Machine Man (serial)

Carl was hiding in a downtown multi-level parking garage. That was according to my abdomen, which was telling me there was a block of ice millimeters away from my belly. There wasn’t. The ice was Carl. “We’re reading him very close,” squawked my Jason-speaker, and I thought: I have a remote sensor, thanks. I was going to have to figure out how to turn that off. In fact, as soon as this was over, I was going to shut down this whole remote connection thing. There would be a conversation.

But first: Carl. I peeled off the road, ran through the barricade, and pounded up the parking lot ramp. As I rounded the first level, the cold sensation intensified, and I began to feel uneasy. Because this was not a good environment for spotting Carl at a distance, not at all. He could be hiding between cars. Around a corner. Behind a stairwell door. I stopped. There was not much chance of surprising him, with the Contours firing locking pins into the concrete with each step. I shouted: “Lola!”

My voice bounced into the darkness. I sucked in another breath.

“Charlie!”

I was running before I knew it. A family sedan began to back out in front of me, red brake lights steaming, and I knocked it aside with my gun-arm. I didn’t mean to hit it hard, but the Contours braced and the sedan bounced into the wall with a crunch. Then I rounded another corner and Carl was kneeling on the concrete, playing with his arms.

I stopped. I couldn’t see Lola. I didn’t know what Carl was doing. He had surely heard me. But he didn’t raise his head. He stayed hunched over, scraping at something. I reminded myself that Carl was crazy. I shouldn’t try to understand his behavior. I should just do this. I raised the gun-arm.

Although. Now he was right here, I didn’t know I could shoot him. Ask him where Lola is, I thought. Then I could shoot him. Or ignore him. Because what did I have against Carl? We’d had a difference opinion about whose parts were whose; we’d resolved it; it was done. He was basically a good guy, wasn’t he? Or had been, before the psychological trouble. Maybe I would let Carl be Better Future’s problem.

Then I noticed something. Carl’s posture was odd. He wasn’t just hunched. He was hunched over something. A kind of lump. A kind of sack. He was scraping away at—

“Lola!” I screamed.

163.