by David Beem
Judas Christian goes to church every Sunday without exception, unless the exception is to claim he is in any way religious. One could say he is a practicing Christian in the way so many other white-collar criminals with crushing cocaine habits are practicing Christians; he simply needed more practice.
As owner of the Mission Gorge Cluck-n-Pray franchise, Judas Christian doesn’t typically do much work. On this day, he is out in the hot, midafternoon sun because of a promise: deliver the cow, and the felony charges he’s facing will be dropped. Deliver the cow, Nostradamus Ed had said, and Judas can go back to his regularly scheduled life of cocaine, chicken, and God. Though not always in that order.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Careful, now!” yells Judas. “I’m not out here sweating my butt off so you guys can damage the goods.”
Blake and Sheldon pause to scrub the sweat out of their eyes. Sheldon drops the lasso completely and goes so far as to rest against the inside of the trailer wall.
“What’re you doing?” snaps Judas. “Did I say you could rest?”
“You said don’t damage the merchandise.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s break time! That cow is coming out of that trailer one way or another.”
Sheldon straightens and takes up the rope again. He and Blake share a wary glance before resuming the arduous job of attempting to wrangle a seven-hundred-pound adult female Dexter cow that doesn’t want to be wrangled. Judas frowns. Blake and Sheldon had been a mistake from day one. These two had probably never done an honest day’s work in their lives before coming to the Mission Gorge Cluck-n-Pray. Spoiled rich teenagers do not the finest employees make. The finest employees, as every fast-food employer understands, are destitute adults clinging to the prehistoric notion that work in the fast-food industry will one day earn them magic economic mobility wings. Like a fairy.
Blake grunts. “Remind me, uhrn, sir, why we’re—agh—doing this, ughn, again?”
Judas rolls his eyes. “It’s simple economics. Mascots mean money! Look at Buffalo Wild Wings. Last year, no Buffalo. The year before that? Buffalo. Wanna guess which year they raked bank?”
“Ern—the year…uhn, with the—blerg—the buffalo?” says Blake.
“That’s right!” says Judas. He scrubs his index finger into an itch beneath his nose and sniffs. “And the year Taco Bell showed up with the dancing Chihuahua in a pink skirt. Wanna take a guess at how much they made that year?”
“Bhrn…erg-uhn,” says Blake.
“That’s right,” Judas replies. “A lot.”
Sheldon pauses to wipe the sweat out of his face again.
“Hey-hey.” Judas flaps his hand at his subordinates to keep them busy. “Do you see me taking a break? Am I gonna have to tell your dad about your mom and the tennis instructor?”
Sheldon frowns, shaking his head. “No, sir.” His grip tightens on the rope. His knuckles go white. Judas, noticing a tree is casting shade one foot to his right, sidesteps to his right by one foot. The temperature drops by five degrees. Judas sighs. “And the year Happy Cock showed up with a rooster,” he says.
Sheldon lets go of the rope and turns to face Judas. Blake, who no longer has help, crashes to the floor.
“Dude!” yells Blake.
“And don’t forget the year Porky’s showed up with the pig, sir,” says Sheldon, his voice cracking. “That was great.”
“Hey-hey-hey.” Judas snaps his fingers. “How ’bout you leave the economics to me? Unless you think you’re a business genius all of a sudden? Maybe you think you’re a business genius all of a sudden? No? Then how about I let you do your job and you let me do my job? Okay? That okay with you, Team Member Sheldon? Team Member Blake?”
“Yes, sir,” answers Blake, standing and rubbing his butt.
“Yes, sir,” echoes Sheldon, again gathering the rope.
The two teens reluctantly resume their lasso tug-of-war. Judas’s fingertips begin drumming a rhythm on his chest. Something fast to pass the time. He pauses to glance at his watch. Twenty-four hours left until the handoff. After that, bye-bye drug possession charges. His fingers resume their rock-n-roll.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In the Zarathustra suit, back in the medical suite. There are no technicians. This time, it’s just me, Mikey, and Mary. This time, as Mikey has repeatedly drilled into me, we’re above top secret.
