Day Zero

by James Swallow

  The real issue, from Hannah’s point of view, was that Sarah hadn’t yet made up her mind about whether she was supporting the Albion deal or not. If she did, the borough – and her constituency – would see major changes, and perhaps a great deal of economic growth. In return, they only had to sell their soul.

  Her Optik buzzed as it automatically synched with that of her employer. She looked up. The council flats of Lister House and its neighbour, Treves House, were modernist buildings rising out of a sad patch of green space. One was a long row of terraces, the other a tall block with clean lines and proportions, but both were looking decidedly shabby these days. The local council wavered between benign neglect and outright hostility, and tenants and leaseholders had been facing imminent eviction for almost thirty years.

  Trees and hedges set behind black iron fences marked the boundaries of the estate, and cars lined the streets. People were already gathering in the common area between the blocks of flats, waiting to hear what their MP had to say for herself.

  Sarah’s black Brubeck town car was parked just off-site, and out of range. Hannah skirted the crowd, threaded through an unobtrusive security cordon and made her way to the vehicle. She climbed in to the back, where Lincoln sat in air conditioned comfort, flicking through feeds on her high-end rose-gold Optik.

  “You’re late,” the MP said, not looking up from her device. “I thought I was going to have to do this without you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hannah paused. “That must have been traumatic for you.”

  Sarah snorted, but didn’t look up. “Careful. I might take offence and fire you.”

  Hannah wasn’t unduly worried. “You won’t. Five personal assistants in as many years. People might draw the wrong conclusions.”

  “Fair point. What do you think of this TOAN business?”

  “We haven’t RSVP’d.”

  “Good. I can’t think of anything more stultifying than attending a technology conference.” Her eyes flicked up and she shifted subjects again. “What was so important you had to go all the way to Brick Lane?”

  “Meeting a friend,” Hannah said. She was used to Sarah’s abrupt switches of tack. Her boss did it intentionally, so as to discomfit people. Knowing this, Hannah had rehearsed the story in front of a mirror. Before Sarah could ask, she added, “She works for Natha.”

  Lincoln’s eyes flicked up. “And why, pray tell, were you talking to someone who works for the… honourable representative… of Tower Hamlets North?” she purred.

  Hannah hid a smile. She’d known mentioning the other MP’s name would provoke the right reaction. Winston Natha was second generation, like Sarah, though his parents were from Calcutta rather than Dusmareb. Despite that, they had more in common than not, something Sarah didn’t like to be reminded of. “Word is, Natha is throwing his weight behind the Albion deal,” she said.

  Sarah sat up, nearly colliding with the roof of the town car. She was a tall woman, taller than Hannah. Taller than most men, especially when wearing heels – which she did as often as possible. Lean and honed, wearing clothes that cost more than most of her constituency made in a year, she could have been a runway model in her youth. Her hair was tightly bound in a bun at the back of her head. She slid her Optik into her jacket pocket and looked down her nose at her assistant. “What did he say?”

  “He thinks they’re doing a – and I quote – ‘sterling bloody job’ in Tower Hamlets.”

  Sarah frowned. “You know that for sure?”

  “Seventy per cent,” Hannah said. She had to be careful. Sarah wasn’t stupid – even if she wanted to believe the worst of Natha, she’d be looking for independent confirmation.

  “Not good enough,” Sarah said, with a slight smile. “Though I wouldn’t put it past the little weasel. He’d privatise oxygen if he could get away with it.” She paused, one hand on the door release. “Still, it might be something to keep in mind. If Natha’s for it, that means all the wrong people will be gunning for him.”

  Hannah relaxed. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  Sarah laughed softly. “If politics doesn’t work out, you might have a career in espionage.” She opened the door and slid out of the town car. “Come on. I can hear our constituents growling. Let’s get this wacal of a day started.”

