Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  Everything I knew was because of her. And I had brought this upon her by taking her down into the pit full of radiation. This was my fault. Even suited up, the small amounts of radiation that got through her suit were too strong for her tiny body.

  “It’s ok, girl. I am here. I am here,” I said, feverishly, into her fur. I breathed near her so that she could hear me. I let her feel my own heart. I hoped that maybe my pulse could support her. I begged my body to become her body.

  I didn’t want her to go.

  She was scared. I felt it, and her fear ate into me, dismantling my belief-system, unraveling all my hard-won knowledge about what is and what isn’t.

  She had always know more than other animals because of the facts I had gathered about the world due to our synergy. Indeed, at times I forgot that she wasn’t human like me. She moved with the grace of old wisdom and the confidence of bold youth. Nothing had ever frightened her. She’d always had a swagger that fooled me. Even the day I rescued her from abusive slum-dwelling teenagers, she had seemed to believe that she could take them on.

  “She’s gone,” the doctor said, after listening for her heart and withdrawing the syringe from the catheter in her forepaw.

  An animal-like keen burst from me. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d tried…if I’d known it was coming.

  I crumpled to the floor, holding her limp, still-warm body in my arms, cradling her, drawing my breath through her furry neck.

  The doctor left the room.

  I was alone.

  Totally alone. I felt for her mind. The sound of my thoughts reaching out echoed cold back at me. There was nothing.

  Eoe stood in front of the instruments that allowed me to analyze the particles, his dark face was grave, mournful, and maybe a touch concerned.

  “You need to take some time off. You haven’t got the Sight. Your work will suffer, and, frankly, I don’t want you trying to do any experiments without the Sight.”

  “I’m fine, really,” I told him. I swayed, then grabbed the edge of a lab table to steady myself. My sleep had been fitful and nightmarish since Bastet had died. The world was cold. My brain felt turned off, not just from grief, but from the absence of the Sight. There was no refuge for me in Science or my work. Neither could offer me a thing without Bastet. It was like losing a limb, or so I had heard. The dimension that the Daemon-bond afforded was so vast and pervasive, to no longer experience it caused a certain numbness.

  Eoe frowned. “Kiv, everything you’re feeling is normal. It’s grief. Get through it, and find another Daemon.”

  I seethed. “I’m not replacing her yet.”

  “Then you can’t do the work. You’ll have no Insight. I’m sorry, Kiv. Those are the rules.”

  “You know, Eoe, for all the Daemons you’ve lost, it’s a wonder you haven’t even consoled me,” I said. I was out of control. I knew it. From the look on Eoe’s face, he knew it. “Or, I don’t know, perhaps said, ‘I know what you’re going through.’ Or how about, ‘I’m sorry that we let her go into the pit and that’s what killed her.’ A little empathy would be nice. But all you’ve said is, ‘Sorry, Kiv. Those are the rules.’ Rules!”

  “It’s a good thing I know what grief looks like,” he said, lowering his chin. He was pissed off, but he kept it in check.

  “Some mentor you are!” I snapped, refusing to control myself. Why should I? A sob bubbled up in my chest. I held it in.

  “I’ve never steered you wrong. Trust me one more time,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Take a week or two. Sober up. But first, for god’s sake, grieve, Kiv. You just lost half your soul. You made a choice that no one ever wants to make.” He let out a frustrated breath. “Daemons—despite all they do for us and their voices in our heads—they’re still animals. They don’t know they’re dying.”

  “We’re all dying,” I spat. “I’m dying. And I wish I was dead now.”

  “You need some sleep,” Eoe said, turning me and giving me a soft push in the direction of the door.

  Bastet’s bed lay empty on the far lab table. When I saw it, I couldn’t keep the sob down any longer.

  I ran for the door.

  On my way out of the building, I grabbed the radiation suit from my locker.

