He should’ve just bitten the bullet and completed the bonding, allowed himself to synch with his host’s personality as well as his body. Trouble was, as it turned out, he not only had considerable intimacy issues, there was also a lot of him and not quite enough of his host. The result was that he was neither willing to mesh with his host’s mind nor able to perfectly settle under his skin. Six experimental armors, six unique artificial beings, and of course one of them had to be too big, too slow, had to have too much sense of self. There was always one. In this particular case, it happened to be System Six, the last one out of the lab. The one intended for the most highly decorated host, the war hero turned voluntary test subject. Rik. He of the yucky innards and the slimy subconscious.

System Six had been as eager to join with his host as the other systems, but that had been before he’d been poured down Rik’s throat and discovered he did not want to spend his life tied to someone who didn’t fit him in size and personality. He wanted out. Oh, did he want out. Too bad that “out” translated to “killed.” Destroyed by his creators or his own traitorous body. Battle armors were symbiotic by design; they couldn’t survive on their own. It was why they’d been dubbed “bone riders” by their designers. Lab humor. He hated it. Fact remained that without bones—or

rather a host body—to ride, System Six would shut down bit by bit and eventually disintegrate. Hence the faking.

“… extremely high, but if you compare them to the other units, the scores are substandard.”

You try to run with the pack with your legs hobbled, System Six thought resentfully, shoving his stolen copy of the report charts back into place. He inched closer to the doorway, keeping his host’s body pressed against the wall and unaware of the goings-on around him. As far as Rik was concerned, they were in their bunk, sleeping. Rik was probably dreaming about fornication again. System Six was too busy eavesdropping on their commanding officers to check… and, frankly, too disgusted. Slimy, scummy, gross subconscious. Gah. Keep sleeping, Rik. Not your life they’re discussing.

“Could be they simply need more time to adjust.”