William Gibson - The Peripheral

Conner was on his feet now, walking toward them, Gordon and Tyenna hopping in unison after him on their hind legs. He entered, closing the door behind him. Outside, still upright, they followed him with their eyes.

“Infatuated with you,” said Lev, taking the first of the sandwiches from the press.

“Like you crossed possums with coyotes,” Conner said. “Smell a little like possums. They get TB?”

“Get what?” Lev asked.

“Tuberculosis,” Lowbeer said.

“No,” Lev said, looking up from the press. “Why should they?”

“Possums mostly do,” said Conner. “Not many left. People like ’em even less, they get TB. Sandwich smells good. Why don’t you build these things so they can eat?”

“We do,” Lev said, “but it’s much more expensive. Unnecessary in a martial arts instructor.”

“Sit with us,” said Lowbeer. “You do rather loom.”

Conner pulled out the chair opposite her, reversed it, and sat, forearms crossed atop its back.

“Is Flynne sleeping now?” Netherton asked, taking the chair beside Conner. To be seated with Lowbeer and not face her, he thought, wouldn’t have occurred to him.

“She is,” said Lowbeer, “after speaking with her mother’s caregiver. She’ll visit, tomorrow. There’s an increasing risk involved, but we want her able to give her full attention to her evening with you and Daedra. And whoever else may be present.” Lev placed a white plate with her sandwich in front of her. “That looks absolutely delicious, Lev. Thank you.”

The inside of the truck they took her home in was like the Hummer limo her class had all chipped in on for the senior prom, but no stink of air freshener and the seats were nicer. The outside had been made to look like shit, but she didn’t think it really worked that well, because if anybody in town had an American car that new, they’d wash it. And the dirt looked sprayed on. It was an American-looking truck, but not quite any particular make or model. Carlos loved that about it, said it was “gray man,” what he called things he’d’ve called tactical otherwise, except for it having been styled down to not attract attention. But he wouldn’t have liked it, she guessed, if it hadn’t been no make in particular, had a brutal profile, and been armored all to shit. The red-haired girl was driving, in her same bad jeans and Wildcats tank top, but now she had one of the soft-armor jackets on over that. Her name was Tacoma.

Griff and Tommy wouldn’t let Flynne just take a car out to the house. Had to be this whole procession. First, a little remote-control three-quarter-scale SUV rigged to set off mines and roadside bombs, that Leon, to her amazement, was actually piloting, from the front seat of the SUV in front of the gray man truck. Loving it, apparently. No figuring Leon, sometimes, what he’d really like. They’d even gotten him to put on one of the black jackets, over his jean jacket, a weirdly businesslike look for him, except that he was also wearing a headscarf in old-fashioned deer-hunter camo, like a life-sized photograph of tree bark, and he wasn’t somebody who should ever wear that, if anybody was. He was in the SUV with five of Burton’s boys, all with bullpups and soft armor. Four more in a second SUV taking up the rear, plus some unspecified number of drones, recharging themselves off a pack on the top of the second SUV. She supposed the drones all still had a piece of aquamarine duct tape on them, because she could see a two-foot length of it across the rear bumper of the front SUV. Burton’s aquamarine army, and him hors de combat, in the back of Coldiron’s tarp maze. If he was conscious now, he must think that that really sucked.

But he probably wouldn’t have gotten a look yet at how much dress-up was going on, or maybe dress-down. While she’d slept, it seemed, all the Klein Cruz Vermette people had started competing to look like a stylist’s idea of county, a few even sporting tattoos she hoped were fake, or anyway the kind that faded to nothing after a year or so. Way too into it. Tommy, this morning, had said that was because they weren’t just getting paid shitloads of money, but potential shares in Coldiron too. Said that even the ones who weren’t very qualified were getting some of the highest salaries in the state, period, right then, and it made them giddy and determined and paranoid all at once, not to mention way too nice to her. Tacoma wasn’t, though, because she wasn’t just KCV. Griff had said she was with him, when Flynne had asked him, but that was all he’d say. It looked to Tommy, though, like Clovis and Tacoma were both “acronym,” but no telling which agency. Too smart to be Homes, he said, and not asshole enough for the really big ones. Where that fit with Griff being English, Flynne didn’t know.

Tommy and Griff were both needed in town today. They were only letting her go out alone because Griff still wanted her to talk her mother into the safe house in Virginia. Clovis would stay with Burton, and to do the helmet thing for the surgeons in D.C. Macon and Edward were sleeping, after their run on government wakey. She’d seen them curled up together on a foam, under a sleeping bag, Macon snoring, Edward in his arms. She guessed that not having to dose Luke 4:5 with party time, or what Griff would have thought was party time, had cut the two of them some much-needed slack.

So here she was, just her and the Wheelie Boy, in the back of this stealth-limo truck, two rows of seats behind the front seats, then the back window, then the pickup bed with a flat hardshell cover. For all she knew, they might have a rocket launcher under there.

“Air con good?” Tacoma asked her.

“Fine,” she said. Tacoma had told her the truck could drive under water if it had to, popping up a breather tube for the engine. There weren’t any bodies of water around to seriously do that in, that Flynne knew of, and just as well. She looked up now and saw the cow-drone, more or less where she’d last seen it, but pretending to graze. She’d seen bullet streaks on the concrete wall back of Coldiron and Fab, thinking how lucky it was that Burton had been the only one to catch a ricochet. The way they’d gone out to the truck this morning, they’d been out of Luke 4:5’s sight, at least until they got on Porter, and by then they were far enough away that it didn’t matter. And anyway Luke were mostly still sleeping, in identical black pup tents they’d pitched in the lot opposite the mall, in tight rows, like insect eggs, Leon said, or slime mold. Now she knew that they hadn’t really been targeted with a drug that turned you into a homicidal sex maniac, she found herself feeling less kindly disposed toward them. Like why couldn’t Griff and Tommy, between them, figure out some relatively low-impact, legally nonatrocious way to get them the fuck out of town? Made a mental note to ask about that. “Any chance we could get the breakfast burrito and some coffee, at Jimmy’s?” she asked Tacoma.

“Pretty serious dog and pony with security here,” Tacoma said, “but say I call them, they bring it out to you?”

“Fine by me.”

“Well, not to you directly. Lead car, up front. Then we get it droned back to us, don’t have to stop.”

“Complicated.”

“Protocol. Jimmy’s brings it directly to us, I’ve got to stop, unseal, even if it’s just the window.”

“Unseal?”

“Vehicle’s hermetic, except for filtered intakes.”

“Lot of trouble, for a burrito.”

“They’re spending as much money as they can on keeping your ass intact and present. You’ve already been kidnapped once. Those shooters last night could’ve been more interested in you than your brother.”

Flynne hadn’t thought of that. “You as good with a gun as Clovis?”