Machine Man (serial)

The streetscape beyond the town car’s tinted windows grew more familiar. We passed an auto repair shop where I had once taken my car and learned interesting things about diesel engines from a man who despaired at the disposability of modern technology. A small bakery I had visited twice a week for years, even though they were rude, because they made a spectacular apple danish. The sidewalk I had fled down on the Contours after inadvertently terminating the Manager.

“The key word now,” said Cassandra Cautery, “is clean-up.” She had been looking out the opposite window for a while, talking on a cellphone too small to see, but now she smiled at me brilliantly. Cassandra Cautery was a lot happier now we were getting closer to Better Future. “Or is that two words?”

It occurred to me that whatever plan Cassandra Cautery had, it was probably not in my best interest. Which I guess should have been obvious, but I’m naïve that way. When someone says they want to help me, I always believe them. I have no siblings.

“Once we’re inside,” she said, “I want you to start getting prepped right away.”

The Better Future complex rose ahead. They had installed searchlights on the roof: I could see them glinting in the sun.

“This is exciting. Don’t you think? I can’t wait to show you what we’ve done, Charlie. The progress we’ve made.” The driver turned the car down the ramp toward the parking lot. The opening gaped like a mouth. “I’m really hoping to blow you away.”

The parking lot swallowed us. Yellow lights flicked past the windows. The drumbeat in my chest that had begun the moment I saw the Better Future van, and grown with every mile we drew nearer this building, became almost painful: a thumping, like: parts. Parts. Parts.

“Welcome home,” said Cassandra Cautery. I didn’t look at her, because I didn’t want her to see I was glad.

138.