by David Wake
They’d torn the Cage apart to get inside. They’d had to turn the automatic security off to do so. Now they could enter without taking drugs and leave without the computer system insisting they delete their cache. The copper wiring still had its effect, cutting him off from the Thinkersphere.
Inside, they’d found Emile Larson’s body: he’d been scalped. His brow was in a Tiger Fire in a parking bay at the back of the building.
I don’t like it, Sanghera thought over recognition.
No–one does. Found anything?
Just smudges. Everyone’s fingerprints are everywhere. Even yours.
Jellicoe’s old school ways have let us down.
Looks that way. I don’t know how they managed when this was the only way.
Braddon touched the scabs on his forehead and resisted the urge to scratch: Thanks for looking.
Is that all?
Yes, that’s everything on the noodle checklist.
Braddon was grateful the officer didn’t immediately race out and back into the all–encompassing signal embrace of the network. Instead, Sanghera walked; it was impressive – most people panicked without a connection and ran back to the bright radio transmission of the Thinkersphere. Braddon, more used to the desert of a black spot, stayed longer, wanting to be alone with his speculations while sober for once.
Only those with something to hide want privacy.
Killing in self–defence was one thing, necessary and admissible in court, the thought of imminent death enough to sway any jury, but this act was something else. Someone had sat at that desk, days earlier, and typed those instructions. They’d found the coding in the antique computer Mantle had hidden in the Cage.
Braddon seethed.
It was vile, truly vile, to contemplate ending another’s life and then not even carry it out yourself. The keys pressed, the commands released, and then to hide. Cowardly. It chilled his bones far more than the silence of this thoughtless environment, this Cage. Cold–blooded was the right expression for such a repellent act.
What sort of person would do such a thing?
Braddon recalled following Larson: it was hazy, more than the drunken fuzz that came with turning the iBrow safeties on. Did Braddon physically follow Larson north or simply follow his thoughts? And those thoughts were disjointed and confused. There was even an emergency signal for an ambulance in the trash signifying Larson’s death, but it had been followed by numerous confused transmissions.
The Tiger Fire’s own log was clear, if terse: Larson had taken the car from Sentinel House, his thoughts to unlock it registered – there were even some secret instructions stored in the car’s memory and used to drive north.
He’d parked in Scotland for a couple of hours and then he’d come back to the vehicle. Larson hadn’t thought at all on the return journey; the car had only registered his ID. Some trick. When he’d got back to Sentinel House, someone had killed him and mutilated his body by ripping out his – Braddon shuddered – iBrow.
Mantle’s whole Thinkerfeed for the time was a gap.
Entwhistle Hogan, Michael, Valerie and Jilly were unbrows, so who knew what they had done.
Braddon had returned from Scotland with Steiger.
Someone had shot Steiger in the back across in a room off the cerebrity Suites. It was the same gun as the one used on Laron, forensics had managed that much, so it was probably the same killer.
Braddon had found the body.
Everything else was a complete mystery.
Braddon didn’t like it: he knew when a trick had been played.
Someone had hacked Larson and Braddon himself; there was no doubt about that. They’d arrested Michael, the most likely suspect, only to find his blood dosed with metabolites from the nepenthatrine. Without a thought stream, it was unlikely to stick in court.
And, if he had hacked the iBrows, then he might have been acting under orders.
Mantle’s?
When Braddon had come back to Sentinel House with Steiger and his thought trail reached the Cage again, Mantle must have done something.
Larson’s body was there. Steiger’s was in that office.
What a mess! It buffered.
Who was responsible?
One of Steiger’s secret service colleagues perhaps?
Black Ops, Jellicoe had said. Was it a throwback to the ‘good old days’?
Secrets and lies.
Thank goodness for thought. Buffered.
He felt the slight twinge as the thoughts stored in his iBrow’s outbox wanted to be free, as all truth did, and fly into the ether for anyone to pick up.
Someone had soldered his brow and pumped his blood full of drugs just to keep their secrets.
Those who wanted privacy had something to hide.
Criminality festered and grew in the darkness and the radio shadows. An open, truly transparent society was superior, and Braddon was glad he was back.
There were still questions.
For instance, Larson, who had driven to Scotland, had been killed later in London. The morons in forensics gave a time of death stupidly early, but there was a thought trail all the way north. Perhaps he’d taken Braddon in the boot and pumped him full of the amnesia drug. Larson had had no thoughts travelling south, so he must have worn a foil hat or something, because thoughts couldn’t be controlled.
Except Larson had: he had been an actor, did full Souzas so the audience could follow his thoughts. He’d been in The Dark Castle and that lasted half an hour – an age.
It smelt of manipulation and deviousness, all the hallmarks of Mantle of Cerebral Celebrities.
It all kept coming back to Mantle.
There was a man in a dark suit waiting: he didn’t have a name. He smiled, a ‘going through the motions’ exercise, devoid of any emoticons. He was an unbrow and carried an umbrella, of all things.
“The man Larson’s thoughts are confused,” he said. “Drugs, probably, best not think about it as we don’t want this to go viral. We can’t have a lack of faith in iBrow technology, can we? Think of the panic.”
