False Flag

Late February 2044.

Westminster, Central London.

“This is incredible, oh my god!” Siobhan shouted, having been so blown away by what she’d just seen that she had flung her phone onto the hotel bed and jumped backwards from it. Elizabeth laid on the bed with a pillow over her head, trying desperately to block out the light from the window, and incidentally, trying to block out Siobhan. “Ms. Marsh, have you listened to any of this? They think it was the government.”

“What?” Elizabeth was weary, but too curious to keep ignoring it. “Who?”

“Everybody! Dozens of vids on Telly, a hundred comments on Under, so far,” she exclaimed, running back and forth past the end of the bed, unable to sit still. “Listen. Listen.” She grabbed her phone back from the bed and flicked through it. “‘So sus that Elizabeth Marsh was approved to protest event and then suddenly there’s a bomb.’, and this, ‘Anyone else find it weird that we know how everyone who was hurt is doing except for Liz Marsh and Siobhan Campbell?’”

Elizabeth sat up, the pillow falling to one side. She rubbed her temples, her face pale with red blotches and creases around her eyes. “What are you saying, Siobhan? Forgive me, I don’t fully understand.”

“They think it was a false flag! This is incredible! You were absolutely right, not saying anything was bloody brilliant.” Absolute giddiness as she twirled around and flung herself into the bed, landing next to Elizabeth. “They honestly think the government blew up their own event. This could not have gone better, Ms. Marsh.” She put her arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders and hugged her from the side. Elizabeth winced and closed her eyes, inhaling sharply.

“Okay,” she said, patting Siobhan’s back. “I do think it’s time we let people know we’re safe. It’s not right for people to be left speculating about it.”

“Well,” Siobhan said, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves, dude. I think part of the reason this is going so viral is because people assume we’re dead. Saying something now would be a huge mistake. We have to find a way to make it super impactful when you re-appear. If we do it right? I think we can actually win.” She hopped away, into the adjoining room.

Elizabeth was silent. Even without the migraine, she might still choose this moment to be silent. But any chance of a quick rational response to this was off the table right now. She instead chose to lay back down and close her eyes. Siobhan was looking after their communications, after all.

“Siobhan?” Something was bothering her, though. “Are they any closer to figuring out who was responsible?”

“Who says it wasn’t the government,” she shouted from the other room. “If this many people are saying it, maybe it’s true?”

“Right, but have we heard from the authorities?” Elizabeth heard Siobhan come back in, felt her sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Dude, I think we should leave it alone,” Siobhan said. “We were victims of this. We’re not involved with it.” Elizabeth felt a cold, damp cloth lay across her eyes, and let out an involuntary moan. The headache had gotten so bad she could scarcely stop herself from crying any given moment.

“Thank you, Siobhan.”

“Of course, Ms. Marsh.”

“I do think I should get back to work, however.” She’d been in bed practically since they’d returned from the hospital, the migraine persisting, worsening. They usually went away after a few hours, but they’d gotten more frequent, more intense. This close to the election she couldn’t let it beat her. There would be time to rest after.

“Ms. Marsh, there’s nothing for you to do, dude. I don’t want your head to explode or somethin’. Besides, you’re dead, remember?” Siobhan kissed her cheek. “Please rest, you’ve done so much for us already.”

She awoke suddenly and it was night. She’d slept the entire day. But her headache had subsided. Sweet, merciful relief. The room was pitch black aside from the light on the clock, showing 22:07.

“Siobhan?” No answer. She must be out. Elizabeth could only hope Siobhan had relented and put out some sort of note saying they were okay. If not, she’d have to simply break the silence herself. Not to interfere with the campaign’s messaging, or any carefully-plotted rollouts, but just to show a modicum of human decency. You can’t let people just believe you’re dead. It’s not done. No matter how appealing it might seem, or how much you’d wished you were just a few short hours ago.

Elizabeth struggled to her feet and found the light switch, then made her way to the dresser to change into a tracksuit. As her hand went for the ornate knob she glanced at the top, where her phone had been sat on the pad charging. It was empty.

She glanced quickly around the room, assuming she’d just mislaid it while she was poorly. But a cursory search turned up nothing. Huh. It was a fairly large room, owing to the need to share with Siobhan while they were in town, and also to Elizabeth’s ability to easily pay for such a thing. But it was still just the two bedrooms and a living room. It wouldn’t take long to find.

Inside every dresser, under every table, under both beds and all the pillows, even a quick rummage through the bathroom, all turned up nothing. Elizabeth’s phone was gone. Extremely odd.

She turned on the news to distract herself while she continued looking. That at least couldn’t be taken, she thought as she tapped the mirror above the fireplace, the controls appearing. She tapped again on the small BBC logo and the virtual presenter appeared, floating in their red-and-white void. Upsetting as always. She truly hoped they’d get rid of this. The savings made from letting go of all the human presenters could not possibly be worth it.

“While police continue to search for the five unidentified suspects, David Ryan, the head of Magenta UK and one of the victims of this week’s tragic attack, remains in critical condition. For more on this,” the presenter droned on neutrally, “we spoke earlier with Magenta CEO Rebecca Prue, from her home in the Hollywood Hills in Los Angeles, California.”

