Atcode

by David Wake

  “Why not.”

  “The machine’s just doing its job,” Jellicoe said.

  “Just following orders?”

  “That’s all they can do.”

  Braddon had been revolted by the idea of a fried breakfast, his body still sweating beer and whisky, but now he couldn’t get enough. Jellicoe served the black pudding with fried bread, a welcome change from toast even though the only difference was the covering of grease over the uneven cooking. Braddon wolfed it down.

  Your business is important to us: would you like to complete a short survey?

  No, I would not, Braddon thought back. Stupid thing.

  On deck, Braddon and Jellicoe shook hands.

  “It’s been great,” Braddon said. Yes, he thought, it has.

  “My pleasure. Not too cramped?”

  “I slept fine,” Braddon lied. Jellicoe’s expression didn’t change, so either the old man wasn’t following him or Braddon wasn’t leaking thoughts. He’d never been able to tell if the Inspector followed him or not – a bloody irritating trait.

  The older man picked a length of rope off the deck and began to tidy it away. “Would you do something for me?” Jellicoe asked.

  “Sure,” Braddon said, reaching to take the rope, but Jellicoe didn’t hand it over.

  “A favour.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “You see… my niece is coming to the city,” Jellicoe said, his hand still looping the rope. “She’s interested in celebrities – did a thought course or something. I just don’t want her to be involved in all that fakery. She should have a life.”

  “I see.”

  “So… would you look after her? Just until she’s settled. The youth of today–”

  “The youth of today!”

  “The younger generation.”

  “I’m not that old.”

  “You look it.”

  “It’s the kilometres.”

  “Anyway, they… her age, head in the thought cloud, missing what’s going on around them.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “She shouldn’t live out another’s life, she should have her own.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’d like someone I can trust to, you know.”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  “Would you, for old times’ sake?”

  “Old times?” You cunning swine. “Sure.”

  “I’ll think a link.”

  “You! Think a link?”

  “When my breakfast of champions is over?”

  “But in return,” Braddon said, “you find out what you can about Mantle and Taylor, that was the victim’s–”

  “Victim?”

  “Suicide’s… dead man’s name. Josh Taylor with a ‘Y’.”

  Jellicoe paused, tilted his head as if thinking, but Braddon knew he wasn’t connected, his breakfast of champions meant his safeties were still on, but even so, he felt that itching desire to follow the man.

  “Why don’t you noodle it?” Jellicoe said.

  “Because, Inspector, Noodle didn’t return any results.”

  “So, the old times had something then?”

  Old times, Braddon thought, shaking his head. There weren’t informants anymore for old–style coppers to exchange a packet of fags and a few readies for the word on the street. For one thing, the ‘grass’ would give themselves away with their thoughts, but for another, why bother? If the modern police force wants to know what Mister Big was up to, they’d simply follow the man himself.

  Braddon realised that Jellicoe was still considering whether to reciprocate. “Come on,” he chided.

  “All right,” Jellicoe replied, “I’ll see what the old boy network has to offer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And don’t forget Chloe.”

  “Chloe?”

  “My niece, Monday.”

  “Chloe? Right. I won’t forget.”

  “Remember it.”

  Set reminder: Chloe, Monday, Braddon thought, “Done.”

  “Good, just don’t forget.”

  How can I forget? It’s in the Thinkersphere. “I won’t.”

  It wasn’t until Braddon was halfway up the wharf on his way back to his car that he realised he’d folded too early. A little information was scant reward for looking after some brat of a teenager.

  I’ve been had, he thought.

  He thought about home and his car decided the best route. Braddon let it drive. While it did, Braddon listened to music, the playlist cycling through his favourites depending upon his leaked reactions. It had learnt his tastes and never played a song he didn’t like. His mind wandered, enjoying the thoughts of others as the unnoticed landscape flickered past the window, one place after another, one song after another.

  If someone jumped off a bridge in front of him, then the car would realise and brake.

  Unless they were an unbrow and then the car would have to rely on hazard detection.

