by M. K. Gibson
“Then I suggest you get . . . creative,” The One mused. “Else, you shall find yourself up a river of excrement with nary a paddle to be had.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “To find my daughter, I can accept those terms.”
“And,” The One said, its voice affecting a gruff, police captain tone, “you must complete the task within seventy-two hours.”
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
The One shrugged. “For the sake of a narrative?”
I narrowed my eyes at the supreme being. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”
“Extremely,” The One admitted. “You have no idea how dull this job is.”
While I had no idea what The One’s day-to-day or . . . eon-to-eon existence was like, I could hazard a guess. With all things that are, or will be, already planned out, there is nothing left but to watch your creation play out its part.
Huh. Maybe we are just God’s Netflix.
“I accept.”
“Excellent,” The One said. “Your time will begin once you return to your dimension. Out of curiosity, where will you begin your search?”
“Stella Primus,” I said. “That was the last place she was located.”
“I wish you luck, Jackson. I cannot give you any assistance, but I am . . . rooting for for you. You make me laugh.”
A thought crossed my mind. “I do, huh? Well, if you enjoy my antics so much, how about a nice fifteen-minute grace period for how I am supposed to conduct myself outside my dimension?”
The One leaned forward. It had no face, save for odd shadows lining the pure white light, but I swear I saw it smile.
“Agreed.”
“That fast?” I asked.
“You will need something to carry my grace and power the ship, after all.”
Chapter Twelve and a Half
Where I Bestow a Gift, Reenact a Shane Black Movie, and Move the Plot Along
“Welcome back, asshole,” Dmitrius said as I walked through the stone archway from The Nexus Point. He still held the clipboard and had a wide, smug smile.
I kept my head low and my walk steady. I said nothing in response.
“What’s the matter?” the smug celestial asked. “Did The One deny your request to search for the result of your premature ejaculation?”
I continued walking, saying nothing.
Dmitrius simply chuckled under his breath.
As I walked past him with my head down, I paused. “Did . . . did you mean what you said?”
“About your inability to maintain sexual stamina? Yes.”
“No,” I said softly. “Before. When you said you hated me and my family? That you’d like to . . . personally send all of us to the Never Realm?”
“Oh, that,” Dmitrius said with a smile. “Of course.”
“Would you if you could?”
The being looked upward, exploring his thoughts, then looked back down at me. “I know it is wrong to feel such emotions, let alone express them. But you’re a god that was never meant to be. And while my kind explores the vastness of space, my existence is to watch you as you mock, destroy, and shit on the works of better beings. You are cruel, egocentric, and not nearly as smart as you think you are. And to answer your question, yes. It would be my pleasure to end you. I wait for the day you cross The One. On that day, little god, I will beg to be the one to kill all of you. I . . . hate you.”
I raised my head slowly and looked up at the larger being.
With the biggest shit-eating smile spread across my face.
“Thanks. I had to make sure.”
I snapped my fingers, and the formerly Ken-doll-smooth Dmitrius was suddenly sporting a man-dangle large enough to make a porn star blush.
“What is that?!” Dmitrius exclaimed.
The look on his face was precious. It was like seeing a baby discover its toes. That was when I snapped my fingers again. With two loud popping sounds, a hefty set of big ol’ clacking balls joined his newfound manly member, completing the holy trinity of man-parts.
“What have you done to me?!”
“I’ve given you a blessing and a curse. That right there is the drive, and downfall, of many, many men.”
Poor Dmitrius was so distracted with his newly acquired giggle-stick and goolies that he failed to notice me take a step back, put my finger in my mouth, then raise it to test the wind. I nodded briefly, finding the air currents acceptable. Saying a quick prayer to the 1987 classic Monster Squad, and knowing the Wolfman had nards, I hauled back my right leg and kicked Dmitrius square in his newborn nuts.
The celestial dropped the clipboard and crumpled, going fetal on the ground. A moment later the real wave of pain hit him and he began the screaming and crying.
