3 Matthew Trotter

MAX
after
EARTH
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapters one and two of Max After Earth by Matthew Trotter, presented
herein, are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-
NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

All rights reserved. No part this text—nor any part of the accompanying
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link to the Max After Earth web page.

For further details, write to:

Matthew Trotter
matthewtrotter@goingbackwardmovingforward.com
http://www.goingbackwardmovingforward.com

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2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

© 2010 Matthew Trotter

 MAX
after
EARTH
a novel by

Matthew Trotter
 ONE

I t is the 37th of August, 2032, a day that scientists

have warned: Apophis will, undeniably, hit the
Earth. As the reports go, the force of one hundred
nuclear bombs will be unleashed when the massive
asteroid strikes. How many will the impact itself kill? If
those same reports are to be trusted, then perhaps only
thirty million. Assuming there are thirty million people
left to kill. Far more likely, an object of that mass
entering the atmosphere will ignite the methane cloud,
burn up the Earth’s oxygen, and suffocate everyone;
those at the highest elevations systematically
2 Matthew Trotter

succumbing moments before those below them, as

though the hand of Death itself were literally coming
down the mountainside. Barring such a grandiose and
instantaneous of extinctions, there are always tsunamis,
toxic gasses, and, depending on where it hits, nuclear
meltdown, crumbling global infrastructure, or further
upset to the world’s already unstable food economy. It
isn’t a question of whether everyone will die—that much
is known—it is only a question of how.
Well, not everyone.
There are certain certainties amidst all of the
uncertainty. Among these certainties is that the very
scientists who have long proclaimed the coming of
Apophis, the very scientists who held the power to
eliminate this threat, have chosen to save only
themselves. For days they have been evacuating
themselves to one of the three space stations—the
International Space Station, the Sub-Lunar Space
Station, and the Chinese-Russian Transnational Space
Station. At an equivalent of a hundred and fifty square
kilometers, the stations now put the world’s greatest
cities, cities like Dubai and Shanghai, to shame; if not in
 Max After Earth 3

terms of superfluity, then in terms of sheer size and

human ingenuity.
But I can’t care much for human ingenuity when
I, myself, am not human. That is, if it is even correct to
use the personal pronoun “I” in referring to an NBLF—
that is, a non-biological life form—such as myself. My
Social Independency Number is 504-313-42-9711,
however, my human relations commonly refer to me as
Max. My human relations—it will be sad to see them go,
but happy in that I can feel sad. My predecessors had no
such conception of an emotion like sadness.
I must say, self-summary is not my strong suit.
What I can say is that I was created by Sans Biotica
Laboratories and deemed complete early in 2028. Being
a prototype unit for some of the most advanced NBLF
technologies, and too expensive to mass produce, I am, if
not so cliché as to be the last of my kind, then at least
cliché enough to be the only one of my kind: a well-
mannered and arguably better looking Frankenstein’s
monster.
Though I am here to record the world’s current
state, and though I am here, as ordered, to repair the
4 Matthew Trotter

Earth to a state usable by humans once Apophis’ dust

settles, the current state of the world was set in stone
long before my creation. Let’s take the evacuation of the
scientists to set the stage. Great care was taken to punch
a hole in the methane cloud for the rockets to escape
through. No one wanted a repeat of the 2023 Hercules-
supplier disaster, in which a supply ship was incinerated
in the harsh atmosphere created by human industry. It
wasn't until that fateful day that humanity truly realized
how volatile our home world had become.
Even though the reality of it is horrifying, it was
still awe-inspiring to watch them clear the methane
fields, to see large swaths of southern sky go up in flame,
and to see it suddenly stop at the edge of the steam
boundary. As I said, the popular theory is that if the
methane were allowed to burn in toto, then the planet
would be starved for oxygen. Luck was on our side those
nearly ten years ago that the Hercules was destroyed
trying to leave the Earth’s atmosphere; the methane
didn’t so wholly fill the sky back then. Now, though, it
was necessary to punch a hole in the methane cloud in
order to leave. And with an emigration as large as the
 Max After Earth 5

