Read The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy Online
Authors: Gary Ballard
Tags: #noir, #speculative fiction, #hard boiled, #science fiction, #cybernetics, #scifi, #cyberpunk, #near future, #urban fantasy
Thames had the look of shocked defeat plastered across his mug. All trace of his former smugness was gone. “That kind of hack would take more than you’ve got,” he said, but his confidence was shaky.
Bridge smiled. “You’re right.” He motioned to Angela, who quickly got up to join him. “But I know a guy.” Bridge’s smile got even wider, an infuriatingly toothy grin. He began to back away towards the door. Paulie looked towards Thames for orders then back at Bridge and back at the executive again, unsure of what to do. “Now I see I’ve confused the Limey Ape over here, but I’m sure you get the gist of what I’m telling you.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m pretty cheap, actually. You let us go, alive and leave us that way for three months. Three months is all I ask. Keep the ape off me for that long, and you’ll get the code to clear this whole thing up.”
“Three months? We need that election settled tomorrow night.”
“And I need to keep breathing for three months. This isn’t a negotiation, Mr. Thames. Three months. Or you can just kill us now and sort out the counts when you get them sorted out. Do we have a deal?”
Thames pondered it for only a second, before agreeing with a sigh. “We have a deal.”
“Smart man.” He turned around, ushering Angela out the door quickly, then paused. Bridge turned back to Thames and said, “You know, you could have saved us all some time if you’d just come to me in the beginning. Shit, I don’t give a fuck if you elect Mickey Goddamn Mouse if you pay me enough to set the whole thing up. But you had to get cute. You had to fuck with me. You had to fuck with her. You want something from me you come at me straight up. Maybe next time you’ll know better than to fuck with me.”
“Don’t cross the Bridge?” Thames asked with sarcastic amusement.
“Not unless you’re willing to pay the toll,” Bridge responded all too aware how corny that sounded. “Now fuck off, you cunt.” Bridge slammed the door behind him.
“Let’s not dawdle, my dear,” Bridge said to Angela. He led her away from the elevators and down the stairs. “No, no, we’re not taking the car. It won’t be useable anyway.”
“What did you do to my rental?”
“Yeah, it’s not your rental anymore. Thames just bought himself a soon-to-be burned out husk of a rental sedan,” Bridge said with a smile. They almost ran down the stairs and out the back, cutting across side streets to catch a bus that almost left them at the curb. Bridge had his escape route all planned. The car would have combusted right about the time they reached the street, and as they boarded the bus, he could already hear the wailing screech of the garage’s fire alarm.
“He is going to be so pissed,” she said with that mischievous grin.
“Especially after you fucked up his election.”
“Oh that. Well, not exactly.”
“What do you mean? That’s what you bought our lives with, what do you mean not exactly?”
“Well, I didn’t technically hack the ballot. It’s sure going to look like I tried, and it’ll take them months to figure out that nothing was altered. Months and months and millions of dollars and most importantly, all that trust they were hoping Soto would have as mayor. Whoever gets elected tomorrow, it’ll be a clean count, at least as far as my efforts are concerned. But damn is it going to be painful to figure that out.” Bridge was beaming.
“You risked our lives on a bluff?” He nodded vigorously. “You motherfucker. You absolute cocksucker. That is the most brilliant hack I’ve ever seen.”
“Ain’t it though? See, there’s some use to being a manipulative cocksucker.”
Her dour scowl dissolved into a lascivious grin. “I’ve got a use for you when we get home, you rat bastard.” She gave him a long kiss. When she had detached herself, she looked around the bus with an embarrassed self-consciousness.
“Tomorrow, we look for a new place.”
“We?” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“You just put us on the shit list of the biggest LGL on the West Coast. We’re joined at the hip, you and me. Might be a good idea if we disappear off their radar for a bit.” Bridge nodded agreement and leaned back into his seat. Three months wasn’t a long time, but it would have to do.
*****
Epilogue
October 31, 2028
7:22 p.m.
The next two months were eventful for Bridge and Angela. True to her word, she moved them in together that week, refusing to take no for an answer as she and Bridge abandoned their respective apartments in the middle of the night.
A creative use of some of her best freelance credcrashers saw their leases dissolved, their belongings packed up as quietly as possible and shifted from apartment to storage space, where another application of the hacking arts caused those goods to disappear.
It was an expensive move, as far as Bridge could tell, but Angela handled most of it and either footed the bill or had someone else pay for it without their knowledge. Bridge laid low for the week after the election, rescheduling as many of his appointments as he could. He lost a few jobs, but nothing he couldn’t replace once he felt a bit safer.
