Ezra (New Carnegie Androids #6)

Chapter 1 #3

I hear stories of people a century ago striking out on their own at eighteen, being able to buy their own houses by twenty-one, becoming financially secure at twenty-five.

That hardly sounds real.

These days, people can’t afford to move out of their parents’ home when they’ve graduated college, much less at eighteen.

Economically, I can easily attribute it to a distinct lack of trade schools, as well as inflation that climbs almost as much as the national debt ceiling.

Even so, I don’t know how they did it back then.

These days, the only people moving out before thirty either have one hell of a job or a house full of willing roommates.

I’m lucky in that regard—I have a good employer.

My bright, shiny, happy career was supposed to be my means of filling my coffers and eventually seeing the world, studying abroad.

I have no idea what’s going to happen.

I wish I could leave for Europe right this second.

If only.

I can hardly abandon Humanity First now.

I’ve allowed myself to cry until my eyes are heavy.

What’s left in me is little more than anger—anger that nobody’s been listening to us, dismissing us as radicals or troublemakers. We’ve had some bad eggs, a few people taking matters into their own hands, sure. We can’t control everyone; fortunately, the worst offenders usually get caught by the authorities.

Media likes to paint us as violent.

Yes, some of our marches have devolved into riots, scuffles with the police, arrests.

But we always condemn them.

We bar offenders like that from our events, if we can.

Humanity First hasn’t bombed or killed anyone.

Why does it take people losing their lives for us to be heard?

I push such thoughts away.

I’m far too exhausted to keep thinking about these things.

I want to be safe, see my mom and dad, decompress, maybe cry into a few pillows when nobody’s looking.

The farther I travel from the museum and the bustle of New Carnegie, the better I feel, like weight is lifting from my shoulders, little by little.

Mellon Fields is a decent suburb, and my parents’ home is spacious and comfortable, tucked away in a cul-de-sac in an affluent neighborhood, far from the crime and noise of New Carnegie’s thick steel heart.

The moment I step through the front door, my dad’s there, holding his tablet. He swiftly sets it down on a nearby entryway table. “Jesus, Kitty, I was on my way to get you.”

He throws his arms around me and pulls me into a hug so strong, my back cracks. And that’s just before my weeping mother catapults into the both of us, tightening the embrace.

“We were so worried.”

Her normally perfect mascara is running. “I was pacing ruts into the kitchen floor.”

She pulls away and cups my face. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

I half-heartedly wave my bandaged hands. “Just a few cuts and bruises. I might need to get a tetanus shot, but I promise I’m okay.”

My attempts to assuage her don’t save me from her assault of kisses on my cheeks and brow. “Mom. Mom! I said I’m okay. Really. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, but it’s one I’m happy to tell if it makes her worry less.

“The city’s implementing a mandatory curfew,”

Dad says gravely, brushing dust from my hair. “My god. How close were you to the blast?”

“Too close. I was in the bathroom,”

I admit. “Had I not been, well?—”

“She’s alive,”

Mom interjects. “I don’t want to hear about that. I’ve aged ten years in one night as it is. Is nothing safe from these TerraPura monsters?”

“What about your coworkers?” Dad asks.

“Arnold is okay. So is Di,”

I reply. “My friend Zoey, one of the guides, was taken to the hospital with several others. It’s too early to say right now.”

“It’s the march all over again.”

My mother locks the front door and ushers us farther into the house. “Stay away from the windows.”

“There’s no reason for that kind of paranoia,”

Dad reassures her but doesn’t fight it as we head into the living room. The tablet in his hands currently displays news about the attack on the museum, as well as a muted live feed of reporters on the scene. “I’ve been very careful about our home address. Nobody knows where we live.”

“This man is going to be the death of me,”

Mom says with a weary sigh. “It never hurts to be careful.”

“We need to make sure we address this.”

