The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “Caleb Mon-fucking-tana,” says Danny. “I knew you were faking. You have any idea how screwed my fantasy football team is because of you? Why, I ought to—”

  He cuts off as Kate draws her gun.

  The wind rips over my supersuit. I clench my jaw, thrust both fists toward the curvature of the Earth, and intensify my telekinetic focus. The HUD clocks the extra burst of speed. Even through my helmet, the whoosh of flight is all-consuming. I laugh. This is amazing! We’re nearly to Lake Michigan when a jolt issues from Dad’s psychic sense.

  What is it? I ask, decelerating to an abrupt halt. The HUD informs me I’m floating at thirty thousand feet. Nothing but farmland and country roads below.

  They’re gone, Dad replies. Olga and Fabio.

  Gone? My stomach knots as I process the implications of Fabio’s psychic sense disappearing. What do you mean gone? Rational thought catches up. Disappearing doesn’t mean dead. If he was dead, he’d be with me through the Collective Unconscious.

  Correct, says Dad.

  They’re cloaked! I exclaim.

  Dad’s psychic sense turns grim. Yes.

  Can somebody else help us? Maybe Bruce Lee, Killmaster, or—

  No, Edge, says Dad. You don’t understand. An enormous portion of the Collective Unconscious has gone dark. Like a curtain has fallen over millions of soul-stars.

  A gust of wind carries me away from my spot. I focus the telekinetic energy to stabilize my position before processing what Dad’s telling me. A curtain. That’s exactly how it felt when I was separated from the Collective Unconscious back in Burbank.

  Yes, Edge, says a new voice—Bruce Lee. This is identical to how we were separated from you. Only on a much larger scale. Instead of one person separated from billions, this is millions separated from billions.

  Excuse me, sir, offers Lieutenant Killmaster. I believe this is strategic. We’re seeing the opening moves of an attack.

  [I agree,] says Hanzo. [Tron-Tron has gone dark also.]

  Hello everyone, says a morose British voice.

  Nigel! By instinct, I put up my fists. My arms, legs, and core are flexed. Can Dad and the others take care of Nigel if he seizes control of my body?

  Oh, we’ll take care of him all right, answers Killmaster. Sir.

  Yes, well, says Nigel. I know what you all must think of me.

  Where have you been? I ask, not relaxing.

  He’s been with the Übermenschen, says Dad, his psychic tone broadcasting revulsion.

  The who?

  No, says Nigel. The Who are a band that sings Eminence Front.

  Jokes? I fire back. Really?

  Sorry, says Nigel. I feel awful after what I did. It’s why I’ve come back. To help you with the Über People.

  The Übermenschen, says Bruce Lee, his psychic sense addressing me. They’re the group on the other side of the curtain. Nigel was working for Nostradamus with the Übermenschen. But he’s here now. And by choosing our side of the curtain, he’s shared all he knows with us.

  Including the existence of the Über People, Nigel hastens to add. Which you didn’t know about until I showed up. Don’t forget that part! Just by being here, I’m helping!

  [He betrayed you,] says Hanzo. [It’s too bad he’s already dead, or I’d kill him.]

  Yes, well, that’s all rather hostile, says Nigel. I am terribly sorry, Edger. You must understand, cut off from the Collective Unconscious, I couldn’t know how far Nostradamus would go. But it’s terrible what he’s planning. What he’s doing. I’ve come to help you stop him.

  Help us? I say. With what? Your karate hands?

  No, Edge, says Dad, his psychic sense relaxing. You don’t understand. Nigel’s telling the truth. By being here, on our side of the curtain, we know everything he knows. He’s shown us where Olga is taking Fabio, for example. And he’s shown us the rocket launcher in the trunk.

  When did he do all that?

  You’re forgetting, says Dad. On our side of the Collective Unconscious, we don’t have to talk. We are each of us in each other’s heads all the time. He’s given us everything we need. He couldn’t keep a secret from us even if he wanted to.

  But if you’re in each other’s heads all the time, why didn’t you know about these…Uber People…until now?

  Edge, says Dad. Later. We’ve already lost Tron-Tron so we could save Fabio. Now Olga’s getting away.

  [What are we waiting for?] growls Hanzo. [Let’s drown her car.]

