Ezra (New Carnegie Androids #6)

Chapter 4 #5

“How rudimentary?”

“Imagine talking to a hamster,”

I reply. “Except a hamster is more intelligent. That’s about the gist of it.”

Katrina leans back in her seat, exhaling as though forcing herself to relax. “It’s not nice to ignore your lady friends. Trust me. We can get really crazy when you leave us on read. I’ve seen some of my friend Zoey’s conversations with her boyfriend.”

“She’s not a girlfriend,”

I reply. “She was an acquaintance.”

“Uh-huh.”

Katrina doesn’t sound convinced. “Do you have fun with all your acquaintances?”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of looking her in the eye as I mimic a sigh of my own. “No.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Katrina exclaims, setting her tablet down. “You’re giving some major heartbreaker vibes right now. I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Almost?” I ask.

She tilts her head with a pointed smile, her eyes intent upon me, betraying her curiosity—her uncertainty. “Almost.”

“Well, I’m not a heartbreaker .”

“Care to spill the tea? Come on, this is a judgment free zone.”

“There’s nothing to spill.”

“Sure there is. Come on. Like I’m going to tell anybody after what we’ve—”

She catches herself and turns pink.

I turn toward her, gazing intently at her. My gratification drive yearns for her to say it. Say aloud the line we’ve crossed, without shame. “After what?”

“After what we did the other night, that’s all.”

She clears her throat. “I just meant your secret’s safe with me. Silent as the grave.”

Now she sounds like Jayne. I’m one of the only ones allowed to listen in on girl talk at the office. Rashelle tells me plenty too. I run my hand through my synthetic hair. “Do I have a say in this?”

“Not really, no, you’re stuck,”

she teases. “Of course you have a say. You don’t have to answer, but...I’ve never met a sexually active android on the single scene. Is it the same nightmare for you that it is for us?”

“Maybe.”

This isn’t something I anticipated. Katrina Carson is curious about my private life. My gratification drive is eating it up. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your body count?”

“I don’t have a body count,”

I answer, now genuinely confused. “I go out of my way to make sure I never kill people.”

“No, no. Body count, as in how many women you’ve slept with,” she says.

My gratification drive surges when I don’t expect it to, pushing me to answer the question, and I have to push back, bewildered. “That’s—”

It’s taking more effort to keep the information to myself than normal. “That’s classified.”

Katrina smirks. “Are you actually embarrassed?”

“I most certainly am not. There’s nothing to cause me any embarrassment. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious. You seem like you’re programmed to keep everything close to the vest,”

Katrina says. “And it’s nosy, but I want to know.”

My processors warm at the prospect, my thoughts propelled forward by intrigue. Investigation, sharing knowledge, information. These are all things I was programmed for.

“Four,”

I reply at last, folding my arms.

She blinks at me, surprised. “ Four ?”

I try to get a read on her response. Evidence inconclusive. “Yes. Four.”

“Huh.”

The corners of her mouth turn down, and she shrugs. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

I repeat, squinting at her.

“Well, yeah. I honestly would’ve thought it might be higher, with how well-designed you are.”

She ruffles her pixie cut.

“Well-designed?”

“You know, hot.”

She barrels on quickly. “And that’s over—let’s see—a couple years? You were activated first in ’67.”

I’m still trying to process that she just referred to me as hot. “Three years ago.”

“Four in three years? That’s pretty tame,”

Katrina replies lightly. “All right. Fair enough.”

I mimic the sound she made earlier, clearing my throat.

She looks up at me. “What?”

I motion between us, leaning against the dining table. “I’ve told you my body count. Let me hear yours.”

Katrina reddens. “Oh, no. You’ll laugh. Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

I smirk. “Because it’s higher than four?”

It wouldn’t surprise me. With a face like hers, I’m positive Katrina has her pick of suitors. She could have whoever she wanted, easily. Her temperature spikes and her heart quickens, much to my amusement.

She averts her gaze, huffing. “No way. I’m not telling.”

“You have to. We struck a truce, and then you offered an equal of exchange of information. If you negate on that, well?—”

“I’m a virgin, okay?”

