Girl Cyborg: A Dystopian Action Adventure Thriller

In the Soup

Lance put his hand on the small of Bess's back and guided her upstairs. She resisted the temptation to lean on him but each step was a battle. At the top of the stairs, Bess allowed Lance to guide her into a bedroom with white drapes, white walls, and a pine bed with a red and white quilt.

"You can't put me on that fancy bed. I'll get blood all over your sheets," she said. "Take me back."

"Give peace a few days before rushing back to the Academy."

"Did you keep my signal rig?"

"You don't need that here."

"You hacked it out of my back and threw it away?"

"I left it in the night market so the bounty hunter would find it instead of you. Come on. You can sleep while I make breakfast."

The chickens! A vision of scrambled eggs sprang into Bess's mind, but she didn't want to eat anything this man offered her. He was dangerous, poisonous. What did he want?

He walked her to the edge of the bed. Without wanting to she let him support her as he lay her down. She could hardly keep her eyes opened...

* * *

Bess awoke on the softest mattress imaginable, covered in a quilt patterned with red and white maple leaves. She tried to sit up, each movement searing through her wound. The bed was set against the wall and out the window, the second story elevation gave her a view of cultivated fields, pasture land, and trees on the horizon. As she sat up, she noticed her arms were encased in white eyelet fabric, cuffed with frills. She she was wearing a white nightgown.

She blushed, realizing the farmer must have undressed her while she was unconscious. This final violation made her heart pound in her head. Logically, removing the signal rig was worse, but removing her clothes was an invasion of privacy. When Lance came back she was going to hurt him, badly! Nobody undressed her, ever. Her mother and father must have changed her baby clothes, but after the Academy adopted her, Bess never remembered Matron doing it.

She heard light footsteps on the hardwood floor outside. There was a timid knock.

"Come in." She barked it like an order. She might be sick in bed, but that insolent slimeball had to learn who was in charge, or would be, once she was strong enough to stand.

A woman wearing a pink flannel shirt and faded jeans nudged a tray of food into the room. "Homemade chicken soup. It's supposed to cure everything..."

"Who are you?"

She looked younger than the farmer but a bit older than Bess. It was hard to tell. Civilians lacked daily boosts to keep their cheeks chiselled and their abs six-pack solid. To Bess, basic humans looked like kids who had yet to be assigned a specialty, all smooth faces and rounded cheeks.

Bess propped her head up on one elbow to get a better look. There was something familiar about that face. Her eyes matched the farmer's blue-green. This had to be his sister. What kind of murderous fanatic got his sister to feed you chicken soup? Maybe he wasn't as bad as she thought, or maybe they were a criminal family, waiting to sell Bess to the highest bidder.

She knew security specialists, while not the ultimate score, were worth plenty on the black market. Her skills of getting into small places, her superior strength, and her superior senses would (in the wrong hands) make her an excellent spy or assassin.

Time to leave. She tried to throw off the covers but a lancing pain in her back stopped her. Her injury felt worse today. She hated this helplessness, the girlish civilian nightie, being isolated from the Academy. Most of all she missed Cherry. Cherry would crack a joke to take her mind off the pain. Cherry would tell Bess the situation wasn't hopeless and make sure help was on the way.