Read The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy Online

Authors: Gary Ballard

Tags: #noir, #speculative fiction, #hard boiled, #science fiction, #cybernetics, #scifi, #cyberpunk, #near future, #urban fantasy

The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy (28 page)

“That was a good thing you did,” the bodyguard said through a smile. “You could have had him killed. Why didn’t you?”

Bridge waved off the compliment. “It was business. One of these days, I might need a guy like Paulie.”

 

 

 

*****

 

 

BOOK 3: if [tribe] =

 

 

 

Introduction

 

When life imitates art, the natural reaction is to chuckle, shrug one’s shoulders and move on. When life begins to imitate my own art, I get this weird amalgamation of shit-scared, apoplectic and wearily depressed. The setting for the novel you are about to read (and for the two previous novels I hope you’ve already read) is one that I often agonize over. Can readers really take it seriously? After all, I write about a future America where corporations are allowed to buy the rights to collect local and state taxes, run police and fire departments, and administer all the local social services we take for granted. It seems absolutely ridiculous on its face, or at least it did in 1994 when I came up with the idea. Not only would it be fiscally unrealistic, surely such a concept would be antithetical to the very idea of the constitutional republic that America is supposed to be. On the flip side, why would the free market adherents, the bastard children of Ayn Rand want to bother with local government, when one of their central tenets is that “government is the problem, not the solution?”

And yet, life manages to imitate my art, or at the very least, provide a credible scenario for such a travesty to occur. I’m speaking of a law that passed through the Michigan Legislature before making its insidious way to the Governor’s desk to be signed into law in March 2011. House Bill 4214 is meant to provide a mechanism for towns in financial distress to be guided out of said distress by the appointment of an emergency manager. Sounds like a well-intentioned bill, right? Many cities across the nation are one bad quarter from financial distress, and some in Michigan could already be considered economic disaster areas.

However, this law takes that concept and gives it an unhealthy dose of steroids. I don’t mean that it makes it stronger so much as it makes the law insanely strong and prone to fits of destructive homicidal rage. This emergency manager can be anyone. He is not elected. He is given such powers as the ability to null and void all contracts signed by the city. That includes the ability to nullify any collective bargaining agreements with public sector unions. This un-elected emergency manager can dissolve the town’s entire elected government.

Let that sink in. A guy you didn’t vote for can shitcan the mayor and the city council you voted into office. You can’t complain about it, because who are you going to complain to – the emergency manager who dissolved your government in the first place? This manger can set himself up as ruler of a mini-fiefdom in the land of Gov. Snyder’s kingdom.

As bad as all that is, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to take that law and apply it on a broader scale. With the recent
Citizens United
Supreme Court decision, corporations, already considered “people” by legal definition, were given the right to spend unlimited amounts of money on political advertising, cementing the rights of corporations to the form of free speech – speech, in this case, being conflated with money. What’s to stop Gov. Snyder from deciding that a “corporate person” is the best “person” for the job of emergency manager in your town? That’s right, your town could become an early version of a Local Governance License, and suddenly you’re living in the world I created.

I don’t care what political party you follow, I don’t care who you voted for, if you are an American, that should make you rage. At the very least you should be scared shitless by the thought. Do you really want the same people who caused the recession of 2008 to be put in charge of running your town’s finances, of determining which streets get police patrols or fire department service? Do you want criminals like those who drove Enron and Worldcomm into the ground to have that power over your life regardless of your vote? No matter what you think about government’s role in your life, you cannot be comfortable with the thought. Imagine, for a moment, your last phone call to customer service of your cable company. Imagine being so incensed at the incompetence and arrogance displayed by that company in regards to missing your favorite TV shows. Now imagine instead of entertainment, the problem is the piles of trash outside your house that the city government won’t take away, or the house burning down in your neighborhood because your neighbor couldn’t afford the fire service fee. What would you do in this situation? Sue? Great, go ahead and try to find a lawyer willing to take your case against a monolith that has an army of lawyers on retainer and speed dial and writes the expense off as a cost of doing business. While government can be equally infuriating, at least you have some recourse when wronged – you can vote against the administration in the next election. With corporations having become so large, so powerful and so prevalent in our lives, “vote with your wallet” is not an option. Often, there are few if any competitors to the largest corporations left, having been gobbled up in acquisition after acquisition until these corporate behemoths have such a virtual monopoly as to be untouchable. Think about how many choices you have for health insurance in your state, or for cable TV in your neighborhood. In some places, there are precious few choices.

