The Proteus Bridge

by M. D. Cooper

  “You’ve got a funny face, squawk!” shouted one parrot, and fifty others would take up the call: “Funny face! Funny face!”

  “Golden—retriever,” another parrot called quickly. “Squawk! Your daddy was a golden re—treever!”

  The fountain itself was a wide, low-walled circle where, conceivably, people could sit if they weren’t afraid of the white streamers of bird shit falling from the concrete ‘tree’ in the middle of the fountain. A central concrete pole jutted up from the bubbling water, spiked with hundreds of branches that were covered in birds, from crows with thick black beaks and intently watching eyes, to sparrows, scrub jays, starlings, finches and, ultimately, the parrots at the top. The parrots didn’t like sitting in such exposed areas and were usually out among the stalls, bothering merchants as they perched inside their canopies, squawking abuse.

  “Squawk! You’re as pretty as mud, pretty as mud.”

  The most interesting thing about the parrots—to Ngoba, at least—was that they named themselves. There were plenty of urban legends about how the grey parrots of Night Park had escaped from some bio experiment seven hundred years ago and taken up residence at the fountain. Ngoba didn’t believe it, but it was fun to scare the younger kids back at the Squat with stories of mind-controlling parrots who would invade their dreams. As a little boy, the parrots had represented freedom in a place where everyone was a prisoner, whether they knew it or not.

  “Hey, Riggs,” Ngoba asked as they walked past the edge of the fountain.

  Riggs was eyeing a booth displaying every type of knife imaginable, from tiny razors to serrated blades a meter long.

  “What?” he asked absently.

  “I think my conscience is a grey parrot.”

  Riggs shot Ngoba an irritated glance, brown eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Whenever I’m about to do something I know is wrong, I hear a parrot squawking at me.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  “It’s very effective.”

  Riggs screwed up his face in thought. “So you’re saying you need a parrot to tell you what to do?”

  “I’m saying these damn parrots are so ingrained in my mind that they haunt me,” Ngoba said. “It’s not complicated, brother.”

  Riggs pursed his lips, apparently considering the idea. “Has a parrot told you how stupid your beard looks? Has a parrot said it looks like you glued pubic hair on your cheeks? That’s what a parrot should tell you.”

  Ngoba shook his head sadly. “I’m trying to be real with you, Riggs, and you just throw my love out like trash.”

  “Love? This is how you express love?”

  “Love is relative,” Ngoba said. “Love is a parrot, squawking at you from a concrete tree.”

  “Now you’re just fucking with me,” Riggs said.

  Ngoba gave him a grin, stroking the beard Riggs couldn’t grow.

  They left the bazaar through a wide set of old cargo doors, and walked down the corridor toward the Crash field. Both sides of the hall were lined with people in close groups making bets, beverage vendors, and other purveyors of illicit substances. Ngoba caught the smell of cooking protein and felt his stomach rumble.

  “When was the last time we ate?” he asked Riggs.

  “I don’t know. Yesterday.”

  “You hungry?”

  “You got any money?”

  Ngoba ran his thumb along the pistol grip hidden inside his belt and did some quick math to determine how much he might get for it. He clenched his stomach and waited for the cramp to pass, figuring what little he could get for the pistol—it was hot TSF hardware, after all—wasn’t worth the trade in going hungry a few more hours.

  As they neared the end of the hall, the crowd grew denser until they were waiting to get through the four doors into the Crash field. From the other side of the doors, they could hear cheering and shouts, punctuated by mechanical-sounding music from the Crash machines.

  As they craned their necks to see through the doors into the field space on the other side, Ngoba caught sight of a kid named Fug who had lived in the Squat for a little while. Fug looked like an olive on a toothpick, her big head and bulging eyes hunched down between her narrow shoulders. She had greasy black hair held back with a green visor, like those card players wore, but Ngoba knew hers also harbored some sort of HUD.

  “Fug!” Ngoba shouted.

  Riggs started at the sound of Ngoba’s voice then shook his head.

  “I don’t like that kid,” he growled.

  Ngoba gave him a sideways grin. “She’s crazy. You remember when she hacked the autobank to spit credits at TSF soldiers? That was great.”

