The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Bruce Lee? I call his name into the red circle in my heads-up display labeled “Collective.” I’m guessing it must be a focus target, going by how none of the techs seem to have any idea how this thing is actually going to work. Bruce Lee! I yell. Are you there?! Did you hear all that?!

  Yes, Edge, Bruce Lee replies. No need to yell. I’m here. I heard it.

  I’m not crazy. Am I?

  Bruce Lee laughs.

  I don’t know, he says. Why don’t you ask Sigmund Freud? He’s around here somewhere.

  Ha-ha, I reply. Not helping.

  Not “ha-ha,” Bruce Lee replies. You mean ma-ma. It’s Sigmund Freud we’re talking about.

  Touché.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Two hours later, we’ve finished running all the basic diagnostics. Targeting computer, X-ray vision (weird, and not to use on people, unless you want to freak yourself out), basic utility belt accessories, including surveillance bugs, smoke bombs, grappling hook, ninja throwing stars—and I am never going to remember which pouch has which thingy, particularly since every item looks identical; to save space on the belt, each item has been shrinky-dinked into a black marble large enough to fit neatly into the palm of my hand. Using the retinal scanner in the heads-up display, I can grow them to full size, or shrink them back into marbles as needed.

  “Incredible,” I mutter, staring at a handful of such marbles the tech has just informed me are actually ninja throwing stars.

  “They’re made from the same rapidly assembling nano-fibers as the suit, you see,” says the technician.

  “It’s like a sea monkey,” I say in my superhero horror-movie voice.

  “No, it is not,” he deadpans, before stalking off and mumbling, “For sea monkeys, you add water. I most certainly did not graduate top of my class at MIT to create sea monkeys. Honestly.”

  “Ri-ight.” I drop the handful of ninja throwing marbles back into their pouch on my utility belt. The overhead light glimmers off my hand, hitting the tiny silver nodules encircling the letter Z engraved on my ring.

  “Z is for Zarathustra,” says Mikey, noticing me looking at it. “As in Nietzsche’s ‘superman.’ The goal of the human race is to produce a single cataclysmic individual who renders civilization as we know it obsolete.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good thing,” I reply.

  “Depends on your point of view. To quote Nietzsche, God is dead. He’s been dead for a long time now. It’s why the world is the way it is. But you’re going to change that. For anyone who can access the Collective Unconscious, the future will be united in purpose, and not for any one person’s God—but for the well-being of all. Imagine a world like that.”

  I gaze down at the ring on my finger, and a not insignificant amount of trepidation hardens in my stomach.

  “Sounds like you’re setting up this Zarathustra—me—to replace God,” I say.

  “Are you religious?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you care? Look. Relax. Enough of this God crap. Don’t take everything so seriously.”

  “Ri-ight. Because when I think Edger Bonkovich, I think, now there’s a guy who’s taking life too seriously.”

  The technician returns, and the opportunity to continue the conversation is gone. Probably for the best anyway. That conversation was going nowhere fast.

  “Using the retinal scanner in the heads-up display,” the technician is saying, “Zarathustra can access Battle Plan.”

  “Battle Plan,” I reply. “Sounds like a board game.”

  “No. It does not,” says Sourpuss. Then, mumbling to himself again, he adds, “Oh, this one’s going to render civilization obsolete all right.”

  “You know we can hear you,” I say.

  The technician clears his throat, ducks his head at Mikey, and utters a few more words about what I’m supposed to do with Battle Thing. Then the door opens to admit Mary. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra. My remaining ability to concentrate goes up in smoke.

  “Wow,” I say. “I mean—hey.”

  “Hey-yo,” she replies, jutting out her chin. “Are we gonna do it, or what?”

  She and Mikey look at the droning technician, who steps back, powers off his tablet, and nods.

  “Don’t worry,” says Mary, addressing me. “Most guys don’t last long. So, no pressure. All right? Focus on pacing yourself. Take it slow. Enjoy it. I know I will.”

  “I think you’ll find Mary a very capable partner,” says Mikey.

