The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  The bottle he’d finished before passing out that night rolled off his lap and thudded dully onto the floor. He watched its lazy motion as it bobbled across the carpet until it stopped against the previous night’s refreshment with a delicate tink. Aristotle’s eyes examined the dusty carpet, spotting a total of six bottles scattered around the coffee table, its own top littered with chip wrappers, takeout dispensers, sticky unwashed glasses and discarded bottle caps. His philosophy 101 book lay open teetering on the very edge of the table, its pages e, its pstained with dried alcohol. He turned it around to read the headline on the leading page, chuckling at the quote paraphrasing. “The abyss gazes also – Nietzche” it read.

  “Don’t it ever,” he muttered to himself.

  He gazed around the room, trying hard not to see the mess there. Finally, he found the clock, an old-school alarm clock sitting on the kitchen counter. It had long since gone silent, its alarm ignored hours ago. He shook his head. The time could not be right. Usually when he slept this late, the pounding of the door would awaken him, followed by Bridge screaming at the top of his lungs. Instead, the only pounding was in his head, which throbbed with every beat of his heart. Bridge was very, very late, though that wasn’t an event completely without precedent. Aristotle stood on wobbly legs, steadying his dizzy fumbling with a hand on the couch. His stomach flopped before settling into an acidic sourness signaling an unattended hunger. The empty fridge laughed in his face. The sink gargled from a mouth full of crusty dishes. Frowning, he waved a dismissive hand at the debris and stalked into the bedroom.

  The bedroom blasted cold air back into his face, a full two or three degrees cooler behind the closed door than the rest of the apartment, its air dusty with disuse. In contrast to the living room, every inch of the bedroom was immaculately kept, a rigid order for every single microbe maintained. The pristine state of the room shocked memories back to the surface of Aristotle’s mind. Every time he saw this room, especially these days, he thought back to prison, the regimented stringency imposed by prison life somehow a painful comfort to the turmoil in his mind. He hadn’t used the bed in months, since shortly after returning from Boulder. The bed brought back too many bad dreams, and he would wake just as he had every night in prison, feeling the walls close, so close, too close, pressing in on his thoughts, his mind, his very goddamn soul with judgement. Only by obsessive ordering of his prison cell had he kept his mind focused on sanity, keeping away the fear and sadness and despair that he breathed in from all around. That strict routine had carried over into civilian life, focusing his thoughts on order when the thought of the chaos of every day life hemmed him in. Now though, his thoughts always fell on his grandmother and the struggle to control the anger he felt at her disappearance. He tried hard not to place that anger on Bridge, on the man who helped cover up the disappearance of thirty thousand people including his grandmother, on the technomancers like Mu who had caused the whole thing. But the anger made him feel unworthy of using the bedroom, unworthy of that room’s order. So every night he would drink to steel himself for the walk into the bedroom, to numb the anger and loss as he curled up into those painstakingly tucked-in sheets and crisp blankets. Since his self-imposed exile to the couch, he’d failed to stay conscious long enough to make it to the bedroom every single night.

  Pushing aside the thoughts, he quickly moved to the bathroom with a clean towel and shorts. The steaming shower helped clear the cobwebs in his hungover mind, and halfway through he began to wonder about Bridge. By now, there should at least be a message on his voicemail from the boss. He finished and quickly dressed. Dialing Bridge’s number from his antiquated cell phone, he closed off the bedroom quietly.

  Bridge didn’t answer.

  Worry began to creep into Aristotle’s stomach. Bridge’s cell phone wasn’t an old school hand unit like Aristotle’s, it was part of his cybernetic interface package. It rang quietly in Bridge’s skull. There existed no possibility that Bridge, if conscious, had not heard the ring. He couldn’t claim to have missed the call without claiming to have been decapitated or dosed. That meant Bridge must be screening calls or unconscious to a dangerous point. Neither option proved palatable. Not wanting to jump to the worst conclusions, Aristotle figured that Bridge was engaged in proving a point about his recent job performance. Aristotle knew he would need to apologize profusely, perhaps even promise an improvement he wasn’t sure he could achieve. Point taken, he called a cab immediately and ran to the street to wait for his ride.

