Atcode

by David Wake

  Occasionally, the thought of a follower was rethought, the adoration shared amongst the great and good.

  A clutch of people by the bar gradually stopped thinking about their Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and became a calm centre amidst the maelstrom of thoughts.

  Braddon followed Mantle.

  The Trillionaire was getting ready: Which tie… the blue… the red?

  “Detective Sergeant?”

  Braddon turned, but didn’t recognise the man. “Yes.”

  He was holding a glass of red wine, his hair pushed forward to create a fringe, so that Braddon almost didn’t notice his smooth forehead.

  Zombie! It buffered due to the wine. Braddon took another gulp and helped himself to another glass.

  At Oliver, careful, Chloe thought.

  How does she know? Buffered. Braddon glanced round, but couldn’t see her.

  If you are wondering, your safeties are on already.

  He turned back to the man who’d spoken, “I… er…”

  “Hogan,” he said and he held out his hand.

  Braddon shook it, a strangely intimate moment despite the absence of any exchange of thoughts.

  “What brings you here?” Hogan asked.

  “I’m Chloe’s plus one.”

  “Chloe?”

  Braddon pointed, rather foolishly at the throng. He knew Chloe wasn’t in the function room, but out strolling in the garden. Hogan seemed satisfied.

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Of course.”

  Yes, that’s a good knot, Mantle thought, checking his tie.

  The music jumped in volume.

  “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Hogan shouted.

  “Yes, let’s!”

  Mantle was putting on his jacket, considering the exchange rate with the Yen and worrying about Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak: Everything ready, Emile?

  Braddon walked after Hogan, weaving between the mass of happy people, although their thoughts seemed to be shouted too.

  Outside the function room, it was quieter.

  Lift, Mantle thought.

  Braddon glanced about, saw the wide corridor with its plush seating and the lift, and wondered if this was the one Mantle was using.

  The number of Thinkerfeeds dropped to a more manageable level as the packed party receded from recognition range. Only those he followed remained. Braddon shifted Tammy–Zing’s to the top anticipating that her choreographed arrival would coincide with Mantle’s.

  Mantle was in the lift.

  Floor 25, Mantle thought.

  “How’s your investigation?”

  “I’m not on the case,” Braddon replied.

  Here we go, Mantle thought.

  The lift doors didn’t open. He must be using a different route, probably an executive lift to somewhere backstage away from the crowd.

  “I imagine you want to talk to Mister Mantle,” Hogan said.

  Mantle was greeting Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak. Tammy–Zing was so pleased Mister Mantle was here. Chloe was delighted.

  I need to go somewhere where I can be alone, Braddon thought.

  “It would be useful to see him,” Braddon said to Hogan. “Is there somewhere I can be alone?”

  “Alone? Can’t you just think transmissions with him? You won’t catch him at the party.”

  Braddon considered this: it wasn’t the security, although there was plenty of that, but the sheer volume of the admirers clustered around.

  “Won’t everyone be more interested in the celebrities?” Braddon said.

  “Of course, and that’s where Mister Mantle will be.”

  I need to go somewhere where I can be alone. “Yes, of course.”

  “He’s due to use the Cage afterwards,” Hogan said. “You might catch him before he goes in.”

  “Ah.”

  It was only five floors up and Braddon could wait outside in the big open area around the Cage. He could even take a glass of wine and a plate of food up. And he could be alone there too.

  Suddenly, all thoughts focused on the happy couple: Tammy–Zing and Zak–Zak in person. They were here, actually here!

  Pulled by the force of such interest, Braddon followed Hogan back inside. There was such a crowd that they couldn’t see what was going on. There were images, shared and rethought on recognition, from those at the front, including Chloe.

  Hogan leaned closer. “Shorter than you expect, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  Braddon sought out Chloe, but she was hidden by the crush, so he switched to her feed from the Thinkersphere.

