It was wrong, I know, but I was angry. I struck out, at a Master. My nail caught in his cheek, and a layer of skin sloughed off.
Underneath, not bone and blood, but levers and pinions.
I ran and ran.
In the dormitory, my workmates crowded round.
“The Masters,” I babbled. “They’re machines, not people.”
“Okay,” Slabbert said,” and so?”
“And so we have to do something.”
“What can we do? Better to concentrate on the things you can control. Like the choice between skinny latte and macchiato.”