Page 22 of Ezra
I stay in the lobby, inquiring patiently after the victim’s health until I receive word he’s alive and stabilizing following his emergency surgery, and has been carted to a hospital room. If I’m to ask questions, it’s best to do so when the witness is no longer in shock. But I can’t leave things too long. The hunt for the shooter is on.
After flashing my badge at the hospital receptionist, who only sputters and doesn’t try to stop me, I head to Robert Carson’s room.
His monitor shows his heartbeat. He’s hooked up to oxygen, IVs, the works. I run a diagnostic. He was shot in the upper chest, but the bullet didn’t get past his ribs, according to the placement of his sutures. He’s lucky it didn’t hit a vital organ or an artery. If it were his heart, he would’ve died before the ambulance reached him.
Two women are present in the room. I recognize Katrina immediately. Her mother is asleep, dozing with her head on the bed, her hands clasped around one of Carson’s as he slumbers. I match her to media footage as Robert’s wife, Catherine Carson, a powerful city lawyer and a strong contender for district attorney in the upcoming elections.
Katrina is speaking on the phone. She spots me. “I’ve gotta go, Ashley. Keep me updated, okay?”
I linger by the doorway, allowing my visual feed to return to Katrina. When she spots me, her heart rate quickens but only slightly. She doesn’t frown or glare at me. Surprisingly calm, she rises to her feet.
I home in on her features, her body, as I read her vitals. Slightly taller than average, standing at five-eight. Fair skin. Wavy light brown hair cut almost boyishly short, with sideswept bangs framing her face. Crystal blue eyes.
A figure that could melt any man’s resolve.
My processors give me pause. That’s not a thought I expected to have when I saw her again. She’s not normally my type, as most of my dalliances have been with fuller-figured women. Katrina is the opposite. She has no abundance of curves. She’s lean and willowy, small-chested with dainty wrists. But there’s something about the way she dresses, in a white-and-black dress cut above the knees, that accentuates what she has, and she carries herself with purpose that gives her an aura of elegance and control that money and power can’t buy anyone.
It’s no surprise to me that everyone calls her the sweetheart of Humanity First, with a face like hers. And that’s only her appearance. A video plays in the corner of my optic feed of Katrina speaking at a college event, surrounded by people who applaud her, taking on questions from other students who question and challenge her views, and she’s fearless. Incredibly cunning, with a mind for debate. No doubt between her intellectand her beauty, she’s bringing in plenty of new blood to her cause.
There’s something interesting about the way she talks. She’s always strategic. She doesn’t blame androids for the world’s troubles and tends to focus on unethical business practices and the plight of the growing rate of unemployment. The more I research her, the more I don’t actually hear her call for androids’ complete shut down or eradication. When asked point blank on camera whether she’d like to see all androids junked, she evades the question before finally stating no.
My gratification drive is alert and focused on her, taking in the flow of information as I analyze her and everything around me. I remind myself that Katrina is affiliated with a mentality I find entirely irritating.
I wonder if she’s finally going to lash out. She’s been under so much stress these past few days. My scanners pick up a slight tremor in her hands. Her body language is closed off and uncertain. She guards herself by folding her arms as she closes the distance between us.
“You came.” She speaks softly, so as not to disturb her parents. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
I keep a close eye on her vitals. She’s not angry or hostile. My grat drive tugs at me, but I ignore it. She isn’t mine to care for.
“You called,” I reply, noting hints of high stress in her face, and the way she shifts her weight, like she’s struggling to keep still. “For me specifically.”
That’s what intrigues me most of all. I’ve been looking into her. She’s the woman who revitalized and invigorated the Humanity First movement after the protest bombing. No one had heard of her, really, until that day. She quickly became just as powerful a personality in the spotlight as her father. She’s why we’re seeing a growing amount of people within the city limits sporting Humanity First messages: shirts that readKeepYour Droids, Give Me HealthcareandOur Lives First, hats in Humanity First’s turquoise and gold colors, even holo-stickers on the bumpers of cars readingSupport Human Businesses,orRemember 7/69.
I still remember when those shirts went viral. The ACU got flooded with reports of hate speech. Everyone pro-bionic stormed to social media decrying such messages and accused her of trying to profit off the TerraPura attack. Katrina officially responded by making Humanity First’s books public, showing that all money made had already gone to the families of victims directly on dates long before any pressure was applied. Her pro-bionic critics fell silent quickly after that.
She’s smart. Incredibly smart. And honest. I have to admire her integrity.
“My partner will be arriving shortly,” I say. “If you prefer to wait for him before speaking with me.”
Katrina flushes pink and waves a hand. “No, I don’t need to.”
This woman is full of surprises. As a show of good faith, I add, “Do I have your permission to record our conversation?”
“Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
Her baby blue eyes are striking, staring right back into mine. Beautiful. My gratification drive stirs. I suppress it quickly.Don’t.
“You’re welcome,” Katrina replies.
I can’t decide if she’s merely exhausted from the trauma she’s been through, or if I’ve greatly misjudged her.
Katrina pulls her phone from her jeans pocket, taps through it, and presents it to me. “TerraPura is trying to assassinate my father.”
I take her phone. Her most recent PhotoGram post is a selfie of her and her father, both beaming, pressed cheek to cheek. Iskim the caption before handing the phone back to her. “What makes you think so?”
“The timing of the explosion,” she replies. “And the place where the droid detonated.”
