The Proteus Bridge

by M. D. Cooper

  “You tell Crash hello for me,” Ngoba said.

  “Get Crash!” the bird called.

  Ngoba hooked his thumbs in his belt. “How am I going to do that?”

  “You can! You can! Ing-go-ba!”

  The crows seemed to have had enough of their conversation. As one, they launched from the stone branches like a black cloud behind the parrot and flapped out over the bazaar, past Ngoba. He craned his head, turning to watch them fly toward the opposite wall.

  “You ever wonder if they miss real sky?” he asked.

  “They’ve never known anything different,” Fug said.

  “Yeah, but they keep getting smarter and smarter. We mess with them, make them more like us. I bet somewhere in there, they know living in a tin can like Cruithne is wrong, just like we do.”

  “I like it here,” Riggs said.

  Fug seemed to remember something she’d said earlier. “Why are you here?” she barked at Riggs. She turned to Ngoba. “I said he wasn’t part of this.”

  “He was there at the meeting,” Ngoba said. “You saw him. You nodded along that Riggs was part of this.”

  Fug squinted at him. “I must have been distracted. He’s out. I don’t want him here.”

  “You said we’re running interference,” Ngoba said. “You think I can do that alone? It takes more than one person to keep an eye on your back. One of us is going to have to watch you while the other watches out for Slarva or his people or whoever. The air changes in there, I can’t trust that one of us will catch it.”

  Fug shook her head. “You’re talking, Ngoba. But it’s just a vacuous collection of words.”

  Riggs opened his mouth to jump in, but Ngoba shushed him.

  “How close do you need to get to the platform?” Ngoba asked, forging ahead.

  Fug stared at him, glanced at Riggs, then shook her head in disgust. “As close as possible,” she said, apparently giving in on Riggs’s participation. “People, augments, gadgets—all of it can interfere with my system.”

  “So that’s it. You need both of us. If we were hiding against the far wall, we might get away with it. But we’re going to get in close, and you need eyes on all sides.”

  “If he tries to figure out what I’m doing, if I see him even glance my way while I’m working, we’re done. You got me, Ngoba? You trust your boy enough not to sell you out? I heard you don’t have a place to live anymore…. Mama Chala booted your ass out.”

  Ngoba shot her a sour look. “You ran when you had the chance. Now I’m out, too.”

  “Yeah,” Riggs said, trying to come to his rescue. “He’s free of Mama.”

  Fug just shook her head. “You’ve gone from desperate to fucked,” she said, chuckling as if she’d made a joke. “This job is all you’ve got, right? You trust Riggs not to screw it up for you?”

  Ngoba pursed his lips. “Riggs? What do you have to say about any of this?”

  “I got you, Ngoba. I’ll keep my eyes on everybody but our little green friend here.”

  “I’m not your friend,” she shot back.

  “Of course not,” Ngoba said. “So we going in?”

  Fug glanced across the bazaar to the far edge where the doors to the hangar stood. The way was still clear. Crowds wouldn’t gather for another hour.

  “The players should be out and they should have the console and controllers up for viewing,” Fug said. “I’m going to walk up and talk to the players, try and get close to the system so nobody notices. I’ll be doing that for about fifteen minutes. You hang back. Once I’m done, you’ll know because I’ll go around the side of the platform like I’m getting a good place to watch. That’s when you come up beside me and keep an eye out, you got me? I don’t want any security types sliding up to ask me what I’m doing.”

  “How are they going to know?” Riggs asked.

  Ngoba shot him an angry glance, urging him to shut up with his eyes.

  “They’ll know,” Fug said. “If you knew anything about real hacking, you wouldn’t ask that question. The whole place is a minefield. They’re tracking everything. Even that ridiculous spectrum scanner you’ve got in your shirt.”

  “Hey,” Riggs protested, flexing his shoulders. “It’s not ridiculous.”

  “It’s like picking apart a flower with a screwdriver,” Fug said, unimpressed.

  “You ready?” Ngoba said, wanting to separate the two of them before Fug changed her mind.

