The Peripheral (Jackpot #1)

by William Gibson

“The security module interpreted it as being related to a very recent event,” Lev said, adjusting his black frames to peer at Netherton. “How could it know that?” “Any listener necessarily assumes a particular stance, informed by intention. Our module’s more sophisticated than that which was listening. The shape of their listening suggested what they were listening for.”

Should you need to reach me, you’ll find you have me in your contacts.” Lev closed the door behind them as they left the room. “Sampled our fucking DNA,” said Ossian, examining the palm of the hand that had shaken Lowbeer’s. “Of course she did,” said Ash, to Netherton, else she encrypt. “How could she be positive we’re who we claim to be?” “We could bloody sample hers,” said Ossian, frowning down at the teacup Lowbeer had used. “And be renditioned,”

“He wanted to put his price up, but Burton had Tommy tell him not to. So I think you’re subsidizing the chili dogs, kinda.” “Why?” “So’s not to put the town off Coldiron. They already think it’s about Leon. Conspiracy theory’s that he won a lot more in that lottery than the state let on.” “No sense in that.” “Conspiracy theory’s got to be simple. Sense doesn’t come into it. People are more scared of how complicated shit actually is than they ever are about whatever’s supposed to be behind the conspiracy.” “What’s the theory?” “Not that firmed up, yet. Inquiring minds, now, on the steps outside Jimmy’s, say Pickett was on Homes’ payroll all along.” “They think Homes was building drugs?” “How else do you finance the United Nations taking over?” “There’s hardly any UN left, Janice. Rotary or Kiwanis would be more like it.” “UN’s got deep roots in the demonology.” Janice slowed to let a feral orange tabby slink, belly down, across the road, giving them the stinkeye. “Madison says not letting Danny raise prices came down from your friends in the future.” “Micromanaging.” Flynne was watching the beginning of town come into sight. “If they’d just slow the changes down, I wouldn’t mind a little

When Jimmy’s was out of sight, Flynne saw something lift out of the SUV, headed back toward them. It became a small quadcopter, toting a fabbed cornstarch travel tray with a silver-foil bundle and a paper cup clipped in it. “Watch this with the bed,” Tacoma said, without looking back. Flynne turned in time to see a rectangular hatch in the bed cover sliding open. The drone matched their speed, then lowered itself through the opening. Then came right back up, minus the tray with the burrito and coffee, climbing out of sight as the hatch closed beneath it.