Ezra (New Carnegie Androids #6)

Chapter 2 #3

Pro-bionic folks say that’s a kind of slur now.

It doesn’t particularly bother me.

Deion, however, treats it seriously and refuses to leave it alone if anyone refers to me like that.

He stands up for me.

I won’t be able to accompany him home, one of the few places I’m truly safe and wanted.

His house is loud and filled with life, with Rashelle and their three children.

The kids are all young and used to try my patience with the way they crawl all over me whenever we arrive home.

It’ll be strange to be without that evening routine I’ve come to expect every night.

I’m accustomed to Deion’s friendly and chatty nature, whether about serious or trivial matters. The silence now bothers me too. I’m not usually the one required to strike up conversation.

“How’s your friend doing?”

Katrina turns away from the window to look at me. “What?”

“Your friend. The one injured in the bombing on Friday.”

Aside from the occasional car lazily gliding on by, the streets are dead quiet. People are taking the city-wide curfew seriously.

We roll to a stop in front of a red light. Katrina still stares at me, seeming puzzled. I stare back. “What?”

“Nothing, just—didn’t expect you to inquire.”

I mimic a sigh, a simple enough gesture of annoyance with or without lungs, and remind myself to be patient. She doesn’t know me, and I certainly don’t know her. “Human health is still a primary part of my programming, Miss Carson. I’m designed to care.”

Katrina seems to weigh whether or not she wants to respond. “Zoey’ll be fine.”

She leans back in her seat. “She’s home now. Others weren’t so lucky.”

I nod, focusing on the road, and place my hands on the wheel. I activate manual driving to stay alert, ensuring I take longer routes and odd turns to get to our destination in case we’re being tailed.

Katrina shifts. “About the nurse.”

“Hmm?”

“She called you master.”

I shake my head. “TerraPura believes in full android superiority. Since mankind is ruining the earth, we’re the ones who should be stewards of it. Fix humanity’s mistakes.”

“That’s a little absurd, don’t you think?”

“Is it?”

I glance at her. Does she value my opinion, or is this just a turn of phrase?

“She just accepted you as some kind of robot overlord. I mean, she didn’t even protest when you ordered her around.”

“Smart woman,”

I reply evenly.

“Oh, very funny,”

she says, folding her arms with a soft chuckle. “I suppose you probably loved every minute of it.”

“I did,”

I say, quite unapologetic. “Makes my job easier.”

Katrina shakes her head in disapproval.

Her reaction amuses me. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I’m revered by a delusional cult that turns androids into bombs out of a sense of self-righteousness,”

I reply. “Not exactly a compliment. You, on the other hand, don’t need to worship machines to have a sea of angry men fighting to eat out of your hand.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Katrina wrinkles her brows.

“Exactly what it sounds like,”

I say. “You’ve got Humanity First at your feet. Snap your fingers, ask them to jump, and I wager half your organization asks you how high. And I’d be willing to bet most of them are young males. Aren’t they?”

Katrina squints at me, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “I can’t decide if you’re complimenting me or accusing me of using my looks to sell an ideology.”

“A compliment. I wouldn’t accuse you of anything.”

“So you’re trying to tell me you think I’m pretty?”

Katrina doesn’t skip a beat.

“Aesthetically pleasing, to use proper bionic terminology,”

I correct. Machines know perfection when they see it, but I keep that to myself. She’s certainly more than pretty, especially when she’s flustered. I don’t anticipate that happens very often.

“Well—thank you, I suppose?”

She ruffles her hair. “I’ve never been complimented by an android. That’s definitely a new one.”

“You’ve complimented me before.”

“So this was what, exactly? A way of saying we’re even?”

“In a way.”

I’m admittedly winding her up on purpose, seeing how she reacts to me. A little test of her patience and personality. I’m amused, but also surprised at how she takes my words in stride, without disgust.

Is she really as anti-android as everyone thinks she is?

Algrove Schroeder owns several structures in New Carnegie, thanks to his overflowing wealth from his business.

