The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy by Gary Ballard

venom, made all the more frigid by the addition of a reverb filter on her voice.
    “Just a leaker, but I need him sharpish. Like tomorrow at the latest. Working a tight deadline. And he can’t be one of those goddamn trippers you use. The client doesn’t want druggies and arena adrenaline junkies.”
    “Coffee and cake runner. Sure, I got a guy.” She leafed through a few files, and tossed one to Bridge, which floated into his hands as a streaking comet.
    “Lil’ Kira.”
    “Kira? Woman?” Angela shook her head. “He’s not one of those gender-confused hormone-overloaded psychos, is he?”
    “No, the name is short for Akira. Loves the old school manga and shit. He’s always a bit jumpy, but he’s solid. Never bottled on a job. Where you want to meet him?”
    Bridge thought it over for a second, analyzing his schedule in floating window. “I’ll be at the Arsenal between nine and midnight, maybe one o’clock. He can get me there.”
    “The Arsenal? That soccer club on Wilshire? They’ll never let him in a place that upscale.”
    “If he can’t get in, just have him send a bouncer in after me. I’ll have ‘em looking out for me. They all know me.”
    Angela paused for a minute, something obviously on her mind. “I still got a spot for you on my crew, babe. You can go back to running, if you want. It ain’t the same without you.”
    “I thought you had Kim.” An acid reply.
    “Yeah, he’s great but he’s in Seoul. Sometimes I could use a little fleshy cuddling.”
    “Good night, Angie. Thanks for the help. Have fun with the spheres.” He quickly jacked out without waiting for a reply. He’d probably hear about it the next time they spoke, but for now he just wanted to get some sleep. It was already close to three a.m.
    Sleep wouldn’t come. He spent hours tossing and turning, rolling in memories, before giving up and heading to the couch. He flipped on the GlobalNet vids, browsing through channel after channel of fare from infomercials to interactive shows to late-night porn and the big net news. One commercial caught his eye, for a new sitcom coming in the fall. Called Misogynist Theatre, the 30-second spot stopped Bridge’s browsing dead in his tracks, if for no other reason than the buxom brunette flouncing around onscreen. “Nothing like a great pair of breasts to grab your attention,” he muttered to himself. Once the commercial had finished, he used the remote to schedule a recording of the show. He also sent out an AI agent to search for some pre-release leak versions of the premiere. Two months out was enough lead-time for the leakers.
    The next commercial made him shut the vids off in disgust. It was yet another political ad for the mayor’s race, this one for the challenger, Arturo Soto. Soto was an attractive Hispanic man, slick and suave and the complete opposite physically of the more corpulent Caucasian Sunderland. Bridge would be damn glad when the election was finished. It was only four… no three days away now, this upcoming Saturday. “Fucking politicians,” he muttered, stalking to the kitchen and grabbing the bottle of sleeping pills. The bottle was almost empty, so he cut one of the flimsy paper tabs in half and let it dissolve on his tongue. He wouldn’t need a whole hit anyway. He had to get moving shortly after noon.
    Unconsciousness found him soon after.
     
    *****
     
    Chapter 4
    August 29, 2028
    6:33 p.m.
     
    The Arsenal was one of the first new clubs built after the riots. A neon-saturated marvel of ultra modern design, it contained a separate dance club, concert hall, sports bar and the requisite VIP lounge upstairs. Awash in soccer brands and memorabilia, the club was lit by huge video screens showing live and archived game footage from around the world. Run by former L.A. Galaxy footballer Crispin Twiggs, the Arsenal acted as a front for prostitution, chip drugs and loan-sharking. Twiggs had been expelled from the game of soccer for gambling, but his public