The Proteus Bridge

by M. D. Cooper

  When he caught it, Ngoba couldn’t stop grinning.

  “This was the only thing I really wanted,” he said.

  “So I lugged all your shit out of there for no reason?” Riggs nodded, raising his can. He frowned abruptly, shaking the can, then tossed it down the corridor and dug another beer out of the bag. He popped the cap and raised the can in toast. “To the bowtie,” he said.

  Ngoba took a long drink, finishing the beer. He tossed his can after Riggs’s, then held the bowtie suspended between his hands. The iridescent fabric shone even in the low illumination of the corridor lights. The tie had been a gift from a woman named Petral who had entertained both of them for a while. She was an information broker who operated mostly within the TSF areas of Cruithne. Riggs and Ngoba had met her at Night Park one late afternoon.

  What had started as a bit of harmless flirting with an older woman turned into a full week of Petral dressing Ngoba and Riggs up in matching outfits, complete with bowties, then parading them nightly around the club districts until she pulled them back to her place for hours of sensual labor. She directed them up and down either side of her body, followed by top and bottom, wearing nothing but the ties, until she was satisfied. It took a long time. Petral left them the bowties as souvenirs and Riggs promptly lost his.

  Ngoba wrapped the ribbons around his throat and connected the clip. He stretched his neck out, settling the tie in beneath his curly new beard.

  “Everyone should have a trademark, yeah?” he said.

  Riggs squinted at him. “You look like somebody’s houseboy.”

  “Hiding in plain sight,” Ngoba said, giving him a grin. He motioned for another beer, and Riggs tossed it across.

  They drank for a while, telling stories about Mama Chala and the Squat, how maybe her cuddles weren’t so bad. Riggs agreed that he needed to get out too.

  Ngoba patted the pocket full of currency. “We’ve got it now, brother. We can start our own crew.”

  Riggs laughed. “Start our own crew? You and me? What are we going to do, roll toddlers for their candy money?”

  “Cargo, like we’ve been doing. Only we stay smart about it. We hit the small stuff, but consistently. You make it so the loss isn’t worth the investigation. You almost hacked that drone back in the TSF box. You figure that out, we can set the drones to deliver to us. Everywhere you look on Cruithne, a drone’s taking a box somewhere.”

  Riggs chewed his lip. “It’s not that easy, Ngoba. Everything’s tracked. Everything’s recorded. You can’t just set a drone to leave its path. You set off all kinds of alarms.”

  “All that is designed and watched by humans, and we’re lazy.” He reached for the small of his back to pull out the TSF pistol. He was drunk, but not so far gone that he didn’t check the safety and keep it pointed at the ceiling. Was it Petral who had taught him that? “And maybe we’ll need to escalate,” he mused.

  “You think one weak pulse pistol is going to turn you into a hard-ass?” his friend teased.

  Ngoba shook his head. “I’ve got big plans, Riggs. Big plans for Cruithne, for my life. Yours, too, if you’ll come along. I’m not going to be some street-rat my whole life. I want power that reaches off this trash heap, to Terra and Mars, even.”

  Riggs’s head fell back against the wall. “Dreams, Ngoba. You can dream all you want, but we have to live in reality, man. We’re going to find a place to live. We’re going to find jobs. We’re going to do what people do. Maybe go to the Crash Hangar. Maybe huff some briki when we get paid. Then you wake up and do it all over again.”

  “You’re about as ambitious as that chicken,” Ngoba said.

  “Ambition gets you pushed out an airlock. I’d like to live my life. It’s not as hard as you make it out to be.”

  “I think we can keep this deal with Fug going for a while. It’s easy money.”

  “If it’s easy, it probably ain’t right,” Riggs said. He cracked another beer.

  “That’s Mama Chala talking.”

  “She’s managed to live long enough to get old.”

  “I’m sick of being poor, Riggs,” Ngoba said abruptly, angrier than he had been before. He wanted his friend to support him, not throw up obstacles. “I’m sick of looking like I’m nothing.”

