Day Zero

Olly. “I want you to tell me every move you made today. From the moment you took your morning shit, to just now. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Downstairs.”
Olly blinked. “I thought we were downstairs.”
Liz laughed. “This is just the fucking lobby, kiddo. Now come on.”
Olly looked at Krish. The other man raised his hands in surrender. Liz outranked him. Olly knew she’d been a crackerjack hacker, back in the bad old days – they’d called her “Redqueen”, though he didn’t know why. Maybe she just liked the sound of it.
What he did know was that she’d never so much as spoken two words to him since Krish had brought him in. She was older than him, her thick, braided hair gone the colour of gunmetal, and her frame shaved and sculpted by age. She wore battered motorcycle trousers, combat boots and a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a band that hadn’t been popular in a decade. Her arms were lean and muscled, with a pagan crawl of ink on the biceps. There were scars as well – not just on her arms, but on her face too – and her eyes were pale and sharp.
She scared the shit out of him. Not just because of the gun – though that was a large part of it – but because of her whole look and what it meant. She wasn’t playing quiet. She was a fucking freedom fighter and didn’t care who knew it.
He’d only started breathing again when she’d lowered her gun. Now he was expected to follow her down… where? “We’re already under the building,” he protested. “Any lower we’ll be in the river.”
Liz laughed. “Think so? Then where does that door lead?” She pointed to the far wall and Olly turned. He’d never noticed a door there. Perhaps because it was hidden behind a diagonal of cheap shelving, full of hard drives and cabling. Or maybe because it didn’t actually look like a door, so much as a piece of riveted steel, set flush to the wall.
Liz led him past the shelving and he spied a thumbprint scanner installed in the wall. It was small, and easy to miss. Not concealed, but no obvious either. Liz slid her thumb into the slot. There was a hollow hum, and a brief flash of green. Then the sound of tumblers turning. The door swung inwards. A set of stone steps went down. Unlike the rest of the place, the walls were clean, smelling of anti-mould spray.
Liz saw the look on his face. “Limehouse’s roots go deep. Smugglers used – still use – the Cut for transport. There are hidey-holes all along the canal. Most aren’t much bigger than an allotment shed, but with some sweat and elbow grease, you can make anything liveable. Down we go.”
Olly swallowed and followed her down. Fibre-optic cabling ran along the brickwork, descending in bunches. Motion sensors and other security devices littered the walls. They turned green as Liz passed them, and then flicked red again. “I’m getting the feeling I don’t know nothing about nothing,” he said.
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said.”
“Why are you showing me all of this?”
“I’m not showing you anything you wouldn’t have seen eventually.” At the bottom of the steps was another door – heavier than the first. Reinforced steel hinges. Bullet-proof too, Olly wagered. Maybe bomb proof, even. DedSec weren’t playing around. This one had a retinal scanner installed in the centre of the door. Liz leaned close and the door opened with a hiss of escaping air. “Welcome to the cellar, Olly. The real one.”
Lights flickered on automatically as they entered. The room was small and not quite square. Like a folded ribbon of white-washed brick, insulated and sealed. There was a cheap, circular table at the centre of the room, and a few chairs scattered about. A battered couch, covered in duct tape, sagged against the wall. “This room doesn’t exist on any plans, or schematic. Only three people can get in, and two of them aren’t here.”
“So it’s a secret base in a secret base,” Olly said, looking around. The walls were covered in more cables and machinery, some of which Olly didn’t recognize. All of it looked important. He could practically feel the information flowing through it all.
“Think of it more like a post office,” Liz said. “Upstairs is just the front counter. This is the sorting room.”
“Sorting room. Right.” Screens were mounted at regular intervals, showing feeds from what Olly realized were hijacked drones. He stopped and stared, somewhat taken aback. “You’ve got the whole city under surveillance.”
“Not the city, no.” Liz sat down at the table. “What do you know about us, Olly?”
He felt like a student put on the spot. “Uh – well…”
“I mean, what do you know about DedSec operations?” She studied him. “It’s been three months since you were recruited. What have you learned?”
He stared at her blankly, uncertain as to what she was getting at. “I know enough, I guess. I mean, I know what I’ve been told. Resistance, innit?”
“And what have you been told?” Liz gestured. “Never mind. Here’s a crash course, new boy. DedSec is decentralized. You know what that means?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It means nobody is in charge – or maybe everybody is. There’s no leader. No guidelines. We’re making it up as we go, and hoping we don’t fuck up too badly.”
“Concise and correct. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” Liz turned. “But decentralized doesn’t mean anarchic. Black bloc cells work together, often at a remove. Mostly when it comes to information.”
Olly frowned. “Like whatever it was I picked up for Krish.”
“Exactly.” Liz paused. “Information is power. We collect it. We hoard it. But not everybody we get it from is a DedSec operative. Most of them aren’t, in fact.”
She pulled out her Optik and tapped it. One of the screens glitched and showed an e-fit. Olly recognized the man who’d been shot. Alex, she’d called him.
“Alex Dempsey.