The Bridge

by Simon Winstanley

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he began to raise his arm in a salute.

  “Stop,” she waved his arm down, “I’m a civilian, Rachel’s fine.”

  He looked confused for a second.

  “My apologies,” he took a step back, “I saw you earlier with the General, so I assumed you were part of the command structure… I… Sorry to have taken up your time.”

  “I do have a command position,” she stopped him from leaving, “more of an accident of profession than rank. Is there something I can help you with?”

  He continued to transfer his weight from foot to foot.

  “I really needed to get some information to the General.”

  She could see an envelope in his hands and made an assumption of her own.

  “Could I pass it along for you?”

  “I…” he hesitated for a moment, tapping at the envelope, “I’m sorry… It’s something I have to tell him in person.”

  “I understand,” Rachel took a step back, “perhaps you could try again in a few hours.”

  Normally, this sort of response was good enough to put most people off; typically they either went away or handed over their letters. But he was different. He seemed caught in a critical dilemma. A flicker of anxiety washed over him, then he gave a nod and glanced around the immediate surroundings.

  “OK,” he said as a slight sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, “I’ll wait.”

  Rachel now couldn’t help looking around too.

  Clearly he felt threatened.

  “Wait here,” she told him, then walked back to her desk and dialled through to General Broxbourne’s ready room.

  She explained the situation and, less than a minute later, he opened his door and stood waiting.

  “Ian,” she called to him, “Would you come this way please?”

  He gave another nervous glance around, then moved swiftly to join her. Together, they entered General Broxbourne’s room and Rachel closed the door.

  “Sir, this is Ian Holister.”

  Ian gave a salute and Broxbourne invited him to stand at ease.

  “I hear that the Iseult and her crew went through quite an ordeal.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he replied.

  Despite being told to stand at ease, Rachel could see he obviously wasn’t.

  “Is it an Iseult matter that you wanted to discuss?” Broxbourne asked.

  “My apologies, Sir,” he replied, and hesitantly glanced in her direction, “I’m in possession of some sensitive information. Should it emerge later from another source, I don’t wish to stand accused of withholding it from you or Archive. Again, my apologies Sir, but I can only discuss the matter with you alone.”

  Rachel watched as Broxbourne considered both the request and the envelope that Ian was still gripping.

  •

  Sitting in the ARC’s common area, Izzy took in the shape of the place that she would be calling home.

  The large room was essentially a sphere; a design feature that had emerged from the fact that it was the best shape to withstand the surrounding water pressure. The ceiling arched smoothly from one side of the room to the other but, for the sake of common sense, the floor was level. As she understood it, the area under the floor wasn’t wasted; it contained various pieces of equipment designed to split oxygen from the surrounding seawater, desalinate their water supply, and distribute power.

  She watched people coming and going through the circular doorways, on their way into adjoining spheres of different sizes. According to Tristan, the circular Glaucus Rings that separated each section could be closed; should any of the sections breach, the overall facility would still survive.

  There was a quiet, industrious feel to the place as a whole. In some respects it reminded her of her time at the Warren, except that they hadn’t had the benefit of protective airlocks to prevent the flood. Like the Warren though, opportunities to inspect the outside world were minimal.

  For stability and security, any portholes were small and sparsely placed. The views they provided were quite restricted, owing to the thickness of the sphere’s wall. At the end of the portholes’ short tubes were disks of bluish-black seawater. If anything, Izzy knew, the portholes were just a psychological concession designed to alleviate the impression of being contained.

  Again she remembered the Warren and the thick pair of curtains that had been hung against a solid wall of rock; people needed to believe they could walk out of their surroundings, even if it wasn’t possible.

  She turned to Tristan who was sitting next to her on the bench, busily inspecting his scribbled notes. Again she wondered how things would have turned out if the Sea-Bass hadn’t been forced to depart from the USV.

  She saw him sit slightly more upright and knew to expect a question.

  “Mind if I talk to you about something?” he said.

  “Sure,” she shuffled a little closer, “Everything OK?”

  “Yeah…” he patted his notes, “it’s just that I’ve been going over the Iseult’s logs, and comparing them to what happened on the Sea-Bass.”

  “Go on,” she nodded.

  He frowned and, for a few seconds, drew partial circles on his notes using his finger, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to begin.

  “OK,” he seemed to decide on an approach, “What didn’t make sense was the airlock.”

  “On the Iseult?”

  “No,” he moved his hands over to his left, “The one on the USV vertical access shaft.”

  From his hand movements, she knew he was talking about a much earlier point in time.

  “You’re talking about when the Sea-Bass first arrived outside the USV?”

  “Yes, before we met you and everyone from the Warren.”

  “OK.”

  “When we first interfaced with the airlock,” he meshed his fingers, “Pavna couldn’t get it to handshake. The security codes were all valid but it wouldn’t let us in.”

  “Why not?” said Izzy.

  “Because the Sea-Bass’ clock…” he twisted his hands apart, “was out of sync with the USV’s. All the Archive facilities use something called a rubidium atomic clock. The whole point is that they don’t go out of sync. It’s what keeps the digital security and comms aligned with each other.”

