William Gibson - The Peripheral

“You don’t mind, that I know?”

“Not at all. Why would you think I might?”

“Because it’s a secret?”

“Not from you. Come, sit here.” She went to the tall, mossy-green armchairs, at the head of the table. She waited until Flynne was settled in one, then sat in the other. “I understand that Netherton is pleased with the cognitive bundle.”

“Glad somebody is.”

“And you’ve been shown the guns.”

“Why do I need them?”

“Only one,” she said. “The other’s either for Conner or your brother, depending. I hope none of you need them, but there’s a crudeness of mind behind this business. Best we have our own options for crudeness.”

The tall windows were hidden behind green curtains. Flynne imagined a maze behind them, more green curtains, like the blue tarps in Coldiron. “What about President Gonzales? Griff says they killed her.”

“They did. It set the tone.”

“You’re going to change that?”

“That depends. It’s less like a conspiracy than a climate, at this point.”

“What does it depend on?”

“Daedra’s party, it seems.”

“How?”

“Coldiron and Matryoshka, as your people are calling it, are racing for ownership of your world. Competing tides of subsecond financial events. We are not winning. We are not losing, by that much, but we are not winning. Lev is employing a brilliant but makeshift apparatus on Coldiron’s behalf. Matryoshka, which exists in order to kill you, and for no other reason, appears to be employing some more powerful state financial apparatus, here. I need to stop that, in order to enable Coldiron’s dominance, which may then enable the prevention of Gonzales’s assassination. But the politics here are such that I’m unable to do that without first having proof, or some reasonable facsimile thereof, of who murdered Aelita. I can’t begin to explain how power works, here, but someone powerful must have an interest in Matryoshka. Invariably, they will have stepped on someone else’s toes, or stand to. I can leverage that, offer that other party a fulcrum with which to crush them. But in order for any of that to happen, you and Netherton must succeed at Daedra’s event.”

Flynne looked at the cut glass and silver on the sideboard. She looked at Lowbeer. “It all hangs on me identifying the asshole on that balcony?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fucked.”

“It is that, yes. But here we are. Should you recognize him, you’ll alert me, and things will be set in motion.”

“What if I don’t? Can’t?”

“Best not dwell on that. But if you do succeed, we face another level of difficulty, in that Daedra’s gathering operates under a protocol that strictly bans the use of personal communication devices. As peripherals, telepresent devices, you and Mr. Penske become exceptions of a sort, but you’ll be very tightly monitored. So it then becomes a question of how, should you identify our murderer, you will then communicate that to me.”

“So how do I?”

“Your peripheral’s newly installed cognitive bundle is, literally, a bundle. Within it is a communications platform the security bubble around Daedra’s event will be unable to detect. You will hear me, when you do, as, and I quote, ‘static in your bones.’ I understand it’s peculiarly unsettling, but it’s our safest option.”

“And if he’s there?”

“Far the more interesting fork to consider. And why I was pleased by your complete unwillingness to allow the use of that peculiarly vile chemical weapon.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I may need you, going forward, to be exactly the person who won’t do that.”

“You always want to know a lot,” she said, “but you won’t tell me much at all.”

“We need you focused on the moment.”

“‘We’ who?”

“You and I, my dear,” said Lowbeer, and reached across to pat her hand.

Hello?” he said, settled in the Gobiwagen’s cupola, as the Wheelie’s window opened. “Flynne?”

“She’s not back yet,” said a voice, a woman’s, the accent familiar. The window’s contents looked abstract, white verticals against that same blue.

“Tacoma?”

“Clovis,” she said. “You’re Netherton.” And she picked the Wheelie up, turned it.

Unflattering angle, from below, of what he nonetheless took to be a very attractive face. Short black hair. He tried to see the face of the proprietor of The Clovis Limit there, but only saw her ancient, waiting skull. Terrifying. God’s view of humanity, perhaps, were there one. “Wilf,” he said, “hello.”

“Here she is,” she said, turning, and he was looking down on Flynne, her head in a strange, awkward, glitteringly white construct of some kind, cushioned with white pillows. Her eyes were closed. It was like looking down at the peripheral in the back cabin, except that this was Flynne herself. Absent.

“Can she hear us?” he asked.

“No. The crown’s an autonomic cutout. So I’m told. I thought you had all this tech, up there.”

“We do,” he said. “I’m not technical, myself. But our version of this looks like a transparent plastic hairband.”

“They were made up to your specs, but we had to improvise.” She turned him again. Flynne’s brother was in the next bed, under an identical crown. In the third bed, a face he didn’t recognize. The two of them under blue blankets. What he’d first seen were white bars at the foot of Burton’s bed, against blanket. The second man’s body mass seemed child like.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Conner.”

“Penske. I’ve only seen him in the dancing master.”

“The who?”

“Lev’s brother’s martial arts instructor. Peripheral. Excellent dancer, apparently.”

“I’d give my left nut to get up there, see all that,” she said, turning him to face her again. “What can I do for you, Wilf?”

“Is there a window?”

“Not really. On the other side of this stupid wall,” and she turned him, to view an improvised surface that seemed to be made of stacked white envelopes, perhaps containing paper files. “But they’ve sprayed it with polymer, so you can’t see out. Even if you could, you’d just be seeing the alley behind a strip mall in Buttholeville.”

“Is that the town’s name?”

“Nickname. Mine. My sister’s too, I guess. We’re awful.”

“I’ve met her,” he said. “She’s not awful.”

“Told me she met you.”

“Do you know when Flynne will be back?”

“No. Want to wait? Watch the news? I’ve got a tablet here.”

“The news?”

“Local’s interesting, today. We’ve got Luke 4:5 pulling out, nobody’s sure why. Griff actually doesn’t like it. He’s had two PR firms keeping them from getting media coverage, and that’s been working. Now that they’re leaving, for no apparent reason, there’s some national interest. Basically because it’s not what they usually do. You won’t be able to change the channel.”

“I’ll try it, then,” he said. “It fascinates me, here.”

“Takes all kinds.”

Flynne opened her eyes.

“Your little buddy’s here,” said Clovis.

“Wilf?”

“Got any others?”

“Where is he?”

“Watching the news.” She lifted the crown off Flynne’s head, put it down on the bedside table.

Flynne rolled on her side, sat up slowly, lowered her legs over the side. She’d been standing with Lowbeer in Lev’s kitchen, looking out at the garden. She felt like she could still see it, if she closed her eyes. She did. Didn’t see it. Opened them.