The election was a colossal slow-motion train wreck, of course. As Bridge had predicted, the Sunderland story took off. The first downloads happened within minutes of Bridge’s exit from Chronosoft headquarters, and by morning, it had over 100,000 views. The news networks, freed from their gag order by the underground release, swooped in on the story like ravenous vultures. An estimated 85% of all Los Angeles LGL eligible voters were said to have seen the recording or heard about the recording from a news outlet or friend. Only hours after voting began, with exit polls showing Soto riding a burgeoning landslide, Freeman’s hacking became apparent. Voting machines began to malfunction, hiccup or otherwise show signs of irregularities and in a panic, the election commissioner tried to shut the voting booths down city-wide, beginning in some of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the riots. With resentment still simmering from the riots, the people reacted just as one would expect them to react when the corporate-controlled government attempted to disenfranchise them. Riots were only narrowly avoided. While there were some injuries and property damage, the efficiency of CLED negotiators averted a repeat of the previous year’s violence. In the end, the election commissioner decided to let the vote go ahead as scheduled. By the time the polls had closed, the rout was obvious. Soto had won, but the media cast a pall on the victory party by reporting on the voting machine irregularities and near-riots. Days were spent with the election commissioner on the hot seat, with both parties clamoring for certification, reporters requesting an investigation and rumors flying. By the end of the week, the commissioner had resigned in disgrace and the election was certified by his successor, triggering disenfranchisement lawsuits and rendering Soto’s enormous victory tainted. Bridge never had so much fun watching the news feeds.
His reunion with Angela was not always as entertaining. There were many marathon-length talking sessions, heartfelt discussions about their feelings and shrieking ving lanarguments. Through it all,
however, neither gave in and more importantly, neither gave up on the relationship. Something in the months they’d spent apart and in the crazy day they’d spent almost dying together had forged a stronger bond between the two. Angela still disliked the way he made his money. “You’re not an amoral bastard, you know,” she said at one point. “You just know how to push your few principles aside to deal with the scum of the earth. What I don’t get is how you can stand to deal with them.”
Finally, he’d explained it as best he could. “Look, I know these people are shit. I get the worst of the worst. I don’t get little old ladies who need me to get their pension back from the loan shark. I get the loan shark when he needs a new guy to break the little old lady’s legs. And I help him, and you know why I help him? Leave aside the fact that even if I refuse to help him, someone else will. That’s just a fact. I help him because I know that guy is going down a one-way road the wrong way. And eventually, some other dumb fucker is going to come down that road from the opposite direction. So I just run them both into each other so the sorry bastards can get themselves the fuck off my planet sooner.”
Angela laughed and shook her head. “Bullshit. That’s bullshit. You’re trying to rationalize the fact that you make money off of misery because you gotta eat. It’s not some kind of twisted service to the world.”
“Maybe. We all gotta eat. But I’d rather those guys eat each other than me.” And nothing more was said about it.
Gina Danton had gotten Aristotle off the charge, just as she had promised. With the mayor’s greatly reduced respectability in those first hours of election day, no one had given two shits that Aristotle had pulled his mischief at the mayor’s fundraiser, not when a cop of Danton’s reputation had been willing to vouch for the bodyguard. Amazingly, Aristotle never gave Bridge any grief over his arrest, instead making light of it as often as he could. Bridge still ended up buying the giant a fantastically bejeweled watch, making sure to show it off to Angela before giving the gift.
Nicky took care of himself. Bridge had set up the bust with Danton, of course, and Bridge spent a few good hours worrying that the Cajun mobster would evade capture and come directly after Bridge. Nicky, never the sharpest tool in the shed, decided instead to go out Tony Montana style, trying to shoot his way out of the dragnet. He did manage to wound one cop before getting perforated. Thinking back on it, Bridge felt no remorse for his part in the gangster’s death. Nicky was too stupid too live, too selfish to remove himself from the gene pool and too worthless to feel any guilt over. Nicky’s guys drifted from one boss to another, like all hard guys do. None of them had the talent or brains to make much of themselves beyond hired muscle.
Paulie was a problem, of course. Soon after Bridge started working again, Paulie became a regular fixture at all the spots where Bridge plied his trade. Bridge would be finishing up work with a client when he’d spy the ex-footballer standing at the bar, eyes burning holes through Bridge. Paulie would spot Bridge, Bridge would spot Paulie and the heavy would raise his new cybernetic hand in a sarcastic salute. Before leaving, Paulie would point the {ld he giftcyberhand at Bridge and make the sign of a pistol with his thumb and first two fingers, then exit with that same predatory smile of his. Short of hiring someone to whack the footballer, Bridge really hadn’t come up with a good way to deal with that grudge, but he still had a month to go.
A month was a long time. Hell, Bridge could get hit by a bus in that month. He could get abducted by aliens, or blown up along with half a city. Some punk ass disgruntled client could come back and stick a vibroknife in his back. He’d figure something out when the time came. That was what he did best. He figured things out. He’d figured out the Sunderland mess, and stuck it to “the man” in the process. Paulie wasn’t nearly as smart as Thames. And if he couldn’t figure something out, well, he knew a guy that could.
*****
BOOK 2: THE KNOW CIRCUIT
*****
The Know Circuit is the second in a series of novels titled
The Bridge Chronicles
. If you haven’t read the first novel,
Under the Amoral Bridge
, you can still be entertained by this novel as a standalone story. Of course, as someone who likes to get paid for the work he’s put into writing, I encourage you to buy
Under the Amoral Bridge
and read it first. The paperback is available at online booksellers like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, CreateSpace.com, and Indiependentbooks. The ebook is available at Amazon’s Kindle Store, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble’s ebook store for only $.99 cents. Spare a brother a dollar for an eBook – you spent what, 10 bones on this one? If that isn’t incentive enough, I offer
The Chronicles’
blog – amoralbridge.blogspot.com. The entire first novel is available there to read minus the short story
Feeding Autonomy
. This book was released serially on the blog before being sold as a paperback and eBook with the unreleased short story,
Elegant Solutions to Complex Hostility
. Thank you for buying this book. I hope you enjoy it and continue to follow the series. To this point, I am over halfway through with the sequel,
if [tribe] =
, and a fourth novel in the series is planned.
