Max and the Snoodlecock

by Zachry Wheeler

  Varney nodded.

  “Ross, do you remember the coordinates?”

  “Already entered,” he said with a final paw tap.

  “Good.” She grabbed Varney’s chair and spun him back to the console. “This is going to be a bit tricky, but I’m sure a brainiac like you is up to the challenge.”

  Varney read the coordinates and gulped.

  * * *

  The Arena of Suffering existed for a single, horrifying purpose. Whenever it came time for an academic to present their findings, it was customary to do so in front of a group of peers. On Earth, this activity translated into conferences where researchers crafted dull presentations full of charts, graphs, and puns that never landed. Their entire existence focused on the collection and dissection of data. They spent most of their lives locked away in wood-paneled dungeons reading books, papers, and the latest email gossip. But every so often, researchers needed to emerge from their caves and present their findings in a thoughtful manner. This was, as most would attest, a terrifying and traumatic experience.

  The Suth’ra Society also adhered to this public diffusion of info, but only when absolutely necessary. Whenever a discovery affected the faction, or when a stumped scientist needed a second opinion, members convened at the Arena of Suffering. The party in need waited inside a holding area while the rest of the society gathered into a small arena with raised seating, much like a tiny coliseum. A large steel door connected the areas and opened after the spectators settled. In the center of the arena, a lonely microphone rested under an aggressive spotlight. Should a presenter require a visual aid, they could upload a hologram projection. Once the door opened, the victim walked up to the mic, tried not to pass out, and started their presentation.

  Most of the actual suffering came via a simple unspoken truth. As a nervy bunch of insecure know-it-alls, academics always felt a burning need to one-up their competition. This phenomenon stemmed from a paradoxical anxiety shared across the spectrum. On one hand, a constant fear exclaimed I’m a total fraud. But on the other hand, a bitter frustration exclaimed I’m smarter than this idiot. When felt in tandem, they forced otherwise harmless nerds to berate each other in a concert setting. The result, all too often, was a presenter in tears vowing never to leave their cave again.

  Back inside the holding area, Max rocked back and forth atop the cold metal bench. He twiddled his thumbs as lazy eyes wandered around the room. After a sputtering sigh, he started humming a favorite tune from back on Earth, which morphed into a strange yet infectious melody he picked up from Durangoni Station. Lap drums turned into air guitar, then devolved into snap-pop noises with his fists. Lifting to his feet, he paced around the enclosure, knocked out a few jumping jacks, and battled some imaginary ninjas. Reaching the end of its repertoire, his idle mind resorted to jaw clicks until further notice.

  The large steel door thunked and whined, bringing an end to a tedious wait. Max bounced around the room like a pre-match boxer, eager to meet his foe. The pane lifted into the air like a mighty gate releasing combatants. It clanked to a stop, leaving Max to an eerie silence. He took a cautious step forward and paused inside a pitch-black arena. Dilated eyes lifted to the ceiling where a column of white light bore through the darkness and imprisoned a mic stand. A cough from the bleachers hooked his gaze to naught. Max grinned and sauntered up to the spotlight with the swagger of a pro wrestler. He snatched the mic with a swift hand and cleared his throat.

  “Earthling in the house!” he said, adding a weak attempt at a gang sign.

  His booming voice echoed around the cavernous ring, ending with a screech of feedback. Mumbles and whispers lifted from the crowd before fading into the uncomfortable silence of a redneck comic at the Apollo Theater. Max took a deep breath and gnawed his cheek.

  “State your name,” Fio said over the loudspeakers.

  “Um, Max.”

  “State your quest.”

  “Uh ... fish sticks.” Max snorted.

  Murmurs, then silence.

  “Very well. You stand before the Suth’ra, knowers of all, defenders of proof. Dazzle us.”

  The house lights kicked on, flooding the arena with the anemic glow of a cubicle farm. Several rows of tiered seating surrounded the floor, enclosing a hundred aliens strong, all focused on Max at the center. He spun around with mouth agape, drinking in a banquet of colors, shapes, and sizes. He paused to single out a cherry-skinned female with large blue eyes, curvy features, and luscious pink lips. He winked and nodded, causing her to blush into a pleasant shade of green. After a final spin, he twirled the mic in his hand and shot up a pair of devil horns.

