The Peripheral

by William Gibson

  “How do you know that?”

  “Ossian.”

  “You had the polt and his sister pay off the police?”

  “No,” said Lev, “he paid off the drug manufacturer. Ossian judged that to be the appropriate channel, and the polt agreed. But someone tried to kill you, earlier today. Aren’t you concerned?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it,” said Netherton, discovering that this was true. “Lowbeer said that if they had done, it might have been meant to serve as a warning to you.”

  Lev looked at him. “I know I don’t seem like a gangster,” he said, “and I’m delighted that I don’t, but I wouldn’t have been frightened. Sad, and I suppose angry, but not frightened.”

  Netherton imagined Lev being sad that he was dead, or tried to. It didn’t seem real. But neither did what had happened in Covent Garden. He wished Lev’s grandfather’s bar would give him a cold German lager whenever he asked.

  37.

  COUNTY

  She hadn’t decided to tell Janice everything that had been going on, she just did. Janice had been starting to make them coffee, in the kitchen, with one of Madison’s bandanas on her head, a black one with white skulls and crossbones. Macon had once said that Janice and Madison looked like schoolteachers with biker DNA, and Flynne guessed that that was close enough. She could tell Janice anything, and not worry about her telling anybody, except probably Madison, and Madison wasn’t going to tell anybody anything.

  Janice had brought up the scene at Jimmy’s with Conner and the football players, said that Flynne had saved Conner’s ass. Flynne said that that was a major exaggeration.

  “Those fuckers,” Janice said, meaning the football players, “they get me doing hate Kegels. Always have. New crop of them every four years.”

  “It’s Conner,” Flynne said now, as Janice finished cranking the grinder, which she’d done with a practiced lack of hurry. “He gets them going. He’s the one bullying them.”

  “I know that,” Janice said, dumping the ground beans into a jelly jar and weighing it on a scale like a drink coaster, “but they fucking don’t. They think they’re bullying him. I’m supposed to give them points for being stupid? Seen him since?”

  “Over at his place. Just now.”

  “Not that he’s crazy,” Janice said, transferring some exact number of grams of coffee to the beige paper filter in the ceramic funnel, which she’d already wetted down to get the chemical taste out, “but that he’s tedious with it. I know he’s got reason, but I’m tired of it.” She checked the temperature of the water in the kettle, then poured a little on the coffee, to let it sit awhile. “But you don’t look very happy, and I don’t think that’s much to do with Conner.”

  “It’s not.”

  “What is it, then?”

  So Flynne told her, starting from Burton hiring her to sub for him while he went up to Davisville. Janice listened, continuing her ritual, which shortly produced two cups of very good strong coffee. Flynne had hers with milk and sugar, Janice took hers black, and Janice hardly asked her a question, just listened and nodded at the right times, and widened her eyes at the weirder parts, then nodded again. When Flynne got to the part about going out on Porter with Tommy and Burton, to the tent around the car she’d never seen, the four dead guys, Janice raised her hand, said, “Whoa.”

  “Whoa?”

  “Conner,” Janice said.

  Flynne nodded.

  Janice frowned, shook her head slightly, then said, “Go on.”

  So Flynne told her the rest, not being specific about what she thought Macon and Edward had been up to at Conner’s, but seeing Janice got that too, and right up to Leon driving her over here, and how there’d been a pair of small drones, each with its square of aquamarine duct tape, spelling each other, watching them all the way from Conner’s.

  They moved to the couch in the living room, the one where she’d played her last game of Operation Northwind.

  “The man from Clanton,” Janice said, “the one who brought the bag of money. You know who he was?”

  “No. A lawyer?”

  “Name’s Beatty. Lawyers in Clanton.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Reece was over here a couple of hours ago to see Madison about some work. And now we’ve got our own piece of that money, down in the basement, in a hole behind the furnace.”

  “You do?”

  “Not into wishful thinking. Not that much, anyway.”

