Infinity

by Stan C. Smith

  Doyle sighed loudly. “And now here’s the ugly. As you can imagine, this job pays quite well. But if you are selected, you’ll have to sign some of the most restrictive non-disclosure agreements ever drafted, as bridging involves proprietary technology and information. And you’ll have to relocate to Missouri, where you’ll undergo extensive training. We require a five-year commitment, during which time you might as well consider yourself to be the property of SafeTrek Bridging.” He stopped talking and gazed around at the fighters.

  Passerina realized her heart was racing. Something about Doyle’s stark explanation of the job intrigued her.

  Square Jaw pushed through the crowd and stood beside Doyle. “My name’s Reed Crossland. If you become a bridger, I’ll be your trainer. But before you even consider whether you’re interested, know this. We’re not looking for finesse fighters who can score points for the win. As a bridger, you’ll be charged with protecting the lives of clients. Sometimes from human hostiles, sometimes from nonhuman animals. Your job will be to shut these hostiles down—not to earn points. Shut them down!” He drove his fist into his palm for emphasis.

  Passerina’s heart raced even faster.

  “Now here’s the real rub,” Crossland said. “Most of the scientists we’ve signed up for bridging excursions are interested in alternate timelines of evolution. I don’t pretend to understand why, but that’s what tickles their pickles. This means that sometimes they’ll be bridging to alternate worlds where humans don’t even exist. That may sound safer, but make no mistake—it’s not. Nonhuman predators armed with teeth and claws can ruin your day faster than any humans could. Before you jump up and down shouting ‘pick me,’ think very hard about that.”

  Passerina didn’t need to hear any more. She was sold. As crazy as the job sounded, it would be a new start. She was tired of struggling to make a name for herself. She was one stroke of bad luck from being thrown in jail, and she had no possessions to speak of, or family she cared about, to keep her here in Phoenix. She was ready for a chance to start over, to do something that actually helped others.

  She looked around at the other fighters. Several of them were already walking away, and most of the others were frowning or shaking their heads. Not Scottie though. He was grinning like an idiot.

  “What do you think?” she asked him.

  He nodded while still staring at Square Jaw. “God’s sending me a sign, that’s what I think.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to marry me someday, but I’m moving to Missouri.”

  She snorted. “You're far too old for me. Besides, you're only going if there's still room after I sign up.”

  Ramon Vila, a fighter Passerina had known for a few years, was standing behind them. “You’re actually thinking about this?” he asked. “After all that guy said?”

  Scottie grinned. “Damn right.”

  Ramon shook his head. “I was out as soon as I heard ‘predators with teeth and claws.’” He turned and walked away with the others.

  Passerina and Scottie were now the only two fighters left standing in front of Doyle and Crossland. Doyle eyed them without expression, while Square Jaw looked them over with no attempt to hide his skepticism. Apparently they weren't looking to recruit a couple of featherweight fighters, let alone a female.

  “Where do we sign up?” Scottie asked.

  The two men from SafeTrek glanced at each other.

  Passerina crossed her arms. “Did you come here to recruit fighters or not?”

  Doyle smiled slightly. “Let’s at least give them a chance—see what they can do.”

  Passerina decided she liked him better than Crossland.

  Square Jaw sighed loudly and approached Passerina and Scottie. As he stepped closer, Passerina realized that not only was his scalp shaved, he had even shaved off his eyebrows. What kind of hardcore fanatic was this guy?

  “I know what you’re thinking—that I’m an asshole because I’ve already decided you’re not suitable for the job,” Square-jaw said. “To be honest, I don’t give a damn that each of you are only sixty percent of my weight.” He eyed Passerina. “And I don’t care that you’re a woman. What I care about is keeping our clients alive. If I decide you’re likely to be good at doing that, then we’ll be more than willing to recruit you into our training program.” He looked them both over again. “Have either of you ever had to fight off a nonhuman animal?”

  Passerina and Scottie exchanged a glance.

  “I have,” Passerina said. “A dog. A few years ago. I had to kill it with a chokehold.”

  Square Jaw stared at her for a few seconds and then said, “The best way to fight an animal is to avoid the fight altogether. But when conflict can’t be avoided, you need a certain mindset to survive—a certain drive—that most competition fighters don’t possess. Why not? Because competition fighters follow the rules. Nonhuman animals don’t have rules.”

  Scottie shifted impatiently. “Did you come here to talk us into submission, or do you want to see what we can do?”

  Crossland leveled his gaze at Scottie.

  “You get used to it,” Passerina offered. “Scottie’s fond of sarcasm.”

  “She’s right, I love sarcasm,” Scottie said. “It’s like punching people in the face, but with words.”

  Crossland didn’t smile. After a few seconds, he nodded toward the nearest octagon cage. “You mind sparring with me? I’ll know what I need to know within three minutes.”

