AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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.
