by David Beem
Thanks, I reply, frowning.
Not waiting for further insults, I close my eyes and block out the world. I open myself to the Collective Unconscious, and the soul-stars come down to surround me. Their light is warm and reassuring. In the psychic stratum, my soul-star lifts into the air to join with the cyclone of the dead. Hundreds of lives surround me—with billions more at the ready beyond them.
Stabbing pain lances through my chest. Too much! It’s too much!
Edger! yells Bruce Lee. No!
My lungs are heaving; my biceps, arms, and fists are shaking.
Come back, Edger!
Boo-yah! You’re dyin’! Yeah!
The soul-stars touch me. My spine flexes. My body seizes, head tilting back, arms splayed. The lives of yesterday, today, wanting—no, needing—to make a difference.
Can’t breathe!
Sensory experiences surge into me; a clay oven, soaking in my own sweat, the scent of exotic baking bread; cracked lips, aching back and knees, dry fingertips, and stinging tall grass; the iron flavor of a bear’s raw liver juices exploding in my mouth, my face slicked with blood on the day I become a man—
The lives of yesterday, though disparate and from far-flung cultures, are resolute in purpose today: No single person can have this power. Not even me. Pairing the AI with the suit and serum in the way it’s been designed to do would be cataclysmic. My access to this power is limited, but the total package is not. Tron-Tron must be stopped. I can see that now.
I open my eyes and focus on the tiny X-ray dot that is Tron-Tron inside the football player—and the cyclone lashes out. Not just the hundreds immediately surrounding me, but the billions surrounding them.
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster staggers under the assault. Through our psychic connection, the billions of lives coursing into him are brighter than the sun; Bruce Lee seizes control. I’m on Tron-Tron in an instant.
Even with Bruce Lee in charge of my physiology, I’m struggling to breathe. My fists fire like lightning strikes into the stunned football player’s chest. The beating sends the nano-processor north, into his neck. My left hand side-chops; the processor spurts up and into his skull. I spin, lean back. My heel hooks across his face. The glowing red dot ejects through a tear duct—and the Green Bay Packer crashes to the ground. Bruce Lee releases our connection. I collapse to my knees and gasp for air.
“The Kung Fury!” yells Shmuel.
“The Kung Fury!” shouts Wang.
My chest rises and falls as I spare one last glance at the fallen defensive tackle. I crane my neck and check on everyone else. Wang and Shmuel are untied. Mary tosses a tangle of twine onto the floor. She glances over and spots me. Her shoulders slouch. She smiles. Her dress is soaking wet, her hair matted to her head.
“You okay?” I ask, and she nods. Her eyes widen in the direction of the bomb, urging me to get to it.
My turn to slouch. I can barely get my breathing under control, although my heart rate is gradually slowing. Maybe just a few minutes’ rest…
The only easy day was yesterday, sir, says Killmaster.
Ticking time bomb, says Bruce Lee.
“Right,” I reply, climbing to my feet and lurching to the broken disco ball, my boots crunching glass and splashing water. I fall to my knees and skid to a halt in front of a half husk of glittering sequins and broken glass. Underneath, I find a little black box with digital numbers counting backward strapped to red sticks of dynamite.
Aren’t they always, says Bruce Lee.
Wuh-oh, says Michael Jackson.
Guess we can tick the box for the time bomb trope. Bruce, you have experience with this? I ask.
As Kato, replies Bruce Lee. But don’t worry. Indiana Tim said he knows a guy.
I sense Bruce Lee flying away inside my mind. Michael Jackson starts humming Jeopardy in falsetto.
Chapter Ninety-Three
“Yourmajesty’s out cold,” says Caleb, kneeling at the Packer’s side.
“There is no Yourmajesty,” says Wang, walking over to join him. “There is only Tron-Tron.”
“Yeah, bro,” says Caleb. “We know. Question is, how do you two know about that?”
“Dude,” says Shmuel, who has wandered over to the wall and is running his hand along the wallpaper. “Is that really your junk? Or is that like special effects and stuff?”
