Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  “See, I told you … Greg has ‘minion’ written all over him,” I said, looking over at Astarte. I turned back to Master Form Filler. “Is Jedi Master Greg home?”

  ↔

  The elevator was one of those sleek, personal elevators that only serviced the top floor. With a bing it opened up onto Greg’s living room. Before we could even exit the damn thing, I heard a nerdy voice call out, “It took you long enough.”

  Greg.

  We entered a living room that made me feel like I had died and gone to Heaven. Well, my kind of heaven. It was filled with classic arcade games—Pac-Man, Digger, Space Invaders, Donkey Kong. He even had an original Street Fighter arcade. The walls were covered with posters of The Terminator, Alien, The Abyss, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial and, of course, Star Wars. Glass cases displayed mint condition Transformers, Smurfs, He-Man and G.I. Joe figures, all complete with every accessory. His collection made mine look quaint by comparison. Then there were comic books. Shelf after shelf of single issue comics that made me drool just looking at them.

  He also had collectibles. The big stuff … Ramirez’s katana from Highlander, a life-size figure of the Terminator and a rancor—the giant, reptilian monster from Return of the Jedi; the statue was a life-size sixteen-foot-tall replica and up close the beast looked like the illogical child of a lion and a potato—this guy’s apartment was huge—complete with claws and a short, thorny tail. The only variation was that a red ruby sat on the over-pronounced ridges of the rancor’s nostril slits. Star Wars bling? Who knew what these rich kids were up to these days?

  I thought of Medusa and her idols theory. Greg, like me, took comfort in those statues and what they meant to us when we were growing up. But unlike me, where every toy I had was played with, Greg displayed everything behind polished glass. “Not idols,” I muttered. “Trophies.”

  “Excuse me?” Astarte said.

  I shook my head. “Nothing … Look.” I pointed beyond the Valhalla of geekery to the balcony where Greg stood.

  He was still in his Star Wars robe and held a straight, silver trumpet. For an instrument that heralded the End of Days, it looked remarkably like the ones football fans like to blow. He fiddled with it. “Can you believe it? He let me blow it. You must have heard it. He let me herald what’s to come. I’m the Nostradamus comet heralding the coming of the Destroyer … I’m the Silver Surfer announcing the arrival of Galactus.” He dropped the trumpet and pointed to the sea.

  Paradise Lot was built on an island the shape of a teardrop, roughly seventy by thirty miles; most of the population lived in the swelling bulb of the tear. The Promenade sat on the outer curve of the swell. Standing on the top floor of the Ladder, I could see almost the whole city, its light springing up from the host of buildings that rarely broke five stories—a thousand tiny beams that came from the windows of living rooms, bedrooms and kitchens all over the city. And sitting in each light was a living, breathing creature—be it human or Other. The sight was breathtaking, and the thought that this soft glow was the amalgamation of so much life was awe-inspiring …

  But all of that was completely overshadowed by the massive mountain of water that lumbered toward Paradise Lot. Given that we were a couple miles away, whatever was big enough to churn the water the way it did was friggin’ huge.

  “Look,” Greg said, “she’s coming. She’ll be here in a few hours, and then … man, oh man … Godzilla’s got nothing on her.” He giggled when he saw us.

  “What’s going on here, Greg?” I asked.

  “Why, I lured you here to distract you, of course. The way the boss figured it, you were our only real threat and I had to get you away from the beach to keep you away.”

  “See? Minion,” I said to Astarte.

  “Let me guess. You’re here for the Grimoire. The one I said I had. You want to know who’s next in line to stop Tiamat, right?”

  I said nothing.

  “Right?”

  I pursed my lips and nodded.

  Greg jumped up in joy. “I knew it. I told my boss that you’d take the bait. He said it should be something less subtle. That you were probably too stupid to get it. But I held my ground, and I was right!”

  “And why do you want to distract me?” I asked. “Astarte I get, but me?”

  “Because the boss planned this whole thing out but figured you were the wildcard in all this. You know, because of what you did the last time someone tried to destroy Paradise Lot. You’re the city’s Champion and, well, he got nervous that you’d foil his plans.”

