Page 12 of Ezra
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I tripped and fell. I’ll make do.”
He frowns at me. “Stay here.” He walks away from me, his trench coat, wet from the rain above our heads, trailing behind him.
I huddle beneath the museum’s awning, wishing I could just go home. When he returns, he has a small first aid kit in his hands. “Sit down,” he orders.
“Really, I’m fine?—”
“Sit down, Miss Carson,” he repeats firmly.
He just commanded me. Anandroidjust told me what to do. I slowly lower myself to the museum steps. “Okay.”
Ezra kneels next to me, opening the kit. I’m briefly distracted by the small, glistening drops of rain in his dark synthetic hair.
“I make you nervous.”
I look at him in surprise. I thought he’d see to my hands in silence. “It’s nothing personal,” I reply. Odd how having a conversation with a machine makes me say things that should only apply to a human. But he looks so much like one, it comes out naturally. As though I could cause offense. “Most androids make me nervous. Especially now.”
He takes one of my hands, turns my palm upward, and carefully removes what remains of glass splinters and shards that weren’t large enough for me to see or pull out myself. “I imagine this will be an interesting talking point for your platform.” He works quickly with a pair of tweezers, eyes focused on what he’s doing. I quietly marvel at his programming, how quickly and painlessly he sees to me. When he’s done, he uses an antibiotic spray on the affected area and wraps my hand snugly in gauze. “The more people against bionics, the better, I presume?”
“Not exactly. Our fight is with corporate greed, not androids,” I say with a frown, watching him as he tends to my other hand. “As a matter of fact, my father was quite excited about the possibility of an android on a police force.”
More than that, really. But I want to see if he knows the truth. If anyone told him.
Ezra furrows his brow. “Why police in particular?”
“A machine can’t be corrupted or bought,” I reply. I guess he doesn’t know anything after all. But it makes sense why Schroeder wouldn’t want to give Dad any credit after their falling out. “Or easily scared. He saw the opportunity for real change, and he liked it. You were the only android he could justify existing for the betterment of people everywhere.”
“I see.” He wraps my second hand in gauze. “And now?”
“I—don’t know,” I admit.
Ezra doesn’t flinch at my words. “Your knees are bleeding,” he declares. “Roll up your pants.”
I do so after a moment’s hesitation. Pulling the fabric up over them hurts, the blood drying and sticking to my leggings. My tugging makes them bleed anew. Ezra applies hydrogen peroxide, which stings. I hiss, cringing a little. There’s a reason I never went into the medical field.
Ezra doesn’t afford me a single glance. “I think your organization has made androids a scapegoat for what’s wrong in the world you’ve made.”
“How do you figure?”
Finally, he lifts his gaze to meet mine. I see defiance in them, where there shouldn’t be. Androids weren’t meant to feel; they can’t have personalities. They’re machines, programming, motherboards. Individuals aren’t supposed to exist in a collective of mechanical devices.
And yet, here he is. Seeing to my injuries, not because I asked, but because he wanted to. He could’ve easily walked away with his partner and left me alone. He’s a detective, not emergency personnel. That bothers me a little. I want to ask him why he’s helping me. But I say nothing.
“We exist because you made us,” Ezra replies. His voice is low, more patient than perhaps he wants to be. “There’s no going back from that. No magic switch you can flip. I think it’s best that you and the rest of Humanity First learn who your true enemy is and make your peace with this new world before it leaves you behind.”
I want to protest. I don’t recall ever calling him my enemy. At the protest a year ago, I went out of my way to make that plain because I believed in what I was saying, and I wanted every camera focused on me to get their facts straight. But I refrain as he finishes up and rises to his feet.
He’s clearly formulated his own opinions about me already. I’m not about to try to dissuade him. What good would it do right now? It doesn’t matter.
I can only accept that he tended to my wounds. “Thank you.” I tentatively flex my hand as it mildly pulses.
Ezra nods. “You’re welcome.” His gaze lingers on me, and then he turns and walks away, leaving me to my thoughts. I’m exhausted, desperately wishing I were home, or that I could escape to those painted caves I’ve always yearned to see.
Instead, I’m here. And it feels as though everything has changed.
My watch thrums, and I scan through panicked holo-messages from both my parents, dozens of missed calls, and a united determination to drive to the museum themselves to come and get me. I send them both one simultaneously.
It’s okay. I’m safe. I’m not hurt badly. Don’t come here, you won’t be able to get through. The streets are barricaded.