  He was beginning to wonder if they were attracted to each other; the barbs were a little too sharp.

  Fug nodded curtly and turned for the path that would take them to the Crash hangar’s entrance doors. Ngoba hung back a second, stopping Riggs with a hand on his arm, then followed.

  Behind them, the parrot squawked and called, “Ing-go-ba! Ing-go-ba!”

  Ngoba turned to give the parrot a wave before he lost sight of the fountain behind a vendor’s leaning booth.

  ZURLI FOR VIGOR

  STELLAR DATE: 03.22.2956 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Crash Games Hangar, Night Park

  REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol

  In the Crash hangar, they kept a good distance from Fug, hanging back as she walked idly through the thin crowd, following the plan she had laid out. She wandered around the various groups of fans gathered inside the empty space, then turned abruptly and walked straight for the platform, where two players were standing with their heads close together.

  With the room mostly empty, Ngoba got a better look at the security guards arranged around the perimeter. He quickly spotted the door that led to Slarva’s club, now watched by four guards instead of two. At other points around the wall, guards stood next to unmarked doors. There were more of the thugs arranged at the edge of the platform, as if they expected the crowd to try to climb up beneath the projected avatars. With the lights up, it was also possible to make out the projector high above the platform, now just a pale series of turning lights.

  Keeping an eye on Riggs so he could pull him back whenever he tried to get too close, obviously trying to figure out what Fug was doing, Ngoba continued to watch the various groups gathering around them. It was a good mix of Cruithne people, from freight handlers to spacers to people who looked like they beat things to death for a living.

  A few heavily augmented people moved among the growing clots. He spotted a woman covered in fur with piercing blue eyes, as well as a man with what looked like pulse weapons embedded in his bare forearms. Despite the weapons, he walked around with a vacant smile on his face.

  “What’s she doing?” Riggs said in a low voice.

  Fug was standing next to the players but hadn’t tried to engage them in conversation. She stared at her shoes for a while, adjusting her green visor every so often, or pulling it off her head to tuck her lank hair behind her ears and pull the visor back down on her forehead. Then she crossed her arms and shuffled from foot to foot like she had to pee.

  “Should we go ask if she needs help?” Riggs continued. “If she’s doing a scan of some kind, she should have accessed everything ten minutes ago. This is weird.” He bit his lip, looking at Ngoba. “Do you really trust her? I don’t trust her. She’s shifty.”

  “I trust her enough. She’ll do what she says she will.”

  “Yeah,” Riggs said. “I don’t trust her.”

  “Trust isn’t all that important in this situation,” Ngoba said.

  Just as Riggs looked ready to launch into another round of anxious complaints, Fug did an about-face and walked away from the players, who never appeared to acknowledge her presence at all. She took a path around several groups of fans who had formed near the stage beside the console, then turned to stand strangely close to one of the security guards. The guard, wearing black glasses and a blocky projectile pistol on his belt, didn’t seem to notice her. He continued scanning the room, looking directly over her head.

  Dance music started pumping from speakers in the ceiling, and the crowd seemed to double in size
. Ngoba and Riggs spread out on either side of Fug, far enough away to respond if she needed them, but close enough to keep a direct line of sight on her.

  A fog of light grew on the platform, and then two giant figures stood towering over the assemblage. The first was a crowd favorite named Hondo, a cowboy with rocket boots, and his opponent was Urgis, a turtle-shaped creature with a cat’s head and missile-spikes lining its bright purple shell. The music grew more intense as the two avatars paraded around the platform, smiling however they could and waving at the audience. Urgis shot missiles off his shell that wound around each other and exploded in fireworks near the overhead. Showers of sparks rained down on Hondo’s cowboy hat.

  Fug stood in front of the security guard with her arms crossed in front of her waist, gazing up at the pretty lights like any enraptured fan. Her green visor cast the same shadow on her face, but she didn’t appear to be doing anything special.

  A voice boomed over the cheering crowd, announcing the players and their boring bios. “Born in the Heather Neighborhood in High Parts, Hondo grew up fighting for his life in the Artifact Forums.”

