The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  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.

  FIN

  *****

  BOOK 2: THE KNOW CIRCUIT

  *****

  Introduction

  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 resen
tment 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.