With the obligatory whoring over, I have to discuss a little piece of recent news. In the last week, the Supreme Court ruled that the purchase of political advertising by corporate entities is considered free speech, endowed with full First Amendment protection. Note that the ruling does not distinguish between corporate entities – foreign or domestic. Any type of corporation can purchase as much political advertising as they wish, without restriction. Let that sink in for a moment. If you’ve never read cyberpunk literature like the book you are holding, this may seem like no big deal.
I write about a near future in which corporations have bailed out the government, purchasing so-called Local Governance Licenses that give corporations civil powers over cities, counties or states. These LGL companies collect taxes, govern and administer civil services, such as power, water, fire departments, police, and pass local laws. For those who champion the efficiency of the private sector over government bureaucracy, for everyone who has ever advocated mass privitization or said “government isn’t the solution, it’s the problem,” the America of 2029 in my books is the sort of world you requested. If you think this is ideal, picture for a moment the likes of a corporation like Enron or Worldcomm, with their corrupt leadership and criminal malfeasance, controlling who gets arrested, which fires get put out. If all politics are local, control of local politics flows upwards. It isn’t a complete takeover, but it is an erosion of the foundations of the democratic system we champion, a grasping at the legs of the body politic.
This Supreme Court decision is more insidious, more subtle than that. Never mind the idea that the precedent was written in such a slapdash fashion as to allow foreign corporations an unfettered hand. Imagine only domestic corporations with the power to tell you any lie they wish to get their candidate elected. Unlike what passes for news programs these days, political ads don’t have fact checking or even the veneer of objectivity. They are free to say anything they like. While corporations do these things now with barely-disguised political action committees (PAC), imagine if one of our corrupt banking institutions were able to openly smear a Senatorial candidate in order to elect someone more sympathetic to the financial industry. Imagine the maker of a drug doing poorly on FDA tests was able to slander a Congressman with the influence to scuttle hearings on the drug’s dangers. Imagine the power such unfettered access to your brain share can wield. Ideas, even lies, can take hold in the public’s mind with a fierce tenacity and these memes are fiercely resistant to rational discourse.
What is there to do? You could engage your Congressperson to codify the limits of corporate “free speech.” Sign petitions. Become an activist. Sue the first rat bastard corporation that tries to take advantage of this idiotic ruling. There’s nothing wrong with capitalism. This isn’t capitalism. A legal precedent which puts the rights of a collective on a par with the individual rights is bad, for no other reason than the power of numbers a collective can muster.
And now I’ll step down from my literary soapbox and let you get on with the book.
*****
Chapter 1
November 2, 2028
01:20 a.m.
“Come on, Bridge, I know you know a guy,” the lithe Puerto Rican/Chinese vlogger whined to Bridge, pointing a finger directly in his face. Bridge just leaned back in his seat with that bemused smile of his, confirming the girl’s assumption without a word. “I just need the hookup, yo!”
“Look here, Anna,” Bridge said, intentionally using her real name, knowing that would get her goat. The smoldering stare and arched brows of her 16-year old face was a minor victory for him, a sign that he had gained the upper hand. “Sorry, Ms. Angst. What you are asking for is… well, it’s pretty goddamn impossible.”
“Bullshit, Bridge. You’re the bomb. I know you got Fez that in with Raging D-Bags. Did you see his numbers on that story? Cuz went stratospheric, yo!” She was trying damn hard to butter him up and if he went in for smoking hot jailbait, he’d have bit. She had the flawless skin of a teenager with the taut body of someone who spent their nights chasing celebrities in limos to get that one hit video clip. When not busy hounding celebs, she worked the crime beat. Bridge wondered when she ever got the time to go to high school. He figured her for smart enough to pass without ever seeing the inside of a classroom though, so her attendance was likely immaterial.
“You’re asking me to get the urine of a pop icon with more security than the fucking Mayor. And trust me; the mayor’s got a metric fuckton of security. All so you can break the story that she’s pregnant, which by the way, she may not even be pregnant. What do you do if she’s not?” It wasn’t the most disgusting thing Bridge had ever hooked up for someone. But it would be damned hard to find a bodyguard who not only had access, but was willing to risk his job to get the sample.
Of course, Bridge knew a guy. He’d gotten Rick the job with Ms. Shawnee when Rick was at his absolute lowest, two steps from getting his hands chopped off by the recently deceased Nicky Sharver. Rick owed him a whole lot more than just two working flesh hands. But Bridge knew better than to give in too easy. After all, a good businessman set the price as high as the market would bear.
“If she ain’t preggers, at least I got the scoop on that too. It just won’t get as many hits. Anything with Shawnee’s name trends upwards, yo. My advertisers like dem trends.” Bridge put on his best thinking face, selling his effort for all it was worth. Angst was smart enough to recognize the game. “You DO know somebody!”
