by M. K. Gibson
“Why?”
“They’re lawyers,” I explained. “And they’re not exactly here by their own volition.”
“You kidnapped them?” the executive asked.
“Forcibly retained their services,” I air quoted. “They’re here to make sure everything we say and do here is . . . legal.”
“Oh,” the executive said, sitting up and nodding to her associates. “Oh, then by all means. Shall we continue?”
“Of course,” I said. “Please, why don’t you start.”
“Thank you. We at D--”
“Ahem,” one of the lawyers said. “Best not to use official names.”
“Yes,” said the executive. “We at . . . our studio are feeling a lot of pressure from the masses concerning the second movie of our new trilogy. When we released The F-- the first new movie, we thought it was best to play it safe, and went with a more nostalgia-heavy feel as we introduced new characters.”
“You totally re-hashed the original movie while peppering in bits from the rest of the trilogy,” I said. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re here because your . . .” I paused to look over at the lawyers.
“Parent company,” one of them offered.
“Yes, your parent company has taken over multiple studios and now has a stranglehold on the summer blockbuster season. Knowing that you could quickly lose the billions you spent if your movies continue to garner mediocre feedback, you came to me for advice.”
The execs huddled and conferred for a moment, then looked back at me. “That is . . . a potentially valid point of view.”
“And along with the comic movies from M--”
“Ahem,” the lawyer said. “Best not to--”
“Myst, Wraith Knight, do you mind?”
“Not a problem,” Myst said. They dragged the lawyer by the back of his collar into a back room. The remaining two clung to one another and cried.
The next few moments were filled with muffled screams, wails of anguish, and the sound of a chainsaw. Over the noise, I distinctly heard Wraith Knight bellow, “Get back here!” and Myst accuse the lawyer of “being a baby.”
I gave the execs a silent smile while I twiddled my thumbs and waited for the noise to die down. “You all care for some coffee?”
“No. No thank you,” the executive said, wincing at the sound of a man screaming from the other room.
A moment later and my minions returned.
The lawyer didn’t.
I smiled and turned back to the executives. “As I was saying, along with the comic movie from that one studio, you’re afraid of flooding the market. So, with this particular beloved and flagship property, you’re second guessing yourself.”
“Possibly,” the executive said.
“Then allow me, firstly, to congratulate you on your rise to villainy. By squashing your opponents, and having the brass genitals of choice to take what you want, you’ve solidified your power base. However, you are now open to the slings and arrows of lesser beings. Like Rome, you will suffer from infighting, madness, corruption, and the hit-and-run tactics of Germanic tribes.”
“Sir,” Sophia said, clicking on the intercom. “I doubt Hollywood will be attacked by roving bands of Visigoths.”
“Metaphorically, Sophia. Metaphorically.”
“Oh. Well, right. Carry on,” she said, and the intercom clicked off.
“I took the liberty of drafting up an outline for your movie, as well as a way forward for your company,” I said as I stood and walked away from the table back to my desk. I retrieved a manila envelope and dropped my cigarette butt into my Skullgrim ashtray. Walking back, I slapped the envelope in front of the executives.
“Read it.”
The execs huddled around one another as they scoured my plan. I turned my chair around towards my minions and the two remaining lawyers.
“So, how am I doing so far?”
“Legally? You’re fine?”
“Thank you.”
“Ethically?” the other lawyer said. “You may be a monster.”
“Hey, thanks. That means a lot coming from a person like you. You know, someone who crushes the souls of the individual for the glory of the mega-corporation.”
“Well, it isn’t like that,” the lawyer said nervously. “I--”
“I meant it as a compliment,” I said. “Who cares about the little guy? What do they contribute besides someone to laugh about, am I right? Heh heh. Hey, you guys done with that yet?” I asked the execs. “I’d like to get on with the rest of the book. The word count so far is way above my per chapter average.”
“You can’t be serious,” the female lead exec said, flipping through the pages, “This is--”
“Brilliant,” I said.
“If we made this movie, we’d--”
“Make a butt ton of cash and shake up the nerd-o-sphere,” I offered.
“But this--”
“Shut up,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “Look, you can’t ever make them all happy. So what you do instead is divide them. Make one side think it’s great, while making the other side scream in rage. They will fight each other and both sides will come and pay for the third installment just to see who was right. All the while, you can backdoor as many one-off movies into your expanded universe as you want. Don’t act like you’re not planning on that.”
“We were considering it,” the executive admitted. “But some think that our expanded universe . . . sucks?”
“Oh, it does,” I said. “Unless there is a space wizard in a robe with a crystal-powered sword, no one cares. They may say they do, but they don’t. You can throw all the all-bark-no-bite armored bounty hunters you want into the mix; it won’t save whatever it is you have cooking.”
The executive held up my plan. “Then why should we do this, then?”
“To subvert the tropes. Trust me. Give them something different, with just enough similarities, the return to the familiar at the last moment, and they will praise your genius.”
“Okay, we’ll try . . .” the exec said, then looked at me expectantly.
I looked back her with a sneer. “What?”
