“Great. Make mine a double.”
Before she could order, a miserable looking barman, wearing a white shirt and black shoestring necktie, slammed two shot glasses down, produced a bottle from below the bar and filled them to the brim.
“Cheers,” Maria said and held forward her drink.
Luke clinked his against it before emptying his glass in a single gulp. An oaky flavor warmed the back of his throat and he savored the taste, surprised about how close it came to the real thing. “I could get used to this,” he said.
The barman refilled his glass and slumped back on his stool.
“You need new v-threads,” Maria said. “Nobody dresses in default. We’ll visit a Timetronic store and update your configuration.”
“I suppose the suit makes me look a bit like a crap superhero.”
“Historyman,” she replied in a dramatic voice. “Coming back after decades to defeat terrorism.”
“Very clever. By the way, are the staff programmed to be grumpy or is it me?"
“It’s my job, pal,” the barman said in a northern accent and slid the bottle across to him. “Serve yourself.”
Maria grabbed Luke’s bicep and escorted him to a table at the back of the saloon. He sat on a creaky wooden chair and eyed the barman. “He’s real?”
“Thousands work in the environments. Timetronic set-up a job creation scheme to tackle unemployment. They save the government billions in benefits credit.”
“You call this work? I bet the barman sits in his bland apartment, wearing a headset for eight hours, wishing his day away.”
She gave Luke a smile like he’d just told her the Moon was made of cheese. “We don’t pack ourselves into open plan offices or factories anymore.”
“It’d drive me mad playing cards every day.”
“Nope, they’re part of the program. The guy with the handlebar ‘tache has a straight flush.”
“How do you know who’s real?”
“You get used to their interactions. One always looks over his cards when someone enters. If we stay long enough, another asks why we're here. It's fun the first few times. Most people cycle through the themes to keep things fresh.”
Luke swallowed another shot of whiskey. The health benefits of software mimicking alcohol consumption were self-evident. Not so much the idea of carrying out leisure activities while remaining static.
“Tell me about the terrorists,” he said. “What’s their aim?”
“To destroy our way of life. The public hates them because they target Timetronic infrastructure, causing as much disruption as possible. They took out a bank of the gaming servers last year.”
“Timetronic owns the London Eye?”
Maria shook her head, and drained a shot. “We had an expo planned today for international clients. Each capsule showcased a new virtual resort, compatible with international standards. They blew up Fiji and the Bahamas.”
“Any casualties?”
“Eleven dead. They usually send a coded warning to the Pool Control Center, giving people twenty minutes notice, but they stepped it up this time. It’s bloody cowardly.”
Luke had hunted an array of terrorist organizations in his previous life. The emotionally charged ones tended to be less bothered about killing than the politically focused groups. These attacks sounded like the former morphing into the latter, which only usually occurred during desperate times.
“What’s their specific goal?” he asked.
“They want the State to hand over Gideon Lynch. Using him to blackmail us into regression won’t work, and why would we hand over our greatest innovator? The terrorists can’t fight our technolution.”
“Your what?”
“You know, technology and evolution. Lynch coined the phrase during an annual address.”
“I thought he hated clichéd stuff like that?”
“Who doesn’t like the smell of their own farts?”
“Fair point. Are you sure it’s not just about Lynch?”
“If you think it’s personal, you’re wrong. The attacks affect everyday life and they’re hitting what the majority of the population loves. I know one or two who supported the terrorists, but all sympathy melted away after they dropped the coded warning.”
“I need more information—”
A dual tone pinged in Luke’s ear.
“That’s our disengage alert. Better finish your drink.”
He downed his whiskey, took a final look around the saloon, and couldn’t help feeling impressed. Anything providing a good time was worth defending, especially from terror.
Maria’s image flickered and disappeared. The usual blackness followed, sucking Luke’s mind into a void. Moments later, the pod’s chair pressed against his back, he sensed forward momentum, and took off his headset.
The pod headed between tightly packed apartment blocks toward towering glass skyscrapers at the center of the urban pool. People crammed the claustrophobic footpaths, more typical of what he expected from London, and pods with advertising splashed across their sides regularly whizzed in the opposite direction.
As they continued their journey, the monotonous architecture that matched what Luke had seen on the banks of the Thames River lined either side of the road and showed no signs of stopping. It saddened him that so many beautiful old buildings had been destroyed in the alleged name of progress. He used to love a pint in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub while imagining the ghosts of old patrons, like Samuel Johnson or Charles Dickens, drinking at the bar. A virtual whiskey in a western saloon didn’t come close.
“We need to run through a few things for the cover story,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“What’s the typical process for a long-term prisoner?”
“You're checked into Wandsworth, sedated, and stored in a transport system. Release is fairly mundane, similar to what you experienced at the facility. Only those serving short sentences get to know the place and other inmates.”
“Is Wandsworth inside the pool?”
“Yep, Zone Ten, I guess you might say south-west London. Don’t worry about owning a strap. Everyone serving over fifteen years is issued one on release, loaded with two-thousand credits to help them integrate back into society.”