  Ngoba yawned. He didn’t consider forum games any sort of fight for survival. Thinking about survival made him wonder where he was going to sleep, but he pushed the thought away. He’d reassess the problem when he had Fug’s credit in his pocket.

  “Crash is sponsored by Zurli, the drink with a thousand candy stars. Drink Zurli for vigor!” A glass full of sparkling liquid appeared in the air, boiling with what looked like stars. It tipped and poured sparks on Urgis as Hondo tried to push in to dunk his head in the yellow flow.

  Ngoba rolled his eyes as a new sponsor began to shrill above the crowd.

  “We’re Heartbridge Health,” a friendly looking woman in a white uniform said, smiling warmly, “and we want you to experience the best that life has to offer. Our clinics are available twenty-four hours a day in locations throughout the Terran Hegemony and the Mars Protectorate. Come see us for your daily medical needs or major surgery. We can help with implants, too. Our specialists are here to help. Want to get your Link? You’re old enough now. Find out what you’ve been missing. Visit a Heartbridge clinic today. Crash on, friends!”

  Ngoba frowned, glancing around. Did they have facial scanning somewhere? The ad seemed a little too targeted toward him. Seeing the faces around, however, most of them with sugary drinks in their hands and zits covering their faces, he supposed many of them fit the pre-Link profile. He turned his gaze back to the security guard near Fug, still standing impassively.

  He’s probably watching porn on his Link right now.

  The match started with Hondo trying to snap Urgis with an electric whip. The cat-turtle creature pulled its arms and legs inside its shell and started spinning around the platform like a top, shooting off missiles in every direction. It turned out the missiles didn’t cause much damage, but a strike from the edge of the spinning shell sent Hondo into a reeling stupor, and his health bar shrank.

  Ngoba reminded himself not to watch the match. He glanced at Riggs and found his friend watching a group of Zurli-guzzling superfans, looking like he was going to pick-pocket the nearest one. Just as Ngoba figured he was going to have to remind Riggs to focus on protecting Fug, he glanced up and gave a wink.

  A cover. Nice one, Riggs. Maybe his buddy was smarter than he seemed, after all.

  Fug had uncrossed her arms and now let them hang at her sides with her fingers straight. As Ngoba watched her, she made nearly imperceptible movements with her fingers, tapping her thighs. It took Ngoba a minute of watching before the motions started to correlate with the match. She was slowing Hondo’s responses—or was she? It was hard to tell if the player was making mistakes, or if she was affecting the match somehow.

  Urgis’s player was masterful, sending the odd creature into side spins that shot missiles horizontally across the platform, or kept him spinning like a coin on its edge, generating a crackling energy ball that Hondo’s whip couldn’t touch.

  Floating platforms appeared, and the two characters started hopping from ledge to ledge. Here Hondo had the advantage: he could camp out above Urgis and hit him with the whip before the cat-turtle could get off its ledge. The whip caught Urgis’s soft underbelly, and nearly made a one-shot kill. The crowd cheered and booed simultaneously.

  Fug’s posture didn’t change. She craned her neck to stare up at the avatars like everyone else in the hangar, tapping her sides idly to some music only she could hear. Ngoba was caught by surprise when Urgis ultimately lost, taking another whip-shot in the belly that sent him spinning to the space off the platform. The avatar burst into a shower of sparks and shiny blood that washed over the watching faces. The fans erupted in thunderous applause.

  Ngoba glanced at Riggs, who gave him a shrug. Ngoba had to admit that he couldn’t tell if Fug was doing anything. She didn’t look particularly excited about the outcome of the match.

  The next three fights were mostly the same: seeming to go one way, so that Ngoba thought he knew which player was getting Fug’s help, then ending with the opposite player winning. Was she milking out the matches to raise bets? That seemed possible. Maybe she was good enough at manipulating the player that she could stretch out the play, change the odds mid-match.

  Ngoba often glanced over at the players next to the platform, staring intently into their small screen, but their impassive expressions didn’t give away much.

