Bridgebuilders

by Marlene Dotterer

  He looked surprised when she came up to him after he parked, staring down at her as she blocked his path. He looked like he wanted to hurry. “Hi, Missy. Did your exams go okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes sir. But I’m s’posed to tell you that Moira had to go home early and can’t grade your papers.”

  He seemed to stiffen, like one of the columns behind them. Then he squatted down to look at her and his face was very serious.

  “When? When did she leave? Who picked her up?”

  Missy blinked. That was the rest of the message that she forgot to give him. “Her stepfather came. It was about two o’clock.”

  The fear showed on Mr. Green’s face, too. But he just patted her shoulder and stood. “Thank you, Missy. I’ll take care of it.”

  She watched him as he left, running over to the teacher’s dormitories, and breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, she thought he really would take care of it.

  ~~~

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn! His mind a whirl, that was the only word Andy could think of as he raced to his rooms. Once there, he did the essentials, as if his subconscious already knew the plan and guided his steps. He changed into dark clothes—blue jeans and a black sweatshirt and his dark running shoes. With no idea what to expect, he threw an overnight kit into his backpack: a change of clothes, toothbrush and paste, his comb. He had a flashlight in the car. He had spent the last two hours in his lab at Oxford, creating Moira's false ID chip. That was also in the car, already in its syringe, along with a set of tools for microscopic work. As an afterthought, he grabbed his raincoat and two extra sweatshirts. One never knew.

  Back to the car. Missy had gone in. Good. There were a few girls around, but most were either in their dorms packing, or in town celebrating the end of term. He drove off nonchalantly, as if all was normal, but once clear of the gates, he floored it, causing the computer to scream in protest. He kept the speed just below the limit where the onboard monitor would insist on taking over the driving, judging him under the influence of one thing or another. He couldn’t block the tracking device, but he did keep the navigator ignorant of his destination. He knew how to get to Chelmsford. Once there, he’d have to program in the address, and hope the system would not automatically alert the residents that a visitor was coming.

  He thought of Moira, afraid, and perhaps hurt. The unbidden picture of someone hitting her caused him to increase speed and swerve to pass a car in front. The monitor pinged. “Do you need assistance to reach your destination?” The voice was calm and friendly, but he didn’t let that fool him. He eased off the speed, and took a few deep breaths.

  “No, there’s no problem.”

  He mustn't think of her. He mustn’t think of someone hurting her. He had to concentrate on something that would keep him calm, and driving normally. At the second warning, his Chip had begun sending his vital signs to the onboard monitor; another small increase in tension and he would lose control to the auto pilot.

  So instead, he thought about his steps to save her, deciding that assuming victory was his best bet. A plan began to form.

  ~~~

  Full darkness had fallen by the time he approached the house indicted by his nav. He parked on the street a few houses down, and stared at his destination. Lights shone in two windows, one downstairs, one upstairs. The neighborhood was quiet. Street lights cast pools of light every thirty feet or so. Somewhere a door closed, somewhere else a spate of music, occasionally, he heard a distant voice.

  What were his choices? Ring the bell and ask for her? Ring the bell and ask for her stepfather? Try to talk him into handing her over? No, no, and no.

  How would a home like this be secured? The neighborhood was not wealthy, but neither was it poor. The people who lived on this street would all have jobs with sufficient income. Security systems would be good, but not top-of-the-line. Could he talk their system into believing he belonged there? A guest, perhaps?

  Reaching into the back, he pulled forward the small box tucked under his raincoat. He slipped his penlight and the syringe into his pocket and pulled out his Pad. Moving quietly, he eased out of the car, into a biting wind. He didn’t try to remain hidden. Surreptitious behavior would call him to the attention of the street monitor. But someone walking down the street, engrossed in a game on his Pad—the monitor would not be interested in that.