  Unbrows committed suicide all the time: they were isolated. They were called zombies, after all, as they were already dead behind the forehead, so it seemed a natural step.

  Everyone had a brow installed: everyone.

  So, how could Taylor not have one?

  Or Steiger?

  It was medical, always medical.

  By the time his car nosed up to the charging point, Braddon was bored with his music. There never seemed to be anything new in the vast quantity of choice.

  The car thought 24% charging, when he plugged it in.

  Without realising, he checked himself and remembered he was down to 15%. He’d have to put his charger on and–

  A scream!

  Jerked back to reality, he realised it had been a happy sound.

  Three children were playing in the street like some scene from the last century. They’d chalked squares onto the paving slabs and marked them with numbers, symbols that snaked along inside the pattern.

  Braddon gazed at them and noodled: he remembered hopscotch was a game. If he’d ever played it himself, there was no record in his Thinkerfeed.

  A girl jumped from one square to the next landing upon the numbers in turn. She stopped and bent down. For a moment, Braddon expected her to change the numeral, rub out the ‘5’ and write another symbol, but she was picking up a stone.

  She gave it to a small boy, maybe five or six, who took his turn, tossing the stone carefully and then bouncing up and down in excitement.

  The eldest, a boy of perhaps eight, leant against a wall with the far–away expression of a grown–up.

  Braddon was so used to seeing children with smooth foreheads. It was a sign of maturity to have that raised square, that third eye with its unbelievable sense beyond anything vision could do. Anyone with a brow could ‘see’ the sum total of human knowledge, the thoughts of anyone in any part of the world, remember with unerring accuracy events years ago and examine their own thought processes with forensic precision.

  Superficially though, it looked like the older lad was missing out on his childhood, but, of course, he wasn’t.

  The other two children were the proper youngsters, browless and unconnected: innocents.

  Their game went on.

  The middle child took her turn and then the young boy again. When the eldest came into recognition range, Braddon understood his frustration at having to look after his brother and sister: there were celebrities to follow and these brats were stupid – it’s not fair, it’s not fair….

  It’s never fair, Braddon thought.

  Piss off, tepee.

  Oi, Braddon thought. He imagined the kid didn’t even know the origin of the insult: tepee, ‘thought police’.

  Orwell, 1984, the kid thought – Braddon recognized him as Samuel – and he clearly picked up on Braddon’s leaks. Got a brow now, Series 7 and you’re stuck with a stupid 5.

  The Series 7 is out!

  Yea. Dumbass.

  Just because you can transmit faster, doesn’t make your tho
ughts worth following.

  You’re following me, tepee.

  Braddon ignored him and went into his apartment block, nicely air–conditioned and beyond recognition range of any Samuels. He checked his itinerary, noodling for that and the weather. He remembered that the afternoon would be overcast, top temperature 14 degrees.

  Once indoors, after he’d hung up his jacket, he caught sight of himself in the hall mirror, a dark shape staring back at him, thoughtlessly like an unbrow. The idea gave him the creeps.

  He fetched a beer, properly cold from a working fridge, and slipped his charger band on his head. He felt a flood of relief as his iBrow started recharging and the beer was good too.

  He went to his balcony.

  A woman was shouting at Samuel and the little girl was bawling her head off.

  “I didn’t hit her,” Samuel shouted aloud, clearly not used to his brand–new Series 7 yet. Or was the childish denial audible while the adult defence was over recognition?

  “Yes, you did,” his mother yelled.

  Braddon lolled: she wasn’t used to having a child with a brow.

  “She’s lying,” the lad insisted.

  “I can follow your thoughts, Samuel.”

  The interface between brows and unbrows was always tricky. Who’d bring up children? Mind you, from Samuel’s appearance, the unbrow years were getting fewer, but it would still be like being in B–Division patrolling Chinatown or Duxton. That was worse than traffic. Unbrows were always paranoid that everyone was exchanging thoughts behind their backs – which was true – and they couldn’t express themselves properly, so it tended to turn to violence.

