The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Dad’s psychic sense is awestruck, then mastered, like he’s solved his life’s great puzzle.

  Wow, he says. I can’t explain! I just…know. I have information now, Edge! It’s incredible! The entirety of humanity! We’re truly, wondrously connected!

  What are you talking about?

  The Collective Unconscious! It’s everything we theorized and more! Oh. Well, some of these guys are just sickos.

  “Take a right at the next light,” a female voice says through the car speakers.

  “Okay, that’s just weird,” I say out loud. “The suit streams to the car automatically?”

  Really? Dad replies. I tell you I’m communing with the entirety of humanity, and you’re impressed by Bluetooth technology?

  “All I’m saying is, and I’m saying this as a professional dork, pairing phones to cars usually involves sticky Cheez-It-encrusted automobile instruction manuals and impatient soccer moms. This time, it didn’t.”

  The light turns green. Google reminds us to go right. Dad takes my foot off the brake, and we’re driving again.

  What you call the Force is actually the combined telekinetic power of humanity. It’s coursing through all of us. But any single person can touch only a fraction of it. It’s like we each hold a little piece of telekinetic stock through the Collective Unconscious. That’s why normal people can’t move things with their minds. They only have a tiny piece of stock. But for someone like you who can consciously access the Collective Unconscious, you can borrow from everyone’s stock at once.

  Like you and Nostradamus.

  Oh no, Edge. Much, much more. What we did back there was at the very limit of what I thought possible. But think. I was only accessing one concentrated nexus. You can access all of them.

  Even without Tron-Tron?

  Dad pauses. Good point. You’re right. Accessing all of it would probably kill you without Tron-Tron. Well. No matter. You can easily double, triple, quadruple what I did. You’ve got the suit and the serum. And now you’ve got my mastery also. Don’t forget, Edge. I know what I’m doing. I invented this serum. I’ve eluded Nostradamus for over twenty years. And now I’m dead—which means I can bring the omniscience of the dead to the equation to help you. Isn’t it great?

  What? No!

  Sorry, he replies. I didn’t mean being dead is great. But we’re together now. Focus on that. And trust me: I do know what I’m doing. I’ve calculated everything. I mean everything. And I always check my math.

  WARNING: CLOAKING COUNTERMEASURES FAILING IN ONE MINUTE.

  I scan Google Maps. ETA: five minutes.

  Shit, says Dad. Okay, so I may have miscalculated that.

  Historic Invasion of the Russian Sky-Diving Mind-Control Monkeys, as Chronicled by Herodotus (C. 484—C. 425 BCE)

  Google the Cessna 208B Grand Caravan and you’ll learn this single-engine turbine-powered plane is among the most popular jump aircrafts in the world. The Grand Caravan model, with its 675 horsepower, has a good climb and typically seats nine passengers plus the pilot, but with the FAR Part 23 waiver, the number of passengers tops out at fourteen. The wingspan is fifty-two feet. A full tank of fuel gets you a range of 1,232 miles. The cruise speed is 214 mph. All this is googleable. Less googleable: the Cessna 208B Grand Caravan is exceedingly popular with the Russian skydiving mind-control chimp crowd.

  These adventure-seeking chimps love the Cessna 208B Grand Caravan for its high wing and large exit door. They love to jump up and down in the back and fling poo while shrieking at the tops of their lungs. Most of all, they love the complimentary Chiquita bananas.

  This group of mind-control chimps, like the others flying over northern Indiana, are wearing yellow-and-purple spandex onesies and Q-32 Thinking Caps replete with fancy blinking lights and telescoping antennas. They are well-mannered monkeys, despite their predilection for flinging poo, who’ve been taught it’s poor form to arrive at a party without a gift. For this reason, they have brought some five hundred pendant medallions between them, medallions identical to the ones adopted as the symbol of the Church of the Ladder Day Dudes.

  The squadron of Cessnas banks two miles above sleepy South Bend, Indiana, in preparation for its pass over the Notre Dame campus.

  CHAPTER Forty

  “South Bend!” cries Leo, reading the sign.

  “Fucking hell,” says Danny. “I thought we’d never get there. Now where’s this storage unit we’re going to?”

