“How’d it start?” he asked.
“Netherton fucked up.”
“Looks like he would,” said Conner. He looked at her. “You want me to take them out?”
“No!” She punched him in the arm. Like punching a rock. “Want to go back to your sofa? I can call Macon.”
“Don’t have a lot to offer you by way of thanks,” he said. “Just the first thing came to mind. Owe you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I woke up in this, though,” and she touched her face, “and thought of you. We both might live to regret it.”
“Whatever it is, I’ve got these fingers. Just tell me what to do, or not to.”
Ash’s badge. “Edward,” Ash said.
Another badge beside Ash’s, this one yellow, with two scarlet nubbins, one above the other. “Flynne? Macon put me through.” Voice, no image.
“What’s up?”
“In the trailer. With you.”
“Where’s Macon?”
“Over at Conner’s. This is kind of embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“I think you maybe need to pee.”
“What?”
“You’re getting restless. Here.”
She imagined Edward in Burton’s chair, watching her on the bed. “You want me back?”
“Just for a minute?”
“Hold on. Ash?”
“Yes?” Ash said.
“I need to go back for a minute. Can we do that?”
“Of course. Come back into the house, we’ll find you a place to sit.”
“You hear that, Edward?”
“Okay,” he said, “thanks.” The two-nubbins badge was gone.
“Come back in,” she said to Conner, “I need to go to the trailer for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Edward thinks I need to pee.”
He looked at her, over the cheekbones. “Guess he can’t do it for you.” He started toward the house. “I’ll keep that in mind, though,” he said.
“Why?”
“Next time, I’m using the Texas catheter off the Tarantula.”
“This way,” said Ash, as they entered the kitchen. “You can do it in the gallery.” She put down her coffee. Flynne followed her, Conner taking up the rear. Left down a wide hallway, then right, into a very large room.
“It’s too big for the house,” Flynne said.
“It extends into the two houses adjacent,” Ash said.
“Fake Picassos?” She remembered some of them from high school.
“Someone would be in a very awkward position if they were,” Ash said. “Sit here,” pointing at an ancient-looking marble bench. “You’re more accustomed to transitioning, now, so in theory you should be able to inhale, close your eyes, exhale, open them.”
“Why close my eyes?”
“Some find it unpleasant not to. Mr. Penske can wait with you.”
“Conner,” he said. “Planned to.”
Flynne sat. The stone was cold, through the peripheral’s jeans. She was facing two large paintings she’d been seeing on screens all her life. “Okay,” she said, inhaled, and closed her eyes.
“Now,” said Ash.
Flynne exhaled. Opened her eyes. It was like being flipped on her back, but with no actual movement, the Airstream’s illuminated Vaseline ceiling way too close.
Edward was right. She needed to go.
“Hold on,” he said, as she started to sit up, “got to get this off.” He had his Viz in. He lifted the crown off her head.
“Burton here?” she asked, as she sat up the rest of the way, dizzy.
“At Conner’s, with Macon.”
“Janice?”
“Up at your house, minding your mom.”
Flynne stood, unsteady. “Okay,” she said, “be right back.” She veered slightly, on the way to the door, corrected for it. Heard the shots as she opened the door. Maybe three on automatic, then two more, spaced, like a different gun. Not close, but not that far either. She looked back at Edward. “Shit.”
His Vizless eye was wide.
“Who’s on duty?”
“Bunch of them,” he said. “I can’t keep track.”
“Find out what it was,” she said, and stepped out. Listened. Sound of bugs. Creek rushing. Wind in the trees. Went into the toilet, the spring on the door twanging. Undid her jeans, sat there in the dark, a universe away from Picasso. Remembered to toss some sawdust down into the hole when she was done.
The spring made a different sound, opening the door from the inside. Four drones whipped past, in the light from the trailer, marked with duct tape.
“Who shot?” she asked Edward, stepping up into the Airstream.
“Had somebody on your property,” he said.
“Had?”
“I think so, but they talk that tango hotel soldier shit. Your brother’s on it, whatever it was. On his way back.”
