Phil Elmore's Blog, page 9

Technocracy: Laws against Cyberstalking — a good idea?

My WND Technocracy column this week is about whiny progressives, “cyberstalking,” and the war of ideas online. Read it here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 11: “Policy”

The car picked up speed as the thing with Sheb’s face drove them through the entrance to the slideways beneath the Gulf Bridge. The hole in the creature’s abdomen wept a viscous fluid that looked like petroleum jelly. Moxley kept his seat, his mind racing, trying to logic out what was happening to him and failing utterly.  It was insane. He actually wondered, genuinely asked himself, if perhaps none of this was real. Could it be a hallucination? Was he lying in an alley or the back of a medical wagon, seeing things that did not exist?

The thought that he might actually have taken leave of his senses was no more comforting than the reality of his abduction. What worried him most of all was that “Sheb” had made no attempt to take Moxley’s revolver.  If this being, whoever and whatever he was, had no fear of explosive-tipped projectiles, what were Moxley’s options? What had Weber taught him? When in doubt, observe. Find a data point you’ve missed. There’s always something.

“What did Ray tell you?” asked the creature that wasn’t Sheb.

Moxley blinked. “What?” he said.

“Ray Neiring,”said not-Sheb.  “What did he tell you?”

“About what?”

Not-Sheb turned to look at Moxley. His grip on the steering wheel did not waiver, but he he said, “About what? About anything. Auto-drive.”

“Auto-drive, acknowledged,” said the car’s fluid AI.

“Nice car,” said Moxley.

“Nice car,” said the creature. “Yes, it is. Now tell me what Ray Neiring told you.”

“Are you an Augment or something?” asked Moxley.  “An epidermis mod? You know, new face, new grafts, maybe a full suite of organs to keep you partying for a hundred years?”

“I am not an Augment or something,” said the creature.  “Detective Moxley, if you don’t tell me what Ray Neiring told you, I am going to torture you when we reach our destination.”

“Where’s that?”

“Where’s that?”said the creature. “That’s really not your concern. Your more immediate concern should be what I will do to extract the information. If you would like a clean death, and not one that is merely the culmination of hours of permanent maiming, you will tell me what Ray Neiring told you.”

“You’re not leaving me a lot of options,” said Moxley. “You really oughtta learn to negotiate.  Is the real Sheb dead?”

“Dead? No,” said the creature. “Your concern for his welfare is surpising.”

“This isn’t concern,” said Moxley. “It’s curiosity.”

“Curiosity.”

“That’s kind of a thing with you, isn’t it?”said Moxley. “I should have picked up on it before. Override.”

“Override?” said the creature.

“Auto-drive override, acknowledge,” said the car, as Moxley reached out and jerked the steering wheel as hard as he could.

 

* * *

“I have references,” said Moxley. “Good ones.”

The clerk did not glance up from the tab on his wrist. He continued to tap in data with his index finger, a process slow enough that Moxley was ready to chew through the tabletop. Trying to sound casual, he added, “I really need this job.”

“Everybody does,” said the clerk, who was easily 60 years old. A fog bank of indifference hung low about him, seeping from his pours and written into every line on his face. The corroded nameplate on the table-turned-desk identified the clerk as Weber, D. Weber’s fingers were stained a yellow that matched his greasy, half-mast necktie. It also matched the ring around the open collar of his shirt.

Moxley could feel himself starting to crack. “If there’s anything I can offer by way of… by way of mitigating circumstances–“

That brought the old man’s head up.  He fixed Moxley with a look the younger man couldn’t place.  “You’re talking about your military record.”

Mox slumped in his seat. “Forget it,” he said. “Just forget it. You’ve got a policy. Everybody’s got a policy.” He put his hands on the armrests and started to push himself up.

“We don’t,”said Weber.

Moxley froze. “What?”

“Policy. Don’t have one,”said Weber. The man spoke as if every word cost him money. “You scored 98 percent on the logic test. You’re not a cripple, a shrimp, or a chick. You’re hired.”

