Atticus: A New Carnegie Android Romance: New Carnegie Androids, #5

By Roxie McClaine

If I'm malfunctioning, I don't care. There's only one woman I want.

 

Atticus, a new limited edition android built specifically for the classroom, is met with a cold reception when he's won in a bionic lottery by a middle school in St. Morgan, Illinois.

 

When everyone's scared of losing their jobs, making connections is nearly impossible. But being assigned as Lucy Warren's teaching aide has awakened something inside him. He's adapting, evolving into more than just a machine.

 

But Lucy is secretive and off the grid. What could she possibly be hiding?

 

Brand new job. Hot new teacher's assistant. Oh- he's a robot, by the way.

 

After a devastating heartbreak, Lucy tries to get away from the hype and bustle of New Carnegie. But it always seems to find her, even in a small countryside town.

Working with Atticus is dangerous. It puts her in the spotlight. She should be careful, but it's becoming difficult to ignore the electricity between them.

 

When destructive rumors begin to spread and threaten to tear them apart, can Atticus help Lucy remember her courage?

 

This is a cyberpunk, forbidden love, coworkers-to-lovers, android romance with no cheating and a HEA. Each book in the New Carnegie Androids series is a stand-alone. You can read it on its own or as part of the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roxie McClaine
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223079330

Book preview

Atticus

ATTICUS

A NEW CARNEGIE ANDROID ROMANCE

ROXIE MCCLAINE

MCCLAINE & HARDING LLC

Copyright © 2023 McClaine & Harding LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Book cover designed by Wicked Smart Designs LLC. Editing by Persnickety Proofing LLC.

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CONTENTS

Content Warning

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 1

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 2

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 3

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 4

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 5

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 8

New Carnegie Metropolitan Entertainment News

Chapter 9

New Carnegie Times

Chapter 10

Epilogue

The Story Continues!

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Also by Roxie McClaine

About the Author

CONTENT WARNING

THIS BOOK CONTAINS:

Mild peril

Depictions of bullying

Body insecurity (non-POV)

Language

Public shaming

Adult situations intended for mature audiences only

Reader discretion advised.

NEW CARNEGIE TIMES

JUNE 30, 2067

FIVE SCHOOL DISTRICTS BRING BIONIC SCIENCE TO THE CLASSROOM

In an unprecedented initiative, BioNex pushes to not only make a positive impact in the homes of everyday Americans but in their education, as well.

Algrove Schroeder, founder and CEO of BioNex Corporation, announced that five schools chosen from 15,000 school districts across the nation will be given state-of-the-art bionic assistants to provide support to schoolteachers and faculty members with everything from supervising children, grading homework, and even teaching select scientific and mathematical courses.

Nothing is more important than our next generation, Schroeder says during an interview on Carnegie Daily. It’s no secret that the American public education system is suffering. You have overworked and underpaid teachers, underfunded schools struggling to update their curriculum to international standards—it’s a real mess.

When asked how school districts would be chosen, Schroeder assures the public that there’s a method to the madness.

It can’t be completely random because there really are some fantastic schools in our country that don’t need any help. I’m not going to be sending any androids to the Ivy Leagues. He laughs. Or to schools that have the funds to purchase one. School representatives interested in a bionic assistant should apply to our Education Assistants Program directly on the BioNex website. From there, I have a team looking closely at different school districts all over the United States, and the ones that qualify will undergo the selection process.

When asked if he thinks children will respond well and be able to focus if there’s an android in the classroom, Schroeder replies, Of course they will. It’s a robot. They’ll hang on its every word.

While well-intended, BioNex’s school roulette is also facing opposition from a small but growing number of anti-technology movements.

1

Lucy Warren

St. Morgan, Illinois. More like Podunk Town in the middle of Fuck-If-I-Know Nowhere, USA.

I know I should at least try to look on the bright side or search for that silver lining in the clouds. But it’s hard to stay optimistic when the apartment I’ve already signed a lease for is nothing like the photos the landlord sent me. I’ve been had, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

I had a pretty decent life back in New Carnegie, Pennsylvania, with a teaching job that made me feel fulfilled on a personal level and my online side hustle that paid the bills where my salary didn’t. Decent in comparison to the kind of life my parents endured. The big economic crash back in the 2030s set everyone back financially, but Mom and Dad were more fortunate than others. Dad was laid off when university enrollment tanked, but Mom was able to keep them both afloat with her nursing degree. When the world went to hell, she made herself irreplaceable. It was still rough for them, the way they tell it, but it was that way for the entire city.

By the time I was born, things were better. Dad secured a new job as a professor at Carnegie University, and my mom was in charge of the nurses at Carnegie General. Even then, as they worked hard to recover the losses in their coffers with the rest of the nation, we didn’t buy much more than the necessities while I was a kid. What we lacked in luxury electronics and the newest cars and toys we made up for with imagination.

