The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  Stonewall’s delegation consisted of himself, Goyo and Cierra. Cierra stood with her left arm bandaged, a spider web of shrar web ofpnel scratches dotting the left side of her face. She had been in some serious action. Goyo wore a bandage on his head but seemed unperturbed. Stonewall introduced Bridge with little excitement. “Most of you know my next witness, but I’ll introduce him anyway. This is the Bridge. You need it, he can get it for you, no questions asked.”

  “Does that include guns?” Masa interrupted with a devious grin.

  Bridge nodded and returned the smile. “We can talk afterwards,” he quipped.

  Shen cut in with peevish disdain. “We know who Bridge is,” he said. “Cut the shit and tell us why he’s here.”

  “I sent him to speak with Nacho about an offer of peace,” Stonewall explained. “I’ve asked him to come and report on that meeting.” The footballer turned his attention to Bridge. “Bridge? You want to tell them what you saw?”

  Bridge nodded and paused before speaking, letting the tension around his words build up deliberately. “You people are fucked.”

  Whatever etiquette existed, Bridge had shat all over it. The entire room went so silent Bridge could hear his heartbeat in his ears, a bead of sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. Huey spoke up first. “What do you mean, you people?”

  Bridge returned a wry smile and replied, “Don’t take it like that, Malcom X. Ain’t nothing racial in it. I mean you all, collectively; the Five Families are well and truly fucked. I know you’ve all been talking before I got in here, you know about Pedro getting whacked, about Stonewall taking over Los Magos. I’m sure you all think this ain’t nothing more than beef between Nacho and Stonewall or Nacho and Magos in general.”

  “It isn’t?” Shen asked with a sarcastic tone. “We’re all aware of the split that created El Diablos in the first place. That this current unpleasantness is an extension of that schism is without question.”

  “Sure, there’s plenty of beef there. Diablos has wanted more of Los Magos pie since the split. There’s better ways to do that than the nuclear option. You three fight all the time,” Bridge indicated the members of AsiaTown. “When’s the last time one of you took a potshot at each other? Tried to whack anybody above street looie? Never, am I right? At least not since the riots. You want to tell me why that is?”

  The three gangsters exchanged knowing glances. Guk replied in the harsh clipped tones of his broken English. “Make no sense. Big fight like that makes everybody targets. Bad for business.”

  Bridge snapped his fingers and pointed his thumb and forefinger at the Korean like a gun. “Bingo. You let the grunts take the fall, becthe fallause they are expendable. You start offing each other, suddenly your little enterprise turns into a blood feud. Everybody loses.” He turned on Stonewall and shot his words out at the ex-footballer with all the venom he could muster. “Nacho ain’t in this for business, brother. Hate to tell you, but he’s out for blood. What I can’t figure out is why.”

  “We’ve never gotten along,” Stonewall replied. “He approaches the business like the Old Testament. Eye for an eye, kill or be killed, scorched earth over consensus. Live fast, die young.”

  “The old way,” Goyo commented without emotion.

  “Si, the old way. The way that lands us all in prison or dead. Every time we pop up with this old school bullshit, the CLED’s patience runs a little thinner. You guys may think that ‘cos the mayor is a Mexican, he’s going to take it easy on us. He ain’t. If you haven’t been paying attention to how big the Citizen’s Brigades are getting, you should. Since that puta got in office, we’ve been getting more refugees, not less. He’s herding us into a corner for the slaughter. This war is the exact excuse he needs to step up the game.”

  “What do you expect us to do?” Far-el’s booming voice rattled eerily through the space.

  “If we all get together, if we all approach Nacho as a united front, ask him to back down, he’ll…”

  “Laugh in your fucking faces,” Mu said. The technomancer stepped into the light and raised a hand. A tiny hologram of the Diablos’ leader appeared in the air above his hand, replaying the part of Nacho’s speech from earlier threatening the other Families.

  “What is that sound?” Far-el said. “Johnny, is there something wrong with my mic inputs? I’m hearing a weird static, and there’s some kind of visual distortion beside Bridge.”

