Panoptic

Panoptic - Chapter 10

 Soro wanted to pick out the night's intruder by passing around the camera, asking if people recognised it, and watching for shock, anger, or more subtle reactions. Arima disagreed. They could wave the camera under people's noses, yes, but what if someone asked them where they'd got it? Was he going to tell everyone about the intruder? Someone was bound to ask why he hadn't reported it to the crew.

"We'd start to look mighty suspicious," she said.

He couldn't argue with that, but he needed more than good critique. "Got a better idea?"

She had. "Everyone's sitting here watching Captain Fatpants mess around with that old magic show prop. Let's slip out, and get ready."

"For what?" he said, but she was already on her way, and if he wanted to know what she'd planned, he had to follow her.

She led him out of the restaurant, then paused, a frown marring her features.

"Your plan fall apart already?" he said.

She pouted at him. "You're mean."

"Just figure that out? Tell me what you need."

"I want to print some pictures off this camera, and paste them up outside the restaurant. Then we can..."

"Set up in a good spot and get reaction shots as they come out," he finished for her.

She nodded. "Right, but we need a printer."

He thought of the postcards he would have sent, if Sam had been able to receive them. "No problem," he said. "I've got one in my stateroom." He caught himself enjoying the word, the floaty opulent of it.

She chuckled. "We make a good team. I'm the brains. Now go. Run! I'll make sure no one leaves until you get back."

He didn't ask how she'd manage that, although it made his imagination do interesting things. He ignored it, ran as fast as he could, wishing he'd eaten a few less pancakes, and soon he was back at her side.

"Sweet kit," she said, handling his printer. They hooked it up to the Moniker, and in seconds they'd printed off a glossy, full-colour print of the woman with sad violet eyes.

"It's not very big," said Arima. "I don't even know how we'll stick it up."

He waved a packet of adhesive gum. "Here. And who said we had to print just one?"

"Great! Let's cover the whole wall opposite the doors, then we just need to pick a spot to shoot from."

As they stuck up the pictures, he thought some more. "There aren't many good spots to wait in this hall; there's the staircase over there on the right, and the gift shop on the left. As they come out, they're bound to pass by the spot, and I don't want everyone to know it's us doing this."

"We would look oddish. Okay, let's do both. Rock paper scissors."

She won, and chose the gift shop.

"Guess I'll get comfy on the stairs," he said.

They shot off to their positions, he to loiter on an upper landing of the stairwell, camera aimed at an odd but serviceable angle, she to browse the rotating stacks of key chains, fluffy pandas, picture postcards, lip gloss, butterfly earrings, and other bits of bric-a-brac sold by the gift shop.

They got in place none too soon. The other contestants began to slip out of the restaurant in twos and threes. Some missed the wall of photos opposite the doors, but one of their companions would always draw their attention to it. The reactions varied; some gasped, some laughed, several shrugged, and more than a few began to critique the quality of the picture. Surprise showed on many faces, but not the anxiety, fear, or recognition that would mark their target.