“Bet it’s the fucking statehouse,” she said, sitting down on the bed. “Do me.” Gesturing at the baking sugar crown.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back. Try to raise some money. Have Burton call me there. Ash can put it through. If you can’t reach him, tell Macon.”
“Conner okay?”
“Easiest person there to understand. Okay’s probably stretching it.”
He ran a cold dab of saline across her forehead, lowered the crown into place. Helped her lie back.
She took a breath, closed her eyes.
52.
BOOTS ON THE GROUND
Netherton stood in the entrance to the gallery. Flynne’s peripheral was seated on a bench, three meters away, back to him, apparently viewing Lev’s father’s two best Picassos. The sparring partner stood nearby, facing the doorway, hands in its trouser pockets. “Good distance right there,” it said.
“Yes,” said Netherton, who’d been about to step closer.
“This a museum?” asked the sparring partner.
“A private gallery,” Netherton said. “In a home.”
“They live in a museum?”
“They live with art,” Netherton said. “Though the man who actually owns it lives elsewhere.”
“Didn’t have so much art, he could live here,” it said. “As much space as that parking lot downstairs.”
“I’m Wilf Netherton.”
“Conner,” it said.
“If you have questions,” Netherton said, “I can try to answer them.”
“She said you fucked up,” it said.
“Who did?”
“Flynne. Said this was all happening because you fucked up.”
“It is, I suppose.”
“How?”
“I was less than professional. With a woman. One thing led to another.”
“Led to a lot.”
“I suppose it did—” said Netherton, forgetting and taking a step forward.
“Stop,” it said.
Netherton did. “Do you know Flynne very well?” he asked.
“High school,” it said. “Best friend’s sister. Smart. She’d have left, gone somewhere, hadn’t been for their mother.”
Netherton wondered if Flynne’s peripheral was taking in visual information, and if so, where it was going. Then it turned.
“Where are they?” Flynne asked. “Something’s happening. Need to talk to them. Now.”
“Ask him,” the peripheral said, meaning Netherton.
“Still in the kitchen,” Netherton said.
She stood, turned. “Got the money to buy the governor yet?”
“I imagine they already have quite a lot of money, on your end. It would be more a matter of finding a way to apply it.”
“Find them.” And she was out the door, headed for the kitchen. The sparring partner swept past him. Netherton followed, noting that it didn’t regard him as sufficient threat to not allow him to take up the rear.
“Good evening,” said Lowbeer, her voice unmistakable. In the entrance to the kitchen, with L
ev and Ash. “And this would be Mr. Penske.”
“Problem back home,” Flynne said. “Shooting.”
“Who’s shooting whom?” Lowbeer asked.
“Just went back for a minute. Shots, on the property. Edward heard our guys talking, like they’d engaged somebody. What about buying that governor now?” This last to Lev.
“A matter of acquiring majority stakes in the two firms who most directly enabled his election,” Lev said. “Ossian is on it.”
“You’re understandably concerned,” said Lowbeer, to Flynne.
“My mother’s in the house. Nobody’s supposed to be able to get on the property. Had drones up.”
“Can you check on the situation there and report to us, please?” Lowbeer asked Ash. “We’ll be in that charming room upstairs. Unfortunately I’ve only a little time now, but I did want to meet Flynne in her peripheral—” She smiled. “And of course Mr. Penske. And I’ve a proposal. A course of action.”
Ash asked something, briskly, in yet another synthetic language. Listened to the reply they couldn’t hear. “Ossian’s on the phone, with Edward,” she said to Flynne. “The situation there is under control.”
“What about my mother?”
Ash asked a shorter question, in what was already a different language, listened. “She wasn’t disturbed. Your friend is with her.”
“Janice,” said Flynne, visibly relieved.
“If you’re satisfied for the moment,” Lowbeer said to Flynne, “please join us upstairs. You’re entirely central to my proposal. You’ll join us as well, Conner.”
Netherton saw the peripheral silently query Flynne, who nodded. “Don’t know shit about any of this,” it said, to Lowbeer.