  “Sorry, that’s my bodyguard,” Bridge said. “He sometimes forgets that he’s invisible to electronic detection.” One of the hidden benefits of the technomancer’s mana engine, besides the power to cast spells of frightening strength, was that they disappeared from the electronic grid completely. Cameras couldn’t record them. Database searches on their fingerprints, voice recordings, searches on their names all returned with scrambled results. They were completely invisible to the GlobalNet unless they wanted to be found. “He’s showing a recording of my meeting with Nacho. Nacho is basically threatening all of you.”

  Cloud spoke in whispers. “He’s right, boss.”

  “Nacho doesn’t want peace, and he doesn’t care about CLED. He’s absolutely confident that whatever happens, he will survive it. And he isn’t crazy, either. I saw some of the gear his boys are sporting. It’s super-cool, high-tech shit. I’d have a hard time coming up with it. I could do it, but it’d be expensive. More than all of you fuckers can afford, that’s for sure. Look around.” He pointed to the guns the bodyguards carried. It was a motley assortment of unreliable Chinese-made street pieces that would be as likely to jam as fire. y to jafired You guys might as well have been equipped at a gun show. This guy is sporting military grade shit from back when the military meant something. He’ll bury you on firepower alone.”

  “Where’s he getting it from?”

  Bridge shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a sugar daddy, I don’t know.”

  Masa rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s more than the gear,” he said with a quiet contemplation, almost to himself as much as the Parliament. “He speaks with absolute confidence, as if he is not one bit afraid of war. Which means he is either insane…”

  “Which he’s not,” Bridge interrupted.

  “Which he most certainly is not. Or he has a secret, something he believes in so strongly that he can throw caution to the wind. He is not afraid of the police, nor of us.”

  “He won’t stop with Los Magos, either. He’ll burn the whole goddamn city and take you all down with him if he has to.”

  “When you engage with violence, violence is your only return,” Chahine stated. “New Panthers are committed to a the path of non-violent resistance. The problems of the Mexicans are their own. If we do not engage in the violence, we cannot be targeted.”

  Aristotle’s shout made even Bridge jump. “This isn’t about race, you asshole,” the bodyguard bellowed. “You think just sitting in your blackness detached from the rest of us will keep you safe? This isn’t a black thing, brown thing, white thing, brother man. This is about the haves letting the have-nots weaken each other so we’re all ripe for picking off, one by one. You ask the Citizens Brigade. Those folks aren’t gangsters. They aren’t a part of ‘the life.’ They were sitting in their homes minding their own business. Now they are stuck with you. What kind of leader abdicates that responsibility because he thinks this is a racial thing?”

  “Easy, big guy,” Bridge interrupted, putting a hand on Aristotle’s shoulder. “He’s right. He’s speaking out of turn but he’s right. My suggestion? Gird your loins, all of you. The firestorm is coming whether you want it or not, and no amount of solidarity or peace offerings is going to keep this crazy mean bastard from bringing the war to your doorstep. I’ve done my part. You guys are on your own.”

  Bridge stomped out of the warehouse, waving to Aristotle and Mu to follow him. He hadn’t gotten ten feet outside the door when Stonewall caught him. “That didn’t go well.”

  “What did you expect, brother? You know the rules, every man for himse
lf.”

  “I know, but I can still hope for a change, can’t I?”

  “You can wish in one hand and shit in the other. Guess which one fills up first.”

  Stonewall chuckled. “I ne kled. ed your help.”

  “You already had my help. I’m done.”

  “Come on, Bridge don’t be like that.”

  “Like what? I’ve gotten shot at, blown up, tossed around and trainwrecked with this shit already. I got my own business to take care of. When this war goes sideways, yes I said when, I need to have my shit together so I can stay out of the way until it blows over. This is going to fuck up a lot of shit.”

  “I just need you to figure out where they are getting their gear from, that’s all.”

  Bridge cut Stonewall off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No, that’s it. I’m done. This isn’t my war. Those guys in there got it right. Take care of your own shit, and get the hell out of the way when the fireball comes tearing after you. If I was you, I’d fuck off back to Mexico for a little while.”

