The car lurched and bobbled. Elbows-deep in wiring, Don was trying to get the vehicle to respond to commands.
Flying cars – these things were supposed to be perfect; he should know – “Earth’s darling technological engineer,” who designed the cars and the certification process.
“It’s no use, Donald.” He knew that face on the console: his robot secretary, fresh from the pool. “You have to go down.”
“We’re taking over, kid.” A vintage film gangster imitation.
Don’s heart sank. He resigned, giving in quietly – until he saw the Bay Bridge pillar coming.
He couldn’t help screaming.