Max Tilt: Fire the Depths

  DEDICATION

  In Memory of George Nicholson

  The Colossus of Agents

  Whose Influence Is in Everything I Write

  EPIGRAPH

  “WE ARE ALL, IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER,

  THE CHILDREN OF JULES VERNE.”

  —RAY BRADBURY

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Peter Lerangis

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  BEFORE the day he was abandoned, Max Tilt thought life was pretty much perfect. He had put claws on his drone, had memorized every Cincinnati Reds batting average to 1968, and hadn’t smelled fish in thirteen days. Thirteen days ago someone had wedgied him in school, and for some reason unknown to modern science, Max smelled fish when he was scared.

  But everything changed on that June morning when Max first tested his drone. His bedroom was perfectly neat, his toilet was perfectly clean, and his parents were perfectly unaware that they were about to be attacked.

  All he meant to do was surprise them—make his drone grab a napkin or spoon or cereal box off the breakfast table. The drone in question was named Vulturon, and it had been tricked out with decals to make it look like a deadly tarantula. Using his remote, Max could make the machine swoop, grab and store things up to ten pounds, and scream “cowabunga.” This was not something tarantulas normally said—or, for that matter, drones—but that was exactly why he liked it.

  As he powered up Vulturon, Max could hear his mom and dad in the kitchen downstairs. Dad was doing most of the talking, as usual. Mom had become very quiet, ever since she’d decided to take a semester off from teaching. She’d been sleeping a lot too. Which was weird, because she had always had so much energy. She and Max had once taken a whole weekend to paint a humongous rainbow across his ceiling. Then they protected it with three flying dinosaurs built from model kits—a red rhamphorhynchus, a feathered archaeopteryx, and a leathery pteranodon. The rainbow was labeled with the words Every Spectrum Is a Rainbow. Max thought of this whenever anyone said he was “on the spectrum.” This had something to do with his neatness, his love of facts, and the way he was with people. He used to think “on the spectrum” meant something like “broken,” but you couldn’t break rainbows. Rainbows were beautiful and perfect. So the painting made him feel good whenever he looked at it. Which occurred about a thousand times a day now.

  He pointed the remote. As Vulturon lifted off his desk, its four rotors whirred quietly, and a stack of homework papers blew onto the floor. Pressing Hover, Max quickly replaced them, making sure to square the corners before he went back to his mission.

  The drone left his bedroom, and Max followed it out the door to the second-floor landing. Over the banister he could see the big living room below, where papers were stacked on every chair and sofa. Dad liked to say that he and Mom were on the infrared end of the tidiness spectrum, and Max was on the ultraviolet. This meant, according to Dad, that Max was neat and they were slobs. That was a fact, and Max loved facts. Even though (1) he hated disorder and (2) he was not truly ultraviolet.

  Down. Left.

  Vulturon swooped under the stairs and out of Max’s sight. As it darted into the kitchen, Dad’s voice stopped. The toaster dinged. Vulturon said “cowabunga.”

  And Mom screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Max was so shocked he nearly fell down the stairs. Mom never screamed like that. She was a writer. She had written a murder mystery. She liked pranks and surprises.

  But as Dad stormed into the foyer and looked up the staircase toward Max, his mother was still in the kitchen, sobbing.

  Max realized he’d done something really wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. He thought his dad would yell. But he didn’t. He said, in a stern but oddly quiet voice, “Maximilian, please come into the kitchen. We have something to discuss.”

  Dad never called him Maximilian. Even though it was technically his name.

  As Max descended, the smell of fish was so strong, he felt like he was walking into the ocean.

  1

  “FIX,” said the man behind the desk.

  That was it. No hello, no welcome, no offer of a drink or snack or even a hand to shake. Not even the decency to look up.

  Spencer Niemand wouldn’t dignify that rudeness with an answer. Under most circumstances, people begged him for attention. Under most circumstances, he did not leave his office on his own at the beckoning of a thief. Even a wealthy one like the fat man behind the desk.

  But this was not most circumstances.

  Dealing with stolen goods in the black market was not for cowards. And Spencer Niemand was no coward.

  “What kind of name is that—Fix?” the man said after a long pause. He looked up finally. Even in the dark warehouse, he wore sunglasses. He was flanked by two other men, whose scarred faces and enormous shoulders hinted at long hours in the prison exercise yard.

  “A fake one,” said Spencer Niemand.

  “We don’t deal in fakes here,” the man replied. He pushed a thick, padded envelope across a black table toward Niemand.

  As Niemand reached down to the envelope, one of the henchmen grabbed his wrist.

  Niemand spun loose, drew a knife from his pocket, and slammed it downward. As the man yanked his hand back, the blade sank into the tabletop. “I only miss on purpose,” Niemand said. “Count yourself lucky.”

