The Long and the Short Swords

By Gary Ballard

Bridge didn’t get involved with his clients, especially clients who put him at risk. From the minute he spoke to the killer who called himself Logan, he knew this one was trouble. All Logan wanted was someone to forge him a new identity so he could continue running from the secrets of his past. A simple job for Bridge, hook Logan up with a paper guy, got complicated in a hurry when his connections start turning up dead, killed by black-robed killers with swords. To escape, Bridge and Logan dive under the radar and into the politics of the Gangland, the autonomous zone in the middle of the corporate-owned Los Angeles of 2029. Bridge must find a way to make Logan disappear before the clan of religious assassins from ancient Japan catch up to them both. This pulse-pounding thriller is the fourth in the critically-acclaimed independent cyberpunk series The Bridge Chronicles by Gary A. Ballard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Ballard
• Release date: Jan 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301241736

Gary Ballard

I began writing things down at the age of eleven, and I haven't stopped since. I have written far too many things that have gone unpublished, from very terrible horror novels in my teens, to comics during my time at Belhaven College until finally settling on cyberpunk science fiction after graduation. My first novel (Under the Amoral Bridge) is part of a larger series called The Bridge Chronicles. The second novel in the series, The Know Circuit has just been released. The Bridge Chronicles in turn is one slice of cohesive universe that began as a pen-and-paper roleplaying game.I currently live with my beautiful wife and three very insane dogs in Mississippi, where I continue to write my novels and blog on my personal blog at http://gameangst.blogspot.com.

Book preview

The Long and the Short Swords

by

Gary A. Ballard

The Bridge Chronicles: Book 4

Copyright © 2013 by Gary A. Ballard

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition 1.0 - 2013

Cover photography and design by

Gary A. Ballard

Author Photography by

Gary A. Ballard

Copyright © 2013 Gary A. Ballard

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Interlude 1

Interlude 2

Interlude 3

Interlude 4

Interlude 5

Interlude 6

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Afterword

About the Author

About the Bridge Chronicles

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Having been born into the house of a warrior, one's intentions should be to grasp the long and the short swords and to die.

Katō Kiyomasa

Japanese daimyō of the Azuchi-Momoyama

Late 16th Century

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Chapter 1

August 25, 2029

1:42 p.m.

The potential client looked nervous.

Bridge pondered the use of the word potential to describe this client. A year ago, all potential clients were real clients regardless of whether he wanted to take them on or not. Maybe somebody wanted a stash of 1970's porn? Does that stone cold killer need a shrink to handle the pressures of his job without letting his employers know about the nightmares? A group of frat boys need an untraceable sedative for an all-night date rape party? Artemis Bridge knew a guy. His trademark lack of concern about the illegal and immoral shit that his clients asked him for was why he came to be known as the Amoral Bridge among the Los Angeles underground. In the past, without the luxury of picking and choosing his jobs, Bridge would find a way to get it. Even with the finders’ fees and their razor thin profit margins, Bridge had it covered.

The last year had changed all that. From the moment he'd hired a technomancer as a bodyguard, his reputation among the criminal element soared. Only a handful knew that Bridge had been instrumental in the creation of the order of the technomancers, a loose cult-like group that used a technology he didn't understand to create honest-to-goodness magic. Even the technomancer bodyguard Mu didn't know the full story about Bridge's involvement in The Boulder Incident that had birthed the technomancers. Still, even having a wizard for a bodyguard hadn't allowed Bridge to turn clients down.

It had been the Gangland that had allowed Bridge to consider passing on a job. His connections to the Five Families, militia-like gangs that had been born out of the 2027 Riots, had pulled Bridge into a gang war that was threatening to engulf the city. The police, under orders from the corrupt Mayor Arturo Soto, had declared war on all the Families, not just the two warring factions, Los Magos and El Diablos. It had taken the best Bridge magic to structure a deal creating an autonomous zone in the middle of the Chronosoft corporate LGL of Los Angeles, California, a place where the Families could live with their own rules, where none of the laws from outside the zone applied. In return, the gangs had agreed to a weekly series of televised battles, aired globally on the program Gangland. The Families fought and died one night of the week and they got to live free the rest of the time. Bridge finagled an executive producer credit on the highly-rated show raking in millions in corporate money. Since that time, had Bridge wanted to, he could have quit the fixing game and lived well off the royalties, eschewing the meager earnings of his usual finder’s fee.

Of course, every single cent of that new money was traceable, and every penny he spent would have to be accounted for unless Bridge wanted the IRS crawling up his backside. As one of the few federal government departments with any muscle left, Bridge had to make sure his traceable expenditures were above board. Even more important, however, was that the Chronosoft Corporation and any of the other dozen multinational corporations that wanted to question Bridge about his connection to the technomancers could trace every penny of those millions he spent. Bridge had already survived one such attempt on his life because he'd not been careful enough, the assassin killing his girlfriend instead. There were ways to hide the money, of course, but Bridge liked having that money out in the open so those tracking him had a nice neat distraction to keep them busy. The money he lived off of came from potential clients like the very nervous one seated beside him on the scuffed up lacquered bench situated to the street side of an open-air mall.

