by David Wake
He felt nauseated: Braddon never drank Green: Coffee, Finest.
His head hurt, his skin, but the worse pain was deeper, somewhere inside his skull like a nail hammered down.
Nacaffidol, Larson thought.
I give up, Braddon thought.
I give up, Larson rethought.
Signals bounced back and forth between the two brows, and it was getting worse. Or he was so tired he couldn’t fight it anymore.
Braddon dumped the half–empty cardboard cup into the bin. The door activated and the cold morning air was refreshing.
Thank you for calling, Emile, the service station thought, and have a safe journey.
Thank god, the car’s an autonomous, Braddon thought.
Thank god, the car’s an autonomous, Larson rethought.
Once back in the driver’s seat, Larson thought to the vehicle and it started up, pulled away and entered the traffic speeding north. As it did so, Braddon closed his eyes, and put his finger and thumb up to massage the bridge of his nose, but the action tugged at the forehead skin, reopening the wound. He sat on his hands to stop himself scratching.
The rear lights blurred, red distorted through the scarlet trickle of blood that welled in his eyes and became tears down his cheek.
Let this end, Larson thought.
Where’s Braddon?
He’d lost him.
He was here a moment ago. He was sure.
The car drove on.
Larson wanted a cigarette. He wasn’t sure why. Braddon didn’t smoke, never had. Drink was evil enough. It was the piggybacked iBrow: it was feeding him streams about cigarettes, lung disease and pictures of girls smoking and it all thumped into his brow. He deleted them, trashed them away, but the information kept seeping into his mind along those filaments that grew through his grey matter.
The donor’s nicotine habit effectively addicted his iBrow with all the settings and chosen feeds, and now it was infecting his. His body craved a hit, needed a smoke, his nerves causing his hands to shake.
Show an interest in anything, furniture or a holiday, and soon your Thinkerfeed was full of sofas and weekend getaways, until you genuinely wanted a comfy seat and a few days in Paris.
That was the point of Mantle’s celebrities.
The car pulled off the motorway, played more jazz and the heating turned itself up. He was following Steiger’s route, turning as she turned, listening to what she listened to, but sweating when she must have been cosy. When she made the journey that created File 0001, it must have been colder. Perhaps the night Taylor died? Braddon noodled and remembered it had been wintery in Scotland.
The roads got narrower.
It would never end.
And then the car pulled into a layby and parked.
File 0001 was completed.
He’d come to a halt.
The car thought at him: You are near your destination.
It was the middle of nowhere.
Braddon got out, Larson locked the car door.
Now what?
He checked the pack of cards and read the next one: ‘Find Steiger.’
These cards were irritating: Where?
There was the road, a field leading up to a wood and a rockier incline down to a stream. There was a gate, layby, looking around there was little else. A distant electricity pylon, a few windmills on the horizon.
Steiger had come here: For a hike?
Perhaps she’d stopped to eat some sandwiches.
Larson checked with the car. It thought back: You are near your destination.
He checked his pockets for cigarettes: Should have bought some at the service station.
Wait, he thought, I’ve got that vaping tube I found on the bridge over the motorway.
Larson rethought that and then added: Try it.
His hands shook as he dug it out of his jacket pocket, he fiddled with it, unfamiliar with such a device, but it didn’t work. The initials on it were ‘BD’ and… there was no charge.
Bugger.
Perhaps fresh air.
He put it back into his pocket.
The only route was the gate and a rough path leading up to the trees. Braddon could not imagine Steiger walking up there in her high heels and Larson could not imagine why anyone would, least of all himself.
He shook his head.
Perhaps a walk would clear his mind if nothing else.
There was a sty by the side of the gate, he hefted himself over and climbed up the hill at a fast pace, working around a huge boulder that poked out from the bracken. It was good to get some exercise after sitting in the car. It was cold; Braddon didn’t mind, Larson hated it.
There were ruts in the field made by four–wheeled vehicles and expanded by recent downpours.
There’d be a view, he thought, and if this isn’t the right path, perhaps I’ll see something.
He reached the trees.
Inside the woods, the wind dropped, and it was warmer, but he felt cold – very cold.
It was dark under the canopy, dark, mysterious and frightening.
Braddon shivered; Larson practically squealed.
I don’t like this. It buffered.
There was no signal here.
Braddon knew: any masts were distant, so beyond this rise, hidden by the trees, was a blind spot.
Braddon worked his way through, his and Larson’s thoughts buffering as they tried to find a signal.
The mind control wouldn’t work here.
It was like the Cage, not so much copper wires as heavy granite rocks.
Braddon so wanted to pull Larson off his forehead, but he might end up trapped here or, worse, under mind–control again when he left. The only way to know the limit of this blind spot would be to reach the edge and then it would be too late.
He moved on and the path came to an open area where felled logs had been stacked to one side.
Things moved in the hidden undergrowth, things that were alive.
Hadn’t they reintroduced wolves to Scotland?
