “It was gone too fast.” He nudged Marcus. “Did you catch anything?”

“Nah.”

“The signal seemed brighter. We’re getting closer.” He lowered his eyelids and hoped for another flash from the pet. “Got it!”

“He’s moving slow. I make him nine kilometers southeast of us, but heading west.” Marcus leaned forward as if shifting his weight would speed the vehicle. “He stopped.”

“You lost the signal?” Gideon growled.

“No, the light is still on. The droid quit moving.”

The truck surged faster down the slick highway. Horace darted a glance at their leader. Gideon’s knuckles blanched from his grip on the steering wheel. The gas pedal pressed the floorboards.

The remaining seven kilometers between them and the dog flew past. The signal stayed steady. Horace hoped the lack of movement meant Tori was cuddling the pet.

Parallel to the coordinates, Gideon skidded onto the shoulder and brought the vehicle to a shuddering stop. The deserted stretch of highway bore no sign of activity.

His teammates flung open their doors, leaping out while the truck still rumbled.

“Take point,” Gideon ordered.

“I’m on it.” Marcus raced for the pet’s coordinates.

Horace hurried to catch up, peering anxiously into the night.

“Found him,” Marcus called flatly.

A second later Horace understood his lack of enthusiasm. The pet had been dismembered and the torso discarded in the rotting vegetation.

“No way to know when they did this.” Gideon’s jaw snapped shut.

“I’ve got it,” Horace blurted.

Marcus swiveled to attention. “Got what, bud?”

“Why the restorers are still coming after Tori.” Horace rubbed the back of his neck. “Killing Tori caused them problems, but ultimately the balance of power shifted to their favor. When Nigel sent us to save her, we succeeded.”

“Not anymore.” The side of Gideon’s face clenched and released.

“We shifted the balance of power enough for the restorers to send three sets of time travelers after her.”

Marcus frowned in concentration. “Okay, I’m following you, bud. But if the founders are back on top, then why isn’t Nigel giving us some support?”

“Good question.” Horace stared at the ground. “I don’t know. But I’m certain saving Tori is critical. Unless I’m mistaken, her death is the key to the restorers winning control of the world government.”

“What’s changed?” Gideon arched a brow in challenge.

“For us, nothing. For the restorers, the stakes are higher.”

Marcus nodded with a grim expression. “Gotcha. Let’s hope the bastards don’t have orders to terminate her if we get too close.”

The throaty growl of a powerful engine grew louder.

Each mech drew his weapon, angled toward the highway, and waited.

The engine gurgled to a halt, leaving the night doubly quiet.

Horace’s lungs worked overtime to fuel his pounding heart. Three cyborgs crossed the field without making any effort to conceal their approach. They halted just outside disrupter range.

The tallest of the cyborgs stepped in front of the other two enhanced soldiers. “You haven’t found her.”

Gideon matched the head enemy’s posture and growled, “Not yet.”

“Using the dog to draw them was a waste of a useful droid,” one of the enemy soldiers behind the leader muttered.

The commander tapped an insignia on his uniform. The enemy, who’d spoken out of turn, crumpled and moaned in agony. The lead cyborg turned toward them with a tight smile. “Nerve induction pain simulation, the device makes an extremely effective discipline reinforcement tool.”

Horace believed him about the induction’s efficacy, but torture had to be playing hell with team morale.

The head cyborg reached for his shoulder. His soldiers, one still crippled by pain, edged farther from the triad. Had the reach been a subtle retreat signal? Why would they back away now? The enemy was already out of their weapons’ range and the mechs hadn’t advanced.

The commander twisted another shiny medal.

Horace flicked his attention to the suffering soldier, expecting some sign the level of discipline had been increased. Nothing. A sudden premonition of danger sent him lunging after already fleeing enemies.

The dismembered droid exploded.

Chapter Seven

A blast shook the ground. Tori ducked and covered. Screams, thuds, cries and alarms echoed through her—old memories with no power to hurt her. Shaken, she pushed to her feet and assessed the here and now. No fires blazed, no automatic rifle rattled, no sirens wailed. Doors slammed shut. The muffled noise of vehicles rumbling to life faded. This close to the blast site her hearing was temporarily compromised. She lifted her head cautiously, aware her stunned ears would make the vehicle noises seem farther away than they were.

Cyborgs had erased her ride and all her possessions with an explosive device. They headed the suspect list for the current event. The trees, weeds and decaying fields didn’t seem likely targets. What would the metal monsters want to blow up out here?

The triad.

Fear for her mechs formed a leaden fist, tightening her belly. Careless of her strained limbs, she ran toward the direction of the explosion. She stumbled, picked herself up and raced again. A second fall twisted the ankle on her bad leg. Forced to slow down, she angrily settled for a rapid hitch up a rise that wouldn’t have slowed a self-respecting turtle.

From the top of the knoll she had a view of wisps of smoke, smoldering vegetation and three large, very still bodies. Her sprain may have lodged a protest as she dashed down the hill, but a surge of adrenaline flooding her system buffered any pain.

