Edger, like any good superhero, battles baddies as well as personal issues, e.g., low self-esteem. The characters, however, are earnest and multilayered. These gags make it easy to ignore the sometimes-muddled plot points (the motive for stealing the AI is unclear). The AI’s biological host is, at one point, a cow, and a nearly 300-pound defensive tackle may be a spy. Beem laces his absurdist plot with kooky imagery. But Mike has also given Edger a ring that uses nanofibers to outfit him with a body-armored “space-ninja costume.” He even stumbles upon a few surprising allies in the Collective Unconscious, like Bruce Lee. Complicating matters is a fiendish organization called Nostradamus. Unfortunately, the AI is a necessary component to prevent the brain from information overload without it, Edger will die within 96 hours. With an injection of nano-neuro medicine, Edger can access, via his own mind, the dreamlike Collective Unconscious (a database of everyone who’s ever lived) to recover the InstaTron Tron. The villainous AI seems hellbent on creating anarchy. Someone has stolen InstaTron Tron, a cumbersomely named artificial intelligence, and released it. He knew InstaTron CEO/founder Mike Dame back at Notre Dame, where they discussed concepts Mike used to earn a degree and start his company. I’m going to die.An average Joe has a chance to be a superhero and face off against a supervillain-using tech that may be deadly to the user-in Beem’s ( Abyss of Chaos, 2011) offbeat comedy.Įdger (Ed- jer, as he constantly stresses) Bonkovich is a typical Dork-tech support at Über Dork, a subsidiary of InstaTron in San Diego. The rising trill of the incoming missile hollows my throat. I struggle to get to my feet, twist my ankle, fall. High above, a tiny Peterbilt is bearing down on me like a meteorite. Nostradamus faces me, his head cocked sideways. Another explosion erupts from the far side of the parking lot, the flash briefly outlining Dad and Nostradamus. It takes me a secondīefore I realize it’s me. Loud it glows in my ears, a pure white sound. Touch my finger to the inside of my cheek-blood. I prop myself up on oneĮlbow, wince, collapse onto my side. Shoulder raking across concrete, I skid to stop. The shock force of an explosion slams me from behind.

I hobble off as fast as I can manage, making it three steps before My knees buckle, and the action serves to reboot my body Toward the airborne fleet rocketing toward space. “Run!” Dad yells, peering upward, one leg bent, hands raised

Edger Lives by David Beem