gone pale with airborne toxin. Somewhere a siren wailed, ruing its regret to the unfortunate victims. A fitful breeze carried the hesitant stench of ionized air and rotted garbage.
He liked this time of day. He couldn't have said why. He could have said the same about his job. Death didn't discriminate. It was inevitable as sundown. The ebb of day, the blight of night. A soul stolen away, taken by a thief who benefitted not at all from the theft, as though taking someone's life might enhance one's own, like a reputation. In these murders, it was more than just one life; it was the continuity of life itself, murdered more foul than life itself.
Peterson turned to the building and looked up. Window embrasures stared indifferently back at him.
A magnacar wound down its whine on the street below, and a figure emerged. Shoes up the stairs tapped out a staccato beat.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Ilsa said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Thanks,” he said, his mouth near her ear, the smell of her like a meadow at sunrise, the feel of her like the kiss of dawn. He handed her a mastoid dongle, the one marked female. “Jack this in. You're Ilsa Liepin, certified Brefem, applying for a natural birth permit with your husband, Maris Liepin. New name, new neuranet address, new everything.”
“Where—?”
“Undercover does this all the time.” He pulled her against him. It thrilled him to have her close, all the teen testosterone without any of its angst.
“How come Undercover gets to have all the fun?” She met his gaze briefly and smiled. “Well, almost all the undercover fun.”
He giggled. “Jack time.” He slid the dongle marked male into his mastoid jack.
His corn flickered and flashed an icon. “Upload complete,” his coke chirped.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and he extended his arm to her.
Together, they walked through the doors.
The interior sterility exceeded the exterior indifference. The Fertility Ministry looked anything but fecund. White ceilings reflected white floors. White walls faced whiter walls. The light was source-less, seemed to come from everywhere. The one blot of color on the white-on-white was the pale, wan receptionist. “May I help you?”
Needs some face caking, Maris thought. Or paint. “Uh, Maris Liepin. My wife Ilsa and I would like to apply for a natural birth permit.”
The man hesitated, accessing their identities on his corn. “Why didn't you apply on the net?”
“For something this important?” Ilsa said, shaking her head. “And get bombarded with neura-ads for fertility supplements?”
“And erectile enhancements?” Maris traded a smirk with his wife. “No, thanks, kid.”
“I see your donations are up to date,” the receptionist said. “Surprised they're still accepting yours, Mr. Liepin. You should be honored.”
“After that disaster at Plavinas Incubation yesterday, they'll be begging from Bremales a lot older than me.”
“Terrible, wasn't it? The Coalition is sending its crack investigative squad, I hear.” The young Omale pushed a scanner toward them, flickering scan lights cutting across its surface. “I just need a retinal image from you both to get your agreement. That agreement includes allowing us to access your most recent fertility exam. Further, you'll be committing to an attempt every forty-eight hours. You'll need jack in to record your hormonal profiles. A link will be sent to your neuramail with instructions on how to upload your recordings. During the two-year waiting period, your donations must be kept current at all times. Any single instance of being late or missing your donation will result in a reset of the two-year waiting period.”
“A reset?” Ilsa asked.
“It starts over,” the young man said.
“You'll be finished with your indenture by then,” Maris grumbled.
The Omale gave him a brief smile. “The application fee is ten thousand lats, please.”
Mules shouldn't work at places like this, Peterson
He liked this time of day. He couldn't have said why. He could have said the same about his job. Death didn't discriminate. It was inevitable as sundown. The ebb of day, the blight of night. A soul stolen away, taken by a thief who benefitted not at all from the theft, as though taking someone's life might enhance one's own, like a reputation. In these murders, it was more than just one life; it was the continuity of life itself, murdered more foul than life itself.
Peterson turned to the building and looked up. Window embrasures stared indifferently back at him.
A magnacar wound down its whine on the street below, and a figure emerged. Shoes up the stairs tapped out a staccato beat.
“I got here as soon as I could,” Ilsa said, giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Thanks,” he said, his mouth near her ear, the smell of her like a meadow at sunrise, the feel of her like the kiss of dawn. He handed her a mastoid dongle, the one marked female. “Jack this in. You're Ilsa Liepin, certified Brefem, applying for a natural birth permit with your husband, Maris Liepin. New name, new neuranet address, new everything.”
“Where—?”
“Undercover does this all the time.” He pulled her against him. It thrilled him to have her close, all the teen testosterone without any of its angst.
“How come Undercover gets to have all the fun?” She met his gaze briefly and smiled. “Well, almost all the undercover fun.”
He giggled. “Jack time.” He slid the dongle marked male into his mastoid jack.
His corn flickered and flashed an icon. “Upload complete,” his coke chirped.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and he extended his arm to her.
Together, they walked through the doors.
The interior sterility exceeded the exterior indifference. The Fertility Ministry looked anything but fecund. White ceilings reflected white floors. White walls faced whiter walls. The light was source-less, seemed to come from everywhere. The one blot of color on the white-on-white was the pale, wan receptionist. “May I help you?”
Needs some face caking, Maris thought. Or paint. “Uh, Maris Liepin. My wife Ilsa and I would like to apply for a natural birth permit.”
The man hesitated, accessing their identities on his corn. “Why didn't you apply on the net?”
“For something this important?” Ilsa said, shaking her head. “And get bombarded with neura-ads for fertility supplements?”
“And erectile enhancements?” Maris traded a smirk with his wife. “No, thanks, kid.”
“I see your donations are up to date,” the receptionist said. “Surprised they're still accepting yours, Mr. Liepin. You should be honored.”
“After that disaster at Plavinas Incubation yesterday, they'll be begging from Bremales a lot older than me.”
“Terrible, wasn't it? The Coalition is sending its crack investigative squad, I hear.” The young Omale pushed a scanner toward them, flickering scan lights cutting across its surface. “I just need a retinal image from you both to get your agreement. That agreement includes allowing us to access your most recent fertility exam. Further, you'll be committing to an attempt every forty-eight hours. You'll need jack in to record your hormonal profiles. A link will be sent to your neuramail with instructions on how to upload your recordings. During the two-year waiting period, your donations must be kept current at all times. Any single instance of being late or missing your donation will result in a reset of the two-year waiting period.”
“A reset?” Ilsa asked.
“It starts over,” the young man said.
“You'll be finished with your indenture by then,” Maris grumbled.
The Omale gave him a brief smile. “The application fee is ten thousand lats, please.”
Mules shouldn't work at places like this, Peterson
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