  “Foil his plans,” I muttered, hitting my hand against my forehead. Where were we? In an episode of Scooby-Doo?

  “Yeah, foil … That’s why he chose your hotel and all these theatrics. Personally, I think he should have just done it all somewhere else, far, far away from you. I mean, come on, picking your place is kind of setting you up. It becomes a whole ‘self-fulfilling prophesy’ kind of deal.” Greg shrugged. “But, then again, what do I know? I’ve only been around for three or so decades … These guys, they’ve damn near lived forever.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever … Fine, you got me. I’m here.” I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait until the boss finishes up.”

  “You keep mentioning a boss … Who’s that?” Astarte asked. She was edging forward, trying to get herself in position to pull him down.

  “Who else? The Emperor.” Greg let the word hang in the air before cracking up. “Just kidding.”

  “Why, Greg?” I asked, stepping onto the balcony.

  “Why not?”

  Astarte moved to his side, and as she drew near, he pulled something out of his pocket with a dramatic whoomp! “Step back,” he said. A red streak of light shot up. He held up a toy lightsaber.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” I said.

  He laughed and turned off the lightsaber. “Yeah, I am. But you should’ve seen the look on her face! Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s only the end of the world!”

  “Greg, why?” I repeated. “I thought you were a Jedi.”

  “Bah, Jedi are lame. Now, the Sith! They’re much more interesting.”

  “Sure, Greg,” I said. “But even the Sith didn’t want to destroy all life. They just wanted to rule it. Why did you do this? Why did you switch out the fish?”

  “And abandon our date?” Astarte added.

  Greg laughed. “Oh, honey …” His voice dripped contempt. “You’re not as spellbinding as you think you are.”

  Astarte growled, and Greg leapt onto the railing of the balcony and precariously balanced on its ledge. “This is the part where I say, ‘Take another step and I’ll jump.’ ”

  He wobbled with one foot on the edge. “Did you really come all this way just to get your hand on the Grimoire?” He pointed at his bookshelves. “OK—go on, then. It’s in the back. I didn’t even bother to hide it. Nothing can stop her now.” He pointed behind him to the mountain of water that approached.

  The giant bulb of water was still a fair distance off the shore and still it towered at such a height as to make the Ladder seem like a modest apartment building instead of the skyscraper that it was. I had seen images of Tiamat’s approach on Sally’s iPad; I thought I had a handle on the enormity of the creature, but actually seeing how it pushed up the water as it came toward us made me realize that television did not do it justice—even in HD.

  Waving his toy lightsaber, he pointed at me and said, “Five more hours to go. I think my master and I are doing pretty good.”

  “You have a master?” I asked.

  “In a way. My master is an Other and therefore isn’t used to the mortal world. That gives me certain,” Greg paused as he searched for the word, “advantages. My master might be using me, but I’m using my master right back.” Greg cocked a devilish grin.

  “Humph,” Astarte snorted. “Tell that damned BisMark that—”

  Greg held up a hand. “BisMark?”

  “Yes,” Astarte je
ered, “tell your master that—”

  Greg broke out into chortles. “BisMark, my master? He’s a pompous ass. No, my master is someone a lot more …” He searched for the word before finally settling on, “fun.” Then he sneered, exposing straight, white teeth that could only be achieved by someone who spent a lot of money at the dentist’s—damn rich kid. He pointed his toy sword at Astarte with one hand as he fumbled with something under his robe. “There are more villains than your imagination can conjure,” he said. “You know, when the gods took off, they left behind all their toys. Tiamat, sure … but also Ragnarök, the Beast … even the Bull is in hiding somewhere in the mountains of Palmyra. So many toys to pick from, but my master chose Tiamat because of you. You are so desperate to know who’s behind this … Look in the mirror, sister. This is all in your honor.”

  Astarte put her hands against her chest. “I’m not your sister …” she moaned, then her voice dropped as she pulled at the top button of Sally’s shirt. “Not unless you want me to be.”

