She and Scottie loaded their trays with more food than they could possibly eat and headed straight for the table of bridgers and trainers.
Crossland nodded at them as they sat down. “Everyone,” he announced to the group, “this is Scottie Ramirez and Passerina Fowler. They’re filling the last two bridger trainee slots.”
Each of the others nodded or made a quick welcome comment. Passerina noticed that their gazes lingered longer on her than on Scottie. Whatever that meant, she didn’t like it. She decided to keep it to herself and focus on her food.
Someone in the middle of the room cleared their throat loudly, and Passerina turned to see Doyle standing, waiting for the room to become silent.
Finally, he adjusted his bowtie ceremoniously, apparently another habit of his, and started talking. “I’m thrilled to announce that, for the first time, our SafeTrek facility is fully staffed.”
The cafeteria erupted with cheers and clapping.
“We now have eight doctors on staff—the folks you fondly refer to as med techs. We have twelve technicians, who understand the bridging technology far better than I do. We have two marketing, two accounting, and two legal professionals, eight maintenance and general support people, two security officers, five survival experts, currently serving as bridgers, and now we have all nine of our new bridger trainees. When those trainees become full bridgers, we’ll be able to rotate bridger teams, allowing us to conduct as many as eight excursions per month. Eight!” He clapped his hands once and rubbed his palms together. “My fine friends, this facility is about to become fully operational!”
This resulted in another outburst of cheering, and even Passerina clapped her hands a few times. But she felt like she was faking it, because she had no idea what it was like to go on an excursion, no idea what it meant to rotate bridger teams, and no idea why they could have only eight excursions per month. She wasn’t even sure anymore why she had wanted to come here.
But if the food was always this good, she wasn’t going to complain.
7
Reality
After lunch, Crossland took Passerina and Scottie to their quarters, which he called bunk rooms. He explained that after completing training they’d be free to get apartments, if they could find any, in nearby towns like Mountain View or West Plains. However, he qualified this by saying they’d need their own vehicle, as SafeTrek wouldn’t provide one.
Passerina had her own bunk room, since she was the only female bridger, but Scottie was paired up with another bridger. Crossland told them to be out on the training field, dressed in workout clothes, at 3:00 PM for an orientation session, and then he left so they could get settled in.
Passerina shut her door and finally stood alone in the silence of her bunk room. She felt fatigued. Her gaze was drawn to the single bed in the corner of the room. Its thick mattress and spotless white pillow beckoned to her. She opened the door to the closet and found a plentiful supply of SafeTrek polo shirts, tan shorts, and a couple sets of high-dollar grappling tights and tank tops. These clothes were all men’s, but they would do just fine.
On the back wall, a door led to a small bathroom with a shower stall and a toilet. Just outside the bathroom door was a simple sink and mirror. Passerina ran cold water onto her hands and splashed her face. She then gazed into the mirror. Her eyes were red, and she cursed herself for having taken time to walk all the way to Cypress Street the previous evening instead of going to bed early. It had been a colossal waste of time.
Beside the bed was a night table with a small clock on it. She stepped over and picked up the clock. She messed with the buttons for a few minutes until she was pretty sure she had set the alarm for 2:40 PM. It wouldn’t earn her any points if she showed up late to her first training session. She then stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes.
She awoke to the alarm’s piercing buzz, surprised that she’d actually slept. She splashed her face with cold water again and then opened the closet, studying the clothing SafeTrek had provided. She closed the closet and instead pulled from her backpack a worn but familiar racerback sports top and an old pair of training shorts to change into. She wasn’t quite ready to leave behind every aspect of her previous life.
She opened her door to see that Scottie had been about to knock on it. Creases on the side of his face indicated that he’d fallen asleep too. He and Passerina followed several of the other fighters through two turns in the hallway to an unmarked steel door, which opened to a grassy field behind the building. Passerina shaded her eyes from the searing sun as they joined the rest of the trainees, who were gathered around two picnic tables placed end-to-end in the center of the field.
“I heard you two are from the Scrapyard in Phoenix,” said one of the fighters, a black guy who looked to be a super middleweight, close to two hundred pounds. “Didn’t Glen Ridaura come up out of that gym?”
The way the guy said “come up out of that gym” struck Passerina as condescending, and it told her that he was probably a UFC fighter. She simply nodded and turned away.
“I remember Glen,” said Scottie. “Is that guy still fighting?”
This made the guy laugh, although Passerina was pretty sure Scottie was throwing his own subtle insult back at him. Everyone knew Glen Ridaura was still fighting and making six figures per fight.
“Passerina Fowler,” another fighter said, this one a white guy with a lightning bolt tattooed on each of his temples. “I want you to know I think it’s cool we got a woman in the group. You must be damn badass to have passed Crossland’s test. That guy’s one serious dude.”
Passerina gave another quick nod and said, “Thanks.”
“Speaking of,” Scottie said, nodding toward the SafeTrek building. They all turned to watch Crossland and the other two hairless trainers approaching across the lawn. The three were all wearing simple cotton t-shirts and shorts, and Crossland was carrying a black briefcase.
