Day Zero

by James Swallow

  First published by Aconyte Books in 2020

  ISBN 978 1 83908 048 7

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 049 4

  © 2020 Ubisoft Entertainment. All Rights Reserved. Watch Dogs, Ubisoft and the Ubisoft logo are registered or unregistered trademarks of Ubisoft Entertainment in the US and/or other countries.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by Stonehouse

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA

  ACONYTE BOOKS

  An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd

  Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre

  North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK

  aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks

  Day Five

  Sunday

  Bagley-bytes 13654-9: Things are popping in old London town, gang. To whit the following events of note: Skye Larsen, futurist and weirdo de jour, has published yet another TOAN-deaf essay in the Grauniad, arguing that really, you’ll all be better off if you just let her stick a cTOS chip in your brains. It is to laugh. Oh wait, another thing I can’t do. Sad. Fake news.

  +++

  Here’s something that’s not news – CCTV feeds have clocked a white transit van at multiple unscheduled, unlogged stops across the city, including Blackfriars Bridge. Nothing suspicious there. On an unrelated note, there’s a lot of internal chatter up and down the Albion frequencies. I wonder what our favourite paramilitary contractor is up to, hmmm? Does anyone recognise the term LIBRA? No? Moving on.

  +++

  And something familiar – the Met is getting a lot of reports of foul doings and black deeds in the Whitechapel Terminus. Show of hands, who’s surprised? Please put your hand down, Terry. You’re embarrassing us both. Possible involvement of Clan Kelley has been mentioned. Sergei, be a chum and get on that.

  +++

  Speaking of Whitechapel, our favourite Labour MP, Sarah Lincoln, is giving an unnecessary speech on community unity at Lister House later today, when everyone would much rather be watching the footie. Be sure to give the crowd a scan, Hannah. You never know who might prove sufficiently disaffected and useful.

  +++

  And finally, we have the best for last. According to our Dalton, it looks as if MI5 is experiencing some political blowback from the Newcastle incident. My heart would bleed, if I had one.

  1: Brick Lane

  Olly Soames hit Brick Lane at top speed, letting the bicycle’s momentum carry him along. He wove through the midday market crowd with an ease that was down to experience and a total lack of concern for traffic safety laws. As he pedalled, he reached into his pocket and thumbed the screen of his Optik AR, waking it up. Linked to a tiny electronic device implanted just in front of his ear, the handset was networked to GPS, and through it he called up a retinal overlay of the borough.

  The digital map unspooled across his field of vision. He barely noticed it these days, though it had taken some practice to get used to riding with it. He blink-scrolled through the pop-up advertisements, tapping in his destination as he skidded and thumped along the pavement, leaving a trail of startled curses in his wake.

  Not everyone appreciated Olly’s skilful navigation and more than one piece of fruit bounced off the back of the canvas bag slung across his back. He ignored them. He had bigger worries than a badly-aimed satsuma.

  He was late. Not the fashionable kind of late either, but the other kind.

  The one that meant that he’d screwed up. Again.

  It wasn’t his fault. He had an excuse, but excuses only counted if the other person was willing to listen. Olly doubted his handler was the understanding sort, given their encounters to date. He bent low over the handlebars, urging the bike to greater speed.

  The Optik handset in his pocket hummed, and a congestion warning flashed on his display. He veered down a blind alley, hoping to avoid the traffic jam. He bounced off the pavement and along a parallel road, seeking the path of least resistance.

  Newsfeeds flickered at the corner of his eye. London was playing host to a big technology conference this week. That explained all the security drones in the air overhead. Olly had it on good authority that most of them were run by a pair of bored plods in an air-conditioned box at New Scotland Yard.

  A Bogen saloon pulled out of a side-street, horn blaring as he arrowed towards it. He kicked the front wheel up and went up and over the hood of the car. He nearly bit his tongue as he came down hard on the pavement. He kept the bike upright, but only just.

  From behind Olly came a cry of “Wanker!” There was no way he hadn’t scratched the paint. Olly couldn’t bring himself to feel too bad about it. What did the guy expect, driving in London on a Sunday? He tossed two fingers over his shoulder, but kept his face forward.

  Olly knew CCTV cameras were tracking him, but that didn’t mean much if no one was paying attention on the other end of the feed. As far as they knew, he was just another arsehole delivery driver. That was fine by him. And if he needed to, there were a few tricks he could play to make identification all but impossible. Electronic eyes could be fooled as easily as flesh and blood ones, if you knew the trick. He flicked the Optik screen again, activating a pre-set command. It sent out a coded data-stream, scrambling the CCTV feeds in his immediate area for a few seconds.

  A rainbow of curry houses and fashionable graffiti streaked past on either side of him. He angled the bike, skidding around a corner, startling a dog-walker and nearly tagging a concrete bollard. Barks and yelps pursued him down the street.

