Ezra (New Carnegie Androids #6)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

JULY 2, 2069

Katrina Carson

First Street and Astor Avenue are shut down and barred off with glowing orange barriers, each one projecting large blue holographic messages above them that read Route Shut Down and point to various detours. Traffic cops clad in bright vests direct vehicles to other roads. The sidewalks stream with onlookers, protestors, and journalists, their voices a steady thrum in the open evening air.

I stand at the forefront of an ocean of people as they flood the streets of New Carnegie, bodies packed together. There are camera crews for media coverage. Many carry holo-boards programmed with custom messages supporting our cause— Humanity First, Shut Droids Down! and I Lost My Job Because of BioNex and Own Droids, Cause Misery .

There are a myriad of others. The pain, anger, and determination of everyone surrounding us is palpable. I’m not the only one who senses it. Down the road, the New Carnegie Police Department have gathered in their riot gear, blue holo-shields activated and humming.

There’ll be no need for them, if my father has any say in the matter.

Next to me is Robert Carson, the leader of Humanity First. My dad. He isn’t dressed in a suit and tie but a T-shirt and jeans, looking more like a working man than I think I’ve ever seen him look. Everything he does is for a reason, and looking like an average joe suits his purpose. He means to continue identifying with the everyday worker, to be unassuming. Just someone trying to do the right thing.

The people who follow him know better, though. His personality has created a movement that spans the entire country. It’s his outspoken nature, his inability to back down, that’s inspired protests in different big cities in America, not only New Carnegie.

Honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of him than I am right now. There aren’t many people in the world willing to personally stare down big business and call for change. And that’s what he’s doing, what I’ve been trying to help him achieve—changing the world before there’s no going back.

Pastor Nelson, the outspoken personality in charge of Carnegie First Baptist, approaches us. They’ve been picketing the Paradise Lounge, an erotic android business, for weeks now. They were all too happy to join us here.

I’m not thrilled about his presence. Something about the guy seems off, practically sleazy. I keep my mouth shut as Nelson shakes hands with Dad. The pastor’s hair has gone completely white, even though he doesn’t look quite old enough yet to have lost his color that way. It makes him appear ghostlike.

“You’re doing the Lord’s work, Bobby,” Nelson declares with certainty. “I know it, and the rest of the world knows it too. They just won’t admit it. We’ll make them see it today.”

“Let’s hope. Thanks for coming,” Dad replies politely, letting him go and placing his hand gently on my shoulder, as though he means to guide me into rejoining my mother nearby.

“Why are you thanking him?” I whisper softly. “I thought you didn’t like Nelson.”

“I don’t,” Dad replies under his breath. “He gives me the creeps. But we can hardly exclude him and his church in a gathering of this magnitude. This’ll be the largest march we’ve ever orchestrated.” He squeezes me to him before letting me go. “It means everything to me that you came all this way. I know the timing can’t be great with your classes. Graduate school isn’t very forgiving.”

“My professors have always stated they support the right to demonstrate,” I reply ruefully. “Besides, you’ve always been there for me. It’s time I returned the favor.”

“Well, our collegiate system isn’t known for independent thinking.” My father laughs softly, pride in his eyes when he looks at me. He’s always been in my corner, pushing me to be the best at everything I do—schools, sports, debate teams, right up to being the best candidate for a workplace. “I hope young people learn from your example.”

“We’ll find out.” My example? His words skyrocket my self-esteem. “The police aren’t playing around. Did you see their new riot gear? It’s like it turns them into robots themselves with all that steel armor.”

“Let’s hope they don’t need it today.”

“Wonder if they brought Dr. Lewis’s android—the one you originally designed?” I muse. “Would’ve thought the force would be full of that model by now, but I’ve only seen them employ one.”

My father’s chuckle is bereft of real humor. “Don’t remind me. The irony, that something I invented for people’s freedom and safety would be remade and morphed into a weapon instead. The commissioner is sympathetic to our cause, so I doubt he’s interested in creating any more police robots than the one he’s already got.” He rubs his chin as he surveys the turnout. “What if you addressed the crowd today?”

“Me?” I’m aghast. “No way. You’re the orator.”

“That’s not true. You ran circles around your opposition on the debate team.”

