Atcode

by David Wake

  It wasn’t until he’d showered that he turned his attention to this Thinkerfeeds: Hasqueth had an offer, when did they ever not; Tammy–Zing had forgiven Zak–Zak, they’d held hands when they’d looked down on the vigil and how wonderful it was to be back together; Chloe got back at 3am, feeling pleased that the cerebrities were safe; Freya needed to see him urgently – what was that about?

  He followed her Thinkerfeed and was awake, going for his clothes before he really understood.

  Inspector Wainwright had been hit by a car – injured, induced coma. Max had a card for everyone to sign.

  Braddon thought better of rushing across town and instead made a coffee. He gulped it down, burning his mouth.

  Hit–and–run.

  How was it possible to have a hit–and–run when the driver, the victim and the car thought?

  He grabbed his jacket, went to clean his teeth and so left his jacket across the bath. Something fell out.

  He could still taste Hasqueth Finest and mint as he picked it up and left. He thought the door locked behind him.

  As he walked out of his apartment block, he checked the Thinkersphere using the case hashtag: incredibly, the car that hit Inspector Wainwright had been stolen and the inbuilt Thinker system disabled.

  Is that possible? Clearly it was… what’s this?

  It was Ms Steiger’s business card.

  Steiger!

  It wasn’t his bedding heaped to one side of the bed.

  At Steiger, he thought, sorry, I have to go to the office, let yourself out– “Shit,” he added aloud.

  She didn’t have an identity in his contacts, because she didn’t have a brow. He’d locked the door, trapping her inside. Wait! There was an internal catch, so she could get out, but she still wouldn’t know why.

  The thoughts from Chief Superintendent Freya Turner were urgent.

  Even so, Braddon went back inside, up the stairs, thought the door open and went to his bedroom.

  Steiger was still asleep, her naked form artfully covered by rumpled sheets and quilt. Unconscious, she could almost be seen as normal, her brow in the same sleep mode as she was.

  Braddon leaned forward: touched her shoulder and shook her gently.

  She stirred, eyes drowsily opening. “Yes?”

  “I have to go to the office.”

  She reached up, wanting to hold him.

  “It’s urgent.”

  “Uh–hur…”

  “There’s breakfast and coffee, let yourself out.”

  “Uh… what’s happened?”

  “It’s police business.”

  “Didn’t your boss tell you to show me every courtesy?”

  “Yes, but… Inspector Wainwright–”

  “Who?”

  “In charge after the bombing.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s had an accident, a hit–and–run.”

  “Accident?”

  She was still half–asleep and, Braddon realised, so was he. But he was coming round: Accident, hit–and–run, total nonsense.

  “Just…”

  Braddon searched out for paper, found the menu that had come with the pizza – whatever for – and a pen. He scribbled on the back in his rarely used handwriting: ‘pizza in fridge, cooker in kitchen, coffee in kitchen, let yourself out – Oliver’.

  “Here,” he said, giving it to Steiger.

  “I had pizza last night.”

  “Yes, in the fridge, fry up, must go, bye.”

  “Not even a kiss… every courtesy.”

  Braddon kissed her on the forehead – it was smooth.

  “Bleurgh…” she said, “I’m not a child.”

  He got out, best he could do, and made it to the car. On the drive over–

  Chloe’s back – oh shit!

  He was too far away to go back again, and two journeys home wouldn’t look good on his Thinkerfeed. Even thinking about going back wouldn’t look good either.

  Best get to work, he thought, so he followed various investigating officers. They were all noodling to remember how to deal with forensics. A job for the Lamp Lot was a common rethink.

  Inspector Dartford was in charge now.

  Everyone had already gathered in the conference room: strange how such shocks brought everyone physically together despite the inefficiencies that created.

  Dartford had rehearsed his thoughts on the way, so everyone knew to get their heads together, knuckle down, and think outside the usual noodle search.

  At Braddon – who’s Braddon?

  Braddon raised a hand: Sir?

