The Bridge

by Simon Winstanley

  THE BRIDGE

  Simon Winstanley

  Titles in the Field Series:

  Field One

  Field Two

  Boundary

  EVA

  Inside the Field: The visual guidebook

  The Bridge

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the permission of the publisher.

  www.futurewords.uk

  Copyright © Simon Winstanley 2019

  Simon Winstanley asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7040-3910-7

  To Janet, Ben and Joseph,

  my constants in the great equation.

  and

  For those who look up at the stars

  and constantly question.

  FOREWORD

  The Bridge is set within the events of the Field Series. To preserve plot details and avoid spoilers, this book is best read after completing ‘EVA’.

  Because the Field Series is woven through several thousand years, detailing many lives and events, an orientation point has been included.

  The first chapter splices directly into a moment within Field One, then dives headfirst into a plot that was hinted at throughout the entire Field Series, but never revealed.

  Until now…

  .[> - - -]

  THE WARREN

  20th November 2013

  As the name suggested ‘The Warren’ was a collection of rooms, separated by narrow access tunnels, buried deep underground. To avoid attracting attention, the facility had been built over many years and was an insurance policy against a possible apocalypse; a place of refuge should the unthinkable occur.

  Many of the rooms and tunnels were roughly hewn from the Dover rock itself, but Arrivals Room 1 was the exception. AR1 had vertical smooth walls, carpeting, soft furnishings and even a pair of thick velvety curtains that hung closed over a non-existent window.

  Looking at AR1, Marcus Blake could see that everything had been designed to resist the stark reality of the world above ground. Up there, scattered communities were held together by mutual distrust, living in fear of losing their Archive-supplied food drops. It was an imperfect but effective system of control that kept people digging shelters instead of asking questions.

  He shook his head to clear the thought and tried to focus on the next few minutes: Monica Walker, the Warren’s architect, intended to record a video message to her husband and had asked for his help.

  If the video were intercepted it had to appear completely innocuous, hopefully boring, to a casual observer. Marcus knew the trickier part would be hiding the real message in plain sight.

  While he adjusted the laptop’s video settings, Monica prepared herself for the recording.

  “How do I look?” she said.

  He looked over the top of the webcam, “Knackered.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean,” he smiled and angled the desk lamp to illuminate her.

  Before arriving here, he’d been forced to rely only on himself, but he was beginning to get used to the Warren’s small, supportive community. Over the months, Monica had increasingly sought his assistance; perhaps because his perspectives on things were not yet distorted by the constant need for deception. In Monica’s world, he knew this was a rarity.

  “OK, we’re good,” he checked the camera’s field of view, “if we don’t get it right, we can always re-take.”

  “Ready when you are, Mr. DeMille,” she looked at him, her expression deadpan.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she smiled, “Let’s go.”

  Marcus hit the enter key and the webcam began recording. Monica sat down behind the desk and looked directly into the lens.

  “My darling, Douglas,” she smiled, “What can I say? It’s been so long that I don’t know where to start. I’m overjoyed that Kate found her way to you, and I hope they’re treating you well. Things are pretty grim here I’m afraid, but Archive seem to be doing their best to feed us all.”

  Marcus saw her make the movement; her ring-finger subtly twitching to highlight the syllables in the word ‘Archive’. So far, so good, he thought.

  As scripted, Monica appeared to ramble on about ex-Ordinance Survey mappers, and a trek her parents had once taken across the States in an old Chevy Nova. For a moment, her attention appeared to drift and Marcus thought they may need to do another recording, but then she smiled.

  “They stopped at a diner with only sixty cents to their name,” she shook her head, “The owner felt so sorry for them that he gave them a full meal on the house. Ah, Douglas, those days are truly gone. When did I get so old? Memories eh?”

  Her tone now seemed to become more melancholic.

  “Memories, they ‘entrance us with the glow of brighter days, but one still hopes in tactful ways’...”

  She sniffed and shook her head as if to clear her thoughts.

  “Sorry, my darling, there were days when I used to cry for the time we’ve lost. But you know me; most days I would just think to myself - ‘Oh you nit-wit, Monica! No, get a grip!’ - But now I can finally hope to see you again!”

  Her expression seemed to lighten and she brought her message to a close. She waved to the camera with her left hand, just long enough to highlight that her wedding ring was absent, then she stood and walked out of shot.

  Marcus stopped the recording and she arrived at his side to study their script.

  “Well?” she said, “Did I miss anything out?”

  “I dunno,” he pulled the laptop around to face them, “We’ll have to check, but it looked good to me.”

  As the video replayed, they both checked that her finger movements corresponded to the specific syllables of their embedded message. When they’d finished, their written transcript had all the hidden key words underlined.