  Stonewall’s shoulders slumped in disappointment while his face took on the steely look of determined anger. “It’s going to be like that, then?” Bridge nodded. “What about the people? These people are under my protection. They’re my responsibility. They are my tribe, my family. What do I do about them?”

  “That’s your problem, Stoney. You keep worrying about other people, about all your little tribes. Twiggs. Me. Los Magos. You can’t save us all. All this shit with Diablos, you and I both know there’s more to it than gang beef. Those guns… they got a sugar daddy with some serious clout, probably corporate-type clout. I get it. You’re a crusader. You have this holy mission you’re on, this crazy ass idea that you’re going to force the LGL to give you your own little commune, to leave you alone and let everybody live in peace.”

  “Is it that crazy?” Stonewall asked with an almost pleading tone.

  “You know it is. You know what a crusader is without the power of some big ass organization backing him? It’s a martyr. You want to be a martyr, you go right ahead, but leave me out of it. Be smart. Save yourself before it’s too late.”

  “I ain’t wired like that, amigo.”

  “Neither was Pedro. See where that got him?” With that, Bridge spun on his heels and stalked off.

  Chapter 8

  March 9, 2029

  10:42 p.m.

  The next few days were infuriating. Though constantly busy, much of Bridge’s efforts were fruitless and frustrating. No sooner would he get close to a simple deal when he’d have to perform a quick shuffle step to avoid catching some splash damage from the troubles. The first night had found him at the Tanz, hooking Bobby Kneecaps up with a new money laundering service. Two steps from the deal being done, one sentence from collecting his fee and sending Kneecaps across the crowded club to meet the Aardvark, the whole scene exploded at the crack of one stray gun shot. A crew of three Magos had chased a foolishly solitary Diablos rock-slinger into the back door. The disturbance started with a low rumble of perturbed dancers, shouting at the asshole that had tripped across their gyrations. The telltale pop-pop-pop of old school nine millimeters burping out bullets parted the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea. The Diablo runner went down, blood splattering the horrified club-goers. Bridge and his client dove in opposite directions as the club cleared in record time, the deal forgotten. Bridge made it out unscathed, but at least one bystander was struck by haphazard return fire.

  Five minutes after Bridge had cleared the door, he heard the whooping sirens of the CLED forces raiding the place. He later learned from the Tanz’s owner, Yazmine, that CLED had used the disturbance as a convenient excuse to search the place for anything and everything, including Glowbugs. Bridge had been working on Yaz for a month now, trying to sell her on the Glowbugs, but to no avail. He would have to work twice as hard to get her to bite after this.

  The next night he found even more difficult. Setting up meets had become problematic. Places he’d been cautiously welcomed before began to turn him away. He received a particularly gruff rebuff from the bouncers at Alligator Corner. Steve Three-Fingers, a bouncer he’d hooked up with some GlobalNet snuff torture rooms seemed to revel in giving Bridge the cold shoulder. Gizzard gave Bridge the run of the Glitter, but barred members of both Magos and Diablos from entering the place, and called the CLED on any who were spotted within a block of the joint. Bridge’s attempts to regroup with Kneecaps and the Aardvark fell apart when Gizzard revealed that Kneecaps was barred from entering the Glitter because of an outstanding debt.

  Bridge did manage to set up a meeting with the A&R rep, Baku Baku, to go over Sid’s music. Slick as greased goose shit, Baku Baku was an Iranian-American with a bit of a god complex. Dark slicked back hair capped a swarthy face of impressive masculine beauty, with the eyes of a predatory lizard. Bridge had never found out his real name – everyone just called him Baku Baku. Bridge could never spend more than thirty minutes alone with the guy without feeling the urge to punch him directly in his pretty face. Luckily, Bridge had tossed a few successful acts his way, including the brother and sister team, the Ardents, who had recently hit the number one on the GlobalNet charts. Baku didn’t exactly owe Bridge, but he was the only A&R guy that would take Bridge’s call without the typical dick-waving, put-Bridge-in-his-place posturing.

