Atcode

by David Wake

  “A derivative of nepenthatrine or something sodium thiopental based?”

  “I… er… something like that, I guess.”

  “God, you cyborgs are useless without your wiring.”

  “Flick that back on and I can tell you precisely, even give you the chemical formula, if it’ll help.”

  Steiger kept the barrels aimed. “And you’d call for back–up.”

  Braddon shrugged, shifted his weight, getting ready. Her posture didn’t change. Maybe he did have an edge, but he wasn’t used to being unpredictable when sober. She was armed, but if he could knock it to one side and get close.

  “So much for Plan B,” she said.

  “Plan B… I’m guessing Plan A was killing Taylor,” Braddon said.

  “I didn’t kill Taylor,” Steiger said. “I was on the motorway. Your precious Noodle system will tell you that.”

  “Would it? You switched the Repeater off… wait. It did, but it seemed a very convenient alibi. Just as you had an alibi when Inspector Wainwright was killed.”

  “I was in bed with you.”

  “Did you get Dunbar to do that as well?”

  “Clever for a cyborg, aren’t you,” Steiger said. “Yes, Plan A was something of a non–starter.”

  “So, I was Plan B… ‘B’ for ‘Braddon’.”

  Steiger laughed: “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just the next letter in the alphabet.”

  “And what’s next, Plan C, then D, how many more?”

  If he could just knock the barrels away, but she was just that half stride too far.

  “As many as it takes to get the job done.”

  “What’s it all about?” Braddon said. “Come on, you’re going to kill me anyway.”

  They’d tried something with Taylor – Plan A – and when that had gone wrong, they’d disposed of him and switched to Braddon. Why? Access to Reuben Mantle due to the police warrant.

  “You’re after Mantle,” Braddon said.

  “Mantle has too much power.”

  “You’re worried about democracy.”

  “Oh, democracy went a long time ago,” Steiger said, mocking. “Even in the pre–brow days, corporate money won the day. Celebrity feeds have too much influence over what people buy. They control us. That’s a power that must be curtailed.”

  “By killing him?”

  “What’s one more cyborg dead? You wouldn’t notice one voice silenced amongst twelve billion. We’ve killed. Their iBrow device output goes quiet, the Thinkersphere system memorialises their thoughts for all time – no–one ‘likes’ it, but life goes on.”

  “We’d pick that up.”

  “The police – ha! You don’t. You only detect premeditation or post–crime guilt. Cyborgs have become so sophisticated that any real human with two brain cells to rub together can do anything.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It’s true.”

  “And that’s the Secret Service?”

  “Secret… oh, yes, of course.”

  “You’re not, are you?”

  “No.”

  “But Chief Superintendent Turner said…”

  “Said what?”

  “That you were.”

  “She couldn’t check my Thinkersphere archive, so she had to take my word for it.”

  Just like I had to, but then, doesn’t Steiger have to take my word at face value? Larson thought… no, he was Braddon. It buffered anyway.

  Braddon laughed aloud, fake without a genuine emoticon, and then, in a large gesture, he pointed behind her.

  “Oh, Katherine,” he said.

  Steiger turned to check behind her.

  Braddon, his hand already extended, stepped closer and knocked the barrel of the shotgun aside.

  It went off.

  Both barrels.

  Moliere, Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, Dick, Conway and others all exploded into confetti.

  Ignoring the now useless shotgun, Braddon followed up by shoving her away with the palm of his hand.

  She stumbled back, kept her feet, and jabbed with the shotgun.

  It hurt.

  He fought back, hands slapping attacks aside.

  She was trained, but so was Braddon and he was bigger. She fell awkwardly, her hand striking the shelves and dislodging the contents. The books fluttered down like wounded birds.

  She was lying prone amidst the shredded paper.

  Finish her, Larson thought, urging Braddon on, but he couldn’t. Hitting a woman seemed wrong, kicking an unconscious person – must be, no thoughts coming on recognition – doubly wrong,

  Steiger hollered, “Dunbar! Dunbar!”