A whip cracks in my mind. Bruce Lee is back. He’s returned with some guy called Bubba.
Somebody say somethin’ ’bout a bomb? asks Bubba.
We exchange hellos and nice-to-meet-yous and decide it best to get down to business. I shift my weight, and broken glass crunches beneath my armored knee. I pull the plate off the back of the bomb. Inside is a mess of wires.
Red one, says Bubba, seemingly without even thinking. Cut the red one.
Red one? I ask. Just like that? Are you sure?
Yeah, it’s kind of a thing now, says Bubba. Like how, for a while, people always said “Coke” when they wanted a cola. Didn’t matter if it was Pepsi.
Buh, I reply.
Ninety-five percent of bombs end up getting wired with the red one being the critical one. It’s a “thing” that’s kind of filtered into the public consciousness. Like ordering a Coke, only for bomb makers. Picture it: Bomb makers sitting in their bomb-making shacks, usually near a river, but not necessarily, and they’re pulling all this shit together with, yep, you guessed it, critical red wires. I mean, it’s confusing for us, it’s confusing for them—so they gotta anchor it to something they’ll remember, right? Half the time, they don’t even know they’re doing it. Just like half the time people don’t even realize they’re ordering Coke, when the signage clearly says Pepsi. I mean, if they just read the goddamn sign, but they don’t, and so fuck it. This is like that.
That’s a terrible analogy, I reply. And anyway—you said ninety-five percent of the time. What about the other five percent?
How do you think I got dead?
You are so not instilling me with confidence.
Look, says Bubba. It’s nearly always the red one.
It’s nearly always the red one, says Bruce Lee, nodding sagely.
Would you just listen to the man and cut the red one already? says Michael Jackson. Those numbers are making me all hee-hee-hee inside.
“Edger,” says Mary. “Is there something wrong?”
Careful, buddy, says Bubba. A good superhero always imparts confidence. They don’t wanna get blown up.
They don’t want to get blown up?
Clock is ticking, sir, says Killmaster.
“It’s good,” I say out loud. “I’m good. Really.” I feel around on my belt, come up with the blowtorch.
Eh, says Bubba. That’ll work. Probably.
I melt the wire, careful to angle the flame away from the sticks of dynamite, and the numbers stop counting back. Audible sighs. The barometric pressure in the room goes from bad to good.
Told ya, says Bubba. Just like ordering a Coke.
Chapter Ninety-Four
“So what do we do about him?” asks Caleb, staring down at an unconscious Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
Using the heads-up display, I scan the dance floor for the nano-processor. The X-ray vision makes the process quick and efficient, not having to manually check behind or under things for a tiny computer chip.
“Well, we can’t leave him here,” says Mary. “And we’ll have to get InstaTron Tron out of him.”
I shake my head. “I already did that.”
“Dude,” says Wang.
“Dude,” agrees Shmuel.
“Then where is it?” asks Mary, her arms coming up as she takes in the area immediately around her. I shake my head.
“It’s not like looking for a contact lens. This thing is invisible to the naked eye. I had it tagged on my heads-up display when it was in him, and I saw it launch out of his tear duct—but now it’s gone. According to my suit, it’s gone.”
“Aw, naw, bro.”
“What?”
“You beat it out of him?”
“Yeah.”
Caleb drags his hands through his thick blond hair.
“What?” I ask again.
“It could be anywhere now. Once it’s a free range nano-processor, all bets are off, bro.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Mary.
“It means that thing can fly. And it’s got like, somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours to find its next host and bond with it. Chances are it flew right out of here and called an Uber.”
“Since when do you know so much about nano-technology?” I ask.
“I’m HARDON, bro.”
“Yeah, you are,” says Shmuel, grinning.
“No,” says Caleb. “High-Risk Agency for Reg—”
“High risk,” says Shmuel, still grinning and nodding.
Wang smacks his arm. “Da fuck, dude. You forgetting about all this?” Wang gestures with his hands to encompass his miniscule physique, and Shmuel grins.
“What I’m saying is,” says Caleb, ignoring them and training his gaze on me. “He could literally be anyone, bro.”