Moxley blinked, still half in and half out of his chair.  “It’s just…”he said. “I’ve been to so many interviews where they said–“

“Don’t care,”said Weber. “This is insurance investigations, not the Seminary. Eight tomorrow morning. Be on time.”

“Sure. Okay. Yeah. I’ll be here. Eight o’clock.”

“Moxley,”said Weber as Mox turned to go. “You got a gun?”

Moxley froze again.  “No,” he said.

“Get one,” said Weber. 

 

* * *

Moxley opened his eyes.

“System failure,”said a voice. “System failure.”

It wasn’t the car. As he struggled to disengage the automatic crash harness, Moxley realized the synthesized voice, so close to that of the car’s AI, was coming from the creature. Both of them had been held fast by the padded harnesses that deployed when the vehicle flipped over, but the windshield had been pierced by a reinforcing spar built into the guard walls of the roadway. It had taken a chunk of not-Sheb’s seat and also a sizable portion of his skull. What was visible was a riot of electronics and conductive goo.

Moxley’s hand ached. He looked down and discovered he had somehow managed a death grip on the pistol. Switching the weapon to his left hand, he flexed his right. It went right on hurting. His shoulders and ribs were throbbbing. His head hurt, too. The various telgraph stations across his body were beginning to report in and none of the news was good.

“System failure,”said not-Sheb. “System failure. System–“

“Shaddap,”said Moxley. He shoved the barrel of the gun in the creature’s mouth and pulled the trigger twice.

“This is Transportation Control,” said the wrecked car around him. “I’m showing a deployment of automated safety features. Can I have your subscriber identification, please?”

“Wow,” said Moxley. “This really was a nice car.”

“Can I have your subscriber identification, sir?” asked the voice. “I’m not authorized to contact emergency services if you’re not paying for our service.”

Moxley might have laughed harder, but he thought his ribs might be cracked.

Technocracy: ‘Trolling’ — the new ‘hate speech’

My WND Technocracy column this week is about liberal trolls, hate speech, and the thorny state of discourse online. Read it here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 10: “Someone In Your Circumstances”

He was a little man, behind a little desk, from which he ruled a little empire. Harold Moxley forced himself not to fidget, not to dog-ear the pages of the printed curriculum vitae clutched in both hands. The little man — his name was Fletcher — peered back at him from behind the desk. Moxley pictured Fletcher standing in his bathroom at home, practicing expressions of utter incredulity in the mirror.

“I simply don’t understand, Mister Moxley,” said Fletcher. “Your qualifications—”

“Mister Fletcher,” Moxley began, trying to be calm, trying to sound confident. He stopped, opened his mouth again, closed it. Finally he said, “Look, I need this job. I’m a hard worker. I have management experience, yes, but I don’t mind working my way up. Start me at the bottom. Let me prove myself.”

Fletcher looked back to his terminal and clucked over the display. “I just… It’s our policy, Mister Moxley, not to hire personnel whom we believe will take the training we give them and then move on to something more lucrative.”

“It’s minimum-wage shift work,” said Moxley. “There’s literally no other job that isn’t more lucrative.”

Fletcher frowned. Moxley cursed himself. That had escaped. He shouldn’t have said that. “You see,” he said. “That is exactly the attitude I’m talking about. Mister Moxley, I think you would be better suited returning to the employment agency and asking them to match you to something better suited to your skillset.”

“I can’t do that,” said Moxley.

Fletcher worried at the hem of his shirt with soft fingers. “You can’t, or you won’t, Mister Moxley?”

“Look, I’ll level with you,” said Moxley. “I got a dishonorable with a suspended sentence from the Army. It isn’t… it isn’t what you think. Politics, mostly. But—”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” said Fletcher. “Mister Moxley, I’m afraid my hands are tied. Company policy says that we have to consider veterans in good standing before we can offer a position to someone in your… Well. Someone in your circumstances.”

