Page 15 of Ezra
My heart is a little lighter at his words. “Save some of that for your interview with theNew Carnegie Times.” It’s a thin attempt at humor, but if I don’t laugh soon at something, I’ll cry. And I’m far too exhausted to do that at the moment.
He scoffs. “Oh, no doubt they’ll be contacting me for comments.” He studies me. “You’re an adult, Kat. I’m not going to sit here and tell you what you can or can’t do. You work hard, and I know some aspects of what we do can’t be easy for a young woman of your caliber.”
“You’re ridiculously biased,” I point out.
“I am. And I’m very proud of you,” Dad replies. “All of your accomplishments, the way you chase what you want. I’m prouder still that you took the time to raise your voice with Humanity First and sayenough. You’re more than welcome to help me put together this fundraiser if you need something to do. But I won’t ask you or force you to do it. It’s your life. You need to live it as you see fit.”
“I know,” I reply. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it through this.” Even though I’m not sure I believe the words myself, it’s important to say them aloud. It gives them more power that way. “I’m going to shower and try to settle down.”
“Are you hungry?” Mom asks.
“Not even a little bit,” I admit. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”
It won’t. Not today. The images of dying and injured people in that crumbling café are too fresh, still at the forefront of my every thought, even while we have this conversation. I don’tthink I could eat a single bite of anything if I tried. Leaving my parents to another conversation, I slip away.
Rationally, I know I’m allowed to be a mess right now after what I’ve been through. Twice.
Water cascades over me as I stand in the shower, staring at the wall, replaying the moment I felt the blast in the bathroom, heard the shrieks and screams of patrons fleeing, saw the bodies and rubble on the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push them out.
I’m alive. I can’t let this eat me away on the inside. People need my help.
But those sounds, those images, are burned into my mind, and the harder I try to push them away, the harder they push back. I try to think of something else, anything else. I glance down at my hand, having removed the bandages. The hot water stings a little, but I ignore it, allowing my mind to take me elsewhere. To the conversation I had on the museum steps as NCPD’s android detective tended to my wounds.
Ezra.
Twice now, he’s helped me. I wonder if it’s because of his programing, but the pro-bionics have already proven how adaptive their robotic counterparts are. I’ve seen videos of androids playing with kittens, saving human beings from getting hit by cars. Belmont County has a new firefighter bionic, and he’s apparently jumped into burning buildings to save people. Maybe it starts off as something artificial, an algorithm, a computer code—but artificial intelligence has come a long way since its initial inception.
I’ve pointed it out to Dad before. He hates that, but he acknowledges it. Androids learn. And quickly.
Regardless of Ezra’s reasons for cleaning my wounds, it’s odd how his face is clearest in my mind. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed brow, thin mouth. Not because he doesn’t have a set of lips, but because he just looks so serious, like his jaw is clenched so hard the metal beneath his synthetic skin might as well be melded together. As though the weight of what happened is heavy on his shoulders too.
Which suggests another possibility. Androids can feel. Not only are they self-aware, they also know what it’s like to be encumbered with worry and responsibility. BioNex is really out here, helping us all replace ourselves for fun. It’s simultaneously incredible and frightening.
When I focus on him, I can’t explain it. It helps. All the horrors I witness fade just a little until he’s in perfect clarity. I think about his white eyes. The sound of his voice, his words in my head.
“A scapegoat.” I repeat his words softly to myself. “For the world we’ve made.”
Where did he learn to talk like that? What’s more, why can’t I argue with that statement? People have always found ways to screw one another over for myriad reasons. Names of infamous industrialists—more accurately, robber barons—are built into the very foundations of New Carnegie. Carnegie, himself, was one such man. Vanderbilt, Astor, Morgan—the list goes on. Taking advantage of the poor, skirting corners, creating horrible working conditions, causing deaths.
Replacing humans with androids is the next step in the evolution of our greed.
If anyone asked me, I could agree robots can be dangerous, yes. Not just because we put too much emphasis and faith on technology rather than the hard work of our own hands, butbecause our society—in the US, anyway—is already imbalanced between the ultra-rich and the very poor. BioNex has done nothing but embolden those who should be regulated and reined in.
I step out of the shower and dry off, then wrap a towel around my waist and slip into my bedroom. My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I pick it up, seeing a text from Diana.
Good news. Zoey is awake.
Perking up, I shoot off a quick response.How is she?
Doctors are saying she’s one of the lucky ones because she’s in one piece. They’ll be keeping her overnight for observation, then they plan on sending her home.
I almost don’t want to ask the next question, but I must.How many are dead?
Four. With another in very critical condition.
I sink onto my bed. Four people. Four innocent people who came to our museum to revisit the past and make a better future. One of them could’ve been me, another close call, narrowly missed.I’m so sorry.
This isn’t your fault. Nobody blames you. I know it’s difficult but do what you can to rest.