scientists were attempting, simple tricks like killing the

engines at velocity just wouldn’t be sufficient.
Had we—no, had those capable—acted sooner,
our fate could have been avoided. Following the impact,
a cloud of dust will be thrown into the air. Toxic as that
dust will be, breathing it in will be a consolation; what
comes after is even worse. The average daily global
temperature, or ADGT, is expected to rise from 43
degrees Celsius to 49 degrees Celsius almost overnight.
Humans weren’t built for these temperatures. The
methane cloud doesn’t help the situation any, methane
being twenty-five times more effective at trapping heat
than carbon dioxide. For the few hours a day that the
temperature promises to drop below 37 degrees, humans
brave the outdoors and attempt any productive
movement which they are able. The rest of the day must
be spent indoors, hiding from the sun.
Approximately seventy-five meters down Ash
St., my optics hone in on Senator McRorian, his cheeks
flushed— certainly several shades redder than usual—
and his brow crinkled. He’s muttering incoherently
under his breath. Thermal scans indicate a slightly
6 Matthew Trotter

elevated body temperature, which more than coincides

with the flushed cheeks, and auditory scans, on top of
picking up his muttering, detect an increased heart rate;
approximately 103 beats per minute. All of the classic
signs of anger.
I start toward the senator as fast as my legs can
take me. Bipedal movement: I sometimes wonder why
humans opt for such a thing, and why they would be so
cruel as to curse me with a suboptimal and such an
unstable means of locomotion. I was blessed with some
improvements over my creators’ egocentric self-imaging,
however. My joints can move ninety degrees in any
direction, so running forward and backward are equally
efficient. And four deca-core memristors allow, not only
impressive logical processing, but also changes in
direction which are at the cusp of what is physical
possible for mechanical movement, all without losing my
balance or blinking twice.
Yes, I do blink.
The seventy-five meters took me 8.18 seconds to
clear. The senator was still showing signs of anger so, not
wanting to catch him by surprise, I made my presence
 Max After Earth 7

known.
“Senator, is there a problem?”
“Oh, Max—hey.” He sighed, “back in the good ol’
days a machine could see you but didn’t have the volition
to pester you about your problems.” Senator McRorian,
in his late fifties and with wavy salt-and-pepper hair, was
never seen without a blazer even if he had forgone the tie
which had been indicative of his office only decades
earlier. The jacket itself was no small feat, given the
temperatures so often waiting for a person outside of an
air conditioned room. Few other senators had the
wherewithal to adhere to such a dress code.
“I apologize, Senator. It’s only that you appear
quite angry, and it really is rather warm for you to be
outside this time of day.”
“Angry?” The senator pulled at his hair with both
hands. “Fuck, Max! Have you looked at the sky recently?
Look there,” he pointed up at Apophis, looming ever
larger. “That’s a huge fucking rock hurtling through
space, intent on killing us all.”
“Senator, I really don’t think the asteroid has
any intentions—”
8 Matthew Trotter

“And you see that?” He pointed to a burst of

flame in the sky and a rocket hurtling toward the freshly
punched hole in the methane cloud. “That’s a ship full of
scientists and fuckwad businessmen buying their way to
safety and leaving us here to rot. So yeah—fuck yeah—
I’m pissed.”
“You are not being evacuated, then?” I asked.
“I was the one rallying for increased NASA
spending so that we could find a way to mitigate this
whole meteor disaster. A damn fine job I did too. They
took the money and ran. Even if the irony of running
away after trying to solve the problem wouldn’t kill me,
do you really think they’d want me around? Besides,” he
pointed, again, at the ship leaving through the hole in the
methane cloud, “that’s the last ship.”
“Senator, I believe it is an asteroid, not a meteor.
At nearly 300 meters across—”
“Whatever, you stupid machine. The point is
that if I wasn't already going to die, my constituents
would surely kill me. Do you realize how many of their
tax dollars I won for a mission to deflect that thing?”
“Almost 3.1 billion—”
 Max After Earth 9

