by Gary Ballard
Chapter 5
November 2, 2028
07:02 a.m.
At Aristotle’s insistence, they piled into the car entirely too early for Bridge’s liking. He was used to working on very little sleep from his days as a crèche-bound hacker, but a cross-country trip was going to severely test his stamina. Stonewall’s gangster friends came through perfectly though. The car was a cherry, a 2027 Toyodyne in impeccable shape, with a satnav system hacked to prevent trackback, long-distance wireless Net connects for constant contact with Angie when necessary as well as news feeds to monitor the situation in Boulder. They headed out of Los Angeles and caught the I-15 east of Rancho Cucamonga, hoping to reach Boulder sometime around midnight, with stops for food and bio breaks.
Stonewall and Aristotle insisted on Bridge being a passenger. While they half-joked that he was a terrible driver, Bridge believed they were reluctant to put their lives in his hands in case the wave of hallucinatory seizures from the previous evening returned. He didn’t mind, however, as long car rides made him sleepy anyway. The ride began in silence, but by the time they’d begun the ascent into the San Bernadino Mountains separating the LA area from the desolate scrublands of the High Desert, Aristotle and Stonewall were chatting away in the front. As Bridge listened, the discussion swerved into academic talk of Hegel and Nietzche, causing Bridge’s attention to wander. The droning buzz of the engine combined with his fatigue was enough to put him down for the count.
His sleep was fitful. A mind-itching buzz filled his dream ears, like static from a television constantly looping around him. He stood before his goal, an immense coal-black dome of translucent energy stretching miles into the sky and as far as the eye could see in all directions. Behind him stood only empty desert. He reached out a timid hand to touch the surface, and immediately withdrew the hand as a shock of static discharge arced from the dome to his fingers. He could feel the tingling in his toes, his genitals, his ears, even to the tips of his hair, which was standing on end. The surface began to glow, almost to breathe with flows of energy. Glowing softly at first, then stronger, patterns formed on the surface, in the surface, swimming deep like fish in shallow water. The patterns formed letters, though not exactly letters, but definitely writing of some kind, almost a kanji-like series of symbols and pictograms. The orange symbols formed lines of undecipherable text, then paragraphs of glowing orange hieroglyphs, and it began to scroll up the dome like text on a computer screen.
The static in his head had grown the sounds forming into words, into a jumbled mess of syllables that did not fit into any pattern his brain could discern. It was as if someone was whispering from inside his skull, vibrating his teeth with a growing urgency to be heard. Finally, a phrase made some form of sense, understood without hearing, and he followed its suggestion to look up.
Figures had emerged from the dome, three vaguely humanoid shapes emerging out of the now liquid surface above. Like coal-black naked angels approaching from on high, they peered down at Bridge with emotionless gazes, hands spread out openly at their hands as if letting the light of heaven flow from venth flotheir bodies. Their lips were moving and every twitch of muscle was accompanied by a short, sharp discharge of blue and orange lightning. All three spoke as one with the voice of thousands.
“They need you. You must save them from themselves.”
Bridge woke up with a start, the interface jack in his neck buzzing an itchy dance of pain.
*****
“No, man, the fundamental, the very core of the thing you are ignoring is that a capitalist system, no matter how regulated is inherently exploitative.” That diatribe was the first thing Bridge heard as he snapped back to consciousness. Stonewall was immersed in a heated discussion with Aristotle as he drove, his hands flying off the wheel to add emphasis to his points before coming back to keep the car on track. It was hardly necessary as the car rode straight as an arrow despite going over 80 mph. Bridge rubbed his eyes and checked the clock on his HUD. He’d been out for less than two hours, and his body was leaden. The echoes of the dream still reverberated around his dome, bouncing back and forth off of other thoughts to the rhythm of the music he’d launched on his internal player. He shut off the music and leaned back with a sigh, listening to the discussion between his two bodyguards.
“Capitalism isn’t inherently exploitative,” Aristotle replied meekly.