  “That’s your problem, Ngoba. You’re worried about what other people are thinking when the truth is they aren’t even thinking about you. People got their own problems. They don’t have time to think about you. Unless you steal their shit; then they’re going to think about you long enough to kill you or get you locked up.”

  Ngoba emptied another beer. “Everybody steals,” he said. “It’s what we do on Cruithne. People don’t respect you if you aren’t trying to get one over on them somehow.”

  “Respect is bullshit,” Riggs said, starting to mumble now.

  “Look,” Ngoba said, stumbling to his feet. “We’re going to go down to the recycling pits and piss off the edge into the vats. Add a little of ourselves to the mix. And then we’re going to shout our greatest desires at all those dead people.”

  “I’m going to tell them to fuck off,” Riggs said, chin on his chest. “I’m not going down to the recycle pits. That’s stupid. It smells like mushrooms down there. I hate mushrooms.”

  “I’m doing it,” Ngoba said. “You coming with me? You better come with me, Riggs.”

  Riggs rocked his head back and gazed at Ngoba with bleary eyes. He squinted slightly. “You look like a ghost. You aren’t going to go throw yourself in down there, are you?”

  “Why would I do that when I’ve got fresh currency in my pocket?”

  “You’re weird sometimes. Where’d that pistol go? You drop it?”

  “It’s in my pocket,” Ngoba said. He struggled to reach for the small of his back where the pistol rested. “Where’d yours go?”

  “I sold it,” Riggs said in a low voice.

  Ngoba stared at his friend, trying to connect the words to what they meant. He’d sold the pistol. “Why did you do that?”

  “I had to pay Mama to get your stuff.”

  “What?”

  “She was gonna burn it all, and she wouldn’t let me have it unless I paid her. I didn’t have the funds, but I had the pistol.” He shrugged. “You needed your stuff. That’s all you’ve got. That’s bullshit, how she just kicked you out like that. She’s going to do it to me, too. I thought she was home, but we don’t have homes, Ngoba.”

  Ngoba weaved back and forth, looking down at Riggs. He suddenly needed to take a piss very badly. He held out a hand to help Riggs to his feet.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ll go to Night Park. I have to take a piss. And I want to look at the birds. You want to look at the birds? We’ll talk to the bird god. The bird god looks out for us.”

  Riggs snorted a laugh. He reached for the bag of beers and found it empty. He held it up with a forlorn expression, and then took Ngoba’s offered hand.

  “You and me,” he said when he got his feet. “We’re some sorry motherfuckers.”

  Ngoba straightened his bowtie. “But we do look fine while being that,” he said.

  HIGH SCORE

  STELLAR DATE: 03.23.2956 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Crash Games Hangar, Night Park

  REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol

  Ngoba watched Fug where she was standing in front of the platform. She looked back at him and gave a slight nod, letting him know she was almost ready.

  Her face looked even more ghoul-like than usual. She turned back to stare up at the two giant avatars attacking each other on the platform, light shining through their muscled bodies when they turned at certain angles. One had an upper body that looked like a ball of spaghetti, while the other was a schoolgirl on a hoverboard holding plasma guns.

  Ngoba leaned toward Riggs. “Something isn’t right,” he said in a low voice.

  The words were lost in the crowd noise.

  “What?” Riggs shouted.

  Ngoba
jerked his head toward Fug. “Something isn’t right with Fug. She keeps looking back at me like she’s upset about something, like something isn’t working.”

  Riggs shrugged. “This is the best match yet.” He jammed a handful of fried crisps in his mouth and chewed loudly.

  Ngoba glanced back at Fug, who was standing as she had during the previous match, hands at her sides and fingers tapping randomly. There were no guards at the platform this time; they had all been pulled back to the perimeter, and every door had four guards on it. Ngoba didn’t figure four guards per door were going to stop the crowd from getting out if they wanted to, but they could certainly grab individuals who might be trying to get out.