  She wasn’t out for the count – she was a zombie.

  Braddon backed away, fleeing the library, closing the door on the unthinking woman who flailed about like a reanimated corpse.

  Something screeched and flashed away: Steiger’s cat. It fled up some stairs. Braddon followed taking the steps two or three at a time as the staircase turned anti–clockwise. He heard voices in the hallway.

  Steiger first: “Did you see him?”

  “See who?” – that was Dunbar.

  “Braddon, you moron.”

  “Who?”

  “He called himself Larson!”

  “He’s with you.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Steiger insisted. “He’s escaped. Did he go past you?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s out the front. Get the others, form a search party, stop him before he gets out of the valley.”

  Braddon crept across the landing.

  A floorboard creaked.

  In a bedroom, the cat sat on the window ledge. It looked at him, unconcerned. Beyond, in the clearing, Braddon saw Dunbar gathering a few other men and women together. They spoke briefly and then ran off in different directions.

  Why hadn’t Steiger realised he’d gone upstairs?

  Because she couldn’t receive his thoughts, so she must have assumed he’d head back to his car.

  Logically, he should have: a couple of minutes’ head start might have been enough.

  He wasn’t used to playing with face down cards.

  What had the last card said?

  Could he skip one?

  Use the last one?

  When Steiger had seen it, she’d said ‘this isn’t very nice’, but what was it?

  His head hurt trying to guess.

  Nacaffidol, he thought. There must be a bathroom somewhere.

  The thought buffered painfully.

  The bed looked inviting too.

  How long have I been on the go? Ow! Stupid buffer.

  He found a bathroom and a cabinet. His image in the mirror was shocking, his eyes sunken and his face bruised. His head hurt; not just the damage to his skin, but the insides felt mashed.

  There was paracetamol, which had been for headaches. He popped two and then two more, turned the tap on very slowly and munched the stuff down.

  He put the rest of the packet in his pocket.

  The network connection was over the river, through the forest and over the hill… or the grey box back in the library.

  He retraced his steps, trying to remember which floorboard had creaked.

  No–one was in the hallway.

  The library door was open.

  He’d closed it, hadn’t he? He tried checking his thought stream, but he’d been panicked and there was nothing useful in his outbox.

  He went in, saw the grey box and a figure standing with her back to him looking out of the window. She didn’t realise he was there, couldn’t know he was there despite being well within range. He barely knew she was there. She could be a mannequin for all the thought coming across recognition, just a waxwork dummy that looked like Steiger.

  Braddon put his hand to his right jacket pocket and felt the weight of the York .38. He could just…

  But no: he was a police officer and, besides that, shooting a woman in the back was hardly moral.

  He could knock her out with th
e butt or take her hostage.

  Or simply run away.

  All these options seemed cowardly.

  Her eyes caught the light as she stared at something in the window and it seemed like she was looking right at him.

  Shit! Buffered.

  He dodged to one side as she turned, the pellets from the shotgun splintering the wood around the door frame.

  She had reloaded somehow, ammunition from Dunbar perhaps.

  Braddon went down the corridor.

  Another hammering blow of shotgun noise.

  That’s two. Buffered.

  Braddon turned and nonchalantly walked back towards her.

  “That’s both barrels and–”

  Braddon staggered backwards, stunned.

  Steiger swung the empty shotgun again, the metal barrel caught the wall, scraped, and lost its anger before it struck Braddon.

  Braddon’s training cut in and he disarmed her, thumping the weapon against the wall.

  Steiger backed away.

  He raised his fists, not viciously, but to show he meant business. The trick was to relax and thus react. Cowboys used to face one another down the street, that narrow stare, knowing that the one who decided to draw used the conscious part of the brain that worked slower than its instinctive counterpart. The one who went for his gun first, lost. Also, in this Age of Thought, intention was always telegraphed long in advance. Fighting, except for bar room brawls when the alcoholic safeties cut off the hazard warning thoughts, was a thing of the past and–

  Braddon reeled.