Bridge pretended to give up with a sigh. Leaning over the table and pulling her closer with a conspiratorial whisper, he ="Tsaid, “All right, I know a guy. But this is major big-time bad mojo for him if he gets caught. You have got to be completely anonymous on this one. I mean it, no names, nothing more specific than sources close to the subject.” Finally, he leaned back, his dance reaching the climactic flourish. “But it’s going to cost you.”
“Yo, I pays, brau. You know I pays.” She did pay, and more reliably than most of his repeat clients. Value was established, and the two parties began haggling out the particulars. As he finalized the details, he noticed a figure over Ms. Angst’s shoulder, the towering bulk of the ex-footballer Paulie. The giant spotted Bridge. He aimed his shiny new cybernetic fingers at Bridge in the shape of a pistol, fired a pretend shot and headed for the door with a predatory smirk on his lips. Time was running out on that debt.
*****
After Ms. Angst had left the table, Bridge’s gigantic bodyguard Aristotle walked over and sat down with a loud exhalation. “Are you really going to get that diminutive paparazzi wannabe a urine sample from a pop princess? Isn’t that a little scuzzy, even for you?”
Bridge smiled back. “Have you seen Ms. Angst’s numbers? That little half-breed pulls down huge uniques every time she opens her mouth. Hell, even that bit she did when Matt’s place got raided was competitive with the Misogynist Theatre preview vids in the teen/tween demos. She’s a hot property.”
“My word, you sound like a television executive pitching a smoking hot pilot. Mr. Thames would be proud,” Aristotle replied with a devious grin on his face. Bridge’s memories of the slick Chronosoft executive who had forced him into leaking a scandalous video of the former mayor were bitter ones. The comment was without malice however, so Bridge just returned his friend a one-finger salute.
“I hate the gossip mill she works, but I’ll be damned if those kind of numbers might not come in handy some day. It’s all about who you know, you know?”
“Oh, indubitably,” Aristotle smiled back. He worked the pad on a PDA. “According to my records, that was your last appointment tonight, boss. Are you ready to retire for the evening?”
Bridge shook his head. “Why do you still use that relic? You need to get jacked, big guy.” Bridge pointed to the interface jack at the base of his skull, the cybernetic hub for all his chipped-in internal software from scheduling to cell phones to his internal clock. Aristotle just shrugged. Some people just didn’t like metal implants. Bridge let it drop. He knew Aristotle would never get with the cyber times. “Nah, I’m gonna hover for a little, see if I scare up any walk-ins. Besides, I like this band. You can split, if you want.”
It was Aris0">eatretotle’s turn to shake his head. “What bodyguard would allow his charge even a moment unescorted through this calamitous jungle?” His smile wilted into his serious face. “I caught a glimpse of Paulie. Have you figured out how you’re to discharge that particular burden?”
“Not yet, no. I could always call up Arneson or Beach.” Bridge stared into his half-finished drink visualizing the two hired guns, mentally toting up their qualifications for such a task. Arneson was cybered-up enough to be more than a physical match for the ex-footballer. Beach claimed to be a shootist, one of the few assassins who followed some weird sort of Samurai honor by killing their prey with the most impossible displays of trick shooting. Beach’s flair was way too expensive and Arneson was fucking crazy. Come to think of it, Bridge believed they were both two steps over the line from crazy into batshit territory, but they were effective. But worst of all, Bridge really just didn’t want to kill anybody. Paulie was a thug, a son-of-a-bitch and a sadistic cunt, but he’d just been doing a job. Even the threats he’d made to Angela at the end were just how things were done. Once he started whacking guys who crossed him, Bridge became no better than thugs like Paulie or Nicky Sharver. Besides, Bridge HAD cost Paulie a couple of fingers. “I’d rather not get into the assassination game if there’s another out.”
Aristotle nodded knowingly. Though they never spoke much about it, he respected Bridge for the fixer’s hesitance to use violence. Bridge didn’t even let Aristotle fight for him, claiming that he couldn’t afford a real bodyguard. Even so, Bridge was sure that if needed, the man would take a bullet for him. Aristotle was THAT guy. Bridge wasn’t. Aristotle grinned at him and said, “We’re going to have to start calling you the Not So Amoral Bridge if you don’t watch out.”
Both men giggled. “Fuck off. I didn’t make up that nickname!”
“And yet, you use it with such prodigious frequency.” Bridge shrugged.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, letting the music wash over them. The Ardents were building their set to a crescendo, the music stacking itself in layers upon layers as if independent of the musicians’ actions. Drums fed into guitars into cowbells into bass intertwining with video snippets and found sounds. The tension between the duo was palpable, and only Bridge knew why. The tap Bobby had put on his sister’s life months ago had been discovered, and she was ultra-pissed about it. Rather than tear the band apart though, it actually improved their live performances, their anger and resentment towards each other feeding a fire of creativity that infused the music with an almost heavenly quality. Bridge wished he’d hired a bootlegger to catch this performance, but he had been too busy to think of it. He made a mental note to do just that for their next gig, if there was one. Since the Arsenal had shut down after Twiggs’ death, the
Tanz
was one of the few clubs that would still book them, even though the vapid celebrity clientele didn’t appreciate this kind of challenging music.
