The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy (17 page)

“All right, gents, put down the heaters. This here is friends, more or less.” The guards looked nervously from one to the other. “Go on, unclench. Open the gate and let’s welcome our guests.” Bridge and Aristotle sighed with relief as the gunmen lowered their weapons. The dazzling lights went dark with an audible click, revealing a rather flimsy metal gate. Smaller lights to either side of the gate switched on. Bridge noticed in the shadows along either side of the road sat well-camouflaged sniper’s nest, just big enough for one or two prone shooters to perforate anything on the road. Bud stood leaning on the fence post beside the gate.

Tall and thick, Bud appeared to be 50 going on 70, his skin’s leathery texture hinting at years of living in harsh climes. He shifted a well-worn cowboy hat, revealing a tousled mop of graying dark hair shaved on the sides. Despite the cold, he wore a sleeveless wife-beater T-shirt and weathered blue jeans and was barefoot despite the patches of snow on the ground. As they drove past him into the compound, Bridge couldn’t help notice Bud’s piercing eyes. The man had the stare of a coldly calculating killer. The tattoo sleeve on his right arm Bridge recognized as the insignia of a Marine unit, probably acquired during the Chavez War of the previous decade. Bud looked nothing like the leader of a hippie commune. But then, the commune was nothing like Bridge had expected either.

The place was large, probably 2-3 square miles, much of it mountainous and heavily forested. The clearings were dominated by sturdy cabins, some still under construction. Small plots of tilled soil were everywhere, though most were covered with translucent plastic to keep the ground from freezing. Bridge was surprised to see that every cabin had ample electric lighting. Stonewall guided the car to a stop in front of a large communal cabin. A small windmill turned slowly behind the main cabin, the creaking noise sounding much too loud in the silent night air.

Bud led the trio into the main hall, dismissing most of the guards who had followed the party in. The gruff-voiced one, the one Stonewall had called Sly, was reluctant to leave his leader alone with the group. Bud dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Me and Stonewall go back a ways, Sly. I’m sure he ain’t gonna stick a knife in me, k?” Bridge noticed a bandage underneath Bud’s shirt just above his right hip. He raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a common occurrence?” he asked, pointing to the bandage.

Bud just shrugged indifferently. “Bah, sometimes you think you know a feller and sometimes you DO know a feller and just ain’t fast enough to do anything ‘bout it. Getting slow in my old age.” He turned that piercing gaze on Stonewall. “All right, Juan, what’s the trouble? You on the lam again?”

“I’m always on the lam,
amigo
. But that ain’t exactly why I’m here.
Mi hermano
here, he needed my help.” He pointed at Aristotle. Bud nodded his head and listened to the story intently, interjecting questions every now and then. When the story was th mo finished, Stonewall asked, “So can we base ourselves out here, maybe get a little help?”

Bud scratched the graying stubble on his prominent chin, the tiny white line of a knife scar twitching in the low light. “That dome thing’s causing all sorts of trouble ‘round here. These Legios’ assholes have always been puckered pretty tight, but with the Feds watching over, they are super tight. A couple of ‘em even got brave enough to patrol down by the gate earlier tonight. You reckon you’ll have to light any of ‘em up?”

Stonewall shook his head. “Not if I can help it, brau.”

“Too bad.”

“I just want to find my grandma,” Aristotle pleaded. Bud nodded resolutely, empathy plainly evident in his expression.

“We’ll see what we can do. I’ll get you some beds ready, take a few minutes.” He called out to a woman named Janice, who came into the main hall and received instructions, nodded and went about her business. “Janice will get you set up, just take a few minutes. Better get some rest. We get up damned early around here. After breakfast, we’ll take you to see the dome.”

*****

Their accommodations were Spartan but more than adequate. The tiny cot with its scratchy sheets was a divine luxury compared to the car seat Bridge had slept in most of the day. Sleep swallowed him as soon as the light was out, but he tossed and turned with forgotten dreams all night. He woke with a start as sunrise broke through the window directly into his eyes, his interface jack an itchy distraction. The sounds of feet on the hut’s porch let him know that Bud did not intend his visitors to sleep the day away. Immediately after a breakfast of surprising quality, Bud mustered an escort party of three burly men carrying rifles and side arms. The group headed off on an eastern trail with the sun’s rays barely peeking above the tree line.