“I assume a strap transmits GPS coordinates to its network?”
Maria nodded. “It's not compulsory to wear one. Most do as there’s no other way to physically pay for things. Keep an eye on your battery.”
“Fair enough,” Luke said, but it wasn’t the purpose of his question. He wanted to ensure he couldn’t be tracked by Meakin, who for whatever reason, appeared to have a problem with him. “Would I report to anyone like a probation officer?”
“You’re on your own, and it’s tough to find a place to live or work outside Zone Seven. That’s why most head there.”
The pod changed direction away from the center and passed a large yellow signpost with a black number seven stamped on it.
A tall, dirty, steel wall blocked the street ahead. Razor wire ran along the top of it and coiled down to a barred entrance at the bottom left corner. Four mounted security cameras angled down toward both sides. The pod’s engine decreased in tone, it drifted to a standstill, and the door rotated open.
“Before we go, what crime carries twenty years?” Luke asked.
“Manslaughter might work. Maybe you accidentally killed a man in Leeds? Regional transfers aren't unusual. It depends on available space.”
“That’ll do. What about local history?”
“The zone’s only been around a couple of decades. You wouldn’t know it if you lived in Leeds and spent the last twenty doing transport time. You’ll be fine.”
“What’s with the wall and gate?”
“The area’s off the official grid ‘cause they smuggled in black-market VR and claytronics from Asia. People outside are nervous about interface corruption, and the government built a scanning barrier seventeen years ago to make sure no illegal software b
leeds out and infects our systems.”
“So our straps are useless?”
“Everyone uses credits and the mobile data network. It’s the only thing allowed through the barrier.”
Like most previous governments of the 21st century, it appeared the modern establishment supported freedom of choice as long a person selected one of their available options. The gate scanners also led Luke to an obvious conclusion. If the terrorists hid here, the bombs were either made outside the zone, or they had a way out the authorities didn’t know about.
“Where’s a good place to pick up gossip?” he asked.
“The Mega Dive. It’s a retro bar known for illegal gambling and clayfights.”
“Perfect. We’ll head there after I get a feel for the place.”
The temperature outside remained pleasantly warm even though the sun had dipped behind the distant skyscrapers. Maria headed over to the barred entrance and stood in front of a waist-high horizontal chrome arm. It whirred to life, scanned up and down her body, and the gate clanked open.
Luke repeated the process, followed her through, and entered a visually different part of London compared to what he had seen so far. Apartments in Zone Seven sported an older appearance, and he recognized the area as the western end of the Docklands. At the turn of the century, the place sparkled with new developments and glass fronted businesses. Now, the metal framed balconies rusted, dirt darkened the brick and metal walls, and weeds sprang from cracks in the pavement.
A row of boarded-up shops, plastered with insults directed at Timetronic, lined the left side of the street, reminding Luke to seek out an opinion of a local resident and find out the reason for the apparent resentment.
The gate slammed shut and they advanced toward a busy street.
Dim streetlights flickered on, bathing the shadowy footpaths and road in a faint orange glow. Luke and Maria approached Zone Seven’s central square; a focal point where she told him he’d have the chance to mingle with locals before renting an apartment and heading out to The Mega Dive.
During the previous two hours of fading daylight, Maria had given Luke a guided tour of the zone, and the stark contrast to the outside world remained as distinct as his first impression of the place.
Twenty-five years ago, before the government slapped a wall around the perimeter, the financial district’s offices and surrounding hotels were converted into residential accommodations following the nationalization of the banking sector. Blinds covered most of the windows, and none of the facades glistened like their counterparts in the rest of the city. The lack of transport rails on the roads was another noticeable difference, countering Lynch’s claim of the system covering every street in every pool. People wandered back and forth, using them as giant footpaths while they visited colorful independent cafes, stores, and takeaways, built into the street-level floors of the residential buildings. A few citizens shot Luke a glance but none bordered on nervousness or suspicion.
Manual transport wasn’t completely non-existent, which brought a slight sense of relief. A few cars rested against chipped curbstones, all of them sleek in shape, low riding, and more modern than he’d ever seen. Maria said they were considered vintage electric bangers, ran by hobbyists, and parts were almost impossible to source.
They entered the square and Luke paused to take in the buzzing scene. Like the rest of the zone, small businesses took up the ground floor space. A crowd of roughly three-hundred people sat on rows of benches in a cobbled central area, their faces illuminated by a giant jumbotron screen. At least five wore prison uniforms, most others dressed in casual clothing compared to the formal attire outside the wall. Beyond them, a tall, white building reached into the dark sky. Flamingo Apartments ran across the top of its roof in bright pink block-capitals.
“That’s your place,” Maria said. “It’s not the worst in the world.”
“I don’t need the Ritz. Where’s The Mega Dive from here?”
“Right behind you.”
Luke spun to face the opposite side of the road. Light radiated from the top two floors of an old sandstone, three-story warehouse with black shutters blocking the front entrance. “Do you still know people around here?” he asked.
