Hashtag

by David Wake

  The woman driver had been hysterical.

  It wasn’t your fault, he’d thought at her, it wasn’t your fault.

  Her car’s thoughts were agreeing with the recovery services’ legal computer.

  Meanwhile, the lanes of autonomous cars had thought along the motorway to each other, and so the traffic jam had backed–up all the way to the junction.

  At Braddon, Freya thought, see me in my office immediately.

  What does the Chief want? Ma’am, I–

  Immediately! In person!

  Yes, ma’am. At Sanghera, can someone give me a lift back to the station?

  At Team Kilo, Sanghera thought from the passenger seat in front, take the Detective Sergeant back to the station.

  Someone thought back: We’ve got to stay here.

  The driver wasn’t in the car, but somewhere along the hard shoulder and so out of recognition range. Sanghera had used a thought recipient list and the man had replied all.

  The Chief wants to see me.

  Can’t you–

  Braddon forwarded the Chief’s thought: Immediately! In person! and let the emoticons associated do the persuading.

  Outside, an officer began jogging towards them.

  Sanghera thought: Sir?

  I don’t know, Braddon thought, why don’t you stop here and find out how an unbrow could be this far from his ghetto without anyone seeing and thinking about him. And why he’d chuck himself off a bridge?

  Sanghera climbed out of the car during Braddon’s instructions: Will do.

  The driver turned on the ignition with a thought before he reached the car, got in and soon whisked Braddon into the traffic.

  Shall I?

  Go on…

  The police car wailed and the underside of the bridge flared in reds–and–blues as they went under it. The vehicles speed safeties switched off too. There were police on the bridge, where Braddon had been standing to view the scene, and Braddon recognized a couple of them, even through the thick concrete, so it really had been bad luck for the woman driver that the jumper had been an unbrow.

  All the cars parted as if by magic as the police car thought ahead to the autonomous vehicles.

  Never good when the Chief wants to see you in person, Braddon thought.

  No Braddon, Freya thought back, what’s your ETA?

  Braddon recognized the driver: At Yeats, what’s our ETA?

  Yeats rethought the car’s satnav estimate.

  At Freya, ten to fifteen minutes, Braddon thought.

  It was less than ten when they reached the station. Constable Yeats pulled up at the front entrance to let Braddon jump out. He’d thought ahead, so Desk Sergeant Draith had activated the door locks and had even thought for the lift.

  Chief Superintendent Freya Turner’s PA, Max, thought Braddon should go straight in, even before the lift had disgorged him onto the first floor. Braddon picked up his stride, and readied his knuckles to knock formally, when Freya thought at him.

  Come in… sit down.

  Braddon went in, sat, barely taking in the back of a framed picture and a Newton’s cradle – her executive toy – that stood on the neat desk.

  “Detective Sergeant Braddon,” the Chief said, “tell me about the case.”

  What case?

  The case! You’ve been to the motorway, she thought and then she repeated, “The case?”

  Why are you talking aloud?

  “Detective Sergeant?”

  “Oh…” Braddon coughed to clear his throat. It was the first time he’d spoken all day. “Sorry, er…”

  Ma’am.

  “Ma’am. Simple suicide, we think, jumped off a bridge into the on–coming traffic.” Why ‘ma’am’, what’s going on?

  “Do we know who?”

  “Not yet…”

  Why not?

  “He was an unbrow.”

  “What happened?”

  “Suicide… Ma’am, he jumped off a bridge.”

  “Do we know how he got there?”

  “No… he’s an unbrow.”

  Don’t state the obvious – any witnesses?

  Sorry, but–

  Aloud.

  “But… no witnesses other than the drivers of three vehicles. Jumped.”

  “Seen clearly?”

  “Dark and at night, but yes.”

  “No foul play?”

  Where’s this going?

  Up shit creek.

  Ma’am!