Bridge had expected to see the dome just over the next rise. After ten minutes of walking through mountainous forest on tracks that barely qualified as a trail, he asked with ragged breath how far they were going. The Naturalists chuckled. Bud said, “Well, best vantage point is the amphitheater ‘bout two clicks thataway.” He pointed into the rising sun. “I reckon it’s about forty-five minutes at you city boys’ pace.”

Bridge ignored the snickering and continued walking. “Two miles, huh? I should have packed my hiking boots.” The Naturalists kept snickering while they walked, their breathing much less labored.

“So how do you guys stomach living all the way out here without any of the amenities of the modern world?”

Bud let out a boisterous laugh. “Amenities? Like GlobalNet access? We got that. All the TV streams, full running water, electricity 24/7, hell we even have a crèche for those so inclined. We’re not Luddites. We use all the tools of modern life; we just choose not to be chained to them.” As he said that, Bridge noticed the scar on the back of Bud’s freckled neck. The weather-beaten skin of the old Naturalist’s neck was the color of old newspaper with the textured marbling of age, except for an area that almost glowed white with scar tissue. At the base of the skull along the hairline sat a roughly circular area of healed-over skin, bereft of the gray stubble of hair on the rest of the man’s head. Bud had surgically removed an interface jack.

“You used to be a runner?” Bridge asked.

“No, they jacked me up to kill people. And I did a damn good job of it,” he commented matter-of-factly in a thick Texas drawl. Bridge had noticed the tattoos on Bud’s right arm indicating Marine service the previous night, but in the daylight he finally got a good look at Bud’s other arm. The skin was much less weathered than the rest of Bud’s body. It still had the well-tanned coloration of the rest of his body, but without the freckling and leathery texture. The hair on the left arm was darker than the stubble on his chin or the gray hair on his right arm. The limb wasn’t an original; it had to have been vat-grown. Bud had not only removed his interface jack, but a cybernetic arm as well. Stonewall was right. This motherfucker was hardcore.

“And now I rescue people from that soul-destroying grinder you call cities and bring them back into a relationship with nature like God intended.” Hardcore and a zealot. “You’d be amazed how much about living off the land is stored in our DNA. We bring people out here and teach them to remember their roots as stewards of nature, not masters. Farming, eco-conservation, we teach a holistic life that has a symbiosis with nature. We aren’t meant to push numbers around in the ether while our bodies vegetate in a coffin full of cold people soup. I’ve turned doughy cube farmers into lean, mean farmers, ain’t that right, Darryl?”

The lead Naturalist nodded. “Yeah, I was a 60-hour a week crèche junkie a year ago. Now I rope cattle like a born cowboy.” Darryl was a wiry six-three, with a shock of tousled chestnut hair topping the shaved sides of his head. He had the natural muscle of someone who has worked for a living like most of the Naturalists they’d seen. Bridge was amazed how little clothes they all wore. Patches of snow were scattered all over the forest floor, and Bridge’s breath was visible on the chill air. He had put on a heavy trench coat, but the rest of the Naturalists ran around in short sleeves.

“How’d you end up out here?”

“We send out recruiting parties to some of the major LGL’s regularly,” Bud answered. “They’ll spend about a month out, then rotate back for another crew. Darryl here was…”

“I was a bad week away from a suicide,” Darryl finished. “Met Aretha at this GlobalNet support group and we hooked up in real life. She introduced me to the Naturalist Manifesto and I was here within a month. Best decision I ever made.” The funny thing was that Bridge believed him. He ievas that Bgenuinely seemed ecstatic. Maybe there was something to a life of farming in the clear mountain air, but Bridge sure didn’t see it. He was already light-headed from the altitude, his nose was running and he was wheezing like an asthmatic.

“You gon’ be all right there, Bridge?” Stonewall asked.

“Yeah, I got it. How much further?” he gasped.

