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Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
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But despite all this, you still get a few hesomagari, the ''twisted navels," those full-blooded humans contrary or perverse enough to seek a fulfillment not socially sanctioned.
Such as Bert Mayr.
We had his files downloaded before we left Ixsys. And this was what we learned.
Mayr was the son of NU citizens Rowen a a nd Boris Mayr, ex-settlers who had retreated in failure from the hard life on board Aquarius, the floating arcology and OTEC power plant off the coast of Madagascar. Their Lotto-won berths had gone to others when they fled back to Boston.
Boris had died here shortly after Bert's birth. Caught in the middle of a turf war between the Morgue Boys and the Thai Guys out in Charlestown, where the mother still lived. She had never rebonded on a permanent basis.
Mayr had grown up to be your archetypical loner. No friends, no resident erotofiscal partner, no transient lovers. Apparently, he had followed this solitary lifestyle ever since becoming fully enfranchised.
My cop's intuition drew me a picture of a mama's boy, the only token of his lost father, a coddled and fussed-over introvert.
In his final year of schooling, Mayr had shown aptitude as a chromosartor. Given the standard Scios Nova cooker-splicer setup for twelve-year-olds, he had soon modified it with add-ons purchased with his pocket money to produce standalone entities up to the level of annelids. He loved to hack nucleotides and amino acids, perhaps too much so. Legal and moral boundaries appeared to mean little to him. He had almost gotten expelled for the prank of infesting the school's showers with nonreproductive hookworms. He had programmed them with only a thirty-day lifespan-but in that time they also secreted low levels of psilocybin-analogues directly into the victim's gut.
When he had graduated, he found that his juvenile record of misdemeanors worked against him. No respectable peltsie would hire him as a chromosartor (at least without Mayr consenting to a course of corrective tropes, a measure he apparently rejected), for fear of his dangerously irresponsible attitude. The best job he could get was field-testing at Ixsys, a position he had held unremarkably for the past decade.
"And then along came the Blankie," K-mart said, back at the office when we had finished viewing the file.
"It must have triggered something latent in him. Or touched some active kink."
"Because he was the first to have access to the Blankie, he came to regard it as his personal property. He takes it home-Tara! You don't think Ixsys insisted he use it, do you?"
I shrugged. "That's what field-testing's all about.
But despite all this, you still get a few hesomagari, the ''twisted navels," those full-blooded humans contrary or perverse enough to seek a fulfillment not socially sanctioned.
Such as Bert Mayr.
We had his files downloaded before we left Ixsys. And this was what we learned.
Mayr was the son of NU citizens Rowen a a nd Boris Mayr, ex-settlers who had retreated in failure from the hard life on board Aquarius, the floating arcology and OTEC power plant off the coast of Madagascar. Their Lotto-won berths had gone to others when they fled back to Boston.
Boris had died here shortly after Bert's birth. Caught in the middle of a turf war between the Morgue Boys and the Thai Guys out in Charlestown, where the mother still lived. She had never rebonded on a permanent basis.
Mayr had grown up to be your archetypical loner. No friends, no resident erotofiscal partner, no transient lovers. Apparently, he had followed this solitary lifestyle ever since becoming fully enfranchised.
My cop's intuition drew me a picture of a mama's boy, the only token of his lost father, a coddled and fussed-over introvert.
In his final year of schooling, Mayr had shown aptitude as a chromosartor. Given the standard Scios Nova cooker-splicer setup for twelve-year-olds, he had soon modified it with add-ons purchased with his pocket money to produce standalone entities up to the level of annelids. He loved to hack nucleotides and amino acids, perhaps too much so. Legal and moral boundaries appeared to mean little to him. He had almost gotten expelled for the prank of infesting the school's showers with nonreproductive hookworms. He had programmed them with only a thirty-day lifespan-but in that time they also secreted low levels of psilocybin-analogues directly into the victim's gut.
When he had graduated, he found that his juvenile record of misdemeanors worked against him. No respectable peltsie would hire him as a chromosartor (at least without Mayr consenting to a course of corrective tropes, a measure he apparently rejected), for fear of his dangerously irresponsible attitude. The best job he could get was field-testing at Ixsys, a position he had held unremarkably for the past decade.
"And then along came the Blankie," K-mart said, back at the office when we had finished viewing the file.
"It must have triggered something latent in him. Or touched some active kink."
"Because he was the first to have access to the Blankie, he came to regard it as his personal property. He takes it home-Tara! You don't think Ixsys insisted he use it, do you?"
I shrugged. "That's what field-testing's all about.