She takes a step away. Her hands come up to form a sort of basket of fingers. It’s one of her gestures. She uses it when lecturing her underlings.
“We are at a turning point in the evolution of the human species,” she says, surveying, with slightly crazy eyes, an imaginary audience. “Evolution has blindly felt its way forward. Now we, the product of evolution, are taking the reins. We are taking the wheel.”
“Is it the reins or the wheel?” I ask perkily, but she hears nothing.
“We will soon have the ability to design and create the new human. Evolution still, but guided evolution.”
There is a long pause. I am not entirely sure if she expects us to applaud.
“Of course,” she adds, coming down off her high, “only in computer simulation.”
I don’t know where she was headed with her lecture. But I am definitely sure that this project sounds interesting. The touch screen calls to me. Suddenly I’m wishing everyone would go away and let me play.
“I think I’ll … you know. Just mess around with the program a little,” I say.
My mother is pleased. Solo is … well, I can’t exactly tell.
Ten minutes pass. I look up and I’m alone.
I didn’t even notice them leave.
* * *
I stare at my first choice. The choice I have to make before I get into the details of playing God: male or female?
I consider the looming monitor.
Here’s the thing: I am not beautiful.
I’m pretty. I’ll allow that much. Pretty.
But I’m not the girl boys long for.
Cheerleader? No. Prom queen? No. Voted most likely to get a modeling contract? No.
It’s not like I’ve spent my life beating the boys back with a flaming torch.
So. Am I “creating” a male or a female?
Worse yet … no, maybe it’s better yet … I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll probably tell him so. Within five minutes of knowing him. And if he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wannabe, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.
When you’re at a high school, looking around at the boys, and you subtract all the ones who are looking for Ms. Perfect, and subtract all the childish, ludicrous, boring, mean, or sex-obsessed ones, there aren’t that many left.
It’s not that I think I’m some kind of prize.
No, wait, that’s not true. I do think I’m some kind of prize. I’m smart and occasionally funny and I’m pretty. I don’t see why I should spend long dates with some guy who expresses himself in single syllables and wants to go to slasher movies.
Which does not answer the question: male or female?
I also don’t understand why I should let some guy fondle me when I know the relationship has no future. I don’t need to be groped that badly.
So I’ve been on exactly three dates. The first when I was fourteen. The most recent two years ago.
A guy tried to kiss me once. I didn’t let him.
I live that part of my life vicariously through Aislin.
I hear her stories. And I admit I’m fascinated most of the time. Sometimes kind of appalled. And then fascinated again.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be her. To be that … experimental. To be that “what the hell?”. To actually have detailed, well-informed opinions on questions having to do with kissing. Or whatever.
I have no opinion on chest hair versus no chest hair. Aislin could write a treatise on that alone.
So. Who do I want to create with my new simulated godlike powers?
Male or female?
I sigh. I squirm in my wheelchair.
Who am I kidding?
Male.
– 11 –
SOLO
I can’t get into Eve’s file on Project 88715 yet. It’s encrypted.
She just finished up a half hour ago, but I’ve already checked out the surveillance video. I can watch her face as she stares intently at the screen. I can even see myself, staring intently at … her. And Terra, being her predictably insane self, raving on about world domination.
I’ve been able to access—and edit—this kind of file for a couple of years now. I don’t edit out the merely embarrassing, I make the minimal edits to conceal the degree to which I have penetrated security.
It bugs me that I can’t get into Eve’s working file. It’s that new security protocol. A lot of the newer stuff is beyond my reach. But I have enough to bring the Food and Drug Administration down like a hurricane on this place.
Soon I may have enough to bring the FBI.
Do I want Terra Spiker to go to prison? The question makes me a little uncomfortable. She has sure as hell broken the law. Many laws.
It’s time for school. It’s Saturday, but I slacked off all week and I need to catch up. It won’t take long; it never does. I click on the window for the online high school. I replaced the generic logo of the school with a picture of a guy sleeping. Which I guess says what I feel about it.
On my screen I get a video feed of a lecture on the Manhattan Project. Ancient history about the first atomic bomb.
The reading for this unit is on the right side of the screen in a window. There are numerous links in the text that open audio or video or text.
The lecturer drones into my headphones. I click on a link that shows a loop of an atomic bomb exploding.
A request for chat pops up. It’s a kid I know online. He, she, or it goes by the name FerryRat7734.
FerryRat7734: What’s vertical?
SnakePlissken: You could just say, “What’s up?”
I don’t know if FerryRat actually meant to write FurryRat. I don’t ask questions of people I meet online. I figure they have a right to be whoever or whatever they want to be.
My online name is SnakePlissken. There’s a reason for that. It’s the only character I’ve ever come across who shares my last name. Plissken. Google just the word “Plissken” and that’s who you come up with. I don’t appear in Google. I am invisible. That’s deliberate.
FerryRat7734: Is it just me or are they teaching us how to make an atomic bomb?
SnakePlissken: The science is easy enough. The engineering’s a bitch.
FerryRat7734: So can you do me a favor? Send me your notes on the next week’s lectures?
SnakePlissken: You going on vacay?
FerryRat7734: I wish. I have a procedure.
I sit back. The teacher is droning on. A second dialog box opens up with someone saying “How do you spell Openhimer?” I should answer that question, not ask FerryRat one of my own. I can sense I’m opening a can of worms. But how do you not follow up on something like that?
SnakePlissken: What procedure?
FerryRat7734: You don’t want to know. Trust me.
I say that’s not true, although it is. And I repeat the question.
Lung transplant. FerryRat has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease. Lung transplant is the final, desperation move.
SnakePlissken: Damn.
FerryRat7734: Exactly. So take notes, okay? I’m not dead yet.
SnakePlissken: Will do.
What else am I going to say? Someone tells you they’re dying, what do you say? You say yes, I’ll take notes.