  3

  Recruitment

  Reed Crossland had been right—three minutes in the cage with Scottie was more than enough time. Crossland, over six feet tall and easily 240 pounds, skillfully executed moves Passerina had never seen before. As he had said, he specialized in hand-to-hand combat rather than competition fighting. Still, Scottie was one of the fastest fighters Passerina had ever known, even though he was ten years older than her, and he had made three solid jabs to Crossland’s face before the larger man took him to the ground. Seconds later, Scottie had been immobilized by an arm triangle choke.

  Crossland was smiling when he got up. He extended a hand to Scottie. “Impressive,” he said. He then shot a glance at Armando Doyle and said, “In spite of his puny size, this one has my approval.”

  Passerina took a deep breath and entered the cage.

  “Show him what zero-to-bitch-in-three-seconds looks like,” Scottie huffed as they passed each other.

  Passerina jabbed the air a few times to loosen her arms and shoulders. The sparring gloves Doyle had insisted they wear were large and unwieldy. They were heavier, with more padding than her usual competition gloves, which were the only gloves she owned.

  “What’s your name?” Square Jaw asked. He stood in the center of the cage without moving, his gloves hanging loosely at his sides, looking relaxed and confident. The guy had an imposing presence, especially now with his shirt off. His body was even more riddled with scars than Passerina’s.

  “Passerina,” she replied as she stepped closer to him with her fists up.

  “Passerina? That’s one I haven’t heard.”

  “It’s a bird. A painted bunting. My parents liked birds.”

  He frowned. “That’s the name you go by as a fighter?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this part of the job interview?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Just asking. Okay, Passerina, I’ll be honest with you. We’re recruiting nine prospective candidates. Seven of those slots have already been filled. Eight, if you include your friend there.” He nodded toward Scottie. “All eight of them are men.”

  “Are you saying I don’t have a chance?”

  He shook his head again. “Not at all. I’m just telling you that a certain level of aggression is needed in real-world combat, especially with nonhuman attackers. In the last week, I’ve sparred with four other women who wanted to become bridgers. They were all good fighters, but they didn’t have what we’re looking for.”

  “You’re not very good at
pep talks.”

  “Just being honest.”

  “What do I have to do to pass your test?”

  He furrowed his brows, apparently thinking. “It’s not that simple. But I guess if you want to absolutely clinch a slot as a candidate, execute any takedown or throw that puts me on the mat first.”

  She gazed at him and nodded. “How about if I draw blood?”

  He smiled slightly. “That might do it.” He pointed a glove at her face. “Without using your teeth.”

  She bit down on her mouthguard. Damn—so much for that idea. “Fair enough,” she said.

  He rolled his head to loosen his neck and then raised his gloves. “Alright, show me what you’ve got, Passerina.”

  This was it—her chance to get out of this shithole and start a new life.

  Passerina eyed her opponent, a hundred pounds heavier and probably twice as strong. To take him down, she’d have to be unpredictable and fast. And mean. Which happened to be her specialty. She feinted jabs at him a few times and then shot in for a low single, a good move for dropping larger opponents. In one continuous motion she threw her right elbow to the mat, cupped her hand around his left heel, and threw her right shoulder into his knee with all her strength. This level of aggression would normally cause a fighter to overshoot a low single, allowing Crossland to drop on top of the fighter instead of falling back. Which was exactly why he wouldn’t be expecting her to come in so hard.

  She felt him falling back, but then he twisted and yanked his leg from her grip. She took advantage of his brief loss of balance and did something he couldn’t possibly predict. She pumped her legs, launching herself into an upward spin and then throwing a high round kick, catching the side of Crossland’s face with the instep of her right foot just as he was turning back toward her.

  Pain shot through her leg, as if she’d kicked the trunk of a tree. But years of training had toughened the cartilage in her feet, and it would take a lot more than this to cause serious damage.

  Crossland stepped back, eyes wide. He spat blood onto the mat and stared at it for a moment. Then he glanced up at her. “I can’t believe it. A round kick against someone twice your size? That could have gone badly for you in a dozen ways.”

  Passerina was bouncing on the balls of her feet, reveling in her adrenaline surge. “That looks like blood to me,” she said, nodding toward the mat. “Are we done?”

  He smiled. “Hell no. You’ve got me curious now.” He came at her and threw a few jabs, trying to goad her into making another move.

  It dawned on Passerina that he thought she had simply gotten lucky with her kick. He was right—she had been lucky. And now it appeared she’d have to be lucky again. She decided she needed to pull off a foot sweep to get him to the mat. The problem was he would be expecting the move, as a foot sweep was another common way to take down a larger opponent. It was time for another surprise.

  She threw a rapid series of jabs and then feinted an arm grab, pulling his right arm to her body as if she were about to curl her leg around the back of his leg for an inside trip. But instead of carrying through with the trip, she reversed her rotation, pulled him toward her, and swept both his feet out from under him with her left leg.

  Crossland went down, but Passerina sensed that he had allowed it to happen. She stood over him, glaring down at his smiling face. “You could have blocked that sweep,” she said. “Why didn’t you?”

  He reached out a hand, and she helped him up. “Like I said, I was curious. Now I’ve seen what I needed to see. Your moves are unpredictable, and your aggression is off the charts. Why in the hell are you still training in this gym?”

