by David Wake
That was it then, except… Braddon saw the three on the sofa fidgeting.
“Alternatively, we could all go down the station and I could ask my questions there.”
Entwhistle shook his head, almost sadly. “We don’t have to go, unless we’re under arrest.”
“Obstructing the police in pursuit of their enquiries is an arrestable offence,” Braddon said. “Shall we?”
Michael whimpered.
“Poor Michael cannot cope with the outside world,” Entwhistle informed him.
“Well, perhaps we can stay here and conduct an interview in a more civilised manner.”
Entwhistle nodded. “It’s all right, Michael, I’ll deal with this.”
“So, if you’ll answer my questions?”
Michael whimpered again and looked pleadingly at Entwhistle.
Entwhistle led Braddon to one side. There was a cabinet with a jug and a squad of upturned glasses. Entwhistle poured a glass.
Oh, thank goodness, I’m parched.
Entwhistle drank from it himself, then seemed to notice Braddon.
“Would you like some, Detective Sergeant?”
“Please.”
Entwhistle, seemingly in control again, poured a second glass and passed it to Braddon. The water was cool and smoothed his raw larynx.
“So,” said Braddon, “you do what, exactly?”
“We assist Mister Mantle.”
“In what way?”
“It’s legal.”
“I’m sure it is, but what is it.”
“Mister Mantle has a licence for a Faraday cage,” Entwhistle explained. “He goes into the Cage once he’s taken a nepenthatrine cocktail.”
A what? Braddon noodled and remembered it caused amnesia.
“He examines the financial markets and so on,” Entwhistle continued. “Then he writes out a series of instructions. When he’s finished, he deletes his iBrow messages and once the drugs have wiped his organic memory, he leaves and goes back in the safety of his penthouse on the top floor. We enter the room and carry out his instructions.”
So, no–one knows what Mantle is up to, not even Mantle himself, Braddon thought. “Dealings on the stock market?”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
“But if you don’t have a brow, how can you do that?”
“There are computers capable of accessing the Thinkersphere, we type–”
You’re joking! “Type?”
“Yes, on a keyboard.” Entwhistle held out his hands and mimed pressing keys. Braddon had handled one once in a museum on a school trip back when schools had been educational establishments, rather than waiting rooms for a brow fitting.
“And Mantle writes his instructions on one of these things?”
“He writes it long hand.”
Longhand… no way, but then computers could be… hacked. Was that the word?
“And what are these instructions?” Having noodled, Braddon remembered, ‘hacked’ was the right word.
“Detective, please, I really can’t say.”
“In a general sense.”
“They’re usually share dealings. As no–one can… ‘follow’ – is that correct? – Mister Mantle’s thought processes, he has an edge.”
“Others must do this?”
“Oh yes, Kanada in Japan, the Rossman Foundation, Salter of Noodle Enterprises – ironic, don’t you think? –and so on.”
The rich list. “Just stocks and shares?”
“There are other things, a surprise birthday present, gifts, that sort of thing.”
“Oh… right.”
“He even bought himself one once.”
“Did he?”
“A new fountain pen, platinum.”
“Fountain pen?”
“To write his instructions. He has good penmanship.”
“There can’t be many instructions, though,” Braddon said. Your hand would cramp up. I know, I make notes on paper.
“He has practised, monks used to write whole books out by hand. With illustrations.”
“You see yourself as a monk?”
“It is a monastic life.”
Braddon glanced at Valerie and Jilly, wondering what the domestic arrangements were here. It wasn’t something he could noodle as these unbrows didn’t think. Perhaps unbrows didn’t find other unbrows creepy in bed.
“And Taylor was part of this team?”
Entwhistle nodded.
“What was he like?”
“He was half–Chinese, although he didn’t look it.”
“Go on?”
“A troubled man, ethics, you know. He watched too many news reports when there was still a television service and then, when that stopped, he worried about what might be happening in the world. Things that he didn’t know about.”
“Like?”
“Earthquakes, disasters, terrorist bombings.”
“I see.”
“We are each of us an island.”
“Oh, no, Entwhistle,” Valerie interrupted. She’d walked closer to listen and stood halfway between them and the sofa. It was disturbing, a zombie creeping up on you.
“More an archipelago,” Entwhistle agreed.
That makes all the normal people like a continent.
“We miss Taylor very much,” Valerie said.
How can you miss someone whose thoughts have never touched you? But then, Braddon realised, people did get upset when they lost a dog or cat. The security guard had called these people Mantle’s ‘pets’.
They’re not pets, and please can you come downstairs to a waiting room while–
The lift opened and Emile Larson stepped out. Everyone jumped at his sudden appearance, except Braddon, who had recognized him before the lift had arrived.
–I’ll thank you, this way, please.
“Why, Emile,” said Entwhistle. “Have you come to join us?”
“Entwhistle–”
“Mister Entwhistle, please.”
“Now is not the time,” said Larson. He’d stepped further into the room with his arms stretched out, one to beckon Braddon and the other to indicate the way to the lift.
“I’m asking Mister Entwhistle some questions.”
“Yes, yes…” It must be cleared.