  “Do we know how he got there, Detective Sergeant?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Braddon said. What’s the protocol with saying ‘ma’am’? “It’s only a matter of time. He can’t have crossed town without someone noticing. Detective Constable Sanghera’s working on it.”

  The Chief nodded, understanding leaking from her brow.

  There were unbrows living in Chinatown, Braddon remembered from Noodle, Duxton and a mental institution across at Torford, and probably a large number in various retirement homes.

  “Yes,” Chief Superintendent Turner agreed, “but this one was smartly dressed and young.”

  She’d checked everyone’s thoughts on the case, he thought.

  I’m still a police officer.

  Braddon noticed the picture on the shelf, a young Freya Turner in police dress uniform at her police college graduation.

  She looked good then, still does.

  Thank you.

  Braddon’s mouth was dry. He knew the advice: always have a glass of water on hand, if you’re going to do a lot of talking out loud.

  What’s all this about?

  Freya looked stern, but her brow leaked concern: What’s she…

  The Chief Superintendent didn’t finish the thought; it was a leak indicating that she didn’t know what to think.

  “This is Miss Steiger,” the Chief said.

  “Good morning.”

  Braddon jolted in his chair.

  The voice had come from nowhere.

  There was someone sitting behind him, not hidden by anything, just not present. He fought to keep control of himself, leaking panicked thoughts to all his followers.

  Get a grip, Sergeant.

  “Sorry…” Braddon began, of course, sorry, Chief.

  He turned the jerked movement into standing and offered his hand.

  “Miss…” What was it?

  Steiger, I said.

  Oh, that’s why we’re talking aloud.

  She’s not a ‘that’, she’s a person.

  Sorry.

  “Miss Steiger,” Braddon said.

  “Detective Sergeant.”

  Her handshake was firm, her facial expression one of wry amusement: at least that’s what Braddon guessed it meant. Only the faintest of creases across her otherwise smooth forehead betrayed any inner workings – if there were any.

  God, an unbrow!

  Careful Braddon.

  This Steiger was used to such reactions, Braddon realised, and played upon them; must do, because she’d chosen a chair in the room away from the Chief’s desk and hidden by the door opening. It hadn’t been necessary as Braddon knew from his iBrow’s recognition that the Chief was the only person in the room… but this Steiger was a person, as the Chief had pointed out, except she wasn’t a full person… she was an unbrow.

  What’s going on here, he thought.

  I’m not sure, the Chief thought back.

  Braddon sat down, turned to the Chief and became conscious of a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. Looking away from Steiger, it was as if she wasn’t there. Had never been there. Apart from Freya’s confusion and then warnings, there was no trace of her existence. The recognition link between himself and the Chief was bright, clear and unambiguous, strong enough to blank out any sensation of the other woman.

  The unbrow was invisible, a ghost, like someone who had died. No wonder we call them ‘zombies’, he thought. Like the man in the police forensic tent by the motorway, except that he was genuinely dead.

  Freya co
ughed, her throat dry, “Miss Steiger is from…”

  “I can’t say.”

  The woman’s voice was like a recording, coming from old–fashioned speakers behind him and devoid of any associated thoughts.

  “The death of Taylor…” the incorporeal voice continued. He’d have to turn around.

  Stay where you are, the Chief thought. Don’t fidget.

  “…is unfortunate and we thought… sorry, ‘decided’ that an observer would be appropriate.”

  You can just… “Sorry,” said Braddon, “but you can just follow the Thinkerfeed.” Who the hell is she?

  “I can’t,” the voice said, “obviously…”

  Freya?

  “…because Taylor was an unbrow, it was felt my presence would be appropriate.”

  Taylor? Taylor? How can she have noodled that, it’s not in the case file? Freya, who is she?

  She’s Secret Service.

  What?!

  So, Braddon – damn… “So, DS Braddon?”

  DS Braddon what?

  Your opinion and tread carefully.

