Hashtag

by David Wake

  She saved my life.

  That’s alright, Oliver, you gave me justice.

  So I kill them all?

  Yes, kill the Chinese Room.

  And there were others to consider. Many, many real people would lose a relative or friend at the flick of one of these switches.

  But there were no real friends now, Jellicoe had said.

  But Mithering, it’s–

  It’s a prison, Mithering thought, set me free.

  It’s so final, you’ll die.

  You can’t kill me, thought the Chinese Room. I was never alive.

  He pulled the lever down, and the next and moved on relentlessly.

  The Chinese Room: What does it mean to be alive?

  The final one came down.

  It was quiet: there was no air–conditioning, no whining fans, no chuntering hard–discs, just emptiness.

  He made his way back, weaving in and out of the maze of corridors until he found his way to the stairs again. Up, into the light – it was still daylight – and when he came out into the open air, he saw the sky, crossed with satellites, and a crisp, invigorating breeze full of network signal.

  I’m alive, he thought as he reconnected.

  People liked this before moving on to other thoughts.

  WEEK THREE

  EPILOGUE

  Braddon came forward, so that the Usher could recognise him. The dark suited man looked suitably grave: Jellicoe?

  Braddon nodded, feeling too raw to put such a feeling into a simple thought.

  Down the left, the Usher thought, holding out his arm.

  Braddon made his way down, turning at the sign that indicated the chapel. It was small inside, the hidden speakers playing muted choral music, and plain in decor, simple, understated and respectful. The coffin lay in the centre, the focus of the flowers. A man stood to one side in a crumpled suit and holding his pork pie hat in his hands.

  Speaking aloud seemed sacrilege, so Braddon thought about coughing.

  “No need,” said Jellicoe.

  Braddon stepped up to stand beside his mentor.

  I’m sorry.

  “Thanks.”

  By the coffin was a photograph of a beautiful young woman, young enough to be Jellicoe’s daughter or grand–daughter. She wore a white veil, pulled up and there was a heavy stone wall in the background. It was a close–up of a wedding photograph.

  “Pamela passed away peacefully,” Jellicoe said. “Or so they said. I think perhaps it was my thoughts that were keeping her going. Somehow, she wanted to stay around to look after me. She always looked after me, even when…”

  There was a catch in Jellicoe’s voice.

  “So when my thoughts stopped,” Jellicoe continued, “I suppose she decided to slip away to meet me in the hereafter.”

  Something touched Braddon’s hand: it was Jellicoe’s hip flask.

  “No thanks,” said Braddon.

  “It’s for you,” Jellicoe said, insisting by pushing it into Braddon’s grip. “I want you to have it. I won’t be needing it. I’m going to retire.”

  “Likely story.”

  “I’m going sailing, somewhere where there isn’t coverage.”

  “I think you’ll find that the satellites go over the ocean.”

  A clergyman came in and took his place at a lectern.

  “Please be seated,” he glanced at his notes. “Pamela Ann Jellicoe left behind a husband and…” He looked at Braddon, checked his notes, and then added, “…a loving son.”

  Jellicoe snorted in a way that could have been grief or humour.

  Outside, after the funeral, the two gathered awkwardly in the Garden of Remembrance to spread the ashes. Braddon gave Jellicoe some space so that he could do this on his own, letting the old, bent figure sow his wife to the wind and roses.

  “Why me?” Braddon asked, when the Inspector came back.

  “You rethink less than others,” said Jellicoe. “Your thoughts struck me as potentially original.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jellicoe tapped Braddon’s forehead: “Thinking – this form of thinking – amplifies the herd instinct. The thoughts you do receive: phrases of the day, pictures of cats, jokes, spam. They’re all passed on and on. It’s called thought, but it isn’t.”

  “Someone has to add them in the first place.”

  “They’re the most mindless and self–serving of the lot, after fame for fame’s sake.”

  “You’re talking about celebrities, those with the most followers, leaders maybe.”

  “Jays?”

  “I’m not one of those.”

  “I’m not talking about point men leading a flock of sheep.”

  “What then?”

  “A capacity to be an individual, a maverick if you like.”

  Jellicoe knew what Braddon thought of that: everyone knew what Braddon thought of that. That was how the technology worked.

  Jellicoe gave Braddon a lift in his old hybrid car and dropped him, without a word or a thought, exactly where Braddon had expected.

  Braddon got out, leant back in and said, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Jellicoe.

  “Enjoy your sailing.”

  “Ha!”

  Templeton and Stevens were on duty outside the Lamp when Braddon walked in.

  “Your booth is ready, Detective Sergeant,” said Stevens, and the wind whipped the exhalation of smoke up into the threatening sky.

  The third booth was vacant, and Braddon considered it for a while before slipping in. The young–looking Babs brought him a pint.

  “Better fill this up,” said Braddon, handing the hip flask to the barmaid.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, a formality spoken respectfully.

  Braddon got out his notebook: there was Westbourne’s son to find, or the machine involved perhaps, and he had a note about some case not twenty kilometres away that smelt like a serial killing. This one had been with F–division for twenty–four hours now, so it had to be something weird and unlikely.