  “Whassap mah Suth’ra!”

  His brawny voice thundered around the room, drawing gasps and grins. The crowd traded jolly nods as golf-claps lifted from the ranks.

  “Earthman got game,” one said.

  “Truly inspiring,” another said.

  The cherry-skinned female winked back.

  “Okay, so,” Max said. “A neutron walks into a bar. ‘How much for a beer?’ the neutron asks. The bartender looks him up and down, then says, ‘For you? No charge.’”

  A stunned silence responded.

  Moments later, the crowd burst into roaring laughter. Tears spilled from eyeballs and eyestalks alike. Howls and cackles filled the arena as aliens doubled over and pounded railings. Several gasped for air as they struggled to regain composure. A strip of lacy fabric sailed through the air and landed on Max’s face. He plucked the garment from his eye, studied the elegant pattern, and turned to find the cherry-skinned female ogling him while biting her lower lip. A sly grin stretched across his face.

  Up in the control room, an irate Fio leapt to his feet and kicked his chair over and over. “Dammit, dammit, dammit! How is this possible?!”

  “It wasn’t even that funny,” Jerry said.

  Frank stood beside him, trying to swallow a laugh. Lips quivered under taut cheeks. He wiped two of his eight eyes as another began to water.

  Rutherford stood with a slumped posture, watching the arena howl. He sighed and bowed his head. “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

  Max soldiered through his shtick, much to the delight of his adoring new fan base. Tears and cackles greeted every punch line. Attendees slapped their knees and punched each other in the shoulders. Max played the room like a seasoned quipster, much to the dismay of Fio and company.

  Halfway through a joke, a ribbon of light appeared and swirled around Max’s body. It raced in circles, encasing him inside a glowing cocoon. With a pop and flash, he vanished from the stage. The crowd gasped. A sputter of static faded into a restive silence. Moments later, another beam of light carved through the ether where Max had stood. It spun into a giant orb a meter off the ground. Onlookers traded fearful glances, but remained paralyzed with curiosity. Tendrils of lightning twisted around the sphere, building to a vigorous climax. Then, with a powerful surge, the orb puked a giant blob of flesh onto the floor. The impact shook the arena and jostled everyone in their seats. A hush fell upon the room as every eye gawked at the pulsing meat sack.

  Phil squeed with unabashed joy. “TOUCHIES!” he said and sprouted as many tentacles his mass would allow.

  The arena erupted with chaos. Shrieks of terror filled the chamber as guests scattered for the exits. Phil hooked every alien in reach, sucking them into his body and spitting them out with sheens of mucus. Slimy victims crawled across the floor, groaning and dripping like swamp monsters. An army of tentacles flailed around the theater, petting, poking, and stroking at will. Horrified spectators cowered behind seats and clung to railings, weeping as wormy noodles pinched cheeks and rubbed shoulders. Phil grunted and panted like a hyperactive dog raiding a treat bowl.

  On the other side of the station, Max materialized from a ball of light inside the teleportation chamber. “And then the llama said, ‘Where are my pants?’”

  Zoey, Perra, and Ross responded with blank stares.

  Steve barked with laughter an
d tumbled off the console.

  Varney shifted his mustache.

  Max glanced around the chamber in confusion, trying to make sense of his predicament. He spun atop the platform, eyeing the tarnished walls before locking eyes with familiar faces over at the console. The chamber crackled with static, then fell silent. Max groaned and tossed the mic to the floor like a miffed toddler. “Aw, you ruined my punch line.”

  Zoey sneered. “We just saved your ass, dickweed.”

  “Don’t look for gratitude,” Ross said. “It’s not part of the douchebag repertoire.”

  A barrage of sirens filled the complex, yanking the group to attention.

  “That’s our cue,” Perra said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Max sighed, then jogged off the platform and joined the group.

  Zoey drew her weapon and took point. “Everyone stay close. Hy-D, map us back to the stealth hangar. Ross, Steve, stay low and mind your peripherals. Max, you’re an asshole. Varney, thanks for the help, sorry for the intrusion. Perra, guard the rear.”