He couldn’t noodle that.
The path snaked to one side along a ridge and then descended.
As before, the sunlight dappled the matting of pine needles, but it was darker, much darker and quieter and colder, despite the good weather, the buzzing insects and the mid–afternoon warmth.
It wasn’t just a black spot, it was a whole valley!
Braddon found himself stumbling back the way he had come before he got a grip. He took a few deep breaths to get his nerve back. Even so, going on was like descending into a deep hole, but all he was doing was walking further away from the network. Here, no thoughts could penetrate, some freak of the hills and the granite certainly, but he was further from civilisation than if he’d been in the African swamps, Australian outback or Amazonian jungle.
He was alone, truly and completely.
It was an icy feeling.
This place was illegal: Communications Act.
Yes, he… but he couldn’t think. Nothing happened, no signal transmitted the string of characters from his brow.
Unbrows would have the advantage here. They were used to this empty–headed nothingness. It felt like a trap, looked like a trap and smelt like pine needles. In the Valley of the Blind, a one–eyed man is King, but he was just as useless as everyone else at night. It seemed that these unbrows were somehow turning that upside down. In the World of the Telepathic, the non–mind readers were taking over the asylum.
Except they were mind readers.
Braddon, like everyone else, didn’t practise reading body language – what was the point? Nor was anyone skilled at hiding body language and facial expressions. Leaked emoticons told you everything about how someone was feeling.
Unbrows were always uneducated rejects of some variety, an underclass that kept themselves to themselves in ghettos.
Entwhistle, Hogan and Steiger were a different breed. They knew things, knew them in some non–noodle fashion, either by instinct or actual o
rganic memory, and so could…
Braddon wasn’t sure of the word for a moment. Some activity they taught at school, but discarded once you had an iBrow installed and knew the answer to everything.
Read!
That was it.
Steiger and Entwhistle could ‘read’ people’s faces and posture, somehow extracting the equivalent of an emoticon. But no–one could read a zombie. They could play poker while sober.
There was more to it than that.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a balance between hawks and doves?
In a world of doves, a single hawk does well, but their advantage is reduced as more doves become hawks. Eventually, there are more hawks than doves and so doves start to do better… except, Braddon realised, the hawks would tear them apart before they managed to work together.
It was a metaphor.
Maybe it applied to brows and zombies.
Must do.
Unbrows had been more and more marginalised, but now Entwhistle, Hogan and Steiger, and presumably others, had found a way to turn their disability into an advantage. In some games – market manipulation, spying and poker – they had the edge.
Which were the hawks and which were the doves?
Brows were the doves, Braddon realised, as it was impossible to be aggressive when you leaked warnings to your intended victim.
If Entwhistle and Hogan were hawks, Mantle had them tamed: Steiger was wild.
A path led to a stream, far too wide to jump, but perhaps he could wade across. It seemed likely there would be a bridge.
Braddon made his way along the path by the bank. He needed to push back branches, so he came across the crossing suddenly. Stepping–stones made of flat–topped boulders lay plonked at intervals. The first and last jutted from their respective banks with eight in the water.
Ten places.
He stepped across onto the second stone.
The water appeared to have a divot in it as it flowed around the granite, churning and bubbling as it met on the far side. There were weeds and a shifting shadow of a small fish evident in the crystal–clear water.
The third stone required a jump.
And the next.
It was impossible to take a run–up.
It wasn’t much of a leap, but enough to make him pause and consider.
Braddon didn’t actually remember the children playing hopscotch, there was no signal in the valley, so noodling was impossible, but he did have an impression. It was the same actions he was taking, even the same number of ‘squares’.
Two easy steps.
He wished he knew the rules of this game.
A jump.
The next gap was the largest, but the stone he was on was big enough for a step first. He swung his arms experimentally, ready to throw them forward to increase his momentum.
“Oi! You! Stay where you are!”
Braddon teetered on the edge. Saw the pebbles gathered below under the sparkling surface. He flapped his arms, probably comically, to regain his balance.
There seemed no–one on the far bank.
Certainly no–one within recognition range.
“Who are you?” the voice called out.
Braddon thought this was a very good question. There were a number of answers. Detective Sergeant Braddon might be an error. Anyone living in this blind valley would be off–grid, probably off–planet, so likely to resent authority. The name ‘Larson’ might suffice or perhaps he should just say he was a wind–up toy sent on an errand by Mantle.
The voice shouted again, somewhere off to Braddon’s right, “I can check with my brow device.”
Bollocks, Larson thought, if you can check with a brow, you wouldn’t need to ask.
The thought buffered, but proved one thing.
“Larson! I’m Emile Larson, a rambler,” Braddon said. “This is the way to the scenic view, isn’t it?”
“Scenic view? It’s a glen, not a mountain, yer Sassenach dabber.”
“Surely?”
Braddon made a show of glancing about as if looking for a sign. He took a few steps back and then jumped the gap to the next stepping–stone. He felt exposed standing on a rock in the middle of a stream.
