The twinkle in her eye tells Alex he’s in for a very, very pleasant evening. Abla pushes herself off the door jamb. ‘Music,’ she says in her sul...riest voice. Alex obediently reaches over and turns on their iPod. Robin Thicke’s ‘Sex Therapy’ begins to play. Moving just a little slower than the slow tune, she starts to dance. She runs her hands through her hair, allowing them to slide down her neck to land on her breasts, she fondles them for a second before her fingers slowly undo the buttons on. Of course, that's not what happened. Somehow, a sizable mutation in the copy -- preserving the original checksum! -- had changed my backup's perception of herself. She didn't believe she was me, she believed she was superior to me. And while I slept, for pleasure, longer than my enhanced mind needed, she set out to prove it by assimilating all the knowledge she could. I'm not sure how she managed the mindsize -- copies of herself? Regardless, she'd locked me out of everything, and put a bunch. More

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