by David Wake
It buffered – it wasn’t going to help that he was under the influence.
Braddon could take them by surprise, he realised, as they couldn’t follow his thoughts. But then they could take him by surprise, except that they seemed to be ambling. Perhaps this was something innocent.
Another set of safeties activated in his iBrow.
Braddon put his hand to his forehead as if somehow there was a button to press to explain this strange change. He hadn’t drunk anything more and they only activated upon detection of alcohol or drugs.
It was alcohol earlier, so…
There was blood on the palm of his hand, a growing dot on the… he remembered, ‘thenar’, the large area on the palm below his thumb, also called the ‘venus’. He must have noodled. The dot of blood formed a bubble, hesitating to drip.
Something’s wrong, he thought, but it buffered to prevent him thinking anything stupid to the billions of potential followers connected to him via the Thinkersphere.
Steiger was putting a lipstick back into her bag. Not a lipstick, an injection pen.
Braddon turned away, took a step.
The men… nearer, unhurried, unworried, underhand.
Steiger had no frown upon her flawless forehead.
Get away, get help, get – ow!
Braddon looked at her again, his attempt to flee merely a side–to–side stagger.
Emoticons were originally faces.
Was that a smile?
Was it?
His knees went.
She grabbed hold of him, hefted him up expertly.
He was grateful.
So grateful.
She waved.
Steiger, I– It buffered.
Other arms reached under his armpits and began carrying him to the car.
He couldn’t get his mouth to work, his tongue suddenly felt too large for the cavity. The advice: sip water if you are going to talk aloud.
“This way,” Steiger said.
The car was empty – no–one inside – because Braddon didn’t recognize anyone.
Except there was a driver.
A zombie.
The men were zombies.
Steiger was a zombie.
In he went, bundled into the back.
Steiger…
…was a zombie.
…but…
What?
Buffered.
THURSDAY, NOON
Where am I?
Buffered.
“He’s awake.”
Braddon jerked, and found that every limb was fastened down. He was sitting, his head clamped forward and his ears scrunched as he tried to turn.
Everything white.
There was something on his face, crawling–
Fu..sk sli dii…
Buffered.
He had to breathe out, short sharp gasps. Despite being strapped down, he was falling, stomach–churningly as the room spun about him.
“Yes, he is.”
That was Steiger.
Again, Braddon tried to turn and again the thing on his face slithered over him, its tentacles slipping as they tried to grip… cables. There were wires trailing across his cheeks and attached to something on his forehead.
Shit… my brow!
Buffered.
He was afraid, a real wide–mouthed emoticon of repeating fear.
“Lie still,” Steiger said. Her voice came from his right, a shadow just in the periphery of his vision. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember this.”
A male voice: “Of course he won’t, we’ll clear his cache.” The man had to be close, but Braddon didn’t recognise him. He didn’t recognize Steiger, but that was because she didn’t have a brow. Was this man a zombie too?
“I meant… never mind.”
“Wa…” Braddon swallowed, “Wa’s goin’ on?”
“The thing about cyborgs,” she said, “is that they are so easy to manipulate – a thought here, a viral meme there, or in your case a wholesale operating system update.”
“What?” Oh shit…
Buffered.
“More swearing,” said the man in a refined, educated voice. How was that possible to know? Everyone thought in the same generic way, so their voices… Braddon found it difficult to concentrate. The man was another educated unbrow. Didn’t people speak in different accents? He couldn’t noodle.
“Well, it’s been a trying day for him,” said Steiger.
“Do you want to carry on gloating or can I get on?”
“Please, get on.”
All Braddon knew was the white ceiling, bright due to the lighting, and the disembodied voices. He struggled, caught sight of movement right on the edge of his peripheral vision. Something fell from his head and trickled down his face.
A man in a lab coat appeared suddenly, invisible seeming despite being flesh and blood. There were no thoughts from him as he reattached the electrode to Braddon’s forehead and so pressed against the edge of his iBrow causing the skin to catch.
Braddon yanked his head to one side.
“Be still!” the man shouted, slapping him across the face. “Quiet, stay still otherwise.”
The man raised his hand again.
The slap stung, but it wasn’t the pain: somehow the man’s authority had placed Braddon in the role of a naughty schoolboy or unruly patient.
“What are you doing?” Braddon asked.
“That’s better.”
“What are you doing?”
“A little reprogramming.”
Braddon wanted to laugh, his lol buffered. To reprogram an iBrow was simply impossible. You’d need codes and passwords.
“I know what you are thinking,” the man said. He fussed with some equipment, “codes and passwords.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“Your password?”
Braddon knew that trick, ask a question, don’t think about the polar bear and so on. It was the standard police interrogation technique, after all. However, as everyone knew, the brow censored password information pre–transmission.
“Every good boy deserves chocolate,” the man said, “yes, yes, how foolish we are when we first choose our password phrases, eh?”
“How did you?”
“I’ve connected a wire in the right place.”
