by David Beem
“What’s your point? Are you telling me I’m going to have to hack into your brain to steal your secrets?”
“Would you?” she asks, her lips parting and turning down in the corners.
“No!”
“And why not?” she snaps. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it’s wrong!”
“Exactly. Edger, it isn’t that I don’t want to help you. It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you things. There are secrets that aren’t mine to share. And there are secrets you’re better off not knowing, on the off chance you can find your way off the crazy train and go back to the normal life you had. Be careful of the stones you kick over.”
But I’m no longer listening. My hand slides into my jeans pocket and removes the ring box. I open it and there’s the gleaming Z on its black-and-chrome surface.
“I’m done jumping through Mikey’s hoops,” I say.
“I know.” Mary slides off the barstool and reaches her hand out. “Edger—”
“If you don’t want to get in trouble with your boss, you should probably go.”
“What are you going to do?” She quickly shakes her head and raises her hands. “Nope. Better I don’t know.”
She gives me one last look, saying nothing, but saying it meaningfully. Be careful, that look seems to say, with a runner-up of, Don’t judge me, and I won’t judge you for the donut burger thing. She hastens across the room to Mikey’s private elevator and presses the button.
“You know what I’m going to do,” I call to her back.
“Yes.”
“Would you tell me if you knew where my dad is?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
She hesitates. “No.”
The elevator doors open. Mary goes inside. As the doors start to close, she thrusts her arm out in front of the sensors, and they spring back open.
“Edger, I’m not going to let you die. I will take care of your boosters. I promise.”
She snatches her arm back, and the doors snap shut, leaving me staring at my boring reflection. Familiar disappointment surges through me like it always does when she leaves. But this time, my brain is too focused on finding Dad to dwell on it.
I slide the ring onto my finger.
The world explodes into a billion streaking lights.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Red letters scroll across the heads-up display.
PULSE ELEVATED.
Yes, I know.
RECOMMENDATION: ACCESS COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS.
Okay, I think, and I tentatively focus on the red circle in the HUD labeled “Collective,” the way Indiana Tim suggested.
Buh…anyone in the Collective Unconscious got any bright ideas?
Roaring voices deafen my ears. Billions of lights streak past. I stagger backward. It’s too much! The processors in my suit quickly narrow down possibilities. Billions become millions. Thousands become hundreds. Finally…one. Gravity triples in my limbs with the fatigue that comes from thousands of pull-ups, flutter kicks, push-ups, and sit-ups in a single day. I’m shivering uncontrollably. It’s Hell Week in BUD/S training. In and out of the ocean. Swimming miles against the clock. Cold…so cold. Facedown in the mud; holding my breath; lifting telephone poles; trembling muscles; falling painfully on my gun; moonless nights; stalking from the shadows; rescuing hostages; do I have what it takes to make it till morning?
Heard you could use a hand, sir.
The life behind the voice completes its fast-forward. It belongs to one Lieutenant Trevor Killmaster, Navy SEAL. College champion swimmer. Fifteen deployments. Eighty-seven confirmed sniper kills. I’m breathless and sweating. My tired limbs get their strength back as I try to hold on to everything I’ve seen. Killmaster grew up in a little place outside of Santa Barbara, not that far from here. He met his wife there and they bought a home. He regrets not having been able to give her a cool car. He wears Old Spice.
Weird.
You’re telling me, sir, Killmaster replies.
Through the Collective Unconscious, it hits me we have something in common. I’m not the first person chosen to take the Zarathustra formula to human trial. Indiana Tim selected Lieutenant Killmaster to be Zarathustra five years ago. Only, Killmaster’s body rejected it. It killed him.
Yeah, he says. Not the side of this bitch I thought I’d be riding.
Whoa, I reply. I mean, is that gonna be a, you know, a problem?
No—sir! says Lieutenant Killmaster.
I slide onto the barstool for a second and gather my thoughts. I think: You know, I’m not really much of a…sir.
Killmaster replies: You are today. Sir.
Chapter Thirty-Six
What’s the situation, sir?
