by Gary Ballard
Every technomancer was given one unbreakable covenant. Their mana engine could not fall into corporate hands. If in danger of death, a technomancer was instructed to destroy his mana engine even if it meant destroying himself, disintegrating the engine at the cellular level by implosion. Killing another technomage was frowned upon, but if it happened, the victorious mage must make every effort to retrieve and destroy the loser’s engine.
Bridge took advantage of his silent position with the technomancers. Aristotle had begun to withdraw from their arrangement almost immediately, and Bridge suspected he was drinking pretty heavily. Needing a more reliable bodyguard, Bridge “hired” one of the newly recruited technomancers, a lanky Chinese-American kid who had renamed himself as Mu. Just the rumor of Mu’s presence decreased the drama around Bridge significantly to the extent that he began to forget what a beatdown felt like. Once the Paulie situation had been resolved, he almost began to feel safe.
It wouldn’t last, of course. Bridge had put himself on a collision course with some very powerful forces. There wasn’t a corporation in the world that wasn’t after just one sample of the mana engine, and most would kill to get it. The glowbugging operations took off slowly at first, but as the rumors about the technomancers spread, business boomed. Chronosoft LGL very quickly passed a law outlawing the practice, announced smugly at a press conference by Los Angeles mayor and Chronosoft puppet Arturo Soto. Bridge grinned madly every time he thought about the trouble that he must have been causing Chronosoft Utility’s bottom line. For them to have gone to the trouble of outlawing the practices of an organization whose existence couldn’t be officially confirmed meant they were worried, if not outright panicky.
A reckoning was looming. Bridge would need all his skills, all his connections to emerge intact. At times, he wasn’t even sure the outcome would be worth it. Glowbugging was damaging the LGL system, chipping away in small chunks at one of the pillars of its social power, its death grip monopoly on energy. It might take a hundred years, but as the price of energy tended towards zero, the system’s power over commerce evaporated. The technomancer’s could hide money from the banking system completely. Control over the flow of money, over liquidity itself was no longer the exclusive domain of the LGL’s. Money by itself was useless, but money in liquid form was power. The technomancers, used correctly by someone as devious as Bridge, could whittle away at the entire LGL system, one sliver at a time. He cared nothing about the LGL’s existence or survival. If his efforts destroyed the system, he would laugh, if not, he would use the system to his advantage. He gave no thought to what would take its place were it to fall. The system was corrupt, as amoral as he had ever been at his worst, but more importantly to Bridge, it had crossed him more than enough. Surely something else would be better than the shiny-happy face of corporate dominance that lied with every collective breath. If the American Dream had been a sanitized version of “I got mine,” the LGL version was “You’ll take what we give you and like it.”
<="0">For Artemis Bridge, that was a challenge he couldn’t refuse.
FIN
*****
ELEGANT SOLUTIONS TO COMPLEX HOSTILITY
The following short story takes place after the events depicted in this novel.
*****
November 26, 2028
7:26 a.m.
Artemis Bridge had a problem, and that problem was named Paulie. Paulie wanted really really badly to kill Bridge and the bitch of it all was that Bridge actually deserved it. Bridge had been indirectly responsible for Paulie losing two of his fingers. Bridge hadn’t cut the fingers off, of course; he wasn’t the violent type. They’d been severed during interrogation by Bridge’s business associates. Bridge needed information on the people who had hired the ex-footballer to retrieve a video in Bridge’s possession, part of an elaborate plot to discredit the current mayor on the eve of the election, ensuring his opponent’s victory. Paulie’s bosses at the Chronosoft Corporation had engineered the whole thing, and while Bridge and Paulie had both been mere pawns in their scheme, the grudge had become personal. Paulie had vowed to kill Bridge, and it was only through quick wits that Bridge had manipulated a smarmy executive named Brandon Thames into giving Bridge a three-month stay of execution. That three months was almost up.