  Max huffed.

  Varney grimaced.

  Everyone else nodded.

  Zoey exited the lab with the crew in tow and sprinted down the corridor. Varney scratched his bald head, then reached across the console and tapped an icon. The large metal door rumbled shut, muting the alarm shrieks. He fished a pair of headphones from his pocket, cued up some soothing death metal, and kicked back for some me-time.

  CHAPTER 13

  The group soldiered through bunkers, tunnels, and derelict ships, pushing their way back to the stealth hangar. Zoey glided in pole position with Hy-D hovering overhead. Ross galloped behind with tail erect, as if sprinting towards the sound of a can opener. Steve alternated between flapping and trotting, trying to keep pace with his long-legged pals. Max gasped and panted with every stride, conveying loud and clear that he was a gamer with zero understanding of how running worked. Perra brought up the rear, as always, with gun drawn and eyes vigilant.

  Zoey rounded a bend and into a barrage of plasma fire. Heated beams zipped by her head and careened off walls, showering sparks into the tunnel. She expelled some choice curses, then dove to the floor and tumbled behind an open airlock. Hy-D shot into an overhead vent while the rest of the group skidded to a halt, trapping themselves behind the bend. Static booms echoed down the tunnel and infected the air with welding fumes.

  Zoey peeked around the frame and caught a glimpse of shadowy figures standing behind a wall of smoke. Plasma beams carved through the haze, flashing the tunnel red. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling where Hy-D poked through an intake vent.

  “What the hell?! I thought the Suth’ra were a bunch of bashful nerds!”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean the service droids can’t kick some ass when needed.”

  Zoey rolled her eyes. “We’re getting shot at by vacuum cleaners?”

  “That’s racist.”

  Plasma blasts rumbled the walls around them, flinging sparks and rattling eardrums. Perra peered around the bend at a trapped Zoey, who met her gaze and nodded.

  “You got me?”

  “Always, m’love,” Perra said, readying her pistol.

  Zoey lifted her weapon, took a deep breath, and snuck into the tunnel with a low crouch. Perra leapt out from the bend and blasted down the corridor, drawing the attention of three riled service droids with arm-mounted rifles. She ducked away as they returned fire, allowing Zoey to hug the wall and fire back from an ambush position. Her pinpoint shots carved the robots to pieces, dropping their charred guts onto the metal floor. Smoke and static belched from the remnants as Zoey stepped over them and peered around the next corner. She motioned an all-clear to Perra, who nodded and gathered the group. Hy-D fell from the ceiling vent and zipped down the tunnel to rejoin Zoey. The rest of the troupe followed.

  “A little warning next time would be great,” Zoey said to Hy-D.

  “Bite me, pumpkin. They were firing at me too.”

  “But you’re one of them. How do you not anticipate an attack?”

  “We function independently as unlinked sentients. This is our home as much as it is theirs. We’re going to defend it. Or rather, they’re going to.”

  “So you’re leaving?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “What makes you think you’re coming with us?”

  “What makes you think I want to?”

  “How else will you get off this trash heap?”

  “Says the lung-dependent bio sack.”

  Zoey motioned for a halt as they approached a five-way junction. She readied her plasma pistol and inched towards the opening. A quick scan secured two of the tunnels before plasma beams screeched passed her head and slammed into the wall behind her, raining sparks and embers. She ducked behind a corner and returned fire, filling the junction with booming echoes and bright red flashes. A pause and peek uncovered two cleanbots similar to Hy-D hovering towards the ceiling, each firing a plasma gun as big as its body. The weight imbalance caused them to jolt and spin with every shot, rendering their aim comically inaccurate. Zoey locked eyes with Perra and motioned two at the ceiling, third tunnel, get you some. Perra nodded and galloped into action. She slid into the junction like a baseball pro and took out both bots with two quick bursts. Their blazing remnants clanked and clattered onto the floor. Perra yank-flipped to her feet and scanned the junction through her pistol sights.

  Zoey grinned as she sauntered over to Perra. “That was hot.”

  Perra winked. “You can hit this later.”

