The Peripheral

58

The Fitz-David Wu rental, the one with the grease-smeared cheek and the creased boiler suit, was approaching his table, a drink in its hand. It seemed to see him.

“You see me,” he said, resentfully.

“I do,” it said, putting the drink down in front of him, “though others can’t. That’s your last. You’ve been cut off.”

“By whom?” he asked, but knew.

The peripheral reached into a pocket at its hip, withdrew something, which it then exposed on its open palm: a small cylinder, wrought in gilt and fluted ivory. It morphed, becoming a gilt-edged ivory locket that opened, revealing Lowbeer in what seemed a handtinted image, orange tweed and a green necktie, gazing sternly up. Vanishing as the locket seamlessly became a thumb-tall lion, crowned and rampant, then back into the ornate little cylinder.

“Am I to assume it’s genuine? Easily done with assemblers.”

It pocketed the thing. “The punishment for emulating a tipstaff is extremely severe, and not at all brief. Drink up. We need to be going.”

“Why?” asked Netherton.

“As you reached her voice mail, various individuals, across the entire Thames Valley, began to move in this direction. None connected to her, or to you, in any known way, but evident to the aunties as violating statistical norms. We need you out of here, then, with as little hint as possible of any contrivance of authority. Drink up.”

Given such unqualified permission, Netherton tossed back the whiskey. He stood, a bit unsteadily, knocking over his chair.

“This way, please, Mr. Netherton” said the peripheral, rather wearily he thought, and took his wrist, to lead him deeper into Impostor Syndrome.