Shit.
“Indeed.”
“It won’t help.”
“No, of course not. We also need your brow identification number and a thought of permission, which I don’t think you are going to give us, not to mention your current operating system version and upgrade codes.”
“Right, so perhaps you could stop this nonsense and let me go.”
“Also,” the man continued, warming to his subject, “when your brow next connects, it will simply compare its memory with that stored in the cloud and sound an alarm to notify anyone of a change. It’s not for your safety, although that’s how it’s sold, but the manufacturer has patents to protect.”
“Yes.”
“But we’re not going to reprogram your brow.”
“Right, so, untie me. Steiger, get him to untie me.”
Steiger did not reply: Braddon wasn’t sure she was still in the room.
“Instead,” the man said, “we’re going to reprogram your brain.”
“My… don’t be absurd.”
“Do you see that… nurse!”
Steiger’s voice piped up. “I’m not your nurse.”
An old–fashioned tablet computer appeared in his line of vision. On the screen was a series of codes, which Braddon knew was the operating system of a brow, his brow no doubt.
“This is your brow,” the man explained. “Just the standard operating system, a few police apps, SocialSwing, Brainstorm and so on, nothing impressive… this though is much more interesting.”
He flicked the screen and another set of codes appeared, scrolling, and they were the same as before, but disorganised, the variables and constants weren’t foolish acronyms or cleve
r phrases, but strings of letters, numbers and other characters.
“This is your brain,” he said, “the actual code of your brain.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Oh, not code as such, but how the iBrow software interprets your cerebral cortex. Just as your brain develops links and learns what the brow is, so the brow learns… encodes is perhaps a better word, what it discovers of your frontal lobe. This it translates, if you will, into computer code.”
“I suppose.”
“So, we simply download it, make a few alterations and then upload it back into your frontal cortex.”
“Are you mad?”
“Every brain is different, but luckily we have a piece of hardware that’s been adjusting its own neural net to understand its… host, so it translates our commands into something that the brain will interpret.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“It’ll hurt,” he said. He loomed large over Braddon, his face a kind mask. “But with the drugs, you won’t remember.”
“Look–”
“Nurse? Apologies, Miss Steiger?”
“Doctor?”
“When you are ready?”
Braddon could hear buttons being pressing, switches thrown and a click–click–clickety–click of something Braddon couldn’t place. That thing in the museum connected to a computer… not the mouse, the other thing. Noodle wasn’t available. He must be in a cage. Not Mantle’s as that had mesh walls and ceiling. Another cage, or was it the drugs, which–
Braddon felt every strap on the chair bite, the ankles, wrists and neck, as his body went rigid.
The front of his head seemed to burst with fiery light.
He jerked back in the chair, turned his eyes away from the blinding light, brighter than the ceiling, brighter than anything, but it made no difference.
He was in Jellicoe’s yacht, drinking.
On the footbridge watching the bright lights of the car and the sharp recognitions of the occupants zipping by underneath.
In bed, Steiger on top, moving rhythmically.
Chloe drinking Fizzy Good Classic.
“Oops, bit high.”
Holy… Christ!!!
“Blasphemy now.”
The shock was phenomenal: Jesus, Jesus…
“Don’t worry, Oliver,” Steiger said, kindly. “It’ll be over in… In?”
“Dunno, let’s see, five… six percent in a couple of minutes, say lunchtime at the latest.”
“Lunch, there, not long at all.”
Braddon felt his head emptying and filling at the same time, a buzzing dislocation as his frontal cortex tried to interpret the dread sensation.
My settings, he thought, it’ll take forever to redo those… that’s a stupid thought.
“Yes, it is,” said the man. “I backed those up while you were unconscious.”
Something beeped.
“What’s that?”
“Just a warning… well, well, he’s had this done before?”
“Had what done before?”
“A reboot… let’s see… oh yes, he had a denial–of–service attack.”
“I believe those are quite bad.”
“Hospital at the very least. You can die from them.”
“Oliver, darling, you have been in the wars.”
He felt her touch his exposed arm, the hairs there shifting under the lightest of caresses.
“You can go to hell!” he shouted.
“Lovers tiff?” said the man.
“Mind your own business, Clifford.”
Clifford, Clifford, must remember that.
The man snorted with derision.
Steiger’s heels clacked across a hard floor, moving away.
“We’ll have to test it.”
“Scan his feed,” Steiger said, “what’s his taste in snacks?”
“Er… I can noodle.”
Again, that clicking noise.
“Coffee, Hasqueth Finest.”
“Figures. And?”
“Biscuit, bag of crisps last February.”
“No wonder he’s lean and fit. Did you enjoy him?”
“Lots of beer, lager, whisky – struth.”
“Donuts?”
Clickety–click. “No, donuts.”
“Right, he can buy some donuts.”
Don’t buy donuts, Braddon thought, only for it to buffer.
“Somewhat obvious, Detective Sergeant,” the man said.
