Page 42 of Ezra
Katrina stands in front of me. I approach her, glancing around at the scenery of a different age in different seasons.
Moving about in those scenes are warm holographic images of people. In full color, which is something of a rarity; in most places, everything projected is monochromatic blue. This must be state of the art. Humans clad in furs and leathers roast meat upon a fire while their children chase one another. Others collaborate to hunt a mammoth on the opposite side of the room, the beasts low, thundering cries enhanced by the audio system. Yet another human sits swaddled in layers of clothing surrounded by snow and creates flakes from stone.
“This is it,” Katrina says softly. “My favorite place. If I didn’t have work to do, oh, I could spend hours in here.”
I rest my hands in my jacket pockets. “What do you enjoy so much about history?”
She glances at me before returning her attention to the holograms as they move, gazing at these prehistoric humans with affection in her eyes. “It’s our history. It’s us. No corporate greed, no prejudice, no industry or war machines. It was just living to survive. Look at them.” She gestures toward adolescent humans trying their hand at spearfishing in a glistening river. “Food, water, shelter, procreation, telling stories—that was all there was to it.”
“From what sources I can find, it was a harsh existence. Lifespans were short.”
Katrina rubs her arm. “Now we live too long and destroy everything good we’ve been given.” She sighs. “I know I shouldn’t romanticize. In all honesty, it’s difficult to do even that. We have very little evidence for how they lived. We only know they hunted, they buried their dead, and they used ochre.” She motions with a finger across her nose. Many of the holographic faces are painted.
“You seem to care very much about this time period in particular.”
She nods. “It’s partially because of a book I read when I was a teenager. About an ancient human wandering across prehistoric Europe, meeting another human, falling in love. Danger, adventure.” She tucks her hair behind an ear. “Sex.”
I arch a brow. “Sex?”
“It was essentially elevated caveman porn.” Katrina giggles behind her knuckles. She speaks with such affection, her voice light and airy.
“Elevated caveman porn,” I repeat slowly, skeptical.
“Shut up. I know what it sounds like.” She harmlessly swats my shoulder with her hand. Then she retracts it, looking surprised at herself, like she forgot she was with me. “But I loved it. It awakened something in me, and it made me curious aboutthat world and what it could be like. So much that I went to school for it, and I’ve never left that world since.”
I study her intently. I’ve heard this woman lead heated debates, interviews, speak alongside her father with all the ferocity of a lawyer and the conviction of a judge. I knew she worked here. I knew her background, even what degrees she graduated with. But it’s still so different from the persona she’s shown to the city, to the nation. A year ago, at the march where I first encountered her, I never would’ve guessed this is where her passion lies.
I’ve learned so much about her in such a short time. And with each new discovery, my respect for her grows.
“It must seem strange to you.” Katrina clutches her jacket against her chest. “Being?—”
“A robot?” I finish dryly for her.
“I was going to say bionic,” she insists.
I’m surprised by her choice of words. “That isn’t too politically correct for you, now?”
“It’s not about offending anybody,” Katrina says with genuine sincerity. “I never wanted to offend anyone. Does robot bother you? Machine?”
“No,” I say. “Neither particularly trouble me. Bot bothers some pro-bionic folks. It’s quickly becoming a slur. But robot, droid, android, machine—it’s all the same to me.” We fall quiet, watching the historic scenes play around us. “And it is strange to me. But just because something is strange doesn’t mean it can’t also be beautiful.”
Her gaze snaps up to meet mine. “You think this is beautiful?”
“How can it not be? It’s your origin story. Without you, there is no me.”
Katrina peers at me in the low light, the colors of the exhibit flickering around us as her ancestors toss spears, build fires,even make music and sing in a language that makes little sense to me. “Wow. When you put it that way, it is beautiful, isn’t it?” She clears her throat and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, as though restless. “Have you seen the Hall of Bulls?”
“I’ve visited before with Deion and his family. But I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen a bright and genuine smile, free of all concern and weariness, light up Katrina’s face, and my gratification drive thrills in a way that takes me so off guard, I nearly halt mid-step as she leads me away.
No, I warn my systems, my programs, my very being.No. You can’t attach yourself to this one. Not to her. She’s not for you. She can never be for you.
With dread, I realize my drivers won’t listen. Why would they? I pleasured myself to thoughts of her the night before. I all but encouraged my systems to latch on to her. My biocomponents rush through my body, cooling my own internal temperature increase. As we stand beneath a perfect replica of ancient cave paintings, my focus is solely upon her. She points to different pieces of the painting and explains them to me, remarking how few depictions there are of man and how important animals must have been to prehistoric humanity. I take in everything she says and breeze through multiple scientific journals of these findings to commit them to memory. I don’t know why. I’ve no idea when I’ll need them, if ever.
But it’s important to her. I want to better understand her. I want...
I clench my jaw and try to control my processors. I shouldn’t be reacting this way. I need to push through it.