The two largest and primary buildings are BioNex headquarters, where his factory and laboratory are for the creation of androids, and more recently, BioNex Tower.

Billions of dollars went into the refurbishment of one of the oldest skyscrapers in town.

It was previously called Astor Tower due to its proximity to the large, ever-glowing, and now popular Astor Arena, home of the New Carnegie Barons NFL team.

Bionic Fighting League matches are also hosted there, bringing in revenue to the city.

Renamed after Schroeder’s corporation, it’s now the tallest building in New Carnegie’s vast riverside skyline, the company’s logo emblazoned in glowing white light.

Atop that same tower is Schroeder’s penthouse, overlooking the Vanderbilt River, the bridge, and the entire city. He could live like a monarch if he wanted to, surveying his kingdom from the top of his throne of steel and glass.

Katrina seems to still be in disbelief. “There is no way,”

she remarks as I park in the garage connected to the tower. “There’s no way he agreed to this. You don’t understand—my dad and Dr. Schroeder hate each other. I can’t stay here.”

She folds her arms obstinately.

All that does is push up her cleavage. I appreciate the view, though I’m far subtler than she was checking me out at the hospital. “It’s a place TerraPura will never think to look.”

“I can’t hide out in the android tower,”

she replies, exasperated. “It’s bad enough I have to be babysat by the one droid...”

“One droid what?”

I ask, frowning.

She switches tactics. “Can you imagine the outrage if Humanity First found out where I was? They’ll make assumptions, say we’ve been in league with BioNex this whole time. It could undermine everything we’ve worked for.”

“Your reputation within your own organization is not my concern. And for the record, I’m not happy about having to babysit you either,”

I answer. “But I’m following orders.”

I open my door, stalk around the cruiser, and open her door for her. “Out.”

“No,”

she counters defiantly. “I’m putting my foot down. I’ll stay anywhere else, but not here.”

“Put your foot down all you like. It won’t make a difference. Either get out, or I’ll be forced to assist you out.”

She squints at me. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“I don’t believe you,”

she says. “You’re programmed to care, right? You can’t make me do anything. It’d be against your directives.”

“It’s cute you think you know what my directives are, or how I prioritize them,”

I reply dryly. A temperature notification pops up in my visual feed, notifying me that a cooling process has begun. She’s stubborn. But so am I. “All right. I warned you.”

I reach into the car, unbuckle her seat, and pull her out of my cruiser like one might carry a bride. She flails as I straighten to my full height, her hands shooting to my shoulders to grip my trench coat tightly. “Hey! Wait!”

I snort to myself. I’m not sure why I equated holding her like this in some way to a bride. If anything, she’s being a pain in my ass right now. And yet, holding her close to me, her body pressed to mine...

I’m enjoying this, Katrina’s obstinance that gives me a reason to touch her. She doesn’t weigh much. At least, not to me. She gasps as I shift her in my arms, staring at me wide-eyed. She stops for a moment, her face flushing as we both still, gazing at each other. I’m not sure if she realizes her hand is resting on my chest.

“Put me down!”

she demands.

Heart rate increase. Temperature spike. Cheeks flushed pink as I hold her to my chest. Her words say one thing, but there’s something in her eyes that says another.

But I’m nothing if not nice . I release her. “Have it your way.”

She’d have fallen on her ass if she didn’t grab fistfuls of my lapels to steady herself. She staggers and finds her feet as I head for a glass elevator, then follows me. “I said put me down, not drop me!”

“You’ll have to be more specific in your commands next time.”

That pretty pink blush in her cheeks turns red. “Now you’re being deliberately obtuse.”

I imitate an artificial intelligence voice. “Sorry, I didn’t get that. Could you try again?”

I touch the button, and the elevator opens with a ding. “After you, Miss Carson.”

She stalks past me into the lift. “You’re something else.”

“Thank you,”

I say shortly as the doors smoothly shut behind us.

