He wouldn’t do anything, for anybody, that had to do with building drugs, not the usual position for someone in his line of work. It could make things tricky for him, if people who built drugs had something that needed fixing, but it could make other things easier. Deputy Tommy Constantine, in Flynne’s opinion the closest thing in town to an attractive single man, had told her the Sheriff’s Department called on Macon if they couldn’t get their shit fixed otherwise
The snack bar smelled of nubbins, the pork ones. The chicken ones didn’t smell as much, maybe because they lacked the traditional red dye. Macon was working his way through a plate of the pork ones as she came up to the table. His back was to the wall, as always, and Edward, to his left, was fixing something that wasn’t there.
Edward had a Viz in either eye, she assumed for the depth perception, and a lavender satin sleep mask over them both, to block out the light. He wore a pair of tight flu-orange gloves, with what looked like black Egyptian writing all over them. She could almost see the thing he was working on, but of course she couldn’t, because it wasn’t there. It might be in the manager’s office upstairs, or for that matter in Delhi, but Edward could see it, and control the pair of plastic hands that held it, wherever that was.
“Hey,” said Macon, looking up from his nubbins.
“Hey,” she said, pulling up a chair. The chairs here all looked like they were molded from the stuff Burton had coated the inside of the trailer with, but less flexy.
Edward frowned, carefully placed the invisible object six inches above the tabletop, and reached up to raise the sleep mask to his forehead. He looked out at her through the silver webbing of the two Vizs, grinned. A grin was a lot, from him.
“Nubbins?” Macon asked.
“No thanks,” she said.
“They’re fresh!”
“All the way from China.”
“Nobody grows pork nubbins juicy as China.” Macon, lighter skinned than Edward, sort of freckled, had very beautiful eyes, irises mottled greenish brown. The left one, now, was behind his Viz. “Phone’s bricked, huh?”
“Don’t you worry about those things?” she asked, meaning the Viz. “Seeing everything.”
“Ours have been pretty thoroughly fiddled with,” he said. “Right out the box, you’d be wise to worry.”
“Mine hasn’t bricked,” she said, knowing he knew perfectly well that it hadn’t. “Thing is, Homes stuck Burton out on the athletic field at Davisville High, to keep him from beating on Luke 4:5.”
“Sorry to hear,” he said. “He didn’t get to beat on them at all?”
“Enough to get taken into protective custody. So they had his phone overnight. What worries me is that they might have looked at mine while they had his.”
“In that case,” he said, “they’d have looked at mine as well. Your brother and I pretty much in a way of business.”
“You tell, if they had?”
“Maybe. Some bored Homes in a big white truck, looking for porn, I could probably tell. To be frank, if they did, I’d know. But some panoptic motherfucker federal AI? Fuck only knows.”
“Would they see my phone was funny?”
“They could,” said Edward, “but something would have to be looking at you, something that really specially wanted to know about certain people’s phones.”
“Actually,” said Macon, “we did you quite the job. Manufacturer in China hasn’t spotted one of ours yet.”
“That we know of,” said Edward.
“True,” said Macon, “but usually we hear if they do.”
“Basically, you don’t know?”
“Basically, no. But I’ll give you permission not to worry about it. Free.”
“You get anything for Conner Penske lately?”
Macon and Edward gave each other a look. Edward lowered the sleep shade over his Vizs and picked up the thing that wasn’t there. Turned it over. Prodded it with an orange and black forefinger. “What sorta anything you thinking of?” Macon asked.
“I was over at Jimmy’s last night. Looking for you.”
“Sorry I missed you.”
“Conner was there, getting into it with a couple of high school dicks. Had something on the back of his trike.”
“Yellow ribbon?”
“Kinda robot snake-spine? Hooked up to a monocle-looking thing.”
“We didn’t fab him that,” Macon said. “Surplus off eBay. Legal. We got him a servo interface and circuitry, is all.”
“What’s on the business end?”
“Nothing we know of,” he said. “Arm’s length.”
