The carriage is busy, she and Nikki having to stand opposite each other across the narrow aisle. It gives her an unaccustomed sense of power to be carrying out this deceit, even though she is sure Freeman is concealing considerably more truths from her.
Their visit to NutriGen told Alice nothing, and she has no doubt that Nikki is most satisfied with this state of affairs. By playing the part of Jessica, Alice hoped that Nikki might drop her guard: let something slip or conduct some of her normal business thinking that the FNG observer was too inexperienced to understand what was really going on. But so far she’s playing it very cagey and thus exposing the flaw in Alice’s strategy, which is that if Nikki really is as dirty as Helen Petitjean says, then she’s not going to talk to any of the people she’s got criminal connections with in front of Jessica.
There are a dozen conversations going on around her, conducted in myriad different languages. People come here from all over the world, though the American influence is manifest in the number of Spanish words that have gained official currency, from the name Ciudad de Cielo itself down to how video clips recorded on lenses are referred to as grabacións, or grabs for short. Spanish has been the most commonly spoken language in the U.S. for more than a hundred years, but despite this ever-expanding majority, English remains the language of America’s corporate face, and consequently the one with which it presents itself internationally.
Alice picks up enough from the chat to discern that some people are on their way to work, some are coming home and still others heading for Mullane in pursuit of a good night out. The clock on her lens reads 14:48 but it is meaningless. Alice is still getting her head around the phase system: it makes perfect sense to her in terms of time management in a world without day and night, but she isn’t sure which phase she is technically on right now, or how you go about formally choosing. She has kind of just fallen into one by dint of when she woke up.
She thought somebody would come and talk her through it, but that hasn’t happened. There were so many things the FNG officially prepared her for before leaving Earth, but official preparation and actual preparation are seldom the same thing. The practicalities of day-to-day living were something she knew she would have to develop a feel for first-hand, and there was a great deal about life on CdC that nobody could satisfactorily brief her on. That was partly why she was here, after all. FNG intel on CdC was limited by the veracity of its own people’s accounts when they got back to Earth. Her reading of the existing material suggested a strong tendency for people to go native, or at least a reluctance to be entirely truthful about how they lived their lives while they were up here.
Alice grips the handrail as the car decelerates upon approach to the next station. She steals a glance across at Nikki, who is not holding on to anything but seems to be languidly reading the motion of the vehicle by intuition. There is almost an arrogance about her posture, an assuredness which Alice realises she envies. Alice always feels like she’s physically apologising for the space she’s taking up, while by contrast Nikki’s body language is both a statement of belonging and a claim on her territory.
According to her file, Nikki is forty-five years old. Her face looks entirely less lived-in than her reputation would suggest, though Alice gets the impression of her being someone who was previously athletic but has latterly let things slide. She is tall and wiry, but with some extra weight around the middle, a hint of a paunch. Nonetheless, there is something lithe and solid about her, someone you wouldn’t want to clatter into.
Alice’s eyes are drawn to the barked knuckles of Nikki’s hands. She understands that this is a woman who knows what it is to punch somebody in the face. Nikki is not in uniform, but Alice can discern that certain people in the car know what she is, still others precisely who she is. She notes also the occasional subtle nod and brief meeting of Nikki’s gaze. Information is being passed between people silently, invisibly, by means far older than any lens system.
Overall, Alice’s impression is of a highly dangerous opponent: one she will have to tackle while conceding a considerable home-court advantage.
SEEDEE CONFIDENTIAL
They are lucky with the static, or maybe that should be unlucky: one shows up right away, meaning Nikki and Jessica are on Mullane inside a quarter of an hour.
“He hasn’t moved,” Jessica assures her. “Jacobs is still inside Radiation.”
“You know, I’m wondering whether we shouldn’t wait and catch him at home a little later.”
“Why would we do that? We’re right here.”
“Yeah, but the guy just worked his shift. Maybe he deserves some time to wind down before we hit him with the information that his work colleague is dead. A bar isn’t the most appropriate place to break that kind of news.”
“Yes, but breaking news is the reason time is of the essence,” Jessica reminds her. “You heard Boutsikari: the clock is running on when word of this situation leaks down below.”
“I guess you’re right,” Nikki concedes, figuring it was worth a try.
They walk into Radiation, Nikki sizing up the situation and quickly figuring that with a bit of luck she can get in and out without attracting much attention.
It’s quiet. The Atlantic shift hasn’t long finished, and the Meridian revellers would have moved on to other places. Radiation is the sort of joint where you start your evening rather than being the main event, though it’s also popular with those planning to end their night early in the arms of an obliging partner-for-hire.
She clocks Jacobs right away, still in his work clothes, though not the overalls or they would smell him from here. The guy is sitting on his own. He is actually drinking a Qola, like Nikki had joked, though he’s got a whisky chaser that definitely isn’t corporate-approved. Saving money on the cheap beer so that he can spend the difference on decent liquor. He’s got a CdC lone-drinker look that Nikki recognises, which is not to say he is hitting it hard. It’s more about the fact that he’s lost in his own little world right now, thinking about whatever it was he came to space not to think about.