  As multiple calls along the way went unanswered, he chose to call Mu instead, but the wizard also refused to answer. The worry grew stronger, a stone of doubt in his belly that added to the hangover’s ever-present nausea. He dared ask the cabbie for a brief detour at a fast food joint along the way. A hamburger was hardly the meal he wanted to start the day off with, and the grease did not sit well in his stomach, but it was better than the growling hunger. He finished the last bite as Bridge’s apartment complex appeared up ahead, his soda drained to the last watery sip.

  That sinking feeling sunk lower. Twinkling cop lights mingled with the cold March sunlight, surrounding the complex with multi-colored alarm. Feeling five-years old, like a child being told his mother would not be coming home to cuddle him because of something called crack, he stumbled out of the cab to Bridge’s apartment, hoping against hope that the commotion surrounded some other apartment. As the building came into view, his mouth dropped open. Where Bridge’s building had been, only a smoking crater remained, surrounded by police tape and barriers, manned by bored cops more interested in restricting access than investigating the calamity behind them.

  Unsure of what to do, he began to mingle, gathering what scraps of information he could before speaking to the police. By force of will, he held back tears that welled up behind his eyes, and he amazed himself with the depth of his feeling. He couldn’t care that much about Bridge. After all, Bridge used him and used him and rarely ever did he give anything back. Bridge was that kind of man. And yet, the possibility that he had lost his boss and someone he considered a friend, no matter how one-sided that friendship might be, that possibility so soon on the heels of his grandmother’s disappearance frightened Aristotle to the core of his being. An itching nervousness sank through his skin and muscles down to the very bone.

  ‘Bridge can’t be dead,’ he thought to himself.

  Aristotle slowly worked his way to the periphery of the crowd. He moved towards the police barrier with purpose, his eagerness hidden by a mask of casual indifference. His target stood on the edge of the police lines, a bored expression plastered across the policeman’s face. His slumping body language made the khaki CLED uniform sag with equal lack of concern. Finally arriving next to the officer, Aristotle kept his voice calm and uninterested. “What happened?”

  “What’s it to you?” the cop snarled back.

  “Just a neighbor, heard the commotion,” Aristotle replied.

  “You see anything?”

  “Nah, I was at my grandmother’s house, ‘bout three blocks over. Heard all the sirens and shit. Gas main explode or something?”

  “I wish.” The cop’s face changed, a conspiratorial expression replacing the boredom. “Some fucking guy killed his girlfriend or wife or something, then blew up the both of them. Took the whole goddamn apartment with him.”

  “That’s crazy! Hey, is it dangerous? Like does my grandmother got to worry about her stove blowing up or some crazy killer husband coming after her?”

  “Nah, your grandmother’s fine. The explosion was pretty well contained to just this area here. And we’re pretty sure the husband or whatever took himself out in the process. Two bodies, no sign of survivors.” He leaned even closer to Aristotle whispering so low the bodyguard had a hard time hearing him above the commotion. “They tell me the sick fuck even posted a suicide note on the GlobalNet or some shit. Crazy, right?”

  “Yeah, crazy,” Aristotle muttered. He mumbled some thanks to the cop, who return
ed to his bored stance. Aristotle wandered off the premises, trying to shrink into the crowd despite his size in case any of the officers surrounding the area recognized him.

  He would need help. Bridge could be many things, most of them unpleasant, but one thing he could never be is suicidal. Violent when pushed, and while Angela certainly knew how to push his buttons in the worst possible way, Aristotle could not believe for a second that Bridge could be violent towards her ever. The whole story of a suicide note sounded like a plant, like something Bridge would do when pursued by someone he couldn’t manipulate. If Bridge had felt heat strong enough to fake his own death, it was very likely that heat could be transferred to Aristotle, if for no other reason than to find Bridge.

