by David Wake
Taylor reached the waste ground – he noodled the map and remembered the waste ground before the field, gully and bridge – despite your security.
Yes, but… then Entwhistle… no, impossible. They are all loyal, very loyal and we are very careful here.
Entwhistle?
He runs the unbrows and the… not… Cage – damn – he supervises the Special Services Department.
I’d like to meet him too.
Quite impossible.
It’s a police investigation.
Special Services is confidential.
I beg your pardon: confidential?
We are a successful global company because we maintain a certain discretion.
Braddon couldn’t suppress his incredulity: Discretion? Confidentiality? Secrecy? In this day and age?
Yes, Detective Sergeant, all the more reason to keep certain matters hidden… that is to say, obscure from other more unscrupulous businesses.
Mantle raised his finger as if to emphasise the point he’d already made. Braddon wondered if he was going to mime disliking it too, thumbs down to unscrupulous business practices.
Except he’d thought ‘more unscrupulous’, Braddon thought.
So, the man admitted that his business practices weren’t exactly above board.
Mantle nodded: Business is business.
That excuses underhand practises, does it?
People like effective businessmen, they look up to us, they want to be like us, successful, and they admire sharp practice.
A man has died.
An unbrow, yes.
There is the possibility he was murdered.
Only a possibility and a rather remote one. It’s just the government being mother hens, that’s all.
I saw–
You saw nothing, you weren’t there. This is all secondhand.
Hardly.
A witness was confused, that’s all.
Even so… What can you tell me about Taylor?
Fine man, lonely, but he was an asset and he’ll be missed, thought Mantle and then he hung his head, dejected.
Braddon wondered: you have a thought and it appears to wing its way across the space between you and the person, but as they were beyond recognition range, then the message would have to go to a radio receiver, thence into the network before it came back to the same base station and finally to Braddon’s iBrow. There was a delay.
Mantle’s actions seemed occasionally out of step.
We all think faster these days, Mantle thought, responding to Braddon’s leaked musings.
Braddon waved his arm suddenly.
Mantle almost responded, his right arm twitched slightly, but there was no thought, leaked or otherwise, to show that he’d seen Braddon’s bizarre action.
He’s not Mantle, Braddon realised.
I am, Mantle thought, but then, with the lack of reaction from the man in front, he added: No, I am not.
The man hung his head, apparently in shame.
So, this man, just beyond recognition range, was miming to Mantle’s thoughts. He must be…
Braddon looked at the metal hangings sharply jutting down from the high ceiling.
The thirty–eighth floor, Mantle thought, it must have been a leak. He was following this stand–in, a puppet master tugging the strings, and so long as–
The other man backed away suddenly, reaching for a metal door handle.
He’s quick, Braddon thought, I hadn’t even formed that idea properly.
Many try, Mantle thought.
The stand–in stood poised to flee through a door. His usefulness only lasted while he was unrecognised: if Braddon could follow his thoughts, then this barrier between Mantle and himself was diminished.
The stand–in smiled as clearly as if Braddon could read the emoticon at the end of his thought.
I have my privacy, Mantle thought.
Privacy!
The idea was ludicrous.
“I’m a police officer,” said Braddon aloud.
The stand–in looked perplexed, frowning as if his brow was making the expression as it passed on what Braddon was doing.
He’s what!?
“Talking aloud,” said Braddon in reply. The act of forming spoken words cancelling the process of thinking.
The other man actually put his hand to his forehead.
I can’t follow him, Mantle thought.
Braddon stepped smartly forward, covering the distance in the time it took the stand–in to pull his attention away from his employer’s thoughts to realise and react. He was in recognition range and so…
It was Emile Larson, once an actor and still working to a script thought up by others, but now ironically called a ‘spokesperson’.
“Tell Mister Mantle,” Braddon said, again insisting on pulling this man’s attention all over the place, “that I’ll see him now.”
“Mister Mantle…” he stuttered the words, unfamiliar with speaking aloud – a ‘spokesperson’ indeed – “…sees no–one.”
“Police.”
“He says…” …he’s insisting, police business, he’s very tall.
“I am…” said Braddon, enjoying the moment as he towered over this weedy, unmasked fake, “…insisting.”
Emile Larson’s thoughts with all their leaked timidity came over the short distance clearly. The difference between Mantle’s focus and this man’s confusion was stark. How had he been taken in?
But you were, Mantle thought down to him from his high tower.
“Yes, I was,” Braddon admitted. Now, perhaps we can dispense with games and talk properly.
“Don’t talk aloud, Mister Mantle does not allow talking aloud,” Larson insisted, a certain underdog defiance creeping into his thoughts. “Even I’m not allowed to talk aloud.”
Braddon, you need a warrant.
I’ll get a warrant.
I have lawyers.
You have public relations. Do you want to be seen resisting due legal process?
Mister Larson, see this man to the door.
“Sir!” Sorry, I mean ‘Sir’, yes.