I chew my lip for a second. Then a thought hits me.
“Well, he can’t be anyone,” I say, still in my ridiculous superhero voice. “If he were anyone in this room, my suit would pick it up. I had it tagged when it was inside him.” I nod at Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “We can cross everyone in this room off the list.”
Caleb’s eyes tighten for a moment. Slowly, he nods. “In that case, bro, we can leave him for the cops. Let’s get gone.”
We exit through the kitchen, which is deserted. I pass a sink with the water still running, then double back and shut it off. Outside, Caleb gets Wang and Shmuel loaded into the rear of his Jeep. Mary has crossed to the other end of the alley and is standing with her back to me, arms folded. The hum of passing cars and foot traffic and the normalcy of San Diego nightlife is jarring and otherworldly after all that’s happened in Underwearld. Mary turns, her eyes find me, and she jerks her head to the side, signaling for me to join her. Caleb gives us the hurry-up look. To Mary, I raise my index finger for her to give us a second, then hustle over to Caleb. My boots scuff on the gritty asphalt.
“S’up?” asks Caleb. “You comin’ back with us? To Fortress?”
“Fortress? What’s that?”
“The Q, bro.”
I shake my head. “What’re you talking about?”
“Our secret base, bro. Fortress. Underneath the Q.”
“Caleb, are you telling me you have a secret spy base underneath Qualcomm Stadium called Fortress?”
He flips his palms up and shrugs like this should be obvious and only stupid people wouldn’t be following. And here’s me thinking my little adventure had already checked off all the tropes. I sigh. “Maybe later.”
“Yeah, okay.” Caleb nods and folds his arms. “Well, good job in there. You make a good Zarathustra.”
Abruptly, someone uses the horn in an obnoxious, protracted sonic assault. Being right next to the hood, the experience is comparable to standing inside the foghorn of the Hellespont Alhambra supertanker entering the Port of San Diego. Caleb and I nearly fall over, and then the aural incursion is finished.
“Jesus Christ, bro!” Caleb glares at Wang, who is in the passenger seat, peering into his cell phone and deploying his Resting Dick Face.
“Sorry,” says Wang, not looking up, and not sounding sorry. “We need to swing by a Burrito Planet on the way back. I’m starving.”
Caleb mouths wow, sticks his finger in his ear, and shakes it. I jut my jaw forward in an effort to reverse the brain discharge settling like battery acid in my skull. When the ringing in my ears falls from an excruciating level 11, Apocalypse Now, to a mildly agonizing level 6, Apocalypse Later, I pick up the conversation.
“Look, Caleb. It’s obvious to me now that all that crap back at Notre Dame, you stealing that stuff from the chem lab, I know it must’ve been this. The Zarathustra program. Your…er…spy…hard-on.”
“Yeah, bro. Yeah.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, wanting to leave it there. He still made out with Kate. That hard-on had been recreational. “Just wanted to say thanks,” I say. “Thanks for having my back. Bro.”
Caleb’s forehead creases like he’s not sure he heard me correctly, then he breaks into a full-power Caleb Montana smile that lights up the whole alley.
He raises his hand for a high five. “What’re bros for, bro?”
We high-five, and he grabs my hand and does his ridiculous bro-shake thing, finishing with the wink, double-barreled finger guns, and dancing pectorals.
“I’ve got your back, bro.”
“You’ve got my back, bro,” I repeat and, since I’m still in my suit, it comes out like Ghostface from Scream.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer before crossing to meet Mary, who’s waiting on a darkened doorstep under an awning advertising a yoga business.
“Come on, bro,” she says, grabbing my upper arm and mimicking Caleb’s stupid handshake. “Come back with us to Fortress, bro.”
“Wait—you and Caleb have been working together the whole time?”
“Well, yeah.” Mary balls up her fist and pushes it gently across my chin, moving my head to the right in a pretend punch. “G-spots and hard-ons and all that.” She smiles. “Come with us. We’ve got to debrief you, for one thing. And… I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Wow,” I reply, as the sudden and violent resurgence of the butterflies attack the inside of my stomach. Mary peers into my visor and, not being able to find my eyes, frowns. For once, I’m good and protected from her scrutiny. “I got some things I have to do first.”
