Atcode

by David Wake

She nodded, her face jumping in the strobe of the oncoming headlights.

  They passed, but on the wrong side, so Steiger used the next junction to U–turn and they finally parked on the hard shoulder near the forlorn police tape.

  When they got out, the sun was just beginning to tinge the sky red.

  A traffic cone lay by the grass verge.

  It wasn’t an intelligent one capable of transmitting messages to drivers and cars. Rather, it was like Taylor’s corpse, a thing just lying there without ever having had a thought.

  “Up here,” Braddon said. He led the way up the embankment to the bridge. He had to lean down to hold Steiger’s hand to help pull her up the slippery slope.

  “Take this,” Braddon said, and he handed her the shotgun.

  “Thanks.”

  He passed over some cartridges, which she shoved in her bag, and then he checked the York .38. The magazine took eight rounds and had three left: he’d used two saving Steiger when he’d killed Dunbar, so what had happened to the other three?

  There was a spare clip in his other pocket, so he swapped them.

  It was dark in the gully as they went along the storm drain, picking their way through the brambles.

  Sentinel Tower loomed large above them.

  Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak were away on a tropical island – he’d missed so much – so the place seemed empty and forbidding. Mantle had not been present in the Thinkersphere for days: something to hide, obviously.

  When they’d crossed the field, Braddon paused and tugged Steiger’s arm to prompt her to crouch.

  “There’s a CCTV camera,” he said.

  Steiger nodded.

  “It’s not very clear,” Braddon continued, “but we might be unlucky.”

  Braddon noodled his own thought stream. The guard on duty had been Felton, so Braddon followed him. The man was on shift, idly wondering about what was in his packed lunch. It seemed a strange thought, but then everyone did things on ‘autopilot’. He wasn’t looking at any screens and then, parsing the guard’s thought stream, Braddon realised that that the man wasn’t even in the security room.

  Why would he be as he could follow thoughts from anywhere in the building?

  “The guard’s not watching the screen,” Braddon said.

  “Clever,” Steiger admitted.

  “Come on.”

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  Steiger leant forward and kissed him on the lips: “For luck.”

  Luck.

  They were going to need it and the kiss seemed to have done the trick. At the corner of the field, they found the fence broken. Bushes partially concealed where the mesh was torn up. They slipped through and on the far side, there was a well–worn path that led not to the side door, but to a loading bay.

  Braddon paused at the entrance to check no–one was watching or following his thoughts. It seemed safe, although the act of checking might alert someone. No–one wanted privacy unless they had something to hide.

  The floor was grey concrete, pitted and stained with oil, and it had been demarcated into three parking areas, each with a large numeral painted in white: ‘1’, ‘2’ and ‘3’, partially rubbed away so that they resembled chalk marks.

  They were like the starting squares on a board.

  Steiger found a service lift, but there were no controls, except for a grey Recognition box.

  “The unbrows can’t use that,” Braddon said.

  Unlike the rough grass outside, the concrete floor was clean and betrayed nothing, so they had to spread out and search.

  Steiger saw it first, tucked away in the corner. It was a simple door and, instead of a grey box above it, there was a keypad on the wall.

  “It’s got a security code,” she said.

  Braddon considered it: it was the same as a security door, except that it required a manual number instead of a Thinker ID code.

  “It won’t be too many digits,” he said.

  “What if only the unbrows know it?”

  It would be a dreadful flaw in their security if someone with a brow knew it. He noodled.

  “We could try a few,” she said.

  “No, there may be an alarm.”

  Braddon remembered that none of the security people knew the code.

  “Like ‘three tries and you’re out’?” Steiger said.

  “Something like that,” Braddon said, widening his search.

  Steiger glanced upwards, perhaps wondering about climbing up.

  No–one knew the code.

  But Entwhistle and the other unbrows must know it.

  So, someone must have told them and that someone had to be a brow. Most unbrows, present company and those in Special Services excepted, were unskilled and lift installation required qualifications.

  Braddon’s search was vague, but it was enough to zero in: ‘Big numbers will be a problem for you, dumbasses, so I’ve made it four ones,’ he remembered eventually. It was a construction manager called… didn’t matter, Braddon knew it now.

  Re–examining the keypad, he saw that the button marked ‘1’ was worn. He pressed it four times.

  Nothing happened.

  They must have changed it.

  Steiger leant in and pressed ‘Enter’.

  It clunked into life.

  They smiled at each other as the machinery brought the lift down.

  “We make a good team,” she said.

  “We do.”

  When it arrived, the inside of the lift smelt of lemon, a strong acidic stench, and the metal floor was sticky. The controls were manual only, making it feel like a trap. If it was this old, wouldn’t the cable just snap? Perhaps they should go up one at a time?

  “Special Services or the Cage?” Steiger said.

  “The Cage.”

  Steiger pressed the buttons: ‘3’ and ‘0’.

  It rattled upwards.

  “Hopscotch,” said Braddon.

  “What?”

  “The numbers changing, reminded me of hopscotch.”

  Or numbered cards or a poker flush.

  A game and he was a piece on the board.

