Max ignored him, dropped the shade, and returned to the kitchen. He swiped the mug from the table and snapped at Ross. “You proud of yourself?”
“A touch, yeah.”
Max downed a final swig before grabbing the pot for a refill. He sighed with defeat, then leaned back on the counter and stared at the floor. “So that’s it, then. I’m nuttier than a squirrel turd.”
“Yeah, you’re probably schizophrenic or something.”
Max sneered at Ross. “Thanks, you’re so helpful.”
“Oh c’mon mate, lighten up. Most people slog through life without ever knowing the wonders of true insanity. I say enjoy the pink elephants while you got ‘em.”
“Well, that’s one terrible way to look at it.”
Max spent the rest of the day coping like a normal teen, by avoiding the problem and turning to gaming. He battled digital demons while trying to ignore the color commentary of a sentient feline. Though unnerving, he did learn a great deal about life as a house cat. He learned that laser pointers were the purest of evils, that sunbeams healed every possible ailment, and that squirrels were a bunch of frolicking asshats that needed to be taught a lesson.
* * *
In another universe, about three and a half billion to the left, a small freighter ship exited hyperspace just outside of Neptune’s orbit. As little more than a flying dumpster, the ship was not winning any beauty pageants. Its clunky hull appeared more mangled than designed, leaving one to suspect that its architect loved booze and Legos. A charcoal gray exterior with numerous dents and rust stains conveyed an impressive amount of disregard. The deep blue glow of its twin rear engines created a drab silhouette, like a bloated bat crossing a moonlit sky.
Apart from a standard registry code engraved in white lettering, the mundane craft carried no markings or obvious identifications, a calculated necessity for the crew. Its banal presence concealed a sophisticated collection of technology, including a military-grade frame, enhanced jump drive, and several pieces of plasma weaponry. To an average passerby, the ship read as little more than a poor drifter shuttle. After all, members of the PCDS (Precious Cargo Delivery Service) needed to guard their inconspicuousness above all else.
The sleek cockpit gleamed with an array of touch-based circuitry. A double-crescent control panel pinged with scans and alerts. Blinking blues and pulsing purples outlined the freighter’s commander in the pilot seat, a shrewd Mulgawat by the name of Zoey Bryx. Most knew her by an ominous nickname: The Omen, earned for her distinct reputation as one of the most ruthless and efficient PCDS couriers to have ever lived.
When Zoey accepted a job, it came with an unwavering promise: If I’m not on time, you can assume I’m dead. Despite her young age, a twentysomething by Earth years, she won tremendous fame through an unrivaled dependability. As a result, she often found herself entrusted with some of the most extraordinary artifacts in all of existence, current cargo included. Nothing explicit, just a small plastic box with an address and the following instructions: Handle with care, the great bag of marbles depends on it. It rested inside a bio-lock safe at the rear of the cargo bay.
On their way to the Andromeda Galaxy, Zoey and her longtime girlfriend, a fellow Mulgawat and gifted machinist by the name of Perra Harbin, decided to make a pit stop at a boring yellow star. To anyone in the know, the destination was obvious. This particular star anchored a solar system famous for one of the universe’s most delectable sources of water: a small icy moon named Europa orbiting a massive gas giant named Jupiter. Those fortunate enough to sample Europan water, harvested from enormous freshwater oceans far beneath its surface, often described it as a transcendent experience akin to licking a firetooth sandworm.
Zoey narrowed her deep blue eyes as she scanned the panoramic viewport. She slipped off her worn leather jacket and draped it across the back of the pilot seat, leaving her to the comfort of a thin tank top and cargo pants. A few taps of the control panel produced a green hologram of the current solar system, brightening her sunburst orange complexion and dark blue lips. A small cursor blinked at the outer orbit, signifying their current location. She brushed her choppy black hair aside and tapped the pulsing icon. The hologram pinged in response and zoomed into Neptune’s orbital path. She nodded and input a course correction. The ship pitched downward, lifting a massive blue horizon into view. A smile stretched across her face as Neptune’s cobalt sheen engulfed the cabin.
“Perra sweetie, we’re here!”