The man tapped his umbrella on the floor.
“Luckily,” he said, “there are already six or seven conspiracy theories already circulating on the Thinkersphere system, so there’s no need for us to worry.”
Braddon agreed, then sighed and said, “Yes, I take your point.”
“Excellent,” the man said. “And that Steiger woman, shot in the back, nasty… but no thoughts, so no followers and no loose ends.”
“It was one of them, I think.”
“We can’t prove it wasn’t this Larson, can we?”
“No, we can’t prove it.”
“Never mind, eh?”
He turned and marched out.
As he did so, Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak were walking hand–in–hand along a beach as the perfect blue water lapped at their bare feet. Their holiday was romantic, precious and available to all.
Don’t follow us tonight, Tammy–Zing implored, not on our special first night.
Their ratings soared.
Mantle made another million or was it billion?
Braddon walked through the garden, taking the last opportunity to look around. As with everyone else, he was drawn to the Suites, that paradise of distractions.
Chloe stood on the threshold.
She looked gorgeous in her simple Fiery Love summer dress. Braddon didn’t mind leaking his reaction. Behind her, the trees swayed gently in the breeze and there were the lolls of happy people enjoying the sunshine.
“I feel sick,” Chloe said, aloud. Her last thoughts in her Thinkerfeed betrayed a desire for a Hasqueth Latte, a couple of Easybrow–Lites (contains nacaffidol) and a lie down, but that had been some time ago.
What is it?
“Amaretto, I think, and advocaat.”
Why?
“Because I wanted to talk to you and not be followed.”
Only someone with something to hide–
“Yes, you�
� you’re toxic. All the death and hatred. I have responsibilities now, people follow me, millions already and I have to set an example.”
I’m a police officer.
“That’s no excuse.”
Braddon didn’t know what to think.
She came closer, he could smell her perfume – Tisane Pachoulis – and the blossom from the flowers and from the petals that drifted past the bright opening. She touched his arm, tenderly.
“You shouldn’t do this. It’s unpleasant. And drinking… you’re cutting yourself off from everyone. It’s like you don’t want to play. It’s childish, Oliver.”
She turned and ran nimbly in her Hooper’s trainers back to the manufactured paradise.
Goodbye, Braddon thought, but she was gone.
She was a celebrity now, discovered, having done nothing with her life except think wonderful thoughts. But then, what else was there to aspire to?
Maybe he should give it up, live on a boat like Jellicoe and hit the bottle – Glen Longmoor available on order – while a new liver incubated. Or just lose himself in the thoughts of the happy celebrities and live a proper, fulfilled life, second–hand.
Braddon went to find Mantle.
A quick noodle, and he remembered that the man was in Special Services downstairs.
They were sitting around on the chairs, all nervous and frightened, except for Mantle, Entwhistle and Hogan.
“One of you did this,” Braddon said, aloud for Entwhistle’s benefit.
“Sadly, we’ll never know who,” Mantle replied. “Me, Entwhistle, poor Emile, or Michael… or you? We were the only four there.”
“Nice try, but it can’t have been me,” Braddon said. “I was in Scotland and his body was found here.”
“You came back.”
“It was you,” Braddon said.
“That’ll never stand up in court,” Mantle said. “We can all just say that one of the others did it. Reasonable doubt.”
“It was you,” Braddon repeated.
It sickened Braddon, premeditated murder. To decide to end someone’s life and then methodically carry it out, type letters into a computer and press ‘return’ was evil. Mantle had done it, must have. He had that cold, calculating, cheating mentality for all his ‘what we do is for the good of all’ crap.
“Self–defence,” Mantle said, responding to Braddon’s leaked thoughts. “She was trying to kill me.”
“Not at the time.”
“Even so.”
“One of you did it,” Braddon said. He pointed his finger at them like a gun. “I’m going to find out who and then nail you for it. That’s a promise.”
WEEK THREE
EPILOGUE
Braddon had to wait until Chloe left the hospital. His thoughts would profane any cerebrity’s Thinkerfeed and so they were not welcome. He understood.
Jellicoe looked remarkably well. He was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking strangely vulnerable in a hospital smock. There was a drip leading into his arm, but none of the paraphernalia that Braddon had expected, just a single beeping machine. But then, transplanting cloned organs was routine.
You just missed Chloe, Jellicoe thought.
Braddon tried to hide his thoughts.
She is happy, Jellicoe replied, but it seems a vacuous life.
Perhaps… you’re thinking.
And not drinking.
Braddon lolled.
The Op went well, Jellicoe thought.
Glad to hear it, Braddon thought, settling into a plastic chair beside the bed. I followed the surgeon.
Really?
I guess you didn’t with the anaesthetic.
Obviously.
It’s all over Chloe’s feed too. She’s pleased with Uncle Aidan’s progress. No flowers, she rethinks, but donations to the Police Medical Fund.
It raises money.
Strange they managed all those thoughts without once mentioning the precise nature of your ‘injury in the line of duty’.
It was Jellicoe’s turn to lol.
I guess I should start cultivating my replacement, Braddon thought, patting his stomach.