Government, like any collective, can be wildly inefficient, horribly bureaucratic and impersonal, and it can often seem like it only benefits the people who aren’t you. But do you really want to go back to the company towns of the towns o late 1890’s? Do you want your civil rights taken away from you by people you didn’t even have the opportunity to vote against? Your vote may seem a small thing but it is one of the means to hold your government accountable to your will. That is how you ensure that your government sees to your well being instead of to your exploitation.

Human history is the centuries long-struggle to establish the proper balance between the needs of the individual and the needs of the collective. Tribes formed to protect weaker individuals from stronger. The strongest ruled because they were strongest, but as rival tribes formed, the strength of the tribe became every bit as important as the strength of the individuals leading the tribe. Protecting the tribe and ensuring its prosperity was absolutely necessary to ensure the survival of the tribe. Like a living organism, the tribe’s first responsibility is its own survival, and survival requires expansion. Expansion causes conflict as resources become scarce and rival tribes fight over those limited resources. Leaders who lost sight of their duty to protect the tribe, preferring to enrich themselves over the needs of their people, were eventually replaced by those promising more prosperity, whether they were able to provide that prosperity or not. The people saw to it that their leaders lived up to their responsibility, healing the tribal organism of its sickness.

Corporations are a modern tribe of a sort. Boards and shareholders take the place of chieftains and tribal councils, while employees are the tribe’s bodies and customers are the resources that keep the tribe alive, the elk that are hunted, the land that is farmed, the stream that is fished. Overuse of resources leave the tribe starving, forcing it to move to more prosperous lands, which we call emerging markets. Mistreatment of employees will lead to employees leaving, shrinking the tribe or reducing their efficiency and morale. Their desire to fight for the tribe against rival tribes diminishes, and the tribe grows weaker. Without some sense of responsibility to the tribe and its resources, the chieftains may prosper in the short term, but the tribe will die from the inside. Today’s chieftains, the CEO’s and board members and shareholders all seem to be operating under the hope that their irresponsible behavior is irrelevant because by the time it all crumbles, they’ll have moved on to their posh retirement or their early grave. Someone gets left holding the bag eventually if the needs of the collective aren’t also considered against the needs of the individuals.

Laws like Gov. Snyder’s bill do not serve either of those needs – it puts unfettered power into the hands of unaccountable individuals. Beware the concentration of power into too few hands, especially hands that already wield the power of vast corporate riches.

If not, you may wake up one day to find yourself in a world so bizarre, it could only be made up by the fevered imagination of some crank with a word processor like me.

 

 

 

Previously

 

Artemis Bridge never did anything to help anyone else but himself. Since his unfortunate involvement with the mayoral race the previous summer, he had seen behind the curtain of the grotesque political pantomime show, a carefully staged drama run by the LGL corporation Chronosoft, Inc. Bridge’s desperate machinations had altered the performance slightly but the end result had been the same. Mayor Sunderland, corporate puppet and part-time virtual pedophile had been defeated. His opponent, Arturo Soto, a corporate puppet of a different sort, had been elected mayor of Los Angeles. Other than personal animosity towards the players, Bridge hadn’t really given a fuck.

Bridge had always been a reactor. He had taken what opportunities had come his way and reacted, turning what profit he could. His aptitude with the GlobalNet - and his loose morals - had created a subsistence life as a hacker with his girlfriend, Angela. When the federal budget crisis of 2026 had led to the explosion of violence of the '27 riots, he had reacted with a change in career, leaving behind the life of a GlobalNet hacker for a life in the flesh. He had become the go-to, know-who guy of the Los Angeles underworld, the amoral fixer with the know circuit, the man who could find whatever illegal or immoral good or service desired. He had made a decent, if somewhat dangerous, living dealing with the shitheels and the criminals and the wannabes of Los Angeles' underbelly while secretly hating them all.

