by David Wake
Struth, Braddon thought, give me a break. It’s nothing.
“Braddon?”
“Sorry… it’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
He’d reached the landing level, finally taller. “There was an… accident. I helped someone who was injured.”
“What? By headbutting them?”
The idea of head–butting someone, putting your vulnerable brow in harm’s way, appalled. “Hardly.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’ll heal.”
Braddon touched the side of his face and then looked at his fingers. There was a smudge of red, damp.
It would heal: he’d thought that before but he couldn’t place it. It must have been when actually speaking aloud to an unbrow as there was no record in his thoughts.
Jeez, if I’d been facing the blast, it might have got my brow.
“Here,” Steiger said, getting out a tissue from her large bag. She dabbed.
Ouch!
“Don’t be a baby,” she said. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
Braddon thought at the door: it thought ‘unlocked’ back to him.
“It’s open.”
“You leave your door unlocked?”
“Who would steal from a police officer?” Braddon said. “They’d reveal themselves on Noodle.”
“Not everyone gives away their identity.”
“Zombies can’t get here without being noticed and thought about.”
But she had.
They went to the bathroom, Braddon sat on the toilet seat and Steiger went through his bathroom cabinet for Zak–Zak’s antiseptic and cotton wool. There wasn’t any of the latter, so she used loo paper.
“This might sting a little.”
Fuck! Bollocks… shit! Ow!!!
“I do find it attractive when a man doesn’t act like a baby in these circumstances,” Steiger said.
Braddon grunted in reply.
“Hold still,” she said, sharply. “It’s difficult to see the blood with your skin colour.”
No wonder she hadn’t any empathy, he must appear like a lump of muscle and bone to her as she couldn’t access his thoughts. Just like she appeared to him.
“Look,” said Steiger, “I realise that I flew off the handle the other day, but you people–”
“You people?” Ow! Enough already.
“Cy– Brows, you assume we…”
“‘We’ being all you ‘Zombies’?”
“‘Humans’ – hold still. There. Brows understand what you mean… but we don’t. You ‘think’ things and just expect everyone to follow you. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but we unbrows certainly don’t.”
That makes sense. That hurts and it smells. I need a drink.
“Well?” Steiger said.
And Braddon realised that most of human communication was hidden from her. She may have heard of Tammy–Zing and the other cerebrities, but she didn’t experience their lives, she didn’t know them just as she didn’t know Braddon despite his presence in front of her. What was Braddon to Steiger? A few words spoken aloud, perhaps something from this mythical body language, but nothing more, nothing intimate.
“Sorry,” he said. “I should have been more understanding.”
She made a face like a smiley. “Well, yes… you should. All done.”
She dropped the used tissue paper into the small pedal bin before she washed her hands. Her fingers were long, her nails livid red, brighter than the stains of his blood.
Braddon’s mouth felt dry. “Would you like a drink?”
“Oh, well, what about… your niece, isn’t it?”
“Niece? Oh. Chloe… she’s my old inspector’s niece,” Braddon explained. “I’m just showing her around, but she’s out at the moment.”
“Where is she tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Braddon replied. God, where is she?
Braddon followed her thoughts and found that she was at some vigil for Tammy–Zing, Zak–Zak and all the cerebrities. He was supposed to be keeping her away from them for Jellicoe.
It was shocking that someone would want to harm the famous. It was time for everyone to stand together, physically as well as with a hashtag.
And Chloe was excited, because – you never know – they might appear in person!
“She’s at some vigil in the hope of seeing Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak in the flesh, as it were,” Braddon explained.
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t when you asked. I know now.”
“So, she’d like to see Tammy–Zing and Zak…”
“Zak–Zak. Yes, but they’ve split up. I can’t see the point myself.”
“Can’t you?”
“Why see people way off in the distance when you can follow their thoughts from the comfort of your own home?”
“And people wonder why the obesity crisis continues.”
“I guess,” Braddon said. “Have you eaten? I could cogitate–a–pizza.”
She laughed. “That would be nice.”
“Come on, let’s go to the lounge.” Braddon noodled and remembered what he had in. “Beer? Wine?”
“Wine… with pizza, I think red.”
“Red, it is.”
She dropped her bag by the side of the coffee table, slipped off her shoes, sat on the sofa and tucked her legs under her.
Braddon noodled her preferences for pizza toppings and remembered an error message. “Any preference about toppings?”
“What are you having?”
“I thought a beef fajita.”
“A what?”
“Beef fajita.”
“I’ll have a Hawaiian.”
“Any extras?”
“Garlic bread?”
“Done,” Braddon said, he noodled his usual pizza delivery restaurant and, once he’d remembered it, he thought the order through.
Order received, coming up.
It was a human thought rather than a machine. The local place was always better and you could think with the chef, Antonio, as he prepared it. It was good to know it wasn’t some mass–produced fare microwaved from frozen. You could even think of the pattern of toppings you’d like, but Braddon concentrated on finding the wine.
