“You know what? Kiss my ass, Erin!” Max jumped to his feet as a chorus of gasps lifted from the table. “All you do is whine and complain about first-world bullshit. You have a superhero level of self-entitlement that alienates everyone within earshot. Why on Earth do you feel the need to vocalize every piece of frivolous bile that pops into your brain? Are you even capable of conjuring a pleasant thought? You bitch and moan about nothing. I’m beyond sick of it. Maybe if you offered something constructive, even once, I wouldn’t yearn for chloroform every time you opened your mouth.”
Erin’s face twisted itself into various forms of shock and disgust.
Without missing a rant-o-licious beat, Max turned his attention to her beefcake boyfriend. “And you! How do you stand this harpy? Are you really that stupid? I mean, you do spend more time at the gym than in class. Hell, even when you’re in class, I bet you’re thinking about the goddamn gym. Your entire brain must be devoted to eating, sleeping, and muscle management because it sure as hell can’t handle critical thought. How else could you stomach her constant stream of hate vomit? I am actively offended that you get to graduate. It makes me weep for our education system.”
Chance squinted his eyes, slow to process the insult.
Max drew another breath and pointed at Blake across the table. “Furthermore, why does anyone hang out with this prick? He talks down to you like an arrogant reality show judge. What’s your damage, dude? Trust fund too small for proper friends? Your parents have more money than sense, that’s for damn sure. News flash, a privileged teen driving a Corvette is only cool to other privileged teens. The rest of the world sees you as the douchiest douchebag to ever douche his way out of Douchetown.”
Blake maintained a cold stare, for reasons known only to Blake.
For his final act, Max turned to Megan. “This is all your fault, by the way. Congratulations on assembling perhaps the most useless band of superficial morons the world has ever seen. You’re no angel, but you’re better than this. You’re better than these clowns. And I, for one, refuse to be a part of this pretentious fail circus any longer.” He raised his hands, spun around, and huffed away.
Blake fumed as a hush fell over the table. Startled gazes darted back and forth. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Chance asked the one question on everyone’s mind.
“Like Yoda why he speak?”
* * *
The next morning, Max lay facedown on his sofa when a knock at the door yanked him out of a stupor. Lifting his head off a wet spot of drool, he reached over to the coffee table and tapped his phone. 8:24 a.m., Wednesday. With the effort of a drugged sloth, he hoisted his body off the couch and lumbered towards the back door. After a few languid slaps of the doorknob, he opened it to a concerned Megan.
“Goodness, you look awful.”
Max confirmed the assertion with a shrug.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“Erin pushed me over the edge. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Duh, I was there. But why the shutout last night? We could have talked this over.”
“No, no we couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Max paused to think of a non-Yoda explanation. “It’s complicated.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “It always is with you. Can I come in?”
Max grunted and returned to his face-planted position on the couch. Megan stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She dropped her purse on the coffee table and took a seat across from Max.
“What is wrong with you?” Megan said, shaking her head. “You have to talk to me, Max. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
Max lay motionless for a brief spell before addressing the cushions. “Erferfer smer ler pershers.”
“Come again?”
Even with his face buried in a couch crack, Max could sense her mounting agitation. He lifted his limp body into a seated position and turned a deflated gaze to Megan. “Everything smells like peaches.”
“What?” Megan cocked her neck. “What are peaches?”
“That.” Max pointed a rigid finger at Megan. “What you just said. That’s what’s wrong.”
Megan folded her arms and gnawed her lip, conveying the sudden apprehension of a Charles Manson parole board.
“You, and presumably the rest of the world, have no idea what a peach is, but I have eaten peaches all my life. I know what a peach smells like. Here ...” Max grabbed a half-empty mug of stale coffee and held it up to Megan. “What does that smell like?”
Megan took a cautious whiff, never breaking eye contact. “Um, coffee?”
“Nope, smells like fresh peaches.”