The outlandish events in Boulder, Colorado the past November had compelled Bridge to visit the disaster area, ostensibly to save the grandmother of his bodyguard, Aristotle. That had been a flimsy excuse. He never gave a damn about Lalasa Freeman and only cared about Aristotle for the number of times the black giant had saved Bridge's ass. He had really gone to Boulder because of the scientists. The city had been trapped in an energy dome after the secret experiments of a group of university scientists. They had compelled Bridge to seek them out using the unusual powers of the mana engine, an extra-dimensional power source that gave them the ability to forge what Bridge had called “magic spells.” Seeing the powers they could wield, he had conspired with them to create a cult of sorts, the Order of the Technomancers. As silent partner to the reclusive sorcerers, Bridge morphed from reactionary to active participant in his future. Some vague idea had formed in his mind as he pictured the possibilities that the technomancers' powers could open up, but most importantly, the addition of such powerful allies had given Bridge the ability to act.

The technomancers had created an energy converter that Bridge himself had dubbed a Glowbug, a magical piece of tech that took a small input of electricity and returned that same energy multiplied, like a battery that doubled, tripled, quadrupled its output every second for infinity. The new local energy monopoly, Chronotility Energy and Water, a subsidiary of the Chronosoft LGL, squeezed everyone hard for their energy needs. Prices had almost doubled since the riots, on the pretense that the damage done by the militias to the power infrastructure of LA had strapped the utility with decreased supply and reconstruction expenses. Bridge didn't believe it for an instant, as one of Angela's info thieves had "found" an extensive study of Chronotility usage patterns and profit centers that proved the utility was manipulating prices by restricting supply. Bridge had held onto that report for future ammunition.

The stockpile of future ammunition was growing quite large. He had hired a technomancer recruit who went by the name by the of Mu as a bodyguard to supplement Aristotle. Since the death of his grandmother, Aristotle had been horribly unreliable, and Bridge suspected that the big man was drinking quite heavily. It wasn't as if Aristotle had ever been a true bodyguard. Bridge hadn't wanted to pay Aristotle enough to put his life on the line, but the giant had worked quite well most times as a six-foot-five bluff. Bridge had come to rely on the man as a personal assistant and as much of a friend as Bridge would allow. Mu was something different. As the rumors of the technomancer's magical abilities had spread, Mu had become more than a threat deterrent. He was a status symbol. The most well heeled corporate CEO couldn't afford a technomancer bodyguard, but Bridge could. No one had to know that the technomancers refused to work for corporations for fear those companies would steal the mana engine technology.

Bridge found himself using these resources in ways he never could have imagined to save lives.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

March 6, 2029

8:23 p.m.

 

Standing in an empty warehouse was not the most comfortable feeling for Bridge. Memories of the corpses of business associates in a cavernous, dingy building very similar to the one he was in now suffused his nerves with an itchy anxiety, which was exacerbated by the ill-fitting rented tuxedo. The addition of a crowd of strangers was yet another irritant. The presence of his bodyguard Mu did help, the black-clad technomancer drawing stares of disbelief and whispered wonderment. The kid wasn’t exactly being inconspicuous with his hooded cloak festooned with glowing golden runes.

Stonewall Ricardo, Bridge’s sometime bodyguard, friend, and Mexican ex-footballer, stood next to Bridge, looking just as uncomfortable and out of place in his tuxedo. Though Stonewall had invited Bridge and Angela, this really wasn’t his scene either. “Now, why are we here again?” Bridge asked.

“We’re showing support for a brother,” Stonewall replied. The “brother” was an artist by the name of Marjun Pulido. Pulido also happened to be a member of Stonewall’s latest project, the
Los Magos
gang of the Five Families. Bridge wasn’t sure what kind of art Pulido trafficked in. The barren warehouse had no fixtures to hang paintings or photos, no stage or visible equipment for a performance piece. There wasn’t even a buffet table or wine bar.

“This brother of yours needs to learn how to schmooze the pinkies-up drinking set,” Bridge quipped. “Can’t a brother even get some piss-weak wine in this place?”