  2: Whitechapel

  Olly was moving quick, keeping one eye on his display. According to his Optik it was twelve minutes to Limehouse. Experience told him it was more like twenty, depending on traffic on Vallance Road. He veered onto the pavement. Away from the cramped confines of Brick Lane, he could see the Parcel Fox courier-drones swooping like clumsy pigeons.

  The drones were the reason he was barely holding onto his job at the moment. They accomplished the same tasks he could in half the time, and didn’t need paying. Soon enough, everyone would be using the damn things and then were would he be? Right back where he had been, before he’d lucked into this job. Before DedSec.

  He thought about Hannah. Was she DedSec too? Impossible to know. He could ask, but he could just imagine the answer. Best not to risk it. Hard not to be curious, though. He’d always been curious, taking things apart to see how they worked. Phones, computers, televisions. As a kid, he’d fancied being a repairman.

  Times changed. And you had to change with them – or get buried.

  London was learning that the hard way.

  Olly braked hard, narrowly avoiding a barricade. Lots of barricades in Tower Hamlets these days, after the Redundancy Riots. Lots of protests, mostly about immigration. The city – the country – was like a pot left too long on a lit hob. It hadn’t boiled over yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

  He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d been in nappies when things started unravelling, and it hadn’t gotten any better since. When it came time to divvy up the haves and the have-nots, he was definitely the latter. But when things got bad, it was always the have-nots who got the wrong end of the stick. Money was tight – and getting tighter.

  Crappy as his job was, he was lucky to have it. Most of his peers couldn’t say the same. The ones who weren’t dealing for Clan Kelley or one of the smaller syndicates were working part time at the local chippie or on the dole.

  He hopped the bike over a cracked kerb, scattering pedestrians. A courier-drone shot past him, waggling its fans in an almost taunting manner. He longed to catch up with it and knock it out of the air, but that would only attract the wrong type of attention, no matter how good it might feel. Then, it was that sort of thing that had gotten DedSec to notice him in the first place. Thankfully, they’d gotten to him before the police.

  Sometimes, he wondered if there’d even been police on him – or if that was just what he’d been told. DedSec needed recruits, and they weren’t shy about playing dirty to get them. Maybe that was just the way of it. If you weren’t on one side, you were on the other. Whether you knew it or not. All in all, he preferred to be on his bike.

  He took a turn, weaving along a cut-across. He was fairly certain he wasn’t being followed, but you could never be too careful. He’d been around long enough to know that sometimes the Filth let a suspect run to the end of their tether, hoping the little fish would lead them to the big ones. But none of his security programs were pinging. As far as the drones overhead were concerned, he was nothing special. Even so, that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched.

  He hopped a kerb and pedalled through a car park, weaving around the vehicles. He tapped the Optik and activated a mirror program. It would clone the GPS signals of the cars he passed, and substitute them for his own. It wouldn’t fool a dedicated trace for long, but it would make it harder for the casual observer to follow his trail.

  Given what he was carrying, a bit of pre-emptive evasive action seemed only sensible. And Olly was nothing if not sensible, these days. He liked to think that he’d come a long way from the kid who’d cracked shelf-stacking bots, or made cash machines spit notes.

  Only time would tell whether any of it matte
red at all. When DedSec had offered him a way out, he’d taken it. A chance to purge his record, stay out of nick and maybe, just maybe, do something important for once. Even if he wasn’t sure what that was, just yet.

  Oliver Soames. What is my favourite trainee up to today?

  Olly blinked, startled. The voice in his ear was light, the accent smooth RP – like polished chrome. A newscaster or a telemarketer. Friendly, open and sociable.

  “Heading home, Bagley,” he murmured. “Unless something’s up…?”

  By home, I assume you mean Limehouse?

  “Where else would I mean?”

  Fair point. Do you have it?

  “If I didn’t, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be coming home, now would I?”

  Language, Oliver. I’m very sensitive. Besides, you never know who might be listening.

  “Hopefully nobody,” Olly said, sharply. “This is a secure channel, right?”

  Safe as houses. The channel has been piggybacked, cloned and reversed.

