If he could take his mind off the mitote for a moment, all Jett Nettlefield had to do was press “I Accept”. Actually, it wasn’t that hard to take one’s mind off the mitote. That incessant murmur of angels’ voices could always be drowned out with just the right amount of cognitive behavioural therapy. They were new terms and conditions he was being asked to accept from one of the major corporations. It seemed like the whole world was talking about them. To say they were controversial would be an understatement. A lot of folk complained, notwithstanding the chips that they’d had implanted. It was creepy, a gross invasion of privacy, but in the end nearly everybody relented and accepted. The treasure trove of media on offer was simply too rich to forgo. Jett was driving in one of the wealthier sectors of the conurbation in a brilliant car, a real humdinger of a motor that he had just taken ownership of. He’d worked hard and saved hard to buy it. His work ethic was so strong these da...