Page 58 of Ezra
“That’s my favorite coat,” I say quietly, pausing at one particularly detailed digital painting that must have taken hours to complete, in which I’m wearing my brown trench coat. “On the first anniversary of my activation, Deion and Rashelle gave it to me. They treat it like a birthday.” It was the first time my systems were so happily overwhelmed by emotion—I knew then that I was part of their family.
“That’s really sweet. Do you ever have to wash your clothes like we do?”
“To keep them clean from the elements, yes. Not because I sweat.”
“Wow. No man-stink. I’ll bet that makes everyone envious.”
“It’s a good quality to have, or so I’m told.”
I can’t tear my eyes from her drawings. They’re flawed and yet somehow perfect. There are several sketches of me. In one, I’m wearing something straight out of 1920s Prohibition, ajacket with the lapels turned up and a hat angled down. I’m even sharper in a suit she’s imagined me in, the tie’s bright colors popping among deep gray, green, and navy.
“There are so many of me,” I say.
“You’re a fascinating subject,” Katrina replies. “More interesting than cavemen by a long shot.”
If she compliments me any more, my gratification drive might grow arms and legs and try to run away with her. Harnessing my system responses to her isn’t possible right now, so I lean into it. I let myself enjoy this, being the center of her attention, and not just the object of her desire.
She always sketches my sleeves rolled up. Does she like the way my arms look when they’re displayed. “You’re very good at this.”
“When I was young, it was a toss-up. Art or science,” she says quietly. “People don’t know how closely they intertwine. I’m not the best by a long shot, but?—”
“I don’t know,” I say, glancing up at her. “I think these might possibly look better than the real thing.”
We share a long look. She’s blushing, on edge this entire time. I offer her the tablet, and she takes it gratefully. “That’s definitely not possible.”
Another compliment. “I wouldn’t undersell yourself. It’s clear you’re very talented.”
“Some of my favorite things in the world are artistic.”
“Like Lascaux,” I muse, gazing at her intently. “And Chauvet.” She seems surprised I remembered. “I noticed you drew me with facial hair in a few of them.”
“I just wanted to see what you’d look like,” she admits with soft laughter. “Purely experimental purposes. Can you even get that?”
“That’d be a special modification order. Dr. Taylor would add them if I asked.”
“I’ll bet your unit would have a field day if you came in with a full beard, looking more Viking than robot.” Katrina laughs. “But, I think I prefer you clean-shaven.”
There’s a moment of silence between us. I’m not sure who’s more thrown off—her for saying it, or me for hearing it. She’s considering preferences about me. My clothes. My appearance.
Is that a sign of attachment?
She shrugs. “It’s easy to forget sometimes that you’re synthetic. But I suppose that was always the point, wasn’t it? To make us feel safe and comfortable.”
“It’s rare that I make anyone feel comfortable,” I reply wryly. “But safe, yes.”
“They programmed you with sarcasm too, I noticed.”
“Not really. Given time and exposure to humans, it’s not difficult to learn. Is it really so strange?”
“No, I guess not. It’s how babies learn. It makes sense you could too.”
I have to tease her for that one. “Are you calling me a baby?”
“That depends. How old are you?”
“I’m modeled to represent a thirty-year-old male,” I say.
“But if we’re talking how long you’ve existed, you’re three years old?”