She begins making her way over but is intercepted by a waiter who appears from one of the booths. His name is Ernesto when he’s working here, but he’s known as Rod if you’re hiring him for his other talents; or talent singular, as indicated by the name.
“Hey, Nikki Fixx. Shit, are we due already? That sure came around fast. I’ll go get the boss, but I don’t know if he’s gonna have everything ready for you.”
“No, no, Ernesto, that’s not why we’re here,” she corrects him swiftly. At least he said “everything” and never mentioned money outright.
“Okay, so can I get you a cold one? On the house, of course. Or are you ladies maybe interested in something else tonight?”
Ernesto does the Mullane micro-shimmy, a movement that’s over in a blink, thus offering full deniability, but which to the trained eye advertises that everything’s for sale. In an act of solidarity, or perhaps in appreciation of the principles of the conglomerate economy, he rounds it off with a glance towards the other goods currently on offer: two girls seated at the bar who Nikki recognises as Desi and Cooper. They don’t pay her protection but nor did either of them charge on the nights they ended up back at her place. They could all interpret that many ways. Mostly Nikki prefers not to think about it.
“I’m on duty right now,” she replies stiffly. “As is my associate here, Jessica Cho, official observer from the Federation of National Governments.”
“The Fed …”
Ernesto freeze-frames, panics just a moment, looks Nikki in the eye to confirm this isn’t a joke. Looks at Jessica, belatedly takes in what he should have seen straight out, that she looks buttoned-up so tight her head might pop.
“Yeah, I think I might just go check if they need any help in the kitchen. I’ll let everybody know you guys are here, in case they can be of assistance.”
He gives Nikki a parting look as he says this, his intentions mutually understood.
“Due what?” Jessica asks.
“Oh, an inspection.”
“Isn’t that the remit of the FLAT?”
Nikki ignores this and proceeds towards Jacobs. He still looks miles away, oblivious to the brief conversation they just had with the waiter. Nikki puts down her ID on the table next to his whisky, loudly repeating the credentials she just told Ernesto for the benefit of anybody nearby.
“You’re Frank Jacobs, right?”
“Yes, officer. How can I help?”
“I believe you’re Dev Korlakian’s supervisor.”
“That’s right. What’s he done this time? He get in a fight again? He didn’t show up today, so I figured the enfermería if he lost and the cooler if he won. You guys being here tells me it’s the cooler.”
“No, sir. We are actually keen to speak to Mr. Korlakian about a matter but we’re having difficulty locating him. We were wondering whether you could answer a few questions.”
“Sure thing, for what it’s worth. I can tell you where he lives and who his shift mates are, but beyond the sphere of the workplace, there’s not a lot of overlap.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday. Clocked on, clocked off.”
“Anything strike you as out of the ordinary about him?”
“Yesterday in particular or in general?”
“Either.”
“Apart from him looking like one big, scary motherfucker, no. Nothing unusual yesterday. I mean, he was in a hurry to finish up, but that isn’t exactly a rarity. Up in Processing, folks don’t exactly live for their job, you know?”
“But you indicated it’s not unusual for him to get in fights,” Jessica states.
Nikki shoots her a look, by way of reminding her that she is here to observe.
“Sure, but he never gave me any grief. Apart from covering his shifts when he didn’t show because he was getting stitches or cooling off at the Seguridad.”
“Did he seem anxious, troubled?” Nikki asks.
“We don’t really sit down and pour out our feelings during coffee breaks. But if you’re asking if I been worried he might be thinking of taking a shortcut, then not hardly. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t complain much either.”
“Aren’t there disciplinary consequences for these no-shows?” Jessica asks, acting like she never noticed Nikki’s previous glare.
Jacobs gives Nikki an incredulous look. She rolls her eyes, telling him “welcome to my world.”
“I’m guessing you’re new here? I don’t know how it works in the FNG, but at a place like NutriGen, firing somebody is an expensive business. Or more accurately, replacing them is. You know what it costs to fill a seat on the elevator, right? There is close to zero unemployment on CdC and NutriGen isn’t high on anybody’s recruitment priorities. Who wants to come to space to liquidise fish?”
“Are you saying people at your facility are effectively unsackable?”
“No, but it’s mostly moot. Everybody came here to work, and work hard: CdC attracts dedicated and diligent people. People know that if they don’t make the grade, their contract doesn’t get renewed at the end of their twelve months. But if there’s a serious problem in the meantime, we have to work it out, with firing as a very distant last resort.”
“And was Korlakian becoming a serious problem? Getting into trouble, not showing up?”
“It’s not like it’s happening once a week. But no, he isn’t a problem. He misses a shift, he always makes it up. He’s a good worker, Johnny-on-the-spot. Kind of guy who always seems to be in five places at once.”
And now he can be in about thirty, Nikki thinks.
“Thank you for your help, sir,” she says, wrapping it up, keen to get out of Radiation now that she’s gone through the motions for Jessica’s benefit.
They begin heading for the door.
“I thought you were going to tell him Korlakian was dead,” Jessica says, reminding her of her bullshit.
