“That’s because his delivery got jacked. This Glenfarclas is from his delivery. Who sold this to you?”
“Come on, Nikki, you know I can’t answer that. You and Yoram are not the only people who can flex some muscle and make threats.”
“Maybe you’d like to talk about who you bought it from downtown at the cooler.”
Stan’s expression hardens.
“Yeah, maybe I would. About as much as you’d like me talking about who I usually buy from in front of your little FNG friend out there.”
Nikki has no play here. She necks the whisky and heads for the door.
“Where to now?” Jessica asks, as Nikki leads her back towards the static station. She wants out of Mullane before they have any more compromising encounters.
“I figure we’ll go to Korlakian’s apartment, speak to his neighbours.”
“Understood. But when we do, don’t you think it would make them more cooperative if you didn’t tell them straight out that I’m an FNG observer? So far none of them have had the clearance to have it automatically displayed on their lens.”
“They have the right to know who they’re talking to. I am only following Seguridad procedures regarding full disclosure. I wouldn’t want my official observer to report that I wasn’t keeping to the official protocols in interviewing witnesses.”
“Yeah, but can we take that part as read? I can’t help but think it’s proving counterproductive. I’m not naïve about people’s attitudes towards FNG ‘undersight,’ as I believe they call it. You keep telling people that and they’re just going to clam up.”
That’s the idea, Nikki thinks.
“I don’t want to mislead anybody and I never like to burn any bridges. There are people who feel okay talking to the Seguridad but who would never talk to the FNG. If they find out later that I kept that from them, then they’re not gonna trust me the next time.”
“If you don’t get a result on this case, there may not be a next time.”
“Wait a sec: are you observing me doing my job, or telling me how to do my job?”
Jessica ignores this and casts an eye back towards Radiation.
“What were you talking to the barman about?”
“Whisky.”
“What was his name?”
“What does it matter?” Nikki replies, before realising the real reason Jessica is asking.
“His data was not presenting. Absolutely nothing came up on my lens.”
“Maybe it’s a malfunction.”
“No. I reset my system and my connection and ran diagnostics while you were in the bathroom. He’s running some kind of hack or deploying a scrambling device. Shouldn’t we investigate?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to have to report it.”
“I can’t stop you, but I’d advise you to very quickly start adopting a ‘no harm no foul’ policy on shit like this.”
“Why? Attempting to disrupt monitoring and information systems strikes me as a plausible indicator of illegal activity.”
“It does, huh? So if you ain’t doing nothing wrong, you ain’t got nothing to hide, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, but your double negatives aside, this is hardly invasive. It’s merely a big database, one he consented to when he came here.”
“Everybody’s got a different threshold for what’s invasive. I for one can’t say I’m much enjoying being subject to one-on-one FNG scrutiny. And just because you take a job up here and sign a contract doesn’t mean you truly consent. Corporations and governments don’t get to dictate shit like that. That’s why we don’t have surveillance cameras mounted everywhere.”
“I’ve seen plenty of cameras,” Jessica argues, almost walking into an oncoming pedestrian as her eye is drawn by something she sees through the window of another bar.
“Sure, there are some in the big open public spaces, but not in every passageway and corridor. When Wheel One was first constructed, the Quadriga put cameras in way too many places, so they all got smashed. And I mean all of them: it was done on a point of principle. By way of response the Quadriga put in hidden cameras instead, the size of a pinhead. So people developed sensors to scan for them, and rooted them all out again. They tried developing new cameras that would be immune to the sensors, and the arms race went on for a while, until eventually saner voices prevailed. The consortium finally grasped that people didn’t come here to be under surveillance. People feel cooped up enough in a contained environment like this, so the sense of scrutiny feels all the more intrusive.”
“The people who vandalised these cameras,” Jessica says. “Why weren’t they fired from their contracts, kicked off CdC?”
“They weren’t stupid. The operations were orchestrated, all done at the same time, and the people doing it wore masks, to make the point about anonymity and their right to it. It was civil disobedience.”
“Not if property was damaged. That’s criminal.”
“When the property is perceived to be an instrument used in the violation of your rights, then that becomes a complex issue.”
“The Quadriga could have written it into everyone’s contract: take it or leave it.”
“Which brings me back to my original point. They could have, but we’re not building a prison or a police state up here. The whole idea is supposed to be that we’re constructing a better version of humanity, aren’t we? And that shouldn’t start with the default assumption that people are always up to no good and need spying on.”
“Seems moot to me when everybody’s got a recording function in their lenses,” Jessica says. She looks huffy, her short legs working hard to keep up with Nikki’s stride.
“Except the crucial difference is the recordings are made and controlled by individuals, not the Seguridad, the Quadriga or the FNG. The grabs belong to whoever recorded them, which is why people have to state in a will that they surrender their recordings for police scrutiny in the event of a suspicious death.”
“I assume our Mr. Korlakian didn’t make such a stipulation?”
“Apparently not,” Nikki replies, leaving it at that. She would rather stay away from the fact that Omega moved in circles where it was mutually understood that you didn’t want posthumously accessed recordings incriminating the people around you.
