by David Wake
That’ll be seventeen seventy, the car thought.
Braddon reckoned with the meter and stepped out.
He’d take a couple of nacaffidols and get some sleep: he needed it. Things would be clearer after a nap. He did feel rough and his head ached.
A package had been delivered, it leant against the wall, and Braddon picked it up as he went in.
Heavy, he thought, and I can open it later.
Something shifted inside as he thought to the door to unlock, and – I can open it later – so he put in on the shelf under the hooks.
I can open it later, he thought.
He started to relax: Thank goodness.
There was Nacaffimed Strong in the bathroom cabinet. He had two dry and then, coughing, found a glass for some water.
Well!
Chloe’s thought came through the door on recognition. Braddon had forgotten she was staying.
At Braddon, I know you had, otherwise you would not have… done what you did.
What did I do?
Braddon felt too tired to cope with a teenage tantrum.
Teenage! Tantrum?
Chloe was angry, leaking emoticons directed at the locked bathroom door.
I’m twenty! Uncle Aidan warned me, but I had no idea how… I don’t know.
Thoughtless?
Yes, thoughtless. Not a single thought of warning and then, all day, not a single thought of apology.
Braddon could hear her stomping about in the lounge. He tried to keep his peace.
I’ll break things if I want to.
Now, look, Braddon thought, what is it?
Don’t ‘what is it?’ me.
Braddon checked her thought stream, realised there was an awful lot of it now Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak were back together, but Lola–5 didn’t know yet. Clearly, the cerebrities didn’t follow each other, but surely they’d pick up thoughts on recognition – they all lived on top of one another. He noodled, and the third search meant he remembered that Steiger had been in the apartment. Chloe had freaked, so weirded out that she’d needed to lie down and then update her status several times between ‘freaked out’ and ‘grossed out’.
Imagine a zombie just walking around my flat, she’d thought.
Her flat!?
Braddon skimmed through a few more: I could have been murdered or anything. And they are so creepy, like those shop avatars that used to move, but at least they thought back to answer questions. Is it in blue, does it look good in UV light, can I get it in size–
Braddon shook his head to clear it, a reflex because it just took a command to stop his iBrow scrolling the information.
I’m sorry, he thought.
No, you’re not!
Check the emoticons.
I have… you police are trained to be polite. Why was she here? Bad enough her coming to meet you the other day, but she was just here and you were nowhere!
I had to go to work.
Go to work? Don’t change the subject. Why was she here?
Braddon went to the kitchen to grab a beer quickly before he–
You slept with her!!!
Chloe, look, it’s not like that.
What is it like?
I… look it’s none of your business.
I’m living here!
I can do what I want.
Go to the pub then.
Braddon hadn’t actually been aware that the thought had crossed his mind, let alone been transmitted, but now it came back to him, it did seem like a good idea.
Monster! Zombie lover!
Don’t wait up.
She dropped out of recognition range as he collected his jacket from the hook in the hall and he stopped following her before the door had closed.
Uncle Aidan, Braddon thought, owes me.
The idea of going to the Lamp did not appeal. He’d only have a few pints and then be asked about work. He needed a break: somewhere with loud noise and swanky lager.
Further down the road, Braddon could see Sentinel House gleaming in the distance. Tammy–Zing, Zak–Zak, Lola_Five and all the others lived there, poised and confident in their apartments in the sky. Their lives looked up to, literally and thoughtfully. Their stories followed with bated breath. Each twist and turn of their narratives met with jubilation or angst, and never–ending comment.
Mantle had the penthouse at the top: he noodled for his recollection of Steiger’s summary – six days out of twenty. No chance of talking to Mantle now, even if someone wangled a warrant, Braddon was off the case.
Further down the building were the unbrows and a sliver of light came from the Suites, teasingly close and impossible to reach.
Braddon turned away, walked into the night down towards Chedding.
He noodled and remembered a few bars he’d visited before, but also searched for Belgian beer. There were three nearby, their routes paved with blue lines in his memory. He picked the nearest that didn’t involve any backtracking.
He ordered a Leffe Dark before he saw the place, the thought winging its way to the bar’s hashtag and the waitress thought clearly about where she’d left it. He came in, reckoned with the till at the bar and found his table. There were three chairs and, out of habit, he picked one so he could have his back to the wall.
The beer tasted good.
He noodled the time and when he remembered it, he was surprised at how early it was in the evening.
He recognized a lot of people for the first time. This wasn’t a part of town he frequented.
Do you want that chair?
The girl appeared from the crowd, her thoughts polite even though she must have parsed his thought stream and known that he wasn’t expecting anyone.
Not at all, take it.
Thank you.
She was attractive, long brunette hair and clean, happy thoughts. She swept one of the chairs away, expertly.