  His Optik was buzzing, but he ignored it. Whatever it was, it could wait. He was close. Maybe close enough. Maybe he wasn’t late after all. Maybe, maybe, maybe – the mantra went around and around in his head.

  This was his last chance. If he screwed up this time, that was it. He was done. The thought made him queasy. The feeling only got worse when he reached his destination.

  The alley was a little hook of space, caught between two buildings. A piece of old London, folded into the new city and forgotten – like a scar you barely remembered getting. A gloomy stretch of cobbles and pavement, lined with rubbish. The walls were plastered with old theatre handbills, posters for funk bands and decades of overlapping tags. Neon swirls of spray paint intersected with mimeographed flyers and tattered advertisements for loft shares.

  He hadn’t bothered to ask why the hand-off was taking place here. There was probably a good reason, but they weren’t going to tell him. Answers only came with trust, and he was all too aware that he hadn’t earned either yet. And anyway, a good delivery driver knew better than to ask about things like that. It didn’t matter what was in the package, so long as it got where it was going on time and intact.

  He brought the bike to a screeching stop. A rat pelted into the rubbish, its squeaks echoing against the bricks. Daylight sifted down past the edges of the rooftops above. He climbed off the bike and wheeled it towards the end of the alley, heart thumping. If she’d already left, he’d never hear
the end of it.

  “You’re late,” a voice said, to his left. The voice – and its owner – were posh. Too posh for this part of London, but he kept that to himself.

  “Traffic, yeah?” He turned. She was young, his age, maybe a little older. Dressed professionally, black hijab and an Optik audio-bud in her ear. Cute. She reminded him of someone famous – a TV chef, he thought, though he couldn’t bring a name to mind. He considered doing an image search, then thought better of it. “Hannah Shah?”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough.” They’d warned him that she’d be nervous. In her shoes, he’d be bloody terrified. Data crawled across his vision. The hacked facial recognition software installed in his Optik gave him everything about her, including shoe size. Gave new meaning to the phrase “open book”. His feed pinged, and he knew she was trying the same. Olly wished her luck. He’d spent several long, sleepless nights online shaping his data profile into something innocuous and uninformative. Hers was far more interesting.

  Hannah Shah. Third generation British Bengali. Personal assistant to Sarah Lincoln, newly-elected Labour MP for Tower Hamlets South. “Bit off your patch, aren’t you?” he asked, with a smile and made a vague gesture. “Limehouse is over that way, Ms Shah.”

  She frowned. “It’s a free city. For the moment, at least.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” he said. “Got the whatsit?”

  “How do I know you’re the one I’m supposed to hand it over to?”

  “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t tell you,” he said. He tried for a cheeky grin, but from her expression he could tell it hadn’t worked. She stared at him, and he restrained the urge to squirm. “Look, I’m not Albion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I wasn’t, but I’m starting to.” Her stare didn’t waver.

  He stared back, and suddenly remembered the passphrase. He slapped his forehead in embarrassment. “Bugger. Redqueen says off with their heads.”

  “A bit late for that,” she said, her tone dubious.

  He didn’t blame her, but even so, he was annoyed. It wasn’t his fault, was it? He wasn’t the one who’d insisted on meeting in a dark alley like something out of a bad movie. He wasn’t the one who’d insisted on bullshit codes, when they could have just sent encrypted pings to each other’s Optiks.

  “I forgot,” he said, defensively. When she didn’t reply, he turned his bike about. “I’ll leave then, shall I?” He tried to sound unconcerned. “No skin off mine,” he added. Which wasn’t strictly true. But no need for her to know that.

  “Wait,” she began. He paused, saying nothing. After a moment, she sighed. “Here.”

  She extended a folded A5 envelope. Inside was something small. A flash drive, he thought. But he wasn’t so new at this as to open it and check. Not in front of her. Even so, he hesitated. He knew enough about this sort of thing to know what she was probably risking, meeting him like this. “You know you might get in big trouble for this.”

  “Only if you get caught,” she said, softly. “So for both our sakes, don’t get caught.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.” He stuffed the envelope into his vest for safe-keeping. “Ta, love. Be seeing you.” He was on his bike a moment later and gone three seconds after that.

  He didn’t look back.

  Hannah Shah aimed herself towards Whitechapel, flicking through urgent emails on her Optik display as she walked. It was Sunday, but that didn’t mean the work stopped coming. Besides, it was a good distraction.

  A police car sped past, siren blaring. There were more police on the streets than she could ever recall seeing before. Something was in the air. She thought it might have to do with the TOAN conference, later in the week. The Technology of All Nations conference was big news. A sign of London’s resurgence, some claimed. Privately, Hannah had her doubts.

  Around her, boutique shops and hipster joints stretched for what seemed like miles. Tradition warred with gentrification in Tower Hamlets, and the latter was winning. There was no money for anything these days, but work was being done nonetheless, mostly by foreign concerns. London had been sliding towards international irrelevance for years, and no one wanted to admit it. And if that meant inviting in certain elements… so be it.