The executives all exchanged glances. “You know, the famous ‘try’ quote?”
“What about it?” I asked. “I fucking hate space opera.”
The executives gasped.
“But I love money and producer credits. Now get out of my office.”
Prologue
(Yes, the real one this time)
Ramius Cord followed the call. It was faint, but it was there. A voice, like an echo on the wind or a long-forgotten memory, guided him.
Wiping the dust off his goggles with the back of his glove, he leaned forward on his skip-bike’s grips. The heavily modified hover sled happily responded and accelerated, leaving a trail of red dust in its wake as he chewed up kilometers of open desert.
Ramius checked his scanners, but nothing registered on any frequency. Maybe it was out of range? No. He heard it. Felt it. Despite the instruments, he zoomed across Allamar’s Gulch and past Watchman’s Mesa. Ramius could see the glint of ancient metal on the horizon. The fiery sun and first moon’s light twinkled like Farro’s sea as he approached the Titan’s Graveyard.
The ancient warships littered the outer rim of Jaangar VII’s red waste. No one knew where the ships came from, but every space trader Ramius met had a different theory about the colossal starships.
Ramius, like all the children of the Khyber Settlement, was warned by the elders to avoid the graveyard. That the Djzha, the Phase Walkers of the Dominion, wandered the ships, looking for ancient secrets—or children to kidnap.
And like all children, he sneaked out with his friends to wander the endless ocean of metal and wreckage. All they ever found were some scrappers, scavengers, and a few sand spiders.
The scrappers and scavengers were easy to avoid; they made noise. But the meter-long sand spiders liked to burrow into t
he deep, pitted metal and wait for food to walk by. They were far more dangerous than any phantom the elders could conjure.
Ramius maintained his speed as he entered the graveyard. The wreckage of the incredibly huge cruisers seemed to stretch on forever, but there was a moment when he didn’t need to think about where to go. His mind saw the path, like systemic computer network code, and he simply followed the logical progression.
Ramius halted his bike along a portion of a ship that was embedded in the sand. Part of the bulkhead had long since been ripped open, but he knew this was the source of the message. He took off his goggles and let them dangle around his neck as he peered into the darkness of the ancient vessel.
“This is really dumb,” he said to himself as he retrieved a plasmic lantern from his bike and affixed it to his shoulder.
Ramius placed a hand on the frayed metal of the opening as he stepped in. Strange green and blue digital lights began to dance where he touched the ship. Surprised, he jerked his hand back, and the lights stopped.
Huh, he thought as he cautiously placed his hand back. The dancing lights returned, swarming around his hand. Then they began to branch off, streaking through the darkness and providing an illuminated path.
“What is this?” asked aloud.
But in his mind, he heard the call: “Follow.”
Ramius turned off his light and walked through the bowels of the dark and brooding ship. As the lights continued, he felt a sense of familiarity. Following, he noted that the hallways were built for creatures slightly larger than his Terran frame. He saw tech that he could not identify. The entire ship was a labyrinth of wonder.
The lights finally led Ramius to a sealed door. In the darkness, he saw a panel glowing with the same blue-green light. Tentatively, he reached out his hand and touched it. Upon contact, the door whisked open.
The room was small by comparison and sparse. A single cylindrical device stood in the center. Inside, Ramius saw a faint glow of light. He stepped up to it and wiped away countless centuries of dust from the clear, glass-like substance.
“Ramius Cord . . . come closer,” a voice said aloud.
“Who--who are you?”
“A traveler,” the voice said.
“Are you in the ship?”
“I am the ship,” the voice said.
“A-are you alive?”
“Only barely,” the voice said. “I and my kin were attacked long ago. My crew were killed off. Those who survived were enslaved by the Vaanath Dominion. They were twisted and forced to share our secrets.”
“I’m sorry,” Ramius said.
“It was long ago. But now--now I have a chance to find others like me.”
“How?”
“You,” the ship said. “You, Ramius, are different. You can hear my call. You could be one of the Djzha.”
Ramius stepped back. “No, I don’t want that. I don’t want to be a Phase Walker.”
“You misunderstand. The Djzha were a conduit from my people to others. Gifted and enhanced. They were the powerful ones who mastered many technological mysteries. They were a force for good.”
“Not now, they’re not,” Ramius said.
“I am aware,” the ship replied. “The Vaanath corrupted them as well. Ramius?”
“Yes?”
“I no longer wish to be alone. I have no purpose here. I was alive and free among the stars, as my race always was. To do so again, I need a crew.”
“I’m only one person,” Ramius said.
“All crews begin with a single member.”
Ramius smiled. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“Your mind, your body, is different. You have the genetic matrix to become one of the Djzha. We can bring down the dominion. Together. Will you help me?”
Ramius thought about the question. At first, he thought “no.” But . . . why? What good was an orphan among the Khyber Settlement? He had no family to serve. No lineage to uphold. And the Vaanath Dominion continued to enslave system after system, spreading like a virus across the quadrant. But out there? Among the stars? He could do anything. Be anything.