Though Dad’s voice is calm, the rumbling volcano beneath his surface—his anger, resentment, conviction—are just moments from exploding. “I’ll reach out to our communications team, ensure we issue a public statement. As if battling these goddamn androids wasn’t enough, now we have these end-of-the-world psychopaths using them to kill people. This has TerraPura written all over it.”

“Robert, your blood pressure,”

Mom warns him, her attention still on me. “Katrina, I’m glad you’re all right, but I wish you both would listen to me for once. We all need to be more careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have to explore the possibility that our family might be a target for these terrorists,”

she says. “What if they were after you, and they know where you work?—”

“Mom, nobody was targeting us specifically at that rally. We know that,”

I reply. “There was a huge story on it. They were after Nick Kane, the CEO and founder of EverFed. He and his wife were the targets in that attack, and the TerraPura android detonated because?—”

“Because Humanity First wouldn’t let them get away with beating a man near to death and stealing his property,”

Dad finishes for me with a slow sigh. “I remember.”

“Besides,”

I add, “I can’t put everything on hold because a bunch of android-worshippers happened to target the museum. This is what terrorists do, Mom. I won’t let them control my life.”

“And if something happens to you?”

Mom cuts in heatedly. “If you’re injured, or God forbid, you died? What are we to do then?”

“Dying free is better than living in fear,”

I say. I can’t back down from this argument. Mom means well, but if she had her way, I’d be locked away in a velvet-padded ivory tower somewhere. “Mom, I’m scared out of my mind. My hands are still trembling. But folding under all of this? Now? I can’t. I’m finally finding myself and what makes me happy outside of Humanity First. I support this cause, same as you both, but lately it feels like...”

I fall silent, searching for the words and sensing the weight of my parents watching me. I don’t know how many times the three of us have gathered here in this living room, debated over everything from politics and religion to why green bean casserole is literally the most disgusting food ever made. I’m lucky that every argument, every moment of bickering, came from a place of love instead of hatred or a desire for control.

“Feels like what?”

Dad presses.

“It’s like it’s become my entire personality, who I am,”

I finish reluctantly. “I had all of these dreams. These ambitions since long before Schroeder screwed you over, Dad, and built BioNex.”

He tenses when I drop the name, and I carry on quickly. “I know we’re fighting for the right thing, but I finally had something that was mine, you know? I could work and dream of the day I get my degree, board a plane to France, and study what I love. It’s fine that neither of you get why I love it, but?—”

“Never apologize for your passions,”

Mom cuts in. “We’ve always been supportive. Just because we don’t understand it doesn’t mean it isn’t yours.”

“Thank you.”

I settle down a little, reassured they’re listening to me. “Dad’s right. I think this is TerraPura. I’ll be surprised if the police announce anything else. And sowing chaos is what they want. They’d love it if we bunkered down and never left the house. We’re their loudest critics. The museum is closed for now, but I’m going to reach out to Arnold tomorrow, see if there’s anything I can do.”

“Let him know we’ll be holding a fundraiser for the victims.”

Dad strokes the graying stubble on his chin. “I’ll start planning a gala. High society can’t resist an opportunity for good publicity, so they won’t refuse. We’ll show the city we can come together in the face of adversity. People have forgotten we aren’t just a city of industry. We’re a community. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. It’s always been that way.”

My heart is a little lighter at his words. “Save some of that for your interview with the New Carnegie Times .”

It’s a thin attempt at humor, but if I don’t laugh soon at something, I’ll cry. And I’m far too exhausted to do that at the moment.

He scoffs. “Oh, no doubt they’ll be contacting me for comments.”

He studies me. “You’re an adult, Kat. I’m not going to sit here and tell you what you can or can’t do. You work hard, and I know some aspects of what we do can’t be easy for a young woman of your caliber.”

“You’re ridiculously biased,”

I point out.

“I am. And I’m very proud of you,”

Dad replies. “All of your accomplishments, the way you chase what you want. I’m prouder still that you took the time to raise your voice with Humanity First and say enough . You’re more than welcome to help me put together this fundraiser if you need something to do. But I won’t ask you or force you to do it. It’s your life. You need to live it as you see fit.”

