Atcode

by David Wake

  Braddon would wait. Once the target was inside the Cage, then there’d be no transmission of any emergency thoughts. Perfect.

  Kill Mantle. Someone’s trying to kill Mantle.

  There was someone else present too: Braddon felt it. It wasn’t via recognition and it felt strange. It was like the difference between Chloe’s natural excitement and the fridge thinking about best before dates. There were his own thoughts, buffering due to the alcohol, Mantle’s and–

  Kill Mantle.

  There it was again.

  Yes, he was sure of it. There must be another person hiding and there was only one hiding place, the other side of the Cage.

  Braddon stepped carefully, crabbing obliquely to move around the obstacle. He levelled the gun just as he reached the corner to look down the side.

  The killer wasn’t there.

  Braddon could see into the room, a faint glimmer through the copper coloured mesh. It was a lounge, small and plush with tiny rooms off it. Rooms? There’d be a toilet, wouldn’t there, to complement the coffee machines and drinks cabinet and…

  Braddon shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Mantle must be hiding there.

  Kill Mantle, yes, yes, for God’s sake! I’m chasing a man with a gun.

  He was missing something obvious.

  Kill Mantle.

  The auto–repeat was confusing him.

  Something…

  He looked up, the polished ceiling was made of metal too, perhaps another layer to the Faraday cage, perhaps… it was like he was looking downwards, seeing the great cube and the surrounding space from high up.

  Two figures, one struggling at the ‘airlock’.

  The door hissed.

  Mantle entered the airlock.

  Even with the distorted mirror above him, there were still blind spots hidden by the Cage.

  Braddon moved on his toes, lightly, and the hissing of the doors drowned out any footfalls. He glanced around the next corner, but there was no–one there either. It was cat and mouse then. Braddon continued around until he’d completed the circuit.

  Inside, Braddon thought. It buffered, but it was also irrational. How could be pick up any thoughts from inside a Faraday cage?

  Braddon tiptoed to the Cage entrance.

  Mantle was busy putting his arm in a slot, winced and thought a sharp emoticon of pain.

  Braddon cleared his throat, “Mister Mantle!”

  Mantle turned and–

  Kill Mantle.

  Mantle jerked back, incoherent suddenly, and he whimpered aloud. His thoughts already affected by the copper of the Cage, so that his emoticons scrambled.

  Braddon brought the gun up, his left hand supporting his right hand to keep the weapon steady.

  Mantle backed away, but there was nowhere for him to go in the small entranceway.

  Kill Mantle, Braddon thought, and he would, the gun slippery in his sweating hand.

  “Detective?”

  Yes, he was a police officer and it was his duty to get between the killer and the victim, put his body in the way as a shield.

  Mantle threw something at his assassin, Braddon swatted it away. It clattered to the floor breaking into sharp shards of pottery.

  He had a gun: Kill Mantle.

  Mantle must be the killer, why else would he attack? Stop Mantle, no, Kill Mantle, and the only way to save him would be to Kill Mantle.

  Where the hell had he gone?

  Kill Mantle, yes, I’m getting there.

  The door closed automatically as Braddon fired: two neat fractures, the holes slightly askew of Mantle’s eyes. The glass spider–webbed, but held. Bulletproof.

  Damn. Buffered. “Damn.”

  The machinery of the air lock shifted.

  Mantle hurried through.

  Braddon got to the outer door, pressed the button, pressed it and – Kill Mantle – pressed it and…

  It opened.

  He could hear swearing under the hydraulic noise.

  He went in.

  Kill Mantle.

  Where’s the Kill Mantle, what, how?

  A woman’s voice was explaining about the mechanism, “Please put your arm in the slot indicated.”

  It flashed.

  Mantle had to put his arm in the slot.

  Braddon did too, pointing the gun in his other hand at Mantle dithering in the Cage’s room: Kill Mantle. Soon, soon.

  Braddon jumped as the device injected him, a sharp needle delivering its venom. He pulled his hand out. A drop of blood gathered, welling inside, it seemed… Kill Mantle strange and Kill Mantle bizarre. It reminded him of something… another corridor with cobbles.