“My circumstances are that I can’t get a holing job,” said Moxley. “My circumstances are that it’s been five years since the war ended and my public benefits are expiring. My circumstances are that my girlfriend just had a miscarriage and she can’t qualify for healthcare with me living under her roof unless I’m gainfully employed. I need this job. I can do this job. You’re screwing with my life here, Fletcher.”

“I’m quite certain you think that’s so,” said Fletcher. “But you’re still a young man, Mister Moxley. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m sure you’ll find something suitable. I simply can’t help you at this time. I’ll keep your CV on file.”

“But—”

“Good day, Mister, Moxley.”

 

 

* * *

“Harold.”

Mox turned, his hand still on the door to his building. Behind him, parked at the curb, was Aldo Shebeiskowski. Sheb was leaning against his For Official Use vehicle and looked carefully neutral. Moxley checked left and right for a setup. He didn’t want to spend any more time in handcuffs if he could help it. His shoulder still ached and having his arms held behind his back would make it worse.

“Sheb,” said Moxley at last. He put his hand on the butt of his gun under his coat. “You maybe want to try to put hands on me again? Won’t be so easy. I’m looking at you now.”

“That was a mistake,” said Shebeiskowski. “I was upset.”

“But you’re not upset now.”

“I’m not upset now,” Sheb echoed. “Let me make it up to you, Moxley. I’ve had time to think about what you said. You were right.”

“Funny thing,” said Moxley. “I had a nice long talk with Subdirector Draeger. He seemed to think you were awfully aggrieved. Are you aggrieved, Sheb?”

“I’m not aggrieved.”

“So this is a genuine change of heart?” said Moxley? “You’ve seen the light, and now you’re ready to make amends by helping me investigate the untimely death of my only friend?”

“Yes,” said Shebeiskowski. “I’ve seen the light, and I would like to make amends.”

Moxley sighed. “You don’t have to be such a sarcastic ‘lamp about it,” he said. “You drive. I’m not legal at the moment.”

“I’ll drive,” said Shebeiskowski.

Mox climbed into the passenger seat. The door shut automatically. The seat also adjusted without prompting, balancing his weight and shifting to maximize leg room. Moxley had forgotten that such modern conveniences existed. His Dayliner had none of them.

“Must be nice,” said Mox.

“It’s nice,” said Shebeiskowski. The car pulled away.

“Where are we going, anyway?” asked Moxley.

“I’m taking you back to my office,” said Shebeiskowski. “We’ll access my files on Raymond Neiring’s death. Now would probably be a good time to review everything we’ve talked about concerning Raymond. I want to refresh my memory. Don’t leave anything out, Harold.

Moxley, despite the fog that was his buzz wearing off, shot Shebeiskowski a look. “You, uh, feeling okay, Sheb? They clear you at the hospital and everything?”

“I feel fine,” said Shebeiskowski. “I wasn’t injured in the explosion today.”

“Yeah, about that,” said Moxley. “You gotta know, Sheb, I acted on instinct. Wasn’t trying to leave you to burn.”

“You wasn’t trying to leave me to burn,” Shebeiskowski nodded. The car acceleratored as it picked up Transitstrasse that cut north on an elevated track through the city. Moxley had time to look out the window and wonder where they hell they were going. His brain, slowed by alcohol and fatigue, finally rolled over Sheb’s last words.

“Wait,” said Moxley. “Sheb, either you’re messing with me or you’re drunker than I am.”

“I’m not messing with you,” said Shebeiskowski.

“Your office is in the other direction,” said Moxley. “You keep going across the Transitstrasse and we’re going to end up on the Gulf Bridge.”

“I’m not messing with you,” said Sheb again.

Moxley considered the vehicles they were passing. Sheb had his foot on the floor. The government car was accelerating at an alarming rate.

“All right, Sheb,” said Moxley. “I’ve had about enough. Stop the car.”

Shebeiskowski kept driving.   “I won’t stop the car,” he said.

