She’d accepted that she was fond of them.
But when she’d risked reopening her wounds, and thus death, she hadn’t been thinking about anything but protecting them. She hadn’t thought about what it might do to her if one of them fell on her. She hadn’t thought about anything beyond her fear that she would get one of them killed.
She was afraid that meant she’d become a little more than just fond of them.
Chapter Eighteen
It took a good bit of arguing to convince the men, or more specifically, Gideon, because he was always the one who made the final decision, that she needed to try to get up and move around if she was ever going to get her strength back. It didn’t help that it hurt so much even to try that Bronte wasn’t that keen on doing it herself and or that trying to move around was complicated by a broken leg. On one level, Bronte knew what recuperation was like—the physician’s viewpoint—but she’d never had any major illness or injury in her life and it was totally different from the patient’s viewpoint, she discovered. She knew everything she should do. She just didn’t want to and had to struggle to make herself do what she needed to.
She was out of depth beyond that. She didn’t treat major problems even as a physician. She monitored her patients’ health, treated minor injuries and illnesses, but everything beyond that went to a specialist in the necessary field, and besides that, she wasn’t familiar at all with nanos and had no idea what they might be doing to her. They had never been approved for human use except under extreme, life-threatening situations and even then the physicians ruled out every other possibility first.
Part of it was a fear on the physicians’ part that it would render them obsolete—so they weren’t enthusiastic about using them at all and had in fact gone to great lengths to make certain using the nanos didn’t become commonplace. Part of it, though, was a fear in patients and physicians alike that the microscopic bots might go rogue or otherwise malfunction and create more problems than they solved. Because, once they were released it was damned near impossible to recapture them. Even a complete blood transfusion couldn’t remove them all because they were determined to stay and ‘fix’, and interpreted efforts to remove them as attacks upon the body. They would fight first to keep the blood from being extracted at all and then, once they realized their host was receiving an infusion equal to what was being taken, they would rush to the infusion site to monitor the blood coming in.
And then they would figure out what was going on and ‘hide’. Efforts had been made to correct that particular programming nightmare, but not with any success. It seemed to be an either or situation. They could be programmed to repair as needed, in which case they were absolutely dedicated to searching out and repairing, or they could be programmed to repair one thing only and they might or might not. They had to have AI either way and if they’d been programmed to correct some problem that would create another, or fail to completely correct the problem, they would simply wander around aimlessly trying to ‘compute’ data they considered illogical.
The fact that hers hadn’t been programmed for humans at all made her distinctly uneasy. She couldn’t complain. She was still breathing and she certainly wouldn’t have been if the men hadn’t given her the nanos. She knew better than to believe she’d just miraculously recovered from the sort of wound that usually resulted in a slow, horrible death if untreated very quickly, and sometimes even if it was. She was alive because of the nanos.
She just didn’t know what else they might decide to do once they’d finished repairing the damage from the crash.
She discovered one thing as soon as she recovered enough to notice anything besides her discomfort.
The nanos repaired her vision.
Not surprisingly, she’d lost her glasses in the crash. She hadn’t missed them because of her injuries, but she supposed she’d become so used to them it had just taken her mind a while to catch up to the fact that she saw perfectly clearly at a distance without them—either that or the nanos had just gotten around to repairing her vision. She wasn’t sure which because it was a while before she noticed. Once she did, though, she was naturally delighted.
Now, even without her glasses she could tell whether she was looking at Jerico or Gabriel when before she’d had to study their movements and individual characteristics to be sure because their hair was so nearly the same color and they were close to the same height and weight. That hadn’t been a problem with Gideon, naturally, since he was fair, but now she could see him better, see a lot of things she hadn’t noticed before because of the blurring.
The down side was that she noticed the faint scars all over all the three men that she hadn’t really been able to see that well before. Not that she thought the scars detracted from their appearance in any way, but their dangerous, painful existence was written on their bodies. It brought home to her as nothing else, not even Jerico’s recital of the battles they’d fought, that the horror of war and death, pain, and the ever present possibility of dying themselves was their way of life—all they had ever known.
Before. She was determined, despite her qualms, to change that. Maybe they didn’t want what they believed they did—a home life—because they’d never had it and just thought it sounded like something they would want, but she decided to do her best to make them glad they’d chosen her to try.
Before she could even try, though, she had to regain her strength so that she could be a mate to them, provide the things a woman traditionally brought into a house to make it a home. Gideon, Jerico, and Gabriel not only didn’t like the fact that she was determined to get up and move around, though, she discovered that it bothered them—deeply. As soon as she would begin her struggle to rise they would stop whatever they would doing, stare at her as if holding their breath to see if she would collapse again, and then disappear as if they couldn’t bear to watch while she struggled with the crutch Gabriel had fashioned for her.
It depressed her. She could see why they would be appalled at such weakness when they were so physically superior. She could even understand that her painfully awkward gate was probably a serious turn off sexually.
