Day Zero

by James Swallow

  Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like we’re facing an invading army.”

  “What would you call them? They can now freely use those weapons they like to brandish…”

  “Not freely,” she corrected. “Only when attacked.”

  “Yes, but who gets to define what is an attack, and what isn’t?” He made an exasperated gesture. “My office has been dealing with reports of overstep by Cass’s thugs all day. I assume yours has been the same.”

  Sarah fell silent. She glanced towards the door of her office. Hannah had been answering calls all morning. She’d assumed most of them were from the press. She resolved to seriously consider giving the young woman a raise at some point.

  “It’s getting bad out there,” Winston said, softly. Sarah didn’t reply. He cleared his throat. “And not just out there. You can feel it, in Parliament. A sort of miasma. Don’t you think?” He looked at her expectantly.

  “I think this has gone beyond surgeries and press conferences,” she said. “How many of us are there?”

  “Us?”

  “The loyal opposition.”

  Winston sat back. “By which I assume you mean those opposed to the current direction of the government.”

  A sudden suspicion came to her. “You aren’t recording this, are you Winston? Trying to get me to say something I shouldn’t?”

  Winston stared at her. “What possible reason could I have to do that?”

  Sarah met his glare with one of her own. Then, she sagged back into her chair and gave a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Winston. The events of the past few days have me… on edge. I’m jumping at shadows.”

  “I understand. For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. A headcount is in order. We need to know how much opposition we can muster in the event it comes to a vote. I’ll start working on my end.” Winston stood. “I know we’ve had a somewhat contentious relationship, Sarah, but… we are on the same side. We both want what’s best for Tower Hamlets and the people here. And if that means we have to give Albion a kick up the rear, then we’ll make it a damn good one.”

  “Inspiring, Winston. Make sure to put that in your speech.”

  “Already have, my dear. Ta.”

  Sarah watched him leave, an amused smile on her face. It faded quickly, however. She swivelled her chair and looked out the window, watching the drones and wondering what she was missing. She felt as if she were at sea, being buffeted by unseen leviathans.

  “I suppose the only thing to do is to swim,” she murmured. She pulled out a pad and a pencil. After a moment, she began to make a list of names. When she’d finished, she called Hannah into her office.

  Hannah ducked her head in, a pensive look on her face. “Yes?”

  Sarah considered the list for a moment longer, and then passed it across her desk. “We’re going to have a dinner party. Won’t that be fun?”

  “A… party?” Hannah replied. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Take a look at the guest list before you judge.”

  Hannah read the list, eyes flicking back and forth. She frowned. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were planning a revolt – or a coup.”

  “Nothing as revolutionary as that,” Sarah said, turning to face the window.

  “And when is this soirée to be held?”

  “The day of the TOAN conference.” She leaned back in her seat. “There’s a certain symbolism there, I think. While they pretend to fix the world’s problems, we’ll do the actual work. It’ll make good copy for the press, if nothing else.”

  “And what if no one RSVPs? Some of these people definitely wouldn’t want to be seen with you – or in East London, for that matter.”

  Sarah smiled lazily. “They will. There’s plenty of dissent in the Commons. Even the Tories aren’t a hundred per cent on board with the Prime Minister’s current vision for the country. But any resistance is doomed to fail – unless someone takes charge.”

  “Welcome to the Resistance,” Hannah said.

  “Exactly.” Sarah looked at her assistant. “They never located those two reporters, you know. I described them, but Faulkner found neither hide nor hair of them. Curious that, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he’s lying,” Hannah said, after a moment.

  “Maybe.” Sarah studied the other woman. Hannah had seemed… off, of late. Bothered about something. Maybe it was the stress of the job getting to her. Or maybe the shooting had affected her more than she was letting on.

  “If there’s nothing else…?” Hannah began.

  “No, no. Thank you,” Sarah said. She turned back to the window, fully awake for the first time since yesterday. There was a plan now. A way forward.

