by Jim Keen
Alice scrambled for her jacket pockets, remembering too late that she had no weapons left except the Bunny Bopper.
“Ah-ah. Stop that.” A small gray gun appeared in his hand; it tracked her head with machine precision. One-Eye nodded to Red. “Both of you get up.”
They did as they were told.
“That’s better. I don't think we’ve been formally introduced. Colloquially, I’m known as One-Eye, the type of literal and stupid tag most bridge jeeks can understand. Both of you, however, may call me Vincent.”
He waited. There was a long silence.
“What you want? A medal?” Red said at last.
One-Eye sighed. “I’d prefer if we could keep this pleasant, yes? No need for any more nastiness. You’ve caused us quite an inconvenience as it is.”
“So I’m not going to get your number?” Alice said.
One-Eye ignored her and continued. “I’ve been sent to extend Mr. Bank’s appreciation of your expertise. You’ve proven to be people of stamina and effectiveness. To that end, he’d like to talk in person.”
“I’m here for Officer Squire,” Alice said. “I will only sit down with Bank if he’s going to release him.”
“Well, the thing is, you don’t really have a choice.”
“Well, the thing is, a lot of people have said that today, and they’ve been wrong.”
“Christ, give me strength.” One-Eye rubbed his temple with his free hand. “I’m offering you a way out. If you can’t see that, then this has been has been a complete waste of time. Look, here you go, happy now?” He tossed the gun to Alice. Surprised, she caught it, and pointed it back at him.
“Feel better?” He said. “Now, will you please follow me, or do you need a fucking donut as well?”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and led the way.
Alice walked ten paces behind One-Eye, tight enough to stop any doors from separating them, but not so close that he could disarm her with any sudden attacks. Red followed her, the zips on his oversize jacket jangling.
“Here we are,” One-Eye said.
The door was of a type and design Alice knew well: it was from a Colonial Marines drop ship like the It’s Been A Long Week. The Fucker carried five drop ships, and two were wrecked on the Parliament run. She’d been in a medical coma afterward, so didn’t know what happened to the other three. Drop ships comprised an armor-glass cockpit, and rear engine nacelle, connected by a long Y-shaped truss which cradled the troop-carrying containment vessel in the middle.
This door had a Colonial Marines emblem etched on the outside: Earth and Mars as a contact binary, Earth with a rocket inside, Mars a human baby. It looked like the real thing to Alice, even more so as she ran her hands over the surface. It was rough, so had been flown through an atmosphere, or survived a long trip in space getting splattered by micrometeoroids.
“What the hell is this?” she muttered.
“You should know,” One-Eye said. “It’s secondhand, of course. We couldn’t afford a new one.”
“Who sold this to you? How did you get it back here?”
“Niner was a big help. Let me introduce you.” One-Eye placed his palm on a green box glued to the door. He winced, then sucked his thumb. “DNA taster,” he said as he grabbed the door handle. The box beeped and he stepped though.
Alice hesitated. She didn’t know what she was walking into, but it was way past time to back down. She slid the Bunny Bopper into the pocket of her pants. “Red, keep behind me. Suit, run tactical previews.”
“Understood, and don’t hesitate to kill. This is all being recorded for your unemployment review.”
She raised one heavy combat boot and stepped into the vessel’s airlock. There was an odd mix of competing air currents inside: frigid blasts thick with the tang of saltwater and chemicals, returning gusts with odd, bitter scents. Sweat covered her back within moments. Six inches of brackish water filled the airlock; One-Eye splashed through it uncaring as he made for the interior door, opened it, and strode out of sight. The airlock was uplit by soft white cove lighting; so far, it all looked standard Marine spec. She followed One-Eye, water kicking up as she moved, and stepped through the doorway.
The containment vessel had been stripped to its bare composite shell and filled with the reason for the Bridge’s data, energy, and cooling systems. Four of the latest military-spec organic body printers filled the center of the room. Their heat and power envelope alone would require a large fusion reactor, but they were mere toys compared to the machine next to them.