And it still hurt and it still made her angry. It made her wonder if they’d begun to have doubts about convincing her to join with them to begin with, maybe even begun to entertain the idea of ‘losing’ the contracts on the way back.
They weren’t without flaws themselves—close—but not flawless, she thought with a mixture of anger and hurt. And it wasn’t as if they weren’t aware of those flaws.
The main difference between her perspective and theirs, she realized, was that they didn’t care for her. If they had, they would’ve been able to overlook the fact that she was less than perfect. They would’ve at least tried, just as she was struggling to accept their flaws.
She supposed, all in all, it was a good thing that their behavior angered her because it also bolstered her determination to prove to them that she was still worth having. She was going to recover. Maybe she would have scars she hadn’t had before, but the cuts and gashes, even the two worst, seemed to be healing remarkably well. She was fairly certain there wasn’t going to be anything hideously ugly that she was going to feel like she had to hide just be attractive.
Bronte’s first order of business was a bath. Unfortunately, the first few times she ‘got up’ the most she could manage was to sit up for a few minutes and at that she had to have help. That was enough of a chore that she contented herself, at first, with the pleasure of being able to actually sit up to eat. By the end of the first day, though, she’d gotten to the point that she could sit up without being helped upright and stay upright for a long while before she had to lie down again.
Since it looked like that bath she wanted was another day or so down the road, she convinced Gabriel to find something to hold enough sea water for her to dabble in until she felt a little cleaner. The sea water wasn’t nearly as pleasant for bathing as fresh water, she discovered. She felt almost as sticky and u
ncomfortable when she’d finished as she had before she started. Overall she felt better, though, and she thought she must look at least a little better.
She couldn’t get to her legs. She couldn’t bend over enough to reach and she couldn’t bring her legs up close enough to grab them. Toward bed time, though, she finally bullied Gideon into removing the splint they’d made so that she could examine the break to see what progress there’d been in healing. The wound where the bone had torn through the skin had completely closed, she discovered with happy surprise, and the fresh pink skin was already lightening.
Gideon surprised her by bringing water and bathing her legs for her and for the first night since she’d been hurt, she was not only able to cuddle without a lot of physical discomfort, she could cuddle without worrying that she stank. She decided the next morning that she was ready to tackle getting up. If she’d had a bed to sleep in she might actually have been able to accomplish that by herself—probably not—but she might have. Getting up from a supine position to a standing position when she could only bend one leg wasn’t possible, not as weak as she still was. She’d managed to get on her hands and one knee before she realized that, though, and by the time she looked around for help, she discovered everyone had disappeared.
She lay down to rest from the effort and wait for somebody to reappear.
And she waited.
Finally, realizing they must be fully occupied elsewhere and that she couldn’t just call for help without the danger of the trogs hearing her, she looked around the cavern for something to use to help her get up. Spying a stone roughly the height of a chair, she decided to see if she could lift herself onto it and then get to her feet. The challenge was getting to the stone to start with. She hadn’t realized when she started just how far away it was in terms of strength. She had to stop and rest about halfway, and then, when she’d dragged herself the rest of the way, she had to rest again before she could start trying to figure out how she was going to lift her ass from the floor to the top.
Gideon, she discovered, had returned at some point—discovered it when she began fighting to get up on the rock.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, striding to stand over her and glare at her.
She was too tired to have much energy for anger but she sent him a look of resentment anyway. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He studied her a moment and then the rock. “Trying to climb onto the rock. I see this. I just do not understand why you want to sit on it. The floor is more smooth.”
Bronte let out an irritated huff. “I don’t want to sit on the rock. I want to get up. I can’t stand up without help, though.”
His expression hardened. “You are injured. You need to rest.”
He meant well, Bronte decided. He just didn’t understand that just resting wasn’t going to help her get better. “If I don’t get up and try, I’m not going to get stronger. I’ll get weaker.”
He looked unsettled by that comment, and then suspicious. “This is not only because you do not like for me to help you ‘go’?”
Bronte reddened. “No,” she said testily. “It’s because I’m a doctor and I know that I have to work to get better.”
He still didn’t look as if he believed her but he finally knelt, looked her over for a moment as if trying to decide how to get her on her feet without hurting her and finally caught her beneath her arms. Relieved she wasn’t going to have to try to put rock climbing to the test, Bronte placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed up with her good leg as he lifted her. She thought for several moments after she stood that she was going to faint.
“I knew you should not try this,” Gideon said angrily. “You are too stubborn for your own good.”
“No,” Bronte said faintly. “Well, I guess I am a little stubborn, but I meant this isn’t stubbornness. And it is a bad sign to feel so lightheaded, but it means I should’ve been trying to get up before, not that I shouldn’t be trying now.”
His expression said he didn’t believe her but obviously there was just enough doubt in his mind that he was willing to go along with her determination.
