Atcode

by David Wake

  Could Emile or another brow have done it, mashed on nepenthatrine, and then deleted their thoughts?

  Braddon had found a vaping tube on the bridge, but Emile smoked cigarettes.

  A phone, he thought. Janice was using a phone. They still had phones. Of course, for unbrows. She was talking to an unbrow.

  Could it have been one of the unbrows?

  If they took the amnesia drug, they might be completely unaware.

  Or Mantle could have ordered it and now not know.

  Braddon noodled and remembered where he left his car: Zone B, Bay 17. He’d not been aware he knew it, although possibly the car had thought the location to Noodle.

  He weaved between the vehicles trying to find gaps where the wing mirrors didn’t stick out. He wasn’t quite sure, so he thought: Unlock.

  The car recognized him and clunked as the locks disengaged.

  As he reached it, he turned to look back at Sentinel House, the massive stepped pyramid that towered above him. Tammy–Zing was up there. He noodled, followed the thought stream and discovered that she was looking out of the window and down.

  I can see the sun shining and lots of you lovely people, she thought to the world.

  Braddon smiled, a slight emoticon leak, and, despite the chill, he felt warm. Tammy–Zing, the Tammy–Zing, was looking at him. He was one of the lovely people, because a celebrity had thought in his direction. He knew it was foolish, but nonetheless, the magic had its effect. Feeling closer was important, human–to–human communication, although the closeness of sharing thoughts could be experienced from anywhere in the world, there was an exhilaration being this near and–

  An explosion ripped the front of the building out.

  Braddon tried to duck.

  Metal spun towards him, scything overhead, striking hard and sharp.

  His last thought: Tammy–Zi–

  WEDNESDAY, AFTERNOON

  Glass showered across the car park and cars screamed their alarms, thinking desperate warnings on recognition and the emergency hashtags.

  #112 Warning, warning, warning.

  Ambulances would be coming, fire, police… Braddon was police.

  He shook his head. There was a gap in his thought stream. Had he blacked out?

  Mantle had gaps: Irrelevant.

  The front of the lobby was awash with smoke, a white cloud twirling out and skyward like an upturned wave.

  I’d just like you all to know you are in my thoughts.

  It was Tammy–Zing – thank goodness – alive and unaware of the catastrophe.

  Braddon wondered how that could be.

  He held his head as he found it hard to concentrate with all the vehicles penetrating thoughts.

  #112 Windscreen broken.

  #999 Damage to front fender.

  #112 Suspected bombing.

  #112 Alarm, alarm, alarm.

  And on it went.

  Bombing, Braddon thought. If I’d been a few metres further on, if I’d parked where I’d wanted to… fuck!

  It is a lovely day.

  What? Tammy?

  He’d followed Tammy–Zing and Lola_Five for some reason.

  Braddon staggered to the side of the building onto a large pavement away from rows of cars. With recognition coming from a single direction, he finally could concentrate.

  He was a police officer – I have to help – how does Tammy not know?

  Braddon looked around: car hazard warning lights flashing in the dark, ominous shadow of the huge building. Of course, Tammy’s high up on the other side of the building.

  And I’m so glad to share my thoughts with you all on this lovely day… oh, there’s an alarm!

  Braddon, his wits partially restored, made his way to the front of the building.

  The glass doors, including the revolving entrance, were shattered, and white smoke gathered against the ceiling inside. People were staggering out, fearful and panicked, their thoughts full of terror as Braddon recognized them.

  #sentineldisaster The police are here.

  #sentineldisaster Tammy’s fine.

  #sent – shit! My car!

  Inside, the lobby looked a mess – just the lobby and some glass in the rooms above then – but slabs fell from above in a petrifying cascade of debris. But they floated!

  Just polystyrene ceiling tiles.

  And a wailing thought of pain.

  Braddon picked his way over.

  It was the receptionist.

  He recognized her before he reached her desk and went around. She lay on the floor, her hands over her face with blood seeping between her fingers.

  Janice! Janice, are you all right?

  Detective! Braddon! My brow! My brow!

  Let me see?

  No, it’ll come out.

  Let me see, Braddon thought, easing her hand away from her face.

  She blinked, the blood filling her eyes and making it impossible for her to see him.

  She was cut, a nasty gash, but more in her scalp than near the bump of her iBrow. She might have concussion but at least her thoughts seemed safe.

  That’ll wear off, she thought, but my brow is fine. Isn’t it? Isn’t it? Tell me!

  Yes, it’s fine. Best get it checked, though.

  I will, I will, I have insurance.

  And that cut is nasty.

  Hurts.

  I know.

  He did know, her every thought was strung with emoticons of pain.

  Braddon noodled the situation, the hashtag ‘#sentineldisaster’ was already awash with worried fans asking about Tammy–Zing, her poodle and Zak–Zak. He switched to an emergency hashtag, gave up and just did a noodle search. He remembered the ambulances pulling into the car park, the paramedics already reaching for their medical kits with the practised choreography of the emergency services.

  He turned back to Janice: Can you walk?

  Of course I can walk! Sorry, sorry!

  OK, hold on to me.

  What’s that!