A squeal of delight echoed from the cargo bay as Perra darted up a narrow corridor towards the cabin. The studded straps and tarnished buckles of her machinist pants clanked along the metal walls. She emerged with a toothy smile and peered out the viewport. Her creamy orange hand pressed against the console as she leaned forward. A series of error pings rang around the cabin, prompting Zoey to fumble for corrections.
“Ugh, watch what you’re doing,” Zoey said.
“Sorry,” Perra said. “I’m just so excited to see it.” She stepped back from the panel and wiped her grimy hands on a simple halter top.
Zoey nabbed the back of Perra’s neck and pulled down, planting a kiss on her buttery orange cheek. Perra’s long auburn ponytail brushed Zoey’s shoulders, tickling the thin blue scales running down her upper arms. Perra snickered and plopped into the co-pilot chair.
“I’m excited too, my love,” Zoey said.
“So where is it?” Widened eyes scanned the vista, her deep purple irises floating in pools of white. “That doesn’t look like Jupiter at all. At least, not what I remember from the coms.”
“We’re not there-there yet, just here.” Zoey pointed at the hologram. “We’re at the edge of the planetary system. This is a controlled area, so we can’t jump in directly. We have to taxi in from outer orbit.”
Perra huffed. “That means we still have a few pochs left to travel.”
“That’s nothing, we’ll be there before you know it. Let’s see ...” Zoey tapped across the console, highlighting some basic system info. “Okay, we have a yellow dwarf star with eight planets, four rocky, four gaseous. Jupiter is fifth from the star, first gas giant. We’re just outside the eighth’s orbit. That’s Neptune.” She pointed at the giant blue planet filling the viewport. “Taxi speed is set at 10 gamuts a mark, putting Jupiter at about 3,000 marks away. See? Not even a full poch. Plenty of time to relax and load up some languages.”
Perra sighed. “Okay, fine. Let’s just hope it’s nothing too complicated.”
Zoey and Perra were not speaking an Earth dialect when they arrived. As citizens of Mulgawat, a small planet in the Ursa Major Group, they spoke Korish as their native tongue. To human ears, a Korish conversation sounded like a couple of sleep-deprived frogs getting stabbed in the throat. When entering any new system with dominant forms of language, it was customary to install the major dialects before docking at a station.
Perra reached into a side compartment and withdrew a cylindrical device, silver in color with a simple control pad. She plugged it into the console, spawning a hologram panel of diction data. “Looks like we have three. Chinese, Spanish, and English.” A quick swipe loaded the infuser. She plucked it from the dock, placed the business end to her temple, then pressed a red button at the other end. A whir, zot, and ping signaled a successful installation. She shivered away a chill, then handed the device to Zoey.
“Only three? Nice.” Zoey repeated the process.
Now they were speaking English, the most comfortable of the three. Chinese felt too weird on the face and Spanish sounded too damn sexy to take seriously.
“So, just under a poch, eh?” Perra stood from her seat, slid her hands across Zoey’s chest, and whispered into her ear. “That does give us plenty of time to ... relax.”
Zoey smirked. She confirmed the trajectory, engaged the autopilot, and lifted to her feet. A wandering finger hooked Perra’s belt and yanked her into a steamy embrace. Wet lips and muffled moans broke the dull hum of the main engines. Perra pulled away
and motioned down the corridor with a subtle gesture. Zoey bit her lip and nodded, allowing Perra to back down the passage with her lover in tow. Hungering for each other, they disappeared into the bedchamber.
CHAPTER 2
The multiverse has always presented itself as a tantalizing yet unprovable theory. It lurks within the realms of fevered speculation, something for geeks to discuss in the uncool corners of parties. Nevertheless, Max was the second being in all of existence to uncover the truth: that an infinite number of parallel universes do, in fact, exist. The first to verify the multiverse theory was Rumac of the Suth’ra Society, but he didn’t care enough to publish.
For the most part, parallel universes are unremarkable reprints of each other and it takes a keen eye to notice any difference at all. The only variation between one and the next might be to the mating habits of cannibalistic space slugs. But whenever Max shifted, it was to a variant of his particular domain. This is an apparent rule of shifting, but we’re only monkeysacking here (the equivalent of “spitballing” in another universe).
