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.”
“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 practices. 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.