Artemis Bridge at your service, Bridge began. You can just call me Bridge. You need something, I know a guy that can get it for you. You stand over there, on one side of the Bridge. There's a guy on the other side that's got what you need. I am that Bridge. I do not care what…

The client cut him off with a stammering mumble. Bridge couldn't hear it over the dull roar of the early afternoon crowd, so he asked the client to repeat it. I said I need a new identity.

Bridge got a closer look at the guy. He was in his mid-30's about six feet tall with blonde hair swept back from a large forehead. His eyes darted all over. His hands shook. The man was dressed in a powder blue waist length jacket zipped up to his neck, with wrinkled khaki pants hanging down to black slip-on shoes. Bridge glanced around at the mall around them. Based on his attire, the client might have worked at any of the surrounding stores selling shoes or frozen yogurt or cybernetic apps. Lines of sweat beaded in large drops at the hairline. Despite the month, the weather had been fairly cool and Bridge felt comfortably warm without being sweaty in his immaculate three-piece suit.

Nervous fear bled thickly off the client in waves. He barely looked at Bridge, his rigid posture facing directly forward, even though Bridge had turned to speak with him. The client would only cut sideways glances at Bridge as he spoke. Bridge ran a hand along his temple, a signal to Mu. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the black clad Asian straighten to alertness. Mu appeared to say something. Bridge should have heard it whispered in his ear through his phone connection; instead, he heard silence. Bridge made another subtle gesture in the wizard's cant, the sign language the technomancers had developed.

'Someone's jamming the signal,' Bridge signed. Catching the signal, Mu's fingers began weaving some sort of spell either to trace the source of the jamming or to counteract it.

New identities aren't cheap, Bridge said calmly letting the interruption slide. How strong does it need to be? Crossing the Mexican border strong or getting into Chronosoft LGL HQ without a hint of suspicion strong?

The client hesitated, seeming to concentrate on his feet before answering. As strong as you can buy within the next 48 hours.

Bridge raised an eyebrow. Oh, so we're on a time table then? That's going to cost you more. Just the one ID or will you be traveling with a companion?

Again the hesitation. Just one. How much?

Bridge raised his hands, a stalling tactic. Whoa there, this ain't how business gets done. What am I supposed to call you?

It's not important, the man replied, turning his head slightly to look Bridge in the eye.

Well, I have to call you something, Bridge quipped.

Logan, the client stammered.

There was something there, something besides simple fear of pursuit. He feared for his life but even more, there existed a plaintive cry for help, for rescue from… something.

You on the run from the cops, corps, feds, ex-wives or all of the above?

Does it matter?

It matters. I need to know which of my guys are best suited to the task, and I need to know what heat to look for if someone wants to fuck my shit up. My fee is 15% of whatever the ID guy gets and that ain't going to be chump change.

By this time, sweat poured from his face in a torrent, one drop dangling from his nose. He didn’t even seem to notice. Bridge looked closer. The jacket seemed to have a bulk to it that appeared out of proportion to the size of his legs. The bulk was mostly uniform, so Bridge ruled out a concealed gun. Are you armed? he asked. The man shook his head so stiffly he could have been having a fit rather than answering Bridge's question. Bridge's hackles rose. Beyond just fugitive jitters, something wasn't right about this client.

You aren't the client, are you? he whispered into the man's left ear. Again, that almost imperceptible twitch of the neck answered in the negative. He's talking in your other ear, isn't he? Blink twice if that's true. One nervous blink, then another.

A cold ball of fear swirled in Bridge's gut. Was this a trap? If so, it should have been sprung moments ago. A bullet should have blasted through Bridge's brainpan, or a team of SWAT monkeys should have swarmed over him like bees on honey. Bridge quickly began signaling Mu. 'He's getting remote instructions. Find the frequency and get the guy alive.' Mu nodded back and moved out of Bridge's line of sight.

What are you doing with your hands? the client's proxy answered. Stop it!

Bridge raised his hands to either side of his chest. Stopped. So is he wired? Bridge dropped the pretense of speaking to the man on the bench. Explosives or recording devices?

Explosives, the man answered. He gingerly pulled the jacket's zipper down to his sternum. It looks bad. Is it bad? he asked.

Bridge got a glimpse of what looked to be some seriously slick military grade explosives strapped under the jacket. It ain't good, he replied.

So what's this about? Bridge asked to the air. You pick this schmo at random or is he supposed to mean something to me?

I work at the Yogurt Store.

Just some unlucky schmo then. Is this supposed to scare me?

He says it's just a precaution.