Elizabeth stopped her search and stared at the screen. Rebecca Prue appeared, looking almost as stunning as she had back in ’28. That too had been on a screen, albeit a smaller one, in the cabinet room at Number 10. And at the time Rebecca had been in a rather plain glass office, a small white conference table in front of her, the camera at an odd downward-facing angle, her skin made unnaturally pale by the fluorescent lighting. Her cerulean hoodie had fit her perfectly, her red hair up in a tight pony tail, her mannerisms almost robotic as she explained to them in detail the ‘awesome’ new idea her public policy team had come up with for the UK Works Programme. The Prime Minister was so taken in, so emboldened. So convinced this was what would save Britain. This deal with Rebecca Prue and her miraculous company would be his legacy.

And now here she was in the present, her voice expressing the appropriate level of dismay at the events unfolding in London. They showed her at her screen-less desk, in an office reminiscent of a 60s-era James Bond villain. They alternated between that and some B-roll of her walking down a long, perfectly-lit hallway, brass fixtures holding electric candles, various works of art hanging on each wall. She looked remarkable in both, having aged impossibly well, as a person of her means tended to do, wearing a well-tailored charcoal suit, her hair down past her shoulders, her makeup calculated to give the impression that she’s losing sleep over the disaster.

‘I’m Rebecca Prue’, Elizabeth mocked. ‘I’m the richest woman in history, and I care the right amount about all the things you’d expect.’

She shouted for the screen to turn off, and it dutifully obeyed. She bloody hated using voice controls for anything, but she couldn’t look at that face one more second than necessary. It did give her an idea, though. She closed her eyes and grimaced.

“Phone? Where are you?” Like clockwork, she heard some pleasant chimes and vibrations. Bloody voice controls. The vibrations sounded like they were against wood, rattling away in a drawer perhaps. She gave the room yet another sweep, this time focusing on the drawers and cabinets, occasionally asking the phone where it was again, waiting for the chimes to start anew.

She finally opened the one drawer she’d subconsciously skipped the last time — Siobhan’s underwear drawer. It felt extremely invasive, and somehow more-so of a violation given their age difference. But we must do what we must, and she opened the drawer. The sound doubled in volume as she did.

“A-ha,” Elizabeth announced to no-one as she fished the phone out past Siobhan’s garish underthings. Except, it wasn’t hers. Oh, bloody hell. She’s gone through Siobhan’s private things so she could steal some of Siobhan’s private things.

It didn’t look like Siobhan’s phone, though, which she’d seen recently, and quite often, and moreover knew she’d never be without. Especially now with everything going on. Hers was definitely an old Samsung which she prided herself on keeping running, a large crack running straight down the middle. “You can’t get these anymore you know,” she’d find some way to point out. But this was a sleek, ultra-thin Magenta Portal, and it looked box fresh.

It had taken one look at her and politely but firmly declined to unlock, the screen having gone a tinted red, a frowning face taking up most of it.

Elizabeth once again felt a roiling in the pit of her stomach. Something was very wrong about this. Siobhan having a Magenta phone at all seemed uncharacteristic. Her having a second phone of any kind seemed even less likely.

She lamented the death of passwords, of PIN codes, either of which would’ve given her the false hope of somehow getting into the phone, seeing what’s on it, putting her mind at ease. As it stood, she was left unsettled. Was it a second phone? Could she perhaps have a job, was it a work phone? Maybe it would ring, and she could answer it? But alas it did not, so she simply placed it on the top of the dresser. Putting it back seemed like even more of a betrayal. This way Siobhan would see it out, know it had been found, and they could discuss.

None of this got her any closer to knowing where her own phone was, unfortunately. And the extra, the superfluous one, had started to feel like a larger and larger presence. Her eyes kept drifting back to it, her guilt immeasurable, or perhaps it was embarrassment, as she did her third sweep of every nook and cranny of the room, desperation about to give way to panic. Elizabeth was out of sorts.

“Fine,” she yelled to the phone. “I’ll put you back.” The idea of explaining any of this was far too much to bear. She had to undo it all. Undo, undo. Proper tradecraft. Like it never happened.

The subterfuge wouldn’t be complete without re-burying it beneath the unmentionables. She tried to slide it around the edge of the drawer and under, roughly into the same spot, without having to empty out the whole thing, and also without having to look, because she’d violated enough privacy for one evening, and because it made her uncomfortable for some reason.

Her knuckles hit the bottom of the drawer. That was odd. Was that plastic? She let go of the phone but left the drawer open, staring at it. Hmm. Unwilling to investigate, but she could perhaps check a different one. She opened one of her own drawers so she could really cut loose. Under a stack of her sensible slacks she confirmed the bottom was, in fact, wood. Hmm. Back to the first drawer. She’d have to just take a look. Surely Siobhan would indulge her this. She pushed everything aside and peeked. What a fun story it would be.

Once she saw inside, she regretted having looked.