by David Beem
My gaze wanders urgently around the room, searching for anything to look at but the pretty doctor.
“Oh, grow up,” she says, standing and gathering her laptop beneath her arm.
“Sorry,” I say. “But how are you here? I mean, you’re a spy…who works in a hospital…on the side?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She rolls her eyes. “Clearly I’m here undercover, just for you, just for today.”
“Clearly,” I reply. “Hey, wait a minute. Did you say my booster is doing everything it’s supposed to?”
She nods, and the knot in my stomach, constant since that first meeting with Mikey, eases, but I’m afraid I’ve misunderstood. I close my eyes, concentrate, my conscious mind carefully tracking down the missing pieces from my dream that wasn’t a dream.
“Gran and Shep,” I say, opening my eyes and pulling my legs in so I’m sitting up crisscross applesauce in bed. I really do feel stronger. “They’re okay. And Dad… He gave me my booster.”
She nods again. “I caught him messing around near the ambulance disguised as an EMT. Almost killed him before he showed me what he had. Figured he was a Nostradamus agent come to finish the job. Then he showed me the booster, and I put two and two together. Had to be your dad. I let him into the ambulance. He saved your life.”
I rub the base of my skull and the back of my neck. The pain is gone. My stomach is solid. Other than feeling thoroughly exhausted, I feel pretty good. It’s almost too good to be true.
“Really,” she says, crossing her arms and hugging the laptop against her chest. “You’re healthy. Give it a week and I’ll personally clear you for any and all superhero duties.”
The knot in my stomach falls apart. My skin is tingling. I fall back into the still-raised head of the bed. Gran is fine. Shep’s fine. Fabio’s fine. Dad’s fine. I’m fine. It’s like the sun is rising in my chest. I’ve never been so relieved in my life.
But Dad. Dad was here. And once again, he couldn’t bother to stay and have a few words. He couldn’t bother to wait and make sure I’m okay, even.
“Hey,” says Doctor Hamilton, striking that warning tone people sometimes use when they think you’re about to do something dumb. “I know that look.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re angry at your dad.”
“What? Now you’re a shrink too?”
“Don’t judge what you don’t understand,” she says, her pretty features channeling the seriousness of an assassin.
“Wait—you know him? Do you know my dad?”
“I know enough. If you ask me, you could take a page outta his book. Before your grandmother’s apartment blew up, her life was normal. You get to decide if she keeps that.”
“How do you know so much about my dad?”
Her dark eyes study mine, and my hopes go up I’m going to get an answer. She turns and marches for the door.
“Hey!”
“Good luck, Bonkovich. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, but Doctor Hamilton is already out the door.
Chapter Eighty-One
I lean back into my bed, my brain slowly working through what’s just happened. Don’t do anything stupid? Like what? Run out in search of Dad again? With my booster in me, I’m finally my own master. That means I’ve got time to find Dad. So what is Doctor Hamilton afraid I’ll do?
Mary.
Oh crap. Bruce Lee! Are you there?
Yes, Edger.
Oh, thank God! My fingers clench the sheets at my side. My heart thumps hard in my chest. Okay, where’s Mary? You said Mary has the ring. But she’s not here. And I’m in a hospital with the spy doctor and—
GSPOT.
My neck turns hot.
Oh, grow up, says Bruce Lee.
Where’s Mary? I ask again.
Bruce Lee says nothing at first, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is my thumping chest.
Nostradamus has her.
I scramble into a sitting position, throw my feet over the side of the bed, the tube in my arm flinging wildly.
Shit! Shit!
Calm down, says Bruce Lee.
But she’s got the ring! And she’s in trouble! And I can’t help her without the—
Would you shut up for two seconds?
My gaze falls to the telemetry pads stuck to my chest. If I pull those off, the nurses will know. They’ll come in and—
Yes, Edger, says Bruce Lee. They’ll know. They will come. So how about we talk first?
Sorry.