“What the hell is a—”
“Peach, yes. A delicious fuzzy fruit. Doesn’t matter. The point is, you don’t know. Nobody knows. But I do. I have always known. I am the only being on the planet that knows what a peach smells and tastes like. Understand?”
Megan pursed her lips and glanced away, as if to plot her escape. “Max, you’re scaring me.”
“So that means one of several things.” Max continued his unhinged assessment without acknowledging her response. “Having no idea what a peach is, you ruled out stroke, so thank you for that. Maybe I’m incapable of smelling in this universe, or better yet, maybe you perceive smell differently and I’m doing it wrong. Maybe you are hyper-sensitive to smell and can sense all sorts of tiny nuances that I can only perceive as peaches.” His hands darted around in a feeble attempt to enhance the narrative. “For that matter, maybe the peach tree died off long ago and nobody remembers. Maybe the peach tree never evolved in the first place. Regardless, I couldn’t talk to you yesterday because your Yoda-speak would have driven me mad.”
Megan’s eyes grew wide as she snatched her purse and stood in a hurry. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“This. Us. Or you, rather. Do you have any idea how crazy you just sounded? You need help, professional help. I love you, Max, but this is too much for me.”
“You’re ... breaking up with me?” Max looked stunned.
Megan sighed. “Yes.”
“But why?”
Megan responded with a bewildered stare. “Seriously? How self-absorbed do you have to be to not get this? You’re talking like a certified lunatic. I can handle quirky, which you most certainly are, but what you just said requires psych meds and a padded room.”
“But—”
“No, Max. I have given you the benefit of the doubt for far too long. You have crapped all over this relationship for the last time. We’re done.”
Megan turned to leave, causing Max to scamper to his feet. A jumbled mess of words filled his mind, but his mouth refused to verbalize such gibberish. He could only whimper and grunt as Megan slammed the door behind her.
“Meow,” Ross said, satisfied with the results.
* * *
“Just look at that,” Perra said as the gaseous dome of Jupiter filled the cockpit viewport. She leaned forward in her chair with mouth agape. “So beautiful.” Sandy browns and creamy yellows poured into the cabin, warming the stark interior. Bands of blue auroras sparkled at the northern pole, eliciting gasps of awe.
“Wow, now that is a massive storm,” Zoey said, pointing to the giant red spot on Jupiter’s surface.
“Such a gorgeous planet, and a breathtaking backdrop for Europa. Can you imagine looking at this vista through the spa ceiling? Unreal.”
A hailing ping echoed around the cabin. Instinct drove Zoey’s hand above her head to press a blinking green light, silencing the pulsing tone. She turned and smiled at Perra, who donned a gleeful expression.
“Speaking of which,” Zoey said. “Time to start our approach.”
Perra folded her hands upon her chest and heaved with anticipation.
“Unidentified vessel,” a metallic voice said from an overhead speaker. “This is the Europa Transport Authority. Please transfer your identification credentials to channel 653.”
“Private vessel class 83A transferring now,” Zoey said with an authoritative tone.
A swift hand tapped across the control panel, opening the requested channel and keying a series of markers. She submitted the data and leaned back in the chair, awaiting a response. Perra knocked her knuckles together and bit her lower lip as Zoey rapped her fingertips upon the armrest. The main engines hummed in the background, serving as a warm blanket of white noise. Moments later, the intercom pinged overhead.
“Identification verified,” the speaker said. “It is an honor to receive you, courier Bryx. Rest assured that your identity will remain hidden during your stay and your vessel will remain under constant surveillance. Our navigation tower has fed the necessary data into your autopilot and we will take it from here. On behalf of the Aquarius Group, we welcome you to Europa.”
“Affirm transmission, and thank you. See you on the ground.”
With a final ping, the dull hum of the engines refilled the cockpit. Zoey and Perra smirked at each other from opposite ends of the control panel. They squealed in delight, leapt from their chairs, and danced around the cabin.