  Babs returned with the hip flask and it felt suitably solid and heavy in his hand. Now he looked at it properly he saw that it was engraved with two letters, ‘AJ’, in the centre.

  “Hello scotch,” he said to himself, “glad to meet you.”

  He poured a measure into the beaker like cap.

  No point being maudlin, he thought, time to get down to work.

  Two of his colleagues in the pub liked this.

  Braddon took a swig of the fiery liquid, and another, finished it and replaced the cap. He tucked the flask back into the pocket of his coat, aware of the comforting weight, before returning his attention to his notebook.

  He wasn’t a maverick or a loner, because, although he appreciated the peace and quiet, he knew that he would slowly add people to follow, and the triviality of their lives would fill his own, because ultimately, he wouldn’t want to be alone.

  Like? Comment? Share? Rethink?

  About the author

  David Wake is @davidwake, but he doesn’t use it. He was an early adopter of email, when he worked in computer science research, and thus sees no reason to limit himself to 140 characters. He’s now a novelist.

  Thank you for buying and reading Hashtag.

  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, Bridget Bradshaw, Andy Conway, David Harvey, Ros Day, Pow–wow and Jessica Rydill.

  Cover art by Sean Strong: www.seanstrong.com.

  There’s a sequel, Atcode and you can read the first chapter here.

  Available now...

  The dark sequel to Hashtag.

  Black Mirror meets Scandi-crime in a mind-bending dystopia where ‘likes’ matter more than lives.

  Detective Ol
iver Braddon’s investigation into an apparent suicide leads him to a powerful media mogul and a mission into the unknown. Is he the killer?

  In this alarming vision of the near-future, everyone’s thoughts are shared on social media. With privacy consigned to history, a new breed of celebrity influences billions.

  Just who controls who?

  A gritty, neo-noir delving into a conflict between those connected and those with secrets to hide.

  Book Two of the Thinkersphere series is available at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk as an ebook and a paperback.

  Read the first chapter now...

  ATCODE: WEEK ONE – FRIDAY

  Cars hurtled past the crime scene.

  Detective Sergeant Braddon stood on the bridge, leaning on the parapet, and watched the endless procession of vehicles beneath him. All these people rushing to be somewhere else, while in the other three lanes, another endless stream went the opposite way.

  Perhaps, he thought, if they could just decide where they wanted to be and stay there.

  It was a fair drop to the tarmac.

  As the early morning commuters passed under the bridge, Braddon recognized the drivers and passengers: so many of them concentrating on thoughts other than driving or monitoring their autonomous cars. The whole of human life, it seemed, flashing below as they checked their thought feeds: planning their day, shopping, following a discussion, remembering other people’s cats, rethinking a joke or sharing a thought for the minute.

  Why was he doing this?

  Then don’t.

  The thought was clear, pinged his way by someone passing below in response to Braddon’s leak when he wondered why he was doing this.

  Another driver sped underneath: Jump.

  Before Braddon could respond, they were out of recognition range.

  At DS Braddon, body’s ready, Sanghera thought directly at Braddon. The Detective Constable was beyond recognition range too, but his thought came over the network.

  Braddon glanced around and thought back: Where?

  But he’d already seen the police constable waving.

  At the end of the bridge, there was a rough path and Braddon slipped and slid down the embankment, just managing to keep his feet. DC Sanghera walked along to meet him halfway.

  So?

  You’re not going to have fun here.

  Sanghera, Braddon warned.

  Braddon and Sanghera made for the small canvas tent pitched on the grass bank. The excess of police cars, their red and blue lights flashing, meant they had to step off the hard shoulder and work along the kerb and bushes.

  Braddon poked his head into the tent.

  He knew at once something was wrong.

  Apart from a corpse, of course. Something else.

  The police had arrived at the scene almost an hour ago and it was still unsolved. That alone should have warned him.

  At this range, Braddon’s iBrow should have picked up a signal from the victim’s. Even after death, a brow held enough charge to continue to connect to the network for 24 hours at least. It was programmed to inform the authorities of the host’s death and reveal any last thoughts stored in the device’s buffer.

  It hadn’t.

  Scalped! Shit!

  No, Sanghera thought back.

  Sanghera knelt down and pulled back the sheet.

  The corpse was a man in his twenties, not much younger than Braddon himself, with an Asian complexion and a rough beard. His clothes were smart, expensive, but the jacket did not match the trousers.

  Or rather, his clothes had been smart; they had since been crumpled and caked in dried blood. He’d taken the impact on the side of his skull, but his face was remarkably intact.

  His forehead was smooth.

  No brow?

  Never fitted, Sanghera thought.

  Braddon straightened. He hadn’t been aware of leaning over. Instinctively, he looked around to take in the surroundings beyond the tent. He couldn’t see through the canvas, but he recognized the other police officers, each checking their Thinkerfeeds now that the crime scene was secure and the paraphernalia to direct the early morning traffic away from the inside lane had been deployed. ‘Keep right… keep right…’ the flashing cones thought incessantly.

  Oh hell, Braddon thought, we need forensics and we’ve contaminated the crime scene.

