by Ben Bequer
Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea.
The exploding plasma cell would do what Brutal’s demise couldn’t. In one split second, I’d go and what would land would be a few pounds of ashen flesh to mark my entire travail. Epic and Lord Mighty hadn’t beaten me, not even Apogee the two times we fought, nor had Dr. Zundergrub with all his evil intent. I’d found a way to survive being buried alive, and I’d made a particle accelerator out of scrap in another world. But now a plasma induction coil was going to burn me to a cinder. Superdynamic had estimated my temperature at almost 200 degrees Fahrenheit when I bored through the ground when Castle Black fell. Well, this would easily be a hundred times that much, more than even I could bear.
Yeah, that would be fine. I’d feel the burning pain as the device backfired, but it would fade only seconds later when the plasma ejected and lit me up. I turned back downwards, my fingers ready on the device and I saw I was nearing the small town, a meteor about to flame out forever. I caught a bit of movement to my side, a small plane maneuvering below me, and figured I was below ten thousand feet. My impact was less than thirty seconds away. Other planes flew around me, small Cessnas and Citations, including one two-engine job that was close enough to visually spot my massive flameout. I wondered if he’d report a UFO sighting, giggling on the inside that even in the end, I was going to muck things up.
But beyond the two engine plane, a missile was racing toward me. They were going to shoot me down? What thankless motherfuckers! After everything I had done, all I had-
Wait…it wasn’t a missile. Missiles didn’t pause in midair before changing directions. It left a contrail like one, though. It was a missile, it had to be. The fuckers were making sure I wouldn’t hurt anyone on the surface.
There, farther away, was another. And another.
One was faster than the others, leaving behind a gleaming blue trail. It paused in mid-air, seeming to notice me and raced closer. As it neared, I finally saw that it wasn’t a missile. It was a person.
It was FTL.
He changed his vector to intercept my fall, and while I waited, I saw the others. Superdynamic soared ahead of the pack, Pummel struggling to keep with him, and there were others all around me, dozens of them.
They were coming to save me.
Epilogue
If I made it through having my bones pulverized and my internal organs turned to mush, then I was going to make it through a bright light and a bit of fire. Well, it was actually third degree burns all over my body, including my lungs, my eyeball, even the insides of my ears. I survived the birthing of a mini-star, and later I would find out that Brutal’s grand finale lit the sky for three hours, changing weather patterns as far as Argentina. Airlines rerouted their flights to avoid the maelstrom and there were actual casualties, with five dead when a DC-3 out of Bermuda fell out of the sky killing everyone aboard. It’s a pity, because they were missionaries of some sort, headed to South America with a cargo hold full of donated clothes and canned goods.
At least they pinned that on Brutal and not me.
They took me back to the tower, and the medical lab, where Superdynamic devised a solid-light hyperbaric chamber to help me heal faster. Mirage was on the scene, and rushed over to me in the initial moments after the explosion. He tended to me, still smug. I wanted to tell him that I had proven Nietzsche right, but the burns in my lips and mouth kept me from talking.
I saw a picture someone took of me in the aftermath, some guy with a smartphone who put it on his Twitter account. I was like a charred piece of meat, well done but somehow still alive. I recall the pain of having my raw skin exposed to the elements, but I remember little else of my landing and the immediate moments afterwards.
She came to me, speaking through her tears despite the fact that my ear-ducts were a charnel of cooked flesh. My eyes were also burned, but I could feel her touch. She took my right hand and held it until Superdynamic brought over the Cicada and they settled me in the back of the plane.
I’ve healed nicely; still bald but with bunch of patchy stubble marring my scalp and Superdynamic tells me that Moe is working on writing a letter to the President, demanding a pardon in my name.
Even Epic checked up on me, talking briefly to the doctors and getting a report of my status. I was locked inside the hyperbaric chamber, but we shared a smile before he left. It was a nice feeling to take that chip off my shoulder and toss it away.
In addition to working on the letter (“I’m going through drafts, dog”), Moe occasionally came by the lab with a chess set and played with me, talking about his business ventures, and trying to help me with mine. He livened up the medical lab whenever he was there, and all the nurses and doctors loved him.
I got in touch with Bubu, who almost wept when he saw what I looked like. We talked a little about our new business, which he was already starting up with the help of Sebas and a few dozen others. He was already fighting off investors wanting a piece of the tech, but it was too early. We needed to incorporate and create a corporate structure. He and Annit were handling everything, and for now, I was the only investor we would need. I promised to visit him in the U.K. once I got better.
Ruby kept a close eye on me, as my head doctor, and was fond of saying, “You’re the profession in business,” when she was checking on me. I got to see Templar and Focus and Ricochet, and even Mirage stopped from time to time, though he usually only spoke to Ruby or Apogee about my status.
Jason came to see me once before taking his family back to Connecticut. Just him, the wife and kids he left back in the U.S.. It was a good thing. I didn’t want them meeting me like that. We barely spoke; he touched the glass of my hyperbaric chamber, silent tears running down his cheeks. I added mine to his, and I thought this was his final goodbye, but before he left, I saw him scribbling on a slip of paper. He held it up for me to see, and written in his precise, boxy print was an address and a phone number. He flipped the paper over, revealing a photograph of his family, dogs included. Tears still carved wet streaks down his face, but he smiled as he taped it to the glass, giving me a view of my family.