  “How much were they out by?”

  “A few seconds,” he opened his eyes wider.

  “And that’s not possible,” she guessed from his expression.

  “Or,” he offered a weak smile, “it’s a ‘possible’ that we don’t understand yet. Which got me thinking about the anomaly that took us from the Atlantic to Dover.”

  “OK,” said Izzy, “What about it?”

  “No matter how I looked at it,” he said, “I couldn’t explain the apparent speed of the Sea-Bass. In the space of a few seconds, we’d covered perhaps… four hundred miles.”

  Izzy looked at him. It was clear that he hadn’t stopped his investigation there.

  “You’ve found something, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “I was looking at this in terms of conventional speed-distance equations.”

  “And you shouldn’t have been?” she asked.

  “The speed was impossible,” he shook his head, “So, it made me look at the atomic clock discrepancy more closely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he searched for a way to phrase it, “from the perspective of the Sea-Bass, the journey time was instant. But for the rest of the world, two seconds went by. That’s why the clocks were out of sync.”

  Tristan moved his hand to the right, “After the London anomaly, I checked the Iseult’s atomic clock against the one here at Pico.”

  “It was out of sync too?” she guessed.

  Tristan closed his eyes and nodded, “Two seconds.”

  “But the distance the Iseult travelled was much greater.”

  “Or maybe,” Tristan countered, “the distance that the Sea-Bass moved was irrelevant.”

  Izzy thought she
was beginning to understand.

  It perhaps explained why Mat, Pavna and those from the Warren hadn’t returned to the USV, even after several months. She could imagine a situation where the Sea-Bass had been transferred to the other side of the world, perhaps somewhere landlocked.

  Before she could take the discussion any further, she became aware that Megan was making her way toward them across the common area.

  “Can we pick this up later?” she said.

  He nodded, still frowning.

  Megan arrived at their bench with a smile and a piece of paper.

  “So, our bloodwork tests are back,” Megan offered her the sheet, “Clean bill of health.”

  Izzy took the page and scanned the rows and columns.

  As part of the ARC’s health screening process, each of them had been required to give a sample of blood shortly after their arrival. The report did confirm there were no major blood disorders, but it also confirmed something else.

  She felt a deathly chill.

  “Megan,” she dropped her voice, “Do they know? I mean do Broxbourne and the others know about this?”

  “I… don’t know,” she began to look anxious, “Is something wrong?”

  “Where did you get this?” Izzy held up the piece of paper.

  Megan looked a little embarrassed, “The Doc had it on his computer screen. Someone came in with a bleeding hand, so he left me in the room. I might have… sort of, printed off a copy while he was away.”

  Izzy turned to Tristan and pointed at the page.

  “They’re checking for cortothene receptivity.”

  “Your genetic marker?” he frowned.

  “Not just mine,” she pointed to the column that contained Tristan’s name, “I’m guessing you didn’t know.”

  He took the paper and studied it.

  Izzy could see the confusion on his face giving way to rapid logical calculation. His frown deepened and he emerged from his introspection.

  “I should have known. But I can’t process this now,” he handed the paper back to Izzy, “If they’re searching for these specific genetic characteristics -”

  “Then it isn’t good news,” Izzy completed.

  Tristan was nodding.

  “What the hell are you talking about?!” Megan’s alarmed expression flipped between the two of them.

  “Archive’s founder used to keep a notebook,” said Izzy, “Monica Walker told me about it. If they find a link between us and the names in that notebook, we could all be in trouble.”

  “Why?” said Megan.

  Tristan exhaled loudly.

  “I helped Izzy’s friends escape from an Archive facility. They were all carriers of the same genetic receptivity. I’m sorry Megan, but just by arriving at the ARC together, it makes us all conspirators.”

  Although she knew Marcus didn’t possess the marker, Izzy had to let him know immediately; it may still be possible for him to use his skills to make the data disappear.

  “Megan, we have to find Marcus,” she folded the page, “Have you seen him?”

  CELL

  Marcus heard the intercom click.

  “Welcome to your new cell,” Bradley’s voice came from the darkness.

  Marcus tried to move his limbs and head, but it appeared he’d been restrained somehow; he couldn’t move an inch. He desperately tried to recall where he’d been just a few moments ago. There were memory fragments that suggested he’d arrived at the ARC, but these were offset by a stronger and more urgent memory that placed him in the Iseult’s airlock. Yet Bradley had called it a cell.

  “What is this?” Marcus spoke into the darkness, “I can’t see.”

  “Cos there ain’t no light,” Bradley explained, “You don’t need it to talk. Can you feel this straw?”

  Marcus felt something being pushed into the corner of his mouth.

  “It’s water,” Bradley told him, “Take some.”

  Marcus began to suck on the straw, but before any water could reach his mouth, Bradley pulled it away.

  “I didn’t get any,” Marcus told him.

  “That’s OK,” Bradley’s voice seemed to fill one ear, “We’ll try this again in a few days. Maybe you’ll feel more cooperative then.”

  “What?” he called out.

  There was a click and then silence.

  “Hey!” he called into the darkness, but it was no use. He’d been left alone again.

