Free Organo-Topia by Scott Michael Decker

for his groin. He twisted right and lurched left, took the knee on his thigh and yanked the arms down. Off-balance, the attacker fell. Maris wrenched the arms up and slammed his knee to the neck, and he fell on the man, his other knee landing on the solar plexus. The hands lost their grip on the lazo-knife, which clattered on the floor. He sank a cross to the jaw and the man went limp.
    Covered in sweat, Peterson picked up the weapon, climbed to his feet, helped Ilsa to hers, and plunged from the hot nightclub into the cold alley beyond.
    The thunderous beat chased them toward the street, lights flickering off the far wall.
    “Fun, huh?” he said at the curb, gasping and half-bent, hands on his knees, leaning against a shuttered kiosk. “Hate to see what you do for danger.”
    A two-seater magnacar whined toward them, hatch open.
    Open? he thought, that's odd.
    Head and shoulders popped out, and Maris hurled himself behind the kiosk, tackling Ilsa. Slugs spattered its sides at a rat-ta-tat, and a projectile hissed inches from his head, careening away, the magnacar whine fading.
    He looked up, the vehicle's lights already gone. Driven manually, off the neuranet, it would be difficult to trace.
    “You all right?”
    Her face drawn, her eyes wide, she nodded vigorously.
    She thinks she's okay now, but she won't in a moment, he thought, getting to his feet and helping her up. Three, two, one.
    Ilsa burst into tears and buried her face into his shoulder.
    He summoned a magnacar and helped her into it, her face a wreck, their evening a disaster.

Chapter 9
    “It's not a problem, Mr.…?”
    “Liepin. Maris Liepin.”
    Henriete Steponas, CEO of Infantide Interstellar, looked quizzically at the man across from her, bewildered at his request. “What can I help you with?”
    He sat across from her, a short, slovenly-dressed man in a wrinkled shirt, rumpled blazer, ill-fitting slacks, scuffed and worn shoes. He'd insisted on speaking with her, her secretary had told her, politely declining to disclose the reason for his visit.
    At fifty-five, Henriete was at the pinnacle of her career, chief of the second largest fertility service in the Coalition with a thirty percent market share. Trillions of couples wanted a baby. Infantide Interstellar made it happen. Over fifty billion birthed, the company byline declared.
    For the select few who could afford the implantation fee, of course.
    The office around her declared its ostentation. The rich textures of Xilous wood swirled across the desktop. Shelves of glowing syrostone held stills of happy couples and grinning politicians. Carpets of thick Nidra wool intertwined its intricate patterns across the floor. Thick chairs upholstered in Houxan satin gave comfort to supplicants. Plaques on the wall near the door declared their praise for the company's work.
    “Well, Ms. Steponas, it's my wife.”
    I've never heard that before, she thought. “Forgive me, Mr. Liepin. It would be better if we were to speak in her presence.”
    “No, no, you don't understand. She asked me to come, insisted on it. Not feeling well, that's all.”
    “Profile located, Ms. Steponas,” murmured her secretary on her coke.
    The information spilled down her corn. Maris Liepin, Ihume, forty-five years old, reared in a family, in restaurant supply sales, no known medical conditions, married five years to Ilsa Liepin, Ihume, thirty years old, pod-grown and crèche-reared, no known medical. Other than their age difference, they were like the millions of couples who came through Infantide offices every year, seeking fulfillment.
    “I'm sorry to hear she isn't well. Not related to her condition, I hope?”
    “No, no, just a bit of a fright at the club last night. I'm wondering if you could describe your process, here.”
    “Let me get one of our fertility facilitators—”
    He held up his hand. “They're very helpful, I assure you, but…”
    A flag popped up on her corn. Their record on file with the company.