  Just a ceiling tile falling.

  How much damage?

  It looks like it’s confined to reception.

  Just my luck.

  You were shielded by the desk, Braddon thought. You were lucky.

  Was it the coffee point or the video game room?

  Braddon looked about as he negotiated Janice towards the stream of people trying to leave: Video game room.

  Good riddance to it then.

  Braddon lolled, physically as well as in thought.

  He helped her outside and along the building away from the screeching thoughts of the cars and around the corner into the bright sunlight.

  What about Entwhistle and the other unbrows? They wouldn’t know unless there was an audible alarm!

  They know, Janice thought, didn’t you hear it?

  Braddon hadn’t, thoughts had been clamouring in his head pushing out that cacophony.

  It was obvious that the Special Services engineers would use the back exit, running round and round down the staircases as the lifts would shut down, and they’d be gathering by the exit to the waste ground.

  Janice gasped in pain.

  All right, I’ll get help, Braddon thought and he noodled for those medics on site. He picked one, another, and then – thankfully – one came running over.

  Janice, Janice, the man was thinking. When he came close enough, Braddon recognized him as Paramedic Stephens.

  The unbrows wouldn’t be able to call for help so easily.

  Was anyone helping them?

  “Here,” said Braddon aloud. Odd, but with the unbrows on his mind, he’d used his voice. The paramedic glanced over, surprised, so it had worked.

  I’ll take it from here, Stephens thought, already getting out padding from his medical kit. The man remembered Janice’s injuries from a noodle of her thought stream.

  With his responsibility taken from him, Braddon felt oddly bereft.

  I should check on the unbrows, he thought, and then, and find out wha
t happened.

  The Thinkersphere was already awash with opinions, fear for the cerebrities driving various hashtags up the charts. Already there were conspiracy theories: how could a bombing have occurred without anyone thinking about doing it? Where were the culprits thoughts? Playing detective, thousands had already done the same Noodle searches.

  Braddon made his way along the side of the building. It was a long way and a security man walked towards him into recognition range, hesitated as he parsed Braddon’s thoughts before stepping aside. It seemed their attitude to the police had changed due to the bombing.

  Too right, Detective Sergeant.

  Braddon nodded to him and let the usual emoticon leakage reply for him.

  At the corner, he could see downhill from the back of the building, over the delivery bays to the security fence. Staff had gathered, a dark band of security personnel keeping the underlings from the cerebrities.

  Tammy–Zing was there; perhaps she’d walk the poodle in the waste ground rather than in the gardens above.

  There were figures on the waste ground and a quick noodle caused Braddon to remember that no–one was there.

  It had to be the Special Services engineers.

  He went closer: Entwhistle stood to one side and a couple of the others kicked a football about. They were the wrong side of the fence.

  Had Felton let them out?

  Braddon checked Felton’s Thinkerfeed, but the man had gone to cover the side exit as soon as the alarm had sounded.

  No–one else was playing football, so the unbrows had a way of sneaking through the barrier. Any of them could have reached the bridge that day. No point trying to noodle how as they didn’t think.

  Unbrows did have some sort of equivalent, a pre–thought instinct. They spoke, they sort of reasoned, they had vague memories that seeped away with time and old age without any backing–up, but it must be roughly similar to thought.

  After all, the human race had got along without brow technology (although what they must have done with all the extra spare time was a mystery) for… Braddon noodled and remembered it was 250,000 years.

  There were some old–style humans over there, he realised, playing football, and given that they were the other side of the fence, they did look like specimens in a zoo.

  Homo sapiens classic.

  Or was the jump so large now that Braddon belonged to Homo brow?

  Of course not.

  They could interbreed, if you could get over the deadness of their presence and feeling that it was necrophilia to do it with a zombie.

  The ball bounced off the metal fence: it was a goal. The others cheered. Entwhistle, still standing aside, clapped.

  They seemed more like children, so innocent and unknowing.

  Entwhistle had talked about being in a prison, but it was more like a playpen – or were the cerebrities in a playpen?

  Some of the other personnel nearby had startled at the noise, but then they went back to nodding and staring into the distance as they used the time to catch up on their Thinkersphere feeds.

  The unbrows were happy enough, Braddon had to grant them that much. They lived in such wealth and opulence, and yet they couldn’t spend any of it. Without a brow linked to a bank account, they couldn’t pay for goods and services. They’d need a chaperone with them. Outside too, they wouldn’t be treated well. There was prejudice everywhere, but unlike the racism of the past, there was just cause with unbrows. For who knew what was going on behind their smooth foreheads or their scars?

  A thought came from Chief Superintendent Freya Turner: At Braddon, we’re assigning Inspector Wainwright to the case. You’ll be his DS as you’ve been investigating, but he takes charge.

  That was a surprise.

  At Braddon, I know it’s a surprise.

  At Freya, yes, of course, sorry, ma’am, Braddon thought, flustered that she’d picked up a leak, but also relieved that he’d have some help and a fresh perspective.

  I’m glad you are relieved.

  At Braddon, I’m Inspector Wainwright.

  At Wainwright, sir, pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspector.

  No need for formalities at Braddon. Any theories?

