Hashtag

by David Wake

  “She’s in here,” Sharon said. She turned and walked past him back the way they had come. The door just had a number on it, ‘21’, and no hint of its purpose.

  Oliver, not knowing what else to do, went in.

  Jellicoe’s face jumped into his view, almost hitting him. The man practically spat in Oliver’s face: “Get out!”

  Oliver held up his arms. “Sharon… the woman said… I… sorry.”

  Oliver turned and made his way down the corridor, certain he was going the wrong way, but he wasn’t going to turn round, except–

  “Oi!”

  “Yes.”

  “You better come in.”

  Jellicoe held the door open and despite himself, Oliver went back and inside.

  It was dark, strangely lit with a child’s night–light plugged into the wall just above the skirting board, and in the middle was a large bed, the focus of a bewildering array of medical equipment. A large bellows huffed and then hissed, and lights blinked to say all was well. With a shock, Oliver realised that there was someone in the bed, a woman, thin and emaciated, dwarfed by the paraphernalia around her.

  “Er…”

  “My wife, Pamela.”

  Oliver nodded.

  Pamela breathed again with a loud huff and a gradual, mechanical hiss.

  Jellicoe moved past him and stood by the bed, looking down tenderly.

  Oliver wasn’t sure what to do or say. His arms seemed suddenly superfluous; he went to fold them in front, but then he put them behind him.

  “Do we talk to her?” Oliver asked, painfully aware that he had directed this to Jellicoe and had ignored his wife.

  “No,” said Jellicoe. “We know she can’t hear us.”

  “Oh.”

  The machine huffed again on its next cycle.

  “I can hear her thoughts,” said Jellicoe. He put his hand on her forehead as if he was taking her temperature. “Back in the day, they’d have declared her in a vegetative state and switched off the machine. These days, we’re more… enlightened.”

  The breathing machine huffed, its beat as regular as digital clockwork.

  “Perhaps she knows your thoughts?”

  “No,” said Jellicoe, “and I wouldn’t want her to know my thoughts.”

  Oliver stepped forward, around life support equipment, and recognised Pammie. It was a shock, she was suddenly there as the brow–to–brow signal was no longer screened by the machinery’s EM shielding. With a creeping horror, he couldn’t resist and followed her.

  House, thought Pammie, house, house… Ollie… have we met… hello… house.

  Oliver stepped back: Jeez!

  Jeez… gee… gee… two lines, thirty–five.

  Oliver unfollowed, revolted that his own thoughts were still flowing into her and affecting her, but unable to stop it. Clearly her brow was set to follow anyone it recognised, and she was too far gone to change that. He could step back, hide behind the machine, but he didn’t want Jellicoe to know he’d been in her head. It was an invasion. So, trapped, he stood for a long time, the huff and hiss puncturing any peace. The room was claustrophobic. Here was a woman, whose mind had gone, and yet her body breathed and her thoughts drifted into the heads of those nearby.

  “I’ll…” Oliver suggested.

  “Thank you.”

  Oliver waited a few paces down the corridor, glad to be out of the antiseptic smell, but most of all away from Pammie. He felt tired, unable to form his own thoughts properly and afraid that everyone who followed him would know, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  Presently, Jellicoe came out.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and they moved off down the corridor, soon in step like soldiers. At reception, Oliver held back while Jellicoe talked to the nurse.

  The rain was worse, and they dashed across to the car.

  Once they were safely inside, steaming slightly, Oliver started the vehicle. The windscreen wipers thwacked across the screen – swish–swash – and for a moment Oliver was reminded of the breathing machine.

  “She’s asleep,” he said, “not suffering, I mean. That must be a comfort.”

  “If she was asleep, she wouldn’t think,” Jellicoe said, his voice flat. “It’s not a coma, it’s Calton’s Disease, a type of locked–in syndrome.”

  “What does she think about?” he asked, regretting it immediately.

  “Bingo.”

  “I… what?”

  “It’s what she followed,” Jellicoe said, matter–of–factly, “and now she doesn’t have the mental faculties to turn it off. Her thoughts are all numbers.”

  Oliver felt physically ill: the swish–swash now bringing up the image of Doctor Ridge mopping the floor in the morgue.

  “I could do with a drink,” Oliver said.

  “There’s a pub on the corner of the road.”

  Oliver knew the way back to Pelton, so the return journey seemed much quicker, and they soon pulled into Jellicoe’s driveway. The headlights illuminated the garage door and its combination lock.

  “Just leave it here,” said Jellicoe. “It needs a wash.”

  They walked together in the rain, somehow content to have it wash them too. They were quite soaked when they reached the Oak: its interior such a relief. There were plenty of people there, but of course it was completely quiet as everyone sat rapt in the thoughts of others; except for the regulars, who had to talk, but had no–one to talk to.

  Oliver looked for the hashtag.

  “Two pints,” said Jellicoe, loudly.

  As the landlord poured, Jellicoe stared at the till machine as if he was hypnotising it as well as reckoning with his bank. When they reached the bar, there was the usual flash of recognition, but somehow it passed Oliver by.