CHAPTER 4
Over the next several days, Max sulked inside his pillowy fortress of depression. Leaving the couch meant a trip to the kitchen for sustenance or a visit to the bathroom to expel it. With no friends, no girlfriend, and an unsympathetic cat, he saw little reason to engage in any meaningful activity. Even gaming lost its appeal. Slaying digital demons seemed downright stale after surviving a near-death encounter with a carnivorous winged reptile. He just stared at the television for hours on end, awaiting the next unexplained shift in reality.
Thursday tested his will to live. Due to a slight delay in the emergence of popular culture, the people on television, while current and topical, had regressed to the flamboyant attire of the 1980s. The hairstyles alone made one question the wisdom of humanity. Listening to music offered no reprieve, as his collection of modern rock had replaced itself with androgynous hair bands. Max also inspected his closet, a decision he regretted from the second he flipped the light switch. A nauseating assortment of airbrushed t-shirts and high-water pants peaked with the bright orange glow of a Members Only jacket. Needless to say, it was a trying day to be alive.
On Friday, Max awoke to a universe that actually improved his predicament, in a manner of speaking. As a sad sack with depleted energy and an utter indifference to the world, he rather enjoyed a drastic reduction in gravity, resulting in a less rigid form of biological evolution. His boneless body spilled all over the living room floor like a deflated beanbag chair. Having expended his allotment of craps to give, he embraced his gelatinous form without question. The day’s curiosity peaked at wondering how to roll over, but he allowed the mystery to persist until the next bout of sleep consumed him.
Then came Saturday, the day everything changed.
Max opened his eyes to a strange new world. Still lying on the couch, he stared at a smooth, featureless ceiling that glowed with diffused light. No vents, no bulbs, no smoke detectors, just a clouded plane of backlit plastic. Rotating his head to the side, he studied an assortment of sleek objects scattered around the living room. The sharp lines of brushed metal and chic decor seemed zen-like from any angle. Digital control panels adorned every major surface. Faint indicator lights blinked underneath smooth squares of black glass. He drew a deep breath and savored the cleanest air his lungs had ever tasted. Shifting positions, his bare skin drank an orgasmic blend of fabric covering the couch, prompting gasps and hand stroking that bordered on a creepy furniture fetish. Its earthy brown coloration accented the cool blues and stark grays of the room with artistic precision. As he lifted his weary body to a sitting position, the couch offered its assistance by elevating his flank and lowering his thighs.
“Good morning, Max,” the couch said in a pleasant feminine tone.
Max flinched and balled his fists for battle.
“Would you like some fresh coffee?”
“Um ...” Max glanced around the room with a frightened gaze, then answered with a cautious tone. “Y—yes.”
The table hummed for a moment before lifting a silver cup of freshly brewed coffee from a hidden compartment. Max stared at the steaming cup as his eyelids tried their best to blink away the astonishing image. The table itself featured a gorgeous pattern of inlaid wood that meandered beneath a glazed surface. Max followed the pattern down the sides to nonexistent legs. A slow swipe of his foot confirmed that the table hovered in place. He lowered a palm onto the rounded edge and gave it a gentle push, sending it a few inches away. The table floated back into position and seemed to devote special consideration to the full cup of coffee resting on its surface. Max gawked in disbelief.
“Please check the temperature of the coffee to make sure it is to your satisfaction,” the couch said, startling Max to attention.
He looped his fingers through the handle and brought the mug to his lips. A single sip rolled his eyes into the back of his head. Max moaned with pleasure and smacked his lips. “Holy mother of pearl, this is extraordinary. What kind is this?”
“Your usual blend,” the couch said.
“My usual? I must have super expensive tastes in this world.”
“Starbucks is considered an affordable blend.”
“This is Starbucks? Sweet mercy, I can only imagine what the good stuff tastes like.”
The table hummed for a moment, then lifted a silvery shot of steaming nectar.
“Some of the finest Indonesian espresso,” the couch said.