  In the presence of his own thoughts, he began to consider the others who’d been aboard the Iseult. Hopefully they were alright.

  What seemed like a memory presented itself: the Iseult had arrived at the ARC. There was a sense of loss attached to the recollection. Several faces swam into view: people from the Warren who’d left on another submarine but hadn’t arrived at Pico Island. He could see their faces and several times he called out to them, but his memories couldn’t reply.

  Thoughts appeared to ebb and flow. The darkness remained, but several times there were moments of apparent lucidity when he found himself experiencing events from his past.

  •

  He heard the intercom click.

  “So,” Bradley began, “It’s been three days. You want water yet?”

  “Yes,” Marcus immediately replied.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Please,” Marcus opened his mouth.

  “Good,” he replied, “but if you wanna help Izzy, Noah and Sabine, you’re gonna have to do a hell of a lot better.”

  He couldn’t recall saying anything about those people, but it seemed that Bradley knew something about their whereabouts.

  “Is she alright…?” he thought of Sabine.

  “Well,” said Bradley, “I gotta go, but you sit tight.”

  “Wait!” he called out, “Water!”

  “See you next week, ‘Blackbox’,” there was another click and everything became quiet again.

  Earlier, Bradley had called him ‘Mr. Networking’; a term that he’d used just before killing Monica Walker. As far as Marcus could recall, he hadn’t ever revealed his Blackbox hacker alias to him. Evidently, Pittman was getting help from somewhere. Marcus just hoped and wished aloud that his friends were safe, but it failed to provide any comfort.

  Days stretched around him, but in the continual darkness and silence, his thoughts and inner conversations were of indeterminate duration. Sometimes words would reach him but he’d be unable to tell if they were his own, Bradley’s, or just imagined.

  •

  “Wakey, wakey,” Bradley’s voice permeated the darkness.

  Marcus wasn’t sure if he’d actually been asleep; dreams, thoughts and replays of his life had been swimming through each other without distinction.

  “Please could I have some water?” he asked.

  “Only been three weeks,” the straw arrived at the corner of his mouth, “But I do believe you’re startin’ to get how this arrangement works.”

  Marcus managed to suck in half a mouthful, but then the straw was swiftly withdrawn.

  “You can have some more in a minute,” Bradley’s voice sounded in his ear, “Maybe. But you have to help me.”

  “Why would I wanna help you?”

  He heard Bradley sigh.

  “I’m trying to get you outta here,” he said, “But, OK, see you in a few days.”

  “No, wait! Please!” he called out, “Don’t go!”

  There was no reply.

  “Hello?”

  Once more, the silence began to close in. In the absence of any other distraction, his life and choices were again paraded before him to re-experience. With almost ghost-like fluidity, talks that he’d had with Sabine transitioned into conversations that he hoped they’d have one day. But soon she was gone again, leaving him in the dark.

  •

  “Two months,” Bradley’s voice suddenly returned, “Don’t ya wanna see Ryan, Olivia and Tessa again?”

  Marcus felt a flood of relief at having company.

  “Yes!” he said and
then hastily added, “Please.”

  The fact Bradley had used their names meant that those aboard the Sea-Bass must be alive somewhere. Sabine had been with them.

  He felt the straw being positioned in his mouth and he gratefully sucked down the cold water.

  “Easy there,” the straw was pulled away, “Don’t want you to choke.”

  “Thank you,” he managed, “Where are they? Did the Sea-Bass make it back to the ARC?”

  There was a pause.

  “Listen,” Bradley’s voice arrived close by, “They won’t tell me.”

  “Who won’t?”

  “Marcus, who do you think?”

  Intuitively he felt there was only one answer, “Archive?”

  “Uh-huh,” Bradley confirmed, “They say you’ve gotta tell me somethin’ first.”

  “OK,” he said.

  “Marcus,” said Bradley, “They keep talkin’ about ‘Iseult’. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  When Marcus considered the word ‘Iseult’, the first thing that crossed his mind was how much Izzy hated that particular form of her name. That, and how funny he’d found it when the submarine had been named after her.

  “Archive already knows she’s fast…” Bradley drew a breath.

  Marcus would have used the word ‘perceptive’ to describe Izzy, but didn’t dare to contradict him.

  “Now…” Bradley continued, “Archive reckons there must be somethin’ that makes her that fast… maybe some kinda special drive?”

  It seemed an odd way to describe Izzy’s genetic traits, but if it meant he could find out the fate of Sabine and the others aboard the Sea-Bass, he didn’t mind explaining.

  “Izzy’s genetics are just different -”

  “I’m not talking ab…” Bradley appeared to suddenly stop his interruption, “Wait, what?”

  “Izzy has a genetic augmentation,” Marcus explained, “Like everyone else who was at the Warren. Izzy’s trait makes her more perceptive, Ryan’s was muscular density, Tessa -”

  “Stop,” Bradley interrupted, “Just… wait. I’m talking about how the Iseult got to Pico so fast.”

  Marcus suddenly had the feeling that he’d been talking at cross purposes, and thought he should explain himself before Bradley could abandon him.