The Peripheral Read Free Page A

that herself. They didn’t seem to be trying to do anything, other than dart and hover, heads toward the building. She edged a couple, saw them dart away, gone. They’d be back. It felt like they were waiting for something, evidently on the fifty-sixth floor.
    Building was black from some angles, but really a very dark bronzy brown. If it had windows, the floors she was working didn’t, or else they were shuttered. There were big flat rectangles on the face, some vertical, some horizontal, no order to them.
    The fairies had gone quiet as she’d passed twenty, according to the display’s floor indicator. Some level of stricter protocol? She wouldn’t have minded having them back. It wasn’t that interesting up here, swatting at dragonflies. On her own time, she’d have been checking out views of the city, but she wasn’t being paid to enjoy the scenery.
    Seemed to be at least one street that was transparent, down there, lit from below, like it was paved with glass. Hardly any traffic. Maybe they hadn’t designed that yet. She thought she’d seen something walking, two-legged, at the edge of woods, or a park, too big to be human. Some of the vehicles hadn’t had any lights. And something huge had sailed slowly past, out beyond the receding towers, like a whale, or a whale-sized shark. Lights on it, like a plane.
    Tested the jerky for chewability. Not yet.
    Went hard at a dragonfly, front camera. Didn’t matter how fast she went, they were just gone. Then a horizontal rectangle folded out and down, becoming a ledge, showing her a wall of frosted glass, glowing.
    Took the jerky out of her mouth, put it on the table. The bugs were back, jockeying for position in front of the window, if that was what it was. Her free hand found the Red Bull, popped it. She sipped.
    Then the shadow of a woman’s slim butt appeared, against the frosted glass. Then shoulder blades, above. Just shadows. Then hands, a man’s by their size, on either side, above the shadows of the woman’s shoulder blades, his fingers spread wide.
    Swallowed, the drink like thin cold cough syrup. “Scoot,” she said, and swept through the bugs, scattering them.
    One of the man’s hands left the glass, its shadow vanishing. Then the woman stepped away, the man’s other hand staying where it was. Flynne imagined him leaning there, against the glass, and that there hadn’t been the kiss he’d expected, or if there had been, not the hoped-for result.
    Moody, for a game. You could open a serious relationship showwith that. Then his remaining hand was gone. She imagined an impatient gesture.
    Her phone rang. Put it on speaker.
    “You good?” It was Burton.
    “I’m in,” she said. “You in Davisville?”
    “Just got here.”
    “Luke show?”
    “They’re here,” he said.
    “Don’t mess with them, Burton.”
    “Not a chance.”
    Sure. “Anything ever happen, in this game?”
    “Those cams,” he said. “You edging them back?”
    “Yeah. And sort of a balcony’s folded out. Long frosted glass window, lights on inside. Saw shadows of people.”
    “More than I’ve seen.”
    “Saw a blimp or something. Where’s it supposed to be?”
    “Nowhere. Just keep those cams back.”
    “Feels more like working security than a game.”
    “Maybe it’s a game about working security. Got to go.”
    “Why?”
    “Leon’s back. Kimchi dogs. Wishes you were here.”
    “Tell him I’ve got to fucking work. For my fucking brother.”
    “Do that,” he said, was gone.
    She lunged at the bugs.

6.
    PATCHERS
     
    L orenzo captured the moby’s approach to the city. His hands, on the railing, and Netherton’s, on the upholstered arms of the room’s most comfortable chair, seemed momentarily to merge, a sensation nameless as the patchers’ city.
    Not a city, the curators had insisted, but an incremental sculpture. More properly a ritual object. Grayly translucent, slightly yellowed, its substance recovered as suspended particulates from the upper water