  “What for?”

  “Help with a drone. Big one. Conner’s got an Army quadcopter he wants Madison to fly for him.”

  Flynne remembered the thing in Conner’s yard. “I saw it,” she said. “Looked like a gun platform.”

  “That money in the basement is more than Madison and I’d make out of a year of Sukhoi Flankers.” This obviously not making Janice happy.

  “What did Reece say?”

  “Too much, from Burton and Conner’s point of view. Not enough, from mine. He’s a groupie, Reece. Loves a secret, has to tell it or you won’t know he has it. So impressed with Burton and Conner that he’s got to tell you their business. Impressed with Pickett too.”

  The only Pickett Flynne could think of was the one who’d owned Corbell Pickett Tesla, which had been the last new-car dealership in the county to shut down. He was assumed to still be the richest man in the county, although you didn’t see him much. She’d seen him a couple of times in town parades, but not for a few years now. He’d sent a daughter her age to school in Europe, and as far as Flynne knew she’d never come back. “Corbell Pickett?”

  “Corbell fucking Pickett.”

  “What’s he got to do with Burton and Conner?”

  “Where it gets funny,” Janice said.

  “You think the money comes from Corbell Pickett?”

  “Shit no,” said Janice. “Burton’s paying a lot of that Clanton money to Corbell. Reece was all jacked up from getting to take it over there with Carlos. Needed two shopping bags, he kept saying.”

  “Why was Burton paying Pickett?”

  “Those four dead men, on Porter. Get ’em lost track of. They’d be lost track of pretty fast anyway, here in the county. State Police have a little longer attention span, but Corbell has the statehouse juice to get that span shortened too, for a price.”

  “He used to own the Tesla dealership and ride with the mayor in the Christmas parade. When we were kids.”

  “In a brand-new Tesla,” said Janice. “I hate to do the tooth fairy thing to you, honey, but nobody builds so much as a gram of drugs in this county without Corbell’s getting his.”

  “No way. I’d have heard before now.”

  “Thing is, you don’t know your family and friends have all been taking care of you, basically by never so much as mentioning the fucker’s name. Which is how you forget about him so easy.”

  “You don’t like him,” said Flynne.

  “No shit.”

  “But if they’re paying off the Sheriff’s Department, that means Tommy knows.”

  Janice looked at her. “Not so much.”

  “He either knows or he doesn’t.”

  “Tommy,” Janice said, “is a good person, like Madison is a good person. Trust me on that. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Like you’re a good person. But here you are, up to your tits in some deal with people who say they’re in Colombia, but can fix the state lottery for Leon? That’s seriously funny, Flynne, but does it make you less of a good person?”

  “I don’t know.” And she realized that she didn’t.

  “Girl, you are not doing this crazy shit, whatever it is, in order to make yourself rich. You’re paying the cancer rent for your mom, down at Pharma Jon. Just like a lot of people. Most people, it can feel like.”

  “It’s not cancer.”

  “I know it’s not. But you know what I mean. And Tommy, he’s keeping this county together the best he can. He’s honest, believes in the rule of law. Sheri
ff Jackman, that’s another story. Jackman does whatever he does, keeps getting reelected, and Tommy’s the law here. The county needs Tommy the way your mother needs you and Burton, and maybe sometimes that means he has to work a little harder not to notice things.”

  “Why didn’t I know this before tonight?”

  “People do you a kindness, keeping their mouths shut about that shit. Economy here’s been based on building since before we were in high school.”

  “I did know, kind of. I guess.”

  “Welcome to the county, hon. You want more coffee?”

  “I think I might’ve had too much.”

  38.

  STUB GIRL

  After Dominika phoned Lev to come upstairs, Netherton returned to the doorway, to watch the peripheral doing resistance exercises in the exoskeleton. The muscles of the peripheral’s bare arms and thighs were really very highly defined. He wondered if they’d been printed that way.

