Cyborg Nation (33 page)

She looked away from him as Gideon settled on her other side, her gaze going instantly to the cut she’d noticed on him that was still bleeding. The slash across his ribs wasn’t even as deep as Gabriel’s, but because it was almost completely horizontal gravity was working against the industrious little nanos. He caught her face in the crook of his hand, tipping her face up for his inspection. “It will close,” he said finally, lifting a finger and rubbing at the worried line between her brows.

Releasing her after a moment, he settled on his side on one elbow looking up at her. She gazed back at him questioningly for a moment and finally reached for him, tugging until he finally settled his head in her lap. He released a deep sigh, closing his eyes as she stroked his temple as she had Gabriel’s.

After a few minutes, Jerico sat down behind her. His back bumped hers and she tipped her head to glance back at him. He nuzzled the side of his face along hers for a moment and then returned his attention to his watch.

Cramped and uncomfortable as she was, and despite the ordeal they’d just endured, or maybe because of it, Bronte felt a blissful peace settle inside of her.

Amusement flickered to life as it dawned on her she was sitting like a blissful idiot among some of the most deadly men in the universe. It was a little like sitting in the midst of a pride of lions and petting them as if they were kittens.

Chapter Twenty

It was one of those moments when one’s mind connects dot to dot, wandering idly from one thought to another until a wholly unexpected picture emerges. Bronte was exhausted. They’d been traveling for more than a week, stopping to sleep—although no one else got even nearly as much sleep as she did since the men took turns standing watch—eat, and occasionally just to rest for a brief time. She knew she didn’t have nearly as much reason for her exhaustion as the men did—and they didn’t even look half as exhausted as she felt. Occasionally she would walk for a short period to stretch her legs and give them a break from carrying her, but mostly they carried her. And she was healing well. She thought if it wasn’t for the splint on her leg she could’ve walked more and hardly held them back at all—except she couldn’t take the splint off yet and dragging one heavy, stiff leg wore her out fairly quickly.

Then, abruptly, while cataloguing her ailments and wondering why she was so fatigued, it dawned on her that she hadn’t had her period even once since she’d been captured. Her heart performed a little two-step when the thought hit her. Mentally, she stopped, rewinding, and then going back over everything in her mind, but she knew even before she did that she wasn’t mistaken. She was prone to put that little monthly disability out of her mind as soon as it wasn’t a problem anymore, but she’d been captured with only the clothes she stood up in—nothing else. She wouldn’t have had her period and then blithely dismissed it if it had presented a real ‘problem’ like it would have if she hadn’t had feminine products to get her through it.

Excitement followed that thought and then died just as quickly.

She couldn’t be pregnant.

She might have been, but there was no way she could still be pregnant after the crash. She’d been injured too badly, lost too much blood, and the site of her injury had been close enough to cause trauma to her reproductive organs, might even have totally destroyed one of her ovaries. She’d feared that possibility at the time, she remembered.

She would’ve miscarried. Even if that metal rod had miraculously missed everything of vital importance, the shock to her system would’ve been enough to cause her to miscarry.

Her memories directly after the crash weren’t reliable. Probe them though she might, she couldn’t recall anything that indicated vaginal bleeding. Her stomach had hurt, naturally enough—she’d hurt all over—but there was no way to distinguish, now, if there’d been anything beyond her actual injuries causing pain. She couldn’t remember anything like the cramping that she should’ve experienced with a miscarriage.

She still hadn’t started, though, and it had been weeks now since the crash.

She didn’t know what to make of it, but she found that she couldn’t summon even a flicker of hope that something wonderful and miraculous had happened to her. Fear dominated her mind. All she could think of was the impossibility of being pregnant and the likelihood that something terrible was going on inside of her. She’d never thought she was a pessimist. She was more inclined to go the other way, but she was a physician and she was a realist in that respect.

God only knew what the nanos, encountering a ruptured ovary, had decided to do to ‘fix’ it. It was bad enough the nanos had been designed for cyborgs, but hers had been designed for
male
cyborgs.

