William Gibson - The Peripheral

“Get it a little higher, more in line with your eyes.”

He tried to do that.

“Better,” she said. “Your nose is smaller.” She looked tired, he thought.

“How are you?”

“They fucking shot my brother.”

“Who did?”

“Guys in squidsuits. Clovis and Carlos killed ’em.”

“And your brother?”

“He’s asleep. They gave him something. Government drone gave him a long-distance operation. Got the bullet out, patched a hole in his artery, cleaned everything, stitched him up.”

“Were you hurt?”

“No. Feel fucked, but that’s not the problem.”

“What problem?”

“Lowbeer’s English boy. Back here. Griff. Gryffyd. Holdsworth. Tommy thinks Griff’s what he calls an intelligence liaison. Has diplomatic cover or some shit, out of their embassy in Washington. Lots of connections, government stuff. Our government, I mean. He got squidsuits and a micro-drone for Burton, to get me out of Pickett’s. Got the pill bug they used on Burton-”

“Pill bug?”

“No time. Just listen.”

“Griff is the problem?”

“Lowbeer. Griff’s setting up to do something here, to Luke 4:5-”

“Who?”

“They’re just assholes. You listen to me, okay?”

He nodded, then imagined that on the Wheelie Boy’s tablet.

“The competition’s using them to embarrass us, and probably hoping to get Burton out there so somebody can shoot him. He doesn’t like ’em to begin with, so they’re good bait. But Griff’s got this chemical weapon, called party time. Like every really bad builder drug rolled into one, but worse. If what it makes you do doesn’t kill you in the process, you’re liable to commit suicide from remembering what you did. Tommy says builders can’t find a survivable recreational dose. Go homeopathic on it, it monsters you out just as bad. Clovis already put me on the antidote. Griff’s planning to use it on Luke 4:5, and I’d bet tonight.”

“Then how is Lowbeer your problem?”

“She calls the shots. Either it’s her idea or his, but if it’s his, she signed off on it. Using that shit on anybody is just too crazy. Too mean. It’s your world.”

“My world?”

“Different way of doing things. Stone cold. But I’m not letting it happen, neither is Tommy, and if Burton were conscious, neither would he.”

“How would you stop it?”

“By letting her know I’m not going to the party with you, if they do that. They use it, we smash up the crowns, print new phones with different numbers, and pretend you guys don’t exist. Whatever shit comes down, we deal with it. And fuck you. Not you personally. You guys.”

“Seriously?”

“Shit yes.”

He looked at her.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“You in?”

“In?”

“You tell her. She wants to talk to me, I’m right here. But they put any party time on those sorry assholes across the road, you’re going to that party alone. Me and my family, we’ll be out of the future business.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Call her,” she said. “I’m going to go talk to Griff.”

“Why would you do this? Without her, you’ll be in a desperate position. So might we, for that matter. And you’re doing it for the sake of. . assholes?”

“They’re assholes. We’re not. But we’re only not assholes if we won’t do shit like that. You calling her?”

“Yes. But I don’t know why.”

“Because you’re not an asshole.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“Everybody’s got one. And an opinion to go with it, my mother says. It’s how you behave makes the difference. Now I’m going to turn you off and go tell Griff.” And she did.

She was three steps into the back before she realized she was carrying the Wheelie Boy like a teddy bear. Not hugging it, but sort of in her arms. Fuck it.

They turned and looked at her. The red-haired notary from Klein Cruz Vermette, in cammies now and a Clovis-style crotch pouch. Blue surgical gloves. Seemed like she’d just finished putting clean sheets on Burton’s bed. Someone must’ve had to help her, because the pill bug was still all over him. She’d spread one relatively unstained sheet on the floor, between Burton’s bed and Conner’s, which was empty, and had a big ball of blood-stiff sheets on top of that. Clovis was beside Conner’s bed, in fresh clothes, doing something to the white crown on the table there. Griff was at the foot of Burton’s bed, phone to his ear, and as she came in, just his eyes moved.

“Where’s Conner?” she asked.

“Shower,” Clovis said. “Macon took him.”

“How’s Burton?”

“Vitals look good, Walter Reed says. They want him to sleep longer, so it’s still sedating him.”

“I will,” said Griff, to his phone, “thank you.” He lowered it.

“Need to talk,” she said, wishing she hadn’t brought the Wheelie.

“Yes, but not about what you assume we do.”

“The fuck we don’t.”

“Herself.” Holding up his phone. “Wiping party time off the mission statement.”

“You won’t do it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Huh.” All pissed off, she wondered, and nowhere to go? “Was that shit her idea in the first place?”

“It was,” he said. “I didn’t feel it was appropriate, or advisable. She told me I was unaccustomed to operating from a position of strength.” With that, he gave her a look she couldn’t read. “Could we have a moment, Clovis, please?” The KCV girl, bloody sheet ball folded in the cleaner one, was on her way out. Clovis turned and followed her.

“Now she says she won’t do it?” She watched Clovis’s back vanish around the blue tarp. “Why?”

“Your conversation with the publicist.”

“She listened?”

“Assume she can access anything, any platform, always.”

“So she sits, and listens?”

“She has global intelligence feeds, analytical tools of tremendous functionality. The systems I work with here would surprise you, I imagine, but I have to take her word for what hers are capable of. She doubts anyone fully comprehends them, herself included, as they’ve become largely self-organizing. Having had to evolve from the sort I use today, I suppose. Which means that if you mention anything that concerns her, over or within reach of any platform whatsoever, she learns of it immediately. And at this point, I suppose, anything you speak of concerns her.”

“No party time?”

“Canceled.”

“But you couldn’t convince her yourself, that it sucked?”

“It’s a literally atrocious idea. Using it would constitute, morally and legally, an atrocity. Coldiron’s brand would be attached to something horrific, no matter how effectively we were able to spin the blame. Coldiron is concerned about the townspeople not being priced out of chili dogs, but willing to condone dosing religious protesters, however repellant, with something that turns them into homicidal erotomaniacs?”

“Coldiron knew? Who?”

“No. I knew. And Clovis.”

“She told me. But not what it was. Tommy told me what it does.”

“I had to bring him in. He needed to be prepared, to be ready to tidy up. I’m delighted you’ve put a stop to it.”

She looked at him. “I still don’t see why you couldn’t talk her out of it.”

“Because there’s a way in which I lack agency, in all of this. By virtue of more pressing concerns.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Lowbeer knows the history of her world, and the secret history of ours. The history that produced Lowbeer’s world includes the assassination of the president.”

“Gonzales? You shitting me?”