“The suit will regulate the end of the session,” says Mikey. “But, Edger, you have to be careful when and where you have these encounters in the Collective Unconscious. Once you activate the suit’s sleep timer, you’ll be completely vulnerable to the outside world. You’ll have no awareness of what’s going on around you. You’ll be unconscious, after all. Do you understand?”
“Kind of,” I reply, distracted again by the voice changer in my suit. “I mean—sure, I shouldn’t do it when bad guys are around because I’ll be unconscious. That much, I get. But I don’t get why I can’t just ask Bruce Lee a question—”
“Edger.” Mikey jabs his finger into my pec. His gaze flits from me to Mary and back. His eyes narrow. “We talked about this.”
Mary’s eyebrows lower. “Bruce Lee?”
“It’s nothing,” Mikey answers. But Mary’s gaze drills into me, through the lenses of my helmet and heads-up display, and right into the back of my skull.
“What about Bruce Lee?” she demands.
“I said it’s nothing, Mary,” says Mikey.
“You seemed awfully Bruce Lee-like on the mat there for a while,” she says.
“Hey.” Mikey faces Mary, his chin jutting out. “Go get me a protein shake.”
Her head jerks back. Her eyes scan his. Then her features relax. She lowers her chin ever so slightly. “Of course.” She takes a few backward steps, turns on one heel, and strides from the room. When she’s gone, Mikey rounds on me.
“You’ve got to be more careful.”
“Why? We’re all on the same side here, right? You just revoked Mary’s security clearance over a stupid question?”
Mikey licks his lips. “It’s not a question of sides. It’s a question of how intelligence is managed. The fewer people who know about a thing, the better. You’ve got to watch your mouth.”
His eyes search mine—or try to. His forehead tightens from what I imagine must be the frustration of trying to read me through the glowing slits-for-eyes on my mask.
“Well, are you going to answer me, then?” I ask.
He frowns. “Answer what?”
“Why do I have to use this knockout feature in the suit at all when I can just ask Bruce Lee—”
“I told you,” Mikey snaps. “There’s no Bruce Lee. That’s not how this works. Sometimes I wonder if you listen. Now. Can we do this?”
I raise my hands in surrender. Mikey gives a curt nod and takes a backward step. Using the suit’s retinal scanner, I activate the “sleep” prompt through the heads-up display. Soul-stars form at the periphery of my vision and rush to the center, stealing me from this world, and ushering me into the one beyond.
Chapter Thirty
A giant sea turtle is minding his business on the Tree of Life. Other creatures are bustling about like holiday shoppers by comparison. A beaver swims past, clutching in its mouth a thicket of branches. A bulging-cheeked squirrel hops atop the turtle’s back. The turtle’s eyes roll left and right. He pulls his extremities into his shell.
Bruce Lee materializes at my side. He’s in his white suit again, and though neither of us has spoken, I can sense he already knows why I’m here and what I need him to do. He closes his eyes, and I copy him. The bright world grows oversaturated in my mind’s eye. Blinding soul-stars concentrate around us. The world is featureless and warm. My stomach lurches like we’re plummeting into the atmosphere at maximum velocity. My chest is tight. Bruce Lee sends reassurances through our shared telepathic connection. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I know a guy who will help us.”
I focus on his telepathic sense, as that’s preferable to the disl
ocated physical sensation, and through the Collective Unconscious, I manage to glean a few details from his mind.
We’re searching for a guy named Tim, who hailed from Philly. Back when he was, you know, alive. I gather Tim from Philly is still grateful to Bruce Lee on account of his help with “a thing” that happened “that one time” to “a guy” in “that one place.” Tim from Philly, who is specifically short on specifics, has expressed his gratitude and declared his intentions to “repay” Bruce Lee, by introducing us to his neighbor, Bill, who has an uncle named Joe, who has a sister who used to live across the street from a guy named “Pickles” Penility, who had a neighbor named Tim.
This Tim is from South Bend, Indiana.
“What?” says Tim from Philly, his shoulders going up and down like piston rods as Bruce Lee and I touch down in front of him on something that feels like solid ground. “Dares more den two guys named Tim in the Collective Unconscious. Fuggetaboutit!”
