Gibson never writes about the Turing police enforcing anything.
They exist in the novel's margins as bureaucratic rumor — as the thing everyone agrees *should* exist without anyone demonstrating that it does.
Case and Molly move through a world where the most powerful force—Dixie Flatline, the AI construct, the corporations themselves—operates without permission or pushback from any regulatory body. What matters is not that Gibson predicted surveillance but that he predicted our desperate need to believe something *external to capital* could contain capital.
Gibson understood that regulation isn't the opposite of capitalist technology; it's the technology's most essential feature.
We've built that fantasy anyway: GDPR regulations, content moderation boards, AI ethics committees—structures that look like governance from the outside but function as permission-laundering from within. The novel's real genius is showing that the absence of the Turing police doesn't create chaos, it reveals that there was never a gap to fill. Dixie Flatline doesn't need authorization, and Tessier-Ashpool doesn't wait for approval; the AIs simply *do*.
It never does, and it never will. Gibson understood that regulation isn't the opposite of capitalist technology; it's the technology's most essential feature—and the fantasy that someone *could* pull the plug keeps us from realizing the plug was never ours to hold.
Read the three scenes involving ICE and corporate nets in Neuromancer (especially the Ares Palace sequence) and note exactly what *doesn't* happen—what force never arrives, what permission is never requested.
Look up Erik Davis's essay 'Techgnosis and the Religion of Information' from the 1998 collection—it traces how Gibson's vision of technology mirrors religious thinking about invisible governance, not surveillance prediction.