“That, what you’re feeling right now, is called a testicular rupture. It is not good. And it is always worse the first time,” I mused.
I walked around his body, avoiding his clumsy swings to grab at my leg.
“You see, on any other day, I’d kill you and be done with it. People threaten me all the time and I’m used to it. But you also threatened Evie.”
I threw another swift, savage kick into his already aching area. Then, a thought occurred to me. I bent over, picked up the clipboard, and looked at the guest list.
Huh. It really did say “Asshole.”
Using my godly enhanced strength, I grabbed the whimpering knockoff angel by the ankle and began dragging him back towards my dimension.
“You and I are going to have a lot of fun,” I told him as we marched across the boundary of The Nexus Point and my dimension.
“I . . . hate . . . you,” Dmitrius groaned.
“Heh, you say that now. Just wait,” I cautioned him. “With what I have planned, man, you’re really gonna be pissed. Now come on, you newly-nutted ne’er-do-well. We have a second act to start.”
Chapter Thirteen
Where I Find a Hive of Scum and Villainy, Buy Some Drinks, and Threaten To Kill Four People
The glowing red and blue lights formed a warm purple tone as the binary stars set over the planet Unos. The mining planet was beyond the reach of The Dominion and belonged to the free folk of The Carissan Guild. All were welcome to come and trade or refuel, provided they could pay.
And watch their own backs.
The Oflon Tau spaceport was a major hub and an ever-growing city. Refugees, traders, miners, crooks, saints, and pirates alike called the port home. A symbiotic network of the honest and the wicked had grown in the shadow of the Dominion. And it was there, in Oflon Tau, that the man known as the Shadow Walker had business.
The Shadow Walker moved down the streets of Oflon Tau like a wraith. His black synth-leather duster made him appear to float, while the matching wide-brimmed hat concealed his eyes from would-be onlookers.
The twin blasters on his hips, and the way his hands never strayed far from them, caused the locals to give him a wide berth. But it was the cold detachment he radiated that let people know, on an animalistic level, that he was a predator. And the members of the The Gunjaar Horde were his prey . . .
“Jesus Christ, Sophia,” I said into the silver com-link that was attached to my ear. “Are you going to narrate the entire thing?”
“I was working on my gruff voice, sir,” Sophia sniffed. “I was thinking that when this was all done, I might give audiobook narration a try.”
“What? Why?”
“I hear you can make decent money once you have a bunch of books under your belt. I mean, if that Jeff Kafer guy can do it, why can’t I?”
She had a point. The man was basically coasting while collecting quarterly residuals. Five hundred books recorded? Please. I applaud the effort, but let’s see how his voice measures up against the great Frank Welker.
“Fine,” I agreed. “But practice on your time. We’re on a mission right now.”
“Understood, sir,” Sophia said. “Okay, the nav-sat is in orbit and I have visual on you now. Locator beacon is on and I have a strong signal.”
“You’re getting into this, aren’t you?” I asked.
“I’m out of the dimension on a mission!” Sophia said. “I’m the tech nerd of the story who controls the intel. This is awesome!”
I couldn’t help but smile. It was true: Sophia had a soft spot in her heart for the female techie nerd trope in television. Usually a forensic expert, or just the gal who sat in the chair with an earpiece.
“Are you ready, sir?” Sophia asked as I walked down a narrow alley made of alien stone and metal.
I followed the sounds of laughter and discordant music until I came to a neon holographic sign over a slide-away door. The sign depicted a crude diamond shape with batlike wings.
The sign of the Gunjaar Horde. The pirates who took my daughter.
“Yes, Sophia, I believe I am.”
“Then let’s do it, sir.”