  Ash was out of his line of sight, having an argument with Ossian, who must be elsewhere. He knew that because he could only hear her side of it, which was in whatever current faux-Slavic iteration of their mutual crypto-language. He went to the closed bar, tried pressing his thumb against the steel oval. Nothing happened.

  But now Ash appeared, carrying a large white ceramic vase of flowers past the silently straining peripheral and up the gangway. “You shouldn’t have,” he said, as she reached the top.

  “She deserves a welcome,” she said, the pallor of her face contrasting with the bright flowers. “You can’t offer her a drink.”

  Netherton felt an unexpected pang of empathy for the not quite graspable construct of Flynne inhabiting the peripheral. She wouldn’t be offered a drink either.

  “Water, within hourly limits,” Ash said, mistaking his expression for one of concern for the peripheral. “There’s a dehydration alarm. But no alcohol.” She pushed past him with her flowers.

  “When do we expect her?”

  “Two hours, now,” said Ash, behind him.

  “Two hours?” He turned. Ash was trying the vase of flowers in different positions on his desk.

  “Macon’s very good,” she said.

  “Make who?”

  “Macon. Her printer, in the stub. He’s fast.”

  “What sort of name is that?”

  “A city. In Georgia. The American Georgia.” She was rearranging the flowers in their vase, a flock of distant beasts stampeding across the back of her left hand. “I’ll be here with you.”

  “You will?”

  “How long since you’ve used a peripheral?”

  “I was ten,” said Netherton. “A homunculi party, on Hampstead Heath. A schoolmate’s birthday.”

  “Exactly,” said Ash, swinging to face him, hands on hips. She was in her sincerity suit again. He remembered the stance of the homunculus, on the dashboard of Lev’s car.

  “That was you,” he said, “wasn’t it, driving, to and from the other house?”

  “Of course. And what will you tell her, when she arrives?”

  “About what?”

  “What this is,” she said. “Where it is. When it is. Isn’t that what we pay you for?”

  “No one’s paying me anything, thank you.”

  “Discuss that with Lev,” she said.

  “I don’t regard this as a job. I’m here to support Lev.”

  “She’ll have no idea what any of this is about. She’s never experienced a peripheral. You scarcely have yourself. All the more reason for me to be here.”

  “Lev didn’t tell me she’d be here in two hours.”

  “He doesn’t know,” she said. “Ossian only just learned. Lev is upstairs with his lady wife. We’re forbidden to phone him while he’s with her. When we do tell him, he’ll inform Lowbeer. I imagine she’ll advise us then. In the meantime, we’d best decide what to tell her if Lowbeer hasn’t weighed in.”

  “Do you know what he’s up to, with Lowbeer? He won’t tell me.”

  “Then he isn’t a complete idiot. Yet.”

  “But this was her idea, bringing Flynne here, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Whatever it is, she’s in a hurry.” She touched a section of veneer. It opened. She adjusted controls. Netherton felt a slight breeze. “Stuffy,” she said.

  “The office is supposed to be in Colombia.”

  “They’ve air con in their Colombia, surely. Lowbeer wanted a variety of outfits for both of you. Some of them definitely aren’t for sitting in here. She’ll be seeing London. So will you.”

  “She ordered me clothing?”

  “Not a bad idea. You’re looking less than professional.”

  “When I first spoke with Flynne,” Netherton said, “she thought I might be just another part of the game she’d assumed the job to be.”

  “We told her brother that it was a game.”

  “It would be better to tell her the truth.”

  Ash said nothing. Simply looked at him.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve ever said that before,” she said.

  “Why try to mislead her? She’s bright. She’ll guess.”

  “I’m not sure it would be best, strategically,” Ash said.

  “Then give her more money,” he said. “You’ve all the money in their world, or you could have, and you can’t spend it on anything here. Tell her the truth and double the money. We’re her generous future.”