“Of course it is, brau. Big businessman with all the ideas and capital in the world still has to pay someone to make that idea into a product. And to make any money, he is duty-bound to pay the absolute lowest wage to maximize profits. In fact, he has to continually re-examine his operations to minimize costs. Capitalism must treat the worker as a depreciating commodity. Loyalty is expensive. The worker inevitably becomes too expensive to be profitable, so the capitalist must replace him with a newer, cheaper worker to continue to maximize profits. He must refresh the exploitation pool periodically or business grows stagnant. The exploitative capitalism we practice puts more value on the company with negative growth than those with flat growth, because at least the company that shrinks is a target for some other shark’s expansion.”
“While it is true that capitalism must continually lower costs to maximize profits, that doesn’t mean the system must exploit in order to do so. Capitalism infused with the proper responsibility to the community and transparency has accomplished great things.”
Stonewall chuckled. “You mean like the railroad built on Chinese and Irish slave labor? The outsourcing of manufacturing to increasingly more destitute third world countries in the 90’s that wrecked American manufacturing? You mean that responsibility? Capitalism has one responsibility, to constant profit expansion. Everything else is an expense that goes against its fundamental spirit.”
inheright="0">
Aristotle rubbed his chin then took a different tact, pointing his finger for emphasis. “So communism is the answer? Forcing everyone to give up the fruits of their labor to their neighbor regardless of worthiness?”
“Straw-man argument there, my brother. From each according to his ability to each according to his need is what the man says.”
“Sure, but that means those with more ability are supporting those with more need. That’s not equitable, that’s state-sponsored slavery to the weak. And for that matter, who gets to decide the measure of the distribution? That’s where the problem lies. The apparatus that distributes the state’s assets is just another flawed oligarchic institution. It is entirely too vulnerable to corruption because just like unchecked capitalism, it puts all the power into the hands of the few. You are trading exploitation by the bourgeoisie for exploitation by the proletariat.”
Stonewall vehemently disagreed. “Not if you have the proper democratic process, either through one-to-one representation by the technologically-enabled proletariat or proper, transparent representative democracy by the academic elite.” Bridge let out a loud guffaw from the back seat. Stonewall glanced back over his shoulder with a smirk. “Welcome back to the living, Bridge. You got something to add to the discussion?”
“You’re both nuts.”
“That’s very illuminating, Bridge,” Aristotle quipped. “I’d like to subscribe to your newsletter.”
Bridge shifted in the seat and laughed. “You’re both missing the fundamental problem with all that shit. You can talk around the issue with flowery language and academic labels but it all falls apart the minute you put it to practice. Human beings are fucked up creatures. Too much is never enough. Put a man in charge of feeding the poor and he will be eating caviar while doling out government cheese covered in rat droppings. Give him $10 profit by employing American adults and he’ll drop them on Skid Row the minute he can get some three-year old in Botswana to make the same product for ten cents. He can’t help it. We may have mapped the DNA of humans, but we missed the most important gene of all – the asshole gene. Everybody’s got it, every race, every sex, every creed, every country. We’re all just gigantic assh
oles in waiting.”
“So what’s your solution then, Mr. Cynical?”
“You know my system, boys,” Bridge said, settling back into the seat for another nap. “Fuck him first before he fucks you.”
The car was silent for a moment. Finally, Stonewall broke the tension by saying, “And this is why I always keep Bridge to my front.” All three erupted in laughter as the car zoomed down the interstate.
*****
Chapter 6
November 2, 2028
11:14 a.m.
With the car slowing to accommodate the slower traffic of the Vegas outskirts, Bridge woke from an uncomfortable sleep. He poked his head above the windowsill to see the towering casinos in the distance glittering through the sandy desert haze. “Vegas already?” he asked, sniffling and stretching and straightening his mussed up tie. He checked the clock on his internal HUD. Despite a stiff back, the few hours sleep had helped. “We gonna stop to toss a coin in the slots?”
“I do not believe that would be wise,” Aristotle replied. “It occurs to me you’d be a terrible gambler.”
