Free Provenance I - Flee The Bonds by V J Kavanagh

into the first taxi in the rank. ‘Piccadilly Circus, please.’
    After turning into Edgware Road, the driver spoke into the rear-view mirror. ‘Off to see a show?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Oh yeah, which one, Johnny Smith’s? It’s alright on the telly, but you can’t beat the real thing.’
    ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
    ‘Well whatever, you’re going to get wet.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You ain’t got a brolly.’
    Steve’s focus bored into reflected eyes. ‘You’re very observant.’
    The driver broke eye contact. ‘Sorry, friend, no harm meant.’
    ‘I know.’
    Drones travelled on buses, Continuity in taxis. Everyone knew this — including the Resistance. The situation had become so dire that many drivers asked for their fares in advance.
    Steve noted the driver’s receding hairline. This meant he was either a Drone, in which case he shouldn’t be driving a taxi, or someone who’d run out of credits before PURE could eradicate the alopecia triggers. Steve assumed the latter but prepared for the former by reaching into his jacket and unclipping the Cogent, although the thought of discharging a million volts of plasma inside a taxi didn’t exactly fill him with joy.
    They passed Marble Arch before turning right into Park Lane and stopping in front of the checkpoint’s sabre-toothed barrier. A burly CONSEC Grey Defender strode out of the concrete bunker carrying a BRD, his XH-34 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. His two colleagues followed; their rifles weren’t slung.
    After authenticating them both, the Defender raised his arm. The razor-sharp teeth retracted into the wet tarmac. They’d gained clearance for the Blue Zone.
    As they drove along Park Lane, Steve looked across at Hyde Park; its boundary marked by two rows of decaying concrete posts. The electrified razor wire had long gone, but SIS occasionally used the posts to hang a very public warning.
    When the statue of Eros came into sight, Steve reached out and tapped the separator screen. ‘Anywhere on the right will be fine.’
    The taxi pulled up alongside the glistening wet pavement and the driver made eye contact through the rearview mirror. ‘That’ll be three point seven credits please.’
    Steve swiped his MCD over the meter. ‘Take enough for you and your wife to see Johnny Smith.’
    ‘Thanks, thanks a lot.’
    Despite his brisk pace, by time Steve reached Trafalgar Square, he was soaked. He turned into the Mall and its palisades of elephantine concrete blocks that funnelled everything and everybody towards Admiralty Arch. The Red Zone checkpoint.
    Metal bollards guided pedestrians to the three central arches. Steve entered the middle arch’s narrow corridor. Above his head, a feeble light strip added to the musty gloom. Three metres in, horizontal steel rods barred the way. He stopped. Behind him, a second ladder of rods scraped across, cutting off any escape. He shivered; the sodden jumper clung to his ribs.
    A woman’s voice leached into the claustrophobic trap, ‘Please turn towards the red light.’
    Steve turned left to face a full-height black panel.
    ‘Thank you, please remain still.’
    A vertical strip of crimson traversed his body, made a repeat pass and disappeared into the wall.
    ‘Thank you, Captain Arrowsbury. You are cleared to proceed.’
    As Steve exited the corridor, a hard-faced Gold Agent made steely eye contact and quoted, ‘Nature of business in Red Zone.’
    A Prefect hummed closer.
    The shimmering glow of Steve’s ID card dissipated when the Agent took hold of it.
    ‘Welcome to the Red Zone, sir.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Steve glanced up. Rain dripped from the Prefect’s dirty yellow carcass, while an ionised blower kept its lidless eye clear. It pivoted, passing close enough to wash him with its rancorous exhaust.
    He took the short walk up the Mall before turning left towards an impressive three-storey building of grey stone and red brick. The Food Ministry. Deep below its foundations, it served an