Hashtag

by David Wake

  “The Tepee? He’s at the seaside.”

  “No, he isn’t! That’s what his Spectre says. He’s here… somewhere. Come out, come out, wherever you are. You! You! That way. You, go the other.”

  Four voices!

  Braddon stayed low: men… nearby…

  Careful, Mithering thought.

  You are getting warmer, the Chinese Room thought, but not at Braddon.

  The men moved, heavy tread on the concrete, slowly.

  At some point they’d get close enough to recognise him. What was the range here? He could noodle it if he wasn’t in a blind spot. It was a big room, lots of electrical equipment in the way… he had no idea. Their recognition range would be standard, a few metres, but the Chinese Room could detect any thought with that bastard box on the wall.

  Torchlight flicked on, searching methodically.

  “Where’s the light switch?”

  “Leave it!”

  “What?”

  There were maybe four of them, Braddon… ah, that headache when he tried to think. He had Mithering and the Chinese Room via the local wi–fi, but, panicked, he’d resorted to full thought.

  Get out of there, Mithering thought.

  Oh really?

  Judging by their voices, unless some had been completely silent, Braddon was sure there were four. Their footsteps seemed to agree. Two had gone to his left, one to his right and the other, the leader, had stayed put.

  “There are computers on… he’s been accessing them.”

  The screens glowed creating a sequence of trails around the room, crossing here and there.

  Braddon wondered if he could take one. He was trained, the guy on the right was alone. But he might be an ex–boxer or a martial artist for all Braddon knew – or not. He’d have to take his chance.

  “Wait!” the leader spoke. “Look.”

  Braddon craned his neck too, wondering what the man was referring to, and then he realised. Some of the screens had gone out. They were set to go black as a screen saver. The ones he’d touched first would go out first and gradually the one he touched last, the one in front of him, would be the only one left. He needed to move, to be somewhere else, otherwise it would give him away when the room had darkened, and this dead person was the last thing glaring down at him.

  He looked at it.

  ‘Honestly,’ it read, ‘I’m not. I’m at the seaside.’

  In the other column he read: ‘You were so weird the other day. I didn’t know you were back from France. Can we meet?’ and further down ‘But you didn’t tell me, we could have gone together,’ added Deeley_88406. Deeley… he knew that name: Deeley… Deeley… Jasmine Deeley. Why was Jasmine thinking with this fake person?

  And then Braddon realised that he was looking at himself, or – what had the man said – his ‘Spectre’.

  When all the others went dark, then this one – he himself – would give him away.

  Braddon reached forward, pressed the buttons: ‘freya turner chedding basement–’

  “Hear something?”

  Braddon carefully tried to press the keys rather than tap them: ‘help rethjmk’.

  “It was a knocking noise.”

  He moved the mouse, slowly, careful and clicked the ‘think’ button.

  “Over there!”

  Braddon recognised Carl before he glanced up and saw the man’s face.

  Bugger, Carl thought. He’d been tiptoeing closer. The light from Oliver’s spectre shone upwards making the man look like a devil’s face floating in the dark, then it went out.

  Braddon moved, running to his right. He crashed into a table, causing the screen to come on as the computer keeled over to smash on the floor. There were shouts, other figures illuminated suddenly as they ran through the narrow beam of light.

  “Oi!”

  Braddon bent down and put his shoulder into the figure in front of him. He hit him at full pelt and they both tumbled over. The man swore full in Braddon’s frontal lobe. Braddon used his forward momentum to roll, his ankle catching something painfully as he went over, and then he was on his feet – limping, but he kept moving.

  Take this.

  Braddon reacted instinctively to the thought, turning round and catching the cable as the Taser’s two dart–like electrodes flickered past. He swivelled his wrist, tying the plastic–coated cable tightly around his hand and yanked. The Taser came from the man’s grip, skittered on the floor and at the same time Braddon kicked sharply as the man bent to catch the falling weapon.