Okay. Listen. Mary’s hidden the ring well. InstaTron Tron doesn’t know she has it, and so they’ve laid a trap for you at Caleb’s nightclub, only a few blocks from here. Tron-Tron wants the ring. Nostradamus wants you. Mary is the bait. They have a bomb in the nightclub—but the situation is even more complicated, and dangerous, than it seems.
Okay, I reply, waiting for him to elaborate, practically panting, and staring into the back of the hospital door, willing it not to open until he’s done.
Nostradamus is exceedingly talented at anticipating the future.
My eyebrows lower. Is that a joke?
No. This talent is the reason for the syndicate’s name and its formidable global power. And it is why the danger is so great. Nostradamus wants it all, the ring, the formula, and the AI—total omniscience. Tron-Tron has struck a temporary truce with Nostradamus in order to capture you.
Me? But Mary’s got the ring. What do they want me for?
Edger, don’t be dense. First, they think you have the ring. Second, you’re Zarathustra. With or without the suit. It’s in your blood. That makes you one-third of the total package; the ring, the suit, and the serum—you—since they’ve got no way of making more of it without your dad.
I see.
But I don’t see. My stomach is crawling with impatience. Mary is being held hostage.
They’re thinking they can reverse engineer the Zarathustra serum from your blood.
Well, we still have to get Mary, I reply. We can’t not get Mary.
I agree.
Then you’ll help me? I mean, even without the suit?
Of course, Bruce Lee replies. But Edge, don’t sell yourself short. Sure, the suit’s got nifty gadgets. It’s bulletproof. Nice helmet. The heads-up display is cool, but you’ve got me. You’ve got the whole human race. If anyone can beat Nostradamus—it’s us. Together. Now let’s go get Mary back.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Turns out escaping a hospital with the Collective Unconscious in my brain isn’t tricky at all. The line to get into Caleb’s club, however, is. It’s around the block. And there’s only one door at the front, which is guarded by two no-nonsense linebacker types.
I can take them, offers Bruce Lee.
But not subtle, I reply.
Then you could sweet-talk them, says Bruce Lee. I know a guy who’s good at that.
Or we could just go around back, I reply.
I stride back along the line, its thick cloud of Axe Body Spray, perfume, pot, and body odor creating something of a force field before I can reach the alley. There, I find the back door. And on that back door is a lock.
Bruce?
Don’t look at me. Hang on, I’ll go find a guy.
In my head, I can sense him kind of turn, then speed away at a bajillion miles per hour. I can tell he’s still in my head, but it’s like he’s also on a superhighway made of light. A second later, he zooms back. Light-headed spots fleck my vision. I sway, then steady myself with my hand on the brick wall and wait for the spell to pass.
Edger Bonkovich, meet Harry Houdini.
Whoa, holy crap.
Close your eyes, says Houdini.
Close my eyes? Why?
Because a good magician never reveals his tricks.
Let me get this straight, I reply. You, a dead man, are going to pick this lock through me, a living man, with my eyes closed.
You saying I can’t do it?
No. No, by all means.
The light-headed spell having passed, I close my eyes and surrender control to Harry Houdini. I grope around, my hand tracing first the bricks to the door before closing on the doorknob. I turn it. The door opens. Sesame oil and soy sauce aromas escape from inside. Banging pots and pans, yelling.
I open my eyes.
Hey! I yell. That wasn’t a magic trick. That door was open the whole time!
But you said I couldn’t do it, Houdini replies.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Inside the open door is a kitchen. Sous-chefs racing past, scallions hopping beneath chopping knives, a heavily tattooed man spraying spaghetti sauce from a huge metal vat down the drain, a mountain of dishes in the sink large enough to try the patience of Job.
No one is paying us any attention whatsoever.
I go in. Beads of sweat rise on my skin in the hot, thick air.
“Coming through!” someone says, and I leap aside as a man in white flies by carrying a large metal pot. “Don’t just stand there,” he says. “Get changed and clock in. We’re not paying you to pick your nose, asshole.” The chef turns his back to me, and Bruce Lee pipes up.