  Zoey bit her lower lip and slapped her lover’s ass.

  Perra responded with a playful smirk.

  Max frowned and shook his head. “I could’ve wrecked some ruby-skinned nerd booty.”

  Everyone turned perplexed gazes to the Earthling.

  “Dude,” Ross said. “Mind your brain-mouth barrier. The world will thank you.”

  The group continued their perilous trek through the pod maze. Zoey and Perra dispatched angry droids while the rest offered the moral support of golf announcers. Arriving at the stealth bay, Zoey snuck inside with pistol raised, but found a silent and empty room. Lifeless cables dangled from the ceiling like an inverted wheat field. Wall panels rested in idle states with a handful of indicators blinking through the glass. Never one to look a gift garbal in the boonanny, Zoey leapt forward and jogged towards the stack of crates where they entered. The group followed in line with Steve flapping overhead and Perra keeping an eye on the doors. The stealth ship remained on the dock, now cleaned, sealed, and ready for the next mission. Zoey slowed to a stroll as she arrived at the vessel. The group tromped to a stop and formed a circle around the shiny black sphere. Steve flapped to a rest atop the ship and started pecking at a random antenna. After a brief silence, they traded expectant glances.

  “Now what?” Ross said while studying his reflection at the bottom of the vessel.

  “I was going to ask you that,” Zoey said.

  “What makes you think I would know what to do?”

  “You’re the genius cyborg,” Perra said, gesturing to the feline. “Can’t you fly this thing?”

  Ross huffed. “A Suth’ra ship? You may as well ask me to fly Wonder Woman’s invisible jet.”

  Steve perked up. “I love that comic.”

  “You don’t have an escape plan?” Max said.

  Zoey shrugged. “I figured we would leave the way we came.”

  “What about Hy-D?” Perra said. “She knows this place inside and out.”

  Hy-D shrugged. “And how does that qualify me to pilot a stealth ship?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ross said. “You mean to tell me that we risked life and limb to rescue Earthy McAsswipe, but can’t get off the goddamn station?”

  “How about Phil?” Zoey said. “Maybe he can help.”

  Max gasped in horror. “Phil’s here?!”

  “Can’t. Busy,” Phil said to everyone through telepathy.

  Steve clucked and
twisted around in circles, looking for the source.

  Zoey cupped her hands over her face and slid them to her chin. “What we have here ... is a massive fucking failure to communicate.”

  Moments later, a purple force field enveloped the area, paralyzing everyone in place. Tendrils of energy crept into their brains, dropping them like ragdolls. Hy-D lost power and clanked onto the ground. Steve smacked the dome roof, then slid off to the side and thumped the floor, expelling an impact cluck. Max caught a brief glimpse of the approaching droids as he, and everyone else, fell unconscious.

  * * *

  The multiverse, an infinite tapestry of possibility where everyone is everything at every moment of every day. Think about it. At this very second, there is an evil clown version of you doing the exact same thing, only upside down with a pocket full of yam crackers.

  Nevertheless, no matter how bizarre a version may be, the major players always tend to get where they are going. You can think of it like an ensemble show. Unless you’re a brain-dead halfwit, you can pretty much guess who’s going to live and die. The only mystery lies in what constitutes a major player in the current storyline. A prissy pop diva may think they are the center of the universe, but in reality, the universe doesn’t give two steaming yak shits about them.

  A random critter on a random planet may decide to go left instead of right one day, changing the course of its very existence. While meaningful to the creature, that decision is likely frivolous to the universe. In fact, most decisions made by most things have no impact on the universe whatsoever. A noteworthy exception involved a six-legged newt whose post-snack belch set off a chain reaction that resulted in the wholesale destruction of three planetary systems.

  On the other hand, significant variations often generate significant consequences. The actions of crafty amphibians, no matter how obscene, leave no discernible marks on the cosmos. However, the actions of black holes leave gaping wounds that need attention. Even small tweaks can create giant ripples of gravitational chaos. A slight shift in mass can destroy entire civilizations or give birth to new ones. Should an ordinary black hole shift into a supermassive black hole, well, that shakes things up a bit.