  He’d been in Sentinel Tower and then he was in Scotland. Mantle had done something to him and Larson had driven the car.

  He noodled Larson, but there were no current thoughts or explanation.

  He had to be under copper wire.

  The lift shuddered.

  And Mantle hadn’t had a thought in the Thinkersphere for two days.

  The Cage then: the answers were inside.

  Perhaps he’d been in the Cage before and had his memory wiped, both his iBrow cache and his… Roman memory.

  What was that?

  With effort, he recalled ‘Residual Organic Memory Echo’, but he didn’t know from where.

  The number reached ‘30’ and the lift didn’t so much stop as crash to a halt.

  The doors didn’t open.

  Oh God… then they did, so slowly or his senses were heightened. His iBrow had a set clock cycle, but his biology changed pace according to how much adrenalin he pumped into his blood.

  They stepped out.

  Floor 30: Special Services was two floors down, and just along this service corridor he guessed was the Cage.

  He noodled: yes.

  Braddon moved along until he came to the big open space. In the centre, like a Brutalist copper spider’s web, was the Cage.

  He dodged back behind the wall.

  “Is it?” Steiger whispered.

  “Yes, just round the corner in the centre of the room.”

  “Will they see us?”

  Braddon considered this. “Yes. You can see through the mesh. Entwhistle took me on a tour and I saw inside well enough.”

  “So, we won’t have the element of surprise.”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Have you been inside?”

  Braddon noodled and remembered: “No, I haven’t.”

  “Let’s go together,” Steiger s
aid. “Slowly.”

  Braddon nodded, hoped the body language was clear.

  The room was quiet.

  The Cage seemed to brood in the centre of the space as they carefully closed in.

  Braddon could see through the mesh: were there people there?

  “Braddon?”

  Entwhistle stepped from the shadows, he had a weapon in his hand and Braddon went for the gun hidden in his pocket, gripping the butt inside the material.

  Wait, Braddon thought, it’s a card.

  The unbrow flipped a card from the front of a pack to check the next instruction. He was like a magician preparing a trick.

  “Entwhistle?”

  “Detective Sergeant, what are you doing here?” Entwhistle asked. “And who’s this?”

  “I don’t know and this is–”

  “I’m confidential,” Steiger said.

  Entwhistle appeared to smile: “Good morning, Miss Confidential.”

  Braddon lolled, luckily none of the others picked up his amusement.

  “Where’s Mantle?” Steiger asked.

  Entwhistle glanced at the Cage, the flash of white in his eye movement giving him away.

  “Just the two of you here?”

  “Yes,” said Entwhistle. “We let Michael go. It seemed stupid to keep him here given that none of us could remember why we had to stay in the Cage.”

  “You’re not in the Cage.”

  “Another change of plan.”

  “Let’s get Mantle then?”

  The three of them walked to the Cage.

  Mantle saw them and came to the mesh wall. He seemed happy, perplexed and then suspicious. As he stepped back into the darkness, Braddon wondered if that was really what he’d thought.

  Braddon banged on the glass wall. “Police! Out!”

  Mantle came to the exit, through the inner door and then stopped: he grimaced.

  “What’s he doing?” Braddon asked Entwhistle.

  “Clearing his iBrow device’s cache,” Entwhistle said.

  “What if I want that as evidence?”

  “It’s the only way the automatic system will allow him to leave.”

  The outer door opened, but Mantle stayed inside, just over the threshold so that the copper kept him from the Thinkersphere network. Even so, Braddon recognized him at once, their brows being on a level without anything in–between.

  “What have you done?” Braddon demanded.

  Mantle sent some emoticons of confusion, then realised that only Braddon could follow the signal on recognition, so he shrugged, an exaggerated action to be as clear as any thought.

  Braddon leaked: What?

  I suspect we’ve been here taking regular shots, so we’ve no idea what’s going on. Our memories are wiped and the notes we wrote are somewhat vague.

  So are mine, Braddon thought back. So, none of us knows anything.

  Quite, Mantle thought.

  There are bullet holes.

  Mantle shrugged: We don’t know. Can’t be good.

  Have you seen Larson?

  I don’t know.

  Is he in the Cage?

  Mantle turned and gazed through the copper mesh: Not unless he’s lying down or hiding in the bathroom.

  There’s blood on your shirt?

  Is there? Mantle checked and saw the stains.

  “What are you secretly communicating about?” Steiger demanded.

  “Just… that none of us know anything.”

  “As if,” she said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  She raised the shotgun.

  “Hey,” Braddon said. “I’m police. We take them in.”

  “I’m Secret Service.”

  “There are laws.”

  “You think he’ll just come quietly?”

  “There’s evidence, if you want it?” Mantle said.

  Steiger snorted, “You think that’ll get you off the hook?”

  “To trade for my life, I hope so. It’s in an office frequented by my Special Services–”

  “Traitors!”

  “It’s situated in the Suites, the one with the blue door.”

  Entwhistle interrupted, “Why did you tell her that?”

  “Is this true?” Steiger asked. “How can I tell?”

  Braddon parsed Mantle’s Thinkerfeed: the emoticons were clear. He couldn’t bluff with face–up cards.

