The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  “I didn’t kill those people, the technomancers did.”

  “No, you’re the one using those deaths to build… I’m not even entirely sure what you are building with that yet. A religion? A mighty mystical magical pyramid scheme? What do I have to offer? You’ve got your pet wizard out there.”

  “Yeah, I got Mu. But he’s not you. I need somebody there that can think their way out of something. If all I needed was somebody to blow shit up, it don’t take a wizard to do that. I know plenty of guys with a fetish for explosions.”

  “Yeah, and I need my grandmother.” Bridge caught the faintest hint of a strangled sob as his bodyguard turned his face away. And that was the crux of the problem right there, all laid out for both to see. No more dancing around it, no more talking around the problem like it didn’t exist.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” Bridge stumbled. The words stuck in his throat. He didn’t do guilt, and this was one huge pile of guilt.

  “Don’t. Just don’t. You got to see her. You got to talk to her. You can tell me she said what she said, but frankly, I don’t believe you. You have this way of saying exactly what you think you need to, and it’s only the truth when that will aid your agenda more than a well-crafted lie. So do not bullshit me.”

  “But that’s what she said,” Bridge pleaded. He wasn’t actually lying this time, but he supposed he deserved Aristotle’s mistrust.

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone and you are here and the persons responsible for her death are free and clear and I’m aiding and abetting that freedom. There’s nothing to be proud of in that. Every day I keep that secret, it’s another day I’m every bit as culpable in her death as the technomancers. Now you want to tell me how to make that right, I’m all ears.”

  Bridge had nothing. “I don’t have any answers for you, brother.”

  “Then do not presume to give me any life advice.” He slammed another swig from the bottle and sealed it. Without another word, he stalked into the shower, only the slightest hint of a stagger in his step.

  The day was a long one. Bridge’s attempts to make contact with El Diablos would have been tough no matter the situation. The early hour didn’t help. Most of his contacts didn’t wake until after noon. On the day after the gang starts what would likely be the biggest militia action since the riots, the street crews were ghosts. Bridge made the rounds at all the best and worst bars, making contact with the bartenders, owners, waitresses and bouncers. Some places he hadn’t visited in weeks, but they nevertheless greeted him with open arms. Even the bars that weren’t open until the sun went down opened their doors to him these days, as the main pipeline to the technomancers and their miracle Glowbugs. Everywhere he went, help was offered, but no one could promise him even a phone call with the lowliest street soldier.

  The sun’s rays were contracting as Bridge and his crew sat in the Louie Lou, a crumbling diner on the edge of the Warehouse District with great coffee and abysmal grease piles disguised as food. Bridge rummaged through a plate of barely meaty meatloaf ruefully, his mind tumbling through contacts like a spinning rolodex. He had almost reached the end of his considerable resources. Hitting up his competing go-to guys appeared to be the only viable option. He fucking hated those assholes. There was Benes’n’Franks, a twitchy SpainiӀwitchy Ssh Jew with the worst breath. He could try the Owl, if the Owl would take his calls. After that deal for a shipment of black market cyberware replacement parts went tits up, Bridge was the Owl’s least favorite person. Sammy Samir would still speak to Bridge as far as he knew.

  "I’ll give Samir a call,” Bridge said out loud to no one in particular, as if Aristotle and Mu had been conversing with his thoughts.

  “That would be rather difficult,” Aristotle replied. “I believe he has met his maker.”

  “Capped? Who would cap Samir?”

  “His ex-wife. Actually, three of his ex-wives if the stories are to be believed.”

  “Shit.” Bridge stuffed another forkful of meatloaf into his mouth, scowling sourly before tossing the fork back into the plate. “I’m out of ideas, brother.”

  Aristotle pointed behind Bridge with a sarcastic smile. “Don’t look now, but your day is about to get much more fruitless.”

