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“She would be a great genetic match for one of our brethren.” Drift liked the female.
“Your conversation was relayed via the transmission lines.” Cure pointed his handheld at him. “None of our brethren reacted to her voice.”
Cyborgs identified their genetic matches though voice or scent or touch.
“That’s our loss.” Drift shook his head and increased his speed.
“Nanocybotic production is increasing.” Cure tapped his fingertips against his device.
There was a 95.2369 percent probability the medic was registering that response in his databases.
“My nanocybotics project I’ll soon damage myself.” Drift chuckled. “They don’t have confidence in my flying abilities.”
“Our nanocybotics respond to our processing.” Cure corrected him. “You project you might damage yourself.”
“The possibility of crashing is part of the fun of flying.” Drift laughed with pure joy. They were traveling at organic brain-spinning speeds.
He wasn’t concerned about dying. Frag. He had faced death millions of times during Humanoid Alliance training and the subsequent battles he’d fought for those horrid beings.
Living was more of a priority for him. And he never felt more alive than when he was flying all-out in a ship optimized for speed.
“You speak as though you’re damaged.” Cure pointed the handheld at him again. “But your scans are within spec.”
Drift laughed harder, and he gunned the modified freighter’s engines.
Moments passed.
Drift flew with no restrictions other than the capabilities of his ship. He was enjoying himself.
Cure, however, was quiet. That was unlike him.
“What’re you processing?” Drift darted a glance at the medic.
“It isn’t vital to the mission.” Cure stared at the main viewscreen.
It might not be vital to the mission, but Drift projected it would be interesting. And it would relay more intel about his partner. “Tell me.”
Silence stretched.
Drift decreased the probability Cure would share his processing to 0.2358 percent.
“On the Dauntless—” The medic surprised him by speaking. “—when Captain asked about my contact on Cancri B, I relayed on the transmission line that the medic there said he’d dealt with scanners with more empathy.”
Their topic of chatter widened Drift’s eyes.
Cure wasn’t the type of cyborg to dwell on a conversation.
“I processed that as a compliment.” The medic’s tone contained certainty that he was correct. “Grid processed it as an insult.”
“Humans and humanoids value empathy in their medics.” Drift deleted all the humor from his voice. It was a serious situation for Cure, and he would treat it that way. “There’s a high probability your friend was teasing you.”
“That medic is not my friend.” The emotion in Cure’s response caused Drift to blink. “I’ll play that part of our communication.”
Drift slowed their ship’s speed. His instincts told him he’d need to give the recording a significant part of his processing power.
“You would say that to a patient?” That recorded comment was followed by a simulated snort. “I’ve dealt with scanners with more empathy.”
“I would tell that patient there was a 99.8923 percent probability she’d be dead within two planet rotations.” Cure shrugged. “It was the truth.”