  “It’s true,” said Braddon, and when she glanced at him, he added, “I can follow his thoughts, it’s true.”

  She laughed: “A dove.”

  Braddon noodled, but nothing came back about any information. “There’s nothing about it on Noodle,” he said.

  Steiger was torn.

  “He’s worried about you seeing it,” Braddon added.

  “I have to check,” said Steiger. “That information could be valuable.”

  “Go on, I’ve got it covered here,” said Braddon.

  “All right,” Steiger said. “And don’t listen to them. They’ll try and trick you.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Braddon. “No–one’s going to tell me what to do.”

  Steiger studied him with that unknowable face and then, seemingly satisfied, she hurried away. He’d have liked to know what she was thinking, read something from her expression, but she was an unbrow.

  There was silence after the last echo of her heels had died away.

  “Why did you do that?” Entwhistle asked Mantle.

  “To get Braddon alone.”

  “So you can control me,” Braddon said, scoffing with emoticons.

  “She seems to control you,” Entwhistle said.

  “Hardly,” said Braddon. “Anyway, she’s Secret Service. Once she finds something, you’ll both be in custody.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “How do you know she’s Secret Service?”

  “The Chief Superintendent told me.”

  “And how did she know?”

  “Don’t play games.”

  “Do you have any cards?” Mantle asked.

  Braddon shrugged: “You want to play poker.”

  “Hardly… instructions. In your jacket perhaps.”

  Braddon checked and was surprised to find a collection of crumpled cards.

  “There?”

  “May I?”

  Braddon glanced at them: ‘Find Detective Braddon and tell him everything.’

  Why would he have a card telling him to find himself?

  A noodle didn’t bring up any memories, so he threw the rest of them over to Mantle.

  “You should tell me everything,” Braddon said.

  Mantle, the trillionaire, got down on his hands and knees to gather the cards up.

  “Is it?” Entwhistle asked.

  “Is it what?”

  “A full set,” said Mantle, flicking through them. “No.”

  “So, he didn’t finish them?” Entwhistle said.

  “Finish what?” Braddon demanded.

  Entwhistle ignored him and carried on talking to Mantle, “The cards, the last one is always the same, but you wouldn’t have trusted him with any cards.”

  “Maybe,” Mantle replied. “Detective Sergeant, try another pocket.”

  “This is a trick,” Braddon said.

  Mantle ignored him. “Look in your other pockets.”

  Braddon shook his head: the man was desperate.

  Keeping a firm hold of the York .38 in his right hand, Braddon put the ‘…tell him everything’ card back in a pocket before he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “What are on these cards?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mantle said. “I’ve forgotten.”

  Finally, Braddon tried the breast pocket of his jacket: there was a card.

  Braddon pulled it out. It was about the size of Steiger’s business card and blank.

  “And the other side,” Mantle said.

  Braddon felt a twinge of suspicion and double–checked the man’s thinke
rstream. A long moment later, Braddon remembered that there was nothing, but then the man had so many gaps. However, his current thoughts on recognition were bright and clear. He didn’t know what this was: he was bluffing, a last desperate deal.

  Braddon turned it over and read a single word: ‘Halt.’

  Damn, Mantle thought, I was hoping I’d put something useful.

  “What is it?” Entwhistle asked.

  “It’s the ‘halt’.”

  Halt?

  “It’s what we put on the last card to show that the sequence is complete,” Mantle said.

  None of this made sense to Braddon, how… when Larson took him to Scotland, why would he put a card in Braddon’s top pocket, unless it was somehow to frame him for something.

  “It was a series of instructions I must have written for you,” Mantle explained in response to a leak from Braddon. He was speaking aloud for Entwhistle’s benefit.

  “Your instructions?”

  “I’m guessing, we don’t remember and I assume our message on the door was unhelpful.”

  “What message?”

  Mantle pointed: Braddon glanced, quickly because he was still suspicious, but the sign was blank. The writing was on the other side.

  The door won’t open, Mantle thought.

  Oh for… what’s it say?

  Braddon pushed Mantle aside and went to the inner door. It was hidden, impossible to see from the ‘airlock’. Braddon could see the comfortable seating, the antique computer with its screen, keyboard and grey Recognition–and–Repeater box. His iBrow paired and connected to it. The copper was already interfering with the Thinkermast outside, so it was the strongest signal. This was a Faraday cage all right, Braddon realised: Feels cold… like all black spots.

  “The message isn’t clear,” Mantle said, “but it says you were under orders. I believe they were ‘Kill Mantle’.”

  “Is that right?” Entwhistle asked. “I’d forgotten.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, it doesn’t say that,” Braddon said. “I’d never be under orders to kill anyone.”

  “Braddon–”

  “Enough!” I am not being controlled by anyone. I’m a police officer, no–one would be foolish enough to order me to kill Mantle and–

  Braddon blinked suddenly.

  I am not being controlled by anyone. I’m a police officer, no–one would be foolish enough order me to kill Steiger and…

  It was there in his outbox and then it popped in again.

  Kill Steiger.

  Braddon lolled.

  It was ludicrous.