by M. K. Gibson
“But--”
“As long as you stay a few generational steps ahead of your competitor,” I continued, “then you will always be the one calling the shots. Believe me, Magnus. After today, you will be one step closer to claiming the Dominion’s throne.”
“But--”
“But what?!” I barked, turning around to look at Vaanath Magnus. “Oh, oh shit.”
Vaanath Magnus was crying.
And I’m not talking the single tear actors use when they’re trying to win an Oscar. No, he had the full-blown, little-kid bubble snots. You know, when a kid is sobbing because they can’t have what they want. Like a new toy, a play date, or that vial of weaponized anthrax to throw in the day care provider’s face when she refuses to give out extra apple juice.
To be fair, Evie was in the right on that one. Mrs. Haverbach is pretty stingy when it comes to the juice boxes. But like a good parent, you say, “No. Not until you’re seven.”
I looked at the crying warlord in disgust. “Gods above and below, you really are an ugly crier. What’s your problem?”
“There really are gods?” Magnus asked.
“Yes,” I sighed. “There are gods.”
“I-I’d always heard, but never believed,” Magnus said as he hung his head. “Then what’s the point of anything? The Dominion teaches that conquest above all else is life. We can conquer the entire quadrant or the entire galaxy. But if there’s a power higher than the Dominion . . . why bother? We can never rise higher than what we are.”
I did my best not laugh at him in his moment of weakness. Instead, I sat down next to the morose conqueror and put my arm around him.
“The local gods of various spacefaring religious groups are real. Most of the sects and cults you’ve heard about are real. But they all sit under this plane of existence’s main god.”
“What’s its name?”
“Hermov Wellshlein, the Once and Always,” I said while I helped him to his feet.
We began walking while he continued his crisis of newfound faith.
“Hermov,” Magnus said, practicing the words. “What’s he . . . it like?”
“Powerful,” I said, continuing to guide the Dominion Lord. “He rules this entire dimension. Countless parallel universes all living in tandem in his dimension. If you had all the time in the universe, you still would not see it all.”
I walked Magnus into a small alcove adjacent to the Leviathan’s bridge. Gentle as a lamb, the hulking alien followed.
“And you—you’re a god?”
“Yes,” I said, helping Magnus sit down in his new seat. “But I was once a man. A mortal from another plane of existence. I achieved godhood.”
Magnus looked up at me, hope in his eyes. “C-could I do that as well? Could I become a god?”
I smiled and took a step back. “Oh, gods above and below . . . no.”
I slapped the control panel and the blast door came down. The escape pod rocketed away, sending Vaanath Magnus into deep space. I waved bye-bye through the tiny view portal, then turned and looked at the remaining bridge officers.
“So, which of you wants to be the new High Lord of the Vaanath Dominion?”
Chapter Four
Where I Explain Why PC Enthusiasts Are Wrong, Reduce Sci-Fi Stories to Their Basic Humors, and Enjoy Fatherhood
“Religion?” Hermov Wellshlein yelled. “You introduced religion?!”
I crossed my arms and stared at the god’s floating bulbous head, which hovered above the cruiser’s control panel. The three dimensional holo-display made him look all bluish in a retro-tech kind of way.
I rolled my eyes. Back in my office I have monitors that display at native resolutions high enough to make a PC gamer’s nether regions quiver. (To be fair, that isn’t hard. Those dorks get all tingly when a new video card is released, or when they’re online making fun of console peasants.)
Side note to the PC Master Race folks: You’re assholes, every one of you. You’re as dumb to me as the idiots who body mod their cars are to you. And since I’m a god, my opinion matters more. Anyone who spends hundreds of dollars on a gaming mouse deserves to die alone and devoid of sexual contact with a live, willing partner.
“I wouldn’t say religion exactly. He just overheard us talking and asked some questions. It’s no big deal,” I said.
