Machine Man - Max Barry [55]
The Contours started moving. I had to backtrack my thoughts to figure out where they were headed. The recovery room: where Lola had been before they brought her here. I had no idea why she might be there but it was the only place I could think of. The Contours cantilevered easily down five floors and I thought I must be figuring out the particular configuration of terrain that locked them up when they completely missed a step and hit the next one like a mallet. Cracks shot through the concrete all the way to the opposite wall. I gasped and clutched at the sides of the bucket seat. My thighs were drenched in sweat. I had never tested what happened when water pooled around the nerve interface needles. It couldn’t be good. I had to get off these stairs. I focused manually on each step to override the automatic pathfinding. My teeth hurt. I was grinding them. When I finally popped the door on the medical level, my body was shaking. I had never done anything so physically demanding. I stepped into the corridor and four Better Future security guards were waiting for me.
“Dr. Neumann,” said one. Not Carl. “I would very much appreciate it if you could calm down a second.”
All four guards had a hand resting on a gun holster. They were telling me that this didn’t have to get serious but it could. I wondered whether I could get past them on the Contours before they could draw their weapons. Probably yes. They were underestimating my acceleration. Of course, it would be a temporary solution. But it was something. I decided to do it. Lola emerged from a doorway. “Charlie!” She shouldered her way between the guards. “You look terrible. What’s wrong?”
“They …” I said. “What are … why are you here?”
“There’s a man. He had an accident. They asked if I could help him.” She tried to push hair out of my eyes. “Charlie, you look like you’re having a heart attack.”
“What man?”
“Through here. Come on. I’ll show you.”
“What accident?”
She pulled me by the hand. I followed and the guards moved aside. “He’s a security guard. He’s … you know, he’s that security guard.”
Which security guard, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t, because I already knew.
“His name is Carl.” She stopped outside the recovery room and turned to me. I saw a terrible light in her eyes, like love. “He doesn’t have any arms.”
AND THERE he was: Carl, sitting on the edge of the bed, naked but for boxer shorts, flexing one arm. My arm. It was a Beta prototype: thin, hollow bands of delicate al-titanium alloy foil rods on ball joints with independent axes of rotation. Its main advantage was it could reach in any direction, including backward, and it weighed ten pounds, which was ideal for the user who hadn’t upgraded the load-bearing capacity of his spine. The nerve interface was first generation, good only for motor function. It was essentially a trainer arm. But this did not change the fact that Carl should not have it.
To his credit, he looked mildly ashamed. He stopped flexing. His eyes shifted. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile but thought maybe that would piss me off. This was a good call. Because in this moment, it was everything I could do not to kick Carl through the wall.
“He had an accident,” Lola said. She saw something about the way the arm was strapped around Carl’s shoulder