Catfantastic: Nine Lives and Fifteen Tales Part 17

6.

What?

He shook his head, confused. The smell urged him to go away, to run away, to be anywhere but where he was at that moment a but something he didn't quite remember urged him to stay, and its call was slightly stronger. Something from the (he struggled to place it) waking world?

Suddenly he was aware, and memory came to him so suddenly that it nearly knocked him off his feet. True, he had been trying to remember-for how many sleeps now?-but each time he pa.s.sed into dreaming and walked the shadowlands anew, all memory of his waking intentions had left him. Not so this time. A trickle still remained, and he held onto it with all four paws, trying to grasp what it was barely within his nature to understand.

Like all cats, he dreamed. Like all cats, he hunted in the perpetual twilight of the shadowlands, perfecting his skills in a world that demanded the utmost in timing and concentration. And like all cats-until this night-he had pa.s.sed from one world to the other without thought, rising from the shadowlands to awaken and smooth his fur and then pa.s.sing back into the dreamworld once more, in and out again in a rhythm as ancient and as natural as sleep itself.

But tonight was different. Tonight he knew-he understood-that while he hunted in this place, beneath these jagged trees, he was also asleep in a leaf-cus.h.i.+oned hollow. For the first time in his life, without words or experience to guide him, he struggled to comprehend the nature of dreaming. And understood at last why this double awareness had come, the reason why he had gone to sleep with a special image fixed in his conscious mind.

He turned toward the source of the foul wind. No longer was its fear-message dominant in his mind. He took time to savor it, to measure its taste upon his tongue. Images of dreamerlies came to him, clumps of fog that left just such a foulness in one's mouth; it was the stink of danger, and he growled deeply as he recognized it.

Under normal circ.u.mstances he would have fled, but he was more than mere shadowself now and was twice as angry as he was afraid. Prompted by memories of misshapen dreamerlies, he turned toward the source of the odor. Outside of the dreamworld he was powerless to hunt such creatures, but here, in the land of their birth a he hissed his fear as he began to move, and his fur p.r.i.c.ked upright, but there was no question of turning back. Those things had fouled his territory, ignored his spray, and despoiled his kill; either his waking self must abandon its terrain, or he must deal with these enemies on their own home ground.

With the stealth of a hunter who has marked his prey he crept slowly toward the source of the odor, placing each paw as though his life depended on silence. All about him new glitterlings burst to life, danced in fiery zigzags, and were consumed by darkness; by their light he picked his way across the lifeless roots, letting his sense of smell guide him. Gradually the smell grew stronger, and its message more clear. Turn away. Go back. This place is not for you. He had to fight his survival instinct to ignore it, but memory drove him on.

How long it was before he heard the cry he couldn't say; he was consumed by his greater purpose, and was not wholly cognizant of the world which surrounded him. But it broke through his awareness at last, a plaintive mewing that stopped him dead in his tracks. A kitten-cry, rich with pain and terror.

He knew the voice. But it belonged to the waking world.

How was that possible?

For a moment he stood still, frozen by indecision. Then the cry came again, a terrible yowling of pain and need that made going on impossible. He began to trot-to run-toward the source of its distress. In his mind's eye a tiny black kitten beckoned, its greenfire eyes sparkling like glitterlings in the shadowlands twilight. What was it doing-here, this cat from the waking world? Didn't each hunter come to the shadowlands alone?

He ran. Over twisted roots, between glitterlings and dreamerlies and floating pods of luminous seeds that settled to earth in his wake. The sound was growing fainter by the minute, he had to reach it before it was extinguished, must hurry if he was to He came upon the clearing suddenly, had to use all his claws to brake to a stop.

It was there. The kitten. The same one he had met in the waking lands, whose fiery gaze had so impressed him.

So were they. The dreamerlies. The foul ones, with the teeth and the bloated bodies and the unwholesome odor, who had followed him to his kill and then claimed it.

They had downed it, and were feeding. Suckers and teeth were affixed to its trembling body, and strangely shaped forms glowed brightly as they fed. Their light was bright enough that Hunter-in-Darkness could see the kitten's blood where it had soaked the ground, and the carmine glitter of wounds across its jet black fur.