“Oi! Stay where you are?”
“I can’t, I have to…” What sort of reason would convince him? Buffered. “It’s the lack of network, I have to… must… have to…” Braddon let himself panic, hoping that the emoticons he generated would spill over into the tone of his voice.
“I don’t care what you cyborgs–”
Braddon went for it, three stones left, quick and agile, and he used his momentum to overshoot on the bank.
Gunshot!
Branches wrenched to one side spattering damaged foliage from the impact.
The man was armed, shotgun, and must be concealed in the bushes to his right near the bank.
Braddon ducked.
A second cartridge discharged.
There’d been no metal sound of a pump action being primed. Two cartridges was standard, wasn’t it? If he had noodle, he’d know.
Braddon went round the bushes without thinking ahead, running blind in a blind spot.
The man looked surprised, caught in the act of reloading. He snapped the barrels back in place, but Braddon simply shoulder–charged him. The man yelped, lurched backwards, but there was no ground underneath him.
Braddon snatched the shotgun away as the man tumbled over into the stream.
The weapon was old, but well maintained, with two side–by–side barrels, two triggers and a break action. One cartridge loaded and four more had tumbled onto the ground.
As the man surfaced, spitting water and thrashing about, Braddon picked up the spare ammunition and pushed the handful into his left jacket pocket. They did little to balance the evil weight of the York .38 semi–automatic. He kept one cartridge and shoved this into the shotgun.
He was ready before the man had regained his feet.
The man stood in the water, the clear liquid swirling around his knees.
“And you are?” Braddon asked.
“I’m not telling you.”
Braddon levelled the gun. “You fired first.”
“I’m still not–”
Braddon aimed.
“Dunbar, Brice Dunbar!”
“Excellent… and the way to the scenic view?”
“Piss off.”
“Do you usually shoot ramblers?”
“We don’t get ramblers.”
“Surely? Public land, rights of way…”
“No–one comes down here on account of the fact it’s haunted.”
“Haunted?”
“No signal. Apparently.”
“You’re an unbrow,” Braddon said.
“Aren’t you the clever one, Mister Larson. If that is your name.”
“Those of us with brows can’t lie.”
“Yer can to the likes of me.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Braddon, aware that his emoticons would have given the lie away if this man could pick them up. They buffered. He’d have to do some deleting before he had a network signal.
“Did yer not?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Not rambling then?”
“Rambling to see them.”
“Who?”
Play the card or bluff, he thought: buffered, and he said, “Ms Steiger.”
“Oh aye.”
“About a job.”
“Oh aye, you’ll be wanting the house.”
“I expect so.”
The man, Dunbar, waded through the water: he was big, water dripped from a black, bushy beard and straggly hair streaked with grey. He put his hand out, a big meaty shape for Braddon to pull him clear of the stream.
Braddon stepped back, kept the gun pointed away but obviously ready.
Dunbar struggled at the edge, slipped and smeared mud onto his hands and knees.
“I need to empty my boots,” Dunbar said, once he w
as up.
“Let’s do that at the house,” Braddon replied. “I imagine there’ll be towels too.”
The man sighed and led the way down a path, his boots squelching.
Braddon tried to detect any attempts to trick him, but there was nothing. The man was without thought, a big shape blundering between the branches.
A face down card: buffered.
They came to a clearing full of old stumps, trees felled a long time ago to create this wide, open space.
In the centre was a two–storey house, quite traditional in design such that it wouldn’t look out of place on a suburban street, except for the climbing plants that threatened to pull it down into the earth. It must have been there a long time, understandably so given that no surveyor could plan improvements or developments without access to the Thinkersphere. It was impossible to register a location’s GPS co–ordinates and modify plans without thought.
Dunbar led the way around to the side, and Braddon saw the extent of the dilapidation. One end looked demolished with a tree growing upwards at the corner, its roots driven through the foundations and thickened, until they were holding the building up, and the branches hugged the brickwork threatening to lift the slates off the roof.
Paint peeled, a reddish colour, and beneath it, a blue stain came away too, and under that was a brown that could have been paint or wood or filler.
There was a porch to step up onto, its wooden planks shifted sideways to cover the largest gaps.
However, the well–kept interior betrayed the exterior decay as fake.
Dunbar led Braddon to a drawing room with comfortable leather seats that were at home here as they would have been in a traditional gentleman’s club.
“I’ll be getting her now,” Dunbar said as he went back to the door. “She’ll be in the library or the classroom.”
“I think perhaps I’ll come with you.”
“That won’t be a good idea.”
“Nevertheless.”
Dunbar looked away: “Aye.”
The big man moved back to the hallway, glancing down to watch Braddon’s shadow.
Braddon pulled back and sure enough, Dunbar made his move, whirling around to snatch the shotgun.
Braddon showed his teeth in a parody of a happy emoticon.
“Library’s this way,” said Dunbar.