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  Infinity: A Bridger’s Origin

  Stan C. Smith

  Copyright © 2019 by Stan C. Smith

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To those from humble beginnings

  who reach for the stars.

  A Bridger’s Origin

  I’m afraid of living my whole life without being a part of something important.

  Infinity Fowler

  Contents

  1. Trouble

  2. The Scrapyard

  3. Recruitment

  4. Cypress Street

  5. Transit

  6. SafeTrek

  7. Reality

  8. Bunkai

  9. Bridge-back

  10. Anthropology

  11. Bridge-out

  12. River

  13. Fire

  14. Holes

  15. Tree

  16. Water

  17. Darkness

  18. Dawn

  19. Waiting

  20. Return

  21. Bridger

  There’s more to this story!

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  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Stan C. Smith

  Excerpt: BRIDGERS 1: The Lure of Infinity

  1

  Trouble

  Passerina Fowler knew trouble when she saw it. The three guys crossing the street heading straight for her and Scottie were definitely trouble. She knew it even before Scottie tensed up and said, “Oh crap.”

  “Scottie Ramirez!” one of the guys said. He was the biggest of the three, and Passerina decided she’d hit him first if these assholes tried to start something.

  “Just stay out of this, Passie,” Scottie said to her. “It ain’t your concern.”

  Passerina remained silent as the three guys stopped and stood in their way. She widened her eyes to make them think she was nervous.

  The big guy took another step closer. “You Scottie Ramirez or not?”

  “I just told you—he’s Scottie,” said the one in the middle, a gap-toothed Hispanic with two nasty scars on his face.

  “Hey, Sal,” Scottie said to gap-tooth. “Where you been, man? I tried to text you a punch to the throat. But there’s no app for that. I looked. Twice.”

  Scottie always had a way with words.

  The three guys glanced at each other with furrowed brows, like they couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. Scottie usually weighed in around 145 pounds, Passerina about ten pounds less. Together they might have weighed as much as the big guy beside Sal. The guy at Sal’s other side was a skinhead with two gold teeth and a crucifix tattooed on his forehead. She hadn’t seen any of these three at the Scrapyard, so she had no idea how skilled they might be. Regardless, they were dangerous.

  What the hell had Scottie gotten himself into?

  The big guy stepped up to Scottie and glared, like a fighter at a pre-bout weigh-in. The guy’s fists were balled up, and Passerina silently willed Scottie to keep his mouth shut.

  “I want my money back, Scottie,” Sal said. “All of it. The stuff you gave me is worthless.”

  Scottie spoke to Sal while glaring back at Big Guy. “It’s not my fault if you’re not smart enough to use them. I ain’t giving you no money back.”

  “They don’t work! They must be old or something.”

  Scottie still didn’t move his eyes. “I googled ‘who gives a shit.’ My name wasn’t in the search results.”

  Big Guy drove a fist into Scottie’s abdomen.

  Scottie had already tightened his gut, and he hardly even flinched. He said, “I’d hit you back, asshole, but that’d be animal abuse.”

  Big Guy grabbed Scottie by the hair with one hand and wound up to punch him with the other. “You don’t know when to quit, little man,” he said.

  Passerina forced her voice to sound distressed. “Guys, that’s enough. Just let us go.” She still had hope that they’d just back off. It was risky to fight in such a public place. Plus, these guys looked like they might be crazy enough to pull a gun.

  None of them even glanced her way.

  So much for that idea. She assessed Big Guy’s position. His right fist was up, blocking access to his throat, and Scottie’s body was blocking the guy’s crotch. She stepped closer. “Please—let him go. He’ll give Sal’s money back.” This time Big Guy turned to look at her, and Passerina immediately threw a jab, driving her thumb into his right eye as hard as she could. Eyeball juice squirted out, splattering her forehead.

  Big Guy screamed and threw both hands to his eye, releasing Scottie, who then landed a devastating punch to the left side of the guy’s head. Big Guy collapsed like a sack of dirt. Passerina went straight for Gold Teeth, throwing jabs so fast that all he could do was try to cover his face. She needed to keep him busy, since he had at least fifty pounds on her. She’d only have about two seconds before he’d recover his wits and start punching back. She knew she could never win a punching fight with a guy this size, so she rammed her shoulder into his chest, threw her right leg around the back of his right ankle, and executed a hip toss, throwing him to the ground.

  Passerina had two strengths—her over-the-top level of aggression and her grappling skills. She had won many of her fights lying on her back with a finishing hold on her opponent’s arm or leg. As Gold Teeth hit the ground, she grabbed his right arm, pulling it between her legs and against her chest. She flipped onto her back and put him into an armbar hold with her legs over his face and chest, immobilizing him. She then thrust her pelvis up, threatening to break his arm. An armbar could usually be broken with a hitchhiker escape, but the guy apparently had no grappling skills because he simply submitted instead.

  “Stop, man, stop!” Gold Teeth cried.