Larson scooted across the carpet, carefully keeping a sofa, or some other furniture, between him and Braddon, until he had to wait by the lift. He made a point of pressing the button, a ludicrously quaint gesture.
Floor 29, going down, the lift thought.
Mantle was impatient: Has he gone?
“Bye,” Braddon said.
“Bye,” said Larson. He’s going… he’s in the lift.
There was a panel of buttons. As the lift door closed, Braddon, alert to the possibility of buttons, checked, but floors 30 to 45 needed a key.
Going down, the lift thought.
Braddon’s stomach lurched as the metal box dropped quickly.
Down in the lobby, Steiger was exercising her long legs by hammering the marble with her heels as she paced back and forth. The receptionist was in a dark mood of angry emoticons. Steiger seemed to have that effect on people.
Yes, she does, Janice thought.
Braddon glanced across to the receptionist, his leaked emoticons already giving her their support.
Steiger came over. “Braddon?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him?”
“We had a meeting.”
“In person?”
“No, I need a warrant.”
“I did tell you.”
Did you? – but she didn’t have a thought feed, so he couldn’t check.
“Will you?” she asked.
“I’ll get a warrant.”
It was a long walk to the car.
Braddon seethed, alternatively grateful that Steiger wasn’t aware of his fury, and angry that she wasn’t. His followers loved it, egging him on with various comments as his life became their entertainment.
But then a new thought about Tammy–Zing went viral and Braddon was old news, the followers dropping away.
They sat in the car, Braddon thinking more about what to
do next rather than any start command.
“The man is paranoid,” Steiger said. It seemed a flat statement: all her words seemed that way, devoid of thoughts and associated emoticons.
“Hmm.”
“That it?”
Braddon shrugged.
“He employs a gang of unbrows–”
“Like you?”
“Not like me. He has a Faraday cage…”
That’s illegal.
“…which is… Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not playing some thought game.”
“No. Here, now. Cages are illegal, Communications Act of–”
“It isn’t. Special dispensation for services rendered.”
“Rendered to who?”
“Rendered to whom.”
“Yes, but what services?”
It was Steiger’s turn to shrug.
“There’s the security service. Was it your lot?”
“I wouldn’t be at liberty, but no,” Steiger said. “He did a deal with some politician to make sure all his pet celebrities thought nice things about them for the election.”
“That doesn’t happen.”
“That happened.”
“Really?”
“Many times and in many countries,” Steiger said. “He’s a hawk preying on doves.”
“Perhaps democracy has had its day and we should have a thinkocracy.”
“Everyone debates everything and votes on every law?”
“That’s it.”
“You’d deny me the right to vote then.”
“Of course not, you… oh, right.”
“So, a ‘brave new’ browocracy.”
“Consensus politics. Why not?”
“Some celebrity thinks wonderful thoughts and you all buy like sheep.”
“Not like sheep.”
Steiger made a ‘baaa–baaa’ noise.
Braddon decided he couldn’t cope with this zombie. He needed a coffee.
Hasqueth Finest is available on special offer.
He could do without the spam too.
“Can I drop you off somewhere?”
“You’re not inviting me back to the office.”
“No.”
“Or your apartment?”
“I’ve work to do.”
“Don’t you just think about work and it’s magically done for you?”
“No.” On that point, Braddon thought at Desk Sergeant Draith and copied it at Chief Superintendent Freya Turner: I need a warrant to question Mantle and interview his employees.
He didn’t help out to avoid publicity then?
No, Draith, he didn’t.
I’ll put Max on it, Freya thought back.
At Freya, thanks.
Who do you want to interview?
Mantle himself and… – Braddon tracked back through his thoughts – some bloke in charge of Special Services, Entwhistle, and the rest of them in that department… hell, all of them.
Freya was thankfully amused: OK, at Max, sort it out and a coffee, please.
“Are you just going to sit there doing nothing?” Steiger asked.
I’m working, Braddon thought. “Where can I drop you?”
“I’ll get a cab,” she said. She opened the door and clambered out.
How? Then Braddon realised. “How?”
However, she was already walking back towards Sentinel House.
Janice was not going to be pleased and a moment later, he knew she wasn’t. Braddon lolled, felt guilty and stopped following the receptionist. He’d gathered the gist anyway.
At Braddon, Jellicoe thought, it appears that Mantle has gaps in his Thinkerfeed.
Braddon was somewhat amazed to receive an actual thought from his old mentor.
Less of the old.
At Jellicoe, sorry. But gaps? We all have gaps in our memories, Braddon thought, realising that he and the Inspector probably had more than most.
Not like ours, ours have reasons, his are just… gaps.
OK, I’ll check it out, he thought and noodled straight away.
Thanks for looking after Chloe. You’re a good… pah–pah, pah, pah…
Good what, Braddon thought, knowing the old police trick of trying to distract yourself with a rhyme.
Jellicoe was silent.