Bridge had plenty of options to deal with the problem, the easiest being to hire someone to bump Paulie off. His know circuit included three killers-for-hire on speed dial, but he hesitated to use them unless absolutely necessary. Killing was messy, and after all, Bridge didn’t bear the thug any animosity. Paulie was doing his job, the shitty job some corporate cocksucker had handed him from the safety of a desk. ‘Don’t hate the t hategun for the gunshot, hate the shooter,’ Bridge thought to himself anytime he mulled over the problem. Handing Paulie a non-fatal beatdown wouldn’t do any good either. He could have tried to destroy Paulie’s credit, get him fired and pursued by police, but that would only give the thug further cause to carry out righteous vengeance. No, Bridge had to take a different approach, one that was the opposite of violent. He had to defuse the situation. He had to kill Paulie with kindness.
And so he sat in the bleachers of a football stadium in North London waiting for a meeting. He wasn’t physically in the bleachers. His body lay on his bed, connected to the exterior console on his GlobalNet crèche by a thin wire leading to the interface jack on the back of his neck. Bridge had bought a ticket to the virtual stadium, created by a series of cameras that ringed the real stadium. The cameras fed real-time video through a piece of software connected to the GlobalNet that rendered the game in full sensory 3D, including smells and sounds as well as sights. The tickets weren’t cheap, but it was better than being there. Not only did he get the sensory experience of watching the game from the stands, but the whole thing had user customized interfaces displaying stats, piping in broadcast audio, and replays from any vantage point in the stadium. Most of the organized sports in the developed world had converted their stadiums to provide this type of broadcast. The match was twenty minutes old when his appointment finally showed.
Sharples rezzed into view like a digital ghost, pixelating into solidity with a rush of filled vacuum that tickled the nerves of Bridge’s virtual skin. Like Bridge, Sharples was a know-who, go-to guy, based around the London area. His spectator avatar was very similar in appearance to the photo Bridge had seen, only without any of the physical flaws of the real Sharples. An inch or two taller than Bridge, the beak-like nose of his physical self toned down to an average size and shape, Sharples ratty spiked chestnut hair still looked as unwashed as it had in the photograph. He spoke without looking at Bridge, his eyes fixed obsessively at the pitch. “You Bridge?” Bridge nodded, and Sharples stuck out his hand.
“I don’t do contact,” Bridge retorted, “not even virtual.”
“Your bird must be a lonely woman.” He flashed a row of teeth so white the simulated sun twinkled off of them.
Bridge ignored the jab. “You had to make it a Spurs game? Was Charlton busy today?”
“Be glad I didn’t make you watch Scunthorpe.” Sharples scanned Bridge up and down with a slight air of disdain. “I smell pretend Scouser on you.”
“If you’re going to pose, at least pose with the best.” They watched without conversation for a few minutes. Sharples really got into his football, standing up and cheering when Spurs came close to scoring a goal, even heckling the ref over a missed foul call. Finally, his avatar sank back into the chair and launched right into business.
“Now this geezer you got ya self in with, he’s a right bastard, he is. I seen him play back when he had a cuppa with West Ham. Mean fucker.”
“or="#000And then some. What do I need to do to get him off my dick?”
“You could have done with him.” Sharples pointed the sign of a gun to his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “You gotta know somebody can clean that up. You Yanks love a bit of the gun violence.”
“I do, but that’s not how
I roll. I try to avoid the bloodshed whenever I can.” Bridge’s voice trailed off as he stared across the virtual stadium, seeing a dying soldier’s eyes screaming back at him. No, Bridge would not bump Paulie off unless he absolutely had no other choice.
“You Californians, all peace and love and happiness, eh? Paulie don’t play by them rules. You’re lucky he hasn’t given you a Chelsea smile.” He made the sign of a throat slashing, his finger trailing evilly from ear to ear. “He plays by London rules. After he got bounced from the FA for match fixing, he ran with the Green Street crowd for a bit before going across the pond. He’s done for two of me acquaintances that I know of, maybe more. You sure you don’t want the permanent option?”
“I’m sure.”