  Fons spoke up from outside the cage. “Because she’s not marketable as a competition fighter. God knows, I’ve tried to push her up the ranks and out of here. But she’s got no restraint—a goddamn bone breaker.”

  Crossland leveled his gaze at Passerina. “I didn’t think I’d be saying this, but you’ve got my approval.”

  She grinned. “That’s it?”

  “For now,” he said as he tugged the Velcro of one of his sparring gloves and pulled the glove off. “If you’re serious about wanting to join us at SafeTrek, you’ve got one of the nine candidate slots. You’ll be the only female, though. I don’t suppose I need to tell you what that’s going to be like for you.”

  Passerina started removing her own gloves. “No, you don’t. Doyle said this job pays well. How well?”

  Crossland glanced over at Doyle, who was now talking to Fons. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve got to make it through our bootcamp first.”

  “Let’s say I do,” she retorted.

  He grinned. “I like your attitude. Our bridger training program is new, of course. Details are still being worked out. But I can tell you this. If you become a full-blown bridger, every excursion from which you bring the clients back alive will earn you more than you’d earn in any UFC fight.”

  She stared at him for a moment and then realized her mouth was open. “How many excursions would I get?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure. There’s a quarantine period after each excursion. Maybe one a month. Possibly more.” He opened the cage door and nodded for her to pass through.

  They joined Doyle, Fons, and Scottie. Doyle smiled broadly at her and made a strange gesture, grabbing his bowtie and rocking it up and down with his fingers. “Oh, happy day! I, for one, am quite pleased we took the time to visit the Scrapyard. Mr. Crossland here made it abundantly clear that he thought it would be a waste of our time. But we have now filled all nine of our candidate slots. Happy day, indeed!” He slapped Crossland on the back, which prompted the fighter to roll his eyes.

  4

  Cypress Street

  Passerina crossed to the other side of West Cypress Street as she approached 4760. She didn’t want to be too close—someone might look out and see her staring. The three-bedroom ranch house looked pretty much like all the others around it—row after row, mile after mile of pastel, cookie-cutter homes with dirt, sand, or gravel yards. The house now had bars on the door and windows, like many of the others in the area, but little else about it had changed since she’d last seen it.

  How long had it been? She’d left home at fourteen, so about eleven years. After leaving, she’d never looked back—until now. Her parents hadn’t beaten her. They hadn’t locked her in a closet or starved her. They hadn’t called her names or played cruel mind games. They weren’t alcoholics or drug addicts. Nevertheless, at the age of fourteen, Passerina had decided she didn’t like them anymore.

  She had decided they were self-absorbed and indifferent to her, their only child. Sure, they had dutifully fed her decent meals and bought her clothes when she’d needed them. But she didn’t remember them ever having given her a toy or thrown a birthday party for her. The only doll she’d ever owned was one she’d found at a playground.

  And then one day she accused her parents of not caring about her, which turned into a big argument. Furious, she simply ran away. She quickly fell in with some other runaways. They shared an old house they called the Burrow—sometimes home to as many as fifteen street kids at once, all pooling their money to pay the rent. Some of them worked odd jobs, others stole whatever they could get their hands on. They were a rough crowd, and Passerina often had to fight, both to protect herself and as a brutal way of keeping herself and the others entertained. She soon learned she was a damn good fighter. At sixteen, she joined the Scrapyard after a fight that had put her in the hospital with three stab wounds to her abdomen. A year later, she was fighting for money. Those first paid fights took place in basements and garages, and were of questionable legality. But before long Fons had connected her with a decent trainer and had gotten her a few legitimate fights. They didn’t pay much, but she had already learned to get by on next to nothing.

  By the time Passerina was ready to forgive her parents for making her feel neglected, it was too late. She was far too entrenched in the violence and excitement of her n
ew lifestyle. Besides, she wasn’t the type of person to look back—she only knew how to keep moving forward. Until today, she’d never once returned to 4760 West Cypress Street.

  When she was directly across the street from the house, she stopped and kneeled like she was tying her shoe. She allowed her straight blonde hair to fall in front of her face, and she eyed the house through the strands. A white car was parked in the driveway, but she couldn’t see anyone outside or through the windows. The same ironwood tree was still growing beside the window of her old bedroom, but three tall, expensive-looking cactus plants had been planted in front of the porch.

  Passerina briefly considered knocking on the door. She wasn’t sure why she’d walked all the way over here, but she definitely hadn’t intended to confront her parents. She’d just wanted to see the house before leaving Phoenix forever. Her parents probably didn’t even live there anymore. They might not even be alive, for all she knew. They weren’t listed in the ragged phone book Fons kept at the Scrapyard. She had never tried to contact them, and of course they’d had no way of contacting her. She’d never had a phone, and she was pretty sure her address wasn’t listed in any kind of printed or online directory. Even the time she’d gone to the hospital, she’d used a fake name. They had treated her before discovering this, and then she’d escaped the hospital without paying a dime.