  The pit was nothing like I had seen before. There was no void or lights of radiation fizzing in that almost magical way. What I saw there alone without the Sight was simply a hole, bedrock scarred with the claw-marks of giant machinery. Gray, black, and orange rock showed off the signatures and etchings of lasers and the blunt edges of hammers where it wasn’t pockmarked with enormous screws that anchored the scaffolding. I’d never really seen it like this, with my naked eyes, because Bastet had been in my head since the first moment I inspected it.

  I let go of a bar and walked across the landing to another ladder. The radiation suit was stifling. My feet crunched against the gritty platform and the sound ricocheted through the chamber of rock. Without the transforming view of the area given by my connection with my Daemon, I could see how precarious the pathway down was. I wondered how many times I nearly fell, saved only by her guidance. A chill rippled across my skin and I breathed heavily from the paralyzing realization of how dangerous the scaffolding was.

  Without her, my eyes were useless. I could see this world. But not the others. The grand thing happening all around me—the massive confluence of three worlds and the flares of energy shooting out of it—was imperceptible to me. I would never know just by looking that there was an intersection of three worlds here, bumping into one another like colliding galaxies. I was, in a word, blind. And I couldn’t make out the darkest bubbles, the concentrations where the particles fizzed and sparked up against each other almost like an electrical storm. All of that was invisible to me now.

  This entire place looked like a stupid, mundane hole in the ground, stripped down to the bones just like everything we’d already done to our world—pillaging the earth to erect massive refineries and office buildings.

  I kept going down. My gloved hands gripped the cross-bars better than my bare hands would. I went from platform to platform, descending ever lower.

  Not quite to the bottom, I sat down and let the empty sounds of my heart beating and my breath churning within the confines of the radiation suit fill my head. This was where she guided me. This was where I trusted her with my life.

  And…this was where her cells were corrupted by the radiation. I’d done that to her. She’d trusted me, and I’d betrayed that.

  I hated this place.

  And I loved it.

  Both. At the same time.

  I don’t know how long I sat there wishing the radiation would eat through my suit and kill me quickly, so that I could find her, wherever she’d gone. Long enough that the sky—which I could still make out above me—began to darken.

  I worried for a moment that if I didn’t leave soon, I’d be trapped down there without the sunlight to find my way out.

  And then, out of nowhere, it became darker. Unnaturally dark, even darker than an eclipse during the afternoon.

  One by one, pinpricks of light fizzed into existence and began to dance around me. Curtains of black seemed to flutter up against me. Sparking clusters of light flickered and swayed, swirling into eddies of motion.

  I gasped.

  Suddenly, in the darkest void—the heaviest oil slick of black nothingness—I saw a faint outline. Muted specks of light formed into the vague suggestion of a cat.

  Like a cat-torch, a guide, a sherpa in the night.

  “Bastet?” I asked uncertainly, but ever so hopeful.

  She was here. Staring at me. Giving me the ability to See. My mind flooded as all my Intuit pathways stuttered to life. She sat there on her haunches, merging her mind with mine. She stood up and swayed back into the darkness, into the oblivion of that void.

  “This way,” she said.

  And I followed her into the Third world.

  Nicole writes stories about surveilla
nce, colonization, AI, robots, and other (currently) impossible but fascinating scenarios. She studied folklore in college and almost pursued a doctorate in the field, but was saved by her laziness in gathering letters of recommendation. After a stint in the publishing industry as an editor, she left to pursue her own desires of conquering the world–both real and imagined–one book at a time.

  Find out more at NicoleGrotepas.com.

  40

  Black Devil Spawn

  by Penelope Cress

  Alone and confused, Peregrine Pusscat (the Third) must rely on the help of strangers to find his way back home. But can he trust them?

  “Who are you looking at?” My weary, old eyes rest upon a motley youngster nervously cross-stepping her white socks in front of me like a crab on the harbour front.

  “Why you, of course, Stranger!” She hisses. “That’s a mighty fine coat you have there. All black and fluffy, no hint of rust, a few grey hairs though. Felix says black cats are the devil’s spawn. And what happened to your face? Did something push your nose in?” She sniffs around me.