  With the skinhead immobilized, Passerina twisted her head to assess the others. Big Guy was still down, his head rolled to one side so Passerina could see blood and fluid flowing from his eye socket. Luckily for him, he was KO’d. Scottie was standing over Sal, who had been knocked onto his butt and was holding a hand over his bloodied face. Several spectators were now standing around, staring. A woman with two little girls beside her had a phone to her ear, probably calling the cops.

  “I’m going to let you up,” Passerina said to Gold Teeth. “If you make a move, I’ll take you down again and break your goddamn arm. Got it?”

  Gold Teeth nodded.

  “You got a gun on you?”

  He shook his head. “No, man!”

  Passerina released him, jumped to her feet, and stood above him, ready to grab his arm if it turned out he had lied.

  Gold Teeth sat up. “Jesus, man! We were just trying to help Sal get his money back.”

  “I told you,” Scottie barked, “I ain’t giving no money back! You always this stupid, or is today a special occasion?”

  Passerina glanced at the phone lady and then grabbed Scottie’s arm. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”

  “Shit, I think you killed Jefferson,” Gold Teeth said. “He ain’t moving.”

  Passerina glanced at Big Guy. “He’s not dead. But you better get him to a hospital.” She started walking, pulling Scottie with her.

  “You forget about that money,” Scottie called back to Sal. “This ain’t Walmart—I don’t do refunds.”

  Sal didn’t reply. He just sat there in a stupor, still holding his face.

  Sirens sounded from the north, near the foothills, getting steadily louder. “This way,” Passerina said to Scottie. She led him between two dumpy patio
homes and into an alley. When they were several blocks from the scene, she finally asked, “Okay, what was that all about?”

  “Nothing.”

  She stopped walking. “Nothing? You’re selling drugs, aren’t you? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  He kept walking and spoke without looking back at her. “Remember when I asked for your opinion? Me neither.” He turned a corner, heading for the Scrapyard.

  She caught up to him. “Scottie, I just saved your ass. And if I get caught, I’m screwed. I gouged out that big guy’s eye.”

  He glanced at her. “His eye? Damn, Passie!” He sighed. “Okay, fine. I didn’t sell Sal drugs. It was a box of EPTs.”

  “What?”

  “EPTs. Early pregnancy tests. A whole crate of them.”

  She stared at him. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? They’re valuable!”

  “Where’d you get them?”

  “Maybe they were floating down the canal. Or maybe they fell off a damn truck—what difference does it make? Sal said he could sell them, so I sold him the whole box.” He shrugged. “What can I say? The guy’s an idiot. He’s the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.”

  Passerina smiled at this. “The big guy was right—you don’t know when to quit.”

  Scottie kept frowning. “That guy? He’s so dumb, he thinks Cheerios are doughnut seeds.”

  She snorted. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  “Don’t even get me started.”

  2

  The Scrapyard

  Passerina and Scottie made their way along East Dunlap to Third and then south to the Scrapyard. The MMA gym had been housed in an old church since Passerina had joined nine years ago. The building wasn’t much to look at—a brown cinder-block box with two doors in the front, duct-taped over in several places where the glass had cracked. But the gym had a reputation for producing a steady stream of fighters who eventually made it into the UFC, which was Passerina’s goal. Some of those fighters made six figures for every fight, win or lose—more money than she had made in her entire life. But getting to that level was turning out to be much harder than she’d expected.

  Passerina and Scottie entered the Scrapyard and were greeted by the familiar smell of sweat, rubber floor mats, and disinfectant. The gym was full of more fighters than usual for this time of day. Most of them were still in their street clothes.

  “What’s going on, Scottie?”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “If you would ever read your email, you’d know. A dude’s supposed to be here today, recruiting fighters for some tourism company.”

  Passerina couldn’t afford a phone or any other device for checking email, but now she did remember seeing a flyer on the wall by the door a few days ago. She had stopped reading when she saw that it obviously wasn’t an ad for a tournament that might have a decent-paying fight.

  She and Scottie walked past the row of heavy bags hanging from the ceiling and between the two octagonal MMA sparring cages. They went straight to Fons Cruz, who was cleaning someone’s stuff out of one of the lockers along the back wall. On the floor beside him were a pair of bolt cutters and a broken padlock.

  “That’s Manolo’s locker,” Scottie said to Fons. “He quit the gym?”

  Fons glanced up, his scraggly silver brows almost hiding his eyes. “I don’t see Manolo coming back any time soon. Word is, he’s going away for awhile. Assault and battery.”

  Passerina glanced over at Scottie and narrowed her eyes at him. She turned back to Fons. “Sorry to hear that.”

  Fons shrugged as he held up a t-shirt. He then stuffed it into the trash bag he was holding in his other hand. “He hasn’t paid in months anyway.” He then looked directly at Passerina. “Speaking of which….”

  Passerina felt her face heating up. “I’ll get paid up as soon as I can. I just… I need a couple good fights, that’s all.”

  “Or you could get a job,” Fons said, turning back to the locker.

  Passerina sighed loudly. “I have a job. I’m a professional fighter. That’s all I know how to do.”

  “It’s true,” Scottie said. “She literally can’t do nothing else. As useless as a knitted condom.”

  Fons chuckled. But then he paused. He put down the trash bag and headed for his office. “Hell, I have something for both of you.”

