by David Beem
Circling back: breaking up is hard to do. For Edger Bonkovich, this means breaking up with his entire life, his job, his family, and his best friend, Fabio Jimenez. This he did, because after his home was blown to bits by the evil global cabal called Nostradamus, Edger decided it critically important he be suddenly dead to ensure the safety of his loved ones.
Fortunately, Edger isn’t really suddenly dead.
He isn’t even mostly suddenly dead.
In fact, he’s very much alive and living in Burbank with the apotheosis of all hot blondes, a lethal and mysterious GSPOT spy called Mary Thomas.
For those of you willing to face the door-less, wall-less outhouse, travel with me now through the Collective Unconscious into the mind of the world’s first superhero, Zarathustra. For the forces of evil are (again) afoot, and the vulnerable world (again) needs its hero…
CHAPTER ONE
My cheek is smooshed into the pillow when the sunlight hits. Warm, golden, peaceful, and—drool. I tug the corner of the sheet and dab my cheek dry.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Yi-yi-yow!”
Mary—gorgeous, yogurt-eating Mary—sits at the end of my bed, her long, tan legs sexifying the bajeebees out of my boxers beyond any reasonable level of sexification. She’s in my Notre Dame jersey again too. It’s way too big for her, but she still wears it better than any mortal on planet Earth has the right to do. Yet, despite all the hotness going on, it’s the thing gleaming on her finger that zaps me fully awake. The Gigantic Rock. Its many faceted angles catch the glint of golden rays streaming through the window. I thumb my own ring beneath the sheets, and a hot mix of passion, terror, and a strange what’s-for-breakfast normalcy surge through me. I have to remind myself: We’re not married. We’re playing house. I sigh, then scoot upright and bunch the sheets around my waist.
“You okay?”
“Dang it, Mary. You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these times.”
“Sorry.” She smiles on one side and wraps her lips around the spoon.
“Have you just been sitting there? Waiting for me to wake up?”
Nods. Drags spoon through yogurt. Sticks in mouth. And then, as I’ve been a gazillion other times since faking my death and moving in with her, I’m stricken by the optimistic yet terrifying possibility something may’ve happened last night and I somehow slept through it.
“But…you didn’t…sleep…you know…in here?”
“No-oo…” She drags her spoon along the bottom of her yogurt container, and the Gigantic Rock sparkles. “But I think maybe I should tonight.”
“Ha-ha, I mean, wait—what?”
“I think I should sleep in here tonight.’’ Her eyes widen as she nods in a way meant to get me to nod too. My brain freezes.
“Hello? Earth to Edger.”
“For our cover?”
“Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”
“Buh…”
“We don’t have to actually sleep together.”
“Of course! Ahahah. I mean, why would I think that?”
Mary frowns. “I don’t know. Why would you think that?”
I clear my throat and say nothing, lest the word “meep” escape like it did the first time we met. She rolls her eyes.
“Obviously, I meant for your protection. Bad guys could sneak in and carve your retinas out with a razor blade and list them on eBay in the time it takes me to get down the hall, silly.”
“Meep.” Crap.
She pats my leg. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna let anything like that happen to you.”
“Do bad guys often list human eye parts on eBay?”
“The really weird ones do.”
“And do we expect to encounter the really weird ones?”
“Do we encounter any other kind? Hey—relax. Alex set us up with new identities, Mr. Thomas. You’re technically dead. No one’s gonna find us. Trust me.”
“Then why do you need to sleep in here?”
Her bottom lip juts out consideringly. She shrugs, hops to her feet, and sashays across the room, hips swinging in a way I’m going to say is gratuitous for someone looking to get from point A to point B in a pair of my boxers. “You know me,” she says, pausing at my door. “I train to be prepared for anything. But I prefer doing the killing after my first cup of coffee.” She pauses, holds up her hand, and thumbs the Gigantic Rock so it wiggles on her finger. “Come on, Mr. Thomas. We’ll swing by a Starbucks on the way into New Fortress.”
She closes the door. I flop onto the bed and pull my pillow over my face.