Rage consumed him. He abandoned thought, became a creature of blind action. One leap and he was upon the nearest, a fishlike thing with claws for fins and a spiked tail half his length. Here such creatures had substance, and he tore into this one with relish. So quickly did he dispatch it that the others were just beginning to react as he chose his next victim. This was not hunting but killing, plain and simple, and he took no pleasure in it. A snakelike dreamerly with silver spines drew itself up to fight; he clawed at its face before it got a chance to position itself effectively, was rewarded with a gush of hot blood across his paw and chest. Teeth bit into his hind leg, but he kicked out savagely and they were gone. There were more dreamerlies than he could count, but he was a whirlwind of teeth and claws and at last, hissing their displeasure, those that had survived his initial attack withdrew from the scene of battle.

He took no time to lick his wounds, but looked for the injured kitten; it had crawled off during the battle, leaving a thin trail of blood behind it. So dim was its bodylight that he nearly lost the little creature, but he let his sense of smell guide him and finally found the s.h.i.+vering infant, a tiny wet ball of fur that hissed weakly as he approached it. It was badly injured, and clearly terrified. And no wonder! One of the advantages of hunting dreamerlies was that they didn't fight back; one could stalk them-or the glitterlings or the floating pods-with no fear of injury, practicing one's skills in safety against the day when the waking world would require them. That they would do this was a unthinkable. That they could do it was terrifying.

Gently he nuzzled the youngster, and began to lick its wounds clean of blood and dirt. At first it didn't respond, and he thought it might be past saving. But then, after a time, a tiny tremor of sound began in its throat, which rose and fell with the rhythm of his cleaning.

He did what he could for the purring youngster, marveling at its recuperative powers. At last he sat back, content that it would survive, and tended to his own wounds. In the wake of his indignant rage his greater purpose was calling to him again, and he knew he would have to move on. The kitten could take care of itself, he decided. It would have to.

He turned to leave, took three steps-and stopped. And looked behind him. The kitten was on its feet, standing right behind him. Ready to follow. He growled a warning, but the sound lacked sincerity-and like most kittens, this one ignored adult hostility. Twisting his head back to watch the small cat, Hunter-in-Darkness moved forward again a and watched in amazement as it trotted along behind him, a brief chirp indicating that its legs did hurt but, yes, it was coming along, it would manage to keep up with him somehow.

With a snort of disbelief he began to trot toward his destination. Wondering why he was pleased that the tiny thing-too young to be prudent, too damaged to be helpful-was still alongside him.

It was there, in the distance. Faint, almost ghostly, its outline uncertain in the shadowland darkness a but clearly there, despite the fact that it shouldn't be. The white manhouse.

He crept to the edge of the forest, head low, suspicious. The wall between the worlds must be thin indeed, if such things could cross it. For some reason the thought made him cold inside, and he looked back at the kitten to see if it was still beside him. It was. And strangely, that comforted him.

All about the building were dreamerlies. Mutant dreamerlies, even more unwholesome than the ones which had attacked the kitten. As before, they seemed to be waiting for something a but what?

The kitten was the first to move. Too young to be inhibited by fear, he slipped between two heavy roots, out into the open. Against the dark gra.s.s his small black body slithered like a shadow, its inner light almost dim enough to pa.s.s for reflected glitterglow. Cautiously, Hunter-in-Darkness followed. He was a larger cat and a brighter one, and the lack of cover made him uneasy; nevertheless he followed, and not until they got to the fence did the two cats stop to consider their situation.

Cautiously, prepared for the worst, Hunter-in-Darkness eased one paw forward, and quickly touched it to the wires. Man's magic had guarded this place before, but that- was in the waking lands; here, where no man existed, the fence might be pa.s.sable. And indeed, his paw pa.s.sed through the wires as though through an illusion; the manfence had no solidity m this world, and no power to harm.

He went through the fence; the kitten followed. A few dreamerlies pa.s.sed overhead, and perhaps they saw them. If so, they showed no interest. Like any hunting cat they preferred the small and the weak for prey; perhaps they were wary of Hunter-in-Darkness' size, and would avoid the kitten because of it.

It was when they were halfway to the building that the Change began.

