Authors: Evanne Lorraine
To distract herself from her uncharacteristic thoughts, she studied the rest of the room. She guessed the two additional doors led to a closet and, with any luck, a functioning bathroom. No, she corrected herself, luck wouldn’t do. A functioning bathroom required a miracle. Dark drapes covered the only window. Audible gusts of wind made her grateful for the extra layer of insulation between her and the snowstorm.
True to his word, Vilmos returned shortly, bearing a tray laden with a steaming bowl of soup, honest-to-god crackers, and a bottle of water. She clutched the bedcovers to keep from yanking the bounty from him.
He set the server down on a small wooden table before bringing both the tray and table over to her and offering her a paper napkin. “Careful, the soup is hot.” He stared at the floor again and added, “I apologize for sedating you.”
“So that’s why I went out like a broken light bulb. Thanks for telling me, doc.” She unfolded the napkin and arranged it over her akimbo calves.
“Yes.”
His wonderful blend of lavender, spice and male musk thrilled her nose and he looked so adorable and so miserable she couldn’t stay mad at him for more than a moment. “Don’t worry about it. Anyone who brings me soup is forgiven.”
She indicated the wooden chair by fireplace. “Can you sit for a while?”
“If you like.” He lowered himself to perch his fine butt on the edge of the ladder-back chair and studied her too intently. “You are quite small.”
“Pretty average, actually. You just think I’m little because you’re so big.”
He continued to watch her, but she sensed no threat from him, more like intense concern. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.” His eyes didn’t move from her. Was he blushing?
Too hungry to waste much time worrying about why he found her so fascinating, her attention locked on the tray.
Regular vegetable soup from a can, she decided after a good sniff of the steamy broth. Heaven. She picked up a single cracker and took a bite. Crisp, salty perfection. These guys weren’t just sexy, they were gods.
She ate seven crackers, making herself take small bites and savor every mouthful. Then she dipped a spoon into the soup. The flavor was exquisite. After several more spoonfuls, she finally made herself set down the utensil. “Nigel is still in the kitchen?”
“I could bring him to you.”
“There’s no need. I’m just used to having him close.”
“He is a fine animal. I am puzzled by his omission from our historical accounts.”
She had another cracker and two more spoonfuls of the delicious broth while pondering Vilmos’ puzzlement. Then she caught on. They were from the future so now they were living in their own history.
Right. Still, men who built fires and cooked deserved to be humored. “Why would my cat be in your history books?”
“He is not in them,” Vilmos corrected her with gentle patience.
“Excuse me.” She bit back a grin. “I should have asked why you expected Nigel to be included in your history.”
“Pets are rare in our time, which makes him noteworthy, and because he is yours.”
Not only were they crazy, but they obviously had her mixed up with somebody else. “I’m nobody special.”
“You are…you will be…a founder.”
“Right, if you say so. What is a founder?”
“A founder—” Vilmos stopped for a long second before he continued. “I am not certain that it is safe for me to discuss the events of our past, which have not happened yet in your present.”
“Our talking might disrupt the time continuum?” she asked, trying and failing to keep skepticism out of her voice.
“Not conversation per se. Your actions or non-actions might change based upon knowledge you should not have.” Vilmos stood and paced. “The possible effects of our insertion into the past are incalculable, however certain events have made plain our presence in your time already changed the course of history.”
As he talked, he grew more agitated, more serious, and more adorable. “What changed?”
He shook his head. “Further discussion would be unwise.”
At least his delusion was consistent. She ate three spoonfuls more of the veggie soup and another cracker before uncapping a bottle of water and taking a healthy sip. “If your presence can alter future events in such dangerous ways, then why did you come?”
“We had to prevent the cyborgs from capturing you.” He met her gaze squarely.
She searched his face, but read nothing except straightforward truth in his handsome features. Especially when he smiled. He had the too-cute-for-his-own-good looks of a much too experienced, naughty choirboy. Adorable or not, this very sane-appearing man had suffered a complete psychotic break, or else he and his friends were from the future.
