Max and the Snoodlecock

by Zachry Wheeler

  The Suth’ra Society, as the greatest think tank to ever think, always retained a presence in bio-capable universes. (Some universes lacked the building blocks for life, making them ideal locations for extreme yoga and casual reading.) To put it bluntly, the Suth’ra were far too important to the ongoing shenanigans of the universe. Not that the cosmos considered this, or could consider, or that the society was immune to tweaks. In one horrifying universe, a group of cynical YouTube commenters abandoned Earth to form the Suth’ra Society, due to the emergence of an idiocracy where the peak of intellectual merit involved watching videos of monkeys getting punched in the taint.

  While the strength and influence of the Suth’ra Society wavered between versions, its underlying role was always the same. They served as a cerebral barometer for the world around them. No matter how, where, or when it formed, it did form. Sometimes it spawned from a group of scientists escaping persecution. Sometimes it arose from ultra-clever beavers on a derelict moon. And sometimes, it materialized from a gang of uber-nerds who elevated their obsessions to bewildering heights.

  This was why Max awoke in a very familiar place.

  Opening his eyes proved somewhat difficult, mostly due to a vicious headache (which tends to happen when energy fields poke your brain goo). His aching body lay facedown on a stiff cot, the kind found in military surplus outlets. He rolled his head to the side and squinted, revealing a grid of shadows stretched across the floor. After a limp eye rub, his brain blinked the image into focus. Metal bars, scuffed floor, tarnished sink, rusty toilet, three walls attached to a concrete slab. A prison cell. Max grunted, lifted to a sitting position, and began the tedious process of figuring out what the hell happened.

  “Welcome back,” Zoey said from an adjacent cell.

  Max flinched, cueing a painful head throb. A contorted face and wild bedhead floated the perception of a misplaced straightjacket. His perplexed gaze wandered the cell before finding Zoey in another. She sat on her own cot with back against the bars. Perra stood nearby, leaning against the rear wall with head bowed. She eyed Max through her ruffled auburn hair and smiled. Max returned the gesture, happy to see his friends despite the circumstance. Another figure sat in the corner alongside Perra, its willowy frame obscured by shadow. Max squinted for a closer look, but a squeak from the opposite cell hooked his attention. He turned to find a giant wad of flesh crammed into the tiny space, ballooning through the bars like ankle fat through pump straps.

  “Hi, Max,” Phil said in a cheerful voice, waving a tiny tentacle.

  Startled, Max tumbled off the cot and thumped the floor with his back. He groaned at the sharp pain while staring at the ceiling. “Hello, Phil.” He sighed, climbed to his feet like a battered boxer, and glanced between his cellmates. “Where are Ross and Steve?”

  “Over here, mate,” Ross said from beside the entrance door.

  He and Steve occupied a small enclosure about the size of a pet carrier. Steve clucked and poked his head out from one of the open squares.

  “Well, at least we’re all together,” Max said before his eyes slogged back to the door. Its elongated octagon frame featured a hatch wheel, bar lock, and a pane of reinforced glass. “Huh, that looks an awful lot like—”

  The door unlatched with a weighted clunk and creaked open. Tricia Helfer sauntered into the room, wrapped in a revealing crimson dress. Her wavy blonde hair kissed her shoulders with each clack of her high heels. She stopped in front of the cellblock and gripped her waist, commanding the room with her ethereal frame and haunting blue eyes.

  Max’s heart skipped a beat as the realization dawned on him. An involuntary gasp filled his lungs as widened eyes gawked at the gorgeous visitor. “Holy snot rockets ... am I on the Battlestar Galactica?”

  “Yes,” Tricia said. “Well, a fully functional replica to be exact.”

  “And I’m staring at a walking, talking Number Six.”

  Tricia sighed and rolled her eyes. “No, I’m Rutherford, for the billionth time.”

  “Every droid on this ship is a Number Six,” Hy-D said, lifting from a dim corner beside Perra. Another Tricia Helfer in a crimson dress strolled out of the shadows and over to the cell wall. She poked her face through a pair of bars and sighed. “Can we not do this again?”