CHAPTER two
Basically, New Fortress is the same as Old Fortress. The only difference is location. This new one is beneath the construction site of the LA Stadium at Hollywood Park. Other than that, they’re both one big armory. It’s got your basic guns, your basic knives, your basic rocket launchers—it’s even got your basic gold-plated foosball table. Mary and I step off the elevator, and our fearless leader, Alex, is already setting out iPads and manila envelopes before each seat at the conference table. With her short jet-black hair, pixie face, and swimmer’s build, Alex could gig on the side as a dark elf for Peter Jackson. If she could be convinced to trade her gun in for a bow, I mean.
“If you’re worried about money,” I say, eyeing the foosball table, “I think I know where we can cut back.”
Alex doesn’t look up to acknowledge the remark as she takes a seat, opens her packet, and starts removing the papers inside.
“No, seriously,” I say. “Who pays for all this?”
“This one’s fully funded by the NSA,” she replies, leafing through papers. “They oversee…Caleb’s…unique…agency.”
“Go on,” I say. “You can say it. H-A-R-D-O—”
“Oh, grow up.”
“Hey.” Mary cranks me around by the elbow and lowers her voice. “I wanted to remind you, we’ve got that block party today. Did you forget? No? Good. Listen, you need to sell it. These are our new neighbors. They need to believe we’re married.”
“Mary. What warm-blooded heterosexual guy wouldn’t leap at the chance to be your husband? Even if it does sometimes feel like I’m living someone else’s life.”
Her gaze drops for a second before lifting to meet mine. She steps into my space, and her clean scent—fresh ocean air and all woman—triggers a switch in me. And there goes my pulse. Off to the races.
“Look,” she says. “I know this is just a cover. But that doesn’t mean you can’t live a little. You already died once. Most guys don’t get a second chance. You’re not at the Über Dork anymore. You’re the world’s first superhero.”
I swallow and clear my throat, mostly to stall while I process what she’s trying to say. By “live” does she mean our cover doesn’t have to be a cover?
“You two waiting for an engraved invitation?” Alex drums her fingers on the conference table. Mary’s posture stiffens. We step apart, but our summer-crush moment lingers. If only I could turn off my racing pulse as easily as she turns it on.
“Where’s Caleb?” Mary asks, scanning the conference area. “Don’t tell me Captain Jockstrap’s actually injured.”
“He isn’t,” Alex replies. “To the outside world, Caleb Montana’s broken his collarbone and is out for the season. ESPN thinks he’s in New York for the opening of his new nightclub, Underwearld East. But really he’s there to oversee construction of another base like this one.”
“Wait-wait,” I say. “Caleb’s out all season? But his collarbone’s fine?”
“Call it making the best of the mess you left at Underwearld West,” she replies.
“How’d you get him to agree to sit out all season? The Caleb I knew at Notre Dame had this crazy Joe Montana complex. How’s he supposed to break old Joe’s records if he’s not playing when he’s healthy?”
“Some things are more important than football stats, Bonkovich. Besides, too many witnesses saw him. Saw you too, in your supersuit. Better he lies low this sea
son. Gives everyone a chance to forget the media bonfire you guys started.”
Mary opens her packet.
“See that?” Alex asks, an unnatural smile rising on one side. “Take note, Bonkovich. Mary’s a pro. Pros read packets. Amateurs sleep with Yakuts. Remember that.”
“Yakuts? What the hell is a Yakut?”
“A people in northeastern Siberia,” says Mary matter-of-factly as she opens the flap on her iPad and types in the passcode.
“Why? Why would you know that?”
She shrugs. “It was in the packet.”
I close my eyes for a slow count to three, pull back my chair, and take a seat.
The teleconferencing unit in the center of the table rings. Alex accepts the call. I unlock my iPad and open the app. A few seconds later, Caleb’s perfect face is beaming at us, and I’m waxing philosophical on the karmic unfairness of the Great Charisma Handout. A smile like his probably fixes all the mirrors mine broke.
“It’s the Edge!” he says. “Yeah, bro. Everything cool? I didn’t leave you in too much estrogen, did I?”