“That was high school,” I protest. “It’s been almost seven years. Besides, they came here to see you, not me. All the interviews, the podcasts, the talk shows...”

“Perhaps it’s time for a new perspective,” Dad replies. “I won’t make you. But I believe in you, Kat. If I’m not getting through to them, maybe you will.”

We regroup with my mother, the more cautious of my parents. She’s uneasy, based on how she shifts her weight from foot to foot. She wears jeans, a tank top, and the Humanity First logo—three glowing human figures, like something out of a cave painting, with their spears raised in the air—proudly displayed on the front.

It’s not the police who make her nervous. Catherine Carson, my mother, has only come forward in the past few months to stand beside my father in his fight for worker’s rights. She was the one who reached out to the police department and worked with the city to get permission to gather.

“All these folks trying to get to this opera on time are going to be in for a bit of a surprise,” she remarks, waving her hand in the direction of the theater, which is about a mile down the road. “I’m surprised they didn’t cancel it.”

“Let’s hope their facilities can keep out the noise we’ll be making.” Dad presses his lips to my mother’s temple before turning to me. “What do you think, Kat? Are you up for it?”

I swallow a sudden burst of butterflies in my stomach. I could say no, but a part of me wants to make him proud. Normally I’d want more warning before having something like this sprung on me, but that preparation was always mixed with dread. I’ve spoken in front of crowds before. Maybe diving right in will be better.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“Just say what feels right,” Dad replies, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll introduce you. Get them warmed up.”

He leaves Mom and me together. She takes my hand and gives it an anxious squeeze. She’s never been one for crowds, but she’s pushing through it. “No pressure.” She smiles softly at me. “Right?”

“Right,” I agree sarcastically, rubbing my arm as I watch Dad’s supporters mic him up in preparation for the beginning of our rally. I give up trying to count how many people are gathered here.

Thousands. Maybe ten thousand.

So many faces. So many people. I wonder how many of them have lost their jobs because of these giant corporations laying off their human workforce to replace them with robotic employees. Workers who never complain, never tire, never unionize. A small twinge of pride moves through me, knowing this has been months in the making. People didn’t just show up. They traveled. Many came from out of town, from all over the nation to show their support.

“There’ll be counter-protestors waiting for us at the end of our march,” my mother murmurs. “Mostly students from the local universities gathering at Carnegie State.”

Her worry is palpable. “It’ll be all right,” I tell her, hugging her shoulders. “Dad won’t let things get out of control. Not while he’s in attendance. He wasn’t at those other protests to try to cool things down.”

“I know,” Mom whispers. “Still.”

Still . I know what she means beneath her quiet demeanor, the way she holds her head high, watchful, pensive. Wondering which of those people gathered here are raring for a fight. Things could go bad.

I fervently hope they don’t.

My father ascends the steps of the historical New Carnegie Library to get the best view of the people gathered here. We move through the crowd to be nearer to him. From here, we can see the glistening white pinnacle of City Hall, where the mayor is likely hiding in her office.

She won’t see us, but we’ll make sure she hears us.

A few men set up speakers for Dad, which shimmer and glow blue as they turn on. The buzz of the crowd dies down. My father looks at my mother and me and smiles, nodding, before he turns to speak to them all.

“Humanity First exists,” he begins, “because normal, everyday people have been wronged by the greed and corruption of the rich few.”

A murmur of agreement flows in the air over our heads, everyone hanging on to his every word.

“As advocates for the human right to work, these mega-corporations aren’t just affecting people of my generation. They’re affecting the young too, and their chances at providing for the families of the future. I want to introduce you to someone very close to me. She believes in this as strongly as I do. She’s an excellent speaker, and I’m not saying that because she’s my only daughter, though I won’t deny I’m a bit biased.” Dad turns and gestures to me. “Katrina Carson.”

I receive some soft applause, which isn’t very reassuring, but I don’t allow myself to be discouraged. I’ve stayed out of the spotlight while I’ve attended school and haven’t really gone to major rallies like this before. I ascend the steps to stand beside him and take the microphone, draw a steadying breath, and tell myself the thousands of people here, the cameras, the reporters, aren’t as scary as I think they are.