Situation, I say, momentarily distracted by the idea of Indiana Tim being in charge of selecting a Zarathustra.
Sir?
Right. Situation. Um, well. I want you to help me break out of here.
Here? Where’s here?
InstaTron Headquarters, Emerald Plaza, San Diego.
Killmaster pauses, and for some reason, my brain starts replaying random scenes from the past twenty-four hours like someone’s fast-forwarding a movie.
Yeah, that’s me, says Killmaster. I’m using your memories to debrief myself on the situation, sir.
Weird.
Damn straight.
Another pause.
So let me see if I’ve got this right, says Killmaster. Mike Dame’s an ass-hat, and you’re about to go AWOL to find your dad.
I frown over hearing it summed up. Guilt twists inside me over skipping out on finding Tron-Tron while I go off in search of my dad. It sounds selfish when he puts it like that.
Sir, you’re no good to anyone if you’re dead, offers Killmaster. Your dad made those booster shots. Find him, and you buy yourself more time. Your objective is evolving. Stand by.
Killmaster takes control of the HUD. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but reams of data flood my subconscious at high speed. Emerald Plaza schematics, encrypted InstaTron data, private security radio channels, traffic reports, way too much for me to consciously process. When it’s finished, I’m panting again…and feeling strangely violated.
Do you have to take control of my body like that?
Easiest way, sir!
Okay… I ease my neck left and right, then pull my shoulder blades together. A knot cracks in my back. I blow out a long burst of air. So. Do you have a plan at least?
A plan? Pfft. What do you think this is? Osama bin Laden? There’s a handful of armed security personnel patrolling Emerald Plaza looking for a corporate saboteur. We’ll have you out of here in five minutes, tops.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The glass cutter from my utility belt is top-shelf, Grade A Batman-quality shit. It’s a circular compass cutter with an extendable arm capable of cutting a hole in the window with a large enough diameter for me to crawl through. And the way it grew out of something the size of a marble into a giant-ass glass cutter is exactly like a sea monkey, and I don’t give a crap that technician says otherwise.
You’re right, sir, agrees Killmaster. It’s a goddamn sea monkey. Now, time to get busy.
Right.
I stick my head through the hole in the glass and peer into the twenty-seven-story drop. I jerk back inside. My stomach tries to crawl up my throat.
Suck it up, buttercup, says Killmaster.
I take a deep breath and tighten the straps on my harness. I use the heads-up display’s retinal scanner to electronically test the integrity of the anchor on the far side, the anchor I fired into the W Hotel across the street. A green light comes back when the test is complete, with the words ANCHOR SECURE. I check that the glass cutter is securely clipped to my belt.
You’re sure this is safe? I ask Killmaster, clutching the hand brake and trying to will myself to get a foot through the hole in the window.
Come on, says Killmaster. Live a little, princess.
Say
s the dead guy.
It’s just like falling off a log, sir.
Says the dead guy, I repeat, trying to visualize falling off a twenty-seven-story log with traffic and pedestrians below. I try again to get a foot through the hole, but my mental image of the twenty-seven-story log is too on the nose.
Allow me, sir.
“Hey, wait!” I yell, one foot inside the hole and one foot out.
Killmaster seizes full control of my body. Geronimo!
My stomach tenses, flops. Wind tears at my suit. The heads-up display tracks my velocity. Killmaster’s laughing like a suicidal maniac.
40mph…
50mph…
60mph…
Brakes, sir! Brakes!
I clamp down on the hand brake. Sparks fly. The W Hotel rushes up at me, careening concrete and glass.
50mph…
30mph…
25mph…
My butt and abs clench. I heave my knees into my core, preparing for landing.
10mph…
Boots slam onto concrete. I flip to the side, crash into the wall. Pain lances through my shoulder. The glass cutter rebounds off the building and into my lower back.
ALERT: ANCHOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED 25%… 30%… 40%…
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
Cut the glass now, sir!
My hands scramble to unfasten the glass cutter from my utility belt—stuck!