  They followed him into the closet-sized room. His tiny desk was heaped with clipboards, stacks of papers, and several open bags of vending-machine chips. Fons clearly didn’t follow the same dietary restrictions he preached to his fighters and trainers. He picked up a brochure that was sitting on top of the contents of a wire tray and squinted at it for a moment.

  “The Lionheart Gym over in Glendale is sponsoring the first of what they hope will become an annual event, the Lionheart Cage Series. Scottie, I think I can get you into the top featherweight fight. Six hundred to show, three hundred more to win.”

  Scottie rapped on the desk with his knuckles. “Nice purse, man! I’m all in.”

  “Chances are you’ll be matched against Lionheart’s top featherweight. Probably Mateo Ibanez.”

  “I’ll take what I can get,” Scottie said with a smile. “Ibanez will be my personal piñata.”

  Fons nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned to Passerina. “I’ve already got you a fight in the event. Undercard bout. They’re having three undercard fights before Holly Leon’s bout. Three hundred to show, a hundred more to win.”

  Passerina growled and rubbed her forehead. She had probably spent that much on bandages and Tylenol in the last few months. “I need some real fights, Fons.”

  “I’m not your manager, Passie. Managers get paid. Feel free to book your own fights.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll take the fight.”

  Scottie nudged her shoulder. “Just keep winning. You’ll get your shot.”

  “Like I been telling you,” Fons said to Passerina, “you gotta learn some restraint. How many fighters have you hurt in the last two years? Five?”

  “Six,” Scottie corrected. “She snapped that chick’s wrist in Sun City, remember?”

  Passerina shot a glare at Scottie.

  “Six,” Fons repeated. “Passie, no one wants to book you because you’re mean as hell—a liability. You want my advice? Get a job. There’s nothing wrong with fighting as a hobby. It doesn’t have to be a profession.”

  She stared at him, her anger starting to boil up. Eight years. For eight years—since the age of seventeen—she’d been trying to eke out a living from low-level fights. She was good enough to be in the UFC. She knew beyond any doubt that she was. But her lucky break just hadn’t come. She tilted her head back and gazed up at the water-stained ceiling while rubbing the back of her neck. Maybe Fons was right. Maybe it was time to give up.

  Fons gazed past her shoulder and waved a hand, apparently at someone who’d just entered the gym. He turned back to Passerina. “Before you start your workout, listen to what these guys have to say.” He nodded toward the front door.

  Passerina turned. Two men were crossing the gym, heading for Fons’s office. One of them was bald, fit, and square-jawed. Probably a fighter. The other was older and wore a white button-down shirt and a goofy bowtie. Maybe a promoter or a businessman.

  Bowtie Guy flashed a friendly smile as he approached Fons and shook his hand. “Armando Doyle. You must be Fons Cruz. We spoke on the phone? Thanks for letting us do this. I promise I’ll keep my spiel under fifteen minutes. If there’s any interest from your guys, we might ask them to do a bit of sparring with Mr. Crossland here.” He nodded toward Square Jaw.

  Fons gestured toward the fifteen or so gym members who were still milling around in their street clothes. “Knock yourself out.”

  Doyle nodded and moved toward the crowd of fighters, but Square Jaw Crossland hung back.

  Doyle cleared his throat. “I don’t want to waste anyone’s time, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’m he
re to recruit a few fighters who have a very specific set of skills and emotional characteristics. Frankly, most of you won’t match our criteria. But if anyone here does, this will be an employment opportunity like no other. However, the job is extremely dangerous. Which is why we need people like you.” He paused, giving the crowd a chance to process this.

  Passerina decided this had to be the worst opening for a recruitment talk ever.

  Doyle continued. “I’m just going to lay it out there—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Here’s the good. This job is made possible by a technological breakthrough you’ve probably heard about during the last twelve months, a process we now call bridging.”

  A wave of nervous chatter swept through the gym, and Passerina exchanged a glance with Scottie. She had heard about bridging but had assumed it was all tabloid nonsense. It had something to do with sending people to alternate universes. Only an idiot would believe that kind of fake news.

  Doyle held up both hands to quiet the fighters. “You’ve obviously heard of bridging. I assure you it’s real. And I’m proud to say that I’m the director of the first fully-functional bridging center. The facility, called SafeTrek, is strategically located in south-central Missouri. In the past two months, we’ve bridged six teams of scientists to alternate versions of Earth. Regardless of what you may have heard, the technology is more than just theoretical. It’s completely functional.”

  Another wave of chatter.

  “However,” Doyle said, “here is the bad. As it turns out, bridging is dangerous. Not because the technology doesn’t work, but because the destination worlds are often hostile. More specifically, the people or creatures living on the destination worlds are hostile. Part of the problem is that when a team of scientists bridges to an alternate world, they can’t take anything with them. No recording equipment and no weapons. They arrive on the destination world empty-handed, and they cannot return to our own world until thirty-six hours after their arrival. During that time, they are vulnerable. That is why we are, to put it quite simply, recruiting bridgers—people with the skills and temperament needed to protect our clients on their excursions.”