Here goes.

“You don’t know me, but I’m Katrina Carson,” I begin. “I recently received my masters degree from New Carnegie University. I studied archaeology and paleoanthropology, something I’ve loved since I was young. Well, younger than now.”

I receive a few appreciative chuckles.

“And today, more than ever, I think it’s important that students attending high school and college recognize the danger our futures are currently in. As a part of my graduate program, I studied ancient humans. The ones we came from.” I let the words flow through me, taking a life of their own. “I’ll never forget learning about how ancient humans became the most formidable hunters on the planet. We drove other human ancestors to extinction. And none of us are sorry for that, right?”

I can tell I’m losing a lot of them with the history lesson. I should keep it simple rather than get into my field. I clear my throat and try to gather my thoughts. My last comment did garner some laughter when I smile and shift my stance, trying to appear at ease when I’m most definitely not. At least, not right now.

“We know it as survival of the fittest. But here, today, we see history repeating itself. Except this isn’t just another evolutionary step in the long course of human history. It’s us, inventing our own road to potential extinction.”

Everyone is listening to me now, the crowd hushed.

“To everyone who might be listening at home, I want to make it plain that I don’t believe androids are inherently evil.” I wave a hand. “That’s not who I am. I’m a person just trying to live my life, same as all of you. But I have a reason to be concerned with the direction this city is going. I have a right to be worried when there are warning signs telling me that someday, I might become obsolete. Robots are being used by billion-dollar corporations to line pockets, to rob us of our ability to provide for our families, our self-sufficiency, our way of life. The difference between us and our prehistoric ancestors is we have a chance to change what’s coming.”

Someone calls, “That’s right!” There are a few whistles in support from down the street.

“I won’t stand up here and tell you androids are horrible, awful things that need to be destroyed,” I continue, even though scattered throughout the crowd, I hear some jeers of disagreement. “Because they’re not. Androids began as a good thing, a way to serve families and create time where there was none. It wasn’t until later when the game changed, and the motives of all major players were revealed, and androids became the catalyst to the problems we face today.”

I scan faces, trying to read the people listening intently to me. Some are obviously quite angry; others smile and nod at me while they hold up their holo-signs. That gives me a little more confidence. I hope I’m getting this right. I want them to know I sympathize. I support them. I acknowledge their struggles. I want to validate their experiences.

“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’t file 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.

I take a step forward, intent on following them and helping how I can. My mother grabs my arm. “Kat, no.”

“Don’t worry. Keep going.” I ignore Dad’s demands for my return and push through the sea of bodies. I catch a glimpse of pale blue ruffles of a woman’s evening gown, splattered similarly with blood. But she’s not a normal woman. When she turns her head, I see the familiar glow of white bionic eyes.

She’s an android. Normally, android owners stay far away from our protests, and for good reason. Tempers are high. It can be dangerous. While I would never damage a robot myself, I can’t speak for everyone else around me. Did someone use the chaos of the event to try to steal her?

That’s when I spot them. Several men guide her away from the protest, but they don’t appear to be with us. Though the android female is compliant, the masses seem to be making them nervous.

The young Humanity First demonstrators who spoke with the injured man surge toward them in dogged pursuit. At first, I’m worried they mean to tear the female android apart.

“Wait, don’t!” I shout, though it’s no use. Over the angry chants of the protest, my voice is drowned out.

But they’re not hurting her. Instead, they descend upon the men who have their hands latched to her wrists, guiding her through the crowd. That’s when I see it—the vibrant white irises of the androids holding her, along with one human. Rage overcomes everyone in the vicinity when faced with these robots, and all my hopes for a peaceful protest are already dashed as the androids are beaten down. The android handler curses and shouts and furiously attempts to fight through them, trying to reach the female they’ve taken as he and his robots are hit.

I need to get her out of here. She’s only doing whatever she’s programmed to do, and I strongly believe we can’t take out our frustrations on androids. I know I couldn’t stomach it if I saw her attacked. I try to push my way toward her, but the crowd is closing up around me. I can’t make it through.

Witnessing glimpses of this madness, I hear bones crunch and break. The androids aren’t simply lying there taking it. They’re hitting back. A wave of nausea hits me. Those bodies are made of pure steel. They shouldn’t be able to do that. Their programming is meant to render them incapable of violence because they’d be deadly otherwise.