  “None of that means anything.”

  A silly question deserved a silly answer.

  Olly bit back a retort. There was no use arguing with Bagley. You might as well argue with a toaster. His personality was a mirror – you saw what you expected. A pre-packaged rudimentary AI personal assistant, available to anyone who owned a Blume Optik.

  I can hear you grinding your teeth, Oliver. Remember, life’s better with Bagley.

  Olly grunted. The consumer model version of Bagley was only as smart as his parameters allowed him to be. DedSec had discovered a number of constraints on his programming, no doubt put in place by Blume. Removing those constraints had a few unfortunate side-effects. Standard Bagley was pleasant. DedSec Bagley was an annoying sod. If that was the original intent of the program’s creator, Olly considered him due a punch or three in the gob.

  I recommend you take a short cut through Lister House.

  “What?”

  It’ll cut your time by five minutes. It might interest you to know that both it and Treves House were designed in 1956 by the architect, Count Ralph Smorczewski-

  “Fine,” Olly interjected quickly. If anything went wrong, he could always just blame Bagley. He swept through the narrow footpaths of the council estate, moving quickly. His alerts were chiming, feeding him data on the crowd that was gathering in the common area.

  Someone had set up a low stage and a microphone. Chairs had been set out, but not enough. He thought he spied Hannah Shah, next to a tall woman in professional attire, on the stage, along with representatives of the local council. Shah didn’t look happy. Then, given the mood of the crowd, she probably wished she was anywhere else. He skirted the edges of the crowd, trawling for faces and names, to be stored for later perusal.

  Information was better than money, especially given the current exchange rate. Like the thing in his pocket. An envelope – she’d put it in an envelope. Who did that? You could buy signal blockers in any phone shop on the high street.

  “Amateurs,” he muttered.

  You’re one to talk. You still have training wheels on.

  “You don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

  I can crunch cryptocurrency algorithms and write a focus-grouped bestselling novel simultaneously. Extrapolating what you’re muttering about is child’s play. I – hang on.

  “What is it?”

  There’s something –

  Olly didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy going face-first over the handlebars into the gravel. The idiot who’d collided with him slammed into a parked car and bounced onto the street. The man was older, lean and hollow-looking, like a strong wind would send him sailing out over the Thames.

  “Watch where the fuck you’re going,” the man growled, clambering to his feet. Spitting gravel, Olly rolled to his feet, ready to fight.

  “You’re the one who ran into me, mate.”

  “Fuck you, I–”

  The sound was like a hammer striking an apple. There was a whisper of air, and a wet crunch. The man jerked and spun as if he’d been struck. Something hot and red caught Olly on the cheek as the man tumbled down onto the pavement with boneless finality.

  The world slowed and finally stuttered to a halt as Olly stared down, in shock. His first instinct was to try and staunch the wound in the man’s chest. He’d seen it on television and in films a thousand times. You reached out and pressed your hands to the wound and it stopped pumping. Only it didn’t. The blood just kept coming, and it was on his hands and his trousers and in his nose and – oh God, it was everywhere.

  “Bagley – call an ambulance, or divert one or something – this guy, I think he’s been shot, Jesus, oh Jesus, somebody shot him…”

  Even as he babbled, a part of his mind was analysing what he’d seen. The shot had come from out of nowhere – a sniper? Was there some lunatic on a roof somewhere? That sort of thing didn’t happen in London – in the UK. It wasn’t America. The local crazies used Stanley knives and screwdrivers, not rifles.

  The scene replayed in his head over and over again. The man climbing to his feet, cursing him out, then jerking around, falling. The blood…

  Oliver.

  Bagley’s voice was cool in his ear. He ignored the AI. Why was there so much blood? He looked at his hands. Completely red. His thoughts stuttered to a halt. It was so red. Why was it so red? Wasn’t there some reason – arterial blood, maybe… his mind began to wander through fields of trivia until Bagley brought him back.