  Bridge sat up with a start, turning to see the problem Aristotle indicated. Sid Tobin walked purposefully towards him with eyes lit up. Sid was the worst kind of musical poseur that lived, the kind of fame-chasing twit always one or two trend waves behind. He had no real musical viewpoint of his own, yet he was convinced that some label would be willing to sign him for a publishing deal, to make him the next big star. He had tried everything: anime nip-hop, emodouche, ‘70’s prog rock and many, many others. Sid changed styles like Bridge changed underwear. Based on his current appearance, the new thing was last month’s technosalsa. Sid wore a garish zoot suit, head-to-toe black velvet with digital sparkle patterns running all through the fabric, a huge white collar sticking out of the jacket, topped off with a Rat Pack style black hat with a six-inch peacock feather stuck in the brim. He would look ridiculous on the stage, much less out on the street, but Sid was one of those rare types so lacking in self-awareness that he actually believed he looked cool. Bridge shook his head and rubbed the ache out of his temples.

  “Sid, you look fucking ridiculous,” Bridge began. “What the fuck is this style you are sporting? Did the ghost of pimp Jesus possess you this morning?”

  “Naw man, this suit is the shiz. Dean Martin meets Joseph’s Technicolor Raincoat or some shit.”

  “Do you even know who Dean Martin is?”

  “I Pedia’ed, G.” Sid sat down with nervous excitement, his eyes wide with glee. Sid had something, something Bridge wanted written all over his face.

  “Is that glitter eye shadow?”

  “Yeah, man, this completes the look, you know? Chicks dig a brother can get in touch with his feminine side.”

  “Your feminine Ӏour femiside is a tranny hooker named Sparkles?” Mu couldn’t help snickering at the insult, but Sid ignored it completely. He was used to Bridge’s insults. “What do you want, Sid? I’m kinda busy today.”

  “Yeah, I know, I heard. You’re trying to get in with El Diablos.”

  “That’s correct.” Bridge’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it?”

  The grin split Sid’s face from ear to ear. “I got an in.”

  Bridge sighed and covered his eyes. “This is serious, Sid. If you are fucking with me, Aristotle over there is going to show you how far up your ass a shoe can be lodged before you taste sole.”

  “I’m not fucking with you, Bridge. I got an in with El Diablos.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My cousin runs a Trip board on the ‘Net, see. All the hackers what’s on this board can get the hookup for their Trip habits, and all the suppliers that post on the board are Diablos dealers.”

  Bridge finished the thought. “And your cousin had to get vetted by Diablos to post about dealer locations, so he’s met with at least somebody on the Shotcaller level. You’re telling me your cousin can get me in with a Shotcaller.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’m telling you! He owes me a bunch of favors, ‘cos I got my mom to pay for the GlobalNet space. She thinks it’s some music board, which it sort of is ‘cos I got the Trip heads hooked on my demos. They love my shit.”

  “Get ‘em racing on that Trip shit and they’ll swear they see ghosts in the GlobalNet. Trip heads aren’t known for their taste in music.”

  “Or hygiene,” Mu added.

  Aristotle piled on. “Or sanity.”

  Sid waved an annoyed hand at the bodyguards. “Yeah, yeah, but this is your in, Bridgey!”

  “Don’t call me Bridgey.”

  “Sorry.” Sid stared at Bridge expectantly, his eyes begging for the words of affirmation to spill from Bridge’s lips.

  Bridge sighed again. Sid had him over a barrel. “What do you want, Sid?”

  “You know what I want, Bridge. I want you
to make an A&R guy listen to my demos. ALL my demos.”

  “Sid, you have like thirty demos. Every one of them is a different style. You’re like a human karaoke machine. He’s going to be clawing his eyes out by the time he gets to the nip-hop.”

  “I’m serious, Bridge, all of them. He hears my entire body of work or nothing.”

  Bridge silently cursed Stonewall for charging him with this task, and Sid for finally getting enough of a spine to insist with such fervor. The worst part was that Bridge had no illusions that the meeting would make any difference. He was convinced that no matter how persuasive he could be, El Diablos had no interest in any kind of peace treaty. They were out for Los Magos blood, and Stonewall’s prohibition against retaliation made sure that El Diablos had nothing to fear from denying peace. Bridge would be lucky if they let him walk out of the meeting without a beatdown or worse.

  “Set it up, Sidney.”

