The Bridge

by Simon Winstanley

  As he watched the people busily crossing the airlock’s threshold, he had to marvel at the progress that had been made in the face of extraordinary adversity. He was seeing the result of 25 years of development; not just of technology, but of mind.

  Archive’s fledgling experimentation into genetic engineering and methods of enhancing intelligence had yielded results. But he knew the high price that had been paid.

  He turned away from the airlock and began the walk to his next appointment.

  The ego-morph program had arguably been one of Archive’s more successful experiments and had been a crucial line of defence. Having higher than average intelligence, and the ability to detach their emotional state, ego-morphs had been instrumental in the killing of stories or individuals that could have revealed knowledge of Siva.

  Over the years, the multiple different strands of genetic experimentation had raised an unsettling point: in the rush to improve and accelerate the human mind, it was possible that Archive was unwittingly creating the circumstances by which the human race would be superseded.

  The concept of the Evolution Safeguard had been simple. Individuals who’d received even a minor genetic modification were made sterile; either by force, or through an illusion of choice. With no possibility of being able to procreate, augmented individuals were no longer a threat to Homo sapiens’ position as the dominant species.

  The logic of the Evolution Safeguard had been sound, but it had neglected to take into account an error that had already been running for decades.

  When Jim had discovered Sam Bishop’s notebook, he’d recognised the problem immediately. There were certain surnames on the list who’d been ruled through with a red line, despite the fact that their descendants had outstanding intelligence.

  Archive’s position had always been clear on the subject of breaches in the Evolution Safeguard: termination was required.

  Some of the ‘Substandard’ descendants had simply escaped his net. It was a fact that ate away at him; with the future evolutionary path of mankind at stake, he could never be sure that he’d done enough. It was a small wonder that he’d ever managed to sleep at all.

  He’d been dreading today’s appointment, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. According to Robert it was a vital part of tailoring his specific hibernation profile.

  Jim pushed through the doors of the calibration room and started taking off his jacket.

  “Let’s get this over with, Mr. Wild.”

  “Evening, General,” Robert greeted him, “Roll up your sleeve.”

  Jim sat down and unfastened his shirt cuff, “Before we get started, I wanted to set the record straight.”

  “Uh, OK,” Robert flicked at a full syringe.

  “We may not always have been on exactly the same page,” he cleared his throat, “but I want you know that your service over the years has been excep-”

  “OK stop,” Robert interrupted, “You think I can’t tell how nervous you are? You know that loads of people have already done this. It’s completely safe. No need for a last speech OK?”

  He nodded and Robert placed the needle against his forearm.

  “Is this still compound version five?” Jim watched the fluid slowly disappear from the syringe.

  “I’ve tweaked it a little,” Robert removed the needle and walked away, “The original stuff was as rough as nails on the adrenal system. But this new stuff… it’s like snorting silk.”

  “That,” Jim shot him an admonishing glance, “is something I’ll have to take your word for.”

  “No,” Robert raised his eyebrows, “You won’t.”

  Jim got up and walked to the reclined chair apparatus at the side of the room. The basic tech hadn’t changed much in over twenty years, but Robert’s flair for the imaginative had augmented the setup in several places. Racks of electronic recording equipment and screens flanked either side of the chair, and directly above it was a warm-white lightbox.

  Jim lowered himself into position and placed his head on the padded headrest. As the faint smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils, he found himself thinking that the first ego-morphs must have experienced a similar perspective.

  “OK, so this should fit snugly to your head,” Robert fitted a flexible, electrode-covered cap into position, “but let me know if it’s too tight?”

  “Understood,” Jim took a breath, “Is this what we used to do?”

  “To the ego-morphs?” Robert tightened the cap, “Pretty much. The setup’s based on the one I developed with Dot Pittman, back in the day…”

  He took hold of the cap’s wires and began plugging them into their colour-coded sockets on the nearby electroencephalograph.

  “… I guess the main difference is that nobody’s gonna be whispering in your ear,” he said, “For this to work, you have to provide you own context.”

  Jim shook his head at the thought.

  “What the hell did we do to them?”

  Robert gave an understanding nod, “What we had to.”

  A soft bleep sounded from a few feet away.

  “OK,” said Robert, “I think we’re ready.”

  Jim took a deep breath and manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position; something that prompted him to ask an important question.

  “Safeguard?”

  Robert gave an apologetic shrug, “No change.”

  “There’s still nothing better?”

  “General,” he stopped, “When everybody’s subjective experience can differ so wildly, what’s the one thing that’s the same?”

  Jim thought it over for a moment and saw his point.

  NIGHTFALL

  As he continued to climb the stairs, Marcus began to regret his decision.

  “Tell me again why I agreed to this?” he asked Izzy.

  “It was your idea,” she replied from behind him, “You know the man we’re trying to find, and Tristan’s the only one who can get us back to the ARC so it…”

  “Makes sense to keep him with the Iseult,” he joined in with her, “Me and my big mouth… we’re only six floors up and my legs are burning.”