“I know,”

I reply. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it through this.”

Even though I’m not sure I believe the words myself, it’s important to say them aloud. It gives them more power that way. “I’m going to shower and try to settle down.”

“Are you hungry?” Mom asks.

“Not even a little bit,”

I admit. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

It won’t. Not today. The images of dying and injured people in that crumbling café are too fresh, still at the forefront of my every thought, even while we have this conversation. I don’t think I could eat a single bite of anything if I tried. Leaving my parents to another conversation, I slip away.

Rationally, I know I’m allowed to be a mess right now after what I’ve been through. Twice.

Water cascades over me as I stand in the shower, staring at the wall, replaying the moment I felt the blast in the bathroom, heard the shrieks and screams of patrons fleeing, saw the bodies and rubble on the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push them out.

I’m alive. I can’t let this eat me away on the inside. People need my help.

But those sounds, those images, are burned into my mind, and the harder I try to push them away, the harder they push back. I try to think of something else, anything else. I glance down at my hand, having removed the bandages. The hot water stings a little, but I ignore it, allowing my mind to take me elsewhere. To the conversation I had on the museum steps as NCPD’s android detective tended to my wounds.

Ezra.

Twice now, he’s helped me. I wonder if it’s because of his programing, but the pro-bionics have already proven how adaptive their robotic counterparts are. I’ve seen videos of androids playing with kittens, saving human beings from getting hit by cars. Belmont County has a new firefighter bionic, and he’s apparently jumped into burning buildings to save people. Maybe it starts off as something artificial, an algorithm, a computer code—but artificial intelligence has come a long way since its initial inception.

I’ve pointed it out to Dad before. He hates that, but he acknowledges it. Androids learn. And quickly.

Regardless of Ezra’s reasons for cleaning my wounds, it’s odd how his face is clearest in my mind. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed brow, thin mouth. Not because he doesn’t have a set of lips, but because he just looks so serious, like his jaw is clenched so hard the metal beneath his synthetic skin might as well be melded together. As though the weight of what happened is heavy on his shoulders too.

Which suggests another possibility. Androids can feel. Not only are they self-aware, they also know what it’s like to be encumbered with worry and responsibility. BioNex is really out here, helping us all replace ourselves for fun. It’s simultaneously incredible and frightening.

When I focus on him, I can’t explain it. It helps. All the horrors I witness fade just a little until he’s in perfect clarity. I think about his white eyes. The sound of his voice, his words in my head.

“A scapegoat.”

I repeat his words softly to myself. “For the world we’ve made.”

Where did he learn to talk like that? What’s more, why can’t I argue with that statement? People have always found ways to screw one another over for myriad reasons. Names of infamous industrialists—more accurately, robber barons—are built into the very foundations of New Carnegie. Carnegie, himself, was one such man. Vanderbilt, Astor, Morgan—the list goes on. Taking advantage of the poor, skirting corners, creating horrible working conditions, causing deaths.

Replacing humans with androids is the next step in the evolution of our greed.

If anyone asked me, I could agree robots can be dangerous, yes. Not just because we put too much emphasis and faith on technology rather than the hard work of our own hands, but because our society—in the US, anyway—is already imbalanced between the ultra-rich and the very poor. BioNex has done nothing but embolden those who should be regulated and reined in.

I step out of the shower and dry off, then wrap a towel around my waist and slip into my bedroom. My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I pick it up, seeing a text from Diana.

Good news. Zoey is awake.

Perking up, I shoot off a quick response. How is she?

Doctors are saying she’s one of the lucky ones because she’s in one piece. They’ll be keeping her overnight for observation, then they plan on sending her home.

I almost don’t want to ask the next question, but I must. How many are dead?

Four. With another in very critical condition.

