Phil Elmore's Blog, page 10

Technocracy — Great, now your TV can spy on you

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the Samsung “smart TV” debacle and the culture of total surveillance in which we now live.

Read the full column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 6: “You Really Don’t”

“You’re going to have a heart attack,” said Chanelle from her doorway.

“Nice to see you too, Chanelle,” said Moxley. He was florid, though relatively few stairs separated the ground level from his walk-up office. “I’ll have the rent soon.”

“You’re ten days late,” she said. Her tone was flat. That was what Moxley liked about Chanelle. She was utterly indifferent. To everything.

“I’ve got a case,” he told her, shuffling down the hallway. “They’ll pay as soon as I close it.”

Chanelle closed her door without comment. Huffing, Moxley rounded the corner and stopped before the entrance to his office. As he had suspected, the concealment panel above his doorway had been perforated, which meant the nailer concealed within had expended its rack of flechettes. The wall opposite his door bore several nails but very little blood. He was pleasantly surprised. He had stopped at the robot bodega at the other end of Dragon Street to get a bottle of blood spray and some plaster paste. He could probably save the spray for the next time someone tried to jimmy his lock.

He would need to pry the nails from the wall and check them for DNA when he could afford to pay for the trace. It was why he used the nailer. The flechettes were good for picking up evidence on the way through the target. Patching the plaster would prevent further antagonizing Chenelle, who — despite her lack of interest in his comings and goings — would eventually squeeze him for the overdue rent.

Moxley had warned Chanelle about the security system when he installed it. Rough as the neighborhood was, she could probably do with something similar. So far, she hadn’t bothered to get one, although she did own a misanthropic Chow. The massive dog hated everyone. Worse, the animal was utterly silent unless someone other than Chanelle walked across the threshold of her apartment. In the time Moxley had lived here, the dog had maimed three different intruders, killing one of them.

Mox typed his code into the keypad above the doorknob, waited, then kicked the sash to open the door. It stuck worse on rainy days. Thankfully, today had been dry.

Every one of Moxley’s worldly possessions waited for him in the office. His desk was positioned against a metal-frame bed. Next to his work terminal was a bench grinder. Opposite this was a bench bearing a variety of hand tools. Every wall boasted a mismatched shelf full of antique paper books and bound plastics — Moxley’s eclectic reference library, most of which was irreplaceable. A footlocker at the end of the bed contained those items he deemed worthy of extra security. These included his guns, his knives, and his Hongkongtown credentials, the latter stowed in a fireproof insulator.

The blinds over the windows were drawn. The only gap in the sun shields was for Moxley’s air-circ and cooling units. These were a necessity during Hongkongtown’s summers. Any wall space not taken by the windows was devoted to framed photographs and certifications, some of which were quite inexplicable. Moxley’s private detective license, certifications from hand-to-hand and weapons courses, his college degree, and several old photos of him with various politicians vied for space with lacquered, mounted fish, wood-cuts of Triad sigils, a painted shield bearing Indonesian blade patterns, and an impressive collage of pub and whiskey-bar coasters. Notably absent was any memento from the Border Wars, although Moxley had a box of threedies and photos from the conflict in storage.

The remaining floor space of the office was stacked high with suitcases, storage bins, a battered retail clothing rack that Moxley used for his coat and hat, his all-in-one printer-cooler-warmer, an industrial coffeemaker that didn’t work (but which served to support a commercial coffeemaker that did), and a dresser that held the rest of his clothes.

Moxley’s office chair creaked as he dropped gratefully into it. He was still breathing hard from the walk up the stairs. On the desk before him, take-out cartons, wrappers, stacks of data chips, and several tab computers were stacked with obsessive care. The only thing on the desk that was not work-related was a threedy of his son, Connor, and his ex-wife, Judith. Connor smiled sweetly at the camera. The image was an old one, taken when the boy was much younger. Judith looked like she had just swallowed a bug.

His eyes fell on the section of blackened carpet near one window. He had meant to patch that. Fortunately, the small fire that had scorched the carpet had not burned down the rest of the office. He had not had the heart to tell Chanelle about the damage. He also had very carefully avoided any mention of the rocket launcher whose back-blast had done the deed.

Sitting down, Moxley realized how tired he felt. He tempted fate by leaning way back in his old chair. Its spring-loaded suspension groaned beneath him. Sighing, crossing his hands over his stomach, Mox closed his eyes…

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant Moxley? Sergeant Harold Moxley?”