  Greg groaned, momentarily distracted, before shaking his head. He clipped the still-lit lightsaber to his belt. Then he pulled out a slingshot from under his robe. “My master told me you’d try to distract me.” He loaded his slingshot with a rock. I took a step forward and he held out a finger. “Ah, ah, ah … Seems I’ve run out of time,” he said, looking at his wristwatch. “Before I go … I got one question for you, Jean. Can you fly?”

  “No,” I said, confused.

  “Good.” He shot the stone from his sling. It flew past my head and into his living room, where it hit the strange rancor statue in the chest. “Damn it,” he sulked, “I practiced to get that right.”

  “Practiced what?” I said, edging forward. Astarte, who had also been edging toward Greg, was now looking behind her at the rancor statue. She wore a perplexed look on her face. “Practiced what?” I repeated.

  Astarte shrieked, “Stop him! He must not hit the statue!”

  “What?” I said, taking my gaze off Greg and looking at Astarte. Her eyes were wide open as she reached for Greg, but it was too late. Greg had managed to fire off another stone—this time it knocked off the weird red gem on the rancor’s head.

  I lunged at Greg, but he leaned back and fell off his balcony. I got to the edge and watched as the light from his red lightsaber twirled down like a spinning glow stick, except instead of plummeting forty-seven stories down, he stopped. From the glow of his Sith weapon, I could see that he had been caught by the arms of an unlikely savior—ScarFace.

  Red reflected off gray stone and a pair of powerful wings as ScarFace carried Greg higher and higher until it was parallel with me.

  “Time!” Greg yelled. “You’ve got to spend it to make it!” ScarFace flapped his stone wings twice and slowly flew in the direction of the beach.

  “He’s getting away,” I yelled. “Astarte—grab the sling.”

  “Yes, Jean,” Astarte whispered. “He’s getting away. But we, unfortunately, have bigger problems to contend with.”

  There was a low growl behind me. I turned around to see the rancor no longer had that strange gem on its head. That, and the rancor was no longer a statue.

  The rancor lowered its head, a growl of aggression reverberating from it.

  Hellelujah!

  Some Fiction Ain’t Fiction

  I always assumed Star Wars was pure fiction. The sights, the spectacle—a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away—were just part of the imagination of a certain George Lucas. But here was an Other that looked exactly like the rancor beast from Return of the Jedi. Makes sense—a universe as rich as that galaxy far, far away could never be purely fiction.

  “So,” I said to Astarte, “we doing this?” I raised my fists up as the rancor tramped onto the balcony.

  “No, Jean,” she said, touching the nape of her neck and pulling at her collar. “You are.” She gave me a tantalizing kiss on the forehead that was far too distracting given that there was a monster galumphing toward us.

  She pushed me in the direction of the rancor.

  “What are you doing?” I said, stumbling a step in the direction of the rancor. I had just enough time to turn and see Astarte perch herself on the balcony railing. GoneGodDamn she was fast.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “He is here to help.” She held out the pendant that she had taken from the WildMan at the dock and howled. I don’t mean, she cupped her hands and mimicked a wolf. I mean she actually howled, summoning some ancient voice within and letting loose a cry that demanded the world’s attention. The rancor stopped and stared in awe at the succubus. Hell, even the moon stared down in wonderment at Astarte. It felt as though everything stopped; that as long as Astarte cried out, there was nothing for the world and all its inhabitants to do but listen.

  When she stopped, the world sputtered for a moment before starting up again, returning to its usual scheduled programming—which generally meant it went back to trying to kill me.

  The rancor let out a low rumbling growl. I turned to face it just as it tried to rake one of its massive claws across my chest. The good news about this thing was it was as dumb as a rock and almost as slow. I easily dodged its claw and, feeling for a moment like Luke Skywalker in Jabba’s rancor pit, ducked between its legs and ran inside—if I was going to have a chance to beat this thing, I needed a weapon.

  And Greg had weapons. Lots of them.

  ↔

  It took the creature a moment to wipe the look of confusion off its face, turn around, and follow me into the center of the room. I dodged it when it swung at me for a second time, its claws breaking the case with the Highlander sword in it.

