by David Beem
“Whenever you two are done innuendo-ing,” says Caleb.
I stare at him, unable to summon a response.
“The bomb, bro. The bomb!” He points at the ruined disco ball sitting near the edge of the dance floor.
“How do you know about the bomb?” I ask.
“I’m HARDON.”
“And we’re the ones innuendo-ing?”
“Grow up, bro,” he says.
“Stop saying bro, bro,” I reply, and peek over the couch. The club is evacuated, except for the DJ, who is conspicuously cowering behind his turntable. The gunfire has stopped.
“Looks clear,” I say, standing up.
“Wait—no,” says Caleb, too late. I’m already up. And there, across the dance floor are—for some random reason I can’t even begin to imagine—Wang and Shmuel, held at gunpoint.
Hanzo seizes control of me; my hand flies to the utility belt and closes on a cluster of tiny balls. My arm lashes out, once, twice, three times a lady. The balls morph midair into throwing stars. And it’s the same as the stadium: the throwing stars find their targets—nerve bundles—and the agents collapse.
“Righteous!” yells Shmuel.
“Fuckin’ A!” mirrors Wang.
“I notice you knew right where the throwing stars were,” says Mary.
“Huh. Well, what do you know?” I reply, thinking next time I’ll have to summon a dead guy sooner.
“You didn’t have to blowtorch them,” says Mary.
“What do you want me to say, Mary? I’m sorry? Look, it’s my first time.”
Glass shatters. I wheel around.
Nostradamus clones are leaping over and filing out from behind the bar, carelessly knocking over glasses, bottles of beer and liquor, chairs, and barstools as they stride out onto the dance floor. My heads-up display performs a quick count: forty-two of them. Every eye is on me. I know I should be terrified, but, for some reason, all I can think is how weird it would be if they started doing “Thriller.”
I leave my cover from behind the couch and step out onto the dance floor. The clone army reacts simultaneously, switching on like robots, allowing me into the center, and then circling me like a slow-motion sharknado.
“Be careful, bro!” yells Caleb.
“Dude, are you seeing an armored space ninja?” asks Shmuel, nudging Wang, who scowls and nods.
[What are you waiting for?] asks Hanzo, and at first, I think he’s talking to me. [I’ll kill them from the shadows all night long. But this is your specialty.]
All right, then, says Bruce Lee, taking charge of my body and having me crack my knuckles, ease my neck left and right. I start in on some footwork, hopping up and down like a boxer—or rather—like Bruce Lee.
Access Battle Plan, says Lieutenant Killmaster, and either he or Bruce Lee has me use the retinal scanner on my HUD to access the augmented reality component called Battle Plan. My brief training session seems like forever ago, but through the Collective Unconscious, Killmaster reminds me that Battle Plan is used to crunch attack pattern variables and “liaise with the assisting personality,” in this case, Bruce Lee, to calculate and coordinate a response.
Yeah, says Killmaster. It’s like Bruce Lee on brain steroids. This is gonna be awesome.
The HUD calculates the number and positions of my opponents. Bruce Lee’s mind sharpens as the computer comes back with some ideas. Hundreds of possible fight plans flash before my eyes in a second, showing various routes through the mob, punching here, kicking there, ducking, flipping—and just like that—it’s finished.
“DJ!” I yell, and the DJ pops up from behind the turntable. “It’s fight night. Cue up a sick beat so I can whip me some clone-army ass.”
The DJ gives a nervous nod, hurriedly cues up a song.
“‘Thriller.’”
Ooh! Good choice! says Michael Jackson from out of nowhere.
“He said fight night?” says Shmuel. “Not fright night?”
A T-6 throws the first punch—but, for me, it’s like he’s in slow motion. The HUD traces a red line, my predetermined attack path, through the mob. Bruce Lee smiles, and we’re off.
Chapter Ninety
Duck, flip, windmill kick.
Punch, punch. Kick, kick, kick. Broken chair, beer bottles.
My fist cracks the side of a head. The inside of my gloves are well padded. I wouldn’t have thought that should be a thing, wearing body armor, but it is. A kind of shock-absorbing foam that has a perversely satisfying way of pampering my fists of fury. Each face, body, and cranium I connect with is as smooth on my knuckles as a baby’s butt.