Mox looked up from the counter. It was that in name only; the entire supply depot was improvised, from the plank-and-keg counter to the cut-down shipping crates he was using for bins. The wireless network was down and going to stay that way for a while, so Mox had taken to keeping records by hand on a cracked clipboard from the motorpool. For receipts, he was using the back of truck-and-jeep sign-out slips. Finding a pen had been no small feat. He was a little worried about what he might do when this one ran out of ink.

“Major,” said Moxley, saluting less crisply than the Major would probably have liked. “If you’ve come for a requisition, sir, I’m going to have to stop you. We’re completely jerry-rigged since the offensive. I’m still trying to get a handle on what our resources truly are, and I’ve had to draft Meekins and Hainey from the Commander’s support pool as it is.”

“That’s not why I’m here, Sergeant,” said the Major. His words fell heavily, bringing Mox up short. He looked at the Major more closely and could read the tension in the man’s face.

“Sir?”

The Major — his battle blouse read IGLESIAS in block letters — took a pocket tab from his belt, swiped it, and passed it across the plank to Moxley. The recording that played was an aerial shot from one of the grenade drones. It showed Harold Moxley, assault rifle in hand, shooting down a group of Conks near the electric perimeter.

Moxley could feel his face growing hot. He looked up at Iglesias. “I don’t understand, Major,” he said.

“I think you do,” said Iglesias. “I think you should come with me, Sergeant.”

“Are you arresting me?” asked Moxley.

“No,” said Iglesias. “Not unless you refuse. Your call.”

Mox looked around, hoping he didn’t appear as helpless as he felt. “I can’t just pick up and leave,” he said. “I gotta find somebody to fill in for me here.”

“No, Sergeant,” said Major Iglesias. “You really don’t.”

 

* * *

 

Moxley opened his eyes and nearly fell out of his chair. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. He managed to get the disk to his face and say, “Yeah?” before the transmission stopped.

“Harold Moxley?” It was a woman’s voice. She sounded attractive. Mox did not recognize the ID, which was a numerical code and an address in an upscale Hongkongtown neighborhood.

“Yeah,” said Mox again.

“This is Deborah Rentner-Nile at the Brellwood School for Boys. I’m calling about Connor Moxley.”

Moxley could feel his jaw falling open. He closed it. “You…” he started. “You can’t be calling me here. How did you get this number? The kid’s got emergency contact information on file. You’re supposed to be calling his mother. I’m not… I’m not the guy you talk to. I can’t.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Mister Moxley,” said the woman. “It’s just that Connor indicates his mother is on vacation in Bermados and quite out of reach. We can’t seem to get the staff at his home, either. He says his stepfather is also not available. His attendant is quite unfortunately attending a funeral due to a death in the family. You’re all that’s left, I’m afraid.”

“Left for what?” Moxley asked. “What’s this about?”

“I hate to be the one to say this,” said the woman. He could picture her wringing her hands. She’d be a fidgeter. He would put money on it. “We regret to inform you that we are considering phoning the authorities.”

“The what now?” Moxley said. “What’s this all about?”

“Your son has been in a fight,” she said, careful to make her horror obvious. “We’ll need someone to come pick him up right away.”

Moxley sighed. He knew he was going to catch hell for this, but the only other option was to leave Connor to his fate.

“I’ll be right there,” said Mox.

Technocracy: Environmentalists’ Hatred For Humans

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the nagging hatred that extremist environmentalists seem to have for humanity.

Part of the problem with these buzzwords lies in how they are used like a bludgeon by environmental extremist groups.

While I support renewable energy initiatives, I am always suspicious of extremists who believe the solution to every “climate change” problem is to cripple our economy and drastically diminish our standard of living. I think true sustainable development and renewable energy has to take into account the needs of the American people as people.

Read the full column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 5: “Feeling’s Mutual”

“Moxley. I can’t say it’s a pleasure.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” said Mox.

Jacob Draeger, whose ID badge proclaimed him a subdirector of Government Inspection, pulled out the metal chair opposite Moxley’s and sat down at the steel table. There was a D-ring at both ends of the table, but Moxley was not shackled. The private detective sat with one elbow on the table, drawing puffs of flavored mist through a vapor tube, trying to decide if he was going to work his way through the pack. A sealed plastic bag of Moxley’s personal effects also sat on the table, as did an empty plastic coffee cup.