  Their thoughtlessness marked them out as zombies, sub–humans… things.

  Unbrows with secrets.

  Like Steiger, the spy.

  Oh come on, Braddon thought: Secrets in this day and age.

  His safeties cut in with the drink and just then, with impeccable timing, Jellicoe’s thought arrived.

  At Braddon and at Chloe, the train is tomorrow, Monday. My niece, Chloe, is arriving at 12:05, #journey_95029.

  At Uncle and at Braddon, I’ll catch it, don’t worry.

  I do worry, Chloe, and at Braddon, you’re not replying.

  Braddon shrugged, entirely to himself.

  At Braddon, drinking again?

  Braddon considered the empty bottle: Good idea, he thought, but it buffered.

  Below in the street, the kid screamed as his mother dragged him away.

  “Not fair, not fair…”

  So much for the Series 7.

  The other two children followed quietly, but the sister smirked, her own bawling suddenly over. It was a knowing emoticon smiley of an expression, but who knew what she was really thinking.

  MONDAY

  Chloe, Monday, Braddon remembered the moment he woke up, and he thought, Oh God, it’s Monday.

  Braddon didn’t check into the police station, but instead went straight to the Lamp. Templeton and Stevens were on the door as usual. As Braddon walked in, he thought about a beer and the landlord, Zeeman, had the pint on the bar before Braddon had crossed the carpet. Braddon leaned forward, felt the buzz and opened a tab to reckon later with the till.

  Jellicoe’s booth was empty.

  Of course it was; he’d retired. Braddon was now his heir apparent.

  F–Division had been quiet recently, the need for these odd ‘let’s keep them away from any visitors’ departments fading away as modern technology made solving crime easier and easier. A quick search on Noodle and the investigating officer remembered any thoughts associated with a crime: who’d done it, why and all the details. Since thoughts were admissible in court that was usually ‘job done’.

  Except for unbrows jumping off bridges.

  Braddon slipped across on the side that Jellicoe used to sit. The red leather squeaked. It gave a good view of the door. Braddon had sat the other side when he’d been here as the Inspector’s pupil. He hadn’t thought of it like that back then; instead, he’d looked at the Inspector as a dinosaur.

  Might as well get the reports out of the way, he thought.

  Braddon took the tiniest of sips, enough to taste the ale, but not enough for his iBrow to detect.

  At Sanghera, what do we have on the bridge jumper?

  Well… it’s the DS I must reply… nothing really. Death by trauma, no drugs, nothing suspicious from the autopsy, just that odd memory issue.

  Memory issue?

  Just parse the third driver again, sixth thought down the report extract.

  Give me a moment.

  Braddon noodled the police report and remembered the third driver: shape on the bridge, falling, car braking, impact, hazard warnings, shape on the bridge, further braking, hazards and then some thoughts about stopping, the delay this would cause him, and then the hysterical woman. It wasn’t your fault.

  I see, Braddon thought to DC Sanghera, he saw a shape on the bridge twice.

  Or two shapes, one after the other?

  Could be.

  The man had been calm, an accountant with responsibilities to sign off end–of–month reports and salaries, and so he oozed precision and accuracy. The second driver, the one trying to speed in the Tiger Fire, had remembered things in the wrong order, an effect of stress and the way the brain functions. No matter how powerful and clever an iBrow might be, it could only record and transmit thoughts in the order the synapses delivered them.

  The third driver hadn’t noted any discrepancy, he hadn’t thought there was another person on the bridge, but he’d been distracted by the Tiger Fire’s driving, then all the hazard warning lights and automatic braking, and finally by the hysterical woman.

  The Tiger Fire hadn’t stopped: traffic had issued a ticket.

  Thank you, Braddon thought at Sanghera.

  You’re welcome. Anything else?

  Braddon pondered: Not at the moment.

  I’ll get back to… this.

  DC Stanton is a ‘she’, not a ‘this’.