  She’d hit him.

  That was twice! Three times?

  He tasted the iron tang of blood and his head cricked sideways.

  What the–

  A kick interrupted the thought.

  Even incomplete, it buffered.

  Braddon lurched away, stayed on his feet.

  He swatted, desperately, and she landed another blow.

  A jab, punch, he blocked another, paced backwards, nearly tripped over, his haymaker pushed the air around. He shoved with both hands, yelled and sprang away.

  There was a gap between them and they stood facing each other like boxers sizing an opponent up, but she bounced lightly on her toes like a panther limbering up, while he staggered. He was more vulnerable than this unbrow woman too with his bollocks and brow facing her.

  “Ready for round two?” she jested. “Or is it three?”

  “I don’t know, it’s–”

  As she came forward, he stepped back to keep at least three arm–lengths between them.

  “Come on,” she jibed.

  He was stronger, bigger, but she knew how to use the advantage of surprise. Even looking at her, without the constant stream of thought leaping across the recognition range, he had no idea what she was going to do. She couldn’t read his thoughts, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  He’d fought drunks, but they just blundered in without tactics.

  Her feints were unnerving.

  He jabbed.

  She blocked, countered with a punch, but he jumped back.

  “Woah,” she said, “nearly had you there.”

  She stepped back, aware that his clenched right fist was ready for a hook.

  “Come on, big man, show me what you’re made of.”

  Why you… no, wait, she’s trying to rile me.

  Infuriatingly, it buffered, another distracting jolt in his battered head.

  Braddon tried to calm down, but it wasn’t working. He was afraid of her. It was the unknown, somehow it brushed aside his training and experience to make him a small, frightened boy scared of the dark.

  Bear hug! Use my size and strength and–

  But he coughed and fell to his knees, clutching his throat. She’d struck him with the side of her hand.

  The shock meant he missed his thought buffering.

  “Oh, can’t talk, can’t use telepathy, can’t think… oh dear.”

  He gasped, spat blood.

  “Steiger, I–”

  She hit him again, he saw the blow coming in, a knockout, but somehow all his defences were still waiting for his iBrow to pick up the warning thought – even now, even as the darkness rushed up to catch him.

  He was on stage, the lights focused down on him, a spotlight narrowing, a roaring like an audience coming to their feet in approval.

  “The smallest bump on your iBrow device and you’re utterly useless.”

  Larson was, his thoughts scrambled.

  Braddon wasn’t.

  He struck – hard and unexpected.

  She was on the floor.

  Where’s the card? Buffered.

  Steiger was barely moving, her hands gripping her head. He quickly searched her, but she didn’t have it. Where? Where was it? He didn’t know what to do.

  Braddon staggered to the library.

  There was the grey box. He flicked it on, it started to boot up in a pondering circle of initialisation.

  “Braddon!” Steiger had come round.

  Stupid, he should have finished her, except that he couldn’t attack a wounded person or kill or… he was a police officer.

  He was out the door, running. What would the Wi–Fi range be? Not enough.

  A cry followed him: “Dunbar! Dunbar!”

  He crashed through the undergrowth, paused, tried to get the painkillers out of his pocket, but dropped them. The silver rectangle seemed too far away to bend down and pick up.

  He ran on.

  He found the river again, searched along for the stepping–stones, but found a small wooden bridge instead. He crossed and then scrambled over a fallen tree into a mossy clearing.

  He must have gone sideways, somehow, but if he kept going up any path must lead to the ridge and a blissful line of sight to a Thinker Mast.

  With his main sense disabled, his others tried to sharpen: his sight, every movement of the branches by the wind or change of perspective as he crept through the trees seemed like a shadow of a person; and his hearing, each crack and rustle sounded approaching pursuit.