Crossland placed the briefcase on the nearest picnic table and quickly surveyed the group, counting to make sure everyone was present. Then he began speaking. “You need to know, I’m not one to waste time. I’ve got two weeks to train you to be effective bridgers. Two weeks.” He pointed to the big guy who had mentioned Glen Ridaura. “Rory Duffy, tell me what you think a bridger’s job entails.”
“To keep SafeTrek’s clients from harm,” Duffy answered without hesitating.
Crossland nodded. “That’s pretty much it. Keep them from harm. If a client returns from an excursion with injuries, you forfeit your pay for that excursion. How much you forfeit depends on the extent of the injuries. If a client returns dead, you may find yourself unemployed. That’s the job in a nutshell. Any questions?”
Everyone remained silent. Passerina had a million questions, but she didn’t know enough to even know what to ask first.
“Two weeks,” Crossland said again. He nodded back toward the other two trainers standing behind him. “We’ve put some thought into this, and we’ve come up with a training sequence that meets this goal. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that this sequence doesn’t include space for one iota of bullshit. We're starting here and now, and we need absolute focus from each and every one of you."
The two baldies stepped up and positioned themselves on either side of Crossland. The one on his left spoke first. “The way we see it, being a good bridger requires a certain kind of attitude. Without the right attitude, your first encounter with an aggressor that actually wants to kill you might also be your last. Attitude can be instilled and expressed in a variety of ways, even in the name you call yourself. I used to have a different name—Dion Stoker. But you don’t need to know that name. It’s not important anymore. I’m a bridger now, and you’re going to call me Grip.”
The guy on Crossland’s right spoke up. “I’m not even going to bother telling you my previous name. I’m Tempest.”
“And from now on,” Crossland said, “you’re going to call me Striker. It’s all about attitude. I’m Stri
ker, and if you’re on a bridging excursion with me, you can bet your ass I’ll risk my own life to keep you from harm. Anyone or anything that wants to hurt you is going to have to come through me. So tell me—what’s my name?”
After a few seconds of silence, someone said, “Striker?”
Crossland glared at the group, clearly displeased. “Again, what’s my name?”
“Striker!” most of the trainees said at once.
“What’s my name?” Dion Stoker asked.
“Grip!”
“And my name?” demanded the third trainer.
“Tempest!”
Crossland—or Striker—said, “You might think these names are over the top, but you’ll understand soon. By tomorrow, you’ll each have your own bridger name. So start thinking about what you want it to be. If you come up with a pussy name, I’ll assign you one myself.”
“What if I want to honor my grandmother?” Scottie asked. “Her name was Chicky.”
Several of the other trainees chuckled.
Striker narrowed his eyes. “Are we going to have a problem with you, Ramirez?”
Terrific. Scottie was trying to get himself kicked out before training even started.
“No sir,” Scottie said. “No problem here. I just thought I might lighten the mood. I’m the guy you can count on if you ever need the mood lightened.”
Striker’s face relaxed, and he almost smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll do you a favor in return. So that you don’t have to waste valuable brain power thinking of your bridger name, we’ll just call you Tequila.”
Scottie nodded slowly and then grinned. “I can live with that!”
Striker’s face hardened again, and he slammed a fist onto the black briefcase on the table. “Remember—attitude. Now, it’s time for a dose of reality. I don’t know how much you know about bridging, but there are some things you need to understand before you see the team bridge back in a few hours. Bridging ain’t like the shit you’ve seen in sci-fi movies. You don’t step through a magical portal and pop out the other side with a smile on your face.”
Passerina hadn’t watched an entire movie since before she’d left home at fourteen, and she had never seen one with a magical portal.
Striker continued. “The reality is, you come out the other side puking your guts out. What’s worse, you’ll have nothing to puke out. Why? Because bridging strips away everything that’s not part of your living biological body. Including anything you’ve recently put in your stomach. Then, after you go through the dry heaves, you’re going to feel hungry, and you’ll continue feeling hungry, not to mention thirsty, for the entire thirty-six hour stretch before you bridge back. Because you don’t eat or drink anything on an alternate world unless you want some unknown, flesh-eating disease that our people have no idea how to cure.”
Passerina swallowed. This guy wasn’t doing much to boost her confidence.
Striker walked directly up to Passerina, nodded toward the top of her head, and said, “Do you mind?”
She had no idea what he was asking about, so she just shrugged.
He took a handful of her blonde hair and lifted it, displaying it to the others. “This stuff? It’s not alive. The first time you bridge, you’ll come out the other side sans hair. I’m talking the hair on your scalp, your eyebrows, your eyelashes, even your precious groin curlies. Gone. And you might as well get used to it because it’ll happen again when you bridge back, and then again the next time you bridge out.”
He released her hair, and then he grabbed his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head. “And this ain’t alive either,” he said, holding the shirt up. “So the bridging process strips it away too. And you come out the other side hairless and naked. No weapons, no clothing. No cameras, no recording devices, no notebooks or pencils. And no food. That’s the way it is, and you need to understand that before we proceed.”
