Outside, the tribe had gathered at the edge of the ruins, in what appeared to be the skeleton of a large house. They could use the wood for fires, to save their precious oil. If there were tools or devices left, they could be used, or traded. The lore-reader and his students would be hoping to find readable materials.
She returned to the tribe, told them about the fin, the ruins, her strange intuition, but they had no interest. A skinny, homely girl barely two hundred roundmoons old was expected to follow directions and find things the tribe needed.
Even the lore-reader thought little of the possibilities. There was little text in these sorts of places that made any sense to anyone, and mostly useless equipment. Old houses and smaller ruins were far likelier to have useful items.
Undeterred, she returned to the ruins, and kept digging. The tribe decided to settle in the area for the season, and Quathah dug. She rejected taking a mate for another season, and dug. Day after day, in every spare moment.
She uncovered the remainder of the tall fin, and smiled to see the massive buried shape it hinted at. Days later, when she exposed the glass dome covering an ancient seat, she stopped in wonder.
There was something in the seat, covered by dirt and debris, but a definite outline.
With increased vigor, she threw rubble aside, revealing a machine’s blue body, more windows, and a faint drawing of a winged creature. When she had dug enough so that she could reach it through one broken windowpane, she pulled the thick, slickly waterproof bag out of the wreckage.
Shivering, she carefully peeked inside the bag. She frowned, and wrenched the bag open. A black plastic box fell out and landed on the nearby rubble. Quathah sighed, disappointed.
Then the box spoke, and she froze.
“My name is Felix Dominguez. It is the year 2101, and I am the last person here.”
The accent was strange, but otherwise the words were clear, like those she’d learned from the lore-reader’s small collection of sound-platters.
“There’s no one left, and no time left. I leave this message in this Hellcat, in the hope that you, whoever you are, can do some good with it.”
Quathah’s brow furrowed. “Hell…cat,” she whispered, running her hands along the rock-scraped silhouette, recognizing feline details, now that she knew what she was looking at.
“I’ll get right to the point. In the chamber below the Hellcat, there is something unique. Powerful. It is still charging, and will be for the next twenty years. If you find this before then, I beg that you be patient, and leave it undisturbed. I don’t know how smart you are, how brave you are, or even if you understand this language. But you’re the one who found this, so please, do something good with it.”
When it was done playing, she rose, shaking, and returned to the tribe. This time, they were more than interested.
They gathered together, a motley and unkempt collection, clad in the simplest of clothes. Even the elders and lore-reader made do with only a few trinkets of shiny plastic and polished metal. The lords of lands nearby, with their retinues, had fine leathers, steel, and even something the lore-reader called “polyester,” acquired from afar, but Quathah knew the price of such things for people such as hers.
They dug out a passage, opened a shaft, and down in candlelit shadow, they found colossal doors, open barely wide enough for a person.
Deep inside, after many rooms full of signs of both long life and hurried departure, there came a tiny cabinet, where a blue glow emanated from within a closed case.
The recorded message had already explained.
“It’s a power source. Portable, safe, infinite, so long as it stays on Earth. With basic materials, you can make food, water, shelter. It…can also be used in other ways, if you must defend yourself. I don’t know what kind of world you live in, but if it’s anything like this one, you’ll need to. This bunker has generators, fuel, most of what you might need to survive. The technical databanks are enormous, and I’ve left you my ElbowReader so you can access them. And, if it’s still working, and they’re still up there, the lit console near the module is what is probably the last communication uplink to the Mars colony.”
The lore-reader gasped. The tribe looked at each other in confusion and wonder. No one moved.
Except for Quathah, who stepped forward and slammed her thumb onto the single large red button.
Nothing happened. The tribe grumbled, but the lore-reader shushed them. He motioned for them to wait. Long minutes passed by, and they sat in the dark, lit by baleful blue and red.
The console beeped. A glass panel lit up, and letters appeared.
WE ARE HERE. HOW CAN WE HELP?
Much, much later, Quathah stood atop the old wrecked flying machine, looking down upon her tribe. In her hand, a glowing sphere, pulsing in sync with her heartbeat. On her arm, traced in charcoal, was the winged beast from the machine’s flank. She raised the orb, and around her, objects drifted upward. Debris. Boulders. Walls. When she spoke, it was as if every surface in a hundred miles spoke.
“Hellcat. Rise.”
Add a Zero
“Hellcat. Rice. Meal delivery for: Luro,” the little robot announced as it flew toward the park.
From their seat on the ancient bench, Luro raised their fourth arm, beckoning with all seven fingers. The messenger ‘bot whizzed toward them, narrowly missing the Hellcat’s tailfin. Luro knew the ‘bot’s programming and guidance were immaculate, and that there was no risk of an actual collision, but still, they tensed.
It feels like the relic has been subjected to a lot of that sort of thing, somehow.
Depositing a neat white package next to them, the robot made a pleasant purring salutation, then flew off, again just missing the holy artifact.
Luro had only been to Earth once before, and had not been able to visit the Temple of Quathah. Of all the places on Earth, it was the one that most closely bound the homeworld to Mars, so they (along with every other Martian who made the journey) felt somewhat obligated to come.
