Organo-Topia by Scott Michael Decker Page B

his too.
    A muted beep behind the glasma indicated their idents had been verified. “Do you have an appointment?”
    “Surprise inspection,” Ilsa said.
    “I'll see if she's available. Please, have a seat.”
    They stepped away from the window but neither headed for a chair.
    “Last here a year ago, according to our files,” Ilsa muttered.
    “Latency Labile Division was here three months ago, and Toddler Terror just last week.”
    She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. “And Infant Irritability yesterday, right?”
    “Never heard of 'em.”
    “Ms. Berzin, Mr. Petras? Doctor Eugeni will see you now. The elevator is to your right. Tenth floor and to your left, please.”
    He and Ilsa stepped that way as a woman in business formal was scanned at the entry by the nanotector. She gave them a glance as she stepped to the glasma, handheld out already. “Infant Irritability Division to see the director of development, please.”
    The lift doors rumbled aside, the interior looking dingy, battered by rambunctious loads of children. Maris didn't see any buttons.
    “Next stop, tenth floor,” the elevator said in a tired robo-voice.
    Remote operation, of course, the Detective thought.
    The tenth-floor foyer looked little different from the atrium on the ground floor. Dark tile walls muted the little light filtering in through grimy glasma, defying the attempts of the light parquet floors to reflect it. Long corridors stretched to either side of the foyer. Glasma display cases might have housed mementos of institutional pride but stood staring at passersby with guilt-inducing emptiness. Opposite the foyer stood a recessed reception area, where utilitarian chairs filled with sniffling brats gazed at each other in placid, indifferent rows, every seat occupied.
    The gazes swiveled to Ilsa and Maris as they stepped off the elevator.
    Then, as a group, swiveled away. Assess, catalog, ignore.
    We must look like bureaucrats, he thought. If we'd looked like a couple, they'd have mobbed us. Among the children were scraped elbows, swollen jaws, lacerated knees, tear-stained faces. At the reception desk sat an older child, of similar age as the receptionist downstairs.
    “Here to see Nurse Vasiļjev?” Behind the boy were plaques proclaiming the expertise of those in the office, sheepskin under glasma.
    “Doctor Eugeni, I was told,” Ilsa said, showing her handheld. “Ilsa Berzin, Liaison, Adolescent Angst Division.”
    “Maris Petras, same.” He flashed his too, beginning to enjoy the role of sidekick.
    “My apologies. Doctor Eugeni has been called away, but perhaps Nurse Vasiļjev can help you. Please, have a seat. She'll be with you as soon as possible.”
    Except there were no seats.
    “Miss, are we gonna be wiped out by nanochines, too?”
    Maris looked down at a girl with a blood-soaked tissue stuffed in one nostril. She'd approached Ilsa and was looking up at her with plaintive, pitiable eyes.
    “No, child, why do you think that?”
    “That's what happened at that incubation place, wasn't it?”
    “Well, yes, it did happen there, but that doesn't mean it'll happen here. Did that frighten you?”
    The girl nodded vigorously. “I'm Mandy.”
    “Ilsa. Nice to meet you.”
    “Maris,” he said, dropping to a squat. “Where'd you get the pretty nose?”
    She giggled, her hand going to the tissue. “Fighting with Tommy. He called me a name.”
    “Mustn't have been 'sweetie' or 'honeybun.' ”
    “Ewwww! I'd beat the living jerk out of him for that!”
    “Mandy, watch your language,” said a woman's voice from behind Maris.
    He stood and turned.
    “I'm Nurse Zanna Vasiļjev. Doctor Eugeni has been called away. Come in, please. I'll see Mandy while we talk.” She glanced at the roomful of children awaiting her attention. “If you don't mind.”
    She led them through the side door into an examination room and bade the girl to sit on the exam couch. “Your office was here just a few days ago, something to do with