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  About the book

  The dark sequel to Hashtag.

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

  Detective Oliver 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 IN THE THINKERSPHERE SERIES

  WATLEDGE BOOKS

  For

  Redemption

  10 Print “Hello World”

  Basic, 1964

  printf(“Hello, Worldn”);

  C++, 1983

  http://info.cern.ch/hypertext/WWW/TheProject.html

  First Web page, 1991

  ShowMessage(‘Hello World’);

  Lazarus, 2001

  Goto fail;

  Apple’s SSL bug, 2014

  moveForward(100);

  First code by a US President, 2014

  I’m not in at the moment.

  Test inebriation thought, 2019

  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.

  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.