  “Archive are Exordi Nova,” Marcus read out, “Check.”

  “House gone,” Monica read on.

  Marcus could certainly testify to that. While bringing Nathan Bishop to the safety of the Warren, a helicopter gunship had utterly destroyed Samphire Cottage far above them.

  “Entrance One still intact,” she continued to read.

  Marcus knew that the only way in and out of here now was via Entrance One; a small passage at the base of the Warren that connected to the Eurotunnel.

  “Cryo unit no hope…” Monica continued checking the list, “I think that’s all the main points covered.”

  “Cryo?” Marcus pointed to one the encoded phrases, “Like cryogenics?”

  Monica began returning her various pieces of stationery to her empty desk.

  “The other USV sites around the world are essentially glorified bunkers,” she said, “Decades ago, Archive looked into cryogenics as a way for the occupants to skip over centuries. You know? The idea of reducing the need to keep food supplies, then reviving people long after Siva does its damage.”

  “I get it,” he said, “But why d’you need to tell Douglas there was ‘no hope’?”

  “I’ve been trying to use some back channels to find out if Archive eve
r developed the technique,” she shrugged, “It could’ve been useful to have Cryo units here at the Warren.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve been out of Archive too long,” she concluded, “There’s no hope of finding that info now.”

  Monica checked that no-one was in the nearby corridor then closed the door. Evidently, she wanted to say something that was for his ears only.

  “The compound that Woods has been working on,” she returned and sat at the desk, “It works.”

  “You’re serious?” Marcus kept his voice low, “The trait-enhancing thing?”

  Monica simply nodded.

  “How d’you know it works?” he pressed her.

  She pointed at the webcam and script, “I took a dose before we started. It enhanced my ability to order chaotic information.”

  Marcus stared at the script of finger-twitches, “You did it in one take.”

  “Biochemistry,” she tapped at her temples, “not luck.”

  Marcus found himself shaking his head in amazement. He knew that Monica and her husband were already intelligent. The idea that those traits could be enhanced even further both surprised and chilled him.

  “I want… no… I’d like you to do something,” she corrected herself, “You can say no, but, well…”

  Marcus felt that once again his life was about to be shaken up. It seemed that whenever he was getting too comfortable with how the world worked, someone always came along and changed the rules. It was frustrating, but over his life it had undoubtedly made him more adaptable.

  “What have you got in mind?” he asked.

  Monica nodded and unlocked the desk drawer, “Remember Bishop’s ‘Substandard’ list?”

  “Sure,” Marcus looked at the photocopies she was pulling out, “Potential carriers of the genetic… thing?”

  “Cortothene receptor,” Monica nodded, “There’s another candidate.”

  For a while now, Monica had been driven to tracking down potential descendants of those on the ‘Substandard’ list; her hope being to bring them to the safety of the Warren. Several individuals with unique genetic traits had already been retrieved, but he knew there would always be more. He now realised what Monica was about to ask him.

  The thought of venturing out into the streets above them filled him with dread.

  “Fine,” he sighed, “Who d’you want me to bring back?”

  “Her name’s Sabine Dubois,” she handed him a small piece of paper, “She’s somewhere in Paris.”

  “Funny,” he laughed, but then he saw the address on the paper, “What? For real?”

  “Yes Marcus, for real.”

  He threw his arms wide, “But I don’t speak a word of French!”

  “But you do speak code.”

  “What?” he found himself frowning.

  “When you look at computer code,” she gestured toward the laptop, “you don’t see nested brackets of text and conditions, you see blocks of functions. Connections between things that build an overall meaning. Right?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, “But that’s different to learning a new language.”

  “Not really,” she immediately replied, “You learnt to speak English by building up blocks of patterns. French is no different. She turned the laptop around and showed him a language translation webpage.

  “Marcus, you’re a whizz when it comes to bending tech to do what you want.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised him that she’d been ready for his counterarguments.

  “You type the English in here,” she pointed to a text box, “and the translation -”

  “Look, this ain’t some matrix translation shit,” he pointed at the computer screen, “Just ’cos I can see blocks of translated words, it don’t mean I can build with ’em and speak French like a native.”

  Monica smiled.

  “Not yet,” she slid what looked like a blue asthma inhaler across the desk.

  From her expression, he could tell this was Woods’ little concoction that enhanced underlying traits. Clearly she was wanting him to use it.

  Several times, when his life was about to change owing to circumstances beyond his control, he’d found himself thinking a specific set of words. Words which arrived again now.

  “Adapt or die,” he sighed and picked up the inhaler.

  THE NODE

  The situation had degraded rapidly.