  “She’s reckless is what she is. That almost landed us in a TSF prison, and we didn’t even get any credit to show for it.”

  “You’re just jealous because she’s a better hacker than you are.”

  Riggs scowled. “How’s she a better hacker than me?”

  “You know she can hack Crash, right?”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Fug didn’t push her way over so much as wait for them to get closer. She nodded to Ngoba and gave Riggs a weak smirk. “You guys here for the big game?” she asked in her reedy voice.

  “Who’s up?” Ngoba asked.

  “Bindle versus Rack Smasher,” Fug said, sounding bored. “Bindle’s going to draw out the Smasher for a few rounds then do that hammer move and end the match. I think Rack Thirteen’s got money on Bindle, so Smasher will throw.”

  Ngoba looked around to check if anyone was listening. “You just talk about that in the open, Fug? What if somebody hears you?”

  Fug smiled with her mouth, but her eyes remained bored, tinted green by the visor. “I’m just adding to the noise, Ngoba. Your buddy Riggs knows how this works. Hi, Riggs.” She gave Riggs a sarcastic wave that he answered with a scowl.

  Fug smirked, looking pleased with herself. She lowered her voice and said, “I’m here to help Bindle.”

  Riggs pushed closer. “How are you going to do that?”

  Fug tapped the side of her round head. “Positive thoughts, Riggs,” she said, louder now so that people glanced at her. “That’s all we need. All of us thinking positive thoughts together, aiming them at the object of our desire, and that person is going to feel all that powerful energy.”

  Riggs frowned like he was taking her seriously.

  Fug skittered a laugh and pressed clasped hands to her heart. “All of us aiming our hopes and dreams at that one individual, and they can’t help but grow strong under the combined energy of our souls.”

  Riggs scoffed, embarrassed by all the attention they were getting. “Next you’re going to sell us some magic crystals.”

  Fug unclasped her hands to reveal her middle finger extended for Riggs’s benefit. “I was saving that just for you,” she said. “So you could learn something.”

  “What’s he supposed to learn from that?” Ngoba said, winking at her.

  “I had but one fuck to give him, and I just let it go,” Fug said.

  Ngoba covered his mouth, laughing, while Riggs blew out an exasperated breath.

  The crowd around them had been growing progressively louder as they neared the doors. Once they passed through, shoulder-to-shoulder now with everyone else, the roar became deafening.

  Ngoba’s attention was immediately drawn to a bit of brightly colored movement in the middle of the hangar, where the white circle of the Crash platform stood above the crowds gathered all around, faces turned upward at the melee above them.

  Currently in the circle stood two figures about fifteen meters tall, one a bright green crocodile standing on two legs with a yellow-red striped propeller beanie on the top of its head, the other a barbarian woman in a fur bikini and horned cap. The crocodile had six-inch claws and a spiked tail, while the Conan woman held a broadsword in both hands, elbows up with the hilt even with her bright green eyes.

  “Rack Smasher’s looking totally hot
tonight,” Riggs shouted, barely audible over the cheers as the barbarian took a swipe at the crocodile.

  “Rack Smasher’s the crocodile,” Ngoba shouted back.

  “Yeah, I know.” Riggs’s smile grew even brighter as the lights dimmed, spotlights focusing on the platform.

  The roving spotlights swept across the giant figures in the middle of the hangar, only sharpening their details. Ngoba knew they were digital projections on a giant holograph, but he couldn’t help marveling at the fine detail of the waving fur on Brindle’s shorts, or the emerald shine across Rack Smasher’s back.

  Abruptly, the arena swirled and became a series of rising and falling platforms. Brindle immediately leapt for the nearest platform, waited for a heartbeat as it rose, then rolled into a hammer fall aimed at the crocodile’s head.

  Ngoba glanced at Fug, whose attention was on the edge of the platform where the two real combatants were sitting next to each other, staring at smaller, side-by-side screens hidden from Ngoba’s view. They might have been kids from the Squat, looking just as greasy and malnourished as any wannabe gang churl. What those two had that most of Ngoba’s peers lacked was a laser focus that infused their entire bodies. The ancient controllers were held tightly, forearms stiff, thumbs and fingers moving with precision.

