Machine Man

I realized that meeting Lola Banks was not going to be easy when I exited the Better Future elevator and a security guard fell into step beside me, muttering into his headset. By the time I reached the lobby, there were four of them, and another two moving to block the glass doors. Carl was there, of course. Carl was everywhere. “Can I help you, Dr. Neumann?”

My legs, the Contours, were already detouring around him, and it was few moments before I could persuade them to stop. They were fiesty. But finally I came to a juddering halt. Quiet fell. The receptionist had vanished, I noticed. The entire lobby had emptied, but for me and the guards. “I’m going out.”

“Where would you like to go? We’ll escort you.”

“That’s kind of you, Carl,” I said. “But I have my own transport, thanks.”

His eyes slipped to my legs. The Contours were under my jeans, but they were longer than my old legs, and six inches of gleaming titanium poked out the bottom. Also, my feet were essentially hooves. On the plus side, I was really tall. “I’m sorry, Dr. Neumann. But I have to insist.”

I thought: I should just walk out of here. Because it wasn’t like they could stop me. I honestly didn’t mean to express this as a mental instruction, of the kind the Contours were supposed to pick up. But, as I mentioned, they were fiesty. And suddenly they were moving so quickly I had to grip the sides of the bucket seat to stay on. “Whoa,” I said. Carl lunged at me like a linebacker. The Contours stepped around him and ran at the lobby doors. These did not open in time, which caused the collision-detection software to stop me so suddenly that my forehead cracked against the smoked glass. That really hurt. I would have to fix that. Then the gap between the doors grew wide enough and the Contours took off. It was like sitting on a jackhammer. Wind tore at my face. The sun hurt my eyes. Carl didn’t shoot at me, though. That was good.

35.