Steel in his skin? What had the world been told about him? If that was true, then things he did not know about himself.

No wonder the people hunting him had acted as they did, like hostiles, instead of simply attempting to communicate with him. They were not a detachment sent from higher command to reattach him to a unit. Not in the least. They were trappers, sent to bring in an out-of-control robot.

The anguish this realization caused him was so great that he bared his teeth and growled—and the woman and the girl began to scream, and the man grabbed a chair and thrust it at him.

It was humiliating beyond words, and he did the only thing he could, which was to leave this place.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he headed through the house and out the back, “please excuse the intrusion.”

He crossed their yard, eager for the concealment of the woods. The helicopter grew rapidly louder, then dropped to silence. He therefore knew that it was directly overhead, and the increasing downdraft told him that it was descending from about twelve hundred feet, and coming fast, dropping five hundred feet a minute.

A crack pilot was flying a superb machine. Nothing like the drone, though. Military engineers needed to take a look at that puppy, whatever was left of it.

Like a great elk trying to outrun a bullet, he squatted and knotted his muscles, preparing to jump and flicker at the same time.

But this time the net flowed over him.

“We got it,” a voice cried.

He marshaled his strength, taking his awareness deep inside his body. Despite his exhaustion, this would have to be the most powerful jump of his life, because this net was inch-thick carbon fiber, far stronger even than military grade.

The one that had spoken came out of the woods, a figure in supersoldier armor, but not moving like somebody well trained on the system. Seeing the opportunity, he launched himself toward it. As he struck, net and all, plates of armor flew off, servomotors screaming.

He stared, stunned, at what had emerged—inside the supersoldier cladding was an elderly woman in a black pin-striped suit, looking like some sort of businesswoman or college professor. Her head was gray, her face lined but firm, lips tight. She was helpless, he knew that instantly. He suppressed the instinct to overpower his attacker.

“Professor Walker, are you injured?” an echoing, amplified voice from the helicopter asked.

She backed away, out of his range. “No, no, but please restrain it.”

It again? This was him, Mark Bryan. Not it.

As the net was tightened, he took steps to minimize its effectiveness, stiffening his shoulders, spreading his elbows and knees, raising his head.

When they thought that he was immobilized, four of the men in supersoldier armor lowered him to the ground.

“Are we stable?” the voice from the helicopter asked.