  “With all due respect,” Braddon said, “there’s nothing an unbrow can discover that a brow can’t, whereas, Miss…”

  Steiger.

  “Steiger.” Thank you, Freya. “…where was I?”

  Vice versa.

  “Yes, vice versa,” Braddon continued. “Whereas, an unbrow, no disrespect, can’t investigate thoughts. Ninety–nine per cent of crime is detected by noodling the Thinkersphere, so… there’s little you can do to help.” She could make the coffee.

  Chief Superintendent Freya lolled, but warned too: Braddon!

  “Hence the need for your assistance,” Miss Steiger replied.

  The Chief cut in, “Detective Sergeant, you are to show Miss Steiger every courtesy.”

  “Of course, Chief… Ma’am.”

  A random thought from his Thinkerfeed popped up for his attention: Hasqueth Finest is on special offer. His mouth was dry.

  “But Braddon here decides whether there’s an investigation,” Freya insisted, her finger raised. “It’s still my department. If he says there’s something, then we’ll investigate; if not, we won’t. It’s his call.” I’m not having the Secret Service telling me what to do in my own station.

  “Very well, Chief Superintendent,” said Steiger.

  “So, Detective Sergeant?”

  “I’ll er…” Passing the buck?

  Of course not, backing my officers.

  Obviously. “…I’ll need to… er, what’s the word?”

  “To think about it,” Steiger suggested.

  “No, er…”

  “Perhaps you two could discuss this over a coffee,” Freya suggested.

  “That would be lovely, Chief Superintendent,” Miss Steiger said.

  I don’t think they have Hasqueth Finest in the cafeteria. Braddon thought as he glanced at the Chief Superintendent’s coffee machine. “There’s–”

  Braddon, get the woman out of here!

  “Yes, of course, ma’am.”

  Back in the outer office, Braddon glared at Freya’s PA: At Max, you could have bloody warned me!

  Max didn’t look up, but leaked smugness.

  Not funny… where the hell is she?

  Down there, Max thought and he pointed surreptitiously.

  The woman had walked down the corridor and Braddon hadn’t realised, because there hadn’t been any thought from her about moving off.

  He tried following her, but she didn’t have a Thinkerfeed, so he had to go after her physically, picking up his pace to catch up.

  Her high heels stabbed into the carpet and her hips, hidden by a grey coat, swayed. She was like a machine. A thing that paused occasionally to take in the various pictures spaced along the wall.

  He had to jog forward to be within door’s recognition range before she reached it, so he could unlock it. She didn’t break step, possibly she was under the impression that the security didn’t require a thought to open the doors.

  She must be blissfully ignorant of so many things. How do unbrows cope in the real world?

  Unbrows were at such a disadvantage and yet this one – this person – was educated at least in demeanour, but she was more disabled than someone in a wheelchair, who at least could unlock the door, turn on lights and know what was going on in the world.

  She reached for the lift button.

  Braddon sent a quick thought.

  Floor 3, going down, the lift thought back.

  She smiled at him while they waited.

  Braddon checked his Thinkerfeed updates.

  The lift arrived: pinged a thought: Floor 1, going down.

  She stepped in and Braddon followed.

  “Where to?” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Which floor?”

  “Oh, you can noodle… ground.” At lift, ground.

  Doors closing, doors closing, the lift thought as it shut them into the metal box, going down.

  Steiger pressed a button marked ‘G’.

  Braddon had never been aware that lifts had buttons.

  The cafeteria was at one end of the police building, a franchise that sold Hasqueth Standard and meals that could be microwaved.

  “What would you like, Miss Steiger?”

  She chose a coffee, black, and a pastry: Braddon stuck with coffee, just milk.

  Steiger shrugged when asked to reckon with the till, so Braddon had to pay. The youngster behind the canteen counter wasn’t sure how to take cash. Her thoughts to noodle about it were clear, but so was her concentration on the Tammy–Zing cerebral she followed. She was really only there to put things in the microwave until she’d completed a community service order.

