Bridge Across the Stars: A Sci-Fi Bridge Original Anthology

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Entering her office felt like slipping into an old coat. “This place looks the same,” I said after she closed the door behind her. The fake friendliness of the negotiations under way in the front parlor, as Minnie called it, faded to a dull roar. “It’s what I like about it.”

  “You and everyone else,” Minnie said, amused. “My customers like to know what they’re getting, each and every time.”

  I turned with a grin and noticed her absently wiping her lower lip. They don’t call her Minnie the Mouth for nothing. Actually, for two things. I was here for the second.

  “I need information,” I said.

  “Yeah? And Mars has two moons.” Minnie strolled over to her desk with lazy legs that knew a paying customer wasn’t watching. She kicked off her heels and flopped into a chair. “You know, you never come to visit when you don’t need something. Not even a ‘How you doing, Minnie? Business been good, Minnie?’ first.”

  “No time for pleasantries. I need what I need and I’ll beat feet out of here.”

  She blew out her disgust. “Typical male. What is it this time? Someone steal something from Tony Two-point oh? Make the Big Boss Man mad, did they?”

  Maybe it’s because every job I do is basically the same, or maybe it’s because, after celebrating her fifth 39th birthday, Minnie has a lifetime of hard-earned expertise in reading people. But sometimes she hits the nail too squarely on the head for her own good. Someday it might get her killed. I decided not to add to those odds today.

  “I can’t tell you the what. I just need help finding the who.”

  “You’re no fun, Stacks.”

  “That’s not what you said last time I was here.”

  “I owed you for running those twin thugs out before they hurt another one of my girls.”

  “I remember.”

  “I felt I owed you big time.”

  “I remember. You delivered, too.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Does that shared reminiscence count as a pleasantry?”

  “That particular one?” Minnie gazed off and closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah, that counts.” She reached across her desk and pulled the top off a decanter. “How much of a hurry are you in?”

  “One drink’s worth of a hurry.”

  Minnie filled two glasses with amber ambrosia and pushed one in my direction. I picked it up and said, saluting, “Bottoms up.”

  She saluted back. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  That woman doesn’t miss a beat. She downed the bourbon in one gulp. I followed suit out of courtesy. “What I prefer is Scotch.”

  “I prefer girls, and see where that’s gotten me?”

  That plussed my non for half a second. Minnie was diverting me, as was her wont. I set my glass down and said, “I’m looking for a man named Blalock. Mason Blalock. Ring a bell?”

  Ignoring my pressing schedule, Minnie poured us a second round. I let mine breathe. She didn’t.

  “The EF geek that stole the super-secret tech?”

  Shit. Minnie, you live a dangerous life. And I’m not talking about the daily need for antibiotics. My silence answered her question.

  “I heard the marshals were hot on his trail,” she said, still fishing.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Whispers in the Basement.”

  Ah, the Basement—that second tier below the sanitized top layer of CorpNet—where only those who pay to play can get access. Taboo porn and SynCorp stock tips are the most popular search returns. And something called The Real Story, a series of non-stop real-time videos streaming the most recent rubbernecking eye-bait—whatever puerile happening will get viewers to tune in for the flash-ads that pop up in-between. The Company considers what shows up in the Basement as a safety valve for public angst. Sometimes SynCorp even seeds content to push public commentary in a certain direction. When things get a little too close to the truth, plugs get pulled. And I’m talking more than power plugs.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said.

  “Honey, I don’t believe half of what I hear, and less than half of what I see. It’s the only way to keep your sanity in a place like this”—she finished off her second bourbon. Then, chuckling—“and your sense of humor.”

  I nodded. I could relate. My line of work demanded a similar indulgence of the darker side of human nature. “Anyway, Blalock? If all you know is what’s in the Basement…”

  Minnie poured herself a third drink. Either it was the end of her shift or the beginning. Hard to know which one she’d need the liquid meds for more.

  “Don’t insult me,” she said. “Do I question your professionalism?”

