Machine Man - Max Barry [76]
“Just a minute.”
“Mmm,” said Lola. She rose up on her toes, her lips seeking mine.
“I’m not sure—”
Our lips met. I forgot about self-aware legs. Or, at least, they seemed less relevant. The important thing was to get closer to Lola. Then I realized I was getting closer to Lola. The attractive force was rising, tugging my metal fingers toward her heart. Lola’s eyes sprang open. Her hands pushed against me. “Charlie!” For a second, she couldn’t separate herself. Then she took two stumbling steps backward. Her chest rose and fell. “It’s back!”
I had three data points now. One: in her suite, when we had first found ourselves alone. The second, when I had rescued her. And now. “It happens when your heart rate increases.”
“What?” Lola clutched at her chest. “What does?”
“Oh. Wait. Don’t get scared. That will make it worse.”
“What is it doing?”
“Try to think about something else. How about those dogs of Angelica’s? They’re so cute.” At this moment, they all began howling. A set of paws came scampering up the corridor, baying. Those useless fur sacks. “Okay. Let’s think about this.”
“It’s a bomb. Oh God. They put a bomb in me.”
“Maybe,” I said. Lola blanched. “No. That wouldn’t be cost-effective.”
“What?”
I had to raise my voice to be heard over the dogs. “You want to blow something up, is the best way to do it really to go to all the trouble of surgically installing—”
“It’s shaking!” Lola’s teeth chattered. I became aware of a tone: a whine so high-pitched it was only just entering my detectable range. That explained the dogs. “Charlie … I think … you should … run.”
“We just need to lower your heart rate. Concentrate on putting yourself into a calm state.”
“I can’t!”
“You can. Lola. You control your body.”
“Run, Charlie!”
The whine became so loud it was difficult to hear anything else. “I’m not running. What we have here is a technical problem. And we can solve it. Together—” There was more to this sentence. I was going to say we were two rational people and logic could move mountains. This would either reassure Lola or bore her; either way would reduce her heart rate. I still think this was a good idea. But before I could get it out, Lola exploded.
SOMETHING BLEW through me in a gust, like a wind made of needles. My legs twitched. My ears rang.
The house fell silent. I looked at Lola and she looked at me and we both seemed okay. Lola said, “Are you …” and so did I. She took a step forward and nothing bad happened. We smiled. Lola fell into my arms. “That was scary. What was it?”
“Something that didn’t work, I guess.”
“I thought we were going to die.” She shuddered. “I thought I was going to kill you.”
A moment passed. There was an odd scent in the air: something acrid.
Lola looked up. “The dogs are quiet.”
We listened.
Lola reached for the door handle. I went to step out of the way, but didn’t. I tried that again.
“Charlie?”
That scent was familiar. It was what you got when you plugged a circuit into a power supply it wasn’t designed for. The smell of fused transistors.
The digital clock radio on the bedside table had gone dark. On a shelf, a small stereo that normally glowed red from a power button: nothing.
“Are you okay?” Angelica’s voice floated toward us. “The power’s out!”
“No,” I said. “No, no, no.”
Lola touched my arm. “What is it?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again.
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Where?”
“My legs.”
“Your …”
“EMP. Electromagnetic. Pulse.”
“What does that mean?”
“You killed my legs,” I said.
THERE ARE five stages of grief. The first is denial. For example: My legs can’t be dead. They can’t be. Next is anger: You killed my legs, get out, get your hands off me, et cetera. There is some screaming and raging in this stage.