I have a warrant, #warrant–28493899/A.
Ah, but there has to be a lawyer present.
Only if the witness requests it. Braddon turned to Entwhistle. “Do you want a lawyer?”
Entwhistle smirked. “Oh no, that’s not necessary, is it, Emile? We’ve nothing to hide. Only people with secrets have something to hide.”
It’s Larson – Mister Larson to you – and those without thought are the ones hiding things.
Larson stopped, deflated suddenly. Clearly, he felt he’d let something slip. Braddon realised that the man had thought his objection, but not said it out loud: hiding his opinion in plain thinking.
So, Braddon thought, they’re hiding something, are they?
“Perhaps,” Larson said. “We should talk aloud, so as not to exclude these fine people. To be polite.”
Hogan, his head still in his reading device, grunted at this, a sound Braddon couldn’t interpret, and then added, “Willing to try, Emile.”
These unbrows are so rude.
“You’re still thinking about us,” Entwhistle said, “how wonderful.”
Braddon checked Entwhistle again, but there were no emoticons, of course. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, it’s in the eyes.”
“Really?” Braddon looked at Emile Larson.
He’s just making fun of us, Larson thought, he knows we’re always thinking. And it’s the polar bear.
Sorry?
Don’t think of the polar bear.
Polar bear?
There, see, you can’t help yourself, utterly droll and lolliful. These ungrateful parasites have a theory that they can control people’s thoughts just by saying certain words. Utter crap really.
I thou
ght you were keen on people being polite.
“Shall we continue this conversation outside?” Entwhistle said.
“I’d rather not,” Larson replied, aloud.
“After all, Emile here–”
“It’s Mister Larson.”
“…will be wanting a cigarette.”
Oh, cigarette… yes. I could do with one.
Entwhistle, acting as the generous host, led the way across the room to a balcony.
“It’s the stress, you know,” Entwhistle explained.
Larson expleted in his emoticons.
Caught by the bright sunlight, Braddon was dazzled for a moment. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was looking down upon gardens once more, but so much nearer this time. The water in a pond reflected the light upwards, trees swayed in the gentle, clear breeze, and a bird darted across.
“Do you see that view – magnificent,” Entwhistle said.
“Yes, it is.”
“And listen.”
Braddon listened, as he checked his feeds and calendar, but he couldn’t hear anything.
“Well?”
“I don’t hear anything,” Braddon admitted.
“Exactly, silence… golden.”
“It’s the celebrity village,” Larson explained.
Braddon had seen this view, both in the received thoughts of the Cerebral Celebrities and in person when he’d visited before, but this was closer and without the distortion of thinking transmission or glass. From this angle, he could almost see into the various apartments where the wonderful people enjoyed luxury on behalf of all their followers. That way, millions, if not billions, could enjoy it too – second hand, but sharp and virtually real nonetheless.
Utopia, Larson thought.
“Eden,” said Entwhistle.
Braddon was thoughtless with amazement.
“Cat got your tongue?” Entwhistle asked.
“It’s…” Wow.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
If the unbrows were his pets, this was his safari park.
As Braddon watched, a figure came out of one of the apartments, ran across the square to be with a few others standing by a manicured tree. The group hugged each other. Braddon could follow their thoughts if he wished. There they were, the tiny figures of larger–than–life characters.
Down there, standing in the open area by the lawn, you’d have no idea this was an island floating above the city on the steel and glass of Sentinel Tower. The air would be better at this altitude too. Braddon noodled, yes, he remembered, it was pure and refreshing.
He took a deep lungful and coughed: smoke drifted past him.
Mantle had created a perfect world for these famous celebrities. The price of fame may be that they were creatures permanently on show, but then so was everyone else. But Braddon’s life was shit in comparison. He didn’t get to shop for designer clothes, visit the gym with a spa or dine out with the great and the good.
But rather than resent their success, everyone loved them. ‘If only I was one of them’ was the mantra and, second–hand, everyone could be. Why not?
The clutch of celebrities broke up, their air–kisses exaggerated.
It was a perfect world, packaged and thought out to all the followers around the world. Only the best for the celebrities: the best that you too could buy, only a thought away, and delivered straight to your door.
Another waft of smoke stung Braddon’s eyes and the taste of tobacco caught in his throat.
He coughed again.
Sorry, Larson thought, but he didn’t stop smoking.
Where did I put my drink, Braddon thought and he didn’t remember. He’d not thought about it when he’d put the glass down, so it was probably on the cabinet inside.
Braddon went upwind, joining Entwhistle, and realised that the unbrow had predicted that Larson would want a cigarette.
Cunning, these zombies, Larson thought back.
Yes.
“Imagine. All this largesse awarded to people who simply have to enjoy it and transmit that enjoyment on the Thinkersphere network. Millions like… oh, everyone.”
“Like Chloe.”
“Yes, Detective Sergeant?”
“My, er… Inspector’s, ex–inspector’s, niece is staying and she’s a fan of Tammy–Zing.”
“Do you see that apartment with the red door?”
“Er… no.”