  This game would get him arrested, if he were caught playing it. A couple of years ago, he and a few of his classmates at Oxford had challenged each other to develop a search program on their Pads. Such a program was illegal without proper authorization, but they kept it a friendly competition to see who could do it fastest. Extra points were awarded for efficiency and elegance. In the end, Serena Torbeny had beat them all, with a program able to search an entire two-story building for vital signs, requiring just a few seconds of scanning time. He’d charmed her into showing him some of her tricks, resulting in an interesting week of electronic and sexual manipulation. The sex hadn’t lasted, as she started dating a TA in O-Chem. But he’d kept the program on his Pad.

  Aiming the search signals toward the house, he located eight people in various rooms. The program wasn’t fine-tuned enough to differentiate between male and female, child or adult. How could he discover which of those bodies was Moira?

  Wait. Two more bodies came into focus as he neared the house. They were around back and were moving. Underneath the house? It made no sense. Stopping just before a street light and remaining in the dark, near a hedge, he watched the Pad in confusion before it dawned on him ... they must be in a cellar. Leaving that screen, he went into the programming and called up a signal to let him talk to the house’s security system. He felt himself sweating at the danger. If the system were too sensitive, it would scream bloody murder at the attempt.

  The system was nervous: who was that? He tickled it a bit, reassuring, his fingers flying on the keys: I am on your list of acceptable persons. The system resisted: parameters do not match. He repeated his input, fingers slipping with sweat, offering more reassurances. The system seemed to sigh: what do you want? He assured it he just wanted in the yard, to go around back. It took a minute, but the system acquiesced, stretching to include him in its perimeter. Good. With the house pacified, the street system would ignore his movement into the yard.

  Sticking to the shadows near the hedges, he crept around the house until he saw cellar doors waiting open in the ground next to the building. He squatted and watched his Pad. And damn if the screen didn’t now register a third body in there. Cooler than the others, with weaker life signs. His Pad had not detected it through the bulk of the house. He felt his heart pounding. Was that Moira? Was she hurt? Fuck them! They’d only had her for a few hours and already she was hurt?

  Shadows moved in the open doorway and two figures stepped leisurely into view, coming up the stairs. Two men, about his age, talking and laughing. They shut the doors and threw a bolt across, plunging the cellar into darkness. He held his breath and heard them as they crossed to the back door:

  “She got out of it, tonight.”

  “Won’t work again tomorrow, I guarantee it.”

  Their voices ended as the door slammed shut. Andy realized he was shaking, his eyes darting back to the Pad and the weak vitals it displayed. He watched, biding his time. The light downstairs went out. He counted to one hundred, checked the vital signs, then dashed for the cellar.

  His shaking added to the difficulty of moving quietly, but he hoped the wind would cover any noise he made. It seemed to take forever to remove the bolt and open the right side. As he did so, the cellar light came on, but he heard no movement. Afraid the light would alert someone in the house, he frantically tapped at his Pad, instructing the house to turn it off. Easing the second door to the ground, he took out his penlight and descended the stairway. It was a root cellar, cold, dirt floor and walls, with shelves along the sides, stocked with jars of food and piles of vegetables.

  At the end, next to a basket of potatoes,
lay Moira. She wore a brown dress, her feet and legs bare, with no blanket to cover her. She was on her side, curled into a fetal position. If she knew he was there, she was not showing it. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving. Was she asleep? Surely the light would have awakened her. He touched her face, gently.

  “Moira?”

  No response. Shit! What was wrong? He didn’t have a medical monitor. Making a quick decision, he took the syringe out and lifted her left arm. No time for finesse: he inserted the modified ID chip quickly, trying to be gentle. She stirred as he plunged the stopper home.

  “Moira?” His voice shook. “It’s Andy. Wake up, Moira.”

  She came to abruptly, turning her head to him, terror stark on her face, then freezing as she stared at him. He put the syringe away and reached for her. “We have to go. Can you walk?”

  She touched his arm. “It’s you.” Her voice was weak, soft.

  “Yes.” He slipped his arm under her shoulders. “We have to go now. Quietly.”