Stonewall smiled. “It’s all part of the theme,
amigo
. Marjun is trying to set a mood here.”

“If the mood is starvation, then he’s spot on.” Stonewall flashed Bridge a knowing grin. “Oh goddamnit, it is, isn’t it? It’s just some lazy-ass statement on the emptiness of modern life, ain’t it? You could at least have warned me beforehand, I haven’t eaten since I woke up.”

The lights suddenly cut out with an audible snap. Bridge started to panic, visions of armed hit teams rushing into the warehouse to take him out. “Relax,” Stonewall whispered. “Time for the show.” A faint glow of light bloomed from the inky blackness in the shape of a hand. Mu had cast a spell illuminating the area around him. Shadowy figures started to cluster unconsciously around the only source of light in the room.

In the top corner of the warehouse, another light source grew, a mini-sun outlining a piece of blue sky where the ceiling should be. Skyscrapers so large they blotted out most of the smog-filled sky winked into existence. Bridge looked around furtively, and finally caught sight of the centerpiece of the exhibit.

The scene was a distorted ant’s eye view of a disgusting, trash-filled alleyway. The proportions of everything were distorted. Bridge and the rest of the observers appeared to be no larger than a few inches high. Towering over the whole scene was an unconscious figure, sitting with one outstretched leg; his back leaned up against one side of the alleyway. His arms hung limply at his sides, an air-hypo Bridge recognized as the delivery device for most of the really good designer street drugs hanging from the figure’s limp right hand. Bridge stood next to the giant’s crotch. The man’s attire was threadbare; a worn jacket filled with holes, news faxes providing a bed sheet for this figure on the nod. The bum’s left eye, larger than any of the viewers, twitched unconsciously. Dirt and slime stained the man’s face, his hands, and every bit of his clothing. A scraggly beard so large Bridge could see the fleas working their way in and out of the tree trunk sized hairs plastered the bum’s face.

“That’s both disgusting and amazing.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Stonewall whispered.

“How the fuck did a starving artist afford such an expensive hologram setup? He’s got to be running at least ten large for the equipment alone.”

Stonewall’s irritation was written across his scowling face. “It’s always about the paper with you, ain’t it?” Bridge shrugged.

“You could have asked me, I know a guy who could have gotten it for him cheap.”

“The equipment wasn’t an issue,” Stonewall replied. Bridge knew what that meant. This kind of gear sometimes found its way “off the truck,” as it were.

“The power consumption’s got to be off the charts, though.”

“Why you think the show’s only half-an-hour? Any more than that and the utility cops shows up.”

“I could h>“I coave had Mu hook up a Glowbug.”

“We won’t be here long enough for it to matter, and we sure as fuck ain’t paying rent on the space. I’m not even sure who owns the joint.”

Bridge continued his criticism. “Mu could have really spruced this thing up, though. I mean, I’m looking at a scabby bum covered in shit, and he could have gone with the full sensory experience. Smells so strong you can taste them, feeling the heat, everything. I mean, the gear he’s got is good, but well… magic.” Bridge secretly liked showing off his pet wizard, though he’d never admit it.

“It’s fine, Bridge. I think it makes the point quite succinctly.” Stonewall changed the subject quickly. “So where’s Aristotle? He’d appreciate this.”

Bridge shrugged sadly. “Don’t know. He was supposed to be here at eight sharpish, but I’m going to guess he’ll show up late and drunk again, if at all.”

“Still not taking the grandmother thing well?” Bridge shook his head and Stonewall nodded knowingly. His conspiratorial whisper laid it all out there. “You gotta give him time on this one, Bridge. Not only did your wizard buddies cause her death, you shacked up with them, turned them into a religion even. You’re lucky he hasn’t killed you himself.”

“Balfour still isn’t sure those people are all dead,” Bridge dissembled. Seeing Stonewall’s scowl, he conceded the point. “But you’re right. The fact he even still talks to me is a miracle. Couldn’t your boys at least have hooked us up with some of those little cocktail weenies?”

“Feeding the viewer would be a bit hypocritical in a piece decrying the starvation of the underclass by the corporate oligarchy. Now go mingle.” Stonewall walked away from Bridge and began speaking to a very attractive blonde woman.

