by David Wake
Right, I thought about tea, didn’t I?
Yes, you did, but you didn’t think any warning at me.
“So, Miss Steiger,” Braddon said. “You’ve met Chloe.”
“Yes, lovely girl,” Miss Steiger said, sipping her tea.
Chloe hung back, leaking worry about this strange being that somehow occupied space.
Who is she?
Work?
Police work?
No, secret.
Since when are there secrets!
Don’t follow my leaks… please.
How can I not, you’re in recognition range?
“Do you need milk and sugar?” Braddon asked.
“It has milk and sugar,” Steiger replied.
“Yes, I asked,” said Chloe. You only have secrets, if you’ve something to hide.
At Chloe, please. Coffee, and then he said aloud, “Coffee would be lovely, Chloe… darling.”
Chloe’s emoticon expletives were explosive.
At Chloe, I shouldn’t have said–
No, you shouldn’t!
She stomped to the kitchen, banging things to make her displeasure obvious, even though her brow output was enough to make her sentiments clear.
Sorry, sorry, he thought.
Darling, indeed. Who uses thoughts like ‘darling’ these days?
It’s natural to use old–fashioned words when talking aloud.
Crap.
Steiger arched her eyebrow again: “Or something stronger?”
She fished out a bottle in wrapping paper from her large bag.
He took it. “Thanks.”
It was whisky, Glen Longmoor, the brand Jellicoe liked and then Braddon noticed that the paper wrapping was advertising the off–licence near Jellicoe’s yacht mooring.
That can’t be accidental.
What?
Chloe… “Chloe,” he shouted through to the kitchen, “could you give us some privacy.”
What are you talking about?
“Please.”
Privacy! What the hell? Since when? This isn’t – there was a pause for a noodle – the twentieth century, you know.
She came in with his coffee.
“Thank you,” he said.
She smiled in an exaggerated fashion: My pleasure.
Don’t be sarcastic.
You’re not my mother… or Uncle Aidan.
Chloe!
She went to the guest room, trailing disapproval and then Tammy–Zing’s latest thoughts on Zak–Zak’s relationship were suddenly at the forefront of her thoughts.
Steiger took the bottle off Braddon, cracked the lid and poured a generous measure into his coffee mug.
“Do you?” said Braddon.
“Not in tea,” she replied. “But why not.”
Braddon waited: he knew there was something else he’d forgotten, but without being able to parse her thoughts, he was stumped.
“Glass?” she suggested.
“Right!” Braddon went to the kitchen.
“No milk or sugar,” she said after him.
Was that a serious comment or a joke, Braddon wondered. A joke he decided, so he lolled, and then he had to make an amused grunt for Steiger’s benefit.
He found a clean glass.
She smiled at him when he handed it to her and she poured herself a tot.
Braddon sipped, appreciating the coffee and felt the caffeine livening him up as the alcohol dulled. Both were psychosomatic as the warmth hadn’t yet hit his stomach.
He topped up his drink, filling the gap he’d made with amber liquid. Presently, he felt the safeties cut in and he nodded to Steiger.
“Yes?” she asked.
Of course, she was an unbrow and couldn’t pick up his thoughts, let alone any leaks.
“I’m not transmitting,” he said.
“I’m glad you reopened the case,” she said.
How did she know that? The thought buffered. “I had a chance to consider it over the weekend.”
“It shows merit,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She was unreadable.
They drank: his coffee and whisky, and she returned to her mug of tea.
“What’s your first move?”
“Interview his colleagues at Sentinel House.”
“You’ll need a warrant.”
“They’ll be only too keen to help the police with any enquiries.”
“Are you sure?”
“They depend on good publicity. Any bad press is likely to impact on their celebrities’ followers.”
“Do you think they really care about that?”
“Most do.”
“How do you know?”
“I followed some and noodled an analysis. I remember quite clearly that 72% have good job satisfaction and a healthy drive to improve their followers’ experience.”
“Hmm.”
“They care about revenue too,” Braddon added. “I remember all about it.”
“Remember?”
“Yes… from Noodle.”
“You won’t be able to ‘remember’ anything about Taylor’s colleagues.”
“Taylor’s colleagues?”
“On his floor, his department is somewhat special.”
“Special?”
“They’re all unadulterated.”
Braddon whistled, buffered another thought of amazement.
“Unbrows?” he asked.
“Humans, as in ‘not cyborgs’.”
“We’re not… never mind.”
“When are you going?”
“This morning when I’ve had a shower.”
She smiled, drank more tea.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said.
He got up and dug out his dressing gown, not wanting Steiger or Chloe to see him wandering around in just a towel.
At Oliver, Chloe thought, is it still here?
She’s not an ‘it’, she’s a ‘she’ – ow. Buffered.
I thought, is she still here! What am I supposed to do?
Talk to her, he thought, but the output went straight into the buffer again.
Oi! Are you there? Are you dead? Have you become a zombie too?
He grimaced, switched on the shower.
Have you been drinking?
You’re not my mother… but that buffered, and despite knowing it was pointless, he thought …or Uncle Aidan.