  As the two men reached for their guns, their boss held up his hand to stop them. “My men speak in only one language, Fix. It involves action, not words. I will translate. What they mean to say is, you can look inside the envelope, but we need the money first.”

  Greedy.

  Despicable.

  Niemand couldn’t help but sneer at this creature. He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and plopped it on the table. “To you, it’s all about the money.”

  “What else is there?” the fat man said as he counted the bills.

  “Life,” Niemand said. “The survival of the planet.”

  The fat man threw his head back with laughter. The two henchmen looked at each other uncertainly, then laughed also.

  Niemand grabbed the envelope with his right hand. He kept his left in his pocket. No need for anyone to see the missing pinkie finger. It just might give him away. Dear old Kissums, lost in a
n accident, whose plaster likeness hung from a silver chain around his neck. He wouldn’t let them see that either.

  Turning the envelope upside-down, he shook out the contents on the table.

  A boarding ticket for the Titanic, with the name Hetzel. A crumbling sheet of paper with a list of passengers, written in English. A leather-bound copy of a book with the title Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers. And a bunch of notes written in French.

  Although Niemand did not like to smile, his lips traced a slight upward angle. This could be what he’d been looking for. He cursed the fact that he’d never learned the language well enough to read this. That would be the domain of his people. His trusted translators.

  “The notes,” said the fat man, “are very interesting, you’ll find.”

  Niemand felt his heart skip. “You’ve read them?”

  The fat man chuckled. “I’m not as dumb as I look. Je parle, you know. That means I speak Fren— ”

  “I know what it means,” Niemand snapped. “But you assured me the material had never been read by anyone.”

  “Just me,” the fat man replied, then gestured to his henchmen. “Not these two. They don’t even read English. They were absent the day they did the alphabet in first grade.”

  “Wrong,” said the one on the left. “I had perfect intendance.”

  Niemand felt his eyes twitch. He gathered the material, nodded as cordially as he could, and turned to leave.

  “Don’t let the door hit your butt on the way out,” the fat man yelled after him.

  His henchmen let out a dopey burst of laughter that sounded to Niemand like donkeys braying.

  Their ignorance and rudeness had a benefit. It would make it much easier to do what he had to do next.

  After all, a secret must remain a secret.

  Niemand pushed open the warehouse door with his right hand. Reaching into his pocket with his left, he pulled out a soft green substance with the consistency of Play-Doh. He pressed a tiny sensor into its center until it stuck, then fluffed out the three wires attached to it.

  For something so small, it still seemed inconceivable to Niemand that this thing had the power to take out a castle. Of course, it had to be properly activated.

  And Niemand was all about proper activation.

  He pasted it to the wall under the light switch, his four-fingered hand in full view. No need to worry now.

  Stepping out of the warehouse, he locked the door shut behind him.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . Niemand counted to himself, now jogging toward his waiting limo. He was beginning to feel hungry.

  On four, he heard sudden shouting and frantic footsteps from inside the building. They finally realized. Good. Let them know there was no escape.

  On five, he reached into his pocket and pressed the detonator.

  On six, as his driver, Rudolph, gunned the limo toward the entrance to the Pacific Coast Highway toward San Francisco, Niemand was already thinking of dinner.

  On seven, the warehouse exploded.

  As he glanced into the rearview mirror, fire plumed upward from where the building once stood. Niemand grinned.

  Barbecue, he thought, might be nice tonight.

  2

  “WE won’t be away long, Max,” his dad was saying.

  “Just a few tests,” his mom added.

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  Fish. Fishier. Fishy McFishface.

  “I dode believe you,” Max said.

  “Please, honey, don’t hold your nose like that. It’s hard to understand you.” Mom reached out to touch Max’s arm, but he pulled it backward. “We’re not lying.”

  “You bust be,” Max said. “Or there would dot be that fish sbell.”

  “You’ve noticed that Mom hasn’t been feeling well, right?” Dad asked.

  “Mbob had cadcer,” Max said. “But she was treated. The cadcer cells were all killed. Killed! They were godd! So she got better. Those are the facts. And facts dote chaidge.”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “But people change. Bodies change. The doctors think there may be something else wrong. Something new.”

  Max nodded. “I udderstadd. But if it’s dothing to worry about, you could have tests here in Savile, right? Dot at the Bayo Clinic in Biddesota. They specialize in serious bedical codditions. So that beads you have subthing serious, and there is subthing to worry about. Are you godda die?”

  Mom and Dad both cringed. Mom’s eyes began to well up with tears. Her hair was dark brown and silky and usually pulled back into a ponytail, but now it was unruly and matted as it fell in front of her face. Dad put his arm around her. His forehead glistened like he’d been sweating a lot, but the thing Max noticed most was that Dad’s hair seemed to have turned mostly gray overnight. Even though he’d read that that kind of thing did not happen. That was a fact.

