“Macon, I’ve seen you do guns.”
Macon shook his head. “Not for him, Flynne. No way for him.”
“He could still get one.”
“You could walk through this town, fall down ’most anywhere, you’d land on a fabbed gun. Not like they’re hard to get. I stay out of Conner’s way, then his shit stops working, then the VA can’t fix it for him, so his quality of life falls off, fast. If I don’t, and we keep his shit up and running, he’s grinning up at me asking for whatever he knows he shouldn’t have. It is, honestly, very hard. Understand me?”
“Burton might be hiring him.”
“I like your brother, Flynne. Like you. You sure you don’t want a plate of nubbins?” He grinned.
“I’ll pass. Thanks for the tech support.” She stood up. “Be seeing you, Edward.”
The lavender sleep mask nodded. “Flynne,” he said.
She went out and unlocked her bike.
One of the blimps was hanging over the lot, pretending to just be advertising next season’s Viz. But the banner with the big close-up of an eye behind a Viz made it look like it was watching everybody, which of course she knew it was.
26
Netherton had never been in Lev’s grandfather’s drawing room before. He found it simultaneously gloomy and gaudy, foreign by virtue of being somehow too vehemently British. The woodwork, of which there was a great deal, was painted a deep mossy green, gloss enamel highlighted with gilt. The furniture was dark and heavy, the armchairs tall and similarly green.
He was grateful that Ash had specified a gender for Detective Inspector Ainsley Lowbeer, the first law enforcement officer to have set foot in this house since its purchase by Lev’s grandfather.
Her face and hands were a uniformly pale pink, as though she were lightly inflated with something not quite so dark as blood. Her hair, short and businesslike at the back and sides, was thick and perfectly white, like sugary cream, and swept up in a sort of buoyant forelock. Her eyes, too brightly periwinkle, were sharply watchful. She wore a suit as ambiguous as she was, either Savile Row or Jermyn Street, not one stitch placed by robot or peripheral. The jacket’s cut accommodated broad shoulders. Her trousers, ending above a banker’s very precise black oxfords, revealed slender ankles in sheer black hose.
“Extremely kind of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. Zubov,” she said, from her armchair. “And most particularly in your own home.” She smiled, revealing expensively imperfect teeth. In recognition of the historic nature of her visit today, Netherton knew, two large vehicles were even now circling through Notting Hill, each bearing a battle-ready contingent of Zubov family solicitors. He himself avoided the hyperfunctionally ancient whenever possible. They were entirely too knowing, and invariably powerful. They were quite few, though, and that was by far the best thing about them.
“Not at all,” replied Lev, as Ossian, looking even more butler-like than usual, brought in the tea.
“Mr. Murphy,” Lowbeer said, evidently delighted to see him.
“Yes, mum,” said Ossian, freezing, silver tray in hand.
“Forgive me,” she said. “We haven’t been introduced. Someone my age is all feeds, Mr. Murphy. For my sins, I’ve continual access to most things, resulting in a terrible habit of behaving as if I already know everyone I meet.”
“Not in the least, mum,” Ossian said, staying in character, eyes downcast, “no offense taken.”
“Which,” she said, to the others, as if she hadn’t heard him, “in a sense, of course, I do.”
Ossian, carefully expressionless, placed the heavy service on the sideboard and prepared to offer small sandwiches.
“You may also understand,” Lowbeer said, “that I am looking into the recent disappearance of one Aelita West, United States citizen resident in London. It would be helpful if you would each explain your relationship to the missing party, and to each other. Perhaps you would like to begin, Mr. Zubov? Everything, of course, becoming a matter of record.”
“I understood,” said Lev, “that there were to be no recording devices of any kind.”
“None,” she agreed. “I, however, possess court-certified recall, fully admissible as evidence.”
“I don’t know where I should begin,” said Lev, after considering her narrowly.
“The salmon, thank you,” Lowbeer said to Ossian. “You might begin by explaining this hobby of yours, Mr. Zubov. Your solicitors described you to me as a ‘continua enthusiast.’”
“That’s never entirely easy,” said Lev. “You know about the server?”
“The great mystery, yes. Assumed to be Chinese, and as with so many aspects of China today, quite beyond us. You use it to communicate with the past, or rather a past, since in our actual past, you didn’t. That rather hurts my head, Mr. Zubov. I gather it doesn’t hurt yours?”
“Far less than the sort of paradox we’re accustomed to culturally, in discussing imaginary transtemporal affairs,” said Lev. “It’s actually quite simple. The act of connection produces a fork in causality, the new branch causally unique. A stub, as we call them.”
“But why do you?” she asked, as Ossian poured her tea. “Call them that. It sounds short. Nasty. Brutish. Wouldn’t one expect the fork’s new branch to continue to grow?”
“We do,” said Lev, “assume exactly that. Actually I’m not sure why enthusiasts settled on that expression.”
“Imperialism,” said Ash. “We’re third-worlding alternate continua. Calling them stubs makes that a bit easier.”
Lowbeer regarded Ash, who now wore a slightly more staid version of her Victorian station-roof outfit. Fewer animals visible. “Maria Anathema,” Lowbeer said, “lovely. And you facilitate Mr. Zubov in this colonialism, do you? You and Mr. Murphy?”
“We do,” said Ash.
“And this would be Mr. Zubov’s first continuum? First stub?”
“It is,” said Lev.
“I see,” said Lowbeer. “And you, Mr. Netherton?”
“Me?” Ossian was offering him the sandwiches. He took one blindly. “A friend. A friend of Lev’s.”
“That’s the part I find confusing,” said Lowbeer. “You are a publicist, a public relations person, complexly employed through a rather impressive series of blinds. Or were, rather, I should say.”
“Were?”
“Sorry,” said Lowbeer, “but yes, you’ve been let go. You’ve unread mail to that effect. I also see that you and your former associate, Clarisse Rainey, of Toronto, were witness to the recent killing of one Hamed al-Habib, by an American attack system.” She looked around the table, as if curious to see reactions to the name, though there seemed to be none.
It had never occurred to Netherton that the boss patcher would have a name. “That was his name?”
“It is,” said Lowbeer, “though not very generally known.”
“There were many witnesses,” Netherton said, “unfortunately.”
“You and Miss Rainey were notable in your virtually localized views of the event. In any case, you seem to be having quite a full week.”
“Yes,” said Netherton.
“Could you explain the circumstances of your being here now, Mr. Netherton?” She raised her teacup and sipped.
“I came to see Lev. I was upset. Over the patcher business, seeing them killed that way. And I thought I’d probably be sacked.”
“You desired company?”
“Exactly. And in the course of speaking with Lev-”
“Yes?”
“It’s rather complicated. .”
“I’m rather good at complications, Mr. Netherton.”
“You know that Aelita’s sister is, or was, a client of mine? Daedra West.”
“I was so hoping we’d get to that,” said Lowbeer.
“I had arranged for Lev to give Daedra a gift. On my behalf.”
“A gift. Which was?”
“I’d arranged for her to have the services of one of the inhabitants of Lev’s stub.”
“What services, exactly?”
“As a security guard. He’s ex-military. A drone operator, among other things.”