“Yes,” Ramius said, his chest swelling with pride and his mind filling with wonder. “I’ll do it.”
An explosion unlike anything ever heard in the quadrant erupted outside. A fraction of a second later, the planet of Jaangar VII, and every living thing upon it, exploded, sending shockwaves through space. Trillions of planetoid fragments were hurled through the vacuum of space, only to be immediately sucked back into the miniature black hole that existed where Jaangar VII had been.
********
I looked out the viewport of the Vaanath Dominion’s flagship at the empty space where Jaangar VII once was. Then I looked at my little daughter, who was smiling up at me after having pressed the big red button.
“Boom, Daddy.”
“Boom indeed,” I chuckled. “Now that’s how you start a goddamn book.”
Chapter One
Where I Introduce Myself, Provide a Summary, and Justify Planeticide
Welcome back, dear reader. Miss me?
As this is my third book, you most likely already know who I am and understand my brand of “humor.” Ready to get cozy and crazy?
It is possible that that the crybabies who poorly reviewed books one and two (read: shit on them) showed up just to see what I’d say this time. What, you don’t think so? Never underestimate sad little gremlins like them. Belittling the works of others is what they do. It’s the closest thing to success they’ll ever have, and it’s the only way they can maintain sexual arousal.
Can’t they just choke a hobo-clown like normal people?
Well, if you’re reading this, and you’re one of those people, thanks for buying the book; I’ll put your money to good use. That being said, I think it’s best you know: Your Amazon review rank means nothing. Your blog is pointless. You criticize because you cannot create.
In other words: Even your cats won’t bother to eat you when you die, because even a dumb animal knows better than to eat something diseased.
Perhaps you were dropped on your head as a child?
Perhaps you weren’t dropped hard enough (my personal belief).
Regardless, I’ve seen your social media accounts. Gods above and below, no wonder you’re so angry.
But enough of those misanthropes and bottom feeders. Let’s focus on my loyal readers. They who possess not only exemplary taste, but who are also just demented enough to appreciate gallows humor and some naughty language. You chosen few will go far in this world.
Before we jump into this new zany and comedic adventure, dear fans, I must perform my due diligence. Even with a third book, there is a little bit of recapping one must do. You see, sometimes a person picks up a book out of order and starts reading. Alas, I blame public schools.
So bear with me while I take care of this little bit of house cleaning. I’ll understand if you need to step away while I knock this out. While I’m introducing myself, feel free to go ahead and rate and review this book now. Something tells me I’d prefer your doing that now as opposed to when you reach the end.
Call it a hunch.
Okay, here we go. For the uninitiated, my name is Jackson Blackwell, the Shadow Master. I’m a villain.
I’m not so gauche as to say that I’m the greatest villain. No, I let other people do that for me. Don’t believe me? Check into my history. The foundation of my empire is built upon the remains of my enemies. Their skulls serve as the cornerstones.
Or the occasional ashtray.
Look, I’m a villain; I have a bunch of skulls lying around. Like, literally. We plan on selling some at my dimension’s gift shop.
Oh, did I fail to mention that? Yes, I have my own dimension. Because of that I’m technically a god. Granted, only a minor deity, but a god nonetheless. But even some of the High Gods have learned that crossing me is bad for business. And business is what this is all about.
You see, I’m a villain adviser
. I am sought after by dastardly types from across the multiverse in order to assist them in becoming better villains. Back in the Prime Universe, where you and I hail from, we have books, movies, television, and all manner of entertainment that are influenced by these infinite universes, each of which operates under its own unique set of rules. My job is to find a way to manipulate those rules to the benefit of those who pay me.
And I’m very good at my job. In my last two recorded adventures, I defeated many foes. In the first, I put down a coup against me in one of the many fantasy realms by recruiting generic D&D heroes. Together we defied gods, destroyed an empire, and brought a warlord to heel. In the second adventure, I turned the comic book universe upside down through cunning, charm, and a devious plot which no one but me saw coming. I thought it was pretty clever.
But a couple of reviewers out there said I never faced any real adversity in my adventures, that everything went my way, and everything I did was for a laugh. To which I say, no shit. The titles have “villain” in them and the goddamn books are listed in the comedy section. COM-E-DY, you cretins.
I have been asked in the past, why not just be the god of villains instead of an adviser? Well, I contemplated it . . . for a bit. Ultimately, I decided against it. First, putting that on a business card is a little on the nose. After all, in a roundabout way, I am the god of villains.
Second, and most importantly, have you ever had to listen to prayers? Gods above and below, the things you wimps ask for is astoundingly pathetic. Even the atheists who don’t pray, yet seem to believe in karma, make wishes for balance.
You . . . you do realize that’s just prayer under a different name, right?
And for my staunch “all science, no deities” friends out there, I had lunch with The Flying Spaghetti Monster just last Thursday and even it thinks you’re a pack sanctimonious assholes. Its words, not mine. So stop acting so damn smug. No one liked you before. And boy, when you talk, people pray to me to take care of you and your neverending stream of NPR podcast regurgitation.
