Recombinant Bridgehead

Sleeping Giant

Distinction between classes is a consequence of civilization. Many noble men throughout history lamented flawed systems while touting a better path, but the tragedies of discrimination would always repeat, no matter what safeguards were put in place.

The minds behind Bridgehead's political structure thought they understood all fallacies of man when they implemented their tier system—all of humanity now under one rule. There was no alternative, no other world to travel to—Bridgehead was the only option on a moon where a human would not last four minutes without man-made assistance; in short, going native was off the table. To disguise the reality of the peoples' sheer dependence, the powers behind Bridgehead distracted the masses with an illusory set of goalposts called "the five tiers": a good-will system that would advance your rank depending on your strength of character; a convoluted setup with so many buzzwords, no one actually understood how it worked, only that it was a wonderful and irreproachable way of doing things. Anyone who disagreed was always a one-tier who clearly hated virtue.

Located in a particularly depressing section of the city, among rows of unimaginative but serviceable buildings, was the apartment complex chosen to house the Para family. The RTV wedged itself into the only available parking lot that was also doubling as a space for heavy-duty industrial parts. Careful not to nick her door, Walker exited first, then let out her two passengers, CJ and Spider.

His bare feet landed full on the smooth asphalt that would otherwise burn a sole not disciplined to harsh terrain. Fanning out his toes, he absorbed the collage of grit brought in by the colossal tires of the vehicles parked indefinitely and then glided his fingers over their bodies, reading their scuffed lettering with his hands. He had the gift of sight, more attuned than most, for he saw with all his senses, not just his eyes.

"Monkey-boy!" chastised Walker. "Don't climb that. You'll get me fined."

"You heard the man, Spooder."

Spider's visor-covered face poked over the roof of a steam roller. "Ladies, I have a name."

"That's a privilege reserved for non-climbers. Now, get down, Miles Jr."

"I'm coming down. Don't knot your tails."

Before he could plant his feet, CJ clamped him with one arm. "That's for giving cheek," she said, squeezing him, then channelling the spirit of a big sister, administered a noogie. "And that's for following orders."

"Oìsss! You guys are annoying."

He was strategically lowered into his abandoned sneakers, which Walker had to fish out from her "van." The women were given explicit instructions to watch the boy and keep him safe. Diligently, they looked about their scene for potential hazards but found only empty, sterile streets devoid of activities or crowds or anything else that would make the unwelcoming industrial desert feel alive—a sharp contrast to the comfort of their quaint Homestead with its wooden structures and naked soil. The buildings were not constructed from living but synthesized materials; whatever life essence was in them once was squeezed out long ago.

Doubtful if they were even in the correct spot, the women reread their written directions before the mouth of a dark alley.

"What's going on?" Spider asked.

"Your dad's penmanship is s***," mumbled Walker.

CJ stepped closer to the paper. "The code is 8-8-0-A-V-0-0-1."

"I can look ahead for it," Spider offered, and like that, his sneakers struck asphalt as he scurried down the street. Casey called out a warning to remain within sight.

Walker looked up at the dominating structures. It was a bright day, but the many skyways above eclipsed the sunlight and kept the alley in darkness; it was the most Earth-like thing she'd seen since coming to Pandora. "Place smells depressed."