Page 13 of Ezra
“Kat?”
Arnold Vaughn looks just as beaten down as I feel. “I hope you don’t mind, but they’re not letting anyone back into the museum while they process the crime scene. I used my manager override from the garage kiosk in the break room and activated your car to take you home.”
“I don’t mind at all,” I reply. That kiosk is one of the bigger technological functions Vaughn invested in for his employees. No need for valets; just push a few buttons to start a car’s auto-drive function, and it meets you at the door.
“It can’t make it through these barricades, obviously, so I’ll walk you to it. But let it do the driving. You shouldn’t be operating anything in your state.”
I’m in no position to argue. My boss walks me to my sleek bright red Flagler Gazelle, a standard four-door electric sedanwith a drop-top. With a touch on the button on the door handle that registers my fingerprint, it unlocks for me.
“You sure you’ll be all right?” Arnold asks me tentatively. “If not, I can call for a ride. Or reach out to your father.”
“I’m fine. I won’t drive, like you said. Thank you.” I stare at my car. “I’m sorry. About all of this.”
“What?”
“This is—” I steady my breathing. “If Humanity First had done more, made more of a difference, or if I’d—” The words die in my mouth. If I’d just tugged Zoey with me.
“I won’t hear any more talk like that,” Arnold insists sternly, resting a hand on my upper back. “None of this was your fault. There are bad people in this world, Katrina. You aren’t one of them. Whoever these people are, they chose our museum as their targets today because they know history is dangerous. The more we know of it, the less likely we are to repeat it.”
I wish I could believe him. I can’t shake the crawling, dreadful feeling that somehow I’m to blame for all of this.
“What are we going to do?” I ask softly. “About the museum? We have to?—”
“Let me worry about that,” Arnold cuts in. “Consider yourself on paid leave, along with Diana. Along with everyone else. I’ll be in touch on when we can reopen. Right now, we all need time to grieve and come to terms with what occurred today.”
To people who don’t understand our passion, why we do what we do, my question must seem cold, perhaps heartless. People have died again, they’re hurt and suffering, and here I am, worried about a building and the contents within, alongside everything else. About objects. But they aren’t justanyobjects. They’re a part of us. They aren’t cars or TVs or smartphones. Just like people, our artifacts are irreplaceable.
“I could start a fundraiser,” I say quickly. “I could host it, and all of the proceeds can go to everyone in the hospital to help withtheir bills and—” I get choked up. “To the people who lost—for their funeral expenses.”
“Good lord, Katrina Carson,” Arnold chastises me gently. “You’re possibly one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever had the honor of meeting. Those are thoughts for another day.”
“I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
“Yes, you can,” he replies. “Youhaveto. Go home and rest. It’s not up for discussion. We can talk about fundraisers later. Go on, now.”
Reluctant, I finally open my driver’s side door. The moment I slide inside, I stare at my bandaged hands.
They’re shaking.
“It’s okay, Kat,” I mumble. “You’re alive.”
Still shaking. Goddamn, that frustrates me. I’m not as injured as some, and I’m certainly not dead. But I’m still frightened.
“You’re alive,” I repeat, quieter. “You’re?—”
I burst into tears, covering my own mouth to stifle my own sobs.
“Home,” I bark, angrily wiping away the wet from my cheeks. My car moves, smoothly backing out of the parking spot. “Take me home.”
I don’t need to even touch the wheel. The car knows. It’s programmed to do all the work for me. Except it won’t talk on its own or behave like a human, like androids do. And as I take to the highway, leaving behind the glow of whirling emergency lights and the haunting song of sirens as they transport the injured to the hospital, I dread walking through my parents’ front door.
New Carnegie is deceptively beautiful. Skyscrapers stretch as high as humanly capable, as though they mean to challenge heaven. I stare at them in silence on the interstate, wondering how many people were injured, how many died. I can’t see any sign of the attack from here. No smoke, no debris. Just the skyline from the Vanderbilt Bridge that crosses a wide, lazy river of the same name. The rain plays upon the water. BioNex Tower glows blue above them all near the impressive EverFed building. The beacons of Astor Arena are similarly bright. I wonder tiredly if there’s a bionic fighting match tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised; it’s become one of the most popular sports in the nation.
I can see my future apartment building as my car soars on by. Hard to miss with its little rivets of neon pink. It’s an older establishment, but it’s a ten-minute subway ride to the museum, perfect to save me some money on daily parking expenses. I’ve signed the lease and everything for my own place, but it won’t be ready until the end of the month.
I hear stories of people a century ago striking out on their own at eighteen, being able to buy their own houses by twenty-one, becoming financially secure at twenty-five. That hardly sounds real. These days, people can’t afford to move out of their parents’ home when they’ve graduated college, much less at eighteen. Economically, I can easily attribute it to a distinct lack of trade schools, as well as inflation that climbs almost as much as the national debt ceiling. Even so, I don’t know how they did it back then. These days, the only people moving out before thirty either have one hell of a job or a house full of willing roommates.
I’m lucky in that regard—I have a good employer. My bright, shiny, happy career was supposed to be my means of filling my coffers and eventually seeing the world, studying abroad. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I wish I could leave for Europe right this second. If only. I can hardly abandon Humanity First now. I’ve allowed myself to cry until my eyes are heavy. What’s left in me is little more than anger—anger that nobody’s been listening to us, dismissing us as radicals or troublemakers. We’ve had some bad eggs, a few people taking matters into their own hands, sure. We can’t control everyone; fortunately, the worst offenders usually get caught by the authorities.