  Elements like Albion.

  She still felt queasy about handing off the data. Krish had vouched for the courier, and he’d matched the profile in her face-recognition program, but only just. It was as if he’d never used social media or had a photo taken.

  Other than an e-fit she’d managed to dig up on her own initiative. It wasn’t a good likeness, but it was close enough. The suspect had briefly hacked the systems of several newly-deployed automated shelf-stacking robots in an upmarket grocery store, turning them into thieves – two for the shelf, one for the ’bot. There was no information on what happened to the stolen items, though there was an attached note that implied the items had been distributed to several local foodbanks by anonymous donors.

  Oliver Soames – Olly to his mates – had been questioned during the course of the investigation, but nothing had come of it. That was the extent of his history: one brief mention in a police file, now closed and forgotten.

  Hannah could practically smell the industrial strength bleach. Someone had scrubbed Olly from the system. It was that lack of information that had decided her in the end. If Olly Soames wasn’t DedSec, he was doing a good impression.

  Suddenly nervous, she adjusted her hijab. Maybe he wasn’t DedSec. Maybe he was Albion. An illicit tracker program alerted her to the presence of numerous security drones overhead. More than one might normally see for a Sunday morning. Maybe they were cracking down on unlicensed stalls at the market – or maybe they were following her.

  She wove along the pavement, instinctively avoiding the drone-sweeps as best she could. Her record was spotless but there was no sense taking any more chances. Especially if someone found out what she’d done. It had been a calculated risk, but what else could she have done? Albion was dangerous.

  Not everyone agreed, her boss for one. She saw Albion as “an opportunity”. As such, she’d ordered Hannah to construct a complete dossier on the company – everything from hiring practices to financials. Whatever she could find, however seemingly insignificant. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much available. But what was there, was terrifying.

  One of the world’s leading private military contractors, Albion was looking to expand into privatized law enforcement. They wanted the UK to be their test market for long-term urban deployment and pacification, starting with London. A foothold in the city was as good as a boot on the throat of the rest of the country.

  If they succeeded in getting the contract, they’d have no accountability and little-to-no oversight. A paramilitary force, occupying what was left of the United Kingdom. The thought wasn’t a pleasant one.

  Luckily for Hannah, DedSec agreed. Or at least she hoped they did. It was hard to tell from the outside what DedSec actually wanted at any given time. At first, she’d thought they were just one more hacker collective, out to cause trouble. These days, she knew better.

  DedSec had a plan. But what that plan was, she wasn’t sure, save that it was aimed at making life a bit better for everyone. And that including stopping Albion from setting up shop in London. Or so Krish had assured her.

  She smiled at the thought. When she’d known him, he’d been just another kid, looking to play rap artist. Now he was – what? A hacktivist? Part of the Resistance, power to the people and all that.

  And today so was she.

  Her proximity alerts flashed, and she looked up. News-drones were circling like carrion birds. Whitechapel had become a focal point of interest lately. Albion had been given limited remit to ply their trade in Tower Hamlets while the government debated the merits of extending and expanding their current contract.

  That, in turn, had the locals more agitated than ever. Especial
ly when word got out that Albion was looking to buy up properties and convert them into operations centres for their London spearhead.

  Whitechapel’s council estates had been on the cusp of demolition for years – including Lister House, the one her boss was visiting today, and the one earmarked to be the first Albion barracks. Lister House had escaped the council’s plans for gentrification more than once over the years, and you could practically set your watch by the protests. Hannah didn’t blame them. There wasn’t anywhere for them to go if the estate got bulldozed.

  Unfortunately for them, despite her public image, Sarah Lincoln couldn’t have cared less. In fact, Hannah suspected that she was all in favour of her current constituency being replaced with a lighter coloured, well-heeled variety. Sarah would have denied it, but after several years together, Hannah knew how Sarah’s mind worked.

  Sarah Lincoln had a plan, too. And she would happily step over anyone and everyone to make sure that plan went off without a hitch. Not that the MP for Tower Hamlets South hadn’t done some good on her climb to the top. But it was all incidental – the equivalent of a queen dispensing sweetmeats to her pets. A generous queen, but a queen nonetheless.

  Hannah hadn’t noticed it at first. She’d been too busy. Being a PA for a Member of Parliament, even a junior member, meant she was on call all hours. And Sarah could be very charming, even friendly, when she wanted to be.

  But there was steel under the silk. For all that she’d been born in the borough, she didn’t seem to care what happened to the people that lived there, so long as it didn’t make her look bad. And the people had started to notice.

  That was why they’d come out today – why she’d had the chance to make the drop-off. A recall petition was doing the rounds and Sarah had been on it like a tiger on a tethered goat. She’d arranged for an ad hoc town hall meeting to quiet the grumblers. To reassure them that they weren’t going to be forcibly ejected from their homes – at least not yet.