I stepped up to the door of the—gods above and below, I can’t believe I’m saying this—the cantina, and tapped the control panel, opening it. Walking in, I was immediately accosted by the stench of exotic smoke, aliens, and poor people drinking poor-people alcohol. Otherworldly music played the same irritating song over and over. Aliens and Terrans of all shapes and sizes drank, cavorted, and denigrated themselves. Alas, I stood amid a sea of the stupid. A man of culture and class wading through the intergalactic equivalent of the DMV. Hell, just standing in the collective brainwaves of these stank-ass highwaymen was making me dumber.
It was a lot like a monster truck jam, a summer outdoor music festival, and a family reunion all rolled into one.
I scanned the room, and at a back corner table drinking I saw five special members of the Gunjaar Horde.
“Sophia,” I said into my earpiece, “have Wraith Knight standing ready and get the ship prepped for takeoff. I don’t plan on being long.”
“You got it, sir. Oh, and sir?”
“Yes?”
“Try and have at least a little fun.”
My child was missing and I was on a ticking clock. But she was right. Just like all forms of combat, the tighter and more on edge you are, the more likely you’ll get hurt or make a critical mistake. The best way to avoid said failure was to keep it loose. Keep it . . . fun.
I followed a four-armed alien server over to the back corner table. The server was white-skinned, almost seven feet tall with a willowy neck and large, black almond eyes. She set the drinks down on the table as I approached. Dropping a few credit coins on the table, I sat down.
“This round is on me,” I said to the group of Gunjaar.
“Who are you?” the Gunjaar directly across from me asked.
She was a Krellian, a race dominated by larger, Amazonian-like females. Her horns were pronounced against her light red skin. Like the rest of her crew, this one wore a sort of reddish-orange leather coat with yellow and gold accents. By the way the Horde members were sitting, she was center and in charge.
Perfect.
“I’m the man who bought you drinks. I think that entitles me to a moment of your time.”
“Let’s hear him out,” said one of the smaller, impish Gunjaar with pointed, elfin features and slightly pink skin. If I had to guess, I’d say he was from the Plyomar system. A mystical, tree-hugging hippie race that loosely resembled elves.
“It’s not like we can’t kill him later,” another one said in a synthesized voice.
Past the leather hood it wore, I could see the glowing eyes and mouth plate of a Cybex. The artificial life form sipped at his drink. I always wondered why the sentient mechanical beings consumed organic material.
“It’s your call, Captain,” another large female said. This one sat to the captain’s right and was also a Krellian, if just a slightly smaller one.
“Fine. But make it quick,” the captain said in a deep, authoritative voice.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, sitting down. “My name isn’t important. But around this sector, I’m known as the Shadow Walker.”
“And what do you want, Shadow Walker,” the captain asked, obviously not impressed with my title.
Eh—neither was I, if I had to be honest. If felt like a name a child, or some crappy writer, made up on the spot.
“I would like to recruit one of you for a job,” I said.
“What kind of job?”
“I need help finding someone,” I said with a bit of a smile as I looked at each of the five Horde in turn. “And the way I hear it, you particular members of the Gunjaar would be perfect for the task.”
“Who?” one of the other Horde members asked.
The speaker was a stunted Rathian. Like most of the Rathian race, this one had boar-like tusks and wore a pair of goggles over its beady eyes.
“A child,” I said. “A particular little girl.”
All at once, each of the four crew members drew a weapon and pointed it directly at my head. While I stared directly at the captain, I counted four blasters, a hand cannon, an energy crossbow, and a sword.
“Something I said?” I asked, not flinching.
“We’re busy,” the captain said with a smirk, then nodded to her crew, and they each put away their weapons. “Thank you for the drinks, Shadow Walker. Your time is up.”
The Gunjaar laughed and all downed their drinks in a round of raucous laughter. I quietly nodded and stood up.
“Well, I thank you for your time,” I said. “If nothing else, enjoy the drinks . . . because they will be your last. Today, four of you are going to die.”
Chapter Fourteen
Where I Follow Through on a Threat, Watch a Kerfuffle, and Look for Lost Jewelry
Threats. They’re a part of day-to-day living.
