Ezra (New Carnegie Androids #6)

Chapter 2

[ 2 ]

Ezra

An elderly woman in sweatpants and an oversized shirt stares at me from her front door a few apartments down as I stand in the corridor, carrying a large glass jug of chocolate milk in one hand and a dozen glazed chocolate doughnuts in the other.

“Anytime now, Rose,”

I mutter, staring back at the woman as she squints at me suspiciously while slowly withdrawing back into her apartment. The neighbors around here make it plain they don’t like me, even though I stop by to see Jayne regularly, usually bearing gifts of sweets or pastries. One of these days, I’m going to make a bet with Jayne and win. So far, wagers are not my strong suit.

Which is frustrating.

Jayne’s door chimes and automatically opens for me to step through. She sits in her sleek state-of-the-art wheelchair, already dressed for work, but her hair is still tied up in a small towel.

She waves at me with a smile. “Morning, Ezra—ooh, are those chocolate?”

Her eyes shine as she rolls toward me, hands extended. “Come to mummy.”

I hand over the box, and she indulges in a doughnut, eyes rolling back in delight. “I wish you had a stomach. Doughnuts are the best thing to come out of the twentieth century, I swear,”

she says through a mouthful in her typically chipper Irish lilt. “I’m guessing you found something a little strange in the museum video evidence that got submitted, like I said you might?”

“Yes, obviously,”

I reply as I help myself to a glass in Jayne’s cupboards, pour her some milk, and then put the jug away in her fridge.

“As I suspected,”

Jayne says with a sniff. “I was right all along. Something about all of this is fishy. And your horse isn’t quite as high as you thought it was, was it?”

“We’ll see,”

I reply. “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Rose.”

“Why?”

Jayne asks, then drinks deeply from her glass.

“I don’t even ride horses.”

She chokes on her milk and sputters, chuckling as she sets it aside. “Fucksake, that almost came out my nose, Ezra, you shite. You know that’s just a turn of phrase.”

“I do,”

I reply with a smirk. “Just know how easily entertained you are.”

The sun is already up, streaming through Jayne’s windows. After what happened at the museum yesterday, I haven’t so much as gone into standby. There’s so much to do, so much to investigate, especially when it comes to tracking down and flushing out TerraPura cultists. Standby, for me, is something that happens for only a few hours a day when I’m with Deion. As a BNP99, my battery lasts longer than any other model. I don’t need to recharge nearly as often, and only for half as long.

Even now, as I sit on Jayne’s couch while she finishes her breakfast, I’ve got research up on the left side of my optic feed, comparing older cases with the one from yesterday. It’s only the second bombing on US soil where an android was made into a weapon, but such attacks have been rampant in England, Ireland, and France as recently as a month ago.

TerraPura is growing.

But humans need rest, and often distraction from their work, no matter how intense an investigation is. They miss things if they push themselves too hard. I don’t. So when Jayne wants to wager, that’s what she gets. She’s the only one in the ACU I consider a friend beyond the Washington family. I feel like it’s my place to care for her too.

And we wagered on the possibility of evidence tampering. Jayne knows TerraPura better than anyone else. It seemed unlikely to me. But she’s onto something.

“So? Any news on the romance front?”

“None at all,” I reply.

“Seriously? I thought you had a date a couple weeks ago. What was her name? Jenna? Julia?”

“Canceled. I’m done with all of that. I just don’t have time.”

“Care to make a wager?”

“A dozen doughnuts aren’t enough for you?”

I motion to her opened box.

“Please. There aren’t enough doughnuts in the world to satisfy me,”

Jayne replies. “Come on, I’ll be nice with this one.”

I sigh. “Name your wager.”

“You’ll have a girlfriend by the end of the year,”

Jayne declares.

That makes me snort. “A bit risky for you, isn’t it?”

“Come on, I see how hard you work. You need cuddles on the couch, just like everyone else.”

I’m reluctant to agree to this. It’s more personal than our normal wagers. I’m wondering what brought this about. “I’m perfectly fine by myself.”

Of course, I’ve slept with women. I made certain they enjoyed themselves, and I had a good time too. The opportunity of something more, the possibility of affection beyond sex was originally something of interest to me. But nothing can come before my job. It’s rare that I have time off. Most women don’t like that. I’m not sure anyone would.

“Don’t say that. You’ll find someone,”

Jayne insists as she lets her damp hair down, smiling at me. “I have a very good feeling.”

“You always have a good feeling.”

“Because I’m a fucking optimist, so I am. Come on, Ezra. There’s an entire movement out there of people who accept androids as individuals. Plenty of high-profile people date or even marry androids! That could be you.”

“I’m not a domestic droid,”

I say, as I have before. “I don’t have the freedom of following around a potential partner twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five.”

“And I’m telling you, it’s going to happen. She’s gonna fall in your lap when you least expect it.”

Jayne snags another doughnut from the box. “And in the meantime, you can keep being my personal delivery boy and bringing me doughnuts because I win.”

“This time. For once, you might actually lose.”

“Not a chance.”

The noise she makes when she takes a bite is almost sexual. I’ll never understand that reaction with food. It must be really good. “You’ll see. I gotta finish getting ready. I’ll see you at work?”

“Hang on.”

I rise as a call streams in through my video feed. It’s Deion. My systems rouse quickly, like a jolt of electricity, eager to be useful. “What do you need?”

“Get to Mellon Fields Emergency Center ASAP. Half the ACU is headed there already. I’ll be there soon. Just squaring away Rashelle and the kids.”

I frown. “What is it?”

“Robert Carson’s been shot.”

I’m already out the door.

Baffled, Jayne calls after me, “Fucksake, what’s happened now?”