Behind the music, something was building, something at the very edge of hearing/seeing/thinking. At first, Bridge thought it was just a new psychoacoustic effect the siblings had added to the show, but as it began to tickle the interface jack at the base of his skull, he realized it was something else. Lethstiike a tide slowing rolling into a wave that fed itself into larger and larger waves until the whole sea bubbled over and buried everything underneath its watery embrace, this something radiated out from the jack through the nerves in his spine, his shoulders and hips and arms and legs and hands and feet and fingers and toes.
Bridge began to scream and he was not alone.
*****
Chapter 2
November 2, 2028
01:39 a.m.
There were ghosts in the club.
The
Tanz
was full of people both there and not there, a disorienting dance of ghost figures and solid constructs, neither one carrying the visual or physical solidity Bridge’s mind required to surround himself with a coherent reality. His head, his mind was in searing pain, trying to reconcile itself with its warped perceptions. The club itself was the ghost, the dance floor, even the table beneath his hands an immaterial shimmering construct of light. His hands were translucent, their edges fuzzy and glowing with reflected energy yet they did not pass through the ghostly table.
The rest of the club had the same smoky quality, a half-remembered mirage left on the inside of his eyelids. Some of the club’s patrons looked around at themselves as if seeing their bodies for the first time, while others were staring at these lost souls as if snakes were crawling out of their ears. The latter were even less substantial than the former, barely lit phantoms observing an alien landscape.
Overlaid on top of the club’s interior was another world, another series of lights and sounds and smells and things, all of it much more substantial than the actual club. His table was wrapped with another table like the skin of a 3D texture, a rough-hewn wooden table with the knots of the tree’s rings still visible underneath a slick varnish. An ornate flagon of ale rested on the table in the same position as Bridge’s bourbon. It was so real he could smell the ale, see the beads of overflowing liquid tinkling down the side of the metal cup.
Across from him, in the place of Aristotle sat Angela in her virtual disguise as the Baroness Eletheia, the white-haired lich queen of the virtual world Ars-Perthnia. “Angie?” Bridge stammered, his voice sounding distorted and distant, as if he heard it underwater.
“Artie? What the hell are you doing in… what am I doing in the
Tanz
? Everything’s going slideways… sideways… losing focus…” She ://amtheirseemed to be struggling with something, something that Bridge could even now hear in his head.
The sound wasn’t even an audible sound, so much as a driving compulsion, a rumbling emotion that crested in waves barely underneath the level of perception. It was a name a place a thought a concept a there a here a thing a people a something he needed to get out of his head. And as it grew he screamed its name.
The club returned to normal, the ghosts gone as quickly as they came. He was on his knees by the table, and he was screaming.
One word. “Boulder!”
*****
Aristotle was shaking him, the gargantuan bodyguard firmly gripping his shoulders while screaming in his face. Bridge shrugged off the hands angrily, answering back with a “What?! I hear you!” Bridge had somehow slipped to the floor. He grabbed hold of the chair and tried to pull himself up, but the exploding lights that blurred his vision caused him to sit right back down. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“You were screaming out the word ‘Boulder’ over and over,” Aristotle replied with a concerned expression.
“Yeah, Boulder. What the fuck was that about Boulder? Where did Angie go?” He finally noticed the silence of the club. There was no beat, no music, just the murmuring of dozens of similar conversations being had all about the place. He peered around through the dense smoke and dim lighting. Fully half of the club’s patrons were on the floor, some still screaming like Bridge had been while others were in various states of disheveled confusion. Even the Ardents were on their backs. Their vocal mikes were still hot, and Bridge could hear Bobby screaming. The singer lay writhing on the floor staring blankly at the ceiling. The unaffected patrons were busy either trying to help their friends or trying hard to ignore it, fearful of catching whatever had caused the seizures.
Bridge’s interface jack was burning and itching and throbbing painfully all at the same time, and he began to rub it as he mulled over the seizure. Maybe it was some nanobiological in the air? That was the only way to affect so many people without spiking every drink in the club, but such a tactic would likely have affected everyone and not such a random selection. Or was it random? As Bridge examined each victim closely, a pattern began to form. The conscious ones were all rubbing their necks, and not just their necks but the same spot on the back of their necks. It was the spot where interface jacks were implanted, right underneath the hairline at the base of the skull. He peered closely at the ones who were not affected. None seemed to have an interface jack.
“Look around, Aristotle,” Bridge whispered. “Notice something?” The big man shook his head. “Look closer, man. Everybody on the floor has a jack. You ain’t jacked, are you?”
“Negative. I always felt wrong about defacing such a splendid body with cold metal just to see the Web faster.”
Bridge frowned. “That’s not what we use them… never mind. It only hit the ones with jacks. What the fuck is…?” Just then, Bridge’s musing was interrupted by the sound of ringtones, a chorus of ringtones sounding out at once from all over the club. Cell phone hand units were buzzing, screeching their pop music snippets and default tones all at once. Every person who had not been affected by the first wave was answering a phone. Bridge looked over to Aristotle, who retrieved his phone from the front pants pocket and flipped open the screen. “Who is it?”
“It’s a text. It says, ‘Boulder’.”
“That’s it? Just one word?”
“Affirmative, just the one word. ‘Boulder.’ What the hell is going on, Bridge?”