  But would it lead to victory… or something less pleasant?

  Hannah sat at her desk, considering the list. The names were those of people of similar dispositions and goals – and people with no interest in allowing Albion a foothold in London, if it could possibly be helped. If one were planning to organise political resistance to the government’s current plan, the names on the list would be a necessary foundation.

  She found herself admiring the ruthless pragmatism of it. In one motion, Sarah would find out who could be trusted, and irrevocably bind them together. Anyone who went to this party would soon be outed – and those who chose not to go, as well.

  Once, she might have leaked the guest list to the press, and to DedSec. If Sarah had decided to come down on the side of Albion. But so long as Sarah was aimed in the right direction, there was no need to sabotage things.

  Instead, she would put her efforts into making sure it all ran smoothly. The biggest issue with planning such an engagement was the optics. Anyone who looked at the guest list would immediately know what was up. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be an issue, but these days it would be inadvisable, perhaps even dangerous. Perhaps that was why Sarah had written the guest list on paper. Analog materials were more secure.

  Hannah chose to follow her example, and laboriously scribbled plans and phone numbers as she made the preparations. It gave her something to occupy her mind, at least. To keep her from thinking about the previous day. About the way Faulkner had looked at her.

  She’d heard nothing more from Bagley or Krish. From the police reports, it seemed Liz and Ollie had gotten away, but Albion had mobilised throughout Tower Hamlets. They were on every street corner as of last night, questioning potential witnesses, i.e. anyone who caught their eye.

  While they couldn’t arrest anyone, that hadn’t stopped them from bundling suspects into armoured transports for enhanced interrogation at undisclosed locations. Faulkner had called twice, demanding to speak to Sarah. So far, Hannah had managed to put him off, but she couldn’t do so forever. Eventually, he was just going to show up. She was certain he suspected that Sarah had something to do with the theft.

  In some ways, that was good. The longer Sarah and Faulkner were focused on one another, the more it pushed Sarah to kick against Albion. While most of her peers in DedSec were more concerned with graffiti and digital redistribution, Hannah had long thought the key to the Resistance was in the halls of power.

  It wasn’t the man on the street you needed to convince – it was the man in Parliament. The one with their hand on the lever of government. Get them thinking the right way, and you could do anything. Or so she hoped.

  Not everyone believed the way she did. Some thought the only way to make things right was to start over – crash the system and reboot. Rebuild society from the ground up. But Hannah wasn’t willing to pay the inevitable cost for such an extreme solution. How many would die, not in riots or upheaval, but from simple starvation or sickness?

  She shook her head. No, the only way was to work within the existing system. To change it one part at a time, until it was running the way it was meant to run.

  She shook her head. Time to worry about that sort of thing later. She pulled out her Optik. “Bagley,” she murmured.

  Greetings,
Hannah Shah. I trust you are well today?

  “I would be better if I knew whether Albion were going to be kicking in my door today. I don’t suppose you can shed any light on that?”

  Have no fear. Nothing I have heard implicates you or your employer. Though she is making quite a few enemies…

  “The right ones, I hope. Liz and Olly?”

  Safe as houses. You played your part well.

  “Happy to be of service. Now you can help me. Have you found him yet?”

  The mysterious Mr Holden, you mean?

  “That would be him, yes. Stop prevaricating, Bagley. Has anyone found him?”

  Not as yet. Though we have noticed an increased amount of chatter surrounding the subject of Holden on Albion’s internal communications network. He seems to have been a very bad boy indeed.

  “What do you mean?”

  Whatever Holden is up to Albion hasn’t sanctioned it. And they aren’t happy about it.

  Hannah sat back, thinking about it. “It must have something to do with the shootings. He knows something. Or thinks he does.” She paused. “I think it might be in our best interests to find him, if we can. And not just to satisfy my curiosity.”

  That was the thinking in the DedSec canteen as well.

  Hannah stifled a laugh. “I’m sure.”