“He quit!” Hermov said, his classic alien face twitching in anger. “He quit my narrative. By telling him about me and the existence of actual deities, you gave him free will.”
Huh. Ironic. Alas, that wasn’t my problem, and Hermov knew it. I had all the permits to be in his universe as a consultant. It wasn’t my fault that his universe operated on the reverse principle that knowledge of a deity allowed one to break the narrative. But I guess that was the way of space opera.
If the gods of this realm remained in the background, they could guide the story as they saw fit. Their subjects would believe their victories were due to “the triumph of the human spirit” and all that crap.
The vastness of space without a deity caused one to always be cautious. It’s why federations battled empires over planets and resources. Alliances were formed, people were betrayed, and the great narrative continued because conquest, whether for exploration and betterment or from simple avarice, was all that mattered.
But by knowing that none of that mattered, a person in this realm was free. Free to do with his life as he wished. It removed the burden of action when all roads led to the same eventual place.
“Well, think of it this way,” I explained to Hermov. “You now have a prophet. Maybe you can have an intergalactic war of believers versus atheists?”
“Huh,” Hermov said, considering the option. “That could work.”
“I’d read it,” I said.
Hermov lit up. “Really?”
“Hah, no!” I said, terminating the call. Kicking my feet up on the control panel, I lit a cigarette and stared out into the vastness of dull, stupid space.
From my left, Randy sighed.
I looked over at my nephew, who sat in the pilot’s seat of his starship. “What?”
“Do you have to piss off every mortal and deity you meet?” he asked.
I shrugged. “If I want the books to keep selling, yes?”
“Come on, Uncle Jackson. We’re in space! We’re flying a Kestral-class gunship through the endless expanse of the universe. There are literally billions of planets out there. Adventure and excitement everywhere. We can see and do things no mortal has ever dreamed of.”
I shook my head in disgust at my nephew. “You’re really serious about sci-fi and space opera, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” he said. “Of all the genres, it’s the one that offers unlimited options of storylines.”
“That, dear nephew, is bullshit,” I said. Before he could counter, I continued my brewing rant.
“Randy, while I admit there are some good sci-fi stories out there, the vast majority is the crap-spackle upon which piss-poor ideas are adhered. Instead of making something truly interesting, hacks take half-baked ideas, wedge them into space, and offer it up like it’s something special.”
Randy rolled his eyes. He knew not to interject when I was on a roll. I held up four fingers at the young man.
“Federations and/or Empires, revelation about a scientific fact or principle, thinly veiled social commentary, and bugs. That’s it. That is what almost every sci-fi space opera boils down to.”
“Aren’t you being reductive?” Randy asked. “Aren’t your adventures nothing more than comedic deconstructions of genres?”
I ignored my nephew the way I ignore internet comments.
“If you want the great kingdoms of fantasy literature,” I said, making my point, “write a space story about peaceful federations versus the evil empires. Wanna show off some Snapple fact about a fundamental principle of space? Write a book or movie where you force the audience to endure painful characters. During which you beat the consumer over the head
with your ‘science,’ proving you were the one kid who paid attention in physics class and ruined the curve. For kicks, make Matthew McConaughey a space pilot or go on a mission to find Matt Damon.”
“I liked those movies,” Randy said.
“You heard me say Matthew McConaughey was a space pilot, right? Bongo player, redneck mechanic, or couch-surfing pot enthusiast, sure, but space pilot? No.” I shook my head. Terrible movie casting aside, the character called his daughter’s name a thousand times but didn’t give shits about his son. Oh, and sci-fi for the sake of social commentary has run its course. You mean to tell me there’s cruelty and inequality? Gasp. I mean, how else will mankind learn that slavery is bad unless someone pens a tale or makes a movie about about enslaving robots or artificial intelligence? Better yet, make a gender-based story where one side does something to show the other gender the errors of their ways. Nothing ensures peaceful movements towards equality like saying ‘You’re bad and I’m good’.”