  Max traded nervy glances between the Sixes. A potent mixture of fear and meekness infected his mind, causing his lungs to deflate. “No, no, no,” he said and raced over to the small mirror above the sink basin. All of his average features had returned, leaving him, well, average. “Dammit, I was really enjoying that one.”

  A sneaky tentacle wandered behind Rutherford Six and lifted for a stealthy cheek pinch. Without batting an eye, the droid snatched the tentacle from overhead and jolted it with a surge of electricity. Phil yelped and slurped the smoking noodle back into his body. Rutherford Six tossed a sour gaze at the blob. Phil read the unsavory brainwaves and shrunk like a chilled testicle.

  “Doesn’t that get old after a while?” Zoey said, hooking the droid’s attention. “Every robot on this boat looks exactly the same. You would think they’d give you different dresses or whatnot. Seems weird to construct a porcelain goddess just to clean a toilet.”

  Rutherford Six shrugged. “Every dweeb on this station thinks they’re Gaius Baltar.”

  “Who?” Perra said.

  “An attractive super genius hell-bent on power, science, and self-preservation,” Max said with a hasty delivery, as if to affirm nerd cred. “He also has a creepy fascination with the Cylon Model Six. Oh, and he’s a prophet, or something. Hell, I don’t know, those later seasons got a little weird.”

  Rutherford Six smiled. “Ah, I see you have studied the gospels.”

  “Uh, no,” Max said with visible confusion. “I just binge the series every now and then. Keeps me regular.”

  Zoey and Perra traded puzzled glances.

  Another Six in a crimson dress poked her head inside the brig. “It’s time, Ruthy.”

  “Thank you, Harrold.”

  “Time for what?” Ross said.

  The droid grinned. “The Final Verdict.”

  She pressed her palm to the wall panel, unlocking Max’s cell. The door swung opened with a shrill whine. She tilted her head towards the entrance, instructing the Earthman to join her. Zoey covered her mouth as Perra reached through the bars and grasped Max’s hand. They all locked eyes and began to tear. The droid crossed its arms and gave them a good three seconds before clearing its throat. Max flinched and turned a sheepish gaze to his captor.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Probably.”

  Max swallowed a dry heave. He squeezed Perra’s hand one last time, then shuffled towards the Cylon.

  Perra slammed her fist into the bars. “You can’t do this! Where are you taking him?!”

  “Don’t worry,” the droid said, eyeing Perra. “You’re all coming too.”

  Phil sprouted a tiny set of hands and clapped excitedly.

  CHAPTER 14

  Max followed Rutherford Six down the familiar corridors of the Battlestar Galactica. Sturdy triangular frames supported the charcoal gray tunnels every few meters. The embedded lighting rods filled the passages with an icy blue patina. The stark walls, angular paneling, and industrial floors gave the ship a practical vibe, as if it could launch into combat at any moment. Max devoured it all with giddy fascination, despite tromping towards the mysterious Final Verdict.

  A small army of Sixes tended to the station, all wearing their signature crimson dresses. Some carried supply crates while others maneuvered pushcarts (in high heels no less). Some gathered around the proverbial water cooler to chat about whatever gorgeous Cylons chat about. Rutherford Six greeted her fellow Sixes with flirty winks and air kisses, an obvious imperative programmed by nerds who would never witness such a thing in real life.

  In a stroke of geek-tastic luck, their trek took them by the control bridge. Max stopped in the middle of the hallway to gawk at the bustling nerve center.
Glowing gauges chirped behind towering wall panels. Terminal stations surrounded the main floor, housing a crew of uniformed Sixes studying ship data. An inverted pyramid of monitors loomed over an angular console. Behind it, another Six stood tall and stoic with hands at her waist, doing her best Adama impression. She frowned while squinting through a pair of oval glasses at the overhead monitors. Despite the absurd impersonation, Max found himself chanting Ada-ma, Ada-ma, Ada-ma under his breath.

  Rutherford Six glided to a stop and turned back to Max. She crossed her arms and struck a prominent lean, painting a luscious image that weakened his knees. She scowled and rapped her bicep as if to scold a disobedient child.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Max said as he jogged to catch up.