Alice had only ever seen one Mechanical Intelligence in her life, a test unit during her basic training. That had been a Generation One system, crude and ugly within its crenelated heat sinks. It had been capable of tremendous feats of computation, but had no real personality. This model was more compact, its twisted coral form that of a Generation Two model, the real deal. It was held in place by a huge hexagonal vice. As Alice watched, the ends of the vice rotated with slow, inevitable force, driving the billions of nanoscopic rods, pulleys, and cogs inside its difference engines. The MI lay submerged in a tank of pink liquid that in turn sat within in a glass capsule filled with a white mist. The capsule’s exterior was covered by a layer of thick ice; waves of cold emanated from it. Behind the printers and MI, a series of racks ran to the far wall. Each contained a reprinted Klichka within a translucent bag of green oxygenated gel.
Alice, at last, understood the Bridge’s purpose. For so long, everyone had assumed it was a nexus for Fourth Ward’s push into Brooklyn. It wasn’t. The Bridge’s primary role was to provide a framework for the power and cooling systems required to mass-produce augmented people. People worth a huge amount on the open market, more than enough to buy a place in the towers. Augmenting was outlawed by a whole range of UN resolutions, though. The moment Bank shipped them he’d be guilty of weapons trafficking. Was he really so powerful he didn't fear the UN’s inspection teams based a few miles north of here?
The light from the MI’s tank filled the room, a rippling pink shimmer. The vessel, like the airlock, was filled with water. It was deeper here, at least a foot, its surface reaching the top of her boots. Near the MI, a layer of thick ice had formed, which cracked and popped as a SWAT team surrounded her at a distance; guns hummed and clicked as they came online.
A figure emerged from the room’s darkness, a face she recognized from old police briefings.
“Piggy Bank I presume?”
“That’s Mr. Bank to you,” Conroy said, and smiled.
“Welcome to the factory floor,” Mr. Bank said, beckoning Red and Alice in with a wave.
“Remind me to never use your interior designer.” Alice let her eyes adjust to the low light. The MI’s case glowed its soft pink, the racks of reprinted people had soft blue tracer lighting, the rest of the space was dark except for a red emergency lights.
“I like your jacket.” Mr. Bank nodded to Red then turned back to Alice. “I believe I have something you want.”
“Hand him over and no one gets hurt.”
“Quite.” Mr. Bank nodded and Squire stepped from behind one of the guards. He looked scared but unharmed, his arms bound by thick glue strips.
“Would you come closer?” Mr. Bank said to Alice. “We need to talk and I’d rather not shout. It always makes everything so confrontational.”
“Suit?” she whispered.
“Yes, well, this is all very challenging. While Bank and One-Eye appear unarmed, there are a further twelve people carrying weapons. Your Beretta holds six rounds, so I have no current firing solutions. May I suggest talking? That has the highest resolution probability.”
“Which is?”
“Twelve-point-oh-nine percent success rate.”
“Awesome.”
“Yes indeed. May I remind you of my desire to work in a space suit? The dangers present in a Space X shuttle seem somewhat quaint right now.”
“It’s hard to forget when you tell me every day. Red, keep close
.” Alice motioned to One-Eye with her pistol. He nodded and stepped over to Mr. Bank, the legs of his gray suit soaking up water and darkening to black as he moved.
Alice slid further into the room, slow, careful. No one spoke. The ice cracked, water dripped. Somewhere, aerostats hissed, high discordant tones of miniaturized engines. Her mouth was dry, her tongue too large as her body fizzed with adrenaline, heart kicking.
“I’m going to take off my jacket.” Alice’s voice echoed back from the hard surfaces. “Nice and slow, so nobody get any ideas, okay?”
“If you must,” Mr. Bank said. “Any fast movements will, of course, result in bloodshed.”
Alice ran the heavy plastic zip down the front of her jacket, her inner overalls slick with sweat. She shrugged an arm free, her Marines tattoo vivid against her skin.