“Thank you for waiting,” said Draeger. He did not sound thankful. “You are, as I’m sure you’re aware, free to go.”

“Your goons didn’t unlock the door.”

“There was the matter of your discharge paperwork,” said Draeger. “I assume our Medical personnel knitted your shoulder to your satisfaction.”

“My golf game is shot forever,” said Moxley. “But I’ll find a way to get over it.”

Draeger gestured to the wall screen. It came to life. “Sound off,” he said. To Moxley, he said, “You’ll forgive me if we’re without a sense of humor when it comes to following up on random acts of violence in Hongkongtown. This just happened this morning.”

The news footage was choppy. Its point of focus kept changing. This would be a video feed from a camera drone. The drone was hovering above the wreck of a turbofan vehicle that had crashed across two ground lanes, taking out a few wheeled vehicles in the process. Thick, black smoke poured from a crater in the transparent canopy of the ‘fan car.

“Traffic jam?” asked Moxley, blowing vapor rings.

“Councilman Horace Theopolis,” said Draeger. “While you here doing your best to think up new insults for Inspector Shebeiskowski, Councilman Theopolis was being murdered by one of his own bodyguards. Apparently the killer pulled alongside in an escort vehicle and fired a rocket launcher from inside his own ‘fan car.”

“But that would—”

“It did,” said Draeger. “Thoroughly. The bodyguard was incinerated. Councilman Theopolis was not so lucky. We’re still sweeping the crash site, but we’ve found most of him.”

“Tough break,” said Moxley.

Draeger glared at him. “Don’t,” he said.

“Too soon?”

“Sometimes I forget that you’re human garbage, Moxley,” said Draeger. “That’s why your wife started sleeping with that politician, isn’t it? What’s his name?”

Now it was Moxley’s turn to glare. “I forget,” he said, his teeth grating

“I’m sure it will come to me,” said Draeger. “In the meantime, maybe you would like to explain why Inspector Shebeiskowski thinks you set up that hit.”

“Sheb?” Mox said, dropping his expended vapor tube on the table. He shook another from the pack, his fingers trembling slightly, and thumbed the ignitor in its tip. “Sheb’s thrown so many people under the bus he always carries a jack. The guy wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he actually had to solve a crime.”

“He thinks you dove out of that bar and left him to die. If he hadn’t taken cover behind the bar, the explosion might have killed him.”

Mox wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Close one,” he said. “I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me.”

“Shebeiskowski says that before the attack you were trying to lean on him. Something to do with your insurance case.”

“All of my cases are insurance cases,” said Mox. “That’s the private detective business. I investigate what I’m paid to investigate.”

“Even the death of Ray Neiring?” said Draeger.

“Yes,” said Moxley. “Even that. The storage facility where his body was found has a policy on it. My fee is activated when a crime takes place there. Dead bodies are bad for business. My job is to provide a site assessment that certifies the management was not at fault. This prevents their rates from going up.”

“So you’re not the least bit interested in justice for Ray Neiring.”

“Justice?” Mox bared his teeth through a cloud of vapor. “I don’t do justice, Draeger. I do money.”

“So they tell me at Flowers,” said Draeger. He had found the knife and put it in; now he was twisting it.  “I’d be doing you a favor if I arrested you, Moxley. They can’t collect markers if you’re in the Promontory. That’s the law. We don’t have debtor’s prisons anymore.”

“I’m about out of favors,” said Mox. “Don’t do me any.”

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” said Draeger. “Anyone as pathetic as you couldn’t possibly have thought to set up a hit. You’re never a step ahead, Mox. You’re the guy at the filthy end of the stick.”

Draeger didn’t believe it even as he said it. He was suspicious and he was going to stay that way. Moxley could read that much. Draeger, for his part, probably knew that Moxley understood this, but they really did have nothing on him. This little dog and pony show was just to reinforce to Mox that the Goops and Draeger’s minions held the power. It was a message: Stay out of the way or we’ll make more trouble for you.

“Let me try again,” said Draeger. He swept one arm toward the wall screen. “You may lack all human decency, Moxley, but maybe you can relate to what we’re facing down here. Do you have any idea how many prominent Hongkongtown politicians have been murdered in the last six months?”

“Not enough?” said Mox.