  He straightened his bowtie as he looked around, checking for other wanderers in the watching crowd who might be security, or on Slarva’s payroll. The guards were all wearing the same dark glasses, which might be hiding retinal implants or serving as HUDs. He couldn’t tell from a distance.

  The spaghetti monster leapt back and sent its arms out like whips, trying to catch the schoolgirl, but she leapt into the air on her hoverboard. The spaghetti arms closed on empty air, and the girl rained plasma bolts that devoured chunks of the monster’s life bar. The crowd went wild, cheering and booing.

  Ngoba caught sight of Slarva behind the two players at the console. These two looked a lot more serious than previous sets. Both were hunched over, squinting at the screen, arms tense. Slarva spread his cloak and turned to face the crowd, raising his arms in a gesture that seemed to want more shouting. The vid producers on either side of him ate it up.

  It occurred to Ngoba then, as he watched Slarva strut and wave like a clown, that he, Fug, and Riggs were the bad guys in this situation. Slarva was providing entertainment that didn’t get anybody killed, and they were working to take advantage of what the man had built.

  Like a lightning bolt, Ngoba realized he had been watching the wrong person. Fug wasn’t stealing from Slarva; she was ripping off the bookies. He glanced around quickly, looking for anyone who might be there from Rack Thirteen. Hadn’t Fug said that the syndicate was the biggest bettor on Crash? They would be the ones who had lost heavily in the previous matches, and they would be trying to figure out why.

  All he found were the guards at the doors. All the other Crash-heads were laughing and cheering or booing wildly, their eyes on the platform.

  Ngoba debated pushing his way up beside Fug to ask who was here from Rack Thirteen. She had to know. But if he were seen with her, it would incriminate him even more. He glanced at Riggs, who was still shoving chips in his mouth.

  If Fug was doing something to control the match, Ngoba couldn’t see it. The characters were well matched, and their health bars were dropping in equal increments. The only one to get in a super-Crash was the spaghetti monster, but that didn’t help it against the constant onslaught of the schoolgirl’s fiery plasma pistols.

  When the match ended with the schoolgirl wrapped in thick noodles that squeezed the health out of her, the crowd went crazy. Ngoba worked his way up behind Fug, who was standing with her shoulders slumped, breathing hard like she had just run a race. She looked more green than usual.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Ngoba said in a low voice.

  “You shouldn’t be near me,” she said, panting. Fug bent to put her hands on her knees.

  “Something isn’t right. Which syndicate made the biggest bets last time?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Of course you do. Why’d you have me follow Slarva when he doesn’t have anything to do with the betting? He’s a briki-nose who puts on theater shows. He’s not a gangster.”

  Fug narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him but wasn’t able to straighten. She tried to take a deep breath, but only started coughing.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Ngoba asked.

  “There’s some kind of new barrier in place. The interference has doubled. I have to try twice as hard to affect the inputs. I can’t tell if it’s doing anything.”

  “Did it work out—” Ngoba paused, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. “Did it work out how you wanted?”

  She nodded without saying anything.

  So she’d still thrown the bet. The schoolgirl had been favored three to one. It wouldn’t be a huge payout, but it would come out respectably.

  “We should go,” Ngoba said. “There are two more matches. We cash out now, and let the others play out. Wait a couple days then come back.”

  Fug shook her head. “I’m finishing tonight.”

  “Why?”

  She was able to straighten finally. Fug took off her visor and pushed her hair back.

  “You look terrible,” Ngoba said.

  Fug gave him a dry smirk. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re hot, too.”

  “No, I mean it. Have you been sleeping? I guess I didn’t notice it before, but you’ve got black circles around your eyes, girl.”

  “It’s the strain. I’ll be all right.” She looked back at the console where the players were performing goofy arm stretches as Slarva mugged for the cameras.

  Ngoba wished he’d paid more attention to the bookies as they’d come down the main corridor into the hangar. Whoever had the biggest outlay had probably increased the security. They might also be actively scanning for whoever was interfering with the match. That was assuming they knew how the hack was working.