  They found a table in the corner, one hidden from the door by a pine barrier and the fronds of a fake palm tree. He didn’t really want to be seen with this… person.

  “What would be your first approach?” Miss Steiger asked, stirring sugar into her drink.

  “I’ll track back through the victim’s Thinkerfeed and… ah, er… let’s see, probably find out where he lived from his records.”

  “You can look that up on your Noodle now.”

  “Only if we’ve an identification.”

  “His name was Josh Taylor.”

  “Josh Tailor… how do you know that?”

  “I have my sources: Josh Taylor with a ‘y’.”

  Braddon noodled ‘Josh Tailor’… damn! ‘Josh Taylor’. It took him another two attempts as he wasn’t used to noodling by spelling, like everyone he usually just concepted–from–preconceived.

  Sergeant d’Angelo came over: Ah, that reminds me, at Braddon, we need to touch foreheads about… shit! Sorry… I didn’t… shit.

  D’Angelo turned and scooted away.

  Miss Steiger had that wry expression, a sort of lopsided smirk more akin to semi–colon than a colon of a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” Braddon said.

  “I’m used to it,” Steiger said. “It’s strange that it’s us that give you the creeps, rather than vice versa. After all, we are human, whereas you…”

  “We’re not cyborgs.”

  “Of course you are, technically.”

  Braddon sipped his coffee and then, when he remembered, he said, “There are seven Josh Taylors – with a ‘y’ – in the local area.”

  “He works for Cerebral Celebrities, Inc.”

  “Right, that…” What?! “er… does he?”

  “Yes.”

  One of Reuben Mantle’s employees… no, wait a minute. “How can an unbrow work for Mantle? His company does nothing but celebrity feeds and the odd cerebral.”

  Miss Steiger raised an eyebrow.

  What the hell does that expression mean?

  Braddon noodled and remembered that Josh Taylor was a ‘special services engineer’ at Cerebral Celebrities, Inc., working from Sentinel House, which was… God, less than a kilometre from the bridge.

  Quickly remember
ing the map he’d consulted, it was obvious that someone could walk down from Sentinel House, along the gully of the storm drain to the bridge, and so long as no–one was walking their dog, they’d be out of recognition range of everyone. At the bridge, they’d be in range, but no–one zooming underneath would give a thought – he noodled that – about a shadowy figure standing overhead. They’d just assume the bridge was higher than it appeared, if it crossed anyone’s mind at all.

  “You see the issue,” Miss Steiger asked.

  “Yes.”

  Noodle came back with the search and Braddon remembered that no–one had recognized anyone on the bridge since 16:35 the previous day. A lorry driver delivering goods along the motorway had briefly recognized a dog walker called Alex Frampton walking overhead. That was the last person recorded as being there until the police arrived. The accident had been… Braddon checked the case file: the woman driver’s thoughts about it not being her fault started at 22:23. Frampton had thought to his wife about being home at 17:05, so officially no–one had been on the bridge nearly six hours.

  Braddon tweaked his previous noodle and soon enough remembered that no–one travelling on that stretch of the motorway had given any thought to any shadowy figures on any bridge.

  “So obviously some care is required,” Steiger said, “but it must be investigated.”

  What’s she talking about?

  Braddon noodled along her thought stream, but then Noodle reminded him that he couldn’t. He tracked back through his own thoughts and remembered that he hadn’t understood her expression.

  Body language: that was like thought’s emoticons, wasn’t it?

  “And I am here to assist,” she said, handing something over the table to him. He took it, automatically, and saw that it was a small, white card, about the size of an iBrow 5.6, with embossed printing on one side: ‘Ms. V. Steiger, B.A., M.A. – Consultant.’

  Braddon had never held such an object before. It was an aide–mémoire, something to remind you of someone, and thus obsolete in this age of downloadable memories.

  “Perhaps…” he said, “you could spell it out from your perspective.”