Catopolis

Until one night, Death appeared with no warning, glaring at this one. “What do you think you are doing?”

One half opened an eye to contemplate Him. As the Lady took the guise of a cat, so this one took the guise of a human, dressed in black and pale. One did not even twitch a whisker.

“One serves.”

“Well, you can damn well stop.”

One rose and stretched slowly, carefully, and then settled in to groom one’s nether regions.

“Cats.” Death said in disgust, and disappeared.

The laughter of the Lady Guardian sounded deep within in one’s head.

One continued to groom, smugly.

So it was, that the pattern of life was restored. The alpha praised this one, and there was a new food, called treats, and that was well.

Others came and made a fuss over this one, but one fled them and their “cameras” and “microphones.” One was not amused. One had a task. The alpha sent them away.

Outside, the leaves emerged, and one watched as the prey danced outside the glass, young and old alike. One felt no need to hunt but would occasionally make the hunting sounds and bat the glass, scattering those without. It served no purpose to allow prey to become complacent.

Nor can one become complacent about Death. He is everywhere and nowhere, and one should have remembered that. It was not just the humans lying in softness that needed warning.

One blames oneself for one’s failing, but the scent grew over time, creeping in as prey rots. Until finally the odor was too strong to be ignored.

But this scent lay on the alpha.

One sat straight up at the realization and fixed the alpha with a stare. This was not one who lay in softness, yet the scent was there, unmistakable. Warning must be given, but would she comprehend?

One leaped to her place, ignored the sticks that lay about, and padded over. The alpha was staring at her box. “You hungry, Bastet? I’ll feed you in just a minute. I have to get these reports out-”

One yowled.

The Alpha’s head jerked around to stare at one, her dark eyes wide. “Bastet, what’s wrong? Who-?”

One yowled again, staring at her intently, with a soft prayer to the Lady Guardian that this human would fall within her protection. The sound that rose from this one’s throat grew more anxious, for the alpha was respected and admired. Let Death stalk elsewhere.

The alpha’s eyes grew thoughtful. She reached for her phone, speaking of lumps ignored and an appointment. She grabbed up her things, turned off her box, and left.

One batted at the sticks, arranged the papers to one’s satisfaction, and settled for a nap. One had done what one could do.

Death appeared.

One opened one’s eyes and contemplated the man, all in black, glaring at oneself. Had he been a cat, his back would have been arched, ears flat. “You go too far.”

“Are you prey?” one demanded.

“What?” Death hissed.

“Are you prey, to leave your scent markings so clear and make the hunt easy?” One flicked an ear. “Lazy, foolish prey, easily tracked and seen. No wonder-”

“SILENCE,” the man thundered.

One yawned, displaying all one’s teeth, unimpressed and uncaring.

“Cats.” Death snarled, and vanished.

One stood, stretched and circled down to nap. The hunt would be more challenging now, the scent harder to find. It was well. None should become complacent.

Even Death.

The Lady Guardian’s satisfied purr filled one’s ears as one drifted off to sleep.

THE PERSIAN, THE COON, AND BULLETS by Matthew Woodring Stover

She was screaming. She’d been screaming for a while already. I’d been hearing her since Farside of Leaper’s Bridge, so naturally by the time I made it to Knifewall, there was already a pretty good mob. It took me longer than usual, because I had to make a wide detour around a human gun fight-the Same Clothes People and the Calico People, at it again, as usual-and around the blast zone of the Calicoes’ exploder, where there was too much fire and stink even for a hardened street tom like me.

She had a serious voice, one I’d been able to hear even through the humans’ shouts and shooting, and I was a long way from the only one listening; the mob at Knifewall was the biggest I’d ever seen-I knew maybe only half the cats there, maybe less. She was pulling them in from all over the Zone.

“I’m hungry! It’s cold out here! Where are you? I’m hu

I spotted the Coon lounging in a weedy shadow near Knifewall’s sunside corner, wiping his face with a spit-wet paw. He saw me looking and yawned. I shouldered through the crowd to the base of the wall so I’d have some shade on my way over. Nobody gave me more than a courtesy hiss. The cats who didn’t know me took their cue from the ones who did, and got the hell out of my way.

“Hey, Coon.” I settled into the weeds just out of reach. The Coon and I had a pretty good understanding, but there was no sense taking foolish chances.

He kept washing. “Drags. You want something here?”

This was as close to a respectful greeting as anybody ever got from the Coon. He didn’t even have a name; everybody called him the Coon because that’s what he was, a Maine Coon, more than half bobcat, fully four times the size of your average street tom. He was a legend in the Zone. He and I had gone some rounds back when I was a little younger and a lot stupider, and while he had given better than he got-he’s near enough twice my size, and I’m a big damn cat-he still carried a scar or two with my name on them. I liked to think he had some respect for me. But I was probably kidding myself.

When I was younger, I used to dream that maybe the Coon was my sire. Getting my belly good and ripped cured me of any pretensions to noble lineage. He’d made it clear that if I’d been his kit, he’d have snatched me out from under my dam and eaten my head. And he might have been telling the truth. The rumor was he’d done it before. Rumor was, he never let a tom kit live. And, y’know, that was okay with pretty much everybody.

One of him was enough.

I tilted my face sidelong toward the yowling beyond Knifewall. “That what I think it is?”

The Coon looked away and flicked one ear. “We’ll see. Skids is on his way up.”

I shook my head at the mob of toms lurking around the wall. “Likely be sanguinary come nightfall.”

“Sangwinwhatthehell?” This from Hacky, creeping up by my tail. Hacky had been sidling along in my wake as he usually did, pretending to hunt a beetle, but he wasn’t any better at pretending than he was at hunting, and he did both of those better than he kept his mouth shut. “Drags? How come you use all them big words nobody knows? I mean, what’s that sangwi-somethin’ mean, Drags? Hey, Coon-Coon, you don’t know either, huh?”

The Coon just kept washing. He had a good vocabulary-better than mine, I bet, that giant head of his leaves plenty of room for brains-but he didn’t like showing it off. Especially not in front of dogbait like Hacky. Why show off when you’re the king?

“You’ll find out what it means,” I told him. “And back off from my tail, Hacky. I won’t say it again.”

He flinched. “Sure-sure, Drags. I don’t mean nothin’ by it, you know that. You know I’m not go

“Which is why I haven’t eviscerated your face, you follow?”

“Sure-uh, yeah, I mean, I think so-”

“Shut up.” The Coon stood up and stretched, looking toward the rim of Knifewall. “There goes Skids.”

Knifewall is three or four times taller than my best jump, and that’s just the stone part; even if I could get up there-which would be damn hard for me in itself, what with my tail how it is-I’m still way too big to slip through the tangled coils of knife-wire that added another good leap’s-worth on top. Skids, though, was small as a kit, and a scrawny one at that; some Siamese blood on his dam’s side kept him trim and quick. He was agile as a wolf spider and could run faster than most cats can think. He’d clawed his way up the pale shrapnel scars that pocked the outside of the wall and now delicately threaded his way into the knife-wire until he could see over the lip into Inside.