  “Look,” Fug said, stretching her neck. “If you want out, get out now. I’m not going to force you to stay here. I’m doing it. This is my ticket off this rock, and I’m not going to let a little increased security get in my way. But if you leave now, I’m not paying you. You’re here to cover my back and you’re doing a shit job right now. Where’s your idiot friend?”

  “He’s still back there,” Ngoba said, grimacing. He continued to scan the crowd, not finding any indicator they were being watched. He glanced up at the giant projector lights above the platform, which made it impossible to see the Hangar ceiling. They could be hiding all types of scanning and surveillance equipment up there.

  “Fine,” he growled. “I’m staying. But if I find out you’ve been lying to us, Fug, you’re never getting off Cruithne.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You trying to make threats like you’re some kind of gangster now, Ngoba, with your bowtie? You can’t fool me. I know where you came from.”

  Ngoba shook his head. “I know the same thing about you. We both came up under Mama Chala, kicked like dogs then cuddled like kittens. I wouldn’t fuck you over, Fug.”

  “Fug’s just a weak word for fuck, right?” she asked.

  The conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Ngoba turned to push his way back to where he had been standing before. When he found the general area, a new clot of drunken fans had taken up residence. One of them offered him a beer, and he waved it away, smiling.

  He found Riggs where he had been standing before, now with his friend Tithi resting her head on his shoulder. Riggs looked confused but not displeased. He was offering her a chip when Ngoba walked up behind him.

  Ngoba jabbed him in the rib that wasn’t pressed up against the bartender.

  “Hey!” Riggs shouted, jumping. Tithi pulled away.

  “You’re not paying attention,” Ngoba said. He glanced at Tithi. “Now isn’t the time for a date. Sorry, but we’re here to focus on something.”

  “He was focusing on me,” she said.

  “Riggs,” Ngoba said in a tight voice. “You know we’re busy.”

  “I know,” he said, giving Tithi an uncomfortable grin.

  “Busy doing what?” she asked.

  “Helping a friend,” Ngoba said.

  “What friend?” She looked around. “I don’t see anybody else here.”

  “They’re not nearby.”

  Tithi had been pouring a shot from the implant in her arm as she talked. Ngoba had tried to look away, since it reminded him too much of someone taking a piss. When th
e arm came up, however, the shot glass was gone, and she extended a pistol in his face.

  Riggs’s mouth dropped open.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Tithi said. “We know you’re using that girl Fug as cover so you can hack the matches.” Her face compressed in a satisfied smirk. “Rack Thirteen is going to tear you apart. We want our money.”

  CAGES AND CURTAINS

  STELLAR DATE: 03.23.2956 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Crash Games Hangar, Night Park

  REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol

  Ngoba raised his hands in a placating gesture, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed the weapon embedded in Tithi’s forearm. Conflicted feelings ran through him as Tithi’s perfume filled his nostrils. This close, he could see that her eyes were nearly purple.

  A kid next to them shouted ‘Whoo!’ at the stage, raising his beer can. Others joined in, and an angry-looking woman threw an empty can at the Whoo-Kid.

  “Riggs,” Ngoba said in a tight voice. “She thinks you hacked the match. Isn’t that funny? You should tell her you aren’t able to do that.”

  His friend got a sheepish look on his face. “I kind of told her I could.”

  Ngoba stared at him, swallowing hard. He expected Rack Thirteen heavies to hit them any second. “Then explain how in some alternate universe you could do this, but you didn’t do it here. I’m sure Miss Tithi there would like to hear our alibi, right, Riggs?”

  Riggs gave Tithi a look that was half-pathetic and half-possessive. “She told me she loves me, Ngoba.”

  Ngoba couldn’t help laughing.

  Tithi didn’t seem to like that response. She rushed forward to shove the pistol under his chin, and Ngoba choked his laughter short. With his chin in the air, he rolled his gaze toward Riggs.

  “Are you going to do something?” he gurgled.

  “Tithi,” Riggs said. “We’re—” He looked around, apparently struggling for something to say. “We’re not holding any money. Fug’s got all the funds. She’s the one that set up the bets.”