Page 3 of The Lone Cyborg
He placed his hat back on his head as she watched him, a strange sense of loss washing over her at the sight of it.
“Why do you keep doing this?”
He paused, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Doing what?”
“Showing up here.”
“It’s my duty. Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“It might make my life easier,” she said, sighing.
He shook his head slightly.
“No. I don’t think it would.”
Before she could respond, he had turned on his heel, striding away with long, purposeful steps. She stood watching him leave, unable to look away as Trojan followed obediently at his heels, the dust kicking up with each step.
“Damned stubborn cyborg,” she muttered, as he left the tube and mounted in a single powerful motion.
Sighing, she turned to Sylvester.
“Well, Sylvester, I guess that means it’s back to work. There’s no rest for the weary.”
As he fluttered his wings in agreement, she picked up the vibro-drill and moved to the next area she had marked out, determined to lose herself in her work and not dwell on the complications that J-418 had brought with him.
CHAPTER TWO
J-418 forced himself to ride away across the red Martian plains, leaving the rocky hills of Mattie’s mining claim behind him as a now-familiar ache gripped his chest. He’d tried to convince himself this was just another routine patrol, part of his duties as a ranger tasked with protecting the territory’s settlers. But deep down, he knew his reasons for frequenting this remote claim were far more complicated.
Ever since the first time he’d ridden up to her claim to introduce himself and she’d smiled up at him, green eyes sparkling above her breathing mask and unruly brown curls escaping from under her cap, something inside him had shifted. That smile had reminded him of a warmth that had been in short supply since his transformation into a cyborg. Now, whenever he went too long without seeing her, that familiar tension grew, pushing him to seek her out.
Delivering the mining regulations could have waited—they were still being disseminated—but not only did they provide an excuse to see her, the thought of his fragile little female handling explosives had always made him nervous. Rationally,he knew she was an intelligent, competent miner, but this was one occasion when rational thought failed him. At least now he would be aware of each incident and could watch over her.
Watch but not touch, he reminded himself—not for the first time. No matter how much her fierce independence and razor-sharp mind drew him she was off limits. He couldn’t afford these kinds of thoughts, these feelings. He was a cyborg, more machine than man. She deserved better than a half-mechanical thing like him although, as far as he could tell, she had no interest in any sort of relationship, human or otherwise. Still, he couldn’t deny the attraction that simmered between them, as tempting as it was dangerous.
He let out a frustrated sigh, earning a questioning whicker from Trojan. He patted the horse’s neck absently, trying to put the stubborn woman out of his mind. His path led him to a small nearby settlement, where a few families had chosen to build a cluster of homes instead of working their claims alone. The prefabricated domes issued to the settlers mixed with a few primitive buildings built out of the Martian regolith, including a tiny medical clinic.
As he rode along the main, and only, street, several of the settlers lifted a hand in greeting. Earth Government had made every effort to convince people that cyborgs were no longer human—just machines sent to spend the long hard years initiating the terraforming process—but he was a familiar sight in these parts. Some of the settlers still regarded him with wary curiosity but others showed genuine friendliness.
As he approached the clinic, the doctor came hurrying out. He was a younger man, painfully eager, and despite J-418’s distrust of the medical profession, the doctor’s dedication to helping the settlers had won him over.
“J-418. I was hoping you’d be by today.”
“What’s going on, Doc?” he asked. “Trouble at the clinic?”
He surreptitiously studied the doors and windows, searching for signs of a breach.
“Not exactly, but something unusual happened yesterday and I’m not sure if it’s significant or not.”
He dismounted, frowning at the doctor.
“What was it?”
“A man came in, a stranger, with a gunshot wound in his arm. By itself it’s not that unusual.” The doctor made a face. “You know what it’s like when the power plant workers get time off—they have a pocket full of credits and a big thirst after being isolated up at the pole for the past few months.”
Work at the huge factories transforming the polar ice into a new atmosphere was hard and demanding but it paid extremely well.