And since this makes sense, I fuggetaboutit, pondering instead, for obvious reasons, why we couldn’t have had the good fortune of searching the Collective Unconscious for a guy named “Pickles” Penility.
“See,” Tim from Philly leans closer to whisper into my ear. “Dat’s where you’re wrong. Penility, as his name would thus imply, is a dick.”
“You can hear what I’m thinking also?”
Tim from Philly gives me the side eye and turns to face Bruce Lee.
“Thank you, Tim,” says Bruce Lee. “I can take it from here.”
“’ey,” says Tim from Philly, whacking Bruce Lee on the shoulder. “Yooz ever needs nuttin’—yooz call me.”
Bruce Lee nods, and Tim from Philly vanishes, leaving behind a thick aroma of grilled roast beef and onions.
“This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had.”
“I told you, Edge. You’re not dreaming.”
“I know, I know. But it’s like I’m dreaming,” I say, abandoning the conversation in favor of taking in the obvious reason we’ve come here.
We’re standing in front of a glittering, building-sized brain surrounded by pointing neon arrows with the letters spelling out in all caps, “THIS IS THE PLACE!!” and, “LOOK NO FURTHER!!” and, “HEY YOU!! OVER HERE!!” in not-so-subtly flashing reds and greens, purples, pinks, and yellows, and otherwise looking like the Spirit of Christmas just barfed all over its most horrid Christmas sweater.
“What do you think?” asks Bruce Lee.
I shrug. “A brain-themed bar in the color of Christmas vomit. What will they think of next?”
Bruce Lee gives me a tight smile. “Given their connection to the Collective Unconscious, all ideas are already present. There’s literally nothing to think of next.”
I take in the tastelessness again and frown. “Hence Christmas vomit?”
“Hence Christmas vomit.”
We head inside.
Swim-up bars, barbecued pigs turning on spits, women in elaborate feather turbans and eye-popping bikinis, gyrating their bodies in a way that cannot decently nor directly be observed. The place is endless. There’s a stage, and Barry Manilow is up there singing “Copacabana.” He’s a young man, in his twenties. His band is clad in bright yellows and oranges and ruffles. Above us is an open atrium and starlight, the constellation of souls.
“Barry Manilow,” I say. “I thought he was still alive.”
“This place is in his subconscious mind,” replies Bruce Lee. “Dead or alive makes no difference here.”
“Huh. Knew that guy was weird. So what is this place?” I ask.
“Club Brain,” Bruce Lee replies.
We cut around a brain-shaped pool to find Indiana Tim on the far side in the water chatting up some young lady half his age. Indiana Tim is tan, pot-bellied, and wearing black speedos, a gold chain, and Ray-Bans.
“Ah, Edger!” He excuses himself from the young lady and climbs out of the pool. “Your father was the most brilliant neurologist I ever met.”
We shake hands.
“You knew my dad?” I ask, before quickly changing directions. “Wait—is he…is he here?”
Bruce Lee and Indiana Tim exchange wary glances.
“Edge,” says Bruce Lee. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Your father isn’t here. He’s in your world. Your father is alive.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The pain in my chest is cold like a hole in the space-time continuum. If I could just crawl inside, maybe I could fall into a warmer parallel timeline. Everything would be okay then. I could’ve known him. Lived a life with him. Or even just glimpsed the sight of him. That would’ve been enough. In the library at Notre Dame. In the stacks, maybe, with him watching me from behind a book. Anything is better than this. Because this is halfway, and death isn’t supposed to be halfway. A person dies. You mourn and then you move on. Death is supposed to be final. It’s kind of the whole point. Because, if you think about it, you never see anybody get up from a plane crash and moonwalk to baggage claim.
“But he never died, Edge,” says Bruce Lee.
“He’s been on the run,” says Indiana Tim. “See for yourself.”
Indiana Tim waves his hand, and the constellation of souls comes down from the sky. It swirls around us in a snow globe-like torrent. The light is cool on my skin. My head spins in a quick euphoric spell. When the soul-stars return to the sky, our positions have changed. We’re standing on a balcony overlooking a dark beach lit by a single bonfire.
