Page 15 of Smart@ss Cyborg

She stops wringing her hands. They form into fists that she tucks to her stomach. “Legally, if a man f-forces a woman, he has to pay a fine and marry her—or he hangs. The law was put in place to deter attacks on women. But it’s a bad law and it's screwing us over instead. The men here will rape a woman in order to force her to marry him. Because like I said, if he marries her, all her assets become his. Any man can show up here and do that to me, and then I’ll be stuck with him and he’ll own everything I’ve got.”

There’s a lag in conversation, and I search her eyes, waiting for her to speak.

When she doesn’t, I blink again, realizing her silence is a cue for me to make a conversational contribution. “Ah. That sounds very unfortunate,” I comment.

She frowns at me, and her lips tighten even more as she stares up at me.“Yeah.It is.” Her gaze makes a sweep of my frame. She shudders as she hauls in a breath. “Will you marry me? Because I think you may be my best bet out here. And I’ve got a whole lot more than just me to think about.”

Her hands spread over her belly, and the tadpole inside her finally seems to find a sense of calm, resting quietly on her front stomach wall nearest to her touching hands.

I consider what she’s proposed for a long time.

Apparently long enough that she must believe I require convincing, because she adds in a rush, “I’ll cook for you. I’ll clean. I’ll wash your clothes. I’ll, uh—you know.”

I cock my head, my eyes locked to hers.

Fascinatingly, her embarrassment center engages, more fear chemicals are released, and she rushes to speak even faster. “And with you here, hopefully nobody rides up thinking he can shoot you in the back to take me and claim everything you’ve got. You just keep looking scary.”

I give her a sharp look that oddly makes her flinch. “My appearance is frightening?” I ask. I thought humans were nervous of me simply because I’m a different species.

Eyes wide, she stays silent as she nods up at me.

I consider her, weighing the benefits of her proposal. “If I marry you, I’ll own land?”

“Everything here,” she says with a tired air.

“And I’ll get that shanty,” I say, and gesture behind her.

She presses her lips together and nods.

“And you’ll take care of all the menial tasks?”

The skin around her eyes squinches, but she nods confirmation.

“And… then I would own the buttermilk horse?” I ask.

Her lips part and she stares at me for a moment, but then she blows out a breath and agrees.“Everythingwould be yours, yes. Even Joel’s—” Pain lances her features, I think. Inside her head, the pain area has certainly flared, a wounded garnet color. “Joel’s horse,” she says, her voice quaking, weaker than before.

Speaking what must be her husband’s name evidently is causing her stress.

“I can appreciate the benefits you offer,” I tell her evenly. “I agree to your proposal. I suppose I should probably bury both bodies before dark. Do you have a place in mind, and do you have a shovel?”

She covers her eyes with her hands.

“Ma’am?”

She doesn’t lower her hands, but she answers, “Becky. My name is Becky. And you can burn that bastard’s body for all I care. But Joel… please—” Her whole body shakes and her brain cascades with devastation. “Please bury him on the hill behind the house. There’s a—there’s a shovel in the barn.”

***

When I drop the first dead man’s body at the edge of the property where she directs me, Becky shocks me by storming forward and pouring a reeking fluid on the man’s face and along his front, centering with aggression on his pants.

Then she draws out a box of what I soon learn are matches and she lights the corpse ablaze.

I’ve read about cremation as a method to dispose of human remains. Interestingly, the funeral process is much different when we dispose of Joel’s body. Becky cries, for one thing, although her tears are quiet things now. She directs me to dig the burial pit deeper than I initially do, explaining that wild animals will smell him and be able to get to him if I don’t make the hole at least as tall as I am.

Sweating profusely, I deepen the hole, and when it comes time to lower Joel into it, Becky sags to her knees, hugging herself and taking a moment to stare down at him and… grieve, I realize. This is grieving.

In the vids I’ve watched, the hero of the story almost always encounters loss, and always people die. Loads of humans are killed in vids, but most of the time their bodies drop and no one pays them any mind. Oftentimes there are shootouts at noon when the sun is high, where women and children line up along the shade of the buildings on either side of the street. These onlookers might scream when bodies drop, but no one... mourns. Not like this.

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