Kitty kitty, p.25
KITTY KITTY, page 25
Ali’s eyes lit up with unrestrained admiration as she sized up this Pickle Family Circus A-Team. “Rasputin… This is the coolest squad I’ve ever seen.”
For a moment, their eclectic charm—Pingu’s audacity, Mute’s resourcefulness—almost overshadowed the truth. These weren’t misfits or circus performers. They were veterans of the Metal Rain, Luna’s infamous special forces. Ruthless killers once unleashed by the Moon itself, tasked two decades ago—if the Maiden’s account held true—with eradicating the last remnants of the Monsutā in a campaign drenched in blood and shadow.
In short: not our allies. Not even close.
The interceptor, named Noah’s Ark, dusted off the day after with Pingu and Mel in command. We headed towards the deep atmosphere of the gaseous planet where the refineries produced Arsine. It took us less than two hours at ultra-high speed, thanks to the new Baltimore-XXV post-nuclear reactor.
“How are we going to flush this Belle Sassie out?” Ali asked while freeing herself from her harness. Taking me into her arms, we started to cross the round deck to reach the ladder leading to the cockpit.
Beyond the panes, the sable horizon gradually morphed into hues of ocher and orange, a visual testament to the passage of time. We were enveloped in a fragrant veil, a tapestry of spices that clung to the air with insistent intimacy. The clouds, aglow with fleeting golden streaks of lightning, shifted in color with the capricious winds of the heavens—sometimes a soft, blushing pink, at other moments a deep, earthy brown. Their sensuous dance, both hypnotic and perilous, unfolded like an art form crafted by the cosmos itself.
“Let’s start by dodging these storms,” Mel started, “and—”
The dashboard suddenly turned red. A loud alert caught the attention of the two pilots who ordered us to come back down and fasten our belts again. My human and I jumped below as the interceptor rushed straight into an Underworld sky.
“Is it me or is this asteroid on fire?” we heard Pingu ask. “Computer? Check the orbiting cluster drifting our way.”
“It’s not an asteroid, it’s going far too fast!” said Braun, sitting in front of us next to Mute who had just turned on the deck’s screens—that way, we all followed what was happening outside. “It looks like a titanic ship!”
He was right. The Buzz Aldrin—former kryptonian flagship of the TotalChevron kingdom, was throttling towards Jupiter’s core. Its side cabin and the huge spheroid tanks were subject to a frightful fire.
“Krypton is inert. Why is it burning?” I asked as the video turned blurry because of the high velocity.
“Requisitioned by the Techno-Marine, it must have been stuffed up on Arsine,” replied the MP. “We must stop it!”
Mel, eternally in a bad mood, shouted through the comms. “This thing is ten thousand times bigger than our aircraft! And I do not board a furnace like that!”
The computer issued a new alarm before a red circle appeared on the screens. This innovative system overlying the video signal warned us of a monopod ejection from the Buzz Aldrin.
“Let’s get it,” I suggested. “A transporter of this size doesn’t catch fire alone! My word, your Belle Sassie must be involved.”
Swearing like McEnroe, Mel barked at Pingu to dock the monopod as Mute, undeterred by the crushing speed, surged out of her seat. The G-forces slammed into us, pressing us down, but Mute’s six legs and reinforced exoskeleton defied the weight, propelling her swiftly towards the hold below. With the precision of a seasoned operator, she moved through the ship’s metal belly. In moments, the medical unit was ready, the bunk prepped for the survivor.
“Interceptors are fucking fast,” Ali peeped while catching her breath once the ship finally slowed. “Could hear sugar crystallizing in my brain!”
His face contorted with pain, Braun crossed the room to unstrap her. “You guys alright?”
“Yes!” I responded, thrilled and all hair up.
“Let’s bounce!” Ali went on, rushing to the sliding pole leading downstairs.
In the side airlock, wedged between the crushing clamps of the telescopic arm, the emergency capsule was blackened and scorched, its surface warped and peeling from the intense heat. As Mute and Braun pried it open, the stench of burned metal and flesh filled the air. Inside, the occupant was barely recognizable.
“Is the dude alive? Why do I smell roast chicken?” Ali asked as the cicada, and the Soviet laid the survivor on the bed. The whole room indeed stank like gas and garlic—burning arsine.
