Day Zero

by James Swallow

  “So she’s out of date and buggy?”

  “Why else would she stick a skeng in your face, you dozy bastard?” Krish shook his head. “She is not to be messed about, ya get me?”

  Olly bobbed his head. “Trust me, I am well aware of that.”

  “DedSec – it used to be easy, you know?” Krish sat down beside him. “Decrypt some shit, drop some information on the dark web, clap some cash from a bank machine and ’ting. Hacktivism, bruv. Non-violent.”

  “Liz didn’t seem like the non-violent type to me.”

  “Changing, innit?” Krish scratched his chin. “Now we got people talking about drone warfare and guerrilla resistance shit, you know? Like proper freedom fighters.”

  Olly looked at him. “I don’t want to shoot nobody.”

  “No choice, bruv. Day’s coming, you know? Everybody sees it.”

  Olly nodded and looked away. He and Krish sat in silence for a time. “Sometimes, I see all this shit and think maybe the best thing to do would be to cut the signal, you know?” Olly said, after a time. “Crash everything and begin again.”

  “What, like – everything-everything?”

  Olly nodded. “Everything, bruv. All of it. Start over from the zero point, right?”

  “Lot of people would die.”

  “Lot of people going to die anyway.” Olly looked up. “Shit. I don’t know.”

  “Lucky we ain’t in charge,” Krish said, and slapped him on the back. “Liz sent me to look for you, by the way. She thinks she found something.”

  “Why does she want me?”

  “You belong to her now. I don’t make the rules.”

  “Cheers,” Olly said, drily. He stood. “Let’s go see what she’s after.”

  Olly followed Krish out into the cellar. Things were humming. The shooting had everyone on edge, and they were all trying to look busy and stay out of Liz’s way. Heads bent, fingers tapping at keyboards, virtual or otherwise. Stock information and exchange rates danced across the closest screens. “Payday,” Krish murmured. Olly nodded.

  DedSec, or at least the London hive, seemed to get most of its funding through peer-to-peer transactions. ETO accounts were regularly set up for people who didn’t exist, except on paper, or in cyberspace, rather. Generative network software could create composite facial images for bogus social media accounts, bot algorithms could be tweaked to post regularly and semi-coherently. Olly had done some of it himself – he had a handful of sock puppets set up, and often used them as camouflage for his DedSec runs.

  The hard currency – the seed money for everything – came from government and corporate accounts. Nothing big, nothing flashy: quiet programs designed to divert fractions of a penny into ghost-accounts on a regular basis. That sort of pittance was hardly noticed by company accounting, and it snowballed quickly, if you knew how to invest it.

  If a lot of money was needed very quickly, there were always smash and grabs – a virus attack on corporate systems and a quick snatch of everything you could get in the window the virus opened for you. But that attracted attention. It was easier to hit a local villain in the wallet, and not the digital kind.

  Olly had never participated in a raid like that. The thought of waving a gun around in a betting shop after hours, or busting up an illegal counting house, left him feeling cold. It was too much like being an actual criminal. But some of the others enjoyed that sort of thing. They liked a bit of the old ultra-violence to break up the monotony. Olly preferred to steal ones and zeroes from the safety of the hideout. He wished he were doing it right now.

  Krish led him towards the far corner of the central room, where a team sat hunched on their couches and leaky beanbag chairs, diligently scrubbing the cTOS surveillance grid of any images of Olly. Liz was hovering over them, arms crossed, expression unreadable as she watched them work.

  Olly felt a flush of pride as he noticed how few there were and how scrambled the ones that did exist were. Liz saw his smile and nodded. “You do good work, Olly. Bit sloppy around the edges, though. A few drones spotted you disposing of your hoodie.”

  “Shit,” he said, smile fading.

  “Already handled it,” Liz said. “Hoodie’s already gone, anyway.”

  Olly nodded. He’d figured someone – a street person, or just someone bin-diving, would have claimed it. “It was good gear – you know, except for the blood.”