That’s not your liver and you should at least have cell samples taken.
But you feel well?
I do.
We’ll drink to your health in the Lamp.
Jellicoe smiled: Do say ‘hi’ to my old colleagues.
Think to them yourself.
The room was antiseptic, cold. On the wall opposite, there were holes where an old–fashioned television set had once been mounted.
Chloe thanked everyone for their concern: Uncle Aidan is doing so well.
I bet you’ll be celebrating when they discharge you, Braddon thought.
Can’t.
Can’t?
My new liver doesn’t have the resistance the old one had.
Hence the thinking.
A whole new lease of life.
Good.
Your scars are healing.
Braddon’s hand flinched towards his forehead, but he resisted the temptation to scratch. The scabs kept opening up where his iBrow had been attacked.
“What happened?”
The sound of Jellicoe’s voice caught him off guard.
“I don’t know,” Braddon said. Talking aloud might prevent a few thoughts leaking out, but it was a vain hope for a private conversation. He should have brought a bottle of Scotch.
“I heard you threatened Mantle,” Jellicoe said.
“I did.”
“Are you going to make good on that?”
“I’d like to… I don’t see how. He was involved. No question. Three murders. Taylor, Larson, Steiger… There were other deaths. Dunbar.”
“Dunbar?”
“The unbrow in Scotland. I shot him to save Steiger.”
“Good man.”
“There was a whole nest of them up there, apparently,” Braddon said. “Educated unbrows hiding in a communication black spot. A whole glen.”
“They’ll have had problems getting volunteers to go and check it out.”
“They did.”
“Did you see it?”
“No.”
“If the place wasn’t connected to the Thinkersphere, then you’d have no memories.”
“They’d be in my outbox.”
Jellicoe nodded.
“There was no–one there, they’d all left,” Braddon said. “Moved on to some other… black spot. They’ll plot another bomb attack, assassination or… some outrage. And with nothing in the Thinkersphere, there’s nothing to noodle.”
“Underground.”
“Possibly.”
“No,” Jellicoe said. “They’re the underground in the cyberwar.”
Oh for… “That’s… it’s not like that, is it? They’re deluded. If it’s anything, it’s zombies versus humans. We’re not cyborgs.”
Jellicoe didn’t say anything, and they sat for a while listening to the machine connected to the patient beeping.
“It quite extraordinary that they refuse to know anything,” Braddon said.
“Ignorance is bliss.”
“And Mantle deliberately wipes his memories.”
“The ignorant fighting the ignorant.”
If these unbrows, the educated unbrows, Mantle’s pets and Mantle himself in his ersatz unbrow state, wanted to wage war, perhaps he should just let them.
True humans were social animals.
Those connected to the Thinkersphere were the ones worth protecting.
“It’s frustrating,” Braddon said, feeling the emoticons of anger bubbling into his next thought. “I was a witness, actually witnessed some of it, but… ‘Lethe’, they called it. ‘Forgetfulness juice’. Absolutely immoral.”
“Only those with something to hide want privacy.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Jellicoe emoticonned tired: I can’t.
I’ve stayed too long.
It’s all right. I’m glad you visited.
/> “I don’t like not knowing.”
“You’re a detective. Find out.”
“There are no leads to follow.”
“Keep at it.”
Braddon got up, scraping his chair across the floor; Jellicoe winced.
“I follow Mantle,” Braddon said, “but there are gaps.”
Jellicoe nodded: Thanks for visiting.
Glad you are on the road to recovery, Braddon thought as he left and made his way back down the corridor.
I am.
Chloe’s happy.
Yes, she is, Jellicoe thought back. She has everything she wanted. I can’t say I understand it myself, but it’s the modern world.
Yes.
But…
…but?
I can’t help feeling we’ve lost something.
Braddon reached the exit. The automatic door opened, and the hospital thanked him for visiting. He thought at his car and it thought back at him that it was now unlocked.
Outside, the sun shone.
Café League was offering a free Hasqueth Finest with every donut. People who bought donuts also followed slimming thlogs. People who liked Glen Longmoor also bought Craignoch Cask. New Nacaffimed Strong now came with a double dose of risperidone. Tammy–Zing was welcoming Chloe home and they were planning a shopping trip. Mantle wasn’t thinking anything.
Only those with something to hide want privacy.
He’ll make a mistake.
Braddon liked Jellicoe’s thought.
Some of Braddon’s followers shared it too.
Like? Comment? Share? Rethink?
About the author
David Wake never thought he’d write a sequel to Hashtag, but then he was trapped in an MRI scanner for hours. Here’s a scan of his brain actually coming up with the idea for this novel.
Question:Where do you get your ideas from?
Answer:Bottom right.
Thank you for buying and reading Atcode.
Unfortunately, the Thinkersphere doesn’t exist yet, so, if you liked this novel, please take a few moments to write a review and help spread the word.
For more information, and to join the mailing list for news of forthcoming releases, see www.davidwake.com.
Many thanks to: Dawn Abigail, Andy Conway, Tony Cooper, T. K. Elliott, Nigel Howl, David Muir, David Robertson and Jessica Rydill.