  She watched me slowly shake my head over the rim of her empty glass. Sometimes I’m smart and keep my trap shut despite my knee-jerk tendency to mouth off. There were only the distant sounds of loud-mouthed braggarts and half-hearted gigglers bubbling in from the bar.

  “Aw, hell, Stacks,” she said finally, the bourbon already making her s’s lazy. Beginning of shift, I guessed. Minnie prefers to work on an empty stomach. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t mention it. Now, about Blalock?”

  Minnie’s a good kid and I didn’t want to be rude, but I really was in a hurry. I had no idea what Ra’uf Erkennen’s time table might be. But with the marshals called off, he might advance his schedule to move against the Taulke Faction. However that shook out, Tony was convinced it’d be in the public space, and it was real hard to put a bad-news genie like that back in the bottle. Any evidence of open warfare among the factions would only encourage the Resistance. The sooner I completed my contract, the better.

  “I hear he’s gone way deep,” she said, kicking into business mode.

  “The slums?”

  “Deeper.”

  “Lower London?”

  “Uh-huh. You gonna drink that?” She motioned toward my still-waiting glass.

  “Help yourself.”

  I thought how that made sense. Lower London, wholly underground beneath Darkside proper. Originally built as sustainable housing by some Englishman and his millions. Now, like the rest of Darkside, it was a bleaker reality of its promised potential. Most people just called it the Sewer because, well, shit runs downhill, even on the moon. If you wanted to lose yourself among the refuse who populated Darkside, Lower London would be the best place to do it. No one stepped into the Sewer who ever wanted to come out again.

  Minnie sipped her fourth dose of medicine and said, “The marshals were prepping for a raid on the down-below when someone called off the dogs. Though I hear all the hounds haven’t stopped baying yet.”

  That woke me out of my pre-loathing about having to tromp through the Sewer. “What do you mean?”

  She set the glass down. Her eyes lost focus for a tick, then set hard again. “I mean that sometimes a badger remembers why they’re supposed to be wearing the star. Not everyone clocks in and out when the Company tells them to.”

  “A true-bluer?”

  Minnie nodded, her eyes blurring again.

  Nine out of ten marshals were just deputized muscle for the Company. Petty crime and enforcement of SynCorp law fell to them. And, most of the time, they did their job like you’d expect. Seeing that five-pointed star on a uniformed chest comforted the citizens of Sol, made them feel like some part of their old life on Earth really had made it to the stars with them. In reality, most marshals were on the take—either looking the other way during business hours or moonlighting as hired help for one faction or another.

  But every once in a while, someone wore the star who actually did care. About their job. About justice.

  I hate those guys. They make my work more complicated. SynCorp and even the Marshals Service itself didn’t suffer them lightly. Being a straight shooter in a crooked game is the fastest way to feel the final embrace of Mother Universe.

  “You’re telling me some true-bluer is still bird-dogging Blalock? Even after Tony passed
the word…”

  I shut my mouth and glanced down at my empty glass. Goddamn it, Minnie’s good. Good at getting information out of shmucks like me, information that can get her killed.

  Minnie was smiling with her perfect mouth. “Now, Stacks, you used to be smarter’n that.” She gave a lazy wink that, had she been less drunk and twenty years younger…

  “And you’re too damned smart for your own good,” I growled. “That’s all you’re getting out of me tonight, Minerva. Got a name on the marshal?”

  Her smile faded at my use of her given name. “Just a last one,” she said, rising slowly from the chair. She was irritated. The bourbon had made her playful, and I wouldn’t play. “Darrow.”

  “Darrow, got it. Any idea where—?”

  Minnie had walked around the desk and now she leaned into me. She placed one hand on my shoulder to hold herself up. The other found my inseam. “Why not stay a while?” she asked.

  “I told you,” I said, the blood rushing south, out of my resolve. “I’ve got business.”

  “I can feel that.”

  “Minnie—where can I.…” I cleared my throat. “Where can I find this Marshal Darrow?”