Max acquired his incredible ability in perhaps the dumbest way imaginable. He gamed, a lot, enough to worry parents and alienate girlfriends. On the second day of a spring break all to himself, he pushed the limits of an epic gaming marathon. The sun rose, the sun set, midnight came and went. As dawn loomed, his mental janitor clocked out and killed the lights. His face crashed onto the keyboard and mashed a sequence of commands not seen since the dark warring days of Galwock 36. This random turd of logic just so happened to match one of the stasis functions sent between universes. It rocketed through the ether and collided with that code packet. The rebound imprinted onto Max’s subconscious, an event so improbable that it makes winning the lottery while being struck by lightning seem like a typical Tuesday. At that most fortuitous of moments, his psyche switched universes. When he awoke, his cat spoke with a British accent. And from that day forward, Max shifted to a new world whenever he fell asleep.
* * *
Max awoke on his crumb-infested couch. The crackle of empty wrappers saluted his rise from the cushions. Tired eyes scanned the room for anything abnormal, uncovering little more than the usual grime and disregard. Motes of dust swirled in a morning sunbeam. A thin cloud of body odor and cheese poof dust teased his nostrils. He plucked his phone from the coffee table and tapped the surface.
10:42 a.m., Tuesday.
After a few blinks and face rubs, he glanced down to find Ross staring at him from the floor. Max flinched the phone out of his hand and stiffened with fright, initiating a tense game of vernacular chicken. Ross stood his ground, statuesque, refusing to vocalize the first move. Max took a deep breath and offered his concession.
“Morning,” Max said, using a minimal amount of lip muscles.
“Meow,” Ross said, declaring victory.
“Oh thank goodness.” Max collapsed into the couch. “I thought I was batshit crazy.”
“Meow,” Ross said, demanding food service.
“Yeah, I need to get outside today. Maybe the lack of vitamin D is taking its toll.” He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the ceiling for a minute. “You know, I could really go for some chimichangas.”
“Meow,” Ross said, pointing out that his selfish behavior had once again trumped the nutritional needs of his loyal companion, and that the declaration of chimichangas served as a callous attempt to mock said nutrition.
Without a stylistic care in the world, Max added a frayed hoodie to his lounging ensemble, hooked a pair of flip-flops, and embarked on a culinary expedition. He pulled his beat-up hatchback out of the driveway and set sail for his favorite diner across town. The bright New Mexican sunlight poured through the windshield, warming his chest and tightening his face. While humming along to the radio, he clued into an uncomfortable reality. The roads were empty. No car horns, no pedestrians, no traffic of any kind, only the dull rumble of the engine as it broke an eerie silence.
His phone erupted with a series of shrill tones, startling him to attention. He grabbed the device from the cup holder and read the flashing alert.
CODE ORANGE ... CODE ORANGE ...
Pulling to a stop at the next intersection, he peered in all directions but found no signs of life. “Uh, this is no bueno. Maybe I should get off the ro—”
A thunderous crash hit the roof. Tires exploded, glass shattered, everything metal bent and screamed. Max let out a blood-curdling shriek as he and his crumpled car lifted into the air. Huge black claws gripped the roofline above the doors, shifting and scraping with every upward surge. Max gawked at them in wide-eyed disbelief, his face mangled by panic. An ominous flapping sound revealed itself overhead, filling him with a dreadful curiosity. He leaned forward and glanced up through the shattered windshield. The resulting shock tossed him back into the seat.
“Code orange,” he said, shaking his head. “Would it not have been slightly more informative to say, oh, I don’t know, PTERODACTYLS?! Warning! Giant winged death lizards! Get off the goddamn roads!”
Max rage-punched the steering wheel over and over, blowing the car horn with every hit, which in turn angered the pterodactyl. The beast sank its claws deeper into the frame and let out a piercing screech. Metal creaked and moaned as bits of glass bounced around the cabin. Max received the message loud and clear. He threw his hands up in what seemed like a necessary apology, then proceeded to sulk inside his flying doom wagon. “Well, I must admit, this will make for one badass obituary.”