  Bradley Pittman stared out through the helicopter window in disbelief.

  Everything had been going his way, but then the electric fence had been breached by some guy in an explosive vest. All hell had broken loose and he’d had to run to the helicopter. He’d been lucky to get out alive.

  Below him, the crowd was now pouring in through the overwhelmed perimeter that surrounded Öskjuvatn Lake, and people were rushing towards the bridge that led to the Node’s main island.

  Abruptly, the central third of the bridge disappeared in an explosive, orange fireball. Thick plumes of black smoke rose and he could see bodies falling, some ablaze, into the water below. Someone aboard the Node had obviously triggered the island’s cauterisation procedure.

  He heard warning tones ring out from the cockpit, then the helicopter banked sharply.

  “What the hell?” Bradley pulled the headset’s microphone into position.

  “Multiple inbound traces, Sir!” the pilot’s voice crackled, “Converging on the Node.”

  “Are they ours?” Bradley looked out of the window, but couldn’t see anything.

  “Radar can’t…” said the pilot, “There’s hundreds of ’em!”

  “Aircraft?” Bradley tried looking to the horizon behind them.

  “Looks like a swarm! Like…” he hesitated, “Drones!”

  The drones were a fairly recent Archive development; semi-autonomous, they could be given broad targeting parameters, but still required a human to activate and deploy them. Bradley knew they were flexible enough to be fitted with an array of different attachments, but out here it was likely they were carrying anti-personnel ordinance. He had no intention of becoming a mobile target. Apparently the pilot had been thinking the same thing; the cabin tipped forward as the helicopter increased speed.

  The Icelandic landscape swept by, its age-old cracks and fissures passing in a chaotic blur. From the files he’d read, NASA had once used this terrain as a training ground for the Apollo astronauts. There was a certain irony, he thought, that lethal shards of the Moon were about to return to the Earth.

  Ideally he’d wanted to get to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex in Colorado, but he knew they’d never reach it in time.

  “So where in the sweet hell do we go?” he stared out of the window.

  “Sir, the only subterranean facility in range is USV3.”

  “The pissant British thing?” the idea of being holed up in the miniature Underground Survival Village was appalling.

  At least his daughter was there, the thought offered some comfort. Once this whole lunar shards thing had blown over, maybe there would still be a way to get to Colorado.

  “OK,” he said, “Do it.”

  BOÎTE NOIRE

  As Sabine looked out across the crowded dance floor, her eyes would occasionally make contact with different people. Some would offer a smile, presumably in the hopes of instigating a closer liaison. Others would seem to stare straight through her; their distant look told her they were having trouble keeping thoughts of the outside world at bay.

  The club’s pumping rhythms and frenetic dance-floor gyrations had now become almost like background noise to her. It was perhaps because of this that she became aware of a lack of motion from one part of the room; a quiet island in the midst of a turbulent sea.

  She saw a woman who, despite her neutral facial expression, seemed to break eye contact slightly too late. Although the woman’s behaviour quickly became casual, Sabine had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that she was still under observation. It was possible that a plain-clothes gendarme had followed he
r here.

  With a frequency-punishing drop, the club was plunged into another sub-bass pounding pulse. A fresh wave of dancers washed across the small gap in the crowd, and she lost sight of the woman.

  “Pour vous,” a man had appeared at her side, offering her a bottle.

  Although the words were correct, she could tell from the flat-sounding consonants that it was not his native tongue.

  “Merci,” she thanked him and took it.

  Smiles or knowing glances across a dance floor were cheap, but actual alcohol had a material worth.

  Since the collapse, times had become infinitely harder; even coffee and chocolate were luxury items. Bottled beer was expensive and only available by trading something of higher worth. The price he’d paid was a measure of how much he’d wanted to talk to her. At the very least, she owed him the courtesy of a conversation.

  She lifted the bottle to take a drink but saw that the cap was still on.

  “Puis-je parler avec toi?” he asked to talk with her.

  “Deux minutes,” she held up two fingers.

  “Une minute,” he gave her the bottle opener.

  Clearly, this man thought he didn’t need long to charm her.

  “OK,” she extended her middle finger at him, “Une.”

  For a second, a mild smirk flickered over his face but, after taking a quick glance around the noisy room, his earnest expression returned, “OK.”

  They made their way around the outside of the room and away from the main speakers. There were no silent areas in here, but she knew where to find the quieter spots of the ‘Boîte Noire’. After pushing past several people, the crowd thinned slightly and she popped the cap off her bottle.

  The combination of continuous background music and his accent were making it hard to discern the French words he was speaking. Only by ignoring everything else around her, was she able to concentrate and decipher what he was saying.