Machine Man - Max Barry [85]
As we descended, Cassandra Cautery said, “Your department has been busy in your absence, of course.”
The doors slid apart. At the end of the long corridor was a kid in a green T-shirt and ripped jeans. I did not recognize him because we did not employ anyone who had the time to put in three hours a day at the gym. His eyebrows ratcheted up. He slapped his forehead like he couldn’t believe it. In the process, muscles rippled and bulged. “Dr. Neumann!” He turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Neumann’s back!”
“Better Mushles,” said Cassandra Cautery. She sounded disgusted. “They grow while you shleep, apparently.”
Cats emerged. Few wore lab coats. Instead they had short dresses, sleeveless tops, miniskirts, heels, shirts with the top buttons undone. The boys were huge and the girls were reeds. They began to clap. Jason elbowed his way to the front and grinned. He was no longer skinny. His teeth shone like stars. I felt ugly.
“What’s annoying,” said Cassandra Cautery, “is they look like this, but they act like ashholes.”
“I heard that,” said Jason. There was laughter. “With my Better Ears.”
“Move out of the way,” said Cassandra Cautery. The lab assistants parted. As I drew closer, I smelled a cloying mixture of musk and sweat, like entering a bad dorm room. I coughed. “Sorry. It’s the Better Muscles,” said Jason. He shuffled alongside, threading his way through other cats. “They produce a few nasty by-products. But we’re working on Better Scent.”
A familiar-looking girl smiled with her lips pressed together, then gave in and showed teeth. “Hello, Dr. Neumann.” She was Elaine, my old lab assistant, with Better Skin.
Cassandra Cautery turned. “Get lost. This part is private.” They began to disperse. Cassandra Cautery swiped open the lab door, juggled cards to swipe again for me, then it was the guard’s turn. The door closed behind us with a smack. The room was full of parts: metal and wire spilling from stainless steel shelves, themselves jammed together. I saw joints. Fingers. Baglike organs. They had been busy. Very busy.
We squeezed between the shelves. “There.” She gestured, with distaste. For a moment I thought my Contours had come back to life. But they were black, not silver. They had larger hooves. They stood on a black rubber mat, held in place with metal cords that dropped from the ceiling. “They’re calling these Contours Mark Three. Don’t ask what happened to the Twos. You don’t want to know. They’re a revishion of the original Contours, upgraded for strength, bug fixes, et cetera.”
I wheeled myself forward and touched the Contour Threes. Their metal skin was mottled, covered in a billion tiny bumps. I didn’t know why. But I was intrigued. I ran my fingers down the legs and was surprised by their slimness. “Where’s the battery?”
“Relocated.”
“What?”
“They draw more power. The battery got too big. And there were concerns about safety. It’s not a good idea to store a masshive energy source in a limb exposed to impacts.” She held up her hands. “Don’t argue. You weren’t here for the Twos.”
“So where’s the power source?”
“Here.” She moved to a shelf on which sat a steel object the size of a vacuum cleaner. On one side was stamped the international symbol for radiation. “Pocket reactor.”
“But … the legs aren’t modular? They’re not self-sufficient?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Charlie. It’s the direction the team took after you ran off.”
“So to wear the legs I need the abdomen?”
“Yes.”
I chewed my lip.
“Also, the abdomen requires a shpine upgrade.”
“A what?”
“It weighs eight hundred kilograms. It’d fall right out of you.”
I eyed the abdomen.
“And if we’re doing the shpine … well, you can stop there. It’s just …” She shrugged. “It’s hard to make work without the upgraded torso.”
“The what?”
“I thought you would be totally into this,” she said. “Isn’t