He unscrewed it, let it breathe.
Steiger too seemed content to sit and breathe.
Pizza on its way. Annetta’s bringing it.
“The pizza’s on its way.”
“Oh good.”
They sat in silence for a while.
Braddon considered following a cerebral, but thought it might be rude.
“One of the advantages of a city is that you can order delivery,” Steiger said.
“Yes.”
“I prefer the peace and quiet of the countryside.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Listen… you can hear traffic all the time here.”
“Can you?” Braddon listened: the pizza delivery was nearly there, Tammy–Zing was grateful for the vigil and talking about a forthcoming benefit event, Janice was thanking everyone for helping her.
“See,” said Steiger. “That constant noise.”
Braddon hadn’t heard it. “You get used to it.”
“I like the mountains and glens, the peace and quiet, the solitude.”
What’s solitude?
“There are hawks that circle the glen,” Steiger continued. “Hovering in the thermals ready to swoop.”
“Hawks?”
“Have you heard the theory about hawks and doves?”
“Yes,” said Braddon, wondering where this was going, so he noodled about hawks and doves. He remembered that it was a metaphor for those who wanted war and those who didn’t.
“Mantle is a hawk,” Steiger said. “He preys upon the doves.”
“The doves being?”
“All the people he hypnotises with his celebrities.”
“All us cyborgs, you mean.”
“That’s right.”<
br />
Zombie paranoia, Braddon thought. “Would you like some music?”
“Do you have jazz?”
God, I’m not in the mood for that. “Sorry.”
“Classical?”
“I’ve some Phasial.”
“A little too machine–like for my tastes.”
“Sorry.”
“At some point, we have to fight back,” Steiger said. “Otherwise it’ll be too late.”
It’s the hawks who want war, Braddon thought. You’re a hawk.
Pizza’s here, Annetta thought.
Braddon got to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Steiger said. “Have I offended you?”
“Sorry, what? Pizza’s here.”
The doorbell hadn’t rung, of course.
The delivery person’s face was hidden by a helmet with a dark visor: Braddon recognized her as Annetta.
“Thanks,” Braddon said.
The helmet swivelled to view him suspiciously: Why’d you talk aloud?
Sorry, thanks.
OK, she thought as she extracted the boxes from her insulated bag. Hawaiian’s on the bottom.
I tipped.
I know, I followed, thanks.
Braddon took the hot boxes from her, the garlic bread balanced on the temporary trays, and kicked the door closed with his foot.
In the lounge, Steiger uncurled from the sofa.
Braddon put the boxes down on the coffee table, noodled and remembered that the Hawaiian was the bottom box.
“Yours is the bottom one,” he said, and then he extracted it and slid it across to her side.
Steiger opened it and then picked off a few pieces of pineapple. “Too many,” she explained. “I don’t want to be too fruity. What’s yours again?”
“Beef fajita.”
“Dark and meaty.”
“Yes.”
They ate: Braddon finding it strange not to be able to communicate at the same time. He topped up her wine and then his own. He drank, and his iBrow picked this up and shut down transmission.
Steiger took a sip too. “Does the wine affect your performance?”
“Of course, the brow safeties cut in.”
“I use a little pill for my safety.”
Braddon couldn’t figure this woman out. She said one thing, but seemed to mean something else. No–one else he knew was like that. With everyone else, he just followed them and knew what they were thinking – there was no second–guessing.
Except for Inspector Jellicoe, of course; the old man with his strange ideas about police work and keeping his thoughts to himself. They were both usually over the limit to think anyway, so that example didn’t count.
He’d met unbrows down in Chinatown and by the docks, but not for a while or for any length of time. His beat didn’t include any zombie ghettos.
Braddon had eaten three slices before he decided that he ought to make conversation.
“Do you want to talk about the case?” he asked.
“Not really?”
“Would you like to talk about something else?”
“I’d rather use my mouth for something else.”
“Oh! Would you like another drink?”
“Do you really need it spelt out?”
What was she talking about? Her subtext had no subtitles. “I think so,” he said.
She came over – a sudden surprise – sat next to him, leant forward, and kissed him. It was a bizarre experience for Braddon, like a video recording or like a glass falling to the floor about to shatter. It was inexorable, nothing could be done to prevent it. All he could do was let it happen and watch in fascination. Her lips were gentle, moist and then she pulled back without any warning.
Her fingertips touched his cheek. “I’d like to go to bed.”
“Oh… sorry, with Chloe staying, the spare room is taken and…”
“Braddon?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Oh.”
Usually, there was plenty of warning that the night would have an amorous dessert, but, with the absence of any thoughts in that direction, Braddon had simply assumed it wasn’t going that way.
Did he want to?
He wasn’t sure. He’d had no time to mull it over.
Steiger stood, smoothed her tight skirt down and reached out with her hand. Her fingers twitched a ‘come on, come on’.
She wants sex, Braddon realised.
Was he being presumptuous?