Moxley pulled the revolver from his waistband and stuck it into Sheb’s ribs. “You slow this car down or I swear to God I’ll blow your spleen out the other side of your body.”

“The spleen is located on the left side of the human body and considerably higher,” said Shebeiskowski.

Moxley pulled the trigger. The explosive round was deafening inside the sealed car. Mox looked down at his gun as if he’d never seen it before. He could hardly believe he’d done it.

Shebeiskowski, unperturbed, turned to look at him. “Please don’t do that again,” he said, “or I’ll be forced to kill you sooner than I had planned.”

Technocracy: Protecting Yourself From Your Neighbor’s Drone

My WND Technocracy column this week is about personal airspace. A decade ago, this wasn’t an issue, because the average person didn’t have the technology to make it a problem. Today, things are different. Read the full column here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 9: “Possible, But Unlikely”

“Open up, Lobby.”

“Go home, Mox. You’re drunk.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Moxley said, leaning on the intercom switch. The corridor in which he stood was intentionally dank. Lobby removed light cells as fast as the building owner could replace them.

“The two statements are unrelated. I’m telling you to go home and also observing the fact that you’re drunk. There was no value judgment implied.”

“Open the door or I’ll put a bullet through it.”

There was a pause. Finally: “Give me a minute.”

When the door slid open, Moxley nearly fell through the opening. He stumbled, caught himself, and braced both hands on the back of a sofa that had spent more time outside than in. The door slid shut and locked behind him. Lobby had already returned to the kitchen.

“You weren’t kidding,” said Mox.

“I told you,” said Lobby. His head was wreathed in steam from the metal cauldron on the stovetop.

“Soup?” asked Mox. He watched a large beetle creep from underneath the sofa to the shelter of an empty coffee cup on the floor.

“Explosives,” said Lobby.

Mox eyed him. “Say again?”

“Relax,” said Lobby. “It’s Dryex. As long as I keep it hydrated it’s perfectly safe.”

“Something I should know about?” Moxley asked. He looked around for a place to sit. The room spun quietly around him. He thought about risking the couch and then decided against it. Lobby’s was a pit at the best of times, but it was worse than Mox had seen it in a while. That meant Lobby was working on a project of some kind. “You should have this place sprayed, Lobby.”

“I have a system,” said the younger man. Lobby was all angles and scruff, gaunt to the point of malnutrition, wearing a hooded sweatshirt that was two sizes two big over a shirt and pants that were each one size too small. His feet were bare and stained black from the garbage-strewn floor his apartment. Lobby’s place had carpet, or so the legend went. Nobody had seen it. “What do you want, Moxley?”

“I need some help,” said Mox.

“Not a surprise,” said Lobby. He continued to stir the Dryex with a large wooden spoon. The mixture was viscous and gray. “You only visit me when you want help.”

“You told me not to come around.”

“You come anyway.”

“That’s fair,” said Mox. “You got anything to drink? I’m fading over here.”

“Beers in the coolerator,” said Lobby, jerking his chin stubble at the ceiling-high unit next to the stove.

“No thanks,” said Mox. “I’ve seen what you keep in there.”

“Bottle of vodka under the couch,” said Lobby, shrugging.

Moxley thought about reaching under the sofa and rejected that idea, too. he shoved the toe of his shoe underneath and fished around until something clinked. He was rewarded with the promised bottle of vodka, which was sticky to the touch. He picked it up, uncapped it, and wiped the mouth of the bottle clean with the lining of his overcoat. The vodka was cheap, but not the cheapest. He took a long pull and grimaced.

“That’s practically nail polish remover,” he said.

“You can buy next time,” said Lobby, stirring. “What do you want, Mox? You know I don’t like company.”

“Make up your mind, Lob,” said Moxley. “You complain I don’t visit and then you tell me you hate visitors. You make an appointment with me and then tell me to go home.”

“A foolish consistency,” said Lobby.