As she got nearer, the closest mech used his elbows to prop himself. The hair on the right side of Horace’s head was singed while the left side crisped rather than burned. His face and neck were reddened, more so on the right. The right eyebrow was a smudge and his eyelashes shortened.

“Don’t get up.” Tori dropped to her knees and patted him carefully. No broken bones, no external bleeding, first-degree burns on his right side, a pinkness on his left, his pulse and respiration were slightly elevated, but not enough for concern.

The lack of medical supplies and treatment options totally sucked. But she had to do whatever she could for her guys. “I need to check the others.”

“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

She mentally added hearing loss to his injury list. They’d all experience damage to their ears. She hoped none of the deafness was permanent. She pointed toward Marcus and Gideon and exaggerated her enunciation. “I need to check them.”

Horace gave her a small nod and grimaced, toss headache on the list of problems. She didn’t have even a freaking aspirin to dispense.

Instinct tugged her toward Gideon. To keep from twisting her fingers into useless knots of worry, she plaited her hair as she limped toward him. The farthest from Horace’s position, Gideon rested closest to the still-smoking patch of bare ground. Since he was facedown, she examined his backside first. His heartbeat and breathing were slow and even. Aside from an obvious lump, already discoloring at the base of his skull, she found no visible injuries. She tried to roll him onto his back with nothing to show for her effort besides shortness of breath and trembling muscles.

Stronger arms joined hers and Horace eased the mech leader onto his side and finally his back.

No worrisome holes appeared on his front. His pulse remained strong and steady, but he didn’t regain consciousness. She scrubbed away angry tears at her helplessness to provide Gideon with so much as an ice pack for the knot on his head.

Memories from the frantic ER department of her old life with its state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment, whole teams of trauma specialists, limitless medical supplies and pharmaceuticals at her fingertips taunted her. Even a field trauma kit would help. Then she remembered how Horace treated her cyborg-caused owies. She whirled toward him and pointed to his thigh. “Ice pack?”

He squinted at her lips, concentrating. “Say it again.”

She did and he dipped his chin.

Seconds later a pack cooled Gideon’s head.

Tori hurried to Marcus, knelt and took his vitals. His thick lashes fluttered open. “Hi, beautiful. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Galahad. How about you, any boo-boos?”

“I can’t hear a thing.” He grinned at her. “Damn, I’m glad to see you.”

“Me too,” she mouthed the words with extra care and squeezed his hand. “The deafness should go away in a day or two. Any other problems?”

“Piece of junk stuck in my gut, no biggie.” He moved his left arm, revealing an ugly chunk of bent metal embedded in his torso.

Removing the shard might start bleeding she couldn’t control. If he moved, the shard might shift, doing more damage. She needed to get all three mechs to a safe shelter as soon as possible. Neither Horace nor Marcus could hear her. She darted a worried glance at Gideon. He still hadn’t moved. She was certain he had a concussion at best. At worst— She didn’t want to think about the possibilities.

Horace moved well, though he winced when he thought she wasn’t watching. Marcus and Gideon both had serious injuries. She didn’t have the means to even assess how serious any of their injuries were. Let alone fix them.

The cyborgs might march back over the hill at any second to finish wiping out the triad. Helpless, girly sobs rose in her throat. She swallowed hard, making herself choke back the weeping. Hysterics wouldn’t save her mechs.

Overwhelmed, she crouched by Marcus and drew courage from his strength when he clearly needed her comfort.

His lashes flickered shut. “Make Horace help.”

Tori straightened and met Horace’s gaze. “Can you zap up a salve for your burn?”

His focus lowered to her mouth and stayed there. “Yeah, but I’m not going to, it’s a first-degree burn. The bots are already working to repair the damage and reduce the swelling. Let’s patch Marcus’ new hole.”

“I can’t.” She shrugged one shoulder and even that small effort drained her.

“How about we work together?” Horace activated the replicator, stacking up gauze packing, clamps, needle and thread and antiseptic sponges.

“Okay, can you do some kind of anesthesia?”

“It would not be worth the energy for matter conversion. I am already hungry after producing a few supplies. Marcus is a mech warrior. He can handle a little pain.”

“Uh-huh, I get you’re tough guys, but this is surgery.”

“For a mech, this is a patch job, nothing to it.” Horace dismissed her concern.

Tori tilted her chin to be stubborn. “I’m not operating on him without at least a local.”

He kissed her nose. “I’ll operate. You keep him still and give him something else to think about.”

She gaped at him while he neatly sliced away a square of Marcus’ uniform, used a sponge to scrub his hands and gloved up. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Keep him immobile, keep him happy, touch him, kiss him. That works.”

Chatting and caressing were great. Neither seemed anywhere close to a viable substitute for anesthesia. But lacking any better plan, she scooted close to Marcus, cupped his face and gently tilted him toward her. “Stay with me, Galahad. It’s important you hold perfectly still.”

His eyes opened, incredibly sparkling with mischief. “What do I get if I do?”

“A belly with no extra holes,” she told him with all the firmness she could muster.

“No reward for your wounded champion?”

