Page 3 of Ezra
“We aren’t here because androids exist. Despite what you might’ve heard from the mainstream media, most supporters of Humanity First know better than to blame androids for injustice. They’re programmed to do what they do.”
Reassured by the murmur of agreement, I clasp my hands and pace as I speak into the microphone, filled with too much energy at the minute.
“We see the big picture. We hold BioNex accountable for selling out to big companies and enabling them to lay off hundreds—thousands—of human workers in favor of robots that can’t think independently, can’t feel. Can’t form a union. Can’tfile for protection or compensation. Can’t even ask for a lunch break. They penalize us for wanting to spend time with our families. They punish us for needing to eat, for wanting to work for a livable wage so we can pay our own bills. They have the audacity to tell us we’re responsible for losing our own jobs because we physically can’t work twenty-four-seven.” I pause mid-step, facing them. “Well, we’re done taking the blame for their inhumanity.”
“Yes!” a few people cry out.
“It’s time we put that blame where it belongs. We blame the high-powered executives and CEOs of companies like Carnegie Steel and Flagler Automotive for valuing money over human lives.”
The crowd rumbles vehemently in agreement.
I play off that energy. “We blame the state and federal government for not moving swiftly enough to regulate these companies and put them in their places. If you care about your families and your future, you’ll march with us. You’ll elevate our voices. And if you’re watching from home...” I push past a little shiver of apprehension at the thought of being on live feeds across the city.Easy, Kat. Keep pushing. “You’ll help us protect the working class by sharing our message and hitting these big companies where it hurts.”
I’m met with cheers. “We will not be silent,” I say. “We will not be dismissed.” More shouts of approval, building and building. “And we will not rest until we are heard!”
The response is deafening. My heart might burst out of my chest. I’m elated by the noise I’ve helped direct to my father’s cause.
I raise my fist into the air. The Humanity First chant begins, one well known to the entire organization, and it picks up and spreads through the streets like wildfire through kindling.
“No droids!” they shout.
“Our lives first!” I reply.
“No droids!” Their chorus gets louder and louder.
“Save our jobs!”
My dad wraps his arm around my shoulder, his voice moving through the microphone he attached to my shirt. “Today we march for the future!” he calls, taking my hand and my mother’s and guiding us down through the crowds to the front of the march. He whispers in my ear, “Good job. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Embarrassed, I squeeze his hand and return my mother’s warm smile as we take our place in the lead.
We walk slowly through the streets, our holo-signs and neon symbols shining against sleek black windows and glass doors. We march block after block under the watchful eyes of the police, accompanied by flashes of cameras. Those who aren’t holding signs have their smartphones out, recording the spectacle around them.
There’s no violence. Just us together demonstrating our discontent. It’s a powerful thing, being a part of this. I’m not just glad I’m doing it—I’m proud I’m here. That I’m participating in something bigger than myself.
Several blocks down the road, police officers wait for us at the end of our march, near the university grounds where counter-protestors—and androids—shout and wave their own signs on the other side. Law enforcement is the only barrier between a possible fight breaking out. We said no weapons when we put this together, but with how many Humanity First supporters showed up today, I have no doubt a few are carrying something—a concealed gun, a switchblade, a bat.
A spark is all it takes for a protest to turn into a riot. Many of those with us are strikers from last year, people who lost their jobs at the steel and auto plants, among others. Given the chance, they absolutely will begin causing damage.
Even though I don’t condone violence or the destruction of property when it might belong to a small business or an innocent party, I can’t very well blame them for losing patience either. Waiting has done nothing for them except make things harder.
We’re about to pass the theater when a different kind of shouting causes me to turn my head.
“Dad,” I say in alarm.
He follows where I point to a man on the sidewalk near a parking ramp entrance. He’s wearing a tux, but he’s been beaten to a pulp, his swollen face black and purple, bloodstains apparent on his clothes.
Dad’s face darkens. “Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath. “I said no violence.”
A group of young men gathers around him. I can’t make out what’s being said from this distance, but they aren’t shouting or arguing. If anything, they seem truly concerned. I break away from Dad, willing to go investigate myself, but the protestors swivel around and take off running, moving through the crowds and garnering the attention of other marchers who look on in confusion.
I can only make sense of some of what’s being shouted over our chant.
“—kidnapping her!”
“—the blue dress!”
Blue dress? Kidnapping?That’s enough to alarm me and my parents.
