The Peripheral

47

In the middle of a walking forest of black hats stood a white-haired woman with bright blue eyes. The men seemed no more to see her than they saw whatever Ash was flying, which Lev said they couldn’t, though they felt the turbulence, each one reaching up to hold his hat as he walked through it. They walked around the woman as she stood there, looking up at what they couldn’t see, one gray-gloved hand holding a little hat against the downdraft.

There was a new badge, beside Lev’s, Ash’s, Wilf’s. A sort of simple crown, in profile, gold on cream. The others dimmed now. “We’re in privacy mode,” the woman said. “The others can’t hear us. I am Detective Inspector Ainsley Lowbeer, of the Metropolitan Police.” Her voice in Flynne’s head, sounds of crowd and traffic muted.

“Flynne Fisher,” Flynne said. “Are you why I’m here?”

“You yourself are why you’re here. If you hadn’t chosen to stand in for your brother, you wouldn’t have witnessed the crime I’m investigating.”

“Sorry,” said Flynne.

“I’m not sorry at all,” the woman said. “Without you, I’d have nothing. An annoyingly seamless absence. Are you frightened?”

“Sometimes.”

“Normal under the circumstances, insofar as they can be said to be normal. Are you satisfied with your peri?”

“My what?”

“Your peripheral. I chose it myself, I’m afraid on very short notice. I felt it had a certain poetry.”

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

“You witnessed a peculiarly unpleasant homicide. Saw the face of someone who may be either the perpetrator or an accomplice.”

“I thought that might be why.”

“Some person or persons unknown have since attempted to have you murdered, in your native continuum, presumably because they know you to be a witness. Shockingly, in my view, I’m told that arranging your death would in no way constitute a crime here, as you are, according to current best legal opinion, not considered to be real.”

“I’m as real as you are.”

“You are indeed,” said the woman, “but persons of the sort pursuing you now would have no hesitation whatever in killing you, or anyone else, here, now, or elsewhere. Such persons are my concern, of course.” Bright blue, her eyes, and cold. “But you are my concern as well. My responsibility, in a different way.”

“Why?”

“For my sins, perhaps.” She smiled, but not in any way Flynne found comforting. “Zubov, you should understand, will pervert the economy of your world.”

“It’s pretty fucked anyway,” Flynne said, then wished she’d put it another way.

“I’m familiar with it, so yes, it is, though that isn’t what I mean. I don’t like what these people are doing, these continua hobbyists, Zubov included, though I do find it fascinating. Some might think you more real than I am myself.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m very old, elaborately and artificially so. I don’t feel entirely real to myself, frankly. But if you agree to assist me, I shall assist you in return, insofar as I can.”

“Got a male version of this? Peripheral?”

The Detective Inspector raised penciled eyebrows. “You would prefer one?”

“No. I don’t want to be the only one who’s seen this, been here. I need someone who’ll back me up, when I go home and tell them what’s going on.”

“Zubov could arrange it, I’m sure.”

“You’re after whoever sent that gray knapsack thing to kill her, aren’t you? And that asshole who brought her out on the balcony?”

“I am, yes.”

“I’ll be a witness. When it comes to trial. I would anyway.”

“There shall be no trial. Only punishment. But thank you.”

“I want that peripheral, though. And fast. Deal?”

“Consider it done,” said Lowbeer. The other badges undimmed, the din of Cheapside flooding back, now with an added booming of big church bells. “We’ve had our chat,” Lowbeer called up. “Thank you so much for bringing her by. Goodbye!”

Cheapside was the size of one of the badges then, then smaller, gone. Flynne blinked across at Lev. He was seeing her, she saw, and so was Wilf Netherton, but Ash’s weird eyes were fixed on blank veneer.

“Actually, Inspector,” Ash said, “I believe we can borrow one. Yes. Of course. I’ll speak with Mr. Zubov. Thank you.” She turned to Lev, seeing him now. “Your brother’s sparring partner,” she said. “Your father keeps it in Richmond Hill, brings it out to remind Anton of his folly?”

“More or less,” Lev said, glancing at Flynne.

“Have them send it over in a car. Lowbeer wants it here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask. You wouldn’t have either. She said that we need a male peripheral, soonest. I remembered that it was there.”

“I suppose it’s the easiest way,” said Lev. “Who’ll be using it?” He looked at Flynne.

“Bathroom’s in the back?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Excuse me,” she said. Stood.

In the narrow steel toilet-shower room off the little room in the back, its door closed behind her, she looked into the mirror. Unbuttoned the black shirt, finding a bra she hadn’t been aware of and breasts slightly larger than her own. Not hers, and that was comforting, and so was the small flat mole over the left collar bone. Which was why she’d looked, she realized, buttoning up the shirt, though she hadn’t understood until she’d done it.

She wondered if it needed to pee. She didn’t, so she’d assume that it didn’t. It drank water, Ash had said, but didn’t eat. Whoever had cut its hair had done Carlota proud.

She turned, opened the door, and returned to the room Netherton had pretended was his office at Milagros Coldiron. He and Lev were gone. Ash stood by the window, looking out. “Where did they go?” she asked.

“Up to the house. Netherton and Ossian will wait for it to arrive. I hope you like jaw.”

“Jaw?”

“It has a rather prominent jawline. Extremely high cheekbones. A sort of fairy-tale Slav.”

“You. . know it?” Was that the word?

“I’ve never seen it with a human operator. Only with cloud AI from its manufacturer. It belonged to Lev’s brother.”

“He’s dead, Lev’s brother?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Ash.

Okay, Flynne thought. “Is it athletic? Like this one seems to be?”

“Extremely. Quite off the scale, actually.”

“Good,” said Flynne.

“What are you up to?” asked Ash, her eyes narrowing until Flynne could only see her upper pupils.

“Nothing Lowbeer doesn’t know about.”

“Quite good at power relationships, are we?”

“How long till it’s here?”

“Half an hour?”

“Show me how to call Macon,” Flynne said.