Empire of the Space Cats (Amy Armstrong Book 2)

by Stephen Colegrove

  “Imperial Palace, north entrance,” said the cat.

  “Calculating,” said a computerized female voice. “Destination: Imperial palace, north entrance. Pending charge: one hundred sixty mao.”

  Furball settled onto the dashboard and curled his tail around his feet.

  “Start service.”

  The black sphere jerked away from the curb and sped into traffic.

  “Arrival in eight point four minutes.”

  “Takes all the fun out of driving,” said Amy. “Not that I’ve ever driven a car. I’m only fourteen and that would be wrong. I’d plow into a ditch and get grounded for two weeks. Not that it happened.”

  Philip shifted underneath her. “At least these horseless carriages are clean and swift. Not like the streets of London, that’s as sure as mustn’t. You’ve seen them first-hand, dear.”

  Amy wrinkled her nose. “Lots and lots of horse poop.”

  She brushed blonde hair from her face and wished she had a hair clip to replace the one she’d given Nick. As she watched the traffic of bubble cars around her, she noticed that several of the cat passengers in other cars were watching video screens.

  “How strange,” she murmured.

  “Apologies,” said Philip. “That’s my pocket knife.”

  “No––all the cats are watching the same program. It looks like a public broadcast.”

  “Can we watch?” asked Betsy. “I like holoscreen. Is it Jurg Force? That’s my favorite!”

  Amy leaned away. “Stop it, Betsy! No licking.”

  Furball lifted his head and peered out the window.

  “It’s an Imperial broadcast! Quick––we must watch!”

  He reached under the cushioned dash and pressed a button with his paw. A wide rectangle clicked up from the dash and Sunflower’s face flickered to life on the screen.

  “—and it’s important to remember that I care about you, each and every one. Oh! Thank you dear.”

  Sunflower’s head disappeared off-camera. He returned a few seconds later, his mouth and whiskers dripping in green liquid. The orange tabby let out a big sigh.

  “You don’t miss somen water until you haven’t had it for months.”

  “I don’t like this program,” said Betsy. “Change it.”

  “It’s on every station,” said Furball.

  “Why?” asked Amy. “What’s the point?”

  “Ego,” said Philip.

  “Like I was saying,” murmured Sunflower on the screen. “Is this thing still on? Okay. I really appreciate what each and every cat is doing in my empire, from the littlest traffic cop to the biggest general in the navy. Although, if you really were the littlest traffic cop, you’d probably have a hard time stopping anyone.” He chuckled. “Get it? Because you’d be tiny.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Philip.

  “My appreciation doesn’t mean there won’t be any changes,” said Sunflower. “Lots of things to fix, lots. Where are my notes? Thank you. First on my list of various proclamations and new laws––no kittens in restaurants or movie theaters. If you want to yell and make the fur fly at home, that’s your business. Leave the little monsters at home. Next: motorcycles are banned. Actually, change that. Any vehicle that makes noise is banned. The next cat to strap on a leather jacket and blat-blat down a residential street is going to be working in the equatorial mines until his nine lives are up. Mangos––I hate that fruit. Banned. Next––Mister Patti Mittens, algebra teacher at Hidden Valley High School, Western Range. If he’s still alive, he’s joining all you motorcycle guys in the mines.” Sunflower leaned close to the camera. “I never cheated on that quiz, Mister Mittens! You’ll have plenty of time to wonder why you sent me to the office instead of Tommy Applebottom––who actually WAS cheating––while your paws are blistered from digging up uranium.”

  “He’s definitely lost it,” said Amy. “He never completely had it, whatever it was, but it’s definitely lost it now.”

  “Power corrupts,” said Philip. “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  Sunflower pointed a paw at the viewer. “When someone says ‘thank you,’ just respond with ‘you’re welcome.’ The next cat to say ‘no problem’ instead of ‘you’re welcome’ is going to have a problem. I guess the mines are going to be full at this point, so I can’t send them to the equator. I’ll make them into mango inspectors. Right! They’ll have to look for mangos and eat them.” Sunflower rubbed his chin. “Eventually, we won’t have any mangos. Also, I now have the right to enter anyone’s apartment and try on their clothes. If I like them, I get to keep them, and you get the honor of not working in the mines. Because the mines will be full, like I said.”