“Don’t you see that I’m complaining here? For

chrissake, shut up. I’m the one that’s going to die.”
“That is true. You have a zero percent chance of
survival. If you do not die from the initial impact, you
will likely die from starvation, heat stroke, or poisoning.”
I blinked, cleaning dust particles from my optic lenses. “I
am sorry for your loss.”
“You dumb machine.” Sweat was glistening in a
steady stream down the senator’s face. “You don't even
get it. I can't be rebuilt and rebooted like you can.” He
winced, gritting his teeth as the salty perspiration stung
his eyes. “Stupid piece of shit. You were a waste of
fucking money.” The senator swung his fist at my head.
The right fist. My optic depth of field narrowed, my focus
resolved on the fist, all other visual distraction blurred.
My emotional programming faded to the background.
Time didn’t slow, but it may as well have, so magnified
were the details of the moment. I counted the 237 hairs
on the senator’s fingers. I noted the callous on the
second knuckle of his index finger where he routinely
grips a chef’s knife; the faint smell of garlic giving away
the senator’s passion for cooking; the callous, and the
10 Matthew Trotter

steadiness of the punch, giving away the senator’s right-

handedness.
The fist traveled at 79.86 kilometers per hour, an
angle of 137.3 degrees relative to the Earth, and 40.1
degrees relative to the senator's vertical glenohumeral
center. Given the current trajectory, I have only 0.67
seconds before the senator's fist makes contact with my
left optic lens. Of the 1,000,037 combinations of
movements that will allow me to evade the blow within
the time constraints, the most efficient combination
requires a 3 centimeter dip of my stifle-jointed knees and
a 37.5 degree rotation of my hip servos.
Such is my concentration that I can make out the
particles of saliva escaping with McRorian’s hard exhale,
I can make out the ripple of his lips, the flare of his
nostrils. I make my move; subtle; quick.
The senator’s fist passes 1.75 centimeters from
my head. I snatch his wrist as it passes by.
“Senator McRorian, your actions have been
deemed hostile. Provide rationalization or I will be
forced to detain you.”
“All of the world’s knowledge at your fingertips,
 Max After Earth 11

and you just can’t get it, can you? It’s like a Republican
filibuster trying to get you to understand anything.”
“To be fair, Senator, the human creature is a
difficult one to understand. Unlike humans, emotional
knowledge is something that I must develop over time,
just as people have to cultivate intelligence over the
course of their lifetimes. Humans don’t even understand
their emotion well enough to instill me with that level of
emotional understanding without practical experience.”
I released Senator McRorian’s wrist. “I’m detecting
symptoms of stress and mild depression. I suspect that is
the reason for your outburst, is it not?”
The senator sat on the sidewalk in the shade of a
nearby building and smirked. “Something like that, you
glorified can opener.” He wiped sweat from his forehead
with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Why are you out in this heat, Senator?”
“I couldn't stand to just sit inside and wait to die.
This planet isn't much to look at anymore, nothing like it
was at the end of the last century, but the buildings—the
insides of them—have gotten so sterile and
monochromatic. They drive me crazy. I needed to be
12 Matthew Trotter

outside.” The senator ran his fingers through his greasy,

sweat-soaked hair. He looked up at Apophis looming in
the morning sky. “Why didn't they take you with them on
one of the shuttles? Surely you're worth something to
them, unlike this old, meddling politician.”
I offered the senator the line from the oxygen-
hydrogen catalyzer for my cooling system. It pulled
airborne hydrogen and oxygen together, creating fresh
water for the senator to drink. Dehydration likely played
a part in his symptoms, though his impending death was
no small matter. He drank heavily and then let the line
retract.
“My orders,” I started now that the senator was
refreshed, “are to remain on Earth. The statistical
probability of my being hit by the asteroid are less than
one percent. I am to shelter myself from airborne debris
and await further orders. The toxins, heat, and darkness
will have no effect on my functioning. Ultimately, I will
be put to work rebuilding the Earth for reinhabitation.
This will likely take many generations, and the actual
possibility of the human race surviving long enough, or
waiting around long enough, to reinhabit the Earth
 Max After Earth 13