  Although he complained, he knew it was preferable to the nightmarish floors they’d left behind. The shattered levels below were a mangled cross-section of building, vehicles and office furniture. His nostrils had become saturated with the persistent deathly odour. On more than one occasion they’d caught sight of the flaky, decaying corpses that sat within crushed cars or floated in the water. The word fish-food drifted through his mind, but he tried not to dwell on it. The antidote appeared to be constant, and preferably trivial, conversation.

  “So are you and Tristan a thing then?”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  “Come on, Iz,” he turned the corner and mounted the next flight, allowing him to see her face, “I don’t need to have your spooky people skills to see it…”

  “I think so. Well…” she hesitated.

  “You know so, right?” he nodded.

  She smiled but didn’t reply.

  Perhaps he was getting better at this too, he thought.

  “I’m happy for you,” he smiled and continued climbing.

  He’d proceeded no more than a few steps, when Izzy once more demonstrated her more acute skill.

  “We will find her.”

  Although he hadn’t mentioned it, he had been thinking of Sabine again.

  “Who?” he feigned ignorance.

  “Don’t do that,” she told him.

  “Do what?”

  “Shut people out,” she said, “You do it too much.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Several silent seconds of climbing the stairs passed by.

  “You know you’re doing it again?” Izzy commented.

  Marcus just turned and smiled, “I’ll be alright.”

  “The indestructible Blackbox, right?” she shook her head.

  The higher they climbed, the lower the sun sank. After reaching the tenth floor, they s
topped to get their flashlights from their backpacks and take a sip of water.

  Shining his light around, Marcus could see they were still on the right track: a large, red Exordi Nova symbol had been sprayed in place on the nearby elevator door.

  He pushed the call button but, unsurprisingly, there was no reaction; the electrical power here was long dead.

  “It was worth a go,” he turned to Izzy, “Are you checking in with Tris?”

  “Yep,” she adjusted the position of her headset.

  “Tell him we found another one,” he smiled and pointed at the circle, “He’ll probably love it.”

  “Tristan, we’re at floor ten and still following their markers,” she then appeared to listen before responding, “Tell him he can use a straw. As long as he’s in the forward compartment, he stays cuffed.”

  “Pittman?” Marcus guessed.

  Izzy nodded, but continued to listen, “It’s best if nobody speaks to him, you included… OK, I will. Out.”

  As they continued their climb, what little warmth the sun had provided quickly departed. Nightfall arrived with a chill that permeated the air and seemed to cause the building itself to creak. The higher up they went, the less they could see of their surroundings; something he was actually glad of. The idea of being able to see their tiny sub, far below them, made him shiver. He just had to keep himself distracted.

  “So,” he called to Izzy ahead of him, “d’you reckon Pittman was lying about the soldier guy?”

  “Concealing,” she said, “He was trying to mask his outputs. I mean -”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, Iz.”

  Their footsteps continued to echo off the stairs.

  “Can you imagine living your life like that?” she walked on, “Constantly watching your every word and reaction? You could almost feel sorry for them.”

  “Them?”

  “The Archive lot.”

  From his early conversations with Monica, he knew exactly what Izzy meant. Being in Archive meant a life of deception. He’d seen it countless times already. It only now occurred to him that Izzy must see the tiny lies and half-truths everywhere.

  “What’s it like?” he asked, “Being able to know what people are thinking?”

  “Ha!” she laughed, “All I can do is tell if there’s a difference between what people say, and what people show.”

  “Isn’t that knackering?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, “Sometimes I just turn it off.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of,” she hesitated, “It’s a bit like hearing a foreign conversation. Sometimes I can just let it babble on in the background, or I can concentrate a bit harder and decipher the meaning. Does that make even the slightest bit of sense?”

  Marcus’ own experience with Sabine’s language meant that he knew the feeling very well.

  “Makes perfect sense.”

  They reached another landing and again they took a few moments to rest.

  “Tris,” she held her headset, “We’re at floor twenty.”

  “Send him a hug from me,” Marcus mocked her.

  He realised she was ignoring him.

  “Tris, come in,” she repeated, moving closer to the outer glazed wall, “Come in.”

  “What’s up?” he joined her.

  “Static,” she pulled off the headset.

  On the other side of the glass, the night suddenly became as bright as day.

  •

  Using the straw that a crew member had given him, Bradley sucked some water from the tall glass. He took care to be a little louder than was strictly necessary, and watched Tristan as he busily worked at a console.

  “I gotta say,” he spoke to Tristan, “Using the straw makes you ’preciate it a whole lot more.”

  Tristan slid out from under the console and picked up his headset.

  “Is the A-ninety any clearer?” he spoke to someone, “OK, thanks Ian, move on to the next block and we’ll go again.”

  Without replying to Bradley’s conversational gambit, Tristan grabbed another tool and disappeared under the console again.