Randy flipped several switches at his pilot’s seat and shook his head. “Commentary about the human condition is needed to move mankind forward.”
“Save it for your Tumblr blog,” I sneered. “And when in doubt: space bugs. Everyone loves a dead bug. Whether they’re from Klandathu, a Xenomorph, or the victim of an overzealous wonder child, the only good bug is a dead one. Fuck space opera.”
“Feel better, Uncle Jackson?” Randy asked. “Get it out of your system?”
“Slightly,” I said, looking over my shoulder at Evie, who was playing on the floor with her crayons. “What ya doing, sweetheart?”
“Drawing.”
“Drawing what?” I asked.
“It’s a secret, Daddy,” she said. “I’ll show you when I’m done.”
I smiled. Deep down, I felt a warmth watching my child at play.
Oh, don’t look at me like that. Villain, sure, but fatherhood has been a great source of joy for me. Before when I subjugated weaker minds, I did it for personal reasons. Now when I do it—well, I still do it for personal reasons and profit. But while doing it, I think of Evie and what kind of legacy I’m leaving for her. One day, far in the future, I dream of her taking over the mantle of the Shadow Master.
I guess all parents dream of that. We dream of our children succeeding us. Achieving in ways we never could.
Well, maybe a few of us do. Apparently the rest of the world sees their kids as future fast-food employees, cashiers, and door greeters at major retail chains. But pyramids are shaped the way they are for a reason. The top can’t be the top unless we stand on the broad backs of those at the bottom . . . where they deserve to be.
“We’re coming up on the jump gate,” Randy said, banking the ship.
“Jump gate?” I sighed. “Seriously? You know this is junk science at its best.”
“With all due respect, Uncle Jackson, get over it.”
See what I mean? Chutzpah. That being said, I did not care for his tone.
“If I told you to chew off your tongue, you know you’d be compelled to do it,” I said.
“I know, Uncle,” Randy said.
“Don’t forget it,” I said.
On the bright side, we were almost out of this horrible place. Once we were through the—ugh—jump gate, we’d be back in my dimension. I’d have the Dominion’s down payment, and I could focus my efforts on a real adventure.
A loud siren from the console began going off.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Daddy, too loud!” Evie said, cupping her ears.
“I know, sweetie,” I yelled, then turned to Randy. “What the hell is going on?”
“Bandits,” Randy said, flipping a switch to lower the alarm.
“Bandits?” I asked. “Like--”
“Yes, Uncle. Space pirates.”
Chapter Five
Where I Learn Space Terms, Swallow More Than My Pride, and Suffer
Space pirates.
For the love of all that is villainous, I am not dying in a sci-fi universe to frakking space pirates.
Randy toggled on a weapon system HUD. “A lot of unaffiliated factions have resorted to piracy in order to survive,” he explained. “The Dominion has seen more and more of these hit-and-run style attacks along their border. These scabs will hit anything they think has value.”
The ship shuddered from a nearby explosion.
Explosion?
“There are no explosions in space!” I yelled as the ship shuddered again. “There’s no oxygen!”
“Really, Uncle? Now?!” Randy yelled as he piloted the ship down, avoiding another volley of missiles. Randy flipped a switch to decoy buoys. His evasive maneuver caused several of the tracking missiles to hit the buoys instead of us.
“They’re trying to reduce our shields,” Randy said.
“Why?”
“It’s what scavengers do. Lower the shield, get a good scan of us, then teleport away whatever cargo they deem valuable.”
“We’re not hauling cargo,” I said.
“Exactly. When they realize that, then they’ll scuttle us.”
“Well, what do we do?” I asked as more alarms went off.
“Get in the gunner seat,” Randy said, pointing behind us. He tapped a relay and a chair descended from an overhead hatch. “Strap in and shoot back.”
“You’re telling me that you’re flying a two-person ship by yourself?”
“I’m not stupid, Uncle!” Randy yelled. “The AI weapons system was disabled during their first volley. Standard pirate tactics. I need you to pick them off while I pilot.”
