Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3)

“Too much self pitty and stupidity.” – Amazon customer

“It read and felt poorly to me.” – Amazon customer

“The first book was great. The second book is like some romance porn novel. Is this the same writer?” – Chris Bennett

“The most groundbreaking work of fiction since Blackjack Villain. Especially since we learned to spellcheck.” - Ben Bequer

“Second rate effort all around.” – Amazon customer

“The amount of hate mail you generate is pretty impressive, for a guy who barely knows how to type.” – Joshua Hoade, co-writer

“When are you going to kill Apogee?” – George R. R. Martin

“The author lost me pretty quick, I finally stopped reading it and moved on.” – Majak (Amazon)

“Reading this guy’s books reminded me of talking to an older person telling me a story, he’d repeat the same stuff over a dozen times.” – E.R. Diaz

By Ben Bequer & Joshua Hoade

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to us using the contact information below.

Blackjack Press blackjackslair.blogspot.com

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Cover and interior art by Erik von Lehmann

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http://erikvonlehmann.deviantart.com/

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Revision 1.00 10/9/15

Printed in the United States of America

Teach me to feel another’s woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy to others I show, that mercy show to me.

-
       
Alexander Pope

I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.

-
       
Douglas Adams

  The ceiling was exactly the same as it had been every day for the last three months. Half a dozen creases cut the domed ceiling into a perfect, symmetrical grid, and within those creases were hard light emitters that turned the otherwise barren room into the envy of many first world hospitals. Every aspect of the engineering and machining were pristine, and though I could run the math that went into making the room domed in my head, I knew it was an illusion. If my theory was correct, eighteen inches of space sat between the dome’s highest point and the floor of the next highest level, growing wider as the dome tapered at the sides, creating almost endless amount of space for equipment.

A custom halogen was implanted into the ceiling. It hadn’t needed a bulb change since I woke up, but I was sure the clear paneling was the same glass as the windscreen of Superdynamic’s plane, the Cicada. I was sure it would slide away to reveal a full suite of light based technology. It was the only way they could be monitoring me as my body was covered in a solid light cast from the neck down. No probes, no patches, and yet my vitals showed up as numbers and helpful waveforms on a monitor that I had only been able to look at since they removed the C-collar two weeks previous.

That had been a good day. When movement is at a premium, the ability to crane one’s neck was worth its weight in gold, even when doing so made the feeding tube threaded through my nose and into my gut shift. It dragged when I turned my head left and bunched up against the inside of my nostril when I turned right. Neither was comfortable, but no worse than anything else that had happened since my fight with Lord Mighty, since Zundergrub had broken me out of Utopia, really.

I heard a deep rumble and looked down my nose at Moe, seated at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, looking like an exceptionally large, disappointed teacher. He was the only one who visited with any regularity, usually to watch something on the tower’s inexhaustible collection of television or movies. When that had gotten stale he introduced me to every obscure rapper and R&B singer that had ever come from his block in New York. The last few weeks though, every visit had a moral, like an eighties sitcom. Everything he said and did narrowed to a point that he then proceeded to beat over my head until he felt like I understood.

He studied me, waiting, and I nodded. "See the problem with your sorry ass is that all your great moments, no one's ever been there to see them,” he said as if he had never lost me. A small, portable chess board sat atop my chest, the cast supporting its weight with ease. I didn’t feel the slightest pressure. “Your worst moments? Them shit's televised. What do you want to move?"

"Pawn," I said, having to physically stop myself from trying to make the move.

"Nah, man. I'll take your bishop. Move the other bishop here." Moe shifted my bishop forward, taking one of his pawns.

"So that's a bad thing," I asked.

"No, that you got shit backwards. People that make decisions, write the checks and shit, all they know is Blackjack's the bad motherfucker threw Pulsewave off a building. And that shit makes people not trust you," he said moving a pawn.

"I bet," I said.

"That's a bitch you have to live with," he said, shaking his head. "But it’s also something you have going for you."

"The powers that be hate and distrust me and that's a good thing?"

Moe laughed, "That's what I'm saying. See, being good with the cops is one thing, but being good with the people, that's what you want."

"How does people liking me keep my ass out of jail?"

