Day Zero

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.
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Cover art by Stonehouse
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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