The Bridge

by Simon Winstanley

  To him, her smile was as warm as the morning sun. He stared into her eyes, wanting to capture the moment forever; a snapshot he could return to when they were both old and grey.

  “I’d like that,” he said and squeezed her hand.

  They finished their breakfast and talked through what the weekend shift would bring. Eventually, he pulled on his uniform.

  “Colonel today,” she straightened his collar.

  “General tomorrow,” he kissed her in reply.

  She patted his chest, then walked away down the path to her jeep.

  “Oh, can you lock up?” she climbed in and started the engine.

  “Sure,” he reached for his keys and turned away to the front door.

  “See you later,” she beeped the horn.

  He turned around to wave her off, but missed his footing.

  Falling backwards off the doorstep, he felt a jolt run through all the muscles in his arms and legs.

  The bright sky disappeared into darkness and he opened his eyes.

  “Welcome back,” Robert muted the horn-like warning tone from the machine at his side.

  Wide-eyed and staring around the room, it took Jim a moment to realise that despite being in a reclined position, he hadn’t actually fallen.

  “I fell, but…”

  “The safeguard, remember?” said Robert, adjusting several dials, “The one sure way to wake anybody up.”

  “It all…” he began, but then found he couldn’t put the experience into words.

  “Calibration’s complete but the sample’s too short,” Robert started disconnecting the coloured wires from the cap, “You didn’t stay in stim-sleep long enough to get anything meaningful.”

  “Not long enough?” Jim frowned and sat upright, he clearly remembered an entire weekend morning with Gwen.

  “Your time-rescaling didn’t have chance to kick in,” Robert tapped at a graph on a screen, “You were only out for three minutes.”

  CONVERGENCE

  As though an entire day was passing in a matter of seconds, light swept over London’s remains. Marcus could see the crisp shadows of jagged buildings swoop over the water like the hands of an accelerated clock.

  Weakened by its journey through the atmosphere, the incoming lunar fragment split in two. The larger portion appeared to splinter away, but the other part continued along its path almost unchanged.

  Marcus backed away from the window and grabbed Izzy.

  “Come on!” he ran down a corridor, trying to get clear of the building’s outer glazing.

  They’d just turned a corner when it happened.

  For Marcus, the explosion didn’t register as sound, it arrived as a solid wall of air that knocked him clean off his feet and propelled him forward. He didn’t recall his impact with the plasterboard wall but found himself struggling upright amid a cloud of dust that swirled in his flashlight.

  “Marcus!” Izzy called out.

  “I’m OK!” he turned to see her, “You?”

  “I shouldn’t be, but… yeah.”

  For a moment he thought he was having a problem balancing, but then he realised that the floor was at fault. Either it was uneven, or the building itself was tilted.

  “Your headset,” he pointed out that it was missing.

  Izzy checked her head and then the floor near her feet.

  “Damn it!” she began shrugging off her backpack and delving into the main pocket. A second later she withdrew the radio that the headset had been paired with.

  “Does it still work?” Marcus aimed his flashlight at the radio.

  “Tris, come in,” she tried.

  There was no response.

  “Let’s get closer,” he said, “Too much crap blocking our sig-”

  A low, vibrating shudder passed under their feet and then faded.

  Pushing aside pieces of hardboard and broken desks, they made their way back out onto the main corridor. The further they proceeded, the more the walls were embedded with shards of glass; the way ahead of them sparkled in the beam of their one remaining flashlight.

  “Try it again.”

  “Tris, come in, this is Izzy. Over.”

  The radio remained silent.

  As they continued to walk forward, the view opened out in front of them. The stairwell and the surrounding glazing were gone. Several floors were also missing, as though they’d been simply scooped out of the building. Below he could see newly-exposed levels that were either still glowing from the impact or simply on fire.

  “Tris, damn it, come in!” Izzy shouted, “Calling anyone on the Iseult. Can you hear me?!”

  Taking care not to get too close to the edge, he looked upward. The staircase was a twisted mess. It was difficult to see how they’d ever be able to reach the upper floors now. Thoughts of rescuing someone else were being quickly replaced by how they’d rescue themselves.

  “Hey!” a voice came from below, “We hear you!”

  Marcus turned to see that, a few floors down, a young woman was waving a burning piece of wood to get his attention. At her side was the older-looking man he’d seen through the drone’s camera. The man who’d once lent him a shopping trolley.

  “You alright?” Marcus called down.

  “We’re fine, Mr. Blackbox,” the man grinned, “Is that Miss Walker with you?”

  Marcus was momentarily stunned by the use of his alias and Kate’s surname. Quite how he knew or remembered those details was a mystery, but it was a conversation for another time.

  “I’m Izzy,” she called out.

  “Terry,” the man pointed to himself.

  Marcus remembered the name now: the one man who, despite having nothing, had given him and Kate the chance to elude the pursuit of an ego-morph.

  “Megan,” the young woman waved her hand, “and we’re really hoping you got a way out of this shitstorm.”

  Marcus checked the surroundings again.

  “How did you get down there?”

  Megan frowned, but then her confusion seemed to lift.