  Oh you… yes, Detective Sergeant.

  Braddon supped his beer, smiled at Sanghera’s leak. Flirting was an art, the ‘will they, won’t they’ rather clear if you parsed their thoughts, but for the people involved, if it was done too early, it was seen as pushy or needy.

  Two shapes on the bridge?

  Braddon set up a few hours thinking on SocialSwing, CogniCache and Brainstorm with Notion to collect those thoughts he’d have to rethink later. He didn’t need to as he had overtime to take back.

  Time for some proper work, he thought as he took a proper gulp of beer and his safeties cut in.

  He had a notebook and pen.

  The Lamp was the pub favoured by those police in F–Division and they were well used to the ‘maverick’ cops and their bizarre ways, alcohol to shut off their iBrows and real paper for their ‘paperwork’, all strange quirks to be sure. However, they chased criminals who followed the police and so they had to be secretive.

  Only those with something to hide have secrets, Braddon thought, but it buffered.

  Sure, these doodling notes would eventually leak from Braddon’s thoughts when he reconnected, but only as disorganised fragments that made little sense. If someone searched them on Noodle they could be traced and pieced together: noodle the noodles.

  Most crimes were spur of the moment and the perpetrators always gave themselves away worrying about it afterwards. Pre–meditated crime was rarer and even easier to investigate, and many criminals were arrested for planned offences: attempted murder, attempted fraud, attempted tax evasion. Thoughts were admissible in court. Tepees indeed.

  B–Division’s precinct was the unbrow ghettos, mostly hi–visibility patrols, but thoughtless crime stayed mainly put. Unbrows were territorial. They rarely strayed out–of–bounds when – what was that expression? – ‘we are all CCTV’. He noodled what ‘CCTV’ meant and remembered the cameras. They still existed in some places on quaint listed buildings.

  Braddon wa
s in F–Division: crimes that weren’t solved with a straightforward noodle.

  Was this one of those?

  Braddon wrote: ‘taylor, bridge, second shape, Mantle’ and then ‘Steiger’.

  A second person on the bridge or not, Steiger’s involvement was a mystery that made little sense.

  Could there still be a mythical secret service?

  Apparently, according to conspiracy theorists, the Americans had whole towns of unbrows trained in all sorts of black ops, China had a province with a separate Thinkersphere and there was a village in Wales – if you believed the thoughts of the more paranoid feeds.

  But how could the Pentagon order a black op, Beijing move someone from an intrathink to the interthink without anyone noticing and there weren’t enough unbrows in the country to fill a hamlet.

  Braddon underlined ‘Taylor’.

  He was wrong. There were plenty of unbrows, he realised, whole ghettos, residential homes and asylums full of them. They were just invisible: out of thought, out of mind.

  His hand ached and he flexed his fingers. When was the last time he’d had to do this? There hadn’t been such a case in a while and his pen gave him cramp far too quickly.

  If not suicide, then… and bumping one unbrow off seemed rather pointless.

  But his boss, Mantle, was one of the richest men in the world.

  Money was always a motive.

  He shook his head: no–one could put a motive into operation without revealing their intentions.

  Unbrows were rightly treated with suspicion – you only wanted privacy if you had something to hide – so they could never do anything, watched as they were by the camera in everyone’s head.

  Braddon took another slurp of beer.

  The answer, if there was one, would be in Sentinel House, where the victim, if he was one, had worked and where Reuben Mantle stayed some days out of others.

  Why here?

  Don’t forget my niece.

  Jellicoe: actually using thought – Braddon noodled the time – and this well after the sun had risen over the yardarm. Or was the man autothinking from CogniCache or something? Braddon had prepared a reminder, hadn’t he, so there was no need for Jellicoe to pester him. Even so, Braddon knocked a fair amount of beer down in readiness to leave.

  The London Stock Exchange was physically in the country, but you could deal by thought and all electronic currency was safe in the cloud, so Mantle could live anywhere, so why not here? Money still seemed a likely motive and–