Kitty kitty, p.24
KITTY KITTY, page 24
But the reckless tampering of Earth’s mad scientists carried consequences they had not foreseen. Decades later, these unnatural mutations resurfaced, haunting perfectly ordinary families. Human-looking parents found themselves giving birth to children with tails, horns, or snouts—innocents cursed by ancestral sins. Mocked as carnival curiosities or hunted like animals, the Freaks fled to the Techno-moon of Jupiter V, Amalthea, a grim refuge in the shadow of humanity’s glorious apartheid.
The Freaks were the castoffs of progress, a cruel reminder of what boomers had sacrificed in their arrogance.
“Care for a glass of orange whip, bokkie?” the waitress asked, her voice tinged with a local creole accent. She was literally wasp-sized, her wink as sharp as the edge of her grin. I smiled and accepted. The milk at Darwin’s Palace—the largest cabaret in Amalthea Bay—was something special, a far cry from the watered-down sludge they served on Chaldene. Perhaps the rum spike made all the difference.
The night was winding down, but the cabaret was still packed. In the haze of smoke from 0g-grown tobacco, a spectacularly monstrous crowd indulged in tapas and booze, swaying to the bold, synthetic rhythm of the Pet Shop Dogs, currently commanding the stage.
As a wave of applause marked the end of the Freak-dogs’ act, I took advantage of the dim light to rummage for my Salem pack. The migraine pounding at my temples demanded relief. But as I lit a cigarette, a deep snort sounded behind me, the unmistakable rumble of a colossus with auroch horns.
“Ag, man! Can’t you stop puffing that kiddie trash and get yourself something real between your fangs?” he grumbled, a fat cigar clenched between his teeth. “Like a proper Freak!”
“Is that a pick-up line?” I shot back without hesitation. “Are you making a move?”
His bovine face twisted in surprise, his wide eyes blinking as his hyena-headed companions burst into howling laughter, pounding the table with their fists. I immediately regretted my quip. It wasn’t the right moment to stir trouble, and Buffalo Bill was already rifling through his pilot jacket with alarming intensity.
Fortunately, he didn’t pull a weapon but instead a polished chrome Zippo, which he flicked open to light my cigarette. “Eish! You’ve got bigger balls than half the idiots on this orbit, pussycat!” he chuckled, waving to a long-horned waitress. “Oi, Annika, sweet Annika! Bring us three orange whips… and another glass of milk for the little bra over here!”
As the hyena-Freaks pushed our tables together, the chandeliers flickered out, plunging the room into darkness. Somewhere to my right, the eight-armed pianist cracked his knuckles, and Maurice—the club’s winged dodo of a manager—awkwardly called for silence.
“Here we go, little bra!” my new, rustic friend whispered, his voice dripping with excitement as he snatched our drinks from the waitress’s tray. “Buckle up! These lekker girls are gonna blow your mind!”
The first soft notes of the piano drifted through the smoky air, and a spotlight flared to life, casting a blue glow on the stage. There stood Ali and the Data Maiden, poised in the center. The Freaks of Amalthea rarely welcomed Homo sapiens unless it was for trade, but my partner and the data thief were exceptions—more tigers than hairless apes.
That night, they were decked out in black fedoras, sunglasses, and matching dark suits. When they launched into a goofy dance, I laughed so hard I nearly missed Ali’s voice booming out, perfectly timed with the orchestra’s trumpets.
And please remember Jovian people, that no matter who you are
And what you do to live, thrive and survive
There are still some things that make us all the same
You, me, them, everybody, everybody…
Ali and her girlfriend hit the boards with their black loafers to accompany each note. As the androgyne’s chorus struck, the entire room sang with her.
Everybody needs somebody
Everybody needs somebody to love—someone to love
Sweetheart to miss—sweetheart to miss
Sugar to kiss—sugar to kiss
I need you, you, you…
The final row stood defiantly atop the counter, a testament to the night’s intensity. This evening was a crescendo of chaos and brilliance, a spectacle the Darwin Palace had not witnessed in years.
Less than an hour later, Maurice burst into the dressing room, nearly causing me to tumble from the wardrobe perched opposite the door. “What a show! You mystified them all, mes petites poupées!” he exclaimed, losing a few feathers in the process.