I sink onto my bed. Four people. Four innocent people who came to our museum to revisit the past and make a better future. One of them could’ve been me, another close call, narrowly missed. I’m so sorry.

This isn’t your fault. Nobody blames you. I know it’s difficult but do what you can to rest.

I bow my head, overcome with guilt, and lie down, staring at the ceiling. My mind keeps revisiting the bombings. Maybe there was something I missed. If I’d been paying more attention, perhaps I could’ve shouted an alarm or stopped it from happening. I rub my face. I’m no action hero. I’ve never caught a bullet for a friend or lifted a car. But I could’ve pushed harder for safer security measures.

If I continue to dwell on it, I’ll start spiraling. I try to take Diana’s words to heart. I couldn’t have prevented this. I’m not to blame.

I can’t be. Can I?

BioNex is the problem. It always has been. It’s bad enough they’re churning out androids for factories, robbing good people of their livelihoods. But BioNex made TerraPura possible.

One is dead set on money; the other, human subjugation.

It’s like they’re both determined to tear the nation apart, if not the entire world. And we’re caught in the middle, just trying to hold on.

The following morning, I wake up to find Dad alone in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee while he scrolls through the New Carnegie Times . He’s done that every day since I was a child. He used to tell me about how the news used to be printed on paper and sold at gas stations. Now that most vehicles are powered by a mixture of solar and electric energy, I’ve only seen a few still operating. Most have been remodeled into purely convenience shops.

After pouring myself a glass of orange juice, I sit with him.

“Did you sleep?”

His voice is still gravelly from lack of use.

“Barely,”

I admit. “I couldn’t shut my mind down.”

“Neither could I.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“You know her,”

he replies, sipping his coffee. “Can’t take a day off when you’re running for district attorney.”

Mom is one of the most powerful criminal prosecutors in New Carnegie. Even though she’s humble about it, I have no doubt she’ll win when the time comes.

“There are five dead now,”

Dad says gravely, resting his tablet on the table and drumming his fingers next to it. “We’ll need to move quickly to help these families.”

“I had the same idea,”

I say. “How can I help?”

“You can help by taking it easy,”

Dad says. “I’ve got this handled.”

“What do you mean? I’m fine, Dad.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, about how Humanity First has gotten in the way of your life.”

Dad stares down, as though the cup of coffee is heavy in his hand. “This is my fight, Kitty. It doesn’t have to be yours.”

“Dad, I was just venting,”

I say. “You really think I could walk away from all of this now? No. I can’t. Yes, I’d like to see a life for me after all this that isn’t about arguing with foolish people about androids, but I’m needed here. And I can help.”

Dad doesn’t look convinced, studying me. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,”

I insist. “I promise.”

He nods a little. “Okay. You work on that fundraiser. Post it everywhere. Let’s mobilize this city to do some good for a change.”

He sets his cup down. “We might consider putting off your moving out. Just with how things are.”

“We can’t,”

I reply. “I already paid the deposit and signed the lease.”

“We can break it,”

he says. “And your mother and I will cover the costs.”

“No. I’m sorry, but no. I told Mom last night, and I’m telling you now.”

I rest my hand over my dad’s to still his agitated fingers. “I can’t and won’t put my life on hold. I’ll be fine. Really. I promise.”

Dad sighs. “I just wish you’d reconsider.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t shake this guilt. I was going to be there yesterday. Perhaps I could’ve done something to avoid all of this.”

“I felt the same way.”

Now that I can think more clearly, I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up my PhotoGram account. “Dad...what if we were the reason?”

“What do you mean?”

he asks, frowning.

I pull up a selfie of us I made him take with me at his last Humanity First rally, right after we finished speaking to a large crowd in the Astor Arena. I posted it with the caption “ looking forward to lunch with Dad today, can’t wait! ”

I often post things like that. I have a pretty large following, and it’s always been important to me that I humanize my family when the media, at times, loves to paint us like angry folks yelling at nothing in the sky.