It’s like we’re on that one show with the mean chef guy, he says.
You watch our TV in the afterlife? Like, through the eyes of some random person?
Eh, says Bruce Lee. Sometimes. If nothing else is on.
I hustle around the tattooed man at the sink and toward a hallway with a wall-mounted time clock. I glance over my shoulder, but Mean Chef has his back to me, so I head to the end and find a flight of stairs. The music from the dance floor is deafening. The walls are vibrating. I take the steps two at a time. The back of my neck is hot like a pancake griddle.
Relax, says Bruce Lee. As long as it’s not guns, we’re fine.
Right, I reply. Because in the United States of America, who could possibly be carrying a gun?
A door is ajar at the end of the hallway. Manager’s office, maybe.
Mary’s on the other side, offers Bruce Lee.
I sidestep down the hall, careful not to make any noise, though I don’t know why I’m bothering. I could be playing bagpipes and no one could hear.
I could get you a bagpipe player, says Houdini.
Not helpful.
Just saying. I know a guy.
My mouth twists in the corner as I arrive at the door, straining to hear anything from inside. It’s no good. The subwoofer from the dance floor is too loud. I push the door back slightly, hoping to God no one is looking. Inside, there’s a desk, some filing cabinets—a bed…
Is this a strip club? asks Houdini, a bit too hopefully. What? You don’t like strip clubs?
A man walks past the door. My heart lurches. I slam my back into the wall, arms out, hands flat, regretting it immediately. The wall is sticky.
That was one of those agent guys, says Houdini.
Mm-hmm, Bruce Lee replies. Ted.
The same man walks past. Same direction, from left to right.
What the hell? I ask. Ted? That’s his name? Ted?
No, says Bruce Lee. That one was Ed.
Okay, now that’s just weird, says Houdini.
A third man—identical to the other two—walks past.
Ed again? I ask.
Nope—his name’s Ned.
Oh, bullshit, I reply. Just how many weirdo twins are in there?
Four, in there, Bruce Lee replies. I can take four.
“Just got off the phone,” one of the men from inside the office says. “Jed’s on his way, I guess.”
That’ll make five, says Houdini, his psychic sense projecting newfound interest.
You think I can’t take five? asks Bruce Lee.
On the contrary, replies Houdini. I’m saying it’ll be fun to watch.
The subwoofer is pounding into my back through the sticky wall. I scoot in stops and starts closer to the door, straining to hear.
“Wanna call up Ted and Fred,” says another man.
I press harder into the wall, trying to make myself as flat as possible. The subwoofer is subdividing my pulse perfectly in half.
“Nah,” says the first voice. “Have you seen the AI?”
Hot stomach acid churns, stoking my impatience. Now? I ask Bruce Lee.
Hang on, he replies. We might hear something important.
“Guy’s a defensive tackle,” says the first speaker.
“So he’s big?” says the second.
“No, well yeah,” says the first speaker. “I meant that literally. He’s big. Because he’s literally a defensive tackle for Green Bay. The AI is Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.”
“Ball Buster?”
“Don’t you ever watch football?”
“You know I don’t watch football,” says the second speaker. “What you’re saying is, this Ball Buster, he can take the kid out?”
“This guy could take out a planet. And then he’d kick it in the balls. Because that’s what he does when the refs aren’t looking.”
“Sounds like a dick. But you can’t kick a planet in the balls. That doesn’t make any—”
I think it’s safe to say we’ve passed anything important in this discussion, I say.
Okay, Edge, says Bruce Lee. You’re right.
Here we go, says Houdini.
I take a deep breath to gather myself and then leap into the open doorway.
“Less talk, more fight!” I cry.
The four twins are standing in a row next to a king-size bed, and dressed identically down to the matching puzzled expressions on their faces. I surrender control to Bruce Lee, then leap and spin. The right knee comes up to fake—followed by the left foot as I complete the spin. The inside of my heel collides with the first chin, and I drive it through each of the following three chins in one fell swoop. I land, and they’re already unconscious, having fallen neatly in a row into the bed behind them.