The stab of hot water was refreshing: it was touch and go whether he’d be sober before or afterwards.
Uncle Aidan warned me about your habits.
My habits! The thought stuck again and he spluttered, soap getting in his eyes. Letting the water wash away the stinging meant he sobered up suddenly: ‘How does she know that, she’s not an ‘it’, she’s a ‘she’ – ow. Talk to her. You’re not my mother… or Uncle Aidan’ all transmitted in a splurge.
He found something clean to wear.
As Steiger waited, Braddon poured himself another glass and tidied away the detritus. Just as he was pitching the wrapping paper into the pedal bin, he realised he’d thought about this. He noodled, remembered that it couldn’t have been accidental.
She wanted me to know, he tried, but that buffered now. He deleted it as they went to his car.
“This is nice,” Steiger said as she looked about the interior.
Braddon grunted and rubbed his sore eyes as the car pulled away.
Sentinel House was a large building, stacked like an unfinished ziggurat as it compromised between height and large roof terraces. The airy lobby had a marble floor, pristine and cream, sounding their footsteps clearly as they made their way to the distant reception.
There was a real receptionist, who smiled brightly when Braddon stepped into recognition range: Janice, who was single, liked walks and the theatre, actually turned her attention towards him.
Detective Sergeant Braddon, delighted and… oh… “Miss?” she said aloud, her voice betraying none of the anxiety of her thoughts.
“We’r
e here to see Mister Mantle,” Braddon said, taking out his identity card. Janice glanced at the TR code, obviously noodled his identity and verified his thought processes. The latter was the test: IDs were only souvenirs.
“I’m Steiger,” said Steiger. She fished out a business card from her oversized bag and handed it over.
Janice’s emoticons were perplexed. “Delighted.” What am I supposed to do with this useless thing?
After he’d put away his identity card, Braddon pulled his out his copy of Steiger’s business card from his breast pocket: Snap.
Janice lolled: Mister Mantle is expecting you, Detective Sergeant.
Thank you.
Braddon knew this wasn’t true. He’d been following the man’s thoughts since they’d set off. Mantle had only thought about business acquisitions in the Far East and the latest Cerebral Celebrity campaign – he’d forgotten about Braddon completely.
Arrangements have been made, Janice thought in reply to Braddon’s leak. She turned to Steiger and enunciated clearly, “Mister Mantle. He will see the Detective Sergeant. Now. Understand?”
Braddon went over to the lifts, nodding to the bored security guard.
Steiger followed.
“Not you, Miss…” – Janice glanced down at the business card – “Steiger.” Oh, it is useful.
“I’m with the Detective Sergeant,” Steiger replied.
“But you’re not police,” Janice insisted. “Unbrows aren’t allowed, I’m afraid, Mister Mantle’s orders.”
“That’s discrimination,” Miss Steiger said.
“It’s company policy ever since the Saint Stephens attack, quite allowable in the circumstances.”
“Unbrows are not terrorists.”
“We know you aren’t all terrorists, Miss,” Janice said, and Braddon picked up her underlying thought: …but we don’t know which of you are.
“Steiger,” said Braddon. “I can manage.”
Steiger’s expression was unreadable, tightened around the jaw perhaps, but, without any thoughts to follow, her face was like a mask.
“There’s a lounge. Miss. Over there. With some video games,” the receptionist said sweetly. She over–pronounced the last two words as if it somehow stifled her amusement.
If Miss Steiger picked this up, it wasn’t obvious as the Agent turned smartly and marched over towards this lounge. The receptionist thought it typical: her seven–year–old nephew played video games, pinging away animated blocks of colour and dribbling. He’d be a big boy next autumn, his brow installed, hopefully with an app to sort out his behavioural issues, and wouldn’t her sister, Tammy, be proud of her little brother.
The lift pinged a thought: 34th floor and descending.
These things could easily monitor the lobby, notice arrivals and predict movement, so making people wait was part of some power game.
That’s right, Detective, come on up.
It was Mantle himself, reminded by the receptionist, no doubt, who intruded on Braddon’s thoughts. He hadn’t disagreed with the observation about power games.
No indeed.
On my way up, Mister Mantle, Braddon thought.
He glanced back at the wide desk, the woman herself just beyond recognition range smiled as she followed someone’s train of thought. Steiger was in the video lounge, either playing a game or doing nothing. Perhaps unbrows, when you couldn’t see them, switched off.
The lift pinged audibly as it arrived; opened and closed again quickly, knowing he’d stepped inside. The games were over – it was sleek efficiency from here on up.
A speaker crackled into life, “Going up.”
Lifts that made sounds were perhaps a sign of unbrows. It’s didn’t speak again until, “Floor twenty–nine” which it repeated in thought.
Not the top then.
Of course not, Detective, I entertain on this floor and my private suites are above us.
All very medieval.
Oh hardly, all very hierarchical. I am a powerful man and powerful men are expected to put on a show. I followed that once from an editor guru. People expect a certain theatricality.
I’m sure.
It was always the same: Chief Superintendent Freya’s office was down a long, carpeted corridor guarded by a PA.
Precisely, but you yourself are prone to such displays, Mantle thought. A detective making an actual house call.
