Aika

Aika navigated her way through the crowds camped out on the bank of the Thames, in the shadow of the ruined London Bridge. The main structure still mostly stood, its towers broken to jagged teeth in the night sky, the balustrade ragged and beyond repair.

  Off in the distance across the river, the shattered shell of St Paul’s stood out like fractured bone, its dome gaping like a half-eaten hardboiled egg.

  All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men couldn’t put the world back together again, Aika reflected as she gazed at a large cloth banner draped across two heaps of rubble where people had tacked up paper notices—people searching for news of other people, missing children with grainy black and white photos attached, requests for trade, offers for work. People gathered as someone in a city militia uniform put up an announcement that rationing was now compulsory by everyone.

  This drew hisses and a flow of inventive cursing. “Does that include the militia?” someone demanded.

  Yes, Aika silently answered. Just less than most—unless you’re contracted to Dreamtech.

  She looked around at all the angry, dirty faces, half expecting Jamie to miraculously appear. This would be exactly the sort of place he’d be, taking photos and talking to people, learning their stories.

  Every day she had to remind herself he was dead.

  Aika reached into her breast pocket and took out her hand comp—a paper-thin sliver of plastic that fit in her hand, a combination tablet and phone Dreamtech and its contractors used. She was still considered city militia, just on special assignment.

  It concerned her not at all no one but she and her superior officers knew what her assignment entailed—and they only knew the militia was highly compensated for contracting her services to Dreamtech.

  Aika ducked out of the way to and tapped her ear piece. “I’m here.”

  “Excellent.” Charles’ rich voice sounded clear as a bell in her ear. “One moment, Agent. We’re triangulating.”

  Aika poked at her hand comp, watching the hour glass fill and flip, over and over. As she waited, her gaze slid up to the night sky, trying to imagine what this city-wide shield would look like when it was up—this “biosphere”.

  Imagine it, Agent, Charles had told her in his office that morning when he’d debriefed her. Everything that could be used against us in war—that is being used against us—is computerized. All of it. What would happen, do you think, if London were simply not there for something like bombs and missiles to find? What if we were…invisible?

  The perimeter had already been set, during the initial attacks. She’d patrolled them herself. At strategic points along that perimeter silos had been built, all connected to Dreamtech via the tip of the pyramid building. Up in space, satellites locked in on that tip feeding information that then transmitted to the silos, creating a holographic shield that blacked out the city from prying eyes…and enemies.

  It short, it was the end of seven years of war.

  There was just one problem.

  “If this is all computerized,” Aika had pointed out, couldn’t these defenses be…hacked, or something?”

  Which is exactly what happened. Someone, somewhere, was blocking the signal, and nothing Dreamtech devised could locate or identify the block. The closest they got was this London Bridge camp location, one of the many latest attacks sites of the Second Blitz. It was Aika’s job to figure out what the hell was going on, and to eradicate the issue if she could.

  She’d been sent in alone, which suited her just fine.

  A muffled curse at the other end of the line brought her back to reality. “Problems?” she asked mildly.

  “We’re having a difficult time locking on you—even your Identichip is sporadic. Whatever’s there is strong.”

  “So I’m in the right place, at least. Shall I go dark?”

  “You may have to.” A pause. “No, wait, that’s got it.” Sure enough, her hand comp blinked to life, pixelating into a street map of the area with her registered as a blinking red light at the sound end of the bridge. “Best to follow dark protocol to be on the safe side, however.”

  “Acknowledged. If you can shield the signal from my hand comp, I’ll cut comms until mission accomplished, sir.”

  “Acknowledged. Good luck, agent.”

  Aika scrolled around the map, zooming in and out until she found what she was looking for: an area the size of dime, blurred and out of alignment, as though the signal had to go through or around something.

  She tried to picture it. Jamie had once pulled one of her good silk stockings tight over his camera lens after a night out, to act as a filter to take pictures of her love-mussed and heavy-lidded with wine. The pictures had a soft quality, not quite out of focus, but with lines smudged ever so slightly, like her lipstick after Jamie kissed her.

