The Peripheral

52

Netherton stood in the entrance to the gallery. Flynne’s peripheral was seated on a bench, three meters away, back to him, apparently viewing Lev’s father’s two best Picassos. The sparring partner stood nearby, facing the doorway, hands in its trouser pockets. “Good distance right there,” it said.

“Yes,” said Netherton, who’d been about to step closer.

“This a museum?” asked the sparring partner.

“A private gallery,” Netherton said. “In a home.”

“They live in a museum?”

“They live with art,” Netherton said. “Though the man who actually owns it lives elsewhere.”

“Didn’t have so much art, he could live here,” it said. “As much space as that parking lot downstairs.”

“I’m Wilf Netherton.”

“Conner,” it said.

“If you have questions,” Netherton said, “I can try to answer them.”

“She said you fucked up,” it said.

“Who did?”

“Flynne. Said this was all happening because you fucked up.”

“It is, I suppose.”

“How?”

“I was less than professional. With a woman. One thing led to another.”

“Led to a lot.”

“I suppose it did-” said Netherton, forgetting and taking a step forward.

“Stop,” it said.

Netherton did. “Do you know Flynne very well?” he asked.

“High school,” it said. “Best friend’s sister. Smart. She’d have left, gone somewhere, hadn’t been for their mother.”

Netherton wondered if Flynne’s peripheral was taking in visual information, and if so, where it was going. Then it turned.

“Where are they?” Flynne asked. “Something’s happening. Need to talk to them. Now.”

“Ask him,” the peripheral said, meaning Netherton.

“Still in the kitchen,” Netherton said.

She stood, turned. “Got the money to buy the governor yet?”

“I imagine they already have quite a lot of money, on your end. It would be more a matter of finding a way to apply it.”

“Find them.” And she was out the door, headed for the kitchen. The sparring partner swept past him. Netherton followed, noting that it didn’t regard him as sufficient threat to not allow him to take up the rear.

“Good evening,” said Lowbeer, her voice unmistakable. In the entrance to the kitchen, with Lev and Ash. “And this would be Mr. Penske.”

“Problem back home,” Flynne said. “Shooting.”

“Who’s shooting whom?” Lowbeer asked.

“Just went back for a minute. Shots, on the property. Edward heard our guys talking, like they’d engaged somebody. What about buying that governor now?” This last to Lev.

“A matter of acquiring majority stakes in the two firms who most directly enabled his election,” Lev said. “Ossian is on it.”

“You’re understandably concerned,” said Lowbeer, to Flynne.

“My mother’s in the house. Nobody’s supposed to be able to get on the property. Had drones up.”

“Can you check on the situation there and report to us, please?” Lowbeer asked Ash. “We’ll be in that charming room upstairs. Unfortunately I’ve only a little time now, but I did want to meet Flynne in her peripheral-” She smiled. “And of course Mr. Penske. And I’ve a proposal. A course of action.”

Ash asked something, briskly, in yet another synthetic language. Listened to the reply they couldn’t hear. “Ossian’s on the phone, with Edward,” she said to Flynne. “The situation there is under control.”

“What about my mother?”

Ash asked a shorter question, in what was already a different language, listened. “She wasn’t disturbed. Your friend is with her.”

“Janice,” said Flynne, visibly relieved.

“If you’re satisfied for the moment,” Lowbeer said to Flynne, “please join us upstairs. You’re entirely central to my proposal. You’ll join us as well, Conner.”

Netherton saw the peripheral silently query Flynne, who nodded. “Don’t know shit about any of this,” it said, to Lowbeer.

“You’re boots on the ground, Mr. Penske, as we said in my youth,” Lowbeer said. “We’ll need that.”

“Never good news,” said the peripheral, though it didn’t seem particularly displeased.

“Lead the way then, Mr. Netherton,” said Lowbeer.

Netherton did, imagining, as he climbed the stairs, a better world, one in which a relaxing drink would be waiting in the sitting room.