  Oooh, ooh, Tammy, Tammy, Zak–Zak, there’s Mister Mantle, Tammy I’m here, over here, and there’s Oliver and Tammy–

  I need to go somewhere where I can be alone, Braddon thought. He blinked, feeling oddly lost.

  “Are you all right?” Hogan asked.

  Fine, fine… Buffered. “Yes, fine.”

  “Too much Sauvignon Blanc?”

  “Yes,” Braddon said. “I was wondering if I could have a word with Mister Mantle.” I need to go somewhere where I can be alone.

  “I expect so,” Hogan said. “He’ll do the rounds, shake hands.”

  “There’s…” but Braddon couldn’t recall what he’d been going to say, “…something I… is there somewhere I can be alone?”

  “There are seats outside,” Hogan said. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure. Too many people, I guess. Where’s the Gents?”

  Hogan pointed: there was a sign on the wall.

  By the time Braddon had followed it and reached the door, he saw another set of signs further along the corridor. He went to those: he needed to be alone and the nearby ones were more likely to be disturbed.

  Once inside, he checked the cubicles, glancing under the doors.

  He was alone.

  Now what? The thought buffered. At least he wasn’t developing a resistance to alcohol allowing any thoughts to leak: I’ll open the present. Yes, I’ve been wondering about the surprise.

  The last thought hadn’t buffered: his safeties seemed to be cutting in and out. No wonder he felt out of it.

  Maybe he should have a check–up: probably stress.

  He put the parcel down on the counter by the sink.

  It was a solid brick of a rectangle in subdued wrapping paper. It was too flat to be a bottle of wine.

  I’ll open the package, Braddon thought. I’ll open the package.

  Yes, he would, and he tugged at the tape. It was well sealed, but finally, he got inside and ripped it off.

  It was a black plastic box with a handle and catches to keep it closed.

  He opened it.

  It was a gun.

  I’ll open the package, but it is open.

  A resin–cast York .38, black, nestled in a depression shaped to hold it. There were two magazines, the top shell’s casing clearly visible as the non–magnetic brass rounds caught the light. And a silencer.

  I’ll load it, Braddon thought and instinctively he checked it out, looking up when it was cocked and ready. He expected to see a dark tunnel with a light shining upon a distant, white target, but he wasn’t in the police shooting range. It was a bright bathroom and his own body stood stocky in the mirror. He watched this odd reflection as if it was someone else putting the spare magazine in their right pocket and holding the gun in their left hand.

  But in a mirror, it would be… reversed.

  Not a police officer, but someone else?

  A police officer wouldn’t have taken Chloe to a celebrity party against his Inspector’s wishes.

  Someone on leave might ignore an ex–inspector.

  The gun went in the other man’s pocket.

  I’ll find Mantle, Braddon thought.

  In the corridor, Braddon was momentarily lost: the corridor went left and right, and looked identical. He’d turn left into the Gents, so he should turn right, but he imagined he was in the mirror, somehow.

  Hey you
! “You!?”

  Braddon looked right.

  Emile Larson, having shouted aloud, hurried closer to get within recognition range.

  Braddon, what are you doing here?

  “Gents.”

  There’s one down there.

  “Is there?”

  You’re drunk. Let me escort you to the party.

  “Yes, I could do with another drink.”

  Really!

  I’ll find Mantle, Braddon thought, and it transmitted. I need to find Mantle.

  So you’re not drunk. He’s with the others in 2501.

  Thanks, Braddon thought, but it buffered. “Can you show me the way?”

  It’s… yes, of course.

  Larson stood beside Braddon: he leaked concern for Mister Mantle and he wasn’t sure if taking Braddon into the same room was a sensible decision. He thought the brute – Braddon buffered a lol at that – might ask some awkward questions.

  It’s not funny, Larson thought, Mister Mantle is a very important person.

  “Holding a party for very important people.”

  Yes.

  They reached the door to the function room. It was quiet beyond – the music had stopped.

  What’s open?

