Chapter 1 #3
Apparently, during my brief interchange with Res6, the man has checked out because he’s begun a new scene.
The man is collecting a package from an oversized mailbox.
The label reads “Fully Customized CHOICElover Kit.” Then there are a bunch of letters and numbers that don’t mean anything to me. Almost like a mailing label.
The scene changes again, and the man is in a bedroom plugging the little scale-like thing into a wall.
Then . . . oh God. He unwraps what looks like a giant patty of Spam, all pink and gelatinous.
It quivers as he sets it on the scale. He takes a bottle of water and pours it into a little slot.
Green lights come on and the little meat patty gives a jolt.
I can’t peel my eyes away from the time-lapse video that plays next.
Every few seconds, the man comes back and speed-pours water into the slot when the lights turn red.
He goes away and the meat patty morphs into .
. . I don’t even know how to describe it.
It’s a pink blob that, with each bottle of water, becomes even more gelatinous. And bigger.
They say the human body is 60 percent water . . .
Eventually, the thing goes from looking like a phallic blob to Gumby if he were made of canned dog food.
Then it becomes more humanoid, and skin appears.
I assume that inside the creature, the loaf of wet dog food is transmuting into organs and blood, etc.
Hairs sprout. Eyelashes and fingernails.
The definition of lips and nipples. Her clit and labia form before the pubic hair fills in.
The last thing to gain LifeLike color are her irises.
The man comes in with a final bottle of water and surveys the creation.
His grin as he assesses her turns my stomach.
Suddenly, all I want to do is take a scalding hot shower. To scrub every single inch of my skin until it’s raw.
Now the woman is blinking. The man sets the unused bottle aside and leans down to the scale thing. He punches a few buttons, and, unlike me, the woman doesn’t react. He stands and offers her a hand, which she takes. She steps off the scale, giving him the sweetest trusting grin.
“Hello, darling,” he says to her, and her grin becomes toothy. “What would you like to do today?”
Even though I know what’s coming, I still brace.
In the most compliant Stepford wife voice, she says, “Anything you like.”
The video ends with the man from the beginning giving the rest of his spiel about how with a small down payment, a CHOICElover, the premium manupartner of our time, can be yours. “So, what are you waiting for? Make the right CHOICE today!”
I stare at the BUY NOW button, a little dumbfounded. The implication is that this is what Res6 and his lab coat buddies did to get me. But how? This is too elaborate to be fake or a joke. I spin the chair to face him. I’m shocked and angry and in desperate need of an outlet.
“That is the most horrific, disgusting, and pathetic thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
You . . .” I get to my feet, my words staggering like the rest of me.
“You thought, what? That I was going to be some type of sex toy for you? Is that it? Can’t get an actual woman to spread her legs for you?
So you needed one of those things . . . what was it called? ”
Res6, for his part, remains calm. “A manupartner,” he supplies.
“So creeps like you just pull women from the past to be their sex slaves. Is that it?”
His expression clears. “CHOICElover is not just for men. In my opinion, the commercial geared toward cis straight women is even more graphic.”
Is he offended? Never mind. I don’t care.
I don’t want to imagine a woman speaking to the camera while simultaneously pushing a man’s head down, out of view.
I think back over the video. I’m missing a few key details, like the significance of the woman morphing into existence from a meat patty.
But I’m freaking out. Palms sweating, bile churning, I’m-going-to-vomit freaking out.
I jab a stiff finger into his chest. “If that’s what you think you’re going to get with me, you clicked the wrong buttons, asshole. There is no way I’m having sex with you, and if you try to force me, I’ll fight you the entire time. I promise it won’t be fun for you.”
My blood runs cold. So very, very cold. Frigid and icy and bone-chilling.
If he tries to force me . . . Is that what he wants?
Did he pick me and my traits because he knew I’d be more likely to fight him?
And he gets off on that? I take several quick steps back, scanning the room for the exit.
I have to run away. I remember the beach outside.
Surely there’s a resort somewhere nearby with security.
He slowly lifts his hand like I might startle if he moves too quickly. “Easy. I’m not going to force you. There is more you need to know. Please come sit back down.” He looks like every word he speaks is an effort.
Reluctantly, I follow him to the couches and take a seat on the opposite side of the space from him. The one nearest what might be a door that leads outside.
He takes a measured breath, gripping his knees.
“See, manupartners are the standard form of companionship now. For all people. Ever since we brought them onto the market, nearly everyone gets one. Easier to get just what you want from a relationship and so on. The thing is, manupartners aren’t actually meant to be people from the past. You are supposed to be a blank slate. A programmable partner.”
“Like a sex robot,” I interject. “That is the most messed-up thing I’ve ever heard.”
How far has society regressed if this is what humans are reduced to?
My liberal hippie parents would be horrified.
At this point, I am refusing to consider that they are likely dead.
That they are dead. A knot builds in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down.
This has to be a dream. My subconscious is incredibly imaginative.
“Yes, precisely. But more like a clone, so real. Made with human DNA from the past that has been collected and traded over the years.” He says the word real as if it doesn’t have the same meaning it did during my time.
As if its new meaning is more like “real, but not really real.” Real-like. Or real-ish. Faux-real.
“Okay,” I say, urging him to go on.
“There were rumors about manupartners retaining the identity of the DNA’s original vector.
I had my assistant Tommy search BLACKOUT, the dark web of our time, for anyone claiming to have a manupartner who thinks they’re from the past. Of the handful he’s identified, so far they’re all from pre-2050 and linked to our competitor GROW who recently released a Realer Than Real update. ”
“What is so special about this period?”