“It’s just over that ridge,” Aristotle said. Bridge tossed him a questioning look. “My grandmother used to take me to shows here every summer.” The bodyguard had been silent, but Bridge could read the pain on his face from miles away. The party continued on in tense silence.

*****

The amphitheater was smaller than Bridge had expected, perhaps 400 feet in diameter. Resting in a clearing carved out of the forest, the seats were cobblestone constructs in a series of concentric circles facing a raised stage also made of rough cobblestones. The whole area was overgrown, as if nature had decided to take back the site from human civilization. Grass grew around the seats up to Bridge’s knee. Behind the stage was the most gorgeous backdrop of the surrounding area looking off east into the sunrise. Bridge could see for miles.

And there in the distance was what Bridge had come to see. As he gulped up the thin mountain air, his jaw dropped open and the breath caught in his throat. Normally, he’d have been at least struck dumb by the gorgeous scenery, the greens and browns of verdant mountains majestically overlooking the valley below. But today, he was awestruck by the construct that dominated his vision.

Here and there, buildings and scattered houses poked through the greenery, their roofs shining brightly as the morning sun glinted off their snow-covered rooftops. But as his eye tracked farther east past the outskirts of Boulder, the inconceivable swallowed the view. The dome was too large to comprehend; its inclusion in this scene so incongruous that his mind rebelled. Like the back of a gigantic beetle, its black surface shone smoothly in the rising sun. It was a giant polished basalt stone in the river of green, not even patches of snow breaking the smoothness of its surface. The television cameras could not have done it justice. Bridge did not believe in a God, but he could imagine some impossibly gigantic hand reaching down to pick up this stone and toss it across the ocean like some colossal child skipping a stone. Beyond the dome, many more miles away, Bridge could see the eastern areas of the town that had not been covered. The dome dwarfed even the largest man-made buildings. A lump of primal fear caught in Bridge’s throat.

Aristotle shuffled down the main aisle and onto the stage, his shocked silence a palpable thing. Bridge felt the tiniest pang of sympathy for the man. Aristotle had always been so calm in the worst of times, unflappable even facingle " col the business end of a gun. For the first time, Bridge wanted to be here, wanted to help this man find his grandmother, no matter how impossible that seemed in the face of such a monstrosity. Aristotle’s feet failed him and he slumped awkwardly to a seat on the edge of the stage. “How is that possible?” His voice broke with emotion.

Bridge put a steadying hand on Aristotle’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, big guy. We’ll find her.” He stopped himself from turning that into a promise, as much as he wanted to reassure his friend. Bridge knew as well as anyone there that the chances of finding Aristotle’s grandmother were slim, but he resisted his natural inclination to say so. Better to leave it unspoken.

“We used to come up here every July when I was a kid. The vacation bible school would bring in some Passion Play troupe to put on a show. Do you realize the kind of effect seeing Christ crucified and resurrected on this backdrop has on a 12-year old? Gram always said a little religion would keep me on the straight and narrow. Not that it did, of course, but that never stopped her. I guess I had to learn my own lessons.”

“We all do, brau,” Stonewall said. “
Mi madre
was dead-set on me being some kind of teacher or something, but I had to go play football. Not listening don’t mean we don’t love ‘em.” Aristotle nodded grimly. Bridge left the two talking.

“So how much support can Stonewall’s friendship buy us?” Bridge asked Bud with a steely directness. “You ain’t just letting us stay here out of the goodness of your heart, and you and I both know we’re unlikely converts. What’s the vig?”

Bud gave Bridge a wry smile, but his mood was deadly serious. “I do you a favor, you do me one,” he began. “I told you we send out recruiters to the cities, they stay for a month or so and rotate back. Well, one of those cities is Boulder. I had a team of three living near the university. We get a better response from the college kids, though they aren’t always the most committed to the cause when they get down to the nitty-gritty. Now maybe they got out, and maybe they didn’t, but we haven’t heard from them. Juan tells me your man’s grandmother lived near the university too, so I figure if you’re looking for her, she’ll be around the same place as my people. Since you’re already looking, what’re three more names?”