“Now I need to walk a little,” she said once the dizziness had passed. Tightening her hand on his arm, she took a step and dragged the leg she couldn’t bend. He walked beside her, supporting more of her weight, probably, than she was while she struggled to take a dozen steps. His expression was taut when she finally asked him to help her down.
“Now you will be ill again,” he said tightly when she lay limply on the floor, fighting for breath at the little bit of exertion.
“Now I’ll be better,” she argued. “Will you help me walk again later?”
He looked torn. “Rest now. We will see.”
“It would be easier without the splint,” she said tiredly.
“The frame broke. I do not think it will mend as quickly as the flesh.”
Bronte opened her eyes to peer at him blankly for a moment before she realized he had no familiarity with bones. “It will, and it isn’t that I’m not grateful that you realized it would have to be lined up again and held in place—I am. I would’ve been crippled if you hadn’t. I’m just complaining because it makes it harder to walk.”
He nodded but he seemed anxious to leave so she didn’t try to keep him any longer.
It was no easier the next several times she forced herself to walk and she had no idea whether she was making any progress at all. She ached worse that night. Gideon fumed when he noticed, but thankfully kept his thoughts to himself.
By the next day, though, she felt stronger. She didn’t ask him or either of the others to help her walk. She crawled over to the rock and then up onto it, rested briefly, and then used handholds along the cave wall to pull herself into a standing position. She was sweating from the effort but so pleased with herself that she grinned broadly at Gideon in spite of the furious glare he sent her when he discovered what she’d done. “I got up by myself!”
“I see that,” he growled. “You could have fallen.”
She frowned at him. “Don’t be such a grouch. I didn’t fall, and I was strong enough to get up by myself.”
He relaxed slightly when she pointed that out. “Even so, do not try that again. I will come and help you up and help you walk until you are stronger. Or Gabriel or Jerico can help you if they are here and I am not.”
Spoilsport, she thought irritably, refusing to allow his disapproval to ruin her good mood. “If I had a crutch, I think I could start walking without any help.”
He frowned. “What is a crutch?”
She wasn’t surprised he didn’t know what a crutch was. “I need something that would reach from the floor to just beneath my arm to help me balance and still keep my weight off the injured leg—something straight. And it would need to be strong but not too heavy,” she said hopefully.
He looked her over as if he was gauging her length and finally left again without a word. Just before dark, Gabriel brought her a crudely wrought crutch made out of what she thought might have been a young tree, except it had a crook at the top that slipped perfectly beneath her arm. She was so happy, she caught his face in both hands and kissed him. She’d only meant to give him a peck of affection, but not surprisingly he wasn’t familiar with that. As soon as her lips made contact with his, he responded with an open mouthed kiss that assured her she was well on the road to recovery.
She sat back dizzily and smiled at him.
He smiled back at her.
And then Gideon, who’d witnessed the whole thing, stalked across the cave floor and slugged him on the side of the jaw hard enough Gabriel sprawled out.
“What did you do that for?” Gabriel demanded furiously as he sat up.
“You do not touch Bronte until she is well!” Gideon growled.
Gabriel looked uncomfortable but still angry. “I only kissed her, and she kissed me first!”
Bronte reddened guiltily when Gideon sent her an irritated glare.
�
�You are not well enough for that!”
She glared back at him. “It was only supposed to be a kiss of affection for making the crutch for me!”
Both men stared at her uncomprehendingly.
“Like the cuddling?” Gabriel finally asked.
Pleased that Gabriel had made the connection so quickly, Bronte smiled at him. “Yes. Like the cuddling.”
“I do not know what this cuddling is, but I do not want you cuddling her either!” Gideon said testily.
“I was keeping her warm!” Gabriel snapped indignantly.
“Oh. Why did you not say that? Never mind. Do not keep her warm either unless you have your cock in your loincloth! I will cut it off and shove it up your ass if I catch it any where near her cunt!”
Bronte watched him stalk away with a mixture of indignation and … pleasure at his thoughtfulness. She thought that was what it was, concern for her well being. She decided to interpret it that way anyway. It had made her feel as if he was protecting her because he was worried about her and that was all that really mattered.
She had to fight both Gabriel and Jerico off of her the first time she tried to use the crutch. She’d waited until Gideon wasn’t in the cave to try because she’d known he would be determined to help. “Thank you, but no,” she said firmly. “I have to do this myself.”
They hovered anyway, convinced she couldn’t—which only made her more determined to do it. Instead of looking relieved when she’d managed to stand using only the crutch for support, they only looked more angry and upset and doggedly followed her step for step as she took her first practice run with the crutch. Every time she wobbled, they threw their arms out to catch her until she was a nervous wreck and cussed them out and tried to run them off--tried, because they refused to leave or to stop following her around. She finally returned to her sleeping spot and settled again, more because they were getting on her nerves than because she was already tired—although she was.
Cyborg Nation Page 23