It felt like it, there was no thought stream to go down to confirm that she was in the right mood. He wished he hadn’t eaten so much and so quickly, but he was glad she wasn’t privy to his uncertainty.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“Mine’s…” Braddon began. He pointed. She smiled and led the way.
As she went, she slipped off her top, dropping it to the floor. Her smooth back looked athletic divided by the thin, black strap of her bra.
Braddon stood, his joints stiff if nothing else, and went after her, careful to avoid the stepping–stones of her clothing. They were symbols on the ground, leading him on.
His mouth was dry, some physical reaction perhaps, but he felt disconnected. No thoughts of seduction and willingness passed across recognition.
How the hell was he going to register her consent if she didn’t have a brow?
And how do you enjoy an unthinking woman, how do you become aroused when you can’t experience her thoughts and feelings? She turned the corner, another garment discarded behind her. It was vile like doing it with a rubber doll or… god, it was like necrophilia.
No, she’d be warm.
But it was also a physical thing, so surely biology would come to the fore. The brow did not reach back as far as the reptile brain.
She reached the door, dropped her bra and went in as Braddon noodled the state of his room.
Inside, she was naked, her breasts entrancing, her breathing noticeable and her lips parted slightly. She was like a picture, beautiful, but there was no animation behind her eyes.
I can’t do this, Braddon thought. It buffered as she reached out, her arms enfolding him, unbuttoned, pulling at his clothes, unzipping, manoeuvring him to the bed…
He remembered the mess. “Sorry about the state of the room.”
“It’s a man’s smell.”
“Yes.”
Braddon had never been aware of any smell. He supposed he was immune to his own, but in truth, he relied on reminders from Noodle to clean.
She took his arms and wrapped them around her body, then she touched his back, caressing.
They lay next to each other.
He noticed his hand, stark against the pale flesh of her thigh, as a dark shape moving upwards. He could feel her texture, the almost imperceptible feathering of tiny hairs, but he had no idea of her reaction. She was like some beautiful sculpture, a Venus de Milo or a shop window avatar.
He reached higher.
She opened her mouth and sighed.
Was that good?
Her arm came around his neck – that was a surprise without any thought coming first – and she pulled him to her. They kissed, intimate despite the lack of obvious feedback.
A thought jumped into his buffer: This is perverted, doing it with a zombie is bestiality.
Braddon shook his head, trying to clear it.
She sidled further across the bed, opened her legs, gasped audibly.
I need a… speak aloud! “Miss…” What the hell is her first name? The thoughts buffered: he’d have to delete them, otherwise everyone would know. But he needed everyone to know.
“Braddon?”
“I need a thought.”
“I can’t.”
“I mean… permission, otherwise it’s statutory…” God, this is so unromantic.
“I’m sorry?”
“The… we swap thoughts, so it’s obvious if it comes to court that we each… you know… agreed.”
“Oh,” she sai
d, “I agree. I agree.”
“Good.” Wait! To what? That courts should… or that they should… oh!
She’d reached down, expertly gripping and he had the strange physical reaction of the desire moving the wrong way, not thought–to–brain–to–body, but his body was somehow over–riding his cerebral processes.
Could he do this without the woman’s thoughtful responses?
Clearly, he could.
She brought him into her, they started moving together, it was like… but masturbation always had some connection with a genuine human being, whereas this was unreal, strangely clinical despite the heat, noises and sweat.
She cried out, “Braddon! Yes, yes, fuck yes.”
He moved faster, his body becoming more animal as if he was regressing from a thinking being to an instinctive beast. He was close, very close…
“Yes, yes…” she said again.
Oh God! but it was elusive and he needed… Oh yes… something. Sex and alcohol never mixed, because it was distracting and irritating when thoughts buffered.
“Yes!”
Christ yes.
She yelled, “Braddon!!”
Had she come?
Braddon was close, very close, and then: Chloe!
Steiger gasped as he came, and she held him until he settled.
When they’d finished, they lay side–by–side in the dark. It was dark. She disappeared… no, he could feel her warmth and the depression beside him that she made in the mattress, but she could just be a body.
Except it spoke, “That was good.”
“Yes.”
Braddon deleted everything in his iBrow buffer, again and again as the emoticons of guilt kept popping up ready to leak.
Freshly killed bodies thought on after death, at least until their forlorn batteries faded away.
Some people had their brows removed and placed on their gravestones with a small solar panel. Their relatives could check their stored feed, remember their thoughts and have them as part of their lives, but they could also visit the cemetery, recognize their loved ones again and feel their profiles once more.
Murder victim’s last thoughts were recorded in their cache, the moment of death fixed in the iBrow.
Taylor had no thoughts when he died and any killer had no thoughts either.
Steiger’s breathing changed.
She could be awake or asleep, Braddon had no way of knowing.
It was a zombie.
THURSDAY, MORNING
Braddon felt bleary in the morning, sleep in his eyes and his bedding all heaped to one side.