  Her fingers stopped measuring me for a new pair of trousers. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

  I stood up abruptly, so fast it set her back on her wobbly heels. I grabbed her with a soft hand to keep her on her feet.

  “Not tonight I’m not. Can you clue me in or not?”

  “Sure, Einstein. I’d start with the marshal’s outpost in the Sewer,” she said, petulant and pouting. Minnie always seemed less the hardboiled madam and more the mean little girl when she was drunk. “Like I said—they were ready to raid when Tony Taulke called ’em off.”

  “Thanks.” Rising, I headed for the door.

  “Hey, Stacks?” she said behind me.

  Turning, I watched her pick up the decanter of bourbon again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop back on your way out of Darkside?”

  I paused. Doubtful. Tony would want a firsthand report tout de suite, and in person. No way for the communication to be tapped, if I reported in person. The decanter clinked and clanked against the rim of her glass. I watched bourbon slop onto the desk.

  “I’ve been getting stiffed by customers lately, and I don’t mean in a good way,” she said, adding a leer like drinkers do when they think the person they’re talking to is as dull as they are drunk. “Now, when you stiff me—”

  “I’ll try to stop by,” I said to stop her talking. I like Minnie; I like her a lot. We’re two peas in a pathetic pod. Only I kill people for a living. She just screws them. “Thanks for the info, Minnie.”

  I beat feet before my sympathy for an old, drunk whore made me decide to stay.

  * * *

  If the up-top of Darkside smells like humanity overripe and underfed, the Sewer smells worse. SynCorp doesn’t much care whether the artificial gravity works reliably on the moon, and that plays havoc with the waste reclamation located in the down-below. The corridors of Lower London, more narrow than up top, slosh now and then with gray filth when you walk. Lower London is like its namesake in older times, I guess. Minus the frilly Shakespeare clothes.

  More like a toll booth than an outpost, the marshal’s station was easy to find. It has a sign over the door. It’s the brightest thing in the Sewer as you come off the ramp, so you can’t miss it. I hiked my collar and lowered my hat when I got close.

  “I’m looking for the deputy in charge,” I said to the grizzled twenty-something on duty. Dark figures passed within the alcoves along the main corridor leading deeper into Lower London. Their feet stirred up the smell of the sludge around me. If I weren’t armed to the teeth, I’d be concerned about the element I was stepping into. And I don’t just mean the shit slurry on the ground.

  “That’d be me,” the grizzled twenty-something said.

  He didn’t bother to look up from his padd. The way his thumb was moving, I figured he must be either about to win the game he was playing or about to lose it.

  “No, I mean, really in charge. Someone in command down here.”

  The sad sound effects of defeat spun out from his padd. Losing, then. Cursing, the unshaven whelp of a lawman looked up. “Name’s Mustafar. And like I said, if you need a marshal, I’m the guy. You think they’d put a veteran with reputation down this shithole?”

  Fair point. “Deputy Mustafar, then.” I looked around. “Is there someplace we can have a private conversation?”

  Mustafar gestured at the barely man-sized booth around him. “I’d offer you my office, but it’s a little cramped. Now, what do you want? I’m busy.”

  I glanced at his padd but held my tongue. “I was just wondering if Deputy Darrow was around?”

  His expression flattened. He wasn’t much interested in playing games anymore, that’s for sure.

  “What do you want with Darrow?” He gave me a curious eye. “Do I know you?”

  “Don’t think so. Darrow and I? Old friends. Mutual acquaintance told me he was assigned down here. Thought I’d—”

  “Old friends, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well she—Deputy Darrow—is unavailable.”

  Shit. And I’d had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that right, too. Ah, well. Sometimes the best thing to do when caught in a lie is to own it with a smile.

  I crossed my arms—an old trick, just in case I needed to draw—and smiled. “Hey, friend, you got me. I was just—”

  “What do you want with Darrow?” he asked again. I watched him shift his weight to the right. I imagined him pressing a button under the lip of the counter in front of him. Seemed like his suspicion had touched on a memory. “Do I know you?”