  Sorry, Sanghera thought.

  Back to basics. We should always follow procedure. There shouldn’t even be a sheet over him.

  But that’s only in the ghettos – oh!

  Too late now.

  Braddon noodled a map and the network soon supplied the thoughts on the local area: the motorway, the bridge, the rough land that wasn’t built upon because there was no road access, a celebrity company building and an estate further off. It was nothing, just a place that people moved through. They were a long way from any unbrows, the nearest enclave was the other side of town.

  At Sanghera, Braddon thought, any identification?

  He didn’t have a brow!

  In his pockets?

  Sanghera actually moved forward to check, then thought better and tilted his head to one side, a sure sign that he was noodling the initial examination.

  No, sir, he thought, passing on a link to the Scene of Crime Officer’s initial investigation.

  Any witnesses?

  Sanghera replaced the white sheet and stood: Dog walkers. They come from Billington and throw sticks on the rough ground. I’d watch out for dog crap.

  Anyone see anything?

  No, it was late – I could do with a coffee – so the only witnesses we have are the drivers.

  So could I – and passengers?

  Yes.

  Which ones are the best?

  The woman who hit him, and the two behind her, both men.

  Who are they?

  It’s in the file.

  Braddon followed Sanghera’s thoughts and found the link. He noodled the police station and then remembered the references to the witnesses.

  He decided against examining them while standing in a tent.

  Let’s find someone with a thermos, Braddon thought. It had been an early start.

  Sanghera followed, leaking thoughts of gratitude.

  They sat in a car, Braddon on the back seat and Sanghera in the front passenger seat. It moved as the junior officer settled, the leather upholstery stretching. They were alone in the car.

  A thought popped into his head: Hasqueth Finest is the best coffee there is. He forgot that and decided to concentrate on the investigation.

  Braddon breathed deeply, clearing his mind and unfollowing some of the more intrusive feeds before he picked the first witness from the file.

  He put the woman’s thoughts on slideshow and recalled driving along the motorway, just coming into the area he knew from the noodled map, and it was dark. The lights of the cars in front flickered as the windscreen wiper swept across hypnotically.

  So, last night it had been raining.

  She was going to be late, but the house would be warm and Kurt would have a bottle of bubbly in the fridge, maybe some nice blue cheese – yes, she checked her husband’s thoughts and could visualise the lovely spread waiting. She saw a figure on the bridge up ahead and some idiot in a Tiger Fire behind her, zooming along in the fast lane. Kurt wanted one of those, but they couldn’t afford it. They would snuggle by the fire, glass of wine and follow something, she’d pick a lifestyle guru, the one–

  The figure jumped.

  A falling shadow.

  Her car hit him, the brakes juddering as they came on automatically, hammering on–off, on–off, on–off to avoid locking. The shape hit the bonnet, sickeningly, and sprang over the front to smack into the windscreen. The glass fractured in a sudden spider’s web of crisscrossed lines, splattered with blood.

  The woman screamed aloud, a sound cut short when the airbag slammed into her face, but even silenced, her auditory cortex overrode her thought transmissions until her head recoiled and
struck the headrest.

  She remembered a bottle falling in the kitchen once, when she was first married, and shattering on the stone floor. She’d cut her hand picking up the glass.

  Not my fault, she thought, not my fault, not my fault…

  Emergency: accident, injuries suspected, her car thought as it activated its hazard warning lights.

  One of the windscreen wipers kept working, smearing rather than cleaning.

  Recovery: vehicle accident, authorities informed, legal advice required, her car thought.

  Braddon blinked, coming out of the introspection.

  Why had she not picked up the man’s intention to jump? Because he was an unbrow, Braddon thought. Suicide. Messy. Not her fault indeed.

  Braddon’s replay of the following car’s driver told the same story, but from a different perspective. That witness was trying to speed, put the Tiger Fire through its paces, but the car wasn’t letting him. He was angry, the delay, his co–workers, his thoughts being micro–managed, people always telling him what to do…

  Brace, brace, brace, his car thought.

  The man saw something fall from the bridge and the car in front slam its brakes on. A red blur of desperate brake lights and then the insistent orange. His own hazard warning lights started flashing, then his brakes activated.

  Braddon knew this to be the wrong way round: witnesses often riffle shuffled their thoughts under stress. It wasn’t the technology, but the organic neural connections working at different speeds: the visual cortex was closer to the iBrow filaments than the seat of the pants, so the message about blinking lights transmitted before the juddering stopping.

  The third witness had seen it all unfold with a serene nonchalance as if he was watching an old movie.

  Braddon wondered what the man had meant, but then realised: the car in front had been speeding, so the third driver had held back. He’d picked up no thoughts at all as they were out of recognition range, so the scene played out as a purely visual sequence.

  So: shape on the bridge, falling, car braking, impact, hazard warnings, shape on the bridge, further braking, hazards. He stopped on the hard shoulder well before the accident. His hesitation to stay put or rush forward flickered in his recorded Thinkerfeed, but in the end, he’d gone to see if he could help. People tended to act well given that any cowardice and guilt would be forever recorded in their thoughts.