Booze, no doubt, and then Braddon remembered that Mantle did indeed have gaps in his Thinkerfeed without any associated leakage. Braddon had gaps, but then he also had thoughts about drinking and sobering up afterwards, so these were explainable.
Mantle’s were not.
An interesting snippet from Jellicoe’s old boy network, indeed.
And there were conspiracy theories ranging from Mantle being dead and replaced by a clone, and so on all the way to regular alien abduction.
How could there be conspiracy theories in an age without secrets?
A taxi appeared and he saw Miss Steiger leave the building, get in and then be whisked away.
Braddon watched her go: Are you even aware that I’m still here?
Still where?
Braddon wasn’t sure who, or even how many, thought that at him. Of course, there was no reaction from Steiger herself.
He noodled and remembered the layout of the area, Sentinel House, the carpark, the waste ground, and path to the gully and the bridge.
Taylor must have left the building somehow and walked down along that path – it was the only route.
Braddon got out and made his way around the car park towards the back of the building and the waste ground.
He arrived at a heavy–duty fence with a large turnstile designed to let one person through at a time.
He thought at it when he got within range, but it steadfastly refused to answer. When he reached it, he saw that it was button operated. It reminded him of the lift inside Sentinel House and in the police station, except that the security gate had a single button – he pressed it?
A speaker buzzed: “What?”
“I’d like to leave,” Braddon said aloud.
“Who are you?”
“Detective Sergeant Braddon.”
“No–one comes in without a pass.”
“I’m a police officer and I’m trying to leave.”
“Oh.”
There was a whirr and a box mounted on top the turnstile rotated and then looked down: it was a CCTV camera. Braddon stared up at it and it stared back, emotionless, not unlike Steiger and the little boy and girl who’d played hopscotch.
“OK,” the intercom barked.
The metal gate clunked loudly and jerked as the locks disengaged.
Braddon pushed and it moved, but then he hesitated: How do I get back in?
There was no reply, so he pressed the button again.
“Now what?”
“How do I get back in?”
“You don’t without a pass.”
“How do I get a pass?”
“Reception, see reception.”
“How do I get to reception without a pass?”
“You… oh for…”
“My car is in the carpark, I had an appointment, I need to… go that way and then come back.”
“You can’t without a pass.”
Braddon stepped back, took out his ceremonial police warrant card and held it up to the camera.
“Oh, right, police… OK.”
Braddon went back to the intercom. “You can follow me… unless you’re an unbrow.”
“I’m not a zombie.”
“Neither am I. Can’t we be more civilised about this?”
“Who are you again?”
“Detective Sergeant Braddon, Oliver Braddon.”
“OK.”
Braddon waited.
He could hear a dog barking distantly and the mush of car noise. Over there, somewhere, was the bridge and motorway.
This security has been designed for unbrows, Braddon thought.
Yeah, it has, at Braddon, you go through, I’ve read y
our Thinkerfeed and I see your point. After the waste ground, there are two paths, take the second, they both go to the bridge, but it’s less muddy. Sir.
Braddon checked: it was Felton, a security guard, who worked at Sentinel House and had a complicated relationship status. He liked model aircraft and was currently building an Avro Vulcan B2 XL321.
Much better, Braddon thought at him, thanks.
Braddon pushed the metal barrier around and squeezed through.
Watch out for the dog shit.
Thanks again.
The waste ground was quite scrappy with a ridge along one side. There was litter in the brambles and bushes, plastic bottles and bits of paper. He could have noodled a list of those with guilty thoughts about breaking the littering laws, but it wasn’t his department.
Unless they were zombies.
There were two paths where the grass had worn to hard soil and Braddon took the second along. It wasn’t muddy and it went beside a storm drain filled with rubbish, rubble and vegetation. It was a long time since any water had flowed along it.
There was a distant sound like water: passing cars.
He crossed another rough path that went along an embankment – there was the motorway – and twenty metres further was the bridge.
After checking the witness thought streams, Braddon identified where Taylor had been standing. The same spot Braddon himself had stood only four days ago and he went there again to perch above the central lane of the northbound carriageway.
The only signs that anything had happened were a couple of traffic cones knocked into the verge. There wasn’t a chalk outline and certainly, no poignant display of flowers, there wouldn’t be for someone with no friends as an unbrow was, by definition.
He looked down from the bridge, the cars rushed by and he recognized each driver and any passengers for the fleeting moment that they came into range.
Above, and to his right, was Sentinel House. As the evening was coming on, its various levels lit up, or not, depending on the activity inside. As the company did business, various lights switched on, others switched off. It would be like some great computer system, the blinking indicating actual processing as the various components in the building, brow and unbrow, shuffled information.
The building calculated.
It wasn’t human deliberation.
From up there, its influence stretched like spider threads across the world. In return, flicking like Christmas lights, the financial transactions returned to this concrete and glass machine to fill up its coffers with numbers.