Mox let that go past. “I need government inspection files,” he said. “Specifically any case files drawn by Inspector Raymond Neiring over, let’s say, the last month.” He paused to swallow more vodka. “There’s been some tampering in the network by a fellow inspector. I tried to get him to give them up, but that’s a burned bridge. He may even have tried to bury them deeper because of it. Might complicate things.”

Lobby snorted. “Amateurs always make it easier to find stuff, not harder,” he said. “And the government network’s not a problem.”

“You can do it?”

“I could,” said Lobby. “Now tell me why I’m going to. Be convincing, Mox.”

“Think of it is a favor rooted in our years of friendship,” said Moxley.

“We’re not friends.”

“Then think of it as an opportunity to make some money,” said Mox.

“You don’t have any,” said Lobby.

Moxley sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I guess you’ll just have to pass on this opportunity to prove yet again how smart you are.”

“Now you’re talking my language,” said Lobby. “I can get you your files. Don’t bug me about it. I’ll call you when I’m ready. Not before.”

Moxley looked around. “Lob,” he said. “Where do you keep your rig?”

“Trade secret,” said Lobby. “They can’t find my terminal, they can’t find my secrets. Now go away, Moxley. I’m over-quota for drunken not-friends.”

Moxley gestured with the vodka. “I’m taking the bottle,” he said.

“I would be disappointed in you if you didn’t,” said Lobby.

 

* * *

The waffle house door bore a plastic seal that said it had been closed by order of the Hongkongtown Health Syndicate. There were several Human Services warning tags as well. Moxley ducked under the tape with some difficulty, huffing and awkward, before finding his favorite booth and settling into it. A squat serving robot rolled up to his table. How a robot with wheels for “legs” could manage to look like it was limping, Moxley didn’t know.

“By order of the Hongkongtown Health Syndicate, I am legally required to inform you that we have been shut down for public health code violations,” said the robot. The recording was stilted and deliberately off-putting.

“I’ll take my usual,” said Mox.

“By order of the Hongkongtown Health Syndicate, I am—”

“Save it for the tourists,” said Moxley. He patted his own pockets and then took his hat off, placing the hat upside down on the table. “I, uh, need to put it on my tab again.”

The machine clicked and whirred. Finally, in a voice that was anything but a robot’s, it said, “You’re credit’s no good here, Detective. I’ll get your food.”

“Hey,” said Moxley. “Hang on a minute.” He looked left, then right. There was no one else in the place. “How bad?”

“Human Services took two more last week,” said the machine. “We’re not sure where.”

“I’ll ask around,” said Moxley. “Maybe somebody knows.”

“It’s possible,” said the machine. “But unlikely. I’ll get your food.” It rolled away, swaying back and forth as it made for the kitchen.

Moxley found his pack of vapor tubes. There were only two left. He did not have the money to buy more. He thumbed one of these and put it in his mouth.

Sure, he could quit. It was possible.

But unlikely.

Technocracy: Unmasking the hoax of online ‘social justice’

Read my WND Technocracy column this week, “Unmasking the hoax of online ‘social justice,’ live now at WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 8: “REMF”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Moxley.”

Moxley, shackled at the wrists, looked up at the newcomer. Major Iglesias stood even straighter at the man’s entrance, although Mox couldn’t say how that was possible. Iglesias had a stick up his nether regions that seemed to run from stem to stern.

The major had busied himself with glaring for the last hour. He was very good at it. Iglesias might have been a statue in the corner of the interrogation room, for all that he had moved. There was nothing else in the room except the wooden table and two folding chairs. The resin blocks from which the room was built had been airlifted to the border zone in great cargo pods. All of the military’s semi-permanent construction used these interlocking bricks.

“Look,” said Moxley.

“No,” said the newcomer. He tapped his rank insignia. “You look.” His name tag, “MILLER,” was subdued in color, almost illegible. The Conks were enthusiastic snipers.