  Max immediately felt bad. He unpinched his nose and let his fingers drop to his knees. He would have to get used to the smell, that’s all.

  “Thank you,” his mom said. “The doctors here aren’t equipped. It’s something rare. It could be easily treatable.” She took a deep breath. “Or not.”

  “Michele . . .” Max’s dad said.

  “We owe him the truth,” Mom replied. “Look, Max, we don’t want you to be upset, that’s all—”

  “Why can’t I come with you to the Mayo Clinic?” Max asked.

  “It would be disruptive,” Dad said. “Aren’t you planning to bring Vulturon to school?”

  “I don’t care about that,” Max said. “There are only a few weeks of school left. Nobody learns anything in the last few weeks. I love you.”

  Max looked at his mom. She opened her arms, which meant she wanted to hug him. He ran into them and let her do it. She was crying now. He was too.

  “I’m not ready to be left without a mom and dad,” Max murmured.

  “I know . . . it’s not fair . . .” she said softly. “George?”

  “We can’t be sure how long we’ll be there,” Dad said. “We’ve already arranged for someone to take care of you. Someone you’ll like.”

  “Ms. Dedrick smells like tangerines,” Max said, running down the list of his babysitters. “Jenna won’t stop looking at her phone. Sam doesn’t get any jokes—”

  “It’s none of them,” Mom said. “It’s someone closer to your age. Your cousin Alex from Canada—”

  “Who?” Max said, pulling back from his mom’s arms.

  Dad looked at Mom awkwardly.

  “You remember her, right?” Mom said. “From Quebec City? They lived here in Ohio for three years, and she used to play with you when you were little? She’s very patient—”

  “No,” Max said. “No and no.”

  “You mean, no, you don’t remember her?” Dad asked.

  “No, you can’t do this,” Max said. “You can’t leave me. I can’t stay with a stranger. You can’t do this to me!”

  “She’s not a stranger!” Dad said.

  No no no no no no no.

  Max put his hands to his ears. He ran out of the kitchen and across the living room. At the front door, he kicked the huge wicker basket where Mom and Dad put all the mail. Letters went flying across the room.

  Mom and Dad were running after him, but he had to get out of there. Run away. Go somewhere.

  Smriti.

  That’s who he needed to talk to. Smriti was his best friend. She always knew what to say.

  He could hear himself moaning. Moaning was never good. He yanked open the front door. It was pouring outside, but he didn’t care.

  His dad was calling his name.

  No no no no no no no.

  Max barreled into the street toward Smriti’s house. She must have known something was up, because she was on the porch already, looking toward his house. But her eyes were wide, her palms facing him, her voice also screaming “No!”

  Max heard a screeching noise to his left. Through the sheet of rai
n, two car headlights bore down on him like reptile eyes.

  3

  A HORN blared. A blur of metal glistened silver white. Max’s brain blanked, and his legs sprang back. He hurtled through the air, smashing down on the curb and back somersaulting onto the sidewalk.

  In the street, a battered Kia sedan screeched to a stop, and the driver’s door flew open. A young woman jumped out. She had dark skin and a mass of thick, pulled-back hair. Her eyes were large, green, and angry. “Are you . . . ?” she sputtered. “Are you . . . ?”

  “Don’t worry,” Max said, catching his breath. “I’m okay.”

  “ . . . out of your mind?” she screamed.

  Max stood. His back ached. “Are you angry at me or scared?” he asked.

  “Why did you jump into the—?” The girl cocked her head. “Wait. What?”

  “I have trouble telling the two apart sometimes,” Max said. “Angry and scared. They kind of look the same.”

  He didn’t have time to hear the answer. Smriti had run across the street, and now she was jumping on him with a big, squealy hug. His parents were behind him too, asking questions, wrapping him in their arms.

  “My baby my baby my baby . . .” Mom was repeating over and over.

  “I’m not a baby. I’m going to be fourteen in three months,” Max said.

  “Max, how many times have we gone over the rules of the road?” Dad chimed in. “You look both ways!”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay,” said Smriti.

  This was a lot of hugging. Too much. Max was glad he was okay too. But he was short of breath. And this was a terrible day to begin with. He felt smothered, and smothering smelled to him like . . .

  “Sweaty feet!” he said. “Sweaty feet!”

  Max pushed at them, inhaling the rain-drenched air. Fresh air. Deep breaths . . .

  Smriti backed away. “Sorry.”

  “OK, honey,” said Mom, letting go.

  “Sweaty feet?” said the driver with the thick hair.

  “Max has associative smells,” Mom said. “A form of something called synesthesia—where one sense substitutes for another?”

  “I have it a little too,” Smriti quickly chimed in. “Like, the smell of transparent tape gets me in a good mood because it reminds me of the holidays. Right?”