“Gambling is for suckers and rubes. Dropping two bits into a random number generator is flirting with the universe.”
“We’ll stop on the other side of town for a piss break and some lunch,” the Mexican said. “I do not want mi cara showing up on some Strip casino’s security cameras. CLED has a partnership with NVCED and they’re still after me for that warehouse thing. Don’t matter where we go, even the churches got slots.”
“I’m surprised you never worked Vegas, Bridge,” commented Aristotle.
Bridge shrugged. “What can I say, I’m an LA boy. Vegas really ain’t my scene.” He noticed the questioning look on Aristotle’s face. “Look, everybody’s a liar. LA, Vegas, New York, Istanbul, wherever, everybody lies. Nobody expects sincerity in Los Angeles. They expect everybody and everything to be fake as starlet boobs. But they do expect to have their dreams fulfilled, so even though your client knows you’re lying to them, they still believe you’ll get them whatever they want. It’s all fantasy land out there, and I’m Mr. Fucking Roarke.” Aristotle appeared confused by the reference. “Old TV show. I mean, REALLY old. Anyway, Vegas ain’t like that.”
“How do you mean?”
“You ever been to Vegas?” The bodyguard shook his head. “Vegas is all glitz and glamour. It’s big shows and huge productions, but deep down, underneath all that put on is the con. Only it’s a different brand of con then LA. See, Vegas is where dreams go to get bought and sold and lost. Everybody in Vegas isn’t just lying to you, they are lying to you to steal every single thing you got and you know they are and they know you know. There’s liars, and there’s criminals, and there’s thieving lying criminals and Vegas is full of those. You work Vegas you expect every motherfucker you work with is angling to get at your back to stick in the knife. If LA is a fantasy, Vegas is a straight-up heist.”
The Strip had come into sight now, coalescing out of the hazy morning into nightmarish unreality. Even with the blistering sun baking the desert with blinding illumination, the carnival lights of the Strip’s daily put-on was evident, every twinkler twinkling, every barker shouting, every promised lie and lying promise on display to draw in the unwary. And on every corner, on every sidewalk, in every doorway, the crowds gathered, rushing from imagined payday to crushing disaster with wide-eyed insatiable zeal.
“I spent a month here one week. Vegas and me don’t get along,” Bridge mumbled as the Strip began to fade behind him. The dusky shimmering curtain of the desert heat shrouded the city’s shiny rotten heart.
*****
The combination greasy spoon, convenience store and gas station on the far side of Vegas was the typical American road joint, a loud choir of shrieking waitresses, thunderous freight trucks and slamming dishes, with the jingling of coins in slots unique to Vegas. Bridge felt smothered by the humid scents of horribly fried food mixed with the choking oily stench of biodiesel. They ordered lunch and relieved their bladders, Bridge sitting in quiet contemplation while Stonewall and Aristotle nattered on with copious amounts of pseudo-philosophical political science. Bridge would grunt every now and then at some of the naïve notions both men held about capitalism, socialism, communism and whatever other theoretic –ism they could remember.
Bridge was staring out the tinted window of the booth while digesting the poorly prepared meal when his phone buzzed. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Aristotle asked.
“Ms. Angst.” The bodyguard nodded in understanding. “I forgot to call that guy about that thing. She’s gonna whine. I hate it when she whines.”
“You could just not answer,” Aristotle offered with a gleeful shrug.
Bridge frowned. “Gotta do what I do.” He stood up and went outside. The diner was loud enough to mask his conversation, but the outside was louder. He would have no trouble hearing her, as the connection piped into his brain through his cybernetic interface, but without his white noise generator, he would be vulnerable to eavesdropping. He may have left town, but he packed his paranoia with him.
“Ms. Angst, to what do I owe this early morning pleasure?”
“Where’s my sample, Bridge?” All right, she wasn’t in a cordial mood.
“Circumstances have intervened.”
“What the fuck that mean, Bridge? You trying to screw me? It’s that Zbone, you’re getting it for him, ain’t it? What’s he paying? I’ll pay more, I’m good for it.”