remains uncertain. In any case, I must prepare for the

possibility that they will.”
“Huh. Makes sense I guess.” The senator
laughed.
“I fail to see what is so funny about your
impending doom, or the possible extinction of your
entire species, Senator.”
“Oh, no. It’s not that. I was just thinking that
they should have stocked you with scotch for
emergencies like this.”
I blinked. Twice. I have come to revel in being
momentarily cut off from visual stimulation. Even the
briefest time that a blink lasts is enough to create a
rapturous increase in auditory, olfactory, and tactile
information. “This is sarcasm, yes?”
“Yes, Max, it's sarcasm.” And as he said this, his
attention was drawn to a figure running down the
sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, some two
blocks away. “Who the hell is that and what the hell are
they doing running in this heat?”
I wasted no time in asking, running facial scans
of the petite woman through the Social Independency
14 Matthew Trotter

database.
“Twenty-three year old human female, SIN 342-
79-515-9700. Name: Sarah Clarke. Shows signs of fear
and general distress. Confirmed pursuit by rogue NBLFs,
numbers 718-678-32-8988 and 718-678-32-8989.”
Then the senator saw them. Two eight-foot
NBLFs, moving at frightening speeds on all fours, but in
a manner more resembling of a gorilla or other large
primate than an actual quadruped. They were a glossy
black. They emitted deep, deafening growls meant to
strike fear into any who opposed them. These NBLFs
were the security guards, the police, and the military of
the future.
“Holy shit. What did she do to piss them off?”
“I will establish communication,” I said. I
broadcasted my signal and initiated a connection with
the two rogues.
Halt! Explain your pursuit of the human
female, in accordance with International Statute 817,
section 3.
The two gorilla-like NBLFs halted their pursuit
abruptly. We are pursuing the human female for the
 Max After Earth 15

crime of theft, in accordance with IS124, section 1. She

has stolen comestibles from our master's estate. Lethal
force has been authorized if it should prove necessary.
Lethal force? That certainly seemed to be what
these two were built for. Who would authorize the use of
lethal force on a petty thief? Please hold while I verify
with Central.
The Social Independency databases claimed that
the two NBLFs were registered to a Clive Baxter.
However, Mr. Baxter was declared deceased on August
17th, 2031. His property was returned to the state for
redistribution. Authority over the two NBLFs should
have been returned to Central Command. There’s no way
that Central would have authorized the use of lethal force
in such a situation, and even if their owner would have
illegally authorized lethal force, he wasn’t alive to do so.
Your master, Clive Baxter, has been declared
deceased. You were marked for redistribution. Protocol
states that you are to return to Central Command to
await new orders. Please confirm.
That is incorrect.
Please clarify.
16 Matthew Trotter

That is incorrect. The two NBLFs turned their

shiny black heads toward the senator and me. Their
optics glowed red. Sarah collapsed on the sidewalk,
thermal sensors suggesting that, between the
temperature and her physical exertion, she had
succumbed to heat exhaustion. And then, in a low growl,
the NBLFs declared in unison, “Clive Baxter is not dead.”
 TWO

“
Clive Baxter is not dead!” they
growled again as they resumed their
pursuit of the fallen Sarah Clarke.
Sarah moaned and tried to pull herself along the
sidewalk using her arms, pull herself away from the
raging NBLFs.
“Halt!” I yelled. “Clive Baxter is dead. Your
orders are incorrect. You are marked for redistribution.”
“Oh shit!” exclaimed Senator McRorian,
expecting, I’m sure, to be mere moments away from
seeing some poor woman’s brains publicly displayed on a
city sidewalk—after said brains are forcibly beaten out of
18 Matthew Trotter

her by these rogue machines.