When the elevator opens, Katrina heads into the penthouse, heels clicking on the marble-tiled floor, chip still on her shoulder. We’re greeted by the sight of a decorous granite fountain in the center of a reception forum. All that bluster slowly fades as she stops in her tracks, taken aback by the sheer extravagance of BioNex’s founder’s urban home.

“This penthouse has to be at least fifty million dollars.”

“Seventy-five, according to market values.”

“And he doesn’t even live in it.”

She bristles. “While people are struggling to survive after losing their jobs. Even you have to see a problem with this picture.”

“I’m not paid for my opinions.”

I hang up my coat and remove my wet shoes as well.

“Ah! Good! You made it!”

A voice booms from the speakers through the entire penthouse, startling Katrina and reverberating uncomfortably through my circuitry. We both turn as a screen slowly descends from the ceiling. There, smiling broadly, is none other than the founder of BioNex himself.

“Mr. Schroeder,”

I greet calmly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Ezra, my boy! It has indeed. Let me have a good look at you.”

He peers far too closely into the camera, making his eyes look as though they’re popping out of his skull through his bifocals. “What’s it been? Four years now?”

“Three,”

I reply. Although I keep in close ties with BioNex through Dr. Taylor, I’ve only met Algrove Schroeder twice—when I was presented to the New Carnegie Police Department for the first time in the laboratory when I was made, and again when I was sworn in.

“You look shipshape! I’m glad.”

He turns his attention to Katrina, and his cheery smiles softens. “Katrina. How lovely it is to see you again.”

I glance at her curiously. She’s polite but guarded. “Hello, Dr. Schroeder.”

“I’m very sorry about what happened.”

“Thank you. It was kind of you to open your home up for my safety.”

Sympathy registers on Schroeder’s face, but it feels cold and stiff, likely the absence of his presence in front of us. “How is your father?”

“Alive, recovering in the hospital. He’s out of danger, the doctors say. My mom’s with him,”

Katrina replies.

“That’s good news,”

Schroeder says. “Rest assured, I’ll do anything I can for him and your mother. It’s the least I can do. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. It’s my son’s flat, but he won’t mind. You remember Liam?”

I’ve only met Liam Schroeder briefly over the years. Unlike his father, he’s rarely in the lab and doesn’t work on or collaborate in the design and creation of androids. I know very little about him otherwise. I step off to the side, sensing I should give Katrina some space during this conversation.

“Of course,”

she replies. “How is he? Last I heard, he was off partying in Beirut.”

“Well...”

Schroeder’s smile is thin and bleary. “He’s recently engaged. He and his fiancée are in New York. He’ll return in a few weeks, then he’ll be away again, undergoing treatment.”

Katrina seems to tread cautiously. “Treatment?”

“Pancreatic cancer. It’s terminal, I’m afraid.”

Katrina curls an arm around her stomach. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t expect you to. What happened between your father and me, I don’t think either of us wanted you and Liam to sever your friendship over it. For that, I truly am sorry.”

Troubled, Katrina doesn’t answer right away. There’s pain in her face, new and raw, different from the expression she’s been carrying over the past two days. She glances at me after composing herself. “You don’t have to apologize for that. I took a stand. Regardless, I hope his treatment goes well.”

“I’ll let him know you inquired about him,”

Schroeder reassures her. “Make yourself at home, Kat. It’s good to see you again. Stay safe.”

With that, the call ends. Katrina ruffles her hair. “Well, that was miserable.”

“I imagine so,” I reply.

“It’s crazy how things change.”

“I wasn’t aware you and the Schroeders were well-acquainted.”

Katrina nods. “He and my father were friends and worked together a long time ago. Liam and I attended the same schools. Then we had our falling out.”

Despite the pressure she’s under, Katrina didn’t give Schroeder the kind of hard time I would expect from an outspoken Humanity First personality. Her behavior is curious. If more of her followers were like her—level-headed, thoughtful—Humanity First might actually succeed in shifting its public perception.

