The Item of Monumental Importance
Page 4
Ross replied with a stink eye, then plunked his face back into the bowl.
Max shuffled to the front door, unlatched it with a limp hand, and greeted an onslaught of New Mexican sunlight. The heat needled his pale skin as he lumbered towards the street with an arm raised overhead. He grabbed a handful of letters from the mailbox, sifted through a pile of mostly junk, then turned for the house.
“Maximus!” said a voice from below.
“Sweet mother of pancakes!” Max convulsed the letters out of his hands.
“Sorry mate, didn’t mean to wonk you,” the voice said, also in a British accent.
Max palmed his heaving chest. He glanced down to find the cheerful face of Gerald, the neighbor’s cat, a dirty brown tabby with blue eyes and an obvious weight problem.
“You got any more of those salmon treats? I could really go for some.”
“Shut up, minger,” Ross said from an open windowsill. “You need treats like a Max needs a third willy.”
Gerald scrunched his brow. “You have two knobs?”
“No, of course not,” Max said, then glared at Ross.
Gerald perked. “My uncle had one eye, three legs, and talked like a pirate. True story. Strange lad, that one.”
Ross snorted with amusement.
Max gathered the letters from the ground and stomped towards the front door with Gerald prancing behind.
“About those trea—” Gerald said as the door slammed in his face.
Max tossed the mail onto the counter, scowled at Ross, then flopped back into his chair.
Ross snickered and returned to his food bowl.
Max leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. Troubled eyes stared at the surface as he nodded with the steady cadence of a metronome. Fluttering breaths fled his lungs with every sip of coffee. Teeth chattered behind taut lips, filling his mind with a grim melody. After a long spell of nervous contemplation, he dropped his forehead to the table with a loud thump.
Ross jerked away from the bowl with cocked ears and a poofed tail. “What the hell, man?”
“I’m crazy, I’m crazy, I’m crazy,” Max said from beneath an arm fort.
“What do you mean crazy?”
Max lifted his head and heaved with a mounting panic attack, his unhinged gaze darting around the room. “I’ve gone insane. My cat is talking to me. My damn cat, and as Nigel Puffbottom no less.” Writhing and panting, he closed his eyes and tucked his arms to regain some composure. “I must be dreaming, or sleepwalking, or something. My brain has lost its footing and I’m just imagining cats talking to me. That’s all. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Brains can’t have a footing,” Ross said with a flat tone.
Max huffed and opened his eyes. “You can be a real jerk, you know that? Or not, who knows, it’s all in my head.”
“So, you don’t think I’m talking right now?”
“Of course not, cats don’t talk.”
Ross uncocked his ears and pondered the declaration. He pranced over to the nearest chair, bounded up to the table, and settled in front of Max. After a brief silence, he turned towards the window. “Oi, Gerald!”
Gerald’s head popped up from beneath the windowsill. “All right, Ross?”
“Get this, Max says that cats don’t talk.”
“What, does he mean figuratively?”
“No, he says not at all.”
“Well that’s interesting because we’re having a lovely conversation.”
“Exactly my point.”
“That doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Max said through a double facepalm.
“Wow, what’s his damage today?” Gerald said to Ross.
“Don’t know, trying to figure that out.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Best of luck.”
“Cheers, Gerald.”
Gerald ducked away as Ross returned his gaze.
Max glared at him through a finger fence.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me?” Max slapped his hands on the table. “How on Earth is that helping?”
“Fine, my apologies. Truce.” Ross bowed his head for a moment, then lifted onto his hind legs. He cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a smooth baritone. “The truth is ... you are the chosen one.”
Max scrunched his brow. “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”
“While I appreciate my given name of Rosco P. Coltrane on this planet, my real name is Reginald Sarcoga, first son of Hackamore. I hail from an ancient order of supreme beings that occupied the Zynfall Galaxy of Hamonrye. We settled upon your planet long ago and assumed the feline form to aid in our divine quest. I have spent my entire life looking for you. Today, we present ourselves to Your Grace. You are the one the prophecies foretold. You are the fabled Shifter, The Light, the vessel that will unite all universes under an infinite era of peace.” Ross placed his paw on top of Max’s hand. “It is time to fulfill your destiny, star child.”
Max donned the bewildered expression of a preteen boy seeing his first pair of boobs. An eyelid twitched for good measure as his brain processed the reveal. With a renewed vitality, he locked eyes with a stoic Ross. “I knew it. I knew there was something bigger going on here. I have always felt the draw of some higher purpose.”
“I am so pulling your leg right now.” Ross smirked and removed his paw.
Max drooped with the sting of embarrassment. “You’re such an asshole.” He closed his eyes and thumped his head back onto the table.
“Gerald!” Ross said to the open window.
“Wotcha?” Gerald said as he popped his head up.
“I told him he was a star child with a destiny.”
“Oh, that’s cheeky. How’d he take it?”
“Not well. He keeps banging his head on the table.”
“Won’t that churn his noggin?”
“Can’t break what’s already broke.”
“Brilliant, carry on then.”
Max stood in a hurry, flinging his chair halfway across the kitchen. He rushed over to the window where a smiling Gerald perked with attention.
“So how about those trea—” Gerald said as the window slammed shut, muffling his voice behind the glass. “Right, shall I just bugger off then?”
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.
Continue reading:
Max and the Multiverse
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Zachry Wheeler is an award-winning science fiction novelist, screenwriter, and coffee slayer. He enjoys English football, stand-up comedy, and is known to lurk around museums and brewpubs.
Learn more at ZachryWheeler.com
ADDITIONAL WORKS
Immortal Wake Series
Transient
Thursday Midnight
The Mortal Vestige
Max and the Multiverse Series
Max and the Multiverse
Max and the Snoodlecock
Max and the Banjo Ferret
Max and the Multiverse Shorts
The Item of Monumental Importance
Nibblenom Deathtrap
Sparkle Pirate
Hiss Bot Hank
Box Sets
Immortal Wake
Max and the Multiverse
BEFORE YOU GO
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