Agency

16 COTS

What you describe, Ainsley, would’ve been NGP,” said Clovis Fearing, in Victorian mourning dress Netherton imagined Ash would fancy, though she’d accessorize it more perversely.

Fearing’s face was a palimpsest of wrinkles and mottle, though looking younger, for all of that, than he remembered her. She was the only person he knew in London who addressed Lowbeer by her given name, though Flynne and others in the county all did.

“NGP?” asked Lowbeer.

“Next Generation Projection,” said Fearing, her teeth startlingly white. “Funded out of Special Operations Command, but managed by Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command. Used a lot of COTS tech, Commercial Off the Shelf. Some of that was out of China Lake, Naval Air Weapons Station, which was early into swarming microdrones. With effort toward acquiring bleeding-edge hardware from Silicon Valley. That would have been DIUx, Defense Innovation Unit, Experimental.”

“Indeed,” said Lowbeer, eyebrows raised.

“Close?” asked Fearing, fixing Lowbeer with her sharp old eyes.

“Could you look for mention of the name Eunice?”

“Eunice?”

“In any related context, please.”

Fearing’s eyes rolled up, terrifying when entirely white, then down again. “That would be U-N-I-S-S,” she said. “UNISS. Closest match.”

“Meaning?”

“Untethered Noetic Irregular Support System,” Clovis said, clearly pleased.

“That’s extremely helpful, Clovis,” Lowbeer said. “Thank you so much. Would there be more?”

“No,” said Fearing. “Bit-rot’s been at all the likely archives, and I’ve cross-checked my own stock. Nothing on it, but it was definitely NGP.”

Netherton, finding none of this particularly interesting, was looking at the oversized bronze head of a bearded man, directly behind Fearing, its neck having been crudely severed from whatever figure it must once have topped.

“Lee,” said Fearing, noting the direction of Netherton’s gaze.

“Lee?”

“Robert E.”

The name meaning nothing to Netherton.

“You’ve been tremendously helpful, Clovis,” said Lowbeer, “but Netherton has parenting to see to, and I’ve promised not to keep him.”

“Delighted to see you again, Mrs. Fearing,” Netherton said.

“And you, Wilf,” Fearing said.

Netherton smiled, unhappy that she remembered his first name, then opened and held the shop door for Lowbeer. He followed her out, an antique bell jangling after them.

“I do still wish she hadn’t married that truly awful man,” said Lowbeer, Netherton recalling that Fearing was the widow of a long-dead MP, Clement Fearing, a figure from the jackpot whom Lowbeer viscerally despised.

“Your younger self in the county couldn’t find what she found?” Netherton asked.

“No.”

“Let me try in the county, then.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“Not yet,” Netherton said, though really he was thinking of Flynne’s friend Janice’s husband, Madison, an obsessive researcher of vintage Russian military aircraft.

“Please do,” said Lowbeer. “Now home to your little man, shall we?” She snapped her fingers, causing her car to decloak.