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It was about the size of a beer barrel. The building manager came around the corner in his electric golf cart just as I yelled.

He squinted down at the shell, then pointed at a label. He was an Oldie and he could read. I looked at the label and it looked like my name -- I know the letters of my own name, William Mnemonic Wood.

Then I touched the pointed end of the reader to the printed words, and heard them spoken. Your middle name starts with N , you just said it yourself.

I didn't order anything. You were ten days late with the rent this month. If you can afford this kind of stuff, you can afford the rent.

I ran the reader over the rest of the label, then touched the eight biggest words. I had to move the shell to close the apartment door. It must have weighed a hundred pounds.

I pulled off the shipping label and there was a brochure and an instruction manual under the label. I thumbed through the brochure: it was full of pictures of naked women, and the pictures were not only 3-D, but motile and audible: the girls writhed erotically on the pages and little moans and squeals of pleasure escaped.

How the hell had this happened? I'd heard of The Girl of the Month Club, but I'd never ordered it -- first of all, it cost a megabuck or more, and only an Oldie could afford one.

But mainly, it was such a geriatric idea -- nobody but an Oldie would want to screw one of these synthetic, non-human clones.

I mean, even a 'moner like me has standards. I paged through the instructions folder but it was almost all in writing. Well, I was already late for work I closed my door and went up one floor to street level and hopped on my bicycle.

In the old days you had to lock your bike or somebody would steal it. I can't imagine a Los Angeles like that.

What a barbarous world it must have been. The world the Oldies made I pedaled to the freeway and rode down the ramp and into the slow lane. The freeway's magnetic field grabbed hold of my bike's transducer and accelerated me up to a steady It was against the law, but it was faster than pedaling.

The transducer was one I'd pried out of a wrecked truck after the cops left the scene of a crash. I welded it to the frame of my bike and I was going to keep using it until they caught me: the less time I spent out in the open on the way to work, the less radiation I'd get.

I could have had my pick of any old-time car in the city, of course, but gasoline is definitely out of my budget class, and I've never had any practice driving on the freeway in a car among the trucks.

Today was clear and sunny for a change. I could see the mountains all around, and I took off my hood and enjoyed the naked wind in my face.

The pace of traffic slowed and I began slipping between the trucks and I enjoyed the annoyed honks from the truck drivers as I whipped past them.

I hoped they were Oldies, but not many Oldies had to take jobs as truck drivers. You couldn't afford it if you were working for the minimum wage at the Megalith Corporation, like I was.

In ten minutes I was at the Wilshire Boulevard exit, and in another 5 minutes I was parking my bike at the surface entrance of the Monolith Building.

That's when Skizz tapped me on the shoulder. He can really sneak up on you unnoticed. Sometimes Skizz has the neatest stuff -- rhino adrenaline, mutant insulin, tailored testotesterone -- but his older brother makes the stuff and he's an experimenter, you never know if you might be the first-time tester of some zappy 'mone.

Skizz himself took a big dose of schizoprine a couple years ago and still hasn't really come out of it yet. I'm already 6'8" and I'm not like those Get HiGH freaks who aren't satisfied until they're seven feet tall.

I only do it once in a while. What is it? I announced my name and employee number and pressed my thumb to the print plate and the elevator opened.

I started the long ride down and wondered if that package was really from The Girl of the Month Club, or if one of my pals was trying another stupid joke I remembered the girl's face from the brochure.

Felina was her name. Wood, age , studied an invoice and punched out the phone number of the New York offices of The Girl of the Month Club.

When the prosthebot answered, he said, "Hiya doll, we got some kinda fuckup here, I got the bill but not the merchandise, lemme talk to a human, okay?

Yeah, I'll wait. William N. Wood owned Albuquerque, New Mexico, through a quirk of the Urban Homestead rules, and he made a comfortable living by sifting through the homes and stores and factories and warehouses of Albuquerque and removing valuables and transporting them to Los Angeles for sale.

He had to do the work himself, or at least supervise it, because unsupervised labor would simply remove the stuff for their own profit.

There was no local labor to be had in Albuquerque, of course. Vast expanses of American urban area had been wiped clean of life by neutron bombs, but the cities themselves were virtually undamaged.

Several parts of the continent were devastated, true, but there was so much property left over, and so few people, that everybody was rich.

Sort of. At ground level I was the only person in the elevator. The elevator stopped about 20 levels down and another passenger stepped in.

He looked like another 'moner to me, but he must have had a good job if he lived 20 levels down. I thought about The Girl of the Month Club package.

Back before the turn of the century they thought Virtual Reality would be peddling the whores of the future. Virtual reality had TV eyeglasses and earplugs and handgloves: that was it.

No tactile feedback devices. That breakthrough never surfaced, but genetic engineering blossomed and made possible the sale of living, breathing, moaning fuck dolls.