“Fair enough. Your funeral, mate.” Sharples pantomimed deep thought for several moments, an act Bridge recognized. He used it himself to drive up the price.
“Paulie is pretty untouchable by himself then. He’s a complete cunt, kill you as soon as look at you. He don’t really have vices, least not any you can exploit. No drugs, he’s not loose with the birds, don’t get pissed and tell his bosses’ secrets. The plod don’t have anything they can pin on him to get him out of your hair.”
“But…” Bridge began, trailing off to prod the fixer into revealing the full story.
“He’s got family, up Manchester way. His dad was a tosser, bottled it when he was young. His mum still lives up north. She remarried, had another little brat, name of Joey. Plays a bit of the footie, but mostly fucks about with a gang of geezers up there. Kid’s only eighteen. Seems the mum had him when Paulie was a teen.”
“I’m not exactly seeing the weakness,” Bridge mused.
“Young master Joey has real footballing talent, least that’s what I heard. Could probably make it bigger than his step-brother did, if only he wasn’t such a colossal fuckup. He’s got a taste for the hard man’s life worse than Paulie. See, that’s one thing everybody says about Paulie. He does what he does because he has to. He don’t like violence, despite his stunning aptitude at the brutal arts. But his little brother… he likes it a lot. He’s done enough that most of the football clubs won’t even look sideways at him, what with this whole FA campaign about stopping the hooligans. Last thing the clubs want is a hooligan in the backfield, aye? The kid is on the path, you know what I’m saying?”
“And a misspent youth turns into history repeating itself,” Bridge finished the thought.
“Bu="#000">t for you, I have found a solution. I know a bloke, what knows a bloke in the United Academy. This bloke who knows this bloke is a bit of a bum boy, and he does his work discreet-like. Mr. Academy contracts the services of this bloke, something which is very frowned upon by his superiors.”
“And thus leverage can be achieved.” Sharples nodded with a mischievous grin.
“Seems some folks still got a bit of shame ‘bout their tastes, especially when the missus ain’t informed.”
The set up was done. This was Bridge’s way out. They spent hard minutes going over the details. It would cost Bridge a pretty penny, more than he needed to pay. But he would pay it.
*****
The whole deal took almost a week to come off. Bridge received an email from Sharples as the calendar turned to December telling him the job was done. Every night Bridge went out to the clubs to do business, he waited for the inevitable confrontation. There was no guarantee what he’d done would buy off Paulie. Helping out a step-brother half his age that he likely didn’t even know that well, a step-brother he might not even like, well, it certainly wasn’t assured. Paulie was a hard bastard with a grudge.
But Bridge stayed visible, deliberately putting himself out there as a lure. His time was up. It had been three months and a day. The Chronosoft exec who had ordered Paulie away from Bridge would have rescinded that order by now. Bridge sat in the Tanz bar at his usual spot, a booth in the back of the downstairs band area. His bodyguard, the gigantic Aristotle stood five paces away. Bridge worried about Aristotle these days. His grandmother’s recent death in Boulder and Bridge’s involvement in it clearly had taken their emotional toll. He thought that maybe Aristotle had been hitting the sauce before showing up late for work. Aristotle’s pupils were dilated, and his speech had the least bit of a slur, something Bridge only noticed because he was so used to Aristotle’s lucidity. Bridge was seeing off one of his more annoying wannabe clients, Sid the Poseur, when the reckoning came. A shadow engulfed the weasel Sid. Bridge looked up from the table to meet Paulie’s rock hard gaze.
“Fuck off, you tit,” the ex-footballer growled, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. Sid’s eyes grew three times their size and he fucked right off. Paulie sat down easily, making sure to show Bridge the gun dangling from a shoulder holster. He stared down Aristotle who had come to support Bridge.
“It’s ok, Aristotle, we’re cool.” Judging by the fire in Paulie’s eyes, Bridge couldn’t be sure they were anything approaching cool.
