The Peripheral

122

Conner was under his crown, when she opened her eyes, nobody waiting to help her out of hers, and Burton’s bed was empty. There was background noise that made no sense, but then she heard Leon’s loudest jackass laugh, so she guessed it was a party. She left her crown there on the pillow, sat up, got her shoes on, and went to look around the edge of a blue tarp.

Most of the other blue tarps, except the ones walling off the ward space, were gone, taken down, making the former mini-paintballer franchise the single room it originally was, or at least the part inside the shingle wall. All the lights were on, bright, and people were sitting on desks, standing around, drinking beers, talking. Carlos had his arm around Tacoma, who was looking like she was about to laugh. Most of Burton’s vets that she remembered were there, some she didn’t, some still wearing the black armored jackets, but nobody carrying a bullpup, just open beers. And Brent Vermette, in jeans and a Sushi Barn t-shirt with SO FUCKING KILL ME across Hong’s artwork, in that fat drippy graffiti marker (because, it turned out, he’d taped a protest video before Homes had even reached the town limits, and doing that would be a factor in what got him on the board as chief council a week later). Madison was talking to him, grinning like Teddy Roosevelt’s teeth, vest full of pens and flashlights, Janice beside him. Janice saw Flynne and came right over, gave her a big hug. “Don’t know what you did, but you saved everybody’s ass.”

“I didn’t,” Flynne said, “it was Lowbeer and them. Where’s Griff?”

“D.C. Doing business with Homes. Or to them, more like it. Getting them a new director, Tommy told Madison.”

“Where’s Tommy?”

“Here somewhere. Just saw him with Macon and Edward.” Janice looked around, didn’t see any of them, looked back to Flynne. “They found Pickett.”

“His body?”

“His builder ass, unfortunately.”

“Where?”

“Nassau.”

“He’s in Nassau?”

“He’s on Homes’ dirtiest no-fly list, is where he is, since Griff got on the phone.” Janice took a swig of her beer. “Meanwhile, looks like your brother’s finally falling for Shaylene.”

Flynne followed the direction of her glance, and saw Burton, on one of those little mobility cart things, a beer in his hand, saying something to Shaylene, who was sitting on the edge of a desk, leaning toward him.

“Hasn’t happened in the biblical sense,” Janice said, “because she wouldn’t want him popping any stitches. Matter of time, though, looks to me.”

“Burton’s cute sister,” said Conner, behind her, and she turned to find him propped in a wheelchair, Clovis holding its handles.

“How’s Daedra?” she asked Conner.

“Getting new tattoos to commemorate it all? Sent her home in a cab.”

“What did you do to her?”

“Berated her ass. Made loud noises. Don’t think it actually impressed her that much.” He looked at Janice. “Beer for a wounded warrior?”

“You got it,” said Janice, and was gone.

“Harsh on Pavel, though,” Flynne said.

“Lowbeer told me to go for it, if I got the chance. That suit had some wingsuit capabilities built in, so I wasn’t just diving blind. Idea was, we’d take Hamed out before he had a chance to pull the trigger on Homes’ drones, back here. Didn’t happen, though. Why I wasn’t Air Force, I guess. Lowbeer’s ordered a brand-new one to replace it. Plus one for me.”

“Easy Ice,” Macon greeted her. He was holding hands with Edward, a beer in his other hand.

“Gimme a pull on that beer, Macon,” Conner said, so Macon held his out, tipping it so Conner could get a drink. Conner wiped his mouth with the back of what was left of his hand.

And then she saw Tommy coming, from the front of the building, right through where the big sandbox for the paintball tanks had been, beaming at her, like she was some kind of miracle.