  We are – ah. Hang on. You’ve got an incoming call. I think you should take it.

  Hannah frowned. Before she could speak, a call alert flashed on her display. She answered. “Hello?”

  “Is this the woman I spoke to before?”

  She recognised the voice instantly. “Mr. Holden… I didn’t expect to hear from you again. Especially after I found your bug.”

  A moment of silence. Then a rueful chuckle. “Is that what happened to it?”

  “Technically, my employer happened to it. She does not look kindly on would-be spies, Mr Holden. I would suggest you remember that. What can I do for you today?”

  “It’s your employer I need to speak to. Today.”

  “I’m sorry, but today–”

  “Today,” he repeated. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Hannah paused. “Is it about Albion?” she asked, softly. She heard an intake of breath.

  “Yeah, you might say that.”

  “Then it might be in our best interests not to meet with you.” She heard a knock on her door and looked up. Sarah stood in the doorway. She mouthed a question and Hannah pointed to her Optik, and scrawled Holden’s name on her pad. Sarah’s eyes widened and gestured furiously. Hannah put the call on speaker.

  “That’d be a mistake,” he said. “Your boss wants dirt on Albion, doesn’t she? I can give it to her.”

  “In return for what?”

  “Protection.”

  “From Albion?” She looked up as Sarah snapped her fingers. She gestured, but Hannah motioned for her to be patient.

  There was a noticeable hesitation before he answered. “Yes.”

  “Done,” Sarah said, before Hannah could speak. “I’ll clear my schedule. Where do you wish to meet?”

  18: Masks

  Liz leaned forward, watching the TV screens. The screens were tuned to different stations, one of which was a pirate broadcast out of Charlton. All of them were talking about the same thing – Albion. On the streets, in businesses and homes. No official word had come down regarding an increase in Albion’s remit, but most of the talking heads were taking the government’s silence as tacit approval.

  On one screen, Nigel Cass was talking breezily about the need for an Albion presence at the TOAN conference. On another, MP Sarah Lincoln was making the most out of Albion patchy record regarding human rights. Three stations, including GBB, were still on what was being officially called “The Bethnal Green Incident”, and how it might be the work of DedSec, which GBB at least were calling a terrorist cell.

  “Not good,” Krish murmured, from where he sat nearby. He wasn’t the only one. At least a dozen people sat or stood in the cellar’s central room, watching the news reports. “Really not good.”

  “We’ve been called worse,” Liz said, without looking at him. Someone laughed. Krish didn’t. He’d started to pace.

  “They’re already cracking down. Drones in the air, APVs on the streets. What are we going to do?”

  “Well, not panicking is a start.” Liz stood and stretched. She’d slept on a camp bed the night before, and was paying for it now. She had a flat in Whitechapel, but rarely spent any time there. It was rented under another name, obviously and was sparsely furnished. Barely better than the cellar for comfort. She wondered if she out to simply move out and stop pretending. “Next, we’ll crack open that Optik and see what secrets it holds.”

  “Olly’s been working on it all night,” Krish said, somewhat accusingly.

  “He’s a good lad,” she said. “Is there any coffee left? I need a caffeine hit.” She collected coffees for herself and Olly and went downstairs. Olly was right where she’d left him, feet up on the table, leaning back in his chair, dozing. What was left of the Optik lay on a towel on the table, its internal workings exposed, its wiring connected to circuit boards and tiny components.

  She considered pulling the chair out from under him, and then decided to be merciful. She put the coffees down and cleared her throat. “Wakey-wakey.”

  Olly jolted awake, nearly falling backwards. “What? I’m up!”

  “Coffee.” Liz indicated a cup. Olly reached for it and she snatched it out of reach. “First tell me what you found.”

  He sat back. “Does the name Marcus Tell mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “Dunno. Why I asked, yeah?” Olly frowned and sat back, staring at the gutted remains of the Optik, as if it had offended him. “He’s the owner, which means he’s likely the bloke Dempsey stole it from. Which means…”

  “He’s the one the shot was intended for. Any reason why?”