At first he failed to recognize it. The s.h.i.+mmer in the air, the distortion of all outlines beyond it, the feeling of bodily tension which accompanied its appearance a at first these things were unfamiliar, and he sank down into the gra.s.s in wary silence. But then he realized what it was, and what he could accomplish if he got to it in time-and in an instant he was on his feet and running, heedless of the dreamerlies and the kitten and any other shadowland concern, trying to reach the wall between the worlds before it healed itself and became impa.s.sable once more.

Crossing it was like diving into a s...o...b..nk. For an instant there was cold, so chilling that he could hardly move his body, so all-pervading that he lost all memory of ever having been warm. And darkness. For a moment he feared being trapped within the barrier, sandwiched between the worlds without access to either. Then the fear-and the cold-were left behind him, and he stumbled out onto a man-made floor, skidding to an undignified halt as he slammed into the base of a wall that had become, all too suddenly, solid.

He was inside the man-structure-inside!-and back in the waking world. He had crossed the same way the dreamerlies crossed, and if his reasoning was correcta. He leaped up and clawed at an overhead dreamerly, and felt his talons tear flesh before he fell back to the floor. Yes! He could hunt them now, in his own world. On his own terms. Hunter-in-Darkness, who had pa.s.sed through the shadowlands and beyond!

A thudding sound reminded him of his kitten ally, and he turned to find the small cat bundled tail over head at the base of the same wall. He pushed it back onto its feet, noting that the impact had reopened a gash along its shoulder. A faint carmine smear marked the spot where it had struck the wall, and it left red footprints as it came to Hunter's side. The larger cat shrugged; there was nothing more he could do for it.

But he was relieved that it had managed the crossing, and licked its flank once to welcome it.

Then a low humming sound caught his attention, and his skin crawled as he realized just what it was. The sound of dreamerlies.

The kitten had stiffened, its ears p.r.i.c.ked upright; it heard it also, then, and knew it for what it was. No matter that they had never heard a dream-creature make the slightest noise before; the sound was fixed in their instinct, and identification was instant. Something about this place, or the opening between the worlds, had given these creatures a voice. And they hungered. That was clear in the tone of their call, and tear surged through Hunter's heart when he heard it. For a moment instinct got the better of him, and he nearly turned to flee. But then he remembered: he was Hunter-in-Darkness, Crosser-Between-Worlds; the ident.i.ty gave him courage.

Legs stiff, fur erect, he looked about for a way to reach the source of the sound. There was no direct route available, but an open door in a corner of the room offered access to that general direction. He could circle back later. Clinging to shadows as he went, he skirted beams of moonlight that fell across the manfloor from small, barred windows set high in one of the walls. Not much light, but he needed none; his bodylight was bright with antic.i.p.ation, and the kitten beside him was regaining luminescence with every pa.s.sing minute. With care he slipped between the door and its frame, a s.p.a.ce hardly wide enough to admit him.

Beyond it lay a man.

His first reaction was to back away. Men had hurt him badly, once; he had no intention of waiting here while they tried to do it again. But then he picked up the man's scent, and tasted its wrongness. And touched his nose to the cooling flesh, wondering at how such a powerful creature could have been struck down without any wound. There was no scent of blood or fear or illness to point to a cause of death, merely the fact of stillness and a growing darkness of its flesh to witness that yes, it had died.

If the dreamerlies could bring down one such as this a How could he, a single cat, hope to fight them? As if in answer, the kitten chirped beside him. Two cats, then. It would have to do; they weren't pack animals by nature, and had no way of summoning more claws to their aid.

He stepped over the body, leaving footprints of bodyfire in its newly dead flesh, and followed the sound of the dreamerly-call into the depths of the building. Now that they were in the waking world the walls were solid to their touch, and it took time for them to find enough shafts and windows and half-open doors to get them to the place where the dreamerlies were gathering. But at last they came a place where the dreamerly-call was so loud, and its followers so numerous, that Hunter-in-Darkness was certain they had reached their destination. One last door a They could hear the sound clearly now, could feel it resonating in their bones, a low hum that reminded Hunter of manthings, that brought back memories of his kittenhood with sudden, unwelcome clarity. How small the dreamerlies had been, then, how harmless and playful! Without a doubt, they had been been changing a and this place, this thing beyond the door, was responsible.

