Page 37 of Ezra
“He and my father were friends,” I reply. “From college, right up until the end. Dr. Lewis was sort of a...” I try to think of how to describe it. When Charlie blinks at me from his nestled position on my lap, I tentatively brush my palm over his head. His dozen little eyes squint. I assume that means keep doing it. “When Schroeder and Dad stopped talking, he tried his best to be the go-between. And he was a good man.”
A minute of silence passes, but it feels like an eternity. “I never met him,” Ezra says at last, his tone softening. “He died before my initial activation.”
The corners of Ezra’s mouth twitch downward for the briefest moment, ever so slightly, his mask of stoicism pierced by something unmistakable.
Sorrow.
He can experience sorrow. Distress. Before everything that’s happened—three attacks that nearly took my life or the lives of my family—I might’ve tried to reason this away as just a reflection of how he’s seen humans behave. That he can’t possibly go through the same sensations I can, that his body doesn’t respond to situations in the same way.
But I know that’s not the case. I’m uncomfortable with the truth in front of me. I suddenly want to comfort him. To commiserate with him. Tell him about Dr. Lewis’s funeral, and...
No, I shouldn’t. It wouldn’t help things. Not now, anyway. I pause my petting of Charlie, who makes a few indignant beeps and taps my hand insistently.
The noise draws Ezra out of his thoughts, and that glimpse of pain is gone in an instant. “No one ever spoke of this to me,” he says. “Was he in much pain when he died?”
“No,” I reply. “It was quick. We all thought he was recovering.” I wonder if I should apologize. I’m yearning to provide relief somehow, aware that my words brought him pain I didn’t mean to inflict. “I’m sorry. If it helps, Dr. Lewis’s family was so proud of him. And you. To be able to touch the hand, the face, of Dr. Lewis’s last creation meant so much to all of them.”
And to me. I was there. Standing with everyone else, admiring Ezra before he was activated, his head turned down as though he was asleep while standing on his display cylinder. I reached out and touched his hand, felt how real his synthetic skin seemed against my own, devoid of warmth.
“I have questions,” Ezra replies. “Why I am the way I am. Ones I can’t answer without him.”
He has questions about his existence. Another thing that’s so decidedly human.My god, Schroeder, how far did you go with these droids?Our conversation is so natural, I can’t help but empathize. Especially after all he’s done for me. I could tell him another truth, here and now. I’m not sure if I should. “You were my father’s brainchild,” I admit at last. “Ezra Lewis designed you, yes, after Dad and Schroeder fell out, but as a BNP99—you were Dad’s idea.”
Ezra tenses. “Why?”
“Dad originally loved the idea of androids. He wanted them to be there to help bring families together, make them stronger.”
“I imagine Humanity First would riot if they knew the truth,” Ezra remarks. “Why did they fall out, then? Your father and Dr. Schroeder?”
I sigh, gently petting Charlie’s head. “BioNex ran out of funding. Making androids is expensive, and Dad wanted to tour the country, bring in private investors. Schroeder felt like that was a waste of time, so he turned to corporations, big business. Dad was against that from the start. He knew what would happen. Schroeder felt like they had no choice. And when those contracts were drawn up, Dad walked away.”
Ezra frowns. “And then founded Humanity First, proclaiming I’m something between an abomination and a toy. He envisioned me and now wishes to see me destroyed.”
When he points out my father’s hypocrisy, the words sting. It’s never sat right with me. There have been times where I’ve wondered if my father was doing what he thought was right, or if he was trying to upend what was meant to be partially his company. If he felt betrayed by Schroeder, more than incensed by the violation of people’s livelihoods.
“People are suffering. All over the city, the nation. What would you have us do?”
“Change your narrative. Deactivating me won’t change the damage that’s been done. So what’s standing in your way from holding these corporations accountable for that suffering, instead of me and those like me? Besides your own societal constructs, your own laws, your own corrupt politicians?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It never is,” Ezra replies. “But injustice existed long before my makers chose to bring me to fruition. Perhaps that should be your concern, instead of my existence and what it means. Now if you’ll excuse me. I have work to do.”
I’m left with my thoughts as Ezra goes to stand by the windows, staring out over the city. He’s right. My father has always been more vehement in his dealings with androids than I have, never once taking the time to speak to one. Perhaps because he knows they’ll speak the truth. We can’t blame androids solely for the world’s problems. I’ve always known that, spoken that. Our numbers increased by nearly thirty percent once I began speaking on Humanity First’s behalf, doing what I could to salvage our image and reputation. We aren’t criminals. We never have been. But when a machine made of metal, numbers, and synthetics can figure out what the hell is wrong with us as a society, why can’t we?
Hours pass. I spend them mindlessly in front of the TV. All news stations cover the museum attack, and the anchors’ coverage is more grating than anything as they speculate about the current investigation. I put on the cheesy romance channel instead, because at least everything on there is fluffy and formulaic and safe. In the back of my mind, the museum’s horrors lurk, ominous and taunting. My hands tremble slightly. I ignore them and pull up scientific journals on my phone about new archaeological findings while playing with Charlie on my lap, and then I check in with Zoey. She’s safe at home now, recovering from the blast.
Curled up on the couch, I doze, exhaustion finally catching up to me. When I wake, it’s because I’m being lifted. I nearly flail, but Ezra holds me firm in his grasp.
“Hey, what are you?—”
“You’ll sleep better in a bed,” he says, carrying me into the bedroom and setting me down gently.
My entire body is warm, heat crawling up my neck and into my face. “I can walk, you know,” I mumble wearily.
“I prefer to skip any unnecessary arguments,” he replies, drawing back the covers and blankets. “Sleep. You need it.Perhaps your appetite will return in the morning.” He pauses by the door. “I’ll be just outside if you require anything.” Then he slowly shuts the door.
I try to relax my muscles. Minutes pass where I stare at the ceiling, my eyelids drooping. He lifted me like I weigh absolutely nothing. I’m not heavy, but still. Not just every man out there can pick up someone like that without some strain. His strength is like nothing I ever imagined.