  Her eyes opened, focusing on her target like a hawk with her quarry in sight. She mapped out the best route to her destination, embedding it in her mind, tucked her hand comp back in her pocket, and started off.

  Aika clambered over mountains of rubble, stepping around slumped forms huddled in pockets of cold and slow starvation. The few with enough energy to beg shrank back at the sight of her uniform, a pattern that made her frown. The purpose of the city militia was to protect and serve—so why weren’t these destitute souls happier to see her? She made a mental note to ask Charles what he knew about the sick fear in these faces.

  She told herself the Biosphere would be the best solution for London, that it would give them time to recover, rebuild. She just wasn’t sure if she believed it.

  She wished she could believe Jamie would approve.

  The terrain turned too treacherous to continue on her present course. With a sigh of regret Aika backtracked to the nearest tube station. There had once been a cathedral here—Southwark, she thought—but its ancient stone had been pounded to ruins. In its phantom midst more people gathered beneath bright blue tarps, voices hushed to an unintelligible hum.

  The tube entrance had narrowed to little more to a crevice. Aika squeezed herself through, the torch at her hip scraping against concrete. Musty stone filled her nose, the sound of voices suddenly silenced fading in ripples away from her as she approached.

  The room around her opened up. When she flipped her torch on, more dirty faces met her, gazes and postures wary. Many of them belonged to children hiding adults or meager belongings. She realized the people here were sleeping in shifts, alternating with those gathered at the cathedral.

  “It’s alright,” she called out. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.” Ridiculous, really, as there were dozens of them and only one of her. But the palpable fear in here stifled her.

  “Bombs on the way, miss?” a teenager asked, quickly shushed by an adult.

  “Not as of yet.” She swallowed. “I’m looking for the maintenance door.”

  The shushy adult pointed, wordlessly. She thanked him and continued on her way.

  The door said “Employees Only” and the lock had been broken off. Still, it wouldn’t open, as if the people here were attempting to keep something—or someone—out.

  Aika switched off her torch and holstered it once more so she could place both palms flat on the door. Her instincts pushed at her, like the weight of falling bombs. She felt compelled to get through, so much so that despite the locked door, she knew she could. Somewhere inside her lay the key, a puzzle so close to being solved she could taste it.

  She pushed her entire weight against the metal door, head hanging and eyes squeezed shut. Searching.

  An audible, near-physical pop went off in her head—a champagne cork skittering across her brain as something came loose. A breathless moment later, and she was through.

  She swung around, staring. The door was still closed.

  How—?

  She flipped her torch on once more, examining the door, trying the knob. Locked, the dust on the floor undisturbed, but for her stuttering footprints.

  Aika took one or two steps back, heart thudding ag
ainst her ribs, pressure building until her breath came short and harsh, burning her throat. The ringing in her head made her wonder if there were sirens outside.

  It might have been minutes or an eternity later when she finally turned. Another corridor lay ahead of her, only wide enough for two people to pass through at a time. She drew her gun and proceeded one careful step at a time, shining her torch with the other hand.

  This corridor fairly thrummed with barely leashed energy. She was pulled along, almost against her will. She couldn’t have stopped even if held at gunpoint.

  She turned a corner and saw a soft, glowing light in the at the end of another hallway. Aika put her torch away, but kept her gun out, using her free hand to steady it. She wished she had something to keep her steady.

  So here was she, “Robo-Corp” Lareto, trembling like a dying leaf in winter’s first chill.

  Bloody hell.

  Aika shoved the fear down into the pit of her stomach, and then filled the pit with cement. Then she kept walking.

  The glow emanated from another doorway—an open one. She pressed her back against the wall beside it, dread curling into a tight knot. Instinct screamed at her get out, now, while she still could. She had to force her breathing to even out, to flow smoothly until she was aware of every muscle, every nerve ending beyond scraped raw by whatever she sensed lay beyond that door.

  Aika pivoted into the open doorway, gun raised with her finger curled around the trigger.

  A bar. She faced an empty bar, its booths and tables illuminated in a soft golden glow. She…recognized it.