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smashing bricks with his bare hands. It’s okay.”
    Jordan had to admit that it felt good to let rip. It released emotion and reminded him how powerful he’d become.
    The nerves in Jordan’s shoulder that once controlled his right arm had been attached to chest muscle instead. The muscle was redundant because it no longer had to support and move his arm.
Now, when he thought about doing something with his right arm, the chest muscle twitched instead. Sensors in his chest detected the muscle movement and sent a message to the motors in his bionic
arm, translating the twitches into arm actions.
    To Jordan, it didn’t really feel like an arm at all. It felt like a Swiss army knife with different modes for different jobs. And he had to learn how to use them all. Until he lost his
real arm, he hadn’t appreciated how much it could do. He hadn’t realized that a human arm was amazing. But there were compensations in having a robotic one. He would never have been
able to crush the table with a real arm. He’d make an awesome boxer.
    He’d always been a muscular boy with broad shoulders and a body that looked older than his age. A trainer at the sports centre in Lower Stoke had told him that he could be a great boxer,
but he hadn’t enjoyed hitting people. He’d decided to hit tennis balls and drums instead.
    Jordan applied the brakes to his memory. He was trying not to think about his past. He was trying not to think about having a real arm. He was Jordan Stryker. False arm and false ID included. He
had to think only about the present and the future. After all, that was where he’d spend the rest of his life.
    He reached out for the next egg. His mechanical fingers clutched at it unsteadily like an old person riddled with arthritis. The fingers snapped shut, the shell splintered and the innards oozed
out.
    Angel smiled. “You don’t give up. That’s the important point. I know it seems a long way off, but one day you’ll handle eggs without making omelettes and smash
through bricks. Fiddly jobs and brute force. You’ll do both.”
    Jordan breathed deeply, crossed the narrow lane and went into Waterlow Park opposite. He glanced enviously at the tennis courts and strolled towards Middle Pond. He
didn’t get so tired now, but he was certainly not in peak condition. The bone at the back of his head had strengthened enough so that it no longer needed the protection of a boxer’s
helmet. He’d even been able to grow his hair because the chief surgeon had no plans to delve into his brain again.
    He’d ceased to feel the weight of the battery in his right leg. He could almost forget it was just under the surface of his skin. Every step of every walk, every run, every leg movement,
he was recharging it.
    Angel was beside him, claiming that he wanted some fresh air. But Angel was not the sort to walk around aimlessly. He probably realized that Jordan was getting restless as he returned to health
and began to function again. Almost certainly, Angel accompanied him to provide an opportunity to talk.
    It was plain to Jordan that Unit Red was more than a place to repair and enhance his body. He’d seen more people than the medics, engineers, technicians and tutors who were helping him. As
he passed them one-by-one in a corridor, they’d smile, nod and say hello. But they wouldn’t say much more. Unit Red wasn’t a place where people chatted for fun, it seemed. And
there was no one else like him. No one young and no one visibly damaged.
    All of the people seemed to report to Angel in a secret room called the bunker. The house was always locked and protected by security cameras. Inside, guards seemed to be on duty
permanently.
    This time, Jordan was determined to get an answer from Angel. When no one was within earshot, he asked, “What exactly is Unit Red? It can’t be just for patching me up.”
    Angel nodded as if he’d been expecting the question. “You’re right. The medical facilities were designed