  “Those guys are robots,” Riggs said, catching the direction of Ngoba’s gaze.

  “You think they’re hardwired? They don’t look like they could afford augmentation.”

  “Maybe but it doesn’t do much good. Everything still has to go through those stupid controllers. It’s all human interacting with machine.”

  “Yeah,” Ngoba said.

  Rack Smasher had just taken a rolling swipe at Brindle’s legs, causing massive damage. The crocodile crouched to start its power move, then jumped, spinning in the air, tail lashing wildly. The reptile struck the barbarian woman like a thunderbolt, and she nearly dropped her sword. Little yellow birds circled her head as she stood stunned.

  The crowd shouted in unison: “Fi-nal Crash! Fi-nal Crash! Fi-nal Crash!”

  Rack Smasher went into an animation that had him stalking the edge of the platform he and Brindle shared, urging the crowd to get louder as he held a claw to one side of his head, white teeth shining. Just as the last bird circled Brindle’s head and it looked like she was about to come out of her stupor, Rack Smasher spun twice to wind up his tail and struck her in the shins, sweeping her knees out from under her. The great two-handed sword went spinning off the edge of the platform, and Rack Smasher stood with one clawed foot on her stomach.

  The crowd was simultaneously groaning and cheering. All around Ngoba, money changed hands while the official scoreboards brightened on the ceiling, displaying odds and payouts.

  He glanced at Fug and found the skinny kid grinning like a fool. Fug leaned close to say, “Works every time.”

  Ngoba frowned. “What works every time?”

  “My system.” She motioned for Ngoba to lean in closer.

  Ngoba glanced at Riggs and saw that he was engrossed in the scoreboards. Fug didn’t seem to want to talk to him anyway.

  “It’s like this,” she began. “I hacked the controllers.”

  “What?” Ngoba glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Isn’t that an ancient hardwired system? How did you pull that off?”

  Fug waved a limp hand. “I got a way. I’m not giving it up. Trade secret. But I figured it out and I can throw the match. I just made enough for a year.”

  Ngoba raised an eyebrow. “That much? You better be careful, girl. Somebody’s going to take notice of that kind of bet. Especially the loser. Don’t the players get their hands broken or something when they lose?”

  Fug flashed an evil smile. “Depends on the bout. If one of the lower syndicates like Regal Flight is leading the bets, then yeah, they break fingers, hang ‘em high, whatever. But if Rack Thirteen is on board, whoo now, the loser might end up sucking vacuum.”

  “And you like that? Doesn’t that mean both the players and the gangs might want to turn you into a stuffed lamp?”

  “You worry too much, Ngoba. I like you better when you’re cracking jokes. Nobody’s going to catch me. I’ll tell you what. You do something for me, and I’ll cut you in on the next match.”

  Ngoba pulled his head back, throat going dry. He glanced around again to check for anyone casually eavesdropping. Riggs was sharing drinks with a blonde woman now, out of earshot and looking pleased with her attention.

  “I’ll be straight with you, Fug,” Ngoba said. “I could use some money right now. Chala’s going to kick us out if we don’t come back with some rent.”

  Fug spat. “Chala and her hugs. She nearly squeezed my head off, treating me like a dolly. You should get out of there.”

  “I’m going to.”

  “She doesn’t make you pop her back zits, does she?” Fug said, shivering visibly.

  “You mean tending the garden?” Ngoba said, voice going cold. “Yeah.”

  Fug studied him through her green visor. She looked like she was working out a math problem with a hundred steps. Finally, she said, “I’ll cut you in, Ngoba.” She glanced past Ngoba’s shoulder, probably checking on Riggs. She pointed at Ngoba’s chest. “Just you, though. Riggs can’t get in on this.”

  “What do you mean? You know Riggs’s my boy.”

  “He thinks he can hack. He can’t. I don’t want his dirty dick-beaters on my system.”

  Ngoba bit his lip, considering the situation. He could always try to swing enough credit for both of them, solve the problem on his own. That’s what he could tell Riggs, anyway, then send him on another possible job. They might actually end up ahead that way.

  “What do you want me to do?” he finally asked.

