“1.2. All technological progress of Human society is geared towards the redundancy of the Human species as we currently know it.”
Robert Pepperell, The Posthuman Manifesto
Angela kept telling herself she was not a monster-maker. It was marginal comfort knowing that Vitor, a Synthetic Lifeform, had not yet bent, snapped, crushed, or cast into the Atlantic Sea neither of them…
Well, at least, she was mostly certain the worst had passed. Weiss’s expectations were, so far, accurate. Clear as the Polar Bear Seltzer which Vitor was now managing well. Vitor had discovered that taking one’s time and swallowing, versus chugging, gagging, and jetting from the nostrils, was the better way to quench a thirst.
She grudgingly admitted the Seltzer Act was funny. She had laughed so hard at the nose-streaming vaudeville soda show, that she nearly peed her pants once she realized Vitor seemed to be choke-proof. Besides… he was a fast learner!
Vitor had forgotten breathing again. A paradigm of human perfection and contradiction; although he wasn’t entirely natural…
Of course, he had yet to find these things out. His creator, Angela, wasn’t concerned. Most of Vitor’s source code was from Weiss, who was a fitness extremist. Their respiration and metabolic rate dropped to nearly zero at rest.
He analyzed the picture frame. Very much the Engineer. He had the myopic microscopic vision, so much like Weiss. Ran his fingers along all the edges, confirming the mechanical perfection. Fit and finish.
Next, the matte glass. He found a problem. The glass. She knew. Saw the glint of the late afternoon sun, how it distorted at the upper-right corner of the framed photograph. He sniffed the glass…
Odd, she thought. Vitor the inhaler… Angela recalled the research Weiss had done on cloning, back when the process was in its primitive startup phase. Something to do with Nucleic DNA, and Mitochondrial DNA. Paul Root Wolpe: “What you really end up having… are really hybrids… not pure animals.”
Not here. Vitor was a different animal — bad pun. Synthetic versus Hybrid. Weiss’s voice inside her. Lovely Vitor — nearly six-feet, soft volatile anomalous artistry — not of the womb. Not ever.
Vitor was a New World. His World. His School. Grasped the photo-frame, turning it slowly towards her. “Small Angela? Small Weiss?”
He recognized Weiss