The band used a set of video screens set to randomly switch between GlobalNet feeds, and Bridge noticed a number of news feeds in the spew. One in particular caught his eye, a shiny logo that said “Breaking News: Boulder Rocked.” He chuckled at the overbearing cheese. Jumping up, ignoring the dizziness that caused him to wobble on his feet, he made his way to the DJ’s booth next to the stage. The DJ, who had been relaxing with a drink during the Ardents’ set, was laid out on the floor next to the attractive blonde he had been hitting on. Bridge reached over the DJ’s panel to stop the random switching, focusing all the club’s monitors on that news feed. Chrono News Network raged into loud life around the club, causing Bridge to dial back the sound. The screen was overtaken with the stylized titles, dramatic music playing in the background.
“We’ve just gotten word out of Boulder, Colorado of an unspecified explosion. We’ll be taking you to an affiliate in the Denver area shortly with an on-the-scene report.”
Bridge stared over at Aristotle, whose face had gone an ashen color. The bodyguard frantically punched in a number on his phone, putting the ear piece to his head and chewing nervously on a thumbnail.
*****
Interlude
November 2, 2028
01:45 a.m.
The following is a transcript from the November 2nd, 2028 early morning broadcast on the Chrono News Network (CNN), preorkas ovsented by Candy Fontaine with the title Breaking News: Boulder Rocked.
(1:45 a.m.) Fontaine:
We’re just receiving word in our studios of some kind of explosion or ongoing event in the city of Boulder, Colorado. Early reports are sketchy. Perhaps a gas main has exploded or there’s been some sort of industrial accident. We’re not really sure of the source, or the number of casualties, but eyewitnesses from as far away as Denver are reporting a column of fire stretching hundreds of feet in the air.
(1:48 a.m.) Fontaine:
I’ve now been given a bit more information on that explosion in Boulder, Colorado. The apparent epicenter of the explosion is the University of Colorado campus located on the western side of the city. Eyewitnesses have reported a column or plume of fire rising hundreds of feet into the air, lighting up the night sky as bright as day. We have unconfirmed reports, and I want to stress that these are completely uncorroborated reports that the fire took some sort of shape, like a bird or… is this right? A bird or a dragon or something similar. Again, those reports are unconfirmed.
The University of Colorado at Boulder has an enrollment of over 30,000 students, with over 15,000 housed on the campus itself. Again, there’s no word on the number of casualties or the cause.
We’re going to be bringing you video of the incident from the local affiliate in Denver, WCAF TV7, who has a crew on the scene now. Who am I speaking with?
Thad Melton (via cell phone):
This is Thad Melton, action reporter with WCAF TV7, Candy.
Fontaine:
I understand you have some video to show us, Thad. Can you set the scene?
Melton:
Certainly, Candy. It was a typical November night in Colorado, a slight chill in the air with patches of the first snow on the ground. Roughly eleven minutes ago, a roaring explosion broke that stillness. The resultant fireball lit up the night sky for miles around. In fact, I can see the light from here.
Fontaine:
And how far is it to Boulder from your location?
Melton:
It’s about 28 miles from Boulder to our station and the sky is still lit up. Can you see the light?
Fontaine:
Yes, Thad. My God, that’s almost 30 miles away and it’s bright as late afternoon. Thad, have you heard anything about casualties? We’ve been told it came from the University? Can you confirm?
Melton:
No, Candy, I can’t confirm its location. We’re firing up our traffic helicopter now to get a better view of the situation. I can confirm that communications into and out of the city have been completely cut off. Cell phones, GlobalNet access, landlines, radio, it’s all gone silent. We’ve made multiple attempts to contact our Boulder offices and some of our employees that live in the city, and so far we cannot get through. [
Muffled
] Ready… ok, let’s go. Candy, s ct I’m going to have to get back with you, our chopper is ready to take off.
Fontaine:
Keep us posted, Thad, and be careful. Again, to update, we have reports of a mysterious explosion in Boulder, Colorado with a massive fireball that has lit up the sky for almost 30 miles around.
*****
(2:02 a.m.) Fontaine:
We’re going to take you back to Boulder for an update from Thad Melton of WCAF TV7 in Denver. Thad is currently in a helicopter over Boulder, isn’t that correct, Thad?
Melton: Yes, Candy, I think we’re currently circling the Boulder area. The reason I say ‘think’ is because even our pilot isn’t sure where exactly we are. He tells me that our normal navigational instruments are going haywire. I’m looking at the helicopter’s compass and it’s spinning wildly as if something is interfering with the magnetic field around us. The turbulence is unbelievable.
Fontaine:
Thad, can you see the blast site? Is there a fire?
Melton:
Candy, I’m not entirely sure what I’m seeing. I apologize for the lack of a video feed. As we began to approach the city limits of Boulder, my cameraman suddenly collapsed into some kind of trance. He’s just mumbling the word Boulder over and over again. I’ll try to grab his camera and… Oh my GOD!
Fontaine:
Thad, are you all right? Thad? Are you there?