  Fug smiled, her thin lips curving like a ghoul’s. The green visor made her cheeks look bloodless. She nodded toward the players, who were now posing for some vid producer.

  “You see that guy standing next to them?” she asked. “The one in the cape?”

  Ngoba frowned, squinting. He hadn’t seen anyone in a cape. Then the vid guy moved, and a tall, thin man in a red cape came into view. He had spiky blue hair that fell to his shoulders.

  “I see him,” Ngoba said.

  “That’s Slarva. Crash is his baby.”

  “I’ve never heard his name.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what crew is he with?”

  “He’s not part of any crew. He’s above the crews, the syndicates, Cruithne Administration, all of it. He’s got all the power in this room.”

  The envy in Fug’s voice made Ngoba glance back at her. The little woman’s eyes were bloodshot and intense, a hunger on her face.

  “What do you want me to do?” Ngoba asked again, starting to worry about what he’d agreed to.

  Fug shook her head absently, still staring at Slarva. “Nothing dangerous, Ngoba. Nothing to worry about. I just want you to follow him. Tonight. After this Crash. I want you to follow him and tell me what he does. That’s all.”

  “That’s it?”

  She moved her gaze to Ngoba’s face. “Yeah.”

  “No sex stuff, right?” he asked, feeling more distrustful the longer he tried to understand her strange expression.

  She shrugged. “I dunno, Ngoba. Maybe. That’s what I want you to find out. You in?”

  He took another look at the blue-haired man, who seemed to move like he was floating underwater, his motions slow and exaggerated. He didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons Ngoba could see. He didn’t spot any security thugs or drones. The two players only nodded and smiled at him like bobble heads.

  “Yeah, Fug,” he said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”

  She gave him another ghoul grin and winked at him, which sent a shiver down his spine.

  TEQUILA FINGERS

  STELLAR DATE: 03.21.2956 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Crash Games Hangar, Night Park

  REGION: Cruithne Station, Terr
an Hegemony, InnerSol

  The remaining Crash bouts that night were between a monolithic baby in diapers and an armored turtle, a winged serpent and a bear with metal implants, and for the final match, an amorphous cloud that kept turning into vulgar shapes and spitting neon fluids at an accountant in a grey suit with a briefcase full of doom.

  Riggs Zanda had made better friends with the blonde woman, who turned out to have an implant in her arm that dispensed liquor. She was off-shift from a bar in Night Park. Ngoba didn’t have to try very hard to convince his friend to go have a good time.

  Riggs shot him a bleary smile, delivered a mocking TSF salute, and shouted over the crowd, “Make some money, Ngoba! Me and Tithi here are gonna make some nook—”

  The woman cut him off with a playful slap.

  “Hey, now,” Riggs said, turning to waggle a finger at her. “That’s tricky.”

  Ngoba studied Tithi. She was all lean curves encased in leather, but seemed harmless enough—even if she was probably going to tie Riggs up and humiliate him all night.

  “What bar do you work at?” he called. “I’ll come find you later.”

  Tithi gave Ngoba an appraising look. “You should do that,” she said, smirking. “The Honcho.”

  “The Honcho,” Ngoba repeated, returning Riggs’s salute. “Have fun.”

  They disappeared into the throngs, Tithi pulling Riggs behind her.

  Turning his attention back to the crowd around him, Ngoba caught several transactions changing hands, from what looked like bets to drugs to various storage media. Some people simply stood next to each other, staring at something in the distance, obviously communicating via Link—which didn’t make any sense. The entire point of a place like Night Park or the Crash hangar was to conduct business away from the prying algorithms of the Cruithne Station Authority and their big brother, the TSF.

  Cruithne occupied a unique place in the settled objects between the Terran Hegemony and the Mars Protectorate. When it was first discovered in the late twentieth century, astronomers thought the asteroid to be a second moon for Earth. Cruithne’s odd loopty-loop orbit was eventually determined to not be centered on humanity’s homeworld, but around Sol, as it moved between Earth and Mars throughout the year. This meant that, depending on the time of year, Cruithne was closer to Earth, and cargo or people could catch a ride out to Mars, and vice versa.