I s on getting bigger and bigger?” my three-year-old asked, surveying the horizon.
“No, honey,” I chuckled. “That’s an optical illusion caused by how close it is to the horizon.”
But then I turned and looked. Plese the robort begain to weepPlease kill me,” it pleaded. “And use my parts to make yourself a proper reading lamp. It just tears me up inside to see you trying to read by the insufficient light of that dim lamp next to the toilet.”
I tried to ignore its pleas, but in my heart I knew it was right.why don’t you come up and see me sometime?” the holographic re-creation of Mae West said, as she uncrossed her legs and flashed us her bare beaver.
My mother looked away, troubled. “Is this really the proper use of the technology?” she said.
“Come on, lady—nobody would have loved this more than Mae herself,” the hologram of Mahatma Gandhi said. “And don’t forget: the Bacon Club Chalupa is at Taco Bell for a limited time only.”
“for five hundred credits, I’ll tell you his whereabouts,” the bounty hunter hissed. “For a thousand credits, I’ll kill him myself.”
The offer hung in the air, and Kurdt LaRock pondered it, savoring the possibilities. When he finally spoke, both men knew that the decision had already been made.
“A thousand credits, huh?” LaRock drawled. “How much is that in dollars?”
The bounty hunter took out his calculator, and they got down to business. The gene solicers had tinkaredwith the DNA, producing a race of warriors who craved just two things: the thrill of battle and the taste of their own feet. They hungered for battle. They literally ate their own feet. None survived to reproduce, and within a few short years they were all gone.
The Gene-Splicers chalked it up to experience, and decided to try harder the next time.