  My options were suddenly very limited. But killing a marshal, even in the Sewer, might blow back on Tony in the court of public opinion. Could even help Ra’uf Erkennen with his plan to take over.

  “You know what?” I said, backing away. “I think I’ll look for ole Darrow myself. Sorry to have interrupted your game.”

  “Hey! I do know you! Stop right there!”

  Double shit. Out of options.

  “You’re Fischer! Taulke’s assassin!” Mustafar fumbled beneath the counter.

  I pulled my stunner. My eyes were on him, but at the same moment, I felt a shadow moving with purpose behind me. I hesitated on the trigger—and everything went real dark real fast.

  The Twist

  Waking up after being clocked from behind is a tricky thing. If you’ve got your wits, you do it slowly to get the lay of the land before whoever put your lights out realizes you’re awake.

  “You can open your eyes.” A woman’s voice. “Go on, Fischer, I know you’re awake.”

  Well, no need to play possum then. I raised my head off my chest and felt a spider’s web of pain shoot across the back of my skull. She’d cold-cocked me good, all right.

  “Deputy Marshal True-Blue Darrow, I assume.” I blinked away the blackout and took her in through the orange spots. She was slight for a marshal, almost comically so, though her size emphasized a kind of fierce beauty. The badge over her left breast hung like an oversized star on the too-small canvas of her uniform.

  “And you’re Stacks Fischer. Tony Taulke’s assassin to the stars.”

  The orange spots had finally cleared out. “Since you know who I am, you know this little tussle can permanently direct the course of your career. Cut me loose and let me walk out of here, and I’ll forget it ever happened.”

  Darrow thrust her hips to one side and crossed her arms. “Do I look stupid to you?”

  “I try never to judge on first appearances.”

  “Funny.”

  I sat up … slowly … and rested against the wall. The room we were in had a film of something slimy on the floor. The seat of my pants felt soaked. Darrow had bound my feet, but that was all. I must’ve woken up too fast for her to finish tying me up.

  “Maybe we should j
ust space him, Glau.”

  I turned my head and found Mustafar standing there. He looked every bit the ten years younger than Darrow he was. Seeing them together, I sized up the situation real quick. Deputy Marshal Mustafar was into older women.

  “Quiet, Amin,” Darrow said. Then, looking at me, “Never tell the criminal element your plans.”

  I laughed, but the mirth was short-lived. The lump on the back of my head reminded me I wasn’t in a laughing mood. “You’re not going to kill me,” I said.

  Darrow cocked an eyebrow. She was good at the body language thing. Being short had helped her develop other necessary survival skills. “Don’t be so sure,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m one-hundred percent sure.” I stared at her straight. “For one thing, I woke up. If you wanted me dead, I’d be that way by now. Second, you’re smart enough to know you can’t kill me and get away with it. Tony would put you in a decompression chamber and reduce the PSI for a week until your eyeballs finally exploded. Third—you’re not a killer,” I said, with a knowing look at her boyfriend, Deputy Big Mouth.

  Damn. Darrow’s ears had been distracted by my little speech, but her eyes had noticed my right hand flexing.

  “Looking for the knife?” She moved aside and there, lined up on a table behind her, were my three insurance policies: my stunner, my .38, and my spring-blade.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Let’s just space him! No one will—”

  “Shut up, Amin!” Darrow’s voice was short and spoke of a growing irritation with her puppy-dog lover. At the look Mustafar gave her, Darrow’s face melted into quick regret. She was in new territory having me as a prisoner. Life was getting more stressful by the minute. “Look, just go back out to the booth and keep watch, okay? Before Central notices you’re gone.”

  “Fine,” he said. Then, “I’ve put everything on the line for you, Glau.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t fuck this up.”

  “I know.”

  Mustafar threw a last leer my way, to which I puckered up and blew him a kiss. His look of disgust made its exit with the rest of him.