“Shoot ’em, Daddy!” Evie said.
I grumbled to myself, then got out of my chair and strapped myself into the gunner’s seat.
“I swear to all the gods above and below, Randy,” I growled as I slipped on the shoulder harnesses, “if this is some half-assed attempt to get me to enjoy space opera--”
“Unlce Jackson, please,” Randy said. “Speeches later, more bang-bang now!”
“Fine!” I yelled back, placing the VR helmet on. “Be a good girl, Evie. Daddy has to go blow up some bad guys.”
“Why not just make them work for you?” she asked.
Aww . . . that’s enough to melt a villain’s heart.
The gunner seat retracted into the ship’s main fire control station and locked into place. As my VR helmet lit up, my perspective shifted to outside the ship along the . . . top? What do they call the top of a ship? Is there a top in space?
Eh, who cares. I was armed with a vast array of lasers, plasma weapons, mass drivers, and missiles.
It felt pretty cool.
Damn it.
“Bandits,” Randy’s voice said over the intercom, “Two hundred forty mark forty-five!”
“What?”
“Rear left and slightly up!” Randy yelled back. “Three-dimensional space, Uncle. Imagine two concentric circles showing you X and Y axis, which then points you at Z.”
“I bet you can do the Vulcan salute, can’t you?” I said as I swung my virtual position and began firing at the pirates.
The ships were barely functioning scrapheaps. But the little bastards were fast. My shots went wide as the one-man pirate vessels dodged my fire. As Randy navigated through space dodging their attacks, my perspective kept shifting. I felt the urge to vomit.
“Fly straight, damn it!”
“Why, so they can kill us?”
Eh, he had a point. I shook off the vertigo and continued firing, doing my best to lead my shots. A moment later I was rewarded as one of the pirate fighters exploded in a fiery display.
Fire . . . in space.
Our ship shuddered again. “What happened?”
“More of them, coming from below,” Randy said. “Ninety mark two hundred eighty-five.”
“How do I shoot down?” I asked. “All the guns are on the top.”
“Zenith,” Randy corrected. “Zenith is top, nadir is bottom, port is left, and starboard is right.”
/> “Nautical fucker,” I growled. “Fine, how do I--”
“Green button on your left with a horizontal line through it. It’ll switch your VR orientation while the basic IFF AI will maintain zenith control fire.”
“When we get out of here, you’re going to play rugby and we’re going to knock the nerd out of you.”
“Uncle!”
“I’m hitting the damn button!”
I slammed my fist on the green button, and instantly my perspective shifted. It felt as if the entire universe simply rolled over.
“Urrk,” I involuntarily said as I held my mouth closed to prevent the vomit from spilling out.
“Don’t puke back there,” Randy said.
Having no recourse but to swallow, I gulped my puke back down and began firing at everything that even remotely resembled a pirate.
“Die die die!” I yelled as I unleashed a steady torrent of weapon fire. I was rewarded with more explosions as the snub fighters burned in the vacuum of space.
“We have a problem,” Randy said.
“What?”
“There’s a blockade at the jump gate,” Randy said.
“How many?”
“Go zenith. Dead ahead.”
Dreading the feeling, I hit the orientation button and watched again as the stars rolled and my stomach did somersaults. Shaking off the feeling, I looked dead ahead and saw a small armada of pirate vessels.
“Well, shit.”
“Coming about,” Randy said.
The VR headset went dead and the gunner seat retracted down into the main cabin.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Don’t you want me to shoot them?”
“I need all the power I can muster,” Randy said while he frantically began flipping switches. “We don’t have enough firepower to take them all, and we need to haul ass. I need everything to the shields and engines.”
I unbuckled myself from the gunner seat. Evie looked up at me with her big green eyes.
“Is everything okay, Daddy?”
“Sure thing, little one.” I smiled and messed her long brown hair.