“Loads. I only moved eight years ago, and I visit my mum every month.”
“Won’t it look weird if you’re with an ex-con?”
“Don’t worry. You’re nothing special.”
A message notification pinged on Luke’s strap. He twisted his wrist, activated iris recognition, and his inbox opened. Lynch had sent a message containing forensic reports from the last two attacks. He scrolled through the first and the appearance of ammonium nitrate leapt from the text; a logical choice for a homemade bomb in a country that had changed vast swathes of its land to agricultural use.
“Where do you store fertilizer?” he asked.
“It’s distributed around the farming warehouses. Drones protect the area. If anyone attempts to cross the fields, you’d need a shovel and sack to collect them.”
“Production and distribution?”
“Three foundries in Cheshire, direct to the warehouses. Cops already investigated that angle.”
“Not well enough. Somebody has access to a regular supply.”
Also attached to Lynch's message were the names of two terrorists, Bobby Benitez, and Kevin McClaren, caught red-handed planting a bomb three years ago at Tower Bridge. Neither had talked, and both received sentences of fifty years transport time. Luke wondered how modern resistance would stand-up to old-school interrogation techniques. He tapped a reply, requesting a meeting with McClaren, and any other information on file about the terrorist.
“The Dive opens at ten,” Maria said. “Fancy killing time with pizza?”
“Maybe later. What’s on the screen?”
“Right now?” She checked her strap. “The hourly news.”
“People come here to watch it?”
“It’s more of a social gathering. Gets people out of their homes and keeps them away from the bars. It’s not like there’s many other places to go if you’re not into virtual. Mind if I grab some food?”
“Go for it. I’ll meet you at the Flamingo reception in ten minutes.”
Maria headed for the opposite side of the square. Luke moved over to the central area, selected a bench close to other people in the back row, and viewed the screen. An advertisement, showcasing the latest release of Apartbot played. While a black disc-shaped machine hummed around a clean-cut apartment, a cheery male voice explained how it polished floors and windows to a set schedule, monitored and managed all types of officially supplied hydroponic indoor gardens, and self-emptied into waste ducts.
Nobody seemed engaged; Luke guessed as they weren’t using officially supplied goods, and based on his experience, they’d already watched the ad a hundred times and found it as interesting as a long bus ride on a wet day.
News at Nine flashed on the screen in bold red letters, and a female voice said, “Sponsored by StarComm. Your number one 8G provider,”
“The only one,” a few people answered in unison, to jeers from other members of the audience. StarComm, like Timetronic, sounded like they owned exclusive rights around the country—meaning influence in parliament—and it explained the tiny SC badge at the top of Luke’s strap.
A male news anchor stood by a holographic screen, and three-dimensional headlines rolled across it.
Candlelight vigil held in London.
Cop killer still on the loose in Edinburgh.
Sunderland regains the Premier League title.
“Good evening,” the anchor said. “A candlelight vigil was held tonight in memory of the eleven victims who lost their lives during the latest terrorist attack. The heads of the five corporations attended, and vowed to bring the perpetrators to justice.”
The anchor thrust his hand over the top headline, and it expanded to a full-screen video. A large group of people circled a twisted piece of metal at the foot of the Lond
on Eye, each holding a glowing candle. A gap formed and Gideon Lynch walked through, carrying a floral wreath, and placed it on the ground. He took a step back and bowed his head.
“What a goose,” a man said from the next bench along.
Luke turned to his right, surprised by the timing of the outburst.
A woman next to the man elbowed him in the ribs. He winced, leaned away from her, and his eyes met Luke’s. “Want a picture, pal?” he said, blasting out a stench of stale booze.
“Hey, I’ve been away for twenty years. What’s with the terrorism?”
“Who gives a shit? Outsiders don’t care about us; why should we care about them?”
“Eleven people died. Doesn’t that bother you?”
The man snorted. “Give it a couple of weeks, Comeback Kid, and you’ll think the same as me. Those people turn their noses up at you. To them, you’re nothing more than a dung beetle.”
The woman stood and gave Luke an apologetic look. “Don’t listen to him. He’s always like this after homebrew.”
“No, I’m not.”
She grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Yes you are, and I won’t let you embarrass me again tonight.”
Luke checked his strap for nothing in particular and relief washed over him when the couple’s footsteps moved away. They didn’t question his cover story, which gave him more confidence in its validity, but he knew he’d only scratched the surface of the modern world.
Maria’s claim of support for the terrorists melting to nothing after the last attack also appeared only to apply outside Zone Seven. With sympathizers here—and it didn’t take long to find one—the place was ideal for hiding and building a network. Luke rose from the bench and headed for the Flamingo apartments.
Chapter 12
Luke peered through the blinds of his newly rented studio apartment at The Mega Dive’s cobalt neon sign. A view over the square had cost and extra five credits a night, but it wasn’t his money being frittered, and if the bar’s reputation proved true, he had the perfect spot to observe Zone Seven’s seedy element come and go.
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