  The candy apple red Mustang tips upward, its grill cresting Lake Michigan’s surface as an immobilized Olga and a bound and gagged Fabio float upward to meet Zarathustra in the clouds. Beneath his helmet, a smile spreads across Edger’s face for the astonishment in his best friend’s eyes. A thin ray of invisible psychic energy unties the ropes binding him. The gag loosens, lifts over the top of his head, and the bundle of fabric and rope drops toward the lake.

  “Dude!” yells Fabio, and Edger raises his hand to accept a high five.

  Fabio’s body tips forward, making him parallel to the planet below. Grinning, he tucks one fist into his chest and thrusts the other forward, channeling his best Christopher Reeve.

  “Ready?” asks Zarathustra.

  “Ready!” Fabio replies.

  The pair speed away like Superman I and Superman II, with Olga in tow on a psychic leash.

  CHAPTER Fifty-Six

  Not long ago, Mary and I stood on this embankment and watched my funeral under a blue sky. Today, it’s me and Fabio. The sky is gray, and there’s a winding group of mourners in black veils plodding down the cemetery drive leading to our spot.

  My gaze sweeps down. Three Bonkovich graves—one of them mine.

  Dad’s is no longer empty. He and I saw to that using this strange and amazing telekinetic power. It’d been sad work, but the difficult part is knowing he’s finally been laid to rest in a grave waiting to be filled for twenty years. It’s knowing definitively my dad will never again walk this Earth. There will never be another game of catch, Sunday barbecues, or parking lot campouts waiting for movie tickets to go on sale.

  Mom’s empty grave. I release a slow breath and bite my tongue. Dad explained she’s out there doing her part. We’ll have to find her, but whether I get any good years back once we do remains to be seen.

  A wind kicks up. Maybe it will rain. The needle-brown grass could use it.

  I track back to the line of mourners. They’re getting closer. I’d rather not be here when they reach this spot. Anyway, this isn’t our last stop. I climb to my feet.

  “Okay,” I say. “We can go.”

  “You sure?” asks Fabio. “I’m not in a hurry. Hey. Why don’t you crash at my place tonight? You shouldn’t be alone.”

  Shouldn’t be alone. He’s the one who shouldn’t be alone. My eyes go for his golden chain. A surge of relief courses through me when I spot it around his neck. A second wave follows the first, this one stemming from the satisfaction of Dad having earlier disabled the two-way feature on Fabio’s device. There will be no mind-controlling my best friend.

  “Never take that off,” I say, gesturing with my finger to his medallion.

  “Dude. We’ve been over this a million times. Now, come on. Fish tacos. On me.”

  “Pine’s Place first.”

  “Aw, dude. Your gran’s never gonna forgive me for letting her think you’re dead. Pick me up when it’s over. I can’t be there.”

  “You’re going to have to face her eventually.”

  “Yeah, but it’s different for you. You’re her grandson. I’m just… Fabio.”

  “You’re nobody’s ‘just Fabio,’” I reply, recalling Bruce Lee’s advice the first time we met. What we are is what we aspire to be, he had told me then. “You’re my best friend.”

  Fabio stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

  We start down the long drive. My head is a maze bridging two realities. A part of me is walking with the soul-stars, Bruce Lee, Hanzo, Killmaster, and Dad. And the rest of
me is here, with Fabio, the trudging mourners, and the sleeping dead beneath the cemetery.

  “Explain something to me,” says Fabio. “Why isn’t Mary here? Why can’t we go find her and give her a medallion and make our own team?”

  “Mary’s playing the game she knows,” I reply, tamping down the jumbled playlist in my brain that’s been there since Dad explained about Mary being a clone. “My best guess is the ‘assassination’ was a ruse to get close to Nostradamus. Dad says he can’t rule out the prime minister she shot wasn’t a clone. That means it’s possible her dad is the good man she remembers.”

  “You mean ‘remembers’ from a life that wasn’t hers in the first place?” He shakes his head and scowls. “Ah, this is making my brain hurt.”

  I shrug, feeling a little lost myself. “I guess she’s thinking if more people know a secret, Nostradamus has more opportunities to learn the secret. I mean, it’s how Mom and Dad kept ahead of him for twenty years, by splitting us up. It’s a viable strategy.”