“Whoa, Angst, hold up, hold up. I’d never do you like that, girl, you are a valued client.”
“Bullshit, Bridge. You’d sell me to some Singapore sailor hump-hump bar if you thought you could get 20%. Where’s my sample?”
“Look, I can get it, but I’ve been called away from LA. It’s going to be a few days before I can hook you up.”
“You can’t handle business over the phone, brau?”
Bridge’s frown had to have been audible across the distance. “This is not the kind of thing you leave to a phone call, girl. You know that.”
“Few days is not going to do it. The news will be all over everywhere by then. I don’t break this in twelve hours, it’s broke fo’ sho’. Now what you got for me?”
He let out a weary sigh. “Nothing, Angst. I got nothing. When I get done with this Boulder mess, we’ll talk, work out some kind of equitable makeup, k?”
“Boulder? You’re in Boulder?”
Bridge cursed at himself silently. He must really be beat. Never reveal your location over the phone. “No, I’m not in Boulder.”
The teenager sounded excited now, her anger all forgotten. “Shit, yo, you’re going to Boulder. You’re going to the dome! Why didn’t you tell me, brau? This is perfect!”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget the pop princess. Everybody’s talking about this Boulder thing, this explosion and the dome and the hacker hallucinations and shit. I got ‘em. Did you get ‘em?” Her words and sentences were running on now in one almost unintelligible stream. “You got to get me some of that, some footage, some audio, an interview, something! You gotta!”
“What do I look like, Tom Williams, Nightly News Twat? I’m not going to Boulder for a story.”
“But you’re going, right?” He reluctantly confirmed. “Look, I’ll take anything you can get, anything, brau. Just get me some video or audio, I don’t care if it’s grainy cell phone or cybereye shit, just get me something and we’re square.” Bridge considered the pros and cons. He would be there anyway, all he’d need would be a little easy-to-get footage of the inevitable cordon around this dome thing, package it up and email it to Angst, and his failure would be forgotten. Fixing a broken deal was rarely so easy.
“Yeah, all right, Angst. I get you something. Then we’re square, capice?”
ght="0" width="29">“Square, brau.” He hung up the phone and shrugged as Stonewall and Aristotle strode out of the diner. They left quickly, bopping dow
n the road towards inevitable weirdness.
*****
Chapter 7
November 2, 2028
7:08 p.m.
Bridge managed to get restful if not quite comfortable sleep on the other side of Vegas, waking sometime in mid-afternoon as they lumbered past Salina, Utah. Stonewall maneuvered around the I-70 traffic with dispassionate haste, cutting through what rush hour traffic there was with ease. Had Bridge not gotten the rest before, the lack of landmarks along the interstate would have put him right back to sleep. Four lanes of seemingly endless tarmac cut through hilly scrubland populated with little more than cactus, broken up by gigantic buttes and blood orange cliff faces hewn by millennia of wind, sun and rain. The isolation, the vast open spaces, the pure distance from person to person was enough to make him shudder at the thought of living in this barren wasteland. As dusk started to settle over the highway, Bridge noticed the air growing thinner with elevation, the roadside vegetation turning a more fertile green despite the fall chill. The temperature had steadily dropped as they made their way east, causing him to huddle into his jacket for warmth.
With night almost completely blanketing the highway, they crossed the Colorado state line. A gigantic sign celebrated their passage. Stonewall’s voice broke the silence that had permeated the car for the last hundred miles or so. “Uh oh,” he said with a hint of worry.
“Uh oh? What uh oh?”
“Read the sign, hombre.” He pointed to the fifty-foot billboard by the side of the road. It was lit as brightly as an airport landing strip. It read:
“The Legios Corporation welcomes you to the LGL District of Colorado. Your vehicle’s registration has been automatically scanned and is being tracked. The friendly troopers of the Legios Rangers will detain vehicles not licensed for use in the state of Colorado. Welcome to Where the Columbines Grow!”