“Yeah, I thought better of it after you reminded me we need to keep it under wraps. I just hope he didn’t pick up on how you kept talking about the guy in the past tense.”
“I was talking about events in the past tense, not Korlakian as a person.”
Nikki sighs. She was hoping Jessica would be on the back foot over that. She’s not shy of standing her ground. Must be an FNG thing, or a rich-kid thing. Either way, it comes down to an instilled sense of entitlement.
“What’s a shortcut?” the girl asks as they reach the door. They have to wait as a group of about a dozen come streaming through. Office and admin types, ties loosened, kidding themselves like they’re in Tijuana.
“Suicide. You get a lot of solitary types up here. Emotionally isolated. Came because of something they couldn’t handle about their lives down below, only to find the thing they can’t handle came with them.”
“Yeah, but why ‘shortcut’?”
“It means a shortcut home in a returning freight container.”
The doorway is finally clear and Nikki is about to exit when she gets an alert on her lens: a facial match on one of the people who just walked into the bar. It takes her a moment to call up why she put it on her lookout list, by which time he is heading for the john. He’s leaving someone else to get the drinks in, which tracks with what else she knows about him.
“You head for the static and I’ll catch you up,” she says. “Just gotta go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll wait,” Jessica replies, staying next to the doorway.
“Whatever.”
Nikki follows the guy into the Gents. Her lens tells her his name is Venkat Gopta, information she can only access due to her Seguridad privileges. He’s a middle-ranking FNG pen-pusher, his status just high enough to block his identity from a rent boy like Garret.
“I think you’re in the wrong place,” he says with an awkward grin as Nikki barrels through the door.
She doesn’t show her badge, instead waiting for him to read her ID on his lens. She figures he’s the kind of prick who places way too much stock in rank and status.
“No, I’m right where I need to be, Mr. Gopta. I heard that you might have information about some soliciting activity that’s been taking place down the street at a place called Sin Garden.”
He looks rattled: surprised and confused. He knows the cops seldom bother about this shit unless a specific complaint has been raised, which is the threat he’s been using to get out of paying for services rendered.
“No, I think you’ve been misinformed. I mean, I’ve been in Sin Garden, sure, but I wouldn’t know about any soliciting.”
“I heard you may have engaged the services of a prostitute without realising the nature of the arrangement. Would that be about right?”
“No, officer. I mean, this would be the first I’m learning about it if that were the case.”
“You’re aware that the paid procurement of sexual activity is illegal on CdC under anti-exploitation ordinance?”
“Of course. But if I had dealings with a prostitute, it would be, as you say, without realising the nature of the arrangement.”
“See, that’s my problem here. Because I’ve got a grab of you doing business with a gentleman name of Garret, and it looks like you understood the nature of the arrangement pretty good, least until you reached the part where you’re supposed to open your wallet.”
This last part is bullshit. The grabación only shows Gopta for a brief few seconds, but he doesn’t know that.
“Well, if opening my wallet is the issue, maybe we could come to some arrangement?”
He takes out a thick stack of tokens and patronisingly holds one up.
Nikki keeps her stare fixed in his face, not looking at the money.
“What does it take to make this go away?” he asks with a sigh, like this is just a drag to him.
“It takes you paying what you owe,” she says, snatching the wad and walking away.
“Hey, I didn’
t hire every hooker on Mullane for a gang bang. That’s over six hundred,” he protests, grabbing Nikki by the shoulder.
She pivots and drives a fist into his stomach, sweeps his legs and stomps him in the nuts as he hits the floor. Nothing that will leave a mark.
“Not for a gang bang, but the way I heard it, you hired a lot of hookers and welched on the deal with your little threat. The all-you-can-fuck free buffet is closed. From now on you pay your way.”
She pockets the wad and leans over him.
“Just out of interest, what was the price you agreed with Garret?”
Gopta moans and splutters.
“Two hundred.”
“No shit? I’ll be damned.”
INFORMED CONSENT
Nikki can’t see Jessica when she emerges from the bathroom, then she spots her through the window, waiting outside on Mullane. She’s like an eager little puppy, keen to get going, except that with man’s best friend you can rely on a degree of loyalty.
She is passing the gantry on her way out when she notices that Stan, the manager, is pouring somebody a shot of Glenfarclas twenty-one-year-old from its uniquely shaped bottle. Malts have an inflated cachet up here, anything representing variety and authenticity proving all the more desirable when the alternative is to drink the Quadriga’s house beer. Somebody is splashing the cash, but that’s not what grabbed her attention. The bottle looks close to full, just opened.
“Hey, that the real McCoy, or some other rot-gut decanted into an old Glenfarclas bottle?”
Stan pours her a shot to test.
“Hell of a way to shake down a freebie,” he complains.
“I’m not,” she insists, giving it a sniff.
It’s Glenfarclas, sure enough.
“When did you get this?”
“Today. Ain’t had this stuff in weeks.”
“I know. Who did you get it from?”
He gives her a butter-wouldn’t-melt look.
“A new supplier. Look, hey, I’d have bought from Yoram if he was offering, but he didn’t have squat. Word is he never got his delivery.”
Places in the Darkness Page 11