  “We were already here, picking up supplies, when we heard you walk up past our floor. Before we could get to you…” she broke off and looked at the surrounding chaos.

  The floor vibrated again and Marcus backed away from the edge slightly.

  “OK,” he called to them, “Wait there.”

  He began taking off his backpack.

  “Tris come in,” Izzy tried the radio again, then dropped it to her side, “What are you doing?”

  “Dunno,” he opened a pocket, “yet.”

  He rummaged through the backpack until his hand closed around something that felt vaguely L-shaped. Pulling his hand out of the pocket, he showed her what looked like an asthma inhaler.

  “You ain’t gonna give me a hard time for swiping this from the med bay are you?”

  She shook her head, “Do it.”

  He felt a rapid tremor begin within the floor. There was no time to lose. He put the inhaler in his mouth and pushed the button.

  His surroundings took on higher definition.

  The vibration under his feet slowed.

  Like an echo in reverse, distant parts of a plan began to quietly reverberate and converge on him. Conversations and experiences over the last few minutes and days overlapped and merged. Details, subliminal at the time, now rippled back to him magnified. The surrounding circle of possible actions grew ever smaller and compressed to arrive at a single point.

  The building tremor stopped.

  “OK,” he turned to Izzy, “You’re not gonna like this.”

  PERIMETER

  At one side of the ARC’s central control room, an alarm sounded.

  Rachel looked up to see that two warnings had activated simultaneously.

  “General!” she caught his attention, and pointed to the large main display, “Northeast perimeter intrusion and Heavy Rain alert.”

  “Sound general quarters,” he assessed the screen, “Prep the Deflector.”

  As
a repeated warning tone began to ring out, Rachel’s fingers flew over the keyboard to enter her authorisation code, “Deflector in pre-launch.”

  The display updated. Within a tolerance of a few hundred metres, it seemed that the fragment’s trajectory line would collide with the disk that represented an unknown intrusion.

  “Sir,” she reported, “The fragment-tracking software predicts that it will miss Pico, should I stand down the Deflector? Preserve our resources?”

  He continued to study the display.

  “Sir?” she urged.

  “Where did that vessel come from?”

  “It wasn’t on sonar until a moment ago,” she hovered her finger over the abort button.

  “Has it transmitted an ID?”

  “Negative on ID,” she confirmed, “Recommend standing down the Deflector and allowing the fragment to impact the intrusion.”

  His eyes darted about the display for several seconds before he pointed at the disk shape.

  “Display its distance from us,” he didn’t take his eyes from the screen.

  Moving her hand away from the abort button, she updated the display again. The red circle that surrounded Pico Island extended to reach the unidentified vessel.

  “Distance three point one four miles, Sir,” she reported.

  He continued to stare at the screen where a red circle lay broken in one place by the location of the potential intruder. It seemed that he was almost transfixed by it, and she wondered whether she’d need to assume control.

  “Proceed with Deflection,” he suddenly appeared to come to his senses, “Now.”

  Raising her finger away from the abort key again, she locked in the ‘commit’ button.

  “Launch commit confirmed,” she reported.

  “Unidentified vessel, on bearing zero four five from Pico Island,” Broxbourne spoke into his headset, “You have entered protected territory. Transmit your authorisation key.”

  Rachel kept an eye on her display, but no code arrived. Looking at Broxbourne, she shook her head, “Nothing, Sir.”

  A double tone sounded from her console.

  “Deflector launch,” she reported.

  “Unidentified vessel,” Broxbourne began again, “I repeat, this is protected territory. Transmit your authorisation key.”

  Rachel saw a portion of the display change colour and a message box arrived. A name appeared alongside a vessel ID. Immediately she felt cold. It was possible they’d just allowed an intruder to pass inside their protective perimeter.

  “Sir, we have an ID discrepancy,” she said, “and their security sync is offset.”

  Broxbourne marched to her console and studied the display.

  It was plain to see that, although the code belonged to Tristan Westhouse, the vessel ID was not the Sea-Bass.

  “Damn,” he turned away.

  “Sir,” she prompted him, “Protocol dictates that we should expend a warning torpedo. Do you wish me to proceed?”

  He nodded.

  “For the record, I need an audible response.”

  Broxbourne sighed and turned towards her.

  A pop of static broke through on the comm panel speaker at his side.

  “Pico Island,” came the voice, “This is Archive Executive ident alpha echo five seven dash one x-ray niner.”

  “Run that ID,” Broxbourne instructed her.

  She typed in the alphanumeric code and it confirmed the identification.

  “Standing down torpedo,” Rachel confirmed.

  “Confirm please,” the panel sounded again.

  “This is General Broxbourne,” he replied, “Proceed to the docking bay.”

  A laugh came through the speaker panel, followed by a drawling voice.

  “Broxbourne? You ol’ son of a gun! Have I got news for you.”

  DESCENT

  Marcus slammed a thin piece of steel between the elevator doors and began forcing them open.

  “Bloody hate these things,” he muttered to himself.

  The doors grudgingly parted and Izzy cast the flashlight into the dark void.

  “This can’t be the best way,” she said, pointing the beam straight down.