Melton:
Yes, yes, Candy, I’m still here. I just got a glimpse of the blast site. It was hard to see at first because the power seemed to be out all over the city. It’s just an inky blackness below us, no streetlights or signs of buildings or life anywhere. But it’s not a blackout, Candy. Our chopper just got close enough for the lights to reflect off of this… It’s hard to describe. It appears that a dome of some kind is surrounding the city, a shiny, coal-black bubble as far as the eye can see. What’s our altitude, Steve? Candy, we’re hovering around 1,500 feet up, and probably a couple hundred feet below us is this dome. I can’t see any anything through its surface.
Fontaine:
Thad, do you have the capability to send us a picture of the dome?
Melton:
I’m going to see if my camera is still active. [
Sound of muffled fumbling
] Yes, Candy, the light is still on. We have a live feed. Joe, are you getting this back at the station
? [Picture of Melton appears on screen
] Candy, do you have this feed?
Fontaine:
Do we have that? Yes, Thad, we’re seeing you clearly.
Melton:
Ok, I’m going to turn the camera on the dome. [
Little is seen at first. The camera jostles frantically. The helicopter’s running lights blink on and off, reflecting off of a dark, mirror-like surface. The chopper’s main floodlight struggles to find an end to the surface.
] I can’t tell for sure, but I think this dome may be covering the entire city. Wait, something’s happening.
[
Veins of light begin pulsating through the surface at irregular intervals.
] I don’t know if you can see this Candy, but there are tiny streaks of light glowing on the surface. They seem to be blinking in a pattern and building in intensity. I’m straining against the window to see where they are going but they seem to be gathering around a point below us. It’s getting stronger. Wow, it’s getting really bright. Hey, Steve, should we be this close to that? Candy, are you getting this? I can hear a sound now, like a whooshing sound, and it’s getting louder and louder. Oh God. It’s… it’s like lightning on the surface, except it’s an orange color. Steve, I think we should definitely be moving away from that. It’s going to hit… [
Loud burst of static as the picture blinks out
]
Fontaine:
Thad? THAD? My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, we appear to have lost contact with our fellow reporter Thad Melton from WCAF TV7 in Denver as he was investigating the source of the mysterious explosion in Boulder, Colorado. I hope it’s only technical difficulties. As soon as we have more information or can get Thad back on the air, we’ll let you know.
We’ve also begun receiving multiple reports of what appears to be some kind of mass hallucination or seizure. Reports are coming in from Los Angeles, Denver, St. Louis, Seattle that people with certain types of cybernetic implants called interface jacks have been struck catatonic. Most of the stricken seem to be mumbling or screaming something about Boulder. What connection this has with the mysterious explosion in Boulder is still to be determined.
*****
Chapter 3
November 2, 2028
02:07 a.m.
The crowd in the Tanz looked on the events playing out on the screen in stunned silence. People looked from one face to the other as in a shared dream state, experiencing the uneasy camaraderie of the traumatized herd too shocked to remember the natural distrust they should have of each other. The house lights had been turned on somewhere in the middle of the broadcast, and Bridge’s eyes ached. He’d been going pretty hard lately, a three-day stretch of lost sleep and constant footwork. His body still felt the effects of the hallucinogenic seizure he’d experienced, and the other jackeost od-in victims appeared equally drained.
Bridge jumped as his cell connection buzzed to a life, a tingly irritating vibration in the back of his skull that signaled an incoming call. “This is Bridge, go,” he said by reflex.
“Was that you ghosting through Ars just a minute ago?” It was Bridge’s girlfriend, Angela. He could feel the barely-controlled panic in her voice. “I was cruising the taverns and I swear I saw you in the
Blooded Falchion
, but then I was in the
Tanz
with you. And what was that about Boulder?” Angela was one of the operators of the virtual world Ars-Perthnia, spending most of her time in that world dressed as the lich-queen Baroness Eletheia.
“Are you still jacked in?”
“Of course, there’s a tourney tonight.”
“Check the news feeds, baby.”
“Which one? CNN?”
“Any of them. All of them. It’s all over the place. Boulder just went nuclear or something.”
“Oh my God, hold on.” The artificial sound of virtual breath being drawn tickled Bridge’s auditory nerves. It was hard for someone in a crèche to gasp, but she managed it. “What the fuck happened?”
“They don’t have any idea. But apparently that little hallucination you just had of me in the
Blooded Falchion
was shared. I swear I was in the
Falchion
AND the at the same goddamn time. You know that weirdo feeling you get when you’re jacked in without a crèche and have to look at the real world and the Net at the same time? That double image bullshit that gives you a headache from hell? That’s what it was like. I could feel the table twice. Always makes me feel like the walking dead.”
“Did you jack in wireless?”
“Hell, no. You know I don’t jack in anymore unless I have to. This wasn’t conscious, it just happened.”
“You sure you didn’t get slipped a nannymick?” Bridge had already considered the idea of a nanobot attack and dismissed it.
He replied, “If it had just been me, I’d have considered it. But everybody in the club with a jack got hit the same way, all screaming out ‘Boulder’ over and over again. Ask around in the joint, see if the other gamers had the same experience.” Bridge noticed Aristotle for the first time. The bodyguard was frantically dialing numbers on his cell, putting the receiver to his ear, then cursing at something and repeating the process. “I’ll get back with you, Angie. Something to take care of.” Angela broke the connection quickly, with barely a word. Bridge wondered if he should have given an ‘I love you’ but was still unsure where their relationship stood. Living together was one thing, actually saying the words and meaning them with everything that entailed? Something for another time.