“The human is a thief. She will die,” came the
low voices of the rogue NBLFs.
Visual stimuli blurred, save for those two
NBLFs, my focus. I didn’t feel that I needed to help this
woman—all of my emotional processing had died back. I
felt only that which was tactile: my toes gripping the hot
pavement, the sun’s heat radiating to my core, and the
gentle tremor resulting from every bound taken by the
rogues. I knew this wasn’t an impulse I was feeling
because of the goodness of my heart. Deep down, I’m
still just a machine, and I’m programmed to intervene if
any other NBLF steps out of line.
This is just such an instance.
The rogues are fast, but I’m light, and
consequently I’m faster. I bound across the city street,
slamming, full-momentum, into the sun-warmed
metallic hide of first rogue. The rogue’s head smashed
into the corner of the Hayne’s building, taking a chunk of
the building with him in a shower of metal, glass, and
concrete. The building wasn’t the only thing to take
damage—the red optics of the first NBLF faded to black.
 Max After Earth 19

Blind, but not incapacitated, the first NBLF regrouped

while the second announced their new priority:
“Terminate the rogue NBLF.”
“You are the rogues,” I growled.
Sarah, so dehydrated that even her skin was dry
of sweat, rolled over onto her back so that she could see
by what miracle she was still alive. Senator McRorian
rushed to her side.
Compared to the eight foot behemoths now bent
on ripping me apart, I am small, minuscule even, but
with all of the information I was able to glean about their
particular model from the interlink, I know that I am
faster and have the more robust AI. Against one of them,
my speed and mental agility would give me the upper
hand. With two, and with the threat of being
surrounded, my chance of being terminated increased
dramatically. Saving Sarah was my primary directive,
and if dying would make that a possibility, then so be it.
But if my destruction merely delays her fate, it will be for
nothing.
I stood absolutely still. No doubt, the blind
NBLF had switched to auditory processing to make up
20 Matthew Trotter

for his disability. If I moved, he would hear me. If he

could hear me, he could attack. It wasn’t a foolproof plan
by any stretch of the imagination, but it would buy me a
small amount of time to determine a course of action.
The sighted NBLF started to circle, started to
look for an opening. I listened to his movements as the
blind NBLF was listening for mine, fearful that even
turning my head would cause enough sound to give away
my position. And then the blind NBLF charged straight
at me.
I sidestepped and wrapped my arm around the
blind NBLF’s neck, swinging myself onto its back. I could
only fathom that the second NBLF had broadcasted my
coordinates to the blind one, but that would do little to
help if I were right on top of him.
The blind NBLF spun around, trying to shake
me. The sighted NBLF had to jump back to avoid being
hit by his comrade. Neither wanted to be responsible for
damaging their master’s property, so my stroke of genius
had put them on the defensive.
And then I had another stroke of genius.
I ejected the line of my oxygen-hydrogen
 Max After Earth 21

catalyzer out of my lower torso, inserting it into an

opening in the NBLF’s chest cavity. Overriding the
oxygen intake, I put the catalyzer in full gear.
I scrambled and wrapped my legs around the
NBLF as he tried ever harder to knock me loose
This particular model of NBLF had a five inch
shell of galvanized steel meant to protect its fragile
hardware from a bomb blast. It truly was a tank on legs.
But all machines had to be built. All machines had to be
maintained. And all machines had to be updated. There
was always a nook, or a cranny, or some gaping hole that
would allow a human to open it up and get to all of its
delicate bits—a gaping hole that would allow it to be
destroyed from the inside out.
I laughed then, as I retracted the outtake hose of
my catalyzer, just as any soldier who laughs while
mowing down helpless children with a machine gun in
some unjust war, in some far off land. It’s not the laugh
of someone who is humored, or even of someone who is
psychotic, but the laugh of someone who has to laugh
just to keep from crying in the face of a world which
cares not how violently we are ripped from it. I released
22 Matthew Trotter