The glistening white temple pillars stretched a hundred meters into the sky, unconnected to the roof, which floated serenely on grav modules. Attractive curved floors, free of the chaos of vegetation, ensconced the unaltered, precisely preserved wreck. It was incongruously modest, considering the kilometers-high structures that surrounded it on the ground as well as floated high above it.
The temple docents could beam the stories and exhibits directly to one’s brain, but Luro had disabled the connection. They wanted to use their own senses, different though they might be from the ones the ancients used, to reabsorb the stories.
In that past era, Mars had survived the harsh decades, and responded to Quathah and her tribe, returning to them the knowledge they had safeguarded for so long. It had been an incalculable risk, but Quathah proved herself to be adaptable, shrewd, and compassionate, despite, in her own words later, coming from nothing and being nothing.
Luro scanned the old wreck’s feline artwork, imprinted above the faint remnant of a “V” symbol, and marveled.
Luck. So much good fortune. It’s almost…
That tiny tribe became village, a village a nation, a nation an army. In those years, no fortification could withstand the Hellcat, no weapon could pierce her. The endless winter became warm in her city, where water was clean and food grew under a new sun. Machines were rebuilt. Factories lit their fires. In time, as word spread, new interactions became ones of trade rather than war.
When it was time, Quathah asked Mars for the secret of making new modules, safe from the disastrous effects of the pre-cataclysm technologies. Her children spread warmth across the world. Of course, they fought, sometimes each other, sometimes for no good reason. But with every new module from the great capital, the reasons to fight grew fainter. When new ships could finally make the crossing to Mars, bringing long-awaited relief and reunion, the remaining conflicts on Earth were already fading from a simmer to a resentful heat, and even that vanished in time.
&
nbsp; Luro tried to imagine living as that generation of human. Having, and losing, a mother and father. Lacking full control over one’s body. Unable to hear the thoughts, concerns, worries, joy, and love of everyone, everywhere. Alone, cold, fearful, and always, always, dying.
The word “hell” still existed, for thoughts like that.
Luro extended a finger half a meter to flick open the meal box. Scanning the contents, they experienced a quick flash of anger. Inside the box, instead of the rice and vegetables they desired, was a tomato sandwich. It was NOT what they had ordered.
Then, as quickly as it came, the anger was gone. Over the networks, sympathy came flooding in from friends. Similar shared experiences were communicated by strangers, so that they were not alone. The robot apologized profusely, and offered to correct the error. Aggregated data showed a brief electrical storm that had disrupted navigation ten minutes ago, so the situation was no one’s fault. And a quick adjustment to metabolism made tomato suddenly seem like a halfway decent option, after all.
The great cataclysm had been the result of heedless enthusiasm, putting in humanity’s hands things it was not yet ready for. And yet, they had gotten so close, those old folk. Very nearly sharing their thoughts, that compassion might overrule anger. Almost solving the problem of scarcity, that atrocity born of despair and vengefulness could be minimized. So very close, and even now, there seemed to be a stopping point.
The colony on Mars could hardly be called such anymore, now that it was home to tens of billions of souls, but it was as far as humanity had gone. The outer planets had small outposts, but away from Earth’s undying, infinite energy, and risking endless solitude, anything more was eternally out of reach.
Luro glanced down at their incorrect meal again. Bread. Tomatoes. Oil. A dish nearly as old as hunger itself. As long as humanity felt pangs for even this most simple of pleasures, there would be nowhere to go. Energy did not sate avarice. Bounty did not sate gluttony. And despite every advance, every new step, all these things remained part of humanity—because they wanted them. They wanted to feel hungry. Alone. Angry. Human.
Even the temple itself, celebrating the birthplace of a long-dead hero, was part of the quandary, for even the desires for supernatural guidance and worshipful self-flagellation were themselves, a form of voracious greed—for things that might not even exist.
The voices all over the networks chimed their opinions, sharing their own experiences and analyses.
We are not ready to give up these things, even as they come in fleeting moments. Without them, we are not human. With them, we are earthbound.
They regarded the ancient monument, a machine designed to fly, which had only done so for the briefest flicker of its existence.
Luro raised the sandwich, warmed it with a glance, and took several bites at once. Ten thousand minds sighed in contentment. Who could give up such a sensation?
And so, here we are. Where can we go?
Add a Lot of Zeroes
And with one voice, humanity moved their entire world.
The ghostly figure descended from the glittering layers above, down to the twilight beneath, alighting gently on primordial soil. This part of the world remained untouched, the infinitesimally thin layer of the planet’s top crust unnecessary and disregarded by the builders when the world was rearranged down to its core.
The figure towered above empty oceans and old ruins. It glowed with internal light, drifted tranquilly without so much as a whisper of wind, and possessed an uncertain number of limbs, eyes, or other attributes. If its language included the word “angelic,” such a term might apply. The stately shape swept into an ancient plaza.
Then it tripped on a wrecked aircraft.
There was not much that surprised the figure, but the unexpected physical contact was certainly unusual. In an existence replete with nebulae, supernovae, and countless forms of life, an error in local navigation was the most interesting thing to occur in an extremely long time.