“But the point is that it’s one thing for a private individual to be recording people, still another when it’s a corporate or government entity. That’s why etiquette states that I have to display a rec light if I’m recording as a cop, but not when I’m off-duty. Doesn’t that etiquette extend to the FNG? I mean, I’m guessing you’re recording right now, but your lens ain’t glowing. Your cheeks are though.”
Jessica looks flushed, and not from the effort of hustling through the gathering numbers on Mullane. Busted.
“Hey, don’t get self-conscious about it. I mean, why should you FNG guys play by the rules when everybody else don’t?”
“At least I’m trying to do some investigating,” Jessica protests, stopping on the spot and folding her arms like she ain’t playing the game no more.
“What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”
“Treading water. You barely scratched the surface with Jacobs back there.”
“He didn’t know anything. I could tell that straight off.”
“He gave us some pointers though. If Korlakian got into fights, shouldn’t we be finding out with whom and about what? It strikes me as unlikely this will all turn out to be about his day job. He had to have been dabbling in other things.”
Nikki thinks about that Glenfarclas bottle, the special forces types who took control of Dock Nine, Brock Lind telling her how Omega paid him to divert their shipment. Damn straight he was dabbling in other things, but she can’t investigate any of that stuff with this stoolpigeon observing, recording and reporting back.
Boutsikari has thus far been happy to turn a blind eye and feign ignorance regarding the likes of Nikki’s unofficial practic
es. It keeps everybody content and onside while giving himself deniability. But now that he’s being squeezed by the FNG, ignorance is no longer bliss. He’ll be only too happy to receive whatever hard proof Jessica can supply, giving him the leverage he needs to manipulate Nikki, to discredit her or to flat-out fire her.
He told her he needs results and that he thinks she’s the best chance of getting them, but if he really believed that, he wouldn’t have saddled her with an FNG spy. From where Nikki’s standing, it looks like she’s got two options. She can do this with one hand tied behind her back and one eye closed, knowing she’s being set up to take the fall when she inevitably fails; or she can pursue the truth where she knows it is likely to lie, and in doing so lay herself open in a dozen different ways.
Two options, but ultimately they’re just different flightpaths to Planet Fucked. Which means she’s gonna have to find herself a Plan C.
WHAT LIES BENEATH
It’s the smell of food that tips the balance.
Alice is standing with her arms folded, facing down Nikki and creating a stand-off via the simple expedient of refusing to keep walking down Mullane. The weakness in this strategy is that Freeman could decide to resume her hurried stomp towards the static station, which would require Alice to follow in the service of her role as official observer Jessica Cho. If Nikki calls her bluff, she doesn’t have a play, so she needs to come up with a move before that happens, or accept the consolation prize of merely staying close to her subject.
She wants to observe Freeman here, in her natural habitat. That, after all, is the point of the exercise.
Mullane is a narrow channel compared to what she’s seen on W2, but broad for an older district. It looks wider the busier it gets, the bustle of human traffic emphasising the distance between facing shop fronts by filling it with colour and movement. The air here feels warmer than over on Central Plaza, even though the thermometer is stating that it’s within the same range as everywhere else. It must be the cooking odours, the thump of music and the sense of a throng. It makes her feel outdoors, but in a different way from how Central Plaza feels like outdoors. Over there it’s like it’s always daytime, always morning, even: breezy and fresh. Here, in keeping with what she has been told, it always feels like night, and a muggy summer night at that.
“He gave us some pointers though. If Korlakian got into fights, shouldn’t we be finding out with whom and about what? It strikes me as unlikely this will all turn out to be about his day job. He had to have been dabbling in other things.”
She’s still waiting for a response. Freeman is weighing things up, but it’s only a matter of time before she starts asking herself who this little girl thinks she is, to be criticising her investigation like this.
“Why do you want me out of Mullane so fast?” Alice asks, deciding to stay on the front foot.
“I don’t want you out of here. We’ve got to go talk to Korlakian’s neighbours, and his place is over on—”
“Yes you do. You were looking for a reason to speak to Jacobs someplace else and now you’re acting like Korlakian’s neighbours are about to ship out for good.”
“As you just reminded me, we’re up against a clock here. So unless your lens got a location fix on Freitas and Dade, then I don’t think there’s anybody else around here that we ought to be talking to.”
It sounds like a clincher for shipping out again, which is when the aromas elicit a hormone response that helps Alice dig her heels in. It’s like barbecue: frying meats and spices. The memory of her visit to NutriGen and what the “meat” might truly consist of does little to alleviate the effect. In the best tradition of peasant cuisine turning scant resources into the tastiest of dishes, she’s been told that the bars and diners on W1 have been perfecting their fare for decades. She was sceptical about this until her nose caught the first whiff.
“I’m hungry,” she says. “This is the first time I’ve had the chance to visit Mullane and I’ve heard the food’s great here. Or at least affordable. I’m on government wages, remember. Not supplemented by, you know, a second income,” she adds, leaving it hanging.
Nikki nails her with a penetrating stare, like she’s trying to look inside and see how much “Jessica” truly knows.