  Sid had a mini-fit, pumping his fists in the air and whooping with joy. Bridge calmed him down. “It’s got to be tonight, Sid, or you get nothing. I don’t have a lot of time to make this happen, got it?”

  “You’ll have it, I swear. You’re not gonna regret this.”

  “I already regret it, Sid. Now get to it.” Sid dashed out of the diner rubbing his hands together gleefully.

  Chapter 6

  March 7, 2029

  6:21 p.m.

  Somehow, Sid came through. Two hours after they parted at Louie Lou, Bridge sat in the Glitter making small talk with the owner, Gizzard. The first crowds of the night were filtering in, the timid early-goers who would be in and out by midnight, scared off by the true denizens of the club’s night life, the hookers and predators, the criminals and the killers. Gizzard had been bragging for the last half-hour about his latest production with his bi-sexual live-in girlfriends, known professionally as Ginger and the Bambina. To hear Gizzard tell the tale, The Bambina Returns would be some sort of porn magnum opus, the kind of hardcore epic that would reshape the face of the GlobalNet porn industry. Gizzard’s business was not nearly so profitable as it had been, though. The bar owner had confided in Bridge that mainstream fare like Misogynist Theater had put a serious dent in his downloads. Bridge didn’t have the heart to tell the man that he was an avid Theater watcher.

  “That Glowbug thing, that’s been a goddamn miracle,” Gizzard gushed. “Cut my overhead in half. I was getting worried I’d have to choose between Ginger and the Bambina.”

  “I know a guy that can get you a virtual actor setup, real cheap,” Bridge replied. “The whole thiրing is pretty damn awesome. You get some gear for the girls to work on, right? It’s got sensors that the camera reads, and your CG guys come back in at post and create completely real looking dudes, right? Or chicks, or animals, or whatever you need, right? As long as your actors have the chops, they can be banging thin air and the whole thing looks top-notch. Can even do it in 3D. You interested?”

  “I don’t know about that, Bridge. I’m a traditionalist, you know? You can’t fake the real thing, it just don’t look right. Besides, I’m more than willing to do all the male parts for free, know what I’m saying?” Gizzard’s normally thick Jersey accent became even more accentuated every time he spoke about sex. His black top-knot bounced up and down like a horse’s tail as he emphasized his words with hip thrusts. Bridge snickered without feeling.

  His phone rang and he excused himself from the conversation. Gizzard got up and busied himself at the bar. Bridge had never been so happy to hear Sid’s whiny voice. “I got your hookup, Bridge.”

  “This better be solid, Sid.”

  “Solid as concrete, man. You set up the demo?”

  “Yep. I’ve got a meeting in a couple of days with my man Baku Baku. He’s solid, for an A&R guy. You sent me everything you want him to hear?”

  “You have my entire catalog. Thanks, Bridge! I am over the moon.”

  “Hey, no promises. He might hate it as much as I do.”

  “I got it. Ok, you go to the Little Tokyo train pickup. They’ll meet you there.”

  “Did they say some stupid shit like ‘come alone’ or something they know I’ll ignore?”

  “No, they expect you to bring the bodyguards.”

  “How soon?”

  “You got an hour to get there.”

  Bridge glanced at the clock in his personal HUD. With the crappy early evening traffic, he’d barely make it. After saying his goodbyes to Gizzard, he gathered his entourage quickly and ordered a cab. On the ride over, he laid down the plan.

  “I want both of you close. Mu, I want you to keep us in one of those bubbles the whole time. No telling when some motherfucker is going to try to make good with the boss by capping me. How long can you keep that up?”

  Mu grinned. “With or without the taser coating?”

  “With. These bitches are all about the show of strength.”

  “Hour. Maybe two if we don’t move too much.”

  Aristotle provided the cheery optimism. “We still need to breathe, though. The field is air-permeable, correct? Could they not merely gas us if they wish to rid themselves of us?”

  Bridge scowled. “Aren’t you the cheery one? What are the chances they’ve got killer gas? If they get anywhere near us, they won’t use gas unless it’s something they have immunity to. I don’t think Diablos has that kind of gear. I hope, anyway.” He wasn’t entirely sure, of course. What little he knew of Diablos’ capabilities came secondhand from Stonewall. “We’ll have to take that chance. Whatever happens let me do the talking. Just stand there and look menacing, got it?” The two nodded.