With sudden courage he pushed against the final door, forcing it to swing aside. The kitten was beside him, nose to nose as they braced themselves for attack. But there was none. Slowly the hinged panel moved out of their way, and they had a clear view into the heart of the dreamerly rebellion.

There were hundreds of them. Thousands! Stable dream-creatures, whose shapes were like those Hunter-in-Darkness had sported with in his youth; ma.s.sive, distorted forms, which flickered in and out of existence as though some vital force was not yet fully stabilized; dreamerlies which were unlike any the cat had ever seen, bits of black fog which would brush against others, leave behind dark splotches of midnight fungus that grew and grew and at last fully consumed their victims. There was a manshape lying in the far corner, newly expired; a dozen of the most distorted dreamerlies were clinging to its body like leeches, feeding on the last of its bodylight. Perhaps they had killed it, as they would have killed the kitten.

And in the center of the room a there was the man-thing that had summoned them all, that sang of feeding and hunger and death in a low humming sound which made all the dreamerlies quiver with excitement. It was made of cold, sleek metal, and the light of a thousand glitterlings was fixed upon its forward face. From its rear end trailed thick black cords, manroots to anchor it. Upon its face of mirrored gla.s.s green glitterlings danced in measured patterns, tracing words and phrases which no cat or dreamerly could read.

CAUTION.

APPLIED TESTS BEGUN 19:53:01.

FIRST SEQUENCE IN PROGRESS.

DO NOT INTERRUPT.

Hunter-in-Darkness hated it. He had never hated before, not in this way. But then, he had never before killed for any reason other than hunger or the pleasure of the hunt. Now the kitten was beside him, and the killing rage that its plight had awakened in him began to resurface. If such deformed creatures were allowed to keep growing, to feed-to breed-the shadowlands would soon become filled with them. Then how long would it be before the dreamerlies attacked older cats, skilled hunters who were deft with tooth and claw but who couldn't hope fo stand up to a pack of dozens of parasites-or of hundreds? How long before cats dared not dream at all, and therefore dared not sleep? Then these creatures, which had managed to enter the waking world, would take advantage of their weakness, and dispatch them as easily as they had done with the two men. No, they must be killed here and now, and Hunter-in-Darkness must do it. But how?

He kept to the walls, began slowly circling the room. Watching them. They hardly seemed to notice him, but focused all their attention on the man-thing and its song. Good. The kitten was still with him, and he was pleased to see that it, hadn't given in to its fear. It would make a fine hunter someday, he thought. If it survived this confrontation.

The feeding ones were leaving their kill, now, to float about the man-thing with their fellows. Periodically one of them would b.u.t.t into it. Trying to hurt it, or move it? Or trying to get inside? What could be inside the man-made sh.e.l.l? A ripe female, perhaps? The mother of these creatures? Some dreamerly equivalent of catnip?

One thing was certain: he had to kill the man-thing, and soon. More and more dreamerlies were arriving every minute, and they pulsed in rhythm with the others as they settled in beside them, circling. Whatever the dreamerlies were waiting for was about to happen-and when it did, the full power of the manthing would be loosed. The power to bridge worlds; the power to kill cats. He had to do something, fast.

Memories from kittenhood: playing with his brothers and sisters in the great wooden manhouse, stalking dish towels and rolling pencils and the ultimate Great Enemy, the black cords which were man's most precious possession. They coiled about the base of every magical manthing, and stretched across the floor like rivers of ink. Dish towels the cats might shred to bits, furniture they might destroy, pencils might be hunted and subdued, but no cat ever dared to touch the black cords. That was absolutely forbidden, and the cats in the manhouse quickly learned it. The black roots were beloved of man, and vital to his magic.

Hardly daring to move, Hunter-in-Darkness crouched down against the cold manfloor, preparing to spring. A flick of his tail kept the tension from freezing his hindquarters as he gauged his distance, considered his chances a and leaped. Into the midst of them, the clawed ones and the flickering ones and even the black foggy ones. They were solid to him now, and he slashed out to thrust them aside as they came between him and his objective. Dreamerly gore clogged his claws and spattered his fur as he fell to the ground some feet short of where he needed to be; he had done considerable damage in his flight, but not nearly enough.