  Ash glanced up, and to the left. Trilled something in a synthetic tongue that hadn’t existed a moment before. Looked at him. “Take a shower,” she said. “You look sticky. Your clothes are in the closet to the left, at the very back.”

  “Did Lowbeer choose them?”

  “I did, from her suggestions.”

  Black, he guessed, unless Lowbeer had had something more festive in mind. “I’m starting to feel institutionalized,” he said.

  “I know what I’d call that.”

  “What?”

  “Realism,” she said. “We’ll be needing you for the foreseeable future.”

  39.

  THE FAIRY SHOEMAKERS

  Macon’s rented car smelled of freshly printed electronics. Her phone had smelled like that, back when he’d first passed it over to her, brand-new, in the Hefty snack bar. The smell had gone in an hour or two. “You didn’t think it would be ready until tomorrow,” she said to Macon.

  “We got some help. Fabbit did some of it. We loaned them the printer.”

  “You got Fabbit to do funny printing?”

  “It’s not funny,” said Edward, seated sideways in the back, “just unusual.”

  “Fabbit’s all chain,” she said. “Hefty owns them.”

  “Cousin of mine’s part-time floor manager,” said Macon. “And, yeah, ordinarily not a chance, but your brother made him an offer, and he saw fit. The only polymer they had that would work for this looks like sugar frosting, though. Usually only use it at Christmas, but it bonds perfectly with the skin-conduction stuff, so you’ve got Snow White’s crown. That was also good because nobody at Fabbit had any idea what it was they were printing.”

  “What skin-conduction stuff?”

  “Across your forehead. First design we roughed out, we would’ve had to shave a two-inch band clear around the back of your head.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Figured you’d feel that way. Got this Japanese stuff instead. Just needs the forehead, use a dab of saline for good measure.”

  “You said it was a game controller.”

  “Telepresent interface, no hands.”

  “You try it?”

  “Can’t. Nothing to try it on. Your friends have something they want you to operate, but they didn’t want us trying it first. You lie down for it. Otherwise, you might drool.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “If this works, and it should, you’ll be controlling their unit full-body, full range of motion, but
your body won’t move as you do it. Interesting, how it does that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we still can’t find any patents for most of it, and we imagine if there were, they’d be valuable. Very.”

  “Could be military,” said Edward, behind them. They were about midway along Porter now, and already she was losing her sense of where the white tent had been, where the swarm of drones had scoured the road for molecules from Conner’s tires.

  To the right, fields she hardly ever really looked at, stands of stunted, storm-broken pine. To the left the ground sloped down, toward what became the course of the creek below their house, beside Burton’s trailer. Soon, where Porter narrowed in the distance, there’d be just enough light to make out the tops of the tallest trees, near their house. “Have they said what it is they need me to do?”

  “No,” Macon said. “We’re just the fairy shoemakers. You’re the one gets to go to the ball.”

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  “You haven’t seen the crown we made you,” he said.

  She left it at that, and thought about Corbell Pickett and what Janice had told her, and Tommy. It still said CORBELL PICKETT TESLA on the side of the building that had housed his dealership, but it said it in unpainted concrete, where the aluminum and carbon-fiber letters had come off.

  Carlos was waiting for them, by the gate. “Your mom’s having dinner with Leon and Reece,” he told her, as she was getting out. “Eaten anything lately?”

  “No,” she said, “what is there?”

  “They don’t want you to eat,” Carlos said, the “they” already understood to be whoever was paying, not that he knew. “Say you could throw up, first time you do this. Aspirate.” He was, she remembered, a volunteer EMT.

  “Okay.”

  Macon and Edward were unloading the back of the car. A pair of blue Dyneema duffels the color of surgical gloves, three crisp new cardboard cartons with the Fabbit logo.

  “Want help with that? I can get somebody. I need two hands free for this.” He indicated the bullpup slung beneath his arm, in the hollow of his waist, its muzzle spiky with accessories whose functions she could never keep straight.