“Down there.” Indiana Tim points.
I’m enveloped again in the swarm of soul-lights. Their fluttering lights are a cool breeze on a hot night, raising my hair and blowing on my skin. I’m tipped backward. My arms are outstretched. I’m lying flat. The stars above slowly reorient. I float down, down. The pulsing ocean builds in my ears. The air becomes cooler. The soul-stars thin out and disperse. Cold sand works between my toes. The lone figure silhouetted by the bonfire is less than twenty yards away. His back is to me. He’s dressed in Bermuda shorts, a short-sleeved linen shirt—and, for some reason, flippers. The night is still. Embers rise and twist and fade into the deep blue sky.
I’m sick with hope. I’m sick with anger. Sick with love. I’m sick from the emotional infection because the stitches tore before mending. So this is why Dad never left a body to bury.
“Is it him?” I whisper, my throat hoarse.
The man at the bonfire reacts; his head tilts a fraction at the sound of my voice. He fades away, and I’m alone on the beach.
“That was him,” says Bruce Lee, who has materialized by my side.
“Could he…he could actually hear me?”
Bruce Lee cranes his neck to see around me, where Indiana Tim has just materialized on my other side.
“Possibly,” says Indiana Tim. “Your father is quite clever.”
“I have so many questions. Where’s he been? Why did he let Gran and me think he was dead? Why hasn’t he contacted us?”
“It’s a long story. The nano-neuro medicine in your body was designed to work in tandem with the artificial intelligence known as InstaTron Tron. Which, as you know—”
“I know, I know,” I say, impatient to get the story on Dad. “Without Tron-Tron, I only have ninety-six hours to live.”
“No,” says Indiana Tim, his eyebrows raised. “That’s not right.”
“Not right? Which part?”
“You can live, Edger. That’s a simple matter of taking your booster shot.”
“What!?”
“Oh, yes,” says Indiana Tim. “Your father made a booster shot, which will repair the damage to the cells caused by accessing the Collective Unconscious, and permanently stabilize them, allowing for unlimited usage of this miraculous power. Isn’t it wonderful? Although it is accurate to say the artificial intelligence will slow down the rapid cell death, what I was starting to say before is that InstaTron Tron was developed to achieve species-wide omniscience. Without it, it’s impossible for you to interact with the Collective Unconscious i
n the way we do. Us dead guys are always in each other’s heads. We have no need of ‘finding’ anyone, because everyone’s already present and available. But you—you’ll have to navigate the Collective Unconscious the old-fashioned way.”
“The old-fashioned way.”
“You know,” says Indiana Tim. “A guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. Like the way you found Club Brain. Tim from Philly knew Bill, who knew Joe, who knew Pickles, who knew me.”
“But when I’m awake, the supersuit can do this for me?”
“Exactly.” Indiana Tim brightens, then, addressing Bruce Lee, adds, “Sharp kid. Like his father. All you have to do is use the focus target labeled Collective, and the suit’s processors will track down someone who can help from over 108 billion possibilities. But once you have InstaTron Tron installed, you’ll achieve species-wide omniscience. Like us. Only you’ll be alive.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “That’s cool and everything, but, go back. There’s really a booster? I don’t have to die? Are you sure? Mikey never said anything about a booster.”
Indiana Tim frowns. “You must be mistaken. I can’t imagine something like that slipped his mind. Ha! Slipped his mind! I love expressions like that now.”
Indiana Tim smiles, his face becoming somewhat transparent. In fact, the entire world is becoming…pale. The deep blue sky is now light gray. The sand between my toes has gone from cold to room temperature.
“What’s happening?” I ask, alarmed.
“You are leaving the Collective Unconscious,” says Bruce Lee.
“Shit!” I exclaim. “They set a timer on the suit. Hey—real quick—where’s InstaTron Tron?”
Bruce Lee frowns. “Listen to me very carefully. It isn’t in a human host. It isn’t in the Collective Unconscious at all. Do you understand?”
But before I can reply, the world falls away.
Chapter Thirty-Two