“Possibly.” Peering across the top of my iPad, I catch Alex giving me a sardonic wink and blown kiss.
“Now that we’re all here,” she says, grabbing a remote control at the end of the table. “Australian Prime Minister Watson is due to arrive at LaGuardia on Friday.”
She uses the remote to power up the monitor at the front of the room. On screen is a picture of a man in his midfifties. Suit, vest, tie. Crystal-blue eyes. Blond hair going gray at the temples. His features are crazy familiar, but from where? Kind of a Richard Branson/George Clooney mash-up, I guess. Crap. Alex is talking again.
“Intel says the assassination attempt will happen during a speech at the United Nations General Assembly, where the prime minister’s expected to confess his identity as a high-ranking Nostradamus official.” She presses the button on the remote, and the image on the screen changes to show the UN building in New York. Mary drums her fingers on the table. Her gaze pans to the rifle rack. Maybe she’s reminiscing about the good ol’ days snipering Dr. Seuss clones off the top of the Q.
“Wait a sec,” says Caleb. “What’s his angle? Why the change of heart?”
Alex, eyeing Mary sideways, shakes her head. “Not sure. He’s expected to use his speech to expose other high-ranking Nostradamus officials around the world. We don’t know who he’s planning to implicate, but to prove his sincerity and sweeten the pot, he’s pledging to turn over a technology he claims will defeat the organization once and for all.”
Caleb whistles. “Whoa. Wait a minute—you think it’s Tron-Tron?”
My stomach clenches at the mention of the corrupted nano-artificial intelligence. The experience of battling it in its Green Bay defensive-tackle host body at Caleb’s nightclub is still fresh.
“Doesn’t feel right,” I offer. “How would the Australian government find a rogue nano-artificial intelligence that doesn’t want to be found? Maybe the prime minister has his own Zarathustra serum. Feels more plausible to me.”
“We don’t know,” replies Alex. “But even the potential to out other high-ranking Nostradamus officials is a compelling enough reason to target him for assassination”—Mary slaps shut her mission binder, clearly distressed, but Alex continues like it didn’t happen—“that and the possibility he has his own superserum is why it’s our job to keep him alive and—Mary, what the hell is going on?”
She shifts in her seat to face Mary. The two stare at each other in silence. Mary’s face is a high-stakes poker player’s; Alex’s is the gaze of the person calling her bluff. Caleb clears his throat and thumbs through his packet.
“He’s my father,” says Mary.
Caleb’s gaze snaps up, his brow furrowed.
“Wait—what?” I ask, forcing a chuckle.
“Mare, you’re joking,” says Caleb.
“If that’s a joke, it’s not funny,” replies Alex, leafing through her packet like it’s possible she missed something.
I lean forward in my seat. “And when you say he’s your dad, do we mean, like, figuratively?”
“Shut up.” Alex’s gaze fixes on Mary. “You’re serious.”
“Psh,” I say. “No. She means like Tom Hanks is ‘America’s Dad.’ That’s what you mean, right? Prime Minister Watson is ‘Australia’s Dad.’”
Mary’s gaze flits up from her binder, which she’s again opened and is flipping idly through.
“Naw, bro,” says Caleb. “She means dad, dad.”
“Mary?” asks Alex. “Are you compromised?”
Mary shakes her head, and even though I know I should keep my inner monologue to myself, my mouth has other plans. “Are we talking the redemptive Darth-Vader-is-your-dad archetype, or are we talking Jack Torrance ax-the-door-down, honey-I’m-home archetype?”
Mary’s mouth compresses and her eyebrows go up. Translation: bingo.
Alex slumps into her seat back. “Why are we just finding this out now?”
“Because even though we were all vetted by our various spy chiefs and got our security clearances,” says Mary, “we never instituted any redundancies within our team. What would be the point? We’re here because we trust each other.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Alex replies. “I hate trust.”
“Mare—your dad is Nostradamus?” asks Caleb.
“Are there really Yakuts in our packets?” I ask. “That just seems so…needlessly thorough.”