Hurry, sir! Hurry!
ANCHOR AT 50% INTEGRITY.
My hands are shaking. Glass cutter comes free. I extend the arm on the device, press the suction cup in place.
Hurry, sir!
I press the cup harder, and my feet leave the wall. I release the pressure and swing back. The anchor lurches. I drop; stomach tenses; anchor catches. I twist on the line. Buildings, glass, sky, and concrete flash past. I reach out and catch the glass cutter still stuck to the window—
Another lurch.
ANCHOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED BY 75%.
Crap.
We. Are going. To die, says Killmaster.
“You’re already dead!”
I rotate the arm to six o’clock. The cutting gets easier as the arm gets closer. I strain to reach eleven o’clock. No good. Can’t get past ten. Sweat pours down my face.
You know what? You’re right. I am already dead. Sir. No skin off my back. Can’t say the same for you, though.
Twenty-some stories below is a lower portion of the hotel with glass skylights and concrete. Killmaster visualizes an exploding watermelon. A piano dropping from a cable. Black smoke trailing behind a four-engine jet airliner locked in a death spiral from thirty-thousand feet.
Not helping! I yell.
I hammer my fists against the glass. A crack snakes across the surface.
Going to die, says Killmaster. Boo-yah! Gonna die—yeah!
I hammer on the glass.
Crackle—pop! The partial circle I cut completes itself. The glass falls into the hotel. I grab the window ledge, pull. My stomach tenses. My feet keep slipping. My neck, shoulders, and arms are trembling. I reach into the hole, the other hand heaving myself up on the line.
ANCHOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED BY 88%.
I stick my head through—the hotel room isn’t empty.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The back of her bushy head is shaking. She’s ramming the vacuum into the desk, her hips swinging left and right. The music coming out of her earbuds is going to make her deaf, if it hasn’t already. Her humming is deep and guttural, like someone’s punching her in the stomach while she’s trying to find the tune.
Or like she’s beating strung-out rats with a mallet, offers Killmaster.
I tense up and shove an elbow over broken glass. “Help!” I yell in my stupid horror-movie voice.
Shut up! yells Killmaster. What are you doing?
The cleaning maid lifts a chair, vacuums underneath, sets it back.
“Help!” I cry again.
The maid continues her salsa dancing and humming.
ANCHOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED BY 92%.
I release the line and heave both elbows over the sill. My feet scramble on the exterior wall—push, slip—push. I’m burning up inside the suit. Muscles shaking. Elbows and forearms dig in. Pull! Jagged glass—my stomach rakes over it. The armor crushes it like peanut shells.
ANCHOR INTEGRITY COMPROMISED BY 100%. GOODBYE.
Fuck.
There’s a slight jerk on the zip line. It flips and twists like an epileptic black mamba snake as it reels itself in.
Duck!
The line flips overhead, slaps me in the butt, and snaps into my belt. I’m rocketed the rest of the way into the room. Killmaster seizes control; I tuck and roll, missing the cleaning maid, and then I’m kneeling by the kitchenette and rubbing my butt.
“That smarts.”
Shh! Go, go, go! says Killmaster, urging me out the door.
I grab the ring—pull. Warm slime slithers over my face, neck, legs, body and arms, and the suit vanishes inside the ring.
What’re you doing? asks Killmaster.
I can’t go out into the hallway dressed like that, I reply, stuffing the ring into my pocket.
Why not?
Well, how will it look? I’m sure this is fine for a Special Ops ditty in Afghanistan, but it’s a little aggressive for the W, don’tcha think?
What I think, says Killmaster, taking a tone, which, though telepathic, is no less clear, is that any second, that maid is going to be done vacuuming, and if we are still in here when that happens, she is going to freak the hell out.
The vacuum cleaner stops.
Oh shit, oh shit!
Hide! says Killmaster.
I lurch toward the see-through glass coffee table, unthinking.
Are you nuts? demands Killmaster.
The maid snatches a bottle of Windex from her cleaning cart. I freeze. She holds the Windex like a microphone, opens her mouth…and out comes an entire squadron of castrated frogs.