Her heated words and frown melt away, and she stares at me with wide eyes, looking something between horrified and astonished that she actually told me. “I’ve—touched myself, and I play with toys, but that’s it.”

It’s my turn to be surprised. It never occurred to me I might be her first sexual experience. She’d never felt anything like that before. If I’d known, I would’ve been far gentler, slower in my ministrations. Though chastity is a human social construct and has changed in its imagined value over the centuries, it’s obviously still something of consequence to Katrina.

Since it means something to her, my programming dictates it probably should mean something to me. I research in a matter of seconds how special a human’s first time can be. That there are those who are quite willing and happy to “lose”

it, though it’s confusing to me how it is something to be lost. And there are those who “keep”

it for someone special.

Is Katrina one of the latter? Did it mean something more when she surrendered herself to me that night and allowed me to touch her?

I’m not sure how to translate this newfound information. “So you’ve never been with any man?”

“What? Yeah. So? It’s not a big deal,”

she sputters. “Plenty of people wait until their late twenties to do it. Some even wait until they’re thirty. Who cares?”

“I don’t,”

I reply, unsure why she’s suddenly so defensive. “Whether or not you’ve had sexual partners makes no difference to me.”

“Okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to react so strongly, it’s just—it’s a sensitive subject for me,”

she explains. “I’m very single, and sure, it’s by choice, but you’ve never been to college. The pressure about that is unbelievable. Like, if you don’t lose it by the time you graduate, you’re a loser. Or a spinster. Or both. When I was getting my master’s, other women were getting married. It’s 2070. You’d think it was a hundred years ago. In some ways, humanity really never changes.”

“What happens in your bedroom is your business, and yours alone. It’s not relevant to our investigation,”

I reply. Or to me. If anything, this revelation fills me with a strange sense of pride.

Like I was exceptional enough, and she wanted me more than she’s ever wanted others.

Katrina nods, toying with her tablet. “Thank you.”

The colors, pen strokes, and the palette catch my eye, and I venture a little closer to her. “Are you drawing?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Possibly relieved for the sudden switch in subject, she looks at me with a little nod. “It’s something I’ve always done to relax ever since I was a little girl.”

Art is important to her, if her love of cave paintings is any indication. “May I see?”

Katrina ruffles her hair and makes room for me. “Sure. If you want.”

I step around the couch and sit next to her, noticing a shift in her body language. She turns toward me but moves away a little. I make her nervous. If I’m right, she wants to trust me. When she offers, I gently take her tablet and zoom out of her current work. She’s drawn prehistoric humans and animals, quite realistically.

“I took some art classes in college,”

she replies as Charlie hops into her lap, trilling happily now that he’s won her back from her tablet. “As electives. I really enjoyed them.”

I swipe across the screen, admiring several different sketches and paintings. Then I pause when her artwork shifts to something more futuristic.

My inner temperature suddenly rises. My systems initiate a cooling cycle through my biocomponents when I realize what—or more precisely, who—I’m looking at.

“Is that me?”

I look up at her in astonishment.

Katrina hesitates then nods.

My eyes return to her creations. She’s more than a hobby artist. Her drawings are lifelike and accurate. She’s drawn my face, my hair—even the whiteness of my eyes, the only indication in her renditions that I’m not human.

“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, a jacket 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?”

“Do I look like a toddler to you?”

“No.”

She laughs. “Don’t act like one either.”

She tucks a strand of short hair behind her ear. “So do you have your own wardrobe as a detective android? Outside of the standard patrol gear and your coat.”

“I have a sweater, additional pair of pants, and several shirts. The commissioner doesn’t see much point in outfitting me more than the bare minimum, but Deion buys clothes for me.”

Katrina snorts. “No offense, but the commissioner sounds like a dick.”

“Careful.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “Any more talk like that, and I’ll think you’re on my side.”

Katrina tucks her foot under her knee, becoming more comfortable as we talk. “I am on your side. I don’t understand why they can’t spare you more clothes. You could argue it might help you do your job better.”

There’s something new in her voice. Playfulness. Borderline flirtation. I wonder if I’m misreading her, but then, after what we’ve done, the way she’s allowed me to touch her, how can I translate it as anything less?