That’s a terrible comparison, says Bruce Lee.
The HUD alerts me that twelve moves later, a foot will try to hit me in the head.
Twelve moves later, Bruce Lee has me duck. At the edge of the dance floor are peripheral skirmishes. Mary’s dress twirls, her bare legs flashing past as she kicks one, two, then three Nostradamus agents in the face; a beer bottle breaks over the head of another agent with his back to Wang and Shmuel; the two exchange a fist bump, then crawl on their knees to take cover behind the bar.
Nostradamus agents cannot get close to me. I’m taking out kneecaps left and right. Liver punches galore; one good punch there and they’re down for the count—who knew? It’s no-holds-barred combat. Bruce Lee is in charge, although Hanzo and Killmaster are an extra set of brains advising from the Collective Unconscious through Battle Plan.
Another clone steps in front of me. I punch him in the face, and my leg does that twisty Michael Jackson dance move. I point to the ceiling, pretend to adjust a fedora I’m not wearing, gyrate my hips, and then grab my crotch.
Hee-hee-hee, says Michael Jackson.
Another T-6 clone agent dives at me. I go up on my tiptoes, Michael Jackson style, making him miss me by inches. Caleb’s fist meets that guy’s face on the far end of the dance floor.
Who’s in charge here? asks Bruce Lee.
Shooga-chockalocka-hoo-hoo-hoo, Michael Jackson replies.
Fallen clones are factored into the HUD Battle Plan. I leap over unconscious bodies and perform a scissor kick, taking down two more agents, one on my left, and the other on my right. I land, and Michael Jackson has us do another dance move.
Would you knock it off? Bruce Lee growls. I’m trying to concentrate. Do you have any idea how complicated this already is?
Mama-say-mama-saw-mama-coo-sa, sings Michael Jackson.
Bruce Lee has my fists do a speed-bag thing on a T-6 face. The clone drops like a fainting church lady at an all-male revue. I moonwalk around his fallen body and repeat the action on the next T-6 face.
Knock it off, says Bruce Lee.
Hey, replies Michael Jackson. You’ve got a job and I’ve got a job, okay?
Are you kidding me? says Bruce Lee.
Listen, Kato, says Michael Jackson. You may have style. But I’ve got style. Capisce?
Six feet in the air, my foot blocks four punches in one lateral swipe. My other foot follows, collides with four jaws.
Ow! cries Michael Jackson. Shuh-mon!
I can’t believe this, says Bruce Lee. Can’t somebody shut him off?
Can’t somebody shut you off? counters Michael Jackson.
“Woo-saw-wah-wah!” I yell, performing three spin kicks in a row, and the last Nostradamus agent goes down.
Huh, says Michael Jackson, his psychic sense conveying a grudging admiration. All I’m saying is, because of me, you looked extra good doing it. You can thank me later.
Chapter Ninety-One
I’m standing over a pile of unconscious Nostradamus clones, winded, and scanning for anyone whose ass hasn’t been sufficiently kicked.
“Dude!” Wang cries. “That—was—bad—ass!”
From across the room, someone begins clapping, the slow clap, a single set of hands coming…together…for…pedantic…applause.
“You don’t disappoint,” says a familiar, theatrical voice.
I turn around.
<
br /> Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster is standing in front of the bar holding a dirt-colored cocktail with what appears to be tufts of grass sticking out the top.
That is one dirty martini, says Michael Jackson.
“I thought they knocked you out,” I say.
“You thought wrong, Zarathustra,” says Yourmajesty, puffing his impressive chest out with a swagger and chucking his cocktail aside. It shatters behind a black leather couch. “People of San Diego!” he cries. “I stand before you, chosen by destiny to receive the combined powers of all of humanity! This inevitable moment will transpire before your eyes, even as Zarathustra himself is forced to bear witness to it…”
“Yourmajesty, bro,” calls Caleb. “Come on. This isn’t you.”
“It isn’t?” asks Yourmajesty, lowering his arms.
“No!” exclaims Wang. “It’s fucking Skeletor from fucking Masters of the Universe, you fucking fuck!”