“Follow the palm trees along the far side of the pool, now go up at the bench and–”
Oh yes, “Yes, I see it.”
Braddon knew the door. He’d followed Tammy–Zing and Lola_Five himself enough to know it. He wasn’t into all the celebrity culture; it was more an activity for teenagers and celebrity fans, but you couldn’t be alive in this century without knowing a lot about them. It made up fifty percent of the Thinkersphere: it was that, motivational thoughts, old memories or cats.
Eighty–two percent if you include rethinks and comments, Larson thought.
Really?
That’s right, Sergeant.
Detective Sergeant.
My apologies.
“I watch occasionally,” Entwhistle said, oblivious to their conversation. “This is a nice spot to gather your thoughts. You can look over that oasis down there and then see the city beyond. All that misery and pollution doesn’t reach up here.”
“No, I suppose not,” Braddon said. ‘Gather your thoughts’ – what is he talking about? He’s an unbrow.
“It gives the sunset an interesting texture,” Entwhistle concluded.
Braddon squinted upwards, noodled and remembered that sunset wasn’t for many hours yet.
“Lola_Five,” Entwhistle said, “often drinks a few glasses of wine late at night and when her brow switches off, she goes swimming in the nude.”
That’s a– “That’s a lie, Entwhistle.”
“Mister Entwhistle, please, Emile.”
“Mister Larson.” For God’s sake! He really gets under your skin, the arrogant thoughtless shit.
Perhaps, Braddon thought, if you didn’t react.
I’m not reacting… not in any way he can perceive.
But clearly, Entwhistle could perceive, maybe not the letters and symbols of a thought, certainly not the leaked emoticons, but maybe the ghost of it, something that appeared on the face perhaps.
Why, Braddon thought, is he Mister Entwhistle and it’s Hogan, but the others are Valerie, Michael and Jilly?
It’s the difference between refusing to become a cyborg and becoming a zombie.
Ah.
Entwhistle has always been like this, Larson explained, so he, and Hogan, cope – they’ve never known any better – whereas Valerie, Michael and poor Jilly have had the best part of them ripped out. They’re children now, really.
Yes, I see. Like getting a brow means you’re grown up and no longer play hopscotch, so the reverse…
Means you go back to hopscotch, jigsaws, watching sunsets and playing petty power games.
“Shall we go in?” Entwhistle said. “We can leave Emile out here to finish his cigarette and you can still exchange secret messages.”
They’re not– “They’re not secret–”
But Entwhistle had gone inside, disappearing into the clouds of the glass door’s reflection.
You’re the one with secrets, Larson thought.
Someone laughed distantly, a pleasant sound.
Braddon looked down.
A woman was running across the gardens below. Braddon followed Tammy–Zing and Lola_Five, but they were both indoors. It was one of the others, and Braddon started to noodle for a list of links, but realised that Larson was watching him.
The man had an expensive suit and real cigarettes imported from somewhere: duty–free at Dubai, probably.
Such riches, Braddon thought.
We’re blessed.
The money poured in from sponsorship and product placement. If Tammy–Zing or Lola_Five used this soap, then everyon
e used this soap, that perfume or wore those shoes. Mantle received 15% of the gross. Companies that sold through him, even if they felt they were being bled dry, made money: those that did not, sold little; and soon found themselves taken over and asset stripped by Mantle Holdings or one of his subsidiaries.
If you complained, if you wrote to your representative, then Tammy–Zing would be ‘disappointed’. There was no worse punishment. Such killjoys were trolled, their lives became a living hell, unfriended, unlinked, careers over, prospects nil.
Carrot and stick.
There were other Jays, as Jellicoe called them, with only tens of thousands of followers, whose influence could be felt, but none were as powerful as the cerebral celebrities. If a role model did really well, then they were promoted, moved here to the perfect little village, a league above all, and one of the existing celebrities would be suddenly ejected to mere existence amongst the masses – a fallen angel back in the smog.
Step out of line, think the unthinkable, and you were flamed and unfamed.
“Entwhistle objects–” Sorry, you learn to speak aloud here. I meant to think that Entwhistle objects to all this. He thinks the cerebrities are spoilt brats.
And you?
They provide a great service to 6.2 billion customers.
And you sell thousands of products an hour and make millions from advertising.
It’s not crass. People… Larson took a drag on his cigarette leaking emoticons of relaxation as the smoke billowed from his nostrils… want to have the lifestyle, but they can’t afford it themselves because they are poor. We provide them with the experience and they lap it up. Of course they do. They no longer feel deprived, so it’s a service, really.
Second–hand experience.
You thought that before.
It leaked?
Better second–hand than not at all.
But they live out another’s life, rather than having their own?
But – I don’t understand – that is their own life. They can choose Tammy, Lola, Zak–Zak, any of them. Or all of them. That’s more life, not less.
I suppose.
Braddon wondered if his thoughts were like Jellicoe’s: old, set in their ways and not part of this new generation. He felt out of step, left behind by the skipping cerebrity showing billions how wonderful life was, because the lucky people could think the very same thoughts these cerebrities thought.
Larson interrupted: Who’s Jellicoe?