The medical mini-droid which carried out the analyses was nevertheless reassuring: “Well—well—well. Toxic smoke inhalation. Few burns covered with a dark soot,” it recounted as its sharp appendages meticulously applied restorative gel and a micro-compress.
Helped by Braun, my partner wiped out the soot covering the body which turned out to be a strange woman: “Uh… are two pairs of boobies a thing?” worried my human while discovering the peculiar anatomy, just like the rest of the crew.
“Peculiar… And it’s not only soot!” I said. “We’re removing some skin!”
“We’re idiots! It’s Salamanca!” the Marine cried.
The salamander-woman’s black and red scales peeked through the superficial burns, a stark contrast to the damage she had sustained. A swift glance at Ali’s wrist-computer confirmed what we had suspected: the survivor’s FID matched the data Mel had given us. We had caught our saboteur with barely a struggle. It was, undoubtedly, the most anticlimactic job we’d ever pulled off.
“Well—mission’s over…” the MP sighed as the marshal handcuffed the terrorist.
“Mute, watch over the girl and call us when she wakes up,” commanded the rabbit. “I’m going to see if Pingu can determine the trajectory of the kryptonian. We can’t let a burning ship orbiting at this speed around the Kingdomlands.”
Mute snooped behind her back to get out a tape. “D’oh!” mistakenly coached a cartoon voice.
The marshal wished us goodbye before heading for the cockpit while rolling a cigarette. Braun took the time to escort us back to the Kitty, accessible through a hatch on the main deck. “Sorry to have made you release Hermann for this,” the Soviet apologized. “You will still get your part of the reward.”
“That’s fine!” I said sarcastically. “We’re just going to put together another show—or an opera—to drive him out again! We thought about Beauty and the Moron. Interested?”
The Soviet had no reply. A sudden, thunderous crash shattered the tense silence beneath us. The unmistakable sound of metal groaning echoed, followed by a desperate scream—quickly smothered by Braun’s curses as he dashed to the pole.
Mute lay sprawled on the floor of the room we had just vacated, her wings crumpled, but miraculously still breathing. The medical module had been torn apart, the small robot dismantled like a forgotten toy. On the bed, the handcuffs lay in twisted, blood-soaked ruin.
“Gone!” Ali’s voice was sharp with fury as she reached for her Desert Eagle, her fingers closing around the handle with deadly intent.
The Marine swore. “Are you hurt, Mute?” His friend raised a shaky thumb before Mel and Pingu joined us.
“What happened here?” the rabbit asked before realizing that Belle escaped. “Shit! Pingu? Secure Mute with you in the cockpit.” He then spun towards Braun and us: “I saw there’s no armory on this ship—but she has other ways to make our life miserable. Braun—come with me to the reserve. Ali and the wet rag—check the reactor’s room below.”
“Take those talkies, guys!” the Soviet added before throwing a bulky radio to my partner, then rushed back upstairs to the main deck.
“They just gave us orders,” Ali whined, turning off the device. “We don’t follow orders. Plus, Roger Rabbit called you a ‘wet rag’…”
I groaned. “Let’s catch this garlic-roasted lizard, we’ll deal with Ricochet Rabbit and his anger issues later.”
Nevertheless, the hunt for Belle Sassie quickly turned far more perilous than we had anticipated. After the sabotage of the alternator, the Interceptor was plunged into darkness, and the ship’s narrow passageways became the perfect hunting ground for her. Her slender body, glistening scales, and uncanny agility allowed the Freak to slip into every crevice, every hidden corner. The tension in the air was palpable; we all feared walking straight into an ambush, the fear gnawing at us, especially in the technical chamber. The flickering emergency ceiling lights cast long, eerie shadows, barely offering any comfort or visibility in the oppressive gloom. Each step felt like we were being watched, each sound magnified, and with every passing moment, the danger seemed to close in around us.
“Nothing in the closets?” asked Ali. Playing randomly with the buttons, she turned on the loud talkie. “Crap! This shit’s heavier than my gun!”