She hadn’t considered that before.

“Are you ill?”

Bronte sent Gideon a wide eyed look at that question, wondering if he’d noticed something she hadn’t.

“You have turned as pale as death.”

Bronte blinked rapidly at that, her mind scurrying around for some explanation other than the truth. “I … uh … It’s nothing, really. I just had a little dizziness.” That much was the truth, anyway. She felt faint with fright and a sudden urgency to examine herself to see if she could tell anything about her abdomen that might explain what was going on inside of her.

Gideon frowned, studying her face searchingly. “Why would you feel dizzy if you are not ill?”

There were times, Bronte reflected, when Gideon’s sharp eyes and his … obsession with her well being weren’t at all welcome. She supposed it was a little of everything, not an obsession—his sense of responsibility, his orders, and the fact that she’d nearly died and hadn’t recovered the way he thought she should—probably the last most of all. He couldn’t be accustomed to seeing anyone laid low for such a long time.

But it was still really annoying at times—especially now.

She sent him a weak smile. “I just remembered I’d left something on the stove when we left Earth,” she said jokingly.

Typically, that sort of joke went right over his head. He frowned at her speculatively for several moments. “What thought would affect you in that way?”

Bronte’s jaw went slack with surprise. “It was nothing. Really,” she added when he looked unconvinced. “Do you think we might be getting closer to the city?”

He gave her a look. “We are one week closer than we were before,” he replied dryly. “Do not change the subject.”

“Then do not ask me something I don’t want to talk about,” Bronte said testily.

His face tautened with anger. She could see he was wrestling with his temper. After a few minutes, he seemed to tamp it. “If something was wrong you would tell me?”

“If I knew something was wrong.”

“Then this thing that worries you is something you think might be wrong?”

When
had he become so perceptive?

It dawned on her abruptly that she’d overheard him say once that he was very good at observing. She hadn’t really given that a great deal of thought, but it occurred to her that he’d had a very long time to study her, if that was what he’d been doing, and to begin to understand her.

Realizing that he wasn’t going to give up easily, she dropped her head to his shoulder. “I’m just tired,” she muttered.

“If it is nothing, then why is it that you do not want to tell me?”

She released an exasperated sigh. “Just … leave it alone, Gideon. Please. When I’ve worked it out in my head I’ll tell you.”

She could tell he was still irritated—actually angry, she supposed, because she’d teased him about it until she’d convinced him it must be something really bad.

And the worst of it was she was afraid he was right.

* * * *

One fairly minor skirmish with the trogs, which was minor because they had only happened upon a handful that were apparently out hunting, and one week later, Bronte was more convinced than ever that something was wrong. The lack of a period she could’ve dismissed on a couple of counts—weight loss, trauma, or even mental stress. Something was definitely growing in her belly, however, and it seemed to her that it was growing way too fast to be something delightful. She’d lost a noticeable amount of weight, to her anyway, everywhere except in her belly. She couldn’t tell whether it was actually larger than it had been before or if it only looked like it was because she’d lost weight elsewhere. That didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that it should be smaller like the rest of her and wasn’t—which meant it was growing, but she couldn’t tell how fast.

At the very outside, assuming there was any possibility of pregnancy, she couldn’t be more than two and half months into gestation because it hadn’t been longer than that since she’d had sex with Gideon the first time. It seemed farfetched that she could’ve gotten impregnated then. It only took once, of course, but the odds seemed astronomical to her that everything would’ve come together to make it happen right then.

After some hopeful consideration she finally decided that nothing fit to make it a pregnancy. She’d had sex several times with both Gideon and Jerico, but that had been later on and she certainly shouldn’t have been showing if she was less than two months.

Poor Gabriel wouldn’t even have been in the running if it was a possibility. She hadn’t had sex with him but twice, and the only time she’d had penetration was right before the crash.

Not that any of that mattered. The chances were that none of the three, no matter how hopeful they might be—or she was, for that matter—would ever have been able to impregnate her.