  Dartford saw him amongst the dozen other officers, recognized him of course, but then he recognized all of them in the long room. There was coffee percolating the corner.

  Thoughts?

  Sir?

  Get a coffee and get on with it.

  Braddon went over, poured himself a cup and all the while tried to gather his ideas into a reasonable train of thought.

  Well, sir, it could be a co–incidence, but–

  Don’t believe in them.

  But the Mantle Case could be connected, both the bombing and the death of Taylor.

  The suicide?

  Well, possible suicide, possible murder, Braddon thought as he sipped his coffee, the aroma helping him focus. You see, there’s no thought trail to his death or the bomb planted in the lobby. It could be a modus operandi. There are zombies working there, and they have access to the bridge and to the rest of the building. They could also have obtained a bomb or the equipment to make one, so… they are my suspects, but… they have a very cushy life for unbrows, so I can’t see them… it doesn’t make sense, but it’s a theory.

  The only one we have.

  The car that hit Wainwright has no recollection of any thought commands, so that suggests unbrow activity too.

  At Braddon, possibly. At Sanghera!

  Detective Constable Sanghera actually jumped: Sir?

  What’s forensics got to say?

  It was the right sort of car.

  What?

  You can…

  You sum it up, Sanghera.

  Sir. It’s an old model, Cheetah X4, so whoever it was, they were able to by–pass the thought controls and run it manually. There are overrides so that zombies… sorry, unbrows can drive. As a result, we’ve nothing. Mrs Bergan hadn’t even realised it was missing.

  Stolen to order?

  Sanghera nodded, despondently.

  For the task of running Inspector Wainwright down or was that just bad luck?

  A flock of emoticon shrugs jittered around the room.

  Braddon wondered for a moment before he held up a finger: Sir.

  Wainwright’s Thinkerfeed was obvious: Braddon went to a minute before the accident, then slipped back another five minutes.

  Inspector Wainwright had been walking his dog, the yapping thing tugging to smell this lamppost or that attractive piece of pavement. He held a bag of warm dog poo in his other hand. Not far to his house now, he thought, and perhaps a brandy. Braddon wasn’t available, drinking, that Lamp Lot, law unto themselves, all die of cirrhosis, probably nothing in this Taylor case anyway, he’d kill for a drink right now, Jellicoe went down with cirrhosis, didn’t he? Caught early, they watch the drunks.

  Wainwright noodled the case notes.

  Braddon was aware of everyone watching him, knowing what he was doing by the leaks about Jellicoe and when his own name appeared in Wainwright’s Thinkerfeed.

  …a dark shape on the bridge in one witness’s feed – ridiculous. And this Ms Steiger from the Security Service, what was that all about, hate interviewing unbrows – he’s a bad driver, actually mounted the pavement – but I must have word with this Steiger and find out–

  An image of a car, dark, probably blue, lights, Wainwright putting his hand up and the bag squelching, dark shapes in the driver’s seat and in the back, the middle, a silhouette against the street light streaming through, then a swearing emoticon of–

  Bonnet
, glass, dog lead going taut, space and a feeling of weightlessness, almost bliss, the fight or flight panic and then a hard, sudden wall of… and other lights, female thoughts, Inspector Wainwright, open your eyes… think! At Inspector Wainwright and then a female voice speaking aloud. “…can you hear me, can you hear me, Inspector, can you hear me…”

  Part of the man’s life flashed before his eyes as his brow did an emergency memory dump.

  He was in an induced coma, broken bones and worse, lesions to his forehead, shock damage to his iBrow filaments caused by the impact with the car – everyone in the room winced at that idea.

  Someone even spoke aloud, “Shit.”

  There were people who followed near–death experiences and, worse, snuff feeds for pleasure. There were those sick people who liked to experience death, follow the thoughts beyond even that right up to the point of battery failure. And those red–blooded, heat–of–the–moment killings gave some the masochism of being a victim and others the second–hand sadism of killing. None of the officers were in that camp: they’d all followed too many of these during investigations.