  Then Braddon was running, yanking the weapon off the floor and colliding with the door as he staggered into the corridor beyond.

  As he ran, he checked the device, found the rewind switch, nearly tangling his hand into the feed and then he reset it. He heard its high–pitched whine as it began to charge.

  He went left, right, dead–end, back there, lost, but the sound of pursuit withered away.

  There was no–one within recognition range.

  I have to get out, Braddon thought.

  Yes, yes, run, thought Mithering.

  Stop him, stop him, he’s trying to get out, the Chinese Room thought, clearly giving instructions. Don’t let him get away. I don’t know, I have no eyes. Cover the exit, trap him. That’s it.

  Braddon turned into another tunnel, and at the end, a shaft of daylight thrust across the corridor at 45 degrees from a window high up in the wall. There were bars across it, but Braddon didn’t need to get out, at least not in body.

  Mithering, can you get a message out, he thought.

  Yes, Mithering thought back, at police, Oliver Braddon, Detective Constable, needs immediate assistance at… where are you?

  Chedding Shopping Centre, the building site next to it, underground basement.

  She had to hurry, they’d be here… how long had it been? He couldn’t noodle and had no idea.

  At police, he’s at… where are you?

  Bloody hell, I’ve just– Building site next to Chedding Shopping Centre in the foundation tunnels.

  I’ve got it. At police, Oliver Braddon needs assistance at… where are you?

  What?

  This isn’t working, Mithering thought. I can’t remember the location.

  Noodle it.

  Oh yes, at police, it’s… no, it’s gone.

  What!? Your program is deleting it, that’s why Westbourne never thought of his location and you… shit! Oh shit.

  Braddon looked at the window again: it wasn’t that high and there was the promise of sky beyond it.

  You’ll have to do it, Mithering thought.

  Aye.

  Braddon pushed the Taser into his belt, took a run up and jumped. For a moment he was dazzled and then the bars were in front of him. He grabbed, held as the metal fractured leaving a layer of rust grating into his palms, but he held on. His left shoulder seared with pain. His body flapped against the wall. He pulled up as if he was exercising in the gym and he was rewarded with a view through the dirty window.

  There was blue sky, but nothing else.

  Come on!

  The thought buffered.

  He’d been trapped down here for… hours, days, forever.

  He pulled himself higher, tried to shove his head between the central bars and get his forehead as high up as possible.

  What do I have to do to get a fucking signal!

  Migraine shadow.

  He had to let go with his left hand.

  If you can see the sky, surely you can access a communications pole or a satellite. They’re up in space, for God’s sake.

  What are, Mithering thought.

  Satellites.

  His hand slipped, the rust coming off, and he fell hard on the floor and stumbled back.

  There must be somewhere else.

  Further down, the door led into another dark corridor.

  What was that?

  A door banging somewhere.

  Braddon snatched out the Taser, checked the safety was off and fingered t
he switch on the deadly ‘stun’ gun. The bright yellow thing hummed, the hairs on the back of his forearm standing up to indicate that it was charged.

  First one through the door, I’ll Taser ’em, 50,000 volts, enough to fry the man’s iBrow, and render the fucker thoughtless.

  He went round the corner, arms straight, gun forward, finger slippery with sweat.

  “Shit!” The sound carried and echoed back to him: double shit, he thought.

  Get out of there, Mithering thought.

  I can’t leave you, he thought: could I? Would it matter?

  Get out, get help.

  Yes, that made sense.

  He walked forward, switched round to point the way he’d come for two steps like he’d seen them do on that film in History class, and then forward again. He wasn’t a specialist officer, he was a general detective used to following thought trains and not qualified for armed response – he was a desk jockey. This was stupid, but it would be more stupid to wait until they found him, cut his brow out and dump his corpse in some concrete foundation. Perhaps he’d end up on some slab in a morgue with detectives wondering: who was this faceless and browless Unknown 273?

  I’m your colleague, he tried to think. It buffered.

