Machine Man (serial)

Lola climbed into the driver’s seat of Angelica’s car. It was a hybrid, I noticed, just like me. Lola adjusted the mirror. “I’m not sure we should be doing this.”

“We should.” My pole legs snagged on the passenger door somehow. They were so ungainly; I had to do everything. In frustration I pulled off the straps and threw them into the back seat.

“I don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Anywhere.” I pulled shut the car door. Then, out the window, I saw it: the arc welder. My breath caught. It was so big. It was a gray refrigerator on wheels. That thing had to be rated 200 amps. Maybe I could use it.

“I should at least leave a note…”

I realized Lola was reaching for the door handle. “No! Stop that!”

“Charlie!” Her cheeks flamed. “What the hell? You’re not making any—”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Shh.”

“What?”

“Stop talking.”

“You stop talking! Asshole!”

“Lola, turn off your brain and do exactly what I say.” I hunted between the seats until I found a remote control, and pressed. The garage door began to rattle upward. “It’s the only way.”

“The only way to what?”

“You see how you’re still thinking? Stop it.”

“Stop treating me like a piece of—”

“Like a machine. Be that. An object that blindly obeys instruction.”

“As a woman, that is really objectionable.”

“You’re not a woman right now. You’re an EMP weapon that activates at high heart rates.”

The garage door retracted into the ceiling. Beyond lay a concrete driveway, flanked by garden beds, and an inviting empty road. Lola said, “Is something happening?”

“No. Now drive.”

Lola stared at me. Then she leaned forward and pressed a button. The car started, near-silently.

“Thank you.” I began to relax. Lola put the car in gear. She seemed focused but calm. She was being a machine: a beautiful, efficient machine. Then a white Better Future van jumped the curb, engine screaming, and slewed across the driveway in front of us.

130.