  “I assure you, madam. I am no son of the devil. And my nose is beautiful. We have yet to be formally introduced. My name is Peregrine Pusscat the Third. Unlike you, I suspect, I can trace my lineage back at least three generations of Peregrine Pusses.” I check her reaction. No sign of offence. Always hard to tell. Some cats have an inverted snobbery about us pedigree types.

  My stomach growls.

  I stretch and twist. How long have I been curled under this tree? It is very unlike me to fall asleep outdoors. My mind is foggy. I can’t remember how I got here. This isn’t the family estate. What were those grey stones?

  “Do you have a name?” I ask politely. If I am to find my way home, I will need to get some local assistance, even if this feline before me is of the feral variety. Now was not the time to be particular.

  “They call me Paloma, on account as I am mostly white, like a dove, my mother says.”

  “Charmed to meet you, Miss Paloma. May I ask you a question? It may seem rather silly, but I don’t know where I am?”

  “The church graveyard, back of St. Bridget’s.” Paloma tilts her head and gazes at me with a kitten-like wonder. “Where do you think you should be?” she asks.

  “At home.”

  “And where’s that?”

  I look at Paloma, standing tall with that confident air of the young. I know I should know the answer. Lately, my mind has been so cloudy. Thoughts drift in and out and nothing feels solid. I want to say the cottage. But which one? There are flowers. Pink and yellow flowers and thorns. I think. Roses! They’re roses.

  “Rose Cottage?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know where that is, but Felix might. I’ll take you to him.” Paloma turns and curls her tail upwards. I fall in behind, my trailing tail bringing up the rear. I hope it isn’t far. I feel faint.

  The mossy earth smells of recent rain showers, not too damp, just enough to soften my steps. We wind our way through broken marble and small metal vials with dried out flowers. Green and yellow eyes look at us from the dusky recesses of the stones. This is not my home. I do not belong here.

  The further inside we stroll, the more eyes fall upon us. From trees and tombs, shapes appear. There is a gathering of fur and claws. I don’t want to look behind me. I know we are being followed. Mummy will be so worried. My dinner will go dry, I hate when it does that. I need to get my bearings again. Hopefully, this ‘Felix’ character will be a wise elder who can set me on my way.

  The ways of the feral cats are a mystery to me. My mother always warns me to stay close by the cottage. I love my mother.

  Mother says how lucky I am to be with her. She often speaks of other kittens. Beautiful greys and creams. Brothers and sisters the mistress took away.

  “There are five of us at the cottage. My oldest sister, Trixibella Snowball is a champion white and my younger sister, Bella Luna, a beautiful blue.”

  “Just five of you?” Paloma seems impressed. “You must get so much to eat!”

  “Yes, my bowl is always full.” So why do I feel so hungry?

  My mistress sits us by the fire grate, combing our hair each night. There is extra pampering before a show. As a boy, they spare me the ignominy of bows and diamante collars. How my sisters protest! Sometimes my mistress tugs too roughly, but never a cross word. My coat feels so tight now, this will take hours to untangle! Many other cats at the shows have terrible tales of their owners chastising them if they fail to win a rosette. Maybe we are lucky? There is always a coloured ribbon on my cage at the end of a show. At home, my mistress puts them on a corkboard and makes sure that all her visitors ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over the latest additions.

  The show! I have to get back home. I have to prepare for the show.

  Paloma stops in front of a large stone house, with magnificent columns and carvings of humans dancing on the walls. These humans are almost naked. How weird they look without fur. The morning sun stretches its rays along the icy walls, lighting up the images in its path with an orange glow.

  “Stay here. Felix will be here soon. The Wesberrey Clowder will take care of you.” Paloma giggles and backs away.

  Thank goodness, I don’t think I could take another step. I look behind me. There is a glaring of cats. Despite Paloma’s assurances, the Wesberrey Clowder do not appear to be the caring type. I don’t want Paloma to go.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” The meow sticks in my throat like an obstinate hairball. “Please, don’t leave me!”