“Red,” she said. No reply. “Red.”
“It’s so pretty in here,” he whispered.
“Grab me, kid, put me on,” Suit crackled.
“Why?”
“I’m bulletproof.”
Hands touched Alice from behind, pulling the jacket off her left arm. There was a moment when the gun pointed at the floor, but no one moved. The dull run of a zipper came from behind.
“You Catholic, kid? You look Catholic,” Suit said.
“Yes.”
“Go forth, Christian soul, from this world. In the name of God the almighty Father, who created you …” Suit’s voice had changed. Now, it spoke in low, calm tones as it gave Red the last rites.
Alice turned back to the crowd. “We have nothing to discuss, Mr. Bank. Just hand him over and I walk out of here, no further wastage.”
“Aren’t you at all curious as to why I brought you to this place? It would have been far easier to kill you.”
“People keep saying that, yet here I am, still kicking. Same can’t be said for that clusterfuck of chumps you sent after me.”
Bank’s face twitched in annoyance, just for a second, but she caught it.
“I have an offer for you,” he said.
“You’ve nothing I want.”
“I believe you know Vincent?” Bank beckoned to One-Eye, who nodded at Alice. “He is leaving us, westward bound to the franchises of California. Plenty of factories there require his vision and leadership. Vincent’s absence creates an opening in my organization, one you are perfectly qualified to fill. The salary and healthcare will be most agreeable compared to your current job options.”
“What?” Alice was taken totally off guard by the offer.
“There’s no need to be surprised. You’ve shown abilities and paranoia in advance of the majority. Vincent is tasked with Bridge security, a role for which you are well suited.”
“Don’t you have smart-systems for that?” Alice said. She needed to break this conversation chain, concentrate on getting Squire out, but she couldn’t help be interested in what he had to say.
“That would require trusting software. When I started all of this I made the strategic decision to place my trust in people.”
“Why?” Alice said.
Mr. Bank looked at her, disappointed. “People are easily compromised; I can understand and plan for that. Machines are a closed system, failure the only way to learn of their corruption. When you’re sitting on top of a fusion reactor … I chose to remove that chance.”
“Where did someone like you get a reactor?”
“It was given as an advance on future payments,” Bank said.
“Who the hell gives away nuclear reactors?”
“The Pentagon.”
“Bullshit. A two-cent hoodlum like you doesn’t have contacts that high.”
“Surely a police officer should be more concerned about how I obtained the permits to install a reactor here?”
“Money can buy anything. You get the MI from the same people?”
“Yes, both were supplied by the Department of Defense.”
“Why would they give them to you?” She rubbed her Marine’s tattoo. It itched with a dull nagging sensation she’d not felt in years.
“Do you know what this Bridge really is?”
“No, but I guess you’re going to tell me.”
“It’s the scar tissue surrounding an old wound. Scar tissue is never subsumed into the body, it just sinks below the surface. It is only upon your death, when your flesh withers, that it reemerges. Take the Manhattan Bridge as an example, a festering mile of human refuse. The city could clear it with the force of righteous indignation. Forge it anew, transform it into farmland to feed the homeless, or new hospitals funded by the Ones. But no, the city is too challenged for such thinking, too blinkered to solve the problems that have brought us to this precipice. The Bridge is an answer to such shortsightedness, a means to show there are other solutions.”
“So getting rich was just an accident, huh? I’ve met a lot of cheap con men in my time, Bank, and you’re like all the rest. Fancy words over bullshit.”
Mr. Bank looked at her for a moment, the hint of a smile on his face. “I don’t deny my wealth, never have, but that is a byproduct of my pursuits, not a destination in itself. Look around you. What have I done with my reward? Does my lifestyle seem extravagant in any way?”
Alice shrugged, conceding his point. The Bridge could hardly be called an ivory tower.
“So I return to my question. Will you help me build this operation into something we can be proud of, or would you prefer to join those poor unemployed souls outside?”