“He could wind up in some serious trouble. You know that?”
Macon nodded. “Conner, he’s a compelling motherfucker, you know? Hard to say no to. That trike and shit’s all he got now.”
“That and wakey and drinking. If it was just the trike and some toys, it maybe wouldn’t be so bad.”
Macon looked at her, sadly. “Little manipulator on the end,” he said, “like Edward’s using, but fewer degrees of freedom.”
“Macon, I’ve seen you do guns.”
Macon shook his head. “Not for him, Flynne. No way for him.”
“He could still get one.”
“You could walk through this town, fall down ’most anywhere, you’d land on a fabbed gun. Not like they’re hard to get. I stay out of Conner’s way, then his shit stops working, then the VA can’t fix it for him, so his quality of life falls off, fast. If I don’t, and we keep his shit up and running, he’s grinning up at me asking for whatever he knows he shouldn’t have. It is, honestly, very hard. Understand me?”
“Burton might be hiring him.”
“I like your brother, Flynne. Like you. You sure you don’t want a plate of nubbins?” He grinned.
“I’ll pass. Thanks for the tech support.” She stood up. “Be seeing you, Edward.”
The lavender sleep mask nodded. “Flynne,” he said.
She went out and unlocked her bike.
One of the blimps was hanging over the lot, pretending to just be advertising next season’s Viz. But the banner with the big close-up of an eye behind a Viz made it look like it was watching everybody, which of course she knew it was.
26.
VERY SENIOR
Netherton had never been in Lev’s grandfather’s drawing room before. He found it simultaneously gloomy and gaudy, foreign by virtue of being somehow too vehemently British. The woodwork, of which there was a great deal, was painted a deep mossy green, gloss enamel highlighted with gilt. The furniture was dark and heavy, the armchairs tall and similarly green.
He was grateful that Ash had specified a gender for Detective Inspector Ainsley Lowbeer, the first law enforcement officer to have set foot in this house since its purchase by Lev’s grandfather.
Her face and hands were a uniformly pale pink, as though she were lightly inflated with something not quite so dark as blood. Her hair, short and businesslike at the back and sides, was thick and perfectly white, like sugary cream, and swept up in a sort of buoyant forelock. Her eyes, too brightly periwinkle, were sharply watchful. She wore a suit as ambiguous as she was, either Savile Row or Jermyn Street, not one stitch placed by robot or peripheral. The jacket’s cut accommodated broad shoulders. Her trousers, ending above a banker’s very precise black oxfords, revealed slender ankles in sheer black hose.
“Extremely kind of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. Zubov,” she said, from her armchair. “And most particularly in your own home.” She smiled, revealing expensively imperfect teeth. In recognition of the historic nature of her visit today, Netherton knew, two large vehicles were even now circling through Notting Hill, each bearing a battle-ready contingent of Zubov family solicitors. He himself avoided the hyperfunctionally ancient whenever possible. They were entirely too knowing, and invariably powerful. They were quite few, though, and that was by far the best thing about them.
“Not at all,” replied Lev, as Ossian, looking even more butler-like than us
ual, brought in the tea.
“Mr. Murphy,” Lowbeer said, evidently delighted to see him.
“Yes, mum,” said Ossian, freezing, silver tray in hand.
“Forgive me,” she said. “We haven’t been introduced. Someone my age is all feeds, Mr. Murphy. For my sins, I’ve continual access to most things, resulting in a terrible habit of behaving as if I already know everyone I meet.”
“Not in the least, mum,” Ossian said, staying in character, eyes downcast, “no offense taken.”
“Which,” she said, to the others, as if she hadn’t heard him, “in a sense, of course, I do.”
Ossian, carefully expressionless, placed the heavy service on the sideboard and prepared to offer small sandwiches.
“You may also understand,” Lowbeer said, “that I am looking into the recent disappearance of one Aelita West, United States citizen resident in London. It would be helpful if you would each explain your relationship to the missing party, and to each other. Perhaps you would like to begin, Mr. Zubov? Everything, of course, becoming a matter of record.”
