Page 18 of Smart@ss Cyborg

I’d like to. I find I’m feeling significant exhaustion.

If I were asked to guess, Becky must feel the same way. But now that I’ve asked her this, Becky’s arms are straight out, hands pressed over a battered scrubbing brush. Soap water trails down from the wooden cupboard face, and her face has gone ashen.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She shakes her head and with jerky movements wipes the cupboard, forces herself to her feet, empties the dirty soap water into the sink, and washes her hands.

I set my rag into the other side and carefully watch her. “Are you tired?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything.

“You look tired,” I tell her, wondering why she’s suddenly lost her voice. “And if I can share my preference, I’d prefer to go to bed now, if you’d agree?”

For no reason I can discern, she shudders. But then she nods.

CHAPTER 6

Becky takes a short shower, and emerges in a cream gown that starts high on her neck and falls to her knees and looks very soft. She moves for the bedroom and I follow her.

Once inside, Becky’s brain activity is buzzing bright yellow in areas associated with nervousness. Meanwhile, the rest of her skull contents are a dark, wounded purple. She glances back over her shoulder at me, inhales sharply, then faces forward and slaps at the switch on the wall to abruptly turn off the lights. Next she paces to the bed, where she turns on a bedside lamp. But with a very quick look at me, she turns it back off.

I’m confused. I can see perfectly well in the dark, but it’s my understanding that humans require a light source to utilize their sense of visibility.

I decide to confirm this. “Don’t you need the light to see?”

She attempts a reply, but her esophagus must be dry—no doubt from her shedding so many tears—because she reaches for a glass of water that’s on the nightstand, hand bumping it. With a curse, she snaps the light on again before she grabs the cup up and gulps it down.

Since she’s busying herself with hydration, I turn to the chest of drawers that typically hold a human’s clothing. I open the left side’s drawers, which I understand is usually claimed by the male in a relationship, and find neatly folded male clothing.

It all smells like her dead mate, Joel. I select the garments identified asunderpants,or boxers. And then I locate pajama pants.

“What are you…” Becky starts to ask, but she trails off strangely.

I turn, displaying the items I’ve found. “You said I should wear these, correct?”

Eyes locked on the clothes in my hand, she nods mutely.

I set the items on top of the chest, close the drawers I opened, and unbuckle my belt.

The quiet behind me becomes very loud. And as I remove my gunbelt and unbutton my chaps, I open my senses and consider Becky’s brain.

Strangely, although she’s not making a sound, her mind is in total riot. Panic, fear, sadness, surprise.

I have to wonder what I'm doing to surprise her.

I peel off my boots, drop my chaps, and efficiently do the same to my jeans. During the removal of this last item of clothing, something strange happens in the region for fear in Becky’s brain. It turns orange, bright as the center of a flame.

Without warning, the light in the room she’s been controlling clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.

I turn a puzzled frown on her that she obviously can’t see. Curious why she’s exhibiting such erratic, puzzling behavior, I swiftly pull on the boxers and pajama pants. That done, I step toward the bed, fingers going to the buttons of my shirt, and she reacts—dropping into the bed and dragging every layer of the bed’s multiple covers over herself.

“The wolf spider does that,” I point out absently, puzzling over her behavior.

The activity in her mind scrambles. “Aspider—?!”she exclaims. She begins scrambling from the bed as quickly as a pregnant human can move. But almost as fast, the area for processing words activates and her motions slow. Her words, when she speaks, have slowed too, somewhat. “A spider… does… what?”

I gesture, then pause, experiencing something akin to frustration—exasperation, maybe—remembering that she can’t see me. “You burrowed into the bed and shrouded yourself in layers of covers.There is a spider that was inadvertently introduced to the planet of Traxia—it’s believed that the eggs or spiderlings clung to people’s personal possessions when they arrived here—and both spider genders in this non-native species hunt their prey by building and hiding behind trap doors. Your furtive appropriation on the barrier made of blankets reminded me of this species’ movements when they’re preparing to spring on prey.”

As I speak, I watch her brain. At first confusion areas light up, then interest and engagement, followed by disbelief, and what I am somewhat certain is horror. “I’m not planning to spring on you!”

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