  Bridge met Baku at his penthouse office downtown, three blocks from the enormous Chronosoft LGL headquarters that had engulfed the Los Angeles downtown core. Sid had begged to come with, but Bridge knew better than to have the twitchy so-called musician in the same room with the executive in this situation. If Bridgeon. If B could get Baku through all Sid’s demo tracks, he would have held up his end of the bargain. Baku would probably be ready to kneecap Sid soon after they met in person, and if that happened before the rep had heard all the music, Bridge would owe Sid something else.

  Bridge, Mu and Aristotle rode the glittering, mirrored elevator up in silence. Bridge could smell the barest hint of gin on his bodyguard, masked badly by stronger cologne than Aristotle usually wore. Bridge had to give him credit. He was becoming a functional alcoholic.

  “Bridge! My nizzle!” Baku shouted as the elevator doors slid open. The Persian stood with his arms wide, his silken shirt open to the sternum, glittering gold necklaces twinkling from his smooth, olive chest. “Want some blow?”

  Bridge demurred. Baku liked the old stuff, the finest grade cocaine, bereft of nano additives, the kind of blow that still rotted sinus cavities and made hearts explode. Of course, Baku had an ace in the hole, an army of tissue-repairing nanobots that coursed through his veins, undoing any damage he’d done to his body in twenty-four hours. The treatments were expensive as hell. Bridge’s commission for finding a nanodoc willing to provide the technological marvels without paperwork on speed dial had been quite generous. “I’m good, Baku Baku.”

  “Come on, Bridge, we’re friends here. It’s Baku! Sit. Let’s dialog!” The man’s voice boomed through the cavernous penthouse. He was a loud talker, his voice always on the edge of shouting, but he seemed unaware of how loudly he spoke. Bridge sank into the sumptuous couch, the cushions redolent with the smoke from a water pipe. The air around the couch had a slight haze. The party had started in Baku Baku’s world. Bridge noticed a trio of naked hotties hanging out around the bar.

  “How’s business, Baku?”

  “Business is business, brother. Those Ardents, they been kicking it to the limits. You really found a gem there. What you got for me today, homes?”

  Bridge pulled Sid’s demo card and placed it gingerly on the translucent, circular coffee table in front of him. The circuitry in the table connected flawlessly with the card’s internal interface, lines of power glowing through the card and into the table. Bridge motioned to Baku for permission to begin playing the demo. The rep gave his permission with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “What am I listening to?”

  “Sid Tobin.”

  “B
ig band hop?” Baku asked as the first song started with a crescendo of blaring trombones and DJ record scratches, followed by Sid’s whiny voice flowing over horrible rhymes. “Jesus, man, why you bringing me this shit? Turn it off.”

  “Hold up, Baku. I got a favor to ask. I need you to hear all these songs. All of them. There’s like 30 of them.”

  “I got to listen to 30 of these?”

  “No, it gets worse. Wait ‘til you get to the industrial jangly pop.” Baku made a gas face.

  “You want me to listen to all of this shit? That’s going to cost you. Who the fuck is this idiot, you’re mother’s retarded cousin?”

  “Not quite, though not far off. We ain’t related, but he did me a huge solid and you are what he asked for. You don’t have to listen to every second of every song. Shit, maybe there’s something in here worth listening to, I don’t know. I couldn’t make it through myself.”

  Baku rubbed his smooth chin. “You’re going to owe me,” he said. Bridge nodded. “This got something to do with that beef going down in the Families?”

  Bridge raised a surprised eyebrow. “You know about that?”

  Baku nodded. “Yah. I know lots of shit, man. Let’s listen to this warbling, then we’ll talk about what you can do for me.”

  Listening to all the songs took what seemed like an age, each genre switch accompanied by rueful laughter and wincing. To his credit, Baku did listen to three of the songs from start to finish, expressing interest in meeting Sid. “I don’t recommend it,” Bridge replied when asked. “He’s about as big of a pain in the ass as you can imagine.”

  “I’ll meet anybody that’s got some talent, and he’s got some talent,” Baku said. “There might even be a hit in there if we polish and package him right. And if we don’t, it won’t be the first time I stuff artist in box and mail him to Botswana.” Baku’s explosive laughter pervaded the room, but despite the humor, Bridge knew Baku wasn’t kidding. Everyone knew about “the packaging.”