Day Zero

the drop-off. A recall petition was doing the rounds and Sarah had been on it like a tiger on a tethered goat. She’d arranged for an ad hoc town hall meeting to quiet the grumblers. To reassure them that they weren’t going to be forcibly ejected from their homes – at least not yet.
The real issue, from Hannah’s point of view, was that Sarah hadn’t yet made up her mind about whether she was supporting the Albion deal or not. If she did, the borough – and her constituency – would see major changes, and perhaps a great deal of economic growth. In return, they only had to sell their soul.
Her Optik buzzed as it automatically synched with that of her employer. She looked up. The council flats of Lister House and its neighbour, Treves House, were modernist buildings rising out of a sad patch of green space. One was a long row of terraces, the other a tall block with clean lines and proportions, but both were looking decidedly shabby these days. The local council wavered between benign neglect and outright hostility, and tenants and leaseholders had been facing imminent eviction for almost thirty years.
Trees and hedges set behind black iron fences marked the boundaries of the estate, and cars lined the streets. People were already gathering in the common area between the blocks of flats, waiting to hear what their MP had to say for herself.
Sarah’s black Brubeck town car was parked just off-site, and out of range. Hannah skirted the crowd, threaded through an unobtrusive security cordon and made her way to the vehicle. She climbed in to the back, where Lincoln sat in air conditioned comfort, flicking through feeds on her high-end rose-gold Optik.
“You’re late,” the MP said, not looking up from her device. “I thought I was going to have to do this without you.”
“I’m sorry.” Hannah paused. “That must have been traumatic for you.”
Sarah snorted, but didn’t look up. “Careful. I might take offence and fire you.”
Hannah wasn’t unduly worried. “You won’t. Five personal assistants in as many years. People might draw the wrong conclusions.”
“Fair point. What do you think of this TOAN business?”
“We haven’t RSVP’d.”
“Good. I can’t think of anything more stultifying than attending a technology conference.” Her eyes flicked up and she shifted subjects again. “What was so important you had to go all the way to Brick Lane?”
“Meeting a friend,” Hannah said. She was used to Sarah’s abrupt switches of tack. Her boss did it intentionally, so as to discomfit people. Knowing this, Hannah had rehearsed the story in front of a mirror. Before Sarah could ask, she added, “She works for Natha.”
Lincoln’s eyes flicked up. “And why, pray tell, were you talking to someone who works for the… honourable representative… of Tower Hamlets North?” she purred.
Hannah hid a smile. She’d known mentioning the other MP’s name would provoke the right reaction. Winston Natha was second generation, like Sarah, though his parents were from Calcutta rather than Dusmareb. Despite that, they had more in common than not, something Sarah didn’t like to be reminded of. “Word is, Natha is throwing his weight behind the Albion deal,” she said.
Sarah sat up, nearly colliding with the roof of the town car. She was a tall woman, taller than Hannah. Taller than most men, especially when wearing heels – which she did as often as possible. Lean and honed, wearing clothes that cost more than most of her constituency made in a year, she could have been a runway model in her youth. Her hair was tightly bound in a bun at the back of her head. She slid her Optik into her jacket pocket and looked down her nose at her assistant. “What did he say?”
“He thinks they’re doing a – and I quote – ‘sterling bloody job’ in Tower Hamlets.”
Sarah frowned. “You know that for sure?”
“Seventy per cent,” Hannah said. She had to be careful. Sarah wasn’t stupid – even if she wanted to believe the worst of Natha, she’d be looking for independent confirmation.
“Not good enough,” Sarah said, with a slight smile. “Though I wouldn’t put it past the little weasel. He’d privatise oxygen if he could get away with it.” She paused, one hand on the door release. “Still, it might be something to keep in mind. If Natha’s for it, that means all the wrong people will be gunning for him.”
Hannah relaxed. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Sarah laughed softly. “If politics doesn’t work out, you might have a career in espionage.” She opened the door and slid out of the town car. “Come on. I can hear our constituents growling. Let’s get this wacal of a day started.”

2: Whitechapel
Olly was moving quick, keeping one eye on his display. According to his Optik it was twelve minutes to Limehouse. Experience told him it was more like twenty, depending on traffic on Vallance Road. He veered onto the pavement. Away from the cramped confines of Brick Lane, he could see the Parcel Fox courier-drones swooping like clumsy pigeons.
The drones were the reason he was barely holding onto his job at the moment. They accomplished the same tasks he could in half the time, and didn’t need paying. Soon enough, everyone would be using the damn things and then were would he be? Right back where he had been, before he’d lucked into this job. Before DedSec.
He thought about Hannah. Was she DedSec too? Impossible to know. He could ask, but he could just imagine the answer. Best not to risk it. Hard not to be curious, though. He’d always been curious, taking things apart to see how they worked. Phones, computers, televisions. As a kid, he’d fancied being a repairman.
Times changed. And you had to change with them – or get buried.
London was learning that the hard way.
Olly braked hard, narrowly avoiding a barricade. Lots of barricades in Tower Hamlets these days, after the Redundancy Riots. Lots of protests, mostly about immigration. The city –