Dad was my hero. Tired from a day of teaching classes, he’d still make time to read to me. I liked fairy tales featuring princesses and dragons, sure, but my favorite stories were the classical epics: The Iliad, The Odyssey, and the like. That turned me into an ancient history nerd. I couldn’t get enough of Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome, Persia. I made my decision pretty early on.

I was going to be a teacher. Like him.

My parents would’ve preferred for me to go into a STEM or a medical career because nurses like my mother, doctors, and scientists rarely, if ever, get laid off in a poor economy. Especially now, since bionic engineering has been the hot new thing for the past four years. Engineers and technologists are easily the highest-paid earners in the US, because of the national demand for androids. Maybe if I’d been a little more concerned about money, I would’ve made that choice. I always performed well in my science classes.

But Dad couldn’t stop me from following in his footsteps. The dream I’m living may not pay the best, but it makes me happy. I knew what I was getting into when I decided to be a teacher. Being filthy rich definitely isn’t in the cards for me, and I’m okay with that.

But this apartment situation is throwing me one hell of a curveball. I wasn’t expecting a penthouse by any stretch of the imagination, but this?

Holy shit, my brother, Everett, mutters as he surveys my new digs. He drove with me and my tiny trailer full of all my furniture and belongings. Together, we unloaded and unpacked everything I own over the past weekend, my belongings stacked in transparent blue holo-crates that hum with energy. Did we time travel back to the fucking 1900s?

Just about. I can’t blame him for his reaction. I’m just lucky they updated the front door with a numeric keypad. The landlord said they were still using key locks.

Keys. I’ve never even used one of those.

Water drips from the faucet in the bathroom. Rain damage warps the linoleum wood floors. Window screens need to be replaced. Fly traps hang from the ceiling above my kitchen sink. The previous tenants didn’t bother to scrub down any surfaces. I’m pretty sure those are cigarette burns in the carpet and dents in the wall from who knows what in my bedroom. The red brick exterior is bleached and worn, and my balcony railing wiggles when I test its sturdiness. There’s no holo-security system, no state-of-the-art pad on the front door to scan my hand and grant me access and reach out to emergency services if there’s a break-in. I don’t recall seeing any photos of those amenities, even though most apartments in New Carnegie come equipped with them, and they don’t cost extra.

The bright side?

Right. It’s not the fanciest place, but it’s cheap. I’ll be able to afford food, treat myself on occasion, and save up for a real place of my own, slowly but surely. That’s what I need to remind myself.

A little elbow grease will brighten this place up. I can make it mine.

Are you sure about this? I mean, you could’ve gone anywhere with your talents. New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago. Why here? Everett still isn’t sold on my decision to move away from home, but I tell myself it’s because he’s seven years younger than me, still attends college, and lives at home with my folks’ health insurance.

I put on a tough front for him. Last thing I need is for him to worry our parents, though they might do that anyway.

I can’t keep up with inflation on my teacher’s salary alone. Besides, this town’s middle school was desperate for a teacher, and the listing was up for months. I was practically a shoe-in. I can do some good here. It’ll be fine.

Are you sure it’s not because of⁠—

I stop him before he can go any further down that road, ignoring the tightening of my gut. "It’s not just that." I’d rather not talk about my private life too in-depth with my little brother, not when this’ll be the last time I see him for a while. Really, why get down in the dumps if I can avoid it?

I place a plant I brought with me on the windowsill, a parting gift from my sweet mother. She’s always had a green thumb, but me? I kill every plant I touch. I didn’t tell her that. It’s already drying up, no matter how much I try to water it. I’ll make do.

Everett is busy inspecting my door and testing its worn hatch lock. Hm. You should see if you can’t get an energy lock. When do you start work?

Next week, but tomorrow I meet the principal. And it’s Back-to-School Night.

St. Morgan’s a skidmark on the map, you know. I looked into it. He toys with a broken cabinet handle. Bunch of poor farmers, a few banks and bars, only one SuperMart. More churches than businesses. Lutheran, Presbyterian, Catholic—surprised there aren’t pistol duels at high noon.

I know, Everett, I was in the car with you while we were exploring. Remember?

I’m telling you, nobody interesting comes from this place.

Living in a city filled with skyscrapers doesn’t automatically make you interesting, I correct him and usher him away from my poor fish before he can traumatize them further. There’s a grocery store, a post office, and Wi-Fi. That’s good enough for me.

Everett heads to the door as he zips up his hoodie. All right, if you say so. Do you need anything else before I head out?

No, I’m fine.

You said fine again, Everett points out. Ausha told me that fine means anything but fine when women are involved.

