Suppressing the urge to run, he went swiftly onto the porch. He approached the front door. Of course, he did not look well, not in these battle-shabby fatigues. But maybe that would help. Before a battle, people feared their soldiers. Afterward, they were generally grateful for a time, until they decided that your pain was too unsettling to bear and forgot you. Civilians are always eager to leave the soldier to his memories.

He knocked at the door. There was no response. But he could hear the people whispering, so he knocked again. Waited. The pulsations grew more distinct, forming into a sharper pattern. He shook the door, causing it to bound on its hinges and then give way. He went in.

The family, a boy of ten or so, a girl of perhaps twelve, and two thirtysomething parents, were gathered close together in the living room. They were clean and pretty, they were human, and their fear smelled fresh. They had not been cowering here, another sign that he might have beaten the hybrids. All of their fear was directed at him.

“I don’t hurt people,” he said.

The man smiled a frightened smile. “The police are coming, soldier.”

“Do you know these people? Why do they want to capture me?”

“Everybody wants to capture you, Colonel Bryan.”

The little boy went closer to his father. “Daddy, that’s him?”

“Hush now, remember what the news has been saying, we don’t make sudden moves toward him, we don’t raise our voices, we don’t ask questions.”

The little girl went behind her mother and father. She clutched her mother’s skirt, burying her face in it.

Mark went down on one knee. “Little girl, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“It talks like a person,” the boy said. He regarded Mark the way Mark had probably regarded zoo animals when he was ten.

That they knew about him and were using the word it told him two things that he needed to know but wished were not true. Both his nature and his identity were now public knowledge.

How was that possible, though? How long had he been unconscious?

“I don’t hurt people,” he muttered. He found that he could hardly look at them. He felt naked. He was embarrassed.

“Are you really unkillable?” the boy asked.

“No.”

The boy looked up at his father. “Can I touch it?”

“No, Son, stay here.”

“It’s okay.” Mark held out his hand. “Okay.”

The boy reached out his fingers, and for the first time in Mark’s life, somebody touched him not for the humanity by which he had lived, but for the machine that he really was. He held the little, warm fingers between his own, then the boy snatched back his hand, his face glowing, his eyes fixed with wonder.

“It feels like steel, Daddy.”

“It has steel in its skin, Son.”