  “Good gravy,” said Amy. “Should we kidnap this crazy kitty?”

  Philip shook his head. “Too much trouble. I suggest we drop Furball at the Imperial Palace, grab Nick if we can find her, and head to the spaceport.”

  Amy nodded. “The ship can take us to the equator.”

  “I support this plan, honored guests,” said Furball. “Although I would be happy to travel with you to the equator––an inhospitable, boiling wasteland covered with meteor strikes and fiery sandstorms that cook the flesh and rip it from the bone like a family of cats at a barbeque––I would be happier to die of old age without that experience.”

  Amy wagged a finger at the white Persian. “You’re pretty smart for a waiter.”

  THE TAXI PULLED to the curb near the imperial palace.

  Amy, Philip, and Betsy followed Furball through the north gate, after the samurai-helmeted guards scanned all of them with electronic wands.

  “If you have any need of money, please use my name and the code I gave you,” said Furball.

  “All right!” said Amy. “Shopping time, girls!”

  “I’m afraid you’re the only girl here,” said Philip.

  Amy noticed Furball’s anxious look, and laughed. “Just kidding. I would never do that. Wait a minute––no, I would never do that.”

  Furball bowed. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Amy covered her mouth in mock horror. “Oh no! Sunflower made that illegal. I’m going to the mines.”

  Philip put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll come with you, dear. I have a feeling we’re all going there sooner rather than later.”

  “Sunflower the Merciless,” whispered Amy.

  Furball jumped in the air and looked around the gardens frantically. “The Emperor? Where?”

  “Just another joke.”

  The white cat sighed and continued along the gravel path. “Too much joking with humans,” he whispered. “Laugh, laugh, and laugh. Everything’s funny until it’s not funny.””

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, honored guest.”

  Nick buzzed down from the roof of the imperial bedrooms as they walked up.

  “What took you so long?” said the tiny sprite. “That was like a billion, billion hours and I had no one to play with!”

  Betsy wagged his brown and white tail. “Sunflower’s got a holoscreen show! Did you see it?”

  Nick straightened her short pink dress. “Yes, and it’s awful. He just talks to himself. There’s no shopping or fashion or candy or anything interesting.”

  “We need to go back to the ship,” said Philip. “Are you ready?”

  Nick clapped her tiny hands. “Am I ever! I’ll grab my stuff.”

  The tiny woman flew away with a loud buzz.

  Philip knelt down to Furball. “Thank you for the help, my friend, and for defending us in the alley. I know it was your job to do all of that, but you did it well and in a professional manner.”

  “Exactly,” said Amy. “What he said!”

  The white cat bowed. “I am honored to serve. Please be assured that I will keep silent on the particular matters of this afternoon.”

  Amy tilted her head. “Sniffy and Princess?”

  Furball bowed again. “The other matter of this afternoon. Your next destination.�
��

  “Ah, yes. Very good.”

  Furball sprang to his feet. “Now for selfie time! Pick me up.”

  The cat stood on Philip’s shoulder as the group packed together. He held out a tiny camera attached to his paw and smiled.

  “Look at my paw. Everybody say, goosebumps!”

  “Goosebumps,” said Amy and Philip.

  “Bumpy goose!” barked Betsy.

  Furball jumped down, bowed rapidly, and ran off with a spray of white gravel.

  “He doesn’t like long goodbyes,” said Philip.

  Amy shrugged. “What’s a ‘selfie?’”

  Chapter Eleven

  Amy and Philip stood in the navigation room of the ship as the holographic projection of Cheezburger passed below their feet in a blur of skyscrapers and neon billboards. Amy still wore her white blouse, black leather vest, plaid skirt, and dark blue tights. At the ship’s encouragement, Philip had changed into his red spandex uniform.