“Colonel,” said Moxley. “Maybe I don’t understand—”

Miller actually laughed. “That,” he said, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye, “is an understatement, Sergeant. Let me see if I can’t break this down for you. A supply Sergeant who has spent his entire military career as a rear echelon mother—”

“I don’t have to take this,” said Moxley, rising in his chair. That woke up Iglesias, who sprang forward and clamped down on both Moxley’s shoulders. The Major’s grip was like iron. Moxley sat, refusing to show the pain he felt. His eyes were watering.

“The Major showed you a recording,” said Miller. “That recording is an official piece of government surveillance. Maybe you understand the significance of this.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be a Colonel?” asked Moxley.

“Aren’t you a little fat to be a Sergeant?” said Miller. “Lose the attitude, Moxley. It’s not going to serve you, where you’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“To military prison,” said Miller. “Do you hear me now, Sergeant Moxley? You’re going to prison for war crimes.”

“That’s crap,” said Moxley. “I’ve never done anything. I run a clean shop.”

“It’s not your shop, Sergeant. I thought that was clear. It’s the Conks you murdered.”

“How in the Hell is fending off an invading offensive anything like murder?” Moxley demanded. “Has everyone gone insane?”

Miller looked up at Iglesias. He jerked his chin. The Major took the hint and exited the room, closing the alloy door behind him.

“All right,” said Miller. “This is off the record, Sergeant. It’s just you and me. If you ever repeat anything I’m going to say to you—”

“No one will believe me,” said Moxley.

“Oh, they might,” said Miller. “Anything’s possible. But I’ll have you killed.”

Moxley swallowed. “I’m listening.”

“The war has not been a popular one,” said Miller. “Certain forces in our government are agitating for… call it pushback, if you like. Elements within our government must be punished. Reparations for the incredibly political incorrectness of our war on the Conquistas.”

“Our war on them,” said Moxley.

“Precisely,” said Miller. “Shooting soldiers who’ve surrendered… that’s a war crime, Moxley. These things are frequently overlooked when there is no official surveillance footage, but in this case, there’s no disappearing the records. You’re on camera in all your xenophobic glory, Sergeant. You’ll be lucky to avoid execution.”

Moxley opened his mouth to protest. Then it clicked for him. He turned to look at the door through which Iglesias had left. Then his eyes swept the empty interrogation room. There were no cameras. There was no recording equipment.

“You don’t care what happened,” said Moxley. “You’re throwing me to the wolves. I’m being used to fill a quota. Make it look like the government is policing its troops.”

“You see?” said Miller. “You’re really not as stupid as you look, Sergeant.” He stood and walked to the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “I take no pleasure in my job, Moxley,” said Miller. His wide grin made the statement a lie. “You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You understand how it is.” He unsealed the door and left. A mechanical lock cycled closed.

“Yeah,” said Moxley to the empty room. “I understand how it is.”

 

* * *

 

Moxley opened his eyes. The cracked and stained ceiling of his office was unchanged. He dragged his wrist into position before his eyes so he could check his watch.

Four hours. He supposed that was all he was likely to get. He managed, with some difficulty, to swing his legs onto the floor. His pack of vapor tubes was on the desk. Thumbing one alive, he stuck it in his mouth.

I should quit, he thought again. I’m going to quit.

He dropped into the chair behind his desk, leaned forward, and switched on the coffeemaker. It was the middle of the night, an hour when few civilized people were awake. That meant Lobby would be up. He tapped in the code from memory and waited for the desk terminal to connect.

“This line is permanent discon,” said the machine. “This line is permanent discon. This line is permanent—”

“Lobby, it’s me,” said Moxley.

“This line is permanent discon.”

“It’s Mox, Lobby,” said Moxley.

The screen went blank. Finally, the image coalesced into a digital oval. It looked like a smiley face.

“Mox,” said the face. The voice was distorted, artificial.

“I need your help, Lobby,” said Moxley. “And for God’s sake, turn off that creepy thing. It gives me nightmares.”