Good Lord! cries Killmaster.
I stick my finger in my ear and shake it.
That chick’s got the entire San Diego Zoo down her throat, says Killmaster. Pandas! Christ. I think I heard a zebra.
Will you shut up and find me a place to hide?
Sir, yes, sir!
I scan left: a space between the bed and the wall. Scan right: bathroom—closet! Inch open the door. Creep inside. Shut it.
Bad idea. Mold and mildew tickle my sinuses. Crap—I can’t sneeze now! I hold my breath and peer through the slits in the door. She’s dancing and singing like she’s about to sacrifice a virgin to the little-known god of air-raid sirens. She’s backing up toward the broken glass on the floor.
My nose itches like crazy. The maid spins, eyes closed. Her feet miss the glass by inches. Man. The aural incursion is relentless. I pinch my nose. I’m running out of air. I’ve got to breathe.
Just hang tight, says Killmaster.
She whips her head around in circles, tousling her hair in a way that’s either David Lee Roth at a Van Halen concert or a demonic spirit in the throes of a full-blown exorcism.
I sneeze—a spray of spit hits the inside of the door.
Shit.
The maid freezes. Her head quirks to the side. Her arms rise. Did she hear me, or is this part of her weird dance? She hikes her skirt up over her thighs…and she begins twerking at the nearest available armchair.
Now’s our chance! I say.
No—hang on, says Killmaster. This is getting interesting.
I crack the door. Killmaster seizes control and yanks it shut. The maid’s butt bounces like two NBA regulation basketballs. Killmaster’s practically panting inside my head.
Hey! Mouth-breather! Who’s in charge of this operation?
Sorry, sir. He relinquishes control of my arm. I push the door open as another sneeze threatens to escape. The maid shuffles to the left—twerk, twerk, twerk—shuffles right—twerk, twerk, twerk.
I exit the close
t and open the door to the hallway, slide through, shut it behind us. Another sneeze lets loose as I race down the corridor, and by the time I reach the elevator, I’m dizzy with adrenaline. The enormity of what’s happened crashes over me. I just zip-lined over West C in broad daylight!
Sir, says Killmaster. Your father.
A fish is thrashing on the line in my mind’s eye. I’m at the lake, way out off 86. Back when I had a dad in my life.
Dad’s there? I ask.
Silence.
My leg vibrates. I pull out my phone. There’s a text.
Caleb Montana: We need to talk, bro.
Whatever. I shove the phone back into my pocket. The elevator opens. I go inside and press the button. The doors shut.
Killmaster? Is Dad at the lake?
My breathing is thick in my ears, even thicker than the pounding of my heart or the maid’s ear cement.
Killmaster? Are you still there?
Nothing.
Am I alone? Is Killmaster really gone? Had he ever really been there? Am I imagining things?
I lean against the elevator wall. The Muzak they’re piping in is mind-numbing and driving me nuts. That is, if I’m not already crazy. I close my eyes and exhale, but the mental replay of flying over West C Street is too unnerving. My eyes snap open. No. I’m not crazy. It’s the voices in my head that are crazy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Two pools of light skim like a water strider along the dark highway. I peer into them, confident, but kind of directionless. I know this road goes somewhere. I don’t have to see past my headlights to know that. I trust it won’t take me straight off a cliff like an old Warner Brothers cartoon. I trust I’m not going to drive into a sinkhole. Why can’t my instinct about Dad be the same? Every day I trust roads with my life, and roads take me places. Maybe my instinct can take me places too.
In my dreams, Dad’s hiding in Arizona. He’s living in the desert, in a camper parked not far off the road. Just far enough to stay hidden, but not so far he’d be stuck in an emergency. I never think to ask him where he’s been or why he went away. I never ask him why he let us all think he was dead. I don’t have to. The answers just seem to be there. Everything’s operating on a kind of psychic intelligence. I know he had to cover his tracks. I know he wanted to tell Gran and me everything. And I know he misses Mom most of all.