  Bradley recognised the dismissive behaviour; an assured confidence that bordered on passive arrogance. It was a common trait of all those who’d been raised under Archive’s protection. It pained him to think that he’d seen signs of this behaviour in his own daughter. The fact was though, he’d been an Archive member for much longer than any of them. He knew he may not have their intelligence, but he’d spent a lifetime manipulating people to get what he wanted.

  “OK, I get it,” Bradley rattled the handcuff chain that attached him to the chair, “I messed up. Maybe I shouldn’t have touched the damn laptop.”

  Aside from the sound of a ratchet screwdriver from under the console, there was no response.

  “I was just tryin’ to stop ’em getting shot…”

  Tristan emerged again and, standing in front of the console, tapped his headset.

  “OK, Ian, how about now?”

  There was a short pause, then Tristan nodded, “That’s got it. Great work. Can you check the starboard array next?”

  Bradley tried a new approach.

  “I guess the Archive X.O.D. really came through… Zappin’ the bad guys and giving medicine to them that’re in need. I guess, strictly speakin’, the med kit was down to Itzy,” he intentionally mispronounced her name.

  Although Tristan didn’t verbally correct him, he glanced in his direction. It was enough to work with.

  “When we get back to the ARC,” he took a noisy sip from his straw, “I’m gonna recommend her for a medal or somethin’.”

  Tristan closed the access panel and then busied himself at a computer screen. From what Bradley could tell, the display now featured some sort of radar.

  “Yep,” he slurped on the straw again, “She must be quite a woman… I just can’t fathom why you’d wanna send her up there, seein’ as you care for her so much.”

  Ignoring him, Tristan began to move along the console, checking various settings along the way.

  “Just sayin’ that I hope she ain’t gone for too long, ’cos we’d all be better off at the ARC.”

  Tristan appeared to change direction suddenly and converge on him. Finally, Bradley hoped, he was managing to get under his skin.

  Tristan stopped a few feet away but there was no indication of malice on his face. Just a sense of measured tolerance.

  “Mr. Pittman,” he said, “I do not own Izzy. She chose to go up there to help. Your attempts to elicit reactions that would force us to depart for the ARC have been noted. My actions here serve to demonstrate something that I hope you will take the time to understand. I will, absolutely, never leave here without her. We will depart for the ARC as fast as possible when, and only when, she returns.”

  Bradley grinned.

  “Well that there is one well-defined position. Thanks for the clarifi-”

  An alarm from the console cut him off, and Tristan dashed away.

  Although the finer technicalities of the computer display were lost on Bradley, he could recognise that something was passing swiftly across the radar screen.

  Tristan jabbed at his headset, “Izzy, come in.”

  A burst of static filled the room, then Tristan departed at speed, calling to his crew.

  Through the forward compartment’s small window, Bradley saw the night sky bleach into a bright white.

  CALIBRATION

  Jim walked to the small mirror and looked at the old man staring back at him. He leaned forward to inspect the lines around his eyes.

  “OK, can you still hear me?” the reflection spoke.

  “What?” he frowned.

  “It’s Robert,” the reflection explained using Jim’s face.

  Jim remembered that beyond his closed eyes, he was still sitting in the calibration room’s reclined chair.

  “Right…” Jim spoke hesitantly and tried waving his hand back and forth at the mirror.

 
“Everything OK?”

  “Well, I’m seeing myself, but the reflection’s speaking with your voice.”

  “You’re looking in a mirror?” asked Robert.

  “Yeah, the one in my bathroom.”

  “Cool,” Robert replied, “It’s just the calibration taking effect. Your brain’s trying to make sense of the experience by combining residual sensory info. Hold on, I’ll give you a little white noise.”

  What sounded like a low hiss filled the room.

  “OK, yeah, that’s starting to work,” said Robert, “Concentrate on what it sounds like.”

  Jim thought it sounded like the ocean; the consistent background hiss that he used to hear beyond the walls of his old coastal home.

  A knock came from the bathroom door.

  In surprise he looked back at the mirror.

  “Who is it?” his youthful reflection spoke.

  “Very funny,” his wife’s voice came from the other side of the door, “Are you going to be long?”

  He couldn’t remember how long ago he’d come in to wash his face, but obviously it was too long; Gwen needed the bathroom.

  “I’ll be right out,” he told her.

  He patted his face dry on a towel and opened the door.

  “I’ve left some coffee on the balcony,” she walked past him, “Can you go ahead and pour?”

  She shot him a quick smile and then closed the door.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he told her.

  “I heard that,” her muted voice returned.

  He walked back through their living room, past the sofa, and stepped outside onto the balcony. The bright sun filled the air with a steady warmth, while the churning Atlantic arrived at the shore as nothing but a gentle hiss.

  He picked up the coffee pot and could instantly smell its rich aroma as he poured it into the round-bottomed cups. He turned to see that Gwen had just sat down and he wondered how she’d returned from the bathroom so quickly.

  “Did you run?”

  She pointed to the beach below.

  “Not this morning. I thought we might do an evening run,” she took hold of his hand, “together.”