Father pauses again, and even though I can not hear him pouring himself another drink, I can hear the distraction in his voice that indicates his true attention is elsewhere, and I know that is what he is doing. “Granted,” Father says in a softer tone, but still loud enough for me to hear him. “Not all the genetic donors were, strictly speaking, willing or even alive at the time of their donation. My early efforts were clumsy enough that it took an embarrassing amount of genetic material to compensate for my mistakes.” Father's sigh is as theatrical as it is plaintive. “But such is the path of knowledge.”

Indeed, Father.

Distracted by my audacity as I stand outside the closed door to Father's study, I almost miss Father's next words. “One inspiration I did take from fiction, admittedly, was to take special care that her brain was properly formed and that she was as intelligent as she needed to be and no more.” Father's laugh becomes raucous. “And she requires no great genius to serve her needs or mine, I assure you!”

Most definitely not omniscient.

Father surrounds me with pretty and cheerful things to keep me happy, dresses that he likes to put on me almost as much as he likes taking them off, happy songs and jolly cartoons to make me laugh and smile, or movies to instruct me in whatever new game Father wishes me to play with him. But when not spending time with me, Father spends a great deal of time on his computer in his study, and likes it when I watch him so long as I remain quiet and respectful, so I remain quiet and respectful. And perhaps I am a girl of very little brain like Father tells me . . . but I know what a password is, and I know how to read. Father taught me.

He simply did not know it at the time.

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