"Nigga, you'd be in jail already," he said dismissing me with a wave, the pawn looking tiny between hos huge fingers. "Look at you. Now's the time to put your ass away, not later when you're all good. Take, like, twenty guys like me to put you down."

I chuckled, “Or a lady with an asthma inhaler,” I said, remembering how insidiously simple it had been for them to throw me in Utopia.

"Excuse me?"

I shook my head, "Never mind."

He cocked his head, and I knew he was trying to decide if I was screwing with him, but he pressed on, "I'm talking about acceptance, public opinion and shit. That's what you gauge it on. And with you being a former villain? That plays real nice. People want stories of redemption. Badass motherfucker pulling cats out of trees and shit. I saw a poll on TV where you had 43% approval rating. Only 29% hate your guts. You gonna move or you want me to move for you?"

"Wait, 43%?"

He nodded. "Move your bishop here now," he added, moving my bishop across the board.

"That and 29% only makes 72. Where’s the other 28%?"

Moe shrugged, "They don't give a fuck 'bout you one way or the other. But those are good numbers man. Get you in some good hands, some good PR people and you can have your own doll and shit. Motherfucking movie of the week. You know, nigga, make some serious money."

"Come on.”

He stood waving his arms to emphasize his point, "That's right, I said it. Money. Don't be turning into some dumb shit don't like money, or is like, that shit's not what I'm about. You gotta worry about it, you know what I mean? You gotta. Don't be some stupid ass homeless hero. Ever seen one?"

I shook my head reveling in the simple movement, ignoring the tug of war going on in my nose.

"Well, come to Brooklyn. Few of them walking the streets, picking food outta garbage cans and shit. Ask one motherfucker what he can do. Nigga can fly. Imagine that. He can fly and he's homeless. It's sad as fuck. Can't have no homeless Blackjack walking the streets of wherever the fuck it is you're from."

"Modesto," I said.

"Say again?" he said, most of his attention on moving a knight into dangerous territory near my king.

"Modesto. It's in California."

"Don't matter where it is, motherfuckers be poor all over and that’s for damned sure. If there’s people there, then there’s folk falling through the cracks, suffering. That ain't gonna be you, you hear me? I’m gonna hook you up with some people that’ll do all your marketing. I’ve got them on my hair products line and my comic books.”

I laughed at the thought of “Super Moe” comics.

“I’m gonna send you a case, see if you can do something about your hair. Shit’s like sticky and oily. You Italian, right?”

“No, American,” I said. “And move my pawn out against the knight.”

“Fucking American, he says,” he laughed. “Nah, that pawn won’t do shit there. Move this rook here, and you’re good. See?”

“You have your own comic?”

He nodded. “Self-published. We do like 20 ‘kay’ issues a month. It’s me against my nemesis, a black chick called Evil Lucy. She’s got big-ass tits, and fights with a whip. I’ll send you one of the trade paperbacks.”

Moe moved his knight, taking one of my pawns, my rook no longer there to threaten the space it occupied.

“That’s convenient,” I said.

He shrugged, “I was gonna do that anyway, nigga. I know you think you got shit straight with Apogee and whatever. I mean, I know she’s rich as fuck, but you don’t wanna be one of those held-bitches.”

“Kept men,” I corrected. “Move the rook back, take that knight.”

“They bitches no matter what they called,” he said. “Take the knight? You stupid? I’ll checkmate you if you do.”

I strained my eyes, trying to see what he meant, but for now my king was fine.

“In like five moves, dog,” he said, moving one of my pawns across the board from where his knight was threatening. “You gotta start thinking of shit like five, ten moves ahead. If not you get eaten alive. And whatever you call it, you can’t have your woman paying the bills. You need your own money. Clean money, now, not the shit you were doing before.”

I chuckled, and it hurt deep in my ribcage.

“Motherfucker, you saved the President,” he said, his eyes wide with excitement. “You got to leverage that shit.”

I chuckled again, the pain an old friend, “Try getting an audience?”

“You with Apogee, right,” he said, staring at me with amazement, as taken with her as the rest of the world.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Moe shook his head, “You don’t know? Damn, man. Guess it was too good to be true,” he said. “Then again, I didn’t figure she’d just leave you here a whole week without reason. Not with you all fucked up like this.”