“If your dad is Nostradamus, how did you get your security clearance?”
“Alex, step off,” says Mary. “This is personal. I got cleared just like you, just like Caleb.”
Caleb clears his throat. Alex shakes her head. “And did your security application filing mention your father’s a high-ranking Nostradamus official?”
“That’s none of your business. I’m not questioning your security clearance.”
“My father happens to be a four-star general,” replies Alex.
“Maybe he’s Nostradamus too.” Mary shrugs. “Would you know?”
“Watch your mouth, girl.”
“Hey-hey-hey,” I say. “Whoa. Come on, now. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing for us. Right? Mary’s got the inside track here. That’s good. And it’s like Alex said. He’s turning over a new leaf, confessing. He wants to be a good guy now. Plus, he’s got some neat technology for us. That’s good, right?”
Alex drags her hands through her roughly chopped black hair. “Fine. Since Mary’s father is the prime minister of Australia and a high-ranking Nostradamus official, Mary will contact him ahead of the United Nations summit. Now. I want you to—”
Mary shakes her head. “Can’t do that.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” demands Alex.
“Pick one.”
“Come on, Mare,” says Caleb.
“I will not tolerate insubordination on this team,” adds Alex.
Mary folds her arms and leans forward. “What I’m trying to say is, if I’m in the same room as my dad, I can’t guarantee I won’t kill him myself.”
Alex’s eyes widen, Caleb’s chiseled jaw drops, and my brain stutters like the hyperspace drive on the Millennium Falcon. Did she say what I think she said?
“What a kidder,” I say, forcing a smile. “Ha-ha. Come on. You can’t kill the guy we’re supposed to save. Because how’s that work?”
Mary stares off into space. Alex glares at me. Caleb frowns.
“Come on, guys. We’re all Z-Teamers here,” I say, raising my fist in the air and shaking it, rah-rah. “Yay! Z-Team!” Nothing. “Look, Mary’s not going to kill her dad. I won’t let it happen. Did you forget your secret weapon over here? Hello? I’ve got the Collective Unconscious.”
That’s true, offers Bruce Lee from the Collective Unconscious.
Hey, man, I reply. Boy, am I glad you showed up.
“Bruce Lee says hi,” I say. “In case anybody still cares about…how cool…that is.”
All eyes
turn to me—but it’s Alex’s weighing my mass down to the yoctogram.
“Okay, Bonkovich,” says Alex. “In a pinch, I can order you to hack into her brain.”
“Alex,” says Caleb. “No. That’s not what we do.”
“Maybe then we get some answers,” she replies.
“Order me to—?” I shake my head to clear it. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant Bruce Lee would tell me if she were up to anything, not that I think—”
Alex raises her hand. “Enough. Mary, since this lost puppy has clearly bonded to you, and since your cover marriage uniquely positions you to keep him from getting himself killed, I’m allowing this mission to go forward. But you need to think about what your role is going to be in New York. Until then, this meeting is adjourned.”
By the time we’re buckling into the Jag for the ride home, I’m fit to burst. I shift in my seat to face her.
“Edger, don’t,” she says, turning the key in the ignition. The Jaguar roars to life. She revs the earsplitting engine twice before shifting into Reverse.
“You said your dad worked for the Australian government. You didn’t say he runs the Australian government!”
Her head tilts to the side in a dismissive gesture. “Details.”
Details? says an unrecognizable voice in my head. British, and not someone I can place. I shrug it off. Now’s not the time for making new friends in the Collective Unconscious.
Is it ever a good time to make friends with voices in your head? asks the British voice. My name is Nigel, he says brightly. In my day, they called people like you crazy.
Hello, Nigel, I reply, broadcasting my best sardonic psychic tone. In my day, we call people like you rude and uninvited.
Well, I never—
“Mary—” She stops me with an upraised hand, throws her arm over my seat, and backs out of the parking space at honey-that’s-too-fast miles per hour. I lurch forward. She shifts gears, turns the wheel. Gravel crunches beneath the front tires, then spits out the back. I flatten into my seat.