The Peripheral

26

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 usual, 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?”

“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.”

Lev closed the door behind them as they left the room.

“Sampled our fucking DNA,” said Ossian, examining the palm of the hand that had shaken Lowbeer’s.

“Of course she did,” said Ash, to Netherton, else she encrypt. “How could she be positive we’re who we claim to be?”

“We could bloody sample hers,” said Ossian, frowning down at the teacup Lowbeer had used.

“And be renditioned,” said Ash, again to Netherton.

“Gets right up me,” said Ossian.

“Murphy?” asked Netherton.

“Don’t push it,” said Ossian, briefly but powerfully wringing the white cloth in his large hands. Then he flung the strangled tea towel onto the sideboard, picked up two of the small sandwiches, put both into his mouth, and began to chew, forcefully, his features regaining their usual impassivity.

Ash’s sigil appeared. Netherton met her eyes, caught her very slight nod. She opened a feed.

He saw, as from a bird’s point of view, one able to hover in complete stillness, Lowbeer. She was getting into the rear door of a car, a very ugly one, bulbous and heavy looking, the color of graphite. Lev said something, stepped back, and the car cloaked itself, jigsaw pixels of reflected streetscape scrawling swiftly up the subdued gloss of its bodywork.

Cloaked, it pulled away, seeming to bend the street around it as it went, and then was gone. Lev turned back, toward the house. The feed closed.

Ossian was still chewing, but now he swallowed, poured tea into a crystal tumbler, drank it off. “So,” he said, but not particularly to Ash, else it encrypt, “we’re using student quants at the London School of Economics?”

“Lev’s agreed,” said Ash, to Netherton.

“County’s economy is entirely about manufacturing drugs,” said Ossian, to Netherton. “We might well have all we need there.”

Lev opened the door, smiling.

“How was that?” Ash asked. Netherton saw a flight of birds cross the backs of her hands. She didn’t notice them.

“What an extraordinary person,” Lev said. “Hadn’t met a senior police officer before. Or, for that matter, any police officer.”

“They aren’t all like that,” said Ossian, “thank Christ.”

“I don’t imagine they are,” said Lev.

You, thought Netherton, have just now been sold something. Very thoroughly and a good quick job of it. He saw no reason to doubt that Inspector Ainsley Lowbeer was capable of that.