Ali, seated at the makeup table with her back to the round mirror framed by light bulbs and faded photographs from the club’s past glory, discarded her cleansing wipe and accepted the plastic cup Maurice handed to her. “You think he’ll show up tonight?” she asked, taking a sip.
Meanwhile, the Maiden slipped out through the window for a smoke, her movements as quiet as the steam rising from her suit. Maurice, the chubby angel of a dodo, had once again ignored the true purpose of these performances. “I’ve already told you, poupée. He rarely leaves his secret lair,” he muttered nervously as Ali unbuttoned her white shirt. “You’re playing with fire.” He tapped the edge of his glass anxiously before leaving it behind and retreating from the room.
“It’s called living on the edge…” I breathed.
Moments after the door clicked shut behind the dodo, a knock echoed through the air. This time, it was the long-awaited Harvey Hermann! At last! His dark, bulging eyes and square, turtle-like jaw betrayed his Freakish heritage, though his white three-piece suit tried to mask it. Apart from the brown shell on his back, his body was unnervingly human. Hermann, the lecherous Freak-reptile, was one of the most powerful music producers on Amalthea and the reason we’d lingered at Darwin’s Palace.
“Greetings! May I come in?” he croaked.
“Of course, Monsieur Harvey,” Ali replied smoothly, though Hermann was already waddling towards her.
“Where is your friend? Will she join us?”
“Getting some fresh air,” Ali answered just as the window clattered shut. The Maiden was back, though her upgraded holosuit kept her out of sight. Invisible. “Would you like a sip, Monsieur Harvey?” Ali offered the cup Maurice had left behind.
Hermann drank with her, before congratulating her for her performance. “You girls deserve to celebrate tonight’s success for sure. How about my place? Tonight?” As expected, the conversation quickly drifted, and he already had his free hand anchored on Ali’s right thigh. “I can easily make you both really famous, you know… from Callisto to Mars! What do you say?” Turtle-man leaned in with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, his gaze crawling over her in a way that made her skin crawl and my heart race all at once. Harvey Hermann would never change.
Sickened, Ali didn’t indulge him for long. “Sure! Would you mind if my squeeze joined us to spice things up, salad eater?” she asked sweetly.
Behind Hermann, a ripple like heat above asphalt betrayed the data thief’s presence. The Maiden placed her burning palms on the man’s shoulders, making him jump. At the same moment, Ali grabbed her Desert Eagle from its hiding place under the table and pressed it firmly beneath our target’s chin.
Hermann’s expression shifted from smug amusement to frustration. “Such a bootless effort, filthy humans!” he sneered, licking his wide chin. “Hand me over to the authorities. Do it! And I’ll be free within the hour. On Amalthea, I am untouchable!”
The Maiden stepped closer, her voice low and menacing. “Untouchable, eh? Yet I crave to do so. And in places where you don’t necessarily want to.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Hermann snapped.
Before we could decide, the backstage door slammed open. “No need to take him to the marshal’s office!” boomed a familiar voice.
Captain Braun appeared in the doorway, clad not in his usual Military Police uniform but in civilian attire: a synthetic brown leather jacket, Strathcona boots, and beige pants. He looked like an old-Hollywood archaeologist—without a whip, as it would’ve been distasteful on Jupiter V.
“Rasputin! What’s your damage?” my partner exclaimed, grabbing a towel to cover herself. Her girlfriend had vanished again, and Ali, still defiant, teased him. “Tired of locking up innocent people? Don’t tell us you’re a fucking Techno-Marshal now?”
“Don’t be foolish. I just landed on this moon from Callisto,” Braun shot back before glancing towards where the Maiden stood. He caught the faint shimmer of her suit but chose to move on. “Marshal Easter is outside. I came to fetch you both.”
“Both?” I asked.
Braun shrugged. “The Kitty. Both of you.” Seeing Ali pulling on her jacket, he turned towards the door. “And you can release this scaled scoundrel. You and I got bigger fish to fry right now. So does the marshal.”
Braun left. I erupted. “What is the Soviet-boy talking about? It was hard enough to trap Donatello here, and we must let him go?”