BioNex wouldn’t ? —

Through the curses, the shouts, everything, the restrained handler screams to the android males, “Ascend! Do it! Do it now!”

Having kicked, punched, and pushed away our protestors, forcing them back, one of the androids plants his feet apart. He stares across the street—at what, I can’t say. His black exoskeleton glows eerily beneath his synthetic skin.

In the distance, someone shouts, “Bomb! Bomb! Get out of the wa?—”

I freeze. No .

The world around me shatters.

Glass, pavement, and metal fly through the air, accompanied by a deafening roar. The blast throws me backward into the street. I hit the cement like a ragdoll. My bones rattle, and my body pulses in waves of sharp pain. My ringing ears tune out everything around me. In a daze, I see only dust and blood. Warmth and wetness trickle down my face where I’ve been cut by debris.

That android detonated himself. He blew himself up. What is happening?

Past that constant ringing, faint and far away, horrified screams cut through my consciousness. I stare blankly upward, incapable of processing what’s happening around me. When I turn my head, my vision swims with bodies. They lay motionless, some intact, others torn apart with missing limbs, their clothes shredded by shrapnel. The street beneath them is steeped in blood.

Some demonstrators stand still, stunned by what they’ve seen, smartphones out. Others run, fleeing in panicked droves.

But as my gaze drifts down the road, most people are rushing forward. The police, clad in riot gear, cast aside their holo-shields, boots pounding against the street. My head pulses as I watch several of them jump the remaining android and his handler. One of them grabs the male robot by his throat. But he doesn’t fight. Instead, he powers down instantly.

The only android remaining is the female, standing among the carnage, looking eerily like an angel in her periwinkle evening gown with her neutral expression and gaze turned forward.

Where are my parents?

I try to push myself up, but my limbs are weak and shaking. I can barely manage to lift my head. Pain stabs at my temples. I groan, trying to shake myself awake, but the stupor won’t leave me.

A pair of powerful arms gently hooks beneath my shoulders and pulls me upward. “You’re injured.” The deep voice in my ear is faint beneath the ringing. His words are almost gruff, but there’s an unmistakable gentleness behind them. “Let’s get you out of the street. My scans indicate you may have suffered a concussion.”

There are so many injured people in the street. Dozens.

My stomach churns, bile in my throat. “He killed them,” I whisper.

My rescuer sets me to rest against a nearby lamp post. “Don’t look,” he replies. “I want you to focus on your shoes. Try to stay awake.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s all right. Just tell me your name.”

My name. What’s my name?

“Katrina Carson,” I manage and look up.

Vibrant white irises stare back at me levelly, showing nothing. No fear, concern, or disdain. Exactly what one might expect of a machine. His dark synthetic hair is slightly disheveled. Dust and splinters of glass litter his shoulders, on his trench coat.

An android. Inhuman. But not just any android.

It’s . . . him. Dr. Lewis’s creation. My dad’s friend, who with Algrove Schroeder made . . .

I remember you, I want to say. I remember.

He shouldn’t be here with me. It’s dangerous, like it was for the female model before. My mind is jumbled. I should pull away. I should be afraid. But he helped me even though he probably understands why I’m here. What I stand for.

I should thank him. Shouldn’t I? That’s what any decent person would do. I’d like to think that’s what I am...

“Katrina,” he repeats. The gentleness in his low voice remains. “I’m Ezra, model BNP99. I’m with the NCPD’s Artificial Crime Unit. Emergency services are already en route.”

“My parents—” I begin, my throat dry and my tongue like cotton. I can’t get the rest of the words out. I know who you are.

“Robert Carson and his wife were far from the blast,” Ezra replies. “We’ve secured the perimeter. You’ll be with them soon. Remain here.”

His coat billows behind him as he walks away to see to another victim, one splayed across the sidewalk who needs far more attention than I do. I rub blood from my face, finding a gash in my forehead above my eyebrow. Sirens whine in the distance. I’m left to my thoughts, my fears, and wondering where we went wrong.

Humanity First was meant to be a symbol of perseverance and justice.

What are we now?