  Fabio sits forward to give them the address. For a while, they drive in silence as Danny follows the signs for Notre Dame. The movie star and filmmaker are asleep, Consuelo and Christine are stoned, and Wang and Shmuel are as alert as they come. Danny and Leo pick up the debate they’ve been having for the last two hundred miles.

  “But you are not conceding the presence of the aliens,” says Danny.

  “People in funny suits,” replies Leo. “Everyone at that Comic-Con was in a funny suit. In fact, I believe we are riding with one Chewbacca the Butthole and one R2-Please-U.”

  “I repent that remark?” says Shmuel.

  “Hey, asshole,” says Wang. “A droid ought to be able to dress how she wants without everyone assuming promiscuity.”

  “Yeah,” says Shmuel. “And further more and such, you’re discounting the rights of the anti-Miss Cue-ity people. They’ve got rights too? And what about the people who don’t even know Miss Cue-ity? How can they be for her, or against? It doesn’t make any sense?”

  “The fact you exist doesn’t make any sense,” says Leo. “Danny, for the last time: there are no aliens. But there are commies. You saw Putin with your own eyes.”

  “You really think it was him?” asks Fabio.

  “You don’t?” retorts Leo. “Tell me something: the president of Russia kidnaps you and takes you for a joyride—the story of the century—and you don’t get a good look at the fucking driver?”

  Fabio shrugs. “I don’t know, you guys. All I know is, we should’ve stuck around to give a statement.”

  “We gave an eponymous statement over the phone?” says Shmuel.

  Wang slaps his hand to his forehead and slumps.

  “We should’ve stayed,” says Fabio. “An anonymous tip saying the president of Russia was at the Sterling Colorado Super Target isn’t credible.”

  “Fuck that,” says Danny. “We got our own problems. Like, why are the commies after you anyway?”

  “You keep saying that,” says Fabio. “But I think if you were really CIA, you’d know Russia isn’t a communist country anymore.”

  “And I think if you really were an American citizen, you would look a little bit less Mexican,” replies Danny.

  “Guys,” says Leo. “We are obviously in the early phases of a sneak attack.”

  “Like Red Dawn?” asks Shmuel.

  Leo shifts in his seat to face him. His eyebrows lower. “Exactly like Red Dawn, Chewbacca.”

  “Do you think Putin will do the Patrick Swayze Red Dawn or the Chris Hemsworth Red Dawn?” asks Shmuel.

  “Patrick Swayze,” answers Wang. “The Chris Hemsworth one had North Koreans. Everyone knows those motherfuckers would just parachute their chopstick asses to the nearest McRib sandwich. They’re starving.”

  “Mmm. McRib,” says Shmuel.

  Leo frowns. “Just keep your eyes on the fucking sky.”

  Wang and Shmuel press their faces to the window. For a long moment, no one says anything.

  “So we’re looking for paratroopers?” asks Shmuel.

  “That’s right,” replies Leo, sighing.

  “Like, dropping from the sky?” asks Shmuel.

  “Yes, Chewbacca.”

  “So like those paratroopers over there?” asks Shmuel.

  Fabio scrambles over Consuelo’s lap to peer out the window. High above the horizon, dozens upon dozens of opened parachutes drift across the sky.

  CHAPTER Forty-one

  The front left tire bounces over the curb as we cut through a filling station parking lot,
skipping the red light. I know this neighborhood. We’re on 23. Notre Dame is behind us. The storage place is straight ahead.

  Edger, listen. You need to get to the storage locker before you can face your greatest fear.

  Okay, Jumanji. Why so cryptic? Is it because you don’t want Nostradamus reading my mind and figuring it out before I do?

  Yes. Once the cloaking countermeasures fail, I’ll have to disappear for a while for your own safety. I’ll try to hold off Nostradamus until you find the cloaking device. After that, it’ll be safe for you to access the Collective Unconscious again. You’ll be able to call up anybody you need on the psychic hotline, including me, and we’ll be there. Okay?

  No! Not okay. Why can’t I—

  WARNING: CLOAKING COUNTERMEASURES FAILING IN THREE…TWO…

  Dad! Dad!

  Be strong, Edge. Good luck.

  ONE…

  Dad’s presence slips away, and the grief and terror of witnessing his murder crashes over me. Without Dad stemming the pain, my ankle is pulsing from when I twisted it earlier, and it’s like someone’s ripped my chest open and raked my heart over a cheese grater.

