Chapter 17 #2
She isn’t really interested in placing blame. The more concerning issue is what her DNA floating out there in the world means for her. “Was it just mine?”
“No, yours was one of hundreds of samples, but all from the same fifty-year span. Bexly told the inspectors they were specifically looking for that period. It’s possible it was just happenstance that they got yours.”
“Have they figured out what they’re trying to do with it?” she asks.
“Unfortunately, no. Inspector Wanda assures me they’re working to get to the bottom of it. We’ve given them the biological signature of each of the stolen samples in case they catch a manupartner with matching DNA.”
She leans forward and buries her head in her hands.
Think Electra. What is the worst thing that can happen if someone has your DNA?
Could they know about her and somehow use it to hunt her down?
That one robber sure gave her the impression he knew she was real, but that was probably her paranoia.
How could he know? No—this is her scarcity mindset creating threats where there are none.
Oh shit, if they bring another her back, she might bump into herself. That’s freaky, but not technically dangerous. Unless the other Electra comes up with a better way to fit into the future than her Dear Electra column—STOP IT, Electra! You’re spiraling.
Thanks, Janet. Okay, be logical. “Wait—you said people from my time are mutts and the DNA storage techniques back then were questionable. What if that’s causing the glitches?
Tommy said there are rumors about more people like me—what if we’re all from the same fifty-year window and somehow the robbers know that?
” She gasps as her story comes together.
“Could they be trying to bring back more people from the past?”
“I want to say it’s far-fetched, but the more I think about it, the more I think it’s a legitimate concern,” he says.
“Won’t that be bad for the future of manupartners? From what I’ve learned, the government shuts down anything they view as threatening their perfectly ordered society—” His face has become ashen. “Oh. Res6, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
There’s that fake smile again. He almost looks like he believes his own reassurances as he says, “Don’t worry, Electra. Everything is going to be just fine.”
An hour ago, Res6 went into his room, the Likely Labyrinth of Lasciviousness, with a couple of bottles of water—probably to work out or something, considering the muscles and that he never seems to go to the gym.
Unless somehow future people can maintain their physiques without working out.
It’s probably in the medical technology and innovations video she’d been avoiding, which she can now watch since her predisposition for disease has been eliminated.
She glances at the locked door. It’s only fair that she has a secret of her own.
She lifts the phone and takes a few quick selfies before uploading them to an avatar maker.
With a few clicks, she uploads the best one to her profile along with a bio vague enough to make Res6 happy.
Finally, she copy/pastes the text for her call for submissions post into the first blog entry.
The thing is, Res6 is right. It is a little eerie that they don’t know what the robbers want with the stolen DNA.
But it’s not like it was only her DNA they were after.
And what if it takes the inspectors months to figure it out?
She’ll go mad if she can’t start working toward a tangible goal.
So, the benefits outweigh the risks. She needs to do this before she loses her nerve.
With that decision made, there’s only one thing left to do. Besides not telling Res6.
She hits Post.
As soon as she sees the post live on her feed, joy fills her insides.
Posting it was the right decision because this is exactly what society needs—what she needs.
Her Dear Electra column is going to be big.
She sits there for several minutes, staring at the entry.
It’s not like she’s going to get flooded with responses yet. Give it some time.
Surely her For You Page on the FrogBlog app has something interesting. She needs a good topic to get going. She could always fabricate the first handful of questions, but since she’s going for authenticity, that feels wrong.
As she scrolls, an image catches her eye. It’s her and Chryl standing on either side of Res6, who’s staring directly at the camera wearing one of those squinty-eyed cool guy expressions. Did he know they were being photographed? Plan it, even?
She clicks on the post. The blogger is none other than the annoying woman from the private SAT garage.
Her username is Res6Reverie, and the profile pic is a selfie of her and Res6 dated 2386.
His hair is shorter and even more tightly cropped on the sides than it is now, making him look like a Ken doll.
The woman has her arm around his waist and is staring adoringly at him.
Did they have a fling? The woman casually offered him sex—in front of her, no less. Who says that was the first time, and he hasn’t taken her up on the offer before? Internally, she cringes. Ugh, she’s being so embarrassing, ruminating about his sex life.
She goes back to the brief entry that speculates whether two manupartners is the new trend, along with a quote from the woman.
“My close friend Res6 told me he finds the new manupartner prototype’s freckles add to her authenticity.
Did you hear that, Res6Revelers? Run to your aestheticians, because spots and speckles may up your chances for a heart-pounding night with MSP’s favorite bachelor.
My prediction is that getting freckles is going to be the next big cosmetic treatment after the world sees this! ”
No. Way. She scrolls down to the—holy shit—thousands of comments.
Most of them are about how hot Res6 is. Some of them are people saying they never thought of getting a second manupartner or about how unaffordable that would be.
A few dozen commenters render their opinion on Electra’s freckles, not surprisingly calling her everything from defective to exotic and everything in between.
What astonishes her is the number of users who claim they’re going to ask their aesthetician for “speckles” on their next visit.
For some reason the entire thing irritates her.
That is the only explanation for why she shoots up off the couch and marches over to Res6’s Room of Possibly Demented Things.
She bangs on the door, and he pokes his head out.