And thank you again, she thought back with an added smiley. She wiggled suggestively, probably knowing he was looking at her as she disappeared back into the throng, and teasing him because of a leaked thought. Chloe’s a lucky girl, she thought before she passed out of recognition range. No, she was still there, but her thoughts scrambled in the hub–bub. Braddon could have followed her, of course.
She’d obviously not paid that much attention to his thought stream.
Oh well, he thought. Women.
He sipped his beer: it wouldn’t be long before no–one could follow his thoughts for the rest of the evening. He’d drink himself into zombiehood.
Steiger, Chloe, Jasmine… Braddon tried to stop it, but he’d noodled and so remembered the complete list of all his previous girlfriends, dates, one–night stands and crushes. It was depressing to find himself drinking alone in a packed bar when he could be at home following countless people and interacting properly: liking, sharing, rethinking, commenting and joining in.
He glugged his beer and the familiar sensation of his safeties activating itched inside.
He’d probably buggered up his career now: he’d be on traffic or, worse, on the beat in the unbrow ghetto near the docks.
A man walked in.
Braddon didn’t see him at first, but spotted the way that people flinched and pulled away creating a wave of expanding disaffection. At the centre, when the customers parted, there was Entwhistle.
There was a difference, Braddon realised, between a drunk and a zombie: the former may have no thoughts, but pinged in recognition at least. They could noodle. Their eyes didn’t have that disturbing unbrow stare caused by always looking outwards and never inwards.
Entwhistle scanned around, his prominent eyes almost out on stalks as he searched. It was a strange action considering, but then everyone knew where everyone else was sitting given that they could follow their thoughts. Entwhistle had to rely on his vision.
Braddon wondered about waving or hunkering down to hide, but Entwhistle saw him and came straight over.
The sigh of relief that went around the room w
as nothing compared to the thankful emoticons, and then the suspicion about why this Braddon they recognized when they were close enough would want to sit with such a dead–behind–the–forehead walking corpse.
God, I’m maudlin, Braddon thought, but it buffered.
“Detective Sergeant Braddon?”
“Mister Entwhistle, you’re a long way from home.”
“I’m free to come and go anywhere.”
“Indeed.”
Entwhistle raised a finger to attract the waitress, clicked rudely and even coughed.
The waitress looked confused: the hashtags for the restaurant were announced on its Thinkerfeed.
He’s unbrow, she thought.
“Sir, can–” She coughed. Not drinking when serving is unreasonable if I have to talk aloud.
“Beer for me and my friend.”
“And how… sorry… will you be… you know.”
“I have cash.”
“Cash!”
“Yes.”
The waitress rubbed her throat, either in contemplation or because her larynx was hurting. Or both.
“I can reckon with the till,” Braddon said.
“No, I’ve cash,” Entwhistle said.
“I can reckon and you can give me cash.”
Entwhistle considered: “Fair enough. Two beers.”
The waitress looked to Braddon: Is it all right?
Yes, same– Buffered. “Yes, same again for me… same for him.”
Excellent. Right away.
The waitress weaved her way back to the bar, thinking the order ahead.
“So?” Braddon asked.
“When your safety circuits are active.”
“My… OK.”
They waited for the beers.
Braddon didn’t want this conversation, so he didn’t tell Entwhistle that he’d already shut down. He wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet – the solitude – and put off the inevitable intrusion. Entwhistle didn’t realise.
Braddon drank.
The waitress returned with the drinks.
My manager wants you to reckon straight away, she thought.
“I…” Braddon sighed. The manager clearly didn’t trust unbrows and, by extension, anyone sitting with one.
Braddon looked towards the bar, found a till signal and reckoned.
“Happy?”
Sir.
They each slid their bottles closer as the waitress flounced away.
“Cheers,” Entwhistle said. They clinked, a loud sound in the quiet room, because most people were thinking at each other or following various feeds. No–one appeared disturbed by it.
However, the hubbub of people talking grew: Give it another hour and you won’t be able to hear yourself think, Braddon thought. It buffered: he’d have to speak now, he couldn’t pretend any longer. He didn’t want any sort of conversation, particularly with anyone connected with the case, but what choice did he have?
“Mister Entwhistle?”
“There are a few matters I couldn’t discuss with you at the House.”
“What house?”
“Sentinel House.”
“Go on.”
“Strictly confidential.”
“Strictly… oh, for…”
“As much as you can.”
“As much as I can, fine.”
Entwhistle looked nervous, glanced down… there was something in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Braddon leant forward quickly, of course his thought wasn’t detected by the unbrow, and so he snatched it away easily.
It was a card with printing: Find Detective Braddon and tell him everything.
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“I was hoping you’d know,” said Entwhistle. “I don’t remember.”
“Perhaps… you should just start at square one.”
Entwhistle nodded. “It might be about the closed–circuit TV.”
Braddon slipped the card into his jacket pocket. “Go on.”
“It doesn’t cover a section at the back of the building.”
“Why not?”