And if I say fuck a bunch of this and walk away, then what? You splatter this guy all over the bench?

I've seen his FACE! the man pleaded.

Huh, then he's either sloppy or you're expendable. Sucks to be you.

He says it'll take out half this mall.

And?

Do you want all their deaths on your head?

Bridge shrugged. It wouldn't even make my top 10. Bridge sat back casually. If you wanted to cap me, you'd already have done it. What do you really want?

He says he really does need a new identity.

Does nobody know how to do fucking business anymore? Always with the macho bullshit threats first.

The man jumped as if struck by lightning, swatting at his right ear. He dug an ear piece from the canal and threw it sparking to the ground. What the hell happened?

Bridge chuckled. Some wizard shit. That's my cue to bolt.

What about me?

Not my problem! Bridge said and ran off towards the direction Mu had gone.

Return to Table of Contents

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Chapter 2

August 25, 2029

1:50 p.m.

What is he doing with his hands?

The killer squinted hard into the strangely pliant rubberized material around the scope's lens, shifting the rifle slightly to get a better view of the area surrounding his target. Bridge sat on a solitary bench under the shade of a palm tree that drooped depressingly as if it lacked proper watering. He had chosen this spot because of the open lines of fire to the bench. If Bridge had chosen to drop dime on the potential client, the killer could put two in his skull and be on the way out of his perch before the body had even hit the ground. He could also see the approaches to the bench. Bridge would have been expected to bring at least one bodyguard, and the fixer's rep on the streets had pegged the bodyguard as the technomancer they called Mu, whatever a technomancer was. The killer had spent the last year running for his goddamn life, hiding in and out of every shithole between Tokyo and Los Angeles. He'd heard something about a cult calling themselves technomancers, but staying alive had been more important than finding out what they were. He chastised himself again for not getting the proper intel. If this had been a job, ignoring such research would have been a cardinal sin. With circumstances as they were, he had no other choice. The most he could piece together was that they were some kind of techie wizards, probably well-versed in counter-surveillance, booby traps and information warfare. The killer could handle a geek with pretensions of godhead.

'Logan,' the killer reminded himself. 'My name is Logan.' It wasn't his real name, of course, his real name buried in a better place at least twenty years in the past. His real name would have meant nothing to most anyway, and since he had contacted Bridge for a connection to someone who could create another new identity, the less knowledge Bridge had, the better. He had had hundreds of names over the years, most in use for just enough time to kill the target before being discarded, some left behind as a patsy for his crimes. Now he needed a new name, a new identity, to protect him from the very friends he'd lived and worked with for the last five years.

Bridge's voice crackled over the connection to the patsy with frightening clarity. The link he'd bought for this task was high quality gear. He had heard every word whispered into the yogurt clerk's ear. Stopped. So is he wired? The change in Bridge's voice confirmed what Logan already suspected. Bridge knew he wasn't talking to the squirrelly man on the bench. He was talking directly to Logan. The fixer didn't sound happy about the circumstance. Explosives or recording devices?

Logan sighed. Go ahead, Steve, show him. Steve opened his jacket to display the bomb Logan had reluctantly strapped to the clerk's chest. Completely fake, of course, but convincing enough to a non-expert as to look frighteningly deadly. Logan hadn't really had the connections in Los Angeles to get the real thing, so he made do with some food coloring and child's sculpting clay. It had scared the shit out of Steve. Bridge's expression barely changed. Logan's trained eye detected the shift in Bridge’s level of caution with this new information. It ain't good, he replied.

So what's this about? Bridge asked. You pick this schmo at random, or is he supposed to mean something to me?

Tell him, Steve. It's ok.

I work at the Yogurt Store.

Bridge sounded irritated. Just some schmo then. Is this supposed to scare me?

It's supposed to yes, Logan said to no one in particular. He cued his microphone and said, Tell him it's just a precaution.

And if I say fuck a bunch of this and walk away, then what? You going to splatter this guy all over the bench?

I've seen his FACE! Steve practically screamed.

Logan winced with the volume change. Steve, remember, I can hear you perfectly fine, please don't scream into the microphone.

Huh, then he's either sloppy or you're expendable. Sucks to be you.

Tell him it'll take out half the goddamn mall, Logan said, his own irritation starting to show through.

He says it'll take out half this mall.

And? Logan got a closer look at Bridge's face. The veneer of dark stubble on the man's face might have looked sloppy to some, but Logan could tell it was immaculately planned. Every stitch in his expensive suit fell into the perfect place. Nothing this man did with his appearance was anything other than a calculated tactic. His expression bore the same calculation. Logan had to admire the stones on this guy. Faced with his own death from someone with a weapon likely trained on his head, or the possibility of a fiery explosive end for himself and hundreds of strangers, Bridge remained cool as the other side of the pillow.

Ask him if he wants all those deaths on his head, Logan growled,