Page 89 of Atticus
No. No, no, no.
“Look!” one of the students cries, holding their phone up, and many others scramble to dig theirs out too.
Atticus emerges from the smoke and flames, carrying Jack unconscious in his arms. The synthetic skin on his right side from his arm to his face is completely gone, melted from his metal skeletal frame.
Paramedics quickly surround him, taking Jack from his arms and exchanging words I cannot hear as they begin swiftly working resuscitate him. Freed from the excess weight, Atticus doesn’t stagger or gasp for breath. Aside from his burns, he seems unfazed by his own actions, straightening and standing tall, keeping close to the emergency responders and overseeing their efforts.
One long, eternal minute passes, then a paramedic shouts, “We got him. He’s breathing!”
A cheer goes up among the students and families. Jack is gently placed on a stretcher and spirited off to the ambulance, which soars across the streets of St. Morgan, out of sight, to bring him to the nearest hospital.
A lieutenant with the fire department walks up to Atticus, patting his back. “Never seen a thing like that in my life. What’s your name?”
“Atticus,” he replies.
There’s no mention of him being artificial, no recognition of what he is or how that might change things. All I witness is one man acknowledging another man for his bravery.
“You’re a goddamn hero, Atticus. You saved that boy’s life. Well done.”
The cheer among the student body grows louder and louder, with teachers and parents applauding, clasping their hands over their hearts, some of them in tears. The relief is felt by all of us.
But Atticus doesn’t revel in the attention or pause to allow himself a moment to drink it all in. This final, deserved admission that he’s more than a machine, more than just numbers and codes. Atticus, with his metal mainframe on display, his circuits glowing ethereally blue, calmly walks away even as local journalists swarm him, battering him with endless streams of questions.
His white eyes find mine, his face half metal, half the Atticus I know. His expression softens, and he nods. Ignoring everyone else, he makes his way toward me in his singed clothes and melted synthetics.
“...emerged from a burning building carrying a student trapped in a bathroom—”
“Authorities are currently working to contain the fire...”
“Atticus is the very same android involved in the St. Morgan teacher scandal—”
I tune them all out. None of them matter. None ofitmatters. Atticus is safe, and Jack is alive.
I rush to him, arms out to embrace him.
He turns his exposed metal side away from me, catching me with one arm. “Wait, Lucy, wait. I’m still hot, you’ll burn—”
I plant scores of relieved kisses against the softness of his unmarred cheek.
We’re surrounded by cheers and applause as the student body surrounds us, bouncing and holding up their hands, clapping in celebration of Jack’s rescue and Atticus’s bravery. Their chant is unmistakable now:Atticus! Atticus! Atticus!
The only people who remain sour-faced and silent are Principal Carlisle, Philip Sullivan, and Renee Fenton, huddled away from everyone else.
It’s a small satisfaction, knowing that their night has just gotten far, far worse than mine as they’re approached by an officer from the St. Morgan police department and the questions begin.
But they’re not my concern anymore. I no longer answer to anyone but myself. And the burden that’s lifted from my shoulders with that realization is more freeing than anything I’ve experienced in this town.
I’ve got a long journey to make, a long road ahead. But I’m not alone anymore. I wrap my arm around Atticus’s waist, giving them one final glare in defiance before I turn and never have to look at them again.
Everyone wants a hug from me. Denise, Trey, even Bryant. All of the kids. They’re all over Atticus too. I’ve never seen him embraced so many times, but he accepts each and every one with care and gentleness. After all of these farewells, my emotions are raw and bedraggled. I’ve shed plenty of tears today, and it’s all becoming a little too much for me. I’m tired, and there’s still so much to do.
Reassured I’ve said my goodbyes, I take Atticus’s hand. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Let’s go home.”
NEW CARNEGIE TIMES
NOVEMBER 26, 2067