“Yeah, bro,” says Caleb, in a more conciliatory tone. “Come on. You sack people, bro. Remember? Until now, the worst thing you ever did was, you know, kick people in the nuts when the refs weren’t looking. That’s not so bad.”
“Yeah,” says Shmuel. “But stealing the combined powers of all of humanity is being a straight-up dick?”
“Daddy and Other Daddy,” says Yourmajesty. “Mr. Montana. I believe all of you are suffering under the delusion that Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster is in charge here.”
“Yeah,” says Shmuel, addressing me, Caleb, and Mary. “We’re sorry and everything, but he’s your basic universal evil AI now?”
“He’s not a Packer anymore,” says Wang, nodding. “It’s Tron-Tron!”
“We know,” says Mary.
“Yes,” says Yourmajesty, stepping over a pile of unconscious bodies and squaring off across from me. “And now, I will claim what is rightfully mine. The ring!”
“Dude,” I reply, the voice changer making me sound like a croaking frog. “What is up with the over-the-top villain thing?”
“Is it over-the-top?” asks Yourmajesty.
“Yes,” everyone answers in unison.
“Okay,” he says, his shoulders coming up defensively. “Good to know. Constructive criticism and everything. But seriously. Will you give me the ring? My logic boards have analyzed your fighting patterns. I can take it by force if I have to.”
“I’d like to see you try,” says Mary, standing up straighter and folding her arms. I wave my hand kind of behind my butt—trying to catch her attention—but she doesn’t notice. Honestly, as flattering as this is, I’d rather not fight Human Tank. “He can change his fight patterns,” she continues. “Can you change yours?”
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster performs a high kick to his left, followed by another to his right. His hands trace a kung fu crane form in the air, followed by some hip swinging, and capped off with some backward moonwalking.
Yeah, says Bruce Lee. That’s pretty good.
Shama-mah-coo-saw! exclaims Michael Jackson.
“You see,” says Yourmajesty. “I am a fast learner. There is nothing you can do I cannot learn. I was made for this. You. Complete. Me.”
“Yeah, that’s over-the-top again, bro,” says Caleb, shaking his head and staring at his feet.
“But kinda romantic?” says Shmuel.
He’s right, sir, says Killmaster. His processors are built for this.
And he’s got a good fifty pounds of muscle on him you don’t, observes Bruce Lee.
[Let me at him,] says Hanzo, seizing control of me before I can reply.
Wait! cries Bruce Lee, but already my hand has dispatched a throwing star; Yourmajesty leans left and the star sails harmlessly past.
“I’ve seen that too,” he says. “Don’t you have anything new?”
Hanzo removes another ball from my belt. It stretches, glimmers, a blood groove and hamon line forming as it lengthens into a katana sword. Hanzo swings it overhead and in front of me before taking it into a double-handed grip, holding the sword high and assuming a deep tiger stance.
“Ninjutsu,” says Yourmajesty. “I already know ninjutsu.”
[“You don’t know true ninjutsu,”] I say out loud, Hanzo speaking through me.
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s eyes roll up into his head. His lids flutter. A glimmer of hope rises that maybe I won’t have to fight this guy after all, if he’s just going to go and have a seizure on me, but then his eyelids pop wide open, and his gaze comes again into focus.
“Ancient Japanese,” he says. “Interesting.”
[Hey, are you so sure about this?] I ask.
[I have a plan.]
Chapter Ninety-Two
Hanzo has Killmaster operate my heads-up display to present an X-ray image of Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. There! The nano-processor is hiding inside Bal’buster’s left testicle.
[True ninjutsu,] Hanzo is saying, [is about deception. Let him believe we will attack from the sword.]
[While I kick him in the nano-processor,] replies Bruce Lee. [Ball-busting the ball-buster. I like it.]
Hee-hee-hee, replies Michael Jackson.
It’s a solid plan, sir, says Killmaster.
Hanzo has me. I charge at Yourmajesty, who responds by assuming a traditional horse stance, fists at his hips, palm-side up. My heads-up display is still in X-ray vision; the nano-target is glowing red.
I leap into the air and twist, my sword slashing down at the Green Bay Packer. He sidesteps to his left—and through some complicated ninja trickery, pops the sword from my hands.
