Smoke from a hundred cigars and cigarettes wafted through the Ilneat Earth Network’s cruiser high over Earth. Rocko sat with their conference-provided earbuds muted so they could only hear the closest few speakers. They couldn’t take the cacophony anymore.
The Ilneat Prosperity Representative wouldn’t stop talking, and Rocko didn’t care whether that blathering idiot was cutting the Network loose because of the Earth situation, Thornberry’s continued absence from these meetings, or any other reason. What mattered was that they were being cut off. There wouldn’t be an incident coming, not from ProsComm. That meant Rocko would have to make their own.
A hundred studios’ producers sat around the table, and Rocko finally—finally—had a seat near the head. The Ilneat chewed on a fresh, unlit cigar, watching their comms tablet. It was close to three in the morning back in Tokyexico City, and if everything had gone right, they’d hear from Pataki soon.
If not, they’d hear from Prosperity Command, and that’d be the end of their career.
Didn’t matter. The risk was worth it because Project Ultima had everything it needed to boost DuPont into the majors ahead of schedule, and if it did that, Marino would need something to help her keep up. Otherwise? Two shows? Rocko couldn’t imagine running two. One was enough of a headache—they were already on medication for their stomach, not that it was helping. What Snowball had failed at and Cartman had only just started to accomplish before their untimely promotion, Rocko would do.
Major leagues. The big money. A year in the majors: everything they and Pataki had done, and would have to do, it was all worth it for that prize. But that wasn’t Rocko’s ultimate goal. They’d accept it as the barest minimum of success, but the Ilneat wanted more. So much more.
The representative’s talking head disappeared, and Rocko unmuted the others’ volume, keeping their voice muted for now. Snowball cleared their throat. “I think we should take this message as the warning it is and start making plans to get out,” they said, glaring at the others.
Cartman rolled their eyes and stood up from their new chair at the head of the table, gesturing at the former most powerful heroine’s producer. “Snowball, you’re one to talk. Who are your supers? Oh, right. No one anymore.”
“Excuse me, but let’s keep the name-calling out of this. We’ve got a serious issue here, and if ProsComm isn’t willing to lend us support or cause another incident to solidify our position on Earth, we should consider whether the Network can resolve this crisis.” Snowball cracked their knuckles, and Rocko rolled their eyes at the gesture. “If we can’t, and ProsComm won’t, we should quit while we’re ahead.”
Rocko unmuted. “If I may, you’re all idiots. What skills do you have, Snowball? A Human Studies certification, Advanced Human Interaction, and a couple dozen other certs, all about moviemaking and Earth. You’re looking at a decade of retooling before you could get hired on a space opera or murder mystery, or longer if you want to be done with showbiz.”
“And? That’s not so bad.” Snowball said from their chair.
“You’ve got better options, though—three of them. You could go big, spend your cash to grab an up-and-comer, try to break back in. It might take a year or two, but it’s an investment in your future. Or you could cut and run. Enough of you do that, and the Network fails. If it fails, I’ll be pissed, and our colleagues will be, too. So, I propose a third option.”
“What’s that?” Cartman asked, sneering.
Rocko told them. At first, the other producers laughed at the explanation. Then their hands started wringing—both pairs—and they started making excuses for why it wouldn’t work. Then, one by one, they agreed. As Snowball reluctantly nodded, Rocko stood up. “Great. You’ll all sit back, we’ll return to the Hot Zones and get the smaller studios in line, and then we’ll let the situation on Earth play out naturally. No nuclear disasters, no assassinations, and no running away. Got it?”
When the other producers nodded, Rocko finally let themselves relax. They lit a cigar and puffed on it, letting the smoke interfere with the hologram projectors in the center of the table; normally, it’d be rude, but since they’d taken control of the Network and its fate in one fell sweep, it didn’t signal disrespect. No, the message Rocko wanted to send was much more blunt. ‘I own your fates, so listen to me.’
A door on the massive conference room’s far side opened, and a human—a human, on the cruiser!—strode in wearing a tan business suit. There was a moment of absolute silence. Rocko could hear the ship’s engines thrumming in the background. Then the room exploded in shouts as every producer started yelling all at once.
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The Agent had never been in space.
When he was a boy, he’d wanted to. Thornberry had crushed that dream—or so the Ilneat had thought—but he was nothing if not a plotter. Now, fifteen years later, he was finally there. The Ilneat Earth Network cruiser didn’t feel like he’d imagined it.
If anything, it felt better.
Fifteen years ago, when he’d been given powers and Thornberry had started him on his path to the major leagues, he’d known he was special. One of a kind, in fact. There were other powerful heroes, but one Tank served more or less the same role as any other. But only he could grant powers to the unpowered, and only he could lease powers from his fellow supers. That alone propelled him into the top few heroes on Earth.