  I clear my throat before speaking. “Buh… What’re we talking about again?”

  Mary frowns. “Combat training.”

  “Right! Combat training! With you.”

  I swallow, working moisture back into my mouth, which opens, then shuts, lest the word “meep” croak like a frog from my superhero voice and ruin the moment.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mikey’s gym is like a CrossFit but smaller, the intimacy of which all but ensuring that if I puke, someone’s going to step in it. It’s got red brick walls, thick floor mats, and giant fans trained at the center of the room from all four corners. There are free weights, rowing machines, battle ropes, tires for flipping, and TRX cables. The middle of the room is cleared out for what I presume is going to be a fast, painful death. Mary is sliding shin and forearm pads on, followed by torso guards, headgear, mouth guards, gloves, and foot pads. The whole deal. She steps onto the mat, lean, agile, beautiful, and, unless I’m misreading my tropes, deadly. Clearly, she’s a get-your-coffee/corporate-ninja-hybrid office assistant. One of those.

  She eases her neck left, then right. She bends over and locks her arms around the backs of her legs, her chin touching her knees for a count of ten, then straightens, throws a few front kicks, hops up and down, then smacks her gloves together like she’s ready for an MMA bout.

  I ease my neck left and right, figuring I should at least look like I know what I’m doing standing here. My stomach gurgles. I press my hand on it, then let it fall to my side. The first lesson in becoming the world’s first superhero, I tell myself, must be learning to project more confidence than I’m feeling.

  “Goin’ down, Zarathustra,” she says, smiling around her mouth guard. “Goin’ down!” She punches her fists together and starts in on her footwork, dancing around the mat like she’s starring in a gender-reimagined Rocky remake.

  “Are you sure this is safe?” I ask in my stupid supersuit voice. Mikey, who is observing with the technicians from near the door, chuckles.

  “Edge. Mary is an expert in kung fu, aikido, krav maga, and a variety of other styles. You just worry about yourself, okay?”

  “Okay. Hey, so on that subject, what happens if I pee in this suit? Is this like an astronaut suit?”

  “Do not pee in the suit, Edge.”

  Mary, who’s still bouncing around on the mat, says, “What’s the matter? Afraid to fight a girl?”

  “Not necessarily,” I reply. “Maybe I just really have to pee, okay?”

  “Edge,” says Mikey. “You’ve got the Collective Unconscious. Use it.”

  “How?”

  The technician looks up from his tablet and pushes the bridge of his glasses higher on his nose. “Neural pathways from the hindbrain annexing the—”

  From beneath the superhero helmet, I roll my eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just stop. You had me at hindbrain.”

  “You’re going to wing it,” calls Mikey. “How’s that?”

  “I liked hindbrain better.”

  Mary, still bouncing around with her fancy footwork, circles behind me.

  “Aren’t you getting tired yet?” I ask. “You’re making me tired.”

  Mary again smacks her gloves together, which I take to mean, no, not tired. Since I’m apparently not going to talk my way out of this mess, I focus instead on the red circle in the HUD marked “Collective,” and try summoning Bruce Lee.

  Bruce? I ask. You can take her, right?

  Do not think of victory
or defeat, Bruce Lee replies at once, like he’s never been absent. Let nature take its course. We will strike at the right moment.

  You got any advice that doesn’t sound like a fortune cookie? I ask.

  Perhaps I can drive? he replies.

  I frown. He means, like, what? Take over? Take over my body?

  Yes, Bruce Lee replies.

  I don’t know about this…

  Not knowing what else to do, I raise my fists and relax my muscles. The effect is instantaneous, like someone’s flipped a switch. My legs are like springs. I’m bouncing around. I’ve got the fancy footwork. I’ve got the swagger. Hey-hey. I’ve got the moves like Jagger! I feel like that part in Return of the Dragon where the tide turns in the fight between Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris. Mary must think so too; she switches direction, circles in front, fakes high left—attacks low right.