  Braddon didn’t know what the man was thinking about. “Sorry?”

  You thought ‘but it is open’.

  “I don’t know,” Braddon admitted, agitated because he knew he was missing something. I’ll find Mantle, he thought. He had to find Mantle. Mantle was shaking people’s hands, thinking ‘good to see you’ over and over again.

  He’s going to make a speech, Larson thought. Here. I’m… an actor. I have to go.

  Larson left, quickly, and Braddon walked after him into the function room. Everyone there was looking and thinking in the same direction.

  The audience was ready.

  Braddon didn’t have a drink. The bar was some distance away.

  Amidst commotion, Mantle appeared on the stage, dressed in a white suit with a blue tie and lit by a spotlight, close enough for Braddon to pick him up on recognition.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mantle announced aloud, his voice amplified and blurted from speakers. One stood on a stand not far from Braddon’s ear, partially deafening him. “Please… thank you.”

  I’ll find Mantle, Braddon thought, but I have found him.

  “Ladies and Gentleman,” Mantle continued, “we meet to enjoy life. To celebrate our celebrities, share with them everything that we like and hold dear.”

  He rethought Tammy–Zing’s longing towards Zak–Zak.

  “These dear friends we follow are our inspiration,” he added.

  There was loud applause and fervent liking.

  Braddon saw Larson standing by a pillar watching the scene intently. He was moving his arms, aping his employer’s movements.

  Braddon followed him.

  What we do is for the good of all, Larson thought, but this is a wonderful place, this Utopia we all enjoy…

  As Larson continued, so did Mantle.

  “What we do is for the good of all, but this wonderful place, this Utopia we all enjoy, has been attacked by sick people. Sick people. But we will stand together, share together, actually tonight so many of us are together, both here and in the Thinkersphere. Our friends want to stand with you. I know their safety is on your mind, but they want to continue to inspire us about things they love.”

  …That we all love, Larson thought.

  “That we all love,” Mantle repeated.

  Braddon lolled: the puppet master was the puppet.

  That you love.

  “That you love.”

  Even so, Braddon felt the power of this man Mantle, and knew his persuasiveness spread from his thoughts and words to the rethinks of his cerebrities and so on to all their followers via recognition and, with the merest echo of delay, via the Thinkersphere.

  Without further ado, Larson thought, and introduce them.

  “Without further ado,” Mantle announced, “here they are – Lola_Five, the Bradman, Big–puppy…”

  There were cheers, utterly rapturous, and the hashtag of the event leapt in the ratings as everyone shared and commented.

  Larson moved away, his job clearly done. He hadn’t been in the spotlight, he was just the prompt and acting coach, but it had been a performance.

  “…and finally, Zak–Zak! And Tammy–Zing!!!”

  Mantle was the showman, Braddon knew, and, although he’d made his first trillion from Thinker Media, he would have been successful in any age. You could see him as a circus ringmaster, snake oil salesman or early 21st century media mogul.

  Tammy–Zing was so pleased to see everyone, so pleased, and it was utterly wonderful. After the terrible attack on them – the audience groaned audibly – it’s so good to have such support.

  And everyone liked and liked and liked and liked.

  They’re so full of it, Larson thought as he passed Braddon.

  No wonder no–one follows you, Braddon thought, reacting to the man’s attitude, but the thought buffered.

  I don’t need constant approval to know my worth.

  “Of course not,” Braddon said, adding untransmitted sarcasm. “Why did he talk aloud?”

  Maximises rethinks if people have to perceive–and–conceive.

  “Oh… marketing.”

  Customer relations.

  “And your role?”

  If he’d just followed a prepared thought, it wouldn’t be as immediate.

  “So you acted as his script.”

  And aided the performance, Larson thought. I was followed by thousands when I was on the stage. I did full Souzas, my thoughts completely in tune with my character’s. I did the whole of The Dark Castle, all thirty minutes. That’s real method acting, real commitment, appreciated by theatre lovers rather than these undiscerning masses.