Waves began to crash on the beach of Draeger’s forehead. He looked like he’d just smelled something rank. “We’ve got an Og infestation. Sleeper assaults are skyrocketing. Labor complaints are up. There’s talk of implementing economic regulation, Moxley. The city is tearing itself apart.”

“Hongkongtown,” said Mox.

Draeger shook his head. “I feel like a fool for asking this,” he said, “because there are so many plausible answers. Why is someone trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know that they are,” said Moxley. “A guy loses his grenade and I find it. Could be an honest mistake on his part. Slippery things, grenades.”

“And the headless corpse with the nailer?” Draeger gestured to the screen again. A picture of the dead man, including the face he’d owned before Moxley put an explosive bullet through it, appeared with the a text crawl bearing the man’s criminal record. “You’re lucky he was in the DNA database,” said Draeger. “Shooting him in the head with that cannon of yours did him no favors. Who put this hit man on you, Mox?”

“That was no hit man. That was Arman Jones,” said Moxley. “He’s nobody. A punk who sells diluted Sleep to suckers in the park. Whoever sent him after me, whoever gave him a nail gun and a grenade, had to know they were setting him up to die. Hell, the nailer itself is worth more than Jones makes in a week, even at street prices. That punk has never had more than fifty chits in his pocket in his life. He spends it as fast as it comes in. Likes the ponies.”

“What?”

Moxley sighed. He took the vapor tube from his mouth and, with great deliberation, said, “Arman Jones is a small-time drug dealer and a gambling addict.”

“I don’t need to ask you how you would know that,” said Draeger. A vicious little smile flickered across his face.

Moxley said nothing to that.

Draeger took a breath, started to speak, and stopped. Finally, he said, “Make your point.”

“My point,” said Moxley, “is that Arman Jones could not afford a nailer that somebody didn’t give him. He had to have been put up to this attack. Probably with the promise of a lot more money to come once he got his target.”

“So?” Draeger said. “That just brings us back to the fact that somebody is trying to kill you.”

“I don’t know that they are,” said Moxley again.

Draeger snorted. “Leave,” he said. “Get out of my sight. And stay out of the way of my people. You’re walking a minefield, Moxley. Nobody’s going to shed a tear when you blow your leg off.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” said Moxley, standing, “I’d think you served.”

“I did.”

“On the border?” Moxley asked. “Or in the reserve?”

“Reserves,” said Draeger. “As a junior officer. Don’t hand me a lot of tough talk, Moxley. I’ve read your file. You were a supply Sergeant, not an infantryman. The war ended thirty years ago.”

“Yeah,” said Moxley. “That’s true.”

The words hung in the air between them. Moxley unzipped the bag of his personal effects and began distributing his belongings in his pants and coat pockets. He looked up at Draeger and held out the empty clip-on holster for his revolver.

“That was checked into our property vault,” said Dreager. “You’ll have to sign for it on the way out. We’ve confiscated your ammunition.”

“That stuff’s expensive.”

“Then you had better take out another illegal loan, hadn’t you?” said Draeger. “We’re done here, Moxley. I told you I’d seen your service records. Be grateful I don’t treat you as you deserve.”

Mox felt his jaw twitch. Slowly, he put on his hat, taking the time to smooth the short brim. “You have a real nice day,” he said. “Always great to catch up with a fellow vet.”

“Get out,” said Draeger.

Technocracy: Do Space Aliens Exist? Let’s Hope Not.

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the possibility of messages from space. For all our sakes, let’s hope there are no aliens out there. Read the full column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 4: “No Dispares”

The unmistakable ovoid of a high-explosive grenade landed at Harold Moxley’s feet.  He did not think. He kicked it as hard as he could, back toward the open door of the supply shack, and looked on in horror as it bounced off the door frame and back at him.  He bounded over it, leapt through the door, and caught his shoulder on the frame as the device detonated behind him.  He was barely though the opening when a second, larger explosion flashed an instant sunburn on the back of his arms and neck. His skin burned wherever his uniform did not cover it.

In the dirt before him, orange with reflected light from the fire, was a chemical assault rifle. He did not see the shack guard.  Scooping up the rifle, Moxley put the plastic stock against his shoulder.  Where was the safety? He had not qualified with a rifle since Boot Camp. He found the switch, flicked it off, and put his hand over the squeeze-lever of the grip.  The grip itself was wide and triangular, with a guard that extended from the bottom of the grip to the receiver of the weapon. The magazine was mounted behind the grip.  At the last minute, Moxley thought to make sure the mag was seated and to chamber a caseless round.