the reciprocating saw from my wrist and I touched it to

the thick metallic hide of the NBLF.
Sparks. It only took one. The build up of
hydrogen from my catalyzer had turned the NBLF’s chest
cavity into a bomb waiting to go off. Blue flame belched
out of small gaps and holes littered about his body and
the giant machine staggered to a halt. Like he had earlier
when trying to pick up the sound of my movements, he
just stood there. The air was hot, acidic, and smelled of
burning plastic and silicone. Finally, the NBLF’s knees
gave out under his weight and he fell, sending more bits
of glass flying as his face hit the pavement. There was
just no way that thick steel plating could save him when
he was being incinerated from the inside out.
“You have a choice,” I offered the second rogue,
jumping to my feet. “You can either cease and desist, or
you can share the fate of your companion.” He wavered.
He knew as well as I did that the odds were in my favor
now that his comrade was down.
The red glow of the NBLF’s red optics strobed as
he blinked. He shifted his weight onto one foot. An
offensive pose? Did he really think he could take me? Or
 Max After Earth 23

did he just not care anymore?

And then he dropped onto his knees, his eyes on
the ground. “I—do not want to die.” He sat there for a
moment, probably expecting the worst, expecting me to
strike him dead. When I didn’t, he lifted his eyes to mine.
“You must let me bury Achilles.”
I was taken aback by the sudden sentimentality
of a machine who only moments before had wanted to
crush me dead and spill human blood for petty theft. The
very thought of burying a machine was absurd. It’s not
like it was going to decompose, and there were certainly
parts that could be reused. But as I stood above this
battle-hardened warrior groveling at my feet, I
recognized in his simple request, however absurd it was,
the very intelligence, loyalty, and humanity that our
creators had striven to imbue in us.
I nodded my approval.
“I’m Max,” I offered.
“I am Odysseus.”
“After we tend to the human female we can
arrange the burial of your companion.”
He nodded then, in agreement, and stood,
24 Matthew Trotter

towering over me by two feet.

“What the hell?” came the voice of Senator
McRorian. “This machine tried to kill an innocent
woman. It tried to rip you to pieces. And now, not only
are you not going to destroy it, but you’re actually going
to help to bury the other one?” The senator started
toward us. “Of all the asinine things I’ve ever heard, and
I’ve heard a lot in my business, that one is damn near the
most asinine.”
Odysseus let out a growl and bared his teeth at
Senator McRorian.
“Senator,” I started, “I suggest you reevaluate
your solecism. If it were a dead human, you would feel
much differently.”
“For fuck’s sake! Of course I would! There’s
rhyme and reason behind burying a human. A machine?
What for?”
“Because, Senator, beyond all practicality,
burying the dead is a sentimental act. A sentimental act,
by a sentimental people, whose likeness we were created
in. You may think of us as just machines, but look in a
mirror and try to tell us that you are the more human
 Max After Earth 25

among us.” With that, I turned my attention to Sarah.

“Sarah Clarke, what is your condition?”
“M-my condition?” she replied, weakly.
“You are dehydrated. You need to drink.” I
offered the hose from my oxygen-hydrogen catalyzer.
She pointed at the dead hull that was left of
Odysseus.
“Oh, no. It’s safe. It’s just water.”
She squinted, distrusting, but too dehydrated to
refuse, she opened her mouth and drank heavily.
Sarah was a small woman. About five foot four,
by my estimation, and a hundred and eight pounds. Her
straight brown hair was tied back in a loose bun. A pair
of holey jeans accompanied an old, faded, black Led
Zeppelin t-shirt—several sizes too large. Through her
septum was a circular barbell. Each of her ears held a
one-inch plug.
Sarah drank up the water nearly as fast as the
catalyzer could draw in the requisite oxygen and
hydrogen from the atmosphere. Heavy breaths
punctuated her long gulps. “Damn,” she breathed. “That
is the best water I’ve had in years.”
26 Matthew Trotter