Hermann guffawed; proud of taking advantage of his notoriety once again. He made one last cutting comment before leaving the Darwin’s for good, hobbling in pain.
Ali sighed and grabbed her pink jacket. “Take a chill pill. You’re not the one Hermann almost molested with his Sarlacc tongue. I need a week-long shower…”
She wasn’t wrong, but complaining wouldn’t change anything. Whatever Braun and the marshal had planned, it was enough to let Hermann slip through our fingers.
The Maiden finally turned off her holosuit, her body steaming from exertion. “We were this close to a huge catastrophe, guys!” she coughed, her ivory eyes flickering.
“You alright, Z?” Ali asked, helping her remove the overheated suit.
The cyborg pulled her arms free and sighed. “Yeah, I’m just so jealous that you and Kamirov get to go on a honeymoon. He’s so manly. Must be thermic under the sheets!”
Ali snorted. “Braun’s not my type.”
“Sure, girl…” she teased, slumping into a chair that groaned under the weight of her augmented body. “Your type is basically ‘yes’.”
Ali crossed her arms, frowning. “That didn’t bug you until now.”
“Teasing you for free,” the Maiden said, brushing off the holosuit. “Anyway, I’ve got to chase down pedo-Hermann again. Otherwise, my boss will throw a tantrum…”
Ali handed her a cup that melted slightly in her hands. “When will we see you again? It’s been months and you already have to go…”
“Sorry… I don’t know. After this, I probably need to head back to Io. Maybe two or three months,” she replied, looking away. “I’d love to kiss you goodbye, but—”
My partner cut her off, leaping onto her lap and kissing her fiercely despite the heat radiating from the metallic skin.
“But?” Ali whispered, her lips reddened.
“That looks painful,” the Maiden muttered, brushing her fingers over Ali’s chapped lips.
Ali grinned and kissed her again. “Big time.”
I narrowed my eyes from my position, attempting to comprehend the complexities of this conversation. These two humans, it seems, exhibit behaviors that can only be described as rather… peculiar.
Snow drifted gently onto the barren surface of the terraformed moon covering its empty streets in a stark blanket of white. Above, a sickly green sky loomed, a constant reminder of the artificial atmosphere, polluted with the remnants of human ambition. At this hour, the streets were eerily silent, devoid of life, their cold expanse bordered by oppressive, gray buildings—brutalist monuments to a forgotten past. The air, sharp and unforgiving, bit through every layer of clothing, the temperature plummeting well below -50°C, a harsh, suffocating chill that seemed to freeze even the soul.
The Marine, bundled in a thick overcoat, stood beside Melblanc Easter—a full-rabbit Freak adorned with Amalthea’s Marshal star. Both leaned against the hood of a battered flying Ford LTD, their breath condensing into olive-tinted vapor in the semi-toxic air.
“What’s up, Doc?” Ali quipped, exhaling the ubiquitous green mist.
“Shut up, you psychos!” Mel snapped, flicking his cigarette butt into the snow, where it hissed and stained the melting patch blue. “Get in the car,” he barked, opening the driver’s door. “Now!”
“Don’t start with the rabbit,” Braun muttered, holding open the rear door. “Vets from the Red Uprising are unstable—”
“Don’t care. What’s this about?” Ali demanded, stepping into the car.
Once the Marine settled in, Mel started the engine, its rumble competing with the harsh drone of the heating system. Braun sipped from a cup of coffee, its acrid scent filling the cabin and making Ali wrinkle her nose in disgust.
“First, forgive me for Ceres,” Braun began, his tone measured but regretful. “The gravity of the situation left me no choice but to take drastic measures.”
“Looks like you’re repeating the same mistakes here,” I retorted. Ali thrusted her wrists forward in mock surrender. “No proof ties us to the Maiden on Ceres.”
Braun sighed. “I still don’t trust you. But you managed to trick a whole bunch of undercover agents in that school in Las Pallas. Speaking of Las Pallas—did you—”
Uh. Please, don’t mention the Emporium business with the Maiden. Please, don’t mention the Emporium business with the Maiden. Please, don’t mention the Emporium business with the Maiden.