“Turn on your TV,”

I call back, breezing past that same suspicious neighbor’s door just as she opens it to watch me leave.

My black unmarked police cruiser is on autopilot, carrying me to the hospital as quickly as possible as I look back over the past twenty-four hours and try to make sense of everything that’s happened.

I’m the first BNP99 to ever be commissioned to a police department, and the only one currently utilized by the NCPD’s Artificial Crime Unit. This gives me certain exceptions to the rules, specifically the new executive order handed down by President McKinley that restricts android movement and requires ownership.

First, my badge allows me to move freely without human escort, though I usually remain at Deion’s side by choice. My vehicle is owned by the precinct, of course. Property, like me. But it serves me well. Second, I’ve never had an inhibitor chip, and I never will. I am and always have been more lethal than any organic man.

Deion Washington is my partner, and my appointed owner in name only.

Business ownership wasn’t quite an option when I was rolled out.

When a teacher in some small town in Illinois won a lawsuit against a school district stating she was the owner of her teaching assistant bionic, the commissioner went ahead and had lawyers iron out some paperwork bogged down in legal jargon and all but forced Deion to sign my registration.

The gist of it all is that Deion’s name is on it, but the city technically owns me.

He can’t ever free me or retire me of his own volition.

Only Commissioner Winters can do that, and only if Chief Jacobs is on board with it.

It’s not something I think about often, mostly because I don’t need to.

I enjoy what I do. My gratification drive, all my processors, are primed for this service. Decay isn’t an option. Neither is retirement.

I’m going to be in law enforcement for a very, very long time.

I prefer it that way.

Humans will always need me.

I’ve closed more cases than any detective in the history of the department.

My presence here has increased productivity so much that other departments are taking notice of how we run things.

We are the most disciplined and proactive part of the NCPD because I don’t need to take breaks like the others do, and the other detectives can sleep easy knowing I’m on it and come back to work refreshed with clear minds.

Almost everyone has gotten used to my presence and come to appreciate my contributions, except a select few. But I try not to let them live in my memory banks.

Activating automatic navigation, I answer another call streaming in from Deion. “Tell me what you have. Was the daughter also shot?”

“No. She’s with him at the ER.”

Katrina Carson. I pull up the footage of her, recorded automatically into my memory banks from our exchange in front of the museum, when her slender hands were covered in glass splinters. Our interactions have only ever occurred after an attack or an emergency of some kind. Still, I was quietly surprised by how civil she was, considering how much of Humanity First behaves.

She didn’t throw a tantrum, swear, call me slurs, or tear me down. She was wary of me, of course, but after two explosive bionics taking the lives of innocent people, I can’t entirely blame her.

“And Carson?”

“He survived surgery. Tough old cuss.”

That’s Deion watching his language. There’s a swear jar at home—Rashelle’s doing. “So I could be right.”

“Yes, of course you could be,”

Deion replies. “You’re almost always right.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You want to know something crazy?”

“Dealing with these crazy cyber-worshipping freaks isn’t enough?”

I answer dryly.

“She asked for you,”

Deion says.

“Who did?”

“The Carson girl. Katrina. It’s on the recording. She called the non-emergency line just before it happened. You can hear a shot fired in the background, plain as day.”

I access it within moments from the precinct’s audio archives and play the entire call through my system as I rest my hands on the steering wheel of my cruiser.

“ I-I need ACU. I need Ezra. Please send Ezra. I think the shooter was an android .”

I pause. I didn’t imagine that. I play it again.

She needs me?

That’s an odd thing to say for a woman whose entire platform is focused on doing away with me and my kind. Still, I must acknowledge her bravery. Her fear was palpable throughout the call, but she didn’t panic.

“Not even twenty-four hours after the bombing at the museum,”

I say quietly.

Deion agrees. “Murder attempts are rarely random. This is the third time an act of terrorism or violence has occurred near one or more of the Carsons. What do they all have in common?”

“Robert and Katrina Carson,”

I reply. “Any hunches?”

“The one I have is too farfetched.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“She could be TerraPura herself,”

Deion muses. “We can’t dismiss any possibility.”

“I don’t think so. I’d be able to sense something strange with her vitals. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No cagey behavior or indication of deception. She was shaken, obviously, but that was all I scanned.”

“Still, we can’t discount anything. She was just out of reach of that blast last year. Being she’s Humanity First’s favorite sweetheart, her little anti-android tirades might mean she’s a good actress. Can you pull up anything about her background?”

Deion asks.

I search the internet and public records for her. “She’s employed by the Natural History Museum, listed on their website as Assistant Curator. She has a degree from Carnegie South University with a major in Archaeology and a master’s degree in Paleoanthropology. Honor student. Almost perfect GPA.”

“Doesn’t really scream TerraPura, does it? Does she have a record?”

“A few parking tickets downtown and a traffic stop for speeding. Nothing unusual.”

Deion’s voice hums through my audio feed. “Well, now we really have zero leads. You’ll need to be careful.”

“Understood.”

I signal my car to switch destinations without even needing to lift a finger. The holo-GPS shimmers and continues guiding my drive to Mellon Fields Emergency Hospital. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Ezra.”

“What?”

“Be nice.”

I snort, ending the call and focusing on the passing New Carnegie skyline, the Vanderbilt Bridge, and the shimmering river beneath it.

Be nice , he said. It’s literally a behavior etched in my programming. I am always nice .

But nice is subjective. I’ll be nice on my terms. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better.

Part of being an investigator is knowing when to ask the questions, not just how and where.

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 intellect and 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 read Keep Your Droids, Give Me Healthcare and Our Lives First , hats in Humanity First’s turquoise and gold colors, even holo-stickers on the bumpers of cars reading Support Human Businesses, or Remember 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.”