“I posted this yesterday morning,”

I tell him, showing it to him. “And the blast happened shortly after noon. In the café.”

Dad furrows his brow. He’s silent for a moment. “We would’ve been eating in the café?”

“Yes,”

I reply. “Non-employees aren’t allowed in the breakroom, and you can’t walk around with food in the museum.”

“It’s possible,”

he grunts, leaning back. Dark troubles are painted on his face, as clear as fresh colors on a canvas. “What did you tell the police?”

“Only what I knew at the time. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,”

I say. “I’ll call them.”

“Good. I’ll make a few calls myself. Ramsey Feldman is typically in charge of my social media. He might have shared your post to my platform. Maybe he saw something strange.”

I nod swiftly. “I’ll call Ashley Barnes.”

“My PR consultant?”

“Yes. After I talk to the police, I’ll ask her what she thinks we could do to make sure the message doesn’t get lost in all of this.”

“It may be best that we get away from New Carnegie for a few days. All of us,”

Dad replies. “I’ll call your mother.”

I rush up to my room, dialing quickly. I place the phone down and put it on speaker as I make my bed and fetch a duffel bag from my closet. I’m just happy Dad believes me.

“Call the New Carnegie Police Department’s non-emergency number,”

I call to my phone.

An artificial voice responds to me. “Calling now.”

After a few rings, a young woman picks up. “New Carnegie Police Department. How can I direct your call?”

“I need to talk to Detective Washington or Detective Ezra,”

I say. “It’s urgent.”

“Who is this?”

I’m getting ahead of myself. “Sorry, it’s Katrina Carson. It’s about the bombing yesterday. I have some information I forgot to tell them when we spoke. Can you connect me to one of them?”

“That’s not really the way it works,”

the officer replies. By her tone, she’s had a hell of a morning already. “I can take down a message and pass it along, but all of our officers are very busy.”

“Okay. Sure. It’s—”

I’ve got my shirt halfway over my head when I hear a loud noise in the kitchen, and it makes me jump. I look around, confused as I pull my shirt down. “Hang on a second.”

That sounded like a firecracker. No, something else.

A gunshot. But that can’t possibly be—not here. Not at home.

My muscles tense. I grab the phone. Movement in the front yard draws me to my bedroom window. A man in dark clothes runs away from my house, glancing over his shoulder. I see the glint of white irises when our eyes meet.

Within moments he’s out of my sight. My blood runs cold.

“Ma’am?”

the officer asks. “Are you still there?”

“Dad?”

I rush out my bedroom door, calling louder frantically. “Dad!”

Why isn’t he answering?

“Dad!”

I shout, skidding down the stairs and around the corner, flying through the house toward the kitchen.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

the officer demands.

Dad is lying on the kitchen floor, face down.

The world around me stops. I forget to breathe. This has to be a nightmare.

But I hear the officer demanding my answer, and I know this is nothing I’ve imagined. It’s real.

With a shriek, I go to him and nearly slip. The tiles are slick with crimson. “He’s been shot. My dad’s been shot. Please send help.”

Blood is everywhere.

“Try to stay calm,”

the officer says. “I’ve got your location. I’m sending emergency services now. Is the shooter still in the house?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. Please hurry.”

I try to control my breathing, doing what I can to roll him over. “He’s bleeding out. H-he’s been hit in the chest.”

“Put pressure on the wound and keep it there. They’ll be there in seven minutes. Stay on the phone with me until then.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Sobbing, I push my trembling hands down on the bullet hole that’s gone through my dad’s clothes. He groans. Warmth gushes around my palms, and I squeeze my eyes shut to fend off the spinning in my head.

“It’s okay,”

I whisper, both to him and myself. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving. Just stay awake, Dad. Stay awake.”

As my thoughts swim, on the precipice of panic, I plead with the officer on the phone, “I-I need the ACU. I need Ezra. Please send Ezra. I think the shooter was an android.”