  Liz turned away. “Smart getting rid of it, though the DNA might have bitten you in the arse, if the plods had found it. Never leave anything behind, and if you have to, don’t leave it intact. Burn it, bleach it, chuck it in the canal. Something, anything.”

  “I wasn’t really thinking about it.”

  “Well, learn to think about it. We have to be lucky every time – they only have to be lucky once. Remember that.” She checked her Optik. “Right. Time to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Oh good. I was missing that sofa.”

  “Not to sleep. To talk.” Liz started to walk.

  “I thought you had everything,” Olly said, as he hurried to catch up to her.

  They’re ready for you. Chin up. Straighten your shoulders. The elite awaits.

  Bagley sounded inordinately pleased, and Olly felt a tremor of anxiety. “Who’s he talking about? Who’s here?”

  “Never mind. Just answer their questions, be helpful.” Liz led him back downstairs. The lights were already on, the screens full of data, servers humming. There were voices as well, distorted by electronic interference or scratchy from pirated frequencies, but understandable. They overlapped one another, as if several conversations were going on at once.

  Olly stopped dead when he saw the floating heads. The holographic projections were crude things – a pig with a monocle, a gas mask, a knight’s helmet, half a dozen others. They spun in a slow circle over the table, projected by Bagley from multiple sources. As the owner of each projection spoke, their image was limned by light. The conversations had clearly been going on for some time.

  “…managed to install a sneak and peek sub-routine into the new Battersea surveillance systems. As soon as they’re operational …”

  “…Malik is definitely buddying up to Cass. His mob may be angling on working with Albion…”

  “…so we need eyes on the Parcel Fox distribution centre…”

  “…any photos of the AWY Imports warehouse across from the Tate Modern…”

  “…MI5 is on the way out. My contacts…”

  “…Kelleys are operating in the Whitechapel Terminus, I’m sure of it…”

  “Who…?” Olly began.

  Hush, Oliver, Bagley chided. The adults are speaking.

  Liz lifted her Optik and activated an app. The holographic image of a crowned skull, glowing crimson, joined the discussion circle. “Redqueen reporting in,” Liz said. At her words, all conversation ceased.

  The knight’s helm lit up. “Any more on the shooting?”

  “We’re working on it. I’ve got the witness here. I’ve already uploaded his statement, but if you want to ask him any questions, now’s the time.”

  “Not necessary, Liz.”

  Liz frowned. “No names, Dalton. Jesus. Remember our discussion?”

  “If you say so. This stuff isn’t my sort of thing. I prefer the material to the virtual.”

  “Hard to punch someone who isn’t there, you mean,” another voice piped up. An ovoid mask, with an animated dragon crawling across its surface.

  “Ah, you know me, Sabine.”

  “Names,” Liz reiterated, with an air of resigned frustration. She rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of enacting security protocols if you lot never follow them?”

  Indeed. Though I have already encrypted this session, and scrambled the frequency.

  “Good job, Bagley,” the knight’s helm – Dalton – said. “Sorry, Redqueen. I’m slacking off in my enforced retirement. But like I said, I trust your report. My only question is whether or no
t this incident is connected to the others?”

  Olly silently mouthed the word “others?” at Liz. She ignored him. “Unknown as yet. I suggest we keep an open mind in that regard. Not everything is connected.”

  “And yet, we find ourselves with a pattern nonetheless,” the ovoid – Sabine – murmured. “Unrest is already brewing in the emigration centres. There was an anti-tech riot at the site of the TOAN conference last week. And there’s chatter on the crypto-boards… someone is moving money to all the wrong places.”

  A cartoon character – a wolf with a wide grin, lolling tongue and big eyes – lit up. “I still say the Kelleys are behind it,” it said. The accent was foreign, Eastern European. It reminded Olly of one of his neighbours, an old Albanian. “That witch is sinking her claws into every rotten pie she can reach – she’s up to something. I can smell it.”

  “Maybe so,” Dalton said. “But in my experience, this has all the hallmarks of a false flag operation. Fake trails, double blinds, the lot. And while we chase leads all over London, the threat in question is free to do whatever they want.”