  Before he hit the bonnet – or the bonnet hit him – Wainwright had easily been within range of both occupants of the Cheetah X4. He hadn’t recognized anyone, so they had to be unbrows.

  Or drunk.

  No, they’d still give out a recognition signal even if their safeties prevented thought transmission and an autonomous car would have stayed on the road.

  Dark shape, Braddon thought, and two in the car, one driving and another in the back observing. It came on the pavement. There’s no reason unless they deliberately targeted someone.

  Due to the case, Dartford thought.

  Others joined in the discussion.

  Or joy riding zombies?

  Someone with a grudge?

  It’ll be one of those Special Services engineers that DS Braddon met?

  Did Inspector Wainwright ever arrest an unbrow?

  Sir, Sanghera thought, there are 27 on a list.

  Thank you, Sanghera, bring ’em in – and he may be brown nosing, but at least he’s doing his job.

  Braddon hadn’t caught the leak that prompted that thought. He was still comparing the thought about the shadows in the car with the shadow on the bridge. The unbrows were Entwhistle, Hogan, Valerie, Michael and Jilly. One of them–

  At Braddon, no, two of them, Sanghera thought.

  –two, yes. Hogan he didn’t understand, Entwhistle seemed too careful and the others were like children. Maybe one of the three had been persuaded to help.

  Or Steiger?

  No, she’d been with him last night, so she couldn’t have been in the car.

  He noodled: Steiger was an unbrow, so there were no direct thoughts, but perhaps someone else had met her. He went for a cross–referencing check despite knowing that it would take an age.

  So, if this was some inside job, then it had to be one of the Special Services engineers and that was the same suspect list of five.

  He noodled their whereabouts, but they were in Sentinel House for both times. That was nonsense, but without a Thinkerfeed for the unbrows, it was impossible to know where they were exactly. Their location and timecode weren’t attached to any thoughts because they didn’t think. It was just someone else thinking about what the unbrows had told them.

  He remembered that Steiger also had an alibi for Taylor’s death: she’d been at a service station on the motorway up north. Not her then.

  Taylor had gone AWOL – why?

  Could they have got to – Braddon noodled Mrs Bergan’s address – Milltown without someone seeing and thinking about them? Someone must have stolen the car.

  Who’s this Ms Steiger of the Security Services?

  Ms Steiger is… a consultant.

  Colleagues he’d known for years stepped away from him. He’d been taken unawares, but there was no preparation to stop this sort of transmission. Not that it would have been possible. His thoughts had leaked, they all knew.

  Disgusting.

  Braddon, you old dog.

  Rather you than me.

  Zombie–fucker.

  Quiet! Inspector Dartford glanced around the room to quell the growing mass of thoughts, but it was impossible. They’d all tracked down his Thinkerfeed and found out that he’d been drinking last night, an old trick of the Lamp Lot, and, of course, only those with something to hide wanted privacy.

  It’s not illegal, Braddon thought, and his regret at that thought spilled out in the emoticons that followed.

  Inspector Dartford adjusted his tie: Perhaps you should take some leave, if not suspension.

  At Dartford and at Detective Braddon, there’ll be no talk of suspension, Chief Superintendent Freya Turner thought, but leave would be a very good idea.

  Braddon glanced towards the door and the corridor that led to the lift, and thus to the third floor, Max’s outer office and then to the Super’s sanctum. How he wished he could just leave.

  Then go, Freya thought.

  At Freya, thank you.

  At Braddon, don’t Freya me, Detective Sergeant. She was not best pleased with him.

  At Superintendent Turner, sorry ma’am.

  Nothing came back at him and he didn’t dare follow her. She’d introduced him to Steiger. God knows what she thought. He’d been grossly unprofessional.

  Many in the room nodded.

  Was she good?

  Braddon ignored whoever that was.

  At Braddon, when is Mantle due back?