“It would if you slept.”

“Fair point,” said Mox. “I can’t talk to you like this. Give me a location and I’ll meet you.”

“The usual,” said the smiley face.

“Half an hour?” said Mox.

“Make it an hour. I’ve got something on the stove.” The screen switched back to the carrier warning. “This line is permanent discon. This line—”

Moxley switched off the terminal and took a deep drag from his tube. One hour. Okay. He could probably get nicely drunk in an hour.

Technocracy: Social justice whiners and their online fascism

Read my WND Technocracy column this week, on “gamergate,” “social justice whiners,” and whether game developer Brianna Wu is really risking her life. The full column appears here in WND News.

DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 7: “Don’t Ask”

“Tell me I should see the other guy,” said Moxley.

Connor looked annoyed. “Huh?”

Moxley sighed. “It’s what you say, Connor. ‘You should see the other guy.’ Then you tell me he through the first punch and you put him on the floor defending yourself.”

The polished wooden bench on which the pair sat was worth more than Moxley’s car. In front of them, shadows moved on the other side of the frosted glass in the door to the Principal’s office. The conversation kept growing heated, allowing Moxley to overhear snippets of conversation before somebody shushed somebody else. The parents of the kid Connor had beat up were talking to this Rentner-Nile character. The glass in her door had her hyphenated name painted on it. Moxley hated hyphens for the same reason he hated lettuce: You didn’t need a reason to hate something pointless.

“They’re going to sue me,” said Connor. He was as convinced of his dire fate as any fifteen-year-old could be.

“Nobody’s going to sue you,” said Moxley. “His eye is swollen shut, is all. He’s got another.”

“What if I blinded him?” said Connor. “What if he comes after Mom ‘cause they have to replace his retina?”

“What if he does?” said Moxley. “You think that kid’s entire head is worth more than a hundredth of the money what’s-his-name has on and off the books?”

“Don’t talk about Mister Enoch that way, H—” The boy stopped short. He started to say something else and then gave up on it.

“Howard,” said Moxley. “I can hear you trying it on for size. You call me ‘Howard’ instead of ‘Dad’ and you and me are going to have a problem.”

Connor sulked. “Sorry,” he said. There was no apology in his tone. He stared at his feet, which drew Moxley’s eyes. The boy’s sneakers were grimy and worn.

“What happened to those air moccasins I bought you?” said Moxley. “Those hundred-twenty-chit limited editions? The ones you wanted so bad you were ready to sell your kidneys?”

“Mom,” said Connor. “She said I didn’t earn them. And that they were probably stolen.”

“I wouldn’t steal sneakers,” said Moxley.

“No,” said Connor. “Mom said you would steal the money to buy them.”

Moxley massaged the bridge of his nose with two thick fingers. “Maybe you should tell me why you tried to punch that kid’s lights out. What’s his name?”

“Jeremy,” said Connor. “Jeremy Dale.”

“So?” said Mox. “What’d he do?” He patted his pockets, looking for his pack of vapes. Connor caught the motion and gestured to the No Smoking sign next to the Principal’s door. Moxley stopped himself from swearing out loud.

“I don’t know.”

Mox squinted at Connor, turning his head to one side. “Don’t you start that crap with me,” he said. “You didn’t wake up with a brain parasite this morning, did you? No? Then you know why you did it. Out with it, Connor. You want to get this over with, we gotta get in front of it.”

“Mom says—”

“Judith’s not here,” said Mox. “And you knew that or you wouldn’t have given them my number. Why don’t you ever call me, Connor? You know she doesn’t want me buzzing you, but she wouldn’t stop you if you called me up. I tried to call you at Christmas.”

“Mister Enoch’s Vegan Orthodox,” said Connor. “They don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“That wasn’t my point and you know it. Damn it, Connor, I’m trying to help.”

“You don’t help,” said Connor. “I thought you could but you don’t. You never do.”   Fat tears began to stream down his cheeks. One of them splashed on the bench next to Moxley’s leg. “I don’t know why I thought you could.”