  “I saw this place gettin’ built,” he dragged a fire hose reel from the shattered glass case on the floor, “The bottom half’s built around a solid core… It’s our best chance.”

  Below he could see a crack of light widening within the shaft. A second later, Megan’s arm thrust into the black space, waving her burning piece of wood.

  “Hello?” she called up to them.

  “I see you,” Marcus shouted down to her.

  Izzy passed the free end of the flattened fire hose through a collection of sturdy-looking beams nearby, and Marcus began rolling the hose reel toward the elevator.

  “Ready?” he turned to Izzy.

  Izzy finished tying her constrictor knot into place, “Ready.”

  “OK, look out!” he shouted down the shaft, then pushed the reel off the edge.

  From below there was a dull clang and the hose became taut.

  “Everyone OK?” he checked.

  “Yep,” came Terry’s voice, “All OK.”

  Marcus could see that, as planned, they were working to hook the dangling hose and drag it toward them. Although the drop was perhaps only five or six metres, they looked uncomfortably small against the deep shaft.

  “We’re ready,” Megan called up.

  Izzy stepped forward, tightening her backpack and handing him the flashlight.

  “I’ll get started on the next hose as soon as I’m down there.”

  She sat down and swung her legs off the edge. Taking hold of the hose, she twisted herself onto her front and began lowering herself off their floor.

  “Don’t wait for me,” he told her, “Just show them what to do.”

  “I will,” she disappeared out of view.

  His plan was that, with each new floor they reached, they’d add another hose to help their descent. Once they’d passed four floors, there would be enough hoses for them to travel down in parallel with each other. They may have to improvise with more hoses along the way, but hopefully they’d be able to reach a staircase that was still intact.

  He felt the floor move; a very slight but detectable sway from left to right. In response, a fine cloud of dust fell through the air.

  “Marcus!” Izzy called, “Come on!”

  He turned and, just as he’d seen her do, lowered himself into position at the elevator’s open edge. Gripping the hose tightly, he turned over onto his hands and knees, then drew a deep breath.

  “Don’t fail me now,” he told his tightly-clamped hands.

  Forcing his feet out into the darkness, he began lowering himself down. With each strenuous grasp of the hose, he became more aware of one thing: if he was to adapt to this new world then he’d need to get into much better shape.

  “You’re nearly there,” he heard Izzy’s encouraging tone, “just a few more feet.”

  For a moment, he felt the warmth from Megan’s burning torch flit by and he knew he must be close to reaching them. He felt hands pulling at him, trying to get him to the safety of the solid floor. A few seconds later he was pulled away from the shaft opening, then immediately restrained by a set of arms.

  “Good to see you again!” Terry hugged him.

  “You too, mate,” Marcus patted his back.

  “Do you two need a room?” Megan quipped, “Cos I think there might be some spare on this floor.”

  As Marcus let go of him, another shudder passed through the whole building and he felt the floor tip. Megan stumbled backwards into the elevator shaft. He turned in time to reach out for her, but she fell. Her flaming torch tumbled out of view as he ran forward.

  Against the darkness of the shaft, the grey hose swung from side to side.

  “Megan!” Terry shouted.

  Perhaps a floor below, Marcus could see her, gripping tightly onto the hose.

  “What?” her voice ret
urned.

  “You alright?” Terry called to her.

  “Yeah, I’m just hangin’ with my hose,” her sarcastic tone then jarred into a more genuine response, “Of course I’m not bloody alright!”

  “Meg, the floor’s right under you!” Terry called out, “Can you lower yourself down?”

  Marcus suddenly realised what he was actually looking at.

  Megan’s torch was still alight and resting on top of something flat, further down the shaft.

  He became aware of Izzy’s approach and turned to see her dragging another reeled hose behind her.

  “What happened?” she dropped it and dashed over to look down the shaft.

  “Meg fell, but she caught the hose,” said Terry, then called out, “Just a bit further, Meg.”

  “Izzy,” Marcus shook his head, “That’s not a floor down there.”

  “But…” she inspected the view, “…oh.”

  Marcus could see that she understood. The burning torch was on the roof of an elevator car that was stuck in the shaft.

  “Damn,” she whispered, “We can’t get down this way.”

  Marcus had already told her that she wouldn’t like it, but he had to remind her of their only available option.

  “No choice,” he said, “We have to go with Plan B.”

  Izzy winced, but then nodded.

  “I made it!” Megan’s voice reached them.

  “On the plus side,” Marcus shrugged to Izzy, “One of us is already in the right place.”

  It soon became apparent that Terry wouldn’t be strong enough to lower himself down through the shaft. Tying a loop into place on the existing hose, Izzy passed one end of their second hose through it. Within a few minutes, she’d created a basic pulley that they could use to lower him by hand.

  Once Terry was safely at the elevator roof below, Marcus and Izzy began making their own way down.

  Several hours ago, on their way up, he’d seen Terry and Megan’s various circular markers. Some had been sprayed on walls, but the last one he remembered seeing had been sprayed onto a set of elevator doors. He wondered whether that particular marker had given him the idea he was about to try. Or maybe, like Tristan, he was just trying to attach significance to circular patterns.