According to the stacks of mini-cassettes, we had to be in Mute’s apartments. Besides the magnetic tapes of songs, the Freak owned the most colossal collection of Kung Fu movies in the system. “Let’s proceed to the Baltimore. I’d also love to snoop through this new top-secret engine,” I replied. Jumping from shelf to shelf, I quit inspecting the cicada’s VHS.
“Nothing for us either,” announced Braun’s voice through the talkie, “but some knives are missing from the kitchen—be careful.”
“Reassuring, Comrade!” Ali grunted. Struggling with the heavy device, she finally tossed it on Mute’s berth.
The narrow passageway leading to the reactor may have suited the Cicadomorphan medic, but not my human. She had to crawl to cross the six meters separating us from the anti-radiation airlock.
“Without those red diodes, we would be in trouble,” Ali sighed. She was sweating copiously because of the air heated by the Baltimore. “This would be perfect for a little ambush.”
“Now that you mention it…” I had caught a glimpse of them when we were halfway through the passageway, but I dismissed it as nothing more than a trick of the backup ceiling lights. But then, as we moved closer, it unmistakably became clear—two white eyes, cold and unblinking, were watching us from the shadows of Mute’s stash. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. There was no mistaking it now. We weren’t alone.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” my partner shouted, drawing her huge .50 caliber as fast as she could.
We heard the faint, sinister whisper of a reptile moving, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps creeping in the darkness. A wave of panic surged through me, and before I could react, my associate fired several frantic shots. The bullets sliced across the air, whistling dangerously close to my ears, deafening us both in the chaos. Each flash from the cannon cast eerie shadows of the salamander against the walls, a dance of light that only revealed how close she was getting.
After every shot, she moved in, her presence tightening around us like a noose. Then, in a flash of motion, Belle Sassie’s knee slammed into my snoot. Before I could recover, Ali yanked me forward, her boot pulling me towards the reactor chamber. My copilot, unarmed at last, let her weapon fall silent, fear flashing in her eyes—unsure if the next round would ricochet back at us, or worse, tear through the delicate control instruments of the Baltimore.
When I crashed into the security airlock, I felt the hum of restored power. But there was no relief. Not yet. We were still at the mercy of a cold, enraged Sassie Salamanca, her eyes burning with fury as she pressed a knife to my most precious possession: my nourishing hand.
“Alright… Sassie? Belle? Miss Salamanca? What should we call you?” I asked, trying to defuse the situation despite a sizzling tinnitus. The weight of impending disaster hung in the air.
“Shut up! Let me think!” cut out the terrorist in a strange hoarse voice. Her burns had mostly healed thanks to her salamander’s DNA. Dark blood was dripping from a fresher wound on her hip. A bullet had passed against her human flesh.
The white light flickered and shifted to an intense blue, signaling the reactor’s new cycle. The sudden change in pressure reverberated through the room, and the sharp metallic rattle echoed ominously. It was enough to startle Sassie Salamanca, her grip on my throat tightening as the blade dug deeper under Ali’s chin. She flinched, momentarily distracted, and in that instant, my partner reacted.
With swift precision, Ali launched herself forward, her hand shooting out to deliver a brutal strike straight to the bulging, exposed eyes of the salamander. The impact was sickening, a sickening pop and crunch of cartilage. Sassie’s head snapped back in pain, her grip faltering for just a moment. But Ali wasn’t done—using the momentum, she shoved forward, pressing her palm into the open wound on the salamander’s side. The wound, still raw and tender, sent a shock of agony through her body, causing the Freak to stagger back, hissing in fury.
Victory! Ali was holding Sassie at gunpoint while I pushed away the blade she had dropped. “Nothing serious?” I asked, as I saw her feel her jawline.
“Nah.”
On the ground. Sassie had curled up in a fetal position. “No! No! No! No! No! No!” she cried out to tear her throat. The tone of her voice varied from hoarse to a high-pitched squeal. After a few seconds, she possessed the phonation of a young woman: “Please don’t hurt me!”
My human kept a safe distance. With her valid hand, she pointed to the circular hatch above us—a direct access to the hold. As I jumped from rung to rung to activate the mechanical opening, my partner continued her conversation with the strange Freak: “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? You stuck a knife under my Adam’s apple.”
“Ali, for the thousandth time, Adam’s apple is found solely in human males!” I corrected her.