Apogee rarely left my side those days as I recovered. “The world can fix itself,” she said, the only time Superdynamic asked if she would accompany Battle on a mission.
One day, once I was recovered enough that I could see, and eat, and do most of the rest of the things people do, she strolled into my room with a pair of metal trays from the chow hall. Dangling from her wrist was a plastic bag, and with her was a tech rolling a cart with a huge widescreen TV – maybe 60 inches wide.
“Right there, please,” she told the tech, and brought one of the trays into the feeding slot of my solid-light chamber. She slid it in and turned back to the door as another pair of techs brought in a king-sized mattress. What interested me the most was her clothing. She was wearing a long cotton robe, wrapped tight against her waist.
The first tech plugged in the TV to power and connected a Blu-ray DVD player, while his two buddies placed the bed on the floor beside the chamber, then lay several pillows at the head and a thick, snuggly duvet atop the thing. Apogee directed the whole thing, making sure it was to her liking.
“What do you think?” she said, pointing at the tray of food. I lifted the lid revealing a huge folded omelet. “Peppers, onions, feta cheese and avocado, as per your request. Mine’s got sausage, peppers, onions and bacon.”
“Nice,” I said, reaching for the fork and knife.
The techs finished and Apogee waved them all out. Once gone, she lowered the lights and took off her robe. I was expecting lingerie or nothing at all, but instead she wore panties and a t-shirt that only reached her midriff. It was a black shirt, with me on the front. Something you’d get at a cheapie tourist store, but the similarity was surprising. I was flexing, and above my figure was my name in a brick-like font. Below me was the word, “Badass.”
“Blackjack Badass,” she said, coming to the bed and slipping under the duvet. She sat up and placed h
er tray on her lap, revealing her omelet. Before eating, though, she used the DVD controller to fast forward to the start the movie.
“You made this,” I said, taking a huge bite of my food. “It’s amazing!”
“Oh, didn’t you know? I’m also a gourmet chef. I have all kinds of interesting qualities,” she said with a playful smile.
“So what’s on tap for tonight?” I asked as the screen went dark and the credits began.
She took a bite of food, and with a full mouth, said, “A Disney classic. Beauty and the Beast.”
Blackjack Dead or Alive
Acknowledgements
First of all, thank you. Thanks for taking another chance on me and for continuing to read this series. It’s because of you that I’ve made it to the end of this difficult ordeal. I couldn’t bear to disappoint.
I have to admit I had a hard time writing this book. I wrote a third of a book, then had second thoughts, then got side tracked (three times), then came back and decided to write from scratch. As a result, the book is a year and a half late – two and a half total years of no Blackjack. I also thank you for being patient with me while I worked out the kinks. I think the end result is worthy of the wait and of our effort.
Villain and Wayward have led to this, the “comeback” of sorts for our favorite ruffian, Blackjack. I’ve wanted to show the journey in its fullest, never fast-forwarding past a difficult part of his life, in order to make the destination worth it. In all ways, Blackjack is an unconventional character and his books are no different. We spend time on the things other people gloss over, and always try to bring a shred of realism to our world. I also relish the chance to add complications and see where things end up.
Other people to thank; Mom & Pop; Len Pimentel, Sam Khan and Edgardo Velarde; my amazing mother-in-law (Yeah, I found a good one); and of course my lovely wife, Jules and my awesome kiddo, Gaby. These folks in one way or another made sure that I didn’t lose my mind in the craziness that followed Wayward.
In particular, I want to thank my writing partner, Joshua Hoade. He’s been with me since the beginning (and he’s the “original” Blackjack), but you’ll notice his name on the cover for the first time. It’s no mistake on my part. Josh came on this time as a co-writer, helping me plot (the mess) and keeping me focused on the task at hand. He’s also a writer on this project, so if the language sounds a little cleaner (not Ben-dunsky so much), then it’s all thanks to him. I’m indebted to him for all his hard work and his unending dedication to the project. This book is as much his as it is mine, and moving forward, I doubt I’ll ever do it different.
As far as Blackjack himself, it might seem as if he’s come full circle this book. It starts with a fall and ends with another, but that’s not a metaphor for anything – things fall when their self-made plasma powered rocket boots are damaged beyond repair after doing battle with an Akira-esque psychokinetic godlike being. Right? What we wanted to do with this book is the next step, as always. Some of the complaints of book 2 mentioned that it started exactly where 1 left off – well, that was the point, and it’s the same case here. We’re trying to write the story of Blackjack, beginning to end, and I personally, don’t want to miss a thing (now I have that song in my head). In this book, Blackjack’s taken a major step forward, though. Given the option of hiding away in a time of great turmoil, he chooses to stand and fight, a form of selflessness that he’s only shown in small spurts. I mean, faced with the end of the world because the guy that hired you switches the effect of a Telluric wave and tries to scorch the Earth, I think most of us would try to stop him. That one’s easy. But what Blackjack does in this book is turn the corner, take a stand.