Guard hut sirens wailed.  He heard the perimeter squads blowing their whistles.  That was bad.  Whistles meant a perimeter breach.  But he knew that. You couldn’t lob a grenade from outside the wire into the supply shack, well at the center-rear of the firebase.  Conquista forces could be anywhere. He did not see any now.

The night air was cool; the burning supply shack behind him was not.  His neck hurt.  Staying low, his breathing rapid, Moxley crept forward.

“Support the wire!” shouted someone.  He looked back over his shoulder.  Infantrymen were racing from their barracks, some wearing incomplete suits of armor, all carrying rifles or rocket launchers.  “Support the wire! They’re coming through!”

A scout, then.  There might be Conks inside the perimeter, but the bulk of the offense was still outside and pushing to roll through the firebase defenses.  Moxley didn’t know what else to do, so he followed well behind the infantrymen.  He would work his way forward and at right angles, trying to keep the infantry between him and the main gate.  There were bunkers for support personnel closer to the quadrant lines of the circular base.  He would make for one of them and take cover until the offensive was over.

Well ahead of his position, he could see the enemy boiling past the firebase defenses.  Enemy soldiers had apparently flanked the defenders at the main gate, choosing instead to boil over the wire from forty-five degree angles.  Moxley could feel his testicles trying to crawl back up into his abdomen.  If there was an incursion between him and one of the bunkers, he would be cut off.  A line of patrol trucks stood parked at his right.  Several had been hit with grenade launchers.  He tried to move closer to these.

He could see the Conks at several points on the perimeter, bouncing and jumping over the line, using those damned spring-stilt things that always struck him as so ridiculous.  It was how they had gotten through the proximity mines beyond the perimeter.

Was he too far away to hit one? He felt like he should try.  Mox raised his borrowed rifle, leaned into the recoil, and triggered a long burst.  Defenders closer to the action were shooting to much greater effect.  Bodies fell on the perimeter line, making the electrical field smoke and shimmer.  The cooked-meat smell filled Moxley’s nostrils and cloyed at his skin, oily and shameful.  He fired until his magazine was empty and dropped to one knee.

The burn on his neck and shoulders throbbed.  What had done it?  Probably the peripherals printer, the one they used for machine parts.  That had plenty of volatile fuel canisters and was positioned near the front door of the supply shack.  A little shrapnel through that and it would flare up nice and bright.  He was surprised he had not been ashed by the explosion.

Did he feel damp? He hoped he wasn’t bleeding.

Tracers ripped open the ground next to him.  He rolled, coming up on one knee, using a nearby patrol truck for cover.  The truck, like the buildings nearest him, was on fire.  The flames reached high.  Embers floated up in long spires.

The Conk rifles were underpowered, but their tracers had corrosive tips.  If he got tagged and couldn’t get to a medic, even if the wound wasn’t immediately fatal, he was dead.

Move. Don’t stay here. Move. It was difficult to leave the shelter of the truck, but he did it, circling around, trying to avoid the nearest stilt-walkers.  He was not successful.  Several bounced over the wire just before him and started to lope his way.  When they realized he was standing there, they froze, staring down at him from their coiled struts.

It was a mistake to make eye contact. Moxley had not meant to do it.  One of the Conks caught his gaze and held it.

The kid could not be more than eighteen. He looked even younger than that.  His eyes were hollow, his face gaunt.  The Conquistas had been running on fumes for weeks, thanks to Northam’s air blockade.  They were starving, desperate..  Half of them were conscripts from impoverished villages close to the border.

The kid threw up his arms, held his rifle high overhead.  He looked ridiculous trying to do that on the stilts.

Moxley pulled his rifle tighter to his shoulder.  He started to take up slack on the grip-lever.

“No dispares,” said the boy. “Me doy por vencido! Me doy por vencido!”

One of the Conks behind the kid moved.  Mox mashed his fist down on his rifle’s lever, spraying the group of them with armor-piercing projectiles, shredding the Conks where they stood. 

Air support drones equipped with grenade launchers raced overhead, their fans pitching dust and grit into his eyes. His vision blurred and he turned away, squinting against the wind. One of the Northam line infantry, hulking in full body armor, marched over to join him.

“What a mess,” said the soldier, looking down at the dead teenagers. His amplified voice made the statement a bellow. “You’ve got a burn all the way through your shirt, Sarge. Left shoulder. Better get a medic to look at that.”