  He heard someone move behind the door and stepped closer: there… almost… a signal coming through the wooden barrier and, with a shock, Braddon recognised Chen.

  “Come on Ollie,” said Chen, opening the door.

  “It was you, wasn’t it, Chen?”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve been following me.”

  “Yes.”

  Braddon levelled the Taser. “How could you?”

  “What?”

  “You knew this was a black spot, how?”

  “Yes, my brow switched mode,” Chen said. What’s his problem, came through on recognition.

  “You were there at my apartment and at Chedding when it started.”

  “Yes, come on.”

  “Someone gave out my pin code and password, otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to program a Spectre.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone in the police department.”

  “That right?”

  “Yes, that’s right – you!”

  “Me?”

  Braddon steadied himself, keeping the two evil probes ready to spring and sting, and levelled at Chen.

  “I’m arresting you–”

  “Don’t be stupid, Ollie,” said Chen, taking a step forward. “I was keeping an eye on you for–”

  Braddon fired: the gun phutted and the wires arced across causing Chen to spasm, grip his chest and fall, but the loud retort of a firearm surprised him. It echoed in the concrete chamber, loud and there was a sense of percussion. Braddon took his hand off the trigger and looked at the black and yellow plastic device feeling utterly confused.

  Behind you.

  Someone moved into recognition range.

  He turned slowly, saw a large man in a black outfit, and finally got a recognition: it was Mox.

  “Mox!” Mox, thank God.

  Mox wasn’t thinking.

  Braddon felt sick, a strange fear like he’d felt when he’d met Zhaodi, but this was a colleague, someone he’d known as a thinker. But now he was a zombie, just a human form somehow standing. But he knew Mox had an iBrow. He’d picked up the recognition, for f–

  “Traitor,” said Mox, still without a thought, and he raised his right hand. Braddon saw the glint of gunmetal. Braddon’s own weapon was still attached by the long cables to Chen and uselessly spent anyway.

  “Mox,” Braddon said, and then his breathlessness hit him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m important,” said Mox.

  “Yes.” Yes, yes, stop pissing about.

  “I’m The Triggerman.”

  What? “What?”

  Braddon faffed with his settings and allowed cerebrals.

  I will, I will, Mox thought.

  “You’re playing a game,” said Braddon, carefully choosing his words.

  “No,” said Mox, “this isn’t a game, this is real…”

  “No, I’m real.”

  “I know, it’s all real, Ollie.”

  “No, I mean… it isn’t.”

  The man smiled in reply and waved his big, heavy and harshly metallic gun menacingly. Braddon dropped the Taser. It bounced off the floor with a plastic cracking sound. The cables were still attached to the unconscious Chen and their twist caused the weapon to flip and jump around like a fish caught on a line.

  I’ll shoot him and go up a level, Mox thought.

  No, no, please.

  “This is priceless,” said Mox. “You shot your own minder. Didn’t you realise that Jelly had put him up to looking after you.”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you follow his thoughts?”

  Braddon had, but like everyone else he skimmed, and Chen always seemed to be talking in code – oh for…

  Braddon put his hand to his mouth as the penny dropped. If you obsessed about something, music, games, fashion, then you could think about anything so long as you couched it in those terms. Mox had special thoughts to those in his special social circle, so no–one following him would suspect that the shooting was anything other than pretend.

  “You’re a cerebral addict,” Braddon said. “I thought you’d been treated.”

  “I have,” said Mox. “They replaced the game with another, a game of life, and that’s what I play. A hashtag tells me what to think and another tells me what to do.”

  “Patting your head while rubbing your stomach?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “It’s make believe.”

  “It’s not make believe, it’s a lifestyle choice.”

  “But you’re in a cerebral?”

  “I’m not in a cerebral,” said Mox. This is my life. Everyone respects me, I have friends – not colleagues – but friends, real friends who help me achieve real goals.

  Points for killing people, Braddon thought.