Her expression relaxes but doesn’t soften. It goes from intense scrutiny to a smile Alice finds just the wrong side of cruel.
“Know what? Fuck it. I could use a bite and a drink myself.”
Nikki leads Alice back along Mullane, making her way purposefully towards a place called Sin Garden. The music sounds like an assault from the second the doors open, thumping around a labyrinthine interior that seems designed to maximise the number of dark corners. Alice catches a glimpse of a dance floor somewhere beyond the maze of booths and tables, waiting staff slaloming a sweaty throng. She is instantly certain the place is in violation of its capacity restrictions, and the ambient temperature is noticeably in excess of recommended norms, with implications for both comfort and hygiene.
The smell of food is strong enough to indicate inadequate ventilation systems in the kitchen and very probably in the customer areas too. However, the principal effect of this is to precipitate a rumbling sensation in her gut, one that feels all the more pronounced as she takes note of the long queue before the hostess station. There has to be thirty people waiting for a table in the cramped and busy restaurant section.
Nikki waves towards the main bar and a man emerges from behind the gantry, bounding towards them with exaggerated geniality. He is thin but wiry, light on his feet but something dynamic in his gait. To Alice’s eyes, he could equally have been a dancer or a boxer before he ended up here, where she reckons he could probably make use of either talent. His hair is close-cropped and silver-grey, a scar down his right cheek from the temple to the jawline.
“Nikki Fixx,” he hails, holding up a hand for her to slap.
“Lo-Jack,” Nikki responds.
They are friendly but not warm, familiar but not close.
“So what kinda trouble do you ladies feel like getting into this evening?” he asks.
“Allow me to introduce Jessica Cho of the …” she begins, then lets it tail off. “Know what? Fuck it. Lo-Jack, this is Jessica. She’s my guest. I’m showing her around town, and she’s hungry.”
Lo-Jack glances momentarily into the restaurant section and gestures two waitresses towards a table whose occupants are in the process of leaving.
“No problem. Step right this way.”
He leads them past the line towards the now free table, which is already in the process of being reset. There are loud sighs and angry exclamations from people in the queue. Alice feels her cheeks burning, but Nikki doesn’t even give the impression of having heard.
One of the waitresses hands each of them a menu. Nikki gives it straight back without looking at the card or the woman proffering it, addressing the words “the usual” to Lo-Jack in a barely audible grunt.
Lo-Jack responds with a dismissive phony salute.
“I’ll just be a mo,” Nikki tells Alice. “Gotta go to the bathroom. You guys get her whatever she wants to eat and make sure she gets a mojito.”
Alice has glimpsed enough of the menu to see this cited at the top of the drinks list as the house specialty. Apart from a selection of rare malts, it is the most expensive item there, costing more than twice the priciest meal.
Lo-Jack twigs her reaction.
“Don’t sweat the prices, honey. If you’re with Nikki, it’s all on the house. Now what can I get you?”
The food reaches the table long before Nikki returns. The waitress also places down a mojito in front of Alice despite her having said she didn’t want it.
Alice sits for a few minutes staring at both meals, mindful of how she was brought up not to eat until everyone has been served, but eventually the smell, her appetite and her suspicion that Nikki is on more than a bathroom break prompts her to tuck in. She wolfs down several eager mouthfuls of what is, as Nikki de
scribed, a decent approximation of a burger. She’s certainly had worse on Earth, though she has to bear in mind that they do say hunger is the best sauce.
Meantime Nikki’s burrito lies there going cold. Alice wonders what other business she might be conducting right now, and whether it is the real reason she changed her mind in suddenly deciding to come here. Helen Petitjean had left little doubt why her nickname is Nikki Fixx, and her unsubtle efforts to forewarn everyone they had spoken to today alluded unmistakably to whatever it was she didn’t want them talking about.
Yet suddenly she had opted to bring Alice here, where she had dispensed with the warning and was flagrantly accepting gratuities from the management. What was that about? Did she think that “Jessica” accepting a free meal and a mojito was going to compromise her enough to provide some kind of leverage? If so she was very much mistaken. Alice intends to pick up the tab, laying down a marker to Nikki and to Lo-Jack.
Nikki saunters back at last, conspicuously unhurried, swaggering her way past the people in the line like she’s basking in their resentment. It’s reprehensible, and yet there is a secret part of Alice that is thrilled to witness it. She finds herself wishing she could have just a little of Nikki’s essence running through her. Alice expends so much energy worrying about staying in line, following protocols and avoiding giving offence. Wouldn’t it be cool to care just a little less? To be able to upset a bunch of strangers and not force yourself to do some kind of penance for it later?
Nikki slides into her seat and grabs the burrito with one hand, tearing at it messily with her teeth. Rice and sauce spill from her lips, trickling down her face and onto the table. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and washes down the food with a gulp of an amber liquid Alice has not been able to identify. It smells like it could be whisky, but the volume is too large for it to be a spirit, surely. Surely.
“That hit the spot?” Nikki asks, as Alice gulps down the last of her burger. “You feeling better? Less cranky maybe?”
Places in the Darkness Page 12