“He… They were in the wire,” said Moxley. He felt like he should explain.

“Get into the bunker, Sarge,” said the soldier.  “There’s more coming.”

 

* * *

 

Moxley stood on the slidewalk holding his revolver in one hand.  Behind him, a fire klaxon was blaring.  The police choppers overhead were close enough to whip up the hem of Moxley’s overcoat with their fan drafts.  He squinted against the dust and grit, his eyes stinging.

He realized his shoulders were wet and getting wetter.  Overhead suppressors were squirting retardant foam inside the German pub, some of which was splashing out of the smoking maw where the unit’s facade had been. Strips of shops like these always had such systems, which prevented contiguous businesses from burning down.

On the street some distance away, a man without a head lay next to a compact nailer.  Moxley was about to reach up, wipe his face, when he felt the wrenching pain in his shoulder.  He looked over to see the tip of a steel nail projecting from his overcoat.  There was quite a bit of blood.  The coat would need to be mended and chem-cleaned.

Dazed, he broke open his revolver.  The heavy-nosed piece had a cut down grip and a shortened barrel. Its bullets were explosive. One round bore the imprint of the weapon’s firing pin.  He closed the weapon and tucked it back into the holster in his waistband. His shoulder throbbed.

He took three steps towards his car, which was parked on the street in front of the pub.  Some of the vehicle’s paint had been scorched by the explosion.

Moxley’s shoulder screamed as someone grabbed him from behind. He felt himself being slammed against the trunk of the car.  It took him a moment to realize who his attacker was.

“Damn you, Moxley!” shouted Shebeiskowski.  “This is your fault!”

Technocracy: Will Your Next House Be 3D-Printed?

My WND Technocracy column this week was inspired by the ongoing advances in 3D printing.  Read the full column here in WND news.

5 Uncomfortable Truths About “Cracked” Magazine

My latest “Return of Kings” article is this piece, 5 Uncomfortable Truths About Cracked Magazine.  The website is an infotainment portal for twenty- to thirty-somethings that seems to have forsaken its comedy in favor of social-justice pandering.  I thought it was worth a write-up, since many of the articles promoted by “Cracked” are extremely anti-male and very left-leaning.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 3: “Lie Down with Squids”

“Bourbon,” said Moxley.  “Go easy on the ice.”

Shebeiskowski waved the trashcan-shaped robot away when it rolled over to him.  He looked around the darkened pub as if he expected his coworkers to be hiding under the tables. At this time of day, though, the place was deserted.  If there was a human attendant somewhere, Mox couldn’t identify the hidden doorway.

He sipped his bourbon, which was surprisingly adequate. The pair had walked four blocks past at least half a dozen other bars before settling on this blighted place.  Moxley hated Teutonic eateries. He was not a beer-drinker and disliked German food. Sheb had insisted they come here before he would talk.

“So?” Mox prompted.

“Look,” said Shebeiskowski, “this could get me fired, Mox. Ray was a friend.  He isn’t flagged in the grid because I made sure to delete all his markers.  It was the least I could do for him.”

“I don’t follow,” said Moxley.

“Neiring’s sister,” said Shebeiskowski.  “Her kids, Ray’s niece and nephew.  They were close to him.  He had their threedies up in his cubicle. What would it do to them if he died a fugitive?”

“You can’t cover that up,” said Moxley.  “You don’t have that kind of juice.  Hell, even Lob couldn’t erase somebody from the public networks for more than a few days, and he’s the phreakiest phreaker I know.”

“Lob is going to get you arrested one of these days, Mox,” said the inspector.  “I’ve warned you about this before. You realize he’s on the technological contraindication roster?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a felony for Lobby to be in the room with anything more advanced than a toaster,” said Mox.  He shrugged.  “I don’t judge.”

Shebeiskowski snorted.  “I just wanted to keep it out of the news.  As it is, somebody’s going to get hold of it eventually.  But if poor Ray’s already interred somewhere and the family’s had a chance to mourn, I’m hoping it won’t sting them so much.”

Mox drained his glass and slapped it on the table.  The serving robot was nowhere nearby, so he tapped a vapor tube from his pack and thumbed it to life.  The tip blazed blue. Through a cloud of mist, he said, “So was it designer drugs?  Loan sharks? What?”