  Likes! They like me. You wouldn’t understand.

  I think… behind you!

  Mox snorted in derision: I’m not falling for that.

  Yes, there is… get him, get him now.

  There’s no one there, otherwise I’d get their–

  I’ve got him, Mithering thought.

  Mox, surprised, whirled round – fast, his gun coming up and he fired. The shot was loud and ricocheted off the concrete wall – there was no–one there behind him.

  Braddon tackled him, an instinctive move, and Mox went down. The two of them struggled on the floor for the handgun and Braddon grasped the strange handle. For a moment, with two thought streams, one from Mox and another from his cerebral game alter ego, Braddon felt outnumbered.

  The two of them fell across Chen, rolled.

  Braddon felt something stab into him. It was the prongs from the spent Taser still sticking out of Chen’s chest.

  The shock, and the stabbing pain from his shoulder, was too much and Braddon let go.

  Mox grinned.

  Braddon swatted the gun aside and it skittered away.

  Mox got his hands round Braddon’s throat: die, die, die…

  Braddon pulled at Mox’s fingers as his other hand fumbled for Chen’s baton, belt, pepper spray… anything, but he couldn’t reach. He snagged on the prongs again, gripped them and then hoicked them free. His fist went around them and then Braddon jabbed them into Mox’s face. The two points went into the big man’s forehead, one deflected off the iBrow, but the other penetrated underneath levering between the technology and the skull.

  Blood spurted, dousing Braddon’s hand, and the prongs slipped from his fingers.

  Mox jerked away, but the cable caught and as Mox went up, his iBrow came away.

  Mox stood for a moment, an obscene third eye staring hypnotically as he reached up to try and repair the gaping hole, but he couldn’t. Instead, his arms flopped down uselessly.

&n
bsp; Braddon kicked him in the knee and the big man toppled down, sideways, but then forwards landing on top of Braddon.

  …die, die, die… Mox’s thoughts seemed stronger, clear and crystal in Braddon’s feed.

  Mox struggled, the dying man gaining strength from somewhere.

  Braddon pushed him off, tried to stop following him, but the last thrashing motion struck him. Braddon fell to the floor, his own iBrow taking the impact, and his brain surged with pain. Through the fiery sting Braddon saw Mox’s eyes flutter and then roll up until he was gone.

  “Jeez!”

  Braddon put his fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for the pulse: nothing, he was dead.

  Braddon crawled over, trying to get air back into his lungs. He had his fist raised, but Mox was clearly dead. Braddon breathed out, a sigh of relief – he was alive, battered, bruised, frantically confused with the blow to the head, but–

  …die, die, die…

  It was… behind him: Behind me!

  Braddon turned and recognised, there on the floor, Mox: but it was a bloody square of broken plastic and metal.

  Mox’s thoughts tumbled out, crossing the short recognition distance and flooding into Braddon’s mind: …die, die, die…

  Braddon stamped his foot down on the iBrow.

  …Mummy, I, Mummy, Oh God, Help, Mummy, Help, Help, Help, Mummy…

  And again.

  Mummy, Mummy, Help, Light, Tunnel…

  And then Braddon ground his heel until it was gone.

  Come back, come back, the Chinese Room thought, I command you.

  Braddon left the mess behind him. He searched around with his light, following the cables until he found the junction box. He carried Mox’s handgun and a torch for the dark areas. He was too punch–drunk to think coherently, and he felt something like a machine himself. At some point, the Chinese Room forgot he was there, or stopped reacting to his thoughts, and went quiet. He didn’t meet any of its puppets.

  At the end of the electrical trail, there were a series of circuit breakers, each marked with an unhelpful number, so he took hold of the first and clicked it down.

  On the second along, he paused:

  He’d be killing these ‘Spectres’ or ending a version of existence. Was it ethical? Mithering had a life; she was real, because he thought of her as real. That was a definition of life, no more shallow than those who thought they were popular because of the number of friends and followers they had.