  Her hand clenched his shoulder and she started to rise, stopping halfway with a quickly swallowed yelp of pain, collapsing back to the ground.

  “Moira!” Desperate, he picked her up and hurried to the stairs. Somehow, he got up them and raced across the yard to the hedges, unable to run as silently as he needed to. He didn’t wait, just kept going to the street, afraid to even listen for sounds behind him. She moaned, stifling the sound as she buried her face in his shoulder and held on.

  He arrived at the car, whispered desperately to it, instructed it to open the passenger door. His voice was too soft and didn’t register at first, but after a second try, the door popped open. He placed her inside and fastened the restraint, miserably aware of the tears streaking her face, the teeth clamped over her bottom lip as she tried to stay quiet. Christ almighty, what had they done to her?

  A glance at the house revealed it was still dark, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Keeping the car lights off, which really pissed off the on-board monitor, he backed down the street to the intersection. Once there, he turned the lights on, and drove away with sedate care.

  He glanced at her. She had turned a bit in the restraint to stare at him, clutching her stomach. In the half-dark, half-light of passing street lamps, her eyes looked glazed, and she was crying in shuddering breaths. He touched the top of her head.

  “It will be all right. I’ll take care of you.”

  “You came.” The words sounded strangled around her sobs. “You got me out. It’s really you.”

  He fought back tears. “It should never have come to this. I should have been there.”

  He felt her touch him, a brief caress on his arm, before the hand fell to the seat next to him. He glanced over to see her tear-stained face relaxed, eyes closed, head rolling against the seat back. Had she fainted? His lips tightened and he stared at the road. He didn’t dare use the auto-pilot, too afraid of being tracked. Just drive. Get her to safety.

  Just drive.

  Chapter 19

  “Dr. Warner, you are asking us to believe an unbelievable story.” The spokesman for the rebels, a misplaced Dubliner who said his name was Phil, had downed half his pint in two long swallows before greeting Dinnie when she first approached him. Now he drained his glass and shoved it toward his partner, who was manning the pitcher while ignoring Dinnie.

  She didn’t think the partner was really ignoring her, but she made an effort to play their game, and directed her comments only to Phil. “I know it’s hard to accept,” she said, needing to shout to be heard over the live band howling on the stage of the busy pub. “That’s why I went through the danger of smuggling the data out.” She tapped the storage chip with an angry forefinger and glared at the arrogant fellow across the table from her. It had taken weeks to get this meeting set up. The situation had morphed into the biggest event the human race had yet seen, and the rebels sent this joker? She was risking her life and they weren’t even taking her seriously.

  “I swear it’s all true,” she went on, “and Feldman is planning on ways to use the travelers and their technology for Sun’s, and his own, benefit. I suggest that you take these data to one of your physicists. I’m sure you have one or two working for you. It needs to be someone with the knowledge and experience to understand what these data are saying.”

  “Oh, aye, that’s true enough.” Phil sat back, with one arm resting on the back of his booth, and regarded Dinnie from under greasy brown bangs. It annoyed her that he didn’t have to shout to be heard. “It might help your case if you could produce a piece of this equipment you’ve been talking about. A probe, the time machine, the wee green men ... ?” The hand on the booth waved in a nonchalant circle, and Pitcher Bloke snickered.

  “They’re as human as you and I.” Dinnie sighed and sat back into the booth. She’d done her best, and what she’d done was enough to get her executed. She shivered, her hands twitching toward the chip. Phil reached it before her, tossing it into the air and catching it. Dinnie watched him, her heart pounding with booming pain.

  Pitcher Bloke surprised her when he spoke, his accent marking him as British. “We’ll examine the data thoroughly, Dr. Warner. What you’re saying happened is not probable, but I will admit that it’s possible.” He held out his hand and Phil gave him the chip. He slipped into a pocket without a glance.

  Phil grinned at Dinnie, salacious and dangerous all at once. “If you get more information, let us know. Otherwise, it’s best you forget this conversation happened.”