  “Not that I can see. But there’s something… something off about him.”

  Liz stood and came around the table so that she could look over his shoulder. “Show me,” she said. Olly brought up a batch of profiles, forms and data, transmitting them to the overhead display.

  “Right, so, on a surface skim it’s all good. But you spend as much time as I have building ghost profiles, and you start to get a feeling for when something’s artificial-like. Like, too perfect, in that imperfect sort of way. Does that make sense?”

  Liz nodded. “Say it does. You’re saying the profile is dodgy?”

  “I’m saying it’s all dodgy. Census data, GP records, birth certificate – every bleeding bit of it is artificial. Oh it’s a lovely fake, but it’s still a fake. I doubt anyone would’ve spotted it a few years ago, but these days you can see the cracks, if you know what to look for.” Olly gnawed on a knuckle as he glared at the data. “Whoever he is, he’s put a lot of effort into this. He’s made himself a whole life, and he’s wearing it like a mask.”

  “You only wear a mask if you have something to hide.”

  “Like us,” Olly said, not looking at her.

  Liz paused. Olly was proving to be perceptive. “Yeah,” she said. “And maybe he’s hiding for the same reasons we do. But we need to find out who he is, regardless. Two people have been killed so far. Whoever is hunting him, it doesn’t look they’re planning to stop until they get him.”

  “So we need to find him first,” Olly said, hunching over the Optik. “I can do that. I can get into the cloud, dig around in the GPS data, and see where he might be.”

  “Good thinking.” Liz hesitated, and then squeezed his shoulder. Olly glanced at her and then away. Liz sat down, thinking. Trying to assemble the pieces.

  “What I can’t figure,” Olly said, “Is how the other poor sod fits in. You remember, the one shot behind The Wolfe Tone?”

  “Wilson,” Liz said, dredging up the name. “Colin Wilson.”

  “Right. So, same MO, innit?”

  “Yes.�
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  “So we know what Dempsey did. But what did that poor fucker do?”

  Liz looked at him. “That, Olly, is a very good question.” Tapping at her Optik, she brought up Bagley’s model of the first shooting. And then added the one the AI had constructed for the second.

  She watched the reconstructions play through several times. The angle of the two shots was different, but each had come from above. Not the rooftops, but higher. A high calibre weapon in each case. The same weapon.

  “A drone,” she murmured.

  “What?” Olly was looking at her.

  “It’s a drone.”

  “What is?”

  “The killer. It’s a drone.”

  Olly nodded slowly. “That’d explain the height, and the whole triangulation thing. The Albion pursuit drones do the same thing – they track you by your GPS signal. If someone’s got an armed drone…” He trailed off. “Bloody Hell. That is some serious shit. What’s going on here?”

  “I don’t know.” Liz sat back and swung her feet up onto the table. “Every answer we find leads to a new question.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I fucking hate mysteries.”

  “Me mum loved them,” Olly said. “Watched Miss Marple on the telly all the time.”

  Liz looked at him. “Do I look like your bleeding mum, Olly?”

  “I mean, it’s just – you’re both of a certain age…” he trailed off as her expression registered. “Never mind,” he added, quickly.

  Liz stared at him for a moment longer, letting him sweat, before closing her eyes again. Something occurred to her. “Past tense,” she said, softly.

  “What?”

  “She loved them. Used to watch them. Past tense.”

  Olly was silent. Liz had read what Krish had compiled on Oliver Soames. There wasn’t much that wasn’t immediately obvious. But sometimes not everything got shared online, or included in super-secret resistance movement dossiers for that matter.

  Finally, he said, “She died, didn’t she?” He cleared his throat. “Got sick. With a virus. Funny, ’cause she was a nurse an’ all.” He fell silent again.

  “It doesn’t sound funny at all.” She peered at him, trying to read his expression. “Were you young when it happened, then?”