  He only saw Slarva once, standing behind the last pair of players, with his red cape spread theatrically. His hair was the same blue, like a spiky sea-creature sitting on top of his head. After waving for a solid minute, Slarva dropped his arms and scanned the crowd, his gaze conceivably taking in Fug’s location. But he didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

  In the air near the ceiling, glowing numbers shifted as the odds on any particular match shifted from one side to the other. All around Ngoba, money changed hands.

  He got bored watching the fights, trying to figure out something he wasn’t certain was happening, and instead thought of all the ways someone might use the Crash games to move large amounts of credit. You could bet on someone you knew was going to lose, controlling both betters, and filter stolen credit through a bookie. Various options and configurations of the scenario played out in his mind. In the end, he figured Slarva had the best deal, taking small percentages of every transaction that flowed through the official channel. Those were the big bets, the ones that kept the crowd coming back.

  When the last match was finished, the air full of fireworks and the house lights coming up, Ngoba spotted Slarva where he had been before, hamming it up for the vid producers. Fug had turned her back on the platform, looking even more ghoulish with exhaustion. She must have been doing something, though Ngoba still wasn’t sure what it had been.

  She walked past him and gave him a nod. He glanced at Riggs, waiting a few seconds, then nodded and turned to follow. Whatever they had done, it was over for tonight.

  BEER BEER BEER

  STELLAR DATE: 03.22.2956 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Lowspin Commercial Sector

  REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol

  Ngoba sat with his back against the corridor bulkhead, knees in front of him, balancing a plate heaped with his favorite spicy rice and sticky protein balls. Riggs, sitting across the narrow space, took a long drink of his canned beer. Ngoba patted his pocket for the hundredth time, feeling where he’d secured his new roll of currency, just to reassure himself, then dug into the plate.

  They were back down in Lowspin, far enough from Mama Chala’s that she wouldn’t know he was there, but near enough to visit their favorite rice stands. A chicken wandered past, idly pecking the concrete deck. The hen stopped to eye Ngoba’s plate, tilting her head. He shooed her away, and she pulled her head back, clucking at him. She dropped a dollop of green-white poop at his feet before scurrying away.

  “Whose
bright idea was it to put chickens on a space station?” Riggs said, burping loudly.

  “People who wanted to eat, I guess,” Ngoba answered.

  Riggs was already showing signs of being buzzed. “Parrots, crows, chickens. You think they know they’re in space?”

  “Sure. The bird god tells them.”

  “Don’t fuck around about the bird god,” Riggs said, pointing at Ngoba. “Those parrots knew your name. They chose you.”

  “Shut up and hand me one of those beers.”

  Riggs patted the bag next to him like it was a nest egg, then fumbled around inside until he pulled out one of the twenty-three remaining beers. He leaned forward to hand the cold can to Ngoba.

  Ngoba leaned back and popped the cap. The beer was too cold as it hit the back of his throat, and it immediately made him feel lightheaded. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling.

  “Hey,” Riggs said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I got your stuff for you. It’s in a storage locker down by the Port Authority. Look here.”

  Ngoba opened his eyes as Riggs tossed him a small metal key. The fob was a worn piece of plas that looked like a small animal had chewed on it at some point.

  It might have been the sudden rush of the alcohol, but Ngoba felt overwhelmed with gratitude. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about what Mama Chala had said, how she’d kicked him out so easily. She was right: he wasn’t a child anymore and it was time to move on. He had known the moment was coming for a long time, but he kept thinking he could push it off, that she wouldn’t make him leave; or that she would at least ask him to stay for just a couple more days, give him a chance to say goodbye. He didn’t own much. He’d been ready to let his few belongings go if necessary, but the knowledge that at least one person in all of Cruithne was looking out for him, that he wasn’t alone in this new adult world, made his heart feel like it was going to pop.

  “I grabbed this too,” Riggs said. He dug in a pocket and tossed Ngoba a bright blue bowtie, the ribbons trailing from either side.