Striker walked back to the picnic table and opened the black case. He pulled out a device that looked like a large battery-powered razor. “Gentlemen, and lady, your training is about to get real,” he said as he pulled out two more identical devices and handed one to Grip and one to Tempest. “First, you’re going to remove your clothing, and then, we’re going to remove your hair. Once that’s done, we move this party into the forest.” He waved a hand at the wall of green surrounding the open lawn on three sides.
A murmur of confusion and frustration passed through the group, and Passerina’s eyes met Scottie’s. She expected him to make a joke about finally having the opportunity to see her naked, but his face was actually a little pale.
“If you’re thinking of quitting at this moment,” Striker said, his eyes landing briefly on Passerina, “I encourage you to hold off on that. You’ll be surprised how quickly you get used to it.”
He and the other two trainers set down their razors and then quickly removed their clothing. As Striker had said, their bodies were completely hairless, even their groins.
Passerina watched as the other trainees started stripping. Scottie shook his head and started pulling his shoes off. Goddammit, why did she have to be the only woman? She tried to snap out of it. Quitting wasn’t an option. She took a deep breath and started removing her clothes. Seconds later the entire group was standing there naked, awkwardly trying not to look at each other.
Striker turned on his clippers, the device making an annoying buzz. “Okay, who’s first?”
8
Bunkai
Three barbers, three razors, nine fighters—the job was done in half an hour. Afterwards, having seemingly gotten used to their nakedness, the trainees stood around caressing their newly-shaven heads and waiting to find out what was to come next. Passerina was trying not to stare at her own hair, which had accumulated in a substantial pile in the grass. She still had stubble on her scalp, like the others, but as Tempest had told everyone, it was now short enough that they wouldn’t be distracted after losing it completely during their first bridge.
After giving them a few minutes to adjust, Striker shouted, “Now you’re starting to look like bridgers! Gather around, and quit worrying about what you look like to the rest of us. We all look pretty much the same now.”
Passerina felt compelled to argue this point, but she kept her mouth shut and joined the others.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Striker, “today is about becoming confident and comfortable in your new role. The thing is, this role—the role of a bridger—is new to pretty much everyone, as the job didn’t exist until recently. At this moment, there are only five bridgers in the entire world, and two of them are away on an excursion. The five of us have been bridgers for less than two months, and we still have a lot to learn. But we already know that certain skills are essential. And the most basic of those is that you have to be confident and comfortable in environments you’ve never encountered before.”
Striker stepped up onto one of the picnic tables and then sat with his legs crossed. He placed his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes. With his eyes still closed, he spoke. “All of you are skilled fighters, and I assume most of you have made meditation a part of your training regimen. If you haven’t, you’re going to start today. Tell me—do I look comfortable and confident to you?” He sat there silently for a moment, his eyes still shut.
Several trainees acknowledged that he did.
Striker continued. “I use a technique called no-mind meditation, sometimes referred to as bunkai. It’s a mental state derived from Japanese Zen Buddhism, and it helps fighters prepare for conflict. It works for me. If you already have a technique that works for you, great. If not, listen carefully. This process involves emptying the mind of all thought. This takes time.” He paused for a few long seconds. “Once I’ve emptied my mind, I visualize a conflict. A fight. But the key is—I perceive no opponent. Instead, I become both the warrior and the opponent. By doing this, I’m able to visualize which moves will be made in the conflict, before a single move is actually made.�
��
He opened his eyes. “This process helps fighters build confidence and refine their techniques. I find it especially useful when I’m likely to face nonhuman aggressors that don’t think the way I do. By clearing my mind, I am better able to visualize the motivations and responses of a creature completely unlike myself.”
He patted the table’s surface beside him. “I’m sitting on this table for a reason—because I’m aware of my environment. The grass you’re all standing on is home to chiggers and ticks. And in there,” he pointed to the nearby forest, “chiggers and ticks are far more abundant, as are countless other things you don’t want touching your bare skin. When you’re naked, the world is a far more threatening place. Now, imagine being thrown into a world filled with its own alien versions of chiggers, ticks, spiders, mites, centipedes, parasitic roundworms, and germs. Forget the larger predators for now. The small things are enough to make you suffer, and they can even kill you.”
He uncrossed his legs and hopped off the table. “Follow me.”
The trainees exchanged nervous glances as he led them into the forest.
About a hundred yards in, the group stopped in an area surrounded by several boulder outcrops. Passerina had already punctured the side of her left foot by stepping on a broken twig with wicked-looking thorns. Grip had been walking beside her and had pointed out that the twig was from a honey locust tree. Then he had said, “Look at the ground before every step, and that won’t happen again.”
“Now we’ve got a good solid hour for some serious meditation,” Striker said, although Passerina noticed he wasn’t wearing a watch. He climbed onto one of the boulders and sat, again with his legs folded and his hands on his knees. “I want each of you to find a comfortable place to sit. Hopefully I don’t have to point out that it would be stupid to sit on the ground. Ticks and chiggers like to hang out in the low plants and leaf litter. They don’t like bare surfaces such as rocks and tree bark. And the higher above the ground those surfaces are, the better. I want everyone in a safe and comfortable place in two minutes. And then I want your eyes shut and your minds cleared of all those useless doubts that I know you’re harboring. Don’t open your eyes until I give you the okay.”
Infinity Page 4