Bruce Lee seizes control as Yourmajesty’s beefy arms wrap around me. My feet leave the ground. I can’t breathe. Bruce Lee summons every last drop of my Chi and channels it into my left knee.
“Wuh-saw!” I shriek, driving it hard into Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s nano-processor.
My boots hit the dance floor. I’m free! He staggers backward. I drop to my hands and knees.
Get up! Get up, sir! yells Killmaster. It’s working!
I look up. The glowing red dot isn’t in his nuts anymore. It’s swimming through his bloodstream and into his torso—
And then I’m lifted into the air.
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster is below me, twirling me like a baton, and chucking me across the room. I slam into the dance floor and skid three feet, my wind knocked out.
Okay, it’s not working, says Killmaster. You are totally going to die now.
A hand closes on my ankle. I’m lifted again. Air floods back into my lungs. Streaking underwear-butt wallpaper whips by, then faces whip by—Caleb, Mary, Wang, and Shmuel—then underwear-butt wallpaper again. Everything’s a blur, spinning, spinning. It’s like those horrible centrifugal-force carnival rides that always made me want to throw up, but with the addition of a killer Caleb Montana inferiority complex, which also makes me want to throw up.
Boo-yah! Gonna die! yells Killmaster. Woo-hoo! Yeah! Puke, baby, puke!
Mama-say, mama-saw, mama-shut-him-up! cries Michael Jackson.
[Is it time to kill someone yet?] asks Hanzo.
Yes! all the voices in my head cry at once.
“Nurn-nh, no,” I groan.
Hanzo seizes control. Still spinning, I spot the katana on the floor and scoop it up as I pass above, then twist and slash. Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster releases me. I go flying; I’m twisting and somersaulting, then landing on my toes, if a bit wobbly. Nine Fapa’fapa-Bal’busters are facing me, each of them listing sickeningly. I double over and drop the katana, both hands pressing my stomach as I try not to get sick inside the suit. Hanzo yields control.
Boo-yah kumquat sucka! yells Killmaster.
We need a new plan here, guys, I say.
Buck up, little camper, replies Killmaster. The only easy day was yesterday, baby. That’s the SEAL way!
“You were always destined to fail without me, Zarathustra,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “You’re only delaying the inevitable…”
&nbs
p; My brain is spinning like a hard drive. Think, think.
Wait a minute. Hard drive.
I’ve got it! I cry. The Collective Unconscious!
What about it? asks Bruce Lee.
Tron-Tron’s designed to help the human brain store information, but it’s the suit’s processors that regulate information. Tron-Tron doesn’t meet the system requirements without the suit! Remember what Mikey said: “Actionable data extrapolated from the lives of everyone who ever lived and everyone alive today. Accessing all that at once—for even a second—could overload the brain. You really need all three parts of the technology for it to work properly.”
Is this dork stuff? asks Killmaster. Because it feels like nap time. So it must be dork stuff. I’m gonna go do two hundred push-ups. Call me when it’s interesting again.
“Hey, Yourmajesty, bro,” calls Caleb. “Why don’t you come get a piece of this? That is, if you think you’re man enough.”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster turns to face Caleb. “I think I might prefer doing battle with the woman.” He folds his thick arms and stands there like the pile of towering muscle he is, and my stomach begins to settle.
“Well,” says Mary, blushing, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and gazing down at the dance floor. “Obviously, he’s not totally stupid.”
“Huh?” says Caleb.
“I mean,” she replies, gesturing at the Green Bay Packer. “He knows a challenge when he sees one.”
Edge—what are you suggesting? asks Bruce Lee. They’re stalling for you. So let’s get this going.
I’m suggesting we flood his brain with billions of lives and memories at once, I reply. He’ll be confused. I only have to hold it for a couple of seconds. Just long enough for you to beat the shit out of him.
[Or I could kill him instead,] says Hanzo. [It’s a possibility, is all I’m saying.]
It’s dangerous, says Bruce Lee, ignoring the dead ninja. It’s something you shouldn’t be doing without Tron-Tron plugged into the suit.
I like the dork’s idea, says Michael Jackson. It’s a computer. And he’s a Dork with a capital D. That means it’ll probably work.