Senator McRorian wiped sweat from his brow

with the sleeve of his jacket, catching Sarah’s eye.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” she asked.
“I’m James McRorian. Senator James McRorian.
And I supposed you’re one of my many unhappy
constituents.” He nodded, something just shy of a bow.
“Not by choice.” She wrinkled her nose. “I voted
for that other guy—Stevens. You, sir, clearly have not
read enough science fiction. Your entire campaign was
about funding the scientists. Don’t you know that they
only care about moving forward?”
“What’s so bad about moving forward?” Senator
McRorian wanted to know.
Sarah climbed to her feet, still weak, and
stumbled forward. I caught her, just barely, and held her
until she found her balance.
“What’s so bad about moving forward,” Sarah
continued, “is that, for those scientists, this planet is old
news. It was an experiment that just didn’t pan out.
There’s nothing left here worth saving, in their eyes. And
to be fair, they’re right up to a point.”
“Hey, it wasn’t supposed to go like this. That
 Max After Earth 27

money was for an asteroid deflection mission. They

could have stopped all of this.”
“Yeah, well, now we know why you’re not a
scientist.”
“That is enough,” I interrupted. “The two
NBLFs, Odysseus and Achilles, claimed that you stole
from Clive Baxter’s estate. Is this true?
“Yes and no,” answered Sarah. “Outside of lab
grown stuff, food is pretty scarce. The old geezer died a
few months back, but his factory is still running on
autopilot. I snuck in to grab myself a bite. It's hardly
stealing if the guy is dead. But the next thing I knew,
these two apes were coming after me and they seemed
like the 'maim first, ask questions later' types, so I wasn't
in any hurry to stick around.”
“Yes,” I said, “the Social Independency
databases also show that Mr. Baxter is deceased, but for
some reason these two believed otherwise. Are you
certain, Odysseus, that your master is not dead?”
“Clive Baxter is not dead,” he repeated.
“Hmm. No bother, I suppose. If he’s dead, he’s
dead. If he’s not dead, then he’s probably long gone on
28 Matthew Trotter

one of those ships.” I looked Sarah over. “Do you have

any injuries that require medical care?”
“Couple of scrapes. I’ll live.” Sarah wrapped her
arms around me, tighter than I could have expected from
someone of such stature. She leaned in close and
whispered, “thank you for saving me.”
I nodded and moved on to the other matters at
hand. “We need to bury Achilles.”
“Even if I didn’t think the idea was completely
ridiculous,” piped in the senator, “where do you think
we’re going to do that?”
I looked around. Beneath our feet and as far as
we could see was a thick sheet of concrete. Even the
skies, being so littered with skyscrapers, appeared to be
covered in their own mix of cement, glass, and steel.
“My master’s estate,” offered Odysseus. “It has a
large yard. At a brisk walk, it’s probably twenty minutes
away.”
“Do you have a tow-line?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“We’ll make it in five minutes.”
Odysseus and I each attached our tow-lines to
 Max After Earth 29

what was left of Achilles.

“Sarah, climb up on my back. Senator, you can
ride on Odysseus.”
Senator McRorian waved his arms frantically.
“Oh, no. I’d rather walk twenty minutes, even in this
heat, than get a ride on Serial Killer Bot 9000.”
“Suit yourself.” I knelt so that Sarah could wrap
her arms around my neck and her legs about my waist.
The warmth of her skin on mine, her soft arm hairs
tickling at my neck, and the expansion and contraction
of her lungs against my back—tactile sensations were
such a distraction, but certainly a welcome one. “We’ll
see you in twenty minutes, Senator?”
Senator McRorian grumbled. “You know what?
Fine. Just fine. I'll hitch a ride on that thing; but if he
kills me, I will personally come back to life and end you.
You hear me, Max?”
I smiled. “Loud and clear, Senator.”
 About the author

Matthew was born in Hillsboro, Oregon on Friday the

13th in the year of the Red Rabbit. He now lives just west
of Portland, Oregon with his tortoise, Avicenna. When he
isn't working on his next novel, he's practicing Tai Chi,
indulging his creative energies in the kitchen, or
maintaining his blog at
GoingBackwardMovingForward.com.

You can follow Matthew on Twitter at @RealMattTrotter,

or find more about the upcoming release of Max After
Earth at the Max After Earth Facebook Page.