They turned on him now, in numbers too vast to count. A thousand foul clawing creatures that stank of wrongness, armed with tooth and stinger and a pawful of weapons that Hunter-in-Darkness had never seen before. He fought them bravely, gaining ground inch by inch as he did so; but the numbers against him were too overwhelming, and the enemy too well armed.

A paralyzing sting disabled one hind leg, forcing him to drag it. A spiked tail swung directly at his eyes, forcing him backward a step. Then two. He was losing. He would never reach the mancords now, would never cut short their magic. The shadowlands would be overrun, and the waking lands would soon follow. He tried to leap forward, desperately trying to gain some ground, but he struck a clump of dreamerlies head-on and fell to the manfloor, stunned. One of the smaller ones sank its twisted fangs into his good hind leg, and he dared not turn to claw at it. He was losing blood, could not last much longer.

A screech split the air, like the cry of an enraged mother cat-only much, much harsher. Something which was not a dreamerly b.u.mped into Hunter's hind leg. And then, suddenly, the fangs which had been fastened about his leg broke loose; dreamerly blood joined his own on the floor. The kitten had caught up with him, and it nudged him once in the flank, urging him with silent insistence: Go on! Go on! Another dreamerly attacked Hunter-in-Darkness, and was struck from behind; the tiny cat was wreaking havoc from a direction none of the creatures had thought to guard. Go on! The older cat dragged himself forward, digging his front claws into the manfloor as the kitten danced about his head, protecting him from harm. His hind-quarters were nearly useless, but soon that wouldn't matter; he was a cats-length away from the black cords, now, and closing. Only inches a His teeth closed about the nearest one, and he pulled. Yanked. Tore with his claws at the soft, yielding surface, knowing he must break through quickly or die. The air was full of dreamerlies, and his eyes were filled with blood; he could hardly see, was maneuvering by feel through a thicket of black manthing roots. Tearing at them, wildly. One of them fought back, and burned him. But the pain only served to increase his determination. He had been right; the magic was here.

Now more and more of the cords tried to defend themselves, and even the dreamerlies backed away. In the back of his mind he noticed that the song had stopped, and he sensed that the dream-creatures were directionless in consequence. Good; the kitten might be safe. He slashed at a cord and searing pain lanced through his paw, but the cord seemed to die in consequence and was safe to touch thereafter. There were very few of them left to hurt him now, most had lost the strength to defend themselves. Besides, there were so few places on him left to be burneda.

He slid into the shadowlands, but never knew when. Fell into something that was not quite sleep, but deeper; not quite a dream, but just as compelling.

His last thoughts were of the kitten: The call came at 10:30. By 10:32 he was out of the house, and by 10:46a"Miles firmly in towa"he had arrived at the facility, a whirlwind of anxious inquiry.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on here? What did Davis mean, a power failure? Eden has its own generator a Who are all these people, and what are they doing here?" There were at least a dozen unknown faces gathered about the main entrance to the building, some uniformed and others not. One, a woman, was in tears. Haskell's wife? What the h.e.l.l "This way, sir." A security guarda"not one he knewa"took him firmly by the arm and led him into the depths of the building. Not his usual route. That was blocked, by a crowd of guards and medics and the sprawling, lifeless body of a technical a.s.sistant from the night s.h.i.+ft. Jerry Haskell?

"What happened?" he demanded.

"Heart failure, as I understand it."

But he was in perfect health a He almost stopped, to ask more questions. But whatever had happened to Haskell, it was over and done with; there was nothing he could do now to save him. The Eden project, on the other hand, might still be salvaged.

He broke into a run, with no concern for whether his two companions could keep up with him; when he rcached the proper sector he burst through the door of the project with a question on his lips and fear, like an icy serpent, in his heart.

"Whata"oh my G.o.da"

Blood had been spattered across one section of the floor, and up and down two whole sides of the central island. Human blood a or animal? Was that a cat down there, tangled in the smoldering wires?

"What on eartha"Davis, what's going on?"

