Atcode

by David Wake

  What happened in the Cage?

  What indeed?

  What happened in the Cage?

  That echo again.

  Neither of them knew.

  The brow thought by itself: of course it did. They knew your favourites, your feeds and your most used choices, gradually building up a picture of your habits, your likes, comments, rethinks and shares.

  That was thinking.

  But this?

  Or was it Braddon’s unconscious need to keep Larson alive and maintain his disguise, an echo of something Larson thought.

  Would Braddon be able to think without Larson?

  He noodled, but the search was too vague. He knew ‘Rome’ from somewhere, Residual Organic Memory Echo, or was it the city?

  It didn’t matter.

  Or did it?

  Was this really killing Larson?

  Please.

  Was that him or Braddon… or him or Larson?

  Braddon took a firm grip again, breathed in–and–out three times and then wrenched it forward. It caught, the soldered connections distorted and threatened for a moment to tear Braddon’s iBrow out from inside his head.

  Then it came free like a thunderclap.

  Larson screamed.

  SATURDAY, AFTERNOON

  Braddon screamed too – a second scream.

  The two, a chorus of desperate emoticons, separated.

  Braddon flung the bloody object away.

  It stung, then a sharp pain wrenched through his skull like needles pushed through his forehead. The stinging electrical charge coursed into his frontal lobe.

  The pain was intense.

  When the flaring stopped and Braddon could see through the flashing maelstrom of lights, he threw up, an involuntary action, and then he felt a presence.

  Help me, help me, Larson thought.

  Braddon turned, his vision still full of hallucinatory lights. He couldn’t see Larson, not standing and not hiding behind any bushes. He blinked, kept blinking to clear his head.

  Shit, Braddon thought.

  Shit, Larson rethought from wherever he was hiding. He had to be close to be within recognition range.

  Braddon’s legs threatened to give way. Where am I? He parsed his thought stream, but he’d not been transmitting anything for hours.

  Braddon, is that me?

  Larson’s brow lay in the dirt, well within recognition range, and the internal workings were spewing random nonsense across at him via recognition.

  Braddon, Braddon, it hurts… help me.

  Braddon stepped across, smashed the heel of his boot down on the fragile object.

  He pulled away.

  The thing was still there, just pushed deeper into the earth.

  Water seeped in.

  He fished it out, tried to bend it to snap it in two, but it was too small to grip properly.

  Braddon, Braddon… syntax, error 694 at line 00A564B21, help, help… emergency protocol, Emile Larson requires an ambulance. GPS co–ordin… ates… error 694… … *£

  Under his final thoughts, Larson screamed emoticons once more and then he was silent.

  Warning: the car door is open.

  It was indeed.

  Braddon dropped the damaged and useless iBrow onto the passenger seat where it nestled with some cards. They were about the same size, although the brow stored more information than any paper or card. This one carried on pinging that it was Larson.

  He looked at his hands, checked his arms, touched his face and rubbed his hands over his hair. He was crying… no, tears of blood welled from the wound in his forehead and trickled around his eyes and down his cheeks.

  Shit, my brow!

  He looked for a cloth and then pulled his shirt out from his trousers to rip a length off the bottom. He tied it around his head, winced with pain and hoped that would staunch the flow of blood.

  He spat, tasted the sick in his mouth again and then staggered over to the car.

  Where the hell am I?

  You are near your destination, the Tiger Fire thought.

  This? My destination? I need to go home…

  Home selected.

  …have a bath and a shave. A whisky. Two whiskies. Hell, the whole bottle of Glen Longmoor.

  The thought stayed in his outbox.

  His brow pinged: connecting…

  He didn’t have a network connection… why? His brow appeared to be going through its boot–up procedure. He exchanged thoughts with the car because it was within recognition range.

  Warning: the door is open.

  Brow message: Outgoing connected.

  Braddon could think, finally think: Shit. Where am I? Where the hell am I? This? My destination? I need to go home, have a bath and a shave. A whisky. Two whiskies. Hell, the whole bottle of Glen Longmoor.

  He looked around: Where the hell am I indeed.

  The wind was bitter and it was countryside for as far as he could see. He was on a country road, rough tarmac that failed to keep a straight course from one distant hill to another. There were trees uphill and the sound of running water downhill. Distant windmills turned inexorably.

  His head hurt – a lot.

  He was bleeding.

  Braddon parsed his thoughts: he was going to the celebrity party with Chloe – where was she? – and then he’d had a drink. After that, gaps… Mantle must have done something to him.

  He saw someone coming towards him, but he didn’t recognize her. She seemed oddly unreal.

  Brow message: Incoming connected.

  The shock was immediate: his muscles tensed, snapped rigid and he keeled over backwards.

  The first massive digest of everything Tammy–Zing had been doing, comments upon it, jokes and viral thoughts slammed into him so hard that every other sense failed.

  The police hashtags were there too, but the cerebrity feeds swamped everything.

  Tammy–Zing loved Zak–Zak.