  The beer was frothy, dark, warm and very welcome, much like the surroundings. They found somewhere to sit. Oliver could feel the rainwater seeping from his clothing and soaking into the padded seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he said eventually.

  “Thank you.”

  “Has she… long?”

  “Three years, two months… I could noodle the days.”

  “And–”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  They drank for a while and once it was clear that they’d be needing another soon, Oliver caught the landlord’s eye. He held up two fingers and the man nodded.

  “I guess this explains your devotion to duty and the drinking.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Two more pints arrived. Oliver eased himself out to go and pay, but the landlord shook his head. “When you are ready,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Oliver. “I’ll think to you when we’re done.”

  “You’re already too pissed to do that,” said the Landlord, but in a friendly, jovial manner.

  They drank until they could pour the dregs into the settled head of the new pint.

  “I don’t.”

  Oliver was surprised: “Sorry?”

  “I don’t drink to forget or any such nonsense.”

  “No, of course not,” said Oliver automatically.

  “It’s to stop eavesdroppers.”

  “Your thoughts are your own.”

  “I’m no activist in the anti–cyber league.”

  “No.”

  “But it would be good to have an off button.”

  “We do. Don’t we?” Oliver noodled. “We do.”

  “Do you use it?”

  “No.”

  “Can you use it?” Jellicoe asked.

  There had been a moment in the morgue with Doctor Ridge, when Oliver had discovered, or perhaps ‘rediscovered’ because it must have been covered in his initial induction, how to edit and delete his thoughts. It had not been, however, natural. It was normal to be part of the crowd, to belong: humans were social networking animals after all. To be alone was a status no one wanted. Here, and for the last few days, Oliver seemed to be occupying a twilight zone. But to switch it off, to
actually deliberately disconnect, would be like rejecting all his friends, and deciding to be Unbrow would make him ‘not human’, despite what Zhaodi had said about her sort. Just as early hominids hadn’t consciousness, so those a scant two generations ago were thoughtless.

  “No,” Oliver admitted finally. “Just unfollowing all my friends for the Sergeant’s Exam was hard enough. That was what, an hour… less.”

  “Some have tried,” said Jellicoe. “Some even managed twenty–four hours, but they go twitchy and turn it back on. I remember… one drug addict didn’t want his rehab buddy finding out he’d taken amphetamines. He was a screaming wreck when they brought him into the station. Couldn’t think at all. It took four officers to subdue him and he was tranquillised before they carted him off to the funny farm.”

  “Really?”

  “Thought he’d been turned into a zombie.”

  Oliver lolled.

  Jellicoe didn’t: “In a way, he had.”

  “Not being able to think must be like going blind or deaf.”

  “Worse.”

  “You disagree with the technology.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course not,” Oliver replied. “It was a big change, but we adapted. And we’ll adapt to whatever the next change is.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course: industrial revolution, global village, brow technology; it’s all part of a trend.”

  Oliver was certain that nine tenths of what he was saying was the drink talking, but it was what he believed.

  “There used to be lots of changes,” said Jellicoe. “The latest this, the brand new that, the next big thing – not now.”

  “It’s settled down. We’ve reached a plateau, that’s all. Bound to happen. Technology can’t advance indefinitely.”

  “Everyone spends all their time rethinking others’ thoughts.” Jellicoe stabbed his finger onto the table top. “No–one has original thoughts. It’s all ‘share my cuddly thoughts about my cat’ or ‘here’s a funny thought’ or–”

  “There are important thoughts too.”

  “And if that’s not enough you can join a cerebral and have ‘special’ thoughts and be famous. And even own a celebrity cat.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “So much time is spent socialising that no–one does anything anymore.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Jellicoe squeaked his finger around and then supped his beer. “We’re the only two people here who are actually communicating with each other.”

  Oliver looked around: no–one was alone, every table had groups of two, three or more, but everyone had that vacant look, their faces aglow with that apparent inattention that came with scanning the Thinkersphere. So many people were clambering into his own head, despite the cull due to the non–Noodle exam, that he found his attention wavering from the here–and–now: Freya was arguing with her husband, Parker complaining about orange juice again, Adams and Melissa making love, etc., etc., etc.

  But it wasn’t all mindless, surely?

  He didn’t deliberately think about, say, his breakfast.

  “I have original thoughts,” Oliver insisted.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know a lot.”

  “Yes.”

  He did too, of course he did.

  Oliver thought, and he received a sharp pain as his iBrow reminded him that he’d had too much. He was drunk. Again.

  But it was a brave new world, certainly; there were now so many thoughts, the sum of human knowledge was vast, beyond even the previous generation’s wildest imagining, and available straight to your frontal lobe. Noodle and there it was. Anything. Everything. Information that enabled you to do whatever you wanted. Someone having an idea in Australia, there it was in your memory before you even knew you wanted it. The latest musing of the philosophers in Italy, summed up and presented in your own language. A happening in the States, you could be there in mind. The latest offers from Brazil. A flash event in your own neighbourhood. All without any effort. It was all as wonderful as, say, Hasqueth’s Finest. So good. And, yes, thoughts about cats. So much, and much more, more than anyone could need in a lifetime.