His a.s.sistant left the small group of guards that had converged at the far side of the room. Was that Casey's body at their feet? "We don't know," he said bluntly. "Power was interrupted at approximately 8:15. I came to investigate and found a this." He indicated the room, the blood, the body. "I would have called you earlier, but they wanted the police in here first,"

"That is Casey, isn't it? How did he die?" He nodded toward the body, but his eyes were fixed upon the island. d.a.m.n that cat! What on earth had caused it to get tangled in the power cables?

"Cardiac arrest; they say."

"Which means they don't know. All right, we'll have to wait for an autopsy." He hesitated, afraid to ask the question that most concerned him.

At last he dared it. "How much was lost?"

"Nearly an hour of program time, and some supporting data. A lot depends on whether the power went off cleanly, or there was erratic activity preceding total loss. We could be clearing out glitches for days. Richard is on line now, trying to save the series, but some data will be irrecoverable. She says we've lost this test sequence for sure."

d.a.m.n! But it could have been worse. The program would eventually pick up where it left off a and what were the odds, realistically speaking, that the one set of conditions they were searching for was being run through the program at the exact time that the system crashed?

He walked over to where the cat's body lay, and squatted by its side. Yes, no question about it, this was what had done the damage. d.a.m.n the animal! Just like those nuisances at home, who never knew when to leave things alone And then he saw the mark across its forehead, and the single white toe on one forward paw, and he knew.

"Dr. McGillis?"

"Go help the medics," he told Davis. He was pleased that his voice was still steady. "See if they need anything."

When he was gone, he whispered, "Look, Miles. Do you recognize it?"

"You mean, does it look like one of your cats? Yes."

He pulled out a pencil and used the point to turn the animal's head aside. The scar from a bullet wound was clearly apparent, surrounded by charred flesh and bits of torn fur.

"It's the fourth of that litter. But how did it survive? My G.o.d, the implicationsa" He reached out a hand to steady himself against the island console; his knuckles, Miles noted, were white. "Fertile, genetically altered a and free in the woods for months now. If the FDGA ever gets hold of this a Elsa will lose her license, that's for a start, and as for this project a" He shut his eyes. "It'll set applied genetics back a decade if the fundamentalists get hold of it; all the old fears will come out again. Christ!"

"Do they have to know?" his old friend asked quietly. Wes looked up at him, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "No. Of course not." His grip on the console eased, and slowly he stood. "They'll have enough problems figuring out how it got here in the first place. No one will think to ask about its background."

And his eyes, red-rimmed, said it all: Destroy the cat as soon as possible. Salvage the program. Deal with the rest as it comes.

He walked slowly back toward the group of guards surrounding the body, fielding questions as he approached. No, he'd heard nothing of the incident until a mere half hour ago. No, there was nothing connected with the project that could cause such a disaster. Nothing at all. It was all quite beyond hima.

Miles looked down at the floor again-and then quickly away. And decided to say nothing about what he saw. Let Wes think, for now, that it was over. He had enough to deal with as it was.

There'd be time enough later, when things had calmed down a bit, to tell his friend about the kitten tracks.

Trouble.

by P. M. Griffin.

Trouble purred loudly to tell Dory that he was content and to let her know that she was doing well.

She deserved the praise. She also needed it. These humans were sad creatures. They seemed to have so little innate belief in themselves, most of them, even those of high inner quality and real, strong talent like this kitten of their kind.

Well, that could hardly be counted a fault in his Dory. Those around her had either actively striven to strip her of confidence and stunt her rightful development or else had lacked the courage to do anything very positive in her cause. Her strength of soul had sustained her thus far, keeping her spirit unbroken and her basic fineness intact, but even that would not suffice forever.

The purring stopped. He had realized for some time that this abuse must cease. It was fortunate all this had occurred, disruptive as it was. She had been forced to act at once, without the agonizing and indecision which would have preceded a planned move. That was another area in which humans differed from felines. They did not seem to know their own minds, and even when the correct, the only reasonable, course was plain before them, they had great difficulty in acting upon it if it involved any degree of significant change whatsoever.

Trouble began to purr again, more loudly this time as affection swelled within him. That was not fair to Dory. No kitten left his home readily, however wretched it was. Cat and human alike, all youngsters needed the care and instruction provided by the adults of their species.