“You’re boots on the ground, Mr. Penske, as we said in my youth,” Lowbeer said. “We’ll need that.”
“Never good news,” said the peripheral, though it didn’t seem particularly displeased.
“Lead the way then, Mr. Netherton,” said Lowbeer.
Netherton did, imagining, as he climbed the stairs, a better world, one in which a relaxing drink would be waiting in the sitting room.
53.
SANTA CLAUS’S HEADQUARTERS
Parts of Lev’s house, Flynne thought, climbing after Netherton, Lowbeer behind her, were really a lot like any house. The kitchen, for instance, smelled of bacon, even though it had a stove half the size of the Airstream. But then there was the art gallery, which looked to be most of the length of a football field. And the garage below that, and whatever might be further down. But these stairs were just stairs, wooden, polished, a long tongue of what she guessed was Turkish carpet up them, fastened with brass rods and fancy hooks. Looked walked on, like people lived here.
At a square landing, the stairs turned right, then ended on a hallway. Old-fashioned furniture, paintings and mirrors in big frames, incandescent bulbs, frosted glass. And Netherton, ahead of her, walking through open double doors, into the gold-trimmed forest green of the Hefty Mart Santa’s Headquarters display.
They always set it up in a window, just after Halloween. The holograms changed every year, but the room had been what she’d loved. This was better, realer, and she wondered why they’d do that, but now Lowbeer was guiding her in, hand on her shoulder, pulling out a chair for her at the long dark table. Dark green curtains hid tall windows. The others coming in behind them, Ash and Ossian and Lev, then Conner. Lev turned to close the doors, Conner watching him.
“Be seated, Mr. Murphy,” said Lowbeer, who was wearing a sort of mannish pantsuit. “You aren’t playing butler now.” Ossian took a seat across from Flynne, Ash beside him. Lowbeer sat in one of two tall green armchairs at the head of the table, Lev in the other. Conner lounged back against a dark green wall, beside something she thought was probably a sideboard, with a silver tray on it, and on that, one of those cut-glass bottles, with matching glasses. Netherton, still standing, seemed to be looking at that, but then he looked around, blinked, sat down beside Flynne.
“Delighted to see you,” Lev said, to Lowbeer.
“No solicitors evident,” she said. “Most cordial.”
“They haven’t been convinced that they’re entirely unnecessary, but they’ve agreed to be less obviously present.”
“More pleasant in any case,” Lowbeer said. She looked around at the rest of them. “I wish to propose a course of action.”
“Please,” said Lev.
“Thank you. Tuesday evening, in four days’ time, Daedra West hosts a gathering, the venue yet to be announced. Possibly one of the guildhalls. Her guest list, so far, is interesting.” She looked at Lev. “The Remembrancer himself may be there. Lesser faces from the City. We’ve been unable to determine even an ostensible purpose. I would suggest, Mr. Netherton,” and Flynne saw Netherton’s eyes narrow slightly, “that you might, in your way, be able to conjure up some sufficiently vivid rationale for an invitation.”
“For whom?” asked Netherton, beside Flynne. He sat close to the table, hunched forward, like someone holding cards.
“You yourself,” said Lowbeer, “plus one.”
“I don’t know that she’d even return my call,” said Netherton. “She hasn’t tried to get in touch.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that,” Lowbeer said. “But you could, if I understand your method, find a narrative that leads quite naturally to her inviting you. I’ll tell you when I think it best for you to approach her. Recently former lover may be awkward, as entrances go, but not without traction. If you’re entirely unwilling, however, I see no way of going forward.” Her hair white as the crown Macon had printed in Fabbit. “You’d be taking Flynne, allowing her to survey Daedra’s guests.” She looked at Flynne. “You’ll be looking for the man you saw on Aelita West’s balcony.”
“These are rich people, right?” Flynne asked.
“Indeed,” said Lowbeer.