But The Agent wanted more—so much more. The real power wasn’t in powers. It was in the Studios. So, for the last ten years, he’d been trying to make the case to the Ilneat Earth Network that running a studio wasn’t just for them. That he could do better, with less, than they could.
He’d been on the cusp of victory with Vigilant Vow. The boy had been a perfect test case for how his powers—not Cartman’s incompetence, and certainly not Thornberry’s complacency—could make a studio successful. But then, some worthless minor leaguer had ruined his plans and reputation. And not only that, but when The Agent set his backup plan in motion, Magical Girl Undergrad had been there to stop him again. That idiot girl was a nuisance.
He sat in an empty chair he knew was his, staring at the shouting Ilneats as their four arms waved cigars back and forth. His hand strayed to his breast pocket, and he lit a cigarette of his own—lights, of course—and waited while one producer slowly bludgeoned the others into some semblance of order. Though The Agent recognized Cartman at the head of the table, Vigilant Vow’s producer didn’t seem to be in charge. He filed that away for later; the one shouting the loudest was the one who mattered here.
The long room grew quiet, and finally, the Ilneat who’d taken control stood on their chair. “What’s your name?”
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“Penbrake. Roger Penbrake. But since that’s not your convention here, you can call me Thornberry or The Agent.”
“Okay, Penbrake, what are you doing here? This is a meeting of the Earth Ilneat Network’s producers, and last I checked, you’re not—“
The Agent cleared his throat and tapped his chest, where a nametag was pinned to the jacket. “An Ilneat? Your security systems disagree. They recognize me as Thornberry, and right now, Thornberry Studios has over twenty superheroes and villains under its umbrella. That makes me, I believe, the largest single studio in the IEN, correct?”
The room erupted into chaos again. This time, it took almost five minutes for the uproar to die. The whole time, The Agent sat back with his feet on the table, staring at the Ilneat who’d done the speaking. They were the key to his entire plan; none of the others mattered. He was willing to put his grudge against Magical Girl Understudy aside for now; there’d be time to deal with her later, once he’d solidified his position here.
“I propose a fifteen-minute recess,” the Ilneat said. A green light appeared on the table next to their nameplate.
“Seconded,” The Agent said before any others could. The light next to Thornberry’s nameplate lit up to a murmur from the assembled Ilneats. As more and more green lights—and a smattering of red ones—blinked on across the room and the seated Ilneats started to stand and murmur with each other, The Agent strolled over to the main speaker. They glared over their cigar.
“Why are you really here? You can’t possibly think you can run a studio,” the Ilneat said.
The Agent smiled charmingly. “I already am. Right now, my villains are losing to your heroes. We just lost the season finale, but 3V1L’s not out of it yet. Their boss got away, and as long as Understudy and Fursona can’t find him, they won’t be able to move up to the majors. Unfortunately, their boss isn’t on Earth right now.” He winked and pointed meaningfully at his name tag.
“Okay, okay, but listen here, Thornberry. You’re the low hand here. You may have the most supers, but they’re underpowered losers. Until you prove otherwise, if any studio needs something from you, you do it. Understood?” Rocko, still standing on the table, jammed their finger into The Agent’s chest.
The Agent nodded. He was used to the Ilneats’ bullying. Thornberry had been worse, but they weren’t around anymore, were they? He’d deal with Rocko the same way when it came to it. After all, that was what the gun in his briefcase was for: dealing with problems his [Temp Heroes] couldn’t. And until then? Rocko would be his most important ally. “I hope to have a great working relationship with you and the rest of the IEN.”
“Whatever. Get the hell out of here and get ready for a teleport to Earth. We’re going back to the Hot Zones. My orders.” Rocko dismissed him with a wave and reached for their buzzing comm tablet.
As he headed toward the door and down the IEN cruiser’s hall toward Thornberry’s empty quarters, The Agent couldn’t help but break into a predatory smile. Phase One of his emergency plan was complete. He’d take the teleport to Thornberry’s backroom, get Reggie and Otto on board with his plan, and start working his way up to the top.
Then, the other studios could see what humanity could really do.
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Mrs. N sat at her desk; it was almost three in the morning, and she hadn’t seen her bed in Mid-Town in days. Her crazy sister was out there, villains were running rampant across Tokyexico, and the Council of Heroes wouldn’t leave her alone about using her powers to help restore order.
She didn’t care about order, though. Just about the kids.
So, for the hundredth time since closing, she unlocked the top drawer, where a black handgun sat next to a magazine—insurance, in case someone she couldn’t stop decided to break in.