“Yo, brother, what’s the problem? Who you trying to call?”
Aristotle looked up quickly from the phone in his hand, his expression one of sheer abject animal terror. He quickly went back to the receiver, dialing again and cursing while ignoring Bridge’s question. His curses only grew louder as his frustration grew. “Fucking piece of shit, why won’t you get through?” he finally screamed into his palm. As if realizing where he was, he looked around quickly and saw the stares of the nearby patrons. Everyone in the joint was on edge, their nerves frayed from the disruption of their normal lives by the outright weird. Bridge put a hand on Aristotle’s shoulder and led him away.
“Calm it down, big guy. We got a reputation to protect. Now who are you trying to call?”
Aristotle seemed unwilling to tell Bridge at first, his eyes darting from Bridge to the phone and back. At last he sighed and stared into Bridge’s eyes. Almost on the verge of tears, he said, “My grandmother. She lives in Boulder, Bridge, and I cannot raise her. I think she’s dead.”
*****
“Whoa there. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Slow it down, breathe and let’s work this, ok? I’m sure you’re grandmother is fine.”
Aristotle’s expression grew sour, the hint of sarcastic disbelief in his wry smirk. “What do you care? You aren’t exactly family guy now are you?”
“Just because I’m an amoral shitheel doesn’t mean I don’t got family… somewhere,” Bridge replied. His thoughts drifted to his parents for the briefest of seconds before he pushed the memories aside. They were out there somewhere, but damn if he cared where. “You never talked about your grandmother, so I just expected you didn’t have one.”
“Gram pretty much raised me. My parents split when my dad was in Iraq and my mom was a no good nothing, or so Gram said. Last I talked to her, she was living in Boulder.”
“Where in Boulder? Near that big dome thing?”
“I cannot be certain.”
“Well, see, there you go. It couldn’t have covered the whole goddamn city, right?” Aristotle nodded meekly. “Maybe she’s in the part that isn’t covered.”
“She was living near the university when I left Boulder. The artsy district. She’s a bit of a Bohemian. I haven’t been back since I left. I haven’t even visited her. What if she’s dead?”
“Hold on, let’s not jump to conclusions. So she’s by the university. I can get Angie to start pouring through the feeds, see if they can pinpoint this thing. It may not even be anywhere near her.”
“Then why can’t I get her on the phone, Bridge?”
“Shit just kicked off, big boy. The power was out. Maybe it knocked out the networks around there. Hell, maybe everybody in the country with family there is trying to call in, or everybody trapped in that bubble thing is trying to call out. The whole network could be jammed to hell and back. You remember what happened during the riots, how nobody could get any kind of service, no GlobalNet, nothing? That’s probably what it is.”
Aristotle had been staring down at his feet the whole time, nodding at each new proffered morsel of hope. As Bridge finished, he raised his head again with a forceful nod, his mind made up. “That’s it, then. I must go there. I have to go find out if she’s ok. You have to come with me.”
“Wait… what? Hold your horses there, big guy. You’re talking crazy talk.”
“No, I’m not. You said it yourself, the whole network could be down or jammed, and it could be days before it clears up. She could be outside the bubble. She could be wandering around alone in a daze. There’s no way I can spend days wondering if she’s ok. I have to go find her, get her out if I can.”
“How the hell do you plan on doing that? The cops, the national guard, the goddamn LGL is probably going to lock that site down tighter than a nun’s habit.”
Aristotle nodded. “That’s correct, and they are likely even now setting up plans for evacuation camps to hold the survivors. And who better to navigate the red tape of survivors, bureaucrats, cops and administrators than you. Those situations are where you shine.”
Bridge grinned with egotistical pride for a moment. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work. You’re stroking my ego, brother, trying to get me to go along. It is not going to work. Colorado ain’t my stomping grounds. I don’t know nobody there.”
“Since when is there a place you don’t know somebody?”
“Ok, fair enough, I know a guy. But I’ll be totally out of my pond. Plus, I got work to do here. I can’t just toss nights of profit away on somebody’s grandmother.” The force of Aristotle’s reaction slammed the breath out of Bridge. Aristotle had lifted him completely off his feet and into the wall behind him.
“Listen, Bridge. Since I know that you are a cold-hearted bastard, I’ll ignore the insults. I’ll even ignore your lack of sympathy. But I will not ignore the fact that you OWE me.” Aristotle’s eyes narrowed to piercing slits. “That’s right, motherfucker. I am calling in the marker on that one. I went to jail for you, and I’m a two-strike man. I could have gone away for a long time FOR you, so let’s be entirely clear here. I need your help, and you will, aheight="0" give it to me, whether from empathy for someone you call a friend or because you well and truly owe me. At this point, I don’t care which it is. Are we clear?”
“You picked a bad time to call in a marker,” Bridge replied with a grin. “All right, put me down, goddamnit.” Aristotle let him down gently, smoothing out his lapels as he did so. “I help you with this, we’re square, right? No matter what turns out?” The bodyguard nodded.
“Then we’re going to need some help,” Bridge said. He dialed up the one person he really didn’t want to ask. While Bridge owed his life to Aristotle he owed as much and more to Stonewall Ricardo.
*****