She wouldn’t have been nearly as frightened if she’d been any where near civilization where she could get help. But not only was she not, they had no idea how long it might take to reach the city. It could be months more and she might not
have
months.

It was inevitable that they would notice their ‘beautiful’ Bronte was beginning to look strangely misshapen. The top Gideon had made for her from the piece of blanket covered the rounding mound. She had to bathe, though, and Gideon was convinced she still couldn’t bathe alone. For that matter she was convinced of it. The splint made her so awkward she was afraid she’d drown if he, or one of the others, wasn’t there to keep the current from carrying her off so she didn’t really make any attempt to assert herself and demand privacy.

She wasn’t certain who noticed it first, but she finally realized they had when she caught first one and then another staring at her belly, or rather sliding glances in that direction. She wasn’t so conceited she mistook it for sexual interest. She would’ve
liked
to have thought so. It was hard living among three extremely attractive men without thinking about sex, particularly when it was three men she also happened to be mated with, and with whom she’d thoroughly enjoyed fucking.

She would’ve liked to think that the drought brought about by her injuries bothered them at least as much as it did her.

She was sure it did up until her belly began to change shape. Then, she wasn’t so sure.

For days after the first look she’d encountered, Bronte pretended she didn’t notice them staring at her and they pretended they weren’t staring. It was Gideon, as usual, who took charge of the situation.

She’d finally decided to remove the splint and check the progress of her healing. The bone, she discovered, had knit. She couldn’t tell anything for certain without a scan, naturally, but to her hands it felt whole and she couldn’t detect any pain from pressure that might indicate that it was still weak. Cautiously optimistic, she’d finally decided to try putting a little weight on it to test it further and used her crutch to stand and walk a little way. There were twinges, but nothing that seemed to indicate she still needed the splint.

“Are you certain that you should be doing this?” Gideon asked, rising from the fire he’d built and crossing the sand to stand next to her.

Bronte looked up at him and then glanced at Gabriel and Jerico, who were busying skinning and cleaning the animal they’d killed for food since they’d pretty much run out of the food they’d brought with them. Neither of them were looking at her, but she had a feeling this had been a group decision.

They had a way of ganging up on her and then sending Gideon to play ‘bad guy’.

She faced Gideon again. “I’m testing the leg,” she said finally. “It feels healed enough to walk on it.”

He frowned, but thoughtfully. “It has had time?”

Bronte chewed her lip. Under ordinary circumstances, the answer was no. “It
seems
to have had time,” she compromised.

“This means it should not.”

“I think the nanos helped it heal more quickly. I examined it. I’m not going to risk breaking it again.”

He looked unconvinced.

“Alright!” Bronte said testily. “I’ll put the splint back on … for a few more days. But
after
I take a bath.”

He nodded, satisfied. “I will bathe with you while Gabriel and Jerico set up the meat to roast.”

Bronte was a little irritated until it occurred to her that she wouldn’t have her splint on and that opened up possibilities. As much as she appreciated the fact that Gideon had seen to it that none of them tried to initiate sex while she’d been recovering, she felt well enough now to test that, too.

Setting her crutch down, she held most of her weight on her good leg and undressed. Gideon scooped her up before she could even consider trying to walk without the crutch and carried her into the water until it was waist deep on him before lowering her to her feet.

Disengaging herself from his hold, she stepped away from him when her feet had touched the sandy bottom. The buoyancy of the water supported her enough she wasn’t concerned about her leg even if she’d been premature in taking the splint off and she was anxious to clean up and see if she could coax Gideon into remembering she was a woman, not just an invalid.

She still mourned the lack of fresh water and soap to bathe, or even the type of cleansing units she’d had before she left Earth, though she’d not only gotten used to bathing with water, she’d discovered she liked it. Bathing in the sea was different. She enjoyed that, too, but it didn’t leave her feeling clean like fresh water and soap. It was probably the heavy salt content, she thought, and very likely she still would’ve felt sticky even if she’d had soap, but she liked smelling clean and feeling clean not just thinking she must be clean if she soaked in water long enough and scrubbed her hands over herself.