Minka wasn’t at all certain which possibility scared her more.
Minka’s pink tongue darted out, cleaning crumbs and a grain of salt from her full lips. Staring was rude. Deliberate rudeness was unthinkable for Vilmos and yet he could not drag his attention away from her incredible, sensual mouth. Lorcan was correct, she was beautiful. She treated him as her equal and Vilmos was already falling in love with her.
Beneath his now uncomfortable armor, his erection rose, eager to serve her. Since she had given no sign she wanted to make love, he was disappointed. He met her eyes, still hoping for the missing indication she wanted intimacy.
“Earth?” Minka looked at him as if she expected an explanation, but sadly without desire.
Afraid to even glance at her breasts, he focused on her eyes and cleared the lust out of his throat. “Sorry, what about Earth?”
“The place you’re from is
this
planet and it’s still Earth, right?”
“Ah, yes.” He sought for something clever to add then finished dully. “We are from your future Earth.”
“So this time travel works how, exactly?”
“Sorry, I cannot discuss the subject. All information related to time travel and transporter technology is restricted to those with a direct need for access.” His ducked his head again, painfully aware how cold, dull and stilted his reply sounded.
She appeared to consider his answer for a few seconds. “Your last name is unusual.”
“Mechs do not have traditional surnames—more a designator to distinguish our origins. I am referred to as Vilmos two of three, which appends my position in the Triad 341926—the combat unit’s serial number—to my given name.” He warmed to the change in subject and his side of the conversation smoothed, once the subject turned to the solid ground of factual information. “Batzorg is one of three, first—the leader of our unit.”
“Batzorg carried me here?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the doctor.”
He nodded. “Close, med-technology, communications engineer and transporter operation are my areas of responsibility. All mechs are cross-trained in the other members’ specialties.”
“What are Batzorg’s special areas?”
Attracting you.
Unfamiliar jealousy pinched his chest and made Vilmos grateful Batzorg had closed the triad’s mind link. “Weapons, tactics and command.”
“How about three of three, what does he do?”
“Lorcan handles logistics, tech support and cooking.” Maybe she was simply curious about them. Relief expanded his lungs.
“The vital stuff.” She took another sip of soup, closing her eyes to savor the broth.
“We can all cook,” he said stiffly, mortified to recognize he was illogically disturbed by her comment and jealous once again. He tried to smooth his gruff response. “Lorcan simply prepares food better than Batzorg or me. He has had more practice.”
“I’m sorry.” Her wide silver eyes were shiny with unspilled tears of empathy. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I meant to tease.”
“Mechs do not tease,” he said with less grace and more honesty than wisdom. She had shocked him by picking up on his thoughts and emotions. He had studied human intuition and empathy, but had never experienced either.
She moved the table aside, crossed to him, and gently laid her palm against his biceps. Her soft hand seared right through his reinforced derma layers, heating the embedded sensors. “I really am sorry.”
A shiver of awareness passed through him. The position put her breasts too close for him to ignore. He dragged his gaze away from the small mounds. Then using the utmost care not to scare or intimidate her with his size, he covered her delicate hand with his and gave a soft squeeze. He sighed with relief when she did not object. He stroked the smooth, smooth skin over her dainty knuckles with his thumb.
“Mechs learn fast.” His voice deepened with desire.
Minka tugged her hand from under his, however she smiled and her unspilled tears seemed to recede. “You certainly do, Doc.”
“Doc?”
“You said you didn’t mind if I called you that. Doc is sort of like pal, except more you.”
A nickname, for him? A sign of affection. His ears heated with excitement.
She returned to the bed and sat on the edge, dangling her long, slender legs. Her beauty gave him no safe place to focus.
“I want to understand more about all of you. Why are you called mechs?”
Still basking in the honor of a nickname, he swallowed a sigh of relief that she had asked something easy. “It is a shortened form of bio-mechanically enhanced human.”
“I can understand why they shortened it. That’s quite a mouthful.”