  A Speedway sign goes by. A Japanese restaurant. A grocery. Man, maybe I don’t know this side of town anymore. South Bend has changed so much. I pull over, uncaring I’m blocking the left lane. Someone stirs in the backseat. The family is waking up. Crap—Dad was the one keeping them asleep.

  I turn on the hazards and fling open the door into traffic, forgetting to check the mirrors first. A car swerves and whooshes past. A driver lays on the horn. I stumble from the vehicle, still inside Dad’s supersuit. Cars slow as they pass. Someone sticks his head out the window and screams at me. I trip over the curb. My knee buckles under the stabbing pain in my ankle. The heads-up display fills with tears.

  I’m in a parking lot. I spot a sign: Elia’s Mediterranean Cuisine.

  I stagger around back and twist the ring on my finger. The armor bubbles. Cold black goo recedes over my skin. The scent of roasted lamb meat is thick in my nose. I need to feel the air and the sun on my face. I need the real world to be like it was before I knew people could peer into the future and invade minds. I need the concrete under me to feel less alien. It’s just concrete. How can it be any different from San Diego, LA, or New York? But it is different. It’s different because now I know there’s no such thing as concrete. Not anymore. There are shifting alliances, a bona fide struggle between good and evil, one that claimed my dad’s life. He’s gone for real this time. Which begs the question, did my faked death keep anyone safe? Gran, Shep, and Fabio are exposed. Nostradamus knows I’m alive. He always has. I’ve never felt more alone. I’ve never been more alone.

  Mary.

  She did it. She assassinated her own father. All the signs were there. She even drugged me.

  On the far side of the lot is a plot of grass. I lie down and close my eyes. The world turns a familiar shade of pink. The sun warms my face. I release a drawn-out breath, but the aching in the pit of my stomach is unrelenting. I feel awful. My chest is pinched and tight, like tiny pebbles are stuck beneath the muscle. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I don’t know. How did things get this messed up? Dad’s murder. A psychotic immortal mind-reading seer. I don’t want any of it. I never did. I thought I signed up to help restore power on the East Coast. And now here I am, and there’s no going back. There’s no way out but forward. Because even death isn’t a release. If Nostradamus wins, he’ll be one person mind-controlling everyone on the planet. I can’t let that happen. There’s only me left to stop him.

  Oh, man… Humanity is screwed.

  CHAPTER Forty-Two

  InstaTron Tron turns his gaze skyward. The blue canvas is teeming with parachutes. As invading Russians go, they aren’t very big. Nor are they the heavy-laden, gun-toting shapes one would expect. More like babies in slings, with their aimless drifting trajectories and limp arms and legs. If he half closed his eyes and stared straight at the sun, he might be able to fool himself it’s an army of invading Dolph Lundgrens, but that’d only be through his fog of tears. How Danny and Leo could fool themselves into believing the invaders are scary Russians is beyond Tron-Tron’s advanced titanium quantum processors. He shrugs this off. Better to focus instead on determining what business these two have with his new host body, Johnny Gemini, as evidenced by Leo’s hand on Gemini’s arm.

  The rest of the crew trots off down the gravel path in search of the storage unit. Ralph hangs back, his eyebrows furrowing. Tron-Tron clenches his teeth in silence as Danny circles behind and slams the butt of his Glock into the base of the cameraman’s head. Danny then turns the gun on him.

  “CIA you are not,” says Tron-Tron.

  “Ding-ding-ding. Get this guy a medal,” says Danny. “Fortunately for you, we take credit cards. Cough up the plastic, spastic.”

  Tron-Tron chuckles. “What is this?”

  “Madame Hooch sends her greetings,” says Leo, grinning.

  Johnny Gemini’s memories flood into Tron-Tron’s quantum processors. “This is for the Haunted Bush? The hookers?”

  “Five million dollars,” says Danny, racking the slide on the Glock. “The fuck. That’s a lotta bam-bam on your ham there, fella.”

  Leo laughs. “You said it, Danny. This guy sure knows how to hone his bone.”

  “For five mil? That’s gotta be worth a few full-blown joint sessions of Congress.”