  The teenager pulled at the cap stretched tightly over his hair. “This outfit is bloody frustrating, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “That didn’t sound like French,” said Amy.

  “The uniform is required because of dander,” said the motherly voice of the ship. “Human dander, cat dander, dog dander. I happen to find Miss Armstrong’s dander not as revolting as others.”

  Philip winced. “What’s revolting is that word, by Jove. Why do you have to use it?”

  “Which word?” asked the ship. “Dander? Dander, dander, dander.”

  Amy squeezed him on the bicep. “She’s got your number.”

  “This spaceship cannot be entirely mechanical. No machine I’ve ever met has made such jokes at my expense.”

  “The galaxy is a big place, Phil. I’m sure we’ll find a planet of robots who tell jokes for fun at some point. I bet if we pried off the panels in the central processor of this ship we’d find a little old lady sitting behind an old-fashioned switchboard.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. On the subject of prying off panels, do you think Betsy and Nick have murdered each other yet?”

  “Both crew members are resting on their respective sleeping areas,” said the ship. “No violence has been attempted.”

  The gray blocks of Cheezburger shrank below their feet. Even the suburbs disappeared under a haze of clouds as the ship increased speed and rose through the upper atmosphere.

  “How long until we arrive at this research station?” asked Amy.

  “Thirty-seven minutes,” said the ship. “Do you wish me to increase velocity, captain?”

  Amy stretched her arms above her head. “No, it’s perfect. That gives me time to eat something.”

  “The point is moot because we may not have anywhere to land when we arrive,” said Philip. “Furball mentioned that it’s a wasteland.”

  “This MacGuffin cat went there, so it can’t be that bad.”

  “We don’t know if he survived the trip.”

  “The surface temperature during the daytime ranges from one hundred fifty to one seventy five degrees Fahrenheit,” said the ship. “Exposed skin will receive third-degree burns, and materials with ignition temperatures in that range will combust immediately.”

  “Rats,” said Amy. “Not bikini weather.”

  “That is correct, captain, unless your bikini is constructed of nano-polymer material and covers your body from head to toe.”

  “That sounds like armored pajamas, not a bikini.”

  “Do we have to wear protective suits?” asked Philip.

  “The ship uniforms and the Captain’s clothing will provide a brief moment of protection, enough time for crew members to either reach shelter or contemplate the futility of existence and where they went wrong.”

  “There’s that humor again,” said Philip.

  “Who cares?” said Amy. “My clothes are totally cool. Get it? Cool. Ah, you don’t get it.”

  Philip shrugged. “Another joke?”

  “I have plotted an orbital insertion and planetfall at night, making environmental protection unnecessary,” said the ship. “Analysis of weather patterns in the equatorial region reveals a high frequency of dust hurricanes and lightning storms during any point of the solar cycle, night or day. Navigation through these events would present a challenge, even for me. These are the constraints of your request to make planetfall at this location.”

  “Any suggestions?” asked Amy.

  “I suggest the captain conclude her business and leave as soon as possible.”

  “Can’t disagree with that,” said Philip. “I don’t want a third-degree sunburn.”

  A bright circle of sky appeared in mid-air and Nistra stepped inside the room, the ship’s uniform stretched tightly over his muscular reptile body.

  “Greetings, friends! I see you have returned.”

  Amy watched the sauro walk gingerly over the clouds and atmosphere projected on the floor.

  “You know that’s not real, right? The floor is still there.”

  The sauro smiled razor-sharp teeth.

  “Of course, of course. I was … walking in this strange way to show respect for the captain.”

  “You just made that up!”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “So Nistra, old chap,” said Philip. “Did you have fun scrounging through our valuables while we were away from the ship?”

  Nistra stared at the teenager. “I didn’t!”

  Amy shrugged. “Which is it––you didn’t have fun, or didn’t go through our stuff?”

  “I never did that thing. Both!”

  “Don’t confuse him, old stick,” said Philip. “A reptile his size would have less than a teacup of brain matter. That’s a fact of natural science.”