But I’m aware, however distantly, how difficult it is for people to bring about change peacefully. And anger is a powerful motivator. “That must have been difficult for you.”

“A lot of things have been difficult,”

she admits. “But I’m still alive, I’m healthy, and I have a job waiting for me when this is all over.”

She looks at me. “I don’t think it’d be right for me to complain.”

While I’m not sure I agree, she drives on. “Anyway, I’m very tired all of a sudden.”

“You should rest. I’ll be here should you need anything.”

Katrina shuffles away as I explore the rest of the penthouse. I hear the quiet shutting of a door. When I come back out into the lounge area, she’s gone to the guest bedroom, and I’m left to continue my security inspection in silence.

I resolve to keep an eye on her. Human beings are undoubtedly resilient. But I don’t know of many outside of a war zone who have endured quite so much in such a short time frame.

I don’t have to assist her in anything. I’m purely tasked with ensuring she stays alive and safe. It’s possible she won’t appreciate my attempts to look after her well-being beyond that.

But it’s what’s right. And as much as my gratification drive would devour any praise from her, I don’t require it. Deion often says the measure of a good man is what he does when there is no acknowledgment or reward.

If nothing else, I can try to mitigate some of her stress.

Two days slog by where Katrina and I only speak to each other in passing.

Not because of any argument or disagreement or dislike on either of our parts, but because even without her job at the museum, she finds ways to remain busy.

I hear her in the guest room making calls left and right, speaking with her mother and father as he recovers, checking on friends, and putting together a fundraiser for the victims of the museum attack.

People can say whatever they want about the Carsons, but Katrina isn’t idle, lazy, or greedy.

Nothing gets past my ears.

From the moment she wakes up in the morning, she’s working, speaking to everyone from her college dean to a Humanity First contact on her dad’s communication team.

She talks to her mother quite a bit, and her phone is never far from her.

She checks it constantly, and her expression is always serious.

I have no doubt she’s worried about her father.

I consider inquiring but decide against it.

I’m still trying to make sense of this security footage.

The third morning, she emerges from her room to get herself water to drink and nothing else.

That concerns me, pulling me out of my own investigations, looking over all the information Deion and Jayne are gathering in my absence.

I’ve been watching her carefully when she wanders out into my view, and I haven’t seen her eat.

The last thing I need is Katrina fainting from lack of food on my watch.

“You should have some breakfast.”

She glances up, the silence between us finally ended. She ruffles her short-cropped hair. “I can’t.”

Frowning, I move aside my many programs to clear my optic screen, homing in on her. “What do you mean? Why not?”

“Look, I’m not trying to be difficult,”

she replies. “But I don’t have an appetite. I’m just doing what I can to stay hydrated.”

My gaze flits across her body and catches a tremor in her hand that she quickly hides behind her back. My processors whir, racing across medical and psychological journals while already anticipating the cause. Anxiety. Possible post-traumatic stress.

Katrina rests her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, avoiding my eyes.

“When was your last meal?” I ask.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Miss Carson,”

I repeat, sterner now.

She sighs. “Morning of the attack.”

I pull up an online food delivery service, scanning through all sorts of restaurants and grocery stores. “I’ve ordered soup, saltines, and fruits and vegetables you can eat raw. I’ve also placed a delivery request to a local smoothie joint just a mile south. You can take your time, but for the sake of your health, I’ll need you to drink one.”

Surprise registers on her face. “How’d you pay for that?”

“You’re under my protection,”

I reply. “The precinct will pick up the tab.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

She rubs her neck. “Thank you.”

My systems thrill so intensely at those two little words I have to start my cooling systems up. Knock it off . “You’re welcome.”

She comes out of the guest room again when the food arrives an hour later. I put the smoothie in front of her. “Eat.”

She doesn’t argue, picking it up and taking a sip. She nods at me. “Thank you.”