“What did you have in mind?” She batted her lashes. How on earth had she been talked into flirting with Marcus while Horace extracted the metal fragment from his abdomen? More shocking, she sort of enjoyed it. A pouting Marcus still exuded sexy. Her lips curved in response to his teasing despite the circumstances.

Minutes later, Horace snapped off his gloves. “All done.”

“So fast?”

“Mech speed comes in handy.” His brows lowered. “Better check on Gideon. Brains aren’t as easy to patch up.”

“Don’t let his casual act fool you, beautiful. My bud Horace has stellar med skills.”

When she still hesitated, Marcus shooed her away. “Go on and help Gideon. I’ll behave, promise.”

She squeezed his hand. “You better.”

Still stunned by the miracle she’d just witnessed, she scrambled after Horace.

He produced a second ice pack, handed it to her then carefully lifted Gideon’s head. She replaced the warm bag with the cold one. Her hand went to his forehead to check for fever as automatically as she breathed. The mech leader didn’t stir under her touch. But he lived, so she clung to hope.

Horace took his vitals, frowning harder. Finally he said, “He’s running a low-grade fever and his pulse is too rapid. His bots should’ve eased the burn damage by now.”

Aside from wringing her hands and wailing, she had nothing to offer so she stayed quiet and kept a cool hand on Gideon’s forehead.

“Marcus will be good to go soon. We will have to risk moving Gideon.”

Tori swallowed the helpless sadness threatening to choke her and nodded, unable to stop touching Gideon. A small muscle twitched to life in his cheek and she lowered her hand to soothe away the tension. “Everything is going to be all right. You’re safe.”

She prayed she hadn’t lied.

* * * * *

Gideon leaned forward to make it easier for Tori to tuck another pillow behind him and swallowed back the nausea the small movement set off. “How in the hell did you get me back to the farmhouse?”

“It took us the rest of the night and a few hours of daylight. You’re no lightweight, boss.” Marcus patted his shoulder as if Gideon were too fragile for the usual celebratory mech pounding.

Being damaged goods seemed a hell of lot worse than being treated like a wuss. His head throbbed with the mother of all headaches. His skin was tight, itchy and starting to peel. Plus he couldn’t remember anything from the time he’d exited the truck until he’d finally come to in the first-floor guest room. He remembered everything before he’d stepped out of the pickup, including how much he cared about the incredible woman holding his hand. Emotions swamped him, threatening to make him sap out.

He tried to clear his pipes but his voice still came out much too raw. “I wanted to make your birthday memorable, but not like this.”

Tori’s eyes shone with unshed tears. She blinked hard. “Having you wake up is the best present ever.”

Not wanting to ruin the moment by spewing the contents of his gut, Gideon settled for tightening his grip on her hand.

“If you two can get along without me for a while, I’m going to start cooking.”

Gideon closed his eyes. “Sure, pal. I appreciate it.”

“You’d do the same for me. In fact you have a time or two.”

Tori filled in the blanks, answering his questions. The ’borg had taken their truck loaded with two motorcycles and most of their provisions. Actually they’d been lucky. They’d survived the blast. The farmhouse hadn’t been plundered and was still defensible. They had the tanker, one bike and a fuckton of fuel—a damn good thing. Gas was harder to come by than any other commodity in the post-pandemic era. Too bad the tanker full of gasoline ran on diesel.

Options came to him with irritating slowness. An almost-full diesel fuel tank was one of the reasons he’d chosen this place. They could drain the tanker and refill it with diesel. Or they could scout the area for another truck and load it with all the gas cans they could find. Wasting the precious gas rubbed him wrong, but turning some unknown vehicle into a rolling fireball didn’t push his happy buttons either. He set aside the transportation problem for later. “Tell me everything you remember about the ’borg snatching you.”

The delicate skin around her eyes and mouth tightened.

“I need to fill in the memory gaps.” He hated pushing her, but he needed as much information as possible to construct a solid defense.

“Of course.” She pressed a kiss to his knuckles then paused, gathering her thoughts. He liked the way she took him seriously and gave him thorough, well-considered responses to every question.

“I was upset about being a…never mind.” She halted then started again. “One of them grabbed me from behind. They pinned my arms and blindfolded me. My wrists and ankles were bound then they gagged me. Major clue they weren’t interested in conversation. One of them patted me down, not thoroughly though. They missed my backup knife. I’m guessing women from your time usually don’t carry weapons.”

“You’re right. I’m glad you do. That’s the second time, maybe the third, the little knife saved you.” He rubbed little circles on her inner wrist, enjoying the increase in her pulse rate. “Did they speak?”

“They didn’t talk, not even to each other until much later. I wondered if they had a mental link.”

Smart, cupcake.
“Probably, most ’borg teams do.”

“I figured. One carried me, another stepped in front and I believe a third followed.”

“Standard team formation for an enemy capture.”

“The three-man teams are standard for both sides?”

“Yeah, three allows for a broad spectrum of different skills. Plus we can pool resources to accomplish bigger tasks like replicating larger items or a greater volume of a single substance.”

“Horace mentioned being hungry after replicating medical supplies. Does the replicator deplete you?”