  Bridge had set up contingency plans for such a possibility. Aristotle would need to get off the grid, disappear until he could hook up with his boss. To do that, he needed to talk to Stonewall Ricardo.

  “I haven’t seen Bridge since he pulled his asshole act at the meeting,” Stonewall said. They sat in the office of an abandoned fast food joint at one of the many abandoned subway stations the Families had occupied. The place was a mess, so unlike the stations occupied by Los Magos. Stonewall had been relocating the Magos every five hours, hiding from both the cops and El Diablos strike teams. Dark circles hung from his eyes, and his skin shone with sweat and days of accumulated grime. “I do see that son-of-a-bitch, I’ll flatten him. I should have punched him square in his face then.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  The Mexican grunted and smiled. “Fucking Bridge, eh? He’s got that effect on people.”

  Aristotle returned the smile. “Yes, that he does. It’s quite infuriating.”

  “To say the least. You say the whole place was a crater?”

  “Yes. Nothing but smoldering rubble from what I could see. He can’t be dead, though. I mean, do you really see him killing Angela, much less killing himself?”

  “I don’t know about Angela, but himself? Hell no, no way. If there’s one thing Bridge loves more than anything else, it’s himself.”

  “That suicide note, though, that’s the real telling piece of evidence. That screams misdirection to me. Keep the cops from identifying him, and whoever tried to kill him can’t tell for sure if he’s really dead, or if they got the wrong guy or what. He’s alive somewhere.”

  “So what, you going to try to find him?”

  “Yes and no. We talked about this exigency. If he truly was the target of an unsuccessful assassination attempt, the attackers might likely use me to find him for another shot. I need to disappear, and Bridge instructed me to seek your assistance in the matter.”

  “Of course he did. Even in death, he expects something from me.” Stonewall’s words didn’t match the smile on his face. “You know I’d do it for you, bro, no matter what I thought of Bridge. There ain’t enough smart mofos out there as it is. The world needs smart mofos.”

  His expression grew grave. “But you can’t stay with Magos. We got way too much heat on us as it is, between CLED and El Diablos. You wouldn’t be any safer with us than on your own, and you’d stick out like a bit of a sore thumb.”

  “Where then?”

  “The Panthers. You’d blend right in with them. Hell, you might even like them, that whole non-violence thing suits you. They’ve kept themselves out of this war, at least as much as any of the Families have been able to keep out of it. I’ll make some calls to Huey. Probably get you safe by tonight. That sound good?”

  Aristotle nodded. “That would be outstanding, brother Stonewall. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Brothers don’t need thanks,” the Mexican replied, bumping his fist with Aristotle’s in a gesture of solidarity.

  “I just have one more thing to take care of,” Aristotle said. Stonewall raised a questioning eyebrow. “I have to go visit a cop.”

  “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?” Stonewall asked.

  “Not really. She’s going to help me sell this Bridge death thing.”

  Stonewall returned a grim chuckle. “You really have been hanging around Bridge too long.”

  Interlude

  Gina Danton

  March 10, 2029

  8:32 p.m.

  “Count yourself lucky,” Gina began as she handed the bodyguard a steaming cup of coffee. “I don’t often invite criminals into my home, much less serve them coffee.” Her lame attempt at humor deflected off the man’s slumped shoulders without effect. Gina didn’t really consider Aristotle a criminal, per se, even though he worked for a sleazy fucker like Bridge. She had a bit of a soft spot for the bodyguard. Though he had a history of gang activity and violence, he had served his time and seemed genuinely interested in pulling himself out of the swamp, even going so far as to go to college. She had known him during his worst times. During her LAPD days, a year before the riots, she had been the arresting officer on the beef that sent him to prison the last time.