  With Bruce Lee in charge, I leap into the air, my foot kicks out—connects to her headgear. The impact rockets up my leg and into my hip, but my muscles respond instinctively, bracing, then relaxing. Mary’s mouth guard shoots out. She tumbles, slides across the mat. I land on my toes, skipping sideways with the signature Bruce Lee footwork and thumbing of the nose. Mary is groaning like a fallen kung fu extra from any number of Bruce Lee’s movies. I concentrate on controlling my arms and legs again, and my coordination falters. My muscles become immediately sluggish. I scramble to kneel at her side.

  “Oh, crap! I’m so sorry!”

  Mary pinches the back of her neck. Wincing slightly, she gives me a wordless thumbs-up. I lay a bracing hand on her shoulder. I can’t believe what I’ve done. Kicked a girl! Mary! What was I thinking?

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I just—I guess I don’t know how to control—”

  Mary’s leg flashes past and loops around my neck. My face slams into the mat. Her thighs are choking my neck. They’re hot. I can’t breathe! Spots start creeping into the corners of my vision. I can’t believe it. This babe’s found the one vulnerable spot on my brand-spanking-new supersuit. In hindsight, the whole sparse-armor-around-the-neck-so-I-can-turn-my-head thing is a glaringly obvious design flaw.

  “Lesson number one,” she says, flexing her thighs and pulling my arm back into a complex and medieval wrist lock. “Never underestimate your opponent.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  An hour later, I’m toweling off from the shower, wrapping up, and digging my fingers into the base of my aching neck.

  I enter the locker room to find Mikey’s set out some brand-new threads, still in the box. I open them up. Jeans and a black tee. Billionaire casual. I pull them on, not stressing over the perfect fit around my pecs and arms; money makes all kinds of weird crap possible. Like that time back at Notre Dame when everyone wanted to see Sting in Detroit, but our exam schedules made it so we couldn’t swing it by car. Mikey chartered a plane. He, Kate and I, and a few other friends flew there. We rented a limo, booked suites at the Marriott, and stayed the weekend. We even partied with the band after the show. So, yeah. Spend enough time with Mikey, and stuff like him having a T-shirt and jeans in my size, whether just lying around or express-shopped, doesn’t register high on the Wacky Shit-O-Meter.

  There’s a bench in front of a row of lockers, wet with the humidity from the showers. I grab a dry towel from a metal organizer on the wall and lay it out on the bench, then take a seat and scoop up the bag of ice Mary dropped off earlier with the Ibuprofen. The pain in my head is dull but insistent. Don’t know if it’s from the nano-neuro medicine or the beating I took on the mats. Hopefully the latter. I lean back against a locker and hold the bag to my head. The ice freezes my brain. I release a sigh.

  A timid knock comes from the door. I don’t reply, and when nothing happens, I wonder if I imagined it.

  The door cracks open.

  “Edger?” whispers Mary. “You decent?”

  “Hey,” I reply. “You can come in.”

  The door swings the rest of the way open. Mary steps inside, her shoulder keeping the door open. Her hair is wet from her shower, and she’s changed into street clothes: jeans, a Slayer T-shirt, and flats.

  “It’s a good look,” I say.

  “You look like Mike Dame’s brother,” she says, frowning.

  I glance at my outfit, then back at her.

  “I’m going for billionaire tech genius. Not working?”

  She smiles and lets the door shut. “No, I didn’t mean that. I mean, it’s just, I didn’t mean anything. You look very handsome,” she finishes, her voice conveying her practiced professional tone, which couldn’t be more at odds with the Slayer T-shirt. “Do you have a sec?” She gestures with her hand to a spot on the bench next to me.

  I take a centering breath. In fact, no, I don’t have a second. I’m going to die in ninety-some hours, give or take. But since this seems rude to bring up, I set my bag of ice down and stretch out the towel under my butt to make enough space for her to sit also.

  “Thanks,” she says, taking a seat next to me. Clasping her hands, she leans over so her elbows are resting on her knees. I copy the way she’s sitting, and we’re like a pair of football coaches studying the video of a losing game.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Well, I mean, you’re doing it,” I say, gesturing to how she’s sitting, then straightening. “I thought it’d make you more comfortable.”