Moving forward, things look good for Blackjack, don’t they? He’s saved the life of his nemesis (the Senator), ended the threat of Haha (temporarily), proven himself worthy to much of the superhero community and finally earned the affections of the woman he loves. But the future is filled with doubt, and enemies abound. Haha is still out there, isn’t he? How will the emotionless A.I. react to Blackjack’s benevolence? The Senator isn’t going to change his mind in a day, now is he? After all, our boy killed his son. The world is still plagued by the villains Dr. Zundergrub released from Utopia prison, with quite a few powerful ones running around – some might not like the idea of Blackjack switching sides.
So the world will keep spinning, heroes and villains will keep warring, and Blackjack will return.
A brief excerpt from Blackjack Messiah:
“So?” I asked, nonplussed at the almost five minute silence between me and the guy they had sent to be my psychologist.
He was a young guy, maybe in his late twenties, and I already didn’t like him. We sat in an office that wasn’t his, but instead belonged to some mid-level administrator of the rehab facility where I was trying to put back together my fractured body. The psych’s name was Jimmy Doyle, which made me dislike him even more. How could I trust all my life’s problems to a dude called Jimmy? But what was bothering me more than anything else, was how he was ignoring me, scrolling through his email on his Macbook, which he had plopped atop the administrator’s desk.
“What?” he asked, his reaction was almost as if a reminder that I was still in the room.
“We going to start or what?”
Jimmy smiled, “Yeah, just looking at a link my kid put on Facebook. Seven years old and she’s already sending me pictures of funny internet cats.”
He swiveled his laptop to show me an animated gif of a tiny kitten raising his paws up high over his head as he sat on a couch on his back. The cat would then lower his paws to cover his face, as if it was playing peek-a-boo, then repeat the whole thing all over again interminably.
“This kind of stuff just gets me,” he said. “So yeah, let’s get cooking. How are you feeling? How’s the rehab coming along?”
I shrugged, trying to set aside my growing anger for this guy, his stupid kid and the fucking lolcat.
“I’m way behind,” I said, and his expression changed. He shifted back in the unfamiliar chair and cocked his head slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“Huh?”
“About the rehab,” he explained. “What do you mean you’re behind.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m behind schedule. Where I should be, I mean.”
He shook his head, “Who’s schedule?”
I looked around, making sure he wasn’t fucking with me. “My schedule of course.”
Jimmy leaned forward, as if to go back on the laptop, but he just shut it closed.
“So you’re a physical therapist?”
I could feel my jaw clenching tight.
“Well, are you?”
“No,” I said.
“No you aren’t. So what’s this about ‘your schedule’, huh? How do you know how long it should take or how long it shouldn’t take?”
He smiled, satisfied at his little turn of phrase.
“I want it to go faster,” I said.
“Of course you do,” Jimmy said, picking at the hem of his leather jacket. “Shit, I wish I could fly, but I can’t.”
I could build you some rocket boots, I was about to say. So you can fly yourself to hell, I wanted to add.
“Stop worrying about how fast or slow things are going,” he went on. “I was reading that they invented all new technology to redo your bones. Is that right?”
I nodded.
“They replaced stuff with a laser or something, right?”
“It’s a three-stage process,” I said.
“Right, right. And it all happens at once, right?”
I didn’t want to go into it, but he seemed to be cozying up, being less of a prick, so I figured I’d info-dump on him.
“It uses an MRI as a guidance tool, mapping your whole bone structure, then a laser pass removes the bone structures while leaving the marrow.”
“That’s right. The laser zaps it. I got it backwards.”
“Yeah,” I said. “
A split second after the bone is vaporized, a nanite injection 3d printer replaces the lost bone material with origami folded stem-cells programmed to reform themselves into bone structures.”
“Origami? I didn’t read that part,” he said. “Well, it sounds pretty cool. I get in good with you, you can hook me up with that procedure? I still have hopes of making the NBA, despite being 5’9”. Can they make your legs longer or something?”
I shrugged, “I don’t know.”
Jimmy leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk, “I’m kidding, of course. I know that without the procedure, you probably would have died.”
I nodded.
“So why are you in such a hurry?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, you almost died. They had to replace more than half your bones, if I’m not mistaken. Then you had – if I read the file right – third degree burns over 100% of your body.” He paused, looking at me and raising an eyebrow. I had healed from those injuries in a way no normal man could. “So you almost die on two separate occasions and you’re in a hurry? What are you in a hurry to do?”
“Well, my friends need help.”
He cocked his head again and leaned back.
“There’s a lot of crazy stuff going on out there,” I said, alluding to the thousand or so villains that had escaped Utopia and were still at large. It was in the papers every day, some atrocity committed in some remote part of the world, or a villain getting revenge on the family of the hero that had originally put them away.
The world was under siege, and I was sitting on the shelf.
“You know what’s out there,” I said. “I don’t think I have to remind you.”