You have me there, Braddon thought as he came out into a wide lounge, complete with sofas arranged around low, coffee tables. The high ceiling sported hanging light fittings that appeared to be constructed from giant steel blades. It was empty, except for a thin man wearing a tailored far eastern suit with the collar done up around his neck.
Please – he thought, holding out his palm – that’s far enough.
Braddon stopped. He wished Steiger had been with him as he needed someone who knew what was going on.
Unbrows are forbidden on the upper storeys, security, and all quite legal.
Anti–terrorism trumps discrimination.
Precisely.
The man indicated to one side and Braddon saw a low table had been set with a coffee pot and a cup. He sat, wondering how to refuse when he smelt the heady aroma of freshly ground Hasqueth Finest.
Sit, enjoy.
Braddon sat.
The man came closer but stayed just outside recognition range. Why would he do that when Braddon was already following him in the Thinkersphere? The man was probably afraid of germs.
I just like to keep my distance, Mantle thought responding to Braddon’s leak. So, what is this about?
Josh Taylor.
Josh…
One of your employees.
Ah, Josh. A tragedy.
What did he do here?
Haven’t you noodled it?
Special Services Engineer could be anything.
You think we used the word ‘special’, because he was an unbrow?
Did you?
He was an engineer of services that were special.
And that means… this is a game.
Mantle smiled: Yes, one I’m winning.
Do you know any reason why he’d want to commit suicide?
No, nothing we know of, but unbrows lead such isolated lives and any such thoughts are hidden from us. As I thought earlier, a tragedy. Mantle, clearly a precise man, included the link to his earlier thought: Ah, Josh. A tragedy.
Do you know of any reason why anyone might want to kill him?
Kill him? Mantle stepped back and looked shocked.
Why are you surprised by the question, Braddon thought, if you’ve followed me?
It’s the shock of it being thought so directly.
Well, anyone?
I don’t think so… no… not at all, except…
Except?
I’m successful, it makes people jealous, but wait, nobody was on the bridge… yes, that’s right, I remember now. No–one. Noodle is quite clear.
No–one with a brow, sir, but what about unbrows?
There? How?
Taylor was there.
Yes, but that’s ridiculous.
Are there any other unbrows employed here?
Yes, but they couldn’t reach the bridge. I can see it from here. Mantle, startled slightly, stepped towards the window, but not close enough to see down from it.
Braddon glanced over, but this high up all he could see where the distant hills and the sky. The bridge was well below his field of vision.
Please look for yourself, Mantle insisted as he backed away.
Braddon went over, stared downwards expecting a vertiginous drop, but only four storeys down there were gardens.
The Suites, Mantle explained, where our wonderful celebrities live.
That would be rethought, Braddon knew, liked and shared.
Sentinel House, an irregular stepped pyramid, had a number of levels of carefully landscaped gardens. This was the largest. About three–quarters of the way up most of the ziggurat ended its asce
nt in favour of this flat garden paradise. Only Reuben Mantle’s personal offices and penthouse overlooked the open courtyard surrounded by beautiful apartments, a piazza constructed on the roof complete with bar and restaurant, shops and a gym.
The thick wall around the piazza was the roof of the Suites themselves dotted with light wells and expansive skylight windows. These were the apartments for the famous, each bulging with designer wear and fabulous must–haves.
Here Mantle’s celebrities lived and played and thought.
Seeing it for the first time, he saw that it was different from his memories. It was still beautiful, but he was merely an outside observer. Through the Thinkerfeeds of the cerebrities themselves, he had been part of it, and the way they thought about it made it personal and special.
Figures ran across the perfectly manicured lawn. Braddon wondered who they were.
Lola_Five and Ellen–Zellen… oh, look, Tammy–Zing herself.
Braddon counted three too, but at this distance he couldn’t tell them apart. He followed Tammy–Zing and Lola_Five to gain a sense of trees, peace and calm. Five minutes ago, she’d glanced at the glass wall and thought about the reflection of the morning sky. She was happy, the cake she’d been explaining how to bake was rising in the oven, the smell so delicious and all the ingredients are available from Frems’ Delicatessen Range, a division of Mantle Enterprises. None of the celebrities thought about anyone looking down on them, but then millions of people followed their thoughts, shared their experiences and lived their lives, so one pair of eyes watching was nothing.
Isn’t it wonderful, Mantle thought. The man still hadn’t come over to enjoy the view and despite leaking pride, he stayed at the far side of the room outside recognition range.
Yes, Braddon agreed. Do your other employees enjoy this luxury?
No, only the virtuous, but like everyone they can enjoy our celebrities’ lives via their Thinkerfeeds.
All for free.
Of course.
Except for the product placement.
Of course.
Do those in Special Services work there?
No, they are on the twenty–seventh floor.
Braddon glanced at his feet: two storeys down, but higher in the pecking order than the famous cerebral celebrities themselves. Higher than even Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak.
Closer to me, Mantle thought, clearly following Braddon carefully.
How many unbrows work for you?
Six… sorry, five… but they can’t reach the waste ground or the bridge – our security is very thorough.