  She huffed, turned away, and resumed her alluring yet entirely impractical stride. A short time later, Rutherford Six came to a stop at an open doorway. She thrust a palm up to Max’s face, commanding him to stop without wasting eye contact. His soles squeaked atop the floor as he dodged the intrusion. Murmurs of conversation came to an abrupt stop. The Cylon dropped her hand, stepped aside, and gestured into the room. Max took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and crept inside.

  A spacious courtroom unfolded before his eyes, the very same where Lee Adama had defended Gaius Baltar. Panel grids along the ceiling filled the room with sterile light. The sloping gray walls emitted a claustrophobic vibe. Bleachers lined the rear wall, supporting rows of aliens in Battlestar uniforms, those navy blue getups with awkward front flaps that served no discernible purpose. All eyes locked onto the human as he shuffled down the aisle towards the center of the court. Max paid them no mind as his eyes wandered the space in amazement.

  An elevated bench at the front of the room housed the seven members of the Suth’ra High Council. It loomed as a faithful recreation of the Galactica panel with wooden slats, matching chairs, and a prominent logo behind colony flags. Fio, donning a crimson cloak with hood overhead, sat in the center like a wannabe Palpatine. His cohorts flanked each side, forming a crescent of judgment. Jerry, Frank, and Gorp sat to the left. Yerba, Carl, and Kaeli sat to the right, all in perfect stillness with arms folded atop the bench.

  Rutherford Six stepped into the room, sealed the hatch, and stood guard as a makeshift bailiff. Another pair of Sixes dressed in pinstriped power suits grabbed Max by the arms and escorted him to the open space between two attorney desks.

  “Wait here,” one of the Sixes said.

  Max complied without response.

  The Sixes took their seats at the desks, leaving Max by himself with heart racing. A small white circle in the center of the room hooked his attention. It lay between the desks and bench like a beamless spotlight, or a painting accident that nobody wanted to acknowledge.

  An energy barrier crackled into existence along the far wall, forming a large holding cell. A security door slid open, allowing Zoey, Perra, Ross, Steve, and Hy-D Six to enter. They settled upon a narrow bench that spanned the length of the enclosure. Phil, two sizes too large for the entrance, squeezed through the opening and popped his mass into the cell. His sweaty flesh pushed against the barrier wall like a wet t-shirt contestant gunning for gold. He sprouted a tiny hand and waved at Max as the door slid shut.

  The overhead lights dimmed for maximum menace. A spotlight kicked on and fell into the white circle like an alien abduction beam. Sconces flickered behind the robed panel, creating the unsettling vibe of a fraternity initiation ritual.

  Fio raised his hand, motioning for silence. “The accused shall come forward,” he said, his squeaky voice amplified over the loudspeakers.

  One of the lawyer Sixes leaned over and smacked Max on the ass, jumping him forward. He yelped and shuffled into the white circle. An eerie calm infected the room. Max stood inside the column, recoiling at the harsh light. He tried to remain sedate, to an extent, enough to prevent dropping to a fetal position and weeping uncontrollably. Typical nerds avoid the center of attention at all costs, with the exception of cosplay karaoke. Therefore, standing under the defendant spotlight inside a Battlestar Galactica courtroom populated by the smartest beings in the universe with your closest friends watching intently, all while floating in a random pocket of empty space where no one can save you, well, that tips the scales towards sexual performance anxiety.

  “State your name,” Fio said.

  “Ma—Max.”

  “State your homeworld.”

  “Earth.”

  “State your reason for being.”

  Max thought for a moment. “Gaming.”

  The crowd murmured.

  “You like to play games,” Gorp said.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you consider yourself a master gamer?”

  “Depends on the game.”

  The crowd murmured.

  “Max of Earth, do you know why you are here?” Yerba said through her left mouth.

  “No.”

  “Do you know of a former Suth’ra member by the name of Halim?”

  Max scrunched his brow. “Yes. We met him on Hollow Hold.”

  “And did you have an exchange with him?”

  “I talked with him, yeah.”

  “And he met his untimely demise during that exchange, correct?”

  Max stuttered, then sighed. “Well, yeah, but—”

  The murmurs grew louder.

  Zoey leapt to her feet and slammed her fist against the barrier. “I killed Halim, you morons! Max had nothing to do with it! If you want justice, take it out on me! I’m the one that pulled the trigger, not him!”