Her eyebrows lower in apparent frustration, and faint police sirens grow less faint. She casts a glance over her shoulder. Caleb’s ready to go, one foot in the driver’s side and one foot out.
“C’mon, Mare,” he says. “I’m not doin’ autographs tonight.”
“Autographs?” I ask.
Mary shakes her head. “Long story. Look, I know a lot’s happened. When you’re ready, call me.”
I nod, but when she turns to go, I grab her arm. She turns back to face me, her eyes round and lips parted.
“What’s going to happen to Wang and Shmuel?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes and sighs.
“Sorry,” I say. “I mean…you’re right. A lot’s happened. But what happens to them? They know about Zarathustra. And they can identify you and Caleb as spies.”
“Well, for starters, they’ll get sworn in.”
“Sworn in? You’re not making them spies?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she says. “God no. No. They’ll have to sign papers agreeing not to talk about what they saw here. If they do, they can be prosecuted.”
I expel a whistle, which sounds ridiculous through the voice-changer on my supersuit, reminding me I need to take it off before exiting the alley. I step around Mary to huddle farther beneath the awning, it being secluded enough to pull the switcheroo to Clark Kent. Mary follows me over. I remove the ring, and we wait as the suit slimes its way back into the ring. The nighttime air is cool on my skin.
“I’ll never get used to that,” she says, her pretty blue eyes going wide.
She takes my hands and gives them a squeeze. Her gaze is earnest and sympathetic. She leans in and kisses my cheek. Her hair is as fragrant as ever, the lavender mixed more heavily today with the scent of her perspiration. I put my hand on her waist. She’s cold and wet. I breathe her in. She pulls out slowly, licks her lips. Her gaze flits up to meet mine. We say nothing, but the wordlessness holds lots of important and mysterious and exciting and necessary future conversations. Ones that I want to have now, but now is goodbye, and Mary’s in the Jeep, and it’s pulling away, and I’m walking up the street feeling like Jason Bourne as four cop cars race by in the opposite direction.
Chapter Ninety-Five
From downtown, a cab ride to Fabio’s is about
twenty minutes. I give the driver the address, and he pulls away from the curb. The shakes set in immediately. Followed by sweat. I’ve already made my decision. I don’t know when I made it, but it’s been made. This is just follow-through. I have no idea what I’m going to say, nor how I’m going to say it. While I’m not above lying, I’ve always been more of a lie-by-omission sort of person. That’s a different wheelhouse than yarn-spinning. If I straight-up lie to Fabio, he’s going to know. Besides, he deserves more than that.
Back at Notre Dame, when I got in trouble—Fabio was the first person I called. When I told him how I’d taken the blame for something I hadn’t done, he didn’t yell at me. He didn’t tell me I was an idiot. He just asked how we were going to play it with Gran, and whether I’d need a place to stay until I figured everything out. As friends go, he’s as good as they come. He’s stood by me through thick and thin. His heart is true. This is why, if I am going to fake my death, walk out on Gran like Dad did, Fabio needs to know. If I really am going to become the world’s first superhero, I’ll need my best friend.
I pay the driver, forking over the last of my dough on the tip. The cab pulls away so quickly his back tires kick up dust in my face. I cough, wave it away, and turn to face The Palace.
I head up the path to the courtyard, watch my feet go up and down. All I can think of is the look on Gran’s face when she gets the news. The look in her eyes. Am I really making the right decision?
When I get to Fabio’s unit, I find the light on. I raise my hand to knock. Feet scuff behind me, stopping me mid-swing. I turn around. Fabio’s holding an opened package of double-A batteries and looking at me like I just burned his entire collection of Madmartigan posters.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says.
“Sorry,” I reply, keeping steady eye contact. “I’m okay now. It got a little hairy there for a bit.”
Swallow, wait.
Fabio makes an exaggerated eye roll, then pushes past me and sticks his key in the door. He goes inside, but leaves the door open.