“Mingle? Fuck, I hate people. What am I doing here?”

Bitching like a woman, apparently
, said the disembodied voice in his head.

 

 

 

Bridge had asked Angela to come with him to the showing as a date, but she had refused. She made tons of excuses: she was working on some serious upgrades to Ars-Perthinia, there were jobs in the hopper she wanted to finish, and she didn’t have anything good to wear. Bridge knew the truth, though. Months of deep running on the GlobalNet had left her skin morbidly pale, her eyes sunken and dark, and her figure dangerously thin. While the crèche provided the nutritional equivalent of three square meals, it was not an adequate substitute for real food. She couldn’t starve, but she had still lost a noticeable bit of weight, and she had been skinny to begin with. The few hours she spent outside the crèche had just reminded her how much of a toll the marathon sessions on the GlobalNet were taking. Bridge knew Bridge that her terrible self-image had taken too much of a beating from casual glimpses in the mirror for her to venture into a situation with a crowd of strangers.

Instead, Bridge had gotten Mu to cast a spell that connected them via a two-way GlobalNet link. What would normally have been little more immersive than a phone call had become a two-way sensory experience. Angela could see, smell, hear and feel everything that Bridge could in the physical world as well as talk directly to him. He would hear the voice in his head and could respond without speaking by thinking about the words. She had become the perfect eavesdropper, and could experience the show viscerally without anyone else’s knowledge. Bridge could experience what she was up to in the GlobalNet as well if he chose, but he decided against it. The sensation of being jacked in would tempt him back to the crèche and he had sworn that off almost two years ago, except in the direst circumstances.

Bridge could see an illusion of Angela’s body projected into the space. She stood in full lich queen glory, her death-white skin a pale contrast to the jet-black hair that flowed over her shoulders. Her crown was a spiked monstrosity, splattered in blood and viscera. Clad in a gorgeous black full-length gown that highlighted her augmented breasts with enticing directness, she was an apparition of terrifying beauty. “Don’t you ever just shut up and enjoy yourself?”

Bridge grinned. “Tell you what. You come out here and stand head high to a bum’s balls and we’ll see how much you bitch.”

“No thanks. I have more important things to do than count the hairs on a corpse’s knuckles.” Bridge peered at the slumped figure’s hands.

“No, he’s not dead. He’s just resting. See, his chest is moving. He’s breathing.” Noticing the ragged nature of the rising and falling chest, he added, “He’s not breathing well, but he’s still breathing.”

“It’s a pretty powerful message,” Angela commented.

Bridge jumped as a person sidled up next to him and added an opinion. “Striking. Engrossing!” The speaker was an impeccably dressed corporate type, a man at least twice Bridge’s age with a silvery beard. He rubbed his chin while tossing out more vague adjectives.

Angela began to mock the man. “FRIGHTENING! SPELLBINDING!” she screamed in Bridge’s ear. He barely controlled the giggles until she added, “I believe we’re slated for a journey up the poor soul’s rectum for the finale. I can hardly wait!” Bridge lost it then, letting loose a loud guffaw before slapping a hand over his mouth with an embarrassed flush.

Bridge spent the next half hour mingling, while trying to ignore the snide comments Angela made about the guests. It was a pained study in immaculate self-control, and by the time the artificial sunlight dimmed to extinction, he was relieved for the peace. The crowd filed out of the abandoned building self-consciously aware of the likely crime they were committing by intruding on the space.

Bridge caught up with Stonewall on the street outside. “It occde. “Iurs to me that I know a guy could maybe give your boy some more exposure.”

“Always working an angle, aren’t you, Bridge?”

“No angle. Well, except my fee, of course. But still, I do know this guy owns an art gallery. He might be interested.”

Stonewall stared over Bridge’s shoulder with a sad expression on his face. Bridge turned to see what Stonewall saw. Coming up the street at a jog was Aristotle. He wavered on his feet, weaving a little as he ran. His shirt was half-tucked into his pants, and the big man was unshaven. “Fuck,” Bridge sighed. “Geez, he looks like shit.”

“Cut him some slack, brother.”