“Wow, this is a literal coffee table.” Max reached for the shot with his free hand. He lifted the brew to his lips, took a delicate sip, and chewed on it like a wine sommelier. After a blissful moment of coffee-infused heaven, he plunked the shot back onto the table. “Now that’s just unfair. That stuff makes this stuff taste like wet dirt.”
“I am sorry you disapprove of your coffee. Shall I make another?”
“No, no, no, it’s fantastic. I’m just disappointed by comparison.”
“I do not understand. I apologize.”
“Don’t worry about it, you did fine. I am very happy with my coffee.”
“I shall do better next time.”
“Seriously, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a—a couch. Why am I giving a pep talk to my couch?” Max stood and faced the chatty couch. “Who, or rather what, are you?”
“Me? Are you feeling well, Master?” The couch seemed genuinely concerned.
“Master? I’m your master? That seems a bit overlord-like.”
“I’m Veronica, your house’s operating system.”
“My house’s op—” Max shook his head. “Wait, do you mean to tell me that my house is governed by a system of artificial intelligence?”
“Yes, as always. Are you sure you are feeling well, Master? I can make an appointment with Doctor Anderson if you wish.”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”
“I will monitor your vitals today just to be sure.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Pardon? I am not sure I can comply.”
“Nevermind, it was an expression. I meant, do as you wish.”
“Certainly, and it will be my pleasure. And if I might say so, you look very sexy today.”
Max thought for a moment and nodded. “Yeah, that’s something I would program.”
“Meow,” Ross said from across the room.
Max turned to his furry companion, who sat inside a gleaming kitchenette with royal blue paneling. His jaw fell open as he scanned the basement with a slow turn, every surface a pristine plane devoid of dust and grime. The ceiling increased its illumination to a pleasant morning level and shimmered with the natural coloration of a clear sky. Underfoot, a dense, carpet-like material stretched from wall to wall. The animate fabric molded to the delicate contours of his feet, serving as a constant arch support. Clear shelves extended from retractable wall panels, allowing fo
r custom configurations. The mantels supported an array of dramatic sculptures, resinous creations that seemed drawn from the mind of a troubled cyborg. Abstract canvases with bold colorings adorned the walls, all backlit with warm glows. Max understood his own distinct lack of stylistic integrity, so the emergence of a thoughtful interior design caught his brain off guard.
“Meow,” Ross said again, this time with a noticeable level of impatience.
“Um, food, yes,” Max said. He took a few steps towards the kitchenette before a revelation stopped him in his tracks. “Veronica.”
“Yes, Master?”
“Can you feed Ross for me?”
“Right away, sir.”
A floor panel slid open, allowing a fresh bowl of kibble to lift in front of Ross. Without moving a paw, Ross plunked his face into the bowl and crunched his way to happiness.
“Ha!” Max said. “Now that I can get used to.”
Max wandered around the shiny new house trying out various gadgets and gizmos. Glowing panels of holographic info hovered along the walls, serving as direct conduits for useful tidbits. Veronica controlled the overall dissemination of data that kept Max informed and happy, be it weather updates or hilarious viral videos. The bathroom offered the greatest technological bounty, from an automatic laser-guided tooth cleaner to a voice-activated ionic hair styling device. He amused himself by requesting absurd hairstyles, none of which stumped the eager apparatus. It teased his shaggy mop with the machine equivalent of a happy-go-lucky smile, pinging the conclusion of every session with a digital ta-da.
After a soothing and somewhat inappropriate shower, Max entered a pristine closet that featured an impressive selection of synthetic clothes. The entire space seemed to detonate with sharp colors and bold patterns. Having no clue what constituted current trends, he ogled garments like a caveman studying a pair of khakis. The closet responded to voice activation and Max soon found himself decked out in a casual ensemble that Veronica deemed handsome. He buttoned a navy blue shirt with dark gray stitching, slipped into a pair of earthy brown trousers, and dropped his feet into a crazy-comfortable pair of sim-leather boots. A slate gray overshirt completed the ensemble.
Max and the Multiverse, #1 Page 4