  The inner door hissed and then opened, its gearing stronger than the strength of the occupants who fought to keep it shut.

  As Braddon entered the airlock, the protection of the Cage suddenly disappeared and he had a full update of the thoughts of the occupants via recognition:

  …Jesus, he’s going to kill us.

  Quiet Emile.

  Mister Mantle, what do we do, oh Christ, fuck…

  Braddon’s own thoughts were clear: Kill Mantle, yes, there, a stationary target, backsight, foresight, Kill Mantle, Kill Mantle, Kill Mantle.

  Braddon stepped into the Cage, there was nothing to stop him.

  Kill Mantle, hold breath, squeeze, don’t pull.

  Mantle’s thoughts stuck on an emoticon of fear.

  Braddon fired: I’ve done it, I’ve killed him. Buffered.

  But the target had changed: someone, the other man, got in the way. Braddon recognised Emile Larson, the spokesman, his panicked thought suddenly cut short. He dropped to the floor.

  Kill Mantle.

  Emile Larson’s iBrow began emitting its default emergency message: Emergency services, ambulance to… error, satellite lost, error, no connection…

  The door started closing behind Braddon.

  Emile Larson’s iBrow explained: Emile Larson, pronouncing death at 13:58… error, no connection…

  Kill Mantle, Kill Mantle.

  The door shut.

  Kill Man……….……… . . .

  FRIDAY, AFTERNOON

  Braddon pointed the gun once more at Mantle.

  Go on then, Mantle thought, his bravery clear on recognition, even as it buffered in its attempt to transmit to the Thinkersphere, I’m not afraid.

  No–one with thought could hide their fear; it spilled across the space, brow–to–brow, in so many jerky emoticons.

  There’s… but Braddon couldn’t think straight as if he’d lost something in a tip–of–the–tongue, ‘where was I’ confusion.

  Someone’s trying to kill you, Braddon thought. It buffered, painfully, because… Why? …because the Cage door had closed preventing any radio signals getting in or out, stopping any thoughts going to and from their iBrows to the radio mast. Why am I pointing the gun at Mantle?

  His thoughts would still reach Mantle over recognition, of course.

  His safeties were off.

  Braddon saw Entwhistle, standing half hidden by a large bookcase.

  “What’s going on?” Braddon said.

  “I don’t know,” Entwhistle replied. “What do you think is going on?”

  “Mister Entwhistle,” Braddon said. “Mister Mantle is in danger. Someone is trying to kill him.”

  “Someone?”

  “Yes, Mister Larson here saved Mister Mantle by throwing himself in the firing line.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Mantle said, looking over to Entwhistle, “what the hell’s going on?”

  Entwhistle ignored him. “Braddon, I’m just going to consult with this computer. Is that all right?”

  “Yes,” Braddon said, and he lolled. It was laughably ludicrous in the circumstances. Someone was trying to kill his employer and the stupid zombie wanted to look up something on an antique.

  Entwhistle sat, quickly typed with two fingers, but expertly, and a moment later Braddon’s head buzzed.

  Wha
t? Buffered. “What the hell?”

  “Just downloading your local cache.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve nothing to hide, have you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Lines of text appeared on the screen.

  “Ah,” said Entwhistle, “I think we have a problem.”

  Stupid imbecile, Mantle thought: it came across recognition and then Braddon felt the leaked frustration as it buffered.

  “Detective Sergeant,” Entwhistle said, slowly and deliberately as if he was picking and considering each word before saying anything. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  “Yes, I’m trying to stop an assassination attempt on Mister Mantle’s life.”

  “And that assassin would be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I said I don’t know… a man with a gun.”

  Entwhistle, still seated, showed the palms of his hands to Braddon and a moment later Mantle did the same gesture.

  You better have something, Entwhistle, Mantle thought, pointlessly as the unbrow had no way of receiving it.

  “Who has a gun?” Entwhistle asked.