  Dinnie nodded, holding her hands closed in tight fists to hide her shaking. In over my head, and there’s no way out but through.

  Angels and saints protect me.

  ~~~

  Somehow, Moira knew the rocking had stopped, but dizziness kept her floating even as she tried to open her eyes. Mr. Green. Memory came flooding back, and she came to with a gasp and shock of pain. But the pain didn’t matter, because her eyes showed her it was true. Mr. Green was next to her, kneeling outside the passenger door, reaching to loosen the restraint that held her in place.

  The pain kept her still. “You came.” That seemed to be the only thing her mind could process.

  He moved the restraint, slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Yes. Can you walk, Moira? It's just a few feet. I can help, but the monitors will be suspicious if I carry you.”

  She gripped his arm and sat up, but stopped as pain lanced through her stomach. She wanted to scream, but that would have hurt more. Instead, she moaned, a sound forced out beyond her control.

  He gasped. “Jesus! How do I help you?”

  “I can do it,” she said. “Just slowly. Please, just slowly.”

  He helped her turn and slide her legs outside the car. She sat a moment on the edge of the seat, her hands on his chest, head bowed, waiting for the pain to recede back to a deep ache. When she thought she could move again, she nodded at him. “Help me up. Slow.”

  It felt like a chain was hooked to opposite sides of her stomach and was pulling, stretching her past endurance. Her whole body shook, her legs nearly collapsing. It was impossible to stand straight and Mr. Green stepped close to her, his arms around her, holding her upright. She wrapped her arms around his waist, moaning.

  “One step, Moira. This way.”

  She scuffed her foot forward and he continued to talk her through it, one step at a time. She focused on his voice and her feet, on each step forward at his command. He walked backwards, guiding her, holding her up. He stopped and issued a “door open” command, but the mechanical voice of the monitor stopped them.

  “Do you need assistance?”

  “Nah.” Mr. Green sounded incongruously nonchalant. “She just had too much to drink. Right, love?”

  “Yeah,” Moira managed to gasp. “Too much ...”

  The door opened, and they continued a few slow feet to a lift. “Second floor,” Mr. Green said, holding her closer, taking her weight, keeping her upright. “Just a little further,” he whispered.


  It hurt too much to nod, but she shuffled with him into the lift. As they rose to the next floor, she took a careful, deep breath, relieved to have lungs full of air. Too soon, the lift stopped and she had to move again, aware only of a thin, blue carpet under her feet as she moved with Mr. Green into the hall. An odor of cheap antiseptic and pesticide made her breathe shallow through her mouth. He kept an arm around her waist, half carrying her to a door two down from the lift. She leaned against him, feeling his rustling movements as he fumbled a cardkey from his pocket and swiped it in the lock. She closed her eyes, concentrating on that movement, on the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, and the touch of his body against hers. He was really here.

  Once inside, he picked her up. She bit back a moan, clinging to his neck. His walk caused dizzy nausea to grip her, but at last he stopped and lowered her onto a bed. She curled around her stomach, gasping into the pillow. He lay a blanket over her and she felt his fingers, gentle on her head.

  “I'm going to get a med kit,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

  She nodded, but he was already gone. She could hear his movements, opening and closing cabinets in another room. It hurt to raise her head, but she studied what she could see of the room. She lay on a red blanket, and over the edge of the bed was more of the thin, blue carpet. A dresser stood against the opposite wall, its top cluttered with socks, a docking station and a Pad. A bong lay on its side in the corner between the dresser and the door to a bathroom. Mr. Green came through that door with quick strides, placing the soft med container on the floor as he sat with gentle care on the bed.

  She glanced up at him, struck by the quiet, haunted look on his face as he gazed at her. His mouth was tight as he reached to move her hair back from her ear. She flushed from head to toe as she remembered how it was injured, and her hand lifted to cover the ear in automatic protest. “Don't look at it,” she said, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to see his face.