“How do you figure?”

I turn the question back on her, amused.

“People need some variety in their life. You should have the same.”

“Because I’m people to you?”

“Yes,”

she replies. “More than some humans can boast.”

An electric current courses between us. Before, it was made of uncertainty and mistrust. Now it’s something else entirely—unmistakable attraction. Charlie trills, and Katrina sets aside her tablet to hold him.

A nervous spike in her vitals betray her when I run a diagnostic. The way she swallows, tucking the nestling Charlie in her arms. “Let me ask you something.”

“All right.”

“Do you ever wish you were human?”

I study her, then clasp my hands and glance down at the carpet. “Only children have asked me this question before from an innocent perspective. Comparing me to bedtime stories.”

“That sounds cute.”

Katrina crosses one leg over the other, still turned toward me. “Like Pinocchio ?”

“More like...”

I pause, thinking. “ The Velveteen Rabbit . They truly believe if I’m good, if I care for people unconditionally, some grand higher power will take notice of me and make me human.”

Katrina sighs wistfully. “There are many people undeserving of your care.”

She toys with a little ring she wears, twirling it around her thumb. “But it doesn’t answer my question. Do you ever wish you were?”

“Wishing is...”

My processor slows, searching my vernacular—hundreds of thousands of words in the English language—trying to find a way to express what I mean.

“It’s difficult for a bionic to comprehend.

Humans like to see the world as what it could be instead of what it is .

Possibility instead of reality.

My performance, my existence, is based on facts, not fiction. It’s crossed my mind that things would certainly be easier if I were human.”

“Why’s that?”

Kat asks, her voice quiet and inquisitive, like she’s listening to understand instead of to respond. “What would be easier?”

“People wouldn’t doubt me, my capabilities, or my intentions,”

I say. “They wouldn’t mistrust me at every turn. I wouldn’t have to work three times as hard as any human officer to prove myself.”

I gaze at her. “And Humanity First wouldn’t wish me dead.”

“I’ve never wished you dead, Ezra.”

“I know. But there are many who likely do.”

“If you were human, what would you do?”

“Become the chief of police myself,”

I say seriously. “Maybe even commissioner.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

I nod. “If Commissioner Winters spent half as much time doing his job as he did thinking of ways to sabotage mine, he might be an effective leader. I could do without him.”

Katrina laughs softly. “Couldn’t he just fire you?”

“I can’t be fired if I’m not an employee, but—no, he would just send me to another precinct, I suppose, or stick me in a closet somewhere if I really pissed him off.”

I shrug. “I’m stuck.”

“Would you ever resign?”

“I lack the ability to do so. But if I could, I wouldn’t. I do truly enjoy my calling. Helping others, solving investigations.”

I shake my head. “I work because it’s the reason I exist. It brings me fulfillment, gratification. I’m meant to serve mankind. I’m content to do so.”

Katrina drapes an arm across the back of the sofa. “That can’t be all, can it?”

“What do you mean?”

“If that were all it took for you to be content, girls wouldn’t be blowing up your phone asking for another hook-up,”

Katrina says gently. “Would they?”

She has me there. I can say that my job is all I want, all I need, because that’s what I was programmed to do. Read people, sift lies from truth. Investigate, find information, study cause and effect, evidence, facts. Learn everything, know everything. Anticipate someone’s actions, break down crime scenes. Access every bionic data bank with a single touch.

There’s so much I can do, so much I can offer.

And little can be offered to me in return.

Katrina isn’t all bulldogged conviction. There’s such complexity to her. She’s passionate, a quiet storm of opinions, emotions, truth, or at least the truth as she perceives it. But she isn’t immovable. Here, in this place neither of us really ever wanted to be, she’s showing open-mindedness. Thoughtfulness. Compassion. Her walls are coming down.

The same walls I thought I had before she tore them apart.

“You’re right.”

I sit a little straighter. “I’m not content. I thought I would be. Then I witnessed what men—true and honorable men—can have with a woman. I thought perhaps if I pursued something similar, I might be able to find it.”

“Have a family, you mean?”