“So why isn’t there footage out the ass, on whoever was at that party?” Flynne asked. “Why isn’t there any record of what I saw? What about those paparazzi? Why was I even there?” She noticed how little space Conner was managing to take up, big as his peripheral was, against the wall. He looked like he’d just found himself there, hadn’t thought about it yet. He winked at her.
“Yours is a relatively evolved culture of mass surveillance,” Lowbeer said. “Ours, much more so. Mr. Zubov’s house, here, internally at least, is a rare exception. Not so much a matter of great expense as one of great influence.”
“What’s that mean?”
“A matter of whom one knows,” said Lowbeer, “and of what they consider knowing you to be worth.”
“The deal that gets you privacy is funny?”
“Our world itself is funny,” said Lowbeer. “Aelita West’s soiree was held under a somewhat similar protocol, but temporary, quasi-diplomatic. Nothing, by agreement, was recorded. Not by Aelita’s systems, nor Edenmere Mansions’, nor by your drone. News agencies and freelancers were kept away. That was the nature of your job, in fact.”
“He might be at this party?”
“Possibly,” said Lowbeer. “We shan’t know, if you can’t attend.”
“Get us in,” Flynne said, to Netherton.
He looked at her, then at Lowbeer. Closed his eyes. Opened them. “Annie Courrèges,” he said, “neoprimitivist curator. English, in spite of the name. Daedra met her, with me, at a working lunch in the Connaught. Later, I convinced her that Annie had a flattering theory about the artistic progress of her career. Now Annie is unable to attend her party physically, to her very great regret. But would be delighted to accompany me via,” he nodded toward Flynne, “peripheral.”
“Thank you, Mr. Netherton,” Lowbeer said. “I hadn’t the least doubt in you.”
“On the other hand,” Netherton said, “according to Rainey, she may think I killed her sister. Or have friends spreading the rumor that I did.” He stood. “So I think that that calls for a drink.” He walked around the end of the table. Flynne saw Conner’s p
eripheral’s eyes follow him. “Who else will have one?” Netherton asked, over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t mind,” said Lev.
“Nor I,” said Ossian.
“Too early for me, thank you,” said Lowbeer.
Ash said nothing.
Netherton brought the silver tray, with its bottle and glasses, to the table.
“Mr. Penske will be going along as well,” Lowbeer said to Netherton, “as your security. To attend sans security would single you out.”
“Up to Flynne,” said Conner.
“You’re coming,” Flynne told him.
He nodded.
Netherton was pouring the whiskey, if that was what it was, into three glasses.
“We need to buy the governor,” Flynne said. “Shit’s happening. Shooting on our property—”
“In progress,” said Ossian, as Netherton passed him a glass, then took the other two to Lev, who took one.
“Cheers,” said Netherton. The three of them raised glasses, drank. Netherton put his down, empty, on the table. Lev’s joined it there, almost untouched. Ossian swirled the whiskey, smelled it, sipped again.
“Is that it?” Flynne asked Lowbeer. “I need to go back, see Burton. Conner too.”
“I have to be going myself,” said Lowbeer, standing. “We’ll stay in touch.” Smiling, nodding to them, looking pleased, she left the room, Lev behind her. Flynne didn’t think of tall people as scuttling, ordinarily, but she thought Lev scuttled after Lowbeer, like she was the key to something he wanted bad. They went down the stairs.
“Where do we park these?” Flynne asked, meaning the peripherals. “We’ll be a while.”
“The Mercedes,” said Ash. “Yours is due a nutrient infusion, so we’ll do that while you’re away.” She stood, the Irishman putting down his glass and rising with her.
Flynne started to push her chair back, but then Conner was pulling it back for her. She hadn’t seen him come around the table. His peripheral smelled of aftershave or something. Citrusy, metallic. She stood up.
Netherton picked up Lev’s glass. “The master cabin has a larger bed,” he said to Conner. “You can use that.” He took a sip of Lev’s whiskey.
Ash led the way out of what Flynne now understood wasn’t really meant to be Santa’s Headquarters, however much it looked like it. Netherton swallowed the last of Lev’s whiskey and they all went downstairs, then into the elevator to the garage.
The Peripheral Page 20
