Day Zero

the trick. He flicked the Optik screen again, activating a pre-set command. It sent out a coded data-stream, scrambling the CCTV feeds in his immediate area for a few seconds.
A rainbow of curry houses and fashionable graffiti streaked past on either side of him. He angled the bike, skidding around a corner, startling a dog-walker and nearly tagging a concrete bollard. Barks and yelps pursued him down the street.
His Optik was buzzing, but he ignored it. Whatever it was, it could wait. He was close. Maybe close enough. Maybe he wasn’t late after all. Maybe, maybe, maybe – the mantra went around and around in his head.
This was his last chance. If he screwed up this time, that was it. He was done. The thought made him queasy. The feeling only got worse when he reached his destination.
The alley was a little hook of space, caught between two buildings. A piece of old London, folded into the new city and forgotten – like a scar you barely remembered getting. A gloomy stretch of cobbles and pavement, lined with rubbish. The walls were plastered with old theatre handbills, posters for funk bands and decades of overlapping tags. Neon swirls of spray paint intersected with mimeographed flyers and tattered advertisements for loft shares.
He hadn’t bothered to ask why the hand-off was taking place here. There was probably a good reason, but they weren’t going to tell him. Answers only came with trust, and he was all too aware that he hadn’t earned either yet. And anyway, a good delivery driver knew better than to ask about things like that. It didn’t matter what was in the package, so long as it got where it was going on time and intact.
He brought the bike to a screeching stop. A rat pelted into the rubbish, its squeaks echoing against the bricks. Daylight sifted down past the edges of the rooftops above. He climbed off the bike and wheeled it towards the end of the alley, heart thumping. If she’d already left, he’d never hear the end of it.
“You’re late,” a voice said, to his left. The voice – and its owner – were posh. Too posh for this part of London, but he kept that to himself.
“Traffic, yeah?” He turned. She was young, his age, maybe a little older. Dressed professionally, black hijab and an Optik audio-bud in her ear. Cute. She reminded him of someone famous – a TV chef, he thought, though he couldn’t bring a name to mind. He considered doing an image search, then thought better of it. “Hannah Shah?”
She quirked an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough.” They’d warned him that she’d be nervous. In her shoes, he’d be bloody terrified. Data crawled across his vision. The hacked facial recognition software installed in his Optik gave him everything about her, including shoe size. Gave new meaning to the phrase “open book”. His feed pinged, and he knew she was trying the same. Olly wished her luck. He’d spent several long, sleepless nights online shaping his data profile into something innocuous and uninformative. Hers was far more interesting.
Hannah Shah. Third generation British Bengali. Personal assistant to Sarah Lincoln, newly-elected Labour MP for Tower Hamlets South. “Bit off your patch, aren’t you?” he asked, with a smile and made a vague gesture. “Limehouse is over that way, Ms Shah.”
She frowned. “It’s a free city. For the moment, at least.”
“That’s why we’re here,” he said. “Got the whatsit?”
“How do I know you’re the one I’m supposed to hand it over to?”
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t tell you,” he said. He tried for a cheeky grin, but from her expression he could tell it hadn’t worked. She stared at him, and he restrained the urge to squirm. “Look, I’m not Albion, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I wasn’t, but I’m starting to.” Her stare didn’t waver.
He stared back, and suddenly remembered the passphrase. He slapped his forehead in embarrassment. “Bugger. Redqueen says off with their heads.”
“A bit late for that,” she said, her tone dubious.
He didn’t blame her, but even so, he was annoyed. It wasn’t his fault, was it? He wasn’t the one who’d insisted on meeting in a dark alley like something out of a bad movie. He wasn’t the one who’d insisted on bullshit codes, when they could have just sent encrypted pings to each other’s Optiks.
“I forgot,” he said, defensively. When she didn’t reply, he turned his bike about. “I’ll leave then, shall I?” He tried to sound unconcerned. “No skin off mine,” he added. Which wasn’t strictly true. But no need for her to know that.
“Wait,” she began. He paused, saying nothing. After a moment, she sighed. “Here.”
She extended a folded A5 envelope. Inside was something small. A flash drive, he thought. But he wasn’t so new at this as to open it and check. Not in front of her. Even so, he hesitated. He knew enough about this sort of thing to know what she was probably risking, meeting him like this. “You know you might get in big trouble for this.”
“Only if you get caught,” she said, softly. “So for both our sakes, don’t get caught.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” He stuffed the envelope into his vest for safe-keeping. “Ta, love. Be seeing you.” He was on his bike a moment later and gone three seconds after that.
He didn’t look back.
Hannah Shah aimed herself towards Whitechapel, flicking through urgent emails on her Optik display as she walked. It was Sunday, but that didn’t mean the work stopped coming. Besides, it was a good distraction.
A police car sped past, siren blaring. There were more police on the streets than she could ever recall seeing before. Something was in the air. She thought it might have to do with the TOAN conference, later in the week. The Technology of All Nations conference was big news. A sign of London’s resurgence, some claimed. Privately, Hannah had her doubts.
Around her, boutique shops and hipster joints