“Slack is the right word. Maybe we should do an intervention?”

“You’re the last one to talk about interventions, Artie,” Angela yelled in his head.

Aristotle had almost reached the pair when his expression darkened. His face melted from hurried anxiety to the fear of imminent danger and on to the determined resolve of decision. His arm raised to point behind Bridge, Aristotle yelled something as he dove at the pair.

Bridge’s neck snapped around to catch a glimpse before the big man tackled the two of them. As he fell over under Aristotle’s weight, he heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire stitching the air around him.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

March 6, 2029

9:14 p.m.

 

The air exploded with the sounds of automatic weaponry, the burping spit of bullets fired in rapid light show parades of orange laser beams spearing the night, the patter of shells chipping divots in the brick wall behind Bridge. He hit the ground with force, the air slammed from his lungs as he rolled over Stonewall. The Mexican footballer was already pulling a weapon from his jacket as he rolled, coming up in a crouch to aim the cannon at their assailants. Bridge caught a glimpse of an injured bystander, her face a rictus of screaming pain, a single rivulet of blood dripping from her mouth to pool on the dirty sidewalk. Aristotle’s enormous form sheltered Bridge from above, and Bridge could smell the telltale scent of gin.

Stonewall had a bead on the assailants, but he hesitated with his finger on the trigger. A slight shimmer in the air told Bridge why. Mu had finally come into play, the technomancer casting a shield spell - a translucent force field made of air or electricity or something. Bridge didnthinng to why.t know or care what it was. He could barely suppress a smile as he watched bullets flatten on the shield and fall to the ground. He got to his knees and scanned the street for the attackers.

“ARTIE! Answer me, Artie!” Bridge became aware of Angela’s plaintive cries in his head.

“It’s cool, baby, relax. Somebody’s shooting at us. Mu’s got it covered.”

“Goddamnit, you scared the shit out of me!”

“No picnic for me either,” Bridge grumbled.

The would-be assassins were doing a drive-by. Two gunmen leaned from the passenger side windows of a black late-teens model sedan, military-grade sub-machine guns roaring in vain bursts. The rear gunmen ran out of rounds first, cursing his weapon as he tried to change the magazine awkwardly. His partner realized the futility and began screaming at the driver to take off. “MU! GO OFFENSE!” Bridge screamed. To Angela, he said, “Baby, record this. Get as much sensory info as you can. I want to know whose car that is.”

The young Chinese wizard stood to his full five foot eight height and casually flipped his raven bangs back from his eyes, a cocky smile tilting the left corner of his mouth. He shook the loose sleeves of his black shirt and gestured, his fingers dancing in the air swathed in tingling sparkles. The rear gunmen had finally gotten his gun reloaded. The driver threw off his aim, tires squealing in the night, the gunmen’s shots going wildly into the air as the spell went off.

The night erupted with sickly orange light from the small space in front of Mu’s fingers. A fireball about the size of a basketball shot across the street trailing wisps of flame behind it. It struck the car dead center with fire and force, the explosion flipping the vehicle over like a child’s toy. Engulfed in flame, it spun once, twice, a flaming body flying from the back and landing on the opposite curb in a heap. Coming to a jarring stop, the sedan wrapped around a light pole and exploded again, gouts of fire thrown off in all directions. Nothing escaped from the wreckage. The unfortunate gunner that had been thrown clear did not stir. Mu smiled, held up his thumb and index finger in the shape of a gun and blew across his finger. A tiny puff of smoke dissipated from his hand.

“Did you see that, Bridge? That’s some serious wizard shit!” Bridge scowled, but the dour expression did nothing to diminish the wizard’s exuberance.

Bridge surveyed the scene. At least five bystanders had been hit, and two lay silent and unmoving. Most of the bullets had flown over the area behind Bridge and Stonewall. Bridge couldn’t be sure whether the intended target had been his friend or himself.

Stonewall had sprung into action as soon as the shield dropped, dashing across the street towards the gunmen lying on the street. He kept his weapon trained on the attacker the whole time, but such caution wasn’t necessary. Stonewall kicked the man’s leg and got no reaction. Satisfied the danger was past, the ex-footballer holstered the weapon under his jacket and flipped the dead man over on his back. on his bPatting out the last vestiges of flames, Stonewall searched the dead man’s empty pockets.