  Braddon felt joy, unbridled pleasure: everything was good, the sun shone, the clouds were white and fluffy and even the cherry Fizzy Good tasted sharper. It was so wonderful to be alive, to be here with Tammy–Zing and the billions of her loyal followers, whose thoughts were so uplifting, rewarding and appreciated.

  Even Chloe’s rethinks washed over him.

  To be so loved was everything.

  Christ, the pain was unbearable.

  Braddon tried to unfollow.

  Then another tsunami struck: Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  Over and over, condensed, one screaming command smashing into the next.

  Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  Braddon bit his tongue. Blood coursed into his throat, he was choking, drowning.

  Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  Someone was laughing aloud, “Cyborgs, so superior and yet so vulnerable.”

  Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  His mind was gone…

  Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  Steiger!

  Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle. Kill Mantle…

  But Braddon couldn’t get the thought out, it wouldn’t go in his buffer, his brow still processed all the input.

  “You know so much, and yet understand so little.”

  He tried speaking aloud, “K’ man… ’l–tle…”

  He was swallowing his tongue.

  The woman laughed, not the wry humorous addition of a loll, but a sharp, crow–like mocking.

  He had to shut her up, had to reduce the sensory overload…. had to… needed to kill.

  Braddon attacked, instinctively, his overloaded brow unable even to cache any thoughts. He pushed her to the ground, knocking her down and she fell like a rag–doll. Like a doll, too, without any thought coming from her at all.

  The backlog finished, his buffer emptied and finally, the incoming thoughts receded to the live feed only.

  Tammy–Zing was getting up for breakfa
st and letting Zak–Zak, who looked so cute lying there, stay in bed. She put on the loveliest sarong and took her orange juice – Hunky Dory’s Freshly Squeezed, only 100% juice – out onto the veranda.

  Share it with me, she thought, this lovely holiday with such a gorgeous man. It’s such a wonderful, perfect day.

  And, beautifully, the sun shone over the Caribbean.

  The rear window of the Tiger Fire exploded.

  For a moment, Braddon thought the car was going up, but the glass had fragmented into cubes and scattered over the rear seat.

  Warning: the door is open, the car thought. Window replacement service contacted.

  A man ran towards him down the hill. He aimed a shotgun – Braddon feinted forward and then pulled backwards – stupid, that wouldn’t work, he’d thought it all over the world.

  The bonnet peppered with pockmarks.

  Insurance contacted.

  It had worked.

  The man was an unbrow. He opened the shotgun to reload.

  Braddon had seconds.

  Too late.

  The man clicked the shotgun closed as he hurried to the gate. His weapon bounced around dangerously as if he’d stumble and the thing would go off and blow his foot off.

  Or his head.

  Steiger was lying on one side: Where had she come from?

  There was something heavy in his pocket.

  It was a gun!

  Fucking hell, he thought.

  The man with the shotgun came through the gate and reached Steiger’s prone form.

  Braddon had a handgun: Where the hell had it come from?

  It was a York, warm… fuck! A resin – monstrous!

  He cocked it, aimed… fired two shots.

  The man with the shotgun seemed surprised.

  Steiger stood up, ready to run.

  No, let’s– “No, let’s make sure,” Braddon said aloud. “He might still be dangerous.”

  Braddon came around the car.

  Warning: car door open, it thought.

  Absently, Braddon slammed the door shut.

  The engine started up and the indicator blinked into life. It was oddly fascinating to see the hunk of metal and plastic coming to life.

  He stumbled on the uneven ground over to the body. The man was quite dead, a neat grouping of two shots to the forehead. In training, they always thought at them to ‘aim at the centre of mass’, but ‘aim for the brow’ always made sure. It worked on unbrows too.

  The shotgun had fallen in the heather and Braddon recovered it.

  “It’s all right,” Braddon said to Steiger, “you’re safe.”

  “I’m safe?”

  A car, a red Tiger Fire, pulled away nearby and began accelerating.

  Braddon squinted to see inside: it appeared empty, but he recognized Larson.

  Larson!

  Here?

  Braddon ran after the car.

  There were no thoughts to detect, but it was clear from Larson’s brow that he was in the car, ducked down to avoid being seen – pointlessly. Unless he thought that the car’s bodywork would mask the signal like a Faraday cage.

  The car was away.

  Braddon sprinted a few metres further, but it was hopeless.

  Larson went beyond recognition range, but Braddon managed to parse the car: it was going home.

  He still hadn’t shown himself.

  The car was autonomous, so Mantle’s spokesperson didn’t need to look out. He could spend the whole time on the back seat under a blanket or in the boot if he wanted.

  Where was he going?

  Home.

  Probably Sentinel Tower, but there was always the risk he associated some childhood experience as ‘home’.

  Braddon hadn’t yet connected to the network fully, but once he did he could follow Larson via the Thinkersphere.

  He glanced around.

  He needed something to give chase.

  Another car! Something.

  He saw Steiger standing bemused, bleeding from a split lip.

  “Larson got away!” Braddon shouted, waving after the absent Tiger Fire.

  “Larson?”

  “In the red Tiger Fire.”

