Machine Man - Max Barry [77]
Then bargaining. Quieter. Just let the battery be all right. Please let the battery be functional. Fourth, depression. They’re dead. I’m dead. This is a kind of wallowing. A shutdown. The final stage is acceptance. I include no example because I was a long, long way from acceptance.
ON THE fourth day Lola entered my room. Until then she had been leaving trays of food outside. I learned to wait until her footsteps receded, pull myself to the door, and drag in the food before the dogs descended.
But this day she opened the door. She wore a green blouse and an air of quiet misery. I was on the carpet, surrounded by my parts. Parts of my parts. I had disassembled them and arranged the pieces in concentric circles. It looked as if I had suffered the world’s neatest explosion. Which I had. What had come out of Lola had killed no one, disturbed nothing, hurt no body but mine.
“I think …” she said.
These disassembled components, they didn’t mean I was fixing them. I had taken the Contours apart because I couldn’t think of anything else. I was trying to break my problem down until I reached something fixable. That was how you solved anything: you divided it.
Lola said, “I think it’s unfair to act like this is my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.” I did not look at her as I said this because I did not really believe it.
“They put it in me.” She took a step forward and her foot landed beside a three-foot-long section of titanium that had once controlled plane stabilization. My issue was so many sections were machine-welded. I couldn’t open them with domestic tools. “They put that thing in my chest and didn’t even tell me.”
I almost didn’t say it. “You could have calmed down.”
“I could have calmed down.”
“Yes.”
“Charlie. I tried.”
I picked up a radial bolt. I wasn’t sure where this had come from. I had made notes, in the beginning. I should have kept that up.
“My heart wouldn’t slow down. It—”
“People are very selective about their bodies,” I told the bolt. “Anytime their bodies do something good, they claim it. They say I did this. But something goes wrong, it’s not I anymore. It’s a problem with their foot. Their skin. Suddenly it’s not them anymore. It’s the body they’re stuck in.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing.” I rolled the bolt around in my hand. “I’m just making an observation.”
Silence. The door closed with a click.
I FOUND a skateboard beneath the bed and heaved myself onto it. With one functional hand and one half-useless one I could wobble along at extremely low speed. It was difficult and degrading but I could do it. When I was sure nobody was around I opened the door and edged into the corridor. Halfway to the bathroom a dog trotted up and sat on the tiles. I knew it couldn’t have helped me if it wanted to but it still felt rude. I dragged myself into the bathroom and shut the door. My breathing was harsh and ragged. I had become incredibly unfit. I put my half-hand on the toilet seat and my full hand (my good hand, now) on the nearby bench and strained. The muscles in my arm trembled like frightened girls. I flopped over the toilet seat and my lips kissed porcelain and I didn’t care because at least it was progress. I wrestled myself upright. As I began to urinate I felt proud.
When I emerged, three dogs were sitting on the floor outside. They didn’t look scared or curious. They were just there. “Shoo.” I pretended to lunge at them. One stood, looked at the other two, and sat down again, as if faintly embarrassed. They were communicating telepathically. As individuals they were stupid but together they formed a single intelligence. A pack mind. And it was planning something. It was gathering observational data for later use. As I rolled toward my bedroom, I felt Dog’s many eyes burning into my back.
I TALKED to my parts as I worked. For example, I would pick up a mirror plate and say, “And what’s your problem?” Or, when contemplating a radiation shield: “You need an arc welder. That’s what you need.” They didn’t answer. I wasn’t crazy. It was just