He detected nothing in her tone to indicate she was repulsed by their unnatural status. Perhaps she did not comprehend the stigma attached to artificially reproduced humans. Before he had a chance to explain, the distraction of her lips slowly pressing back together and then parting to reveal even, white teeth and her wonderful pink tongue, scattered his thoughts.
“Are all mechs assigned to a triad?”
With his concentration fractured by her nearness, Vilmos had to replay her words in his mind twice before he formed a sensible response. “Those mechs in operational combat units, yes.”
“But not all?”
“No, not all, some are still in training.”
She accepted this explanation with a nod. “What happens when you retire?”
Again he hesitated. Although he had paid attention to what she was saying well enough to understand the question, his mind blanked. Stumbling through a simple conversation humiliated him. His subspecialty—communications engineer—intensified his embarrassment. However he had never considered the possibility of retirement. Triad battle units were assigned to missions too hazardous for natural humans. Leaving active duty was even less likely than survival. “I do not know. Retirement has yet to become an issue. Mech triads have been operational for four years, eight months and six days.”
She accepted his information without comment, asking, “How many combat units are there?”
This time he had no conflict and answered smoothly, “Another case of information restricted to those who need know.”
Last time he had linked in to field stats, less than a dozen triads were operational, though the original production run had been five times as many and the founders had begun a new group of clones as soon as the first units were through field testing. Even with the new rapid cellular growth technology, mechs still took years to grow and longer to train, which made them expensive, disposable weapons.
“Then you can’t tell me?”
“Correct. I cannot tell you.” He smiled in an attempt to soften the refusal, wishing he had Lorcan’s smoothness with end-of-days jargon. “I am not in communication with headquarters, therefore my information may be inaccurate.”
“Is time passing at the same rate in your future as here?”
This time her change of subject didn’t disconcert him. “Yes, in theory.”
Her beautiful mouth formed a distracting O of surprise. “You don’t know, Doc?”
He found her question flattering. She must have an elevated opinion of his knowledge base. His chest expanded again. “Time travel is newer than mech units.”
“How new?”
Technically everything about time travel was classified, but he could see no sense in refusing to answer the question when she already knew they were from the future. “This is the first authorized transport.”
“Then the others guys, the ones who came first, were unauthorized?”
“They were not from headquarters.” His chest shrank back to modest proportions at the reminder of their failure to prevent the cyborgs’ attempt to kidnap Minka.
She seemed to consider his answer for a few seconds. “I’m sorry your maiden transport turned out to be a mistake.”
Shocked by her conclusion, he snapped, “Batzorg saved your life. That was not a mistake.”
“Yes, I know and you saved Nigel and I’m grateful to both of you—to all three of you. But he was supposed to save a founder, right? So sorry, Doc, but the triad did make a mistake. I’m not one of the founders. I’m heading for the compound to serve as a soldier.”
For the first time in his life, Vilmos laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
After he caught his breath, he said, “You do not look like a soldier.”
She frowned at him and even displeasure looked good on her as she sat a little straighter. “I killed two of those unauthorized guys before your triad arrived.”
“You are correct.” He wiped the grin off his face. “I should have said you appear quite different from the other soldiers I know.”
“All mechs, right?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Then I guess I shouldn’t be insulted.”
“I intended no offense. The image of you as a soldier was so incongruous with my perception of the term the contrast caused me to laugh.”
“You sound surprised.”
“It has never happened before.”
“Laughter?” Minka’s eyes widened.
“Combat units do not experience much humor,” he said dryly.
“But you’re granted leaves, right?”
“Leaves?” He racked his brain to make a connection between foliage and mech privileges.
“Time off from fighting or training or whatever it is you do.”
“We are mechs,” he reminded her and stole another glance at her small, high breasts.
“Mechs don’t get time off?”
“Only for—” Uncomfortable discussing the recreational periods with the pole polishers who were ushered into the socialization hall once a week to service all eligible units, he looked around the room for a smooth change of subject.