Only if the girl saying it is the one you’re dating. I practically shove him out the door. And thankfully, you’re her problem, not mine. Now get going. I don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.

It’s a ten-hour drive. Everett grins. He’s not very tall, like me, but he’s stocky, and when he doesn’t want to move, he won’t. For now, he lets me push him around. I’ll make it in seven, easy.

Very funny.

I know, right? Comedy genius. Everett opens the door and pauses. Are you sure you’re gonna be okay? I could tell Ma I’m staying a few extra days. Make sure you’re settled in.

My brother isn’t usually one to be so generous with his time, and with a wedding on the horizon and a baby on the way, he’s got enough on his plate right now. I know he’s concerned. This will be the farthest we’ve ever been apart, and though he hasn’t admitted it, I can tell by the gentleness in his tone he’ll miss me. I’ll miss him too. I take a moment to appreciate how perfect a blend he is of our parents, Mom’s gorgeous brown complexion with my dad’s dimpled cheeks. My favorite pain in the ass.

I’ll be fine. His skepticism earns him a light shove on his shoulder from me. "I’ll be all right, I swear, I’m just nervous about tomorrow, and I need to settle in. I’ll probably take a bath, read a book, watch TV."

Not sure that school is ready for you, Everett says with a wry smile. Big city teacher in a tiny town? You’re gonna get in trouble.

I don’t answer, resorting to pulling him into a hug instead. Text me when you get home, okay?

I will. He shuts the door behind him.

I open it to call out a final time. And don’t speed!

I won’t! he promises as he heads down the stairwell.

And just like that, I’m alone for the very first time. It takes a few minutes to sink in, that I won’t be hearing my brother, his girlfriend, my parents, loud music, jokes, laughter, or the delicious smells of my mom’s cooking just by walking through a door.

I’ll have to do it all myself. I could’ve taken Everett up on his offer to stay longer, but I want him to get home. Mom was especially weepy when we drove away. She’ll be better with her baby under her roof again, and he’s the best one to distract her from my absence.

With another heavy sigh, I shut the door and look around my quiet apartment. Everything is a shade of ivory or brown with nothing in between. That’s all right, though. I’ll give it some color in time.

I try to push away my brother’s warning. Small towns, averse to change? That’s a stereotype I’ve got to overcome. Everyone I’ve met, whether picking up fresh groceries to stock my fridge or taking my brother to breakfast at Kitty’s Corner, a local diner down the street, has been warm, friendly, and curious.

I can make a difference here. And what’s more, I can afford it with a significantly lower cost of living. There was a big to-do back in New Carnegie about a shortage of teachers and some headlines about a teaching exodus, but if the city wanted to keep its instructors, it should’ve paid us more. Seeing as I’ve barely made a dent in my student loans after nine years of teaching elementary school, I’m ready for a pay bump in practice, if not in number. If I can’t get a raise, I can lower my bills. That’s why St. Morgan made sense.

Well, that, and there’s less chance of people seeing me in the street, whispering and staring, wondering how I can live with myself after everything that’s happened.

Overall, I’m excited for this change. I shoot a quick text to my mom and let her know Everett is on his way home before heading toward the bathroom, ready for the bath I said I was going to take.

I better relax while I can. If teaching middle school is anything like experiencing it, I won’t be relaxing again until winter break.

In a town of under twenty thousand people, St. Morgan’s school district splits its middle schools into two separate locations. Sixth and seventh graders attend Thomas Jones Middle School on the north side of town, while eighth and ninth graders attend Vautrin Upper Middle School on the south side.

In New Carnegie, moving from eighth grade to ninth grade is a bit of a graduation experience. Ninth grade equates high school, right? Becoming a freshman. I try to imagine myself at fourteen years old and know for a fact I would’ve been pissed if anyone told me I graduated eighth grade, only to still be considered a middle school student.

Yeah, I’m definitely going to blame the school district for any ninth-grade sass dished my way.

On Friday morning, I roll into the faculty parking lot a good half hour before eight, dressed in my teaching best—ankle boots, blue jeans, a white pinstripe blouse, a navy scarf wrapped loosely around my neck, and a tan leather jacket. It’s my first day, so I spent extra time this morning on my makeup, styling and winding my red-ombre goddess braids around in a larger woven braid atop my head.

One of the office secretaries lets me in. She appears to be barely five feet tall, middle-aged, pale, and stocky. Oh, you’re finally here. That’s so exciting! Are you nervous?

A little, I admit. Fortunately, being a teacher isn’t quite like most jobs. I’m not going into this not knowing what to expect, and I already had my entire lesson plan for the first quarter laid out and approved by senior school leaders. Now it’s just a matter of meeting the other teachers and the students, who are definitely the variables. If Back-to-School Night is anything like it was when I was a kid, a lot of school lockers are about to get a makeover.

