First Contact is a multidimensional narrative connecting centuries, continents and sub/cultures, unravelling coincidences and conspiracies, computer viruses, and viruses which infect your mind. It details a kaleidoscope of revolutions and counter re...
A PASTY-FACED MAN IN A PINSTRIPE WAS WAITING FOR BRETT WEIR AT THE PRISON GATE. A pasty-faced man in a pinstripe was waiting for Brett Weir at the prison gate. Brett Weir was too preoccupied with the Cheung Li-less gloom to notice him at first. Brett Weir was too preoccupied with the Cheung Li-less gloom to notice him at first. When the warden slotted his giant key into the gigantic lock and swung open the ginormous steel door the man in the pinstripe confidently - decisively - stepped out to meet him. He was waiting patiently at the prison gate, all that time, and his pinstripe was the latest Milan design. When the warden opened the big steel door he stepped up to face Brett like a juggernaut, blocking his path. This is simply how it happened.
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<<Gerald Bridgeman>> he said, standing impassively. <<Your lawyer. From Bridgeman and Associates.>>
<<I didn't ask for a lawyer>> Brett said. He had been ambushed at the prison gate.
<<Your wife hired me.>>
<<My wife? Oh, Cheung Li.>> He smiled diabolically, appraised the Milan suit. <<You doing her?>>
Brett laughed, the first time since threatening China to a match of thermonuclear "trick or treat". <<Oh, nothing, don't worry about it. I like you. Give me a call when you stop chasing ambulances.>>
He tried to squeeze past but Bridgeman gripped his arm and said, with a discernible degree of offence: <<I'm 39 years old; I'm too old for chasing ambulances. I'll be frank with you: I have an interest in this case. This is an area I've specialized in.>>
Now it was Brett Weir's turn to be taken aback. <<What?>> he said. <<You specialize in prank telephone calls?>>
Bridgeman shook his head, vigorously. This is, irrefutably, how it happened. <<No, not prank calls, I specialize in civil liberties. I'll be honest with you, kid: I don't particularly like what you do, but I'm willing to fight to the death to defend your right to do it.>>
Brett stared at him for a long moment, mulling it over. <<Well>> he conceded <<if Cheung Li put you up it. Anyway, how is she?>>
- - - - - - - - - - - -
BRIDGEMAN'S OFFICE WAS THE TYPICAL legal deal: entire encylopedias of case law reports and treatises fastidiously shelved and sombre mahogany furniture. Brett Weir and Phillip Doof sat in padded leather chairs smoking Cuban cigars and chatting about old times. They'd made themselves at home in Bridgeman's office, smoking his cigars and drinking his brandy, and talking about the past. Bridgeman was on the other side of the desk in a hands-free conversation with what could be best described a disgruntled client. Lucky it was hands-free because he needed both hands to gesticulate as he pleaded for another chance. Finally he slammed down the phone and swore, softly. He swore softly, under his breath.