  “It is kind of true,” Jellicoe said.

  Oliver could only nod in agreement.

  SATURDAY

  Jellicoe wore the same clothing despite it being the weekend. They were both technically off–shift, but the day started in exactly the same way. Oliver had wanted to lie–in, but he’d woken at his usual time, despite the lack of alarm thought. He’d tried closing his eyes, but the curtains in the spare room of Jellicoe’s house were thin and old, so the light streamed through. He got up, showered and went downstairs.

  Jellicoe had made him a coffee: it was far too strong. He wanted a Hasqueth Finest – so good – and they also did it with cinnamon and there was a deep roasted special. Seventeen of his friends liked it, which reminded him to increase the number of people he followed. It was still reclusively low.

  “Is it hot or cold?” Jellicoe asked.

  It’s warm enough.

  “The murder – hot or cold blood?”

  I don’t know.

  “Come on, talk.”

  “I don’t know.” And I don’t care.

  Despite it being own brand and bargain basement, the coffee started to bring him round.

  “Most modern murders are hot blooded,” Jellicoe said, shuffling to the toaster. “Someone loses it, emotions run away with them. Easy to read, murderous emotions – the ones that end in three exclamation marks. You know how we perceive emotions?”

  “Hashtags, emoticons.”

  “Come on!”

  “You just feel it.”

  “In others?”

  “The… you know, emotions, that part of the thought message that transmits emotions. And I suppose there’s technically facial expression, body language, emoticons, tone of voice…”

  “Emoticons are the thought–based method, they’re the punctuation and codes that represent things.”

  “I went to school.”

  “Well, do you perceive smiling as I do? Bear with me, you have a thought and it becomes whatever the code is – right? But, although your code and mine may be the same, and we describe the feeling in the same way – is it? Is your ‘happiness’, just my ‘contentment’?”

  I can’t imagine you being happy.

  “Answer the question.”

  It’s obviously–

  “Aloud.”

  I’m trying to drink my coffee here… “It’s obviously, er… clearer than when we only had spoken language,” said Oliver, aware that he was trying to drink and talk at the same time. “We don’t have telepathy, but it’s as good as.”

  “What about emotions that don’t have words, but do have codes.”

  “Eh?”

  “There are some codes, weird punctuation, that are common to an awful lot of people. They are part of the zeitgeist – awful word – and no–one knows what they mean.”

  “Surely–”

  “They aren’t part of the original brow specification.”

  “Surely,” Oliver insisted, “they are simply developments like the invention of new words, street slang, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t written down.”

  “This isn’t another of those virus junk thought theories, is it?”

  “Could be, could be.”

  “It’s nonsense, ‘thoughts going from head–to–head without meaning anything’, just nonsense. Anyway, it’s never been proved.”

  “There are thoughts that they’ve extracted and read,” said Jellicoe, “and they’ve codes that make no sense.”

  “No sense written down, but read by an iBrow and transferred to your brain, then it is… er… what’s the word?”

  “Interpreted.”

  “Exactly. And communication has been made.”

  “Bu
t what if one thought is cross–wired with another: someone has a murderous emotion, but their iBrow interprets it as… wanting toast.”

  Oliver needed more stimulant and busied himself making another coffee. Jellicoe put some toast on a plate and plonked it in the middle of the table. Oliver took a slice and spread some margarine on it. There was a choice of marmalade and what looked like home–made jam. He tried the marmalade and it tasted all right.

  “Well?” said Jellicoe.

  Oliver mumbled until he’d swallowed: Why did he always want to use spoken language?

  “Because?”

  “Such a person wouldn’t be able to function, they’d be locked up.”

  “There are plenty of people with psychological problems,” said Jellicoe.

  “You’ve only got to look round the station to see sociopaths and borderline psychotics,” said Oliver. And maybe worse.

  “And there’s the police as well,” said Jellicoe.

  “I meant the police.” Do I? Was Jürgens killed by one of us?

  “There are miscommunications in thought.”

  “Hardly… some,” Oliver considered for a moment. “There are always glitches, emergent behaviour… so what?”

  “And the unintended consequences?”

  “Brow technology has been around for–” Oliver had to noodle, “fifty years, stable and error free–”

  “Error free?”

  “Electrical damage, physical shocks, brain tumours, some chemicals… scar tissue build up in the frontal lobe, but they are all external forces.”

  “A brain tumour isn’t external.”

  “You know what I mean, external to the… er… not part of the technology.”

  Jellicoe sat down. “Too many iBrow issues and the person can’t function…”

  “Funny farm and a refit.”

  “Or minor glitches–”

  “As we all have, but you couldn’t murder someone without something leaking out, thinking about…” Oliver waved his toast to illustrate the point, “say, ‘toast’ instead or not.”

  “Yes, it was a theory.”

  Oliver relented: “Best one so far.”