The Peripheral

40

After showering, Netherton put on gray trousers, a black pullover free of any turtle’s neck, and a black jacket, chosen from the clothing Ash had provided.

It was the peripheral’s turn to shower. He could hear the pumps, and wondered what percentage of that was the same water he’d just used. The vehicle’s water management regime had been designed for desert exploration. Ash had warned him not to swallow any, in the shower. At least two pumps were running, whenever the shower was in use, one sucking every fallen drop away for recycling.

The sound of the shower stopped. After several minutes Ash emerged, followed by the peripheral, which looked, after showering, radiant, as though freshly created. Ash herself was still in her sincerity suit, but the peripheral wore the black shirt and jeans that Ash had based on the clothing Flynne had worn when he’d first spoken with her.

“Did you cut its hair?” he asked.

“We borrowed Dominika’s hairdresser. Showed him the files of your conversation. He was impressed, actually.”

“It doesn’t look like her. Well, the hair, a bit. Has this been done before? Someone from a stub using a peripheral?”

“The more I think of it, the more it seems a natural, but no, not that I know of. But continua enthusiasts are generally secretive, while peripherals of this grade tend to be very private possessions. Owners don’t often advertise the fact.”

“How will we do this, then, with Flynne?” The peripheral was looking at him. Or wasn’t, but seemed to be. He frowned. It looked away. He resisted an urge to apologize.

“We’ll have her on a bunk,” Ash said, “in the rear cabin. There can be initial balance issues, nausea. I’ll greet her when she arrives, help her orient. Then I’ll bring her out to meet you. You can be at the desk, the way she’s seen you before. Continuity of experience.”

“No. I want to see her. Arrive.”

“Why?”

“I feel a certain responsibility,” he said.

“You’re our bullshit artist. Stick with that.”

“I don’t expect you to like me-”

“If I didn’t at all, you’d know it.”

“Have you heard from Lowbeer yet?”

“No,” she said.

Lowbeer’s sigil appeared, pulsing softly, gilt and ivory.