“She’s off on some mission Superdynamic sent her on,” I said. “Besides, I lose the cast today.”

“Think my woman would be on some bullshit if I was fucked up like you?” He let the question linger for a moment, his head cocked to the side as if emphasizing the point. Once satisfied, he moved his queen to a perfect position to threaten my king with support from his knight. “See what I mean? You need your own shit? Can’t count on anyone these days. She might be the biggest heroine and shit, but that don’t mean anything to you and putting food on the table. Paying rent. Be your own man, goddammit.”

“I hear you,” I said. “I hear you.”

“You even get any from that woman,” he said, his voice dropping coyly. At the same time, he moved one of my bishops, the illusion of helping me gone, as he played alone.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” I said. “Like this.”

“Damn shame. Well, you had your chance. Woman like that you gotta have something to offer. Like-“

There was movement outside the modular light walls. Someone was approaching the door, drawing Moe out of his revelry. We both looked that way, and amid the commotion I could discern a man moving through. He was tall, with sandy blonde hair, instantly recognizable. It was Superdynamic. Jeff. My friend.

He walked through the staff giving everyone a pleasant smile, making all feel like family, until he reached the door. I saw him wince, the smile pained and forced as he opened it and stepped inside.

"There he is," Moe said. "We was just talking about you."

“Yeah, right,” Superdynamic said, moving over to the chart and grabbing it with his good hand. His left arm was in a sling.

“Engineering accident,” I said, jutting my chin at the sling.

He regarded his cast and shrugged, “Something like that.”

“Shit,” Moe said. “Fucker worked on you the whole time with his arm like that.”

“You serious,” I said, honestly impressed.

Jeff shook his head, his eyes never leaving the chart. “I had a lot of help.” He looked over at Moe, and something passed between them.

“You’re recovering better than expected,” Superdynamic said, putting the chart back. “I have a million tests I want to run on you, but I’d wager that at the end of them we’d come to the conclusion that your new bones are as good as, or maybe even better than, what nature gave you.”

“Better,” Moe said, shaking his head. “Like this nigga needs more shit.”

“Why better?”

He shrugged and sat on the bed next to mine. “It’s a hypothesis of mine. Something having to do with the stem cells forming into bones based on your new paradigm, rather than your prior, pre-Shard World version.”

I nodded, understanding what he meant. The carousel of insanity that was my life had started to turn about two years ago, sending me to a far off part of the galaxy where Apogee and I met the strange aliens that are the source of our power. I was close to one, closer perhaps than any other person before, even the Original Seven, who discovered these “Lightbringers,” as they were called, in the first place.

I was cowed in its presence, and it had exposed me, stripped me bare, rifling through my every thought and experience. I was helpless as it forced me to relive things better forgotten. Those memories still clung to the edges of my mind, as if the Lightbringer had clipped them there on purpose. Even the barest brush of a thought brought them forward with brutal clarity, but in the aftermath of that meeting, my powers had gone berserk. I was stronger and tougher than I had ever been. It made sense that proximity to the Lightbringers and whatever energy they emanated would boost my gifts, but since that day I had fought two of the strongest beings on the planet and won. I sometimes wonder if the same thing had happened to Apogee, but the time was never right to broach the subject. I thought about asking Jeff, but held my tongue. If Apogee wanted him to know anything, if there was anything to know, she would ask herself.

I wanted to ask where Apogee was, but I could tell something was eating at Jeff.

“What is it,” I said.

He pursed his lips and looked away.

“What?” I looked at Moe, but he couldn’t keep eye contact.

The big guy shook his head, “Aw, man. This is bullshit, D.”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

Superdynamic stood and walked over to the door, staring out at the gathered doctors and nurses as if looking for inspiration.

“It’s about your…status.”

“Status?” I looked over at Moe, but he was staring at the floor.

Jeff turned back, “As a villain.”

It had to be a joke. Not after everything I’d done for them. I mean, I was in the hospital, half dead, having saved the whole goddamned world on two occasions. Hell, I literally died for a few minutes before they could bring me back, to then start piecing back together my shattered body. And now this?