Free The Peripheral by William Gibson

glasses but no mustache. They could have swapped outfits without attracting any attention. She was wearing cammies that were probably his. “You really don’t look too happy.”
    “I’m not. Worried about Burton. Homes had him for going up to Davisville and beating on Luke 4:5. No charges, just a public safety detention.”
    “I know,” Janice said. “Leon told Madison.”
    “He’s doing something on the side,” Flynne said, glad of the music, looking around, knowing Janice would understand about the disability money. “I filled in for him.”
    Janice raised an eyebrow. “You don’t give the impression you liked it much.”
    “Beta testing some kind of creepy-ass game. Serial killers or something.”
    “You played anything, since that time at our place?” Janice was watching her.
    “Just this. Twice.” Flynne felt differently uncomfortable. “You seen Macon?”
    “He was here. Madison was talking to him.”
    “In here much, you and Madison?”
    “Do we look like it?”
    “So fucking young.”
    “It was young when we were here before, remember? You were, anyway. Burton’s kid sister.” She smiled, looked around.
    As the song ended, there was a blast of deep-throated exhaust from out in the parking lot.
    “Conner,” said Janice. “Not good. Fucking with those boys.”
    Flynne, feeling like they were back in high school, followed Janice’s gaze. Five big boys with bleached hair, at a table covered with beer bottles. They’d be on the football team. Too thick for basketball. None wore a Viz. Two of them stood, each taking an empty green beer bottle in either hand, by the neck, and headed out to the porch.
    “He was here about an hour ago,” Janice said. “Drinking in the lot. Not good when he drinks, on top of the other. One of them said something. Madison backed ’em off. Conner left.”
    Flynne heard the sound of an impact, glass breaking. The next song started. She got up and went out onto the porch, thinking as she did that she liked this song even less than the last one.
    The two football players were there, and she saw how drunk they were. Conner’s Tarantula, in the center of the gravel, bathed in harsh light from tall poles, was shaking with its exhaust, scenting the lot with recycled fat. His shaven head was propped up at the front, at that painful angle, one of his eyes behind a sort of monocle.
    “Fuck you, Penske!” bellowed one of the football players, drunk enough to sound half cheerful, and flung his remaining bottle, hard. It caught the front of the trike, shattering, but off to the side, away from Conner’s head.
    Conner smiled. Moved his head a little, and Flynne saw something move with it, above the Tarantula and what was left of his body, higher than the three big tires.
    She marched past the football players then, down the steps, and out across the gravel, the kids on the porch falling silent behind her. She was older than they were, nobody knew her, and she was all in black. Conner saw her coming. Moved his head again. She could hear her sneakers in the gravel, and she could hear the bugs ticking against the lights, up on their poles, but with Conner’s engine throttled down low, drumming, how could she?
    Stopped before she was close enough that he’d have had to crane to see her face. “Flynne, Conner. Burton’s sister.”
    Looked up at her, through the monocle. Smiled. “Cute sister.”
    She raised her eyes and saw, above him, the skinny, spinal-looking scorpion-tail thing the monocle controlled. Looked like he’d daubed black paint on it, to make it harder to see. She couldn’t make out what was on its tip. Something small. “Conner, this is some bad bullshit here. You need to go home.”
    He did something with his chin, on a control surface. The monocle popped up, like a little trapdoor. “You going to get out of my way, Burton’s cute sister?”
    “Nope.”
    He twisted around, to rub his eyes with what was left of the one hand. “I’m a tiresome