Moxley looked up at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Finally, he looked down at Connor again. “Just tell me what happened. I’m on your side, Connor. I’ll make this go away.”

“Mom says never to believe you if you promise something.”

Moxley opened his mouth, then closed it. He turned away. Standing, he walked to the end of the little anteroom, which boasted a pressure-sealed window. On the grounds outside, robots worked the landscaping. Mox found himself wondering if any of them might be Ogs in disguise.

The door to the Principal’s office opened. A child with a very puffy left eye — Connor was right-handed — was ushered out, his parents on his flanks. They made a show of not looking at Moxley as they passed. The kid, for his part, looked pale and fragile. He looked, and when Moxley caught his gaze, he almost recoiled. Jeremy Dale’s right eye was so bloodshot it looked like he’d popped a vessel. No wonder Connor was worried about retinal detachments.

When Dale and his parents had gone, Moxley gestured for Connor to enter. The Principal, however, shook her head. “I’d prefer to speak to you alone, Mister Moxley,” she said. “Connor, please wait outside for us. Your father will take you home when I’ve finished speaking with him.”

“Okay,” said Connor, looking once more at his feet.

Rentner-Nile closed the door and sat down behind her desk. She did not invite Moxley to sit. He picked one of the ornate wooden chairs available and eased himself into it. Rentner-Nile looked on with disapproval. Didn’t want him on the furniture, he figured.

“I’ve spoken with the Dales,” said Rentner-Nile. “They are willing to consider the matter closed if Connor is appropriately punished. I am doing him the courtesy of giving him two week’s in-school suspension.”

“You don’t maybe want to figure out why he did it?” Moxley said. “Is this Dale kid a bully?”

“Hardly,” said Rentner-Nile. “Neither boy has been a discipline problem previously, although I am not at liberty to discuss the records of a child who is not yours. Frankly, Mister Moxley, I’m surprised you were able to come. It was my understanding that you are… not a presence in your son’s life.”

Moxley felt his molars grind. “Not my choice,” he said quietly. “Connor’s mother and I are divorced. She has full custody.”

“Did he say why he hit Jeremy?” asked the Principal. “Neither boy was willing to share the story with me.”

“We’re even on that, then,” said Mox. “He won’t spill it.”

Rentner-Nile frowned. It was the face of someone who’s just found a bug at the bottom of her glass. “You have the option of an administrative review,” she said. “But I wouldn’t bother. We have a very clear zero-tolerance policy.”

“Connor stays in school?” he asked. “The other family’s going to let this be?”

“He will be punished, as I said.” The woman nodded. “But I don’t think, given his record, that we need do more. I see no justification for expulsion as long as Connor does not assault anyone else.”

“You’re keeping that a secret, right?”

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“You know how kids are,” said Mox. “You let it get out that he’s on a short leash, the other kids are going to start messing with him because he can’t fight back without getting expelled.”

“How we choose to handle disciplinary measures, Mister Moxley, is a covered in your son’s education contract. Of course, as I recall, you aren’t party to that contract, which is paid for by Connor’s stepfather.”

Moxley stared at her long enough to make her fidget. There it is, he thought. Finally, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. I don’t have much say in this.”

“Then I suggest you take Connor home.”

“I’ll do that,” said Moxley. He pushed himself up from the chair and gathered his coat around him. He watched the woman’s eyes fall on the bloody stain over his shoulder. “Hey, just an idea,” he said. “Maybe you get a little flag, and one of those paint wands. Then you can write, ‘I’m disgusted’ on it. You could wave that around. Be a little less ambiguous, but not much.” She was opening her mouth to reply when he wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him.

“What—“ Connor started to say.

“Come on,” said Moxley. “I’m taking you home.”

“What happened?” Connor asked, hurrying to keep up with Moxley as the man huffed down the corridor. “Why is she yelling?”

“Don’t ask,” said Moxley.