Hey, maybe I could sell it to some Oldie. It had to be worth a megabuck. Sure, it was some screwup and they'd catch me eventually, but I could jolt the apartment and be 50 miles away in another unregistered apartment, and what could they do?

The elevator stopped and two people got on. They looked at me disdainfully as we started down again.

I have a real stupid job, and I guess they could tell. Megalithic Systems Optimization, Inc. Six hours a day I sit in front of a video plate and control a boreworm in Mare Serendipt on the Moon.

All day long I sit in front of a flat video screen and control the flow and interaction of complex colored shapes, according to the instructions of the day, using the various controls.

It paid the minimum wage, a hundred bucks an hour, and there was virtually no hope for advancement. But it paid the rent.

And it was an underground job. If you want to be a player in L. Skizz works above ground, and makes big cash, sure. His brother Rovar also makes big money salvaging from L.

Surface work is a dead end, that's what I think. The real world is Downstairs. So I was enduring the minimum wage life while trying to get a clue for advancement.

The elevator halted at my floor and I stood up. I felt the 'mones starting to come on already. There was a glittering edge to everything, and motion and time seemed to be slowed down.

The door opened and I stepped out into the giant underground mall. Many stairways led to levels further below.

I got on the slidewalk, and rode it about half a mile to the Megalithic offices. At the office they were having some kind of ceremony.

I was embarrassed at being late, but hardly anybody noticed when I came in. I saw a couple of my pals, but the only person I really noticed was Mandy Feather, the best-looking woman in the company.

She's a year younger than me but she's already assistant manager of the process implementation department. I was embarrassed to be thinking about Felina in front of Mandy.

She has really nice tits and today she wasn't wearing a top: instead she had a new fur job, short blond hair that covered only her breasts.

Gardner, the Oldie in charge of my department at Megalithic. He whispered in her ear and rubbed her fur job, and she giggled. Hair cream is easy to get if you have enough money -- just rub it on and it changes the DNA in your skin cells and hair starts growing.

It's awfully expensive -- but Mandy made a lot more money than I did. Then the ceremony was over, employee of the month awards or something, and Mr.

Gardner was helping Mandy stand up, and I pushed forward past them and let the crush of the crowd make me collide with Mandy, and I gave her a hip thump as we touched and she caught my eye just before I surged away.

I don't know if it was the 'mones, but it seemed like she was staring right into my soul. I had this big urge to bite her on the back of the neck.

I made the minimum wage of a hundred dollars an hour and there wasn't much chance I'd ever make more than that -- I graduated from high school but that didn't count as a credential any more.

I've got my skills but they are equivalent to pool-hall skills. Playing pool takes mathematical insight, but not mathematical training. Intuitive mathematics.

I control the moon robots by shuffling shapes and colors on the screen. When I touch an outline on the screen I can change its size and color and shape; if I drag my finger across the screen, the image will follow along.

A pulsing yellow barrier line appeared on one edge of the screen. It represented a bunch of hypothetical dimensions that I didn't know anything about.

In the rules it meant I couldn't go in that direction with a blue cube or a rotating dodecahedron. I felt the 'mones roaring up in me.

I could sling those cubes and dodies easy as can be. Then the break signal chimed, a tone signaling the first break. I put my controls in neutral and got a cup of coffee and went to Fred Metz's carrel.

Fred was caught outside during a Stage 1 radiation alert last summer, and all his hair fell out. He was too cool to wear a rad suit until then.

I liked Fred because he was like me -- he grew up in the Midwest and came to Los Angeles because that's where the action is.

We found out that every young man in North America had the same idea. You should try it. Sharpens your senses. That's all the rule is about.

He studied the screen. Okay, loser buys 'mones. I went back to my carrel and slapped and tickled my screen and made my miner cross into Fred's path.

I programmed for a visual simulation. At first it was normally boring, nothing but a dark rock face and a jumble of broken rock, but then the rock face shattered apart and I saw Fred's miner, face to face.

A fifty-foot diameter of lasers and a central structure for grinding and conveying the ore. Big deal. It looked just like the pictures. I shrugged and returned my miner to the right path -- just in time because Mr.

Gardner and Mandy Feather came back in, and Mr. Gardner was preeny and stalked around finding fault with us. Near the end of the shift I saw Mandy standing alone by the transmutation monitor and I stepped up behind her.

There was a radiation alert at quitting time, so I was able to take underground transportation home for free instead of bicycling.

Hauser's is near my apartment and is one story underground, so it's fairly safe, even if it's a cheap and sleazy joint. Fred and Skizz and I were part of the Boy Imbalance.

A few years before I was born, they invented a way to make sure your kid was a boy or a girl, and my mom and dad decided they wanted a boy.

So did everybody else. It was just a couple of years after the Fuckup War, and as in every previous era of human history, parents favored the production of male children.