  Braddon pondered for a moment.

  Nothing then.

  The possible murder of their Special Services Engineer, Taylor, must have been either one of the other unbrows or someone random on the bridge.

  Someone random?

  It would have to be an unbrow, sir.

  How would an unbrow get there without anyone knowing?

  Sneaking about like a ninja or just walking across the waste ground from Sentinel House.

  Making your suspect list quite short.

  And, by their very nature, impossible to noodle.

  Mantle is a target for terrorists, so this case sounds like a coincidence, nothing more.

  Braddon sensed Inspector Wainwright’s emoticons on the subject: It nags, though, sir.

  It nags, Braddon, it nags. I hate cases involving zombies. You never know where you stand.

  What do you want me to do?

  Question these Special Service Engineers.

  I have, sir.

  Keen.

  I try.

  Any other leads?

  Well…

  Then come up with one at least.

  Yes, sir.

  …and then follow it.

  Braddon walked towards the fence.

  Entwhistle saw him and wandered over, his hands in his pockets.

  “Mister Entwhistle?” Braddon said.

  “Detective Sergeant.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “You should be able to use your Noodle.”

  “I mean…”

  “An explosion at the front of the building,” Entwhistle said, “probably terrorists. We have drills. Someone making a political point, hoping that one of the Cerebral Celebrities will tell their followers.”

  “Will they… they’d have no choice,” Braddon said, knowing full well that thoughts leaked. There was no privacy.

  “I doubt they’ll be told.”

  “They can noodle.”

  “It’s not fashion or relationships, so it’ll be of little interest to them.”

  Braddon glanced in their direction. Tammy–Zing was concerned that her poodle was too excited by the strange smells. Other dogs, no doubt.

  “All this jeopardy will increase their followers,” said Entwhistle. “And I suspect that the experience will bring couples together or split up others.”

  Braddon emoticon leak must have revealed itself in his face.

  “It’s choreographed,” Entwhistle added.

  “That would leak.”

  Entwhistle smiled, that sly smile Braddon was beginning to find familiar in educated unbrows.

  At Braddon! What’s going on?

  It was Emile Larson.

  Braddon recognized him before turning round as the man had come into recognition range. The man’s emoticon leakage was jittery and his hands shook. Larson wanted a cigarette desperately.

  The leaked craving made Braddon put his hand in his jacket pocket to touch the vaping tube he’d found on the bridge, but that was ‘BD’, not ‘EL’.

  “Just talking, Emile,” Entwhistle said.

  It’s Mister… “About what?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Larson glanced at Braddon, blinking as he tracked down a Thinkerfeed: I’m sure Inspector Wainwright wants you to… be somewhere.

  I am somewhere.

  You look a mess.

  Braddon glanced at his shirt. It was flecked with blood. Janice, he thought.

  Our receptionist! Is she all right, is she… At Janice, are you all right… thank goodness, is it bad… I understand… I’m sure HR will deal with any compensation claims… oh, sorry…

  Larson moved off, blinking.

  “Strange how you all go away,” Entwhistle said. Like most things unbrows said, it seemed like
a non–sequitur without a thought stream leading up to it. An answer that didn’t show it’s working.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You go away into your own heads,” Entwhistle explained. “You can tell by the eyes.”

  “Can you?”

  Entwhistle nodded. Braddon could tell nothing from the unbrow’s eyes.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Entwhistle, pointing to the side of his own head.

  Braddon felt by his right ear, touching a damp trickle: Back of my head – ow! – but only the back of my head and not near my brow.

  “It’ll heal,” he said, “but I’d better change.”

  Entwhistle nodded again: “No doubt I’ll see you again.”

  “No doubt.”

  Déjà vu? That last exchange reminded Braddon of a similar conversation, but a search of his Thinkerfeed revealed nothing.

  On the drive home, Braddon noodled, but his searches were random and didn’t flag up anything interesting. Mantle was in Dubai. There were indeed gaps in his Thinkerfeed, strange holes of nothing, which wouldn’t be noticed normally. Like everyone, Braddon noticed certain thoughts popping up in his stream, or skimmed over them at least, so someone’s feed drying up would be drowned out by all the other thought streams.

  Others would know; no doubt analysts working for Mantle’s competitors had graphs and pie charts.

  By the time Braddon got back to his apartment complex, he’d run out of ideas, finished skimming his feeds, updated his calendar and checked the police thlogs he followed.

  The children were back playing on the pavement. The two youngest were taking it in turns while the eldest stood with his head tilted to one side and his eyes glazed, lost in his, and everyone else’s, thoughts. Entwhistle had been right – you could tell by the eyes.

  Once upon a time, kids of his age would have been in ‘big school’, but there was little point in formal learning when all knowledge would be plugged into them once they were old enough.

  And old enough for a brow was getting younger and younger every year.

  Braddon went into the apartment block, up the stairs to the landing and saw her high heels first. He didn’t recognize her, so he knew it was Steiger. Who else would he not recognize at this distance? As he climbed, he saw more of her ankles and shapely legs before the sharp points of her toes turned to face him.

  “Braddon, I– what happened to you!”