  “No, no,” she says, also sitting upright. “This, this. Becoming Zarathustra. Risking your life.”

  “Oh.” I shrug. “Well, InstaTron Tron…”

  Mary makes no reply. Her features are smooth and relaxed, her lips slightly parted, her eyes neutral. She’s a sphinx. A beautiful, beautiful sphinx.

  “Why are you working for Mike Dame?” I ask from out of nowhere. Her head tilts back as she seems to weigh my intent. “Seriously,” I say. “You’ve been trying to talk me out of this the whole time. And now you’re here, bringing it up again.”

  “So?”

  “So, it makes you look like maybe you’re having second thoughts about working for Mike Dame.”

  “Are you having second thoughts about working for Mike Dame?”

  “I’m not having second thoughts about stopping a repeat of the East Coast,” I reply. “Is that good enough?”

  Mary rolls her eyes. She tosses her hair back and twists on the bench so she’s facing me.

  “No. I’m not buying it.”

  “Because I’m a Dork with a capital D.”

  “No,” she says, leaving it there, which I take to mean yes.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She frowns. “What’s your angle? Right now. Tell me.”

  I blink, confused. “I told you.”

  She clicks her tongue. “I wish you’d trust me more.” She pauses, and her eyes do that sparkly thing again.

  “Trust? That’s a weird word to use. Why does it matter if I trust you? I like you. I mean, you know, like…”

  “I like you too, Edger,” she replies, scooting closer. “And I’m an orphan also.”

  “What? Whoa. Okay?”

  She scoots close enough our hips are touching. “I know this must be…challenging…for you.”

  Her eyes peer up into mine, scanning my every microbe like she’s capable of catching a lie ducking behind a retinal nerve. I scoot back a little and clear my throat.

  “What does being an orphan have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “Well, because of your father’s research.” Her tone says this should’ve been obvious. I suppose it would’ve been, if I’d ever shared anything about Dad’s research with her or Mikey.

  “Yeah, see? Stuff like that.” I scoot farther away. “How do you know so much about me anyway? Yesterday it’s Gran and Shep and Fabio. Today it’s Dad’s research and me being orphaned. Not that I’m not flattered, but, who made you an expert on Edger Bonkovich?”

  Mary continues her laser scrutiny a
nd has me leaning backward so far, my abs are straining to support my balance. I’m about ready to crawl into a locker to get away. Her eyebrows go up. She releases a sigh, and slumps against the wall.

  “Nostradamus,” she whispers, and her tone makes it come out like a four-letter word. I frown and wait for her to continue. “Nostradamus is a global syndicate positioning itself to be a shadow one-world government.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They’re very real, Edger. They’re the reason I’m an orphan. They’re the reason I learned to fight. I guess I’m sharing because I want you to trust me. I trust you. But not everything is what it seems around here.”

  “A shadow one-world government? Come on. That’s the tropiest trope that ever troped.”

  “Tell that to my mom and dad,” she says, not making eye contact. “Tell that to the six-year-old me.”

  “Whoa,” I reply, stunned. Is she seriously telling me this phantom syndicate killed her parents? Is she on some kind of revenge quest? “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “You got the ring?” She stands and thrusts out her hand. I stare at her for a second, and she nods for me to grab it. I comply, and she hauls me to my feet. “Do you have the ring?”

  I nod, confused by the sudden shifting gears.

  “Good. Don’t tell Mikey what I told you.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “You can’t just leave it there. We gotta finish this conversation.”

  “And we will,” she says. “We’ll talk more about this later. I promise. But you’re on a ticking clock now, and we need to go find us an InstaTron Tron.”

  I agree to keep our conversation on the down low. For now, anyway. We head out together, but something tells me it’s only me who’s underestimated how complicated the next ninety-some hours are going to be.

  Historic Cow Quid Pro Quo, Chronicled by Herodotus (c. 484—c. 425 BCE)