There were only three supers she couldn’t stop with a word, and she didn’t trust any of them. Not. One. Bit.
The front door squeaked, as it did. “And then whoever it was went home,” The Narrator said, her voice the picture of boredom.
Nothing happened for a moment. There wasn’t a sound. She’d just started to relax when the next door opened.
Her hand gripped the pistol, and she flipped the safety off. “Whoever you are, leave or catch a bullet. We’re closed, and I’m not messing around.”
“No can do,” a smoker’s voice rasped, and the office door opened. The Narrator leveled her pistol at the small, four-armed figure silhouetted in the doorframe, then raised it. “I’m here on business.”
“Your kind’s always here on business. What do you want?”
The Ilneat pulled themselves into a chair. “I just wanna talk. No smoking, right? Shame.” They closed the pack of cigarettes in their pocket, shaking their head sadly. “Name’s Pataki. Listen, my boss, Rocko—you’ve worked with a couple of their heroes before—they need your help. We’re working on some new super-suits for Understudy and Fursona. Understudy’s is coming along nicely, thanks to my…less-that-legal, let’s say…efforts. But Fursona’s? That suit’s a mess.”
“And you need my help why, exactly?”
“Because of the kid. The girl in the dino costume. How does her power work? What makes it tick? I can’t figure it out, and Fursona’s gonna need something big if she wants to keep up with—“
“You can call them DuPont and Marino if you want. I’ve known for a long time,” The Narrator said tiredly. “So you want to understand Kaiju Kid’s power? And what do I get in return?”
“Easy. Rocko should be in charge of the Network by now. They give the word, the other studios leave you the hell alone,” Pataki drawled. “You get a good night’s sleep—that is, after you work all that coffee out of your system.”
She rubbed her eyes with her free hand, the pistol’s grip heavy in the other. “You don’t want anything else to do with the kids? Just to understand Kaiju Kid’s power?”
“Word of honor, may I lose my job if I’m lying,” Pataki said, holding up their grasping hands.
The Narrator sighed. Then she stood up, gun still in hand. “Come on. I’ll show you the suit. You can have fifteen minutes with it, but when you’re done, it stays here. Intact.”
“That’s plenty. You won’t regret it,” Pataki said, grinning widely enough to reveal their gorilla teeth.
Mrs. N already did.
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Albert Clawson watched in disgust as Toll Publishing’s printing presses roared to life. As Senior Editor, he’d argued against this. Toll shouldn’t be a political weapon, he’d said. The truth could be handled better than this, he’d said. But in the end, the board had overruled him, eyes full of dollar bills and gold coins. He couldn’t blame them. His had been that way, too. At first.
The machinery kept running, filling the silence with hums and cha-chunking sounds. Paper rolled through the machine, Times New Roman font filling page after page in the white-lit room as a few Toll employees watched the process. Word by word, sentence by sentence, Toll Publishing carried on with its motto: The Truth, No Matter the Cost.
And it would cost.
He’d been all for publishing. When the email came in explaining what it was, he’d been all for publishing it; the profits would be massive, and it was a guaranteed bestseller. But that was before he’d actually read the damn thing and realized what it was—and by then, it was too late.
As the papers piled up, another machine swept them into order, forming books; the thin, hundred-fifty-page manuscript had been heavily edited at Clawson’s insistence, but even that short, they weighed heavily on his mind as he watched from the glass-plated production office. Toll Publishing had crossed a line, and the only thing stopping him from making his stand about it was the hypnotic rhythm of the printing presses as they rolled out page after page.
The binding machine stitched all the offset-rolled pages into one and folded them perfectly into a small paperback binding. On the cover, at the Board’s request, a thirteen-year-old girl with undercut blonde hair and a wide, beaming smile stared back at Clawson. She looked happy, but he could only see accusation and contempt in her eyes—eyes that stared into his soul. Albert couldn’t meet her gaze—at least, not for long. And she was way past listening to his apologies.
“Fuck this,” he said, turning on his heel. He’d picked his hill to die on, he’d died on it, and the Board had run over him anyway. His letter of resignation was all typed up. All he had to do was send it, gather up his things, and he’d be on his way to something better. He stepped into the elevator, and the door chimed closed behind him.
The thin paperbacks fell into cardboard boxes on pallets on the publishing floor, and a forklift carted them into a warehouse. They’d definitely be a bestseller, the first one of 2043, and that’d be good enough for the Board. For now, though, they could wait like land mines in the dark, sitting silently until someone stepped on them and blew up the world.
Toll Publishing would send out ‘The Diary of Golden Goose’ when the time was right, and not a moment sooner.