“Never mind. You’re smart. And capable. And I could use you.”
He didn’t mention the Emporium business with the Maiden.
“Let’s get to the point,” I interjected.
Braun nodded, rolling up his sleeve to activate his wrist-computer. A hologram flared to life, displaying the search warrant for a young female Freak. The file described her as having the tail, back, and upper body of a fire salamander.
“Sassie ‘Belle’ Salamanca,” Braun read aloud. “Used to be an escort at the Lusty Lady until last week—”
“Not anymore,” Mel interrupted. “According to surveillance footage, she blew up an arsine extraction station in Jupiter’s heart. Hundreds dead, including Freaks. Damage in the millions. The worst disaster since Bhopal Orbital.”
“Sick!” Ali muttered, scrolling through the news feed on her own device. “No media’s covering this.”
“It’s corporate… or Bureau business,” I grumbled. “Why send the Marine?”
“The Techno-Senate just doubled the reciprocal tariffs on Saturn and the Rings, trying to secede.”
“Stupid move,” I opined, barely remembering last week’s info-ads.
“Perhaps. Critical to Mars’s and the UCB’s economies, arsine is now widely imported from Jupiter,” Braun explained. “The refinement stations are a military priority, and now a Freak terrorist might’ve joined the Freedom League of the Rings to blow them up. If this leaks, Amalthea and Jupiter could burn. And an open war with the Rings could start.”
“Why keep Amalthea neutral?” I pressed. “The Freaks would love to join the rebels and take on the Technocracy. Isn’t this the first step to ending apartheid?”
“And end up like Shamrock?” Mel snarled. “No thanks. Social rights can wait.”
Braun cut in, his tone serious. “We’re meeting a chartered ship soon. This mission is off the books, but your help—and silence—will be rewarded. I need you because Mars can’t risk rogue agents on Amalthea. We can’t repeat the Red Uprising. We must avoid an open conflict with the Rings. Or start another one with the Commonwealth or the corpo-kingdomlands in the process.”
“A black op with massive political fallout, and you trust us?” I said, raising an eyebrow. Ali, detached, stared out at the grim but strangely vivid skyline, her nose pressed to the armored window as green snowflakes clung to it.
“It’s just one Freak,” Braun said, glancing at the police channels whizzing through his console. “One job. Lives saved. A substantial tax-free reward for you.”
“Half of it’s for shutting your mouth,” Mel muttered, punching an access code into the car’s quavering radio. “And that’s the part that worries me.”
“Get bent, Thumper!” my partner reacted. “I’ll do your shitty gig. But I want four fried chickens, and a coke.”
“You want four—whatever…” Braun sighed. Letting out a curse, he prevented Ali from sticking her piece of gum in her armrest’s ashtray. “And you, cat?”
“How desperate!” I laughed. The vehicle began a climb towards the windborne police station of Amalthea Bay that had become invisible in the blizzard. “But yes. And some dry white toast, please.”
“Is this a game?” Mel grunted.
“They’re quoting a movie,” Braun explained. “That’s their whole personality.”
The stealth interceptor awaited us, sleek and ready, with the Kitty securely clipped beneath its hull. As we stepped out of the car, Mel gestured towards the first crew member: a man clad in blue jeans, armless but equipped with two flippers, meticulously inspecting the ship’s front thrusters.
“I’m Pingu, the pilot,” said the Freak, his orange beak jutting proudly beneath an improbable pair of sunglasses, crowned by long golden feathers. “And yeah, I had the nickname before that damn claymation bird. Deal with it.”
Braun moved on to the second crew member, seated on the access ramp: an entirely brown cicada Freak with vivid red eyes. A Fisher-Price radio-cassette player hung around her neck, suspended by a worn elastic sports band.
“And this is Mute,” Braun explained. “She’s been voiceless since a rescue mission over Charon which went sideways. Now, she communicates exclusively through recordings. Medic, mechanic—basically, as many arms as roles, you could say.”
Mute waved briefly before rummaging through her crinkled wings to retrieve a cassette, which she jammed into the oversized toy-like radio. A tiny, low-quality advertising jingle crackled out, filling the awkward silence to welcome us.
