Page 68 of Savagely Mated

“Is this a joke?” I look at him incredulously.

“Delivery 2 Go has no sense of humor,” Clint grunts.

I turn my attention back to the form.

Estimate the chance of recovery:

Less than 5%

More than 5%

My bike has been spotted in one or more terrorist-related news broadcasts with the Delivery 2 Go stickers still on.

“You can do those later,” Clint says. “We need you on the road.”

I nod and fold them up, sticking them in one of the suit’s many pockets. That’s one of the other things I love about this job. The suit is so practical. There’s a place for everything. And it hides my identity, makes me one of a very big crowd. And I am always productive. Useful.

“There’s a spare bike in Bay 13,” he says.

That’s it. No lecture about carelessness, or needing to be careful. No big long guilt-inducing spiel about how I’m not grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given, like the academy tutors always gave.

I go out to Bay 13, where the loaders are stacking the panniers with deliveries, and I interface with the arm unit that has a glowing map of Eclipse on it, with the optimal route lined in yellow, and dots where the deliveries go.

I get on the bike, gun it, and start my day. First delivery comes in three minutes under target. I check the arm band, and see that I’ve been awarded three extra credits on my account. Not only do I get the thrill of recklessness, I get rewarded for it too. I grin broadly, and head out again. I’m being very careful to keep my thoughts on work, and to not at all think about Rafe, or Kirin, or Einar, all of whom will be angry at me for this. Maybe not Kirin. He’s not as serious as the other two. I think he actually gets it.

“Here you go,” I say as I hand off another package. “Have a D2G day!”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

People in Eclipse are known for being rude, but I’ve never encountered anybody who seemed pissed off that their package was on time. I look up from my arm band, confused.

It takes me a second to realize that this isn’t actually a standard delivery. I’ve driven into yet another trap. Not one set by my mates, but one set by a street gang interested in taking my cargo.

There are six people standing around me, all young males, all armed with cobbled together weapons of various kinds. Someone has welded a sword to a handgun. I can’t imagine how that functions. Badly, I suspect.

“Get off the bike,” their leader says.

“I can’t. I’ve already lost one bike, and the paperwork for using two is likely to…”

I don’t get to finish the sentence before I am roughly hauled from the bike by three men. They throw me on the ground and one of them kicks me in the side, the same place I crashed the other day. A shock of pain rushes through me, very quickly followed by rage. Not hot rage, the kind that makes you do insane things, but cold rage, the kind that makes you do insane things in a very calculated manner.

“Strip her. Let’s see what else we get to unwrap.”

I let them take my outer clothes off, because I don’t want them getting damaged when I turn feral. So these filthy strangers peel the Delivery 2 Go leathers away, slide my boots from my feet, and yank my helmet off.

“She’s cute! I didn’t know they got cute delivery… arrgghhh!”

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