  I grabbed the sword and, pulling it from its sheath, stood to face the rancor. In my best Sean Connery voice, I said, “There can be only one.”

  The rancor apparently agreed because, as soon as those words left my lips, it rose to its full height and tried to snatch me up so it could chomp on me like a midnight snack, get pieces of me stuck between its molars, probably use my femur as a toothpick later. But I pivoted to the side and stabbed the creature in its side. The blade must have been sharp, because I barely had to put any force behind it. The rancor released a howl of pain. I was feeling smug until it backhanded me in the gut, throwing me across the room, back onto the balcony and beneath Astarte’s perch.

  At least I managed to hold on to the sword.

  “Will you please help,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Astarte bit her lower lip in an expression that was not appropriate for fighting a monster and said, “I am helping.”

  “Oh, yeah? How?”

  “Live for a few more minutes and you’ll see.”

  She pulled out two more daggers from GoneGods knew where. We charged the creature together. I fought side by side with guys in the Army for years, and never was an attack coordinated so perfectly. The creature lumbered forward. Astarte tumbled in one direction and I in the other. We slashed at its Achilles tendons, Astarte severing the left one and I the right.

  The rancor crashed to the ground like a felled Redwood and slid across the marble to the balcony railing. Astarte casually followed it, as if she didn’t have a fear in the world. The rancor stood up laboriously, flexing its injured legs until the tendons somehow repaired themselves.

  “It’s a golem,” Astarte said. “It can heal any wound you give it.”

  The rancor grunted and focused its beady little eyes on me with bestial hatred. Then it lunged at me. “Then how do we kill it?” I cried over its growls and grunts, dodging left and right.

  “A lot of damage.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked, using the rancor’s distraction to stab it in the chest. It lurched in pain, and I thought I had it, but then it extended its front claw and picked me up like I weighed nothing at all. It drew me close enough that I could feel the heat of its breath, a thick strand of its saliva glazing EightBall’s collarless jacket.

  I was sure that in another second I would be a
headless corpse, but then Astarte came crashing down on it, plunging two blades into its horny back. She stabbed the creature over and over until it staggered, finally dropping me.

  “My daggers have been dipped in poison, they should kill—”

  Before Astarte could finish, the creature, which had been stumbling about the room knocking over priceless memorabilia, shook off the pain and the poison. It huffed and puffed and snarled once again.

  “I guess it walked it off,” I said, pushing Astarte out of the way. The rancor took a swipe at me with its huge claws. At the last second, I jumped on top of the Pac-Man arcade machine, pushed off its control panel, landed astride its shoulders and sunk the sword between two armor plates, deep into the nape of its neck.

  The rancor swung around, swatting me off its shoulders like a troublesome mosquito, and tumbled into the hodgepodge of comics and toys.

  I watched it, expecting it to collapse in death throes. I’d put down dragons, dropped minotaurs—I even sent the archangel Raphael to plummet to the earth with a catastrophic effect. I was able to do those things not because I was super-strong or because I had some super power, but because I could instinctively sense Others’ weak spots.

  But this rancor—it had no weak spot. The sword should have dropped it, but instead of dying like a good boy, it incorporated my sword into its being. I watched the Highlander sword turn a stony gray, then a marble white. The rancor turned around, and the sword hilt stuck out of its back like it was a part of its body.

  The rancor lurched up and bellowed a cry of triumph before landing on its feet again, knocking me into a glass case that held a life-size figure of Arnold Schwarzenegger, à la Terminator 2: Judgment Day.

  Arnold and I toppled over one another, and I ended up facing him, his red, robotic eye staring down at me judgmentally. “I know, I know,” I said, pushing the figure off of me.

  I just about got to my feet when the rancor stepped on me, pinning me to the ground with its elephantine three-toed hoof. I grabbed its two lower tusks and pushed, trying to force its jaw closed, but the weight of the creature was too much. There weren’t enough bench presses in the world that would have given me the strength to keep this up for long—not that I had done many bench presses.