more than men. When this thing... But then I grew bored with that. As I grow bored with everything. As Roddie will grow bored with this new toy. A year. Two years. A decade. And another, another...
And so little brother Roddie, who was an infant when I was a teenager, is 114 years old today. And, in another six weeks, I will be 130... The avalanche of time, opening up a gulf of years between then and now. Between that old, young life, when we all expected to die, and this... immortality.
She reached out for the progtool’s input pad, and the gyndroid’s hand reached out to touch her arm. “Mother...”
Astrid looked at it again, at the almost-suffering, faux suffering, in those beautiful black eyes. She waited.
The gyndroid said, “Will I remember this moment?” Pleading in those eyes.
A long pause, then Astrid shook her head. “No, Amaterasu. You’ll forget.” Beautiful black eyes filling with a mist of tears. Of sorrow. Faux sorrow.
Astrid finished her movement, fingers reaching out to tap, just once, on the master-switch icon. The light of life in the gyndroid’s eyes faded, the eyes closed, the lovely, responsive body went still, arm relaxing, resting gently on the edge of the workbench.
Well, it was a wonderful new toy. And I had a wonderful time building it. Something to interest me, if only for a little while, experience defining the latest fad, the rash of hobbyist kits appearing everywhere, people looking for something new in a world whose offering of experiences grew increasingly sparse.
She reset the gyndroid’s memory table, punched in the codes that would bond it to Roddie as soon as it awoke and beheld itself in his arms. Amaterasu’s vagina would moisten with anticipation as soon as it saw his face.
It? She? I wonder how the gyndroid perceives itself?
She searched through the datasets until the ID matrix came up. He. She shook her head and smiled. They’d probably programmed this off some two-generation-old piece of industrial machinery, from the first flush of development, when the Scavenger records were first made public. She tapped in new code, and Amaterasu became a woman.
Roddie would like that.
Astrid powered down the progtool, holodisplay sliding out of existence, disappearing through a slot in thin air, closed the input pad, then stood and went around to the gyndroid’s head. Popped the sensors out of its, no her spun-fiber brain tissue. Closed the skull, slid the pate, with its long, silky black Asian-girl hair into place, let it reattach itself, let the sensors reel back into their progtool sockets.
Stood looking down at Amaterasu the Gyndroid. Almost in sorrow. Real sorrow? Hard to know. My feelings may be faux feelings by now. What’s left of the woman I was so long ago? Or the girl who came before her? The child who played soldier, who grew up following the American Renaissance. Who excelled in athletics, who toughened her spirit and joined the Marines and went off to the Moon when the... Event happened.
Long gone, I suspect. Erased by decades of change. Change and sameness. Brief memory of Dale Millikan, lost and gone forever. Brief pulse of regret. Was I ever that innocent? No. Never. She came around to the gyndroid’s side, reached down and dug one finger into its, her navel, push and twist just so, and pulled open the carapace, delicate breasts rising on a hinged chest wall.
Hardly anything real in there, all the parts necessary for pure robotic function so terribly miniaturized, beyond anything we could ever have imagined when I was young. Monofilament muscles. Stepper motors the size of a housefly that could lift a house from its foundation. A fusion powerplant fueled by atmospheric condensation.
Without her human parts, her woman parts, Amaterasu would be an empty shell. These bellows just faux lungs, so she could pretend to breath. So she can blow out the candles on her birthday cake ... A nice, compact faux digestive system so she could eat and drink,
And so little brother Roddie, who was an infant when I was a teenager, is 114 years old today. And, in another six weeks, I will be 130... The avalanche of time, opening up a gulf of years between then and now. Between that old, young life, when we all expected to die, and this... immortality.
She reached out for the progtool’s input pad, and the gyndroid’s hand reached out to touch her arm. “Mother...”
Astrid looked at it again, at the almost-suffering, faux suffering, in those beautiful black eyes. She waited.
The gyndroid said, “Will I remember this moment?” Pleading in those eyes.
A long pause, then Astrid shook her head. “No, Amaterasu. You’ll forget.” Beautiful black eyes filling with a mist of tears. Of sorrow. Faux sorrow.
Astrid finished her movement, fingers reaching out to tap, just once, on the master-switch icon. The light of life in the gyndroid’s eyes faded, the eyes closed, the lovely, responsive body went still, arm relaxing, resting gently on the edge of the workbench.
Well, it was a wonderful new toy. And I had a wonderful time building it. Something to interest me, if only for a little while, experience defining the latest fad, the rash of hobbyist kits appearing everywhere, people looking for something new in a world whose offering of experiences grew increasingly sparse.
She reset the gyndroid’s memory table, punched in the codes that would bond it to Roddie as soon as it awoke and beheld itself in his arms. Amaterasu’s vagina would moisten with anticipation as soon as it saw his face.
It? She? I wonder how the gyndroid perceives itself?
She searched through the datasets until the ID matrix came up. He. She shook her head and smiled. They’d probably programmed this off some two-generation-old piece of industrial machinery, from the first flush of development, when the Scavenger records were first made public. She tapped in new code, and Amaterasu became a woman.
Roddie would like that.
Astrid powered down the progtool, holodisplay sliding out of existence, disappearing through a slot in thin air, closed the input pad, then stood and went around to the gyndroid’s head. Popped the sensors out of its, no her spun-fiber brain tissue. Closed the skull, slid the pate, with its long, silky black Asian-girl hair into place, let it reattach itself, let the sensors reel back into their progtool sockets.
Stood looking down at Amaterasu the Gyndroid. Almost in sorrow. Real sorrow? Hard to know. My feelings may be faux feelings by now. What’s left of the woman I was so long ago? Or the girl who came before her? The child who played soldier, who grew up following the American Renaissance. Who excelled in athletics, who toughened her spirit and joined the Marines and went off to the Moon when the... Event happened.
Long gone, I suspect. Erased by decades of change. Change and sameness. Brief memory of Dale Millikan, lost and gone forever. Brief pulse of regret. Was I ever that innocent? No. Never. She came around to the gyndroid’s side, reached down and dug one finger into its, her navel, push and twist just so, and pulled open the carapace, delicate breasts rising on a hinged chest wall.
Hardly anything real in there, all the parts necessary for pure robotic function so terribly miniaturized, beyond anything we could ever have imagined when I was young. Monofilament muscles. Stepper motors the size of a housefly that could lift a house from its foundation. A fusion powerplant fueled by atmospheric condensation.
Without her human parts, her woman parts, Amaterasu would be an empty shell. These bellows just faux lungs, so she could pretend to breath. So she can blow out the candles on her birthday cake ... A nice, compact faux digestive system so she could eat and drink,
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