When cheap, reliable methods of determining the sex of your offspring came on the world market, suddenly only boys were being born.

I was born late in the cycle, when the oldest of the Boy Bulge were 16, and then the Big War started when I was 6, and is still going on, although not in the fearsome style of the early days.

Today it's a worldwide armed truce, but we still average five or six nuclear incidents a year. I had a lot of friends. They were all guys. Oh, there were lots of women my age, too.

But it seemed like they were all taken by Oldies. Then Skizz's brother Jim showed up. Jim was a surface worker -- a guy who harvests material goods from the ruins of the old world above.

He had a heavy radiation tan. You can do a lot with cosmetics, and god knows the Oldies have been trying a long time, but there's still something about a girl who's really only 18 that is beyond the grasp of the cosmetic art, despite genetic engineering and all.

We watched them for a while and talked about Oldies. The big runny putrid ones. The brunette with the full-body scintillation film said, "Oh, please tell us all about processing," real sarcastic, and then they acted like I wasn't even there.

I went back to the table and Fred and Skizz and Jim razzed me for a while. That's when this Oldie woman sat down and started hassling us.

She had these wrinkles you wouldn't believe and her ears and her nose were so big and hairy, eck. She tried to buy us drinks, offered us some psychotabs -- Skizz was interested at first but I think he just wanted to buy them for resale, not use them.

The Oldie put her arm around me and tried to pull me toward her and her breath was awful. The shipping shell from The Girl of the Month Club was still there.

I pulled the release tab and the shell whooshed and a waft of chill air came out as the internal suspended animation circuits shut off. I put a meal in the microwave and looked through the instruction manual.

It took about an hour for the shell to cycle through. I sat nervously waiting for the girl to start poking through the shell.

I'd been looking at the brochure and using my reader to listen to the words but it was awfully complicated and there was a lot of writing.

I was starting to worry You had to feed them a special nutrient syrup or they would die. I decided I would just keep the girl one day and then call in and let the mistake be known.

That would be the right way to do it. Suddenly a circular piece of the shell popped loose and a girl's nose poked out and inhaled deeply.

I hastily thumbed through the manual and found the picture of the nose coming out and when I looked at it the rest of the shell in the picture peeled back like artichoke leaves.

I pulled the leaves off. There were twelve of them and after just three were off the girl's head was exposed and I could see she was beautiful, half asleep but fearful and anxious.

Her hair was wet and matted and her skin was covered with fluid -- as I pulled back more leaves a quart or two of liquid gushed onto the floor.

When I pulled the last leaf off she opened her eyes and looked right at me and moaned and darted her eyes around and struggled to move. I touched her hand and she flowed onto me, a huddling frightened girl hugging me for life, wet and bawling.

According to the manual this was the "imprinting" time. They'd grafted duck DNA into the clones so that they bonded with their owner as baby ducks bond to the first moving thing they see after hatching.

The bonding was pheromonic: the girls were imprinted by the owner's smell factors, and no embarrassing incidents would result if a non-member were to encounter one of the girls.

The girl was dripping wet and naked and clamped herself against me, burrowing through clothes to press her flesh against mine. The manual suggested that I sit and hug and soothe her for an hour while she adapted to her new environment and absorbed my pheromones.

When the pheromonic imprinting was completed, she would be ready for whatever sexual gymnastics I had in mind. But the way she was sobbing and moaning and clinging to me All just as advertised.

I was really turned on but I followed the instructions and just held on to her. I was kind of afraid of her, actually.

She was wet and I tried to pry her off so I could get a towel, but she fretted and clung to me. I stood up to get a towel and she rode me like a leaf plastered to a windshield by the rain.

I toweled her back but her front was clamped against me. I had a hard-on that was starting to be uncomfortable, but after a half an hour she began a sniffing ritual, nuzzling against my chest and licking me and crawling up my body to lick my face -- it wasn't really like kissing -- and then she moved down and sucked me in and after long bliss I gave her the final pheromonic imprint: a long jet of my own personal DNA files.

The rest of the night was an endless exploration of orgasm, and I didn't have any moral qualms. But in the morning I did. I woke early and couldn't go back to sleep.

She looked cute snoozing in my bed She was so sleek and trim. Part of the reason was that she didn't have much in the way of internal organs.

In order to make a clone with the narrowest waist, the bioengineers had left out intestines, for the most part. The girls needed a couple ounces a day of nutrient solution -- a half liter flask had been included inside the egg.

I poured her a little glass of it and shook her awake. She drank it with a slobbering gratitude. We did it again before I went to work.

May I help you? I wanted to take this month's girl with me, but now you've wrecked it. Now you make sure she's here when I get back, you understand?

The shipment hasn't arrived. I don't care what your records show. Send it now. When the realtime clock in William Wood's computer dialed The Girl of the Month Club and repeated the message, it was three in the morning in New York.