Alice had been lied to her entire life. From foster care, with its promises of a better life, to the gangs, where she starved while making others rich, to the Marines, where she killed on a politician’s whim, and now the police, a family that would drop her for rescuing one of its own. However, Bank was just another slave owner who sucked the life from his possessions, and she was done with that. It was time to finish this.
“What do you think Red?” she said over her shoulder.
“I think he’s full of crap.” The boy sounded scared but determined, and Alice was proud of him.
“You’ve got good judgement, kid,” Alice said then spoke to Bank. “Save your we’re in this together bullshit for the corpses strung over the Bridge. The answers is no. Now hand over Officer Squire and we can forget all about this.”
Bank smiled again, his cloud of protective aerostats shifting about him. “A shame, but no real surprise. Before I do so, have you asked why I took him in the first place?”
“I couldn’t care less. Let him go or we’re going to have ourselves a real problem.”
Twelve guns pointed at her, she ignored them, held Mr. Bank’s gaze, his leaden eyes unwavering. Her heart shook so hard it was difficult keeping her voice level, the gun heavy and hot in her hand. If this went south she’d kill him at least, put a bullet through his head and say goodbye.
Bank nodded in acknowledgment. “I wanted Michael because, if I may borrow a term from young master Red, he’s full of crap. Did he tell you the NYPD are to be shut down? You are all out of a job; tomorrow or in six months, the end result will be the same. He knew all about that, and looked after himself, with no consideration for you or I.”
“Mike, what’s he talking about?” Alice asked.
“It’s true,” Squire said. He sounded tired, but unharmed. “The mayor has hired the military as a peacekeeping force. The city is broke and they’re cheaper than the NYPD.”
“Bullshit. No way that would pass.”
“It’s been agreed and is in progress.”
“How do you know?”
“I was approached to help out with the transition. Some older cops are moving over to military command as advisors in the initial stages.”
“How many?”
“A hundred or so. The majority of the peacekeeping force will be composed of reprints manufactured here. The military, and their contractors, will make billions.”
“Why reprints?”
“They are bespoke designs made for urban warfare, able t
o do twice the work we could, with better survival rates. That makes them cheap.”
“And illegal. Does the UN know?”
“The mayor thinks that once the troops are on the streets, the UN will have to back down, accept its augmentation laws are unenforceable. After that? Well, as New York goes, so does the world.”
“What happens to us?”
“We’re out.”
“Let’s not misuse the term we, Michael,” Mr. Bank said. “You planned to make out very well indeed, be the hero, and get a winner’s ransom.” He turned to Alice. “Officer Squire had an idea, you see. He was approached to help with the transition and decided to try some blackmail on the side. I mean, why not? He’s seen criminality succeed for years, so how hard could it be? He went to the mayor, said he knew all about the plan, and would tell the UN unless he got his thirty pieces of silver. At the same time he’d already arranged to meet the consul. He would take the bribe, then bring this whole venture down anyway. Michael made a mistake, though: he underestimated how good people act under pressure. The mayor paid the money and then ordered me to pick him up.”
“Is that true, Michael? Did you sell us out?” Alice said.
Squire looked at her in the dark, the whites of his eyes ringed with fatigue. He dropped her gaze, then nodded. “I’ve been on the streets twenty years, Alice, twenty, and what have I got? No healthcare, no pension, nothing. It doesn’t matter how well I do my job. I’d had enough.”
“From the mouth of babes,” Bank said.
Alice groaned. “Oh you idiot, Mike. I care. I trusted you with my life, couldn’t you see that?”
He said nothing, just hung his head.
“Who knows about this?”
Bank smiled at her. “Everyone of importance is already on board, the machinery set. It can’t be undone. Now that you understand the future, I offer you, one last time, a job as head of Bridge security.”
“When I came here I was looking to save Mike, but I was looking to save myself more,” Alice said. “Know what I’ve learned?”
“Surprise me.”