  Oliver. You need to leave. Lincoln’s security detail is closing in on you.

  Olly shook his head. “I can’t, I can’t, he’s–”

  Dead. Flatlined. Function terminated. I can’t help him, but I can help you. Get up.

  Olly looked down. The man looked like a wax dummy, all slack and shrunken. As if everything that had been him had been yanked out, leaving only an empty husk behind. He sat back on his heels, trying to think. People were screaming. Running. Human instinct was to get as far away from trouble as possible – at least initially. But not all of them. Plainclothes security people, probably plods in civvies, were hurrying towards him, fighting through the crowd. They did not look friendly.

  His Optik hummed, alerting him to nearby recording devices. News-drones, Optik-cameras, all of them zeroing in on him. Worse, the sound of sirens, drawing nearer, pierced the fog of panic.

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  I couldn’t have put it better myself. Get thee hence, young Oliver.

  “Going,” he said, hoarsely. He stumbled to his feet, blood-stained finger tapping at his Optik even as he wrenched his bike upright. His mind was moving faster than his body, isolating the problems and solving them one by one. An old girlfriend training to be a psych nurse had called it reflexive compartmentalization, whatever that meant.

  First, the news-drones. All the agencies used the same network these days – everyone used the same network these days – hack one drone, hack ’em all. So he did, initiating a feed wipe of five minutes. The Optiks were next. They were easier. DedSec had perfected the art of making Optiks see what they wanted them to see. The facial recognition software wouldn’t get a match, or, rather too many matches. He was the next best thing to invisible – one more pasty yob in a ratty hoodie and tracksuit bottoms.

  Officers en route from Bethnal Green. Eight seconds.

  The police would be a different matter. They wouldn’t be so easy to fool. He had to move. Get to Limehouse. Hide out until he could do a full scrub of the local feeds. A different sort of panic settled on him now – not blind, but urgent.

  You have six seconds until the police arrive. Make them count.

  Limehouse. He was on his bike a moment later, and gone three seconds after that. By the time the first police car arrived, Olly was on the other side of the estate, heading east as fast as he could pedal.

  “What was that?” he hissed, as he took a sharp corner. “What happened back there?”

  Unknown. I’ve piggybacked
onto the scrambled feeds – quick work, by the way – and I’m analysing the data as we speak. There was something odd about the shot.

  “What does that mean?”

  Nothing yet. Keep moving. Let me worry about it.

  “Gladly.”

  Oh – you still have the package, don’t you?

  A tremor ran through him, and he desperately swatted at his jacket. He found the shape of the envelope and what it contained. He sighed in relief. “Still got it,” he said. At least he hadn’t screwed that up.

  Good man. Pick up the pace, Oliver. Things are popping.

  Sarah Lincoln was three minutes into a tight five minute speech on the need for unity and the proud, if somewhat chequered, history of the Vallance Road community when she heard the screams. Unruffled, she managed another thirty seconds before all hell broke loose and her carefully orchestrated public gathering devolved into chaos.

  The sound didn’t register at first. She thought it was a car backfiring. Only when she saw a man at the edge of the crowd twist and spin and fall did she realize what had happened. Or at least what she thought had happened. Someone bent over him – had they shot him? Impossible to tell from where she was, buried under several members of her security detail. “Off – get off of me,” she snarled, trying to get to her feet.

  “Stay down mum,” one of them snarled back, pushing her down. Or trying to.

  “If they’d wanted to bloody hit me, they would’ve. Now get off!” She forced her way upright, over their protests and looked around. It was chaos – people scattering, her people trying to force their way towards the action.

  “I think we – we need to get out of here,” Hannah said, grabbing at her arm. Her eyes were wide, her voice brittle with fear. “Someone’s shooting!”

  Sarah shook her off. “But not at me. Call an ambulance.” She snatched the microphone and raised her hand. “Everyone, calm down – calm down!” No one was listening, but she wasn’t doing it for their benefit. And the news-drones circling overhead were capturing it all.