  “Red Tiger Fire? My car?” Steiger said. She glanced over to the other side of the road. Behind a wall, there was another vehicle just visible, its polished red roof catching the afternoon sun.

  “The other Tiger Fire. It was Larson!” Braddon said. “I recognized him. You know what that means?”

  “What?”

  “Recognize… with my brow.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “And it means Reuben Mantle is behind this.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Reuben Mantle. Of course.”

  Braddon noodled: it was confusing, but Emile Larson’s Thinkerfeed clearly had him travelling to Scotland, stopping at service stations, buying a brow charger, coming here, checking his handgun, going over the hill into a… the thoughts ended there.

  There’s a blind spot there, Braddon thought, checking up the hill. There were woods there on a ridge.

  He ached.

  He touched his forehead and recoiled, feeling the blood there. He had a bandage on. Someone must have hit him in the forehead. No wonder he felt confused. Jesus, my brow! He fumbled a checkbrow and then felt the device go through its diagnostics.

  “Why do you think Mantle wants to kill us?”

  “Sorry? What? Mantle wants to kill us?” Yes, that makes sense. My God! “Are you all right?” Braddon had seen that Steiger’s face was bruised, her lip split. “You’re injured.”

  “It’s nothing,” Steiger said. “You… I… er… Dunbar hit me.”

  “Dunbar?”

  “The man you… saved me from.”

  Braddon checked the corpse lying in the heather. He had the man’s shotgun. There was no recognition signal from the man, so he was an unbrow. One of Mantle’s pets.

  He remembered that his brow was intact – thank god – but it had just gone through its reboot sequence for some reason. Who would know how to do that to a brow?

  “Mantle’s behind this,” Braddon said. He felt manipulated. The man had systems to wipe people’s memories and Braddon’s was certainly affected. He wasn’t sure how he got here and a noodle revealed nothing. The last thing he had recorded was going upstairs in Sentinel House towards the Cage. That explained the gap in his Thinkerfeed. He couldn’t remember a damn thing. Mantle must have got him into the Cage, wiped his memory, forced him to drink a nepenthatrine cocktail and then… kept him unconscious until… Larson brought him here! The timing of the spokesperson’s journey to Scotland was spot on.

  “What is it?” Steiger said. Her face was like a frightened emoticon as if she’d realised something or read a leaked thought in his face.

  “I think we need to level with each other.”

  “Braddon, what do you mean?”

  “What does the Secret Service know?”

  “Secret… yes… it’s…”

  “Don’t give me any national security bollocks,” Braddon shouted, “I’m a police officer in pursuit of a murderer.”

  “We think Mantle is involved in trying to fix elections,” Steiger said. “Taylor found out, he was going to blow the whistle, but someone pushed him off a bridge.”

  “I knew it.” One of the unbrows: Entwhistle… Hogan… Dunbar… this has ‘special services’ written all over it.

  “Let’s get moving,” said Steiger.

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  Braddon was half–way across the road, when he realised that he still had the shotgun and the resin York .38. He put the handgun in his pocket and checked the shotgun: loaded.

  Wait, he sniffed: nitro and that burnt sawdust smell.

  One round had been fired.

  There’d be more ammo somewhere.

  Braddon checked the corpse, Dunbar, and in the man’s coat pocket was a handful of cartridges and Braddon pocketed these.


  He joined Steiger in the car, putting the shotgun on the back seat before slipping into the passenger side.

  Steiger put her Tiger Fire into drive. It had been modified for manual use, but Braddon was too exhausted to be terrified.

  “Can you get me inside?” Steiger asked.

  “Inside?”

  “Sentinel House.”

  Braddon noodled and remembered that they’d tried to get in before. She’d been sent to the video room, but that had been blown up.

  “Yes,” Braddon said. “The unbrows get out somehow, Taylor did and they killed him for it. There has to be a way through the fence near the access gate. I saw them outside playing football.”

  “But to get to Mantle.”

  “There must be a lift, manually operated, or stairs. It goes up to Special Services – must do – and it’s a few floors further to the Cage.”

  “Plan C,” Steiger said.

  “C?”

  “Yes… third time lucky.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “You look exhausted,” Steiger said. “Get some sleep.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Braddon didn’t know about the first two attempts or had they been Mantle’s moves? He noodled, but he was asleep before he remembered that he didn’t know anything about any Plan A or Plan B.

  SUNDAY, DAWN

  Steiger must have driven through the night.

  Braddon slept, fitfully. His head ached and the thoughts from the Thinkersphere juddered through his subconscious along with the flashes of recognition from the other drivers, vehicles and motorway signs, a collage of warnings, nudges and avoidance notices.

  Braddon knew these: Steiger did not.

  She had fines and points on her licence for driving the manual car too fast, but she just plunged on, speeding along as if she was on a roller coaster rail.

  It was terrifying.

  Steiger looked alive.

  He woke at 3am.

  There were gaps in his memory, large chunks of un–noodlable nothing.

  With a thought, he remembered his exact current location: not far now.

  “Go to the scene of the crime,” he said, aloud.

  “Scene of the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s been examined.”

  “It’s the way in.”