  “At least,” says Leo. “And you get to go down on the government shutdown, if you know what I mean. Get it? Get it?”

  Danny frowns. “Are you comparing cunnilingus to a fucking government shutdown?”

  Leo shrugs. “Well… I just thought… Hey, you’re the one who had the whole thing on the joint session of Congress, and—”

  “Full-blown. Like a blowjob.”

  “Congress, though. Like sexual congress.”

  “Have you seen Congress? Nobody wants that in their head. Jesus. Mitch McConnell, for Chrissakes—”

  “Gentlemen,” says Tron-Tron, his host body’s perfectly trimmed eyebrows rising. “Please. Let’s not make this worse.”

  “How’s that?” asks Danny.

  Tron-Tron takes in their slings, bruises, and Leo’s neck brace. Danny shrugs uncomfortably.

  “You’ve already suffered so much. I’d hate for you to suffer more.”

  “No,” Danny replies. “You see, I am holding the gun.”

  Tron-Tron stands straighter, raising his hands but inching nearer the barrel.

  “Stop that. I’m holding the fucking gun. You pay me the fucking money. That’s how this fucking works. Fucking actors.”

  “It is good acting,” says Leo. “He doesn’t look intimidated at all. Hey. For the record, this isn’t personal. I loved you in Space Pirates.”

  “Thanks,” replies Tron-Tron, snapping the barrel of the gun to the side as Danny fires. Tron-Tron follows with a forearm smash to Danny’s neck, who collapses and releases the Glock into Johnny’s hands before his body hits the ground, unconscious. Tron-Tron turns the gun on Leo. “Now… Fuck off.”

  Leo raises his hands. “Wait just a friggin’ minute. You owe us five mil. What do you think is gonna happen here? You think knocking him and me out is gonna make that go away? You better think this through. You fucking actors. Never fucking thinking things through…”

  Tron-Tron lowers the gun, and Leo seems to relax. He grabs Leo bracingly by the shoulder and strokes it.

  “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Tron-Tron again uses his host body’s forearm to strike the neck. Leo falls unconscious.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t see that coming,” he mutters, scanning right and left. The storage facility is abandoned. The A-Team is nowhere in sight. With no one responding to the commotion, there’s no better time to slip away. Besides, Johnny Gemini is due on set. And ever since Daddy and Other Daddy told him at Caleb Montana’s nightclub his supervillain voice needed mor
e showmanship, Tron-Tron has always wanted to star in the movies.

  The key the manager gave Fabio doesn’t fit.

  He looks at the key. A normal key meant for a normal padlock.

  He looks at the lock, a depressed circular shape seated inside a square electronic lock mechanism. It’s like a Tony Stark lock. Built for an Avenger.

  “Dude,” whines Wang from two storage units over, where he, Shmuel, Consuelo, and Christine are smoking up. “What is the holdup?”

  “Just give me a sec,” he replies. The circular shape scratches at his subconscious. He’s seen it before—or something like it. “Why don’t you guys bring the van around?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Wang replies. “Good idea.”

  Their feet kick and scuff across the gravel drive, quieting as they head back the way they came. Fabio’s eyes don’t leave the lock. Lots of squiggly shapes across its surface, but they’re like the reverse of an image, not the image itself. His hand slides into his pants pocket to close on a disc-shaped piece of metal. The medallion Shmuel had given him in San Diego.

  The pendant medallion jingles as he pulls it out of his pocket. He holds it up in front of his face. There, sure as his best friend’s name is Edger Bonkovich, is the reverse of the shape on the lock. It’s like a wax seal and stamp.

  Weird.

  His leg vibrates.

  He pulls out his phone. Blocked number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” says a voice like an old Atari computer. “This is Lieutenant Trevor Killmaster of the United States Navy. I am calling on behalf of Charles Bonkovich, Edger’s father.” Fabio’s pulse rises. “Your phone is downloading an app for locating Edger. It’s urgent you bring him the medallion. The fate of the human race now rests on your shoulders. Also, watch out for the monkeys.”

  The line goes dead. Fabio stares at his phone as the app begins downloading. When it finishes, it opens automatically. A red dot and a green dot appear on a map. State road 23. That’s the road he came in on… The green dot must be him. The red dot across the street—that must be Edger!