“Camera broke and the cyborgs didn’t realise, didn’t think.”
“They think… I see. Go on.”
“Well, we can get out for some fresh air and no–one knows.”
“In the dog walking field?”
Entwhistle shuffled: a piece of body language that Braddon couldn’t be bothered to try and interpret in emoticons.
“We sell celebrity memorabilia.”
“You mean Tammy–Zing’s underwear?”
“No! Yes.”
“You’re joking!”
Entwhistle was silent.
Braddon shook his head, slurped his beer and wondered how to avoid that news leaking out when he sobered up.
“How?”
Entwhistle rubbed his chin. “Some foil heads from the estate have connections with the black market.”
So, there was a smuggling operation out of Sentinel House, organised and efficient, and perhaps lucrative enough to be a motive for killing. Collectors and fans probably paid eye–watering amounts of…
“Is this cash in hand?”
“Yes.”
Cash was still legal, but only ever used for the black market. And by unbrows.
One of the coppers in the Lamp collected coins and notes: he’d once shown Braddon his haul, a threepenny bit and his most prized possession, a rare debit card.
A present of something that Tammy–Zing owned would get Chloe back in his good books. Not underwear, obviously.
“But you avoid leaving any thought trails,” Braddon asked. “People could noodle this.”
“They employ five–year–olds to… walk their dogs.”
It was fairly extraordinary. He and the other scene of crime officers had done all the usual noodle searches. They’d turned up nothing out of the ordinary.
“Do you?”
Entwhistle nodded.
“How do you get this stuff?”
“We just take it,” Entwhistle admitted.
“Isn’t it missed?”
“The cyborgs do a Noodle system search of where they thought it was last. It’s not there, they never think of trying anything other than that.”
“And your cut of the cash goes on?”
“I buy books.”
“Books?” Braddon noodled and remembered: paper used for something other than tissues.
“Collector’s pieces, first editions, and paperbacks.”
“Worth a lot?”
“To me.”
“And did Taylor make a lot?”
“Same as the rest of us.”
“Don’t you get some sort of allowance from Mantle?”
“We do, but… we do it for the excitement, mostly.”
Braddon nodded. “Do you think one of these foil heads got greedy and pushed him off the bridge?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t go to meet a black marketeer.”
“Who did he go to meet?”
“A date.”
“A date? Who?”
“Someone he met on–line.”
“You don’t mean internet dating?”
“I do.”
“How old–fashioned.”
Braddon had no idea how anyone would go about such a thing. With thought, you just noodled a prospective date, searched for who’d like to go out this Saturday to a bar or whatever. There must be a whole underground of unbrows – he couldn’t think of the word for a moment – ‘typing’ on keyboards to do in the clumsiest way what it took normal people a few tenths of a second.
“We have access to thought,” Entwhistle said.
“How?”
“We read it off a screen.”
“Read it–” Braddon choked on his beer, the laughter causing the froth through his nose, and his suffering just made his reaction worse. “But
you wouldn’t get any emoticons.”
“They come out as symbols, a sequence of characters or hieroglyphs.”
“And?”
“We look them up in a reference book.”
Braddon lolled: it buffered, but he lolled again as he couldn’t help himself.
“But there’d be no emotion in that.”
“I guess not.”
“Who did he meet?”
“Linzi Fifty Five.”
“And did you check her Thinkerfeed?”
“I did, no thoughts with that code in the entire Thinkerfeed. And Michael’s search was thorough.”
“Another unbrow then,” Braddon said. “Didn’t that worry anyone?”
“Taylor kept it to himself. It wasn’t that sort of arrangement and he didn’t want to jinx it. He preferred to believe in…” Entwhistle waved his hands in some desperation, clearly having trouble with finding the right words.
“Believe in?”
“Love, romance, something… anyway, it was an anonymised thought that we read on screen.”
“Anonymised? Is that even possible?”
“Not for you, your ID is stamped on everything, but via computer, you can set one up easily enough with a temporary code.”
“Geez, you can?”
“You have to for doors, lights, cars and everything else. Michael can anyway, he’s good with technology… a skilled technician. He knows all about iBrow devices and computers.”
“How can he without access to the Thinkersphere and, well, all of human knowledge?”
“We’re not stupid,” Entwhistle said. “Think of it as one sense compensating for the loss of another.”
“And your sense, Entwhistle?”
“Common.”
“You’re Entwhistle,” Braddon said. “And there’s Hogan, but the others, those who have lost their brows, are Michael, Valerie and Jilly.”
“They are children in a way.”
“What way?”
“The loss of the brow meant their shortcut to education was lost.”
“Wouldn’t another sense compensate?”
“What sense would that be?” Entwhistle said. “If your brow was ripped out, you’d soon be called… ‘Oliver’ – isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Braddon considered this: he’d not have any sort of life without his brow. “And you?”
“Books, self–taught, education.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”