  He swats against my points with both hands. “Ah—come on, dude! That’s not what this is about at all!”

  I arch an eyebrow at him. He returns my sideways gaze with one of his own.

  “Do I really need to spell it out for you?” he asks. “She’s your lady. And you’re her man. You two go together like Vicki Vale and Bruce Wayne.”

  My spirits sink. The image of Mary dying—my Mary’s copy—pushes through my subconscious, followed by the sight of her spread-eagle on the floor after Nigel threw her under the bus.

  “You’re too late, Edge.”

  We stop walking. An old lady is lifting her veil in front of me. Her wrinkles are like trenches. Her eyes are the color of slush. Her bulbous nose hooks out over lips so thin, they’re all but nonexistent. The others in her group encircle Fabio.

  “Hey! Hey!” he yells, jumping up and down to see over their shoulders. “Let me out of here!”

  Slush-colored eyes peer up into mine.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “We are Nostradamus,” the mourners answer in unison. “Rejoice! Today is World Peace Day.”

  “Okay, now that’s just freaky,” says Fabio, no longer jumping.

  “Live with it a little, Edge,” says Slush Eyes. “We don’t have to fight.”

  She lowers her veil. The mourners encircling Fabio part. He scrambles out, gaping as he cranes his neck to peer back at them. The women form up in single file and resume their doleful procession.

  My hand slides into my pocket. I pull out Dad’s ring.

  “Dude?”

  I face Fabio. “You ready to Superman it up?”

  He nods. I put on my ring. Seconds later, we’re speeding through the skies.

  CHAPTER Fifty-Seven

  We find Gran and Shep sitting in front of the television. Shep with a beer, Gran a cup of her favorite ginseng tea. C-SPAN is covering Congress. The chyron reads: BREAKING NEWS: HISTORIC BIPARTISAN PASSAGE OF A BALANCED BUDGET. And the closed captions: Five hundred thirty-five members of Congress. One hundred in the Senate, the rest in the House. Not a single nay vote.

  “Republicans and Democrats working together in harmony,” I whisper. “Asta-la-pasta, see-ya-never!”

  “What’s wrong with them?” asks Fabio.

  “Nostradamus.”

  I wave a hand between Gran and the TV.

  “Dear, you’re blocking the TV.”

  “Gran—I’m alive.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You’re blocking the TV, Edge.” Shep picks up a magazine and bats me in the leg.

  I step out of the way. Fabio steps forward.

  “Hey, Mrs. Bee.” He waves. “Remember Edge?” He points. “Guess what? He’s alive!”

  Gran turns her head. Her eyes are round and soulful. “Rejoice—”

  I inhale—optimism surging.

  “—It’s World Peace Day.”

  “Rejoice, it’s World Peace Day,” says Shep, using a tone that could also be used to say, “Always Low Prices at Walmart.”

  I release my breath. Fabio nudges me. His head tips toward the door. I press my lips into the top of Gran’s bushy head and inhale her powdery scent. I linger for a moment, waiting for her to respond.

  “Okay, see ya later, Mrs. Bee,” says Fabio, grabbing me by the elbow and steering me out. Neither of us say a thing as we retrace our way in, exit the building, and head down to the pool.

  My chest hurts. This place was Gran’s dream. Pine’s Place. A retirement home for people who can afford to swank in La Jolla. I poured all my inheritance and savings into it and Mary ended up chipping in the rest. But now, after years of scrimping and saving, is Gran really even here to enjoy it? I died and came back to life, kissed her, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from C-SPAN.

  We pass palm trees and food trucks. An ice-cream shop. At the pool, I get the gate for Fabio. We head inside, find two patio chairs, sit. Four senior citizens queue up on the side of the deep end. Three men, one woman, all in rubber caps and goggles. They dive in sideways, one after the next, like synchronized swimmers. I shift to face Fabio, then shut his jaw for him.

  Along the beach below us, the umbrellas and towels are set out in perfect rows. Foot traffic is organized in lines, those going west to the ocean, and those going east to the beach. Farther up are the north/south lanes. Joggers, bikers, a golf cart. A unicyclist goes by.