  “Which means what?” Liz asked.

  “Which means, your highness, that we have to pull on every strand until the whole thing unravels. Proceed as planned, until told otherwise.”

  “I’m starting to see why MI5 gave you the sack, Dalton,” Liz growled.

  Dalton chuckled. “Names, Liz – remember?”

  “Fuck off, Dalton.”

  “And cheerio to you as well.”

  That was that. One by one, the images blinked out until only two remained – Liz’s and Sabine’s. “He has his own way of doing things, Liz,” the latter said. “You know that.”

  “I know that he’s not taking any of this seriously,” Liz said. “He thinks it’s just smoke and mirrors – old school spy craft, James Bond bullshit.”

  “You’re wrong. He takes it seriously. We all do. But he’s used to this sort of thing, and we’re not. Not all of us, at any rate.” Sabine paused. “How are you, by the way?”

  “Tired.”

  “I know Alex was a friend of yours. I’m sorry.”

  Liz was silent for a moment. Then, “Thank you.”

  “Dalton is right, however. We have to keep pulling threads until we get the right one. And that means you need to keep following this one, wherever it might lead. Even if it’s a dead end. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I know.” Liz looked at Olly. “I might need help.”

  “All that we can give.” Sabine paused again. “Things are coming to a head here, I can feel it. So can Dalton, for that matter. There’s something brewing, just out of sight. The sooner we find out what it is, the sooner we can stop it.”

  “Agreed,” Liz said. “Be seeing you.”

  Sabine’s image blinked out. After a few moments of quiet thought, Liz regarded Olly again. “I figured they weren’t going to ask you any questions, but I thought you should see it.”

  “What was that?”

  “DedSec London. A good chunk of it, anyway. Sometimes there are more of us, sometimes less. It depends on the day, what’s going on, that sort of thing.” She ran her hand through her hair and studied him, as if considering how best to approach a problem. “There was another shooting last night.”

  “What? Where?”

  “The Wolfe Tone.”

  Olly raised his eyebrows. “That’s a Clan Kelley pub.”

  Liz nodded. “Good chance whoever got topped was working for the Kelleys…”

  “Or they wanted him dead.”

  Liz shook her head. “They wouldn’t do it right on their own doorstep. Not so publicly, at least. Mary Kelley is a bloody-minded old hag, but she’s smarter than that.”

  “So does that mean the Kelleys are mixed up in all this?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine Mary Kelley not being at the centre of something so vicious.” She paused. “What do you know about Albion?”

  The question surprised Olly. “Just what I see on the news – or in the street.” Albion had become a definite presence in East London. They were on practically every other corner in Tower Hamlets, swaggering around in full military kit like they were in bombed-out Baghdad or somewhere. “Bunch of wankers playing toy soldiers, innit?”

  “Dangerous, though. Do you know what it is Krish sent you to pick up yesterday?”

  Olly shook his head. “Didn’t ask.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.” She paused. “It was a dossier on Albion. Most of it we probably already know, but…”

  “Information is information,” Olly said.

  She nodded. “Albion are positioning themselves for… something. They’re not the only opportunistic bastards on the board, but they’re here now, and they’re the ones I’m worried about.” She tapped her Optik. “Yesterday, they had a bit of a set-to with the local coppers.”

  An image – a drone-feed, Olly knew – popped up on his display. He saw the cops swarm towards a trio of Albion goons. No guns were drawn, but the tension was evident, even from high above. “What set that off?”

  “According to the report of one PC Moira Jenks, one of the goons tried to walk off with some evidence.” Liz looked at him. “Like maybe an Optik that was used in the commission of a targeted assassination, for instance.”

  “Shitting hell,” Olly murmured. “Albion did it? Why?”

  “That’s what I’m planning to find out.” Liz smiled. “And that means we need to pay a visit to Bethnal Green police station.”

  Olly stared at her. “You what?”