As she drinks, I strike up conversation. I tell myself it’s because I need to keep her here in front of me so I can ensure she gets enough to eat and drink to sustain her.

But it’s also because I want to see her. And I’m not sure how I feel about that realization crawling up my circuitry. “You’re organizing a fundraiser for the victims?”

“It’s the least I can do, considering my family is the reason for this whole mess.”

She stares out the window. It’s been raining and overcast for days, droplets scattered across every long window.

I’m already ordering her more food. She’s filling her stomach now, so I look for heartier alternatives in case her appetite returns with a vengeance. I’ve seen Jayne Rose eat a whole pizza and regret nothing. But pizza might upset her digestion tract in her current state, so I err on the side of caution with a rotisserie chicken, potatoes, and greens.

I’ve barely hit the confirmation command to send the order through when I swivel back to her. “What?”

She blinks at me. “What?”

“You’re not personally responsible for these attacks,”

I say. “Is that why you aren’t eating?”

“I guess so,”

she says. “I feel responsible. If I’d been more careful with my social media, it wouldn’t have happened. This is my responsibility.”

My biocomponent temperature regulator engages. A notification sweeps across my screen. I dismiss it. While I value accountability—it’s something many humans lack—I don’t feel it’s right to encourage her to embrace the blame for this. “It’s not your fault, Miss Carson.”

“It is.”

“It’s not,”

I repeat, my tone curt. “Others killed those people. Not your father. Not you.”

“I don’t know that others will see it that way,”

she admits, peering down at her smoothie. “I’m a little surprised, if I’m honest. That you’re defending me.”

She has a point. Many on the pro-bionic side of the spectrum might tell me I should be gratified by this exchange. Her perception is mostly self-inflicted, but maybe now she’s had a taste of what it’s like to be me. While she seems a more balanced individual in her opinions, her entire socio-political platform blames people’s suffering on my existence, even when I’ve had no say or choice in my making.

She’ll be a misplaced target. An outlet for people’s anger. I know what that feels like.

“I don’t delight in suffering,”

I answer. “Not even yours. And it’s admirable.”

“Admirable?”

Katrina asks, puzzled.

“That you’re working yourself so hard for the benefit of others, even when you’re afraid.”

Kat sighs. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

“I think fear is the normal response for anyone in your position. But you’re still here.”

“Barely. Believe me, I want to run. All I could think about was boarding a plane to France after yesterday and never looking back.”

I’m curious why France specifically, but it’s not my business. “Flight is a normal human response. Thoughts are nothing to be ashamed of.”

Katrina gazes at me a long moment. “You’re different than I expected.”

“So are you.”

Mentally, I have no doubt this woman has been working herself to the point of exhaustion. I recall how Rashelle reins Deion in after a long day of work. “You’ve done enough today. You should do what you can to decompress.”

“You know, I’m technically supposed to order you around,”

she teases, the hint of a smirk tugging her lips. “If I told you to stop working, that you’ve done enough, you’d say...”

“No,”

I reply flatly.

“All right, then.”

Katrina’s tone is almost lighthearted, like she’s really trying to cast off all the burdens on her shoulders. “I’m going to take a break and shower now. Not because you suggested it, but because I want to. They just happen to coincide.”

Playfulness. She seems to take note of it as well, this strange energy between us. Not hatred or disgust, but respect. Almost bordering on friendly. “Whatever you say, Miss Carson.”

Her phone rings, and she sighs. “After I take this call.”

She hits accept. “Ramsey? Hey! Yes, go ahead and upload those posts to Dad’s account. Let me know if you get any weird messages. We’ll need to forward them to the precinct.”

Once she’s in the bathroom and the water is running, I want to resume work, but I’ve run out of case notes to review, and I can’t return to either crime scene to continue forensic work. To stave off my boredom, I put away the food I ordered for Katrina.

A blood-curling scream sounds from the bathroom, and I halt my analytics in alarm, my concern for Katrina Carson overriding all other directives.

“Katrina!”

I rush for the bathroom door.