the benefits and risks. One vocal group advocating for pre-pubescent installation argued that a more facile control of one's neuratronics lent the individual far better hormone management through the turbulent years of puberty. Their opponents argued that earlier installation was an open pipeline to perdition. With increasing numbers of crèche children reared sans family, parental monitoring of neuranet use fast-tracked toward non-existence.
Maris didn't care one way or another, but Balozi Neurobiotics did, their profits surging with each reduction in the age of installation. They ad-saturated the neuranet with grandiose lies encouraging parents to prodigalize their offspring. Balozi purloined demographics from Plavinas Crèche neuraservers and plundered Infantide Interstellar info in their corporate espionet forays. They seeded favorable university research with foundation funding and strangled media outlets that dared distribute unfavorable results.
“They don't play nice, do they?”
Still jacked in to each other, Maris realized Ilsa had been reviewing the information with him.
“Guess I'd better dress.” She did so lasciviously, taunting him in the small space.
He resisted the urge to take them off again. “Ten minutes to home,” he said. “I'm famished. How about you?”
“Quite.” She ran her eyes down his body. “Can we order in?”
Images of steaming sheets and steamy postures floated across his corn. “Yeah, but what about food?”
She giggled.
His corn signaled that Balodis had sent him another neuramail. He unjacked himself from Ilsa. The last thing he wanted was to let Balodis in on his love life. Her druthers for Ifems was top fare on the office gossip net, everyone making bets on how long she'd remain ignorant her secret was out.
“Lieutenant's eager to talk to me, fourth time she's neuro'ed me. How about you order Chinese?”
“I'm too tired for pick up. Can't we have it delivered?”
“Sure.” He blanked his corn and muted his coke, then commed Lieutenant Balodis.
“ 'Bout time you got back to me, Peterson. What the jerk you been doin'?” Behind her, a holorealist masterpiece from the last century graced her living room wall.
“Infantide Interstellar, Plavinas Development Crèche, Balozi Neurobiotics. Report will be on your neuramail in the morning, Lieutenant. No new leads of any substance.”
“The boy at Plavinas Development, you were there for that?” Her eyes searched his avatar, as though she might see past a blanked corn.
“Saw him liquefy, Lieutenant.” Not a sight he'd soon forget. Eleven! The boy was only eleven!
“Sorry you had to see that. I thought the two missing bureaucrats might be you and your jerk. Undercover's complaining you're sucking up all the idents. I sent Captain Greshot over to jack 'em off my back. Listen, Maris, Valmiera Nanobotics just announced the departure of Doctor Raihman, their lead researcher. Something about breach of protocol. Know anything about that?”
His denial was knee-jerk. “Not a thing.”
“Find out from him. Valmiera's not talking to us. What's next, Maris?”
Detective Peterson didn't know what to tell her. He excreted some bovine answer and cut the connection. The magnacar wobbled to a stop in front of the hotel.
He got out and stretched. The dusty night sky was littered with stars and strewn with helopod streaks. Baking day heat simmered off the cooling asphalt. Pedestrians in mixed attire moped furtively along the crowded street. The whine of magnacars still sang about perennial servitude, their double-seater zipping off to join its fellow slaves, free for now, as Ilsa joined him on the curb.
“Raihman got dismissed, eh?” she said.
He grunted, heading for the lobby, his butt tired from sitting, his mind tired from thinking.
Filip Dukur, Telsai Daily News, ambushed them at the lift. “Detective Peterson, the Governor and Legislature are demanding answers. What have you got to tell them?”
He cursed that
Maris didn't care one way or another, but Balozi Neurobiotics did, their profits surging with each reduction in the age of installation. They ad-saturated the neuranet with grandiose lies encouraging parents to prodigalize their offspring. Balozi purloined demographics from Plavinas Crèche neuraservers and plundered Infantide Interstellar info in their corporate espionet forays. They seeded favorable university research with foundation funding and strangled media outlets that dared distribute unfavorable results.
“They don't play nice, do they?”
Still jacked in to each other, Maris realized Ilsa had been reviewing the information with him.
“Guess I'd better dress.” She did so lasciviously, taunting him in the small space.
He resisted the urge to take them off again. “Ten minutes to home,” he said. “I'm famished. How about you?”
“Quite.” She ran her eyes down his body. “Can we order in?”
Images of steaming sheets and steamy postures floated across his corn. “Yeah, but what about food?”
She giggled.
His corn signaled that Balodis had sent him another neuramail. He unjacked himself from Ilsa. The last thing he wanted was to let Balodis in on his love life. Her druthers for Ifems was top fare on the office gossip net, everyone making bets on how long she'd remain ignorant her secret was out.
“Lieutenant's eager to talk to me, fourth time she's neuro'ed me. How about you order Chinese?”
“I'm too tired for pick up. Can't we have it delivered?”
“Sure.” He blanked his corn and muted his coke, then commed Lieutenant Balodis.
“ 'Bout time you got back to me, Peterson. What the jerk you been doin'?” Behind her, a holorealist masterpiece from the last century graced her living room wall.
“Infantide Interstellar, Plavinas Development Crèche, Balozi Neurobiotics. Report will be on your neuramail in the morning, Lieutenant. No new leads of any substance.”
“The boy at Plavinas Development, you were there for that?” Her eyes searched his avatar, as though she might see past a blanked corn.
“Saw him liquefy, Lieutenant.” Not a sight he'd soon forget. Eleven! The boy was only eleven!
“Sorry you had to see that. I thought the two missing bureaucrats might be you and your jerk. Undercover's complaining you're sucking up all the idents. I sent Captain Greshot over to jack 'em off my back. Listen, Maris, Valmiera Nanobotics just announced the departure of Doctor Raihman, their lead researcher. Something about breach of protocol. Know anything about that?”
His denial was knee-jerk. “Not a thing.”
“Find out from him. Valmiera's not talking to us. What's next, Maris?”
Detective Peterson didn't know what to tell her. He excreted some bovine answer and cut the connection. The magnacar wobbled to a stop in front of the hotel.
He got out and stretched. The dusty night sky was littered with stars and strewn with helopod streaks. Baking day heat simmered off the cooling asphalt. Pedestrians in mixed attire moped furtively along the crowded street. The whine of magnacars still sang about perennial servitude, their double-seater zipping off to join its fellow slaves, free for now, as Ilsa joined him on the curb.
“Raihman got dismissed, eh?” she said.
He grunted, heading for the lobby, his butt tired from sitting, his mind tired from thinking.
Filip Dukur, Telsai Daily News, ambushed them at the lift. “Detective Peterson, the Governor and Legislature are demanding answers. What have you got to tell them?”
He cursed that
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