The Peripheral

84

By Soho Square, Lowbeer’s car rolled invisibly away. The rain had stopped. As they climbed the wide stairs to the greenway, Lowbeer’s sigil appeared. “Yes?” Netherton asked.

“They’re ready,” Lowbeer said. “Find a seat for her.”

Netherton took the peripheral’s hand, guided it to the nearest bench, one facing the forest that led, along what had been a length of Oxford Street, to Hyde Park. He gestured for it to sit. The bench vibrated briefly in anticipation, shedding drops of rain. The peripheral sat. Looked up at him. He was, he realized, waiting for it to drop this elaborate pretext of being an automaton, driven by AI. Not that she’d then be Flynne, but somehow the woman whose face this must be. “Have you learned who it was modeled after?” he asked Lowbeer.

“Hermès has a privacy policy, regarding bespoke peripherals. I could bypass that, but in this case I prefer not to. It might tip our hand.”

The peripheral wore black tights, black walking boots with large silver buckles, and a narrow knee-length cape the color of graphite. “What exactly am I to do, here?” Netherton asked.

“Have an outing. Stroll to Hyde Park. Then we’ll see. Answer her questions as best you can. I’m not expecting her to be terribly convincing as a neoprimitive curator, but do what you can. She’ll be there to make an identification. Assuming she doesn’t make it on walking in the door, I want the masquerade to remain viable for as long as possible.”

“I’ve told Daedra that Annie’s very shy in her presence, out of an excess of admiration. That may help.”

“It may. Please ask the peripheral to close its eyes.”

“Close your eyes,” he said.

The peripheral did. Watching its face, he thought he actually saw Flynne arrive, a second’s confusion in facial micro-musculature and then the eyes sprang open. “Holy shit,” she said, “is that a house, or trees?”

He looked over his shoulder, toward the greenway. “A house grown from trees. A sort of playhouse, actually. Public.”

“Those trees look old.”

“They aren’t. Their growth was augmented by assemblers. Sped up, then stabilized. They were that size when I was a child.”

“Doors, windows-”

“They grew that way, directed by assemblers.”

She stood, seemed to test the pavement. “Where are we?”

“Soho. Soho Square. Lowbeer suggests we walk along this greenway, to Hyde Park.”

“Greenway?”

“A forest, but linear. Oxford Street was ruined here, variously, in the jackpot. Mainly department stores. The architect had assemblers eat their ruins back. Carved them into what amounts to a very long planter for the trees, with a central pathway elevated above the original level of the street-”

“Department stores? Like Hefty Mart?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did they want a forest instead?”

“It wasn’t a very beautiful street to begin with, and hadn’t fared well in the jackpot. The buildings didn’t lend themselves to repurposing. Selfridges had actually been a single private residence, briefly-”

“Fridges?”

“A department store. But the vogue for residences on that scale was brief, limited to a final desperate wave of offshore capital. I don’t think we have department stores, actually.”

“Malls?”

“What about them?” he asked, puzzled, but then remembered the difference in usage. “You saw Cheapside. That’s one, of sorts. A destination, select associational retail. Portobello, Burlington Arcade. .”

She looked around. Kept turning. “We’re in the biggest city in Europe. Aside from you, I haven’t seen one living soul.”

“There’s a man, right there.” Netherton pointed. “Sitting on a bench. I think he’s brought his dog.”

“No traffic. Dead quiet.”

“Prior to regreening, the majority of public transport was via trains, in tunnels.”

“The tube.”

“Yes. And that’s all still there, and more, though it’s generally not used for public transport. It can configure a train, should you want one. People generally go to Cheapside by period train.” That had been how he and his mother had gone.

“Seen a few big trucks.”

“Moving goods from the underground to where they’re ultimately needed. We’ve fewer private vehicles. Cabs. Otherwise, walking or cycling.”

“Those are the tallest trees I’ve ever seen.”

“Come and see. It’s more impressive from the greenway proper.” He led the way, trying to remember when he’d last been here. When they reached the greenway, between the trees, he indicated the direction of Hyde Park.

“You say they aren’t real, the trees?”

“They’re real, but their growth was augmented, engineered. A few are quasi-biological megavolume carbon collectors that look like trees.” Something chinged, behind them. A goggled rider shot past, pedaling hard on a black bicycle, a mud-spattered beige trench coat flapping out behind.

“How did they make this?”

The trees, many of them taller than the buildings they’d replaced, were still dripping; larger, more widely distributed drops. One went down the back of Netherton’s jacket. Toward Hyde Park, in the high canopy of branches, there was a suggestion of cloud. “I can open a feed for you, and show you, if you like.”

“WN?” she asked, evidently seeing his sigil as their phones connected. “That’s you?”

“It is. Let’s go along to Hyde Park, and I’ll show you feeds, how they did it.” Without thinking, having led the peripheral to and from Lowbeer’s car, he took her hand, instantly aware of his mistake.

Her eyes met his, alarmed perhaps. He felt her hand tense, as if she were about to withdraw it, or perhaps to shake his. “Okay,” she said. “Show me.”

And then they were walking, hand in hand.

“You looked ridiculous,” she said, “on the Wheelie Boy.”

“I assumed as much.”