Just at that moment in Times Square in front of the offices of The Girl of the Month Club, a mugger slipped up behind a pedestrian and pressed a gun into his back.

The pedestrian whirled and pulled an ion gun. The mugger fired two shots from his. The pedestrian pulled the trigger of his ion gun once, and then again.

One charge from the ion gun went through the office wall into the computer of The Girl of the Month Club and scrambled several memory banks during William M.

Wood's call. The mugger slumped to the ground without a mark on him: the ion gun's charge coagulated the flesh in a three-inch wide path through his body, like hard-boiling an egg.

The pedestrian plucked two slugs from his bulletproof vest, put his ion gun away, and walked on. There were cops all over the freeway where a freight van's mag field transducer had failed and left a foot crater and only one lane of traffic was trickling through, and I couldn't grab a ride and had to pedal all the way.

I was really tired -- I hadn't slept more than two hours. I looked for Skizz at work, I wanted to get some more panther thyroid, but he wasn't out there in the rain.

I probably didn't need anything. Hell, my testosterone levels were on a natural high and my cock wouldn't go limp all day.

I could hardly wait to get home again. I churned the colors on my screen half heartedly most of the morning thinking about Felina.

I didn't even notice if Mandy Feather was there. Well, I hardly noticed. Later Fred and I snuck away and he had some dreamazine -- a zappy 'mone that triggers a REM state while you're wide awake.

Then the pulse alarm sounded. Any time there's an atomic explosion a big electromagnetic pulse blasts away and it can wreck a computer and zero the magnetic memory in a blink.

If there had really been an H-bomb all our files would have been gone. Later in the day they called me and Fred in to get chewed out.

I sat in the Big Boss's waiting room and hoped I wouldn't get fired. No free clinic in immediate area that performed abortions without parental consent.

Furious, as she watched him allow a preteen son steer the wheel of their family sedan whenever it idled in driveway. Incentive enough to have no qualms about a subtle manipulation of other guys more than happy to help just for the chance of showing off their new set of wheels or brag to friends.

Hardly a need to tell one of them anything but wait outside while Becca attended to female problems he did not even want to know about.

Especially, since STDs and the like running amok among kids their age, above all for girls who put out. Desperation alone making Becca the type of person that got her in trouble to start with, sure she would never hear from him again until discovery of first anonymous message sent through email.

Uncertain what he could possibly achieve, but clearly about to find out given that the bastard most likely had been following her.

Somebody Becca knew , or an acquaintance able to get her personal info from besties? People already worried by both physical and behavioral changes passed off as growing pains.

Missed meals as well as spending more time holed up in bedroom than with friends around the house. The stressed-out teen knew it only a matter of time before Mom demanded she see their family physician.

Becca hospitalized for fear of miscarrying at six weeks… A psychological workup following the botched abortion she tried to perform on herself with a hidden kitchen utensil in eighth week that officially made her unborn child a fetus.

Healthcare professionals unsure why a perfectly normal young woman abruptly exhibiting an irrational hatred towards her own offspring, short of the rare psychosis usually found postpartum.

Becca still institutionalized during forth month; a stage deemed safe to have an amniocentesis test to see if there were any abnormalities of the child so despised.

He only wants his father and will come down to either him or me in the end! Demon's Seed. Like 3. You have made everything my fault because of what a friend of mine did by keeping things from you including a child that isn't my fault, and it never was.

I can't live with the fact that you still want to kill me. I do not wish for you to hurt me any more than you have. You have tortured my life so much that it doesn't feel right to not know when you could appear and try to kill me.

I do not have any details of this child let alone knowing she is yours because this is up to the child now and she is refusing as much as her mother to know who she belongs too that is her life choice, not yours.

I, shouldn't have to suffer for something that I wasn't even involved in at the time, I was busy doing my own thing then once I hit Sixth Grade you raped me in in Elementary School that I went too in the bathroom, in front of Pre-K students, and anywhere else you get a hold of me.

By Ninth and Tenth Grade you raped me. Every chance you got from the Library to the Science Hallway bathroom, and on the School Bus to your bus stop.

I am thousands of miles away for a reason and if you do try an find me, my family will protect me.

I am not going through all this hell again for you to keep hurting me over something that a friend did to keep you away from that child, and I don't blame her one bit because you are a rapist that deserves prison time for everything that you put us through.

I have never asked to be raped or wear anything to be raped this fellow student Jason Lee Lyons ruined the life that I had going for me, I didn't graduate, never got my GED, he used to hack my Facebook every single day of my life including threatening me, and now his threat is to kill me if he ever finds me.

He lives in my hometown still but every time I have gone to visit, I don't see him and glad that I don't because I am still watching my back every day of my life also protecting my daughter.

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