“I understood,” said Lev, “that there were to be no recording devices of any kind.”
“None,” she agreed. “I, however, possess court-certified recall, fully admissible as evidence.”
“I don’t know where I should begin,” said Lev, after considering her narrowly.
“The salmon, thank you,” Lowbeer said to Ossian. “You might begin by explaining this hobby of yours, Mr. Zubov. Your solicitors described you to me as a ‘continua enthusiast.’”
“That’s never entirely easy,” said Lev. “You know about the server?”
“The great mystery, yes. Assumed to be Chinese, and as with so many aspects of China today, quite beyond us. You use it to communicate with the past, or rather a past, since in our actual past, you didn’t. That rather hurts my head, Mr. Zubov. I gather it doesn’t hurt yours?”
“Far less than the sort of paradox we’re accustomed to culturally, in discussing imaginary transtemporal affairs,” said Lev. “It’s actually quite simple. The act of connection produces a fork in causality, the new branch causally unique. A stub, as we call them.”
“But why do you?” she asked, as Ossian poured her tea. “Call them that. It sounds short. Nasty. Brutish. Wouldn’t one expect the fork’s new branch to continue to grow?”
“We do,” said Lev, “assume exactly that. Actually I’m not sure why enthusiasts settled on that expression.”
“Imperialism,” said Ash. “We’re third-worlding alternate continua. Calling them stubs makes that a bit easier.”
Lowbeer regarded Ash, who now wore a slightly more staid version of her Victorian station-roof outfit. Fewer animals visible. “Maria Anathema,” Lowbeer said, “lovely. And you facilitate Mr. Zubov in this colonialism, do you? You and Mr. Murphy?”
“We do,” said Ash.
“And this would be Mr. Zubov’s first continuum? First stub?”
“It is,” said Lev.
“I see,” said Lowbeer. “And you, Mr. Netherton?”
“Me?” Ossian was offering him the sandwiches. He took one blindly. “A friend. A friend of Lev’s.”
“That’s the part I find confusing,” said Lowbeer. “You are a publicist, a public relations person, complexly employed through a rather impressive series of blinds. Or were, rather, I should say.”
“Were?”
“Sorry,” said Lowbeer, “but yes, you’ve been let go. You’ve unread mail to that effect. I also see that you and your former associate, Clarisse Rainey, of Toronto, were witness to the recent killing of one Hamed al-Habib, by an American attack system.” She looked around the table, as if curious to see reactions to the name, though there seemed to be none.
It had never occurred to Netherton that the boss patcher would have a name. “That was his name?”
“It is,” said Lowbeer, “though not very generally known.”
“There were many witnesses,” Netherton said, “unfortunately.”
“You and Miss Rainey were notable in your virtually localized views of the event. In any case, you seem to be having quite a full week.”
“Yes,” said Netherton.
“Could you explain the circumstances of your being here now, Mr. Netherton?” She raised her teacup and sipped.
“I came to see Lev. I was upset. Over the patcher business, seeing them killed that way. And I thought I’d probably be sacked.”
“You desired company?”
“Exactly. And in the course of speaking with Lev—”
“Yes?”
“It’s rather complicated . . .”
“I’m rather good at complications, Mr. Netherton.”
“You know that Aelita’s sister is, or was, a client of mine? Daedra West.”
“I was so hoping we’d get to that,” said Lowbeer.
“I had arranged for Lev to give Daedra a gift. On my behalf.”
“A gift. Which was?”
“I’d arranged for her to have the services of one of the inhabitants of Lev’s stub.”
“What services, exactly?”
“As a security guard. He’s ex-military. A drone operator, among other things.”
“Was security something you thought she was in need of, particularly?”
“No.”
“Then why, if I may ask, did it occur to you?”
“Lev was interested in this one particular military unit in his stub, the one this fellow had belonged to. Transitional technology, slightly pre-jackpot.” He looked at Lev.
“Haptics,” said Lev.