Don’t be. This is a great school. The secretary extends her hand to me. I’m Renee Fenton.

Lucy Warren. We shake hands, and she leads me to the school office.

The principal should be in soon, so you won’t be waiting long.

Anything I should know?

She’s a hard-ass, she replies in a quieter voice. Really a stickler for the rules and runs a tight ship. But once you get used to her, you start to appreciate her.

Good to know. Thank you.

True to Renee’s word, I don’t have to wait long at all. Principal Judith Carlisle flies through the office door, walking with purpose in a gray business suit. I can barely tell her age, but she’s definitely mature, slender with porcelain skin, and dressed like she belongs on the board of a mega corporation.

Good morning, Renee, she clips but doesn’t pause to say hello.

Good morning! Renee answers brightly. Our new teacher is here⁠—

The principal’s office door closes with a loud bang behind her.

Renee winces. It’s going to be a busy day.

I imagine so, I agree politely, though I’m not thrilled at being completely ignored. It’s said people are rude in big cities, but that’s on the street, not the office. Aren’t Midwest folks supposed to be friendly, polite? I anticipated a warmer small-town welcome than this.

Be nice, Lucy, I remind myself. Good impressions, benefit of the doubt. Don’t make enemies on your first day.

What did you think of that email this morning? Renee asks.

What email?

Oh. Maybe your email settings aren’t fully set up yet. She pushes past my confusion, brightening again. Everything about Renee is cheery and optimistic. When she smiles, I can’t help but smile back. The kids must love her.

Vautrin got selected as one of the five national schools by BioNex, she says, lowering her voice as though letting me in on some big secret. I lean forward in my chair to hear her better. You know their Education Assistance Program? Our new android is being delivered today.

That makes me sit a little straighter in my seat. Really? That’s fantastic!

I’ve seen androids all over the place in New Carnegie, and even though my family never got around to purchasing one, I can’t deny how useful they are. To have one in a school, where teachers are already underpaid and overworked? Even one android could go a long way. Plus, the ones I have interacted with have always been sweet and accommodating. Never a mean bone in their bodies.

Or steel mainframes. However that works.

I know! Renee is practically giddy. I think it could really help with things around here. But . . . not all of the teachers are happy, and the principal definitely isn’t.

Why?

There’s some concern about being replaced eventually, Renee admits. You should’ve seen the outrage in the email thread. It was pretty explosive. Nobody wants to touch it.

Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me, though I’m a little disappointed. St. Morgan may be small in comparison to places like Chicago and New Carnegie, but I’m beginning to suspect change comes much slower than I hoped. My brother was right. I really have stepped back in time.

It bodes well for me that Renee seems to enjoy gossip. Rule of thumb at any new job? Always make friends with the busybody—just make sure you never tell them anything.

If the android is causing waves among the other teachers, maybe that’s a place to start. I take a deep breath and rise from my chair, then tentatively cross the office while Renee watches me wide-eyed. I square my shoulders and rap my knuckles on the principal’s office door, peering into the small rectangular window at the woman who is effectively my boss.

She glances up from her computer and frowns, looking me right in the eyes. Come in.

Principal Carlisle? I enter her office and gently shut the door behind me before stepping forward and offering my hand. I’m Lucy Warren, the new World History teacher.

The principal doesn’t get up and doesn’t make any motion to even try to take my hand. Sit down, she instructs.

I’m not sure if I should be offended or impressed by how businesslike she seems. When I think of school staff, especially in a small district like this, I imagine warmth, a close-knit community where everybody knows everyone and is willing to help out, go the extra mile. Apparently, that’s not the case here.

I lower myself into a chair. Her desk is tidy, not a pen out of place. Her entire office is pristine without a single trace of clutter.

But one thing I quickly notice is that everything is outdated. The computer on her desk is at least a decade old, if not older. It’s not even built into the desk, like most models these days. My personal laptop is state of the art in comparison, and it’s hardly the best on the market. I’m beginning to worry the rest of the school is going to be limited in that way too.

Refocusing on the here and now, I leave such thoughts behind me. A holo-plaque shines the name Principal Judith Carlisle in elegant blue letters. I stare at it a moment as I listen to her fingers clattering away furiously upon her keyboard.

Finally, she stops and turns to me. Remind me, how many years did you teach in New Carnegie?

Closing in on nine years at Oakridge Middle School.

Is that in the city or . . .

It’s uptown, I reply.

"I imagine it’s harder to get your foot in the door when schools actually have funding and can be a bit more picky about who they bring on."

Oh boy, a back-handed compliment within the first five minutes. I’ve got my work cut out for me. I smile, ignoring it. I wouldn’t know. I never applied to them.

Judith Carlisle levels her stern gaze at me and leans forward on her desk. "You are