Organo-Topia by Scott Michael Decker Page A

complex about five miles from here. Ten thousand Ihumes being reared in cohorts of five hundred each, a small city in a single building.”
    “Who do we see about neuratronics installation?”
    “Destination: Plavinas Development Crèche, Crestonia.”
    The magnacar swerved and took off that direction, mindless except of its destination.
    He sometimes wished he could be as unthinking as that. The curse of conscience colored his view of life, a fuscous cloud of murky motive, a menu of moral morass. The choice was never between good and evil, but of less versus more destructive. “Do no harm” wasn't among anyone's choices anymore. Do the least harm to the fewest number of people was the best the dictum ever got. You did harm simply by living. You did harm simply by dying.
    The crèche looked like all the buildings around it except for its windows. On the inside of nearly every window was some personal item of remarkably bright color, like the handpainting his parents insisted on keeping on the fridge. It was terrible, but they prized it terribly, and he'd wondered why. they'd saved it all, every stick figure drawing and papier-mâché mask, watercolor wasteland and chalk conglomeration, as if accumulating evidence of their child's genius, none of it evincing the slimmest glimmer of extraordinary talent, all of it evincing his mediocrity. He supposed if he'd asked, they'd have said they kept it to show him its value, to teach him to value his work. He hadn't, knowing it crap, ashamed it stayed there, a burning reminder how talentless he was.
    The crèche kids were subjected to similar, he supposed, their pedestrian work hung in their windows, kept there at the admonition of podparents. The building took up the whole block and soared twenty stories. A face or two peered from window and roof-edge. His mind sliced and divided, giving over parts of each floor to classrooms, gymnasiums, cafeterias. About one floor per year, he estimated. Ten thousand children, five hundred per floor. The oldest ones living at the top, he guessed, younger ones on lower floors needing more care.
    Couples everywhere wanting children, and here they were, reared in crèche.
    “Ever been in a place like this?”
    He shook his head.
    “I have, reared in one on the outskirts of Telsai.”
    “How was it?”
    “Mostly bad, but sometimes all right. I hated the regimentation. My teachers were fair, and my podmothers were bitches. They had to be, I suppose.”
    Maris handed her today's mastoid jack. “Department of Child Support Services, Bureau of Gestational Integrity, Adolescent Angst Division.”
    Ilsa snorted. “Where do you get these names? Some jerk in Undercover just makes them up, right?” She jacked in and updated her handheld with the new ident.
    He smiled and slipped his dongle home. “Right,” he said, gesturing toward the entrance, wishing that were the case.
    She took the lead. The framed portico lent the building its only point of grandeur, the rest so shapelessly flat that it looked like an institution.
    The spidery limbs of a nanotector waved across them and beeped them clear.
    The atrium inside echoed with the emptiness of abandoned dreams. It'd make a good motto, Maris thought. “Abandon dreams, all ye who dwell here.” Dark parquet walls fought with light tile floors. Glasma display cases housed mementos of institutional pride, sport trophies and honorarium plaques competing with rusty reliquaries and crusty plates. Overstuffed chairs looked resentfully upon a jealous couch, both suffering from dust-covered neglect.
    “May I help you?” asked a high-pitched voice. She had to be young, the face behind the glasma innocent and pure, the eyes way too bright with undimmed enthusiasm.
    “Graduating soon?” Ilsa asked, grinning. “You're nearly there, young lady. Ilsa Berzin, Liaison, Adolescent Angst Division, here to see the medical director.” She showed the bright-eyed girl her handheld.
    “Maris Petras, same.” He flashed