  An interminably long ride later, the cab pulled up at the intersection of Alameda and 1st with minutes to spare. Bridge shuffled his crew towards the rail line stop, a dilapidated bench with a beat-up street term on a covered platform. Three tough-looking Mexicans hung around the bench, the visible portion of the Diablos guard contingent. Bridge spotted at least three other guards in the surrounding area, one across the street on a roof overlooking the whole scene. The roof lookout was the only one visibly armed, but Bridge knew all carried some form of heater. One of the bench-warmers was huge, only a few inches smaller than Aristotle. His left arm was an oversized cybernetic replacement with a hinged door in the forearm that Bridge assumed contained a concealed gun or missile launcher that could be raised, fired and concealed again in seconds. Based on what he knew of Diablos hierarchy, this was the likely leader of the guard squad.

  The giant gave Bridge a twitchy nod as the group approached, saying, “You Bridge?” Bridge nodded, and the man motioned down the line. Bridge could hear the rumbling of the approaching train from behind. “Costas. You almost didn’t make it.”

  “Traffic,” Bridge responded. His eyes were fixed on Costas’s cyberarm. Despite the cheap devil graphics plastered on the metal’s surface, Bridge could tell that the gear was expensive. The compartment alone was worth almost as much as a mid-line crèche. It was hard to spot even from this close. The quality of that little extra set it apart from the typical black-market streetware. Bridge knew a guy that could get that level of gear, but no one he knew used it because of the cost.

  “You know the drill, hombre. Arms out.” Bridge nodded to his bodyguards, telling them to allow the frisking. The other two bench-warmers did the deed, and they were none too gentle. One even went far enough to give Bridge a ball-tap as he finished. Bridge coughed, trying hard not to double over in pain and nausea. As the pat down completed, the train rattled to an ear-ringing stop, its brakes shattering the night with a squeal. “You clean. Welcome to El Diablos’ express, eh?” He smiled with a mouthful of space, probably half his teeth gone while the other half was a rotting, yellowed mess.

  Bridge tipped his imaginary hat and turned to the train’s open door. Aristotle and Mu strode in a step behind him. Five men inhabited the car, two seated in each corner with their backs to a wall, while their three bodyguards stood holding automatic weapons. “Park it,” the man seated to the
left commanded.

  “We’ll stand,” Bridge replied. He wasn’t sure how easy sitting would be with the bubble surrounding them. A slight bluish shimmering in the air separated him from the armed men.

  “I see you brought your pet wizard,” the other seated man said. He was shorter than Bridge, probably 5’10” at best, but he was thick as a brick. His arms had the muscular curves of a steroid junkie, rippling muscles covered with thick veins that bulged with every movement. He wore a simple black muscle shirt to show off his guns, a tapestry of devil-themed tattoos covering his arms. His chest glistened in the wavering light, and Bridge could see that he’d had ceramic implants placed in key locations on his body. These implants would provide his vital organs like heart and lungs better protection than a bulletproof vest. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and bushy eyebrows overhung the tattoos on his face. Even seated, the man was an imposing figure, and his eyes bore an intensity that ratcheted up the intimidation factor. This had to be Nacho, the leader of El Diablos. Based on that assumption, the clean-shaven man across the aisle must be Nacho’s second-in-command, Chimuelo.

  “Never leave home without it,” Bridge replied. One of the bodyguards approached the bubble warily. “I wouldn’t come much closer if I were you. Unless you want the shit shocked out of you.”

  Mu wiggled his fingers and tiny darts of lightning sparked off the bubble’s surface. His face split with a most devious grin.

  “You approached us with an offer of peace, we listened. You really think such precautions are necessary?” Chimuelo asked.

  “I’m still alive because I’m not a fucking idiot. This talk wasn’t my idea. I’m well aware what El Diablos thinks of me.”

  Nacho fiddled with the end of his mustache. “Fair enough. You want to talk about peace. Let’s talk about peace.”