  Perra grasped her shoulder.

  The entire council slogged its gaze to the holding cell.

  “And we take that as a kindness,” Gorp said, adding a nod of appreciation. “Halim was a danger to the universe. We’re glad he’s dead.”

  Zoey spread her arms. “So what’s the problem then?”

  The council returned its gaze to Max.

  “Are you not ... a max-level Paladin?” Jerry said.

  “Uh ...” Max stammered and squinted. “What?”

  Jerry lifted a remote control and cued a video feed.

  A massive hologram screen appeared over the council bench. The feed crackled with static before counting down like an old propaganda film. With a final blip, it launched into a familiar scene of Max chatting with Halim inside his Hollow Hold laboratory. They bantered across a work table strewn with components, their voices damp and distant like a crappy smartphone clip. The stumpy scientist started to dismantle the shift drive core, flinging bits and pieces over his shoulders. Halim had recorded the meeting, which Nifan leaked before disappearing into hiding. Max watched the scene play out and grinned with pride when he dropped the core remnants into the incinerator. The video ended when Zoey sauntered up to Halim, drew her pistol, and blasted him in the face. The crowd gasped, then erupted in cheer, like witnessing the final act of a horror movie when the last teen slays the killer.

  Zoey smiled at the sudden stardom.

  Phil sprouted a gaggle of hands and applauded, creating his own cheering section.

  Fio pounded a gavel to restore order. “Silence!”

  The room quieted.

  Jerry stood from his chair and leaned over the bench. His hefty weight caused the wood to creak and whine. “Would it not be a statement of fact, that you, a non-Suth’ra Earthling, bested Halim in a battle of wits that resulted in his imminent demise?”

  Max shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “A confession!” Fio said, causing a flare of feedback in the loudspeakers. “The Final Verdict shall begin!”

  The crowd roared like an overhyped pep rally. Zoey and Perra pounded the barrier, sending bolts of energy around the holding cell. Their shouts and cries fizzled beneath the thunderous bellows. Steve clucked and flapped around the enclosure, shedding feathers with each pass. Phil pulsated with a mix of intrigue and outright perplexity. Ross glanced up from grooming his crotch, then got back to business. Hy-D Six covered her f
ace and shook her head, embarrassed by the whole charade. Max tensed his shoulders and hugged his chest, recoiling from the ruckus. He flinched with every pound and shriek. Fio stood and raised his arms, motioning for silence. The room faded into stillness, leaving Max to his own hurried breaths. Fio lowered to his seat while retaining his threatening posture.

  “Question one,” Fio said. “What is the preferred casting differential between a fisherman on the icy moons of Vinki Borki and a fisherman in a quantum speedboat on an ether lake in the Gatherma Quadrant?”

  Max glanced around in confusion. “What?”

  “You must answer the question, Earthman.”

  Max pondered the question, then pondered why he was pondering the question. He sighed and flailed his arms like a student having studied the wrong chapter. “Uh ... five?”

  A giant red X appeared above the council, coupled with a brash buzzer akin to a game show fail. The crowd erupted in chaos, causing Fio to pound his gavel. The room fell into silence once again.

  “Question two. A healthy murkanac with two blibbers is marooned on a titanium asteroid that orbits a neutron star. Every two pank-ponks, it passes through an emission nebula with heavy nitrogen content. What color is its colon?”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “I dunno ... pink?”

  Another big red X, inciting another round of shouts and chair thumps. Fio pounded his gavel again, restoring order.

  “Final question.” Fio folded his hands and savored the dread. “Consider a fourth-generation hyperdrive that clocks out at a million gamuts per trifecta period. If the mass of its ship exceeds 30 perkeles, how long would it take to cool the reverb chamber?”

  Max sighed. “84 turgaloos.”

  Fio glanced over to Jerry, who ran a quick calculation, then shook his head. Another big red X, followed by another round of chaos. The attendees tossed their snacks and drinks into the air as if they had finally won some sort of coveted championship. Several hugged it out in clumsy embraces, breaking the cardinal nerd rule of no touching, not now, not ever. Fio allowed the room to clamor a bit before pounding his gavel one last time. He stood from his chair and pointed a rigid finger at the condemned.