  They had the advantage here, they knew the woods like the backs of their hands, and he couldn’t get a signal to download a satellite image.

  The ground became boggy, so he picked his way from rock to rock, each jutting from the moss and bracken as milestones. The going was easier once he began working his way up the hillside proper.

  Sunlight flickered through the trees distantly, a fleeting sparkle of dots signifying the skyline. Over that, and the glorious camaraderie of the world would wash over him again.

  Not much further.

  “Oi, you!”

  A man stepped from behind a tree, confident.

  “Lost are we?” he said, tapping the heavy handle of a walking stick against his hand. “Probably time to have a word with Ms Steiger.”

  Braddon took the York .38 out of his pocket and shot the man in the thigh.

  The detonation of the gun was nothing compared to the scream.

  Braddon ran past, up the hill, and then seem to jump into the light to the sound of a choir of angels.

  All the thoughts of the world back.

  Tammy–Zing was happy, Zak–Zak pleased, Chloe over the moon, even the cigarette commercials were wonderful.

  Down at the foot of the hill, tucked behind the gate was the sleek red shape of the Tiger Fire.

  Now what? Get there, get in, get away – any plan was ruined as Steiger had that card.

  He yomped down.

  When he reached the gate, he thought at the car and unlocked it before even climbing over the sty.

  Now what?

  He checked for another card anyway: it felt like two left.

  Dare he look ahead?

  He pulled out the ones in his side pocket, the used ones, but dropped them. His hands shook, he so needed a cigarette. He fished them up, mixed as they were, and one came to the top.

  ‘Find Detective Braddon and tell him everything.’

  What, Larson thought.r />
  Braddon looked about.

  Where the hell was Detective Braddon?

  No, he was Braddon… but he couldn’t be if the instructions said he had to find Braddon.

  He needed another painkiller, he needed a cigarette.

  No wonder with this stupid iBrow piggybacked on his forehead. He opened the car door and checked the glove compartment, but there weren’t any fags.

  There was a packet of painkillers.

  He took two nacaffidols with added risperidone, while he parsed his Thinkerfeed and remembered talking to the detective. They’d been out on the balcony overlooking the Suites, even seen a cerebrity or two. He’d had a cigarette to calm his nerves because the git Entwhistle had been so infuriating. He’d already told Braddon everything. The Detective had been in recognition range for half an hour, so obviously he’d already told Braddon everything.

  But of course, he had – the card had been discarded.

  What was this thing on his forehead, Larson thought.

  He touched it, nervously, but the hand of cards jabbed him, so he opened the door and chucked them onto the passenger seat.

  To hell with it, he thought taking the next card out.

  ‘Remove the brow.’

  How?

  There was no explanation.

  How do I remove it, Larson thought. It’s not so much removing the brow as getting rid of the head and body behind it.

  He checked: one card left now, definitely.

  All right, remove this brow and then read the last card.

  Braddon put both hands to his head and eased it forward. It hurt, tenderness here being sharp and tortuous.

  Warning: the car door is open, the car thought.

  Perhaps it’s like a plaster, Larson thought, best to rip it off quickly… ow.

  Braddon took a firm grip, breathed in and out sharply three times and then–

  Wait. Don’t kill me, Larson thought. Or was it Braddon? It buffered, the stretch on the cable affecting the connection to the Thinkerspere, but Braddon received the desperate plea via recognition. He didn’t want to kill himself, but a moment later his outbox was empty and Larson feared for his life again.

  What?

  I don’t want to die.

  You’re not dead, Braddon thought, and then Larson thought, You’re not dead.

  But his emoticons betrayed his inner turmoil. There was no way Larson would be without his brow, even surgically removed, he’d be a screaming vegetable. It would be weeks of intensive care before he’d be able to elevate into a mere ‘Emile’. A fresh zombie. Assuming he survived.