Ted, Ed, Ned, and Zed in bed, says a new voice in my head.
Dr. Seuss? says Bruce Lee. Is that you?
Something very hard smashes into my skull. Everything goes dark.
Chapter Eighty-Four
My head is pounding to a seventies disco beat. The air is thin like after a cold rain. My back, elbows, and knees are grinding against something hard, smooth, and wet.
“He’s coming to.” The voice is muffled, like it’s coming from one room over.
“Edger! Edger, wake up!”
Mary.
“Edger,” she says. “I need you. Come on. Be okay. Please be okay.”
My eyes flutter but don’t open. The beat in my throbbing head gets specific. Tambourine. Cymbals. Drum. Subwoofer.
I try to speak but manage only a low grunt.
“Edger,” whispers Mary. “Don’t worry. I’ve got the ring.”
My arms won’t move. They’re crossed and pressed against my chest. My butt is freezing—I’m sitting in cold water.
“Miis-sterrr Bon-ko-vich,” a voice calls in a theatrical tone, followed by four obnoxiously loud knocks on the ceiling. Which, going by the volume of the knocking, must be inches from the top of my head.
I open my eyes.
Mary and I are inside a ball. She’s on her side, spitting out water, hands tied behind her back and struggling to sit up. The walls are too slick. Her long legs can’t get traction. I try to move my arms, but can’t. I’m in a straitjacket! My stomach clenches. The water level is rising. Mary pushes off from the wall with her shoulder; I get my knee under her and help her into an upright position. She’s heavier than she looks. Her dress is soaked, but covering everything needing coverage. She nods her thanks, and the ball slowly begins to turn. I tense up and flex. Our butts and knees squeak against the walls as we brace for balance. Our prison phases from opaque to transparent.
“You can see me now?”
We’re dangling between rafters. One of those weirdo twins is glaring at me from a catwalk. A wooden rail separates us as blinking spotlights of every
color flash from every direction. Next to the agent, if I’m not mistaken, is Green Bay Packers defensive tackle Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. Helmet, shoulder pads, and all.
“Miis-sterrr Bon-ko-vich,” says Yourmajesty, in the same theatrical tone as before.
“Why are you talking like that?”
Yourmajesty’s forehead wrinkles. He frowns and blinks.
“It would seem you are more than would seem, Mister Bonkovich,” he says, the drama-tone toned down somewhat, though unconvincingly.
“Which is what?” I ask, frowning. “What would I would seem?”
Yourmajesty shrugs. “A superhero. Zarathustra.”
The water level creeps to my waist. My brain is racing. I blurt the first thing that pops into my head.
“You mean I seemed like a superhero at first, and now I seem more than that?”
“What?” he replies. “No.”
“Then you mean I seem less than I would seem.”
“Yeah,” says Mary, nodding. “I think that’s what he meant.”
“Well, both work, grammatically speaking,” says Yourmajesty.
“Can we get on with this?” asks the agent.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” says Yourmajesty, not taking his eyes off us, but leaning slightly toward the agent and lowering his voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a cow for the last forty-eight hours.”
The agent’s lips compress. He glances at the Green Bay Packer, then gestures with his hand to us, his message plain: Well, get on with it, then.
“The ring, Mr. Bonkovich,” says Yourmajesty. “Where is the ring?”
With Herculean effort, I manage not to look at Mary. “Buh…”
“You didn’t bring it?” he asks. “But why didn’t you bring it? That’s not logical.”
“Well, I mean, I knew you’d try to…steal it?”
Yourmajesty clicks his tongue.
“It’s what I woulda done,” says the agent, folding his arms and otherwise looking bored.
“I see,” says Yourmajesty. “Well. Ahem. No matter. I will find it! Using my advanced titanium quantum processors, and my superior intellectual—”