Through the crack, she can see Chryl lazily sprawled across half the bed, fully clothed, thank God, playing with a corded belt like a cat might. The sight only fuels her irritation.
“Might I have a word with you?” she barks.
He steps out wearing only a towel. She has to cough to keep from choking. Holy Mother of all that is holy, his physique matches his face. He’s a Greek god. Adonis or Michelangelo’s David or worse!
“Yes?” he asks.
Her gaze travels across his flushed skin, and lower to where the towel hangs precariously. Bad idea, Electra! “I thought you said you weren’t sleeping with her!” Oh God, why did you say that? You’re not jealous. You can’t be—that’s Chryl’s thing!
He smirks as if he can read her thoughts. “I did a quick workout while you were on your tablet, so I had a shower. Is that a problem?”
Okay, so her workout assumption was correct.
Still, her cheeks heat. “No. Feel free to get dressed.” In front of Chryl, who doesn’t matter because she’s not a real person.
Who cares if she sees him naked? This is what he’s used to.
He’s not you and doesn’t have your modesty or interpersonal conventions.
“Electra, what did you need to have a word with me about?” he asks, not budging.
When she forces herself to meet his eyes, she finds mirth dancing in their golden depths.
She lifts the tablet and holds it between them as if it might somehow substitute for words.
But she sees the image that irritated her in the first place, and suddenly the libertine standing in front of her isn’t so perfect.
She clears her throat. “Looks like your girlfriend got a picture of us. Have your sales figures gone up like you expected?”
His eyes narrow. He takes the tablet, scanning the FrogBlog entry. “She must have followed us and got the picture. You look good, at least.”
“Res6, I don’t care if I look good or not. That isn’t what I’m upset about.” Maybe she’s the stupid one for even trying to bring this up to him; he didn’t even deny the girlfriend bit or sleeping with Chryl.
Apparently, he’s decided silence is his best approach, as he only stands there with his brows raised, waiting for her to speak.
“I don’t enjoy being your advertisement,” she says.
“But we agreed to a few public outings as a part of our bargain.”
“I know, but I changed my mind. Seeing this”—she points to the image—“makes me feel cheap. Like I’m some automation—number one of two—on your arm. For your pleasure.”
He scoffs. “This is decidedly not for my pleasure.”
“Look at what people are saying. They’re fawning over you and your two manupartners like you’re some type of sex god. It’s unreal.”
“Electra,” he soothes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to repress a grin.
“I hear your concerns, but I didn’t arrange that.
Because of my status in the municipality, people will photograph us.
It is inevitable. The only way to avoid it is to hide out in this unit, which is not advisable, as we’ve already determined.
I don’t deny that I appreciate the advertising potential—”
“At least there’s something you’re not denying!” She snatches the tablet out of his hands and turns to march into her room.
He inhales sharply. “Oh Zorg, are you jealous?”
Wildly! her traitorous inner narrator shouts. She freezes. “No.”
His voice is closer as he says, “I didn’t sleep with that woman or Chryl, and it’s been years since I last had a manupartner.”
Her heart thumps wildly in her chest. “Years? Why?”
She can feel the heat of him at her back. So close—too close. Mother Mary save her, he’s in a towel. She grasps the tablet tighter to keep her hands from doing anything foolish.
Without even the faintest touch, he leans down and says, “I got bored,” right into her ear.
The low gravel of his voice sends a shiver up her spine. Seconds go by. When she finally builds up the nerve to do something stupid like kiss him again, the door to his room clicks shut. Did she wait too long to make a move?
She glances over her shoulder to find the space he just occupied vacant, leaving her alone with her throbbing .
. . She swallows, trying and failing to ignore the sparkling sensations coursing through her.
Giddy, humming, and delicious sensations she hasn’t felt since waking up in the future.
Like she’s only now become fully activated.
She was so angry moments ago. He even accused her of being jealous, which is completely ridiculous.
He got bored. God, and the breathy way he said it.
Especially after his lakeside confession—well, the implications are intriguing.
She slips inside her bedroom, needing to extinguish this feeling before it gets any worse. More like quench it.
Would it make her a hypocrite if she were to lie down on the bed and slip a hand beneath her waistband to see what he did to her?
Just as a sort of measuring stick to see if she’s really alive.
She sets the tablet on the nightstand and dims the lights.
Maybe not a hypocrite exactly. The bed creaks as she crawls onto it and lies back.
Definitely not a hypocrite. She’s only human, after all.
November 5, 2390.
Today is going to be the day. There will be messages in my inbox. My column will take off.
Wearing a forced smile, Electra opens the FrogBlog app. Her heart skips. There’s a message. She taps her inbox.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE WON MSP’S FAVORITE COSMETIC TREATMENT!
The preview shows a grinning man with a full face of freckles. There are no other messages. Her heart sinks.
It’s been five days since she posted the introduction, and crickets.
She copies the text and posts it again, like she did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before.
Maybe it just hasn’t found the right viewers yet.
But not a single person has submitted a question or even liked her post. It’s that feeling again—the sting of every agent’s No that made her question if she was even meant to be a writer.
She should just give up. Take down her posts.
Delete her account. Maybe she and her ideas don’t have a place in this world.