KAYLA MACK, Part III

 

She had been saved; shuttled off the ice of Titan, and taken into and even colder realm.  Before Kayla had been wounded, she had done an outstanding job of commanding her smaller force, and was effectively wiping out the defending corporate security forces.  So well in fact that in desperation they chose to risk everything and use the railguns, an act that guaranteed their complete destruction if they were detected off-planet.

That’s exactly what happened; Kayla, in the split second before being cut down, had initiated with a mental command to her battle-suit’s COMSYS a transmission off-planet to the Valiant.  The ISS Light Cruiser received this and targeted all her substantial destructive capabilities on the railgun position.  From there it was simply academic.

Kayla had once again proved why she was the face of the ISDC Marine Corps.  She had, to simplify, managed to have the wherewithal to initiate the transmission while the A-perp/Event was approaching and then cutting her in two.  The kind of cool under fire and mental discipline required to accomplish this cannot not be overstated,  She had, by this incredible act of will, saved countless other marines; perhaps her Company entire.

She was a hero once again.  She deserved it.  But there would be no fanfare.  There would be no parades.  There would be no interview on all the evening shows.  No.  What there would be was only surgery after surgery after surgery—hundreds of them—and the painfully conventional process of rehab following each one.  Years of recovery—years!—and all the while sequestered away in hospitals and clinics, her celeb-stat plummeting further each day.  By the time she had reached a point where she could have a functional life, she was forgotten … a nobody.

The name of SgtMaj Kayla Mack (now retired) has not been uttered in years outside a medical facility.  She was now what she had always deep down inside feared becoming the most; a disabled veteran, one of the so-called war wounded.  They hid them away like shameful bastard children.  We cannot have a limping veteran stumbling about for all to see, much less an amputee.  No, who would support us then in our constant planet to planet policing of the populace?  Not a soul, so give us  face that can smile, a physique like an Adonis, and we’ll make a hero out of them, and show the citizens of this system that our soldier don’t get so much as a scratch.

Fuckers.

So she never thought about the past—not for many years.  No … no reflections on that, she forbade it.  Not even the battle would she ever suffer to recall.  But she couldn’t keep her fucking mind off it today, that’s for sure.  That and many other fucking things.

Xyphos had brought it up in her, hadn’t he … her mysterious hyper-line lover.

He had given her old wounds more attention than her surgeons, running his tongue along the rough, pink and red keloid scars across her abdomen, legs, back, and ass.  Surgeons said she’d never have feeling in her scars.

She had felt him; still did, as if her cells had horded the experience, coveting it for their own for as long as they were able.  Xyphos had brought sensation back, and sensuality.

No.  Imagined.  It was all imagined.

Twelve years of ‘her rubber girdle’ couldn’t just end.  She wanted it to, and so imagined it, just as she imagined that the sensation had lingered.  At least she retained her breasts.  God, if she had lost those…  For whatever reason, back then, still having her breasts meant going on.  They had been, like all of her, exquisite … admirable.

No longer.

Anger … ah, yes, let it come; let it wash through you in hot waves.  Comfort follows the flush of blood an artificial heart forces through arteries and tubes.

Too tender Xyphos had been.  It could not have been genuine.  If not tenderness and passion, then what?

Pity.  It was pity on the tip of his tongue.  He hadn’t found her beautiful, only pathetic.

Yes, but…

…forty-three facial muscles remained as they were when he saw the massive scars from her ribs to mid-thighs.  But men had seen her scars before.  That wasn’t the test, that wasn’t why her heart had raced, why her whole body had tensed, and her shame had screamed in her head, Throw him out! Stop him before he sees!

When he was kissing her back she had been nearly immobilized from fright.  But she was no coward, so she let him continue, let him undress her fully (never had a man after Caleb), let him kiss her, let him move his mouth over her working his way down until he could see her shame; see that she had no … no womanhood at all.

But that hadn’t give him pause.  Even when the mechanical apparatus of her waste functions was obvious, he still held the same glowing countenance, same adoring eyes.

She lay on her belly as he traced the scars along the back of her thigh with his mouth, stopping at the worst knots and kissing them, spoiling them.  He would pinch lightly on the ruined flesh with his nails near the corner of his mouth as his tongue caressed.

She had never had feeling in her scars!  What was he doing to her?  How can he do this?  It was amazing, like a rapture, if only it could go on.  But it will not.  He, having awoken this now in her, will leave at his pleasure, never to return to this scarred and mangle half-woman.

“Fuck this.”  She left the bed.  “Get out of here.”  She walked away down the hall to her bathroom.

She returned after a ten minute shower to discover he’d done as ordered.  Her feelings were mixed.  It pissed her off that he could make her feel like that.  She hadn’t wanted to move.  She only wanted to lay there and feel his hands and mouth on her all day, all week, her whole life!

That wasn’t Kayla Mack at all.

No it wasn’t.   She needed to get back to the old ways.  This sudden fleeting dream of romance was a fool’s heartache.  She had had more than her share in those hospitals, and on her long lonely road to independence.  Yes, time to wash away these encroaching thoughts, and cover the scent of him with the fluids of another.

She shot a hyper-line out to Season.  He would send her over a few playthings.

She couldn’t fuck anymore, but when she got a hold of them that didn’t really matter, they always knew who the boss was; they always learn quick.  Boys didn’t take to pain like girls do.  It made her smile.

 

~CLS~

Continued in Part IV…

 

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1 Comment

  1. Christopher Shawbell

     /  July 31, 2013

    Nothing new happened…nothing new at all. I just broke down the first chapter into a couple of part and so… yeah.

    Reply

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