  Slippery bastard, Braddon thought, if he can control his thoughts for half an hour, but it buffered. Souzas, named after the director who created them, were performances in which you could follow the actors’ thought as they stayed completely ‘in character’. It was an attempt by theatre to compete with Cerebrals.

  This is just temporary until the right part comes up, Larson thought. It is acting. It counts as acting.

  There was applause.

  Tammy–Zing had summed up, her opinions unknown to Braddon as he hadn’t followed her thoughts. Chloe’s thoughts focused on her excitement about the Fiery Love off–the–shoulder designer dress. Braddon was about to parse down Tammy–Zing’s feed, when Mantle stepped down from the stage.

  So, the puppet master’s job was done: he had wound his toys up and they danced and clapped and thought wonderful thoughts.

  Braddon watched Mantle move towards a side door.

  Kill Mantle, Braddon thought, and he moved to intercept.

  See you around, Larson thought.

  “Yeah, see you around.”

  Braddon paused in the empty corridor.

  Mantle had left via a side door, which had to lead to the staircase and lifts. Braddon noodled the lifts and they thought back: they were on various floors, one waiting on the 14th, but it hadn’t been called.

  So, Mantle had taken the stairs somewhere: the main set or some back flight for important people?

  Braddon followed Mantle, tracking his thoughts, but irritatingly the man was thinking about shares, the party being a success, and how to get Zak–Zak and Tammy–Zing to stay together.

  He was walking on autopilot.

  But where?

  Up to his penthouse or to the Special Services… or another floor?

  This place was huge.

  People lived in Sentinel House without ever having to leave. Braddon noodled and remembered all the gyms, shops, apartments, hotel rooms, swimming pools and the helipad on the roof. Mantle had probably never set foot in the lobby.

  This became a noodle search automatically: Mantle had cut the ribbon at the grand opening. He’d only bee
n a multi–millionaire then: ten years ago. He’d grown his wealth by a full million orders of magnitude while Braddon had struggled to make ends meet on a Detective Constable’s salary.

  He noodled for anyone who had seen Mantle in the last five minutes.

  No–one, he remembered.

  That meant he was either alone or with the unbrows.

  Special Services it was then.

  Braddon went to the staircase, but security were waiting.

  Not here, sir, a guard thought.

  “Police,” said Braddon.

  The man’s emoticons registered the sound. His eyes flickered as scrolled down Braddon’s Thinkerfeed. He’d have recognised him at this range, but clearly, he’d decided to be thorough, probably because his own Thinkerfeed was being monitored regularly to check he was doing everything expected and more.

  “I’ve a warrant,” Braddon added. His knowledge that he was on leave, rather than active on the case, buffered luckily.

  Rather early for drink, Detective Sergeant.

  Yeah, well… It buffered, which made no sense to Braddon, so he made a smiley–like expression with his face instead.

  Kill Mantle.

  Some thoughts were so clear.

  I’ll be there soon, Braddon thought and it transmitted successfully. Why did that one work? But that thought buffered in his brow. It made no sense to him, but it meant he’d have to clean his iBrow, delete everything in the outbox, after he’d done the deed and before the alcohol wore off.

  The gun felt heavy in his pocket.

  Braddon arrived at the floor that held the Cage. He heard footsteps and Mantle’s thoughts on recognition.

  Mantle was unaware he was being stalked, Braddon’s safeties effectively making him invisible.

  The man was going to the Faraday cage, something about stocks and shares at the forefront of his transmissions, but Braddon didn’t understand the jargon. It didn’t matter.

  Kill Mantle.

  Braddon took the gun out of his pocket.

  He had to find this other person, the one planning to kill Mantle and deal with him. He took two steps, heard the soles of his feet squeak on the marble.

  Mantle looked round: Who’s that? There’s someone there.

  Braddon held his breath and stayed still in the shadow.

  Mantle shook his head and didn’t even think further about the sound.