“Are you unharmed?” Aristotle asked. He seemed unsteady on his feet.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Bridge replied. Mu walked up to the pair with that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face.

“Good work, you two,” Bridge began. “Could you have been any later there, Aristotle? You were supposed to be here almost an hour ago. Sober.” Bridge fixed the man with a hard stare, and the bodyguard stood with an embarrassed, hangdog pout. Mu grinned from ear to ear, but Bridge had his share of criticism for the technomancer as well.

“And you… don’t you go looking all pleased with yourself. You think you could have made any more of a fucking light show? I don’t think they saw it out in Van Nuys.” Mu waved a dismissive hand at his boss and
harrumphed
. “CLED’s going to be up our ass in minutes with spelunking helmets and a shitload of rubber gloves. We need to motorvate. Stoney!”

Stonewall had been staring at the dead man’s face with a sour grimace. Hearing his name, he perked up and motioned for Bridge to join him. “Come on, let’s go.” Bridge gathered his companions and crossed the street hurriedly. “We need to book it, brother,” Bridge began.

“I know. Just wanted you to look at this and see if you saw the same shit I did.” He pointed to the dead man. The right side of the attacker’s face was a char-grilled black mess. Bridge could see what Stonewall had noticed in an instant. The left side of the man’s face was covered with a tattoo, a stylized devil with a pitchfork stretching from the slack cheek to the hairline.


Diablos
. FUCK! Do you know this assgoblin?”

Stonewall nodded. “
Si
. He’s actually an ex-girlfriend’s cousin. Flaco. He used to be
Los Magos
. Low-level muscle, no real ambition. He had some beef when
El Diablos
split off, something about somebody fucking his sister or mother or some shit. Nothing with me, though.”


Diablos
been out for
Magos
for a while though, right?” Stonewall nodded. “But isn’t going after you kind of punching above their weight class? You don’t attack the number two guy unless you want a damn war.”

The Mexican nodded again, running his fingers over the tight blond curls on his head. His dark brown skin shone with sweat and his cheek twitched in anger as he stood. “Exactly. What the fuck kind of play is this? Worst possible time to be causing this level of drama.”

Bridge noticed the absence of police sirens. “Where are the cops?” he asked. “I know they don’t give much of a shit about the Warehouse District, but they should be in earshot by now.”

Stonewall frowned. “I doubt it,” he grumbled without elaboration. “But yeah, we need to move it, in case there’s a second try.”

“What about the wounded?” Aristotle asked.

“They got money. Bunch of slumming art collectors. You can bet at least one’s got a combat-ready triage service on speed dial. Come on, let’s book it. Station’s about two blocks over.” He broke into a hurried jog north towards the subway station. Bridge cursed under his breath and fell into a matching pace.

Two blocks later, Bridge was panting and damp with sweat. Stonewall stopped short across the street from the station, his eyes scanning the entrance for guards while he hid in the alley. “Hold up. Don’t know who’s got patrol tonight.” He fished into a jacket pocket and brought out an ancient cell phone. He placed a call and began talking in low tones to someone on the other end.

“Yeah, who’s got station duty on 7
th
? It’s not
Diablos
? AsiaTown? All right good. Well, I’m coming in now, get Pedro to the Barn. What do you mean? WHAT?” He paused for a full minute, his brow furrowed deep in thought. “Ok, get as many of the looies as you can and meet up at the Barn.” He slammed the phone shut and cursed under his breath.

“What’s the matter?”

“We gotta get moving.
Diablos
just ganked Pedro.”

 

 

 

The subway station was guarded by soldiers of the AsiaTown set, one of the Five Families made up of the Korean, Japanese and Chinese gangs and their allies. AsiaTown had civil relations with
Los Magos
. The soldiers seemed completely indifferent to the passengers they let pass through the station. Stonewall spoke in short bursts to them, and they responded with the same curtness. Bridge, Aristotle, Stonewall and Mu boarded the empty train, which took off towards the Barn.