I task you with this: Tomorrow, when you go about your life, see how many threats you hear, or give. Whether made in jest or in seriousness, people threaten one another all the time. When you think about it, we threaten our loved ones more than we threaten strangers.
Why? Because it’s easier to say “I’ll kick you ass” or “If you ever do that again, dot dot dot” to family and friends because you rarely have to follow through. Threaten a stranger? Well, then you have to put up or shut up.
Unless it’s the internet, of course. Twitter and comment sections breed the “bravest” pieces of human feces the world ever created. And yes, I include celebrities on that list. Whether anonymous trolls or zealot-like movies stars who peddle their politics and pander to whoever will listen, these cyber sissies rarely have the spine to make a real threat.
Note: I did not say which political affiliation of said celebrity or troll I was referring to. It doesn’t matter. Die-hard people are so easy to control and exploit. Twenty-four-hour news exists not to tell you the truth, but to tell you what you want to hear so you’ll tune in or click on the article. Why? It drives up ad revenue.
You are all slaves to the capitalist mega-corps who fund television. People like me.
But that’s a lesson for another time.
The reason I bring up threats is this: NEVER make one unless you mean to follow through.
********
The Gunjaar all stopped their laughing and stared at me.
“What do you mean?” the captain asked.
“Well, I didn’t stutter,” I said. “Four out of the five of you are going to die in the next, oh, sixty seconds or so?”
“You think you can come into our cantina and threaten us?” the captain asked.
“Apparently so.” I smiled.
“You’re brave, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But no matter how good you are, there’s no way you can take all of us.”
“That’s true,” I said, nodding, “but where I come from, there is an ancient legend about a spacefaring smuggler. When confronted by a greedy bounty hunter, the smuggler shot the bounty hunter through the table. This scoundrel knew that in order to win, you always shoot first. However, in the retelling of that most wise parable, he waited until being shot at before shooting the bounty hunter.”
“Why woul
d they change the story?” the Cybex asked. “That is not logical. It isn’t a story then if he simply retaliates.”
“You’re telling me,” I agreed. “Completely retconned miles of character development. You wouldn’t believe how many people from my world were upset.”
“So, based on this story, you assume you can shoot us all first?” the Captain asked.
Again, the Gunjaar pulled their weapons and aimed them at me.
In turn, I tossed a single red pill onto the table.
“What is that?” the captain asked.
“The antidote to the poison I had the server put in your drinks,” I said with a shrug and a casual look back over my shoulder at the white-skinned, four-armed alien server.
The server’s form shifted back into Myst, who waved at me, then stepped towards the exit and drew her blaster rifle. She flashed me a smile and a wink. I then looked back at the table of Gunjaar.
“You see, I’ve been on this planet long enough to know your patterns. And what’s important for you five to know is that the poison has almost run its course. So, like I said, I need a guide to help me find a child.”
The Gunjaar gave each other sideways glances, unsure if I was bluffing. I simply smiled as each of their hands began to shake slightly.
“That’s how the poison starts. A slight tremor in the extremities. Then, your guts will cramp, you’ll begin voiding yourself from both ends, and then the poison goes after your heart. I’m told the poison will simply cause a Cybex to go offline permanently,” I said specifically to the robotic gunslinger. “So, whoever takes the pill in the next few seconds lives. The rest of you? Well . . . ?”
“Kill him!” the Captain ordered, but the Gunjaar all scrambled over one another for the pill, ignoring their captain. Clearly, they wanted to live.
With a smile, I stepped back and watched the chaos.
The Rathian shoved a calloused left hand into the face of the Krellian first mate while reaching across the table with its right. The Cybex came stabbing down with a vibro-blade into the Rathain’s hand, pinning it to the table before he reached the pill. The Plyomar, a small energy pistol in his right hand and a small hand crossbow in his left, shot the Cybex in the side of its head with the energy weapon and the Krellian first mate between the eyes with the crossbow.