“Yeah, skulk on back into the woodwork, mate. I still owes you for a trash can to the dome.” Paulie flash Paulie ed the bodyguard a grin of pure malice, then turned his attention to Bridge. “Now you, Polly, I know how you like to talk so I’m going to tell you to shut your festering gob and let me have my say.”
Bridge nodded and let the man speak. “I don’t know what fuckhole you shagged to find out about me mum, and lucky for you, I don’t care. You went after my family, and normally that’d be it for you. But I know you and I know how you work. And being that I already owe you a serious hurting....” He held up the two cybernetic fingers that were the marks of Bridge’s fault.
“After what your Spic friend did to me and me mates, I should have done you, orders or no orders. But I’m a professional, so I waited. I half-expected you to do for me, but you didn’t. Instead you do this. Mum calls me up out of the clear blue and says little Joey got hisself a trial at the Academy today. Even got a youth contract. I think to myself that this is completely mental, right? Not only is he a year older than they look for, he couldn’t even get a sniff with his record. And kid’s got real talent when he isn’t fucking off with his mates down the pub. Then mum tells me the most interesting part. Seems I owe it all to a bridge. Or THE Bridge as it were.”
Bridge shrugged nonchalantly with the hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t get full of yourself there, Polly. Joey never meant shit to me. Time that little bastard came along I was already down London way. I barely knew him. And he turned into a right little shit. Thinks he’s the second coming of Tupac Fucking Snoop Dre Doggy, some kind of super gangsta. He’s not even a proper geezer. I’ve seen these mates he runs around with. All of them not worth the dog shit what scrapes off your shoes. I heard the little muppets blagged a fucking pub, for fuck’s sake, a supporter’s pub. No fucking respect, and not a one would lift a finger to help his mate like proper gangsters.”
“But it ain’t about Joey or his dad. I got no beef with either of them, and his dad did the right thing by me mum. And she’s the reason you and me are square.” Bridge’s eyebrow lifted. “Yeah, that’s right, we’re square. A man ought to take care of his mum in her dotage. Way Joey was going, he’d end up on a slab before the year was out and that only matters because she’d be on the slab next to him. I can’t have that. What you did makes no sense, and I ain’t about to ascribe you with any sense of morality about the whole thing, because I know better. This was a business transaction, plain and simple. You got my fingers, I got a happy mum. I can live with steel fingers.”
Paulie leaned over then, his eyes narrowing into the hardest glare Bridge had ever seen. “But let’s be clear. You fuck with me or my bosses’ business again, I will not hesitate to ram these fingers down your gullet and pull out your innards. Are we clear?”
“As crystal,” Bridge responded without fear. “Business is business.” He held up a glass of bourbon. He couldn’t help but smile as he said, “Shall we drink to the occa
sion?”
“Fuck off,” Paulie cursed. He grabbed the glass out of Bridge’s hand and knocked it back in one smooth gulp. “Piss weak American mash.” Then he s” Thentalked off, leaving Bridge with a self-satisfied smile. Aristotle sidled up to the table and sat down.
“That was a good thing you did,” the bodyguard said through a smile. “You could have had him killed. Why didn’t you?”
Bridge waved off the compliment. “It was business. One of these days, I might need a guy like Paulie.”
*****
BOOK 3: if [tribe] =
Introduction
When life imitates art, the natural reaction is to chuckle, shrug one’s shoulders and move on. When life begins to imitate my own art, I get this weird amalgamation of shit-scared, apoplectic and wearily depressed. The setting for the novel you are about to read (and for the two previous novels I hope you’ve already read) is one that I often agonize over. Can readers really take it seriously? After all, I write about a future America where corporations are allowed to buy the rights to collect local and state taxes, run police and fire departments, and administer all the local social services we take for granted. It seems absolutely ridiculous on its face, or at least it did in 1994 when I came up with the idea. Not only would it be fiscally unrealistic, surely such a concept would be antithetical to the very idea of the constitutional republic that America is supposed to be. On the flip side, why would the free market adherents, the bastard children of Ayn Rand want to bother with local government, when one of their central tenets is that “government is the problem, not the solution?”