  Paloma turns and dips her angled head. “What are you afraid of, Grandad?” She softly steps towards me and nuzzles her forehead against my shoulder. She purrs. “They won’t harm you. I promise. Relax. We’re like cousins, right? I have to go to the harbour now, the fishing boats are in and it’s my turn, you see. I can’t miss my slot or all I will eat is that awful tinned food from the parish. Unless it’s tuna, we all love it when it’s tuna.”

  “Fish from the boats?” My stomach rumbles. When did I last eat? “You eat fresh from the boats?”

  “We take turns, there ain’t enough for us all these days. Legend has it that long ago the dock teemed with each morning’s catch. A time when the fisherman didn’t chase us away because there was plenty. Now we rely on the parish.”

  Stop talking about food! My mouth is dry. My head feels woozy. I can hear Paloma is still talking but I cannot focus.

  “When I was small, a kindly man dressed in black with a white collar around his neck, like a dog’s. Actually, a lot like yours. He opened the tins. He ain’t been here for a while, though. Lately, it’s a singing woman with short yellow hair and things dangling from her ears you just want to paw, you know? Don’t know why she wears them if she doesn’t want us to touch them. I mean, what else are they for?”

  “My mistress has those things in her ears too.” Why does thinking about my mistress make me feel sad? I try to remember, but it feels so long since I’ve seen her. Fresh fish? My mind whirls, trying to recall when I last ate fresh anything. “My mistress gives us these delicious small egg-shaped balls of food. The cat on the bag they come in looks just like my mother. My mother is so beautiful.” It feels so long since I’ve seen my mother.

  “Did she have a flat face like yours? It’s a look, I suppose. Listen, Perry, I can’t stay. Okay? There won’t be nothing left. Felix will be here soon. He’ll help you, for a price. Just none of that poncey talk, ok? About bows and stuff.”

  I nod. For a price? My eyes follow her tail as she leaps up and across the stones that edge the yard until her last jump into the sun that is rising above the church wall.

  The rest of the Wesberrey Clowder snake around me, looking me up and down like the judges at the shows. Paloma is right, surely these multicoloured moggies mean no harm. They are curious, that’s all. They have probably never seen a cat of my breeding before. What would my mother tell me to do? “Stand tall, Peregrine, stand tall. Nose up. Tail high.” I close my eyes. Let
them look. “Pedigree, Peregrine. Like your father and his father before him. Prize winners. Best in show. Stand proud, my son.”

  I feel a sadness. It is evasive, like that feathery thing on the cane my mistress taunts me with. I can’t pin it down. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. I try to catch my thoughts and sit with my feelings for a moment. Just when I have them in my sight, they spring away. They tease me, darting this way and that. Never staying still. I am tired of the chase. I don’t want to stand anymore. I want to roll up in a ball. I’m so hungry I can’t think. If Paloma is wrong, if these feline felons want to eat me, so be it.

  I flop. I curl. I cover my eyes.

  A ginger paw nudges my nose.

  “A Persian, eh? Slumming it a bit, aren’t we, old man?” I raise my head to see a large tomcat with one emerald-green eye looking down at me, his other eye lost in some distant catfight. From the scar, I imagine this was a hoary war wound.

  Ah yes, I am lost in a graveyard. This must be the legendary Wesberrey Clowder Chief. I need his help. Straighten up, son.

  “Are you Felix?”

  “I sure am. And who’s asking?”

  “My name is Peregrine Pusscat the Third.” I lumber up on all fours.

  Felix moves closer, his shoulders broad, his eye focused. I shrink back. “No need to stir yourself, old-timer. That’s quite the moniker you have there, eh? The gang here tells me young Paloma found you. I don’t suppose she offered you anything to eat?”

  I shake my head. I met Paloma earlier this morning. I think. I think it was this morning? Paloma, white with splashes of orange. These poor wild things have so little; I don’t want to impose upon their hospitality, but my stomach speaks for me. Felix looks at two male tortoiseshells to his right, both shaped like they have enjoyed many a tinned tuna. Between them, they drag out a large brown oak leaf from a crevice in the base of the stone mausoleum, covered in jellied meat chunks. They put the leaf in front of me. I sniff. It smells like chicken.