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reactions against the billions of neurons in Dad’s gel-stabilized brain, staying relatively true to what he might have said, in real life.
    “My Pa would fly from Raleigh to Phoenix on business and then back in two days, eating peanuts and watching movies while crisscrossing a continent that his great-grampa took a year to cross by mule, and almost died! But all he could talk about were narrow seats and luggage fees. And having to take his shoes off. Went on and on about that!”
    Yep, this sure sounds like my old man – the same lectury finger-waggings, without fingers. And if I hadn’t promised to keep him on the mantel, for at least ten years, I’d find that lake over there an attractive place to dump his nagging skull, right about now.
    But Carmody knew he wouldn’t. At current rates of neuroscience progress, within a decade the emulation would be much better, perhaps simulating the old guy’s better, deeper side, maybe even some wisdom, too. And perhaps, someday, the glimmering, ever-alluring promise of “uploading” to wondrous realms of virtual reality. If I want my own kids to take care of my head, I suppose I should set an example.
    Anyway, wasn’t this just another example of what Gaia had been nagging him about, lately? A crappy attitude, taking everything too hard. Over-sensitivity to life’s inevitable harsh edges. An imbalance of grouchy sourness over joy. Okay, things weren’t going too well, right now. But something was definitely wrong inside, as well, Carmody had to admit.
    He’d been resisting adjustment, and no one on Earth could force him. I can straighten out all by myself, he grumbled, knowing how puritan and old-fashioned it sounded.
    They used to prescribe drugs. He shuddered to imagine what an un-subtle bludgeon that must have been. Nowadays –
    I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to adjust my implants just a little, to let me see a picture wider than just downsides. So I can choose to cheer up a little easier. Especially if I’m going to be looking for another job. Be a better husband and father. Maybe go back to my music. Or at least concentrate better when I have to fly!
    On impulse, Carmody swung left at Eighty-Third and cruised between condominium towers with their own landing ledges on every floor. Wary for incautious launchers, he slowed to a near hover at the end of the block, exertion stinging his eyes as he looked down and west at PS43, where little Annie attended second grade.
    The school’s protective force field shimmered like reflections off the Hudson, a kilometer further west. A brilliant safety feature, invented just in time to give parents some piece of mind that their children were safe from harm – the dome sparkled every time an object crashed into it at high speed, erupting with half-blinding brightness whenever the impact was especially hard. In just the few seconds he had been watching, dozens of flashes forced Carmody to damp down the filters of his goggles.
    Thank heavens for the dome.
    WHAM! Another collision, as a student slammed against the inner surface, caroming amid a cascade of electric sparkles before zooming off again, to swoop and cavort amid some incomprehensibly complex playground game. Giving chase, a girl sporting red boots, garish epaulets and a ponytail struck the force-field with her feet, amid a shower of sparks. Crouched legs helped her spring off again, in hot pursuit.
    Carmody had no such endurance. Concentrating, biting his lip, he managed touchdown at a flier’s platform on the condominium building’s roof. Then he stepped to the edge, muscles and nerves twitching.
    Kids. Their generation already takes it all for granted. They’re the ones who’ll roam the sky with real freedom, painless and comfortable – all of them – with the powers of superheroes. He sighed. I just hope some of them appreciate it, now and then.
    He looked for Annie... and the goggles picked her out from the recess throng. A small figure, dark hair kept deliberately