  Marcus had been muscle for a local street gang, the kind of guy that intimidated with his presence more than actual physical violence. He had pled out on an assault charge once, serving thirty days in county but kept his mouth shut like a good little street soldier. The gang had put him right back to work on release, guarding drug deals, intimidating witnesses. To Gina’s knowledge, he’d never killed anyone despite his reputation as a hard man. Unfortunately for him, he had been busted in the middle of a murder scene with clean hands. Gina worked him in the patrol car on the way to the station, softening him up for the interrogation to come. Something about him, about the crestfallen expression on his face convinced her that this man was unhappy with his life choices, that he was ready for a change. She persuaded him that that change could happen if he turned state’s evidence. His testimony sealed the fate of his partners, and he spent a little under a year in jail, missing the riots entirely. When he got out, Gina kept tabs on him. Though justifiably skeptical of his employment with Bridge, her assessment of the fixer seemed to be correct. Despite Bridge’s reputation as an amoral bastard, she sensed his reluctance to use violence and hoped that Aristotle would stay out of trouble. Until that business with the mayor last year, he had.

  Now he sat in her dingy home, every motion the leaden pantomime of a broken of a brman going through a routine he no longer understood. He placed the coffee cup down on the table in front of him and reached into the back pocket of his sweat pants for a silvery flask. Twisting the cap slowly, he poured the clear liquid into the steaming mug, replaced the flask and swirled the spoon in the tainted liquid before taking a careful sip. With an approving nod and a tired sigh, he leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. “I hope you aren’t driving,” was all she could think to say.

  “The bus shall be my chariot home,” Aristotle responded with little humor.

  “So what’s this about? Why do you think Bridge is dead?”

  Another sip, a stinging grimace came over his face. “This morning, I woke up extremely late, hours late. Usually when I am that late, a very perturbed boss awakens me but not on this occasion. I gather myself, perform my morning ablutions and give Bridge a ring. No answer. While that is unusual, I chalk it up to a deserved peevishness on his part. My job performance, in particular my adherence to schedules has slipped since… well, lately. Bridge has been rudely accepting, though my first thought on this particular morning was that he had finally tired of my issues and was ignoring me. I called a cab and got over to his place, tout suite. Only his place was no longer there.”

  “What do you mean, no longer there?”

  “Rather, the building in which he and his girlfriend lived no longer could be called a building. There had been some sort of explosion that leveled the place.”

  Gina’s eyebrow arched quizzically. “Girlfriend? That lying sack of monkey shit found a women that would live with him?”

  “Angela was quite able to give as good as she got. Their relationship could best be described as unique.”

  “I bet. Wait, she was?”
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  Aristotle nodded. “The entire area was sealed off with police tape, but I managed to converse with one of the officers on the scene. He informed me that there were two bodies in the building, one female and one male. I can only assume that Angela is dead and Bridge along with her.”

  “You think someone blew up the building? Someone put a hit out on Bridge?”

  “That would be my assumption. Of course, the rather unadvisedly loquacious officer on the scene claimed they were treating it as some form of murder-suicide or suicide pact or something. He claimed there was some sort of suicide note posted on a GlobalNet board.”

  Gina sank back into her favorite armchair with a sniff. “Bridge may be a lot of things, but homicidal and/or suicidal is not one of them. Why didn’t I hear about this earlier?”

  “The apartment had been registered under an alias, of course. Neither of their names appear on the lease.”

  “Makes sense. I’m sure there are enough people would want to put a cap in Bridge’s ass.”

  “Actually, it would have been at Angela’s behest. There are many, many more enemies that would like to see her fall than Bridge could gather in a week.”

  Gina’s curiosity raised another notch. A note of caution tinged her words as she asked, “Why? Who is this Angela? Or who was she?”

  Aristotle hesitated, his eyes darting around the room as he contemplated full disclosure. A sigh signified his decision. “You’ve heard of The Baron3ss, right?”