God, he’s reading my thoughts.
“You’re slow for a detective.”
Piss off.
“Ha, language.”
“Look,” said Braddon, aloud, “can we… I mean, I’m a police officer, this is against the law.”
“Not for the Secret Service,” Steiger replied.
The man laughed.
“We’re not against the law,” Steiger continued. “We’re above the law.”
“Can we talk about this?”
Steiger hummed, considering, and then, “No.”
“Ninety–Eight… Ninety… always sticks at ninety–nine…” came the mans’s voice, “…there! A hundred, all done.”
“Excellent,” said Steiger. “Sleepy time, lover boy.”
Braddon suddenly saw the man looming over him, the refined voice belonged to an Asian and Braddon tried to noodle, an instinctive action, but then he felt a sharp stab in his arm.
Another injection.
He felt the fluid seeping into his blood supply, an oozing, woozy feeling.
“Don’t forget his cache.”
“Of course not,” the man, Clifford – must remember – “And a little deletion.”
Braddon suddenly forgot everything he’d been thinking, his cache was empty, all thoughts gone, and it was replaced by that bereft tip–of–the–tongue feeling: Must remember…. but what?
“Up you come.”
Braddon sagged as they jostled him upright. He seemed to have no control of his limbs and simply stumbled in the direction he was half–carried.
He was outside.
He tried thinking of the scene, but nothing happened.
The interior of a car.
A flickering landscape.
Tall buildings.
Sentinel Tower in the distance.
Somewhere.
Struggling to get out.
Sitting on a bench.
What time was it?
He had no idea.
This place was…
…bliss.
THURSDAY, AFTERNOON
Where am I?
There was a grass verge.
Braddon’s head ached, his mouth was dry. He noodled the time and remembered that it was early afternoon.
Wow, I was with Steiger a long time.
He’d been drinking, he surmised, but a quick noodle of his movements revealed nothing. His last thoughts were in some dive of a pub drinking.
God, it must have been a right booze up.
Well, he was on leave, after all.
His cheek stung… had she slapped him?
I’ll really have to cut down… who am I kidding? In my profession!
Unsteadily, he stood and walked a little way along the pavement.
Steiger was going to tell me something, but what? Remember… but what?
His iBrow cache was empty, so they must have discussed things he didn’t want anyone to know. Everyone already knew about him sleeping with an unbrow. Was it more of the same or worse?
Only those with something to hide want privacy.
He seemed to have hidden it from himself.
There was a woman watching him, Beth, but she looked away, walked out of recognition range. Braddon didn’t know her, had never met her and a noodle confirmed this.
Odd, he thought, I’ll have a coffee and a donut.
Braddon paused, scanned the street. There was a Café League with a sign announced Hasqueth Finest and cakes.
I’ll have a coffee and a donut, he thought again.
He crossed over, a car almost hit him as it came from nowhere such was his rush to reach the other side. Luckily, the car detected him and hit the brakes in time, then the driver swore over recognition.
As he reached the door, the barista behind the counter thought at him.
How can I help? It was followed by a flurry of bored emoticons.
I’ll have a Hasqueth, milk no sugar and…
He faltered, taking in the patterned wallpaper and pictures of film stars from the early part of the twenty–first century on the walls.
I’ll have a coffee and a donut, he thought, and then he said aloud, “Coffee and a donut.”
Sir?
Coffee and a donut.
What sort of donut?
I don’t know, I don’t really like donuts… jam?
It’s strawberry.
Fine.
Braddon leaned forward and reckoned with the till.
He sat at the window, drank his coffee and took a bite of the donut.
What did I buy this for?
It was far too sugary, but somehow satisfying as if he’d passed a test.
When he’d finished, he wiped the sugar off with a napkin and went outside. It was a fine day, bracing and he had work to do.
You didn’t eat all your donut, the assistant complained, and it’s…
But Braddon was beyond his recognition range.
The coffee had cleared his head somewhat and he’d had a chance to read his own Thinkerfeed. The conference with Inspector Dartford had not gone well. They all knew he’d slept with Steiger – what did I imagine would happen – including his Superintendent. It’s not illegal… hmm, the last refuge of the immoral.
He was disgusted with himself.
And then, according to his feed, he was effectively suspended. Status: ‘Leave’ – he’d dreamt of a holiday, but what had he done with the extra free time? Gone on a massive bender with the same zombie he’d bedded. Idiot.
He thought for a cab and one arrived.
Home, he thought.
The cab picked up speed.
Braddon looked out of the window, not sure where he was, but soon the taxi swept around Chedding and he was heading to his apartment.
He rubbed the palm of his hand, feeling an ache there, and in his arm, and wondered what to do next.
Dartford had a whole slew of officers investigating.
The bombing case would be well in hand.
And the Taylor case?
Perhaps the unbrow had simply chucked himself off the bridge. But no–one thought it was suicide now. Maybe the sad sod had just climbed up on the railing and slipped.