The Peripheral

106

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.”