  Entwhistle didn’t, Mantle didn’t, Braddon glanced at his own hands and saw, gripped in his right, a York .38. It was warm. It smelt of cordite.

  What the….

  “You better see this, Detective Sergeant.”

  Entwhistle moved back, rolling on the wheels of the office chair.

  Braddon saw the screen: lines of text that he knew were his own thoughts, ‘what the…’ at the top, and interspersed through the feed at regular intervals was ‘Kill Mantle’.

  There were thoughts clearly buffered, highlighted here in red, but the ‘Kill Mantle’ mantra hadn’t.

  “The Thinkersphere interface reads in and outboxes and displays any messages here. These here haven’t gone through the output buffer,” Entwhistle mused.

  I can see that! Braddon winced as it buffered.

  Another line appeared at the top of the screen: ‘I can see that’ and a few symbols that could denote anything, but Braddon knew they must be irritation. It seemed to hesitate on the screen and then turn red to show it hadn’t been sent.

  How’s that picking me up?

  Entwhistle watched the thought appear and then turn red before he pointed at a plain grey box fixed to the wall.

  Braddon realised it was a Recognition–and–Repeater, thought control technology designed to open doors, switch on lights, drive cars and so on.

  “That’s it,” said Entwhistle. Braddon hadn’t been aware of his leak, but it was on the screen turning red.

  Mantle picked his moment, jumped across the room and grabbed Braddon’s right arm. He was quick, but his leaked thoughts warned Braddon and the police unarmed combat training was instinctive.

  Shoved back, Mantle stumbled and fell to the floor.

  “Careful, sir,” Braddon said. “You could get hurt.”

  Braddon pointed the gun at the cowering man to underline the point.

  Mantle was no longer the confident entrepreneur, but a snivelling coward, something to be put out of its misery, controlling everyone, manipulating everyone–

  “Braddon,” Entwhistle warned.

  Braddon shook his head: What’s going on? The sting of the buffering brought him to his senses.

  “You’ve been controlled, somehow… I’ll get Michael here,” Entwhistle said.

  “Good idea,” Mantle replied. He stood, stumbling as he tried to negotiate around a chair without taking his eyes off Braddon. He hid behind the flimsy, upholstered barrier, his hands gripping the backrest.

  Braddon lolled: York .38 would rip through that no problem, even if it was resin, the soft points smashing–

  “Braddon,” Entwhistle warned again.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re controlled.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Why were they talking aloud? To disguise the thoughts of the assassination, which Braddon knew wouldn’t work. Why was he holding a gun?

  “I’ll alert security,” Entwhistle said.

  “Shut up… control people? How?”

  “We’ll get medical help,” Entwhistle said, reaching–

  “Stop there!” Braddon said.

  Something wasn’t right. He considered pointing the gun at Entwhistle and wavered his aim in that direction, and so Entwhistle sat still. These people, they’d done something to him, had to have done something! What other explanation was there?

  “Entwhistle, leave it,” Mantle said. “Perhaps, Detective Sergeant, I should take the gun.”

  “What?”

  Braddon levelled the weapon, this man was trying to manipulate him, trying to get him to do things, control him – Steiger had called him a ‘hawk’ – just as he controlled the lives of billions…

  “Why would he control you to kill him?” Entwhistle asked, reading Braddon’s leaking thoughts off the screen.

  “I don’t know!” Braddon screamed. “Some plot!”

  “Not ours,” Entwhistle said.

  “How do you know it’s not his?” Braddon raged, waving his firearm towards Mantle.

  “Because his thoughts come out on this screen and because he’s not the one with the gun.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t kill anyone. I’m a police officer.”

  Entwhistle looked downwards.

  Braddon copied his gaze.

  A body lay on the floor. Braddon recognised Emile Larson, deceased, his brow still transmitting on residual power, its final automated thoughts calling for the emergency services: police, ambulance, police, ambulance, police…

  Oh shit…

  “Quite,” Entwhistle replied.

  Braddon pointed the gun away and then very carefully eased the hammer down to uncock the weapon.

  “Get Michael here,” Mantle ordered.