The Barn wasn’t a specific location. It was the name of the train where the Shotcallers of the
Los Magos
would meet when necessary. Bridge had never been on the Barn. “Stoney, where are we going?”

“The Barn, brother.”

“Yeah, I know that. Why are you taking us? Isn’t that some secret gangster shit we ain’t privy to?”

“Normally yeah. But if Pedro is dead, I need some support. They’re going to look to me for ideas, and I’ve only got two.”

Bride knew what those ideas were but he asked anyway. “And what ideas is that?”

“Revenge or submission.” He slumped back into the seat and sighed. “I know what Pedro would want. Shit, even you know what he would want and you only met him what, once? Twice?” Bridge nodded.

Pedro was famous among the Families and people who did business with them
. Los Reyes Magos
, the Wise King, as he had been known, Pedro did business a different way. He had taken over
Los Magos
during the riots, leading them to make surgical strikes against the police precincts that had done the most damage to the Hispanic neighborhoods in their zeal to quell the riots. Once the riots had ended, he had helped establish the Five Families and had preached a doctrine of peaceful cohabitation. Many of the Families had taken that approach as a sign of weakness, a predilection for submission. But they misunderstood Pedro. He would not hesitate to use violence when he felt cornered, when there was no other course. Brutal when pushed, those who underestimated his willingness to fight back often did not live to regret their decisions. Pedro had been the steady hand that had prevented a war when the gangs now known as
El Diablos
had decided to split with
Los Magos
. And now he was dead.


Magos
is going to want blood for blood,” Bridge admitted. Stonewall nodded. “And what do you think? You’re his second. Unless the other Shotcallers want to take the reins, they are going to look to you to make the call.”

“I think war is the last thing Pedro wanted,” Stonewall sighed. He stood and stared out the window into the uncaring darkness. The city sparkled, a brilliant tapestry of twinkling lights on a field of nothing. “We can’t hit back. The Families cannot afford a war, no matter how much that
pendejo
Nacho deserves retribution.” Nacho was the nickname of the current
El Diablos
leader. Bridge had tried to work with him on a few jobs, but his friendship with Stonewall had eighty-sixed any negotiation before it could begin. “I told you before that those Chronosoft pricks have been pushing, right? Well, it’s gotten worse since Boulder. They are tossing people out of their homes left and right, on the flimsiest of excuses. Every family is getting refugees out the yin yang. They ain’t moving the crime figures around anymore, they are inventing crimes and putting people out on the street. All it would take is one big blowup, and the CLED fuckers will come down on all the Families. They’d take the subways back first, then start pushing us into the Warehouse District.”

“Yeah, but the Families fought off the cops before during the riots.”

“That was then, and that was LAPD. The cops we fought during the riots had shit for ammo, no fuel for patrol cars, nothing. CLED’s got fucking tanks, man. You seen those goddamn Gunheds they run around in? Those things can take on a whole gang on their own.”

Stonewall seemed to spot something on the horizon, and he became more agitated. He moved towards the door. “No, we get in a war now, and the big boys are gonna come into our neighborhoods and put the hammer down. It’s going to be the excuse that
traidor
Soto has been begging for. You boys better get ready.”

“Ready for what?” Mu asked.

“We’re changing trains.” Bridge stumbled as the train jerked in deceleration. He gripped the handhold. “We can’t risk stopping completely, so you’re going to need to jump. Me and Bridge will take the first door, you and Aristotle take thtotle tae second one.”

“Jump?” Bridge squeaked. “Are you fucking nuts?”

Stonewall grinned with an insane glee. “How you think the Barn stays safe? It don’t stop for no man.” He pounded the release button next to the door, which opened with a shrieking
whoosh
. “Ready?”

The wind stung Bridge’s eyes. Both trains had slowed significantly, but they still were moving at a dizzying pace. Stonewall chuckled. “Don’t look down, it’ll look like you’re moving much faster.” He pulled Bridge over to stand on the opposite side of the door from himself, and motioned Aristotle and Mu to the back door.

“How am I supposed to do this?”

“Don’t miss.” With that, Stonewall grabbed Bridge’s right arm and leapt out of the moving train.

 

 

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