  Nistra raised a sharp claw. “Ah, but sauropods are engineered life forms, so your old rules no longer apply.”

  “Great,” said Amy. “What exactly did you get up to while we were gone?”

  “Sleeping. Eating. Sleeping. Staring at the wall of my closet. Sleeping. Eating.”

  “What a great story. You should write a book.”

  The lizard grinned pointy yellow teeth. “The captain is very wise in noticing my talent for narrative. At the prison, I wrote articles for the weekly newsletter, H.A.L.P. Mandatory Entertainment, and co-authored a manual on torturing political prisoners and non-blood relatives.”

  Amy stared at the giant reptile. “I was joking!”

  Nistra’s smile changed to a sad frown. “Oh.”

  THE SHIP ROSE into orbit like a salmon leaping over a stream, her silver skin reflecting the swirling clouds over Tau Ceti’s south pole. The blue seas around the southern continent faded over the edge of the planet, and the ship flew over a continent of cracked brown wastelands, vast deserts wider than the Sahara, and the ragged, broken-glass shape of mountain ranges.

  The silver craft passed over the terminator and into the darkness of night, when half the planet rested from the fierce solar rays. Instead of the brilliant web of street lamps that they would have seen over Cheezburger at night, the equatorial region was covered in dead shades of gray and swirling dust hurricanes hundreds of miles wide.

  “Approaching planetfall of Tau Ceti Epsilon in four minutes ten seconds,” spoke the ship through the crew broadcast system. “Destination is nine degrees forty-three minutes north, one five-five degrees five minutes west.”

  Amy and Philip raced through the corridors from the kitchen to the navigation room.

  “Made it!” yelled Amy, slapping the hatch.

  Philip jogged a few meters behind her, holding a large sandwich.

  “No fair. I was eating this sausage bap! At least, I think it’s a sausage bap.”

  Amy pouted. “What’s the matter––can’t eat and run at the same time? Ow! No pinching!”

  Philip chased her into the navigation room where a dark, arid landscape was projected into their minds by the ship. The pair of teenagers turned quiet as they watched the bleak mountains a
nd deserts pass below their feet.

  “How can anything live down there?” whispered Amy.

  “I doubt that anything can,” said Philip.

  “Two minutes to planetfall,” said the ship. “Which crew will be disembarking, my Lady?”

  Amy shrugged and looked at Philip. “Everyone?”

  The hatch opened and Nistra walked carefully over the floor.

  “What’s happening?” asked the reptile. “Have we landed?”

  “Ninety seconds until planetfall,” said the ship.

  Amy stared at a gray desert and mountain range far below her feet. “Have you contacted the research station?”

  “I have, my Lady, but have not received a response from station personnel. The automated landing system is active, although on a low-bandwidth, obscure channel. An eighty-one percent chance exists of nominal planetfall.”

  Philip glanced at Amy. “What happens in the other percent?”

  “Sixteen point four percent chance the station blast doors have frozen shut, creating a barrier we shall hit at fifty meters per second. One point five percent chance the landing system is transmitting false data, and we impact the surface. One point one percent chance that another craft is docked, not registered to the landing system, and which we shall hit at fifty meters per second. Point nine percent the power core fails and we impact the surface. Point seven percent––”

  “Thanks, Blanche,” said Amy. “We get the picture.”

  Nistra held a scaly hand over his heart and bowed from the waist.

  “Captain, I have arranged for a delivery of sauropod food at Cheezburger Central. If you could pre-approve the loading of this large container, I would be most grateful.”

  “Sure, whatever,” said Amy. “If we don’t die in a giant fireball in the next ten seconds we can talk about your stupid crates of marshdevils or whatever.”

  “No crew member would experience death by fire,” said the calm voice of the ship. “The primary impact would disable my kinetic dampers, inflicting internal injuries and organ failure as every crew member struck a forward bulkhead. These injuries would be fatal before any secondary combustion. To put it simply, your insides would be goo.”

  “What about our outsides?”