He shrugs. “It’s not that the humans from the period themselves are special.
It’s just that around 2050, the birthing industry took off.
Prospective parents could select their offspring’s genetic traits: eye color, height, nose shape, and so on.
It became common practice. Since then, our DNA has been altered, if you will. Streamlined, even.”
“So basically, people from your time like us because we’re mutts?”
He frowns. “People from your time have a more authentic feel, which our more discerning clients appreciate. The point is, you are an unfortunate but necessary consequence of an experiment to test the DNA from that time period. Aside from you, CHOICElover, the premium manupartner, hasn’t reported a single mishap. ”
I can’t help but grin, since this asshole’s pride is about to be shattered. “Until now.” I hold my arms wide for emphasis.
“Thank Zorg it happened during our trials. But at least we can reasonably guess that there is a link between the purity of the DNA from that time period and the volatility of NAM expression.” He pulls a device from his pocket.
A glass cell phone? He taps the screen a few times, then he holds up a finger to silence me.
Someone must pick up because he says, “Listen, Brix, let’s pull the line pre-2050.
” A pause. “No, nothing wrong with the unit. Just not worth the risk of a malfunction.” Another pause.
“No, it isn’t exhibiting any signs of NAM expression.
” Pause. “No.” Pause. “No, just the standard embedded functional memory.” The person must be convinced—relieved?
—because the questions stop. “I’m going to hang onto this one.
Get a little mileage out of it. We can always put the series back online if something changes. ”
He lied to a coworker about me. That might be the greatest revelation from his call. And mileage—how callous. My skin crawls.
My thoughts must show on my face because he says, “I didn’t mean that. I only . . .” he trails off like he knows he can’t win.
I’m beside myself. I want to scream and throw things. Now my questions mount in the millions. I add to the list Why did you lie to your coworker? I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer. “What happens when you’re done with a manupartner?”
Res6 looks away, shaking his head. “They get recycled.”
I jolt back.
“Don’t worry. That won’t happen to you.”
“But . . . but if you hadn’t lied, would that happen to me?”
“We are in unprecedented territory here—”
“Is that why you lied? To protect me or your employer?” I ask as I piece his motivations together.
“Is it a problem if I say both?”
Great. He’s only a borderline psychopath. I know the look I’m giving him is dripping with disgust. I don’t need to answer.
“It’s not what it seems. It’s an ethical dilemma we haven’t faced. And with the company, I have a duty to the workers. Do you know how many people CHOICElover employs? If NHOS got involved or shut us down, it would be bad for more than just me. I have a responsibility—”
“NHOS?” I interject to ask.
“Northern Hemisphere Organizational System, the governing body of half of the continent.” He leans back in his seat, rubbing his eyelids.
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I don’t see why you feel so responsible. I appreciate you protecting me from your corporate overlords, though. I can’t imagine the type of greedy pervert that would invent a manupartner would be so accepting of someone in my situation.” I make air quotes around the strange word.
I guess something I said struck a chord because he groans, loudly.
It is the most significant display of emotion I’ve gotten out of him.
“I wish this weren’t happening,” he says.
“But hopefully you’re the only one, and now Brix, my product line manager, will take care of it before it happens again. ”
“What about those other two men that were in the room when I first woke up?” I ask.
He lets out another long-suffering sigh. “Don’t worry about them. Lextr is my lead scientist and Tommy, as you know, is my personal assistant. They each have signed a nondisclosure agreement. Knowledge of your nature is limited to the three of us.”
“Excellent,” I say, but my terror has numbed me by this point. I don’t even know what to think. How is a person supposed to process all this information in—how long has it been? Two hours?
There are more questions. More things I need to know. My subconscious pushes me to ask. But right now, I have enough to digest. Res6 seems to hold some regard for others, demonstrated by his concern for his employees. I feel it’s safe to say I’m not in imminent danger.
Wait—his employees? My next question is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t think I can handle any more surprises right now.
I stand up, knowing exactly what I need. I can feel this wellspring of words I’m sharing with you, Dear Reader, searching for a way out. Searching for a page to tumble onto.
So I say, “I need a minute to process all of this. And a notebook or something if you have one.” If my thoughts don’t find an outlet, I’ll implode.
I’ve always been this way. I’ve filled hundreds of journals throughout my life.
He hands me a tablet, directs me to a program called Scrawl, then just stands there staring at me.
I scan the room quickly. “Is there a bedroom I can use?” I wiggle the tablet at him. “I need a minute. In private.”
His eyes narrow, as if what I’m requesting makes no sense to him. Still, he directs me through a door to an adjoining room, then leaves me.
That brings us to the present. I now sit in a minimal but luxurious bedroom that I assume must be his.
The massive bed draped with dark silken bedding and olive-gray walls lend an overall masculine and cave-like feel to the space.
I have a tablet in hand and am writing with a sleek metal stylus.
I’ve gotten it all out of my head and onto the page, so it no longer has to rattle around in my mind.
A lightness settles over me. I still have questions, like what am I supposed to do now?
But I’m alive and I’m fairly certain this isn’t a dream.
Feeling centered, I’m convinced I’m ready to tackle what’s next. Thanks in part to you, Dear Reader. I’m in the future, and it’s going to be okay.
Cautiously hopeful,
Electra
Electra glances up from the tablet, clutching her precious words to her chest as the door cracks open.
“Hello?” Gold eyes peek in at her. “Is everything okay?”
Something about Res6’s concerned frown sends all the cautious optimism Electra spent the last hour nurturing flying out the window. She’s in the future. What is she going to do now?