The government inspector shook his head.  “I wish to God I knew, Mox,” he said.  “Ray was fine maybe two weeks before the end.  Even when he started acting funny, I was hoping it was some kind of phase.  Work stress, you know?”

“Why would you think it was work stress?” Mox asked.  “Was he on a difficult case?”

“Not that I know of,” said Shebeiskowski.

“Then what?”

“That last week, when he started going nuts,” said Shebeiskowski.  “He was breaking into homes and satellite offices that belonged to people we work with.  People here in the building, the ones Ray would have the most dealings with.  I figured he was coming unglued, maybe nursing some old grudges.  You know how polite Ray was to everybody.  Nobody’s that nice to your face unless he’s thinking he’d like to throttle you.”

“Yeah,” said Moxley.  “I get that a lot.”

“No you don’t,” said Shebeiskowski.  “People just tell you what they think of you. Nobody wastes manners on a private detective, Moxley.”

“That hurts, Sheb.”  He sucked on his tube, causing the lamp in the tip to glow more brightly.  “I want Ray’s case files.  Whatever he was working on for the last two weeks.  Can you get them for me?”

“I can’t do that,” said the inspector.  “They’ll bring me up on charges if I transfer those to a civilian.”

“They’ll bring you up on charges if they learn you tampered with a public network,” said Mox.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’m a whore,” said Moxley.  “With sufficient motivation, there’s nothing I won’t do.  Get me the files, Sheb.”

“Damn you, Mox. That isn’t fair.”

“Taxes aren’t fair,” said Moxley.  “Marriage isn’t fair.  War isn’t fair. Get me the files, Sheb. You want to know what why Ray killed himself as badly as I do.  And you’re clearly not in a position to do anything about it.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” said Moxley.  “Which is precisely what your superiors have done. Nothing.  Ray’s behavior is no secret. But they looked the other way when you doctored the logs. If they were going to do more than sweep this under the rug, somebody would have called a press conference to get out in front of it.  Spewed a lot of ozone about cultures of corruption and rooting out bad apples, or whatever it is people say. But instead there’s been nothing.  Even if you wanted to look into Ray’s final weeks, they would stop you. That’s how this works. Let me have this.  Let me find out why he did it.”

Shebeiskowski looked down for a long time.  Finally, he said, “All right, you bastard.  All right.  But this can’t come back to me.  I’m already on probation for that thing with the Sleeper Quarantine Squad.”

“Lie down with Squids,” said Moxley.  “Get up with… Well. Get dirty.”

“Look—”

“I know, I know,” said Moxley.  “Getting so a guy can’t execute a few recovering addicts without getting wrist-slapped for it.”

“You’re a douchelamp, Mox.”

“I’m worse,” said Moxley.

The server finally rolled his way and refilled Moxley’s glass from a discolored hose mounted to its frame.  Mox frowned but threw back another slug anyway.  Shebeiskowski waited for the robot to go away before he turned back to Moxley.

“You figure there’s an Oggy hiding inside?” Mox said.  “Running his little legs off on a pair of pedals connected to the drive wheels?”

“That’s no funny,” said Shebeiskowski.  “You know Public Works found one, right?  Disguised as a sanitation robot.  Ran the rounds every day with street rig. Just hiding right out on the street in front of God and anybody.”

Moxley shrugged.  “Not my problem.”

“It will be when they put up a Tech Ghetto here in Hongkongtown.”

“Never happen,” said Moxley.  “They’ll bring back the vigilance committees first.”

“We can hope.”

“That’s what I like about you, Sheb,” said Moxley.  “I enjoy a man who’s free with his hatreds.  Makes everything simpler.”  He stood up and gathered his coat about him, pulling his hat down lower over his eyes.  “Transmit me the files, Sheb. By tonight.”

“I hope you get mouth cancer.”

“Already did,” said Mox.  “Twice.”  He took a step toward the door of the pub, which chuffed open on automatic hydraulics.

The unmistakable ovoid of a high-explosive grenade rolled through the doorway at his feet.

Technocracy: Weak Web Women Redefine ‘Misogyny’

My WND Technocracy column this week was inspired by yet another hand-wringing article at The Daily Dot.

Criticism of your volunteered opinion is not “harassment.”

The Internet will NEVER be a “safe place” for any voice, male or female, if you define “safe” as “never hearing anything you don’t like.” That’s the funny thing about free speech.

Read the full column here in WND News.