  Entwhistle picked up a device Braddon didn’t recognise. He pressed buttons, spoke, “Valerie, send Michael to the Cage… as soon as possible… no, now, it’s an emergency…” – he glanced at Emile Larson’s body – “…nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s Lucas,” Mantle said, “or Carnegie… Chikamatsu! It’s got his name written all over it.”

  “Mantle… Reuben, please,” Entwhistle said. “You’re speculating without data.”

  “I know… oh shit, it’s Toporov!”

  “Reuben!”

  “Russians, always with their troll farms, hacking attacks and mind control experiments–”

  “Mind control?” Braddon asked. “You mean someone has hacked my brow… but… how?”

  “Michael will know,” Entwhistle said. He glanced at the screen. “Who’s Steiger?”

  “Steiger? Steiger?” Mantle said. “Who’s he? He’s working for someone.”

  “She,” said Entwhistle.

  “She’s trying to kill me,” Mantle said, “using this errand boy.”

  “Is mind control even possible?” Braddon asked. He couldn’t remember. In the Cage, he had no access to Noodle.

  “I don’t know,” Mantle said. “The Russians have always had a thing about it.”

  “Isn’t it what you do?”

  “Me?”

  “You manipulate people with thoughts. Tammy–Zing buys a new top, everyone does.”

  “That’s just advertising.”

  “It’s a form of mind control.”

  “Nonsense, it just advertising,” Mantle said. “Say, Rose Knight buys a new outfit, we sell millions of them. Millions. With Tammy–Zing, it’s astronomical. Mel_Z went all gooey–eyed over a cuddly toy – a cuddly toy – and we sold 17.8 million. They made ’em in China and America’s Deep South with unbrow labour, no–one knows. It cost next to nothing for a whole shipment container and we sold them for twenty–five dollars each. Nearly half a billion dollars in an afternoon! We didn’t need to do anything, just find the right celebrity, a super–Jay, and everyone does what they do. It’s been going on for over a
century or more with magazines, movies, television and the internet. Advertising.”

  “I’ve heard of those.”

  “And the Thinkersphere just makes it so much more efficient.”

  “But you’re treating people like mindless sheep.”

  “People don’t like having to make up their own minds, it’s too much hard work, so they follow celebrities with buying or voting.”

  “Voting? You control elections.”

  Mantle lolled: “Why do you think the tax system is so amenable?”

  “And that’s not thought control?”

  “Not specifically like controlling a single person – give me strength. What would be the point?”

  Entwhistle interrupted, “Corporate assassination.”

  That silenced them both.

  “It’s not building your market one follower at a time,” Entwhistle continued. “It’s a single, perfectly placed man with a gun.”

  Braddon felt uncomfortable, his guilt leaking out as symbols scrolling on the computer screen. The gun was a burden in his hand, so he put it in his pocket.

  Mantle breathed heavily, deliberately, trying to calm his nerves. “They must have reprogramed the iBrow, so it forwards certain thoughts directly into the brain coded… no, that’s not it.”

  “My thoughts are my own,” Braddon said.

  Mantle lolled over recognition and laughed aloud too. “My whole business is predicated on making people think in a certain way.”

  “How do you do that?” Braddon asked. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “No, the drug makes me forget.”

  “Then you don’t know the secret of your success.”

  “No.”

  “Or maybe it’s Entwhistle who does everything.”

  “Perhaps I should ask for a raise,” Entwhistle added.

  “Maybe…” Mantle admitted. “It does make me feel like an imposter.”

  “Don’t worry,” Braddon said, “that’ll pass when the drug makes you forget.”

  “Whatever! But I do change the way people think.”

  “Not everyone, just your celebrity followers, not me.”

  “Why not you?” Mantle said. “You’ve spent your whole life assuming what’s in your sent folder are your thoughts.”

  “Not my whole life,” Braddon said, tired now, “since I was eleven.”

  “Your whole adult life then,” Mantle conceded. “But it’s a trick, like consciousness. You have lots of thoughts, what your ‘I think therefore I am’ chooses is simply part of the decision–making process.”