  Braddon noodled and remembered that he was due in on Friday, a chance for him to personally console the shocked and traumatised cerebrities.

  At Dartford, tomorrow.

  At Braddon, you best keep out of the way, Dartford thought.

  Sir, Braddon replied, changing his status to ‘Leave’.

  Let’s get another warrant, Dartford continued. What do you mean ‘not without more evidence’?

  Braddon left them to it and the case ended for him as he stepped beyond recognition range of the conference room.

  It was a walk of shame through the station.

  He checked his desk, but there was nothing surprising there that he couldn’t have remembered with a noodle search.

  He needed a drink and perhaps he’d have more support at the unofficial police station, the Lamp.

  But there was someone waiting for him at the steps from the station leading to the street: Steiger.

  “Hello,” Braddon said. He was higher than she was, so she appeared to look up to him in a coy fashion.

  The thoughts of those walking past were anything but innocent. Braddon unfollowed people, trying to quell the jibes, so he was ignoring most of his colleagues, but as each person came into recognition range, their thoughts intruded: ribald or, worse, disappointed.

  “Can we talk?” Steiger said.

  “I’ve… yes, not here.”

  “No.”

  Braddon led the way, it wasn’t far and… but no, there must be somewhere other than the Lamp. He took her to another pub, something of a dive hidden in the backstreets. As they walked in, the conversation died: they could recognize him, but not her, so they knew he was a police officer from his thinkerfeed and she was an unbrow. And that they’d slept together.

  She ordered a coffee and a beer.

  “I’m not sure drinking this early is a good idea,” Braddon said.

  “Perhaps,” Steiger replied. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” Braddon joked, and then immediately regretted it.

  “Something private.”

  “Only someone with something to hide wants privacy.”

  “Exactly.”

  They found a corner and sat around a table full of torn up beermats. Steiger looked out of place, a pristine and smart ornament, somehow delivered to the wrong establishment. The few thoughts flitting about on recognition were all about her, but the alcohol meant the bar relied on talking al
oud. They said that alcohol safeties were insisted upon by the licensed trade to increase sales: make ’em talk and shift more throat–soothing medicinal liquid.

  Braddon drank his beer. Presently his safeties detected the alcohol and cut in. He put the pint down.

  Steiger picked it up and handed it back to him. “I’d prefer something of a safety margin, this may take a while.”

  Braddon drank, Steiger sipped her coffee; when he’d finished, she ordered another for him and a whisky.

  “Oh for goodness sake.”

  The whisky burned on his throat.

  Finally: “All right?”

  “Not here.”

  Braddon glanced around. “Where then?”

  “Somewhere away from people.”

  There was a rear entrance with steps covered in cigarette butts leading to a wide alley.

  “Further down,” Steiger said, and she led the way, her heels unsteady on the uneven floor, part tarmac, part old cobbles. Braddon sighed: they were already well away from anyone in recognition range.

  No wonder no–one believed in the secret service, if they had to be boozed up and walk down alleyways just to talk.

  As they went, Steiger glanced behind her, clearly disturbed in some way. There might be delivery trucks, which he’d pick up on, but she wouldn’t.

  There was a car weaving down the alley to avoid the refuse bins.

  Braddon thought for a moment about the car that had hit Wainwright: should he be careful of passing traffic?

  This one was silver.

  He reached for Steiger, held her arm and moved her aside as it passed. He didn’t recognize anyone in the car, but it moved on.

  Steiger took his hand, a romantic gesture perhaps.

  The car came to a halt and the door slid open. Two men got out. They were too far away to recognize and he didn’t know them by sight.

  Steiger, he thought in some strange primaeval way, she’s not safe, I have to protect her.

  It buffered.

  “That car,” he said aloud, “those men… what the!”

  Steiger’s sharp nails had caught his hand, stabbing into his palm in panic. She knew, something instinctive perhaps had warned her even though she couldn’t have shared Wainwright’s thoughts and known about the ‘accident’.

  She’s wearing high heels! She won’t be able to run.