  The restaurant was new. Chic, scruffy-trendy, the sort of place that wouldn’t last a year in the current economic climate. Sarah threaded her way through the tables, letting nothing of her disdain show on her face. Instead, she put her best smile as Winston Natha rose from his seat to greet her with genteel enthusiasm.

  Winston was short and round and genial. The sort of man designed to run a corner shop and chase street urchins on the rob with a broom. He dressed well, but not too well, and his grey hair was slicked back against his skull. He stood as she drew close, and took her hands in his. “Sarah, it is ever a delight to see you.”

  “Winston. You’re getting fat.”

  “I prefer the term ‘sleek’. Like a sealion.” They sat and he looked her over. “You, on the other hand, look as statuesque as ever. How many times a week do you go to the gym? Six – or seven?”

  “Once a day, work permitting. You should try it.”

  “No, I prefer to invoke my privilege in this instance. As a man, my gravitas is only enhanced by a bit of patriarchal pudge. I’m told it lends me a grandfatherly air.”

  “You do look a bit like Father Christmas, I confess.”

  Winston smiled. “Then it is working. You’ve succumbed to my charms already.” He continued to smile as a waitress swooped down and took Sarah’s order. “I was surprised to receive your invitation. We haven’t spoken much since the election.”

  “I’ve been busy, as have you.”

  “Indeed, busy days, busy days. Much to do.” He paused. “What do you think about this TOAN conference business?” He took a sip of coffee. “You got an invitation, I’m sure.”

  “I did. And you?”

  “Of course. Are you going?”

  “I’m debating it.”

  Winston smirked. “That means no.”

  Sarah smiled. “What about you?”

  “Tempting,” Winston said. “We’ve spent enough on it. I feel somewhat obliged.”

  “How much was it, at last count?” Sarah asked, as the waitress brought her coffee. She took a sip and regretted it. Burnt beans again, and way too much cinnamon. “We’ve spent tens of millions we don’t have, bringing in financial and tech-elites from all over the world. Just to remind people that Britain still exists and matters.”

  Winston raised an eyebrow. “I’d say that’s fairly important, wouldn’t you?”

  “At the moment, I can think of any number of bett
er places for that money than paying for Skye Larsen’s glorified ego-trip. Oh, she says it’s about discussing the issues of the day – the housing crisis, the wage gap, all of that – but we both know it’s just an excuse for the new elite to mingle and network.”

  “Now you sound like a conspiracy theorist. Maybe you should start a blog.”

  Sarah laughed. “No one blogs these days, Winston. Even you should know that.”

  “So I take it you’ll be out front with the protestors, then?”

  “Mmm. Perhaps not that far.” There were any number of protests going on these days. Most were concerned with the ongoing deportee crisis. The European Union had made clear that it intended to refuse all deportation claims unless they were settled on British soil before arriving on the continent.

  Temporary emigration offices had been set up in Southwark and elsewhere, but word was they were already overwhelmed. Some people were protesting the EU, others on behalf of the deportees and a few for issues only tangentially related to the crisis. She sat back. “At least not until I see what our Right Honourable Prime Minister has up his sleeve.”

  It was Winston’s turn to laugh. “Pragmatic as ever, Sarah.”

  “One does what one must for one’s constituency, Winston. Speaking of which…”

  “Albion,” he said.

  “Indeed. I hear you’re thinking of swinging your weight behind them.”

  “And who told you that?”

  “A little bird.”

  “Gossipy things, birds. Because I’d heard the same thing about you.”

  Sarah paused. “Did you now?”

  Winston nodded. “Oh yes. Sarah Lincoln and law-and-order go hand in hand. Forgive me for saying so, but there’s always been a strong whiff of New Labour about you. People remember these things.”

  Sarah considered this. “I admit, I’ve always had a soft spot for market economics, but I don’t know that I’d go that far. And you’re hardly one to talk, Winston.”

  “Fair dues,” he said. He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim. “But I think we both have the best interests of Tower Hamlets at heart, don’t you?”