Her name is Cecily, and she doesn’t look like a pirate. No eyepatch, no pegleg. Though she may be on the plain side, she’s not unattractive, with a sweet round face and soft brown eyes.
She could find someone to adore her if she wished.
Instead she has me.
Who am I? I’m Evan Bérard, baby! I’m a superstar. My voice has been responsible for more sexy fantasies than a million romance novels. Birth rates rise every time I release a new album.
I’m *the* Evan Bérard, world famous crooner.
Except I’m not. Not really.
It’s funny to think about, but a long time ago people only worried about hackers stealing credit cards and pirates downloading music.
Now hackers steal everyone's genetic scans from medical clone banks, along with their associated memory backups. Those files eventually spread to pirate sites. And then the pirates...
well, like everyone else, they have cheap organic printers. But modded, of course.
So now here I am—a recently printed, highly illegal copy of Evan Bérard, in the living room of Cecily, the pirate. At least she’s been fairly kind.
I’m not caged or handcuffed or being used for revenge or sex, like other clones. No, all she wants is—
“Sing for me,” she repeats, and though her words are still dreamy, her face hardens slightly.
I know that look. So in order to get fed, I will. I will sing for my supper. I will sing to an audience of one, instead of a stadium.
It could be worse. But I’d feel more hopeful if she’d duplicated me with arms and legs.