What blood there was had seemed localized on the stonework adjacent the stairway. The screaming had turned to racking sobs, emanating from a woman seated, knees up, on the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. “See to her,” he’d heard Lowbeer say, to someone unseen, “immediately.” Lowbeer had lifted the tipstaff briefly then, shoulder high, and turned, displaying it. Netherton had seen people glance away, fearing to be marked by the sight of it, though of course they already were.
Bystanders had continued to avert their gaze, as Lowbeer led Netherton and the rental to the opposite end of the building, and up another open flight of stairs. Her car uncloaked before them as they’d emerged, its passenger door open. He had no idea, now, of where they were parked. Not far from Covent Garden. In the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue, perhaps.
“That poor woman,” Lowbeer said.
“Didn’t appear to have been physically injured,” said the rental, slouched in its club chair, tweed cap low on its forehead.
“Traumatized,” Lowbeer said, and looked at her candle. “Neroli. Girly, but I’ve always loved it.”
“You blew its head off,” Netherton said.
“Not intentionally,” said Lowbeer. “It left Shoreditch in a car leased by the martial arts studio. Alone, supposedly. But it can’t have been alone, because someone opened its cranium.”
“Its cranium?”
“The skulls are modular. Printed bone, assembled with biological adhesives. The structural strength of an average skull, but capable of disassembly.”
“Why is that?” asked Netherton, who just then found peripherals steadily less pleasant the more he learned of them.
“The brainpan of a sparring model ordinarily contains a printed cellular replica of a brain. A trainer, nothing cognitively functional. Registers levels of concussion, indicates less subtle trauma. The user can determine the exact efficiency of blows delivered. But the trainer, and for that matter the modular cranium, aren’t user-serviceable. A person or persons unknown voided the studio’s warranty, on the drive from Shoreditch. They removed the trainer, replacing it with an explosive charge. It would have approached you, then detonated. Unaware of that, I called in flashbots. The four nearest responded when my request cleared. They positioned themselves around its head and simultaneously detonated. A mere fraction of a gram of explosive each, but correctly distanced, precisely spaced, sufficient to immobilize virtually anything. Instead, we’re very fortunate my actions didn’t result in at least one death.”
“But otherwise,” said the rental, “it would have killed Wilf.”
“Indeed,” said Lowbeer. “The use of explosives is unusual, and we prefer to keep it so. Too much like asymmetric warfare.”
“Terrorism,” said the rental.
“We prefer not to use that term,” said Lowbeer, studying her candle flame with something that looked to Netherton to be regret, “if only because terror should remain the sole prerogative of the state.” She looked up at him. “Someone has made an attempt on your life. It may also have been intended to intimidate any associates who might survive you.”
“Wilf and I are only former associates,” the rental said.
“I was thinking of Mr. Zubov, actually,” said Lowbeer. “Though anyone intending to intimidate him must either be singularly unfamiliar with his family, extremely powerful, or entirely reckless.”
“How did you know,” Netherton asked, “that it would be on its way here?”
“The aunties,” said Lowbeer.
“Aunties?”
“We call them that. Algorithms. We have a great many, built up over decades. I doubt anyone today knows quite how they work, in any given instance.” She looked at the rental now, her expression changing. “Someone modeled that peripheral, rather romantically, after Fitz-David Wu. I doubt you’d know him. Arguably the best Shakespearean actor of his day. His mother was quite a good friend of mine. Those eyes were an afterthought, of course, later regretted. Not so easily reversible, in those days.”
Netherton, wishing he had another whiskey, wondered if she felt that way about her own periwinkle blues.
35
Conner lived on Gravely Road, off Porter past Jimmy’s. A gravel road, so growing up there’d been jokes about that, even though you pronounced it like grave, not gravel. Gravely had been a make-out spot in high school, somewhere to park on a date. As Leon pulled into what she supposed was Conner’s driveway, she wondered if she’d ever had any cause to come this far out Gravely before. The last stretch hadn’t felt familiar, though there was nothing about it that she would have particularly remembered. But she didn’t think she’d known that there were any houses out this far. Mostly it was posted woods here, or subdivided lots, overgrown now, that nobody had built on.
Conner’s house wasn’t as old as theirs, but it was in worse shape. It hadn’t been painted for a long time, so the wood had turned gray where the paint had come off. Its single story sat back from the road on what had once been a lawn, but now was a collection of junk overgrown with morning glory. A tall old tractor, all rust, not a fleck of paint left on it, a trailer smaller than Burton’s, down on its axle on flat tires, the standard history lesson of stoves and refrigerators, and a big old Army quadcopter, the size of Conner’s Tarantula, up on four concrete blocks. You’d need a license to fly that, if they’d let you fly it at all.
The Tarantula was at the far end of the driveway, beside the house, with Macon and Edward busy at the back of it, by the big lone slick. They had a pale blue tarp spread beside it, with their toolkits lined up on that.
She got out, as soon as Leon had stopped, and walked over to them. She wanted to see what was on the spiny tentacle arm she’d seen at Jimmy’s.
“Afternoon,” said Macon, straightening up. Like Edward, he wore blue latex gloves. Neither he nor Edward had a Viz in.
“What’s up?” Looking at the arm. It ended in some random-looking mechanism, moving parts but she had no idea what for.
“Troubleshooting for Conner,” said Macon. “This,” and he pointed at the thing, “is a grapple, for a fueling nozzle. Big help for him, at a gas station.”
“You’re just now putting it on?”
“No,” said Macon, giving her a look. “We put it on back when we mounted the arm. He’s been having trouble with it.”
“Should be okay now,” said Edward, neutrally.
They both knew she knew this was bullshit, but she guessed that was the way it went, when somebody you knew killed some people and you didn’t want them to get caught for it. They were teaching her the story as it needed to be told, and telling it to her in a way that wouldn’t require her to tell anything but the truth about what they’d told her. “What’s that black stuff on it?” The grapple lacked it, whatever it was, but she bet they’d fix that.
“Looks like bed liner,” said Edward, “rubber truck-paint.”
They’d removed the gun, or whatever had held the gun, and replaced it with this thing. Maybe it was in one of the toolkits, or maybe one of Burton’s boys had already taken it away.
“Hope it works for him,” she said. “Burton here?”
“Inside,” said Macon. “Actually we need to get a scan of your head. With a laser.”
“Do what?”
“Measure your head,” said Edward. “Headpiece we’re printing isn’t flexible. Contact’s critical. Depends on fit.”
“Comfort too,” added Macon, encouragingly.
“Me?”
“It’s for you,” Macon said. “Ask Ash.”
“Who’s Ash?”
“Lady at Coldiron. Tech liaison. Keeps calling us up. She’s a details person.”
“So are you,” said Flynne.
“We get along.”
“Okay,” she said, not feeling that anything particularly was.
“Leon,” Macon said, as Leon joined them, “congratulations. We hearin’ you a multimillionaire.”
“Admire you not showing how impressed you are.” Leon dragged a sun-bleached wooden box out of a tangle of morning glory. Faded black lettering on the side read DITCHING DYNAMITE and more. “Oughta put this on eBay,” he said, considering its markings before sitting on it. “Collectible. I like to watch working men.”