The salamander woman grabbed her head. She was shaking with tears. Drops flowed from her large black eyes and began to drip along her scales. “Please! That ain’t me,” she said. “That ain’t me, I swear! It’s Nash!”
Ali and I exchanged a look. “Nash?” I uttered when I unlocked the hatch.
“Nash is hurting everyone! He’s hurting me too!” Belle curled up. She was being shaken by a new, more violent spasm: “—shut it, you stupid bitch! You are pathetic!” It was the same hoarse voice again. It had replaced Belle’s. Her tears had dried, sucked up by her skin.
“I see,” Ali said. “So, Nash’s back?”
“Indeed!” cried the dark passenger, straightening. “And who are those dirty Martian slaves? A bounty-hunting whore sent by the Techno-Moon to quell the wind of freedom blowing over the Outer Worlds colonies?”
The hatch suddenly opened, and Braun’s head appeared on the other side. His gaze oscillated between my human and the Freak.
“And here’s Captain Braun Kamirov!” Nash spluttered again. “The little doggy of the Admiralty. Your Soviet ancestors would be red with shame! You dirty commie traitor!”
“Yes. Her lampoons aren’t pleasant,” I commented, throwing Braun’s new pair of handcuffs to my partner.
“How’s it going?” asked the MP after meeting us at the medical module, a good hour after the capture of Sassie/Nash.
Once again on her feet, Mute got lost between her various cassettes and Ali had to take over: “You want the theatrical cut or the four hours remastered remake?”
“We had to tie her up and sedate her to keep her quiet,” I pursued as we all had our eyes on the TEP-scan’s results appearing on the module monitor. “We’re faced with a case of split personality rather—how can I put it—screaming.”
“The military module can diagnose a mental disorder through a scanner?” asked Braun.
“No. For that the Corps has to care about mental disorders in the first place,” I said. “But thanks to the TEP, we could bring out the beautiful bio-implant attached to her right temporal lobe.” Attentive to the report, Mute typed from one of her metal medical appendages the black mark left by the organic foreign body on the greenish screen. “An implant which must have required a lot of power to break its little secret,” I explained. “Which is a formidable and unique program of mental takeover. So far pure science fiction, it was calibrated in advance for a specific purpose: to destroy the gas trade around Jupiter.”
“That should mean something to you, right?” Ali said, turning a second screen towards Braun. Overlooking the electronic analysis of the nanometric data-core, the lines of code formerly protected by military encryption flickered at the bottom of the screen. “It’s stamped ‘Technocratic Marine Corps’ on the entire ICE!”
Braun slammed his fist violently against the bed. He then lost himself in swearing and sprinted towards the cockpit without even a thank you.
“Classic Rasputin…” Ali sighed. “Clueless as fuck.”
“Boneheads! You are all manipulated!” The salamander woman had woken despite the powerful sedative. Her animal DNA was truly foolproof. Or was it the ferocity of this program that called itself Nash? “The Marine. The Black Haven. Jupiter. The Moon…” he coughed. “A great bunch of liars and schemers—”
“Mute? The Kitty? We have a problem.” The program’s libertarian verses were interrupted by the voice of the Techno-Marshal echoing from the talkie. “According to Pingu, the Buzz Aldrin is blazing ahead on Piper Alpha—the most important refinement hub in the region. The tanker’s control computer is protected by an encrypted key. Does Belle have something to say about it?”
“Belle?” Nash cried. “This bitch has nothing to do with it. She only shares a piece of me. I’m the one who set up the Buzz Aldrin’s last flight.”
“—enough!” intervened Sassie Salamanca with her high-pitched voice. Rejecting control, her body was shaken with more spasms.
But as Mute tried to administer her a new dose of tranquilizers, Ali stopped her. “Belle is fighting back,” my human said. Sympathetic, she passed her hand on the cheek of our poor prisoner, who was writhing with pain. Besides the reopened wound in her stomach, the poor Freak suffered a serious psychological torture. “Drugs will do more harm than good.”
“I’m not Isaac Dazzle but I can hack the implant. I upgraded my skills alongside the Da—” Ali slapped my snoot. “—browsing the intraweb,” I corrected. “However, the control computer may jump!”