A deafening boom echoed overhead and ended with a crackle of static. The blast shook the car from side to side, forcing the winged reptile to adjust its grip. Another boom followed. The pterodactyl screeched and abandoned its purchase. Max unleashed another blood-curdling shriek as the car plummeted towards the ground. He latched onto the steering wheel and pulled back, as if to will his car into a James Bond flying machine. Max’s life passed before his eyes, yet he still managed to pout about it. Seconds from impact, a blue energy cocoon surrounded the crumpled car and slowed its descent into a comfortable hover. The car placed itself onto a well-manicured section of grass inside a local park.
Max, still clenching the steering wheel with a sweaty death grip, surveyed his new surroundings with horrified eyes. Soon thereafter, a dirty brown pickup truck pulled up to the curb near Max’s location. A chubby fellow in a plaid shirt and overalls stepped out of the truck and sauntered over to the wreckage. The man scratched his bushy beard and adjusted his trucker’s cap. A long silvery contraption hung around his shoulder, expelling ribbons of steam. Max fixated on the device as the man reached the car.
“Howdy,” the man said in a casual Southern drawl.
Max responded with a twitching eye.
“First time taken, I reckon?” the man said.
Max barfed in the passenger seat.
The man chuckled. “Helluva ride, eh? You look decent though, any bumps or booboos?”
Max wiped his mouth, regained what little composure he had, and turned back to the man. “Why am I not dead?”
“Well, yer Safety Net seemed to work fine. Had it been glitchy or sump’n?”
“My ... Safety Net?”
“Yeah, Safety Net. You know, your car’s anti-impact system.” The man shifted his beard and raised an eyebrow. “You feelin’ okay, feller?”
“Oh, that, yes.” Max tried to neutralize the conversation. “I heard some loud booms, and then I was falling, and—”
“Ah, yessir, sorry ‘bout that.” He cleared his throat. “I missed my first shot, but I got that wily bastard with a strong second. Dammit all to Hades, I never miss my first shot, but that dad-blasted critter ain’t exactly regular. Kind of embarrassing to tell you the Lord’s honest truth. Please don’t mention that in my Angie’s List review, should you choose to write one, which would be greatly appreciated. Here’s my card.” The man fished a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Max.
“Clear Skies Extermination,” Max said, reading aloud.
“Best in the bidness.” The man nodded with pride.
Max continued reading. “Hank Redwood, Owner and Operator.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended his hand. “And you are?”
“Max.”
Hank clamped down on his hand and shook with vigor, causing Max to wince in social and physical discomfort. The silvery device bounced around Hank’s shoulder, reflecting sunlight into Max’s eyes.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, son, we just got these in.” Hank’s tone elevated with giddy excitement. He swung the device around to his front and gripped it proudly with both hands. “This here is the new Remington Skyscraper 3200, best bug zapper money can buy.” The thin, cylindrical device extended about three feet in length with a pistol grip and collapsible stock. Lights, vents, and digital displays peppered the shaft.
“Bug zapper?”
“Well, that’s what we call the anti-dino guns in the service. This one here has that new electroshock softening feature, a more humane way of prodding ‘em about. That way they don’t get those nasty singe marks like they used to. Keeps all the dino-rights people happy n’ such.”
A sharp whistle caught Hank’s attention. He turned to find a flatbed truck rolling up to the curb with another earthy man hanging out of the window. After waving hello, he turned back to Max.
“Well alright, there’s yer clean up. That’s Larry. Good man. He’ll take mighty fine care of ye.” Hank stood there with an expectant pause, like a bellhop awaiting a tip.
Max read the body language and searched for his wallet while contemplating the appropriate gratuity for shooting a pterodactyl off the roof of one’s car. Without the slightest of clues, he handed Hank a $20 bill.
Hank responded with a wide grin. “Well that’s mighty generous. Thank you, sir.”
“No, thank you. You do fine work.”
“You have a blessed day now. And remember to review us on Angie’s List.”
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