The figure observed the object beneath it. A machine of decayed metal alloys, twisted out of true, crumbling throughout. Did this thing once fly, lending wings to creatures that had none of their own? Thin scrawled lines on internal surfaces, communication for those who had not yet found true communion. On one side, a slight shadow, suggesting some form of glyph or drawing might have once been there. Around the machine, from dry soil and in faint light, a ring of tiny flowered plants sprouted, defying the sparse conditions as if to announce that this tiny shadow of a garden had waited long enough to be allowed to grow.
Looking deeper, atomically, subatomically, and further, yielded little of note to separate this object, in its essence, from anything else in its environs, or indeed across this entire forgotten layer of Earth.
The figure rose again to its full height. It seldom ventured one of its avatars to this part of its domain. There were countless other matters to occupy time and attention. Earth thrummed with the power of its gravitic drives, gliding at luminal velocity from one destination to the next, a vast ark a thousand times the diameter of its primal, natural form. The other worlds too, so many of them now, brimming with life, now traveled their own paths, instantly linked together across vast distances with portals and quanta—a filigree web of order and light against a backdrop of total darkness and silence.
Humanity still called itself by that title. They knew they were different from their distant forebears, but that was as they intended. To travel as they did now, to explore and commune, required sacrifices of those things that could not survive the journey. Passion for supremacy, lust for physical sensation, thirst for self-immortality: these could no longer be needed. But humanity thrived.
The figure turned to leave. Then, it paused for a moment and, in a gesture with which it was wholly unfamiliar, turned back to look at the silent derelict.
The moment passed. The figure straightened. A dozen tiny spheres drifted close. Glowing a pale blue, they aligned into position around the figure. With the sound of a choir’s sigh, the ethereal assemblage slowly rose upward, leaving behind the nameless detritus of a distant past.
And the world-palace of High Navigator Ha’licat’th MMCDLIV, luminous with unending warmth, sailed on into a night of reverent stars.
Wunji Lau lives in Indianapolis with his wife, daughters, and a cat. The cat is named Mao. He’s black, 17 pounds, and a good mouser despite his advanced (but indeterminate) age. He is noticeably smug about being the last surviving Lau feline. He likes the children, but not their feet.
58
The Tavern Cat
by J.T. Williams
Wynder the Tavern Cat might have bitten one too many goblins, as a true test of his bravery thrusts him into a night like none before!
I am quite the savior of these helpless people. While they drink their frothy brews and smelly, stinging bottle water, I watch over them. When they fall to sleep, drooling on themselves and snoring the night away… That's when my true work begins. I'd be willing to wager a full three sardines that you've never met someone with my kind of skill, with my...expertise.
Especially, when it comes to goblin infestations.
You see, this is not quite the type of tavern you'd expect to find someone like me in. Sure, you have your ale-loving dwarves and a few dragon slayers from time to time. I've never seen an actual dragon and I'm not sure what that is, but it can't be any worse than what I deal with.
Just the other day, there was a trio of elves that really set the dwarves to hollering, but I stared them down and then they were off hunting some bloodsuckers or something and I never saw them again. So, no one really stands ready to fight for the common people. As you can see, aside from our local fishers and their fresh catches of sweet sardines, true heroes are in short supply.
Goblins are dastardly little creatures! They're too quick for dwarves and elves really do not care to deal with them. They come at night, slipping across the ashy rafters high above where pipe weed has long stained any fresh wood colo
r from the sight of a normal eye. But I can see it and I can see them. That is why I do what I do.
I won't deny that I spend most of my time at the bar; the barkeep even calls me “his” and I allow it. There really isn't anyone who doesn't claim me or feel the need to pat me on the head. They all know it, they all know I'm the reason they can sleep. But they don't know what lurks in the darkness.
“But I stand ready. I am Wynder, protector of the Twin Tailed Crab Tavern, and the strongest cat in the—"
"Are you talking to yourself again, Wynder?"
Wynder, an orange cat of no particular regard, was on his back, batting a small string. His friend Coral appeared in the open attic window of the tavern. She was as silver as the cloudy skies behind her and her bright blue eyes were a welcome sight for him even though he expected her to give him a hard time.
"Talking to myself? I'm preparing my speech so these people here will know what kind of warrior I am!"
Coral hissed, leaping down to the rafter. "Right, a warrior. In a tavern. You were a stray until they started letting you stay in! Just like the rest of us at the Rocky Cove! Somehow, though, I got kicked out of here and that barkeep took a liking to you. ANNNDDD you're not fully grown yet. You wouldn't last more than a second in a real fight."
Wynder licked his paw, finishing off the remains of a crab. "You're just jealous. You don't know what I do here, and you wouldn't understand."
Coral rubbed her head against his. "Understand? You're not talking about goblins again, are you?! You know only the Protectors can see those and you're not worth their time! You can't even catch a ship mouse!"
Wynder stood and made his way down the intertwined boards to the attic where the barkeep kept some of his dry goods.
Hellcats: Anthology Page 105