“I thought it might amuse Daedra,” Netherton said, “the oddness of it. Not that imagination’s her forte, by any means.”
“You wanted to impress her?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Were you having a sexual relationship with her?”
Netherton looked at Lev again. “Yes,” he said. “But Daedra wasn’t interested.”
“In the relationship?”
“In having a polt as a security guard. Or in the relationship, it soon turned out.” It was, he was discovering, somehow unnaturally likely that one would tell Lowbeer the truth. He had no idea how she managed that, but he didn’t like it at all. “So she asked him to give it to her sister instead.”
“You’ve met Aelita, Mr. Netherton?”
“No.”
“Did you, Mr. Zubov?”
Lev swallowed the last of his sandwich. “No. We’d arranged a lunch. It would have been today, actually. She was quite interested in the idea. Of the continuum, the stub”—he looked at Ash—“as you will.”
“So this person,” Lowbeer said, “from the stub, the ex-soldier, would have been on duty in the period of time during which Aelita West is assumed to have vanished from her residence?”
“It wasn’t him,” Netherton said, then resisted the urge to bite his lower lip, “but his sister.”
“His sister?”
“He was called away,” said Lev. “His sister was his substitute, for the past two shifts.”
“His name?”
“Burton Fisher,” said Lev.
“Hers?”
“Flynne Fisher,” said Netherton.
Lowbeer put her cup and saucer down on the table beside her. “And who has spoken with her, about this?”
“I have,” said Netherton.
“Can you describe what she told you she saw?”
“As she was going up for her second shift—”
“Going up? How?”
“In a quadcopter. As a quadcopter? Piloting one. She saw something climbing the side of the building. Rectangular, four arms, or legs. It turned out to contain what sounds like a swarm weapon. The woman who came out on the balcony, whom she identified as Aelita from an image file we showed her, was killed with that. Then destroyed. Eaten, she said. Entirely.”
“I see,” said Lowbeer, unsmiling now.
“She said he knew.”
“Who knew?”<
br />
“The man Aelita was with.”
“Your witness saw a man?”
Netherton, no longer certain what he might say if he spoke, nodded.
“And where is she now, this Flynne Fisher?”
“In the past,” said Netherton.
“The stub,” said Lev.
“This is all most interesting,” said Lowbeer. “Really very peculiar, which isn’t something one can honestly say about the majority of investigations.” She rose unexpectedly, from the green armchair. “You’ve all been so helpful.”
“Is that it?” asked Netherton.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve no more questions?”
“Many more, Mr. Netherton. But I prefer to wait for still more of them to arrive.”
Lev and Ash rose then, so Netherton stood as well. Ossian, already standing, by the dark, mirrored sideboard, came to attention in his chalk-striped apron.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Zubov, as well as your assistance.” Lowbeer shook Lev’s hand briskly. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Ash.” She shook Ash’s hand. “And you, Mr. Netherton. Thank you.” Her palm was soft, dry, and of a neutral temperature.
“You’re welcome,” said Netherton.
“Should you wish to contact Daedra West, Mr. Netherton, don’t do it from these premises, or from any other of Mr. Zubov’s. There’s a potential for excess complexity there. Unnecessary messiness. Go elsewhere for that.”
“I had no such intention.”
“Very well, then. And you, Mr. Murphy,” stepping to Ossian, “thank you.” She shook his hand. “You seem to have done very well for yourself, considering the frequency of your youthful encounters with the law.”
Ossian said nothing.
“I’ll see you out,” said Lev.
“You needn’t bother,” said Lowbeer.
“We do have pets,” said Lev. “I’m afraid they’re rather territorial. Best if I accompany you.”
Netherton had never had any sense of Gordon and Tyenna being anything more than existentially creepy, and in any case he’d assumed they were behaviorally modified.
“Very well,” said Lowbeer, “thank you.” She turned, taking them all in. “I’ll be in touch with you individually, should that be necessary. Should you need to reach me, you’ll find you have me in your contacts.”
The Peripheral Page 10