  I shift in my patio chair again. The street traffic is slow. No doubt everyone’s going the speed limit and not one mile an hour faster. Utterings of “Rejoice, it’s World Peace Day,” are exchanged as pedestrians pass one another.

  “Unreal,” I say. “He did it. He really did it. He synthesized my blood and remade the world.”

  “I’m already bored,” Fabio replies. Next to him, a leathered old man in Speedos bends over to lay out a beach towel on his patio chair. Fabio picks up a curled-up newspaper and swats him on the butt.

  “Fabio!”

  Speedos straightens and turns around. I sit up and lean forward.

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “Rejoice,” Speedos says through gritted teeth, as five more wrinkled swimmers appear out of nowhere. “It’s World Peace Day,” they say in matching ironic tones. An old lady snatches the newspaper from Fabio’s hands and cocks it overhead. Her eyes glaze over. She lowers the newspaper, and the onlookers disperse.

  “Let it go, Edge,” says Speedos. “Just let it go and give it a chance. It’s peace in our time. Oh—I almost forgot. There’s a special showing of Highlander tonight at Westfield Horton Plaza, just for you and Fabio. You get the whole theater to yourselves. Concessions and everything. Enjoy!” The old man’s eyes lose focus. He lies down on his patio chair and suns himself.

  Fabio sits up, grabs my elbow, and shakes it. “Dude, this is messed up!”

  “Then go get your fish tacos,” says Speedos, not looking up. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation in the cemetery.”

  Fabio’s eyes find mine and widen meaningfully. We get up and exit the pool area and head out onto the bustling sidewalk.

  “Rejoice! It’s World Peace Day!”

  “I freaking know, lady,” says Fabio, grinding his teeth.

  A kid licking his ice-cream cone looks up at me with big Manga eyes. “Rejoice! It’s World Peace Day!”

  “Edge,” says Fabio. “Can’t you fly us out of here?”

  “Where is there to go?”

  “I don’t know. We can start with somewhere there aren’t any people?”

  “And how does that go?” I counter. “Buddy, it’s only going to be World Peace Day for one day. Maybe after that, people will be like, yay, we don’t have to say this anymore.”

  “Rejoice!” cries a man in beach shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. “It’s Worl—”

  “World Peace Day!” screams Fabio. “Yeah! I got the memo!”

  Beach Bum Guy stops. He steps up in Fabio’s face.

  “Whoa-whoa, hey,” says Fabio, raising h
is palms in the air.

  “Don’t be rude,” says the man.

  “Look at that,” says Fabio. “We have found a variation on a theme.”

  A bicyclist skids to a stop. Woman. Early thirties. She pulls out her earbuds and flays Fabio with a penetrating gaze.

  “Rudeness must not be tolerated.”

  She climbs off her bike and releases her grip on the handle. Metal crashes on the sidewalk.

  “Rudeness is a crime,” a third person says. I wheel around and discover my nose is chest-level with a massive Harley-Davidson tattoo and hairy man nipples. My gaze rises. Bald, angry-faced man. He is shirtless, muscled, and has the unmistakable look of a Klingon about to pull out his bat’leth and go all space Viking on poor Fabio.

  “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here,” I say, and the Bald Ugly Giant lays his hand on my shoulder.

  “Rudeness is a crime,” he says.

  “But not accidental rudeness,” I hasten to reply. “Right? Ha-ha. Because if it were, we’d all be wearing orange jumpsuits. Am I right?”

  Bald Giant’s eyebrows furrow.

  Fabio’s bearded face breaks into a grin. “Aw, yeah,” he says. “Dude—you picked the wrong guy!”

  “No, Fabio,” I say. “I can’t fight him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can barely think.”

  Bald Giant’s hand slides off my shoulder. His hands curl into fists. “That is a rude thing to say.”

  Beach Bum cracks his knuckles. “Rudeness must be punished!”

  “Kick his rude ass!” cries the bicyclist.

  I open myself to Bruce Lee, surrendering control as baseball mitt-sized hands go for my throat. My arm weaves through his forearms, cut up and back, redirecting his attacking momentum to the side. My heel follows with a back kick to the liver. Through the Collective Unconscious, I feel his autonomic nervous system going haywire. His blood vessels dilate, his heart rate decreases. Bald Giant crashes to his knees, out like sauerkraut.